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Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film6s en commenpant par la premiere page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de chaque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole — •- signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc.. peuvent dtre film^s i des taux de reduction diff^rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul cliche, il est film6 d partir de Tangle sup^rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n6cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m^thode. 1 2 3 4 5 6 v» SECOND-COUSIN SARAH: / c BY F. \V. Uor.INSON', AUTHOR OK " LlTTI.i; KATK KJKDY," " FOll HEK HAKE," " A HKIDOK OF tiLASS," " MATTIE : A STRAY," " NO MAN's FRIF.VD," ETC., ETC. T (> K C) N T O : HU'NTER, ROSE & COMPANY 1H74. Entfred aci-ordliiK t<> the Act of th-; Pai-- Hnm.Mit ..f Can:ula. in th.- yar .,n- thouimiid K' HiNMiiN, 1(1 the otllc; of the MinWter of Ai;rlcviltvin'. U\JNTKB. K(«R AND OOilPASy, PRISTEBS ASD BI>t>ER«. T'moSTO. I • REUBEN CULWTCK. i-AUK CHAPTER I. THE LAD WHO HELPED WITH THE LUOGAOE 1 CHAPTER II. ORDEK8 FOR THE MORNING 10 CHAPTER III. THE HOME IHAT THERE WAS NO PLACE LIKE 13 CHAPTER IV. UNSUCCESSFUL 19 CHAPTER V. ST. Oswald's . . 26 CHAPTER VI. " SECOND-COUSIN SARAH " 31 CHAPTER VII. .rOHN JKNNlNGkS 38 CHAPTER VIII. THE WELCOME BACK 46 CHAPTER IX. ' ' TOTS " 55 IV CONTENTS. PAOK CHAPTKIt X. A »'I,A( K VOM SAHAH 63 CHAPTER XI. THE «AXK-0(»THA OAHDENS 70 • (!HA]'TEH XII. AUNT KASTIJELL iS STILL CONTENT 75 cHArTEK xm. SARAIl's AHSENCE IS KXTLAINRP 81 CHAPTER XrV. SIONOR VIZ'/OBIM HO CHAITER XV. FOUND U'A CHAPTER XVI. THE APPEAL 08 CHAPTER XVII. IN DANORK 103 CHAPTER XV Til. ON DEFENOE 108 CHAPTER XIX. ATONEMENT 112 CHAPTER XX. THE RETURN 110 CHAPTER XXL WARNINGS . . 125 CHAPTER XXII. ALL THE NEW;* 129 CONTENTS. V CHAPTER XXIII. AN I NF.XPKrTKI' \l-IIEA I.i«» CHAPTER XXVII. VERY sri)|>E\ 1 r»0 CHAPT1':K XXVI 1 1. THE REARER OF (JOon TIDINOS Hi7 CHAPTER XXIX. BEOINNTNO HER \KW I.IFK 171 ■fiooli i^t Sttonb. TWO YEARS AFTERWARDS. CHAPTER I. A SUI^DAY SERVICE 17«> CHAPTER 11. FNYIELDI XO 1 81 CHAPTER III. WITH JOHN JENNING.S 187 CHAPTER IV. FACE TO FACE AOAIN. 1 91 ■«.««■■* VI ('ONTKNTS. PAOK. CHAPTER V. THE sErosrt-iorsiNH 106 CHAPTER V\. VISITORS AT SKDOE HI LI, 202 ^ CHAPTER VTI. UOUN* I L (H \VA K 209 CHAPTER VI 11. A DRKPKR I'KHI'LKXITY 21G CHAPTER IX. A LATE VISITOR 222 CHAPTER X. THE WELCOME BACK 227 CHAPTER XI. Reuben's idea 230 CHAPTER XII. DAXf ! F.R 236 CHAPTER XIII. SARAH IS MISSED 240 CHAPTER XIV. WITH THE EN EM V 246 CHAPTER XV. REUBEN LOSES FAITH 249 CHAPTER XVI. MISUNDERSTOOD 256 CH \PTER XVII. TOM KASTBELL IS ALA RMED 201 PAOK 195 MOKK SHAJUOW 202 i.|9^^H THK pri»onp:r 209 . 21G ... 222 ... 227 230 23G 240 245 249 255 201 CONTENTS. CHAPTER XVm. CHAPTER XIX. CHAPTER XX. THE TEKMS UF KELEASK CHAPTER XXI. (.'LEARINO THE HOUSE CHAPTER XXII. A rHANUE OF PLAN THE ;iETURN FORGOTTEN. CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER XXV. UTTERLY CONFOUNDED CHAPTER XXVI. THE BAD NEWS Soah tbc f birtr. MANY CHANGES. CHAPTER I. THE UNLUCKY HOLME NO PEACE. CHAPTER II. Vll r.\uK 2r)7 275 283 288 2H6 301 305 . 310 . 313 317 326 ivaviSA* >■ ■K viii ( ONTKNTS. CHAPTER III. I PArl^u THK TRirxH \V2\^ | CHAPTER IV. * CONSOLATION ... ;WM CHAPTER V. tots' nl'khe :W7 CHAPTER VI. THE .MAOPIK :i44 CHAPTER VII. m WORCKSTKK .\OAlN JWVO # CHAPTER VIII. P EDVVAKD PETKKSON LtJOKS FORWAUK H54 »; CHAPTER IX. JOHN DELIVERS HIS MESSAGE 3ot) | CHAPTER X. ^ A FEW WORDS IU)2 CHAPTER XI. A PASHINO TEMl'KST 3()W CHA'^rER XII. SAKAH MAKES U)' HER MIND AGAIN 371 CHAPTER XIII. JEALOUS AT LAST 374 CHAPTER XIV. ' CONFIDENCE 378 ss IK (• 8 W tl fc n w h d SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. ^ooh ifet /list. REUBEN Ci LWICK CHAPTKiC I. THK LAI> WHO HP:LPKD W :TH the LroCrAOK. fT was wintry weather down in Worcestershire, though tlie May of the year in wliicli our story opens was aheady '^ ' two weeks old. It was a late spring, the country-paople said ; meaning that the hail, and bleet, and rain and bit- ter east winds were still in the ascendant, and that there was not a glimpse of sunshine from week's end to week's end. Times were hard and business was bad, and people already croaked about the danger to the harvest. It was a world that, shivered by the fire still, and waited for a change. Weatbor- wise folk looked up at the leaden sky every day, shook their heads and said, " More wet ;" and the wet came down as though they had asked for it, and washed out the energy from three- fourths of the human kind in Worcester, It had been raining all day in the loyal city, just a.s it had rained the day before, and the day preceding that. It was raining at ten o'"lock in the evening in as vigorous and live- ly a fashion as though it had just commenced, and the wind had turned out with extra strength to add to the dark night's discomfort. Worcester had lost heart and given up and gone to bed, and at the railway station, where by the tables one B ' 2 SECOND-COUSIN SAUAH. II' could ascertain that a train was behind time by three minutes, there was a faint semhhince of Ufe, moie depressing than the elements. There was one Hy, with its windows drawn up, its driver asleep in the interior of his vehicle, and its drabby horse coughing like a man. There was a wet old gentleman, glitter- ing like a beetle in his waterproof as he walked up and down, under the dim gas lamps of the station. There was a railway porter's head peering occasionally from a half- open door, and declining to allow its body to come forward until the glaring eyes of the engine were seen advancing through the miseries of the night ; and there was a short, thin, haggard scrap of a youth, in tattered corduroys and a red comforter, curled up on a porter's truck, and sleeping placidly in one of the tho- roughest draughts of which that excessively breezy station can boast. The train that was overdue was not calculated to rouse the officials into energy, or bring the hotel vehicles from the city for the passengers, or entice able-bodied men and boys, in the hope of perquisites, from their homes ; it came from a dull, dead branch line, and was going on to Gloucester ; it was not likely to land many travellers cii roatc, or take up many at that hour of the night. When it arrived at last, it came into the station noiselessly and in a spiritless condition, as though the steam were low and the engine-driver had just buried his wife, and only one bespotted window was slowly lowered in a third-class carriage, as the train glided to the platform. From this window an ungloved hand and arm protruded and unlatched the door, and then a stalwart man of four or live and twenty years of age, a bright-faced, brown bearded man, ste[>ped out, dragged forth a portmanteau and a hat-box, stood aside to allow of the brisk entrance of the man in the shiny waterproof, and looked around in that half-sharp, half-vague manner, common to individuals who land themselves in places that are new to them, or have changed much since their last farewell. The guard banged the door to, the engine gave a melancholy wail and toiled on with its burden ; the youth in corduroys sat up on the barrow and stared at the portmanteau and hat-box rather than at their owner ; the fly-driver, who had roused himself, called out " Carriage, sir ?" and not receiving a response with that promptitude which he considered due to :i% THK LAD WHO HELPED WITH THE LIT OG AGE. 3 'K ed and or live man, stood shiny ■vague places ir last <5 ■M v* his position, cut the coughing horse viciously under the chin with his whip, and drove off at full speed. The traveller, after a hasty glance at the sky, called out in .1 sharp, clear voice to the porter, who was slouching towards his room again — •' Here — I want you a moment." The porter, an uncivil specimen of his class, hesitated, looked over his shoulder, and grunted forth to the third-class passen- ger '' There's no more trains." •' I don't want any trains — I want you. Look alive, young man, if you please." The young man, who was fifty, and grey as a badger, seemed im})ressed by the traveller's briskness, and flattered by the compliment paid to his youth, for he slouched slowly back and looked into the traveller's face. It was a face worth looking at — at least some women would have thought so; though it was not so much a handsome face as what might be termed a speaking countenance. It was sharp- ly dehned, with a pair of full grey laughing eyes, at variance or in contrast to a mouth and chin that were significant of their owner having a will of his own ; it was a face of more than ordinary keenness and intelligence, and an early outlook at the world had not scared or depressed it, unless appearances were against it and him. ''I expected a carriage for me to-night." " What sort of carriage '?" " A private carriage from Mr. Cul\vick'«, of Sedge Hill. Do you know Mr. Culwick by sight, or his coachman ?" '• There has been nothing