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THE DANVERS JEWELS
AND
SIR CHARLEs DANVERS
By
| MARY CHOLMONDELEY
AUTHORWOF “RED POTTAGE”
H A R P E R & B R O T H E R S P U B L IS H E R S
NEW YORK AND LONDON
19 oo
**
–


-- -
T. C. iii." (OR
PUBLIC LiDRARY
| 2684.4
| ASTOR, LENex AND
; Ti-DEN FOUNEATIONS
| R 1926 L
*----


|
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TO MY SISTER
&c. DI 3)
[ AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THE STORY
WHICH SHE HELPED ME
TO WRITE





CONTENTS.
THE DANVERS JEWELS
THE SEQUEL.
SIR CHARLES DANVERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93





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CNR
THE DANVERS JEWELS.





|
THE DANVERS JEWELS.
CHAPTER I.
I was on the point of leaving India and returning to England
when he sent for me. At least, to be accurate—and I am always
accurate—I was not quite on the point, but nearly, for I was going
to start by the mail on the following day. I had been up to Gov-
ernment House to take my leave a few days before, but Sir John
had been too ill to see me, or at least he had said he was. And now
he was much worse—dying, it seemed, from all accounts; and he
had sent down a native servant in the noon-day heat with a note,
written in his shaking old hand, begging me to come up as soon as
it became cooler. He said he had a commission which he was anx-
ious I should do for him in England.
Of course I went. It was not very convenient, because I had to
borrow one of our fellows' traps, as I had sold my own, and none of
them had the confidence in my driving which I had myself. I was
also obliged to leave the packing of my collection of Malay krises
and Indian kookeries to my bearer.
I wondered as I drove along why Sir John had sent for me.
Worse, was he Dying? And without a friend. Poor old man!
He had done pretty well in this world, but I was afraid he would
not be up to much once he was out of it; and now it seemed he
was going. I felt sorry for him. I felt more sorry when I saw him
—when the tall, long-faced A.D.C. took me into his room and left us.
Yes, Sir John was certainly going. There was no mistake about it.
It was written in every line of his drawn fever-worn face, and in his
wide fever-lit eyes, and in the clutch of his long yellow hands upon
his tussore silk dressing-gown. He looked a very sick bad old man
as he lay there on his low couch, placed so as to court the air from
without, cooled by its passage through damped grass screens, and to


10 - THE DANVERS JEWELS.
receive the full strength of the punka, pulled by an invisible hand
outside.
“You go to England to-morrow?” he asked, sharply.
It was written even in the change of his voice, which was harsh,
as of old, but with all the strength gone out of it.
“By to-morrow's mail,” I said. I should have liked to say some-
thing more—something sympathetic about his being ill and not
likely to get better; but he had always treated me discourteously
when he was well, and I could not open out all at once now that he
was ill.
“Look here, Middleton,” he went on; “I am dying, and I know
it. I don't suppose you imagined I had sent for you to bid you a
last farewell before departing to my long home. I am not in such
a hurry to depart as all that, I can tell you; but there is something
I want done—that I want you to do for me. I meant to have done
it myself, but I am down now, and I must trust somebody. I know
better than to trust a clever man. An honest fool — But I am
digressing from the case in point. I have never trusted anybody all
my life, so you may feel honored. I have a small parcel which I
want you to take to England for me. Here it is.”
His long lean hands went searching in his dressing-gown, and pres-
ently produced an old brown, bag, held together at the neck by a
string.
“See here!” he said; and he pushed the glasses and papers aside
from the table near him and undid the string. Then he craned
forward to look about him, laying a spasmodic clutch on the bag.
“I'm watched I know I'm watched ſ” he said in a whisper, his pale
eyes turning slowly in their sockets. “I shall be killed for them if
I keep them much longer, and I won't be hurried into my grave.
I'll take my own time.”
“There is no one here,” I said, “and no one in sight except
Cathcart, smoking in the veranda, and I can only see his legs, so he
can't see us.”
He seemed to recover himself, and laughed. I had never liked
his laugh, especially when, as had often happened, it had been di-
rected against myself; but I liked it still less now.
“See here!” he repeated, chuckling; and he turned the bag in-
side out upon the table.
Such jewels I had never seen. They fell like cut flame upon the
marble table—green and red and burning white. A large diamond
rolled and fell upon the floor. I picked it up and put it back among
_*.


THE DANVERs JEWELS. 11
º
the confused blaze of precious stones, too much astonished for a mo-
ment to speak.
“Beautiful! aren't they?” the old man chuckled, passing his wasted
hands over them. “You won't match that necklace in any jeweller's
in England. I tore it off an old she-devil of a Rhanee's neck after
the Mutiny, and got a bite in the arm for my trouble. But she'll
tell no tales. He hel he I don't mind saying now how I got
them. I am a humble Christian, now I am so near heaven—eh,
Middleton? He hel You don't like to contradict me. Look at
those emeralds. The hasp is broken, but it makes a pretty bracelet.
I don't think I'll tell you how the hasp got broken—little accident
as the lady who wore it gave it to me. Rather brown, isn't it, on
one side? but it will come off. No, you need not be afraid of touch-
ing it, it isn't wet. He hel And this crescent. Look at those dia-
monds. A duchess would be proud of them. I had them from a
private soldier. I gave him two rupees for them. Dear me! how
the sight of them brings back old times. But I won't leave them
out any longer. We must put them away—put them away.” And
the glittering mass was gathered up and shovelled back into the old
brown bag. He looked into it once with hungry eyes, and then he
pulled the string and pushed it over to me. “Take it,” he said.
“Put it away now. Put it away,” he repeated, as I hesitated.
I put the bag into my pocket. He gave a long sigh as he watched
it disappear.
“Now what you have got to do with that bag,” he said, a moment
afterwards, “is to take it to Ralph Danvers, the second son of Sir
George Danvers, of Stoke Moreton, in D shire. Sir George has
got two sons. I have never seen him or his sons, but I don't mean
the eldest to have them. He is a spendthrift. They are all for
Ralph, who is a steady fellow, and going to marry a nice girl—at
least, I suppose she is a nice girl. Girls who are going to be mar-
ried always are nice. Those jewels will sweeten matrimony for Mr.
Ralph, and if she is like other women it will need sweetening. There,
now you have got them, and that is what you have got to do with
them. There is the address written on this card. With my com-
pliments, you perceive. He l hel I don't suppose they will remem-
ber who I am.”
“Have you no relations?” I asked; for I am always strongly of
opinion that property should be bequeathed to relatives, especially
near relatives, rather than to entire strangers.
“None,” he replied, “not even poor relations. I have no deserv-


12 THE DANVERS JEWELS,
ing nephew or Scotch cousin. If I had, they would be here at this
moment smoothing the pillow of the departing saint, and wondering
how much they would get. You may make your mind easy on that
score.”
“Then who is this Ralph whom you have never seen, and to whom
you are leaving so much f” I asked, with my usual desire for infor-
mation.
He glared at me for a moment, and then he turned his face away.
44 n it! What does it matter, now I'm dying?” he said.
And then he added, hoarsely, “I knew his mother.”
I could not speak, but involuntarily I put out my hand and took
his leaden one and held it. He scowled at me, and then the words
came out, as if in spite of himself—
“She-if she had married me, who knows what might— But
she married Danvers. She called her second son Ralph. My first
name is Ralph.” Then, with a sudden change of tone, pulling away
his hand, “There! now you know all about it ! Edifying, isn't it?
These death-bed scenes always have an element of interest, haven't
they Good-evening ”—ringing the bell at his elbow—“I can't say
I hope we shall meet again. It would be impolite. No, don't let
me keep you. Good-bye again.”
“Good-bye, Sir John,” I said, taking his impatient hand and shak-
ing it gently; “God bless you.”
“Thankee,” grinned the old man, with a sardonic chuckle; “if
anything could do me good that will, I'm sure. Good-bye.”
As Ibreakfasted next morning, previously to my departure, I could
not help reflecting on the different position in which I was now re-
turning to England, as a colonel on long leave, to that in which I had
left it many—I do not care to think how many—years ago, the young-
est ensign in the regiment.
It was curious to remember that in my youth I had always been
considered the fool of the family; most unjustly so considered when
I look back at my quick promotion owing to casualties, and at my
long and prosperous career in India, which I cannot but regard as the
result of high principles and abilities, to say the least of it, of not the
meanest order. On the point of returning to England, the trust Sir
John had with his usual shrewdness reposed in me was an additional
proof, if proof were needed, of the confidence I had inspired in him
—a confidence which seemed to have ripened suddenly at the end of
his life, after many years of hardly concealed mockery and derision.
_*.


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 13
Just as I was finishing my reflections and my breakfast Dickson, one
of the last joined subalterns, came in.
“This is very awful,” he said, so gravely that I turned to look at
him.
“What is awful ?” -
“Don’t you know?” he replied. “Haven't you heard about—Sir
John—last night?”
“Dead?” I asked.
He nodded; and then he said—
“Murdered in the night! Cathcart heard a noise and went in, and
stumbled over him on the floor. As he came in he saw the lamp
knocked over, and a figure rush out through the veranda. The
moon was bright, and he saw a man run across a clear space in the
moonlight—a tall, slightly built man in native dress, but not a native,
Cathcart said; that he would take his oath on, by his build. He
roused the house, but the man got clean off, of course.”
“And Sir John ”
“Sir John was quite dead when Cathcart got back to him. He
found him lying on his face. His arms were spread out, and his
dressing-gown was torn, as if he had struggled hard. His pockets
had been turned inside out, his writing-table drawers forced open,
the whole room had been ransacked; yet the old man's gold watch
had not been touched, and some money in one of the drawers had
not been taken. What on earth is the meaning of it all?” said young
Dickson, below his breath. “What was the thief after?”
In a moment the truth flashed across my brain. I put two and
two together as quickly as most men, I fancy. The jewels / Some
one had got wind of the jewels, which at that moment were reposing
on my own person in their old brown bag. Sir John had been only
just in time.
“What was he looking for?” continued Dickson, walking up and
down. “The old man must have had some paper or other about
him that he wanted to get hold of. But what? Cathcart says that
nothing whatever has been taken, as far as he can see at present.”
I was perfectly silent. It is not every man who would have been
so in my place, but I was. I know when to hold my tongue, thank
Heaven
Presently the others came in, all full of the same subject, and then
suddenly I remembered that it was getting late; and there was a
bustle and a leave-taking, and I had to post off before I could hear
more. Not, however, that there was much more to hear, for every-


14 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
thing seemed to be in the greatest confusion, and every species of
conjecture was afloat as to the real criminal, and the motive for the
crime. I had not much time to think of anything during the first
day on board; yet, busy as I was in arranging and rearranging my
things, poor old Sir John never seemed quite absent from my mind.
His image, as I had last seen him, constantly rose before me, and the
hoarse whisper was forever sounding in my ears, “I’m watched . I
know I'm watched " I could not get him out of my head. I was
unable to sleep the first night I was on board, and, as the long hours
wore on, I always seemed to see the pale searching eyes of the dead
man; and above the manifold noises of the steamer, and the perpet-
ual lapping of the calm water against my ear, came the whisper, “I’m
watched I know I’m watched ſ”
CHAPTER II.
I was all right next day. I suppose I had had what women call
nerves. I never knew what nerves meant before, because no two
women I ever met seemed to have the same kind. If it is slamming
a door that upsets one woman's nerves, it may be coming in on tip-
toe that will upset another's. You never can tell. But I am sure it
was nerves with me that first night; I know I have never felt so
queer since. Oh yes I have, though—once. I was forgetting; but
I have not come to that yet.
We had a splendid passage home. Most of the passengers were
in good spirits at the thought of seeing England again, and even the
children were not so troublesome as I have known them. I soon
made friends with some of the nicest people, for I generally make
friends easily. I do not know how I do it, but I always seem to
know what people really are at first sight. I always was rather a
judge of character.
There was one man on board whom I took a great fancy to from
the first. He was a young American, travelling about, as Americans
do, to see the world. I forget where he had come from—though I
believe he told me—or why he was going to London; but a nicer
young fellow I never met. He was rather simple and unsophisti-
cated, and with less knowledge of the world than any man I ever
knew; but he did not mind owning to it, and was as grateful as pos-
sible for any little hints which, as an older man who had not gone


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 15
s
through life with his eyes shut, I was of course able to give him. He
was of a shy disposition I could see, and wanted drawing out; but he
soon took to me, and in a surprisingly short time we became friends.
He was in the next cabin to mine, and evidently wished so much to
have been with me, that I tried to get another man to exchange; but
he was grumpy about it, and I had to give it up, much to young
Carr's disappointment. Indeed, he was quite silent and morose for a
whole day about it, poor fellow. He was a tall handsome young
man, slightly built, with the kind of sallow complexion that women
admire, and I wondered at his preferring my company to that of the
womankind on board, who were certainly very civil to him. One
evening when I was rallying him on the subject, as we were leaning
over the side (for though it was December it was hot enough in the
Red Sea to lounge on deck), he told me that he was engaged to be
married to a beautiful young American girl. I forget her name, but
I remember he told it me—Dulcima Something—but it is of no con-
sequence. I quite understood then. I always can enter into the feel-
ings of others so entirely. I know when I was engaged myself once,
long ago, I did not seem to care to talk to any one but her. She did
not feel the same about it, which perhaps accounted for her marrying
some one else, which was quite a blow to me at the time. But still
I could fully enter into young Carr's feelings, especially when he went
on to expatiate on her perfections. Nothing, he averred, was too
good for her. At last he dropped his voice, and, after looking about
him in the dusk, to make sure he was not overheard, he said:
“I have picked up a few stones for her on my travels; a few sap-
phires of considerable value. I don't care to have it generally known
that I have jewels about me, but I don't mind telling you.”
“My dear fellow,” I replied, laying my hand on his shoulder, and
sinking my voice to a whisper, “not a soul on board this vessel sus-
pects it, but so have I.”
It was too dark for me see his face, but I felt that he was much
impressed by what I had told him.
“Then you will know where I had better keep mine,” he said, a
moment later, with his impulsive boyish confidence. “How fortu-
nate I told you about them. Some are of considerable value, and—
and I don't know where to put them that they will be absolutely
safe. I never carried about jewels with me before, and I am nervous
about losing them, you understand.” And he nodded significantly
at me. “Now where would you advise me to keep them?”
“On you,” I said, significantly. -


16 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
“But where?”
He was simpler than even I could have believed.
“My dear boy,” I said, hardly able to refrain from laughing, “do
as I do; put them in a bag with a string to it. Put the string
round your neck, and wear that bag under your clothes night and
day.”
“At night as well?” he asked, anxiously.
“Of course. You are just as likely to lose them, as you call it, in
the night as in the day.”
“I’m very much obliged to you,” he replied. “I will take your
advice this very night. I say,” he added, suddenly, “you would not
care to see them, would you? I would not have any one else catch
sight of them for a good deal, but I would show you them in a mo-
ment. Every one else is on deck just now, if you would like to come
down into my cabin.”
I hardly know one stone from another, and never could tell a dia-
mond from paste; but he seemed so anxious to show me what he
had, that I did not like to refuse.
“By all means,” I said. And we went below.
It was very dark in Carr's cabin, and after he had let me in he
locked the door carefully before he struck a light. He looked quite
pale in the light of the lamp after the red dusk of the warm evening
on deck.
“I don't want to have other fellows coming in,” he said in a whis-
per, nodding at the door.
He stood looking at me for a moment as if irresolute, and then
he suddenly seemed to arrive at some decision, for he pulled a small
parcel out of his pocket and began to open it.
They really were not much to look at, though I would not have
told him so for worlds. There were a few sapphires—one of a con-
siderable size, but uncut—and some handsome turquoises, but not of
perfect color. He turned them over with evident admiration.
“They will look lovely, set in gold, as a bracelet on her arm,” he
said, softly. He was very much in love, poor fellow ! And then he
added, humbly, “But I dare say they are nothing to yours.”
I chuckled to myself at the thought of his astonishment when he
should actually behold them; but I only said,
“Would you like to see them, and judge for yourself?”
“Oh! if it is not giving you too much trouble,” he exclaimed,
gratefully, with shining eyes. “It’s very kind of you. I did not like
to ask. Have you got them with you?”


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 17
I nodded, and proceeded to unbutton my coat.
At that moment a voice was heard shouting down the companion-
ladder: “Carr I say, Carr, you are wanted!” and in another mo-
ment some one was hammering on the door.
Carr sprang to his feet, looking positively savage.
“Carr" shouted the voice again. “Come out, I say; you are
wanted " -
“Button up your coat,” he whispered, scowling suddenly; and
with an oath he opened the door.
Poor Carr He was quite put out, I could see, though he recov-
ered himself in a moment, and went off laughing with the man, who
had been sent for him to take his part in a rehearsal which had been
suddenly resolved on ; for theatricals had been brewing for some
time, and he had promised to act in them. I had not been asked to
join, so I saw no more of him that night. The following morning,
as I was taking an early turn on the deck, he joined me, and said,
with a smile, as he linked his arm in mine, “I was put out last
night, wasn't I?"
“But you got over it in a moment,” I replied. “I quite admired
you; and, after all, you know—some other time.”
“No,” he said, smiling still, “not some other time. I don't think
I will see them—thanks all the same. They might put me out of
conceit with what I have picked up for my little girl, which are the
best I can afford.”
He seemed to have lost all interest in the subject, for he began to
talk of England, and of London, about which he appeared to have
that kind of vague half-and-half knowledge which so often proves
misleading to young men newly launched into town life. When he
found out, as he soon did, that I was, to a certain extent, familiar with
the metropolis, he began to question me minutely, and ended by mak-
ing me promise to dine with him at the Criterion, of which he had act-
ually never heard, and go with him afterwards to the best of the the-
atres the day after we arrived in London.
He wanted me to go with him the very evening we arrived, but
on that point I was firm. My sister Jane, who was living with a hen
canary (called Bob, after me, before its sex was known) in a small
house in Kensington, would naturally be hurt if I did not spend my
first evening in England with her, after an absence of so many years.
Carr was much interested to hear that I had a sister, and asked in-
numerable questions about her. Was she young and lovely, or was
she getting on? Did she live all by herself, and was I going to stay
2


18 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
with her for long? Was not Kensington—was that the name of the
street?—rather out of the world? etc.
I was pleased with the interest he took in any particulars about
myself and my relations. People so seldom care to hear about the
concerns of others. Indeed, I have noticed, as I advance in life, such
a general want of interest on the part of my acquaintance in the minu-
tiae of my personal affairs that of late I have almost ceased to speak
of them at any length. Carr, however, who was of what I should call
a truly domestic turn of character, showed such genuine pleasure in
hearing about myself and my relations, that I asked him to call in
London in order to make Jane's acquaintance, and accordingly gave
him her address, which he took down at once in his note-book with
evident satisfaction.
Our passage was long, but it proved most uneventful; and except
for an occasional dance, and the theatricals before-mentioned, it
would have been dull in the extreme. The theatricals certainly were
a great success, mainly owing to the splendid acting of young Carr,
who became afterwards a more special object of favor even than he
was before. It was bitterly cold when we landed early in January at
Southampton, and my native land seemed to have retired from view
behind a thick veil of fog. We had a wretched journey up to Lon-
don, packed as tight as sardines in a tin, much to the disgust of Carr,
who accompanied me to town, and who, with his usual thoughtfulness,
had in vain endeavored to keep the carriage to ourselves, by liberal
tips to guards and porters. When we at last arrived in London he
insisted on getting me a cab and seeing my luggage onto it, before
he looked after his own at all. It was only when I had given the
cabman my sister's address that he finally took his leave, and disap-
peared among the throng of people who were jostling each other near
the luggage-vans.
Curiously enough, when I arrived at my destination an odd thing
happened. I got out at the green door of 23, Suburban Residences,
and when the maid opened it, walked straight past her into the draw-
1ng-room.
“Well, Jane!” I cried.
A pale middle-aged woman rose as I came in, and I stood aghast.
It was not my sister. It was soon explained. She was a little pet-
tish about it, poor woman It seemed my sister had quite recently
changed her house, and the present occupant had been put to some
slight inconvenience before by people calling and leaving parcels after
her departure. She gave me Jane's new address, which was only in


THE DANVERS JEWELS. - 19
the next street, and I apologized and made my bow at once. My go-
ing to the wrong house was such a slight occurrence that I almost for-
got it at the time, until I was reminded of it by a very sad event which
happened afterwards.
Jane was delighted to see me. It seemed she had written to in-
form me of her change of address, but the letter did not reach me
before I started for England with the Danvers jewels, about which I
have been asked to write this account. Considering this is an account
of the jewels, it is wonderful how seldom I have had occasion to men-
tion them so far; but you may rest assured that all this time they
were safe in their bag under my waiscoat; and knowing I had them
there all right, I did not trouble my head much about them. I never
was a person to worry about things.
Still I had no wish to be inconvenienced by a hard packet of little
knobs against my chest any longer than was necessary, and I wrote the
same evening to Sir George Danvers, stating the bare facts of the case,
and asking what steps he or his second son wished me to take to put
the legacy in the possession of its owner. I had no notion of trust-
ing a packet of such immense value to the newly organized Parcels
Post. With jewels I consider you cannot be too cautious. Indeed,
I told Jane so at the time, and she quite agreed with me.
CHAPTER III.
1 DID not much like the arrangement of Jane's new house when I
came to stay in it. The way the two bedrooms, hers and mine, were
shut off from the rest of the house by a door, barred and locked at
night for fear of burglars, was, I thought, unpleasant, especially as,
once in my room for the night, there was no possibility of getting
out of it, the key of the door of the passage not being even allowed
to remain in the lock, but retiring with Jane, the canary cage, and
other valuables, into her own apartment. I remonstrated, but I soon
found that Jane had not remained unmarried for nothing. She was
decided on the point. The outer door would be locked as usual, and
the key would be deposited under the pin-cushion in her room, as
usual; and it was so.
The next mornino as Jane and T want ant for a strall hafara lº nok-


20 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
day before. To our astonishment, there was a crowd before the door,
and a policeman with his back to it was guarding the entrance. The
blinds were all drawn down. The image of the pale lonely woman,
sitting by her little fire, whom I had disturbed the day before, came
suddenly back to me with a strange qualm.
“What is it?” I hurriedly asked a baker's boy, who was stand.
ing at an area railing, rubbing his chin against the loaf he was wait-
ing to deliver. The boy grinned.
“It's murder!” he said, with relish. “Burgilars in the night. I've
supplied her reg'lar these two months. One quartern best white, one
half-quartern brown every morning, French rolls occasional; but it's
all up now.” And he went off whistling a tune which all bakers'
boys whistled about that time, called “My Grandfather's Timepiece,”
or something similar.
A second policeman came up the street at this moment, and from
him I learned all the little there was to know. The poor lady had
not been murdered, it seemed, but, being subject to heart complaint,
had died in the night of an acute attack, evidently brought on by
fright. The maid, the only other person in the house, sleeping as
maids-of-all-work only can, had heard nothing, and awoke in the
morning to find her mistress dead in her bed, with the window and
door open. “Strangely enough,” the policeman added, “although
nothing in the house had been touched, the lock of an unused bed-
room had been forced, and the room evidently searched.”
Poor Jane was quite overcome. She seemed convinced that
it was only by a special intervention of Providence that she had
changed her house, and that her successor had been sacrificed instead
of herself.
“It might have been me!” she said over and over again that af-
ternoon.
Wishing to give a turn to her thoughts, I began to talk about Sir
John's legacy, in which she had evinced the greatest interest the night
before, and, greatly to her delight, showed her the jewels. I had
not looked at them since Sir John had given them to me, and I was
myself astonished at their magnificence, as I spread them out on the
table under the gas-lamp. Jane exhausted herself in admiration;
but as I was putting them away again, saying it was time for me
to be dressing and going to meet Carr, who was to join me at the
Criterion, she begged me on no account to take them with me,
affirming that it would be much safer to leave them at home. I
was firm, but she was firmer; and in the end I allowed her to lock


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 21
them up in the tea-caddy, where her small stock of ready monev
reposed.
I met Carr as we had arranged, and we had a very pleasant even-
ing. Poor Carr, who had seen the papers, had hardly expected that
I should turn up, knowing the catastrophe of the previous night had
taken place at the house I was going to, and was much relieved to
hear that my sister had moved, and had thus been spared all the hor-
ror of the event.
The dinner was good, the play better. I should have come home
feeling that I had enjoyed myself thoroughly, if it had not been for
a little adventure with our cab-driver that very nearly proved serious.
We got a hansom directly we came out of the theatre, but instead
of taking us to the direction we gave him, after we had driven for
some distance I began to make out that the cabman was going wrong,
and Carr shouted to him to stop; but thereupon he lashed up his
horse, and away we went like the wind, up one street, and down an-
other, till I had lost all idea where we were. Carr, who was young
and active, did all he could ; but the cabman, who, I am afraid, must
have been intoxicated, took not the slightest notice, and continued
driving madly, Heaven knows where. At last, after getting into a
very dingy neighborhood, we turned up a crooked dark street, unlit
by any lamp, a street so narrow that I thought every moment the
cab would be overturned. In another moment I saw two men rush
out of a door-way. One seized the horse, which was much blown by
this time, and brought it violently to a stand-still, while the other flew
at the cab, and catching Carr by the collar, proceeded to drag him
out by main force. I suppose Carr did his best, but being only an
American, he certainly made a very poor fight of it; and while I was
laying into the man who had got hold of him, I was suddenly caught
by the legs myself from the other side of the cab. I turned on my
assailant, saw a heavy stick levelled at me, caught at it, missed it, be-
held a series of fireworks, and remembered nothing more.
The first thing I heard on beginning to come to myself was a se-
ries of subdued but evidently heart-felt oaths; and I became sensible
of an airy feeling, unpleasant in the extreme, proceeding from an open
condition of coat and waistcoat quite unsuited to the time of year.
A low chorus of muffled whispering was going on round me. As I
groaned, involuntarily, it stopped.
“He's coming to " I heard Carr say. “Go and fetch some
brandy.” And I felt myself turned right side uppermost, and my


22 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
hands were rubbed, while Carr, in a voice of the greatest anxiety,
asked me how I felt. I was soon able to sit up, and to become aware
that I had a splitting headache, and was staring at a tallow-candle
stuck in a bottle. Having got so far I got a little farther, and on
looking round found myself reclining on a sack in a corner of a dis-
reputable-looking room, dingy with dirt, and faithful to the memory
of bad tobacco. Then I suddenly remembered what had occurred.
Carr saw that I did so, and instantly poured forth an account of how
we had been rescued from a condition of great peril by the man to
whom the house we were in belonged, to whom he hardly knew how
to express his gratitude, and who was now gone for some brandy for
me. He told me a great deal about it, but I was so dizzy that I for-
got most of what he said, and it was not until our deliverer returned
with the brandy that I became thoroughly aware of what was going
forward. I could not help thinking, as I thanked the honest fellow
who had come to our assistance, how easily one may be deceived by
appearances, for a more forbidding-looking face, under its fur cap,
I never saw. That of his son, who presently returned with a four-
wheeler which Carr had sent for, was not more prepossessing. In fact,
they were two as villanous-looking men as I had ever seen. After
recompensing both with all our spare cash, we got ourselves hoisted
stiffly into the cab, and Carr good-naturedly insisted on seeing me
home, though he owned to feeling, as he put it, “rather knocked up
by his knocking down.” We were both far too exhausted to speak
much, until Carr gave a start and a gasp and said, “By Jove"
“What?” I inquired.
“They are gone!” he said, tremulously—“my sapphires. They
are gone ! Stolen I had them in a bag round my neck, as you
told me. They must have been taken from me when I was knocked
down. I say,” he added, quickly, “how about yours? Have you
got them all right?”
Involuntarily I raised my hand to my throat. A horrid qualm
passed over me.
“Thank Heaven ſ” I replied, with a sigh of relief. “They are
safe at home with Jane. What a mercy I might have lost them.”
“Might !” said Carr. “You would have lost them to a dead cer-
tainty; mine are gone !” And he stamped, and clinched his fists,
and looked positively furious.
Poor Carrſ I felt for him. He took the loss of his stones so to
heart; and I am sure it was only natural. I parted from him at my
own door, and was glad on going in to find Jane had stayed up for me.


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 23
I soon figured in her eyes as the hero of a thrilling adventure, while
her clever hands applied sticking-plaster ad libitum. We were both
so full of the events of the evening, and the letter which I was to
write to the Times about it the next day, that it never entered the
heads of either of us, on retiring to bed, to remove Sir John's jewels
from the tea-caddy into which they had been temporarily popped in
the afternoon.
CHAPTER IV.
I REALLY think adventures, like misfortunes, never come single.
Would you believe it? Our house was broken into that very night.
Nothing serious came of it, wonderful to relate, owing to Jane's ex-
traordinary presence of mind. She had been unable to sleep after
my thrilling account of the cab accident, and had consoled herself by
reading Baxter's “Saint's Rest” by her night-light, for the canary
became restless and liable to sudden bursts of song if a candle were
lighted. While so engaged she became aware of a subdued grating
sound, which had continued for some time before she began to specu-
late upon it. While she was speculating it ceased, and after a short
interval she distinctly heard a stealthy step upon the stair, and the
handle of the passage door before-mentioned was gently, very gently
turned.
Jane has some of that quickness of perception which has been
of such use to myself through life. In a moment she had grasped
the situation. Some one was in the house. In another moment she
was hanging out of her bedroom window, springing the policeman's
rattle which she had had by her for years with a view to an emer-
gency of this kind, and at the same time—for she was a capable wom-
an—blowing a piercing strain on a cabman's whistle.
To make a long story short, her extraordinary presence of mind
was the saving of us. With her own eyes she saw two dark figures
fly up our area steps and disappear round the corner, and when a
policeman appeared on the scene half an hour later, he confirmed the
fact that the house had been broken into, by showing us how an en-
trance had been effected through the kitchen window.
There was of course no more sleep for us that night, and the re-
mainder of it was passed by Jane in examining the house from top
to bottom every half hour or so, owing to a rooted conviction on her


24 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
part that a burglar might still be lurking on the premises, concealed
in the cellaret, or the jam cupboard, or behind the drawing-room
curtains.
By that morning's post I heard, as I expected I should do, from
Sir George Danvers, but the contents of the letter surprised me. He
wrote most cordially, thanking me for my kindness in undertaking
such a heavy responsibility (I am sure I never felt it to be so) for an
entire stranger, and ended by sending me a pressing invitation to
to come down to Stoke Moreton that very day, that he and his son,
whose future wife was also staying with them, might have the pleas-
ure of making the acquaintance of one to whom they were so much
indebted. He added that his eldest son Charles was also going
down from London by a certain train that day, and that he had told
him to be on the lookout for me at the station in case I was able
to come at such short notice. I made up my mind to go, sent Sir
George a telegram to that effect, and proceeded to fish up the jewels
out of the tea-caddy.
Jane, who had never ceased for one instant to comment on the event
of the night, positively shrieked when she saw me shaking the bag
free from tea-leaves.
“Good gracious ! the burglars,” she exclaimed. “Why, they might
have taken them if they had only known.”
Of course they had not known, as I had been particularly secret
about them ; but I wished all the same that I had not left them there
all night, as Jane would insist, and continue insisting, that they had
been exposed to great danger. I argued the matter with her at first;
but women, I find, are impervious as a rule to masculine argument,
and it is a mistake to reason with them. It is, in fact, putting the
sexes for the moment on an equality to which the weaker one is un-
accustomed, and consequently unsuited.
A few hours later I was rolling swiftly towards Stoke Moreton in
a comfortable smoking carriage, only occupied by myself and Mr.
Charles Danvers, a handsome young fellow with a pale face and that
peculiar tired manner which (though, as I soon found, natural to him)
is so often affected by the young men of the day.
“And so Ralph has come in for a legacy in diamonds,” he said,
listlessly, when we had exchanged the usual civilities, and had become,
to a certain degree, acquainted. “Dear me ! how these good steady
young men prosper in the world. When last I heard from him he had
prevailed upon the one perfect woman in the universe to consent to
marry him, and his aunt (by-the-way, you will meet her there, too—


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 25.
Lady Mary Cunningham) had murmured something vague but grati-
fying about testamentary intentions. A week later Providence fills
his brimming cup with a legacy of jewels, estimated at—” Charles
opened his light sleepy eyes wide and looked inquiringly at me.
“What are they estimated at?” he asked, as I did not answer.
I really had no idea, but I shrugged my shoulders and looked wise.
“Estimated at a fabulous sum,” he said, closing his eyes again.
“Ah! had they been mine, with what joyful alacrity should I have
ascertained their exact money value. And mine they ought to have
been, if the sacred law of primogeniture (that special Providence
which watches over the interests of eldest sons)had been duly observed.
Sir John had not the pleasure of my acquaintance, but I fear he must
have heard some reports—no doubt entirely without foundation—
respecting my career, which had induced him to pass me over in this
manner. What a morall My father and my aunt Mary are always
delicately pointing out the difference between Ralph and myself. I
wish I were a good young man, like Ralph. It seems to pay best in
the long-run; but I may as well inform you, Colonel Middleton, of
the painful fact that I am the black sheep of the family.”
“Oh, come, come !” I remarked, uneasily.
“I should not have alluded to the subject if you were not likely
to become fully aware of it on your arrival, so I will be beforehand
with my relations. I was brought up in the way I should go,” he
continued, with the utmost unconcern, as if commenting on something
that did not affect him in the least; “but I did not walk in it, partly
owing to the uncongenial companionship that it involved, especially
that of my aunt Mary, who took up so much room herself in the
narrow path that she effectually kept me out of it. From my earliest
youth, also, I took extreme interest in the parable of the Prodigal,
and as soon as it became possible I exemplified it myself. I may even
say that I acted the part in a manner that did credit to a beginner;
but the wind-up was ruined by the lamentable inability of others, who
shall be nameless, to throw themselves into the spirit of the piece.
At various intervals,” he continued, always as if speaking of some one
else, “I have returned home, but I regret to say that on each occasion
my reception was not in any way what I could have wished. The
flavor of a fatted calf is absolutely unknown to me; and so far from
meeting me half-way, I have in extreme cases, when impelled home-
ward by urgent pecuniary considerations, found myself obliged to
walk up from the station.”
“Dear me! I hope it is not far,” I said.


26 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
“A mere matter of three miles or so uphill,” he resumed “noth-
ing to a healthy Christian, though trying to the trembling legs of the
ungodly after a long course of husks. There, now I think you are
quite au fait as to our family history. I always pity a stranger who
comes to a house ignorant of little domestic details of this kind; he
is apt to make mistakes. “Oh, pray don't mention it”—as I mur-
mured some words of thanks—“no trouble, I assure you; trouble is a
thing I don't take. By-the-way, are you aware we are going straight
into a nest of private theatricals at Stoke Moreton? To-night is the
last rehearsal; perhaps I had better look over my part. I took it
once years ago, but I don't remember a word of it.” And after much
rummaging in a magnificent silver-mounted travelling-bag, the Prodi-
gal pulled out a paper book and carelessly turned over the leaves.
I did not interrupt his studies, save by a few passing comments on
the weather, the state of the country, and my own health, which, I am
sorry to say, is not what it was; but as I only received monosyllabic
answers, we had no more conversation worth mentioning till we
reached Stoke Moreton.
CHAPTER W.
Stoke MoREToN is a fine old Elizabethan house standing on rising
ground. As we drove up the straight wide approach between two
rows of ancient fantastically clipped hollies, I was impressed by the
stately dignity of the place, which was not lessened as we drew up be-
fore a great arched door-way, and were ushered into a long hall sup-
ported by massive pillars of carved white stone. A roaring log-fire
in the immense fireplace threw a ruddy glow over the long array of
armor and gleaming weapons which lined the walls, and made the
pale winter twilight outside look bleak indeed. Charles, emerging
slim and graceful out of an exquisite ulster, sauntered up to the fire,
and asked where Sir George Danvers was. As he stood inside the
wide fireplace, leaning against one of the pillars which supported the
towering white stone chimney-piece, covered with heraldic designs
and coats of arms, he looked a worthier representative of an ancient
race than I fear he really was.
“So they have put the stage at that end, in front of the pillars,”
he remarked, nodding at a wooden erection. “Quite right. I could


28 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
I distinctly saw Ralph kiss the fair one in the picture-gallery, and I
instantly came to the conclusion that she was the one to whom he
was engaged.
I asked Charles if I were not right, as we stood in front of the
hall-fire before the rest of the party had assembled for dinner, and
he told me that I had indeed hit the nail on the head in this in-
stance, though for his own part he never laid much stress himself
on such an occurrence, having found it prove misleading in the ex-
treme to draw any conclusion from it. He further informed me that
Miss Derrick was the young lady with dark hair who had poured out
tea, and whom he had favored with some of his conversation after-
wards.
I admired Ralph's taste, as did Charles, who had never seen his
future sister-in-law before. Aurelia Grant was a charming little
creature, with a curly head and a dimple, and a pink-and-white com-
plexion, and a suspicion of an Irish accent when she became ex-
cited.
Charles said he admired her complexion most because it was so
thoroughly well done, and the coloring was so true to nature.
I did not quite catch his meaning, but it certainly was a beautiful
complexion; and then she was so bright and lively, and showed such
pretty little teeth when she smiled ! She was quite delightful. I
did not wonder at Ralph's being so much in love with her, and
Charles agreed with me.
“There is nothing like a good complexion, he remarked, gravely.
“One may be led away to like a pale girl with a mind for a time,
but for permanent domestic happiness give me a good complexion,
and—a dimple,” he added, as if it were an after-thought. “I feel I
could not bestow my best affections on a woman without a dimple.
Yes, indeed! Ralph has chosen well.” -
Now I do not agree with Charles there, as I have always consid-
ered that a woman should have a certain amount of mind; just
enough, in fact, to enable her to appreciate a superior one. I said as
much to Charles; but he only laughed, and said it was a subject on
which opinion had always varied.
“How did he meet her ?” I inquired.
“On the Rigi, last summer,” said Charles. “I am thinking of
going there myself next year. Lovely orphan sat by Lady Mary at
table d'hôte. Read tracts presented by Lady Mary. Made acquaint-
ance. Lovely orphan's travelling companion or governess discovered
to be live sister of defunct travelling companion or governess of
_*


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 29
Lady Mary. Result, warm friendship. Ralph, like a dutiful neph-
ew, appears on the scene. Fortnight of fine weather. Interest-
ing expeditions. Romantic attachment, cemented by diamond and
pearl ring from Hunt & Roskell's. There is the whole story for
you.”
Evelyn Derrick joined us as he finished speaking. She was a tall
graceful girl, gentle and dignified in manner, with a pale refined
face. She was pretty in a way, but not to compare to Aurelia.
Evelyn had an anxious look about her, too. Now I do not approve
of a girl looking grave; she ought to be bright and happy, with a
smile for every one. It is all very well for us men, who have the
work of the world to do, to look grave at times, but with women it
is different; and a woman always looks her best when she smiles—
at least, I think so.
Then Aurelia came down, perfectly dazzling in white satin; then
Sir George, then Ralph, giving an arm to Lady Mary, who suffered
from rheumatism in her foot. Then came the gong, and there was
a rustle down of more people, young and old, friends of the family
who had come to act, or to see their sons and daughters act. As I
never could get even their names right, I shall not attempt to give
any account of them, especially as they are not of importance in any
way.
After dinner, on entering the drawing-room, I found that great
excitement prevailed among the ladies respecting Sir John's jewels.
About his sad fate and costly legacy they all seemed fully informed.
I had myself almost forgotten the reason of my visit in my interest
in my new surroundings, not having even as yet given up the jewels
to Sir George Danvers or Ralph; but, at the urgent request of all
the ladies at once, Ralph begged me to bring them down, to be seen
and admired then and there, before the rehearsal began.
“They will all be yours, you know,” Ralph said to Aurelia.” “You
shall wear them on your wedding-day.”
“You are always talking about being married,” said Aurelia, with
a little pout. “I wish you would try and think of something else
to say. I was quite looking forward to it myself until I came here,
and now I am quite, quite tired of it beforehand.”
Ralph laughed delightedly, and Sir George reminding me that
every one was dying of anxiety, himself included, I ran up-stairs to
take the brown bag from around my neck, and in a few minutes re-
turned with it in my hand. They were all waiting for me, Lady
Mary drawn up in an arm-chair beside an ebony table, on which a


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 31
together in this way in a bag, with nothing to prevent them scratcn-
ing each other. See, Ralph, here is a clasp broken ; and here are
some loose stones; and this star has no clasp at all. You must take
them up to some trustworthy jeweller, and have them thoroughly
looked over.”
“I suppose the second son was specially mentioned, Middleton?”
said Charles, as I drew back to let the rest handle and admire.
“Of course " said Lady Mary, sharply; “and a very fortunate
thing, too.”
“Very—for Ralph,” he replied. “It is really providential that I
am what I am. Why, I might have ruined the dear boy's prospects
if I had paid my tailor's bill, and lived in the country among the
buttercups and daisies. Ah! my dear aunt, I see you are about to
remark how all things here below work together for good "
“I was not going to remark anything of the kind,” retorted Lady
Mary, drawing herself up; “but,” she added, spitefully, “I do not
feel the less rejoiced at Ralph's good fortune and prosperity when
I see, as I so often do, the ungodly flourishing like a green bay-
tree.”
“Of course,” said Charles, shaking his head, “if that is your own
experience, I bow before it; but for my own part, I must confess I
have not found it so. Flourish like a green bay-tree! No, Aunt
Mary, it is a fallacy; they don't: I am sure I only wish they did.
But I see the rehearsal is beginning. May I give you an arm to the
hall ?”
The offer was entirely disregarded, and it was with the help of
mine that Lady Mary retired from an unequal combat, which she
never seemed able to resist provoking anew, and in which she was
invariably worsted, causing her, as I could see, to regard Charles
with the concentrated bitterness of which a severely good woman
alone is capable.
I soon perceived that Charles was on the same amicable terms
with his father; that they rarely spoke, and that it was evidently
only with a view to keeping up appearances that he was ever in-
vited to the paternal roof at all. Between the brothers, however, in
spite of so much to estrange them, a certain kindliness of feeling
seemed to exist, which was hardly to have been expected under the
circumstances.
The rehearsal now began, and Sir George Danvers, who had re-
mained behind to put by the jewels, and lock them up in his strong-
box among his papers, came and sat down by me, again thanking


32 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
me for taking charge of them, though I assured him it had been
very little trouble.
“Not much trouble, perhaps, but a great responsibility,” he said,
courteously.
“A soldier, Sir George,” I replied, with a slight smile, “becomes
early inured to the gravest responsibility. It is the air we breathe;
it is taken as a matter of course.”
He looked keenly at me, and was silent, as if considering some-
thing—perhaps what I had said.
I was delighted to find the play was one of those which I had
seen acted during our passage home. There is nothing I like so
much as knowing a play beforehand, because then one can always
whisper to one's companion what is coming next. The stage, with
all its adjustments, had been carefully arranged, the foot-lights were
lighted, the piece began. All went well till nearly the end of the
first act, when there was a cry behind the scenes of “Mr. Denis"
Mr. Denis should have rushed on, but Mr. Denis did not rush on.
The play stopped. Mr. Denis was not in the library, the improvised
greenroom; Mr. Denis did not appear when his name was called
in stentorian tones by Ralph, or in pathetic falsetto by Charles. In
short, Mr. Denis was not forthcoming. A rush up-stairs on the part
of most of the young men brought to light the awful fact that
Mr. Denis had retired to his chamber, a prey to sudden and acute
indisposition.
“Dear me!” said Charles to Lady Mary, with a dismal shake of
his head, “how precarious is life Here to-day, and in bed to-mor-
row. Support your aunt Mary, my dear Evelyn; she wishes to
retire to rest. Indeed, we may as well all go to bed, for there will
be no more acting to-night without poor Denis. I only trust he
may be spared to us till to-morrow, and that he may be well enough
to die by my hand to-morrow evening.”
We all dispersed for the night in some anxiety. The play could
not proceed without Mr. Denis, who took an important part; and
Sir George ruefully informed me that all the neighboring houses had
been filled for these theatricals, and that great numbers of people
were expected. There was to be dancing afterwards, but the prin-
cipal feature of the entertainment was the play. We all retired to
rest, fervently hoping that the health of Mr. Denis might be restored
by the following morning.


34 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
“Do you think he would come?” he asked.
“I am almost sure he would,” I said; “he is a great friend of
mine.” -
“It would be an exceedingly good-natured and friendly act,” said
Sir George. “Charles—no, I mean Ralph—bring a telegraph form,
and if you will write a telegram at once, Middleton, I will send it
to the station directly. We shall have an answer by twelve o'clock,
and until then we will not give up all hope, though of course we
must not count on your friend being able to come at such short
notice.”
The telegram was written and despatched, Carr having given me
an address where letters would find him, though he said he did not
put up there. I sincerely hoped he would not be out of the way on
this occasion, and I was not a little pleased when, a few hours later,
I received a telegram in reply saying that he could come, and should
arrive by the afternoon train which had brought me the day before.
The spirits of the whole party revived. I (as is often the case)
was in high favor with all. Even poor Denis, who had been very
much depressed, was sufficiently relieved by the news—so Charles
said—to smile over his beef-tea. Lady Mary, who appeared at
luncheon-time, treated me with marked consideration. I had al-
ready laid them under an obligation, she said, graciously, by under-
taking the care of the jewels, and now they were indebted to me
a second time. Was Mr. Carr one of Lord Barrantyne's sons, or was
he one of the Crampshire Carrs ? She had known Lady Caroline
Carr in her youth, but had not met her of late years. She seemed
surprised when I told her that Carr was an American, and he sank,
I could see, at once in her estimation; but she was kind enough to
say that she was not a person who was prejudiced in any way by a
man's nationality, and that she believed that very respectable peo-
ple might be found among the Americans.
The day passed in the usual preparations for an entertainment.
If I went into the hall I was sure to run against gardeners carrying
in quantities of hot-house plants, with which the front of the stage
was being hidden from the foot-lights to the floor; if I wandered
into the library I interrupted Aurelia and Ralph rehearsing their
parts alone, with their heads very close together; if I hastily with-
drew into the morning-room, it was only to find Charles upon his
knees luring Evelyn to immediate flight, in soul-stirring accents,
before an admiring audience of not unenvious young ladyhood.
“Now, Evelyn, I ask you as a favor,” said Charles, as I came in,


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 35
moving towards her on his knees, “will you come a little closer
when I am down I don't mind wearing out my knees the least
in a good cause; but I owe it to myself, as a wicked baron in hired
tights, not to cross the stage in that position. Any impression I
make will be quite lost if I do; and unless you keep closer, I shall
never be able to reach your hand and clasp it to a heart at least two
yards away. Now”—rising, and crossing over to the other side—
“I shall begin again. “Ah! but my soul's adored—’”
“Is Middleton here?” asked a voice in the door-way. It was Sir
George Danvers who had put his head into the room, and I went to
him.
“I say, Middleton,” he began, twirling his stick, and looking rath-
er annoyed, “it is excessively provoking. I never thought of it be-
fore, but I find there is not a bed in the house. Every cranny has
been filled. It never occurred to me that we had not a room for
your friend, now that he is kind enough to come. And it looks so
rude, when it is so exceedingly good-natured of him to come at all.”
“Oh, dear! anywhere will do,” I said.
“There is not even room for Ralph in the house,” continued Sir
George. “I have put him up at the lodge,” pointing to a small
house at the end of the drive, near the great entrance gates. “There
is another nice little room leading out of his,” he added, hesitating—
“but really I don't like to suggest—”
“Oh, that will do perfectly ſ” I broke in. “Carr is not the sort
of fellow to care a straw how he is put up. He will be quite con-
tent anywhere.”
“Come and see it,” he said, leading the way out-of-doors. “I
would have turned out Charles in a moment, and given Carr his
room; but Denis is really rather ill, and Charles sees to him, as he is
next door.”
I could not help saying how much I liked Charles.
“Strangers always do,” he replied, coldly, as we walked towards
the lodge. “I constantly hear him spoken of as a most agreeable
young man.”
“And he is so handsome.”
“Yes,” replied Sir George, in the same hard tone, “handsome
and agreeable. I have no doubt he appears so to others; but I,
who have had to pay the debts and hush up the scandals of my
handsome and agreeable son, find Ralph, who has not a feature in
his face, the better-looking of the two. I know Charles is head over
ears in debt at this moment, but "-with sudden acrimony—“he


36 THE DANVERs JEWELS.
will not get another farthing from me. It is pouring water into a
sieve.”
“Ralph is marrying a sweetly pretty creature,” I said, with
warmth, desirous of changing the subject.
“Yes, she is very pretty,” said Sir George, without enthusiasm;
“but I wish she had belonged to one of our county families. It is
nothing in the way of connection. She has no relations to speak
of—one uncle living in Australia, and another, whom she goes to on
Saturday, in Ireland. There seems to be no money either. It is
Lady Mary's doing. She took a fancy to her abroad; and to say
the truth, I did not wish to object, for at one time there seemed to
be an attraction between Ralph and his cousin Evelyn Derrick,
which his aunt and I were both glad to think had passed over. I
do not approve of marriages between cousins.”
We had reached the lodge by this time, and I was shown a tidy
little room leading out of the one Ralph was occupying, in which I
assured Sir George that Carr would be perfectly comfortable, much
to the courteous old gentleman's relief, though I could see that he
was evidently annoyed at not being able to put him up in the
house.
In the afternoon, towards five o'clock, Carr arrived. I went into
the hall to meet him, and to bring him into the drawing-room my-
self. Just as we came in, and while I was introducing him to Sir
George, Ralph and Aurelia, who were sitting together as usual,
started a lovers' squabble.
“Oh my!” said Ralph, suddenly.
“It is all your fault. You jogged my elbow,” came Aurelia's
quick rejoinder.
“My dearest love, I did not,” returned Ralph, on his knees, pocket-
handkerchief in hand.
It appeared that between them they had managed to transfer
Aurelia's tea from her cup to the front of her dress.
“You did; you know you did,” she said, evidently ready to cry
with vexation. “I was just going to drink, and you had your arm
round the back of my—”
“Hush, Aurelia, I beg,” expostulated Charles. “Aunt Mary and
I are becoming embarrassed. It is not necessary to enter into par-
ticulars as to the exact locality of Ralph's arm.”
“Round the back of my chair,” pouted Aurelia.
“It is all right, Aunt Mary,” called Charles, cheerfully, to that
lady. “Only the back of her chair. We took alarm unnecessarily.