here but cabs all day — and there's nothing likely to come now, I reckon." *' Xo, I reckon not." Tho traveller looked at his portmanteau and hat-box. '' Where's the parcel office V " That's shut." " Can they be sent to the hotel /" " Not to-night, I think." " Do you want anybody to carry your luggage, sii- ?" asked a weak voice, and the lad who had been dozing away time on ',1 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. w li' ll .1: r the barrow obtruded in an edgewise manner into the conversa- tion. The traveller glanced at him and said — " It is too heavy for you, my man." " No, it isn't," said the youth with alacrity. " I'm very strong ; 1 lin.ve been waiting for a job all night, sir — if you don't mind, sir — for I'm very strong ; I am indeed." The eagerness of the request, the reiteration of his powers, the contrast which his words presented to his white cheeks and eager dark eyes, attracted anew the attention of the gen- tleman for whom no carriage had arrived, before the railway porter turned upon the applicant. '* Yi-u get out of this, young shaver; you've been here a sight too long already," cried the porter, '* and I have had my hi on you these two hours. It's no use your hanging about as if " The boy cowered for an instant, and then turned quickly on the man — " Don't lay a hand on me — you had better not touch me," he cried warmly ; "I am talking to this gentleman, not to you. 1 am doing no one any harm — am I, sir ? " " Not that I see," answered the traveller, thus appealed to. " And I'm very strong, sir," he urged again ; " may I try ? I'll carry it easily, see now ! " The portmanteau was raised and flung upon his shoulder, the other hand caught up the leather hat-box, and the white face looked round the burden inquiringly. '* Where to, sir ? " " To Muddleton's Hotel — do you know Muddleton's ] " " All right, sir." The youth strode into the wind and rain, and then the tra- veller, after giving a tug to his cap, put his hands in the pock- ets of his coat, and followed his guide across and out of the station-yard. Yes, it was raining hard in the good city of Worcester ; the good city in fact seemed to have had more than a fair propor- tion of rain, judging by the choked-up gutters, and the sheets of water in the roadway full of turmoil and confusion, that went swirling into off-streets, with hissing, gurgling noises. The youth turned the corner with the luggage, and the pro- THE LAD WHO HELPED WITH THE LUGGAGE. t I prietor found him leaning against the brick wall of a house when he had turned after hira. •' Which way, sir ? " he inquired. "Which way ' " echoed the stranger ; " why, .straight along ihero Don't you know your way ? " "Can't say that I know much about hotels--! haven't been iit this kind of work a great while, sir." • How long ?" inquired the traveller, somt-what curiously. "Three hours and a half." " Come, that's perseverance, if we take th*- weather into con- sideration. You are the lad to make your way in the world, in good time, though " " Though I haven't made much way yet," .said the other, as he started off' again with his burden, as if anxious- to get be- yond his companion's questioning. This wa.> an impossible feat, however, handicapped as he was with a hat-V>ox and a heavy portmanteau — such a heavy portmanteau that all the worldly goods of the owner must be stowed away inside, he thought, unless the gentleman was in the iron trade, and tra- velling with samples. There was no intention in the stranger's miml of allowing his fragile-looking porter to get very far ahead of him ; it was not politic, it was not safe, and — yes, he was a curious man in his way. One or two long strides took him to the youth's side again, and once more the sharj) black eyes peered round the portmanteau in a half-nervous, half-observant way, as a dumb animal might have done at its master. " I'm very strong, sir — don't touch the portmanteau, please, and I shall get on all right. Muddleton's is not very far now, I suppose," said the volunteer, breathing more quickly as he toiled onwards in the roadway, splashing through mire and puddle without regard to any selection of ground. " Haifa mile or so." " Good gracious !" the lad ejaculated to him.self. It was be- yond his distance, and he sh stop half way on the journey, he was afraid, but he struggled on ; and the traveller marchin_ by his side, and with his head bent down to keep the rain from his face, did not perceive that his attendant reeled a little in his progress. Ill 6 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " Three hours and a half," said he at last; " what have you been doing before this 1 " " Nothing particular." '* Living on your means ? ' **No." " On your wits 1 " The lad trudged on, and did not answer him. He wavered more in his gait, and splashed the legs of his companion with superfluous mud and water ; and the man walked by his side, studying the roadway still, and unobservant of th«' failing efforts of the weak boy whom he had entrusted with a heavy task. He was more interested in the youth's past state than in his present condition, and regarded him in the abstract. " Who are you, boy ? " he said, without looking uj), and in the tone of a man only half interested in his subject ; " what have you come to this sleepy city for ? " " I — don't know," was the reply, and a more sullen reply it was than usual, despite its jerkiness. " Not for a living r' "No." " To find a friend 1 " "No." " Have you run away from home 1 Is that it ? " The mail looked at the lad at this query — looked with a grave earnestness that betokened a keener interest in him than he had hitherto shown. " If that's it, we are in the same boat, boy," said he. " I ran away from home ever so long ago." " Because " said the lad, curious in his turn, and stop- ping short for an instant for the answer. " Because there was no place like home I — no place so con- foundedly uncomfortable and unsympathetic and hard-cor- nered — and so I put on my hat and walked out. And yet, after all " he paused and made a clutch at his portmanteau, that he suddenly thought was in peril of slipping from the lad's shoulders — " Here, hold hard, youngster ; what's the matter ? " " It's all right, let me be ; I can carry it ; I said I could," cried the boy with excitement, and marching himself and lug- THE LAD WHO HELPED WITH THE LUGGAGE. gage away from the touch of the elder man. This surlden effort seemed too much for the over-taxed strength of the por- ter; he reeled away towards the footpath, and went on with weak and tottering legs for a few more moments, when he suddenly collapsed. It was an utter break-down at the very instant that the traveller had become aware of the position, and was strid- ing forwards to render assistance, and the result was chaos — the youth all of a heap on the kerb-stone, with the hat-box under him, and the portmanteau in the roadway like a big boulder in a mountain stream, with eddying currents surging round it and meeting on the other side. It was a scene tliat surprised the traveller, and disturbed liis equanimity ; for something like bad language escaped him, as with the instinct of self-preservation — that glorious first law of nature — he lifted his portmanteau from tlie road into a dem) doorway, and then turned round to inspect bis prostrate com- panion. When he was leaning over him, and peering into his face, the little anger that was in him hastily evaporated, and was replaced by a kindly sympathy more worthy of the man. " You are ill — you are hurt,'" he said. " No ; let me be ; I shall get up in a minute." " Can't you get up now ? " " I'm a little bit giddy still — the street turned round all of a sudden — but 1 will go on with the luggage presently." " Oh, no, you won't," said the man drily ; " you should have never attempted it. I was a brute not to see — by Jove, the boy's going to faint ! " He put his arms round him, and lifted him into the doorway, as he might have lifted an infant, and looked again at the white wan face under the old Scotch cap, which was pulled tightly over the forehead in a hang-dog fashion. " Poor little beggar ! " he muttered, " why did I load him like this, and loaf along by his side like a nigger-driver 1 — Here, what's your name 1 can't you open your eyes, just for a mo- ment, till I " Here his anxiety took the form of action, for, still holding the boy's head on his shoulder, he kicked with energy at the door against which he was leaning, and awoke the whole house, which was supposed, at the first alarm of its inmates, to be a sheet of flames from top to bottom. SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. A snuffy old woman, in an old black cap weighed down by grimy artificial flowers, was the first to wrench open the door ; she had been sleeping by the fire, sitting up for a late husband, and she appeared with a bound on the doorstep, and n^^arly fell over the strange couple in her haste. " Water — a glass of water, please," cried the traveller. " This child has fainted." "What — who — w^ater — whose child is it ?" she called forth. Then she realized the urgency of the case, and ran back into the room, returning very quickly with a light in one hand and a glass of water in the other, at the same time as heads peered down the narrow staircase, and some one opened a window above, and asked twenty questions in stentorian tones, without getting an answer to one of them. " You can come into the house, if he ain't going to die, mind you," said the woman. " Has he been run over % " *' No — crushed, that's all. Give me the water." The water was passed to the stranger, who held it to the lips of the fainting lad. " Take off his cap, please," he said, " and then let him be. He will get the air that way." The Scotch cap was twitched off, and then the woman, and the man who was supporting the lad, leaned forwards and stared with amazement at two small side-combs which were in the head, and which had been used for fixing and drawing up beneath the Scotch cap a profusion of raven hair. " Mussy on us, it's a gal ! " cried the old woman. " Why, what's her game ?" " Ay, what's her game ?" said the man very thoughtfully, as he echoed back the slangy question of his interlocutor. The girl was still insensible, when some one in his shirt and trousers came shuffling down-stairs with a cup in his hand. " If gin's any good, she can take a sip of this." " Have you any brandy f asked the traveller. " Oh ! you're a blessed sight too partikler, guv'ner. No, we ain't got no brandy, no shampain, nor any think." " Sperits is sperits," said the old woman; " and if you're fool enough to waste it, Simkins, on a brazen chit like that, walking about in men's clothes in thatundecent way, do so if you like." " She don't look very brazen, does she, sir?" said the man. 1 )wn by 1 e door ; 1 usband, I nearly J " This J d forth. 1 ck into M nd and ^ 3 peered M window M without S THE LAD WHO HELPED WITH THE LUOOAGE. 9 6, mind to the him be. an, and ds and were in ring up " Why, 'ully, as lirt and md. No, we I're fool walking u like." le man, with a hoarse laugh, as the gentleman took the cup from his hand. " No," was the answer, as a few drops of the spirit were given to the girl, who heaved a deep sigh, and put her thin hands to her head, as if she missed her cap already. " She's coming round," he said. " She's been shamming," said the old woman, who had grown strangely uncharitable within the last few moments. "She will do if we can get her home," said the traveller. "Are you better ? — how do you feel now 1" he asked kindly. "I'm all right," was the slow answer; "I — I think so. What has been — the " Then she stood up slowly, with her hands pressed to her temples, glared from the traveller to the woman with the light, gave a faint little scream of surprise, snatched suddenly at the cap dangling from the fingers of the woman, and with one wild spring forwards, passed from them into the rain and wind, and \ anished away in the darkness. The traveller made one or two strides after her and then stopped. " Why should I follow her, and annoy her further ?" he said, as he paused. He remembered that he had given his strange porter no re- muneration for services thus abruptly terminated, and started off' again ; but it was too late, and another memory coming to him that he was leaving his luggage in the street, he went back for it, and discovered that it was being taken into the house by the Samaritans, with a certain amount of undue haste. " Thank you," he said politely. He shouldered his portman- teau, picked up his damaged hat-case, and marched off" to Mud- dleton's Hotel, where the waiter received him urbanely, but was puzzled at the quantity of mud which he brought in along with his luggage. 10 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER II. IIP: ORDERS FOR THE MORNING ITTING in the coflFee-room of Muddleton's Hotel, his slip pered feet planted on the old-fashioned brass fender, and his grey eyes fixed upon the dancing flames of the big- coal fire, the man who had come to Worcester thought out the incidents of the day, and sketched forth a map of progress for the morrow. Warm and dry, and at his ease, the wan face of the masquerader of an hour ago came before him more often than he had l}argained for, the girl being apart from his life, and only a stray incident by the wayside of a career that had been eventful and varied. He was a man of the world, and had seen strange sights and met with strange chances and mischances, and yet he had not been at any time more perplexed than on this night of coming back to home. He was a man whom other folks' trouble dis- turbed apparently — hence not a selfish man highly developed. There was a stern story, he was sure, of much privation mark- ing the life of that weak woman who had struggled into a man's dress, and hung about Worcester railway station for man's work and man's wages ; and he had experienced privation himself, and lived it down in some degree, not losing sympathy with it, or growing callous to it. He did not want the incident of that night to trouble him, but it would — why, he hardly knew, for poverty is common enough, and eccentric enough. Perhaps it was on his conscience that the girl had toiled hard for a sixpence, and he had not rewarded her for her labour. Would she think that she was not to be paid on account of the non fulfilment of the contract between them 1 — that the bargain had been struck, but not carried out 1 — that he was a man who expected every scrap of his money's worth for his money, like — Ah ! well, he would not mention names ; perhaps even lie. had altered for the better with advancing years. He rang the bell and the waiter entered. i ORDERS FOR THK MORNING. 11 " If anybody should ask for me " " Yes, sir, what name, sir ?" " Keuben Culwick " he replied ; "but he — she will not know 10) name. The party who helped me with my portmanteau from tlie station, I mean, and who left me in a hurry. She — he is aware that 1 am staying here for the night ; therefore be good enough to ask him — her — the lad, 1 mean, or whoever comes," lie added with a dash, *' into the room to-night or to-morrow morning. Do you understand 1" he inquired, as the waiter lis- tened open-mouthed to these rambling instructions. " Yes, sir, perfectly. Anybody who comes ; man or woman. Yes, sir," he said with great briskness. '* Stop one moment," said Mr. Culwick, as the man Hitted towards the door; "I shall want a trap to Sedge Hill to-morrow." " At what time, sir ?" " Ten in the morning." " To go and return ?" '* And return f he said inquiringly to himself. " Yes, and return ! That is certain." " Beg pardon, sir ?" said the waiter interrogatively. " To take me to Sedge Hill, and bring me back to Worcester, at ten in the morning," he repeated in a decisive tone ; and the waiter having withdrawn, he lighted a cigar, and set himself to his coal-fire studies once more. The instructions which he had given had sufficed to turn the current of his ideas, and the adventure of the night passed away from his mind with the deeper thoughts that followed it. "And return!" he said, and took his cigar from his mouth to laugh to himself more than once — and odd laughs they were, of various degrees of hilarity, from the hearty and unaffected, to the laugh with the inner ring in it, the under-current, as it were, of something which was scarcely irony, and which might have been interpreted into a lurking sorrow or regret, by any one who had known his history. " Yes, Reuben," he said, when, at a later hour, he was going up-stairs to his room, " to return ! positively the last appear- ance of Reuben Culwick at Sedge Hill. Will there be much of a crowd to see the gentleman under those interesting cir- cumstances ?" He had made up his mind to solve the riddle quickly for li Ij 12 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. himself, and at ten in the morning he was standing in front of Mr. Muddleton's Hotel, drawing on a pair of gloves and criti- cally inspecting the animal which the proprietor had harnessed to the dog-cart. There was a faint prospect of a dry day, if not a fine one ; the clouds were not so low as usual, and the wind had changed during the night. Reuben Culwick looked up and down the street, and thought of his little adventure in Worcester last night. The waiter, not too busy, was standing at the door, interested in the temporary departure of the cus- tomer, and Reuben turned to him. " Has any one called this morning for me V " No, sir." " If any one should call about helping me with the portman- teau last night, give — him — half-a- crown." " Half-a-crown, sir?" said the waiter; ''yes, sir." "And ask her to call again," added Reuben Culwick, as he sprang into the trap and drove off. *• Give him half-a-crown, and ask he?' to call again," said the waiter, looking after him. " He doesn't know what he's saying ! The old man at Sedge Hill will never make him out. A regular Culwick he is, and no mistake about it." And