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 37
Just as it should be. I have done the same myself with—a differ-
ent chair.”
“He is always doing it,” continued Aurelia, unmollified. “I
have told him about it before. He made me drop a piece of bread
and butter on the carpet only yesterday.”
“I ate it afterwards,” humbly suggested Ralph, still on his knees,
“and there were hairs in it. There were, indeed, Aurelia.”
“And now it is my tea-gown,” continued Aurelia, giving way
to the prettiest little outburst of temper imaginable. “I wish you
would get up and go away, Ralph, and not come back. You are
only making it worse by rubbing it in that silly way with your wet
handkerchief.” -
“Here is another,” said Charles, snatching up Lady Mary's deli-
cate cambric one, which was lying on her work-table, while I was in
the act of introducing Carr to her; and before that lady's politeness
to Carr would allow her to turn from him to expostulate, Charles.
was on his knees beside Ralph, wiping the offending stain.
“‘Out, d d spot!” or rather series of spots. What, Aurelia!
you don't wish it rubbed any more? Good! I will turn my atten-
tion to the Aubusson carpet. Ha! triumph 1 Here at least I am
successful. Aunt Mary, you have no conception how useful your
handkerchief is. The amount of tea or dirt, or both, which is leav-
ing the carpet and taking refuge in your little square of cambric
will surprise you when you see it. Ah!” rising from his knees as I
brought up Carr, having by this time presented him to Sir George.
“Very happy to see you, Mr. Carr. Most kind of you to come.
Evelyn, are you pouring out some tea for Mr. Carr? Nature re-
quires support before a last rehearsal. May I introduce you to my
cousin Miss Derrick?”
After Carr had also been introduced to Aurelia, who, however,
was still too much absorbed in her tea-gown to take much notice of
him, he seemed glad to retreat to a chair by Evelyn, who gave him
his tea, and talked pleasantly to him. He was very shy at first, but
he soon got used to us, and many were the curious glances shot at
him by the rest of the party as tea went on. There was to be a
last rehearsal immediately afterwards, so that he might take part in
it; and there was a general unacknowledged anxiety on the part of
all the actors as to how he would bear that crucial test on which so
much depended. I was becoming anxious myself, being in a man-
ner responsible for him.
“You're not nervous, are you?” I said, taking him aside when tea


38 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
was over. “Only act half as well as you did on the steamer and
you will do capitally.”
“Yes, I am nervous,” he replied, with a short uneasy laugh. “It
is enough to make a fellow nervous to be set down among a lot of
people whom he has never seen before—to act a principal part, too.
I had no idea it was going to be such a grand affair or I would not
have come. I only did it to please you.”
Of course I knew that, and I tried to reassure him, reminding him
that the audience would not be critical, and how grateful every one
was to him for coming.
“Tell me who some of the people are, will you?” he went on.
“Who is that tall man with the fair mustache? He is looking at
us now.”
“That is Charles, the eldest son,” I replied; “and the shorter
one, with the pleasant face, near the window, is Ralph, his younger
brother.”
“That is a very good-looking girl he is talking to,” he remarked.
“I did not catch her name.”
“Hush" I said. “That is Miss Grant, whom he is engaged to.
They have just had a little tiff, and are making it up. He does talk
to her a good deal. I have noticed it myself. Such a sweet creat-
urel"
“Is she going to act?”
“Yes,” I replied. “They are going to begin at once. You need
not dress. It is not a dress rehearsal.”
“I think I will go and get my boots off, though,” said Carr.
“Can you show me where I am?”
“I am afraid you are not in the house at all,” I said. “The fact
is—did not Sir George tell you?” And then I explained.
For a moment his face fell, but it cleared instantly, though not
before I had noticed it.
“You don't mind?” I said, astonished. “You quite under-
stand—”
“Of course, of course!” he interrupted. “It is all right. I have
a cold, that is all; and I have to sing next week. I shall do very
well. Pray don't tell your friends I have a cold. I am sure Sir
George is kindness itself, and it might make him uneasy to think I
was not in his house.”
The rehearsal now began, and in much trepidation I waited to
see Carr come on. The moment he appeared all anxiety vanish-
ed; the other actors were reassured, and acted their best. A few


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 39
passages had to be repeated, a few positions altered, but it was obvi-
ous that Carr could act, and act well; though, curiously enough, he
looked less gentlemanlike and well-bred when acting with Charles
than he had done when he was the best among a very mixed set on
the steamer.
“You act beautifully, Mr. Carr ſ” said Aurelia, when it was over.
“Doesn't he, Ralph?”
“Doesn't he?” replied Ralph, hot but good-humored. “I am
sure, Carr, we are most grateful to you.”
“So am I,’” said Charles. “Your death agonies, Carr, are a
credit to human nature. No great vulgar writhings with legs all
over the stage, like Denis; but a chaste, refined wriggle, and all
was over. It is a pleasure to kill a man who dies in such a gentle-
manlike manner. If only Evelyn will keep a little closer to me
when I am on my wicked baronial knees, I shall be quite happy.
You hear, Evelyn !”
“How you can joke at this moment,” said Evelyn, who looked
pale and nervous, “I cannot think. I don't believe I shall be able
to remember a word when it comes to the point.”
“Stage-fever coming on already,” said Charles, in a different tone.
“Ah! it is your first appearance, is it not ? Go and rest now, and
you will be all right when the time comes. I have a vision of a
great success, and a call before the curtain, and bouquets, and other
delights. Only go and rest now.” And he went to light a candle
for her. He seemed very thoughtful for Evelyn.
It was the signal for all of us to disperse, the ladies to their rooms,
the men to the only retreat left to them, the smoking-room. As
Aurelia went up-stairs I saw her beckon Ralph and whisper to him:
“Am I really to wear them "
“Wear what, my angel? The jewels | Why, good gracious, I
had quite forgotten them. Of course I want you to wear them.”
“So do I, dreadfully,” she replied, with a killing glance over the
balusters. “Only if I am, you must bring them down in good time,
and put them on in the greenroom. I hope you have got them
somewhere safe.”
“Safe as a church,” replied Ralph, forgetting that in these days
the simile was not a good one. “Father has them in his strong-box.
I will ask him to get them out—at least all that could be worn—and
I will give them a rub up before you wear them.”
“Ah!” said Charles, sadly, as we walked up-stairs, “if only I had
known Sir John ”


CHAPTER WII.
It was nearly eight o'clock when I came down. The play was to
begin at eight. The hall, which was brilliantly lighted, was one
moving mass of black coats, with here and there a red one, and even-
ing-dresses many colored—the people in them, chatting, bowing,
laughing, being ushered to their places. Lady Mary and Sir George
Danvers side by side received their guests at the foot of the grand
staircase, Lady Mary, resplendent in diamond tiara and riviere, smil-
ing as if she could never frown; Sir George upright, courteous, a
trifle stiff, as most English country gentlemen feel it incumbent on
themselves to be on such occasions.
Presently the continual roll of the carriages outside ceased, the
lamps were toned down, the orchestra struck up, and Sir George and
Lady Mary took their seats, looking round with anxious satisfaction
at the hall crowded with people. People lined the walls; chairs
were being lifted over the heads of the sitting for some who were
still standing; cushions were being arranged on the billiard-table at
the back for a covey of white waistcoats who arrived late; the stair-
case was already crowded with servants; the whole place was crammed.
I wondered how they were getting on behind the scenes, and slip-
ping out of the hall, I traversed the great gold and white drawing-
room, prepared for dancing, and peeped into the morning-room,
which, with the adjoining library, had been given up to the actors.
They were all assembled in the morning-room, however, waiting for
one of the elder ladies who had not come down. The prompter was
getting fidgety, and walking about. The two scene-shifters, pale,
weary-looking men, who had come down with the scenery, were sit-
ting in the wings, perfectly apathetic amid the general excitement.
Charles and several other actors were standing round a footman who
was opening champagne bottles at a surprising rate. I saw Charles
take a glass to Evelyn, who was shivering with a sharp attack of
stage-fever in an arm-chair, looking over her part. She smiled grate-
fully, but as she did so her eyes wandered to the other side of the
room, where Ralph, on his knees before Aurelia, was fastening a dia-
mond star in her dress. Diamonds, rubies, and emeralds flashed in


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 41
her hair, and on her white neck and arms. Ralph was fixing the
last ornament onto her shoulder with wire off a champagne bottle,
there being no clasp to hold it in its place. I saw Evelyn turn away
again, and Charles, who was watching her, suddenly went off to the
fire, and began to complain of the cold, and of the thinness of his
silk stockings.
The elder lady—“the heavy mother,” as Charles irreverently called
her—now arrived; the orchestra, which was giving a final flourish,
was begged in a hoarse whisper to keep going a few minutes longer;
eyes were applied to the hole in the curtain, and then, every one be-
ing assembled, it was felt by all that the awful moment had come at
last. A more miserable-looking set of people I never saw. I always
imagined that the actors behind the scenes were as gay off the stage
as on it; but I found to my astonishment that they were all suffer-
ing more or less from severe mental depression. Ralph and Aurelia
were now sitting ruefully together on an ottoman beside the paint-
ing table, littered with its various rouges and creams and stage ap-
pliances. Even Charles, who had established Evelyn on a chair in
the wings at the side she had to come on from, and was now drink-
ing champagne with due regard to his paint—even Charles owned to
being nervous.
“I wish to goodness Mrs. Wright would beginſ” he said. “Ah,
there she goes!”—as she ascended the stage steps. “There goes the
bell. We are in for it now. She starts, and I come on next. Up
goes the curtain. Where the devil has my book got to ?”
In another moment he was in the wings, intent on his part; then
I saw him throw down his book and go jauntily forward. A mo-
ment more, and there was a thunder of applause. All the actors
looked at each other, and smiled a feeble smile.
“He will do,” said General Marston, the Indian officer, who, now
in the dress of an old-fashioned livery servant, proceeded to mount
the steps. It dawned upon me that I was missing the play, and I
hurried back to find Charles convulsing the audience with the utmost
coolness, and evidently enjoying himself exceedingly. . Then Evelyn
came on— But who cares to read a description of a play ? It is
sufficient to say that Aurelia looked charming, and many were the
whispered comments on her magnificent jewels; but on the stage
Evelyn surpassed her, as much as Aurelia surpassed Evelyn off it.
Ralph and Carr did well, but Charles was the favorite with every
one, from the Duchess of Crushington in the front seat to the scul-
lery-maid on the staircase. He was so bold, so wicked, so insinuating,


42 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
in his plumed cap and short cloak, so elegantly refined when he
wiped his sword upon his second's handkerchief. He took every
one's heart by storm. Ralph, who represented all the virtues, with
rather thick ankles and a false mustache, was nowhere. When the
curtain fell for the last time, amid great and continued applause,
the “heavy mother,” Ralph, Aurelia, all were well received as they
passed before it; but Charles, who appeared last, was the hero of the
evening.
“He is engaged to his cousin, Miss Derrick, isn't he?” said a lady
near me, in a loud whisper to a friend.
“Hush no. Charles can't marry. Head over ears in debt. They
say she is attached to one of her cousins, but I forget which. I am
not sure it was not the other one.”
“Then it is the second son who is going to be married, is it? I
know I heard something about one of them being engaged.”
“Yes, the second son is engaged to that good-looking girl in dia-
monds, who acted Florence Mordaunt. A lot of money, I believe, but
not much in the way of family. Grandfather sold mouse-traps in
Birmingham, so people say.”
“She looks like it!” replied the other, who had daughters out, and
could not afford to let any praise of other girls pass. “No breeding
or refinement; and she will be stout later, you will see.”
The play being over, a general movement now set in towards the
drawing-room, where the band was already installed, and making its
presence known by an inspiriting valse tune. In a few moments twen-
ty, thirty, forty couples were swaying to the music; Aurelia in her
acting costume was dancing away with Ralph in his red stockings;
Carr with the “heavy mother,” and Charles in prosaic evening-dress
was flying past with Evelyn, who, now that she had effaced her beau-
tiful stage complexion, looked pale and grave as ever.
I suppose it was a capital ball. Every one seemed to enjoy it. I
did not dance myself, but I liked watching the others; and after a
time Charles, who had been dancing indefatigably with two school-
room girls with pigtails, came and flung himself down on the other
half of the ottoman on which I was sitting.
“Three times with each " he said, in a voice of extreme exhaust-
ion. “No favoritism. I have done for to-night now.”
“What! Are you not going to dance any more?”
“No, not unless Evelyn will give me another turn later, which she
probably won't. There she goes with Lord Breakwater again. How
I do dislike that young man! And look at Carr —valsing with


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 43
Aurelia . He seems to be leaping on her feet a good deal, and she
looks as if she were telling him so, does not she? There! they have
subsided into the bay-window. I thought she would not stand it long.
He does not dance as well as he acts. Heigh-hol Come in to supper
with me, Middleton. The supper-room will be emptier now, and I
am dying of hunger. You must be the same, for you had no regu-
lar dinner any more than we had. Come along. We will get a cer-
tain little table for two that I know of, in the bay-window where I
took the fair pigtail just now, to the evident anxiety of the parental
chignon who was at the large table. We will have a good feed in
peace and quietness.”
In a few minutes we were established in a quiet nook in the sup-
per-room, which was now half empty, and were making short work
of everything before us.
“How well Carr acted ſ” said Charles at last, leaning back, and
leisurely sipping his champagne. “I can think of something be-
sides food now. Did not you think he acted well ?”
“Yes,” I said, “but you cut him out.”
“Did I?” said Charles, absently, beckoning to some lobster salad
which was passing. “Have someº Do, Middleton. We can but
die once. You won't Well I will. Have you often seen Carr act
before?”
“Never,” I said. “I never met him till I came on board the
Bosphorus at—”
“Indeed! Oh! I fancied you were quite old friends.”
“We made great friends on the steamer.”
“Did you see much of him in London " he asked, filling up his
glass and mine.
“Not much, naturally,” I said, laughing. “I was in London only
two nights.”
“Ah! I forgot. Very good of you, I am sure, to come down here
so soon after your arrival. You would hardly have seen him at all
since you landed, then?”
“Carr? Yes,” I replied, thinking Charles's talk was becoming
very vague; though when I rallied him about it next day he assured
me it had been very much to the point indeed. “We dined and
went to the play together, and had rather a nasty accident into the
bargain on our way home.”
“What kind of accident "
I told him the particulars, which seemed to interest him very
much.


44 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
“And you had all those jewels of poor Sir John's with you, no
doubt,” continued Charles. “You said you had them on you day
and night. I wonder you were not relieved of them.”
“That is just what Carr said,” I went on; “for he lost something
of his, poor fellow. However, I had left them with Jane in a-in a
safe place.”
I did not think it necessary to mention the tea-caddy.
“Oh! so Carr knew you had charge of them, did he f" said
Charles. “Have some of these grapes, Middleton; the white ones
are the best.”
“Yes,” I said, “he was the only person who had any idea of such
a thing. I am very careful, I can tell you; and I did not mean to
have half the ship's company know that I had valuables to such an
amount upon me. When I told Jane about them—”
“Oh, then, Jane—I beg her pardon, Miss Middleton—was aware
you had them with you?”
“Of course,” I replied; “and she was quite astonished at them
when I showed them to her.
“I hope,” continued Charles, with his charming smile—all the
more charming because it was so rare—“that Miss Middleton will
add me to the number of her friends some day. I live in London,
you know; but I wonder at ladies caring to live there. No poultry
or garden, to which the feminine mind usually clings.”
“Jane seems to like it,” I said.
“Yes,” replied Charles, meditatively. “I dare say she is very wise.
A woman who lives alone is much safer in town than in an isolated
house in the country, in case of fire, or thieves, or—”
“Well, I don't know that,” I said. “I don't see that they are so
very safe. Why, only the night before I came down here—” I
stopped. I had looked up to catch a sudden glimpse of Carr's face,
pale and uneasy, watching us in a mirror opposite. In a moment I
saw his face turn smiling to another—Evelyn's, I think—and both
were gone.
Charles's light steel eyes were fixed full upon me.
“‘Only the night before you came down here,' you were saying,”
he remarked, leaning back and half shutting them as usual.
“Yes, only the night before I came down here our house was
broken into;” and I gave him a short account of what had hap-
pened. “And only the night before that,” I added, “a poor wom-
an was murdered in Jane's old house. I remember it especially, be:
cause I went to the house by mistake, not knowing Jane had moved,


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 45
and I saw her, poor thing, sitting by the fire. I don't see that liv-
ing in town is so much safer for life and property, after all.”
“Dear me! no. You are right, perfectly right,” said Charles,
dreamily. “Your sister's experience proves it. And that other poor
creature—only the night before—and in Miss Middleton's former
house, too. Well, Middleton,” with a start, “I suppose we ought to
be going back now. I have got all I want, if you have. I wonder
what time it is ? I’m dog tired.”
We re-entered the ball-room to find the last valse being played,
and a crowd of people taking leave of Lady Mary. -
“Where's father?"asked Charles, as Ralph came up. “He ought
to be here to say good-night.”
“He’s gone to bed,” said Ralph. “Aunt Mary sent him. He
was quite done up. He has been on his legs all day. I expect he
will be laid up to-morrow.”
In a quarter of an hour the ball-room was empty, and Lady Mary,
who was dragging herself wearily towards the hall as the last car-
riage rolled away, felt that she might safely restore the balance of
her mind by a sudden lapse from the gracious and benevolent to the
acid and severe.
“To bed! to bed!” she kept repeating. “Where is Evelyn ! I
want her arm. General Marston, Colonel Middleton, will you have
the goodness to go and glean up these young people? Mrs. Marston
and Lady Delmour, you must both be tired to death. Let us go on,
and they can follow.”
General Marston and I found a whole flock of the said young peo-
ple in the library, candle in hand, laughing and talking, thinking they
were going that moment, but not doing it, and all, in fact, listening
to Charles, who was expounding a theory of his own respecting ball
dresses, which seemed to meet with the greatest feminine derision.
“First take your silk slip,” he was saying as we came in. “There
is nothing indiscreet in mentioning a slip; is there, Evelyn ! I trust
not; for I heard Lady Delmour telling Mrs. Wright that all well-
brought-up young ladies had silk slips. Then—”
“He exposes his ignorance more entirely every moment,” said
Evelyn. “Let us all go to bed, and leave him to hold forth to men
who know as little as himself.”
“Oh, Ralph '" said Aurelia, pointing to the jewels on her neck and
arms; “before we go I want you to take back these. I don't like
keeping them myself; I am afraid of them.” And she began to
take them off and lay them on the table.


46 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
“Nonsense, my pet; keep them yourself, and lock them up in
your dressing-case.” And Ralph held them towards her.
“I haven't got a dressing-case,” said Aurelia, pouting; “and my
hat-box won't lock. I don't like having them. I wish you would
keep them yourself.”
“Bother!” said Ralph; “and father has gone to bed. He can't
put them back into his safe, and he keeps the key himself. Where
is the bag they go in?”
Aurelia said that she had seen him put it behind a certain jar on
the chimney-piece in the morning-room, and Carr went for it, she
following him with a candle, as all the lamps had been put out. They
presently returned with it, and Ralph, who had been collecting all the
jewels spread over the table, shovelled them in with little ceremony.
“Bother!” he said again, looking round and swinging the bag;
“what on earth am I to do with them? Ah, well, here goes!” and
he opened a side drawer in a massive writing-table and shoved the
bag in. -
“There !” he said, locking it, and putting the key in his pocket;
“they will do very well there till to-morrow. Are you content now,
Aurelia?”
“Oh yes,” she said, “I am, if you are.” And she bade us good-
night and followed in the wake of the others, who were really under
way at last. -
As we all tramped wearily up-stairs to the smoking-room I saw
Charles draw Ralph aside and whisper something to him.
“Nonsense!” I heard Ralph say. “Safe enough. Besides, who
would suspect their being there? Just as safe as in the strong-box.
Brahma lock. Won't be bothered any more about them.”
Charles shrugged his shoulders and marched off to bed. Ralph
and Carr likewise went off shortly afterwards to their rooms in the
lodge. Carr looked tired to death. I went down with them, at
Ralph's request, to lock the door behind them, as all the servants had
gone to bed.
It was a fine night, still and cold, with a bright moon. It had evi-
dently been snowing afresh, for there was not a trace of wheels upon
the ground; but it had ceased now.
“Good-night!” called Ralph and Carr, as they went down the
steps together. I watched the two figures for a moment in the
moonlight, their footsteps making a double track in the untrodden
snow. The cold was intense. I drew back shivering, and locked
and bolted the door.


CHAPTER VIII.
It is very seldom I cannot sleep, but I could not that night.
There was something in the intense quiet and repose of the great
house, after all the excitement of the last few hours, that oppress-
ed me. Everything seemed, as I lay awake, so unnaturally silent.
There was not a sound in the wide grate, where the last ashes of the
fire were silently giving up the ghost, not a rumble of wind in the
old chimney which had had so much to say the night before. I
tossed and turned, and vainly sought for sleep, now on this side,
now on that. At last I gave up trying, half in the hope that it
might steal, upon me unawares. I thought of the play and the ball,
of poor Charles and his debts—of anything and everything—but it
was no good. In the midst of a jumble of disconnected ideas I
suddenly found myself listening again to the silence—-listening as if
it had been broken by a sound which I had not heard. My watch
ticked loud and louder on the dressing-table, and presently I gave
quite a start as the distant stable clock tolled out the hour: One,
two, three, four. I had gone to bed before three. Had I been
awake only an hour? It seemed incredible. Getting up on tiptoe,
vaguely afraid myself of breaking the silence, I noiselessly pushed
aside the heavy curtains and looked out.
The moon had set, but by the frosty starlight the outline of the
great snow-laden trees and the wide sweep of white drive were still
dimly visible. All was silent without as within. Not a branch
moved or let fall its freight of snow. There was not a breath of
wind stirring. I was on the point of getting back into bed, when I
thought in the distance I heard a sound. I listened intently. No!
I must have been mistaken. Ah! again, and nearer I held my
breath. I could distinctly hear a stealthy step coming up the stairs.
My room was the nearest to the staircase end of the corridor, and
any one coming up the stairs must pass my door. With a presence
of mind which, I am glad to say, rarely deserts me, I blew out my
candle, slipped to the door, and noiselessly opened it a chink.
Some one was coming down the corridor with the lightness of a
cat, candle in hand, as a faint light showed me. Another moment,


48 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
and I saw Charles, pale and haggard, still in evening-dress, coming
towards me. He was without his shoes. He passed my door and
went noiselessly into his own room, a little farther down the passage.
There was the faintest suspicion of a sound, as of a key being gently
turned in the lock, and then all was still again, stiller than ever.
What could Charles have been after ? I wondered. He could not
have been returning from seeing Denis, who was not only much
better, but was in the room beyond his own. And why had he still
got on his evening clothes at four o'clock in the morning? I de-
termined to ask him about it next day, as I got back into bed
again, and then, while wondering about it and trying to get warm, I
fell fast asleep. I was only roused, after being twice called, to find
that it was broad daylight, and to hear being carried down the boxes
of many of the guests who were leaving by an early train.
I was late, but not so late as some. Breakfast was still going on.
Evelyn and Ralph had been up to see their friends off, but General
and Mrs. Marston and Carr, who was staying on, came in after I did.
Lady Mary and Aurelia were having breakfast in their own rooms.
I think nothing is more dreary than a long breakfast-table, laid for
large numbers, with half a dozen picnicking at it among the débris
left by earlier ravages. Evelyn, behind the great silver urn, looked
pale and preoccupied, and had very little to say for herself when I
journeyed up to her end of the table and sat down by her. She
asked me twice if I took sugar, and was not bright and alert and
ready in conversation, as I think girls should be. Carr, too, was eat-
ing his breakfast in silence beside Mrs. Marston.
It was not cheerful. And then Charles came in, listless and tired,
and without an appetite. He sat down wearily on the other side of
Evelyn, and watched her pour out his coffee without a word.
“The Carews and Edmonts and Lady Delmour and her daughter
have just gone,” said Evelyn, “and Mr. Denis.”
“Yes,” replied Charles, seeming to pull himself together; “Denis
came to my room before he went. He looked a wreck, poor fellow;
but not worse than some of us. These late hours, these friskings
with energetic young creatures in the school-room, these midnight
revels, are too much for me. Ifeel a perfect wreck this morning, too.”
He certainly looked it.
“Have you had bad letters?” said Evelyn, in a low voice.
He laughed a little—a grim laugh—and shook his head. “But
I had yesterday,” he added presently, in a low tone. “I shall have
to try change of air again soon, I am afraid.”


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 49
I was just going to ask Charles what he had been doing walking
about in his socks the night before, when the door opened, and
Ralph, whose absence I had not noticed, came in. He looked much
perturbed. It seemed his father had been taken suddenly and alarm-
ingly ill while dressing. In a moment all was confusion. Evelyn
precipitately left the room to go to him, while Charles rushed round
to the stables to send a groom on horseback for the nearest doctor.
Ralph followed him, and the remainder of the party gathered in a
little knot round the fire, Mrs. Marston expressing the sentiment of
each of us when she said that she thought visitors were very much
in the way when there was illness in the house, and that she re-
gretted that she and her husband had arranged to stay over Sunday,
to-day being Friday.
“So have I,” said Carr; “but I am sure I had better have refused.
A stranger in a sick-house is a positive nuisance. I think I shall go
to town by an afternoon train, if there is one.”
“Upon my word I think we had better do the same,” said Mrs.
Marston. “What do you say, Arthur” and she turned to her hus-
band.
“I must go to-day, anyhow—on business,” said General Marston.
“I hope no one is talking of leaving,” said Charles, who had re-
turned suddenly, rather out of breath.
As he spoke his eyes were fixed on Carr.
“Yes, that is exactly what we were doing,” said Mrs. Marston.
“Nothing is so tiresome as having visitors on one's hands when
there is illness in the house. Mr. Carr was thinking of going up to
London by the afternoon train; and I have a very good mind to go
away with Arthur, instead of staying on, and letting him come back
here for me to-morrow, as we had intended.”
“Pray do not think of such a thing!” said Charles, really with un-
necessary earnestness. “Mrs. Marston, pray do not alter your plans.
Carr" in a much sterner tone, “I must beg that you will not think
of leaving us to-day. Your friend Colonel Middleton is staying on,
and we cannot allow you to desert us so suddenly.”
It was more like a command than an invitation; but Carr, usually
so quick to take a slight, did not seem to notice it, and merely said
that he should be happy to go or stay, whichever was most in ac-
cordance with the wishes of others, and took up the newspaper. He
and Charles did not seem to get on well. I could see that Charles
had not seemed to take to him from the very first; and Carr cer-
tainly did not appear at ease in the house. Perhaps Charles felt
*-
4


50 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
that he had rather failed in courtesy to him, for during the remainder
of the morning he hardly let him out of his sight. He took him to
see the stables, though Carr openly declared that he did not under-
stand horses; he showed him his collection of Zulu weapons in the
vestibule; he even started a game of billiards with him till the ar-
rival of the doctor. I did not think Carr took his attentions in very
good part, though he was too well-mannered to show it; but he
looked relieved when Charles went up-stairs with the doctor, and
pitched his cue into the rack at once, and came to the hall-fire where
I was sitting, and where Aurelia presently joined us, fresh and smil-
ing, in the prettiest of morning-gowns. Every one met in the hall.
It was in the centre of the house, and every one coming up or down
had to pass through it. Just now it was not so tempting an abode
as usual, for the flowers and part of the stage had already been re-
moved, and the bare boards, with their wooden supports, gave an air
of discomfort to the whole place.
Aurelia opened wide eyes of horror at hearing Sir George was ill.
She even got out a tiny laced pocket-handkerchief; but before she
had had time to weep much into it, and spoil her pretty eyes, the
doctor reappeared, accompanied by Charles and Ralph, and we all
learned to our great relief that Sir George, though undoubtedly ill,
was not dangerously so at present, though the greatest care would be
necessary. Lady Mary had undertaken the nursing of her brother-
in-law, and in her the doctor expressed the same confidence which
parents are wont to feel in a stern school-master. In the mean time
the patient was to be kept very quiet, and on no account to be dis-
turbed.
When the doctor had left, Ralph and Aurelia, who had actually
seen nothing of each other that morning, sauntered away together
towards the library. Charles challenged Carr to finish his game of
billiards, and Marston and I retired up-stairs to the smoking-room,
where we could talk over our Indian experiences, and perhaps doze
undisturbed. We might have been so occupied for half an hour or
more when a flying step came up the stairs, the door was thrown
open, and Ralph rushed into the room.
“General Marston | Colonel Middleton " he gasped out, breathing
hard, “will you, both of you, come to my father's room at once #
He has sent for you.”
“Good gracious ! Is he worse?” I exclaimed. -
“No. Hush | Don't ask anything, but just come”—and he turn-
ed and led the way to Sir George Danvers's room.


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 51
We followed in wondering silence, and, after passing along nu-
merous passages, were ushered into a large oak-panelled room with a
great carved bed in it, in the middle of which, bolt-upright, sat Sir
George Danvers, pale as ivory, his light steel eyes (so like Charles's)
seeming to be the only living thing about him.
As we came in he looked at each of us in turn.
“Where is Charles?” he said, speaking in a hoarse whisper.
“Dear me! Sir George,” I said, sympathetically, “how you have
lost your voice"
He looked at me for a moment, and then turned to Ralph again.
“Where is Charles?” he asked a second time, in the same tone.
“Here!” said a quiet voice. And Charles came in, and shut the
door.
CHAPTER IX.
THE two pairs of steel eyes met, and looked fixedly at each
other. -
A tap came to the door.
Sir George winced, and made a sign to Ralph, who rushed to it
and bolted it.
“I am coming in, George,” said Lady Mary's voice.
“Send her away,” came a whisper from the bed.
This was easier said than done. But it was done after a suffi-
ciently long parley; and Lady Mary retired under the impression
that Ralph was sitting alone with his father, who thought he might
get a little sleep.
“Now,” whispered Sir George, motioning to Ralph.
“The fact is,” said Ralph, “the jewels are gone! They have been
stolen in the night.”
He bolted out with this one sentence, and then was silent. Mar-
ston and I stared at him aghast.
“Is there no mistake 7" said Marston at last.
“None,” replied Ralph. “I put them in a drawer in the great
inlaid writing-table in the library last night, before everybody. I
went for them this morning, half an hour ago, at father's request.
The lock was broken, and they were gone.”
There was another long silence.
“I was a fool, of course, to put them there,” resumed Ralph.


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 53
“There is no way out of it,” he said, very gravely. “The rob-
bery was committed by one of the visitors staying in the house !”
“Yes!” said Charles.
“Yes!” echoed a whisper from the bed.
Charles looked up slowly and deliberately, and the eyes of father
and son met again. -
“We do not often agree, father,” he said, in a measured voice.
“I mark this exception to the rule with pleasure.”
“When I had made out as much as this,” continued Ralph, “fa-
ther told me to call both of you and Charles, to consider what ought
to be done before we make any move.”
“Have you an inventory of the jewels?” asked Marston at length.
“None,” said Sir George, “unless Middleton had one from Sir
John.”
I thereupon recapitulated in full all the circumstances of the be-
quest, finally adding that Sir John had never so much as mentioned
an inventory. -
“So much the better for the thief,” said Marston, his chin in his
hands. “It is not a case for a detective,” he added.
“I think not,” said Charles.
A kind of hoarse ghostly laugh came from the bed. “Charles is
always right,” whispered the sick man. “Quite unnecessary, I am
sure.”
“Oh, I don't know,” I said, feeling I had not yet been of as much
assistance as I could have wished. “Now, I think detectives are of
use—really useful, you know, in finding out things. There was a
detective, I remember, trying to trace the people who murdered that
poor lady at Jane's old house since my return.”
“But who could it have been who could it have been º’ burst
out Ralph, unheeding. “They were all friends. It is frightful to
suspect one of them. One could as easily suspect one's self. Which
of them all could have done a thing like that ? Out of them all,
which was it?”
“Carr" replied Charles, quietly, looking full at his father.
If a bomb-shell had fallen among us at that moment it could not
have produced a greater effect than that one word, uttered so delib-
erately. Sir George started in his bed, and clutched at the bedclothes
with both hands. My brain positively reeled. Carr'ſ my friend
Carr introduced into the family by myself, was being accused by
Charles. I was speechless with indignation.
“I am sorry, Middleton,” continued Charles; “I know he is your


54 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
friend, but I can't help that. Carr took the jewels. I distrusted
him from the moment he set foot in the house.”
“Where is he at this instant?” said Marston, getting up. “Is no
one with him #"
“There is no need to be anxious on his account,” replied Charles.
“I took him up to the smoking-room before I came here, and I turned
the key in the door. The key is here.” And he laid it on the table.
Marston sat down again. Ay’
“What are your grounds for suspecting Carr?” he asked. “ Re-
member, this is a very serious thing, Charles, that * done in
locking him up, if you have not adequate reason for it
“You had better leave Carr alone, Charles,” said Ralph, significantly.
“Let him go on,” said Sir George.
“I have no proof,” continued Charles; “I did not see him take
them, but I am as certain of it as if I had seen it with my own eyes.
The jewels could only have been stolen by some one staying in the
house. That is certain. Who, excepting Carr, was a stranger among
us? Who, excepting Carr—”
“Stop, Charles,” said Ralph again. “Don't you know that Carr
slept with me down at the lodge?”
Charles turned on his brother and gripped his shoulder.
“Do you mean to say,” he said, sharply, “that Carr did not sleep
in the house last night?”
“Dear me, Charles, that was an oversight on your part,” came Sir
George's whisper.
“No,” replied Ralph, “he did not. The house was full, and we
had to put him in that second small room through mine in the lodge.
If Carr had been dying to take them he had not the opportunity.
He could not have left his room without passing through mine, and
I never went to sleep at all. I had a sharp touch of neuralgia from
the cold, which kept me awake all night.”
“He got out through the window,” said Charles.
“Nonsense!” said Ralph, getting visibly angry; “you are only
making matters worse by trying to put it on him. Remember the
size of the window. Besides, you know how the lodge stands, built
against the garden wall. When I came out this morning there was
not a single footstep in the snow, except those we had made as we
went there the night before. I noticed our footmarks particularly,
because I had been afraid there would be more snow. No one could
by any possibility have left the house during the night. Even Jones
himself had not been out, for there was a little eddy of snow before
_


THE DANVERS JEWELS. , 55
the back door, and I remember calling to him that he would want
his broom.” w
“The snow clinches the matter, Charles,” said Marston, gravely.
“You have made a mistake.”
“Quite unintentional, I'm sure,” whispered Sir George.
There was something I did not like about that whisper. It seemed
to imply more than met the ear.
Charles did not appear to hear him. He was looking fixedly be-
fore him, his hand had dropped from Ralph's shoulder, his face was
quite gray.
“Then,” he said, slowly, as if waking out of a dream, “it was not
Carr.”
“No,” said Sir George; “I never thought it was.”
“Good God!” ejaculated Charles, sinking into a low chair by the
fire, and shading his face with his hand. “Not Carr, after all!”
But my indignation-could not be restrained a moment longer. I
had only been kept silent by repeated signs from Marston, and now
I broke out.
“And so, sir, you suspect my friend,” I said, “and insult him in
your father's house by turning the key on him. You endeavor to
throw suspicion on a man who never injured you in the slightest de-
gree. You insult me in insulting my friend, sir. Suspicion is not
always such an easy thing to shake off as it has been in this instance.
I, on my side, might ask what you were doing walking about the
passages in your socks at four o'clock this morning? In your socks,
sir, still in your evening clothes—”
I had spoken in anger, not thinking much what I was saying, and
I stopped short, alarmed at the effect of my own words.
“I knew it! I knew it!” gasped Sir George, in his hoarse, suffo-
cated voice, and he fell back panting among his pillows.
Charles took his hand from his face, and looked hard at me with
a strange kind of smile.
“At any rate we are quits, Middleton,” he said. “You have done
it now, and no mistake.”
I did not quite see what I had done, but it soon became apparent.
“I knew it!” gasped out the sick man again; “I knew it from
the first moment that he tried to throw suspicion on Carr.”
“Sir George,” said Marston, gravely, “Charles made a mistake just
now. Do not you, on your side, make another. Come, Charles,”
turning to the latter, who was now sitting erect, with flashing eyes,
“tell us about it. What were you doing when Middleton saw you?”


56 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
“I was coming up-stairs,” said Charles, haughtily.
“From the library f" asked Sir George.
Charles bit his lip and remained silent.
I would not have spoken to him for a good deal at that moment.
He looked positively dangerous.
“From the library, of course,” he said at last, controlling himself,
and speaking with something of his old careless manner, “laden with
the spoils of my midnight depredations. Parental fondness will sup-
ply all minor details, no doubt; so, as the subject is a delicate one
for me, I will withdraw, that it may be discussed more fully in my
absence.”
“Stop, Charles,” said Marston; “the case is too serious for banter
of this kind. My dear boy,” he added, kindly, “I am glad to see
you angry, but nevertheless, you must condescend to explain. The
longer you allow suspicion to rest on yourself the longer it will be
before it falls on the right person. Come, what were you doing in
the passage at that time of night?”
Charles was touched, I could see. A very little kindness was too
much for him.
“It is no good, Marston,” he said, in quite a different voice—
“I am not believed in this house.”
He turned away and leaned against the mantlepiece, looking into
the fire. Ralph cleared his throat once or twice, and then suddenly
went up to him, and laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder.
“Fire away, old boy!” he said, in a constrained tone, and he choked
again.
Charles turned round and faced his brother, with the saddest smile
I ever saw. -
“Well, Ralph " he said, “I will tell you everything, and then you
can believe me or not, as you like. I have never told you a lie,
have I?”
“Not often,” replied Ralph, unwillingly.
“You at least are truth itself,” said Charles, reddening; “and if
you are biassed in your opinion of me, perhaps it is more the fault of
that exemplary Christian, Aunt Mary, than your own. According to
her, I have told lies enough to float a company or carry an election,
and I never like to disappoint her expectations of me in that respect;
but you I have never to my knowledge deceived, and I am not going
to begin now.”
“You will be a clergyman yet,” whispered the sick parent. “There
a good living in the family. Charles, I shall live to see the Rev-


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 57
erend Charles Danvers in a surplice, preaching his first sermon on
the ninth commandment.”
“At any rate, he is practising the fifth under difficulties at this
moment,” said Marston, as Charles winced and turned his back on
the parental sick-bed. “Come, my boy, we are losing time.”
“Will somebody have the goodness to restrain Middleton if he gets
excited ?” said Charles. “I am afraid he won't like part of what I
have got to say.”
“Nonsense, sir!” I replied, with warmth. “I hope I can restrain
myself as well as any man, even under such provocation as I have
lately received. You may depend on me, sir, that—”
“We lose time,” said Marston, seating himself by me, and cutting
short what I was saying in an exceedingly brusque manner. “Come,
Charles, you should not be interrupted.”
But he was. I interrupted him the whole time, in spite of contin-
ual efforts on the part of Marston to make me keep silence. I am
not the man calmly to let pass black insinuations against the charac-
ter of a friend. No, I stood up for him. I am glad to think how I
stood up for him, not only metaphorically, but in the most literal
sense of the term; for I found myself continually getting up, and
Marston as often pulling me down again into my chair.
“Am I to speak, or is Middleton " said Charles at last, in despair.
“I will do a solo, or I will keep silence; but really I am unequal to
a duet.”
“Sir George,” said Marston, “will you have the goodness to desire
Colonel Middleton to be silent, or to leave the room till Charles has
finished his story?”
I was justly annoyed at Marston's manner of speaking of me, but
as I had no intention to leave the room and miss what was going
on, I merely bowed in answer to a civil request from Sir George, and
took up an attitude of dignified silence. I felt that I had done-my
part in vindicating my friend; and after all, no one, evidently, was
accustomed to believe what Charles said. -
“As I was saying,” he continued, “I suspected Carr from the first.
I did not like the look of him, and I purposely pumped Middleton
about him last night at supper.”
I nearly burst out at the bare idea of Charles daring to say he had
pumped me; but, as will be seen, he could twist anything that was
said to such an extent that it was perfectly useless to contradict him
any longer. I said not a single word, and he went on:
“All Middleton told me confirmed me in my suspicions. Sir John


58 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
had been murdered the night before Middleton sailed for England, a
whisper of the jewels having no doubt gone abroad. Carr came on
board next day, and made friends with Middleton. Whether he had
anything to do with the murder or not, God knows! but he found out
—nay, Middleton openly told him—that he had jewels of great valie
in his possession, which he carried about on his person. Carr was the
only person aware of that fact. What follows? Carr has Middle,
ton's address in London. Middleton goes to the house, and finds
that his sister has moved to the next street. That house to which
he first went is broken into, and the poor woman in it is murdered,
or dies of fright that same night. I mention this as coincidence
number one. The following evening Middleton, having by chance
left the jewels at home, dines, and goes to the theatre by appoint-
ment with Carr. Unique cab accident occurs, in which Middleton is
knocked on the head and rendered unconscious. Coincidence num-
ber two. Miss Middleton's house is broken into that same night on
Middleton's return to it. Coincidence number three. When I put
all this together last night, remembering that Carr, by Middleton's
own account, was the only person aware that he had jewels of great
value in his keeping, I felt absolutely certain (as I feel still) that he
had accepted the invitation, and come down from London solely for
the purpose of stealing them. It was pure conjecture on my part,
and I dared say nothing beyond begging Ralph not to leave the
jewels in the library—which, however, he did. I went straight off
to my room when the others went to smoke, but I did not go to bed.
The more I thought it over the more certain I felt that Carr would
not let slip such an opportunity, the more convinced that an attempt
would be made that very night. I did not know that he was not
sleeping in the house, but I knew Ralph was at the lodge, so I could
not go and consult with him, as I should otherwise have done. I
thought of going to Middleton, whose room was close to mine, but
on second thoughts I gave up the idea. I am glad I did. At last I
determined I would wait till the house was quiet, and that then I
would go down alone, and watch in the library in the dark. I lay
down on my bed in my clothes to wait, and then—I had been up
most of the night before with Denis; I was dead beat with acting and
dancing—by ill luck I fell asleep. When I woke up I found to my
horror that it was close on four o'clock. I instantly slipped off my
shoes, and crept out of my room and down the stairs. I could not
get to the library from the hall, as the stage blocked the way, and I
had to go all the way round by the drawing-room and morning-room.


60 THE DANVERS JEWELS,
he goes this afternoon. There is nothing more to be done at present.
Charles, you will remain here, though I have no doubt you have an
engagement in London. I cannot spare you just yet.”
Charles bowed, and he and Marston went out. I remained a
second behind with Ralph.
“I see it quite clearly,” said Sir George. “I know Charles. He
is sharp enough. He saw Carr meant mischief, and he was before-
hand with him; and he took what Carr meant to take. It was not
badly imagined, but he should have made certain Carr was sleeping in
the house. It all turned on that. He never reckoned on the possi-
bility of Carr's being cleared.”
“Middleton is still here,” said Ralph, significantly, who was pour-
ing out something for his father.
“Is he? I thought he was gone!” said Sir George, so sharply that
I considered it advisable to retire at once.
Charles and Marston were talking together earnestly in the passage.
“He does not believe a word I say,” said Charles, as I joined them;
“and, what is more, I could see he had told Ralph he suspected me
before we came in. Did not you see how Ralph tried to stop me
when he thought I was committing myself by accusing Carr, who, it
seems, was quite out of the question? I am glad you cut it short,
Marston. He was making himself worse every moment.”
“Come on with that key of yours, and let us go and let out Carr,”
replied Marston, patting Charles kindly on the back, “ or he will be
kicking all the paint off the door.”
“Not he ſ” said Charles. “An honest man would have rung up
the whole household and nearly battered the door down by this time,
thinking it had been locked by mistake. Carr knows better.”
We had reached the smoking-room by this time, just as the gong
was beginning to sound for luncheon, and under cover of the noise
Charles fitted the key into the key-hole and unlocked the door. He
and Marston went slowly in, talking on some indifferent subject, and
I followed.


CHAPTER X.
THE room seemed strangely quiet after the stormy interview in
the sick-chamber which we had just left. The pale winter sunlight
was stealing in aslant through the low windows. The fire had sunk
to a deep red glow, and in an arm-chair drawn up in front of it, news-
paper in hand, was Carr, evidently fast asleep.
“‘Oh, my prophetic soul!'” whispered Charles, nudging Marston;
and then he went forward and shouted “Luncheon " in a voice that
would have waked the dead.
Carr started up and rubbed his eyes.
“Why, I believe you have been here ever since I left you here,
hours ago,” said Charles, in a surprised tone, though really, under the
circumstances, it did not require a great stretch of the imagination to
suppose any such thing.
“Yes,” said Carr, still rubbing his eyes. “Have you been gone
long? I expect I fell asleep.”
“I rather thought you were inclined for a nap when I left you,”
replied Charles, airily; “and now let us go to luncheon.”
It was a very dismal meal. Lady Mary did not come down to it,
and Aurelia sat with red eyes, tearful and silent. Ralph was evident-
ly out of favor, for she hardly spoke to him, and snubbed him de-
cidedly when he humbly tendered a peace-offering in the form of a
potato. Evelyn, too, was silent, or made spasmodic attempts at con-
versation with Mrs. Marston, the only unconstrained person of the
party. Evelyn and Aurelia had appeared together, and it was evi,
dent from Evelyn's expression that Aurelia had told her. What
conversation there was turned upon Sir George's illness.
“We must go by the afternoon train, my dear,” said Marston
down the table to his wife. “In Sir George's present state all visi,
tors are an incubus.”
Carr looked up. “I think I ought to go, too,” he said. “l
wished to arrange to do so this morning, but Mr. Danvers,” glan-
cing at Charles, “would not hear of it. I am sure, when there is ill-
ness in a house, strangers are always in the way.”


62 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
“I have seen my father since then,” replied Charles, “and I fear
his illness is much more serious than I had any idea of. That being
the case, I feel it would be wrong to press any one, even Middleton,
to stay and share the tedium of a sick-house.”
After a few more civil speeches it was arranged that Carr should,
after all, leave by the train which he had proposed in the morning.
It was found that there was still time for him to do so, but that was
all. He was evidently as anxious to be off as the Danverses were that
he should go. The dog-cart was ordered, a servant despatched to
the lodge in hot haste to pack his portmanteau, and in half an hour
he was bidding us good-bye, evidently glad to say it. Poor fellow !
He little guessed, as he shook hands with us, how shamefully he had
been suspected, how villanously he had been traduced behind his
back. Somehow or other I had not had a moment of conversation
with him since the morning, or a single chance of telling him how I
had stood up for him in his absence. Either Charles or Marston
were always at hand, and when he took leave of me I could only
shake his hand warmly, and tell him to come and see me again in
town. I watched him spinning down the drive in the dog-cart, lit-
tle thinking how soon I should see him again, and in what circum-
stances.
“We shall have more snow,” said Ralph, coming in-doors. “I
feel it in the air.”
General and Mrs. Marston were the next to leave, starting an hour
later, and going in the opposite direction. I saw Marston turn aside,
when his wife was taking leave of the others, and go up to Charles.
The young hand and the old one met, and were locked tight.
“Good-bye, my dear boy,” said Marston.
“Don’t go,” said Charles, without looking up.
“I must 1” said Marston. “I am due at Kemberley to-night, on
business; but,” in a lower tone, “I shall come back to-morrow, in
case I can be of any use.”
They were gone, and I was the only one remaining. It has oc-
curred to me since that perhaps they expected me to go too, but I
never thought of it at the time. I had been asked for a week, and to
go before the end of it never so much as entered my head.
There was no chance of going out. The early winter afternoon
was already closing in, and a few flakes of snow were drifting like
feathers in the heavy air, promising more to come. Every one
seemed to have dispersed, Ralph up-stairs to his father, Charles out-
of-doors somewhere in spite of the weather. I remembered that I had
_*


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 63.
not written to Jane since I left London, and went into the library to
do so. As I came in I saw Evelyn sitting in a low chair by the fire,
gazing abstractedly into it. She started when she saw me, and on
my saying I wished to write some letters, showed me a writing-table
near the fire, with pens, ink, and paper. -
“You will find it very cold at the big table in the window,” she
said, looking at it with its broken drawer, a chink open, with a visi-
ble shudder.
I installed myself near the fire, talking cheerfully the while, for it
struck me she was a little low in her spirits. She did not make
much response, and I was settling down to my letters when she sud-
denly said:
“Colonel Middleton '''
“Yes, Miss Derrick.”
“I am afraid I am interrupting your writing, but—”
I looked round. She was standing up, nervously playing with her
rings. “But—I know I am not supposed to—but I know what hap-
pened last night; Aurelia told me.”
“It is very sad, isn't it?” I said. “But cheer up. I dare say we
may get them back yet.” And I nodded confidentially at her. “In
the mean time, you know, you must not talk of it to any one.”
“Do you suspect any one in particular?” she asked, very earnestly,
coming a step nearer.
I hardly knew what to say. Carr, I need hardly mention, I had
never suspected for a moment; but Charles— Marston had evi-
dently believed what Charles had said, but I am by nature more cau-
tious and less credulous than Marston. Besides, I had not forgiven
Charles yet for trying to incriminate Carr. Not knowing what to
say, I shrugged my shoulders and smiled.
“You do suspect some one, then #"
“My dear young lady,” I replied, “when jewels are stolen, one
naturally suspects some one has taken them.”
“So I should imagine. Whom do you naturally suspect?”
I could not tell her that I more than suspected Charles.
“I know nothing for certain,” I said.
“But you have a suspicion?”
“I have a suspicion.”
She went to the door to see if it were shut, and then came back
and said, in a whisper:
“So have I.”
“Perhaps we suspect the same person?” I said.


64 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
She did not answer, but fixed her dark eyes keenly on mine. I
had never noticed before how dark they were.
I saw then that she knew, and that she suspected Charles, just as
Sir George had done.
I nodded.
“Nothing is proved,” I said.
“I dared not say even as much as this before,” she continued,
hurriedly. “It is only the wildest, vaguest suspicion. I have
nothing to take hold of. It is so horrible to suspect any one;
but—”
She stopped suddenly. Her quick ear had caught the sound of a
distant step coming across the hall. In another moment Aurelia
came in.
“Are you there, Evelyn f" she said. “I was looking for you, to
ask where the time-table lives. I want to look out my journey for
to-morrow. Ralph ought to do it, but he is up-stairs,” with a little
pout.
“You ought not to have quarrelled with him until he had made it
out for you,” said Evelyn, smiling. “It is a very cross journey, isn't
it? Let me see. You are going to your uncle in Dublin, are not
you? You had better go to London, and start from there. It will
be the shortest way in the end.”
The two girls laid their heads together over the Bradshaw, Eve-
lyn's dark soft hair making a charming contrast to Aurelia's yellow
curls. At last the journey was made out and duly written down,
and a post-card despatched to the uncle in Dublin.
“Have you seen Ralph anywhere?” asked Aurelia, when she had
finished it. “I am afraid I was a little tiny wee bit cross to him this
morning, and I am so sorry.”
Evelyn always seemed to stiffen when Aurelia talked about Ralph,
and, under the pretext of putting her post-card in the letter-bag for
her, she presently left the room, and did not return.
Aurelia sat down on the hearth-rug, and held two plump little
hands to the fire. It was quite impossible to go on writing to Jane
while she was there, and I gave it up accordingly.
“I am glad Evelyn is gone,” she said, confidentially. “Do you
know why I am glad?”
I said I could not imagine.
“Because,” continued Aurelia, nodding gravely at me, “I want to
have a very, very, very serious conversation with you, Colonel Mid-
dleton.”


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 65
I said I should be charmed, inwardly wondering what that little
curly head would consider to be serious conversation.
“Really serious, you know,” continued Aurelia, “not pretence.
About that!” pointing with a pink finger at the inlaid writing-table.
“You know I was with Ralph when he found it out, and I am afraid
I was a little cross to him, only really it was so hard, and they were
so lovely, and it was partly his fault, now, wasn't it, for leaving them
there? He ought to have been more careful.” -
“Of course he ought,” I said. I would not have contradicted her
for worlds.
“And you know I am to be married next month; and Aunt Alice
in Dublin, who is getting my things, says as it is to be a winter wed-
ding I am to be married in a white frisé velvet, and I did think the
diamonds would have looked so lovely with it. Wouldn't they #"
I agreed, of course.
“But I shall never be married in them now,” she said, with a deep
sigh. “And I was looking forward to the wedding so much, though
I dare say I did tell a naughty little story when I said I was not to
Ralph the other night. Of course Ralph is still left,” she added, as
an after-thought; “but it won't be so perfect, will it?”
I was morally certain Charles would have to give them up, so I
said, reassuringly:
“Perhaps you may be married in them, after all.”
“Oh!” she said, clasping her hands together, “do you really think
soº Do you know anything? I have not seen Ralph since to ask
him about it. Do you think we shall really get them back?”
“I should not wonder.”
“Oh, Colonel Middleton, I see you know. You are a clever, wise
man, and you have found out something. Who is it? Do tell
me!”
“Will you promise not to tell any one?”
“Mayn't I tell Ralph? I tell him everything.”
“Well, you may tell Ralph, because he knows already; but no
one else, remember. The truth is, we are afraid it is Charles.”
There was a long pause.
“I know Evelyn thinks so,” said Aurelia, in a whisper, “though
she tries not to show it, because—because—”
“Because what?”
“Well, of course, you can't have helped seeing, can you, that she
and Charles—”
I had not seen it; indeed, I had fancied at times that Evelyn had
5


68 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
my brains all the afternoon without the vestige of a result. We
must just hold our hands for the moment.”
Dinner was announced, and we waited patiently for a few minutes,
and impatiently for a good many more, until Evelyn hurried down,
apologizing for being late, and with a message from Lady Mary that
we were not to wait for her, as she was dining up-stairs in her own
room—a practice to which she seemed rather addicted.
“And where is Aurelia?” asked Ralph.
“She is not coming down to dinner either,” said Evelyn. “She
has a bad headache again, and is lying down. She asked me to tell
you that she wishes particularly to see you this evening, as she is
going away to-morrow, and if she is well enough she will come
down to the morning-room at nine; indeed, she said she would
come down anyhow.” -
After Ralph's natural anxiety respecting his ladylove had been re-
lieved, and he had been repeatedly assured that nothing much was
amiss, we went in to dinner, and a more lugubrious repast I never
remember being present at. The meals of the day might have been
classified thus: breakfast dismal; luncheon, dismaller (or more dis-
mal); dinner, dismallest (or most dismal). There really was no con-
versation. Even I, who without going very deep (which I consider
is not in good taste) have something to say on almost every subject
—even I felt myself nonplussed for the time being. Each of us in
turn got out a few constrained words, and then relapsed into silence.
Evelyn ate nothing, and her hand trembled so much when she
poured out a glass of water that she spilled some on the cloth. I saw
Charles was watching her furtively, and I became more and more cer-
tain that Aurelia was right, and that Evelyn knew something about
the mystery of the night before. I must and would speak to her
that very evening.
“Bitterly cold,” said Ralph, when at last we had reached the des-
sert stage. “It is snowing still, and the wind is getting up.”
In truth, the wind was moaning round the house like an uneasy
spirit.
“That sound in the wind always means snow,” said Charles, evi-
dently for the sake of saying something. “It is easterly, I should
think. Yes,” after a pause, when another silence seemed imminent,
“there goes the eight o'clock train. It must be quite a quarter
of an hour late, though, for it has struck eight some time. I can
hear it distinctly. The station is three miles away, and you never
hear the train unless the wind is in the east.”


70 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
Evelyn sank into a chair, and covered her face with her trembling
hands. A
“Yes, I thought so,” said Charles, kneeling down by her, and gen-
tly withdrawing her hands. “Come, Evelyn, what is it?”
“I dare not say.” And she turned away her face, and tried to
disengage her hands, but Charles held them firmly.
“Is it about what happened last night?” he asked, in a tone that
was kind, but that evidently intended to have an answer.
{{ Yes.”
“And do you know that I am suspected?”
“You, Charles? Never!” she cried, starting up.
“Yes, I. Suspected by my own father. So, if you know any-
thing, Evelyn—which I see you do—it is your duty to tell us, and
to help us in every way you can.”
He had let go her hands now, and had risen.
“I don't know anything for certain,” she said, “but—but we soon
shall. Aurelia knows, and she is going to tell Ralph.”
“Miss Grant!” I exclaimed. “She knew nothing at tea-time.
She was asking me about it.”
“It is since then,” continued Evelyn. “I went up to her room
before dinner to ask her for a fan that I had lent her. She was
packing some of her things, and the floor was strewn with packing-
paper and parcels. She gave me my fan, and was going on putting
her things together, talking all the time, when she asked me to hand
her a glove-box on the dressing-table. As I did so my eye fell on a
piece of paper lying together with others, and I instantly recognized
it as the same that had been wrapped round the diamond crescent
when Colonel Middleton first showed us the jewels. I should never
have noticed it—for though it was rice paper, it looked just like the
other pieces strewn about—if I had not seen two little angular tears,
which I suddenly remembered making in it myself when General
Marston asked me not to pull it to pieces, which I suppose I had
been absently doing. I made some sort of exclamation of surprise,
and Aurelia turned round sharply, and asked me what was the mat-
ter. As I did not answer, she left her packing and came to the table.
She saw in a moment what I was looking at. I had turned as red
as fire, and she was quite white. “I did not mean you. to see that,’
she said, at last, quietly taking up the paper. ‘I meant no one to
know until I had shown it to Ralph. Do you know where I found
it?" and she looked hard at me. I could only shake my head. I
was too much ashamed of a suspicion I had had to be able to get


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 71
out a word. “I am very sorry,' continued Aurelia, ‘but I am afraid
it will be my duty to tell Ralph, whatever the consequences may be.
I have been thinking it over, and I think he ought to know. I am
going to show it him to-night after dinner,’ and she put it in her
pocket, and then began to cry. I did not know what to say or do,
I was so frightened at the thought of what was coming; and, as the
dressing-bell rang at that moment, I was just leaving the room when
she called me back.
“‘I can't come down to dinner, she said. “I hate Ralph to see
me with red eyes. Tell him I shall come down afterwards, at nine
o'clock, and that I want to see him particularly; only don't tell him
what it is about, or mention it to any one else. I did not mean any
one to know till he did.'
“She began to cry afresh, and I made her lie down and put a
shawl over her, and then left her, as I had still to dress, and I knew
that Aunt Mary was not coming down. I was late as it was.”
“Is that all?” said Charles, who had been listening intently.
“All,” replied Evelyn. “We shall soon know the worst now.”
“Very soon,” said Charles. “Ralph may come in here at any
moment. Evelyn and Middleton, will you have the goodness to come
with me?” And he led the way into the hall.
We could hear Ralph in the next room, humming over an old
Irish melody, with an improvised accompaniment.
“Now show me her room,” said Charles, “and please be quick
about it.”
Evelyn looked at him astonished, and then led the way up-stairs,
along the picture-gallery to another wing of the house. She stopped
at last before a door at the end of a passage, dimly lighted by a lamp
at the farther end. There was a light under the door, and a bright
chink in the key-hole, but though we listened intently we could hear
nothing stirring within.
“Knock again,” said Charles to Evelyn. “Louder" as her hand
failed her.
There was no answer. As we listened the light within disap-
peared.
“Bring that lamp from the end of the passage,” said Charles to
Evelyn, and she brought it.
“Hold it there,” he said; “and you, Middleton, stand aside.”
He took a few steps backward, and then flung himself against the
door with his whole force. It cracked and groaned, but resisted.
“The lock is old. It is bound to go,” he said, panting a little.


72 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
“Really, Charles,” I remonstrated—“a lady's private apartment!
Miss Derrick, I wonder you allow this.”
Charles retreated again, and then made a fresh and even fiercer
onslaught on the door. There was a sound of splintering wood and
of bursting screws, and in another moment the door flew open in-
ward, and Charles was precipitated head-foremost into the room, his
evening-pumps flourishing wildly in the air. In an instant he was
on his feet again, gasping hard, and had seized the lamp out of Eve-
lyn's hand. Before I had time to remonstrate on the liberty that he
was taking, we were all three in the room.
It was empty
In one corner stood a box, half packed, with various articles of
clothing lying by it. On the dressing-table was a whole medley of
little feminine knick-knacks, with a candlestick in the midst, the dead
wick still smoking in the socket, and accounting for the disappear-
ance of the light a few minutes before. The fire had gone out, but
on a chair by it was laid a little black lace evening-gown, evidently
put out to be worn; while over the fender a dainty pair of silk stock-
ings had been hung, and two diminutive black satin shoes were wait-
ing on the hearth-rug. The whole aspect of the room spoke of a
sudden and precipitate flight.
“Bolted" said Charles, when he had recovered his breath. “And
so the mystery is out at last! I might have known there was a
woman at the bottom of it. Unpremeditated, though,” he con-
tinued, looking round. “She meant to have gone to-morrow; but
your recognition of that paper frightened her, though she turned it
off well to gain time. No fool that She had only an hour, and
she made the most of it, and got off, no doubt, while we were at
dinner, by the 8.2 London train, which is the last to-night; and af-
ter the telegraph office was closed, too! She knew nothing could
be done till to-morrow. She has more wit than I gave her credit
for.”
“I distrusted her before, though I had no reason for it, but I
never thought she was gone,” said Evelyn, trembling violently, and
still looking round the room.
“I knew it,” said Charles, “from the moment I saw the light
through the key-hole. A key-hole with a key in it would not have
shown half the amount of light through it; and a locked door with-
out a key in it is safe to have been locked from the outside. Had
she a maid with her ?”
“No,” replied Evelyn, “she used to come to me next door when


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 73.
she wanted help—but not often—because I think she knew I did
not like her, though I tried not to show it.”
“Well, we have seen the last of her, or I am much mistaken,'
said Charles. “And now,” he added, compressing his lips, “I sup-
pose I must go and tell Ralph.” -
“Oh, Ralph' Ralph "gasped Evelyn, with a sudden sob; “and he
was so fond of her l’’
“And so you distrusted her before, Evelyn ! And why did you
not mention that fact a little sooner?”
“Without any reason for it? And when Ralph– Oh, I couldn't!
I couldn't l” said the girl, crimsoning.
Charles gazed intently at her as she turned away, pressing her
hands tightly together, and evidently struggling with some sudden
emotion for which there really was no apparent reason. She was
overwrought, I suppose; and indeed the exertion of breaking in the
door had been rather too much for Charles too; for, now that the
excitement was over, his hand shook so much that he had to put
down the lamp, and even his voice trembled a little as he said:
“I don't think Ralph is very much to be pitied. He has had a
narrow escape.”
“Don’t come down again, either of you,” he continued a moment
later, in his usual voice. “I had better go and get it over at once.
He will be wondering what has become of us if I wait much longer.
Evelyn, good-night. Good-night, Middleton. If it is too early for
you to go to bed, you will find a fire in the smoking-room.”
Ibade Evelyn good-night, and followed Charles down the corridor.
He replaced the lamp with a hand that was steady enough now, and
went slowly across the picture-gallery. The way to my room led
me through it also. Involuntarily I stopped at the head of the
great carved staircase which led into the hall, and watched him
going down, step by step, with lagging tread. From the morning-
room came the distant sound of a piano, and a man's voice singing
to it; singing softly, as though no Nemesis were approaching; sing-
ing slowly, as if there were time enough and to spare. But Nemesis
had reached the bottom of the staircase; Nemesis, with a heavy step,
was going across the silent hall—was even now opening the door of
the morning-room. The door was gently closed again, and then, in
the middle of a bar, the music stopped.
*


CHAPTER XII.
IPAssen an uneasy night. The wind moaned wearily round the
house, at one moment seeming to die away altogether, at another
returning with redoubled fury, roaring down the wide chimney, shak-
ing the whole building. It dropped completely towards dawn, and
after hours of fitful slumber I slept heavily. º
In the gray of the early morning I was awakened by some one
coming into my room, and started up to find Charles standing by
my bedside, dressed, and with a candle in his hand. His face was
worn and haggard from want of sleep.
“I have come to speak to you before I go, Middleton,” he said,
when I was thoroughly awake. “Ralph and I are off by the early
train. Will you tell my father that we may not be able to return
till to-morrow, if then ; and may I count upon you to keep all you
saw and heard secret till after our return ?”
“Where are you going?”
“To London. We start in twenty minutes. I don't think it is
the least use, but Ralph insists on going, and I cannot let him go
alone.”
“My dear Charles,” I said (all my anger had vanished at the sight
of his worn face), “I will accompany you.”
“Not for worlds !” he replied, hastily. “It would be no good.
Indeed, I should not wish it.”
But I knew better.
“An old head is often of use,” I replied, rapidly getting into my
clothes. “You may count on me, Charles. I shall be ready in ten
minutes.”
Charles made some pretence at annoyance, but I was not to be
dissuaded. I knew very well how invaluable the judgment of an
elder man of experience could be on critical occasions; and besides,
I always make a point of seeing everything I can, on all occasions.
In ten minutes I was down in the dining-room, where, beside a splut-
tering fire, the brothers, both heavily booted and ulstered, were drink-
ing coffee by candle-light. A hastily laid breakfast was on the table,
but it had not been touched. The gray morning light was turning


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 75
the flame of the candles to a rusty yellow, and outside, upon the
wide stone sills, the snow lay high against the panes.
Ralph was sitting with bent head by the fire, stick and cap in
hand, his heavy boot beating the floor impatiently. He looked up
as I came in, but did not speak. The ruddy color in his cheeks was
faded, his face was drawn and set. He looked ten years older.
“We ought to be off,” he said at last, in a low voice.
“No hurry,” replied Charles; “finish your coffee.”
I hastily drank some also, and told Charles that I was coming
with them.
“No 1" said Charles. -
“Yes!” I replied. “You are going to London, and so am I. I
have decided to curtail my visit by a few days, under the circum-
stances. I shall travel up with you. My luggage can follow.”
As soon as Charles grasped the idea that I was not going to re-
turn to Stoke Moreton his opposition melted away; he even seemed
to hail my departure with a certain sense of relief.
“As you like,” he said. “You can leave at this unearthly hour
if you wish, and travel with us as far as Paddington.”
I nodded, and went after my great-coat. Of course I had not the
slightest intention of leaving them at Paddington; but I felt that
the time had not arrived to say so.
“Here comes the dog-cart,” said Charles, as I returned.
Ralph was already on his feet. But the dog-cart, with its great
bay horse, could not be brought up to the door. The snow had
drifted heavily before the steps, and right up into the archway, and
the cart had to go round to the back again before we could get in
and start. Charles took the reins, and his brother got up beside
him. The groom and I squeezed ourselves into the back seat. I
could see that I was only allowed to come on sufferance, and that at
the last moment they would have been willing to dispense with my
presence. However, I felt that I should never have forgiven myself
if I had let them go alone. Charles was not thirty, and Ralph sev-
eral years younger. An experienced man of fifty to consult in case
of need might be of the greatest assistance in an emergency.
“Quicker!” said Ralph ; “we shall miss the train.”
“No quicker, if we mean to catch it,” said Charles. “I allowed
ten minutes extra for the snow. We shall do it if we go quietly,
but not if I let him go. An upset would clinch the matter.”
We drove noiselessly through the great gates with their stone
lions on either side, rampant in wreaths of snow, and up the village


76 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
street, where life was hardly stirring yet. The sun was rising large
and red, a ball of dull fire in the heavy sky. It seemed to be rising
on a dead world. Before us (only to be seen on my part by craning
round) stretched the long white road. At intervals, here and there
among the shrouded fields, lay cottages half hidden by a white net-
work of trees. Groups of yellow sheep stood clustered together un-
der hedge-rows, motionless in the low mist, and making no sound.
A lonely colt, with tail erect, ran beside us on the other side of the
hedge as far as his field would allow him, his heavy hoofs falling
noiseless in the snow. The cold was intense.
“There will be a drift at the bottom of Farrow hill,” said Ralph;
“we shall be late for the train.”
And in truth, as we came cautiously down the hill, on turning a
corner we beheld a smooth sheet of snow lapping over the top of
the hedge on one side, like iced sugar on a cake, and sloping down-
ward to the ditch on the other side of the road.
“Hold on 1" cried Charles, as I stood up to look; and in another
moment we were pushing our way through the snow, keeping as
near the ditch as possible—too near, as it turned out. But it was
not to be. A few yards in front of us lay the road—snowy, but
practicable; but we could not reach it. We swayed backward and
forward; we tilted up and down; Charles whistled, and made di-
vers consolatory and encouraging sounds to the bay horse; but the
bay horse began to plunge—he made a side movement—one wheel
crunched down through the ice in the ditch, and all was over—at
least, all in the cart were. We fell soft—I most providentially
alighting on the groom, who was young, and inclined to be plump,
and thus breaking a fall which to a heavy man of my age might
have been serious. Charles and Ralph were up in a moment.
“I thought I could not do it; but it was worth a trial,” said
Charles, shaking himself. “George, look after the horse and cart,
and take them straight back. Now, Ralph, we must run for it if we
mean to catch the train. Middleton, you had better go back in the
cart.” And off they set, plunging through the snow without further
ceremony. I watched the two dark figures disappearing, aghast with
astonishment. They were positively leaving me behind! In a mo-
ment my mind was made up; and, leaving the gasping young groom
to look after the horse and cart, I set off to run too. It was only
a chance, of course; but in this weather the train might be late.
It was all the way downhill. I thought I could do it, and I did.
My feet were balled with snow; I was hotter than I had been for


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 77
years; I was completely out of breath; but when I puffed into the
little road-side station, five minutes after the train was due, I could
see that it was not yet in, and that Ralph and Charles were waiting
on the platform.
“My word, Middletonſ" said Charles, coming to meet me. “I
thought I had seen the last of you when I left you reclining on
George in the drift. I do believe you have got yourself into this
state of fever-heat purely to be of use to us two; and I treated you
very cavalierly, I am sure. Let by-gones be by-gones, and let us shake
hands while you are in this melting mood.”
I could not speak, but we shook hands cordially; and I hurried
off to get my ticket.
“You can only book to Tarborough 1” he called after me, “where
we change, and catch the London express.”
The station-master gave me my ticket, and then approached
Charles, and touched his cap.
“Might any of you gentlemen be going to London, sir?” he in-
quired.
“All three of us.”
“I don't think you will get on, sir. The news came down this
morning that the evening express from Tarborough last night was
thrown off the rails by a drift, and got knocked about, and I don't
expect the line is clear yet. There will be no trains running till
later in the day, I am afraid.”
“The night express?” said Ralph, suddenly.
“Do you mean the 9 train, which you can catch by the 8.2 from
here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She was in it!” said Ralph, in a hoarse voice, as the man walked
away.
“How late the train is ſ” said Charles; “quarter of an hour al-
ready. I say, Jervis,” calling after him, “any particulars about the
accident? Serious?”
“Oh dear no, sir, not to my knowledge. Never heard of anything
but that the train had been upset, and had stopped the traffic.”
“Not many people travelling in such weather, at any rate. I dare
say there was not a creature who went from here by the last train
last night?”
“Only two, sir. One of the young gentlemen from the rectory,
and a young lady, who was very near late, poor thing, and all wet
with snow. Ah, there she is, at last !” as the train came in sight;


78 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
and he went through the ceremony of ringing the bell, although we
were the only travellers on the platform.
It was only an hour's run to Tarborough, where we were to join
the main line.
“What are we to do now " said Charles, as the chimneys of Tar-
borough hove in sight, and the train slackened. “Ten to one we
shall not be able to get on to London'"
“Nor she either,” said Ralph. “I shall see her I shall see her
here!”
There was an air of excitement about the whole station as we drew
up before the platform. Groups of railway officials were clustered
together, talking eagerly; the bar-maids were all looking out of the
refreshment-room door; policemen were stationed here and there;
and outside the iron gates of the station a little crowd of people
were waiting in the trodden yellow snow, peering through the bars.
We got out, and Charles went up to a respectable-looking man in
black, evidently an official of some consequence, and asked what was
the matter. The man informed him that a special had been sent
down the line with workmen to clear the rails, and that its return,
with the passengers in the ill-fated express, was expected at any
moment.
“You don't mean to say the wretched passengers have been there
all night?” exclaimed Charles. From the man's account it appeared
that the travellers had taken refuge in a farm near the scene of the
accident, and, the snow-storm continuing very heavily, it had not been
thought expedient to send a train down the line to bring them away
till after daybreak. “It has been gone an hour,” he said, looking
at the clock; “and it is hardly nine yet. Considering how late we
received notice of the accident—for the news had to travel by night,
and on foot for a considerable distance—I don't think there has
been much delay.”
“Will all the passengers come back by this train?” asked Ralph.
“Yes sir.”
“We will wait,” said Ralph; and he went and paced up and down
the most deserted part of the platform. The man followed him with
his eyes. -
“Anxious about friends, sir?” he asked Charles.
“Yes,” I heard Charles say, as I went off to warm myself by the
waiting-room fire, keeping a sharp lookout for the arrival of the
train. When I came out some time later, wondering if it were ever
going to arrive at all, I found Charles and the man in black walking


80 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
diately by expectant friends, and borne off with voluble sympathy.
One or two people slightly hurt were helped out after the others.
The train was emptied at last. Aurelia was not there. Charles
went down the length of the train looking into each carriage, and
then came back, answering Ralph's glance with a shake of the head.
The man in black, who seemed to have been watching him, came up.
“Have all come back by this train?” Charles asked.
“All, sir, except”—and he hesitated—“except a few. The doc-
tor who went has not returned; and the guard says there were some
of the passengers, badly hurt, that he would not allow to be moved
from the farm when the train came for them. The engine-driver
and one or two others were—”
Charles made a sign to him to be silent.
“How far is it?” he asked.
“Twenty miles, sir.”
“Are the roads practicable?”
“No, sir. At least they would be very uncertain once you got
into the lanes.”
“We can walk along the line,” said Ralph. “That must be clear.
Let us start at once.” -
“Could not the station-master send us down on an engine?” asked
Charles. “We would pay well for it.”
The police-inspector shook his head, but Charles went off to in-
quire, nevertheless, and he followed him. I thought him a very push-
ing, inquisitive kind of person. I have always had a great dislike to
the idle curiosity which is continually prying into the concerns of
others. Ralph and I walked up and down, up and down, the now
deserted platform. I spoke to him once or twice, but he hardly
answered; and after a time I gave it up, and we paced in silence.
At last Charles returned. His request for an engine had been re-
fused, but a further relay of workmen was being sent down the line
in a couple of hours' time, and he had obtained leave for himself and
us to go with them. After two long interminable hours of that ever-
lasting pacing we found ourselves in an open truck, full of workmen,
steaming slowly out of the station. At the last moment the man in
black jumped in, and accompanied us.
The pace may have been great, but to us it seemed exasperatingly
slow, and in the open truck the cold was piercing. The workmen,
who laughed and talked among themselves, appeared to take no no-
tice of it; but I saw that Charles was shivering, and presently he
made his brother light his pipe, and began to smoke hard himself.


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 81
Ralph's pipe, however, went out unheeded in his fingers. He sat
quite still with his back against the side of the truck, his eyes fixed
upon the gray horizon. Once he turned suddenly to his brother,
and said, as if unable to keep silence on what was in his mind,
“What was her object?”
Charles shook his head.
“They were hers already!” he went on. “She would have had
them all. If she had had debts, I would have paid them. What
could her object have been f" And seemingly, without expecting a
reply, he relapsed into silence.
We had left the suburbs now, and were passing through a lonely
country. Here and there a village of straggling cottages met the
eye, clustering round their little church. In places the hedge-rows
alone marked the lie of the hidden lanes; in others men were dig-
ging out the roads through drifts of snow, and carts and horses were
struggling painfully along. In one place a little walking funeral
was laboring across the fields from a lonely cottage, in the direction
of the church, high on the hill, the bell of which was tolling through
the quiet air. The sound reached us as we passed, and seemed to
accompany us on our way. I heard the men talking among them-
selves that there had been no snow-storm like to this for thirty years;
and as they spoke some of them began shading their eyes, and try-
ing to look in the direction in which we were going.
We had now reached a low waste of unenclosed land, with sedge
and gorse pricking up everywhere through the snow, and with long
lines of pollards marking the bed of a frozen stream. Near the line
was a deserted brick-kiln, surrounded by long uneven mounds and
ridges of ice, with three poplars mounting guard over it. Flights of
rooks hung over the barren ground, and wheeled in the air with dis-
cordant clamor as we passed—the only living moving things in the
utter desolation of the scene. As I looked there was an exclamation
from one of the workmen, and the engine began to slacken. We
were there at last.
6


CHAPTER XIII.
THE engine and trucks stopped, the men shouldered their tools
and tumbled out, and we followed them. A few hundred paces in
front of us was a railway bridge, over which a road passed, and un-
der which the rail went at a sharp curve. The snow had drifted
heavily against the bridge, with its high earth embankment, making
manifest at a glance the cause of the disaster.
The bridge was crowded with human figures, and on the line be-
low men were working in the drift, amid piles of débris and splin-
tered wood. The wrecked train had all been slightly draped in
snow; the engine alone, barely cold, lying black and grim, like some
mighty giant, formidable in death. A sheet of glass ice near it
showed how the boiler had burst. Some of the hindermost carriages
were still standing, or had fallen comparatively uninjured; but oth-
ers seemed to have leaped upon their fellows, and ploughed right
through them into the drift. It was well that it began to snow as
we reached the spot. There were traces of dismal smears on the
white ground which it would be seemly to hide.
Our friend in black went forward and asked a few questions of
the man in charge, and presently returned.
“The remainder of the passengers are at the farm,” he said, point-
ing to a house at a little distance; and without further delay we
began to scramble up the steep embankment, and clamber over the
stone-wall of the bridge into the road. My mind was full of other
things, but I remember still the number of people assembled on the
bridge, and how a man was standing up in his donkey-cart to view
the scene. It was Saturday, and there were quantities of village
school-boys sitting astride on the low wall, or perched on adjacent
hurdles, evidently enjoying the spectacle, jostling, bawling, eating
oranges, and throwing the peel at the engine. Some older people
touched their hats sympathetically, and one went and opened a gate
for us into a field, through which many feet seemed to have come
and gone; but for the greater number the event was evidently re-
garded as an interesting variation in the dull routine of every-day
life; and to the school-boys it was an undoubted treat.


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 83
Ralph and Charles walked on in front, following the track across
the field. It was not particularly heavy walking after what we had
had earlier in the day, but Ralph stumbled perpetually, and present-
ly Charles drew his arm through his own, and the two went on to-
gether, the police-inspector following with me.
In a few minutes we reached the farm, and entered the farm-yard,
which was the nearest way to the house. A little knot of calves,
intrenched on a mound of straw in the centre of the yard, lowered
their heads and looked askance at us as we came in, and a party of
ducks retreated hastily from our path with a chorus of exclamations,
while a thin collie dog burst out of a barrel at the back door, and
made a series of gymnastics at the end of a chain, barking hoarsely,
as if he had not spared himself of late.
An elderly woman with red arms met us at the door, and, on a
whisper from the police-inspector, first shook her head, and then, in
answer to a further whisper, nodded at another door, and, a voice
calling her from within, hastily disappeared.
The inspector opened the door she had indicated and went in, I
with him. Charles, who had grown very grave, hung back with
Ralph, who seemed too much dazed to notice anything in heaven
above or the earth beneath. The door opened into an out-house,
roughly paved with round stones, where barrels, staves, and divers
lumber had been put away. There was straw in the farther end of
it, out of which a yellow cat raised two gleaming eyes, and then flew
up a ladder against the wall, and disappeared among the rafters. In
the middle of the floor, lying a little apart, were three figures with
sheets over them. Instinctively we felt that we were in the presence
of death. I looked back at Charles and Ralph, who were still stand-
ing outside in the falling snow. Charles was bareheaded, but Ralph
was looking absently in front of him, seeming conscious of nothing.
The inspector made me a sign. He had raised one of the sheets,
and now withdrew it altogether. My heart seemed to stand still. It
was Aurelia / Aurelia changed in the last great change of all, but
still Aurelia. The fixed artificial color in the cheek consorted ill
with the bloodless pallor of the rest of the face, which was set in a
look of surprise and terror. She was altered beyond what should
have been. She looked several years older. But it was still Aure-
lia. Those little gloved hands, tightly clinched, were the same which
she had held to the library fire as we talked the day before; even
the dress was the same. Alas! she had been in too great a hurry
to change it before she left, or her thin shoes. Poor little Aurelial


84 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
And then—I don't know how it was, but in another moment Ralph
was kneeling by her, bending over her, taking the stiffened hands in
his trembling clasp, imploring the deaf ears to hear him, calling wild-
ly to the pale lips to speak to him, which had done with human
speech. I could not bear it, and I turned away and looked out
through the open door at the snow falling. The inspector came and
stood beside me. In the silence which followed we could hear
Charles speaking gently from time to time; and when at last we
both turned towards them again, Ralph had flung himself down on
an old bench at the farther end of the out-house, with his back turned
towards us, his arms resting on a barrel, and his head bowed down
upon them. He neither spoke nor moved.
Charles left him, and came towards us, and he and the inspector
spoke apart for a moment, and then the latter dropped on his knees
beside the dead woman, and, after looking carefully at a dark stain
on one of the wrists, turned back the sleeve. Crushed deep into
the round white arm gleamed something bright. It was an emerald
bracelet which we both knew. Charles cast a hasty glance at Ralph,
but he had not moved, and he drew me beside him, so as to inter-
pose our two figures between him and the inspector. The latter
quietly turned down the sleeve and recomposed the arm.
“I knew she would have them on her, if she had them at all,” he
said, in a low voice. “We need look no farther at present. Not
one will be missing. They are all there.”
He gazed long and earnestly at the dead face, and then to my
horror he suddenly unfastened the little hat. I made an involun-
tary movement as if to stop him, but Charles laid an iron grip upon
me, and motioned to me to be still. The stealthy hand quietly
pushed back the fair curls upon the forehead, and in another mo-
ment they fell still farther back, showing a few short locks of dark
hair beneath them, which so completely altered the dead face that
I could hardly recognize it as belonging to the same person. The
inspector raised his head, and looked significantly at Charles. Then
he quietly drew forward the yellow hair over the forehead again, re-
placed the hat, and rose to his feet. Charles and I glanced appre-
hensively at Ralph, but he had not stirred. As we looked, a hur-
ried step came across the yard, a hand raised the latch of the door,
and some one entered abruptly. It was Carr. For one moment he
stood in the door-way, for one moment his eyes rested horror-struck
on the dead woman, then darted at us, from us to the inspector, who
was coolly watching him, and—he was gone ! gone as suddenly as


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 85
he had come; gone swiftly out again into the falling snow, followed
by the wild barking of the dog.
Charles, who had had his back to the door, turned in time to see
him, and he made a rush for the door, but the inspector flung him-
self in his way, and held him forcibly.
“Let me go! Let me get at him ſ” panted Charles, struggling
furiously.
“I shall do no such thing, sir. It can do no good, and might do
harm. He is armed, and you are not; and he would not be over-
scrupulous if he were pushed. Besides, what can you accuse him
off Intent to rob? For he did not do it. If you have lost any-
thing, remember, you have found it again. If you caught him a
hundred times, you have no hold on him. I know him of old.”
44 You p"
“Yes; I have known him by sight long enough. He is not a
new hand by any means—nor she either, as to that, poor thing.”
“But what on earth brought him here?”
“He was waiting for news of her in London, most likely, and he
knew she would have the jewels on her, and came down when he got
wind of the accident.”
“Knew she would have the jewels! Then do you mean to say
there was collusion between the two
The inspector glanced furtively at Ralph, but he had never stirred,
or raised his head since he had laid it down on his clinched hands.
“They are both well known to the police,” he said at last, “and
I think it probable there was collusion between them, considering
they were man and wife.”
CONCLUSION.
I AM told that I ought to write something in the way of a con-
clusion to this account of the Danvers jewels, as if the end of the
last chapter were not conclusion enough. Charles, who has just
read it, says especially that his character requires what he calls “an
elegant finish,” and suggests that a slight indication of a young and
lovely heiress in connection with himself would give pleasure to the
thoughtful reader. But I do not mean at the last moment to de-
part from the exact truth, and dabble in fiction just to make a suit-


86 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
able conclusion. If I must write something more, I must beg that
it will be kept in mind that if further details concerning the robbery
are now added against my own judgment, they will rest on Charles's
authority — not mine — as anything I afterwards heard was only
through Charles, whose information I never consider reliable in the
least degree.
It was not till three months later that I saw him again, on a wet
April afternoon. I was still living in London with Jane when he
came to see me, having just returned from a long tour abroad with
Ralph.
Sir George, he said, was quite well again, but the coolness between
himself and his father had dropped almost to freezing-point-since it
had come to light that he had been innocent after all. His father
could not forgive his son for putting him in the wrong.
“I seldom disappoint him in matters of this kind,” he said. “In-
deed, I may say I have, as a rule, surpassed his expectations, and I
must be careful never to fall short of them in this way again. But
ah! Miss Middleton, I am sure you will agree with me how difficult
it is to preserve an even course without relaxing a little at times.”
“My dear Mr. Charles,” said Jane, beaming at him over her knit-
ting, but not quite taking him in the manner he intended, “you are
young yet, but don't be downhearted. I am sure by your face that
as you grow older these deviations, which you so properly regret, will
grow fewer and fewer, until, as life goes on, they will gradually cease
altogether.”
“I consider it not improbable myself,” said Charles, with a faint
smile, and he changed the conversation. I really cannot put down
here all that he proceeded to say in the most cold-blooded manner
concerning Carr and Aurelia, or as he would call them, Mr. and Mrs.
Brown, alias Sinclair, alias Tibbits. I for one don't believe a word
of it; and I don't see how he could have found it all out, as he said
he had, through the police, and people of that kind. I don't con-
sider it is at all respectable consorting with the police in that way;
but then Charles never was respectable, as I told Jane after he left,
arousing excited feelings on her part which made me regret having
mentioned it.
According to him, Carr, who had never been seen or heard of
since the day after the accident, was a professional thief, who had
probably gone to in India with the express design of obtaining
possession of Sir John's jewels, which had, till near the time of his


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 87
death, been safely stowed away in a bank in Calcutta. He and his
wife usually worked together; but on this occasion she had, by means
of her engaging manners and youthful appearance, struck up an ae-
quaintance abroad with Lady Mary Cunningham, who, it will be re-
membered, had jewels of considerable value, with a view to those jew-
els. Ralph she had used as her tool, and engaged herself to him in
the expectation that on her return to England she might, by means
of her intimacy with the family, have an opportunity of taking them
—Lady Mary having left them, while abroad, with her banker in
London. The opportunity came while she was at Stoke Moreton;
but in the mean while Sir John's priceless legacy had arrived, hav-
ing eluded her husband's vigilance. (That certainly was true. The
jewels were safe enough as long as I had anything to do with them.)
Her husband, who followed them, saw that he was suspected, and
threw the game into her hands, devoting himself entirely to putting
his own innocence beyond a doubt; in which, with Ralph's assist-
ance, he succeeded.
“I see now,” continued Charles, “why she spilled her tea when Carr
arrived. She was taken by surprise on seeing him enter the room,
having had, probably, no idea that he was the friend whom you had
telegraphed for. I suspect, too, that same evening, after the ball, when
she and Carr went together to find the bag, it was to have a last
word to enable them to play into each other's hands, being aware, if
I remember rightly, that father had gone to bed in company with
the key of the safe, and that, consequently, the jewels might be left
within easier reach than usual. No doubt she weighed the matter
in her own mind, and decided to give up all thought of Lady Mary's
jewels, and to secure those which were ten times their value. She
could not have taken both without drawing suspicion upon herself.
Like a wise woman she left the smaller, and went in for the larger
prize; a less clever one would have tried for both, and have failed.
She failed, it is true, by an oversight. She could never have noticed
that the piece of paper wrapped round the crescent was peculiar in
any way, or she would not have left it on the table among the oth-
ers. She turned it off well when Evelyn recognized it, and made the
most of her time. She was within an ace of success, but fate was
against her. And Carr lost no time, either, for that matter; for I
have since found out that the telegram she sent was to Birmingham,
where he was no doubt hiding, bidding him meet her in London
earlier than had been arranged. Of course he set off for the scene
of the accident directly he heard of it, having received no further


88 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
communication from her. We arrived only ten minutes before him.
For my part, I admired her more than I ever did before, when the truth
about her came out. I considered her to be a pink-and-white nonenity,
without an idea beyond a neat adjustment of pearl-powder, and then
found that she possessed brains enough to outwit two minds of no
mean calibre, namely, yours, Middleton, and my own. Evelyn was
the only person who had the slightest suspicion of her, and that
hardly amounted to more than an instinct, for she owned that she
had no reason to show for it.”
“I wonder Lady Mary was so completely taken in by her to start
with,” I said.
“I don't,” replied Charles. “I have even heard of elderly men
being taken in by young ones. Besides, suspicious people are al-
ways liable to distrust their own nearest relatives, especially their
prepossessing nephews, and then lay themselves open to be taken in
by entire strangers. She wanted to get Ralph married, and she took
a fancy to this girl, who was laying herself out to be taken a fancy
to. In short, she trusted to her own judgment, and it failed her, as
usual. I wrote very kindly to her from abroad, telling her how sin-
cerely I sympathized with her in her distress at finding how entirely
her judgment had been at fault, how lamentably she had been de-
ceived from first to last, and how much trouble she had been the
innocent means of bringing on the family. I have had no reply.
Dear Aunt Mary ! That reminds me that she is in London now;
and I think a call from me, and a personal expression of sympathy,
might give her pleasure.” And he rose to take his leave.
I had let Charles go without contradicting a word he had said, be-
cause, unfortunately, I was not in a position to do so. As I have
said before, I am not given to suspecting a friend, even though ap-
pearances may be against him; and I still believed in Carr's inno-
cence, though I must own that I was sorry that he never answered
any of the numerous letters I wrote to him, or ever came to see me
in London, as I had particularly asked him to do. Of course I did
not believe that he was married to Aurelia, for it was only on the
word of a stranger and a police-inspector, while I knew from his own
lips that he was engaged to a countrywoman of his own. How-
ever, be that how it may, my own rooted conviction at the time,
which has remained unshaken ever since, is that in some way he be-
came aware that he was unjustly suspected, and being, like all Amer-
icans, of a sensitive nature, he retired to his native land. Anyhow, I
have never seen or heard anything of him since. I am aware that


THE DANVERS JEWELS. 89
Jane holds a different opinion, but then Charles had prejudiced her
against him—so much so that it has ended by becoming a subject
on which we do not converse together.
I saw Charles again a few months later on a sultry night in July.
I was leaving town the next day to be present at Ralph's wed-
ding, and Jane and I were talking it over towards ten o'clock, the
first cool time in the day, when he walked in. He looked pale and
jaded as he sat down wearily by us at the open window and stroked
the cat, which was taking the air on the sill. He said that he felt
the heat, and he certainly look very much knocked up. I do not
feel heat myself, I am glad to say.
“I am going abroad to-morrow,” he said, after a few remarks on
other subjects. “It is not merely a question of pleasure, though I
shall be glad to be out of London; but I have of late become an ob-
ject of such increasing interest to those who possess my autograph
that I have decided on taking change of air for a time.”
“Do you mean to say you are not going down to Stoke Moreton
for Ralph's wedding " I exclaimed. “I thought we should have
travelled together, as we once did six months ago.”
“I can't go,” said Charles, almost sharply. “I have told Ralph
so.”
“I am sure he will be very much disappointed, and Evelyn too;
and the wedding being from her uncle's house, as she has no home
of her own, will make your absence all the more marked.”
“It must be marked, then; but the young people will survive it,
and Aunt Mary will be thankful. She has not spoken to me since
I made that little call upon her in the spring. When I pass her
carriage in the Row she looks the other way.”.
“I am glad Ralph has consoled himself,” I said. “A good and
charming woman like Evelyn, and a nice steady fellow like Ralph,
are bound to be happy together.”
“Yes,” said Charles, “I suppose they are. She deserves to be
happy. She always liked Ralph, and he is a good fellow. The
model young men make all the running nowadays. In novels the
good woman always marries the scapegrace, but it does not seem to
be the case in real life.”
“Anyhow, not in this instance,” I remarked, cheerfully.
“No, not in this instance, as you so justly observe,” he replied,
with a passing gleam of amusement in his restless, tired eyes.
“And now,” producing a small packet, “as I am not going myself, I
4-


90 THE DANVERS JEWELS.
want to give my wedding-present to the bride into your charge.
Perhaps you will take it down to-morrow, and give it into her own
hands, with my best wishes.”
“Might we see it first?” said Jane, with all a woman's curiosity,
evidently scenting a jewel-case from afar.
Charles unwrapped a small morocco case, and, touching a spring,
showed the diamond crescent, beautifully reset and polished, blazing
on its red satin couch.
“Ralph said I should have it, and he sent it me some time since,”
he said, turning it in his hand; “but it seems a pity to fritter it
away in paying bills; and,” in a lower tone, “I should like to give
it to Evelyn. I hear she has refused to wear any of Sir John's
jewels on her wedding-day, but perhaps, if you were to ask her—
she and I are old friends—she might make an exception in favor of
the crescent.”
And she did.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS





94 SIR CHARLES DAN WERS.
with a real mahogany table, on which photograph albums and a few
select volumes were symmetrically arranged round an inkstand, nest-
ling in a very choice wool-work mat; a parlor with wax * flowers
under glass shades on the mantle-piece, and an avalanche of paper
roses and mixed paper herbs in the fireplace.
Ruth knew that sacred apartment well. She knew the name of
each of the books; she had expressed a proper admiration for the
wax-flowers; she had heard, though she might have forgotten, for
she was but young, the price of the “real Brussels” carpet, and so
she might safely be permitted to sit in the kitchen, and watch Mrs.
Eccles darning her son's socks. -
I am almost afraid Ruth liked the kitchen best, with its tiled
floor and patch of afternoon sun; with its tall clock in the corner,
its line of straining geraniums in the low window-shelf, and its high
mantle-piece crowned by two china dogs with red lozenges on them,
holding baskets in their mouths. -
“Yes, a deal of talk there is, but nobody rightly seems to know
anything for certain,” continued Mrs. Eccles, spreading out her
hand in the heel of a fresh sock, and pouncing on a modest hole.
“Ye see, we never gave a thought to him, with that great hearty
Mr. George, his eldest brother, to succeed when the old gentleman
went. And such a fine figure of a man in his clothes as poor Mr.
George used to be, and such a favorite with his old uncle. And
then to be took like that, horseback riding at polar, only six weeks
after the old gentleman. But I can't hear as anybody's set eyes on
his half-brother as comes in for the property now. He never came
to Wandon in his uncle's lifetime. They say old Mr. Dare couldn't
bide the French madam as his brother took when his first wife died
—a foreigner, with black curls; it wasn't likely. He was always
partial to Mr. George, and he took him up when his father died;
but he never would have anything to say to this younger one, bein’
nothin' in the world, so folks say, but half a French, and black, like
his mother. I wonder now—” began Mrs. Eccles, tentatively, with
her usual love of information.
“I wonder, now,” interposed Ruth, quietly, “how the rheumatism
is getting on ? I saw you were in church on Sunday evening.”
“Yes, my dear,” began Mrs. Eccles, readily diverted to a subject
of such interest as herself. “Yes, I always come to the evening serv-
ice now, though I won't deny as the rheumatics are very pinching
at times. But, dear Lord ' I never come up to the stalls near the
chancel, so you ain't likely to see me. To see them Harrises always


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 95.
a-goin' up to the very top, it does go agen me. I don't say as it's
everybody as ought to take the lowest place. The Lord knows I'm
not proud, but I won't go into them chairs down by the font myself;
but to see them Harrises, that to my certain knowledge hasn't a bite
of butcher's meat in their heads but onst a week, a-settin' theirselves
up—”
“Now, Mrs. Eccles, you know perfectly well all the seats are free
in the evening.”
“And so they may be, Miss Ruth, my dear—and don't ye be
a-getting up yet—and good Christians, I'm sure, the quality are to
abide it. And it did my heart good to hear the Honorable John
preaching as he did in his new surplice (as Widder Pegg always
puts too much blue in the surplices to my thinking), all about rich
and poor, and one with another. A beautiful sermon it was; but
I wouldn't come up like they Harrises. There's things as is suitable,
and there's things as is not. No, I keep to my own place; and I
had to turn out old Bessie Pugh this very last Sunday night, as I
found a-cocked up there, tho’ I was not a matter of five minutes late.
Bessie Pugh always was one to take upon herself, and, as I often
says to her, when I hear her a-goin' on about free grace and the
like, ‘Bessie,' I says, “if I was a widder on the parish, and not so
much as a pig to fat up for Christmas, and coming to church reg'lar
on Loaf Sunday, which it's not that I ain't sorry for ye, but I
wouldn't take upon myself, if I was you, to talk of things as I’d
better leave to them as is beholden to nobody and pays their rent
reg'lar. I've no patience— But eh, dear Miss Ruth ! look at that
gentleman going down the road, and the dog too. Why, ye haven't
so much as got up! He's gone. He was a foreigner, and no mis-
take. Why, good Lord ' there he is coming back again. He's seen
me through the winder. Mercy on us! he's opening the gate; he’s
coming to the door!”
As she spoke, a shadow passed before the window, and some one
knocked.
Mrs. Eccles hastily thrust her darning-needle into the front of her
bodice, the general rendezvous of the pins and needles of the estab-
lishment, and proceeded to open the door and plant herself in front
of it.
Ruth caught a glimpse of an erect light gray figure in the sun-
shine, surmounted by a brown face, and the lightest of light gray
hats. Close behind stood a black poodle of a dignified and self-en-
grossed deportment, wearing its body half shaved, but breaking out


96 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
in ruffles round its paws, and a tuft at the end of a stiffly undemon-
strative tail.
“The key of the church is kep' at Jones's, by the pump,” said Mrs.
Eccles, in the brusque manner peculiar to the freeborn Briton when
brought in contact with a foreigner.
“Thank you, madam,” was the reply, in the most courteous of
tones, and the gray hat was off in a moment, showing a very dark,
cropped head, “but I do not look for the church. I only ask for
the way to the house of the pastor, Mr. Alwynn.”
Mrs. Eccles gave full and comprehensive directions in a very high
key, accompanied by much gesticulation, and then the gray hat was
replaced, and the gray figure, followed by the black poodle, marched
down the little garden path again, and disappeared from view.
Mrs. Eccles drew a long breath, and turned to her visitor again.
“Well, my dear, and did ye ever see the like of that ? And his
head, Miss Ruth ! Did ye take note of his head? Not so much as
a shadder of a parting. All the same all the way over; and asking
the way to the rectory. Why, you ain't never going yet? Well,
good-bye, my dear, and God bless ye! And now,” soliloquized
Mrs. Eccles, as Ruth finally escaped, “I may as well run across to
Jones's, and see if they know anything about the gentleman, and if
he's put up at the inn.”
It was a glorious July afternoon, but it was hot. The roads were
white, and the tall hedge-rows gray with dust. A wagon-load of
late hay, with a swarm of children just out from school careering
round it, was coming up the road in a dim cloud of dust. Ruth,
who had been undecided which way to take, beat a hasty retreat
towards the church-yard, deciding that, if she must hesitate, to do so
among cool tombstones in the shade. She glanced up at the church
clock, as she selected her tombstone under one of the many yew-
trees in the old church-yard. Half-past four, and already an inner
voice was suggesting tea / To miss five o'clock tea on a thirsty
afternoon like this was not to be thought of for a moment. She
had no intention of going back to tea at Atherstone, where she was
staying with her cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Danvers. Two alternatives
remained. Should she go to Slumberleigh Hall, close by, and see
the Thursbys, who she knew had all returned from London yester-
day, or should she go across the fields to Slumberleigh Rectory, and
have tea with Uncle John and Aunt Fanny?
She knew that Sir Charles Danvers, Ralph Danvers's elder brother,


98 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
understood her, and was at ease with her, as her daughters had never
been. The trouble of her life was the death of her son. She got
over it, as she got over everything ; but when several years afterwards
his widow, with whom, it is hardly necessary to say, she was not on
speaking terms, suddenly died (being a faint-hearted, feeble creature),
Lady Deyncourt immediately took possession of her grandchildren
—a boy and two girls—and proceeded as far as in her lay to ruin the
boy for life.
“A woman,” she was apt to remark in after years, “is not intended
by nature to manage any man except her husband. I am a warning
to the mothers, aunts, and grandmothers, particularly the grandmoth-
ers, of the future. A husband is a sufficient field for the employment
of a woman's whole energies. I went beyond my sphere, and I am
punished.” -
And when Raymond Deyncourt finally disappeared in America
for the last time, having been fished up therefrom on several occa-
sions, each time in worse case than the last, she excommunicated
him, and cheerfully altered her will, dividing the sixty thousand
pounds she had it in her power to leave, between her two grand-
daughters, and letting the fact become known, with the result that
Anna was married by the end of her second season; and if at the
end of five seasons Ruth was still unmarried, she had, as Lady Deyn-
court took care to inform people, no one to thank for it but herself.
But in reality, now that Anna was provided for, Lady Deyncourt
was in no hurry to part with Ruth. She liked her as much as it
was possible for her to like any one—indeed, I think she even loved
her in a way. She had taken but small notice of her while she was
in the school-room, for she cared little about girls as a rule; but as
she grew up tall, erect, with the pale, stately beauty of a lily, Lady
Deyncourt's heart went out to her. None of her own daughters had
been so distinguished-looking, so ornamental. Ruth's clothes always
looked well on her, and she had a knack of entertaining people, and
much taste in the arrangement of flowers. Though she had inherit-
ed the Deyncourt earnestness of character, together with their dark
serious eyes, and a certain annoying rigidity as to right and wrong,
these defects were counterbalanced by flashes of brightness and hu-
mor which reminded Lady Deyncourt of herself in her own brill-
iant youth, and inclined her to be lenient, when in her daughters'
cases she would have been sarcastic. The old woman and the young
one had been great friends, and not the less so, perhaps, because of a
tacit understanding which existed between them that certain sub-
_


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 99
jects should be avoided, upon which, each instinctively felt, they
were not likely to agree. And if the shrewd old woman of the world
ever suspected the existence of a strength of will and depth of char-
acter in Ruth such as had, in her own early life, been a source of
annoyance and perplexity to herself in her dealings with her hus-
band, she was skilful enough to ignore any traces of it that showed
themselves in her granddaughter, and thus avoided those collisions
of will, the result of which she felt might have been doubtful.
And so Ruth had lived a life full of varied interests, and among
interesting people, and had been waked up suddenly in a gray and
frosted dawn to find that chapter of her life closed. Lady Deyn-
court, who never thought of travelling without her maid and footman,
suddenly went on a long journey alone one wild January morning,
starting, without any previous preparation, for a land in which she
had never professed much interest heretofore. It seemed a pity that
she should have to die when she had so thoroughly acquired the art
of living, with little trouble to herself, and much pleasure to others;
but so it was.
And then, in Ruth's confused remembrance of what followed, all
the world seemed to have turned to black and gray. There was no
color anywhere, where all had been color before. Miles of black
cloth and crape seemed to extend before her; black horses came and
stamped black hoof-marks in the snow before the door. Endless
arrangements had to be made, endless letters to be written. Some-
thing was carried heavily down-stairs, all in black, scoring the wall
at the turn on the stairs in a way which would have annoyed Lady
Deyncourt exceedingly if she had been there to see it, but she had
left several days before it happened. The last pale shadow of the
kind, gay little grandmother was gone from the great front bedroom
up-stairs. Mr. Alwynn, one of Ruth's uncles, came up from the
country and went to the funeral, and took Ruth away afterwards.
Her own sister Anna was abroad with her husband, her brother Ray-
mond had not been heard of for years. As she drove away from the
house, and looked up at the windows with wide tearless eyes, she
suddenly realized that this departure was final, that there would be
no coming back, no home left for her in the familiar rooms where
she and another had lived so long together.
Mr. Alwynn was by her side in the carriage, patting her cold hands
and telling her not to cry, which she felt no inclination to do; and
then, seeing the blank pallor in her face, he suddenly found himself
fumbling for his own pocket-handkerchief.
- - - - 4 A


CHAPTER II.
ON this particular July afternoon Mr. Alwynn, or, as his parish-
ioners called him, “The Honorable John,” was sitting in his arm-
chair in the little drawing-room of Slumberleigh Rectory. Mrs. Hon-
orable John was pouring out tea; and here, once and for all, let it
be known that meals, particularly five o'clock tea, will occupy a large
place in this chronicle, not because of any importance especially at-
taching to them, but because in the country, at least in Slumber-
leigh, the day is not divided by hours but by the meals that take
place therein, and to write of Slumberleigh and its inhabitants with
disregard to their divisions of time is “impossible, and cannot be
done.” -
So I repeat, boldly, Mr. and Mrs. Alwynn were at tea. They were
alone together, for they had no children, and Ruth Deyncourt, who
had been living with them since her grandmother's death in the
winter, was now staying with her cousin, Mrs. Ralph Danvers, at
Atherstone, a couple of miles away.
If it had occasionally crossed Mr. Alwynn's mind during the last few
months that he would have liked to have a daughter like Ruth, he had
kept the sentiment to himself, as he did most sentiments in the com-
pany of his wife, who, while she complained of his habit of silence,
made up for it nobly herself at all times and in all places. It had
often been the subject of vague wonder among his friends, and even at
times to Mr. Alwynn himself, how he had come to marry “Fanny,
my love.” Mr. Alwynn dearly loved peace and quiet, but these dwelt
not under the same roof with Mrs. Alwynn. Nay, I even believe, if
the truth were known, he liked order and tidiness, judging by the .
exact arrangement of his own study, and the rueful glances he some-
times cast at the litter of wools and letters on the newspaper-table,
and the gay garden hats and goloshes, hidden, but not concealed,
under the drawing-room sofa. Conversation about the dearness of
butchers' meat and the enormities of servants palled upon him, I
think, after a time, but he had taken his wife's style of conversa-
tion for better for worse when he took her gayly dressed self under
*


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 101
those ominous conditions, and he never showed impatience. He
loved his wife, but I think it grieved him when smart-colored glass
vases were strewn among the cherished bits of old china and enamel
which his soul loved. He did not like chromo-lithographs, or the
framed photographs which Mrs. Alwynn called her “momentums of
travel,” among his rare old prints, either. He bore them, but after
their arrival in company with large and inappropriate nails, and
especially after the cut-glass candlesticks appeared on the drawing-
room chimney-piece, he ceased to make his little occasional purchases
of old china and old silver. The curiosity shops knew him no more,
or if he still at times brought home some treasure in his hat-box, on
his return from Convocation, it was unpacked and examined in pri-
vate, and a little place was made for it among the old Chelsea figures
on the bookcase in his study, which had stood, ever since he had in-
herited them from his father, on the drawing-room mantle-piece, but
had been silently removed when a pair of comic china elephants
playing on violins had appeared in their midst.
Mr. Alwynn sighed a little when he looked at them this afternoon,
and shook his head; for had he not brought back in his empty
soup-tin an old earthen-ware cow of Dutch extraction, which he had
long coveted on the shelf of a parishioner? He had bought it very
dear, for when in all his life had he ever bought anything cheap!
And now, as he was tenderly wiping a suspicion of beef-tea off it,
he wondered, as he looked round his study, where he could put it.
Not among the old Oriental china, where bits of Wedgwood had al-
ready elbowed in for want of room elsewhere. Among his Lowes-
toft cups and saucers? Never! He would rather not have it than
see it there. He had a vision of a certain bracket, discarded from
the hall, and put aside by his careful hands in the lowest drawer of
the cupboard by the window, in which he kept little stores of nails
and string and brown paper, among which “Fanny, my love” per-
formed fearful ravages when minded to tie up a parcel.
Mr. Alwynn nailed up the bracket under an old etching and placed
the cow thereon, and, after contemplating it over his spectacles, went
into the drawing-room to tea with his wife.
Mrs. Alwynn was a stout, florid, good-humored-looking woman,
with a battered fringe, considerably younger than her husband in
appearance, and with a tendency to bright colors in dress.
“Barnes is very poorly, my dear,” said Mr. Alwynn, patiently
fishing out one of the lumps of sugar which his wife had put in
his tea. He took one lump, but she took two herself, and conse-


102 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
quently always gave him two. “I should say a little strong soup
would—”
At this juncture the front door-bell rang, and a moment afterwards
“Mr. Dare" was announced.
The erect, light gray figure which had awakened the curiosity of
Mrs. Eccles came in close behind the servant. Mrs. Alwynn received
a deep bow in return for her look of astonishment; and then, with
an eager exclamation, the visitor had seized both Mr. Alwynn's hands,
regardless of the neatly folded slice of bread and butter in one of
them, and was shaking them cordially.
Mr. Alwynn looked for a moment as astonished as his wife, and
the blank, deprecating glance he cast at his visitor showed that he
was at a loss.
The latter let go his hands and spread his own out with a sudden
gesture.
“Ah, you do not know me,” he said, speaking rapidly; “it is
twenty years ago, and you have forgotten. You do not remember
Alfred Dare, the little boy whom you saw last in sailing costume,
the little boy for whom you cut the whistles, the son of your old
friend, Henry Dare?”
“Good gracious !” ejaculated Mr. Alwynn, with a sudden flash of
memory. “Henry's other son. I remember now. It is Alfred, and
I remember the whistles too. You have your mother's eyes. And,
of course, you have come to Wandon now that your poor brother—
We have all been wondering when you would turn up. My dear
boy, I remember you perfectly now ; but it is a long time ago, and
you have changed very much.”
“Between eight years and twenty-eight there is a great step,” re-
plied Dare, with a brilliant smile. “How could I expect that you
should remember all at once? But you are not changed. I knew
you the first moment. It is the same kind, good face which I re-
member well.”
Mr. Alwynn blushed a faint blush, which any word of praise could
always call up; and then, reminded of the presence of Mrs. Alwynn
by a short cough, which that lady always had in readiness where-
with to recall him to a sense of duty, he turned to her and introduced
Dare.
Dare made another beautiful bow; and while he accepted a cup
of tea from Mrs. Alwynn, Mr. Alwynn had time to look attentively
at him with his mild gray eyes. He was a slight, active-looking
young man of middle height, decidedly un-English in appearance


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 103
and manner, with dark roving eyes, mustaches very much twirled
up, and a lean brown face, that was exceedingly handsome in a style
to which Mr. Alwynn was not accustomed.
And this was Henry Dare's second son, the son by his French
wife, who had been brought up abroad, of whom no one had ever
heard or cared to hear, who had now succeeded, by his half-brother's
sudden death, to Wandon, a property adjoining Slumberleigh.
The eager foreign face was becoming familiar to Mr. Alwynn.
Dare was like his mother; but he sat exactly as Mr. Alwynn had
seen his father sit many a time in that very chair. The attitude
was the same. Ah, but that flourish of the brown hands ! How
unlike anything Henry would have done! And those sudden move-
ments! He was roused by Dare turning quickly to him again.
“I am telling Mrs. Alwynn of my journey here,” he began; “of
how I miss my train; of how I miss my carriage, sent to meet me
from the inn; of how I walk on foot up the long hills; and when
I get there they think I am no longer coming. I arrived only last
night at Wandon. To-day I walk over to see my old friend at Slum-
berleigh.”
Dare leaned forward, laying the tips of his fingers lightly against
his breast.
“You seem to have had a good deal of walking,” said Mr. Al-
wynn, rather taken aback, but anxious to be cordial; “but, at any
rate, you will not walk back. You must stay the night, now you are
here; mustn't he, Fanny ?”
Dare was delighted—beaming. Then his face became overcast.
His eyebrows went up. He shook his head. Mr. and Mrs. Alwynn
were most kind, but—he became more and more dejected—a bag, a
simple valise—
It could be sent for.
Ah! Mr. Alwynn was too good. He revived again. He showed
his even white teeth. He was about to resume his tea, when sud-
denly a tall white figure came lightly in through the open French
window, and a clear voice began :
“Oh, Uncle John, there is such a heathen of a black poodle mak-
ing excavations in the flower-beds! Do-”
Ruth stopped suddenly as her eyes fell upon the stranger. Dare
rose instinctively.
“This is Mr. Dare, Ruth,” said Mr. Alwynn. “He has just ar.
rived at Wandon.”
Ruth bowed. Dare surpassed himself, and was silent. All his


104 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
smiles and flow of small-talk had suddenly deserted him. He began
patting his dog, which had followed Ruth in-doors, and a moment of
constraint fell upon the little party.
“She is shy,” said Dare to himself. “She is adorably shy.”
Ruth's quiet, self-possessed voice dispelled that pleasing illusion.
“I have had a very exhausting afternoon with Mrs. Eccles, Aunt
Fanny, and I have come to you for a cup of tea before I go back to
Atherstone.”
“Why did you walk so far this hot afternoon, my dear? and how
are Mrs. Danvers and Lady Mary' and is any one else staying there?
and, my dear, are the dolls finished?”
“They are,” said Ruth. “They are all outrageously fashionable.
Even Molly is satisfied. There is to be a school-feast here to-mor-
row,” she added, turning to Dare, who appeared bewildered at the
turn the conversation was taking. “All our energies for the last
fortnight have been brought to bear on dolls. We have been dress-
ing dolls morning, noon, and night.”
“When is it to be, this school-feast?” said Dare, eagerly. “I
will buy one—three dolls!”
After a lengthy explanation from Mrs. Alwynn as to the nature
of a school-feast as distinct from a bazaar, Ruth rose to go, and Mr.
Alwynn offered to accompany her part of the way.
“And so that is the new Mr. Dare about whom we have all been
speculating,” she said, as they strolled across the fields together.
“He is not like his half-brother.”
“No ; he seems to be entirely a Frenchman. You see, he was
educated abroad, and that makes a great difference. He was a very
nice little boy twenty years ago. I hope he will turn out well, and
do his duty by the place.”
The neighboring property of Wandon, with its tumble-down cot-
tages, its neglected people, and hard agent, were often in Mr. Al-
wynn's thoughts.
“Oh, Uncle John, he will, he must 1 You must help him and ad-
vise,” said Ruth, eagerly. “He ought to stay and live on the place,
and look into things for himself.”
“I am afraid he will be poor,” said Mr. Alwynn, meditatively.
“Anyhow, he will be richer than he was before,” urged Ruth,
“and it is his duty to do something for his own people.”
When Ruth had said it was a duty, she imagined, like many an-
other young soul before her, that nothing remained to be said, hav-
ing yet to learn how much beside often remained to be done.
_*


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 105.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Alwynn, who had seen something of his
fellow-creatures; and they walked on together in silence.
The person whose duty Ruth had been discussing so freely looked
after the two retreating figures till they disappeared, and then turned
to Mrs. Alwynn.
“You and Mr. Alwynn also go to the school-feast to-morrow?”
Mrs. Alwynn, a little nettled, explained that of course she went,
that it was her own school-feast, that Mrs. Thursby, at the Hall, had
nothing to do with it. (Dare did not know who Mrs. Thursby was,
but he listened with great attention.) She, Mrs. Alwynn, gave it
herself. Her own cook, who had been with her five years, made
the cakes, and her own donkey-cart conveyed the same to the field
where the repast was held.
“Miss Deyncourt, will she be there ?” asked Dare.
Mrs. Alwynn explained that all the neighborhood, including the
Thursbys, would be there; that she made a point of asking the
Thursbys.”
“I also will come,” said Dare, gravely.
CHAPTER III.
ATHERSTonE was a rambling, old-fashioned, black-and-white house,
half covered with ivy, standing in a rambling, old-fashioned garden
—a charming garden, with clipped yews, and grass paths, and strag-
gling flowers and herbs growing up in unexpected places. In front
of the house, facing the drawing - room windows, was a bowling-
green, across which, at this time of the afternoon, the house had laid
a cool green shadow.
Two ladies were sitting under its shelter, each with her work.
It was hot still, but the shadows were deepening and lengthening.
Away in the sun hay was being made and carried, with crackings of
whips and distant voices. Beyond the hay-fields lay the silver band
of the river, and beyond again the spire of Slumberleigh Church, and
a glimpse among the trees of Slumberleigh Hall.
“Ralph has started in the dog-cart to meet Charles. They ought
to be here in half an hour, if the train is punctual,” said Mrs. Ralph.
She was a graceful woman, with a placid, gentle face. She might
be thirty, but she looked younger. With her pleasant home and her
Aº-