there was no mistake about it, that Reuben Culwick was still remembered at Muddleton's Hotel. II !!i THE HOME THAT THERE WAS NO PLACE LIKE. 13 CHAPTER III. THE HOME THAT THERE WAS NO PLACE LIKE. X^lrtrilETHER Sedge Hill should lie to the east or we«t, V^^ the north or south of Worcester city, matters not to •^ the purport of our story ; and it may not be politic to enter too minutely into the details of location. That it was a big stone house seven miles from Worcester, is sufficient to re- late. It was called Sedge Hill from the rising ground on which it had been built, and from the wooded acclivity beyond it, where from the summit was a glorious view of miles of English landscape, with the cathedral towering above the house-roofs of the distant city, and the Severn winding like a band of silver through a fair green country, well loved by art and poetry. Sedge Hill — speaking solely of the mansion to which that title had been given — was a staring edifice of considerable pro- portions, with an aspect of newness about it that fourteen years had not done much to soften. It had been built to the order of the present proprietor, who had made much money by cotton stockings, and had risen from twenty shillings a weok at the loom to the splendour of his present life. It was a new house to suit the new man who had been lucky enough to get rich. There were spacious grounds beyond — even the larches on the hill were part and parcel of the domain ; and there was a big room at the side, that was new to Reuben Culwick since he had last stood in his father's house, and it was this that he pulled up his horse to inspect before turning into the carriage drive. " Improvements," he said to himself ; "even the house has grown since I was here." Then he went rapidly along the drive, drew up in front of the house, and stepped lightly and briskly from the trap, giving the reins to a rosy-faced young man in livery, who emerged from some stabling in the rear, to be of service to the new comer. " Old Jones has gone, then 1 " he said to the servant. "Yes, sir." s \ II -M u SECOND-COUSIN SAKAll. " Dead V " Oh ! no, sir — he's with Squire Black, of Holston." " And you reign in his stead. Well, we cannot all reign." He knocked and rang, looking steadily through the gla.s,s f his own free will. There was a pause, during which each man te V stock of the other without any particular reserve. The futuer had not altered much — his whiskers were greyer, and jhe shadowing beneath the eyes was somewhat deeper, and that was all. There was the same sense of power, or obtluracy, in the big broad chin, and the thin closed in-drawn lips, and it was easy to guess from whom Keuben Culwick had inherited his decisive-looking mouth. In the son there was a vast change, and the father noted it at once, being an observant man in his way. This was not the stripling who had walked out of the house rather than obey his commands ; who had replied angrily to his own anger ; who had been as disobedient as he had been dictatorial and unyield- ing. This was a man of the world, with his will hardened by contact with the rough surfaces of which the world was full, and probably more difficult to deal with than ever. Time had improved him, and made a man of him, and given him self- possession, and courage, and brains — and he had lacked all these when he had flown out of the house in his last passion. But he would be for ever lacking in obedience — the father, Simon Culwick, was assured of that already. " I got your letter," said the father, " and I might have sent the carriage for you, had it not rained so much." '* The horses might have caught cold instead of me," said the son drily ; "but I didn't want the carriage. 1 was glad that I had not further to go last night than Worcester." He looked towards the lady in the bay window at this junc- ture ; and his father noticed the wandering gaze, and paid no attention to the hint which it conveyed. •' Well, what have you been doing 1 What " (after a pause, 16 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. / i. !h1! Hi: • and with another steady and impassive stare at his son) "do yon purpose doing now that you are here 1 " "Is it worth while entering into that question at once] " " Why not 1 " was the rejoinder. " It may rise to discussion, and you and I never agreed to- gether in debate, sir," said Reuben, half deferentially and yet half satirically. He had come back — long ago he had owned himself in a great degree in the wrong — he had wished to see his father again, and the reception had already chilled him, though it was no more, no less than he had expected from the first. He had not come for argument, to own more than his share of error — scarcely to own that a second time, having already explained in his letter almost as much as it was necessary to explain. " I suppose, after all that has passed, you have no intention of sitting down in the house, and waiting complacently for my death, and my money 1 " the father inquired. "You told me that I should never have a penny of your money, if you remember, sir," said the son, calmly. " And you never will," was the blunt answer. " I have never expected it after that day, or after that oath," said Reuben Culwick. " Why should you 1 " said Mr. Culwick in a loud tone of voice, and yet without betraying any passion. " Have 1 been known in all my life to break my word ? Has not sticking to my woi'd, through thick and thin, in evil report and good re- port, made me what I am 1 " " Yes." " I would rather break my own heart than break my word. You know it," said the father boastfully. " Fifty hearts as well as your own — yes, I know it," answered the other, with an unflinching gaze at his father, " and hence I come to you — not for assistance, I don't want it — not for affec- tion, I >lon't expect it — but with the simple motive which I hope that my letter conveyed to you last week, to see you, to express sorrow for a long alienation, to feel glad that you are well, to tell you that I am not unhappy, and to go away again." The son'e tones seemed to impress the father, v/ho subsided into his easy chair, from which he had leaned forward, ns if cowed by the cold, clear-ringing tones of the voice which fell i THE HOME THAT THERE WAS NO PLACE LIKE. 17 ) "do you nee % " igreed to- i and yet iself in a bis father igh it was He had )£ error — explained plain, intention ily for my y of your lat oath," d tone of re I been icking to good re- ny word. mswered hence I for affec- which I ? you, to you are again." subsided rd. as if Ihich fell -'-'«■ upon his ears, a voice which subdued him, and an arrogance that had been always difficult to quell — which toucheil him, though he never owned that— which made him even prouder of his son, though the time never came for him to own that either. The young woman in the background leaned forward Avith clasped hands, until he caught her glance again, when she once more turned her eyes upon her book. '' Have you made your fortune ? " asked the father in a different voice. " On the contrary, I have been somewhat unsuccessful." " How do you live ? " " I write — a little," he added modestly. " And earn a little. I can guess the drudgery — don't tell me any more about it." " It is a long story, that would scarcely interest you." ''It woulunot interest me in the least." There was another long pause, during which the son, stil! at his ease, still singularly hard, despite his respectful manner, glanced round at the pictures on the walls, admired them even secretly, but not enviously, wondered at their cost, ar.d looked ob.ce more in the direction of the lady, whose pensive face and quiet grace he admired also, and at whose presence he wondered in a greater degree, though he repressed all exliibition of sur- prise. Suddenly the father said, with that singular abruptness characteristic of the man — " You can stay here if you like." " For how long ? " asked the son, surprised at last out of his assumption of stoical composure. "Till we disagree again," said the father, with a short, foi'ced laugh ; " that will not be many days, I suppose i " " One moment, sir," said Reuben Culvvick, with grave politeness, and still studying his father, and experimentalizing upon him with grave philosophy. " A mistake parted us, and we are laying the foundation of another already, unless 1 ex- plain the first." " Go on." " I may speak before ivki^ lady 1 " ' " Yes." c w^ llllil .1 18 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " I was hardly twenty -one — a rash and foolish young fellow — when you wanted me to marry your friend's daughter." " You would have been rich — you would have been respected — it would have been for the best." " No, I think not." "I say, *Yes.'" " I refused to entertain the proposal, if you remember." " Remember ! remember it ! " cried the fat];ier, turning pale with anger ; " do you rake this up again to insult me 1 " " No, to enlighten you," said the other : "at that period, Mr. Culwick, I had promise*! my mother that I would not marry the lady." I i 1' k ■% UNSUCCESSFITL. 19 ng fellow ber." respected CHAPTER IV 3er." ling pale t period, onld not UNSUCCESSFUL. np^HE effect of Reuben Cuhvick's announcement upon his yX. father was remarkable. The big man rose from his ^' chair with his two large hands clenched, and his face of a fleep purplish hue, and glared at his son in speechless wrath. Kor an instant it appeared as if he were contemplating a rush ;it this disobedient offspring, as in days past, being a man fierce and uncontrollable, he had done, to the boy's alarm, and the dismay of a poor fragile woman long set apart from him ; but the son sat immovably in the chair, which had V»een placed a few paces from his irascible parent, and regarded him im- i)erturbably. Simon Culwick sank slowly and heavily into his seat again, and i>anted for awhile. The dark colouring left the face, but the bushy black brows retained their lower curves over the ♦ yes, and the mouth was hard and fixed, until the lips parted slightly to allow a few words to escape. " And this is the first time you tell me that you were in league with your mother V " Yes," answered Reuben politely. " I was a wilful lad who haur curseder •lit it won't ," answered ■ I shall hve e in enmity Ai obstinate ly for you," penitent — iir mother's mce ; but I d me, for I ou, father," ng way out ''ell. Good her refused [•esh wound vc done it eftVctnally. I don't want you to trouble me again. Should I at any time want you, I'll send for you." He had intended this for merciless irony ; but Reuben Cul- wiok took a card from his pocket and laid it on the mantel- piece. " A line will always find me at this address," he said, " and 1 shall be always glad to hear from you." " 1 dare say you will," muttered the father. " Otherwise," he added, and his mouth assumed the firm ex- j)ression of his father's, " we shall never meet. I shall come not here again in all my life." " You will not come here again at my invitation," said the father as decisively as the son ; " I can't forgive you — why should I ? I never forgave anybody. I never forgave your mother. Your two aunts off'ended me years ago, you know. Have I ever forgiven them 1 One died last summer, and 1 wouldn't go to see her — wouldn't go near her — and the other one is in Si. Oswald's Almshouses, blind as a bat, and living on eight shillings a week. Eight shillings a week, and those pictures there cost me eighty thousand pounds." "A good investment," said Reuben Culwick coolly, and critically looking round the walls ; " they will increase in value year by year, sir." As he looked round, he became aware for the first time that the lady in the bay window had disappeared. She had passed from the room silently, through a second door at the extremity of the picture gallery. " And I never gave her a penny in my life," added Mr. Cul wick, senior. "Poor old Sarah- -blind is she 1 and in the almshouses too 1 am sorry." " What the d — 1 have you to be sorry about ]" " I liked old Sarah," said Reuben ; " she was one of the few friends 1 had when I was a boy, and when you were not rich." " No," answered Simon Culwick half to himseF. " But I am detaining you," said Reuben ; " and I am pledged to reach London to-night. Goodbye again." He did not offer his hand to his father a second time, and the father only murmured a few indistinct words by way of farewell salutation. BB wm V •! I 'I ilW ^^' '• fill l"^- I ^ 22 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. When he had reached the door, Simon Culwick called out his name, and lieuben paused and turned. '* I am not deceitful," said the father, " and I may as well tell you that I have made my will, and that you will never be a penny the better for it. It is all left— all," he added, " away from an undutiful son." " You threatened me with disinheritance years ago, and," said lieuben, perhaps a little acridly, "you are a man of your word." " Else I should not be the man I am." " Possibly not." There was a moment's pause, and then Reuben Culwick quitted his father's presence, and closed the door after him. He went from the room into the corridor with so thoughtful a mien, that he was not for the moment aware that the young lady in grey silk whom he had seen in the bay window was stepping back from the big fleecy mat at the door, to allow of his egress. When he saw her, she put her finger to her lips, and he repressed an exclamation of surprise. " Go back," she said with an excitement that astonished him ; " don't give up — don't leave him like that —it's your last chance." "You have been listening," said Reuben coldly. "To every word," was the honest confession; " and you have not said a word to please him, and much to offend. Why did you come, if in no better spirit than this ?" " I came to be friends with him." " And you have failed." " Hardly. He understands that 1 bear him no ill-will — my own father, madam ! — for years of much privation and neglect." " Go back to him. Tell him how sorry you are for every- thing — do something before you go that will leave behind a better inpression," she urged again. "No ; I can't go back." " You are as hard as he is," she cried ; " as if it mattered what you said to him — as if it were not worth a struggle to re- gain your position here ! " " I should struggle in vain — I — but may I ask why a young lady whom I see for the first time, and whose position in this m UNSUCCESSFUL. 23 ick called out I may as well will never be added, "away rs ago, and," man of your iben Culwick )r after him. 30 thoughtful lat the young window was r, to allow of [• to her lips, it astonished -it's your last i; "and you Dffend. Why no ill-will — "ivation and re for eveiy- ive behind a • it mattered ruggle to re- dly a young bion in this happy house is a mystery to me, should take so great an interest in my welfare V " I don't take any interest in you," was the sharp reply ; '• but I know that you are poor, and proud, and foolish, and that your father is not as heartless as you fancy." " And who are you V said the wondering Reuben. " Only the housekeeper, sir," she said quaintly ; " keeping house for Simon Culwick — and in your place. You should hate me as a usurper already," she added mockingly, " if you had any spirit in you." " The housekeeper — yes — but — " he said wonderingly, and without regarding her strange taunts, " I was not aware " " Why should you be aware of anything about me, you who are as quarrelsome and strange as your father, and have kept away so long ] There, go home, and think of the best way to bring that old man to his senses." " And interfere with your chance," said Reuben lightly. He was in better spirits already, and the odd manner of this young lady interested him. " I have no chance," she answered, " or I should not be very anxious for you to get back. I should be too selfish — I should try and keep you away, being as fond of money as your father is." " I hardly believe this." " Mr. Reuben Culwick can believe exactly what he pleases," said the young lady, spreading out her skirts and making him a very low obeisance, which he felt bound to return with almost the same degree of mock solemnity, after which he would have continued the conversation, had. she not darted along the corridor and disappeared. '" A queer young woman," muttered Reuben, as he walked to the front door and let himself out of the house. The horse and chaise, that he had hired of Muddleton's, were still in charge of the rosy-faced groom, whom, he presented with a fee, and then drove away without looking once behind him. He had fulfilled his task — it had failed, as he had been sure all along that it would fail, knowing so much better than any one else what his father was like, and how unlike — Heaven forgive him — to all other fathers of whom he had heard men speak, and whom, in his pilgrimage, he had encountered. Ah ! it was lucky that he had not turned out a worse man, considering his / 24 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. '•» i^'M early training, and his early neglect, the want of sympathy with him and his hoyish pursuits and aspirations, the total .ihsence of all affection, his own utter loneliness of youth, and the world left to tempt him, rather than afford him grave experience. Why had he not grown up an arrant scamp, a thorough Idack guard, as some will, left to the blight of such neglect as his, and then faced suddenly with bitter tyranny and exaction 1 What had saved him? — Heaven, his own strong will, or his play-acting mother, whose life he had shared at the last? He drove into the city of Worcester with his face gra\ r and more thoughtful than he had driven away from it that morn- ing — although he had foreseen much of the result of his jour- ney, and had prepared for it. The position was a strange one, stranger than our readers are aware of at present ; and that fair-faced, energetic young lady who had reproved him, ren- dered the world before him a serious subject for contemplation. He should remember coming to Worcester again to the last day of his life. It was a new beginning ; even in the rain last night he had stepped from the common-place to a something like romance, but he had forgotten the first incident of his ar- rival until he was in Muddleton's coffee-room, and the waiter with his hands on the table was leaning across the white cloth towards him. " Beg pardon, sir, but he's been." '' Who has been ? " asked Keuben. '* The young man who helped to carry the luggage last night for you." *' Has she, by Jove?" said Reuben. The waiter's eyes rounded and enlarged, but he had been bred in too polite a sphere to express any opinion, although that number forty eight — which was the number of Reuben's room — should be so ignorant of the sex of the party who assist- ed him last night was extraordinarily bewildering, unless drink had done for forty-eight before his arrival. " Yessir. And he said," he added, with the slightest em- phasis on the pronoun, " that he thought half-a-crown a pre- cious little, considering how he had spoiled his things with your trunk. * The infernal trunk,' he caUed it, along with Qpher names." '"She said that!" UNSUCCESSFUL. 