106 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
pleasant husband, and her child to be mildly anxious about, she
might well look young. She looked particularly so now as she sat
in her fresh cotton draperies, winding wool with cool, white hands.
The handiwork of some women has a hard, masculine look. If
they sew, it is with thick cotton in some coarse material; if they
knit, it is with cricket-balls of wool, which they manipulate into
wiry stockings and comforters. Evelyn's wools, on the contrary,
were always soft, fleecy, liable to weak-minded tangles, and so turn-
ing, after long periods of time, into little feminine futilities for
which it was difficult to divine any possible use.
Lady Mary Cunningham, her husband's aunt, made no immediate
reply to her small remark. Evelyn Danvers was not a little afraid
of that lady, and, in truth, Lady Mary, with her thin face and com-
manding manner, was a very imposing person. Though past seven-
ty, she sat erect in her chair, her stick by her side, some elaborate
embroidery in her delicate old ringed hands. Her pale, colorless
eyes were as keen as ever. Her white hair was covered by a won-
derful lace cap, which no one had ever succeeded in imitating, that
fell in soft lappets and graceful folds round the severe, dignified
face. Molly, Evelyn's little daughter, stood in great awe of Lady
Mary, who had such a splendid stick with a silver crook of her very
own, and who made remarks in French in Molly's presence which
that young lady could not understand, and felt that it was not in-
tended she should. She even regarded with a certain veneration
the cap itself, which she had once met in equivocal circumstances,
journeying with a plait of white hair towards Lady Mary's rooms.
It was the first time since their marriage, of which she had not
approved, that Lady Mary had paid a visit to Ralph and Evelyn at
Atherstone. Lady Mary had tried to marry Ralph, in days gone by,
to a woman who — but it was an old story and better forgotten.
Ralph had married his first cousin when he had married Evelyn,
and Lady Mary had strenuously objected to the match, and had
even gone so far as to threaten to alter certain clauses in her will,
which she had made in favor of Ralph, her younger nephew, at a
time when she was at daggers drawn with her eldest nephew, Charles,
now Sir Charles Danvers. But that was an old story, too, and bet-
ter forgotten.
When Charles succeeded his father some three years ago, and
when, after eight years, Molly had still remained an only child, and
one of the wrong kind, of no intrinsic value to the family, Lady Mary
decided that by-gones should be by-gones, and became formally recon-


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 107
ciled to Charles, with whom she had already found it exceedingly
inconvenient, and consequently unchristian, not to be on speaking
terms. As long as he was the scapegrace son of Sir George Danvers
her Christian principles remained in abeyance; but when he sud-
denly succeeded to the baronetcy and Stoke Moreton, the air of
which suited her so well, and, moreover, to that convenient pied à
terre, the house in Belgrave Square, she allowed feelings, which she
said she had hitherto repressed with difficulty, their full scope, ex-
pressed a Christian hope that, now that he had come to his estate,
Charles would put away Bohemian things, and instantly set to work
to find a suitable wife for him.
At first Lady Mary felt that the task which she had imposed
upon herself would (D. W.) be light indeed. Charles received her
overtures with the same courteous demeanor which had been the
chief sting of their former warfare. He paid his creditors, no one
knew how, for his father had left nothing to him unentailed; and
once out of money difficulties, he seemed in no hurry to plunge into
them again. If he had not as yet thoroughly taken up the life of
an English country gentleman, for want of that necessary adjunct
which Lady Mary was so anxious to supply, at least he lived in Eng-
land and in good society. In short, Lady Mary was fond of telling
her friends Charles had entirely reformed, hinting, at the same time,
that she had been the humble instrument, in the hands of an all-wise
Providence, which had turned him back into the way in which the
English aristocracy should walk, and from which he had deviated so
long. But one thing remained — to marry him. Every one said
Charles must marry. Lady Mary did not say it, but with her whole
soul she meant it. What she intended to do, she, as a rule, per-
formed—occasionally at the expense of those who were little able to
afford it, but still the thing was (always, of course, by the co-opera-
tion of Providence) done. Ralph certainly had proved an exception
to the rule. He had married Evelyn against Lady Mary's will, and
consequently without the blessing of Providence. After that, of
course, she had never expected there would be a son, and with each
year her anxiety to see Charles safely married had increased. He
had seemed so amenable that at first she could hardly believe that
the steed which she had led to waters of such divers merit would
refuse to drink from any of them. If rank had no charm for him,
which apparently it had not, she would try beauty. When beauty
failed, even beauty with money in its hand, Lady Mary hesitated,
and then fell back on goodness. But either the goodness was not


108 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
good enough, or, as Lady Mary feared, it was not sufficiently High
Church to be really genuine: even goodness failed. For three years
she had strained every nerve, and at the end of them she was no
nearer the object in view than when she began.
An inconvenient death of a sister, with whom she had long since
quarrelled about church matters (and who had now gone where her
folly in differing from Lady Mary would be fully, if painfully, brought
home to her), had prevented Lady Mary continuing her designs this
year in London. But if thwarted in one direction, she knew how to
throw her energies into another. The first words she uttered indi-
cated what that direction was.
Evelyn's little remark about the dog-cart, which had gone to meet
Charles, had so long remained without any response that she was
about to coin another of the same stamp, when Lady Mary suddenly
said, with a decision that was intended to carry conviction to the
heart of her companion:
“It is an exceedingly suitable thing.”
Evelyn evidently understood what it was that was so suitable, but
she made no reply.
“A few years ago,” continued Lady Mary, “I should have looked
higher. I should have thought Charles might have done better,
but—”
“He never could do better than—than—” said Evelyn, with a little
mild flutter. “There is no one in the world more—”
“Yes, yes, my dear—of course we all know that,” returned the
elder lady. “She is much too good for him, and all the rest of it.
A few years ago, I was saying, I might not have regarded it quite in
the light I do now. Charles, with his distinguished appearance and
his position, might have married anybody. But time passes, and I
am becoming seriously anxious about him; I am, indeed. He is
eight-and-thirty. In two years he will be forty; and at forty you
never know what a man may not do. It is a critical age, even when
they are married. Until he is forty, a man may be led under
Providence into forming a connection with a woman of suitable age
and family. After that age he will never look at any girl out of her
teens, and either perpetrates a folly or does not marry at all. If the
Danvers family is not to become extinct, or to be dragged down by a
mésalliance, measures must be taken at once.”
Evelyn winced at the allusion to the extinction of the Danvers
family, of which Charles and Ralph were the only representatives.
She felt keenly having failed to give Ralph a son, and the sudden


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 109
smart of the old hurt added a touch of sharpness to her usually
gentle voice as she said,
“I cannot see what has been left undone.”
“No, my dear,” said Lady Mary, more suavely, “you have fallen
in with my views most sensibly. I only hope Ralph—”
“Ralph knows nothing about it.”
“Quite right. It is very much better he should not. Men never
can be made to look at things in their proper light. They have no
power of seeing an inch in front of them. Even Charles, who is less
dense than most men, has never been allowed to form an idea of
the plans which from time to time I have made for him. Nothing
sets a man more against a marriage than the idea that it has been put
in his way. They like to think it is all their own doing, and that
the whole universe will be taken by surprise when the engagement
is given out. Charles is no exception to the rule. Our duty is to
provide a wife for him, and then allow him to think his own extraor-
dinary cleverness found her for himself. How old is this cousin
of yours, Miss Deyncourt?”
“About three-and-twenty.” *
“Exceedingly suitable. Young, and yet not too young. She is
not beautiful, but she is decidedly handsome, and very high-bred-
looking, which is better than beauty. I know all about her family;
good blood on both sides; no worsted thread. I forget if there is
any money.” -
This was a pious fraud on Lady Mary's part, as she was, of course,
aware of the exact sum.
“Lady Deyncourt left her thirty thousand pounds,” said Evelyn,
unwillingly. She hated herself for the part she was taking in her
aunt's plans, although she had been so unable to support her feeble
opposition by any show of reason that it had long since melted away
before the consuming fire of Lady Mary's determined authority.
“Twelve hundred a year,” said that lady. “I fear Lady Deyn-
court was far, very far, from the truth, but she seems to have made
an equitable will. I am glad Miss Deyncourt is not entirely without
means; and she has probably something of her own as well. The
more I see of that girl the more convinced I am that she is the very
wife for Charles. There is no objection to the match in any way,
unless it lies in that disreputable brother, who seems to have entirely
disappeared. Now, Evelyn, mark my words. You invited her here
at my wish, after I saw her with that dreadful Alwynn woman at the
flower-show. You will never regret it. I am seventy-five years of


110 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
age, and I have seen something of men and women. Those two
will suit.”
“Here comes the dog-cart,” said Evelyn, with evident relief.
“Where is Miss Deyncourt?”
“She went off to Slumberleigh some time ago. She said she was
going to the rectory, I believe.”
“It is just as well. Ah! here is Charles.”
A tall, distinguished-looking man in a light overcoat came slowly
round the corner of the house as she spoke, and joined them on the
lawn. Evelyn went to meet him with evident affection, which met
with as evident a return, and he then exchanged a more formal
greeting with his aunt.
“Come and sit down here,” said Evelyn, pulling forward a gat
den-chair. How hot and tired you look"
“I am tired to death, Evelyn. I went to London in May a com-
paratively young man. Aunt Mary said I ought to go, and so, of
course, I went. I have come back not only sadder and wiser—that
I would try to bear—but visibly aged.”
He took off his hat as he spoke, and wearily pushed back the hair
from his forehead. Lady Mary looked at him over her spectacles
with grave scrutiny. She had not seen her nephew for many months,
and she was not pleased with what she saw. His face looked thin
and worn, and she even feared she could detect a gray hair or two in
the light hair and mustache. His tired, sarcastic eyes met hers.
“I was afraid you would think I had gone off,” he said, half shut-
ting his eyes in the manner habitual to him. “I fear I took your
exhortations too much to heart, and overworked myself in the good
cause.”
“A season is always an exhausting thing,” said Lady Mary; “and
I dare say London is very hot now.”
“Hot! It's more than hot. It is a solemn warning to evil-doers;
a foretaste of a future state.”
“I suppose everybody has left town by this time?” continued
Lady Mary, who often found it necessary even now to ignore parts
of her nephew's conversation.
“By everybody I know you mean one family. Yes, they are gone.
Left London to-day. Consequently, I also conveyed my remains out
of town, feeling that I had done my duty.”
“Where is Ralph?” asked Evelyn, rising, dimly conscious that
Charles and his aunt were conversing in an unknown tongue, and
feeling herself de trop.
_*


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 111
“I left him in the shrubbery. A stoat crossed the road before
the horse's nose as we drove up, and Ralph, who seems to have
been specially invented by Providence for the destruction of small
vermin, was in attendance on it in a moment. I had seen something
of the kind before, so I came on.”
Evelyn laid down her work, and went across the lawn, and round
the corner of the house, in the direction of the shrubbery, from
which the voice of her lord and master “rose in snatches,” as he
plunged in and out among the laurels.
“And how is Lord Hope-Acton P’ continued Lady Mary, with an
air of elaborate unconcern. “I used to know him in old days as
one of the best waltzers in London. I remember him very slim and
elegant-looking; but I suppose he is quite elderly now, and has lost
his figure ? or so some one was saying.”
“Not lost, but gone before, I should say, to judge by appearances,”
said Charles, meditatively, gazing up into the blue of the summer
sky.
The mixed impiety and indelicacy of her nephew's remark caused
a sudden twitch to the High Church embroidery in Lady Mary's
hand; but she went on a moment later in her usual tone:
“And Lady Hope-Acton. Is she in stronger health ?”
“I believe she was fairly well; not robust, you know, but, like other
fond mothers with daughters out, “faint yet pursuing.’”
Lady Mary bit her lip; but long experience had taught her that
it was wiser to refrain from reproof, even when it was so urgently
needed.
“And their daughter, Lady Grace. How beautiful she is Was
she looking as lovely as usual?”
“More so,” replied Charles, with conviction. “Her nose is even
straighter, her eyelashes even longer than they were last summer. I
do not hesitate to say that her complexion is—all that her fancy
paints it.”
“You are so fond of joking, Charles, that I don't know when you
are serious. And you saw a good deal of her?”
“Of course I did. I leaned on the railings in the Row, and
watched her riding with Lord Hope-Acton, whose personal appear-
ance you feel such an interest in. At the meeting of the four-in-
hands, was not she on the box-seat beside me? At Henley, were we
not in the same boat? At Hurlingham, did we not watch polo to-
gether, and together drink our tea! At Lord's, did not I tear her
new muslin garment in helping her up one of those poultry-ladders


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 113
“Got him ſ” he said, smiling, and wiping his brow with honest
pride. “See, Charles? See, Molly Got him "
“Don’t bring it here, Ralph, please. We are going to have tea,”
came Evelyn's gentle voice from the lawn; and Ralph and the terrier
Vic retired to hang the body of the slain upon a fir-tree on the
back premises, the recognized long home of stoats and weasels at
Atherstone.
Molly, in the presence of Lady Mary and the stick with the silver
crook, was always more or less depressed and shy. She felt the pale
cold eye of that lady was upon her, as indeed it generally was, if she
moved or spoke. She did not therefore join in the conversation as
freely as was her wont in the family circle, but sat on the grass by
her uncle, watching him with adoring eyes, trying to work the signet
ring off his big little finger, which in the memory of man—of Molly,
I mean—had never been known to work off, while she gave him the
benefit of small pieces of local and personal news in a half whisper
from time to time as they occurred to her.
“Cousin Ruth is staying here, Uncle Charles.”
“Indeed,” said Charles, absently.
His eyes had wandered to Evelyn taking Ralph his cup of tea, and
giving him a look with it which he returned—the quiet, grave look
of mutual confidence which sometimes passes between married people,
and which for the moment makes the single state seem very single
indeed.
Molly saw that he had not heard, and that she must try some more
exciting topic in order to rivet his attention.
“There was a mouse at prayers yesterday, Uncle Charles.”
“There wasn't 3"
Uncle Charles was attending again now.
Molly gave an exact account of the great event, and of how “Nan-
ny” had gathered her skirts round her, and how James had laughed,
only father did not see him, and how— There was a great deal
more, and the story ended tragically for the mouse, whose final de-
mise under a shovel, when prayers were over, Molly described in
graphic detail.
“And how are the guinea-pigs?” asked Charles, putting down his
cup.
“Come and see them,” whispered Molly, insinuating her small
hand delightedly into his big one; and they went off together, each
happy in the society of the other. Charles was introduced to the
guinea-pigs, which had multiplied exceedingly since he had presented
8


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 115
things and plays on the concertina. Ah there's the bell;” and
Molly hurried down to give a description of the exact stage at which
Ruth's toilet had arrived, which Ruth cut short by appearing hard
upon her heels.
“It is a shame to come in-doors now, isn't it?” said Charles, as he
was introduced and took her in to dinner in the wake of Lady Mary
and Ralph. “Just the first cool time of the day.”
“Is it?” said Ruth, still rather pink with her late exertions.
“When I heard the dressing-bell ring across the fields, and the last
gate would not open, and I found the railings through which I pre-
cipitated myself had been newly painted, I own I thought it had
never been so hot all day.”
“How trying it is to be forgotten " said Charles, after a pause.
“We have met before, Miss Deyncourt; but I see you don't remem-
ber me. I gave you time to recollect me by throwing out that little
remark about the weather, but it was no good.”
Ruth glanced at him and looked puzzled.
“I am afraid I don't,” she said at last. “I have seen you playing
polo once or twice, and driving your four-in-hand; but I thought I
only knew you by sight. When did we meet before?”
“You have no recollection of a certain ball after some theatricals
at Stoke Moreton, which you and your sister came to as little girls in
pigtails?”
“Of course I remember that. And were you there?”
“Was I there? Oh, the ingratitude of woman | Did not I dance
three times with each of you, and suggest chicken at supper instead
of lobster salad Does not the lobster salad awaken memories?
Surely you have not forgotten that ?”
Ruth began to smile.
“I remember now. So you were the kind man, name unknown,
who took such care of Anna and me? How good-natured you were !”
“Thanks! You evidently do remember now, if you say that. I
recognized you at once, when I saw you again, by your likeness to
your brother Raymond. You were very like him then, but much
more so now. How is he?”
Ruth's dark gray eyes shot a sudden surprised glance at him.
People had seldom of late inquired after Raymond.
“I believe he is quite well,” she replied, in a constrained tone. “I
have not heard from him for some time.”
“It is some years since I met him,” said Charles, noting but ignor-
ing her change of tone. “I used to see a good deal of him before


116 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
he went to—was it America? I heard from him about three years
ago. He was prospecting, I think, at that time.”
Ruth remembered that Charles had succeeded his father about
three years ago. She remembered also Raymond's capacities for
borrowing. A sudden instinct told her what the drift of that letter
had been. The blood rushed into her face.
“Oh, he didn't—did he #"
The other three people were talking together; Lady Mary, oppo-
site, was joining with a bland smile of inward satisfaction in the
discussion between Ralph and Eveyln as to the rival merits of “Co-
chin Chinas” and “Plymouth Rocks.”
“If he did,” said Charles, quietly, “it was only what we had often
done for each other before. There was a time, Miss Deyncourt,
when your brother and I both rowed in the same boat; and both, I
fancy, split on the same rock. It was not so long since—”
There was a sudden silence. The chicken question was exhausted.
It dropped dead. Charles left his sentence unfinished, and, turning
to his brother, the conversation became general.
In the evening, when the others had said good-night, Charles and
Ralph went out into the cool half-darkness to smoke, and paced up
and down on the lawn in the soft summer night. The two brothers
had not met for some time, and in an undemonstrative way they had
a genuine affection for each other, which showed itself on this occa-
sion in walking about together without exchanging a word.
At last Charles broke the silence. “I thought, when I settled to
come down here, you said you would be alone!” There was a shade
of annoyance in his tone.
“Well, now, that is just what I said at the time,” said Ralph,
sleepily, with a yawn that would have accommodated a Jonah, “only
I was told I did not understand. They always say I don't understand
if they're set on anything. I thought you wanted a little peace and
quietness. I said so; but Aunt Mary settled we must have some one.
I say, Charles,” with a chuckle of deep masculine cunning, “you just
look out. There's some mystery up about Ruth. I believe Aunt
Mary got Evelyn to ask her here with an eye to business.”
“I would not do Aunt Mary the injustice to doubt that for a
moment,” replied Charles, rather bitterly; and they relapsed into
silence and smoke.
Presently Ralph, who had been out all day, yawned himself into
the house, and left Charles to pace up and down by himself.
-


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 117
If Lady Mary, who was at that moment composing herself to
slumber in the best spare bedroom, had heard the gist of Ralph's re-
marks to his brother, I think she would have risen up and confront-
ed him then and there on the stairs. As it was, she meditated on
her couch with much satisfaction, until the sleep of the just came
upon her, little recking that the clumsy hand of brutal man had even
then torn the veil from her carefully concealed and deeply laid fem-
inine plans.
Charles, meanwhile, remained on the lawn till late into the night.
After two months of London smuts and London smoke and London
nights, the calm scented darkness had a peculiar charm for him.
The few lights in the windows were going out one by one, and thou-
sands and thousands were coming out in the quiet sky. Through
the still air came the sound of a corn-crake perpetually winding up
its watch at regular intervals in a field hard by. A little desultory
breeze hovered near, and just roused the sleepy trees to whisper a
good-night. And Charles paced and paced, and thought of many
things.
Only last night! His mind went back to the picture-gallery where
he and Lady Grace had sat, amid a grove of palms and flowers.
Through the open archway at a little distance came a flood of light,
and a surging echo of plaintive, appealing music. It was late, or
rather early, for morning was looking in with cold, dispassionate
eyes through the long windows. The gallery was comparatively empty
for a London gathering, for the balconies and hall were crowded, and
the rooms were thinning. To all intents and purposes they were
alone. How nearly—how nearly he had asked for what he knew
would not have been 1efused How nearly he had decided to do
at once what might still be put off till to-morrow ! And he must
marry; he often told himself so. She was there beside him on the
yellow brocade ottoman. She was much too good for him; but she
liked him. Should he do it—now he asked himself, as he watched
the slender gloved hand swaying the feather fan with monotonous
languor.
But when he took her back to the ball-room, back to an expectant,
tired mother, he had not done it. He should be at their house in
Scotland later. He thought he would wait till then. He breathed
a long sigh of relief, in the quiet darkness now, at the thought
that he had not done it. He had a haunting presentiment that
neither in the purple heather, any more than in a London ball-room,
would he be able to pass beyond that “certain point” to which, in
*_


118 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
divers companionship, with or without assistance, he had so often
attained.
For Charles was genuinely anxious to marry. He regarded with
the greatest interest every eligible and ineligible young woman whom
he came across. If Lady Mary had been aware of the very seri-
ous light in which he had considered Miss Louisa Smith, youngest
daughter of a certain curate Smith, who in his youth had been orig-
inally extracted from a refreshment-room at Liverpool to become an
ornament of the Church, that lady would have swooned with horror.
But neither Miss Louisa Smith, with her bun and sandwich ancestry,
nor the eighth Lord Breakwater's young and lovely sister, though
both willing to undertake the situation, were either of them finally
offered it. Charles remained free as air, and a dreadful stigma
gradually attached to him as a heartless flirt and a perverter of young
girls' minds from men of more solid worth. A man who pleases
easily and is hard to please soon gets a bad name among—mothers.
I don't think Lady Hope-Acton thought very kindly of him, as she
sped up to Scotland in the night mail.
Perhaps he was not so much to blame as she thought. Long ago,
ten long years ago, in the reckless days of which Lady Mary had
then made so much, and now made so little, poor Charles had been
deeply in love with a good woman, a gentle, quiet girl, who after a
time had married his brother Ralph. No one had suspected his at-
tachment—Ralph and Evelyn least of all—but several years elapsed
before he found time to visit them at Atherstone; and I think his
fondness for Molly had its origin in his feeling for her mother. Even
now it sometimes gave him a momentary pang to meet the adoration
in Molly's eyes which, with their dark lashes, she had copied so ex-
actly from Evelyn's.
And now that he could come with ease on what had been forbid-
den ground, he had seen of late clearly, with the insight that comes
of dispassionate consideration, that Evelyn, the only woman whom
he had ever earnestly loved, whom he would have turned heaven and
earth to have been able to marry, had not been in the least suited to
him, and that to have married her would have entailed a far more
bitter disappointment than the loss of her had been.
Evelyn made Ralph an admirable wife. She was so placid, so
gentle, and—with the exception of muddy boots in the drawing-
room—so unexacting. It was sweet to see her read to Molly; but
did she never take up a book or a paper ? What she said was al-
ways gracefully put forth; but oh! in old days, used she in that


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 119
same gentle voice to utter such platitudes, such little stereotyped
remarks? Used she, in the palmy days that were no more (when she
was not Ralph's wife), so mildly but so firmly to adhere to a pre-
conceived opinion? Had she formerly such fixed opinions on every
subject in general, and on new-laid eggs and the propriety of chick-
en-hutches on the lawn in particular: Disillusion may be for our
good, like other disagreeable things, but it is seldom pleasant at the
time, and is apt to leave in all except the most conceited natures
(whose life-long mistakes are committed for our learning) a strange
self-distrustful caution behind, which is mortally afraid of making a
second mistake of the same kind.
Charles suddenly checked his pacing.
And yet surely, surely, he said to himself, there were in the world
somewhere good women of another stamp, who might be found for
diligent seeking.
He turned impatiently to go in-doors.
“Oh, Molly! Molly!” he said, half aloud, gazing at the darkened
windows behind which the body of Molly was sleeping, while her
little soul was frisking away in fairy-land, “why did you complicate
matters by being a little girl?” With which reflection he brought
his meditations to a close for the night.
CHAPTER W.
MoLLY awoke early on the following morning, and early informed
the rest of the household that the weather was satisfactory. She
flew into Ruth's room with the hot water, to wake her and set her
mind at rest on a subject of such engrossing interest; she imparted
it repeatedly to Charles through his key-hole, until a low incoherent
muttering convinced her that he also was rejoicing in the good news.
She took all the dolls out of the baskets in which Ruth's careful
hands had packed them the evening before, in the recognized man-
ner in which dolls travel without detriment to their toilets, namely,
head downward, with their orange-top-boots turned upward to the
sky. In short, Molly busied herself in the usual ways in which an
only child finds employment.
It really was a glorious day. Except in Molly's eyes it was al-
most too good a day for a school-feast; too good a day, Ruth thought,


120 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
as she looked out, to be spent entirely in playing at endless games
of “Sally Water” and “Oranges and Lemons,” and in pouring out
sweet tea in a tent. She remembered a certain sketch at Arleigh,
an old deserted house in the neighborhood, which she had long
wished to make. What a day for a sketch! But she shut her eyes
to the temptation of the evil one, and went out into the garden,
where Molly's little brown hands were devastating the beds for the
approaching festival, and Molly's shrill voice was piping through the
fresh morning air.
There had been rain in the night, and to-day the earth had all her
diamonds on, just sent down reset from heaven. The trees came
out resplendent, unable to keep their leaves still for very vanity, and
dropping gems out of their settings at every rustle. No one had
been forgotten. Every tiniest shrub and plant had its little tiara to
show; rare jewels, cut by a Master Hand, which at man's rude touch,
or, for that matter, Molly's either, slid away to tears.
“You don't mean to say, Molly,” said Charles, later in the day,
when all the dolls had been passed in review before him, and he had
criticised each, “that you are going to leave me all day by myself?
What shall I do between luncheon and tea-time, when I have fed the
guinea-pigs and watered the ‘blue-belia,’ as you call it— Where has
that imp disappeared to now? I think,” with a glance at Ruth, who
was replacing the cotton wool on the doll's faces, “I really think,
though I own I fancied I had a previous engagement, that I shall be
obliged to come to the school-feast too.”
“Don’t,” said Ruth, looking up suddenly from her work with gray
serious eyes. “Be advised. No man who respects himself makes
himself common by attending village school-feasts and attempting to
pour out tea, which he is never allowed to do in private life.”
“I could hand buns,” suggested Charles. “You take a gloomy
view of your fellow-creatures, Miss Deyncourt. I see you underrate
my powers with plates of buns.”
“Far from it. I only wished to keep you from quitting your
proper sphere.”
“What, may I ask, is my proper sphere?”
“Not to come to school-feasts at all; or, if you feel that is be-
yond you, only to arrive when you are too late to be of any use; to
stand about with a hunting-crop in your hand—for, of course, you
will come on horseback—and then, after refreshing all of us workers
by a few well-chosen remarks, to go away again at an easy canter.”
“I think I could do that, if it would give pleasure; and I am most
_*.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 121
grateful to you for pointing out my proper course to me. I have
observed it is the prerogative of woman in general not only to be
absolutely convinced as to her own line of action, but also to be able
to point out that of man to his obtuser perceptions.”
“I believe you are perfectly right,” said Ruth, becoming serious.
“If men, especially prime-ministers, were to apply to almost any
woman I know (except, of course, myself) for advice as to the ad-
ministration of the realm or their own family affairs, I have not the
slightest doubt that not one of them would be sent empty away, but
would be furnished instantly with a complete guide-book as to his
future movements on this side the grave.”
“Oh, some people don't stop there,” said Charles. “Aunt Mary,
in my young days, used to think nothing of the grave if I had dis-
pleased her. She still revels in a future court of justice, and an
eternal cat-o'-nine tails beyond the tomb. Well, Molly, so here you
are, back again! What's the last news?”
The news was the extraordinary arrival of five new kittens, which,
according to Molly, the old stable cat had just discovered in a loft,
and took the keenest personal interest in. Charles was dragged away,
only half acquiescent, to help in a decision that must instantly be
come to, as to which of the two spotted or the three plain ones should
be kept.
It was a day of delight to Molly. She had the responsibility and
honor of driving Ruth and the dolls in her own donkey-cart to the
scene of action, where the school children, and some of the idlest or
most good-natured of Mrs. Alwynn's friends, were even then assem-
bling, and where Mrs. Alwynn herself was already dashing from
point to point, buzzing like a large “bumble” bee.
As the donkey-cart crawled up a gray figure darted out of the
tent, and flew to meet them from afar. Dare, who had been on the
lookout for them for some time, offered to lift out Molly, helped out
Ruth, held the baskets, wished to unharness the donkey, let the
wheel go over his patent leather shoe, and in short made himself ex-
cessively agreeable, if not in Ruth's, at least in Molly's eyes, who
straightway entered into conversation with him, and invited him to
call upon herself and the guinea-pigs at Atherstone at an early date.
Then ensued the usual scene at festivities of this description. Tea
was poured out like water (very like warm water), buns, cakes, and
bread and butter were eaten, were crumbled, were put in pockets,
were stamped underfoot. Large open tarts, covered with thin sticks
of pastry, called by the boys “the tarts with the grubs on 'em,”


122 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
disappeared apace, being constantly replaced by others made in the
same image, from which the protecting but adhesive newspaper had
to be judiciously peeled. When the last limit of the last child had
been reached, the real work of the day began—the games. Under a
blazing sun, for the space of two hours, “Sally Water” or “Nuts in
May” must be played, with an occasional change to “Oranges and
Lemons.”
Ruth, who had before been staying with the Alwynns at the time
of their school-feast, hardened her heart, and began that immoral
but popular game of “Sally Water.”
“Sally, Sally Water, come sprinkle your pan;
Rise up a husband, a handsome young man.
Rise, Sally, rise, and don't look sad,
You shall have a husband, good or bad.”
The last line showing how closely the state of feeling of village so-
ciety, as regards the wedded state, resembles the view taken of it in
the highest circles.
Other games were already in full swing. Mrs. Alwynn, flushed
and shrill, was organizing an infant troop. A good-natured curate
was laying up for himself treasure elsewhere, by a present expendi-
ture of half-pence secreted in a tub of bran. Dare, not to be behind-
hand, took to swinging little girls with desperate and heated good-
nature. His bright smile and genial brown face soon gained the
confidence of the children; and then he swung them as they had never
been swung before. It was positively the first time that some of
the girls had ever seen their heels above their heads. And his pow-
ers of endurance were so great. First his coat and then his waistcoat
were cast aside as he warmed to his work, until at last he dragged
the sleeve of his shirt out of the socket, and had to retire into private
life behind a tree, in company with Mrs. Eccles and a needle and
thread. But he reappeared again, and was soon swept into a game
of cricket that was being got up among the elder boys; bowled the
school-master; batted brilliantly and with considerable flourish for
a few moments, only to knock his own wickets down with what
seemed singular want of care; and then fielded with cat-like activity
and an entire oblivion of the game, receiving a swift ball on his own
person, only to choke, coil himself up, and recover his equanimity
and the ball in a moment. -
All things come to an end, and at last the Slumberleigh church
clock struck four, and Ruth could sink giddily onto a bench, and


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 123
push back the few remaining hair-pins that were left to her, and feebly
endeavor, with a pin eagerly extracted by Dare from the back of his
neck, to join the gaping ruin of torn gathers in her dress, so daintily
fresh two hours ago, so dilapidated now.
“There they come!” said Mrs. Alwynn, indignantly, who was fan-
ning herself with her pocket-handkerchief, which stout women ought
to be forbidden by law to do. “There are Mrs. Thursby and Mabel.
Just like them, arriving when the games are all over ! And, dear
me! who is that with them ż Why, it is Sir Charles Danvers. I
had no idea he was staying with them. Brown particularly told me
they had not brought back any friend with them yesterday. Dear
me! How odd l And Brown—”
“Sir Charles Danvers is staying at Atherstone,” said Ruth.
“At Atherstone, is he? Well, my dear, this is the first I have
heard of it, if he is. I don't see what there is to make a secret of
in that. Most natural he should be staying there, I should have
thought. And, if that's one of Mabel's new gowns, all I can say is
that yours is quite as nice, Ruth, though I know it is from last year,
and those full fronts as fashionable as ever.”
As Mr. and Mrs. Alwynn went forward to meet the Thursbys,
Charles strolled up to Ruth, and planted himself deliberately in
front of her.
“You observe that I am here?” he said.
44 I do.”
“At the proper time?”
“At the proper time.”
“And in my sphere? I have tampered with no buns, you will
remark, and teapots have been far from me.”
“I am exceedingly rejoiced my little word in season has been of
such use.”
“It has, Miss Deyncourt. The remark you made this morning
I considered honest, though poor, and I laid it to heart accordingly.
But,” with a change of tone, “you look tired to death. You have
been out in the sun too long. I am going off now. I only came
because I met the Thursbys, and they dragged me here. Come
home with me through the woods. You have no idea how agree-
able I am in the open air. It will be shady all the way, and not
half so fatiguing as being shaken in Molly's donkey-cart.”
“In the donkey-cart I must return, however, if I die on the way,”
said Ruth, with a tired smile. “I can't leave Molly. Besides, all


CHAPTER WI.
AFTER the glare and the noise, the shrill blasts of penny trumpets,
and the sustained beating of penny drums, the silence of the Slum-
berleigh woods was delightful to Ruth; the comparative silence,
that is to say, for where Molly was, absolute silence need never be
feared.
Long before the first gate had been reached Balaam had, of
course, returned to the mode of procedure which suited him and
his race best, and it was only when the road inclined to be down-
hill that he could be urged into anything like a trot.
“Never mind,” said Molly, consolingly to Ruth, as he finally set-
tled into a slow lounge, gracefully waving his ears and tail at the
army of flies which accompanied him, “when we get to the place
where the firs are, and the road goes between the rocks, it's down-
hill all the way, and we'll gallop down.”
But it was a long way to the firs, and Ruth was in no hurry. It
was an ideal afternoon, verging towards evening; an afternoon of
golden lights and broken shadows, of vivid greens in shady places.
It must have been on such a day as this, Ruth thought, that the
Almighty walked in the garden of Eden when the sun was low,
while as yet the tree of knowledge was but in blossom, while as yet
autumn and its apples were far off, long before fig-leaves and milli-
nery were thought of.
On either side the bracken and the lady-fern grew thick and high,
almost overlapping the broad moss-grown path, across which the
young rabbits popped away in their new brown coats, showing their
little white linings in their lazy haste. A dog-rose had hung out a
whole constellation of pale stars for Molly to catch at as they passed.
A family of honeysuckles clung, faint and sweet, just beyond the
reach of the little hand that stretched after them in turn.
They had reached the top of an ascent that would have been level
to anything but the mean spirit of a donkey, when Molly gave a
start.
“Cousin Ruth, there's something creeping among the trees–
don't you hear it? Oh-h-h!”


126 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
There really was a movement in the bracken, which grew too
thick and high to allow of anything being easily seen at a little dis-
tance.
“If it's a lion,” said Molly, in a faint whisper, “and I feel in my
heart it is, he must have Balaam.”
Balaam at this moment pricked his large ears, and Molly and
Ruth both heard the snapping of a twig, and saw a figure slip be-
hind a tree. Molly's spirits rose, and Ruth's went down in pro-
portion. The woods were lonely, and they were nearing the most
lonely part.
“It's only a man,” said Ruth, rather sharply. “I expect it is one
of the keepers.” (Oh, Ruth !) “Come, Molly, we shall never get
home at this rate. Whip up Balaam, and let us trot down the
hill.”
Much relieved about Balaam’s immediate future, Molly incited
him to a really noble trot, and did not allow him to relapse even on
the flat which followed. Through the rattling and the jolting, how-
ever, Ruth could still hear a stealthy rustle in the fern and under-
wood. The man was following them.
“He’s coming after us,” whispered Molly, with round frightened
eyes, “and Balaam will stop in a minute, I know. Oh, Cousin Ruth,
what shall we do?”
Ruth hesitated. They were nearing the steep pitch where the
firs overhung the road, which was cut out between huge bowlders :
of rock and sandstone. The ground rose rough and precipitous on
their right, and fell away to their left. Just over the brow of the
hill, out of sight, was, as she well knew, the second gate. The noise
in the brushwood had ceased. Turning suddenly, her quick eye just
caught sight of a figure disappearing behind the slope of the falling
ground to the left. He was a lame man, and he was running. In
a moment she saw that he was making a short cut, with the inten-
tion of waylaying them at the gate. He would get there long before
they would; and even then Balaam was beginning the ascent, which
really was an ascent this time, at his slowest walk. -
Molly's teeth were chattering in her little head. -
“Now, Molly,” said Ruth, sharply, “listen to me, and don't be a
baby. He'll wait for us at the gate, so he can't see us here. Get
out this moment, and we will both run up the hill to the keeper's
cottage at the top of the bank. We shall get there first, because he
is lame.”
They had passed the bracken now, and were among the moss and


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 127
sandstone beneath the firs. Ruth hastily dragged Molly out of the
cart without stopping Balaam, who proceeded, twirling his ears,
leisurely without them.
“Oh, my poor Balaam "sobbed Molly, with a backward glance at
that unconscious favorite marching towards its doom.
“There is no time to think of poor Balaam now,” replied Ruth.
“Run on in front of me, and don't step on anything crackly.”
“Never in this world,” thought Ruth, “will I come alone here
with Molly again. Never again will I—”
But it was stiff climbing, and the remainder of the resolution was
lost.
They are high to the right above the white gate now. The
keeper's cottage is in sight, built against a ledge of rock, up to
which wide rough steps have been cut in the sandstone. Ruth
looks down at the gate below. He is waiting—the dreadful man
is waiting there, as she expected; and Balaam, toying with a fern,
is at that moment coming round the corner. She sees that he takes
in the situation instantly. There is but one way in which they can
have fled, and he knows it. In a moment he comes halting and
pounding up the slope. He sees their white dresses among the firs.
Run, Molly! run, Ruth ! Spare no expense. If your new black
sash catches in the briers, let it catch; heed it not, for he is making
wonderful play with that lame leg up the hill. It is an even race.
.Now for the stone steps How many more there are than there
ever were before | Quick through the wicket, and up through the
little kitchen-garden. Molly is at the door first, beating upon it,
and calling wildly on the name of Brown.
And then Ruth's heart turns sick within her. The door is locked.
Through the window, which usually blossoms with geraniums, she
can see the black fireplace and the bare walls. No Brown within
answers to Molly's cries. Brown has been turned away for drink-
ing. Mrs. Brown, who hung a slender “wash” on the hedge only last
week, has departed with her lord. Brown's cottage is tenantless. The
pursuer must have known it when he breasted the hill. A mixed
sound, as of swearing and stumbling, comes from the direction of the
stone steps. The pursuer is evidently intoxicated, probably lunatic
“Quick, Molly!” gasps Ruth, “round by the back, and then cut
down towards the young plantation, and make for the road again.
Don't stop for me.”
The little yard, the pigsty, the water-butt, fly past. Past fly the
empty kennels. Past does not fly the other gate. Locked; pad-


128 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
locked! It is like a bad dream. Molly, with a windmill-like exhi-
bition of black legs, gives Ruth a lead over. Now for it, Ruth ! The
bars are close together and the gate is high. It is not a time to
stick at trifles. What does it matter if you can get over best by
assuming a masculine equestrian attitude for a moment on the top
bar? There! And now, down the hill again, away to your left.
Take to your heels, and be thankful they are not high ones. Never
mind if your hair is coming down. You have a thousand good qual-
ities, Ruth, high principles and a tender conscience, but you are not
a swift runner, and you have not played “Sally Water” all day for
nothing. Molly is far in front now. A heavy trampling is not far
behind; nay, it is closer than you thought. And your eyes are be-
coming misty, Ruth, and armies of drums are beating every other
sound out of your ears—that shouting behind you, for instance. The
intoxicated, murderous lunatic is close behind. One minute! Two
minutes! How many more seconds can you keep it up ! Through
the young plantation, down the hill, into the sandy road again, the
sandy, uphill road. How much longer can you keep it up?
Charles strolled quietly homeward, enjoying the beauties of nat-
ure, and reflecting on the quantity of rabbit-shooting that Mr. Thurs-
by must enjoy. He may also have mused on Lady Grace, for any-
thing that can be known to the contrary, and have possibly made a
mental note that if it had been she whom he had asked to walk home.
with him, instead of Ruth, he would not have been alone at that
moment. Be that how it may, he leisurely pursued his path until
a fallen tree beside the bank looked so inviting that (Evelyn and
Ralph having gone out to friends at a distance) Charles, who was in
no hurry to return to Lady Mary, seated himself thereon, with a cig-
arette to bear him company.
To him, with rent garments and dust upon her head, and indeed
all over her, suddenly appeared Molly; Molly, white with panic,
breathless, unable to articulate, pointing in the direction from which
she had come. In a moment Charles was tearing down the road at
full speed. A tall, swaying figure almost ran against him at the first
turn, and Ruth only avoided him to collapse suddenly in the dry
ditch, her face in the bank, and a yard of sash biting the dust along
the road behind her.
Her pursuer stopped short. Charles made a step towards him
and stopped short also. The two men stood and looked at each other
without speaking.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 129
When Ruth found herself in a position to make observations she
discovered that she was sitting by the road-side, with her head rest-
ing against—was it a tweed arm or the bank? She moved a little,
and found that first impressions are apt to prove misleading. It was
the bank. She opened her eyes to see a brown, red-lined hat on
the ground beside her, half full of water, through which she could
dimly discern the golden submerged name of the maker. She seemed
to have been contemplating it with vague interest for about an hour,
when she became aware that some one was dabbing her forehead with
a wet silk handkerchief.
“Better?” asked Charles's voice.
“Oh!” gasped Ruth, suddenly trying to sit up, but finding the
attempt resulted only in the partial movement of a finger somewhere
in the distance. “Have I really—surely, surely, I was not so abject
as to faint #"
“Truth,” said Charles, with a reassured look in his quick, anxious
eyes, “obliges me to say you did.”
“I thought better of myself than that.”
“Pride goes before a fall or a faint.”
“Oh, dear!” turning paler than ever. “Where is Molly?”
“She is all right,” said Charles, hastily, applying the pocket-hand-
kerchief again. “Don’t alarm yourself, and pray don't try to get
up. You can see just as much of the view sitting down. Molly has
gone for the donkey-cart.”
“And that dreadful man Ż"
“That dreadful man has also departed. By-the-way, did you see
his face? Would you know him again if the policeman succeeds in
finding him?”
“No; I never looked round. I only saw, when he began to run
to cut us off at the gate, that he was lame.”
“H'm " said Charles, reflectively. Then more briskly, with a new
access of dabbing, “How is the faintness going on ?”
“Capitally,” replied Ruth, with a faint, amused smile; “but if it
does not seem ungrateful, I should be very thankful if I might be
spared the rest of the water in the hat, or if it might be poured over
me at once, if you don't wish it to be wasted.”
“Have I done too much I imagined my services were invalua-
ble. Let me help you to find your own handkerchief, if you would
like a dry one for a change. Ah, what a good shot into that laby-
rinth of drapery 1 You have found it for yourself. You are cer-
tainly better.”
9


130 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“But my self-respect,” replied Ruth, drying her face, “is gone
forever!”
“I lost mine years ago,” said Charles, carefully dusting Ruth's
hat, “but I got over it. I had no idea those bows were supported
by a wire inside. One lives and learns.” -
“I never did such a thing before,” continued Ruth, ruefully. “I
have always felt a sort of contempt for girls who scream or faint just
when they ought not.”
“For my part, I am glad to perceive you have some little femi-
nine weakness. Your growing solicitude also as to the state of your
back hair is pleasing in the extreme.” -
“I am too confused and shaken to retaliate just now. You are
quite right to make hay while the sun shines; but, when I am my-
self again, beware ſ”
“And your gown,” continued Charles. “What yawning gulfs,
what chasms appear ! and what a quantity of extraneous matter you
have brought away with you—reminiscences of travel—burrs, very
perfect specimens of burrs, thistledown, chips of fir, several complete
spiders' webs; and your sash, which seems to have a particularly ad-
hesive fringe, is a museum in itself. Ah, here comes that coward
of little cowards, Molly, with Balaam and the donkey-cart!”
Molly, who had left Ruth for dead, greeted her cousin with a trans-
port of affection, and then proceeded to recount the fearful risks that
Balaam had encountered by being deserted, and the stoic calm with
which he had waited for them at the gate.
“He’s not a common donkey,” she said, with pride. “Get in,
Ruth. Are you coming in, Uncle Charles There's just room for
you to squeeze in between Ruth and me—isn't there, Ruth Oh,
you're not going to walk beside, are you?”
But Charles was determined not to let them out of his sight again,
and he walked beside them the remainder of the way to Atherstone.
He remained silent and preoccupied during the evening which fol-
lowed, pored over a newspaper, and went off to his room early, leav-
ing Ralph dozing in the smoking-room.
It was a fine moonlight night, still and clear. He stood at the
open window looking out for a few minutes, and then began fum-
bling in a dilapidated old travelling-bag such as only rich men use.
“Not much,” he said to himself, spreading out a few sovereigns
and some silver on the table, “but it will do.” -
He put the money in his pocket, took off his gold hunting watcn,
and then went back to the smoking-room.
y


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 131
“I am going out again, Ralph, as I did last night. If I come in
late, you need not take me for a burglar.”
Ralph murmured something unintelligible, and Charles ran down-
stairs, and let himself out of the drawing-room French window, that
long French window to the ground, which Evelyn had taken a fancy
to in a neighbor's drawing-room, and which she could never be made
to see was not in keeping with the character of her old black-and-
white house. He put the shutter back after he had passed through,
and carefully drawing the window to behind him, without actually
closing it, he took a turn or two upon the bowling-green, and then
walked off in the direction of the Slumberleigh woods.
After the lapse of an hour or more he returned as quietly as he
had gone, let himself in, made all secure, and stole up to his room.
CHAPTER WII.
WANDoN was considered by many people to be the most beautiful
house in shire. -
In these days of great brand-new imitation of intensely old houses,
where the amount of ground covered measures the purse of the
builder, it is pleasant to come upon a place like Vandon, a quiet old
manor-house, neither large nor small, built of ancient bricks, blent to
a dim purple and a dim red by that subtle craftsman Time.
Whoever in the years that were no more had chosen the place
whereon to build had chosen well. Wandon stood on the slope of
a gentle hill, looking across a sweep of green valley to the rising woods
beyond, which in days gone by had been a Roman camp, and where
the curious might still trace the wide ledges cut among the regular
lines of the trees.
Some careful hand had planned the hanging gardens in front of
the house, which fell away to the stream below. Flights of wide
stone steps led down from terrace to terrace, each built up by its
south wall covered with a wealth of jasmine and ivy and climbing
roses. But all was wild and deserted now. Weeds had started up
between the stone slabs of the steps, and the roses blossomed out
sweet and profuse, for it was the time of roses, amid convolvulus and
campion. The quaint old dove-cot near the house had almost dis-
appeared behind the trees that had crowded up round it, and held
_*


132 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
aloft its weathercock in silent protest at their encroachment. The
stables close at hand, with their worn-out clock and silent bell, were
tenantless. The coach-houses were full of useless old chariots and
carriages. Into one splendid court coach the pigeons had found
their way through an open window, and had made nests, somewhat
to the detriment of the green-and-white satin fittings.
Great cedars, bent beneath the weight of years, grew round the
house. The patriarch among them had let fall one of his gnarled
supplicating arms in the winter, and there it still lay where it had
fallen.
Anything more out of keeping with the dignified old place than
its owner could hardly be imagined, as he stood in his eternal light
gray suit (with a badge of affliction lightly borne on his left arm),
looking at his heritage, with his cropped head a little on one side.
The sun was shining, but, like a smile on a serious face, Wandon
caught the light on all its shuttered windows, and remained grave,
looking out across its terraces to the forest.
“If it were but a villa on the Mediterranean, or a house in Lon-
don,” he said to himself; “but I have no chance.” And he shrugged
his shoulders, and wandered back into the house again. But, if the
outside oppressed him, the interior was not calculated to raise his
spirits.
Dare had an elegant taste, which he had never hitherto been able
to gratify, for blue satin furniture and gilding; for large mirrors
and painted ceilings of lovers and cupids, and similar small deer.
The old square hall at Wandon, with its great stained glass windows,
representing the various quarterings of the Dare arms, about which
he knew nothing and cared less, oppressed him. So did the black
polished oak floor, and the walls with their white bass-reliefs of twist-
ing wreaths and scrolls, with busts at intervals of Cicero and Dante,
and other severe and melancholy personages. The rapiers upon the
high white chimney-piece were more to his taste. He had taken
them down the first day after his arrival, and had stamped and cut
and thrust in the most approved style, in the presence of Faust, the
black poodle.
Dare was not the kind of man to be touched by it; but to many
minds there would have been something pathetic in seeing a house,
which had evidently been an object of the tender love and care of a
by-gone generation, going to rack and ruin from neglect. Careful
hands had embroidered, in the fine exquisite work of former days,
marvellous coverlets and hangings, which still adorned the long


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 133
suites of empty bedrooms. Some one had taken an elaborate pleas-
ure in fitting up those rooms, had put pot-pourri in tall Oriental jars
in the passages, had covered the old inlaid Dutch chairs with dim
needle-work.
The Dare who had lived at court, whose chariot was now the ref-
uge of pigeons, whose court suits, with the tissue paper still in the
sleeves, yet remained in one of the old oak chests, and whose jew-
elled swords still hung in the hall, had filled one of the rooms with
engravings of the royal family and ministers of his day. The Dare
who had been an admiral had left his miniature surrounded by prints
of the naval engagements he had taken part in, and on the oak stair-
case a tattered flag still hung, a trophy of unremembered victory.
But they were past and forgotten. The hands which had arranged
their memorials with such pride and love had long since gone down
to idleness, and forgetfulness also. Who cared for the family le-
gends now They, too, had gone down into silence. There was no
one to tell Dare that the old blue enamel bowl in the hall, in which
he gave Faust refreshment, had been brought back from the loot of
the Winter Palace of Pekin; or that the drawer in the Reisener ta-
ble in the drawing-room was full of treasured medals and miniatures,
and that the key thereof was rusting in a silver patch-box on the
writing-table.
The iron-clamped boxes in the lumber-room kept the history to
themselves of all the silver plate that had lived in them once upon
a time, although the few odd pieces remaining hinted at the splen-
dor of what had been. In one corner of the dining-room the ma-
hogany tomb still stood of a great gold racing cup, under the por-
trait of the horse that had won it; but the cup had followed the
silver dinner service, had followed the diamonds, had followed in
the wake of a handsome fortune, leaving the after generations im-
poverished. If their money is taken from them, some familes are
left poor indeed, and to this class the Dares belonged. It is curious
to notice the occasional real equality underlying the apparent in-
equality of different conditions of life. The unconscious poverty,
and even bankruptcy, of some rich people in every kind of wealth
except money affords an interesting study; and it seems doubly hard
when those who have nothing to live upon, and be loved and re-
spected for, except their money, have even that taken from them.
As Dare wandered through the deserted rooms the want of money
of his predecessors, and consequently of himself, was borne in upon
him. It fell like a shadow across his light pleasure-loving soul. He


134 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
had expected so much from this unlooked-for inheritance, and all he
had found was a melancholy house with a past.
He went aimlessly through the hall into the library. It was there
that his uncle had lived; there that he had been found when death
came to look for him; among the books which he had been unable
to carry away with him at his departure; rare old tomes and first
editions, long shelves of dead authors, who, it is to be hoped, continue
to write in other worlds for those who read their lives away in this.
Old Mr. Dare's interests and affections had all been bound in moroc-
co and vellum. A volume lay open on the table, where the old man
had put it down beside the leather arm-chair where he had sat, with
his back to the light, summer and winter, winter and summer, for
so many years. -
No one had moved it since. A wavering pencil-mark had scored
the page here and there. Dare shut it up, and replaced it among
its brethren. How triste and silent the house seemed ! He won-
dered what the old uncle had been like, and sauntered into the stair-
case hall, much in need of varnish, where the Dares that had gone be-
fore him lived. But these were too ancient to have his predecessor
among them. He went into the long oak-panelled dining-room,
where above the high carved dado were more Dares. Perhaps that
man with the book was his namesake, the departed Alfred Dare.
He wondered vaguely how he should look when he also took his
place among his relations. Nature had favored him with a better
mustache than most men, but he had a premonitory feeling that the
very mustache itself, though undeniable in real life, would look out
of keeping among these bluff, frank, light-haired people, of whom
it seemed he—he who had never been near them before—was the
living representative.
A sudden access of pleasurable dignity came over him as he sat
on the dining-table, the great mahogany dining-table, which still
showed vestiges of a by-gone polish, and was heavily dented by long
years of hammered applause. These ancestors of his He would
not disgrace them. A few minutes ago he had been wondering
whether Wandon might not be let. Now, with one of the rapid tran-
sitions habitual to him, he resolved that he would live at Vandon,
that in all things he would be as they had been. He would become
that vague, indefinable, to him mythical personage—a “country
squire.” Fortunately, he had a neat leg for a stocking. It was lost,
so to speak, in his present mode of dress; but he felt that it would
appear to advantage in the perpetual knickerbockers which he sup-
-


SIR CHARLEs DANVERS. - 135
posed it would be his lot to wear. It would also become his duty
and his pleasure to marry. For those who tread in safety the slip-
pery heights of married life he felt a true esteem. It would be a
strain, no doubt, a great effort; but at this moment he was capable
of anything. The finger of duty was plain. And with that adora-
ble Miss Ruth, with or without a fortune— Alas! he trusted she
had a fortune, for, as he came to think thereon, he remembered that
he was desperately poor. As far as he could make out from his
agent, a grim, silent man, who had taken an evident dislike to him
from the first, there was no money anywhere. The rents would
come in at Michaelmas; but the interest of heavy mortgages had
to be paid, the estate had to be kept up. There was succession duty;
there were debts—long outstanding debts—which came pouring in
now, which Waters spread before him with an iron smile, and which
poor Dare contemplated with his head on one side, and solemn,
arched eyebrows. When Dare was not smiling he was always pre-
ternaturally solemn. There was no happy medium in his face, or
consequently in his mind, which was generally gay, but, if not, was
involved in a tragic gloom.
“These bills, my friend,” he would say at last, tapping them in
deep dejection, and raising his eyebrows into his hair, “how do we
pay them "
But Waters did not know. How should he, Waters, know? Waters
only knew that the farmers would want a reduction in these bad times
—Mr. Dare might be sure of that. And what with arrears, and one
thing and another, he need not expect more than two-thirds of his
rents when they did arrive. Mr. Dare might lay his account for that.
The only money which Dare received to carry on with, on his ac-
cession to the great honor and dignity of proprietor of Vandon, was
brought to him by the old dairywoman of the house, a faithful creat-
ure, who produced out of an old stocking the actual coins which she
had received for the butter and cheese she had sold, of which she
showed Dare an account, chalked up in some dead language on the
dairy door. -
She was a little doubled-up woman, who had served the family all
her life. Dare's ready smile and handsome face had won her heart
before he had been many days at Vandon, in spite of “his foreign
ways,” and he found himself constantly meeting her unexpectedly
round corners, where she had been lying in wait for him, each time
with a secret revelation to whisper respecting what she called the
“goin's on.”
*


136 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“You’ll not tell on me, sir, but it's only right you should know as
Mrs. Smith.” (the house-keeper, of whom Dare stood in mortal terror)
“has them fine damask table-cloths out for the house-keeper's room;
I see 'em myself; and everything going to rag and ruin in the linen
closet !” Or, “Joseph has took in another flitoh this very day, sir,
as Mrs. Smith sent for, and the old flitch all cut to waste. Do'e
go and look at the flitches, sir, and the hams. They're in the room
over the stables. And it's always butter, butter, butter, in the kitchen
Not a bit o' dripping used There's not a pot of dripping in the
larder, or so much as a skin of lard. Where does it all go to? You
ask Mrs. Smith; and how she sleeps in her bed at night I don't know !”
Dare listened, nodded, made his escape, and did nothing. In the
village it was as bad. Time, which had dealt so kindly with Van-
don itself, had taken the straggling village in hand too. Noth-
ing could be more picturesque than the crazy black-and-white
houses, with lichen on their broken-in thatch, and the plaster peeling
off from between the irregular beams of black wood; nothing more
picturesque—and nothing more miserable.
When Time puts in his burnt umbers and brown madders with a
lavish hand, and introduces his beautiful irregularities of outline, and
his artistic disrepair, he does not look to the drainage, and takes no
thought for holes in the roof.
Dare could not go out without eager women sallying out of
cottages as he passed, begging him just to come in and walk up-
stairs. They would say no more—but would the new squire walk
up-stairs? And Dare would stumble up and see enough to promise.
Alas! how much he promised in those early days. And in the
gloaming, heavy dull-eyed men met him in the lanes coming back
from their work, and followed him to “beg pardon, sir,” and lay
before the new squire things that would never reach him through
Waters—bitter things, small injustices, too trivial to seem worthy
of mention, which serve to widen the gulf between class and class.
They looked to Dare to help them, to make the crooked straight, to
begin a new régime. They looked to the new king to administer
his little realm; the new king, who, alas! cared for none of these
things. And Dare promised that he would do what he could, and
looked anxious and interested, and held out his brown hand, and
raised hopes. But he had no money—no money.
He spoke to Waters at first; but he soon found that it was no
good. The houses were bad? Of course they were bad. Cottage
property did not pay; and would Mr. Dare kindly tell him where


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 137.
the money for repairing them was to come from ? Perhaps Mr.
Dare might like to put a little of his private fortune into the cot-
tages and the drains and the new pumps? Dare winced. His fort-
une had not gone the time-honored way of the fortunes of spirited
young men of narrow means with souls above a sordid economy,
but still it had gone all the same, and in a manner he did not care
to think of.
It was after one of these depressing interviews with Waters that
Ralph and Evelyn found the new owner of Wandon, when they rode
over together to call, a day or two after the school-feast. Poor
Dare was sitting on the low ivy-covered wall of the topmost terrace,
a prey to the deepest dejection. If he had lived in Spartan days,
when it was possible to conceal gnawing foxes under wearing ap-
parel, he would have made no use of the advantages of Grecian
dress for such a purpose. Captivated by Evelyn's gentleness and
sympathetic manner (strangers always thought Evelyn sympathetic),
and impressed by Ralph's kindly, honest face, he soon found him-
self telling them something of his difficulties, of the maze in which
he found himself, of the snubs which Waters had administered.
Ralph slapped himself with his whip, whistled, and gave other
masculine signs of interest and sympathy. Evelyn looked from one
to the other, amiably distressed in her well-fitting habit. After a
long conversation, in which Evelyn disclosed that Ralph was pos.
sessed of the most extraordinary knowledge and experience in such
matters, the two good-natured young people, seeing he was depressed
and lonely, begged him to come and stay with them at Atherstone
the very next day, when he might discuss his affairs with Ralph, if so
disposed, and take counsel with him. Dare accepted with the most
genuine pleasure, and his speaking countenance was in a moment.
radiant with smiles. Was not the little Molly of the school-feast
their child? and was not Miss Deyncourt likewise staying with them
When his visitors departed, Dare took a turn at the rapiers;
then opened the piano with the internal derangement, and sang to
his own accompaniment a series of little confidential French songs.
which would have made the hair of his ancestors stand on end, if
painted hair could do such a thing. And the “new squire,” as he
was already called, shrugged his shoulders, and lowered his voice,
and spread out his expressive rapid hands, and introduced to Wandon,
one after another, some of those choice little ditties, French and
English, which had made him such a favorite companion in Paris,
so popular in a certain society in America.


CHAPTER VIII.
“SIR CHARLEs "
“Miss Deyncourt!”
“I fear,” with a glance at the yellow-back in his hand, “I am In-
terrupting a studious hour, but—”
“Not in the least, I assure you,” said Charles, shutting his novel.
“What is regarded as study by the feminine intellect is to the
masculine merely relaxation. I was ‘unbending over a book,' that
was all.”
The process of “unbending” was being performed in the sum-
mer-house, whither he had retired after Evelyn and Ralph had start-
ed on their afternoon's ride to Wandon, in which he had refused to
Join.
“I thought I should find you here,” continued Ruth, frankly. “I
have been wishing to speak to you for several days, but you are as
a rule so surrounded and encompassed on every side by Molly that
I have not had an opportunity.”
It had occurred to Charles once or twice during the last few days
that Molly was occasionally rather in the way. Now he was sure of
it. As Ruth appeared to hesitate, he pulled forward a rustic con-
torted chair for her.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I shall not long interrupt the unbend-
ing process. I only came to ask—”
“To ask?” repeated Charles, who had got up as she was standing,
and came and stood near her.
“You remember the first evening you were here?”
44 I do.”
“And what we spoke of at dinner?”
“Perfectly.”
“I came to ask you how much you lent Raymond?” Ruth's
clear, earnest eyes were fixed full upon him.
At this moment Charles perceived Lady Mary at a little distance,
propelling herself gently over the grass in the direction of the
summer-house. In another second she had perceived Charles and


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 139
Ruth, and had turned precipitately, and hobbled away round the
corner with surprising agility.
“Confound her ſ” inwardly ejaculated Charles.
“I wish to know how much you lent him,” said Ruth again, as
he did not answer, happily unconscious of what had been going on
behind her back.
“Only what I was well able to afford.”
“And has he paid it back since "
“I am sure he understood I should not expect him to pay it back
at once.”
“But he has had it three years.”
Charles did not answer.
“I feel sure he is not able to pay it. Will you kindly tell me
how much it was #"
“No, Miss Deyncourt; I think not.”
“Why not "
“Because—excuse me, but I perceive that if I do you will in-
stantly wish to pay it.”
“I do wish to pay it.”
“I thought so.”
There was a short silence.
“I still wish it,” said Ruth at last.
Charles was silent. Her pertinacity annoyed and yet piqued
him. Being unmarried, he was not accustomed to opposition from
a woman. He had no intention of allowing her to pay her broth-
er's debt, and he wished she would drop the subject gracefully, now
that he had made that fact evident.
“Perhaps you don't know,” continued Ruth, “that I am very
well off.” (As if he did not know it! As if Lady Mary had not
casually mentioned Ruth's fortune several times in his hearing !)
“Lady Deyncourt left me twelve hundred a year, and I have a little
of my own besides. You may not be aware that I have fourteen
hundred and sixty-two pounds per annum.”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“That is a large sum, you will observe.”
“It is riches,” assented Charles, “if your expenditure happens to
be less.”
“It does happen to be considerably less in my case.”
“You are to be congratulated. And yet I have always under-
stood that society exacts great sacrifices from women in the sums
they feel obliged to devote to dress.”
Aſſº-


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. - 141
as I am anxious to yield gracefully, will you substitute the word
“friends' for “natural advisers'? I hope and think I have friends
whom I could trust.” -
“Friends, then, let it be,” said Charles. “Now, holding out his
hand, “do you promise never, et cetera, et cetera, without first con-
sulting your friends #" -
Ruth put her hand into his.
“I do.”
“That is right. How amiable we are both becoming! I suppose
I must now inform you that two hundred pounds is the exact sum
I lent your brother.”
Ruth went back to the house, and in a few minutes returned with
a check in her hand. She held it towards Charles, who took it, and
put it in his pocket-book.
“Thank you,” she said, with gratitude in her eyes and voice.
“We have had a pitched battle,” said Charles, relapsing into his
old indifferent manner. “Neither of us has been actually defeated,
for we never called out our reserves, which I felt would have been
hardly fair on you; but we do not come forth with flying colors. I
fear, from your air of elation, you actually believe you have been
victorious.”
“I agree with you that there has been no defeat,” replied Ruth;
“but I won't keep you any longer from your studies. I am just go-
ing out driving with Lady Mary to have tea with the Thursbys.”
“Miss Deyncourt, don't allow a natural and most pardonable
vanity to delude you to such an extent. Don't go out driving the
victim of a false impression. If you will consider one moment—”
“Not another moment,” replied Ruth; “our bugles have sung
truce, and I am not going to put on my war-paint again for any
consideration. There comes the carriage,” as a distant rumbling
was heard. “I must not keep Lady Mary waiting;” and she was
gone.
Charles heard the carriage roll away again, and when half an hour
later he sauntered back towards the house, he was surprised to see
Lady Mary sitting in the drawing-room window.
“What! Not gone, after all!” he exclaimed, in a voice in which
surprise was more predominant than pleasure.
“No, Charles,” returned Lady Mary in her measured tones, look-
ing slowly up at him over her gold-rimmed spectacles. “I felt a
slight return of my old enemy, and Miss Deyncourt kindly undertook
to make my excuses to Mrs. Thursby.”
º


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 143
tion for him. He had grown accustomed to watch for and try to
provoke the sudden gleam of fun in the serious eyes, which always
preceded a retort given with an air of the sweetest feminine meek-
ness, which would make Ralph rub himself all over with glee, and
tell Charles, chuckling, he “would not get much change out of Ruth.”
If only she had not been asked to Atherstone on purpose to meet
him. If only Lady Mary had not arranged it; if only Evelyn did
not know it; if only Ralph had not guessed it; if only he himself
had not seen it from the first instant Ruth and Molly were the
only two unconscious persons in the house.
“I wonder,” said Charles to himself, “why people can't allow me
to manage my own affairs? Oh, what a world it is for unmarried
men with money ! Why did I not marry fifteen years ago, when
every woman with a straight nose was an angel of light; when I
felt a noble disregard for such minor details as character, mind, sym-
pathy, if the hair and the eyes were the right shade Why did I
not marry when I was out of favor with my father, when I was head
over ears in debt, and when at least I could feel sure no one would
marry me for my money? Molly,” as that young lady came running
towards him with lingering traces of jam upon her flushed counte-
nance, “you have arrived just in time. Uncle Charles was getting
so dull without you. What have you been after all this time?”
“Cook and me have made thirty-one pots and a little one,” said
Molly, inserting a very sticky hand into Charles's. “And your Mr.
Brown helped. Cook told him to go along at first, which wasn't
kind, was it? but he stayed all the same; and I skimmed with a
big spoon, and she poured it in the pots. Only they aren't cov-
ered up with paper yet, if you want to see them. And oh! Uncle
Charles, what do you think? Father and mother have come back
from their ride, and that nice funny man who was at the school-feast
is coming here to-morrow, and I shall show him my guinea-pigs.
He said he wanted to see them very much.”
“Oh, he did, did he? When was that?”
“At the school-feast. Oh!” with enthusiasm, “he was so nice,
Uncle Charles, so attentive, and getting things when you want them;
and the wheel went over his foot when he was shaking hands, and
he did not mind a bit; and he filled our teapots for us—Ruth's big
one, you know, that holds such a lot.”
“Oh He filled the big teapot, did he?”
“Yes, and mine too; and then he helped us to unpack the dolls.
He was so kind to me and Cousin Ruth.”


144 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“Kind to Miss Deyncourt, was he?”
“Yes; and when we went away he ran and opened the gate for
us. Oh, there comes Cousin Ruth back again in the carriage. I'll run
and tell her he's coming. She will be glad.”
“Aunt Mary is right,” said Charles, watching his niece disappear.
“Mary has formed a habit of expressing herself with unnecessary
freedom. Decidedly she is a little spoiled.”
CHAPTER IX.
DARE arrived at Atherstone the following afternoon. Evelyn and
Ralph, who had enlarged on the state of morbid depression of the
lonely inhabitant of Wandon, were rather taken aback by the jaunty
appearance of the sufferer when he appeared, overflowing with evi-
dent satisfaction and small-talk, his face wreathed with smiles.
“He bears up wonderfully,” said Charles aside to Ruth, later in
the evening, as Dare warbled a very discreet selection of his best
songs after dinner. “No one knows better than myself that many
a breaking heart beats beneath a smiling waistcoat, but unless we
had been told beforehand we should never have guessed it in his
case.”
Dare, who was looking at Ruth, and saw Charles go and sit down
by her, brought his song to an abrupt conclusion, and made his way
to her also.
“You also sing, Miss Deyncourt?” he asked. “I am sure, from
your face, you sing.”
44 I do.”
“Thank Heaven " said Charles, fervently. “I did you an injus-
tice. I thought you were going to say ‘a little.” Every singing
young lady I ever met, when asked that question, invariably replied
“a little.’”
“I leave my friends to say that for me,” said Ruth.
“Perhaps you yourself sing a little ž" asked Dare, wishing Charles
would leave Ruth's ball of wool alone.
“No,” said Charles; “I have no tricks.” And he rose and went
off to the newspaper-table. Dare's songs were all very well, but
really his voice was nothing so very wonderful, and he was not much
of an acquisition in other ways.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 145
Then Dare took his opportunity. He dropped into Charles's
vacant chair; he wound wool; he wished to learn to knit ; his in-
quiring mind craved for information respecting shooting-stockings.
He talked of music; of songs — Italian, French, and English; of
American nigger melodies. Would Miss Deyncourt sing? Might
he accompany her? Ah! she preferred the simple old English bal-
lads. He loved the simple English ballad.
And Ruth, nothing loath, sang in her fresh, clear voice one song
after another, Dare accompanying her with rapid sympathy and
ease.
Charles put down his paper and moved slightly, so that he had a
better view of the piano. Evelyn laid down her work and looked
affectionately at Ruth.
“Exquisite,” said Lady Mary from time to time, who had said the
same of Lady Grace's wavering little soprano.
“You also sing duets? You sing duets?” eagerly inquired Dare,
the music-stool creaking with his suppressed excitement; and, with-
out waiting for an answer, he began playing the opening chords of
“Greeting.”
The two voices rose and fell together, now soft, now triumphant,
harmonizing as if they sung together for years. Dare's second was
low, pathetic, and it blended at once with Ruth's clear young con-
tralto. Charles wondered that the others should applaud when the
duet was finished. Ruth's voice went best alone in his opinion.
“And the ‘Cold Blast’?” asked Dare, immediately afterwards.
“The ‘Cold Blast’ was here a moment ago.”—turning the leaves
over rapidily. “You are not tired, Miss Deyncourt f"
“Tired "replied Ruth, her eyes sparkling. “It never tires me to
sing. It rests me.”
“Ah! so it is with me. That is just how I feel,” said Dare.
“To sing, or to listen to the voice of of "
“Of what? Confound him " wondered Charles.
“Of another,” said Dare. “Ah, here he is ſ” and he pounced on
another song, and lightly touched the opening chords.
“‘Oh! wert thou in the cold blast,’”
sang Ruth, fresh and sweet.
“‘I’d shelter thee,’”
Dare assured her with manly fervor. He went on to say what he
10


146 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
would do if he were monarch of the realm, affirming that the bright-
est jewel of his crown would be his queen.
“Anyhow, he can't pronounce Scotch,” Charles thought.
“Would be his queen,” Dare repeated, with subdued emotion
and an upward glance at Ruth, which she was too much absorbed
in the song to see, but which did not escape Charles. Dare's
dark sentimental eyes spoke volumes of —not sermons—at that
moment.
“Oh, Uncle Charles!” whispered Molly, who had been allowed
to sit up about two hours beyond her nominal bedtime, at which
hour she rarely felt disposed to retire—“oh, Uncle Charles' “The
brightest jewel in his crown l’ Don't you wish you and me could
sing together like that?”
Charles moved impatiently, and took up his paper again.
The evening passed all too quickly for Dare, who loved music
and the sound of his own voice, and he had almost forgotten, until
Charles left him and Ralph alone together in the smoking-room,
that he had come to discuss his affairs with the latter.
“Dear me,” said Evelyn, who had followed her cousin to her room
after they had dispersed for the night, and was looking out of Ruth's
window, “that must be Charles walking up and down on the lawn.
Well, now, how thoughtful he is to leave Mr. Dare and Ralph to-
gether. You know, Ruth, poor Mr. Dare's affairs are in a very bad
way, and he has come to talk things over with my Ralph.”
“I hope Ralph will make him put his cottages in order,” said
Ruth, with sudden interest, shaking back her hair from her shoulders.
“Do you think he will?”
“Whatever Ralph advises will be sure to be right,” replied Evelyn,
with the soft conviction of his infallibility which caused her to be
considered by most of Ralph's masculine friends an ideal wife. It
is women without reasoning powers of any kind whom the nobler
sex should be careful to marry if they wish to be regarded through
life in this delightful way by their wives. Men not particularly
heroic in themselves, who yet are anxious to pose as heroes in their
domestic.circle, should remember that the smallest modicum of com-
mon-sense on the part of the worshipper will inevitably mar a hap-
piness, the very existence of which depends entirely on a blind un-
reasoning devotion. In middle life the absence of reason begins
perhaps to be felt; but why in youth take thought for such a far-off
morrow !
“I hope he will,” said Ruth, half to herself. “What an oppor-


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 147
tunity that man has if he only sees it. There is so much to be done,
and it is all in his hands.”
“Yes, it's not entailed; but I don't think there is so very much,”
said Evelyn. “But then, so long as people are nice, I never care
whether they are rich or poor. That is the first question I ask when
people come into the neighborhood. Are they really nice? Dear
me, Ruth, what beautiful hair you have; and mine coming off so!
And, talking of hair, did you ever see anything like Mr. Dare's
Somebody must really speak to him about it. If he would keep his
hands still, and not talk so quick, and let his hair grow a little, I
really think he would not look so like a foreigner.”
“I don't suppose he minds looking like one.”
“My dear!”
“His mother was a Frenchwoman, wasn't she I am sure I have
heard so fifty times since his uncle died.”
“And if she was,” said Evelyn, reprovingly, “is not that an extra
reason for his giving up anything that will remind people of it?
And we ought to try and forget it, Ruth, and behave just the same
to him as if she had been an Englishwoman. I wonder if he is a
Roman Catholic #"
“Ask him.”
“I hope he is not,” continued Evelyn, taking up her candle to go.
“We never had one to stay in the house before. I don't mean,”
catching a glimpse of Ruth's face, “that Catholics are—well—I don't
mean that. But still, you know, one would not like to make great
friends with a Catholic, would one, Ruth ? And he is so nice and
so amusing that I do hope, as he is going to be a neighbor, he is
a Protestant.” And after a few more remarks of about the same
calibre from Evelyn, the two cousins kissed and parted for the
night.
“Will he do it?” said Ruth to herself, when she was alone. “Has
he character enough, and perseverance enough, and money enough {
Oh, I wish Uncle John would talk to him '''
Ruth was not aware that one word from herself would have more
weight with a man like Dare than any number from an angel of
heaven, if that angel were of the masculine gender. If at the other
side of the house Dare could have known how earnestly Ruth was
thinking about him, he would not have been surprised (for he was not
without experience), but he would have felt immensely flattered.
Wandon lay in a distant part of Mr. Alwynn's parish, and a per-
petual curate had charge of the district. Mr. Alwynn consequently


148 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
seldom went there, but on the few occasions on which Ruth had
accompanied him in his periodical visits she had seen enough.
Who cares for a recital of what she saw Misery and want are
so common. We can see them for ourselves any day. In Ruth's
heart a great indignation had kindled against old Mr. Dare, of Wan-
don, who was inaccessible as a ghost in his own house, haunting the
same rooms, but never to be found when Mr. Alwynn called upon
him to “put things before him in their true light.” And when Mr.
Dare descended to the Wandon vault, all Mr. Alwynn's interest, and
consequently a good deal of Ruth's, had centred in the new heir,
who was so difficult to find, and who ultimately turned up from the
other end of nowhere just when people were beginning to despair of
his ever turning up at all.
And now that he had come, would he make the crooked straight?
Would the new broom sweep clean? Ruth recalled the new broom's
brown handsome face, with the eager eyes and raised eyebrows, and
involuntarily shook her head. It is difficult to be an impartial judge
of any one with a feeling for music and a pathetic tenor voice; but
the face she had called to mind did not inspire her with confidence.
It was kindly, amiable, pleasant; but was it strong? In other words,
was it not a trifle weak!
She found herself comparing it with another, a thin, reserved face,
with keen light eyes and a firm mouth; a mouth with a cigar in it
at that moment on the lawn. The comparison, however, did not
help her meditations much, being decidedly prejudicial to the “new
broom;" and the faint chime of the clock on the dressing-table
breaking in on them at the same moment, she dismissed them for
the night, and proceeded to busy herself putting to bed her various
little articles of jewellery before betaking herself there also.
Any doubts entertained by Evelyn about Dare's religious views
were completely set at rest the following morning, which happened
to be a Sunday. He appeared at breakfast in a black frock-coat,
the splendor of which quite threw Ralph's ancient Sunday garment
into the shade. He wore also a chastened, decorous aspect, which
seemed unfamiliar to his mobile face, and rather ill suited to it. After
breakfast, he inquired when service would be, and expressed a wish
to attend it. He brought down a high hat and an enormous prayer-
book, and figured with them in the garden.
“Who is going to Greenacre, and who is going to Slumberleight"
called out Ralph, from the smoking-room window. “Because, if


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 149
any of you are going to foot it to Slumberleigh, you had better be
starting. Which are you going to, Charles?”
“I am going where Molly goes. Which is it to be, Molly?”
“Slumberleigh,” said Molly, with decision, “because it's the short-
est sermon, and I want to see the little foal in Brown's field.”
“Slumberleigh be it,” said Charles. “Now, Miss Deyncourt,” as
Ruth appeared, “which church are you going to support—Greenacre,
which is close in more senses than one, where they never open the
windows, and the clergyman preaches for an hour; or Slumberleigh,
shady, airy, cool, lying past a meadow with a foal in it? If I may
offer that as any inducement, Molly and I intend to patronize Slum-
berleigh.”
Ruth said she would do the same.
“Now, Dare, you will be able to decide whether Greenacre, with
a little fat tower, or Slumberleigh, with a beautiful tall steeple, suits
your religious views best.”
“I will also go to Slumberleigh,” said Dare, without a moment's
hesitation.
“I thought so. I suppose”—to Ralph and Evelyn—“you are
going to Greenacre with Aunt Mary Tell her I have gone to church,
will you? It will cheer her up. Sunday is a very depressing day
with her, I know. She thinks of all she has done in the week, pre-
paratory to doing a little more on Monday. Good-bye. Now then,
Molly, have you got your prayer-book? Miss Deyncourt, I don't
see yours anywhere. Oh, there it is No, don't let Dare carry it
for you. Give it to me. He will have enough to do, poor fellow, to
travel with his own. Come, Molly! Is Vic chained up ! Yes, I
can hear him howling. The craving for church privileges of that
dumb animal, Miss Deyncourt, is an example to us Christians. Molly,
have you got your penny ? Miss Deyncourt, can I accommodate you
with a threepenny bit Now, are we all ready to start º"
“When this outburst of eloquence has subsided,” said Ruth, “the
audience will be happy to move on.”
And so they started across the fields, where the grass was already
springing faint and green after the haymaking. There was a fresh
wandering air, which fluttered the ribbons in Molly's hat, as she
danced on ahead, frisking in her short white skirt beside her uncle,
her hand in his Charles was the essence of wit to Molly, with his grave
face that so seldom smiled, and the twinkle in the kind eyes, that
always went before those wonderful, delightful jokes which he
alone could make. Sometimes, as she laughed, she looked back at


150 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
Ruth and Dare, half a field behind, in pity at what they were
missing.
“Shall we wait and tell them that story, Uncle Charles?”
“No, Molly. I dare say he is telling her another which is just as
good.”
“I don't think he knows any like yours.”
“Some people like the old, old story best.”
“Do I know the old, old one, Uncle Charles?”
“No, Molly.”
“Can you tell it?” .
“No. I have never been able to tell that particular story.”
“And do you really think he is telling it to her now f" with a
backward glance.
“Not at this moment. It's no good running back. He's only
thinking about it now. He will tell it her in about a month or six
weeks' time.”
“I hope I shall be there when he tells it.”
“I hope you may ; but I don't think it is likely. And now, Molly,
set your hat straight, and leave off jumping. I never jump when I
go to church with Aunt Mary. Quietly now, for there's the church,
and Mr. Alwynn's looking out of the window.”
Dare, meanwhile, walking with Ruth, caught sight of the church
and lych-gate with heart-felt regret. The stretches of sunny meadow-
land, the faint glamour of church bells, the pale refined face beside
him, had each individually and all three together appealed to his
imagination, always vivid when he himself was concerned. He sud-
denly felt as if a great gulf had fixed itself, without any will of his
own, between his old easy-going life and the new existence that was
opening out before him.
He had crossed from the old to the new without any perception
of such a gulf, and now, as he looked back, it seemed to yawn be-
tween him and all that hitherto he had been. He did not care to
look back, so he looked forward. He felt as if he were the central
figure (when was he not a central figure?) in a new drama. He was
fond of acting, on and off the stage, and now he seemed to be play-
ing a new part, in which he was not yet thoroughly at ease, but which
he rather suspected would become him exceedingly well. It amused
him to see himself going to church—to church—to hear himself
conversing on flowers and music with a young English girl. The
idea that he was rapidly falling in love was specially delightful. He
called himself a vieur scélérat, and watched the progress of feelings


SIR CHARLES DANWERS. 151
which he felt did him credit with extreme satisfaction. He and Ruth
arrived at the church porch all too soon for Dare; and though he
had the pleasure of sitting on one side of her during the service, he
would have preferred that Charles, of whom he felt a vague distrust,
had not happened to be on the other.
CHAPTER X.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Alwynn to her husband that morning, as
they started for church across the glebe, “if any of the Atherstone
party are in church, as they ought to be, for I hear from Mrs. Smith
that they are not at all regular at Greenacre—only went once last
Sunday, and then late—I shall just tell Ruth that she is to come
back to me to-morrow. A few days won't make any difference to
her, and it will fit in so nicely her coming back the day you go to
the palace. After all I've done for Ruth—new curtains to her room,
and the piano tuned and everything—I don't think she would like to
stay there with friends, and me all by myself, without a creature to
speak to. Ruth may be only a niece by marriage, but she will see
in a moment—”
And in fact she did. When Mrs. Alwynn took her aside after
church, and explained the case in the all-pervading whisper for which
she had apparently taken out a patent, Ruth could not grasp any reason
why she should return to Slumberleigh three days before the time,
but she saw at once that return she must if Mrs. Alwynn chose to
demand it; and so she yielded with a good grace, and sent Mrs. Al-
wynn back smiling to the lych-gate, where Mr. Alwynn and Mabel
Thursby were talking with Dare and Molly, while Charles interviewed
the village policeman at a little distance.
“No news of the tramp,” said Charles, meeting Ruth at the gate;
and they started homeward in different order to that in which they
had come, in spite of a great effort at the last moment on the part
of Dare, who thought the old way was better. “The policeman has
seen nothing of him. He has gone off to pastures new, I expect.”
“I hope he has.”
“Mrs. Alwynn does not want you to leave Atherstone to-morrow,
does she 7”
“I am sorry to say she does.”


152 - SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“But you won't go?”
“I must not only go, but I must do it as if I liked it.”
“I hope Evelyn won't allow it.”
“While I am living with Mrs. Alwynn, I am bound to do what
she likes in simall things.”
** H'm !"
“I should have thought, Sir Charles, that this particularly feminine
and submissive sentiment would have met with your approval.”
“It does; it does,” said Charles, hastily. “Only, after the stub-
born rigidity of your—shall I say your—week-day character, espe-
cially as regards money, this softened Sabbath mood took me by
surprise for a moment.”
“You should see me at Slumberleigh,” said Ruth, with a smile
half sad, half humorous. “You should see me tying up Uncle
John's flowers, or holding Aunt Fanny's wools. Nothing more en-
tirely feminine and young lady-like can be imagined.”
“It must be a great change, after living with a woman like Lady
Deyncourt—to whose house I often went years ago, when her son
was living—to come to a place like Slumberleigh.”
“It is a great change. I am ashamed to say how much I felt it
at first. I don't know how to express it; but everything down here
seems so small and local, and hard and fast.”
“I know,” said Charles, gently; and they walked on in silence.
“And yet,” he said at last, “it seems to me, and I should have
thought you would have felt the same, that life is very small, very
narrow and circumscribed everywhere; though perhaps more ob-
viously so in Cranfords and Slumberleighs. I have seen a good
deal during the last fifteen years. I have mixed with many sorts
and conditions of men, but in no class or grade of society have I
yet found independent men and women. The groove is as narrow
in one class as in another, though in some it is better concealed. I
sometimes feel as if I were walking in a ball-room full of people all
dancing the lancers. There are different sets, of course—fashionable,
political, artistic—but the people in them are all crossing over, all
advancing and retiring, with the same apparent aimlessness, or set-
ting to partners.”
“There is occasionally an aim in that.”
Charles smiled grimly.
“They follow the music in that as in everything else. You go
away for ten years, and still find them, on your return, going
through the same figures to new tunes. I wonder if there are any


154 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
to make some answer, when he suddenly became aware of Dare and
Molly sitting perched on a gate close at hand waiting for them.
Never had he perceived Molly's little brown face with less pleasure
than at that moment. She scrambled down with a noble disregard
of appearances, and tried to take his hand. But it was coolly with-
drawn. Charles fell behind on some pretence of fastening the gate,
and Molly had to content herself with Ruth's and Dare's society for
the remainder of the walk.
Ruth had almost forgotten, until Molly suggested at luncheon a
picnic for the following day, that she was returning to Slumberleigh
on Monday morning; and when she made the fact known, Ralph
had to be “hushed” several times by Evelyn for muttering opinions
behind the sirloin respecting Mrs. Alwynn, which Evelyn seemed to
have heard before, and to consider unsuited to the ears of that lady's
niece.
“But if you go away, Cousin Ruth, we can't have the picnic.
“Can we, Uncle Charles #"
“Impossible, Molly. Rather bread and butter at home than a
mixed biscuit in the open air without Miss Deyncourt.”
“Is Mrs. Alwynn suffering” asked Lady Mary, politely, down the
table.
Ruth explained that she was not in ill-health, but that she did wish
to be left alone; and Ralph was “hushed” again.
Lady Mary was annoyed, or, more properly speaking, she was
“moved in the spirit,” which in a Churchwoman seems to be the
same thing as annoyance in the unregenerate or unorthodox mind.
She regretted Ruth's departure more than any one, except perhaps
Ruth herself. She had watched the girl very narrowly, and she had
seen nothing to make her alter the opinion she had formed of her;
indeed, she was inclined to advance beyond it. Even she could not
suspect that Ruth had “played her cards well;” although she would
have aided and abetted her in any way in her power, if Ruth had
: shown the slightest consciousness of holding cards at all, or being
desirous of playing them. Her frank yet reserved manner, her dis-
tinguished appearance, her sense of humor (which Lady Mary did
not understand, but which she perceived others did), and the quiet
savoir faire of her treatment of Dare's advances, all enhanced her
greatly in the eyes of her would-be aunt. She bade her good-bye
with genuine regret; the only person who bore her departure with-
out a shade of compunction being Dare, who stood by the carriage
till the last moment, assuring Ruth that he hoped to come over to


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 155
the rectory very shortly; while Charles and Molly held the gate
open meanwhile, at the end of the short drive.
“I know that Frenchman means business,” said Lady Mary wrath-
fully to herself, as she watched the scene from the garden. Her
mind, from the very severity of its tension, was liable to occasional
lapses of this painful kind from the spiritual and ecclesiastical to the
mundane and transitory. “I saw it directly he came into the house;
and with his opportunities, and living within a stone’s-throw, I should
not wonder if he were to succeed. Any man would fetch a fancy
price at Slumberleigh; and the most fastidious woman in the world
ceases to be critical if she is reduced to the proper state of dulness.
He is handsome, too, in his foreign way. But she does not like him
now. She is inclined to like Charles, though she does not know it.
There is an attraction between the two. I knew there would be.
And he likes her. Oh, what fools men are He will go away; and
Dare, on the contrary, will ride over to Slumberleigh every day, and
by the time he is engaged to her Charles will see her again, and find
out that he is in love with her himself. Oh, the folly, the density,
of unmarried men l and, indeed” (with a sudden recollection of the
deceased Mr. Cunningham), “of the whole race of them But of
all men I have ever known, I really think the most provoking is
Charles.”
“Musing?” inquired her nephew, sauntering up to her.
“I was thinking that we had just lost the pleasantest person of
our little party,” said Lady Mary, viciously seizing up her work.
“I am still here,” suggested Charles, by way of consolation. “I
don't start for Norway in Wyndham's yacht for three days to come.”
“Do you mean to say you are going to Norway?”
“I forget whether it was to be Norway; but I know I'm booked
to go yachting somewhere. It's Wyndham's new toy. He paid
through the parental nose for it, and he made me promise in London
to go with him on his first cruise. I believe a very charming Miss
Wyndham is to be of the party.”
“And how long, pray, are you going to yacht with Miss Wynd-
ham 7”
“It is with her brother I propose to go. I thought I had ex-
plained that before. I shall probably cruise about, let me see, for
three weeks or so, till the grouse-shooting begins. Then I am due
in Scotland, at the Hope-Actons, and several other places.”
Lady Mary laid down her work, and rose to her feet, her thin
hand closing tightly over the silver crook of her stick.


156 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“Charles,” she said, in a voice trembling with anger, looking him
full in the face, “you are a fool!” and she passed him without an-
other word, and hobbled away rapidly into the house.
“Am I?” said Charles, half aloud to himself, when the last fold
of her garment had been twitched out of sight through the window.
“Am I? Molly,” with great gravity, as Molly appeared, “yes,
you may sit on my knee; but don't wriggle. Molly, what is a fool?”
“I think it's Raca, only worse,” said Molly. “Uncle Charles, Mr.
Dare is going away too. His dog-cart had just come into the yard.”
“Has it? I hope he won't keep it waiting.”
“You are not going away, are you?”
“Not for three days more.”
“Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Why, they will be gone in a
moment.”
But to Charles they seemed three very long days indeed. He was
annoyed with himself for having made so many engagements before
he left London. At the time there did not seem anything better
to be done, and he supposed he must go somewhere; but now he
thought he would have liked to stay on at Atherstone, though he
would not have said so to Lady Mary for worlds. He was tired of
rushing up and down. He was not so fond of yachting, after all;
and he remembered that he had been many times to Norway.
“I would get out of it if I could,” he said to Lady Mary on the
last morning; “and of this blue serge suit, too (you should see Miss
Wyndham in blue sergel); but it is not a question of pleasure, but
of principle. I don't like to throw over Wyndham at the last mo-
ment, after what you said when I failed the Hope-Actons last year.
Twins could not feel more exactly together than you and I do where
a principle is involved. I see you are about to advise me to keep my
engagement. Do not trouble to do so; I am going to Portsmouth
by the mid-day train. Brown is at this moment packing my tele-
scope and life-belt.”


CHAPTER XI.
It was the end of August. The little lawn at Slumberleigh Rec-
tory was parched and brown. The glebe beyond was brown; so
was the field beyond that. The thirsty road was ash-white between
its gray hedge-rows. It was hotter in the open air than in the house,
but Ruth had brought her books out into the garden all the same,
and had made a conscientious effort to read under the chestnut-tree.
For under the same roof with Mrs. Alwynn she had soon learned
that application or study of any kind was an impossibility. Mrs.
Alwynn had several maxims as to the conduct of herself, and con-
sequently of every one else, and one of those to which she most
frequently gave utterance was that “young people should always
be cheery and sociable, and should not be left too much to them-
selves.”
When in the winter Mr. Alwynn had brought home Ruth, quite
overwhelmed for the time by the shock of the first real trouble she
, had known, Mrs. Alwynn was kindness itself in the way of sweet-
breads and warm rooms; but the only thing Ruth craved for, to be
left alone, she would not allow for a moment. No 1 Mrs. Alwynn
was cheerful, brisk, and pious at intervals. If she found her niece
was sitting in her own room, she bustled up-stairs, poked the fire,
gave her a kiss, and finally brought her down to the drawing-room,
where she told her she would be as quiet as in her own room. She
need not be afraid her uncle would come in ; and she must not allow
herself to get moped. What would she, Mrs. Alwynn, have done,
she would like to know, if, when she was in trouble—and she knew
what trouble meant, if any one did—she had allowed herself to get
moped. Ruth must try and bear up. And at Lady Deyncourt's
age it was quite to be expected. And Ruth must remember she still
had a sister, and that there was a happy home above. And now, if
she would get that green wool out of the red plush iron (which
really was a work-box—such a droll idea, wasn't it?), Ruth should
hold the wool, and they would have a cosey little chat till luncheon
time.
And so Mrs. Alwynn did her duty by her niece; and Ruth, in the
* -


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 159-
brought her back some little “tasty thing from London”—with her
eyes on the brass pig, Ruth resolved that, come what would, she
would not allow herself to sink into such a state of mental paralysis
again.
To read a book of any description was out of the question in the
society of Mrs. Alwynn. But Ruth, with the connivance of Mr. Al-
wynn, devised a means of eluding her aunt. At certain hours of the
day she was lost regularly, and not to be found. It was summer,
and the world, or at least the neighborhood of Slumberleigh Rectory,
which was the same thing, was all before her where to choose. In
after-years she used to say that some books had always remained
associated with certain places in her mind. With Emerson she
learned to associate the scent of hay, the desultory remarks of hens,
and the sudden choruses of ducks. Carlyle's “Sartor Resartus,”
which she read for the first time this year, always recalled to her
afterwards the leathern odor of the box-room, with an occasional
soupçon of damp flapping linen in the orchard, which spot was not.
visible from the rectory windows.
Gradually Mrs. Alwynn became aware of the fact that Ruth was
never to be seen with a book in her hand, and she expressed fears
that the latter was not keeping up her reading.
“And if you don't like to read to yourself, my dear, you can read
to me while I work. German, now. I like the sound of German
very well. It brings back the time when your Uncle John and I
went up the Rhine on our honey-moon. And then, for English read-
ing there's a very nice book Uncle John has somewhere on natural
history, called ‘Animals of a Quiet Life,' by a Mr. Hare, too—so
comical, I always think. It's good for you to be reading something.
It is what your poor dear granny would have wished if she had been
alive. Only it must not be poetry, Ruth, not poetry.” -
Mrs. Alwynn did not approve of poetry. She was wont to say
that for her part she liked only what was perfectly true, by which it.
is believed she meant prose.
She had no books of her own. In times of illness she borrowed
from Mrs. Thursby (who had all Miss Young's works, and selections
from the publications of the S. P. C. K.). On Sundays, when she
could not work, she read, half aloud, of course, with sighs at inter-
vals, a little manual called “Gold Dust,” or a smaller one still called
“Pearls of Great Price,” which she had once recommended to Charles,
whom she knew slightly, and about whom she affected to know a
great deal, which nothing (except pressing) would induce her to re-


160 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
peat; which rendered the application of the “Pearls,” to be followed
by the “Dust,” most essential to his future welfare.
On this particular morning in August, Ruth had slipped out as far
as the chestnut-tree, the lower part of which was hidden from the
rectory windows by a blessed yew hedge. It was too hot to walk,
it was too hot to draw, it was even too hot to read. It did not
seem, however, to be too hot to ride, for presently she heard a horse's
hoofs clattering across the stones of the stable-yard, and she knew,
from the familiarity of the sound at that hour of the day, that Dare
had probably ridden over, and, more probably still, would stay to
luncheon.
The foreign gentleman, as all the village people called him, had
by this time become quite an institution in the neighborhood of
Wandon. Every one liked him, and he liked every one. Like the
sun, he shone upon the just and unjust. He went to every tennis-
party to which he was invited. He was pleased if people were at
home when he called. He became in many houses a privileged per-
son, and he never abused his privileges. Women especially liked
him. He had what Mrs. Eccles defined as “such a way with him;”
his way being to make every woman he met think that she was par-
ticularly interesting in his eyes—for the time being. Men did not,
of course, care for him so much. When he stayed anywhere, it was
vaguely felt by the sterner sex of the party that he stole a march
upon them. While they were smoking, after their kind, in clusters
on the lawn, it would suddenly be observed that he was sitting in
the drawing-room, giving a lesson in netting, or trying over a new
song encircled by young ladyhood. It was felt that he took an un-
fair advantage. What business had he to come down to tea in that
absurd amber plush smoking-suit, just because the elder ladies had
begged to see it? It was all the more annoying, because he looked
so handsome in it. Like most men who are admired by women, he
was not much liked by men.
But the house to which he came the oftenest was Slumberleigh
Rectory. He was faithful to his early admiration of Ruth; and the
only obstacle to his making her (in his opinion) happy among wom-
en, namely, her possible want of fortune, had long since been removed
by the confidential remarks of Mrs. Alwynn. To his foreign habits
and ideas fourteen or fifteen hundred a year represented a very large
sum. In his eyes Ruth was an heiress, and in all good earnest he
set himself to win her. Mr. Alwynn had now become the proper
person to consult regarding his property; and at first, to Ruth's un-


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 161
disguised satisfaction, he consulted him nearly every other day, his
horse at last taking the turn for Slumberleigh as a matter of course
Many a time, in these August days, might Mrs. Eccles and all the
other inhabitants of Slumberleigh have seen Dare ride up the little
street, taking as much active exercise as his horse, only skyward; the
saddle being to him merely a point of rebound.
But if the object of his frequent visits was misunderstood bv.
Ruth at first, Dare did not allow it to remain so long. And not
only Ruth herself, but Mr. and Mrs. Alwynn, and the rectory serv-
ants, and half the parish were soon made aware of the state of his
affections. What was the good of being in love, of having in view
a social aim of such a praiseworthy nature, if no one were aware of
the same? Dare was not the man to hide even a night-light under
a bushel; how much less a burning and a shining hymeneal torch
such as this. His sentiments were strictly honorable. If he raised
expectations, he was also quite prepared to fulfil them. Miss Deyn-
court was quite right to treat him with her adorable, placid assump-
tion of indifference until his attentions were more avowed. In the
mean while she was an angel, a lily, a pearl, a star, and several other
things, animal, vegetable, and mineral, which his vivid imagination
chose to picture her. But whatever Dare's faults may have been—
and Ruth was not blind to them—he was at least head over ears in
love with her, fortune or none; and as his attachment deepened, it
burned up like fire all the little follies with which it had begun.
A clergyman has been said to have made love to the helpmeet of
his choice out of the Epistle to the Galatians. Dare made his out
of material hardly more promising—plans for cottages, and esti-
mates of repairs. He had quickly seen how to interest Ruth, though
the reason for such an eccentric interest puzzled him. However, he
turned it to his advantage. Ruth encouraged, suggested, sympathized
in all the little he was already doing, and the much that he proposed
to do.
Of late, however, a certain not ungrounded suspicion had gradual-
ly forced itself upon her which had led her to withdraw as much as
she could from her former intercourse with Dare; but her change
of manner had not quite the effect she had intended.
“She thinks I am not serious,” Dare had said to himself; “she
thinks that I play with her feelings. She does not know me. To-
morrow I ride over; I set her mind at rest. To-morrow I propose;
I make an offer; I claim that adored hand; I—become engaged.”
Accordingly, not long after the clatter of horse's hoofs in the
11


162 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
stable-yard, Dare himself appeared in the garden, and perceiving
Rutil, ior whom he was evidently looking, informed her that he had
ridden over to ask Mr. Alwynn to support him at a dinner his ten-
ants were giving in his honor—a custom of the Wandon tenantry
from time immemorial on the accession of a new landlord. He
spoke absently; and Ruth, looking at him more closely as he stood
before her, wondered at his altered manner. He had a rose in his
button-hole. He always had a rose in his button-hole; but some-
how this was more of a rose than usual. His mustaches were twirl-
ed up with unusual grace.
“You will find Mr. Alwynn in the study,” said Ruth, hurriedly.
His only answer was to cast aside his whip and gloves, as possible
impediments later on, and to settle himself, with an elegant arrange-
ment of the choicest gaiters, on the grass at her feet.
It is probably very disagreeable to repeat in any form, however
discreetly worded, the old phrase—
“The reason why I cannot tell,
But I don't like you, Doctor Fell.”
But it must be especially disagreeable, if a refusal is at first not taken
seriously, to be obliged to repeat it, still more plainly, a second time.
It was Ruth's fate to be obliged to do this, and to do it hurriedly,
or she foresaw complications might arise.
At last Dare understood, and the sudden utter blankness of his
expression smote Ruth to the heart. He had loved her in his way
after all. It is a bitter thing to be refused. She felt that she had
been almost brutal in her direct explicitness, called forth at the mo-
ment by an instinct that he would proceed to extreme measures un-
less peremptorily checked.
“I am so sorry,” she said, involuntarily.
Poor Dare, who had recovered a certain amount of self-possession,
now that he was on his feet again, took up his gloves and riding-
whip in silence. All his jaunty self-assurance had left him. He
seemed quite stunned. His face under his brown skin was very pale.
“I am so sorry,” said Ruth again, feeling horribly guilty.
“It is I who am sorry,” he said, humbly. “I have made a great
mistake, for which I ask pardon;” and, after looking at her for a
moment, in blank incertitude as to whether she could really be the
same person whom he had come to seek in such happy confidence
half an hour before, he raised his hat, his new light gray hat, and
was gone.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 163
Ruth watched him go, and when he had disappeared, she sat down
again mechanically in the chair from which she had risen a few
moments before, and pressed her hands tightly together. She ought
not to have allowed such a thing to happen, she said to herself.
Somehow it had never presented itself to her in its serious aspect
before. It is difficult to take a vain man seriously. Poor Mr.
Darel She had not known he was capable of caring so much about
anything. He had never appeared to such advantage in her eyes
as he had done when he had left her the moment before, grave and
silent. She felt she had misjudged him. He was not so frivolous,
after all. And now that her influence was at an end, who would
keep him up to the mark about the various duties which she knew
now he had begun to fulfil only to please her? Oh, who would
help and encourage him in that most difficult of positions, a land-
owner without means sufficient for doing the best by land and ten-
antry? She instinctively felt that he could not be relied upon for
continuous exertion by himself.
“I wish I could have liked him,” said Ruth to herself. “I wish,
I wish, I could "
CHAPTER XII.
DURING the whole of the following week Dare appeared no more
at Slumberleigh. Mrs. Alwynn, whose time was much occupied as
a rule in commenting on the smallest doings of her neighbors, and
in wondering why they left undone certain actions which she her-
self would have performed in their place, Mrs. Alwynn would in-
fallibly have remarked upon his absence many times during every
hour of the day, had not her attention been distracted for the time
being by a one-horse fly which she had seen go up the road on the
afternoon of the day of Dare's last visit, the destination of which
had filled her soul with anxious conjecture.
She did not ascertain till the following day that it had been or-
dered for Mrs. Smith, of Greenacre; though, as she told Ruth, she
might have known that, as Mr. Smith was going for a holiday with
Mrs. Smith, and their pony lame in its feet; that they would have to
have a fly, and with that hill up to Greenacre she was surprised one
horse was enough.


164 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
When the question of the fly had been thus satisfactorily settled,
and Mrs. Alwynn had ceased wondering whether the Smiths had
gone to Tenby or to Rhyl (she always imagined people went to one
or other of these two places), her whole attention reverted to a screen
which she was making, the elegance and novelty of which supplied
her with a congenial subject of conversation for many days.
“There is something so new in a screen, an entire screen of Christ-
mas cards,” Mrs. Alwynn would remark. “Now, Mrs. Thursby's new
screen is all pictures out of the Graphic, and those colored Christ-
mas numbers. She has put all her cards in a book. There is some-
thing rather passy about those albums, I think. Now I fancy this
screen will look quite out of the common, Ruth; and when it is
done, I shall get some of those Japanese cranes and stand them on
the top. Their claws are made to twist round, you know, and I
shall put some monkeys—you know those droll chenille monkeys,
Ruth—creeping up the sides to meet the cranes. I don't honestly
think, my dear”—with complacency—“that many people will have
anything like it.”
Ruth did not hesitate to say that she felt certain very few would.
Mrs. Alwynn was delighted at the interest she took in her new
work. Ruth was coming out at last, she told her husband; and she
passed many happy hours entirely absorbed in the arrangement of
the cards upon the panels. Ruth, thankful that her attention had
been providentially distracted from the matter that filled her own
thoughts, in a way that surprised and annoyed her, sorted, and
snipped, and pasted, and decided weighty questions as to whether a
goitred robin on a twig should be placed next to a smiling plum-
pudding, dancing a polka with a turkey, or whether a congealed
cross, with “Christian greeting” in icicles on it, should separate
the two.
To her uncle Ruth told what had happened; and as he slowly
wended his way to Vandon on the day fixed for the tenant's dinner,
Mr. Alwynn mused thereon, and I believe, if the truth were known,
he was sorry that Dare had been refused. He was a little before his
time, and he stopped on the bridge, and looked at the river, as it
came churning and sweeping below, fretted out of its usual calm by
the mill above. I think that as he leaned over the low stone para-
pet he made many quiet little reflections besides the involuntary one
of himself in the water below. He would have liked (he was con-
scious that it was selfish, but yet he would have liked) to have Ruth
near him always. He would have liked to see this strange son of


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 1.65
his old friend in good hands, that would lead him—as it is popularly
supposed a woman's hand sometimes can—in the way of all others
in which Mr. Alwynn was anxious that he should walk; a way in
which he sometimes feared that Dare had not made any great prog-
ress as yet. Mr. Alwynn felt at times, when conversing with him,
that Dare's life could not have been one in which the nobler feelings
of his nature had been much brought into play, so crude and un-
formed were his ideas of principle and responsibility, so slack and
easy-going his views of life.
But if Mr. Alwynn felt an occasional twinge of anxiety and mis-
giving about his young friend, it speedily turned to self-upbraiding
for indulging in a cynical, unworthy spirit, which was ever ready to
seek out the evil and overlook the good; and he gradually convinced
himself that only favorable circumstances were required for the
blossoming forth of those noble attributes, of which the faintest in-
dications on Dare's part were speedily magnified by the powerful
lens of Mr. Alwynn's charity to an extent which would have filled
Dare with satisfaction, and would have overwhelmed a more humble
nature with shame.
And Ruth would not have him ' Mr. Alwynn remembered a
certain passage in his own youth, a long time ago, when somebody
(a very foolish somebody, I think) would not have him either; and
it was with that remembrance still in his mind that he met Dare,
who had come as far as the lodge gates to meet him, and whose
forlorn appearance touched Mr. Alwynn's heart the moment he saw
him.
There was not time for much conversation. To his astonishment
Mr. Alwynn found Dare actually nervous about the coming ordeal;
and on the way to the Green Dragon, where the dinner was to be
given, he reassured him as best he could, and suggested the kind of
answer he should make when his health was drunk.
When, a couple of hours later, all was satisfactorily over, when
the last health had been drunk, the last song sung, and Dare was
driving Mr. Alywnn home in the shabby old Wandon dog-cart, both
men were at first too much overcome by the fumes of tobacco, in
which they had been hidden, to say a word to each other. At last,
however, Mr. Alywnn drew a long breath, and said, faintly:
“I trust I may never be so hot again. Drive slowly under these
trees, Dare. It is cooling to look at them after sitting behind that
steaming volcano of a turkey. How is your head getting on ? I
saw you went in for punch.”


166 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“Was that punch?” said Dare. “Then I take no more punch in
the future.”
“You spoke capitally, and brought in the right sentiment, that
there is no place like home, in first-rate style. You see, you need
not have been nervous.”
“Ah! but it was you who spoke really well,” said Dare, with
something of his old eager manner. “You know these people.
You know their heart. You understand them. Now, for me, I said
what you tell me, and they were pleased, but I can never be with
them like you. I understand the words they speak, but themselves
I do not understand.”
“It will come.” -
“No,” with a rare accession of humility. “I have cared for none
of these things till—till I came to hear them spoken of at Slumber-
leigh by you and—and now at first it is smooth, because I say I will
do what I can, but soon they will find out I cannot do much, and
then—” He shrugged his shoulders.
They drove on in silence.
“But these things are nothing—nothing,” burst out Dare at last,
in a tremulous voice, “to the one thing I think of all night, all day
—how I love Miss Deyncourt, and how,” with a simplicity which
touched Mr. Alwynn, “she does not love me at all.”
There is something pathetic in seeing any cheerful, light-hearted
animal reduced to silence and depression. To watch a barking,
worrying, jovial puppy suddenly desist from parachute expeditions
on unsteady legs, and from shaking imaginary rats, and creep, tail
close at home, overcome by affliction, into obscurity, is a sad sight.
Mr. Alwynn felt much the same kind of pity for Dare as he glanced
at him, resignedly blighted, handsomely forlorn, who but a short
time ago had taken life as gayly and easily as a boy home for the
holidays.
“Sometimes,” said Mr. Alwynn, addressing himself to the mill,
and the bridge, and the world in general, “young people change
their minds. I have known such things happen.”
“I shall never change mine.”
“Perhaps not; but others might.”
“Ah!” and Dare turned sharply towards Mr. Alwynn, scanning
his face with sudden eagerness. “You think — you think, possi-
bly—”
“I don't think anything at all,” interposed Mr. Alwynn, rather
taken aback at the evident impression his vague words had made,


CHAPTER XIII.
At Slumberleigh you have time to notice the change of the sea-
sons. There is no hurry at Slumberleigh. Spring, summer, autumn,
and winter, each in their turn, take quite a year to come and go.
Three months ago it was August; now September had arrived. It
was actually the time of damsons. Those damsons which Ruth had
seen dangling for at least three years in the cottage orchards were
ripe at last. It seemed ages ago since April, when the village was a
foaming mass of damson blossom, and the “plum winter” had set
in just when spring really seemed to have arrived for good. It was
a well-known thing in Slumberleigh, though Ruth till last April had
not been aware of it, that God Almighty always sent cold weather
when the Slumberleigh damsons were in bloom, to harden the fruit.
And now the lame, the halt, and the aged of Slumberleigh, all with
one consent, mounted on tottering ladders to pick their damsons, or
that mysterious fruit, closely akin to the same, called “black Lamas
ploums.”
There were plum accidents, of course, in plenty. The Lord took
Mrs. Eccles's own uncle from his half-filled basket to another world,
for which, as a “tea and coffee totaller,” he was no doubt well pre-
pared. The too receptive organisms of unsuspecting infancy suf-
fered in their turn. In short, it was a busy season for Mr. and Mrs.
Alwynn.
Ruth had plenty of opportunities now for making her long-project-
ed sketch of the ruined house of Arleigh, for the old woman who
lived in the lodge close by, and had charge of the place, had “ricked”
her back in a damson-tree, and Ruth often went to see her. She had
been Ruth's nurse in her childhood, and having originally come from
Slumberleigh, returned there when the Deyncourt children grew up,
and lived happily ever after, with the very blind and entirely deaf old
husband of her choice, in the gray stone lodge at Arleigh.
It was on her return from one of these almost daily visits that
Mrs. Eccles pounced on Ruth as she passed her gate, and under pre-
tence of inquiring after Mrs. Cotton, informed her that she herself
was suffering in no slight degree. Ruth, who suddenly remembered


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 169
that she had been remiss in “dropping in" on Mrs. Eccles of late.
dropped in then and there to make up for past delinquencies.
“Is it rheumatism again?” she asked, as Mrs. Eccles seemed in
clined to run off at once into a report of the goings on of Widow
Jones's Sally.
“Not that, my dear, so much as a sinking,” said Mrs. Eccles, pass-
ing her hand slowly over what seemed more like a rising than a de-
pression in her ample figure. “But there ! I've not been myself
since the Lord took old Samiwell Price, and that's the truth.”
Samuel Price was the relation who had entered into rest off a
ladder, and Ruth looked duly serious.
“I have no doubt it upset you very much,” she said.
“Well, miss,” returned Mrs. Eccles, with dignity, “it’s not as if I’d
had my 'ealth before. I’ve had something wrong in the cistern”
(Ruth wondered whether she meant system) “these many years.
From a gell I suffered in my inside. But lor'ſ I was born to trouble,
baptized in a bucket, and taken with collects at a week old. And
how did you say Mrs. Cotton of the lodge might be, miss, as I hear
is but poorly too?”
Ruth replied that she was better.
“She's no size to keep her in 'ealth,” said Mrs. Eccles, “and so
bent as she does grow, to be sure. Eh, dear, but it's a good thing to
be tall. I always think little folks they're like them little watches,
they've no room for their insides. And I wonder now " — Mrs.
Eccles was coming to the point that had made her entrap Ruth on
her way past—“I wonder now—”
Ruth did not help her. She knew too well the universal desire
for knowledge of good and evil peculiar to her sex to doubt for a
moment that Mrs. Eccles had begged her to “step in " only to obtain
some piece of information, about which her curiosity had been
aroused.
“I wonder, now, if Cotton at the lodge has heard anything of the
poachers again this year, round Arleigh way ?”
“Not that I know of,” said Ruth, surprised at the simplicity of
the question.
“Dear sakes! and to think of 'em at Wandon last night, and Mr.
Dare and the keepers out all night after 'em.”
Ruth was interested in spite of herself.
“And the doctor sent for in the middle of the night,” continued
Mrs. Eccles, covertly eying Ruth. “Poor young gentleman For
all his forrin ways, there's a many in Wandon as sets store by hir "


170 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“I don't think you need be uneasy about Mr. Dare,” said Ruth,
coldly, conscious that Mrs. Eccles was dying to see her change color.
“If anything had happened to him Mr. Alwynn would have heard
of it. And now,” rising, “I must be going; and if I were you, Mrs.
Eccles, I should not listen to all the gossip of the village.”
“Me listen!” said Mrs. Eccles, much offended. “Me, as is too
poorly so much as to put my foot out of the door! But, dear
heart!” with her usual quickness of vision, “if there isn't Mr. Al-
wynn and Dr. Brown riding up the street now in Dr. Brown's gig'
Well, I never ! and Mr. Alwynn a-getting out, and a-talking as grave
as can be to Dr. Brown. Poor Mr. Darel Poor dear young gentle-
man"
Ruth was conscious that she beat rather a hurried retreat from Mrs.
Eccles's cottage, and that her voice was not quite so steady as usual
when she asked the doctor if it were true that Mr. Dare had been
hurt.
“All the village will have it that he is killed; but he is all right,
I assure you, Miss Deyncourt,” said the kind old doctor, so soothing-
ly and reassuringly that Ruth grew pink with annoyance at the tone.
“Not a scratch. He was out with his keepers last night, and they
had a brush with poachers; and Martin, the head keeper was shot in
the leg. Bled a good deal, so they sent for me; but no danger. I
picked up your uncle here on his way to see him, and so I gave him
a lift there and back. That is all, I assure you.”
And Dr. Brown and Mrs. Eccles, straining over her geraniums, both
came to the same conclusion, namely, that, as Mrs. Eccles elegantly
expressed it, “Miss Ruth wanted Mr. Dare.”
“And he'll have her, too, I'm thinking, one of these days,” Mrs.
Eccles would remark to the circle of her acquaintance.
Indeed, the match was discussed on numerous ladders, with almost
as much interest as the unfailing theme of the damsons themselves.
And Dare rode over to the rectory as often as he used to do be-
fore a certain day in August, when he had found Ruth under the
chestnut-tree—the very day before Mrs. Alwynn started on her
screen, now the completed glory of the drawing-room.
And was Ruth beginning to like him ;
As it had not occurred to her to ask herself that question, I sup-
pose she was not.
Dare had grown very quiet and silent of late, and showed a grow-
ing tendency to dark hats. His refusal had been so unexpected
that the blow, when it came, fell with all the more crushing force.