25 " He tried it on very hard for another shilling, but I told him that I had my orders from you direct, and could not aftbrd to advance, and that it was like his impudence to come at all. I said that, sir," add(td the waiter deferentially, " because he got awful saucy, and we had to put him out of the house. His langwidge, sir, was bad." " What kind of a man was he ?" asked Reuben Culwick. " A shortish young man, sir." " Yes— and thin ? " " Like a lath." " And very pale 1 " " Yessir, and dirty." " A womanish kind of face — with big eyes — black eyes 1 " '' Oh ! no, sir — not a bit womanish. He was as full of pock marks as a cribbage board, and his eyes were particularly small, sir." " Very good — or rather very b'^d." sftld Reuben Culwick; " half-crown poorer, and the man has got the money instead of the woman." "Indeed, sir — yessir," and the waiter departed. Outside the door he tapped his forehead significantly, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the room he had quitted — this for the instruction or amusement of another waiter com- ing down-stairs with an empty soda-water bottle and glass on a tray. '* Mad as a March hare. Bob," he said sententiously, "Who? "said Bob. "Forty-eight." " That's young Culwick, ain't it ? " "Yes." " Oh ! he always was a rum un." 26 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. (I |i ll^ i 1 1 ; 1 i w i ;a CHAPTER V. ST. OSWALD'S. ^ EUBEN CULWICK lad an early dinner at Muddletous, 'm\ thereby dispensing with the luxury of a lunch. After '^ dinner he spent some time poring over a time table, and finally rang the bell. "I shall want my luggage taken to the station this afternoon, ' he said to the waiter who had doubted his sanity ; " I wish to catch the 5.15 train for London." " Yessir." " And the bill, please, at once." " Yessir." After he had defrayed the expenses of his board and lodg ing at Muddleton's, he sat with his hands in his pockets, con sidering many things of grave perplexity. The waiter left him — when business took him into the coffee-room again, number forty-eight was laughing to himself, just as lunatics of a cheer ful frame of mind, or of no mind at all, are in the habit of doing. " Why shouldn't T r' Reuben Culwick said to himself; "1 shall not have another chance — she's one of the family — I may never see AVorcester again." He beckoned the waiter to him. "The St. Oswald Almshouses are at the top of Foregate Street, are they not 1 " " Yessir— in the Tithing." " Ah ! thdfl'ithing. 1 have been so long away that I forget names and pl^es — everything but injuries," he muttered ; then he turned to the waiter, impressed once more upon him the necessity of his luggage being at the railway station by 5.15 p.m., and strolled leisurely out of the hotel, after a " good day " to the man who had attended upon him. He did not go direct to the Tithing, but wandered round the cathedral, and strolled to the bridge, over which he looked at the Severn, and where he hesitated strangely. m mi thl ■i> asi / ST/ OSWALDS. 27 uddleton'.s li- After a table, and afternoon,' " 1 wish to and lodg- >ckets, con- yr left him in, niimbei of a cheer- it of doin mself ly — I may "1 Foregate 1 1 forget fed ; then him the by 5.15 )od day " go direct i strolled td where '' What is the use 1 I shall only hear the recital of her grievances, real and imaginary — disturb her and myself — feel myself in the way, and leave her none the happier. What's the use of my going, after all 1 — ^I am as helpless, poor and blind as she is !" He did not see the use of it in the sluggish waters that Howed on beneath the arch of the bridge, and at which he gazed so steadfastly — he had even turned away as from an un- thankful task of which the river warned him, when a second impulse set him with his face from the railway station, and took him with rapid strides in the direction upon which he had first resolved. The church clocks were striking three when he paused at the gateway which opened upon the inner quadran- gh; of houses dedicated to St. Oswald — one of the few kings of whom good-wearing saints havebeon made — and looked through at the courtyard and the pavement chequered with shadow, and thought what a silent and ghost like place it was, lying apart from the turmoil of the town. The doors of some of the almshouses were open, and at one of them was a faint sign of life, in the form of a young woman, poorly but neatly clad in a black and white striped cotton dress, who was sitting with her elbows planted on her knees, her hands supporting her temples, and her face bent close over a book that lay upon her lap. As Keuben advanced, he saw that the watcher on the tlireshold had tired of her volume, and closed her eyes in sleep. It was a selfish necessity to arouse her, for there was no one about of whom to make inquiries, and time and train would not wait for Reuben Culwick. The young woman had plenty of opportunity for sleep, if she could begin at that early hour of the afternoon, thought Reuben, as he lightly touched her shoulder. The sleeper moved uneasily, and then jerkecUher head back suddenly, and looked at this intruder upon the quiet sanctuary of St. Oswald's. " Can you tell me where " Reuben Culwick paused in his inquiry, for the whit€ pinched face, and the big black eyes, were the face and eyes of the strange girl who had volunteered to carry his luggage last night, and collapsed by the way. He could not be mistaken ; he had looked too anxiously at her as she lay in her swoon to I' ) 2S SEi:UNJ)-COUSlN SARAH. l: > fi 111 ii t: li (■- be (l(;coived, despite her feminine guise at this crisis, and thr taller woman that she looked in it. The big black eyes blinked like a cat's in the sun, and tin lashes quivered in unison, but then he had awakened her from slumber, and there was no sign of recognition on her count nance. There was a certain amount of contraction of the eye brows, that might have indicated a half-scowl at the travellei for waking her thus unceremoniously. " Do you know me 1 " Reuben said, changing his tone and question. "No," was the slow reply, "I've never seen you before." " Not at Worcester station, at ten o'clock last night, when you helped me with a heavy portmanteau that I was selfish enough to let you carry for me f he continued. "I help you with a portmanteau !" said the girl, scoffingly, " at Worcester station ! yes, that's very likely." " It was you," said Reuben, sternly, as he continued to stare at her, and as the girl's cool denial of the fact began to aggra vate him ; " why do you tell me that it was not 1" The young woman did not answer readily. She rose to her feet — a tall, angular girl, smitten sorely by poverty — and leaned against the door-post, peering at her questioner with a brow still contracted. " Why should I help you ?" she said at last; "can't you help yourself?" " You fainted away ; you were weak, and gave up. Why deny this?" " I don't know what you are talkinp about," was the sullen answer ; " who told you that you would find your friend in such a place as this, I should like to know ?" "Then you were not at Worcester station last night ?" said Reuben, still j^ersistently. '' No," was the response. " This is a very nice young woman," muttered Reuben Cul- wick ; " if I could have lied as complacently as that to my father, I might be now in a fair way to reinstatement." The girl was turning away, as if with the intention of pass- ing into the house, when Reul)en remembered the object of his quest, ST. OSWALDS. •29 ■ Will you tt :l nie, pleHse, in which of these .small establish- leiits resides Sarah Ea-stbell V he asketl. The girl paused, and theu swung herself rapidly round, and raced him. 'What next?" she cried angrily, "and what's next after that f she added ; " I'm Sarah Eastbell, and if you have any- thing to say against me, say it. I'm not ashamed of my name ; never was — I never did anything wrong in my life — now, then, what is it that you want V " You are Sarah Eastbell !" said Reuben, with a new inter- [est asserting itself ; "then you are — no, you can't be," added jour hero, exhibiting again that incoherence which had already [bewildered the waiter at Muddleton's. " Will you tell me what you want here 1 " asked Miss East- [bell, peremptorily. " I want to see an older lady than yourself, of the same name, and residing, I believe, in one of these almshouses." " Oh, indeed ! — what for?" was the cautious inquiry. " Upon no particular business — a friendly call, that's all," said Reuben, lightly. " My grandmother is not well enough to see company." "• She will see me," replied Reuben Culwick. " She is not able to '' The statement concerning Mrs. Eastbell's idiosyncrasies was destined never to be completed, for a short, sharp "Sarah !" in an excruciatingly high key, that was like the twang of a wire, and left a humming sound in Reuben's ears, came from an inner room on the left-hand side of the doorway. "Coming !" said the till girl, and she disappeared at once, and left Mr. Culv^ick on the threshold, half resolved to follow her. Ho did not do so, however ; he lingered there politely, whilst some mutterings and murmurings went on in the inner room, and he felt that he was the subject of discourse, and that Miss Eastbell was giving a very bad account of him, and pre- judicing her grandmother against him. This young woman was a being to be wary of. " I don't care what he is, or what he wants," he heard the shrill voice say again, " and so let him come in, Sally." «' But " i:- Hi ! :: H I, I f» tf.TfcJ, .SO SECOND-COUSIN SAKAH. he;;^sV::r as^^^^^^^^ i -in he. .,,. fori ^^^^^,^«"/' ^««>-ered Lrah F^ k' .^'^""^ ^^^^ him p' '^ tore Reuben was prepared f^.i ^^^''^^ ^^^ younger and i You can come in," said the girl, sulleni,. Ilflf n SECOND-COUSIN SAR.» H. 31 ^i[i hear what \»ger, and h,.. ^ne was stau.l- CHAPTER VI. " SECOND-COUSIN SARAH." [^ HE led the way to a small room, scrupulorsly clean, with a bed in the centre of the room, and an old woman in the cer/re of the bed. There was nothing to be seen of Mrs. Eastbell but her face, and a grim, yellow, parchment face it was, cut uj) by a hundred wrinkles, and brought strongly into relief by the white sheet drawn under her chin, and t.h« ^voluminous frilled cap in which her head was framed. The " •■« '^ere closed, though the pupils were restlessly moving ^ ih the lids, which were to be lifted never again in St. , .Id's. " Well, sir," said the head above the slieets, " vv : ou please Ito state what business you have with old Srs ^^ iiastbell, who I has been past business for the last ten ye; , now that it had liked to the bedside, was there, and looked It was a crisp and not wholly shrill dropped an octave or f "f>. The vis > sat down in a rush bo t o.jed chair t' hard at her. " When I skccl, eagerly. tlieu they began to mo\ '■ I think that I shof " Can't be whose » " Can't be Reub- " Ye:<, it can." *' Now to lluu-. Mrs. Eastbell. and the old lad yellow hand a> direction of h- that portend chat, aftOi' tnese years, and here !" said lat's kind c" yo ,, Reu ; I'm very glad," ight hard wi ii the sheets, and got a thin the bed-ciothes, and extended it in the phew, laughing in an odd chuckling way ture hysterics, il" she were not careful. Reu- II , il Hi i ! 32 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. ben shook the hand in his, and the girl stood by the mantel piece, watching the greeting furtively. *' What made you think of me ?" said the old woman, after a moment's pause." '* 1 came to Worcester last night ; I heard this morning f(ji the first time that you were here." • " Who told you ? " " My father." It was a face despite its sightlessness that expr»:»ti' .o a great deal, Reuben Culwick thought, as the grey ey^ '?^'ow ^ arched themselves, and the mouth became rounded. " You are friends then 1 He has forgiven you ?" she said. " No." " Ah ! he will presently," said Mrs. Eastbell, with an easy confidence ; " there are many good points about my brother Simon, and it is only a question of time. All things conu: round in time, Reu — even good luck. That's what I often tell our Sally." Sally winced suddenly at this introduction of her name into the discourse, and Reuben looked across his prostrate relative towards the young attendant, who drew a pattern on the floor with the point of her boot, and did not return his glances. '' Some day Simon will walk in here — just as you have dou' —and say how sorry he is for all the past," said the old woman ; " sometimes I lie awake fancying I can hear his footsteps com- ing across the paved yard towards me." " You should not fancy that." " Why not ?" was the quick reply ; "it does me good." " I would not build upon his offering you any help," said Reuben Culwick. " I don't want any help. Eight shillings a week keeps more life in me than I know what to do with. I'm very happy, though it's an awful place for flies. Sally does a little work when she can get it, and is a dear kind nurs^ who iiever tires of me. She'll read the Bible half the day to me, vtien I'm too ill to run about much — a good girl, Sally ! " " I'm very glad to hear it," answered Reuben. He would not have dispelled the old woiiian's faith in her granddaughter by a word — by any question iiingeing on last night's mystery, or to-day's prevarication. This was a woman 4' . Es ki. al 1 1 i 'in SECONP-COTJSTN SARAH. ^3 y the mantel woman, aftti 5 morninuj foj '^^' HI a great •^'ov\ . arched she said. ^ith an easy my brotliei' things come I often tell fwho luul ffiith in everybody, and extracted happine>»ji even from an iilmshouse in a shady corner of Worcester city. " Wlien I am gone, I shouhl like somebody to get Sally a jigood place — you don't know anyone who wants an honest, har.: |::' 1 1- * '* 1' 34 SE(;OND-COUSIN SARAH. her life. She was decidedly a strange girl, living a strange ex istence in the house of her grandmother, and playing, as it seemed to him, a double part — unless he was really deceivei], and this was not the girl who had met him in man's clothes last night, but some one strangely and wonderfully like her ! He could not resist a question which rose to his lips, and whio' brought to Sarah Eastbell's countenance the old sullen ex- pressK ^ *^'at bad struck him first that day. ** D(.ub . ;rah sleep here — live with you altogether ? " " Yes," a..^wered the old woman ; " it's very selfish of me to keep her to myself, but, please the Lord, it will not last a great while longer. She's young — she's industrious, and will be al way- able to get her living — anywhere — and if you hear of anything that will suit her, you will bear her in mind, Keuben 1 " " I shall not forget her," said Reuben drily. " She shall come and tell you when I'm gone, if you let | me know where you live," added Mrs. Eastbell in a brisk busi-f ness-like manner; "it is as well to arrange these little mat ters." " I live at Hope Lodge, Hope Street, Camberwell." " That's right, Reu — always live in Hope, my lad." It was a feeble joke, which nobody appreciated but this | light-hearted old blind woman, and she appreciated it for the three of them, and lay chuckling over it until it nearly choked her. " You haven't told me much about your life, and what you'i\ doing, Reu ; but you're not going away yet." " I must leave in ten minutes," said Reuben, looking at hi> watch. " What — not stop and take a cup of tea with your old aunt !' cried Mrs. Eastbell. " I must be in town to-night." ** You find something to do in town then 1 " *' Oh, yes." " And money for the doing of it 1 " *' Yes — heaps of money,'' he said laughingly. •' If 1 ever get strong enough to come to London, Sally shall! bring me to Hope Lodge." This was another joke to which her two listeners did notl take readily. They were blind witticisms to match her malady [ " ''Iflm * " SECOND-COUSTN SARAH." 