SIR CHARLES DAN WERS. 171
His self-love and self-esteem had been wounded ; but so had some-
thing else. Under the velvet corduroy waistcoat, which he wore in
imitation of Ralph, he had a heart. Whether it was one of the very
best of its kind or warranted to wear well is not for us to judge;
but, at any rate, it was large enough to take in a very real affection,
and to feel a very sharp pang. Dare's manner to Ruth was now as
diffident as it had formerly been assured. To some minds there is
nothing more touching than a sudden access of humility on the part
of a vain man.
Whether Ruth's mind was one of this class or not we do not pre-
tend to know.
CHAPTER XIV.
It was Sunday morning at Atherstone. In the dining-room, break-
fasting alone, for he had come down late, was Sir Charles Danvers.
His sudden arrival on the previons Saturday was easily accounted
for. When he had casually walked into the drawing-room late in the
evening, he had immediately and thoroughly explained the reasons
of his unexpected arrival. It seemed odd that he should have come
to Atherstone, in the midland counties, “on his way ” between two
shooting visits in the north, but so it was. It might have been
thought that one of his friends would have been willing to keep him
two days longer, or receive him two days earlier; but no doubt every
one knows his own affairs best, and Charles might certainly, “at his
age,” as he was so fond of saying, be expected to know his.
Anyhow, there he was, leaning against the open window, coffee-cup
in hand, lazily watching the dwindling figures of Ralph and Evelyn,
with Molly between them, disappearing in the direction of Greenacre
church, hard by.
The morning mist still lingered on the land, and veiled the distance
with a tender blue. And up across the silver fields, and across the
standing armies of the yellowing corn, the sound of church bells
came from Slumberleigh, beyond the river; bringing back to Charles,
as to us all, old memories, old hopes, old visions of early youth, long
cherished, long forgotten.
The single bell of Greenacre was giving forth a slow, persistent,
cracked invitation to true believers, as an appropriate prelude to Mr.
Smith's eloquence; but Charles did not hear its testimony.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 173
there may be wicked Sabbath-breakers looking out of windows.
Brown's foal has grown since July. Here we are I am not the
only Christian hurrying among the tombs. I shall get in with ‘the
wicked man’ after all.”
Some people do not look round in church; others do. Mrs. Al-
wynn always did, partly because she wished to see what was going
on behind her, and partly because, in turning back again, she could
take a stealthy survey of Mrs. Thursby's bonnet, in which she always
felt a burning interest, which she would not for worlds have allowed
that lady to suspect.
If the turning round had been all, it would have mattered little;
but Mrs. Alwynn suffered so intensely from keeping silence that she
was obliged to relieve herself at intervals by short whispered com-
ments to Ruth.
On this particular morning it seemed as if the comments would
never end.
“I am so glad we asked Mr. Dare into our pew, Ruth. The Thurs-
bys are full. That's Mrs. Thursby's sister in the red bonnet.”
Ruth made no reply. She was following the responses in the
psalms with a marked attention, purposely marked to check conver-
sation, and sufficient to have daunted anybody but her aunt.
Mrs. Alwynn took a spasmodic interest in the psalm, but it did
not last.
“Only two basses in the choir, and the new Te Deum, Ruth.
How vexed Mr. Alwynn will be ſ”
No response from Ruth. Mrs. Alwynn took another turn at her
prayer-book, and then at the congregation.
“‘I am become as it were a monster unto—' Ruth ! Ruth /"
Ruth at last turned her head a quarter of an inch.
“Sir Charles Danvers is sitting in the free seats by the font "
Ruth nailed her eyes to her book, and would vouchsafe no further
sign of attention during the rest of the service; and Dare, on the
other side, anxious to copy Ruth in everything, being equally ob-
durate, Mrs. Alwynn had no resource left but to follow the service
half aloud to herself, at the times when the congregation were not
supposed to join in, putting great emphasis on certain words which
she felt applicable to herself, in a manner that effectually prevented
any one near her from attending to the service at all.
It was with a sudden pang that Dare, following Ruth out into the
sunshine after service, perceived for the first time Charles, standing,
tall and distinguished-looking, beside the rather insignificant heir of
º


174 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
all the Thursbys, who regarded him with the mixed admiration and
gnawing envy of a very young man for a man no longer young.
And then—Charles never quite knew how it happened, but with
the full intention of walking back to the rectory with the Alwynns,
and staying to luncheon, he actually found himself in Ruth's very
presence, accepting a cordial invitation to luncheon at Slumberleigh
Hall. For the first time during the last ten years he had done a thing
he had no intention of doing. A temporary long-lost feeling of shy-
ness had seized upon him as he saw Ruth coming out, tall and pale
and graceful, from the shadow of the church porch into the blaze of
the mid-day sunshine. He had not calculated either for that sudden
disconcerting leap of the heart as her eyes met his. He had an idiotic
feeling that she must be aware that he had run most of the way to
church, and that he had contemplated the burnished circles of her
back hair for two hours, without a glance at the fashionably scraped-
up head-dress of Mabel Thursby, with its hogged mane of little wire
curls in the nape of the neck. He felt he still looked hot and dusty,
though he had imagined he was quite cool the moment before. To
his own astonishment, he actually found his self-possession leaving
him; and though its desertion proved only momentary, in that mo-
ment he found himself walking away with the Thursbys in the direc-
tion of the Hall. He was provoked, angry with himself, with the
Thursbys, and, most of all, with Mr. Alwynn, who had come up a
second later, and asked him to luncheon, as a matter of course, also
Dare, who accepted with evident gratitude. Charles felt that he
had not gone steeple-chasing over the country only to talk to Mrs.
Thursby, and to see Ruth stroll away over the fields with Dare tow-
ards the rectory. -
However, he made himself extremely agreeable, which was with
him more a matter of habit than those who occasionally profited by
it would have cared to know. He asked young Thursby his opinion
on E. C. cartridges; he condoled with Mrs. Thursby on the loss of
her last butler, and recounted some alarming anecdotes of his own
French cook. He admired a pallid water-color drawing of Venice,
in an enormous frame on an enormous easel, which he rightly sup-
posed to be the manual labor of Mabel Thursby.
When he rose to take his leave, young Thursby, intensely flattered
by having been asked for that opinion on cartridges by so renowned
a shot as Charles, offered to walk part of the way back with him.
“I am afraid I am not going home yet,” said Charles, lightly.
“Duty points in the opposite direction. I have to call at the


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 175
rectory. I want Mr. Alwynn's opinion on a point of clerical eti-
quette, which is setting my young spiritual shepherd at Stoke More-
ton against his principal sheep, namely, myself.”
And Charles took his departure, leaving golden opinions behind
him, and a determination to invite him once more to shoot, in spite
of his many courteous refusals of the last few years.
Mrs. Alwynn always took a nap after luncheon, in her smart Sun-
day gown, among the mustard-colored cushions of her high-art sofa.
Mr. Alwynn, also, was apt at the same time to sink into a subdued,
almost apologetic doze, in the old arm-chair which alone had resisted
the march of discomfort, and so-called “taste,” which had invaded
the rest of the little drawing-room of Slumberleigh Rectory. Ruth
was sitting with her dark head leaned against the open window-frame.
Dare had not stayed after luncheon, being at times nervously afraid
of giving her too much of his society; and she was at liberty to read
over again, if she chose, the solitary letter which the Sunday post
had brought her. But she did not do so; she was thinking.
And so her sister Anna was actually returning to England at last!
She and her husband had taken a house in Rome, and had arranged
that Ruth should join them in London in November, and go abroad
with them after Christmas for the remainder of the winter. She had
pleasant recollections of previous winters in Rome, or on the Riviera
with her grandmother, and she was surprised that she did not feel
more interested in the prospect. She supposed she would like it
when the time came, but she seemed to care very little about it at
the present moment. It had become very natural to live at Slumber-
leigh, and although there were drawbacks—here she glanced involun-
tarily at her aunt, who was making her slumbers vocal by a running
commentary on them through her nose—still she would be sorry to
go. Mr. Alwynn gave the ghost of a miniature snore, and, opening
his eyes, found Ruth's bent affectionately upon him. Her mind went
back to another point in Anna's letter. After dilating on the extreme
admiration and regard entertained for herself by her husband, his
readiness with shawls, etc., she went on to ask whether Ruth had
heard any news of Raymond.
Ruth sighed. Would there ever be any news of Raymond? The
old nurse at Arleigh always asked the same question. “Any news of
Master Raymond?” It was with a tired ache of the heart that Ruth
heard that question, and always gave the same answer. Once she
had heard from him since Lady Deyncourt's death, after she had
written to tell him, as gently as she could, that she and Anna had


176 SIR CHARLES DANWERS.
inherited all their grandmother had to leave. A couple of months
later she had received a hurried note in reply, inveighing against
Lady Deyncourt's injustice, saying (as usual) that he was hard up for
money, and that, when he knew where it might safely be sent, he
should expect her and her sister to make up to him for his disap-
pointment. And since then, since April—not a word. June, July,
August, September. Four months and no sign. When he was in
want of money his letters heretofore had made but little delay. Had
he fallen ill and died out there, or met his death suddenly, perhaps
in some wild adventure under an assumed name? Her lips tight-
ened, and her white brows contracted over her absent eyes. It was
an old anxiety, but none the less wearing because it was old. Ruth
put it wearily from her, and took up the first book which came to
her hand, to distract her attention.
It was a manual out of which Mrs. Alwynn had been reading ex-
tracts to her in the morning, while Ruth had been engaged in pre-
paring herself to teach in the Sunday-school. She wondered vaguely
how pleasure could be derived, even by the most religious persons,
from seeing favorite texts twined in and out among forget-me-nots,
or falling aslant in old English letters off bunches of violets; but
she was old enough and wise enough to know that one man's relig-
ion is another man's occasion of stumbling. Books are made to fit
all minds, and small minds lose themselves in large-minded books.
The thousands in which these little manuals are sold, and the confi-
dence with which their readers recommend them to others, indicates
the calibre of the average mind, and shows that they meet a want
possibly “not known before,” but which they alone, with their little
gilt edges, can adequately fill. Ruth was gazing in absent wonder
at the volume which supplied all her aunt's spiritual needs when she
heard the wire of the front door-bell squeak faintly. It was a stiff-
necked and obdurate bell, which for several years Mr. Alwynn had
determined to see about.
A few moments later James, the new and inexperienced footman,
opened the door about half a foot, put in his head, murmured some-
thing inaudible, and withdrew it again.
A tall figure appeared in the door-way, and advanced to meet her,
then stopped midway. Ruth rose hastily, and stood where she had
risen, her eyes glancing first at Mr. and then at Mrs. Alwynn.
The alien presence of a visitor had not disturbed them. Mrs. Al-
wynn, her head well forward and a succession of chins undulating in
perfect repose upon her chest, was sleeping as a stout person only


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 177
can—all over. Mr. Alwynn, opposite, his thin hands clasped listlessly
over his knee, was as unconscious of the two pairs of eyes fixed upon
him as Nelson himself, laid out in Madame Tussaud's.
Charles's eyes, twinkling with suppressed amusement, met Ruth's.
He shook his head energetically, as she made a slight movement as
if to wake them, and stepping forward, pointed with his hat towards
the open window, which reached to the ground. Ruth understood,
but she hesitated. At this moment Mrs. Alwynn began a variation on
the simple theme in which she had been indulging, and in so much
higher a key that all hesitation vanished. She stepped hastily out
through the window, and Charles followed. They stood together
for a moment in the blazing sunshine, both too much amused to
speak.
“You are bareheaded,” he said, suddenly; “is there any ”—look-
ing round—“any shade we could take refuge under #"
Ruth led the way round the yew hedge to the horse-chestnut;
that horse-chestnut under which Dare had once lost his self-esteem.
“I am afraid,” said Charles, “I arrived at an inopportune mo-
ment. As I was lunching with the Thursbys, I came up in the hope
of finding Mr. Alwynn, whom I wanted to consult about a small mat-
ter in my own parish.”
Charles was quite pleased with this sentence when he had airily
given it out. It had a true ring about it he fancied, which he re-
membered with gratitude was more than the door-bell had. Peace
be with that door-bell, and with the engaging youth who answered it.
“I wish you had let me wake Mr. Alwynn,” said Ruth. “He will
sleep on now till the bells begin.”
“On no account. I should have been shocked if you had dis-
turbed him. I assure you I can easily wait until he naturally wakes
up; that is,” with a glance at the book in her hand, “if I am not
disturbing you—if you are not engaged in improving yourself at this
moment.”
“No. I have improved myself for the day, thanks. I can safely
afford to relax a little now.”
“So can I. I resemble Lady Mary in that. On Sunday morn-
ings she reflects on her own shortcomings; on Sunday afternoons
she finds an innocent relaxation in pointing out mine.”
“Where is Lady Mary now?”
“I should say she was in her Bath-chair on the Scarborough sands
at this moment.”
“I like her,” said Ruth, with decision.
–
12


178 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“Tastes differ. Some people feel drawn towards wet blankets,
and others have a leaning towards pokers. Do you know why you
like her?”
“I never thought about it, but I suppose it was because she seemed
to like me.”
“Exactly. You admired her good taste. A very natural vanity,
most pardonable in the young, was gratified at seeing marks of favor
so well bestowed.”
“I dare say you are right. At any rate, you seem so familiar
with the workings of vanity in the human breast that it would be a
pity to contradict you.”
“By-the-way,” said Charles, speaking in the way people do who
have nothing to say, and are trying to hit on any subject of conver-
sation, “have you heard any more of your tramp? There was no
news of him when I left. I asked the Slumberleigh policeman about
him again on my way to the station.”
“I have heard no more of him, though I keep his memory green.
I have not forgotten the fright he gave me. I had always imagined
I was rather a self-possessed person till that day.”
“I am a coward myself when I am frightened,” said Charles, con-
solingly, “though at other times as bold as a lion.”
They were both sitting under the flickering shadow of the already
yellowing horse-chestnut-tree, the first of all the trees to set the gor-
geous autumn fashions. But as yet it was paling only at the edges
of its slender fans. The air was sweet and soft, with a voiceless
whisper of melancholy in it, as if the summer knew, for all her smiles,
her hour had wellnigh come.
The rectory cows—the mottled one, and the red one, and the big
white one that was always milked first—came slowly past on their
way to the pond, blinking their white eyelashes leisurely at Charles
and Ruth.
“It is almost as hot as that Sunday in July when we walked over
from Atherstone. Do you remember?” said Charles, suddenly.
44 Yes.”
She knew he was thinking of their last conversation, and she felt
a momentary surprise that he had remembered it.
“We never finished that conversation,” he said, after a pause.
“No; but then conversations never are finished, are they They
always seem to break off just when they are coming to the begin-
ning. A bell rings, or there is an interruption, or one is told it is
bedtime.”


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 179
“Or fools rush in with their word where you and I should fear to
tread, and spoil everything.”
44 Yes.”
“And have you been holding the wool and tying up the flowers,
as you so graphically described, ever since you left Atherstone in
July "
“I hope I have; I have tried.”
“I am sure of that,” he said, with sudden earnestness, then added
more slowly, “I have not wound any wool; I have only enjoyed
myself.” -
“Perhaps,” said Ruth, turning her clear, frank gaze upon him,
“that may have been the harder work of the two; it sometimes is.”
His light, restless eyes, with the searching look in them which she
had seen before, met hers, and then wandered away again to the level
meadows and the woods and the faint sky.
“I think it was,” he said at last; and both were silent. He re-
flected that his conversations with Ruth had a way of beginning in
fun, becoming more serious, and ending in silence.
The bells rang out suddenly.
Charles thought they were full early.
“Mr. Alwynn will wake up now,” said Ruth; “I will tell him you
are here.” -
But before she had time to do more than rise from her chair, Mr.
Alwynn came slowly round the yew hedge, and stopped suddenly in
front of the chestnut-tree, amazed at what he saw beneath it. His
mild eyes gazed blankly at Charles through his spectacles, gathering
a pained expression as they peered over the top of them, which did
not lessen when they fell on Ruth.
Charles explained in a few words the purport of his visit, which
had already explained itself quite sufficiently to Mr. Alwynn; and
mentioning that he had waited in the hope of presently finding Mr.
Alwynn “disengaged” (at this Mr. Alwynn blushed a little), asked
leave to walk as far as the church with him to consult him on a small
matter, etc. It was a neat sentence, but it did not sound quite sº
well the third time. It had lost by the heathenish and vain repeti
tions to which it had been subjected.
“Certainly, certainly,” said Mr. Alwynn, mollified, but still discom-
posed. “You should have waked me, Ruth;” turning reproachfully
to his niece, whose conduct had never, in his eyes, fallen short of per-
fection till this moment. “Little nap after luncheon. Hardly asleep.
You should have waked me.”


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 18 i
to be thrown entirely on her own resources, and to do her thinking
for herself.
Some minds, of course, sink into inanition if an outward supply
of nutriment is withheld. Others get up and begin to forage for
themselves. Happy are these—when the transition period is over—
when, after a time, the first and worst mistakes have been made and
suffered for, and the only teaching that profits anything at all, the
bitter teaching of experience, has been laid to heart.
Such a nature was Ruth's, upright, self-reliant, without the im-
petuosity and impulsiveness that so often accompanies an indepen-
dent nature, but accustomed to look at everything through her own
eyes, and to think, but not till now to act for herself.
She had been brought up by her grandmother to believe that be-
fore all things noblesse oblige; to despise a dishonorable action, to
have her feelings entirely under control, to be intimate with few, to
be courteous to all. But to help others, to give up anything for
them, to love an unfashionable or middle-class neighbor, or to feel
a personal interest in religion, except as a subject of conversation,
had never found a place in Lady Deyncourt's code, or consequently
in Ruth's, though, as was natural with a generous nature, the girl
did many little kindnesses to those about her, and was personally
unselfish, as those who live with self-centred people are bound to be
if there is to be any semblance of peace in the house.
But now, new thoughts were stirring within her, were leavening
her whole mind. All through these monotonous months she had
watched the quiet routine of patient effort that went to make up the
sum of Mr. Alwynn's life. He was a shy man. He seldom spoke
of religion out of the pulpit; but all through these long months he
preached it without words to Ruth, as she had never heard it preached
before, by
“The best portion of a good man's life—
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love.”
It was the first time that she had come into close contact with a life
spent for others, and its beauty appealed to her with a new force,
and gradually but surely changed the current of her thoughts, until,
as “we needs must love the highest when we see it,” she uncon-
sciously fell in love with self-sacrifice.
The opinions of most young persons, however loudly and injudi-
ciously proclaimed, rarely do the possessors much harm, because


182 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
they are not, as a rule, acted upou ; but with some few people a
change of views means a change of life. Ruth was on the edge of
a greater change than she knew.
At first she had often regretted the chapter of her life that had
been closed by Lady Deyncourt's death. Now, she felt she could
not go back to it, and find it all-sufficient as of old. It would need
an added element, without which she began to see that any sort or
condition of life is but a stony, dusty concern after all—an element
which made even Mr. Alwynn's colorless existence a contented and
happy one.
Ruth had been telling him one day, as they were walking together,
of her sister's plans for the winter, and that she was sorry to think
her time at Slumberleigh was drawing to a close.
“I am afraid,” he said, “in spite of all you say, my dear, it has
been very dull for you here. No little gayeties or enjoyments such
as it is right young people should have. I wish we had had a picnic,
or a garden-party, or something. Mabel Thursby cannot be happy
without these things, and it is natural at your age that you should
wish for them. Your aunt and I lead very quiet lives. It suits us,
but it is different for young people.”
“Does it suit you?” asked Ruth, with sudden earnestness. “Do
you really like it, or do you sometimes get tired of it?”
Mr. Alwynn looked a little alarmed and disconcerted. He never
cared to talk about himself.
“I used to get tired,” he said at last, with reluctance, “when I
was younger. There were times when I foolishly expected more
from life than—than, in fact, I quite got, my dear; and the result
was, I fear I had a very discontented spirit—an unthankful, discon-
tented spirit,” he repeated, with sad retrospection.
Something in his tone touched Ruth to the quick.
“And now 7"
“I am content now.”
“Uncle John, tell me. How did you grow to feel content?”
He saw there were tears in her eyes.
“It took a long time,” he said. “Anything that is worth know-
ing, Ruth, takes a long time to learn. I think I found in the end,
my dear, that the only way was to put my whole heart into what I
was doing” (Mr. Alwynn's voice was simple and earnest, as if he
were imparting to Ruth a great discovery). “I had tried before,
from time to time, of course, but never quite as hard as I might
have done. That was where I failed. When I put myself on one


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 183
side, and really settled down to do what I could for others, life be-
came much simpler and happier.”
He turned his grave, patient eyes to Ruth's again. Was some-
thing troubling her? .
“I have often thought since then,” he went on, speaking more to
himself than to her, “that we should consider well what we are
keeping back our strength for, if we find ourselves refusing to put
the whole of it into our work. When at last one does start, one
feels it is such a pity one did not do it earlier in life. When I look
at all the young faces growing up around me, I often hope, Ruth,
they won't waste as much time as I did.”
How simple it seemed while she listened to him; how easy, how
natural, this life for others
She could not answer. One sentence of Mr. Alwynn's was knock-
ing at the door of her heart for admission; was drowning with its
loud beating the sound of all the rest:
“We should consider well what we are keeping back our strength
for, if we refuse to put the whole of it into our work.”
She and Mr. Alwynn walked on in silence; and after a time, al-
ways afraid of speaking much on the subject that was first in his
own mind, he began to talk again on trivial matters, to tell her how
he had met Dare that morning, and had promised on her behalf that
she would sing at a little local concert which the Wandon school-
master was getting up that week to defray the annual expense of
the Wandon cricket club, and in which Dare was taking a vivid in-
terest.
“You won't mind singing, will you, Ruth ?” asked Mr. Alwynn,
wishing she would show a little more interest in Dare and his con-
Cert.
“Oh no, of course not,” rather hurriedly. “I should be glad to
help in any way.”
“And I thought, my dear, as it would be getting late, we had
better accept his offer of staying the night at Wandon.”
Ruth assented, but so absently that Mr. Alwynn dropped the sub-
ject with a sigh, and walked on, revolving weighty matters in his
mind. They had left the woods now, and were crossing the field
where, two months ago, the school-feast had been held. Mr. Alwynn
made some slight allusion to it, and then coughed. Ruth's atten-
tion, which had been distracted, came back in a moment. She knew
her uncle had something which he did not like, something which yet
he felt it his duty to say, when be gave that particular cough.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 18.5
does. There is something about him that is different from other
people. I am sure I don't know why it is, but I like him very much
myself. I have known him do such kind things. Dear me! What
a pleasant week I had at Stoke Moreton last year. It is beautiful,
Ruth; and the collection of old papers and manuscripts unique !
Your aunt was in Devonshire with friends at the time. I wish he
would ask me again this autumn, to see those charters of Edward
IV.'s reign that have been found in the secret drawer of an old cab-
inet. I hear they are quite small, and have green seals. I wish I
had thought of asking him about them on Sunday. If they are real-
ly small—but it was only Archdeacon Eldon who told me about them,
and he never sees anything any particular size—if they should hap-
pen to be really small—” And Mr. Alwynn turned eagerly to the
all-engrossing subject of the Stoke Moreton charters, which furnished
him with conversation till they reached home.
“We should consider well what we are keeping back our strength.
for, if we refuse to put the whole of it into our work.”
All through the afternoon and the quiet, monotonous evening
these words followed Ruth. She read them between the lines of the
book she took up. She stitched them into her sewing. They went
up-stairs with her at night, they followed her into her room, and
would not be denied. When she had sent away her maid, she sat
down by the window, and, with the full harvest-moon for company,
faced them and asked them what they meant. But they only repeat-
ed themselves over and over again. What had they to do with her?
Her mind tried to grapple with them in vain. As often as she came
to close quarters with them they eluded her and disappeared, only
to return with the old formula.
Her thoughts drifted away at last to what Mr. Alwynn had said
of Charles, and all the disagreeable things which Mabel had come up
on Monday morning, with a bunch of late roses, on purpose to tell
her respecting him. She had taken Mabel's information at its true
worth, which I fear was but small; but she felt annoyed that both
Mabel and Mr. Alwynn should have thought it necessary to warn her.
As if, she said to herself, she had not known Really, she had not
been born and bred in Slumberleigh, nor had she lived there all her
life. She had met men of that kind before. She always liked them.
Charles especially amused her, and she could see that she amused
him; and, now she came to think of it, she supposed he had paid her
a good deal of attention at Atherstone, and perhaps he had not come
over to Slumberleigh especially to see Mr. Alwynn. It was as nat-


186 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
ural to men like Charles to be always interested in some one, as it
would be unnatural in others ever to be so, except as the result of long
forethought, and with a wedding-ring and a set of bridesmaids well
in view. But to attach any importance to the fact that Charles liked
to talk to her would have been absurd. With another man it might
have meant much; but she had heard of Charles and his misdoings
long before she had met him, and knew what to expect. Lord Break-
water's sister had confided to her many things respecting him, and
had wept bitter tears on her shoulder, when he suddenly went off to
shoot grizzlies in the Rocky Mountains.
“He has not sufficient vanity to know that he is exceedingly pop-
ular,” said Ruth to herself. “I should think there are few men,
handicapped as he is, who have been liked more entirely for them-
selves, and less for their belongings; but all the time he probably
imagines people admire his name, or his place, or his income, and
not himself, and consequently he does not care much what he says
or does. I am certain he does not mean to do any harm. His man-
ner never deceived me for a moment. I can't see why it should
others; but, from all accounts, he seems to be frequently misunder-
stood. That is just the right word for him. He is misunderstood.
At any rate, I never misunderstood him. That Sunday call might
have made me suspicious of any ordinary mortal; but I knew no
common rule could apply to such an exception as he is. I only won-
der, when he really does find himself in earnest, how he is to convey
his meaning to the future Lady Danvers. What words would be
strong enough; what ink would be black enough to carry convic-
tion to her mind?”
She smiled at the thought, and, as she smiled, another face
rose suddenly before her—Dare's pale and serious, as it had been
of late, with the wistful, anxious eyes. He, at least, had meant a
great deal, she thought with remorse. He had been in earnest,
sufficiently in earnest to make himself very unhappy, and on her
account.
Ruth had known for some time that Dare loved her; but to-night
that simple, unobtrusive fact suddenly took larger proportions, came
boldly out of the shadow and looked her in the face.
He loved her. Well, what then
She turned giddy, and leaned her head against the open shutter.
In the silence the words that had haunted her all the afternoon
came back; not loud as heretofore, but in a whisper, speaking to her
heart, which had begun to beat fast and loud.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 187
“We should consider well what we are keeping back our strength
for, if we refuse to put the whole of it into our work.”
What work was there for her to do?
The giddiness and the whirl in her mind died down suddenly like
a great gust on the surface of a lake, and left it still and clear and
cold.
The misery of the world and the inability to meet it had so often
confused and weighed her down that she had come back humbly of
late to the only possibility with which it was in her power to deal,
come back to the well-worn groove of earnest determination to do
as much as in her lay, close at hand, when she could find a field to
labor in. And now she suddenly saw, or thought she saw, that she
had found it. She had been very anxious as to whether Dare would
do his duty, but till this moment it had never struck her that it
might be her duty to help him.
She liked him; and he was poor—too poor to do much for the
people who were dependent on him, the poor, struggling people of
Vandon. Their sullen, miserable faces rose up before her, and their
crazy houses. Fever had broken out again in the cottages by the
river. He needed help and encouragement, for he had a difficult time
before him. And she had these to give, and money too. Could she
do better with them? She knew Mr. Alwynn wished it. And as to
herself? Was she never going to put self on one side? She had
never liked any one very much—at least, not in that way—but she
liked him.
The words came like a loud voice in the silence. She liked him.
Well, what then?
She shut her eyes, but she only shut out the moon's pale photo-
graphs of the fields and woods. She could not shut out these stern
besieging thoughts.
What was she holding back for ? For some possible ideal roman-
tic future; for the prince of a fairy story ! No 2 Well, then, for
what ?
The moon went behind a cloud, and took all her photographs with
her. The night had turned very cold.
“To-morrow,” said Ruth to herself, rising slowly; “I am too tired
to think now. To-morrow !”
And as she spoke the faint chime of the clock upon her table
warned her that already it was to-morrow.
And soon, in a moment, as it seemed to her, before she had had
time to think, it was again to-morrow, a wet, dim to-morrow, and


188 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
she was at Wandon, running up the wide stone steps in the starlight,
under Dare's protecting umbrella, and allowing him to take her wraps
from her before the hall fire.
The concert had gone off well. Ruth was pleased, Mr. Alwynn
was pleased. Dare was in a state of repressed excitement, now fly-
ing into the drawing-room to see if there were a good fire, as it was
a chilly evening; now rushing thence to the dining-room to satisfy
himself that all the immense and elaborate preparations which he had
enjoined on the cook had been made. Then, Ruth must be shown
to her room. Who was to do it? He flew to find the house-keeper,
and after repeated injunctions to the house-maid, whom he met in
the passage, not to forget the hot water, took Mr. Alwynn off to his
apartment.
The concert had begun, as concerts always seem to do, at the exact
time at which it is usual to dine, so that it was late before the prin-
cipal performers and Mr. Alwynn reached Wandon. It was later still
before supper came, but when it came it was splendid. Dare looked
with anxious satisfaction, over a soup tureen, at the various spiced
and glazed forms of indigestion, sufficient for a dozen people, which
covered the table. It grieved him that Ruth, confronted by a spread-
ing ham, and Mr. Alwynn, half hidden by a bowlder of turkey, should
have such moderate appetites. But at least she was there, under his
roof, at his table. It was not surprising that he could eat nothing
himself.
After supper, Mr. Alwynn, who combined the wisdom of the
worldly serpent with the harmlessness of the clerical dove, fell—not
too suddenly—asleep by the fire in the drawing-room, and Ruth and
Dare went into the hall, where the piano was. Dare opened it and
struck a few minor chords. Ruth sat down in a great carved arm-
chair beside the fire.
The hall was only lighted by a few tall lamps high on pedestals
against the walls, which threw great profiles of the various busts upon
the dim bass-reliefs of twining scroll-work; and Dare, with his eyes
fixed on Ruth, began to play.
There is in some music a strange appeal beyond the reach of
words. Those mysterious sharps and flats, and major and minor
chords, are an alphabet that in some occult combinations forms an-
other higher language than that of speech, a language which, as we
listen, thrills us to the heart. -
It was an old piano, with an impediment in its speech, out of the
yellow notes of which Ruth could have made nothing; but in


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 189
Dare's hands it spoke for him as he never could have spoken for
himself.
His eyes never left her. He feared to look away, lest he should
find the presence of that quiet, graceful figure by his fireside had
been a dream, and that he was alone again with the dim lamps, alone
with Dante and Cicero and Seneca.
The firelight dwelt ruddily upon her grave clear-cut face and level
brows, and upon the folds of her white gown. It touched the slen-
der hands clasped lightly together on her knee, and drew sudden
sparks and gleams out of the diamond pin at her throat.
His hands trembled on the keys, and as he looked his heart beat
high and higher, loud and louder, till it drowned the rhythm of the
music. And as he looked her calm eyes met his.
In another moment he was on his knees beside her, her hands
caught in his trembling clasp, and his head pressed down upon them.
“I know,” he gasped, “it is no good. You have told me so once.
You will tell me so again. I am not good enough. I am not wor-
thy. But I love you; I love you !”
In moments of real feeling the old words hold their own against
all modern new-comers. Dare repeated them over and over again in
a paroxysm of overwhelming emotion which shook him from head
to foot.
Something in his boyish attitude and in his entire loss of self-con-
trol touched Ruth strangely. She knew he was five or six years her
senior, but at the moment she felt as if she were much older than he,
and a sudden vague wish passed through her mind that he had been
nearer her in age; not quite so young.
“Well?” she said, gently; and he felt her cool, passive hands
tremble a little in his. Something in the tone of her voice made
him raise his head, and meet her eyes looking down at him, earnest-
ly, and with a great kindness in them.
A sudden eager light leaped into his face.
“Will you?” he whispered, breathlessly, his hands tightening their
hold of hers. “Will you?”
There was a moment's pause, in which the whole world seemed to
stand quite still and wait for her answer.
“Yes,” she said at last, “I will.”
“I am glad I did it,” she said to herself, half an hour later, as she
leaned her tired head against the carved oak chimney-piece in her
bedroom, and absently traced with her finger the Latin inscription
over the fireplace. “I like him very much. I am glad I did it.”
Aº.


SIR CHARLEs DANVERS. 191
i
dear aunt's warm heart and conversational bent make it almost im-
possible for her to refrain from speaking of anything that interests
her; and indeed, even if she does not say anything in so many words,
I have observed that opinions are sometimes formed by others as to
the subject on which she is silent, by her manner when any chance
allusion is made to it.”
Ruth heartily agreed. She had been dreading the searching cate-
, chism through which Mrs. Alwynn would certainly put her—the
minute inquiries as to her dress, the hour, the place; whether it had
been “standing up or sitting down;” all her questions of course in-
terwoven with personal reminiscences of “how John had done it,”
and her own emotion at the time.
It was with no small degree of relief at the postponement of that
evil hour that Ruth entered the house. As she did so a faint sound .
reached her ear. It was that of a musical-box.
“Dear ! dear!” said Mr. Alwynn, as he followed her. “It is a fine
day. Your aunt must be ill.”
For the moment Ruth did not understand the connection of ideas
in his mind, until she suddenly remembered the musical-box, which,
Mrs. Alwynn had often told her, was “so nice and cheery on a wet
day, or in time of illness.”
She hurriedly entered the drawing-room, followed by Mr. Alwynn,
where the first object that met her view was Mrs. Alwynn extended
on the sofa, arrayed in what she called her tea-gown, a loose robe of
blue cretonne, with a large vine-leaf pattern twining over it, which
broke out into grapes at intervals. Ruth knew that garment well.
It came on only when Mrs. Alwynn was suffering. She had worn it
last during a period of entire mental prostration, which had suc-
ceeded all too soon an exciting discovery of mushrooms in the glebe.
Mr. Alwynn's heart and Ruth's sank as they caught sight of it again,
With a dignity befitting the occasion, Mrs. Alwynn recounted in
detail the various ways in which she had employed herself after their
departure the previous evening, up to the exact moment when she
slipped going up-stairs, and sprained her ankle, in a blue and green
manner that had quite alarmed the doctor when he had seen it, and
compared with which Mrs. Thursby's gathered finger in the spring
was a mere bagatelle.
“Mrs. Thursby stayed in bed when her finger was bad,” said Mrs.
Alwynn to Ruth, when Mr. Alwynn had condoled, and had made his
escape to his study. “She always gives way so; but I never was
like that. I was up all the same, my dear.”


192 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“I hope it does not hurt very much,” said Ruth, anxious to be
sympathetic, but succeeding only in being commonplace.
“It's not only the pain,” said Mrs. Alwynn, in the gentle resigned
voice which she always used when indisposed—the voice of one at
peace with all the world, and ready to depart from a scene conse-
quently so devoid of interest; “but to a person of my habits, Ruth
—never a day without going into the larder, and always seeing after
the servants as I do—first one duty and then another—and the
chickens and all. It seems a strange thing that I should be laid
aside.”
Mrs. Alwynn paused, as if she had not for the nonce fathomed
the ulterior reasons for this special move on the part of Providence,
which had crippled her, while it left Ruth and Mrs. Thursby with
the use of their limbs.
“However,” she continued, “I am not one to repine. Always
cheery and busy, Ruth: that is my motto. And now, my dear, if
you will wind up the musical-box, and then read me a little bit out
of “Texts with Tender Twinings.’ ” (the new floral manual which
had lately superseded the “Pearls”), “after that we will start on
one of my scrap-books, and you shall tell me all about your visit to
Wandon.”
It was not the time Ruth would have chosen for a tête-à-tête with
her aunt. She was longing to be alone, to think quietly over what
had happened, and it was difficult to concentrate her attention on
pink and yellow calico, and cut out colored royal families, and for-
eign birds, with a good grace. Happily Mrs. Alwynn, though al-
ways requiring attention, was quite content with the half of what she
required; and, with the “Buffalo Girls” and the “Danube River”
tinkling on the table, conversation was somewhat superfluous.
In the afternoon Dare came, but he was waylaid in the hall by Mr.
Alwynn, and taken into the study before he could commit himself
in Mrs. Alwynn's presence. Mrs. Thursby and Mabel also called to
condole, and a little later Mrs. Smith of Greenacre, who had heard
the news of the accident from the doctor. Altogether it was a de-
lightful afternoon for Mrs. Alwynn, who assumed for the time an
air of superiority over Mrs. Thursby to which that lady's well-known
chronic ill-health seldom allowed her to lay claim.
Mrs. Alwynn and Mrs. Thurshy had remained friends since they
had both arrived together as brides at Slumberleigh, in spite of a
difference of opinion, which had at one time strained friendly rela-
as to a painful degree, as to the propriety of wearing the hair


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 193
over the top of the ear. The hair question settled, a temporary dif-
ficulty, extending over a few years, had sprung up in its place, re-
specting what Mrs. Thursby called “family.” Mrs. Alwynn's family
was not her strong point, nor was its position strengthened by her
assertion (unsupported by Mrs. Markham), that she was directly de-
scended from Queen Elizabeth. Consequently, it was trying to Mrs.
Thursby—who, as every one knows, was one of the brainless Copleys
of Copley—that Mrs. Alwynn, who in the lottery of marriage had
drawn an honorable, should take precedence of herself. To obviate
this difficulty, Mrs. Thursby, with the ingenuity of her sex, had at
one time introduced Mr. and Mrs. Alwynn as “our rector,” and “our
rector's wife,” thus denying them their name altogether, for fear lest
its connection with Lord Polesworth should be remembered, and the
fact that Mr. Alwynn was his brother, and consequently an honora-
ble, should transpire.
This peculiarity of etiquette entirely escaped Mr. Alwynn, but
aroused feelings in the breast of his wife which might have brought
about one of those deeply rooted feuds which so often exist between
the squire's and clergyman's families, if it had not been for the
timely and serious illness in which Mrs. Thursby lost her health, and
the principal part of the other subject of disagreement—her hair.
Then Queen Elizabeth and the honorable were alike forgotten.
With her own hands Mrs. Alwynn made a certain jelly, which Mrs.
Thursby praised in the highest manner, saying she only wished that
it had been the habit in her family to learn to do anything so use-
ful. Mrs. Thursby's new gowns were no longer kept a secret from
Mrs. Alwynn, to be suddenly sprung upon her at a garden-party,
when, possibly in an old garment herself, she was least able to bear
the shock. By-gones were by-gones, and, greatly to the relief of the
two husbands, their respective wives made up their differences.
“And a very pleasant afternoon it has been,” said Mrs. Alwynn,
when the Thursbys and Dare, who had been loath to go, had taken
their departure. “Mrs. Thursby and Mabel, and Mrs. Smith and Mr.
Dare. Four to tea. Quite a little party, wasn't it, Ruth And so
informal and nice; and the buns came in as naturally as possible,
which no one heard me whisper to James for. I think those little
citron buns are nicer than a great cake like Mrs. Thursby's; and hers
are always so black and overbaked. That is why the cook sifts such
a lot of sugar over them. I do think one should be real, and not try
to cover up things. And Mr. Dare so pleasant. Quite sorry to go
he seemed. I often wonder whether it will be you or Mabel in the
13


194 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
end. He ought to be making up his mind. I expect I shall have a
little joke with him about it before long. And such an interest he
took in the scrap-book. I asked him to come again to-morrow.”
“I don't expect he will be able to do so,” said Mr. Alwynn. “I
rather think he will have to go to town on business.”
Later in the evening, Mr. Alwynn told Ruth that in the course of
his interview he had found that Dare had the very vaguest ideas as
to the necessity of settlements; had evidently never given the sub-
ject a thought, and did not even know what he actually possessed.
Mr. Alwynn was secretly afraid of what Ruth's trustee, his brother,
Lord Polesworth (now absent shooting in the Rocky Mountains),
would say if, during his absence, their niece was allowed to engage
herself without suitable provision; and he begged Ruth not “to do
anything rash” in the way of speaking of her engagement, until
Dare could, with the help of his lawyer, see his way to making some
arrangement.
“I know he has no money,” said Ruth, quietly; “that is one of
the reasons why I am going to marry him.”
Mr. Alwynn, to whom this seemed the most natural reason in the
world, was not sure whether it would strike his brother with equal
ſorce. He had a suspicion that when Lord Polesworth's attention
should be turned from white goats and brown bears to the fact that
his niece, who had means of her own, had been allowed to engage
herself to a poor man, and that Mr. Alwynn had greatly encouraged
the match, unpleasant questions might be asked.
“Francis will be back in November,” said Mr. Alwynn. “I think,
Ruth, we had better wait till his return before we do anything definite.”
“Anything more definite, you mean,” said Ruth. “I have been
very definite already, I think. I shall be glad to wait till he comes
back, if you wish it, Uncle John. I shall try to do what you both
advise. But at the same time I am of age; and if my word is worth
anything, you know I have given that already.”
Dare felt no call to go to London by the early train on the fol-
lowing morning, so he found himself at liberty to spend an hour at
Slumberleigh Rectory on his way to the station, and by the advice
of Mr. Alwynn went into the garden, where the sound of the musical-
box reached the ear, but in faint echoes, and where Ruth presently
joined him. -
In his heart Dare was secretly afraid of Ruth; though, as he often
told himself, it was more than probable she was equally afraid of
him. If that was so, she controlled her feelings wonderfully, for as
Aºa


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 195
she came to meet him, nothing could have been more frankly kind,
more friendly, or more composed than her manner towards him. He
took her out-stretched hand and kissed it. It was not quite the way
in which he had pictured to himself that they would meet; but if
his imagination had taken a somewhat bolder flight in her absence,
he felt now, as she stood before him, that it had taken that flight in
vain. He kept her hand, and looked intently at her. She did not
change color, nor did that disappointing friendliness leave her steady
eyes.
“She does not love me,” he said to himself. “It is strange, but
she does not. But the day will come.”
“You are going to London, are you not?” asked Ruth, withdraw-
ing her hand at last; and after hearing a detailed account of his
difficulties and anxieties about money matters, and after taking an
immense weight off his mind by telling him that they would have
no influence in causing her to alter her decision, she sent him beam-
ing and rejoicing on his way, quite a different person to the victim
of anxiety and depression who had arrived at Slumberleigh an hour
before. -
Mrs. Alwynn was much annoyed at Dare's entire want of heart in
leaving the house without coming to see her, and during the remain-
der of the morning she did not cease to comment on the differences
that exist between what people really are and what they seem to be,
until, in her satisfaction at recounting the accident to Evelyn Dan-
vers, a new and sympathetic listener, she fortunately forgot the slight
put upon her ankle earlier in the day. The complete enjoyment of
her sufferings was, however, destined to sustain a severe shock the
following morning.
She and Ruth were reading their letters, Mrs. Alwynn, of course,
giving Ruth the benefit of the various statements respecting the
weather which her correspondents had confided to her, when Mr.
Alwynn came in from the study, an open letter in his hand. He
was quite pink with pleasure.
“He has asked me to go and see them,” he said, “and they are
small, and have green seals, all excepting one”—referring to the
letter—“which has a big red seal in a tin box, attached by a tape.
Ruth, I am perfectly convinced beforehand that those charters are
grants of land of the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Sir Charles
mentions that they are in black letter, and only a few lines on each,
but he says he won't describe them in full, as I must come and see
them for myself. Dear me! how I shall enjoy arranging them for


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 197
“Uncle John can go by himself, and we will do just what we like
while he is away, won't we?”
But at this Mrs. Alwynn demurred. She was determined that if
she played the rôle of a martyr she would do it well. She insisted
that Ruth should accompany Mr. Alwynn. She secretly looked for-
ward to telling Mabel that Ruth was going. She did not mind be-
ing left alone, she said. She desired, with a sigh of self-sacrifice,
that Mr. Alwynn should accept for himself and his niece. She had
not been brought up to consider herself, thank God! She had her
faults she knew. No one was more fully aware of them than her-
self; but she was not going to prevent others enjoying themselves
because she herself was laid aside.
“And now, my dear,” she said, with a sudden return to mundane
interests that succeeded rather unexpectedly to the celestial spirit of
her previous remarks, “you must be thinking about your gowns. If
I had been going, I should have had my ruby satin done up—so
beautiful by candle-light. What have you to wear? That white
lace tea-gown with the silver-gray train is very nice; but you ought
not to be in half mourning now. I like to see young people in col-
ors. And then there is that gold-and-white brocade, Ruth, that you
wore at the drawing-room last year. It is a beautiful dress, but
rather too quiet. Could not you brighten it up with a few cherry-
colored bows about it, or a sash? I always think a sash is so be-
coming. If you were to bring it down, I dare say I could suggest
something. And you must be well dressed, for though he only says
“friends,' you never can tell whom you may not meet at a place like
that.”
CHAPTER XVII.
THE last week of September found Charles back at Stoke More-
ton to receive the “friends” of whom Mrs. Alwynn spoke. People
whose partridges he had helped to kill were now to be gathered
from the east and from the west to help to kill his. From the
north also guests were coming, were leaving their mountains to—
But the remainder of the line is invidious. The Hope-Actons had
written to offer a visit at Stoke Moreton on the strength of an old
promise to Charles, a promise so old that he had forgotten it, until
reminded, that next time they were passing they would take his


198 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
house on their way. They had offered their visit exactly at the
same time for which he had just invited the Alwynns and Ruth.
Charles felt that they were not quite the people whom he would
have arranged to meet each other, but, as Fate had so decreed it, he
acquiesced calmly enough.
But when Lady Mary also wrote tenderly from Scarborough, to
ask if she could be of any use helping to entertain his guests, he
felt it imperative to draw the line, and wrote a grateful effusion to
his aunt, saying that he could not think of asking her to leave a
place where he felt sure she was deriving spiritual and temporal
benefit, in order to assist at so unprofitable a festivity as a shooting-
party. He mentioned casually that Lady Grace Lawrence, Miss
Deyncourt, and Miss Wyndham were to be of the party, which de-
tails he imagined might have an interest for her amid her graver
reflections.
The subject of Ruth's coming certainly had a prominent place in
his own graver reflections. For the last fortnight, as he went from
house to house, he had been wondering how he could meet her
again, and, when Mr. Alwynn's letter concerning the charters was
forwarded to him, a sudden inspiration made him then and there
send the invitation which had arrived at Slumberleigh Rectory a
few days before. He groaned in spirit as he wrote it, at the thought
of Mrs. Alwynn disporting herself, dressed in the brightest colors,
among his other guests; and it was with a feeling of thankfulness
that he found Ruth and Mr. Alwynn were coming without her.
He had felt very little interest so far in the party, which, with the
exception of the Hope-Actons, had been long arranged, but now he
found himself looking forward to it with actual impatience, and he
returned home a day before the time, instead of an hour or two be-
fore his guests were expected, as was his wont.
The Wyndhams and Hope-Actons, with Lady Grace in tow, were
the first to appear upon the scene. Mr. Alwynn and Ruth arrived a
few hours later, amid a dropping fire of young men and gun-cases,
who kept on turning up at intervals during the afternoon, and, ac-
cording to the mysterious nocturnal habits of their kind, till late
into the night.
If ever a man appears to advantage it is on his native hearth, and
as Charles stood on his in the long hall, where it was the habit of
the house to assemble before dinner, Ruth found that her attempts
at conversation were rather thrown away upon Lady Grace, with
whom she had been renewing an old acquaintance, and whose interest,
a *


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 199
for the time being, entirely centred in the carved coats of arms and
heraldic designs with which the towering white stone chimney-piece
was covered.
Lady Grace was one of those pretty, delicate creatures who remind
one of a very elaborate rose-bud. There was an appearance of ultra-
refinement about her, a look of that refinement which is in itself a
weakness, a poverty of blood, so to speak, the opposite and more
pleasing but equally unhealthy extreme of coarseness. She looked
very pretty as, having left Ruth, she stood by Charles, passing her
little pink hand over the lowest carvings, dim and worn with the
heat of many generations of fires, and listened with rapt attention
to his answers to her questions.
“And the Hall is so beautiful,” she said, looking round with child-
like curiosity at the walls covered with weapons, and with a long
array of armor, and at the massive pillars of carved white stone
which rose up out of the polished floor to meet the raftered ceiling.
“It is so—so uncommon.”
Whatever Charles's other failings may have been, he was an ad-
mirable host. The weather was fine. What can be finer than Sep-
tember when she is in a good-humor? The two first days of Ruth's
visit were unalloyed enjoyment. It seemed like a sudden return to
the old life with Lady Deyncourt, when the round of country visits
regularly succeeded the season in London. Of Mr. Alwynn she saw
little or nothing. He was buried in the newly discovered charters.
Of Charles she saw a good deal, more than at the time she was quite
aware of, for he seemed to see a great deal of everybody, from Lady
Grace to the shy man of the party, who at Stoke Moreton first con-
ceived the idea that he was an acquisition to society. But, whether
Charles made the opportunities or not which came so ready to his
hand, still he found time, amid the pressure of his shooting arrange-
ments and his duties as host, to talk to Ruth. w
One day there was cub-hunting in the gray of the early morning,
to which she and Miss Wyndham went with Charles and others of
the party who could bear to get up betimes. Losing sight of the
others after a time, Ruth and Charles rode back alone together,
when the sun was high, walking their tired horses along the black-
berried lanes, and down the long green rides cut in the yellowing
bracken of the park.
“And so you are going to winter in Rome?” said Charles, who
had the previous day, contrary to his wont, accepted an invitation
to Slumberleigh Hall for the middle of October. “I sometimes go
__


200 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
to Rome for a few weeks when the shooting is over. And are you
glad or sorry at the prospect of leaving your Cranford?”
“Very sorry.”
44 Why p"
“I have seen an entirely new phase of life at Slumberleigh.”
“I think I can guess what you mean,” said Charles, gravely.
“One does not often meet any one like Mr. Alwynn.”
“No. I was thinking of him. Until I came to Slumberleigh
the lines had not fallen to me in very clerical places, so my experi-
ence is limited; but he seems to me to be the only clergyman I
have known who does not force on one a form of religion that has
been dead and buried for years.”
“The clergy have much to answer for on that head,” said Charles
with bitterness. “I sometimes like and respect them as individuals,
but I do not love them as a class. One ought to make allowance
for the fact that they are tied and bound by the chain of their
Thirty-nine Articles; that at three-and-twenty they shut the doors
deliberately on any new and possibly unorthodox idea; and it is
consequently unreasonable to expect from them any genuine freedom
or originality of thought. I can forgive them their assumption of
superiority, their inability to meet honest scepticism with anything
like fairness, their continual bickering among themselves; but I
cannot forgive them the harm they are doing to religion, the dis-
credit they are bringing upon it by their bigoted views and obsolete
ideas. They busy themselves doing good—that is the worst of it;
they mean well, but they do not see that, in the mean while, their
Church is being left unto them desolate; though perhaps, after all,
the Church having come to be what it is, that is the best thing that
can happen.”
“There are men among the clergy who will not come under that
sweeping accusation,” said Ruth. “Look at some of the London
churches. Are they desolate 7 Goodness and earnestness will be a
power to the end of time, however narrow the accompanying creed
may be.”
“That is true, but we have heads as well as hearts. Goodness
and earnestness appeal to the heart alone. The intellect is left out
in the cold. However good and earnest, and eloquent one of these
great preachers may be, the reason we go to hear him is not only
because of that, but because he appears to be thinking in a straight
line, because he seems to recognize the long-resisted claim of the
intellect, and we hope he will have a word to say to us. He prom-
_


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 201
ises well, but listen to him a little longer, follow his thought, and
you will begin to see that he will only look for truth within a cer-
tain area, that his steps are describing an arc, that he is tethered.
Give him time enough, and you will see him tread out the complete
circle in which he and his brethren are equally bound to walk.”
“You forget,” said Ruth, “that you are regarding the Church
from the stand-point of the cultivated and intellectual class, for whom
the Church has ceased to represent religion; but there are lots of
people neither cultivated nor intellectual—women even of our own
class are not so as a rule—to whom the Church, with its ritual and
dogma, is a real help and comfort. If, as you say, it does not suit
the more highly educated, I think you have no right to demand that
it should suit what is, after all, a very small minority. It would be
most unfair if it did.”
Charles did not answer. He had been looking at her, and think-
ing how few women could have disagreed with him as quietly and
resolutely as this young girl riding at his side, carefully avoiding
chance rabbit-holes as she spoke.
“There is, and there always will be, a certain number of people,
not only among the clergy,” she went on, “who, as somebody says,
‘put the church clock back,' and are unable to see that they cannot
alter the time of day for all that; only they can and do prevent
many well-intentioned people from trusting to it any longer. But
there are others here and there whom a dogmatic form of religion
has been quite unable to spoil, whose more simple turn of mind
draws out of the very system that appears to you so lifeless and
effete, a real faith, a personal possession, which no one can take
from them.”
Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, and Charles saw that she was think-
ing of Mr. Alywnn.
“He has got it,” he said, slowly, “this something which we all
want, and for the greater part never find. He has got it. To see
and recognize it early is a great thing,” he continued, earnestly.
“To disbelieve in it in early life, and cavil at all the caricatures and
imitations, and only come to find out its reality comparatively later
on, is a great misfortune—a great misfortune.”
She felt that he was speaking of himself, and they rode on in
silence, each grave with a sense of mutual understanding and com-
panionship. They forded the stream, and trotted up the little village
street, the cottagers gazing admiringly after them till they disap-
peared within the great arched gate-way. And Charles looked at


202 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
his old house as they paced up the wide drive, and wondered whether
it were indeed possible that the lonely years he had spent in it had
come to an end at last—at last.
Ruth had noticed that he had lost no opportunity of talking to
her, and when she heard him conversing with Lady Grace, or plunging
into fashionable slang with Miss Wyndham, found herself admiring
the facility with which he adapted himself to different people.
The following afternoon, as she was writing in the library, she
was amused to see that he found it incumbent on him to write too,
even going so far as to produce a letter from Molly, whose corre-
spondence he said he invariably answered by return.
“You seem very fond of giving Molly pleasure,” said Ruth.
“I am glad to see, Miss Deyncourt, that you are beginning to
estimate me at my true worth.”
“You have it in your power just now to give a great pleasure,”
said Ruth, earnestly, laying down the pen which she had taken up.
“How " - -
“It seems so absurd when it is put into words, but—by asking
Mrs. Alwynn some time to stay here. She has always longed to see
Stoke Moreton, because—well, because Mrs. Thursby has; and real,
positive, actual tears were shed that she could not come when you
asked us.”
“Is it possible 7" said Charles. “It is the first time that any letter
of mine has caused emotion of that description.”
“Ah! you don't know how important the smallest things appear
if one lives in a little corner of the world where nothing ever hap-
pens. If Mrs. Alwynn had been able to come, her visit would have
been an event which she would have remembered for years. I as-
sure you, I myself, from having lived at Slumberleigh eight months,
became quite excited at the prospect of so much dissipation.”
And Ruth leaned back in her chair with a little laugh.
Charles looked narrowly at her and his face fell.
“I am glad you told me,” he said, after a moment's pause. “Peo-
ple generally mention these things about ten years afterwards, when
there is probably no possibility of doing anything. Thank you.”
Ruth was disconcerted by the sudden gravity of his tone, and al-
most regretted the impulse that had made her speak. She forgot
it, however, in the tableaux vivants which they were preparing for
the evening, in which she and Charles illustrated the syllable nun to
enthusiastic applause. Ruth represented the nun, engaged in con-
versation, over the lowest imaginable convent wall, with Charles, in


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 203
all the glory of his cocked hat and deputy-lieutenant's uniform, who,
while he held the nun's hand in one of his, pointed persuasively with
the other towards an elaborately caparisoned war-horse, trembling
beneath the joint weight of a yeomanry saddle and a side-saddle
attached behind it, which considerably overlapped the charger's im-
promptu fur boa tail.
After the tableauz there was dancing in acting costume, at which
the two men, who acted the war-horse between them were the only
persons to protest, Lady Grace being beautiful as an improvised
Anne Boleyn, and the shy man resplendent in a fancy dress of
Charles's.
When the third morning came, Ruth gave a genuine sigh at the
thought that it was the last day. Lady Grace, who was also leaving
the following morning, may be presumed to have echoed it with far
more sorrow. The Wyndhams were going that day, and disap-
peared down the drive, waving handkerchiefs, and carriage-rugs, and
hats on sticks, out of the carriage-windows, as is the custom of really
amusing people when taking leave.
In the afternoon, Lady Grace and Charles went off for a ride alone
together, to see some ruin in which Lady Grace had manifested a
sudden interest, the third horse, which had been brought round for
another of the men, being sent back to the stables, his destined rider
having decided, at the eleventh hour, to join the rest of the party in
a little desultory rabbit shooting in the park, which he proceeded to
do with much chuckling over his extraordinary penetration and tact.
The elder ladies went out driving, looking, as seen from an upper
window, like four poached eggs on a dish; and the coast being
clear, Ruth, who had no love of driving, escaped with her paint-box
to the garden, where she was making a sketch of Stoke Moreton.
Some houses, like people, have dignity. Stoke Moreton, with ivy
creeping up its mellow sandstone, and peeping into its long lines of
mullioned windows, stood solemn and stately amid its level gardens;
the low sun, bringing out every line of carved stone frieze and quaint
architrave, firing all the western windows, and touching the tall
heads of the hollyhocks and sunflowers, that stood in ordered regi-
ments within their high walls of clipped box. And Ruth dabbed
and looked, and dabbed again, until she suddenly found that if she
put another stroke she would spoil all, and also that her hands were
stiff with cold. After a few admiring glances at her work, she set
off on a desultory journey round the gardens to get warm, and finally,
seeing an oak door in the garden-wall open, wandered through it
*_


204 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
into the church-yard. The church door was open, too, and Ruth,
after reading some of the epitaphs on the tombstones, went in.
It was a common little church enough, with a large mortuary
chapel, where all the Danvers family reposed; ancient Danvers lying
in armor, with their mailed hands joined, beside their wives; more
modern Danvers kneeling in bass-relief in colored plaster and exe-
crable taste in recesses. The last generations were there also: some
of them anticipating the resurrection and feathered wings, but for
the most part still asleep. Charles's mother was there, lying in white
marble among her husband's people, with the child upon her arm
which she had taken away with her.
And in the middle of the chapel was the last Sir Charles Danvers,
whom his brother, Sir George, the father of the present owner, had
succeeded. The evening sun shone full on the kneeling soldier figure,
leaning on its sword, and on the grave, clear-cut face, which had a
look of Charles. The long, beautifully modelled hands, clasped over
the battered steel sword-hilt, were like Charles's too. Ruth read the
inscription on the low marble pedestal, relating how he had fallen in
the taking of the Redan, and then looked again. And gradually a
great feeling of pity rose in her heart for the family which had
lived here for so many generations, and which seemed now so likely
to die out. Providence does not seem to care much for old families,
or to value long descent. Rather it seems to favor the new race—
the Browns, and the Joneses, and the Robinsons, who yesterday were
not, and who to-day elbow the old county families from the place
which has known them from time immemorial.
“I suppose Molly will some day marry a Smith,” said Ruth to
herself, “and then it will be all over. I don't think I will come and
see her here when she is married.” -
With which reflection she returned to the house, and, after dis-
turbing Mr. Alwynn, who was deep in a catalogue of the Danvers
manuscripts, in which it was his firm conviction that he should find
some mention of the charters, she went into the library, and won-
dered which of the several thousands of books would interest her
till the others came in. -
The library was a large room, the walls of which were lined with
books from the floor to the ceiling. In order to place the higher
shelves within reach, a light balcony of polished oak ran round the
four walls, about equidistant from the floor and the ceiling. Ruth
went up the tiny corkscrew staircase in the wall, which led to the
balcony, and settling herself comfortably in the low, wide window-


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. - 207
Charles suddenly felt as if his muddy boots and cords were trying
to catch her eye, as if every book on the shelves were calling to her
to look up.
For a second Ruth and Charles gazed down upon the top of Lady
Hope-Acton's head, the bald place on which showed dimly through
her semi-transparent cap. She moved slightly, as if to go; but no,
another step was drawing near. In another moment Lady Grace
came in through the opposite door in her riding-habit.
Ruth felt that it was now or never for a warning cough; but, as
she glanced at Charles kneeling beside her, she could not give it.
Surely they would pass out in another second. The thought of the
two pairs of eyes which would be raised, and the expression in them
was intolerable.
“Grace,” said Lady Hope-Acton, with dreadful distinctness, ad-
vancing to meet her daughter, “has he spoken f"
“No,” said Lady Grace,” with a little sob; “and”—with a sudden
burst of tears—“oh, mamma, I don't think he ever will.”
Oh, to have coughed, to have sneezed, to have choked a moment
earlier' Anything would have been better than this.
“Run up-stairs this moment, then, and change your habit and
bathe your eyes,” said Lady Hope-Acton, sharply. “You need not
come down till dinner-time. I will say you are tired.”
And then, to the overwhelming relief of those two miserable
spectators, the mother and daughter left the door.
But to the momentary sensation of relief in Ruth's mind a rush
of pity succeeded for the childlike grief and tears; and with and be-
hind it, like one hurrying wave overtopping and bearing down its
predecessor, came a burning indignation against the cause of that
picturesque emotion.
It is indeed a lamentable peculiarity of our fallen nature that the
moment of relief from the smart of anxiety is seldom marked by so
complete a mental calmness and moderation as could be wished.
Ruth rose slowly, with the book still in her hand, and Charles got
off his knees as best he could, and stood with one hand on the rail-
ing of the balcony, as if to steady himself. His usually pale face
was crimson.
Ruth closed the book in silence, and with a dreadful precision put
it back in its accustomed place. Then she turned and faced him,
with the western light full upon her stern face, and another light of
contempt and indignation burning in her direct eyes.
“Poor little girl,” she said, in a low distinct voice. “What a


208 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
triumph to have succeeded in making her unhappy. She is very
oung, and she did not understand the rules of the game. Poor,
+. little girl!”
If he had been red before, he was pale enough now. He drew
himself up, and met her direct gaze without flinching. He did not
speak, and she left him standing in the window, and went slowly
along the balcony and down the little staircase into the room below.
As she was about to leave the room he moved forward suddenly,
and said,
“Miss Deyncourt!”
Involuntarily she stopped short, in obedience to the stern authority
of the tone.
“You are unjust.”
She did not answer, and left the room.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“UNCLE John,” said Ruth next morning, taking Mr. Alwynn
aside after breakfast, “we are leaving by the early train, are we
not ?”
“No, my love, it is quite impossible. I have several papers to
identify and rearrange.”
“We have stayed a day longer than we intended as it is. Most
of the others go early. Do let us go too.”
“It is most natural, I am sure, my dear, that you should wish to
get home,” said Mr. Alwynn, looking with sympathetic concern at
his niece; “and why your aunt has not forwarded your letters I
can’t imagine. But still, if we return by the mid-day train, Ruth,
you will have plenty of time to answer any letters that—ahem 1–
seem to require immediate attention, before the post goes; and I
don't see my way to being ready earlier.”
Ruth had not even been thinking of Dare and his letters; but she
saw that by the early train she was not destined to depart, and
watched the other guests take leave with an envious sigh. She was
anxious to be gone. The last evening, after the episode in the
library, had been interminably long. Already the morning, though
breakfast was hardly over, seemed to have dragged itself out to days
ngth. A sense of constraint between two people who under-


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 209
stand and amuse each other is very galling. Ruth had felt it so.
All the previous evening Charles had hardly spoken to her, and had
talked mainly to Lady Hope-Acton, who was somewhat depressed,
and another elder lady. A good-night and a flat candlestick can be
presented in a very distant manner, and as Ruth received hers from
Charles that evening, and met the grave, steady glance that was di-
rected at her, she perceived that he had not forgiven her for what
she had said. -
She felt angry again at the idea that he should venture to treat
her with a coldness which seemed to imply that she had been in the
wrong. The worst of it was that she felt she was to blame; that
she had no right whatever to criticise Charles and his actions. What
concern were they of hers? How much more suitable, how much
more eloquent a dignified silence would have been. She could not
imagine now, as she thought it over, why she had been so unreason-
ably annoyed at the moment as to say what she had done. Yet the
reason was not far to seek, if she had only known where to lay her
hand on it. She was uneasy, impatient; she longed to get out of
the house. And it was still early ; only eleven. Eleven till twelve.
Twelve till one. One till half-past. Two whole hours and a half
to be got through before the Stoke Moreton omnibus would bear
her away. She looked round for a refuge during that weary age,
and found it nearer than many poor souls do in time of need,
namely, at her elbow, in the shape, the welcome shape of the shy
man—almost the only remnant of the large party whose dispersion
she had just been watching. Whenever Ruth thought of that shy
man afterwards, which was not often, it was with a sincere hope that
he had forgotten the forwardness of her behavior on that particular
morning. She wished to see the picture-gallery. She would of all
things like a walk afterwards. No, she had not been as far as the
beech-avenue; but she would like to go. Should they look at the
pictures first—now—no time like the present? How pleased he
was How proud! He felt that his shyness had gone forever;
that Miss Deyncourt would, no doubt, like to hear a few anecdotes
of his college life; that a quiet man, who does not make himself
cheap to start with, often wins in the end; that Miss Deyncourt
had unusual appreciation, not only for pictures, but for reserved
and intricate characters that yet (here he ventured on a little
joke, and laughed at it himself) had their lighter side. And in
the long picture-gallery Ruth and he studied the old masters, as
they had seldom been studied before, with an intense and igno-
14


210 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
rant interest on the one hand, and an entire absence of mind on
the other.
Charles, who had done a good deal of pacing up and down his
room the night before, and had arrived at certain conclusions, passed
through the gallery once, but did not stop. He looked grave and
preoccupied, and hardly answered a question of Mr. Conway's about
one of the pictures.
Half-past eleven at last. A tall inlaid clock in the gallery men-
tioned the hour by one sedate stroke; the church clock told the
village the time of day a second later. They had nearly finished
the pictures. Never mind. She could take half an hour to put on
her hat, and surely any beech-avenue, even on a dull day like this
might serve to while away the remaining hour before luncheon.
They had come to the last picture of the Danvers collection, and
Ruth was dwelling fondly on a very well-developed cow by Cuyp, as
if she could hardly tear herself away from it, when she heard a step
coming up the staircase from the hall, and presently Charles pushed
open the carved folding-doors which shut off the gallery from the
rest of the house, and looked in. She was conscious that he was
standing in the door-way, but new beauties in the cow, which had
hitherto escaped her, engaged her whole attention at the moment, and
no one can attend to two things at once.
Charles did not come any farther; but, standing in the door-way,
he called to the shy man who went to him, and the two talked to-
gether for a few moments. Ruth gazed upon the cow until it be-
came so fixed upon the retina of her eye that, when she tried to ad-
mire an old Florentine cabinet near it, she still saw its portrait; and
when, in desperation, she turned away to look out of the window
across the sky and sloping park, the shadow of the cow hung like a
portent.
A moment later Mr. Conway came hurrying back to her much
perturbed, to say he had quite forgotten till this moment, had not in
the least understood, in fact, etc. Danvers' gray cob, that he had
thoughts of buying, was waiting at the door for him to try—in fact,
had been waiting some time. No idea, upon his soul—
Ruth cut his apology short before he had done more than flounder
well into it.
“You must go and try it at once,” she said with decision; and
then she added, as Charles drew near: “I have changed my mind
about going out. It looks as if it might turn to rain. I shall get
through some arrears of letter-writing instead.”


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 211
Mr. Conway stammered, and repeated himself, and finally rushed
out of the gallery. Ruth expected that Charles would accompany
him, but he remained standing near the window, apparently engaged
like herself in admiring the view.
“It struck me,” he said, slowly, with his eyes half shut, “that
Conway proved rather a broken reed just now.”
“He did,” said Ruth. She suddenly felt that she could under-
stand what it was in Charles that exasperated Lady Mary so much.
He came a step nearer, and his manner altered.
“I sent him away,” he said, looking gravely at her, “because I
wished to speak to you.” -
Ruth did not answer or turn her head, though she felt he was
watching her. Her eyes absently followed two young fallow-deer in
the park, cantering away in a series of hops on their long stiff legs.
“I cannot speak to you here,” said Charles, after a pause.
Ruth turned round. -
“Silence is golden sometimes. I think quite enough has been
said already.”
“Not by me. You expressed yourself with considerable frankness.
I wish to follow your example.” -
“You said I was unjust at the time. Surely that was sufficient.”
“So insufficient that I am going to repeat it. I tell you again that
you are unjust in not being willing to hear what I have to say. I
have seen a good deal of harm done by misunderstandings, Miss
Deyncourt. Pride is generally at the bottom of them. We are both
suffering from a slight attack of that malady now ; but I value
your good opinion too much to hesitate, if, by any little sacrifice of
my own pride, I can still retain it. If, after your remarks yesterday,
I can make the effort (and it is an effort) to ask you to hear some-
thing I wish to say, you, on your side, ought not to refuse to listen.
It is not a question of liking; you ought not to refuse.”
He spoke in an authoritative tone, which gave weight to his words,
and in spite of herself she saw the truth of what he said. She was
one of those rare women who, being convinced against their will, are
not of the same opinion still. It was ignominious to have to give
way; but, after a moment's struggle with herself, she surmounted
her dislike to being overruled, together with a certain unreasoning
tenacity of opinion natural to her sex, and said, quietly:
“What do you wish me to do?”
Charles saw the momentary struggle, and honored her for a quality
which women seldom give men occasion to honor them for. *


212 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“Do you dislike walking #"
** No.” -
“Then, if you will come out-of-doors, where there is less likelihood
of interruption than in the house, I will wait for you here.”
She went silently down the picture-gallery, half astonished to find
herself doing his bidding. She put on her walking things mechani-
cally, and came back in a few minutes to find him standing where
she had left him. In silence they went down-stairs, and through
the piazza with its flowering orange-trees, out into the gardens,
where, on the stone balustrade, the peacocks were attitudinizing and
conversing in the high key in which they always proclaim a change
of weather and their innate vulgarity to the world. Charles led the
way towards a little rushing brook which divided the gardens from
the park.
“I think you must have had a very low opinion of me beforehand
to say what you did yesterday,” he remarked, suddenly.
“I was angry,” said Ruth. “However true what I said may have
been, I had no right to say it to—a comparative stranger. That is why
I repeat that it would be better not to make matters worse by men-
tioning the subject again. It is sure to annoy us both. Let it rest.”
“Not yet,” said Charles, dryly. “As a comparative stranger, I
want to know"—stopping and facing her—“exactly what you mean
by saying that she, Lady Grace, did not understand the rules of the
game.”
“I cannot put it in other words,” said Ruth, her courage rising as
she felt that a battle was imminent.
“Perhaps I can for you. Perhaps you meant to say that you be-
lieved I was in the habit of amusing myself at other people's ex-
pense; that—I see your difficulty in finding the right words—that
it was my evil sport and pastime to—shall we say—raise expecta-
tions which it was not my intention to fulfil?”
“It is disagreeably put,” said Ruth, reddening a little; “but
possibly I did mean something of that kind.”
“And how have you arrived at such an uncharitable opinion of a
comparative stranger?” asked Charles, quietly enough, but his light
eyes flashing.
She did not answer.
“You are not a child, to echo the opinion of others,” he went on.
“You look as if you judged for yourself. What have I done since
I met you first, three months ago, to justify you in holding me in
contempt?”


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 213
“I did not say I held you in contempt.”
“You must, though, if you think me capable of such meanness.”
Silence again.
“You have pushed me into saying more than I meant,” said Ruth
at last; “at least you have said I mean a great deal more than I
really do. To be honest, I think you have thoughtlessly given a
good deal of pain. I dare say you did it unconsciously.”
“Thank you. You are very charitable, but I cannot shield myself
under the supposition that at eight-and-thirty I am a creature of im-
pulse, unconscious of the meaning of my own actions.”
“If that is the case,” thought Ruth, “your behavior to me has
been inexcusable, especially the last few days; though, fortunately
for myself, I was not deceived by it.”
“If you persist in keeping silence,” said Charles, after waiting for
her to speak, “any possibility of conversation is at an end.”
“I did not come out here for conversation,” replied Ruth. “I
came, not by my own wish, to hear something you said you particu-
larly desired to say. Do you not think the simplest thing, under the
circumstances, would be—to say it?”
He gave a short laugh, and looked at her in sheer desperation.
Did she know what she was pushing him into ?
“I had forgotten,” he said. “It was in my mind all the time;
but now you have made it easy for me indeed by coming to my
assistance in this way. I will make a fresh start.”
He compressed his lips, and seemed to pull himself together.
Then he said, in a very level voice:
“Kindly give me your whole attention, Miss Deyncourt, so that
I shall not be obliged to repeat anything. The deer are charming,
I know; but you have seen deer before, and will no doubt again. I
am sorry that I am obliged to speak to you about myself, but a little
autobiography is unavoidable. Perhaps you know that about three
years ago I succeeded my father. From being penniless, and head
over ears in debt, I became suddenly a rich man—not by my father's
will, who entailed every acre of the estates here and elsewhere on
Ralph, and left everything he could to him. I had thought of tell-
ing you what my best friends have never known, why I am not still
crippled by debt. I had thought of telling you why, at five-and-
thirty, I was still unmarried, for my debts were not the reason; but
I will not trouble you with that now. It is enough to say that I
found myself in a position which, had I been a little younger, with
rather a different past, I should have enjoyed more than I did. I


214 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
was well received in English society when, after a lapse of several
years and a change of fortune, I returned to it. If I had thought I
was well received for myself, I should have been a fool. But I came
back disillusioned. I saw the machinery. When you reflect on the
vast and intricate machinery employed by mothers with grown-up
daughters, you may imagine what I saw. In all honesty and sin-
cerity I wished to marry; but in the ease with which I saw I could
do so lay my chief difficulty. I did not want a new toy, but a com-
panion. I suppose I still clung to one last illusion, that I might
meet a woman whom I could love, and who would love me, and not
my name or income. I could not find her, but I still believed in
her. I went everywhere in the hope of meeting her, and, if others
have ever been disappointed in me, they have never known how dis-
appointed I have been in them. For three years I looked for her
everywhere, but I could not find her, and at last I gave her up.
And then I met Lady Grace Lawrence, and liked her. I had reason
to believe she could be disinterested. She came of good people—
all Lawrences are good; she was simple and unspoiled, and she
seemed to like me. When I look back I believe that I had decided
to ask her to marry me, and that it was only by the merest chance
that I left London without speaking to her. What prevented me I
hardly know, unless it was a reluctance at the last moment to cast
the die. I came down to Atherstone, harassed and anxious, tired of
everything and everybody, and there,” said Charles, with sudden
passion, turning and looking full at Ruth, “there I met you.”
The blood rushed to her face, and she hastily interposed,
“I don't see any necessity to bring my name in.”
“Perhaps not,” he returned, recovering himself instantly; “un-
fortunately, I do.”
“You expect too much of my vanity,” said Ruth, her voice trem-
bling a little; “but in this instance I don't think you can turn it to
account. I beg you will leave me out of the question.”
“I am sorry I cannot oblige you,” he said, grimly ; “but you can't
be left out. I only regret that you dislike being mentioned, because
that is a mere nothing to what is coming.”
She trusted that he did not perceive that the reason she made no
reply was because she suddenly felt herself unable to articulate. Her
heart was beating wildly, as that gentle, well conducted organ had
never beaten before. What was coming? Could this stern, deter-
mined man be the same apathetic, sarcastic being whom she had
hitherto known


216 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
She dared not look at his face, but she saw his hand clinch.
For an age neither spoke.
Then he turned his head slowly and looked at her. His face was
gray even to the lips. With a strange swift pang at the heart, she
saw how her few words had changed it.
“To whom " he said at last, hardly above a whisper.
“To Mr. Dare.”
“Not that man who has come to live at Wandon?”
44 Yes.”
Another long silence.
“When was it?”
“Ten days ago.”
“Ten days ago,” repeated Charles, mechanically, and his face
worked. “Ten days ago!” -
“It is not given out yet,” said Ruth, hesitating, “because Mr. Al-
wynn does not wish it during Lord Polesworth's absence. I never
thought of any mistake being caused by not mentioning it. I would
not have come here if I had had the least idea that—”
“You cannot mean to say that you had never seen that I–what
I—felt for you?”
“Indeed I never thought of such a thing until two minutes before
you said it. I am very sorry I did not, but I imagined—”
“Let me hear what you imagined.”
“I noticed you talked to me a good deal; but I thought you did
exactly the same to Lady Grace, and others.”
“You could not imagine that I talked to others—to any other
woman in the world—as I did to you.”
“I supposed,” said Ruth, simply, “that you talked gayly to Lady
Grace because it suited her; and more gravely to me, because I am
naturally grave. I thought at the time you were rather clever in
adapting yourself to different people so easily; and I was glad that
I understood your manner better than some of the others.”
“Better!” said Charles, bitterly. “Better, when you thought that
of me ! No, you need not say anything. I was in fault, not you.
I don't know what right I had to imagine you understood me—you
seemed to understand me—to fancy that we had anything in common,
that in time—” He broke into a low wretched laugh. “And all
the while you were engaged to another man Good God, what a
farcel what a miserable mistake from first to last !”
Ruth said nothing. It was indeed a miserable mistake,
He rose wearily to his feet.


218 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
Ruth was only too thankful to be allowed to slip on tiptoe to her
own room, but she had not been there many minutes when a tap
came to the door.
“There, my dear,” said Mr. Alwynn, putting his head in, and hold-
ing some letters towards her. “Your aunt ought to have forwarded
them. I brought them up at once. And there is nearly an hour
to post-time, and she won't expect you to come down till then. I
think the headache will be better now, eh?”
He nodded kindly to her, and closed the door again. Ruth sat
down mechanically, and began to sort the packet he had put into her
hands. The first three letters were in the same handwriting, Dare's
large vague handwriting, that ran from one end of the envelope to
the other, and partly hid itself under the stamp.
She looked at them, but did not open them. A feeling of in-
tense lassitude and fatigue had succeeded to the unconscious excite-
ment of the morning. She could not read them now. They must
wait with the others. Presently she could feel an interest in them ;
not now.
She leaned her head upon her hand, and a rush of pity swept away
every other feeling as she recalled that last look at Stoke Moreton,
and how Charles had turned so slowly and wearily to go in-doors.
There was an ache at her heart as she thought of him, a sense of re-
gret and loss. And he had loved her all the time !
“If I had only known!” she said to herself, pressing her hands
against her forehead. “But how could I tell—how could I tell ?”
She raised her head with a sudden movement, and began with ner-
vous fingers to open Dare's letters, and read them carefully.
CHAPTER XIX.
In the long evening that followed Ruth's departure from Stoke
Moreton, Charles was alone for once in his own home. He was leav-
ing again early on the morrow, but for the time he was alone, and
heavy at heart. He sat for hours without stirring, looking into the
fire. He had no power or will to control his thoughts. They wan-
dered hither and thither, and up and down, never for a moment
easing the dull miserable pain that lay beneath them all.
Fool | fool that he had been


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 219
To have found her after all these years, and to have lost her with-
out a stroke! To have let another take her, and such a man as
Dare To have such a fool's manner that he was thought to be in
earnest when he was least so; that now, when his whole future hung
in the balance, retribution had overtaken him, and with bitter irony
had mocked at his earnestness and made it of none effect. She had
thought it was his natural manner to all! His cursed folly had lost
her to him. If she had known, surely it would have been, it must
have been different. At heart Charles was a very humble man,
though it was not to be expected many would think so; but never-
theless he had a deep, ever-deepening consciousness (common to the
experience of the humblest once in a lifetime) that between him and
Ruth that mysterious link of mutual understanding and sympathy
existed which cannot be accounted for, which eludes analysis, which
yet makes, when the sex happens to be identical, the indissoluble
friendship of a David and a Jonathan, a Karlos and a Posa; and,
where there is a difference of sex, brings about that rarest wonder
of the world, a happy marriage.
Like cleaves to like. He knew she would have loved him. She
was his by right. The same law of attraction which had lifted them
at once out of the dreary flats of ordinary acquaintanceship would
have drawn them ever closer and closer together till they were knit in
one. He knew, with a certainty that nothing could shake, that he
could have made her love him, even as he loved her; unconsciously
at first, slowly perhaps—for the current of strong natures, like that
of deep rivers, is sometimes slow. Still the end would have been
the same.
And he had lost her by his own act, by his own heedless folly;
her want of vanity having lent a hand the while to put her beyond
his reach forever.
It was a bitter hour.
And as he sat late into the night beside the fire, that died down
to dust and ashes before his absent eyes, ghosts of other heavy
hours, ghosts of the past, which he had long since buried out of his
sight, came back and would not be denied.
To live much in the past, is a want of faith in the Power that
gives the present. Comparatively few men walk through their lives
looking backward. Women more frequently do so from a false
estimate of life fostered by romantic feeling in youth, which leads
them, if the life of the affections is ended, resolutely to refuse to
regard existence in any other maturer aspect, and to persist in wan-


220 SIR CHARLEs DANVERs.
dering aimlessly forward, with eyes turned ever on the dim flowery
paths of former days.
“Let the dead past bury its dead.”
But there comes a time, when the grass has grown over those
graves, when we may do well to go and look at them once more;
to stand once again in that solitary burial-ground, “where,” as an
earnest man has said, “are buried broken vows, worn-out hopes, joys
blind and deaf, faiths betrayed or gone astray–lost, lost love; silent
spaces where only one mourner ever comes.”
And to the last retrospective of us our dead past yet speaks at
times, and speaks as one having authority.
Such a time had come for Charles now. From the open grave of
his love for Ruth he turned to look at others by which he had stood
long ago, in grief as sharp, but which yet in all its bitterness had
never struck as deep as this.
Memory pointed back to a time twenty years ago, when he had
hurried home through a long summer night to arrive at Stoke More-
ton too late; to find only the solemn shadow of the mother whom
he had loved, and whom he had grieved; too late to ask for forgive-
ness; too late for anything but a wild passion of grief and remorse,
and frantic self-accusation.
The scene shifted to ten years later. It was a sultry July evening
of the day on which the woman whom he had loved for years had
married his brother. He was standing on the deck of the steamer
which was taking him from England, looking back at the gray town
dwindling against the tawny curtain of the sunset. In his brain was
a wild clamor of wedding-bells, and across the water, marking the
pulse of the sea, came to his outward ears the slow tolling of a bell
on a sunken rock near the harbor mouth.
It seemed to be tolling for the death of all that remained of good
in him. In losing Evelyn, whom he had loved with all the idealism
and reverence of a reckless man for a good woman, he believed, in
the bitterness of his spirit, that he had lost all; that he had been
cut adrift from the last mooring to a better future, that nothing
could hold him back now. And for a time it had been so, and he
had drowned his trouble in a sea in which he wellnigh drowned
himself as well.
Once more memory pointed—pointed across five dark years to an
evening when he had sat as he was sitting now, alone by the wide
stone hearth in the hall at Stoke Moreton, after his father's death,
and after the reading of the will. He was the possessor of the old


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 221
home, which he had always passionately loved, from which he had
been virtually banished so long. His father, who had never liked
him, but who of late years had hated him as men only hate their
eldest sons, had left all in his power to his second son, had entailed
every acre of the Stoke Moreton and other family properties upon
him and his children. Charles could touch nothing, and over him
hung a millstone of debt, from which there was now no escape. He
sat with his head in his hands—the man whom his friends were envy-
ing on his accession to supposed wealth and position—ruined.
A few days later he was summoned to London by a friend whom
he had known for many years. He remembered well that last meet-
ing with the stern old man whom he had found sitting in his arm-
chair with death in his face. He had once or twice remonstrated
with Charles in earlier days, and as he came into his presence now
for the last time, and met his severe glance, he supposed, with the
callousness that comes from suffering which has reached its lowest
depths, that he was about to rebuke him again.
“And so,” said General Marston, sternly, “you have come into
your kingdom; into what you deserve.”
“Yes,” said Charles. “If it is any pleasure to you to know that
what you prophesied on several occasions has come true, you can
enjoy it. I am ruined "
“You fool!” said the sick man slowly. “To have come to five-
and-thirty, and to have used up everything which makes life worth
having. I am not speaking only of money. There is a bankruptcy
in your face that money will never pay. And you had talent and a
good heart and the making of a man in you once. I saw that when
your father turned you adrift. I saw that when you were at your
worst after your brother's marriage. Yes, you need not start. I
knew your secret and kept it as well as you did yourself. I tried to
stop you; but you went your own way.”
, Charles was silent. It was true, and he knew it.
“And so you thought, I suppose, that if your father had made a
just will you could have retrieved yourself?”
“I know I could,” said Charles, firmly; “but he left the shire
property to Ralph, and every shilling of his capital; and Ralph had
my mother's fortune already. I have Stoke Moreton and the place
in Surrey, which he could not take from me, but everything is en-
tailed, down to the trees in the park. I have nominally a large in-
come; but I am in the hands of the Jews. I can't settle with them
as I expected, and they will squeeze me to the uttermost. However,


224 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“Let it then be given out,” he said, impetuously. “Ah! why
already is it not given out?”
She explained again, but it was difficult to make him understand,
and she felt conscious that if he would have allowed her the tempo-
rary use of one hand to release a fly, which was losing all self-control
inside her veil, she might have been more lucid. As it was, she at
last made him realize the fact that, until Lord Polesworth's return
from America in November, no further step was to be taken.
“But all is right,” he urged with pride. “I have seen my law-
yer; I make a settlement. I raise money on the property to make
a settlement. There is nothing I will not do. I care for nothing
only to marry.you.”
Ruth led him to talk of other things. She was very gentle with
him, always attentive, always ready to be interested; but any one
less self-centred than Dare would have had a misgiving about her
feeling for him. He had none. Half his life he had spent in Paris,
and, imbued with French ideas of betrothal and marriage, he thought
her manner at once exceedingly becoming and natural. She was re-
served, but reserve was charming. She did not care for him very
much perhaps, as yet, but as much as she could care for any one.
Most men think that if a woman does not attach herself to them she
is by nature cold. Dare was no exception to the rule; and though
he would have preferred that there should be less constraint in their
present intercourse, that she would be a little more shy, and a little
less calm, still he was supremely happy and proud, and only longed
to proclaim the fortunate state of his affairs to the world.
One thing about Ruth puzzled him very much, and with a vague
misgiving she saw it did so. Her interest in the Wandon cottages,
and the schools, and the new pump, had been most natural up to this
time. It had served to bring them together; but now the use of
these things was past, and yet he observed, with incredulity at first
and astonishment afterwards, that she clung to them more than
ever.
What mattered it for the moment whether the pump was put up
or not, or whether the cottages by the river were protected from the
floods? Of course in time, for he had promised, a vague something
would be done; but why in the golden season of love and plighted
faith revert to prosaic subjects such as these?
Some men are quite unable to believe in any act of a woman being
genuine. They always find out that it has something to do with
them. If an angel came down from heaven to warn a man of this


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 225
kind of wrath to come, he would think the real object of her journey
was to make his acquaintance.
Ruth saw the incredulity in Dare's face when she questioned him,
and her heart sank within her. It sank yet lower when she told him
one day, with a faint smile, that she knew he was not rich, and that
she wanted him to let her help in the rebuilding of certain cottages,
the plans of which he had brought over in the summer, but which
had not yet been begun, apparently for the want of funds.
“What you cannot do alone we can do together,” she said.
He agreed with effusion. He was surprised, flattered, delighted,
but entirely puzzled.
The cottages were begun immediately. They were near the river,
which divided the Slumberleigh and Wandon properties. Ruth often
went to look at them. It did her good to see them rising, strong
and firm, though hideous to behold, on higher ground than the poor
dilapidated hovels at the water's edge, where fever was always break-
ing out, which yet made, as they supported each other in their crook-
edness, and leaned over their own wavering reflections, such a pictur-
esque sketch that it seemed a shame to supplant them by such brand
new red brick, such blue tiling, such dreadful little porches.
Ruth drew the old condemned cottages, with the long lines of pol-
larded marshy meadow, and distant bridge and mill in the background,
but it was a sketch she never cared to look at afterwards. She was
constantly drawing now. There was a vague restlessness in her at
this time that made her take refuge in the world of nature, where
the mind can withdraw itself from itself for a time into a stronghold
where misgiving and anxiety cannot corrupt, nor self break through
and steal. In these days she shut out self steadfastly, and fixed her
eyes firmly on the future, as she herself had made it with her own
hands. -
She had grown very grave of late. Dare's high spirits had the
effect of depressing her more than she would allow, even to herself.
She liked him. She told herself so every day, and it was a pleasure
to her to see him so happy. But when she had accepted him he was
so diffident, so quiet, so anxious, that she had not realized that he
would return to his previous happy self-confidence, his volubility, his
gray hats—in fact, his former gay self—directly his mind was at ease
and he had got what he wanted. She saw at once that the change
was natural, but she found it difficult to keep pace with, and the ef-
fort to do so was a constant strain.
She had yet to learn that it is hard to live for those who live for
15


226 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
*
self. Between a nature which struggles, however feebly, towards a
higher life, and one whose sole object is gracefully and good-na-
turedly, but persistently to enjoy itself, there is a great gulf fixed, of
which often neither are aware, until they attempt a close relationship
with each other, when the chasm reveals itself with appalling clear-
ness to the higher nature of the two.
Ruth was glad when a long-standing engagement to sing at a pri-
vate concert in one place, and sell modern knick-knacks in old English
costume at another, took her from Slumberleigh for a week. She
looked forward to the dreary dissipation in store for her with posi-
tive gladness; and when the week had passed, and she was returning
once more, she wished the stations would not fly so quickly past, that
the train would not hurry itself so unnecessarily to bring her back
to Slumberleigh.
As the little local line passed Stoke Moreton station she looked out
for a moment, but leaned back hurriedly as she caught a glimpse of
the Danvers omnibus in the background, with its great black horses,
and a footman with a bag standing on the platform. In another mo-
ment Mrs. Alwynn, followed by the footman, made a dart at Ruth's
carriage, jumped in, seized the bag, repeated voluble thanks, pressed
half her gayly dressed person out again through the window to ascer-
tain that her boxes were put in the van, caught her veil in the venti-
lator as the train started, and finally precipitated herself into a seat
on her bag, as the motion destroyed her equilibrium.
“Well, Aunt Fanny " said Ruth.
“Why, goodness gracious, my dear, if it isn't you! And, now I
think of it, you were to come home to-day. Well, how oddly things
fall out, to be sure, me getting into your carriage like that. And
you'll never guess, Ruth, though for that matter there's nothing so
very astonishing about it, as I told Mrs. Thursby, you'll never guess
where I’ve been visiting.” -
Ruth remembered seeing the Danvers omnibus at the station, and
suddenly remembered, too, a certain request which she had once made
of Charles.
“Where can it have been 7" she said, with a great show of curi-
osity.
“You will never guess,” said Mrs. Alwynn, in high glee. “I shall
have to help you. You remember my sprained ankle There! Now
I have as good as told you.”
But Ruth would not spoil her aunt's pleasure; and after numer-
ous guesses, Mrs. Alwynn had the delight of taking her competely


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 227
by surprise, when at last she leaned forward and said, with a rustle
of pride, emphasizing each word with a pat on Ruth's knee:
“I’ve been to Stoke Moreton.”
“How delightful!” ejaculated Ruth. “How astonished I am
Stoke Moreton "
“You may well say that,” said Mrs. Alwynn, nodding to her.
“Mrs. Thursby would not believe it at first, and afterwards she said
she was afraid there would not be any party; but there was, Ruth.
There was a married couple, very nice people, of the name of Reyn-
olds. I dare say, being London people, you may have known them.
She had quite the London look about her, though not dressed low of
an evening; and he was a clergyman, who had overworked himself,
and had come down to Stoke Moreton to rest, and had soup at lunch-
eon. And there was another person besides, a Colonel Middleton, a
very clever man, who wrote a book that was printed, and had been
in India, and was altogether most superior. We were three gentle-
men and two ladies, but we had ices each night, Ruth, two kinds of
ices; and the second night I wore my ruby satin, and the clergyman at
Stoke Moreton, that nice young Mr. Brown, who comes to your uncle's
chapter meetings, dined, with his sister, a very pleasing person indeed,
Ruth, in black. In fact, it was a very pleasant little gathering, so
nice and informal, and the footman did not wait at luncheon, just put
the pudding and the hot plates down to the fire; and Sir Charles so
chatty and so full of his jokes, and I always liked to hear him, though
my scent of humor is not quite the same as his. Sir Charles has a
feeling heart, Ruth. You should have heard Mr. Reynolds talk about
him. But he looked very thin and pale, my dear, and he seemed to
be always so tired, but still as pleasant as could be. And I told him
he wanted a wife to look after him, and I advised him to have an egg
beaten up in ever such a little drop of brandy at eleven o'clock, and
he said he would think about it, he did indeed, Ruth ; so I just went
quietly to the house-keeper and asked her to see to it, and a very sen-
sible person she was, Ruth, been in the family twenty years, and thinks
all the world of Sir Charles, and showed me the damask table-cloths
that were used for the prince's visit, and the white satin coverlet, em-
broidered with gold thistles, quite an heirloom, which had been worked
by the ladies of the house when James I. slept there. Think of that,
my dear!”
And so Mrs. Alwynn rambled on, recounting how Charles had
shown her all the pictures himself, and the piazza where the orange
and myrtle trees were, and how she and Mrs. Reynolds had gone


228 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
for a drive together, “in a beautiful landau,” etc., till they reached
home.
As a rule Ruth rather shrank from travelling with Mrs. Alwynn,
who always journeyed in her best clothes, “because you never know
whom you may not meet.” To stand on a platform with her was to
be made conspicuous, and Ruth generally found herself unconscious-
ly going into half mourning for the day, when she went anywhere
by rail with her aunt. To-day Mrs. Alwynn was more gayly dressed
than ever, but as Ruth looked at her beaming face she felt nothing
but a strange pleasure in the fact that Charles had not forgotten the
little request which later events had completely effaced from her own
memory. He, it seemed, had remembered, and, in spite of what had
passed, had done what she asked him. She wished that she could
have told him she was grateful. Alas! there were other things that
she wished she could have told him; that she was sorry she had mis-
judged him; that she understood him better now. But what did it
matter? What did it matter? She was going to marry Dare, and he
was the person whom she must try to understand for the remainder
of her natural life. She thought a little wearily that she could un-
derstand him without trying.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE 18th of October had arrived. Slumberleigh Hall was filling.
The pheasants, reprieved till then, supposed it was only for partridge
shooting, and thinking no evil, ate Indian-corn, and took no thought
for the annual St. Bartholomew of their race.
Mabel Thursby had met Ruth out walking that day, and had in-
formed her that Charles was to be one of the guns, also Dare, though,
as she remembered to add, suspecting Dare admired Ruth, the latter
was a bad shot, and was only asked out of neighborly feeling.
After parting with Mabel, Ruth met, almost at her own gate, Ralph
Danvers, who passed her on horseback, and then turned on recogniz-
ing her. Ralph's conversational powers were not great, and though
he walked his horse beside her, he chiefly contented himself with as-
senting to Ruth's remarks until she asked after Molly.
He at once whistled and flicked a fly off his horse's neck.


230 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“He is dead, Uncle Charles. He was quite well, and eating Al-
bert biscuits with the dolls this morning, and now—” The rest was
too dreadful, and Molly burst into a flood of tears, and burrowed
with her head against the faithful waistcoat of Uncle Charles—Un-
cle Charles, the friend, the consoler of all the ills that Molly had so
far been heir to.
“Vic had a very happy life, Molly,” said Charles, pressing the lit-
tle brown head against his cheek, and vaguely wondering what it
would be like to have any one to turn to in time of trouble.
“I always kept trouble from him except that time I shut him in
the door,” gasped Molly. “I never took him out in a string, and
he only wore his collar—that collar you gave him, that made him
scratch so—on Sundays.”
“And he was not ill a long time. He did not suffer any pain?”
“No, Uncle Charles, not much; but, though he did not say any-
thing, his face looked worse than screaming, and he passed away very
stiff in his hind-legs. Oh!” (with a fresh outburst), “when cook
told me that her sister that was in a decline had gone, I never thought”
(sob, sob!) “poor Vic would be the next.”
A step came along the passage, a firm light step that Charles
knew, that made his heart beat violently.
The door opened and a familiar voice said:
“Molly! My poor Molly! I met father, and—”
Ruth stood in the door-way, and stopped short. A wave of color
passed over her face, and left it paler than usual.
Charles looked at her over the mop of Molly's brown head against
his breast. Their grave eyes met, and each thought how ill the other
looked.
“I did not know—I thought you were going to Slumberleigh to-
day,” said Ruth.
“I go to-morrow morning,” replied Charles. “I came here first.”
There was an awkward silence, but Molly came to their relief by
a sudden rush at Ruth, and a repetition of the details of the death-
bed scene of poor Vic for her benefit, for which both were grateful.
“You ought to be thinking where he is to be buried, Molly,” sug-
gested Charles, when she had finished. “Let us go into the garden
and find a place.”
Molly revived somewhat at the prospect of a funeral, and though
Ruth was anxious to leave her with her uncle, insisted on her remain-
ing for the ceremony. They went out together, Molly holding a
hand of each, to choose a suitable spot in the garden. By the time


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 231
the grave had been dug by Charles, Molly was sufficiently recovered
to take a lively interest in the proceedings, and to insist on the at-
tendance of the stable-cat, in deep mourning, when the remains of
poor Vic, arrayed in his best collar, were lowered into their long home.
By the time the last duties to the dead had been performed, and
Charles, under Molly's direction, had planted a rose-tree on the grave,
while Ruth surrounded the little mound with white pebbles, Molly's
tea-time had arrived, and that young lady allowed herself to be led
away by the nursery-maid, with the stable-cat in a close embrace, re-
signed, and even cheerful at the remembrance of those creature com-
forts of cook's, which earlier in the day she had refused so peremp-
torily.
When Molly left them, Ruth and Charles walked together in si-
lence to the garden-gate which led to the foot-path over the fields by
which she had come. Neither had a word to say, who formerly had
so much. -
“Good-bye,” she said, without looking at him.
He seemed intent on the hasp of the gate.
There was a moment's pause.
“I should like,” said Ruth, hating herself for the formality of her
tone, “to thank you before I go for giving Mrs. Alwynn so much
pleasure. She still talks of her visit to you. It was kind of you to
remember it. So much seems to have happened since then, that I
had not thought of it again.”
At her last words Charles raised his eyes and looked at her with
strange wistful intentness, but when Ruth had finished speaking he
had no remark to make in answer; and as he stood, bareheaded by
the gate, twirling the hasp and looking, as a hasty glance told her,
so worn and jaded in the sunshine, she said “Good-bve” again, and
turned hastily away.
And all along the empty harvested fields, and all along the lanes,
where the hips and haws grew red and stiff among the ruddy hedge-
rows, Ruth still saw Charles's grave, worn face.
That night she saw it still, as she sat in her own room. and listened
to the whisper of the rain upon the roof, and the touch of its myri-
ad fingers on the window-panes.
“I cannot bear to see him look like that. I cannot bear it,” she
said, suddenly, and the storm which had been gathering so long, the
clouds of which had darkened the sky for so many days, broke at
last, with a strong and mighty wind of swift emotion which carried
all before it.


232 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
It was a relief to give way, to let the tempest do its worst, and re-
main passive. But when its force was spent at last, and it died away
in gusts and flying showers, it left flood and wreckage and desolation
behind. When Ruth raised her head and looked about her, all her
landmarks were gone. There was a streaming glory in the heavens,
but it shone on the ruin of all her little world below. She loved
Charles, and she knew it. It seemed to her now as if, though she
had not realized it, she must have loved him from the first; and
with the knowledge came an overwhelming sense of utter misery
that struck terror to her heart. She understood at last the mean-
ing of the weariness and the restless misgivings of these last weeks.
If heretofore they had spoken in riddles, they spoke plainly now.
Every other feeling in the world seemed to have been swept away
by a passion, the overwhelming strength of which she regarded panic-
stricken. She seemed to have been asleep all her life, to have stirred
restlessly once or twice of late, and now to have waked to conscious-
ness and agony. Love, with women like Ruth, is a great happiness
or a great calamity. It is with them indeed for better, for worse.
Those whose feelings lie below the surface escape the hundred
rubs and scratches which superficial natures are heir to; but it is the
nerve which is not easily reached which when touched gives forth
the sharpest pang. Nature, when she gives intensity of feeling,
mercifully covers it well with a certain superficial coldness. Ruth
had sometimes wondered why the incidents, the books, which called
forth emotion in others, passed her by. The vehement passion
which once or twice in her life she had involuntarily awakened in
others had met with no response from herself. The sight of the fire
she had unwittingly kindled only made her shiver with cold. She
believed herself to be cold—always a dangerous assumption on the
part of a woman, and apt to prove a broken reed in emergency.
Charles knew her better than she knew herself. Her pride and
unconscious humble-mindedness, her frankness with its underlying
reserve, spoke of a strong nature, slow, perhaps, but earnest, constant,
and, once roused, capable of deep attachment.
And now the common lot had befallen her, the common lot of
man and womankind since Adam first met Eve in the Garden of
Eden. Ruth was not exempt.
She loved Charles.
When the dawn came up pale and tearful to wake the birds, it
found her still sitting by her window, sitting where she had sat all


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 233.
night, looking with blank eyes at nothing. Creep into bed, Ruth,
for already the sparrows are all waking, and their cheerful greetings
to the new day add weariness to your weariness. Creep into bed,
for soon the servants will be stirring, and before long Martha, who
has slept all night, and thinks your lines have fallen to you in pleas-
ant places and late hours, will bring the hot water.
CHAPTER XXII.
RESERVED people pay dear for their reserve when they are in
trouble, when the iron enters into their soul, and their eyes meet the
eyes of the world tearless, unflinching, making no sign.
Enviable are those whose sorrows are only pen and ink deep, who
take every one into their confidence, who are comforted by sympa-
thy, and fly to those who will weep with them. There is an utter
solitude, a silence in the grief of a proud, reserved nature, which
adds a frightful weight to its intensity; and when the night comes,
and the chamber door is shut, who shall say what agonies of prayers
and tears, what prostrations of despair, pass like waves over the soul
to make the balance even 3
As a rule, the kindest and best of people seldom notice any alter-
ation of appearance or manner in one of their own family. A stran-
ger points it out, if ever it is pointed out, which, happily, is not of-
ten, unless, of course, in cases where advice has been disregarded,
and the first symptom of ill health is jealously watched for and tri-
umphantly hailed by those whose mission in life it is to say, “I told
you so.”
Mrs. Alwynn, whose own complaints were of so slight a nature
that they had to be constantly referred to to give them any impor-
tance at all, was not likely to notice that Ruth's naturally pale com-
plexion had become several degrees too pale during the last two
days, or that she had dark rings under her eyes. Besides, only the
day before, had not Mrs. Alwynn, in cutting out a child's shirt, cut
out at the same time her best drawing-room table-cloth as well,
which calamity had naturally driven out of her mind every other
subject for the time !
Ruth had proved unsympathetic, and Mrs. Alwynn had felt her to
be so. The next day, also, when Mrs. Alwynn had begun to talk


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 235
at the lodge at Arleigh, who was still ill, she at last effected her es-
cape out of the room and out of the house.
The air was fresh and clear, though cold. The familiar fields and
beaded hedge-rows, the red land, new ploughed, where the plovers
hovered, the gray broken sky above, soothed Ruth like the presence
of a friend, as Nature, even in her commonest moods, has ministered
to many a one who has loved her before Ruth's time.
Our human loves partake always of the nature of speculations.
We have no security for our capital (which, fortunately, is seldom
so large as we suppose), but the love of Nature is a sure investment,
which she repays a thousandfold, which she repays most prodigally
when the heart is bankrupt and full of bitterness, as Ruth's heart
was that day. For in Nature, as Wordsworth says, “there is no bit-
terness,” that worst sting of human grief. And as Ruth walked
among the quiet fields, and up the yellow aisles of the autumn glades
to Arleigh, Nature spoke of peace to her—not of joy or of happi-
ness as in old days, for she never lies as human comforters do, and
these had gone out of her life; but of the peace that duty steadfast-
ly adhered to will bring at last—the peace that after much turmoil
will come in the end to those who, amid a Babel of louder tongues,
hear and obey the low-pitched voices of conscience and of principle.
For it never occurred to Ruth for a moment to throw over Dare
and marry Charles. She had given her word to Dare, and her word
was her bond. It was as much a matter of being true to herself as
to him. It was very simple. There were no two ways about it in
her mind. The idea of breaking off her engagement was not to be
thought of. It would be dishonorable.
We often think that if we had been placed in the same difficulties
which we see overwhelm others, we could have got out of them.
Just so; we might have squeezed, or wriggled, or crept out of a
position from which another who would not stoop could not have
escaped. People are differently constituted. Most persons with
common-sense can sink their principles temporarily at a pinch; but
others there are who go through life prisoners on parole to their
sense of honor or duty. If escape takes the form of a temptation,
they do not escape. And Ruth, walking with bent head beneath
the swaying trees, dreamed of no escape.
She soon reached the little lodge, the rusty gates of which barred
the grass-grown drive to the shuttered, tenantless old house at a lit-
tle distance. It was a small gray stone house of many gables, and
low lines of windows, that if inhabited would have possessed but


238 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
“Some questions have no answers,” said Ruth, steadily, looking
away from him. “At least, the questions that ought not to be asked
have none.”
“I will not ask any more, then. Perhaps, as you say, I have no
right. You won't tell me whether you are unhappy, but your face
tells me so in spite of you. It told me so two days ago, and I have
thought of it every hour of the day and night since.”
She gathered herself together for a final effort to stop what she
knew was coming, and said, desperately:
“I don't know how it is. I don't mean it, and yet everything I
say to you seems so harsh and unkind; but I think it would have
been better not to come here, and I think it would be better, better
for us both, if you would go away now.”
Charles's face became set and very white. Then he put his fort-
une to the touch. -
“You are right,” he said. “I will go away—for good; I will
never trouble you again, when you have told me that you do not love
me.”
The color rushed into her face, and then died slowly away again,
even out of the tightly compressed lips.
There was a long silence, in which he waited for a reply that did
not come. At last she turned and looked him in the face. Who has,
said that light eyes cannot be impassioned? Her deep eyes, dark
with the utter blankness of despair, fell before the intensity of his.
He leaned towards her, and with gentle strength put his arm round
her, and drew her to him. His voice came in a broken whisper of
passionate entreaty close to her ear.
“Ruth, I love you, and you love me. We belong to each other.
We were made for each other. Life is not possible apart. It must
be together, Ruth, always together, always—” and his voice broke
down entirely.
Surely he was right. A love such as theirs overrode all petty bar-
riers of every-day right and wrong, and was a law unto itself. Sure-
ly it was vain to struggle against Fate, against the soft yet mighty
current which was sweeping her away beyond all landmarks, beyond
the sight of land itself, out towards an infinite sea.
And the eyes she loved looked into hers with an agony of entreaty,
and the voice she loved spoke of love, spoke brokenly of unworthiness,
and an unhappy past, and of a brighter future, a future with her.
Her brain reeled; her reason had gone. Let her yield now. Sure-
ly, if only she could think, if the power to think had not deserted


240 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
Charles saw for the first time, with a sudden frightful contraction
of the heart, that her will was as strong as his own. He had staked
everything on one desperate appeal to her feelings; he had carried
the outworks, and now another adversary—her conscience—rose up
between him and her.
“A marriage without love is a sin,” he said, quietly. “If you had
lived in the world as long as I have, and had seen what marriage
without love means, and what it generally comes to in the end, you
would know that I am speaking the truth. You have no right to
marry Dare if you care for me. Hesitate, and it will be too late!
Break off your engagement now. Do you suppose,” with sudden
fire, “that we shall cease to love each other; that I shall be able to
cease to love you for the rest of my life because you are Dare's wife?
What is done can't be undone. Our love for each other can't. It is
no good shutting your eyes to that. Look the facts in the face, and
don't deceive yourself into thinking that the most difficult course is
necessarily the right one.”
He turned from her, and sat down on the bench again, his chin
in his hands, his haggard eyes fastened on her face. He had said
his last word, and she felt that when she spoke it would be her last
word too. Neither could bear much more.
“All you say sounds right, at first,” she said, after a long silence,
and as she spoke Charles's hands dropped from his face and clinched
themselves together; “but I cannot go by what any one thinks un-
less I think so myself as well. I can't take other people's judgments.
When God gave us our own, he did not mean us to shirk using it.
What you say is right, but there is something which after a little bit
seems more right — at least, which seems so to me. I cannot look
at the future. I can only see one thing distinctly, now in the pres-
ent, and that is that I cannot break my word. I never have been
able to see that a woman's word is less binding than a man's. When
I said I would marry him, it was of my own free-will. I knew what
I was doing, and it was not only for his sake I did it. It is not as
if he believed I cared for him very much. Then, perhaps—but he
knows I don’t, and—he is different from other men—he does not
seem to mind. I knew at the time that I accepted him for the sake
of other things, which are just the same now as they were then:
because he was poor and I had money; because I felt sure he would
never do much by himself, and I thought I could help him, and my
money would help too; because the people at Vandon are so wretch-
ed, and their cottages are tumbling down, and there is no one who


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. - 241
lives among them and cares about them. I can't make it clear, and
I did hesitate; but at the time it seemed wrong to hesitate. If it
seemed so right then, it cannot be all wrong now, even if it has be-
come hard. I cannot give it all up. He is building cottages that I.
am to pay for, that I asked to pay for. He cannot. And he has
promised so many people their houses shall be put in order, and they
all believe him. And he can't do it. If I don't, it will not be done;
and some of them are very old—and—and the winter is coming.”
Ruth's voice had become almost inaudible. “Oh, Charles | Charles I’’
she said, brokenly, “I cannot bear to hurt you. God knows I love
you. I think I shall always love you, though I shall try not. But
I cannot go back now from what I have undertaken. I cannot
break my word. I cannot do what is wrong, even for you. Oh,
God! not even for you !”
She knelt down beside him, and took his clinched hands between
her own; but he did not stir.
“Not even for you,” she whispered, while two hot tears fell upon
his hands. In another moment she had risen swiftly to her feet,
and had left him.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHARLEs sat quite still where Ruth had left him, looking straight
in front of him. He had not thought for a moment of following
her, of speaking to her again. Her decision was final, and he knew
it. And now he also knew how much he had built upon the wild
new hope of the last two days.
Presently a slight discreet cough broke upon his ear, apparently
close at hand.
He started up, and, wheeling round in the direction of the sound,
called out, in sudden anger, “Who is there?”
If there is a time when we feel that a fellow-creature is entirely
out of harmony with ourselves, it is when we discover that he has
overheard or overseen us at a moment when we imagined we were
alone, or—almost alone.
Charles was furious.
“Come out !” he said, in a tone that would have made any ordi-
nary creature stay as far in as it could. And hearing a slight crack-
*_
16


242 SIR CHARLES DANVERS,
ling in the nearest horse-box, of which the door stood open, he shook
the door violently.
“Come out,” he repeated, “this instant!”
“Stop that noise, then,” said a voice sharply from the inside,
“and keep quiet. By , a violent temper, what a thing it is;
always raising a dust, and kicking up a row, just when it's least
wanted.”
The voice made Charles start.
“Great God!” he said, “it’s not—”
“Yes, it is,” was the reply; “and when you have taken a seat on
the farther end of that bench, and recovered your temper, I'll show,
and not before.”
Charles walked to the bench and sat down.
“You can come out,” he said, in a carefully lowered voice, in which
there was contempt as well as anger.
Accordingly there was a little more crackling among the fagots,
and a slight, shabbily dressed man came to the door and peered
warily out, shading his blinking eyes with his hand.
“If there is a thing I hate,” he said, with a curious mixture of
recklessness and anxiety, “it is a noise. Sit so that you face the
left, will you, and I'll look after the right, and if you see any one
coming you may as wall mention it. I am only at home to old
friends.”
He took his hand from his eyes as they became more accustomed
to the light, and showed a shrewd, dissipated face, that yet had a
kind of ruined good looks about it, and, what was more hateful to
Charles than anything else, a decided resemblance to Ruth. Though
he was shabby in the extreme, his clothes sat upon him as they
always and only do sit upon a gentleman; and, though his face and
voice showed that he had severed himself effectually from the class
in which he had been born, a certain unsuitability remained between
his appearance and his evidently disreputable circumstances. When
Charles looked at him he was somehow reminded of a broken-down
thorough-bred in a hansom cab.
“It is a quiet spot,” remarked Raymond Deyncourt, for he it was,
standing in the door-way, his watchful eyes scanning the deserted
court-yard and strip of green. “A retired and peaceful spot. I'm
sorry if my cough annoyed you, coming when it did, but I thought
you seemed before to be engaged in conversation which I felt a cer-
tain diffidence in interrupting.”
“So you listened, I suppose?”


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 245
your word about coming back, you might break it about trying to
get money out of her.” -
“I might,” assented Raymond; “in fact, I was on the point of
making my presence known to her, and suggesting a pecuniary
advance, when you came up. I don't know at present what I shall
do, as I let that opportunity slip. It just depends.”
Charles considered again.
“It's a pity to trouble her, isn't it?” said Raymond, his shrewd
eyes watching him; “and women are best out of money-matters.
Besides, if she has promised you she won't pay up without advice,
she'll stick to it. Nothing will turn her when she once settles on
anything, if she is at all like what she used to be. She has got
dollars of her own. You had better settle with me, and pay yourself
back when you are married. Dear me! There's no occasion to
look so murderous. I suppose I’m at liberty to draw my own con-
clusions.”
“You had better draw them a little more carefully in future,” said
Charles, savagely. “Your sister is engaged to be married to a man
without a sixpence.”
“By George,” said Raymond, “that won't suit my book at all.
I'd rather”—with another glance at Charles—“I’d rather she'd
marry a man with money.” -
If Charles was of the same opinion he did not express it. He re-
mained silent for a few minutes to give weight to his last remark,
and then said, slowly:
“So you see you won't get anything more from that quarter.
You had better make the most you can out of me.”
Raymond nodded.
“The most you will get, in fact, I may say all you will get from
me, is enough ready money to carry you to Paris, and a check for
twenty pounds to follow, when I hear you have arrived there.”
“It's mean,” said Raymond; “it’s cursed mean; and from a man
like you, too, whom I feel for as a brother. I'd rather try my luck
with Ruth. She's not married yet, anyway.”
“You will do as you like,” said Charles, getting up. “If I find
you have been trying your luck with her, as you call it, you won't
get a farthing from me afterwards. And you may remember, she
can't help you without consulting her friends. And your complaint
is one that requires absolute quiet, or I'm very much mistaken.”
Raymond bit his finger, and looked irresolute.
“To-day is Wednesday,” said Charles; “on Saturday I shall come


CHAPTER XXIV.
IF conformity to type is indeed the one great mark towards which
humanity should press, Mrs. Thursby may honestly be said to have
attained to it. Everything she said or did had been said or done be-
fore, or she would never have thought of saying or doing it. Her
whole life was a feeble imitation of the imitative lives of others; in
short, it was the life of the ordinary country gentlewoman, who lives
on her husband's property, and who, as Augustus Hare says, “has
never looked over the garden-wall.”
We do not mean to insinuate for a moment that the utmost ener-
gy and culture are not occasionally to be met with in the female
portion of that interesting mass of our fellow-creatures who swell
the large volumes of the “Landed Gentry.” Among their ranks are
those who come boldly forward into the full glare of public life;
and, conscious of a genius for enterprise, to which an unmarried con-
dition perhaps affords ampler scope, and which a local paper is ready
to immortalize, become secretaries of ladies' societies, patronesses of
flower shows, breeders of choice poultry, or even associates of floral
leagues of the highest political importance. That such women should
and do exist among us, the conscious salt-cellars of otherwise flavor-
less communities, is a fact for which we cannot be too thankful; and
if Mrs. Thursby was not one of these aspiring spirits, with a yearn-
ing after “the mystical better things,” which one of the above pur-
suits alone can adequately satisfy, it was her"misfortune and not her
fault.
It was her nature, as we have said, servilely to copy others. Her
conversation was all that she could remember of what she had heard
from others, her present dinner-party, as regards food, was a cross
between the two last dinner-parties she had been to. The dessert,
however, conspicuous by its absence, conformed strictly to a type
which she had seen in a London house in June.
Her dinner-party gave her complete satisfaction, which was fortu-
nate, for to the greater number of the eighteen or twenty people
who had been indiscriminately herded together to form it, it was
(with the exception of Mrs. Alwynn) a dreary or at best an uninter-


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 251
required an effort to listen unmoved to the various conjectures as to
the whereabouts of Stephens, in which Ruth, as the conversation be:
came general, also joined, volunteering a suggestion that perhaps he
might be lurking somewhere in Slumberleigh woods, which were cer-
tainly very lonely in places, and where, as she said, she had been very
much alarmed by a tramp in the summer.
Mrs. Thursby, like an echo, began from the other end of the table
something vague about girls being allowed to walk alone, her own
daughters, etc., and so the long dinner wore itself out. Dare was the
only one of the little party who had met on the church steps who
succumbed entirely. Mr. Alwynn, who looked at him and Ruth with
pathetic interest from time to time, made laudable efforts, but Dare
made none. He had taken in to dinner the younger Thursby girl, a
meek creature, without form and void, not yet out, but trembling in
a high muslin, on the verge, who kept her large and burning hands
clutched together under the table-cloth, and whose conversation was
upon bees. Dare pleaded a gun headache, and hardly spoke. His
eyes constantly wandered to the other end of the table, where, far
away on the opposite side, half hidden by ferns and flowers, he could
catch a glimpse of Ruth. After dinner he did not come into the
drawing-room, but went off to the smoking-room, where he paced
by himself up and down, up and down, writhing under the torment
of a horrible suspense.
Outside the moon shone clear and high, making a long picturesque
shadow of the great prosaic house upon the wide gravel drive. Dare
}eaned against the window-sill and looked out. “Would she give
him up f" he asked himself. Would she believe this vile calumny ?
Would she give him up ! And as he stood the Alwynns' brougham
came with two gleaming eyes along the drive and drew up before
the door. He resolved to learn his fate at once. There had been
no possiblity of a word with Ruth on the church steps. Before he
had known where he was, he and Charles had been walking up to the
Hall together, Charles discoursing lengthily on the impropriety of
wire fencing in a hunting country. But now he must and would see
her. He rushed down-stairs into the hall, where young Thursby was
wrapping Ruth in her white furs, while Mr. Thursby senior was encas-
ing Mrs. Alwynn in a species of glorified ulster of red plush which
she had lately acquired. Dare hastily drew Mr. Alwynn aside and
spoke a few words to him. Mr. Alwynn turned to his wife, after one
rueful glance at his thin shoes, and said:
“I will walk up. It is a fine night, and quite dry underfoot.”


CHAPTER XXV.
DARE left Slumberleigh Hall early the following morning, and
drove up to the rectory on his way to Wandon. After being clos-
eted with Mr. Alwynn in the study for a short time, they both came
out and drove away together. Ruth, invisible in her own room with
a headache, her only means of defence against Mrs. Alwynn's socie-
ty, heard the coming and the going, and was not far wrong in her
surmise that Dare had come to beg Mr. Alwynn to accompany him
to Wandon—being afraid to face alone the mysterious enemy in-
trenched there.
No conversation was possible in the dog-cart, with the groom on
the back seat thirsting to hear any particulars of the news which
had spread like wildfire from Wandon throughout the whole village
the previous afternoon, and which was already miraculously flying
from house to house in Slumberleigh this morning, as things discred-
itable do fly among a Christian population, which perhaps “thinks
no evil,” but repeats it nevertheless.
There was not a servant in Dare's modest establishment who was
not on the lookout for him on his return. The gardener happened
to be tying up a plant near the front door; the house-maids were
watching unobserved from an upper casement; the portly form of
Mrs. Smith, the house-keeper, was seen to glide from one of the un-
used bedroom windows; the butler must have been waiting in the
hall, so prompt was his appearance when the dog-cart drew up be-
fore the door. ,
Another pair of keen black eyes was watching too, peering out
through the chinks between the lowered Venetian blinds in the
drawing-room; was observing Dare intently as he got out, and then
resting anxiously on his companion. Then the owner of the eyes
slipped away from the window, and went back noiselessly to the
fire.
Dare ordered the dog-cart to remain at the door, flung down his
hat on the hall-table, and, turning to the servant who was busying
himself in folding his coat, said, sharply,
“Where is the the person who arrived here yesterday?”


256 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
The man replied that “she” was in the drawing-room. The
drawing-room opened into the hall. Dare led the way, suppressed
fury in his face, looking back to see whether Mr. Alwynn was fol-
lowing him. The two men went in together and shut the door.
The enemy was intrenched and prepared for action.
Mrs. Dare, as we must perforce call her for lack of any other des-
ignation rather than for any right of hers to the title, was seated on
a yellow brocade ottoman, drawn up beside a roaring fire, her two
smart little feet resting on the edge of the low brass fender, and a
small work-table at her side, on which an elaborate medley of silks
and wools was displayed. Her attitude was that of a person at
home, aggressively at home. She was in the act of threading a nee-
dle when Dare and Mr. Alwynn came in, and she put down her work
at once, carefully replacing the needle in safety, as she rose to re-
ceive them, and held out her hand, with a manner the assurance of
which, if both men had not been too much frightened to notice it,
was a little overdone.
Dare disregarded her gesture of welcome, and she sat down again,
and returned to her work, with a laugh that was also a little over-
done.
“What do you mean by coming here?” he said, his voice hoarse
with a furious anger, which the sight of her seemed to have in-
creased a hundred-fold.
“Because it is my proper place,” she replied, tossing her head,
and drawing out a long thread of green silk; “because I have a right
to come.”
“You lie!” said Dare, fiercely, showing his teeth.
“Lord, Alfred" said Mrs. Dare, contemptuously, “don’t make a
scene before strangers. We've had our tiffs before now, and shall
have again, I suppose. It's the natur' of married people to fall out;
but there's no call to carry on before friends. Push up that lounge
nearer the fire. Won't the other gentleman,” turning to Mr. Al-
wynn, “come and warm himself? I'm sure it's cold enough.”
Mr. Alwynn, who was a man of peace, devoutly wished he were
at home again in his own study.
“It is a cold morning,” he said; “but we are not here to discuss
the weather.”
He stopped short. He had been hurried here so much against
his will, and so entirely without an explanation, that he was not
quite sure what he had come to discuss, or how he could best sup-
port his friend.


SIR CHARLES DANWERS. 257
“What do you want?” said Dare, in the same suppressed voice,
without looking at her.
“My rights,” she said, incisively; “and, what's more, I mean to
have 'em. I've not come over from America for nothing, I can tell
you that; and I've not come on a visit neither. I've come to stay.”
“What are these rights you talk off" asked Mr. Alwynn, signing
to Dare to restrain himself.
“As his wife, sir. I am his wife, as I can prove. I didn't come
without my lines to show. I didn't come on a speculation, to see
if he'd a fancy to have me back. No, afore I set my foot down any-
wheres I look to see as it's solid walking.”
“Show your proof,” said Mr. Alwynn.
The woman ostentatiously got out a red morocco letter case, and
produced a paper which she handed to Mr. Alwynn.
It was an authorized copy of a marriage register, drawn out in
the usual manner, between Alfred Dare, bachelor, English subject,
and Ellen, widow of the late Jaspar Carroll, of Neosho City, Kan-
sas, U. S. A. The marriage was dated seven years back.
The names of Dare and Carroll swam before Mr. Alwynn's eyes.
He glanced at the paper, but he could not read it.
“Is this a forgery, Dare?” he asked, holding it towards him.
“No,” said Dare, without looking at it; “it is right. But that
is not all. Now,” turning to the woman, who was watching him
triumphantly, “show the other paper—the divorce.”
“I made inquiries about that,” she replied, composedly. “I wasn't
going to be fooled by that 'ere, so I made inquiries from one as
knows. The divorce is all very well in America; but it don't count
in England.”
Dare's face turned livid. Mr. Alwynn's flushed a deep red. He
sat with his eyes on the ground, the paper in his hand trembling a
little. Indignation against Dare, pity for him, anxiety not to judge
him harshly, struggled for precedence in his kind heart, still beating
tumultuously with the shock of Dare's first admission. He felt
rather than saw him take the paper out of his hand.
“I shall keep this,” Dare said, putting it in his pocket-book; and
then, turning to the woman again, he said, with an oath, “Will you
go, or will you wait till you are turned out?” -
“I’ll wait,” she replied, undauntedly. “I like the place well
enough.”
She laughed and took up her work, and, after looking at her for
a moment, he flung out of the room, followed by Mr. Alwynn.
17


258 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
The defeat was complete; nay, it was a rout.
The dog-cart was still standing at the door. The butler was talk-
ing to the groom; the gardener was training some new shoots of ivy
against the stone balustrade.
Dare caught up his hat and gloves, and ordered that his portman-
teau, which had been taken into the hall, should be put back into
the dog-cart. As it was being carried down he looked at his watch.
“I can catch the mid-day express for London,” he said. “I can
do it easily.”
Mr. Alwynn made no reply.
“Get in,” continued Dare, feverishly; “the portmanteau is in.”
“I think I will walk home,” said Mr. Alwynn, slowly. It gave
him excruciating pain to say anything so severe as this; but he got
out the words nevertheless.
Dare looked at him in astonishment.
“Get in,” he said again, quickly. “I must speak to you. I will
drive you home. I have something to say.”
Mr. Alwynn never refused to hear what any one had to say. He
went slowly down the steps, and got into the cart, looking straight
in front of him, as his custom was when disturbed in mind. Dare
followed.
“I shall not want you, James,” he said to the groom, his foot on
the step.
At this moment the form of Mrs. Smith, the house-keeper, appeared
through the hall door, clothed in all the awful majesty of an upper
servant whose dignity has been outraged. -
“Sir,” she said, in a clear not to say a high voice, “asking your
pardon, sir, but am I, or am I not, to take my orders from—”
Goaded to frenzy, Dare poured forth a volley of horrible oaths
French and English, and, seizing up the reins, drove off at a furious
rate.
The servants remained standing about the steps, watching the
dog-cart whirl rapidly away.
“He’s been to church with her,” said the gardener, at last. “I
said all along she'd never have come, unless she had her lines to
show. I ha'n't cut them white grapes she ordered yet; but I may
as well go and do it.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Smith, “grapes or no grapes, I'll never give
up the keys of the linen cupboards to the likes of her, and I'm not
going to have any one poking about among my china. I've not
been nere twenty years to be asked for my lists in that way, and the
_*


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 261
with distress and self-upbraiding. He had been much to blame, of
Course. -
Dare's mention of her name recalled his attention.
“She is all goodness,” he was saying. “She believes in me. She
has promised again that she will marry me—since yesterday. I trust
her as myself; but it is a grief which as little as possible must trou-
ble her. You will not say anything to her till I come back, till I
return with proof that I am free, as I told her? You will say
nothing?” -
Dare had pulled up at the bottom of the drive to the rectory.
“Very well,” said Mr. Alwynn, absently, getting slowly out. He
seemed much shaken.
“I will be back perhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow morning,”
called Dare after him.
But Mr. Alwynn did not answer.
Dare's business took him a shorter time than he expected, and the
same night found him hurrying back by the last train to Slumber-
leigh. It was a wild night. He had watched the evening close in
lurid and stormy across the chimneyed wastes of the black country,
until the darkness covered all the land, and wiped out even the last
memory of the dead day from the western sky.
Who, travelling alone at night, has not watched the glimmer of
light through cottage windows as he hurries past; has not followed
with keenest interest for one brief second the shadow of one who
moves within, and imagination picturing a mysterious universal hap-
piness gathered round these twinkling points of light, has not ex-
perienced a strange feeling of homelessness and loneliness?
Dare sat very still in the solitude of the empty railway carriage,
and watched the little fleeting, mocking lights with a heavy heart.
They meant homes, and he should never have a home now. Once
he saw a door open in a squalid line of low houses, and the figure
of a man with a child in his arms stand outlined in the door-way
against the ruddy light within. Dare felt an unreasoning interest in
that man. He found himself thinking of him as the train hurried on,
wondering whether his wife was there waiting for him, and whether
he had other children besides the one he was carrying. And all the
time, through his idle musings, he could hear one sentence ringing
in his ears, the last that his lawyer had said to him after the long
consultation of the afternoon.
“I am sorry to tell you that you are incontestably a married man.”
*_


262 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
Everything repeated it. The hoofs of the cab-horse that took
him to the station had hammered it out remorselessly all the way.
The engine had caught it up, and repeated it with unvarying, endless
iteration. The newspapers were full of it. When Dare turned to
them in desperation he saw it written in large letters across the sham
columns. There was nothing but that anywhere. It was the news
of the day. Sick at heart, and giddy from want of food, he sat
crouched up in the corner of his empty carriage, and vaguely wished
the train would journey on for ever and ever, nervously dreading the
time when he should have to get out and collect his wandering fac-
ulties once more.
The old lawyer had been very kind to the agitated, incoherent
young man whose settlements he was already engaged in drawing up.
At first, indeed, it had seemed that the marriage would not be legally
binding—the marriage and divorce having both taken place in Kan-
sas, where the marriage laws are particularly lax—and he seemed in-
clined to be hopeful; but as he informed himself about the particu-
lars of the divorce his face became grave and graver. When at last
Dare produced the copy of the marriage register, he shook his head.
“Alfred Dare, bachelor and English subject,” he said. “That
‘English subject” makes a difficulty to start with. You had never,
I believe, any intention of acquiring what in law we call an Ameri-
can domicil? and, although the technicalities of this subject are some-
what complicated, I am afraid that in your case there is little, if any,
doubt. The English courts are very jealous of any interference by
foreigners with the status of an Englishman; and though a divorce
legally granted by a competent tribunal for an adequate cause might
—I will not say would—be held binding everywhere, there can be
no doubt that where in the eyes of our law the cause is not adequate,
our courts would refuse to recognize it. Have you a copy of the
register of divorce as well ?”
4. No.”
“It is unfortunate; but no doubt you can remember the grounds
on which it was granted.”
“Incompatibility of temper, and she said I had deserted her. I
had left her the year before. We both agreed to separate.”
The lawyer shook his head.
“What's incompatibility?” he said. “What's a year's absence?
Nothing in the eyes of an Englishman. Nothing in the law of this
country.”
“But the divorce was granted. It was legal. There was no ques.
_*.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 269
The ivy on the old house shivered and whispered over their heads,
and against one of the shuttered windows near the ground some
climbing plant, torn loose by the wind, tapped incessantly, as if call-
ing to the ghosts within. Charles glanced ever and anon at the sky.
It showed no trace of clearing—as yet. He was getting cramped
with standing. He wished he had gone on to the stables. His anx-
iety for Raymond was sharpened by this long inaction. He seemed
to have been standing for ages. What were the others doing? Not
a sound reached him between the lengthening pauses of the wind.
His companion stood drawn up motionless beside him; and so they
waited, straining eye and ear into the darkness, conscious that others
were waiting and listening also.
At last in the distance came a faint sound of wheels. Charles
and Brooks instinctively drew a long breath; and Charles for the
first time believed the alarm of poachers had not been a false one
after all. It was the faintest possible sound of wheels. It would
hardly have been heard at all but for some newly broken stones
over which it passed. Then, without coming nearer, it stopped.
Charles listened intently. The wind had dropped down dead at
last, and in the stillness he felt as if he could have heard a mouse
stir miles away. But all was quiet. There was no sound but the
tremulous whisper of the ivy. The spray near the window had
ceased its tapping against the shutter, and was listening too. Slowly
the moon came out, and looked on.
And then suddenly, from the direction of the stables, came a roar
of men's voices, a sound of bursting and crashing through the under-
wood, a thundering of heavy feet, followed by a whirring of fright-
ened birds into the air. Brooks leaned forward breathing hard, and
tightening his newly moistened grip on his heavy knotted stick.
Another moment and a man's figure darted across the open, fol-
lowed by a chorus of shouts, and Charles's heart turned sick within
him. It was Raymond.
“Cut him off at the gate, Charles,” roared Ralph from behind;
“down to the left.”
There was not a second for reflection. As Brooks rushed head-
iong forward, Charles hurriedly interposed his stick between his
legs, and leaving him to flounder, started off in pursuit.
“Down to your left,” cried a chorus of voices from behind, as he
shot out of the shadow of the house; for Charles was some way
ahead of the rest owing to his position.
He could hear Raymond crashing in front; then he saw him again


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 277
“By-the-way,” he added, turning at the door, “he asked over and
over again, while I was with him, to see you or Mr. Danvers. I'm
sure I forget which, but I promised him I would mention it. Nearly
slipped my memory, all the same. He said one of you had known
him in his better days, at—Oxford, was it?”
“What name #" asked Charles.
“Stephens,” replied the doctor. “He seemed to think you would
remember him.”
“Stephens,” said Charles, reflectively. “Stephens! I once had
a valet of that name, and a very good one he was, who left my serv-
ice rather abruptly, taking with him numerous portable memorials
of myself, including a set of diamond studs. I endeavored at the
time to keep up my acquaintance with him ; but he took measures
effectually to close it. In fact, I have never heard of him from that
day to this.”
“That's the man, no doubt,” replied the doctor. “He has—er—
a sort of look about him as if he might have been in a gentleman's
service once; seen-better-days-sort of look, you know.”
Charles said he should be at D in the course of the after-
noon, and would make a point of looking in at the police-station;
and a quarter of an hour later he was driving as hard as he could
tear in Ralph's high dog-cart along the road to D It was a
six-mile drive, and he slackened as he reached the straggling suburbs
of the little town, lying before him in a dim mist of fine rain and
smoke.
Arrived at the dismal building which he knew to be the police-
station, he was shown into a small room hung round with papers,
where the warden was writing, and desired, with an authority so
evidently accustomed to obedience that it invariably insured it, to
see the prisoner. The prisoner, he said, at whose arrest he had been
present, had expressed a wish to see him through the doctor; and
as the warden demurred for the space of one second, Charles men-
tioned that he was a magistrate and justice of the peace, and sternly
desired the confused official to show him the way at once. That
functionary, awed by the stately manner which none knew better
than Charles when to assume, led the way down a narrow stone
passage, past numerous doors behind one of which a banging sound,
accompanied by alcoholic oaths, suggested the presence of a free-
born Briton chafing under restraint.
“I had him put up-stairs, sir,” said the warden, humbly. “We
didn't know when he came in as it was a case for the infirmary;


278 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
but seeing he was wanted for a big thing, and poorly in his 'ealth,
I giv' him one of the superior cells, with a mattress and piller
complete.”
The man was evidently afraid that Charles had come as a magis-
trate to give him a reprimand of some kind, for, as he led the way
up a narrow stone staircase, he continued to expatiate on the luxury
of the “mattress and piller,” on the superiority of the cell, and how
a nurse had been sent for at once from the infirmary, when, owing
to his own shrewdness, the prisoner was found to be “a hospital
case.”
“The doctor wouldn't have him moved,” he said, opening a closed
door in a long passage full of doors, the rest of which stood open.
“It's not reg'lar to have him in here, sir, I know; but the doctor
wouldn't have him moved.”
Charles passed through the door, and found himself in a narrow
whitewashed cell, with a bed at one side, over which an old woman
in the dress of a hospital nurse was bending.
“You can come out, Martha,” said the warden. “The gentleman's
come to see 'im.”
As the old woman disappeared, courtesying, he lingered to say, in
a whisper,
“Do you know him, sir?”
“Yes,” said Charles, looking fixedly at the figure on the bed. “I
remember him. I knew him years ago, in his better days. I dare
say he will have something to tell me.”
“If it should be anything as requires a witness,” continued the
man—“he's said a deal already, and it's all down in proper form—
but if there's anything more—”
“I will let you know,” said Charles, looking towards the door,
and the warden took the hint and went out of it, closing it quietly.
Charles crossed the little room, and, sitting down in the crazy chair
beside the bed, laid his hand gently on the listless hand lying palm
upward on the rough gray counterpane.
“Raymond,” he said; “it is I, Danvers.”
The hand trembled a little, and made a faint attempt to clasp his.
Charles took the cold, lifeless hand, and held it in his strong gentle
grasp.
“It is Danvers,” he said again.
The sick man turned his head slowly on the pillow, and looked
fixedly at him. Death's own color, which imitation can never imitate,
nor ignorance mistake, was stamped upon that rigid face.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 279
“I’m done for,” he said with a faint smile, which touched the
lips but did not reach the solemn far-reaching eyes.
Charles could not speak.
“You said I should turn up tails once too often,” continued Ray-
mond, with slow halting utterance, “and I've done it. I knew it
was all up when I pitched over that d d wall onto the stones.
I felt I'd killed myself.”
“How did they get you?” said Charles.
“I don't know,” replied Raymond, closing his eyes wearily, as if
the subject had ceased to interest him. “I think I tried to creep
along under the wall towards the place where it is broken down,
when I fancy some one came over long after the others and knocked
me on the head.”
Charles reflected with sudden wrath that Brooks, no doubt, had
been the man, and how much worse than useless his manoeuvre with
the stick had been.
“I did my best,” he said, humbly.
“Yes,” replied the other; “and I would not have forgotten it,
either, if—if there had been any time to remember it in ; but there
won't be. I’ve owned up,” he continued, in a labored whisper.
“Stephens has made a full confession. You'll have it in all the
papers to-morrow. And while I was at it I piled on some more I
never did, which will get friends over the water out of trouble.
Tom Flavell did me a good turn once, and he's been in hiding these
two years for—well, it don't much matter what, but I've shoved that
in with the rest, though it was never in my line—never. He'll be
able to go home now.”
“Have not you confessed under your own name?”
“No,” replied Raymond, with a curious remnant of that pride of
race at which it is the undisputed privilege of low birth and a
plebeian temperament to sneer. “I won't have my own name
dragged in. I dropped it years ago. I've confessed as Stephens,
and I'll die and be buried as Stephens. I'm not going to disgrace
the family.”
There was a constrained silence of some minutes.
“Would you like to see your sister ?” asked Charles; but Ray-
mond shook his head with feeble decision.
“That man ſ” he said, suddenly, after a long pause. “That man
in the door-way ! How did he come there?”
“There is no man in the door-way,” said Charles, reassuringly.
“There is no one here but me.”


CHAPTER XXVIII.
It was close on dressing-time when Charles came into the draw-
ing-room, where Evelyn and Molly were building castles on the
hearth-rug in the ruddy firelight. After changing his damp clothes,
he had gone to the smoking-room, but he had found Dare sitting
there in a vast dressing-gown of Ralph's, in a state of such utter de-
jection, with his head in his hands, that he had silently retreated
again before he had been perceived. He did not want to see Dare
just now. He wished he were not in the house.
Quite oblivious of the fact that he was not in Evelyn's good graces,
he went and sat by the drawing-room fire, and absently watched Mol-
ly playing with her bricks. Presently, when the dressing-bell rang,
Evelyn went away to dress, and Molly, tired of her castles, suggested
that she might sit on his hnee.
He let her climb up and wriggle and finally settle herself as it
seemed good to her, but he did not speak; and so they sat in the
firelight together, Molly's hand lovingly stroking his black velvet
coat. But her talents lay in conversation, not in silence, and she
soon broke it.
“You do look beautiful to-night, Uncle Charles.”
“Do I?” without elation.
“Do you know, Uncle Charles, Ninny's sister with the wart on her
cheek has been to tea? She's in the nursery now. Ninny says she's
to have a bite of supper before she goes.”
“You don't say so?”
“And we had buttered toast to tea, and she said you were the
most splendid gentleman she ever saw.”
Charles did not answer. He did not even seem to have heard this
interesting tribute to his personal appearance. Molly felt that some-
thing must be gravely amiss, and, laying her soft cheek against his,
she whispered, confidentially:
“Uncle Charles, are you uncomferable inside?”
There was a long pause.
“Yes, Molly,” at last, pressing her to him.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 283
“Is it there?” said Molly, sympathetically, laying her hand on the
front portion of her amber sash.
“No, Molly; I only wish it were.”
“It's not the little green pears, then,” said Molly, with the sigh of
experience, “because it's always just there, always, with them. It
was again yesterday. They're nasty little pears”—with a touch of
personal resentment.
Uncle Charles smiled at last, but it was not quite his usual smile.
“Miss Molly,” said a voice from the door, “your mamma has sent
for you.”
“It's not bedtime yet.”
“Your mamma says you are to come at once,” was the reply.
Molly, knowing from experience that an appeal to Charles was use-
less on these occasions, wriggled down from her perch rather reluc-
tantly, and bade her uncle “Good-night.”
“Perhaps it will be better to-morrow,” she said, consolingly.
“Perhaps,” he said, nodding at her; and he took her little head
between his hands, and kissed her. She rubbed his kiss off again,
and walked gravely away. She could not be merry and ride in tri-
umph up-stairs on kind curvetting Sarah's willing back, while her
friend was “uncomferable inside.” There was no galloping down
the passage that night, no pleasantries with the sponge in Molly's
tub, no last caperings in light attire. Molly went silently to bed,
and as on a previous occasion when in great anxiety about Wic,
who had thoughtlessly gone out in the twilight for a stroll, and had
forgotten the lapse of time, she added a whispered clause to her lit-
tle petitions which the ear of “Ninny” failed to catch.
Charles recognized, in the way Evelyn had taken Molly from him,
that she was not yet appeased. It should be remembered, in order
to do her justice, that a good woman's means of showing a proper
resentment are so straitened and circumscribed by her conscience that
she is obliged, from actual want of material, to resort occasionally to
little acts of domestic tyranny, small in themselves as midge bites,
but, fortunately for the cause of virtue, equally exasperating. In-
deed, it is improbable that any really good woman would ever so far
forget herself as to lose her temper, if she were once thoroughly
aware how much more irritating in the long-run a judicious course
of those small persecutions may be made, which the tenderest con-
science need not scruple to inflict.
Charles was unreasonably annoyed at having Molly taken from
him. As he sat by the fire alone, tired in mind and body, a hover-
__


286 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
and begun to fumble for a half-crown, Charles was saddling Othello
himself, without waiting for the groom, and in a few minutes was
clattering over the stones out of the yard.
There was just light enough to ride by, and he rode hard. What
was it—what could it be that Raymond had still to tell him He
felt certain it had something to do with Ruth, and probably Dare.
Should he arrive in time to hear it? There at last were the lights
of D in front of him. Should he arrive in time? As he
pulled up his steaming horse before the police-station his heart mis-
gave him.
“Am I too late 7” he asked of the man who came to the door.
He looked bewildered.
“Stephens! Is he dead?”
The man shook his head.
“They say he's a'most gone.”
Charles threw the rein to him, and hurried in-doors. He met
some one coming out, the doctor probably, he thought afterwards,
who took him up-stairs, and sent away the old woman who was in
attendance.
“I can't do anything more,” he said, opening the door for him.
“Wanted elsewhere. Very good of you, I'm sure. Not much use,
I'm afraid. Good-night. I'll tell the old woman to be about.”
A dim lamp was burning on the little corner cupboard near the
door, and, as Charles bent over the bed, he saw in a moment, even
by that pale light, that he was too late.
Life was still there, if that feeble tossing could he called life; but
all else was gone. Raymond's feet were already on the boundary
of the land where all things are forgotten; and, at the sight of that
dim country, memory, affrighted, had slipped away and left him.
Was it possible to recall him to himself even yet?
“Raymond,” he said, in a low distinct voice, “what is it you wish
to say? Tell me quickly what it is.”
But the long agony of farewell between body and soul had be-,
gun, and the eyes that seemed to meet his with momentary recogni-
tion only looked at him in anguish, seeking help and finding none,
and wandered away again, vainly searching for that which was not
to be found.
Charles could do nothing, but he had not the heart to leave him
to struggle with death entirely alone, and so, in awed and helpless
compassion, he sat by him through one long hour after another,
waiting for the end which still delayed, his eyes wandering ever and


288 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
And as he sat watching the dawn his mind began to stir, to shake
off its lethargy and stupor, to struggle into keener and keener con-
sciousness.
There are times, often accompanying great physical prostration,
when a veil seems to be lifted from our mental vision. As in the
Mediterranean one may glance down suddenly on a calm day, and
see in the blue depths with a strange surprise the sea-weed and the
rocks and the fretted sands below, so also in rare hours we see the
hidden depths of the soul, over which we have floated in heedless
unconsciousness so long, and catch a glimpse of the hills and the
valleys of those untravelled regions.
Charles sat very still with his chin in his hands. His mind did
not work. It looked right down to the heart of things.
There is, perhaps, no time when mental vision is so clear, when the
mind is so sane, as when death has come very near to us. There is a
light which he brings with him, which he holds before the eyes of
the dying, the stern light, seldom seen, of reality, before which self-
deception and meanness, and that which maketh a lie, cower in their
native deformity and slip away.
And death sheds at times a strange gleam from that same light
upon the souls of those who stand within his shadow, and watch his
kingdom coming. In an awful transfiguration all things stand for
what they are. Evil is seen to be evil, and good to be good. Right
and wrong sunder more far apart, and we cannot mistake them as we
do at other times. The debatable land stretching between them—
that favorite resort of undecided natures—disappears for a season,
and offers no longer its false refuge. The mind is taken away from
all artificial supports, and the knowledge comes home to the soul
afresh, with strong conviction that “truth is our only armor in all
passages of life,” as with awed hearts we see it is the only armor in
the hour of death, the only shield that we may bear away with us
into the unknown country.
Charles shuddered involuntarily. His decision of the afternoon to
keep secret what Raymond had void him was gradually but surely
assuming a different aspect. What was it, after all, but a suppres-
sion of truth—a kind of lie? What was it but doing evil that good
might come!
It was no use harping on the old string of consequences. He saw
that he had resolved to commit a deliberate sin, to be false to that
great principle of life—right for the sake of right, truth for the love
of truth—by which of late he had been trying to live. So far it


CHAPTER XXIX.
DARE was down early the following morning, much too early for
the convenience of the house-maids, who were dusting the drawing-
room when he appeared there. He was usually as late as any of the
young and gilded unemployed who feel it incumbent on themselves
to show by these public demonstrations their superiority to the rules
and fixed hours of the working and thinking world, with whom, how-
ever, their fear of being identified is a groundless apprehension. But
to-day Dare experienced a mournful satisfaction in being down so
early. He felt the underlying pathos of such a marked departure
from his usual habits. It was obvious that nothing but deep afflic-
tion or cub-hunting could have been the cause, and the cub-hunting
was over. The inference was not one that could be missed by the
meanest capacity.
He took up the newspaper with a sigh, and settled himself in front
of the blazing fire, which was still young and leaping, with the en-
thusiasm of dry sticks not quite gone out of it.
Charles heard Dare go down just as he finished dressing, for he too
was early that morning. There was more than half an hour before
breakfast-time. He considered a moment, and then went down-stairs.
Some resolutions once made cannot be carried out too quickly.
As he passed through the hall he looked out. The mist of the
night before had sought out every twig and leaflet, and had silvered
it to meet the sun. The rime on the grass looked cool and tempt-
ing. Charles's head ached, and he went out for a moment and stood
in the crisp still air. The rooks were cawing high up. The face of
the earth had not altered during the night. It shimmered and was
glad, and smiled at his grave, care-worn face.
“Hallo!” called a voice; and Ralph's head, with his hair sticking
straight out on every side, was thrust out of a window. “I say,
Charles, early bird you are ſ”
“Yes,” said Charles, looking up and leisurely going in-doors again;
“you are the first worm I have seen.”
He found Dare, as he expected, in the drawing-room, and proceed-
ed at once to the business he had in hand.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 295
boxes are brought down belonging to the person who is staying
here, who will leave by that train.”
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
“If the policeman from Slumberleigh should arrive while I am
here, ask him to wait.”
“I will, Sir Charles.”
“I don't suppose,” thought Charles, “he will arrive, as I have
not sent for him; but, as the dining-room door happens to be ajar,
it is just as well to add a few artistic touches.”
“Is this person in the drawing-room ?” he continued aloud,
The man replied that she was in the dining-room, and Charles walk-
ed in unannounced, and closed the door behind him.
He had at times, when any action of importance was on hand, a
certain cool decision of manner that seemed absolutely to ignore the
possibility of opposition, which formed a curious contrast with his
usual careless demeanor.
“Good-morning,” he said, advancing to the fire. “I have no
doubt that my appearance at this early hour cannot be a surprise to
you. You have, of course, anticipated some visit of this kind for
the last few days. Pray finish your coffee. I am Sir Charles Dan-
vers. I need hardly add that I am justice of the peace in this coun-
ty, and that I am here officially on behalf of my friend, Mr. Dare.”
The little woman, who had risen, and had then sat down again at
his entrance, eyed him steadily. There was a look in her dark bead-
like eyes which showed Charles why Dare had been unable to face
her. The look, determined, cunning, watchful, put him on his guard,
and his manner became a shade more unconcerned.
“Any friend of my husband's is welcome,” she said.
“There is no question for the moment about your husband,
though no doubt a subject of peculiar interest to yourself. I was
speaking of Mr. Dare.”
She rose to her feet, as if unable to sit while he was standing.
“Mr. Dare is my husband,” she said, with a little gesture of de-
fiance, tapping sharply on the table with a teaspoon she held in her
hand.
Charles smiled blandly, and looked out of the window.
“There is evidently some misapprehension on that point,” he ob-
served, “which I am here to remove. Mr. Dare is at present un-
married.”
“I am his wife,” reiterated the woman, her color rising under her
rouge. “I am, and I won't go. He dared not come himself, a poor
4-


298 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
tion of that imaginary policeman may have helped, but a little stage
effect did the business.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the paper, and, after glancing at
the signature, putting it in his pocket-book. “Allow me to give you
this”—handing her the check. “And now I will ring for the house-
keeper, for you will barely have time to make the arrangements for
your journey. I can allow you only twenty minutes.” He rang the
bell as he spoke.
She started up as if unaware how far she had yielded. A rush
of angry color flooded her face.
“I won't have that impertinent woman touching my things.”
“That is as you like,” said Charles, shrugging his shoulders; “but
she will be in the room when you pack. It is my wish that she
should be present.” Then turning to the butler, who had already
answered the bell, “Desire the house-keeper to go to Mrs. Carroll's
rooms at once, and to give Mrs. Carroll any help she may require.”
... Mrs. Carroll looked from the butler to Charles with baffled hatred
in her eyes. But she knew the game was lost, and she walked out
of the room and up-stairs without another word, but with a bitter
consciousness in her heart that she had not played her cards well,
that, though her downfall was unavoidable, she might have stood
out for better terms for her departure. She hated Dare, as she
threw her clothes together into her trunks, and she hated Mrs. Smith,
who watched her do so with folded hands and with a lofty smile;
but most of all she hated Charles, whose voice came up to the open
window as he talked to Dare's coachman, already at the door, about
splints and sore backs.
Charles felt a momentary pity for the little woman when she came
down at last with compressed lips, casting lightning glances at the
grinning servants in the background, whom she had bullied and hec-
tored over in the manner of people unaccustomed to servants, and
who were rejoicing in the ignominy of her downfall.
Her boxes were put in—not carefully.
Charles came forward and lifted his cap, but she would not look
at him. Grasping a little hand-bag convulsively, she went down the
steps, and got up, unassisted, into the dog-cart.
“You have left nothing behind, I hope #" said Charles, civilly, for
the sake of saying something.
“She have left nothing,” said Mrs. Smith, swimming forward with
dignity, “and she have also took nothing. I have seen to that, Sir
Charles.”


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 299
“Good-bye, then,” said Charles. “Right, coachman.”
Mrs. Carroll's eyes had been wandering upward to the old house
rising above her with its sunny windows and its pointed gables.
Perhaps, after all the sordid shifts and schemes of her previous ex-
istence, she had imagined she might lead an easier and a more re-
spectable life within those walls. Then she looked towards the long
green terraces, the valley, and the forest beyond. Her lip trembled,
and turning suddenly, she fixed her eyes with burning hatred on the
man who had ousted her from this pleasant place.
Then the coachman whipped up his horse, the dog-cart spun over
the smooth gravel between the lines of stiff, clipped yews, and she
was gone.
CHAPTER XXX.
MR. Alwynn had returned from his eventful morning call at Wan-
don very grave and silent. He shook his head when Ruth came
to him in the study to ask what the result had been, and said Dare
would tell her himself on his return from London, whither he had
gone on business. -
Ruth went back to the drawing-room. She had not strength or
energy to try to escape from Mrs. Alwynn. Indeed it was a relief
not to be alone with her own thoughts, and to allow her exhausted
mind to be towed along by Mrs. Alwynn's, the bent of whose mind re-
sembled one of those mechanical toy animals which, when wound up,
will run very fast in any direction, but if adroitly turned, will hurry
equally fast the opposite way. Ruth turned the toy at intervals, and
the morning was dragged through, Mrs. Alwynn in the course of it
exploring every realm—known to her—of human thought, now dip-
ping into the future, and speculating on spring fashions, now com-
menting on the present, now dwelling fondly on the past, the gayly
dressed, officer-adorned past of her youth.
There was a meal, and after that it was the afternoon. Ruth sup-
posed that some time there would be another meal, and then it would
be evening, but it was no good thinking of what was so far away.
She brought her mind back to the present. Mrs. Alwynn had just
finished a detailed account of a difference of opinion between her-
self and the curate's wife on the previous day.
“And she had not a word to say, my dear, not a word—quite


300 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
hors de combat—so I let the matter drop. And you remember that
beautiful pig we killed last week? You should have gone to look
at it hanging up, Ruth, rolling in fat, it was. Well, it is better to
give than to receive, so I shall send her one of the pork-pies. And
if you will get me one of those round baskets which I took the dolls
down to the school-feast in—they are in the lowest shelf of the oak
chest in the hall—I'll send it down to her at once.”
Ruth fetched the basket and put it down by her aunt. Reminis-
cences of the school-feast still remained in it, in the shape of ends
of ribbon and lace, and Mrs. Alwynn began to empty them out, talk-
ing all the time, when she suddenly stopped short, with an exclama-
tion of surprise.
“Goodness! Well, now ! I'm sure! Ruth !”
“What is it, Aunt Fanny ?”
“Why, my dear, if there isn't a letter for you under the odds and
ends,” holding it up and gazing resentfully at it; “and now I re-
member, a letter came for you on the morning of the school-feast,
and I said to John, “I sha’n’t forward it, because I shall see Ruth
this afternoon,' and, dear me ! I just popped it into the basket, for I
thought you would like to have it, and you know how busy I was,
Ruth, that day, first one thing and then another, so much to think
of—and—there it is.”
“I dare say it is of no importance,” said Ruth, taking it from her,
while Mrs. Alwynn, repeatedly wondering how such a thing could
have happened to a person so careful as herself, went off with her
basket to the cook.
When she returned in a few minutes she found Ruth standing
by the window, the letter open in her hand, her face without a ves-
tige of color.
“Why, Ruth,” she said, actually noticing the alteration in her ap-
pearance, “is your head bad again?”
Ruth started violently.
“Yes—no. I mean—I think I will go out. The fresh air—”
She could not finish the sentence.
“And that tiresome letter—did it want an answer?”
“None,” said Ruth, crushing it up unconsciously.
“Well, now,” said Mrs. Alwynn, “that's a good thing, for I'm
sure I shall never forget the way your uncle was in once, when I put
a letter of his in my pocket to give him (it was a plum-colored silk,
Ruth, done with gold beads in front), and then I went into mourn-
ing for my poor dear Uncle James—such an out-of-the-common
_*.


304 SIR CHARLES DANVERS.
greatest advantage, surrounded by birds and nests and blossoms of
the most vivid and life-like coloring. Mr. Alwynn was encompassed
on every side by kingfishers and elaborate bone nests, while Ruth's
clear-cut face looked out from among long-tailed tomtits, arranged
one on each side of a nest crowded with eggs, on which a strong
light had been thrown.
Dare was still looking at Ruth's photograph, when Mr. Alwynn
came in.
“Do you wish to speak to Ruth f" he asked, gravely.
“Now, at once.” Dare was surprised that Mr. Alwynn, with
whom he had been so open, should be so cold and unsympathetic in
manner. The alteration and alienation of friends is certainly one of
the saddest and most inexplicable experiences of this vale of tears.
“You will find her in the study,” continued Mr. Alwynn. “She
is expecting you. I have told her nothing, according to your wish.
I hope you will explain everything to her in full, that you will keep
nothing back.”
“I will explain,” said Dare; and he went, trembling with excite-
ment, into the study. Fired by Charles's example, he had made a
sublime resolve as he skimmed across the fields, made it in a hurry,
in a moment of ecstasy, as all his resolutions were made. He felt
he had never acted such a noble part before. He only feared the
agitation of the moment might prevent him doing himself justice.
Ruth rose as he came in, but did not speak. A swift spasm
passed over her face, leaving it very stern, very fixed, as he had never
seen it, as he had never thought of seeing it. An overwhelming
suspense burned in the dark, lustreless eyes which met his own. He
felt awed.
“Well?” she said, pressing her hands together, and speaking in a
low voice.
“Ruth,” said Dare, solemnly, laying his outspread hand upon his
breast and then extending it in the air, “I am free.”
Ruth's eyes watched him like one in torture.
“How " she said, speaking with difficulty. “You said you were
free before.”
“Ah!” replied Dare, raising his forefinger, “I said so, but it was
an error. I go to Wandon, and she will not go away. I go to Lon-
don to my lawyer, and he says she is my wife.”
“You told me she was not.” -
“It was an error,” repeated Dare. “I had formerly been a hus-
band to her, but we had been divorced; it was finished, wound up,


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 305
and I thought she was no more my wife. There is in the English
law something extraordinary which I do not comprehend, which
makes an American divorce to remain a marriage in England.”
“Go on,” said Ruth, shading her eyes with her hand.
“I come back to Wandon,” continued Dare, in a suppressed voice,
“I come back overwhelmed, broken down, crushed under feet; and
then"—he was becoming dramatic, he felt the fire kindling—“I
meet a friend, a noble heart, I confide in him. I tell all to Sir Charles
Danvers.”—Ruth's hand was trembling—“and last night he finds
out by a chance that she was not a true widow when I marry her,
that her first husband was yet alive, that I am free. This morning
he tells me all, and I am here.”
Ruth pressed her hands before her face, and fairly burst into
tears.
He looked at her in astonishment. He was surprised that she
had any feelings. Never having shown them to the public in gen-
eral, like himself, he had supposed she was entirely devoid of them.
She now appeared quite émue. She was sobbing passionately. Tears
came into his own eyes as he watched her, and then a light dawned
upon him for the second time that day. Those tears were not for
him. He folded his arms and waited. How suggestive in itself is
a noble attitude 1
After a few minutes Ruth overcame her tears with a great effort,
and, raising her head, looked at him, as if she expected him to speak.
The suspense was gone out of her dimmed eyes, the tension of her
face was relaxed.
“I am free,” repeated Dare, “and I have your promise that if I
am free you will still marry me.”
Ruth looked up with a pained but resolute expression, and she
would have spoken if he had not stopped her by a gesture.
“I have your promise,” he repeated. “I tell my friend, Sir Charles
Danvers, I have it. He also loves. He does not tell me so; he is
not open with me, as I with him, but I see his heart. And yet—
figure to yourself—he has but to keep silence, and I must go away,
I must give up all. I am still married—Ou/—while he— But he
is noble, he is sublime. He sacrifices love on the altar of honor, of
truth. He tells all to me, his rival. He shows me I am free. He
thinks I do not know his heart. But it is not only he who can be
noble.” (Dare smote himself upon the breast.) “I also can lay my
heart upon the altar. Ruth"—with great solemnity—“do you love
him even as he loves you?”
20


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 307
bility, especially to one anxious and suited to shine in society. Be
that how it may, whatever had happened to influence him most of
the chance emotion of the moment, it would be tolerably certain that
in a few hours he would be sorry for what he had done. He was
still, however, in a state of mental exaltation when he reached Ather-
stone, and began fumbling nervously with the garden-gate. Charles,
who had been stalking up and down the bowling-green, went slowly
towards him.
“What on earth do you mean by going off in that way?” he asked,
coldly.
“Ah!” said Dare, perceiving him, “and she-the–is she gone?”
“Yes, half an hour ago. Your dog-cart has come back from tak-
ing her to the station, and is here now.”
Dare nodded his head several times, and stood looking at him.
“I have been to Slumberleigh,” he said.
“Yes, contrary to agreement.” -
“My friend,” Dare said, seizing the friend's limp, unresponsive
hand and pressing it, “I know now why you keep silence last night.
I reason with myself. I see you love her. Do not turn away. I
have seen her. I have given her back her promise. I give her up
to you whom she loves; and now—I go away, not to return.”
And then, in the full view of the Atherstone windows, of the but-
ler, and of the dog-cart at the front door, Dare embraced him, kissing
the blushing and disconcerted Charles on both cheeks. Then, in a
moment, before the latter had recovered his self-possession, Dare had
darted to the dog-cart, and was driving away.
Charles looked after him in mixed annoyance and astonishment,
until he noticed the butler's eye upon him, when he hastily retreated,
with a heightened complexion, to the shrubberies.
CONCLUSION.
It was the last day of October, about a week after a certain very
quiet little funeral had taken place in the D Cemetery. The
death of Raymond Deyncourt had appeared in the papers a day or
two afterwards, without mention of date or place, and it was gener-
ally supposed that it had taken place some considerable time pre-
viously, without the knowledge of his friends.


SIR CHARLES DANVERS. 309
lire.
send.
sing
ould
eaks
'ans-
t in
be.
m28
ind
the
mut
10W
the
with
be-
st
st
|r-
riage was illegal, he would never find it out. At last, when he sud-
denly recognized me, he seemed horror-struck, and the doctor came
in and sent me away.”
Charles knew now why Raymond had sent for him the second
time.
There was a long pause.
“Ruth, did you think I should tell ?”
“I hoped and prayed you would, but I knew it would be hard,
because I do believe you actually thought at the time I should still
consider it my duty to marry Mr. Dare. I never should have done
such a thing after what had happened. I was just going to tell him
so when he began to give me up, and it evidently gave him so much
pleasure to renounce me nobly in your favor that I let him have it
his own way, as the result was the same. My great dread, until he
came, was that you had not spoken. I had been expecting him all the
previous evening. Oh, Charles, Charles! I waited and watched for
his coming as I had never done before. Your silence was the only
thing I feared, because it was the only thing that could have come
between us.”
“God forgive me! I meant at first to say nothing.”
“Only at first,” said Ruth, gently; and they walked on in silence.
The sun had set. A slender moon had climbed...unnoticed into
the southern sky amid the shafts of paling fire which stretched
out across the whole heaven from the burning fiery furnace in the
west. Across the gray dim fields voices were calling the cattle
home.
Charles spoke again at last in his usual tone.
“You quite understand, Ruth, though I have not mentioned it so
far, that you are engaged to marry me?”
“I do. I will make a note of it if you wish.”
“It is unnecessary. I shall be happy, when I am at leisure to re-
mind you myself. Indeed, I may say I shall make a point of doing
so. There does not happen to be any one else whom you feel it
would be your duty to marry "
“I can't think of any one at the moment. Charles, you never
could have believed I would marry him, after all?”
“Indeed, I did believe it. Don't I know the stubbornness of your
heart? You see, you are but young, and I make excuses for you;
but, after you have been the object of my special and judicious train-
ing for a few years, I quite hope your judgment may improve con-
siderably.”


-- By A. CONAN DOYLE
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