35 " I am going now," said Reuben Culwick, stooping over lier ; '' goodbye, aunt." "Goodbye, lad — thank you for a visit which will cheer me jup for days ; and think of something for my Sally, if you can." How strongly impressed that sullen girl by the fireplace [was on the old woman's mind, he did not entirely comprehend [until this last moment of their meeting. " Grandmother ! " said Sarah the younger, deprecatingly ; [but Mrs. Eastbell went on, the thin bony hand clinging to her I nephew's tightly. " She's everything to me, but I wouldn't mind parting with [her at once — to-morrow, if you should hear of a decent situa- tion for her. Anybody can mind me — and I don't want to [stop the way to her advancement. She's clever at her needle — she reads well — she's quick at figures — in any tradesman's shop, now, she'd be very handy — and she's only seventeen. [So young, Reu, to be alone in the world after I am gone ! " " Yes," said Reuben, " so young ! " So young, and so wilful and deceptive, he thought also, af- [ter he had parted with his aunt and said " Good day" to Sally [Eastbell, and walked into the little square courtyard, where the rain had begun to patter briskly again, as though there had been no wet weather for weeks, and it was coming down to [make up for lost time. He was looking at the leaden clouds which were deepening ■overhead, when Sarah Eastbell stole to his side and twitched his arm. " Yovi need not trouble yourself to think of anything for me," she said ungraciously • " you wouldn't have (lone so, I dare say ; but it's as well to tell you, I don't want any help from you ; and as for leaving her before she dies — well, I'd rather die myself, much ! " she added, with a sudden passion ex- hibiting itself. " You are attached to her 1 '" said Reuben Culwick quickly. " She's the only friend I ever had," was the girl's answer, as she relapsed into her old moodiness of manner. " Your father and mother 1 " " Don't speak of them," said the girl shuddering ; " Oh ! don't speak of them." " Your brother Tom — who is getting on so famously 1 " "Towards the gallows," cried the girl. "T^ 30 SECOND-COUSTN SARAH. ::iH i ■' ''What does it all mean? — why do yon tell that poor oli woman " " So many lies — because the lies come handiest," she said dc fiantly, "and I have been bred upon them, and they're natii ral to me. That's all." " Will you tell me one truth before I go?" he said ; "com^ now, Sarah Eastbell — second-cousin Sarah, in whom I am interested." Reuben Culwick spoke with tenderness ; he pos sessed a wondrously sympathetic voice, and the girl looked at him till the sullen expression of her face softened and then died away. " ' Second-cousin Sarah ?' " she quoted, and a faint smile flickered round her mouth for an instant. " Well, go on." ** You will answer straightforwardly ? " " Vou will not go back and tell her, and make her misera ble, ihen ? " she said, as though by way of compromise. '' I will not." ' Qo J jhen, second-cousin Reuben," she added half scorn fully, half lightly. *' You were the girl who helped me wnth my trunk last night ? " " Yes," was the quick response. " And you thought that I had come to tell your grand- mother about it ? " " Yes." " Why were you so anxious to earn money, and in so strange a fashion ? " " Oh ! " said the girl, turning away, " you're too curious." " Come," he said, snatching at her arm, " an honest confes- sion, and then goodbye, Sarah Eastbell." " I shan't tell you," she answered, struggling to get her arm away. "Was it for yourself?" " No." " For Tom ? " " No." '* To make good something that Tom had taken — from his grandmother 1 " said Reuben. " Ah ! you know then," cried Sarah Eastbell, wrenchingi herself from her second-cousin's clutch and running with great| m " SECUM)-Cm knew of that. ig |1, wrenchiiij^ ig with great | 1 Mi i; !,. If.' i filii! i i I', !:^^ Ml m\'\1 Ma Ilk \o. 1'^ 38 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER VII. .JOHN JENNINGS. RS. SARAH EASTBELL, of St. Oswald's, was coikm in her judgment. Hope Street, Camber well, w;b not a fashionable quarter of the great metropolis It is sufficient to indicate that populous thoroughfare as on. of the turnings debouching from :he Camberwell New Road— a street without pretension, a cross between a London street and a thoroughfare a little way out of town, and familiar to[ clerks with no spare cash to expend on omnibus or train, as si short cut, providing one did not lose his way, to Walworth f Road. Certainly not fashionable, although the inhabitants hadl music with their meals — it being a street much frequented by organ-men, who ground out Verdi in long lengths all day, andi were rewarded by small donations from patrons who neverj failed them when work was plentiful. It was a street, also,! wherein there was much dancing to the organ music, and whert so many limp and smeary children came from in the long sura mer evenings, which were made hideous by multifarious screech ings, was matter for grave wonderment. It was a street of! one-story private houses principally, which had broken out here! and there into shops, that had been erected over front gardemj by speculative landlords, and had not always been successful ventures, judging by the aspect of the tenants, or the goodJ that were dealt in. It was a street that the tally-man and thej broker's man, 'the civil young man behind the loan-office counf ter and the uncivil old man from the County Court, knevj better than any street in the parish, and where the ratef collectors had more trouble in getting in their accounts than inj any other part of their weary and pertinacious rounds. It \m an unequal street, too, and full of class distinctions. Thm were three or four two-story houses, with wider front garden?] and less rickety jalings, towards Camberwell, just as then JOHN .IKNN[N(JS. 39 i's, was coiled mberwell, Ava iat metropoli> aghfare as on. 1 New Road- London stref ,nd familiar t' , is or train, as , , to Walwortl habitants hin, frequented li lis all day, an , ms who nevti a street, also usic, and whei> 1 the long sum 'arious screeili ^^as a street mmunity. Three doors, from this select place of entertainment was <; Lodge, one of the two-storied houses already mentioned, d here at the time of our narrative resided Mr. Reuben wick, shorthand writer, occasional special reporter to the mil/ Trumpet, and a gentleman with a small connection ongst a certain class of tradesmen whose books were too ny for their calculating powers, and invariably became ob- Te in details towards Saturday. ■^euben Culwick occupied the first floor of Hope Lodge — id under the bell handle in the right-hand door-post was iy ))ras8 plate with his name engraved thereon, and " First •or" in small Roman capitals written underneath, otherwise lau lop I' > u ■jii ilii 1:1' Pi !i i H'Ji I' m I ii'' '': 40 S K( •( JN D-( '( )1 ^SI N S A H All. it inij^ht liiive been impossible, without very am])le instructions for the i)urposes of identification, to discover the residence of our hero ; for the gentleman who rented Hope Lodge, and to whom Reuben paid the modest sum of three shillings and sixpence weekly, for the hire of apartments which the lodger had furnished after his own tastes, had not hidden his light under a bushel, and had extinguished Keuben's claim to locality by extensive advertising over his house-front. The name of "Jennings," in large white capitals on a crimson ground, was the sky-line of the edifice, and another board, with a " Jennings " of somewhat more moderate proportions, had been fastened between the windows of the first and second floors, whilst " Jennings, Pyrotechnic Artist," in blue ami yellow, by way of variety of colouring, was inscribed over a dingy shop-front, behind which were various firework cases, soiled and fly-spotted and time-worn, and many of them hollow shams, despite the air of explosive business about their blue touch-paper caps. On the door also had been painted " Jen- nings, Firework maker to the Court," and over the door was a plaster coat-of-arms, significant of the royal patronage which the family legend asserted had been once vouchsafed to an extinct Jennings, who had been blown to atoms one Guy Fawkes season. The present proprietor, who jested at ill-luck, at times, when questioned concerning this announcement, intimated with a chuckle that the Court alluded to was one of the narrow thoroughfares at the other end of the street, which was liberal with its patronage when November nights came round. Mr. Jennings was always waiting for November, although he drove a little business in coloured fires for minor theatres at all times of the year, and had twice been pyrotechnist to the " Royal Saxe-Gotha Gardens," next door but two, where he had twice been nearly ruined by the defalcations of impecuni ous lessees, whom he had trusted with all his heart and all hi.> powder. On that May night of Reuben Culwick's return to London, he was standing at his door smoking a long clay pipe, and waiting patiently for November, after his general rule. Trade was slack, and he had finished work, and taken to fresh air, which he preferred receiving ki his shirt-sleeves, when tht Jul IN JENNLN(;.S. 41 s, when tilt weather was not too inclement for its reception. It was past eleven o'clock, and a dark, dull night for Mr. Jennings' vigils ; but be clung pertinaciously to his door-post, like a man who thought November would slip by him in the dark, if he did not keep his eyes open. But on that particular evening he was not waiting for November so intently as for his lodger, Keuben Cuhvick, who had said that he should be back that evening, and who was a man on whose word everybody might rely. Being a man to be trusted, Mr. Jennings, firework- maker, sat up for his lodger, for the earliest glimpse of the *' first-floor," whom he had missed exceedingly during the last fortnight. There were some ties of sympathy between land- lord and tenant which accounted for this, and which will be more apparent presently, and hence Mr. Jennings held in high esteem Mr. Reuben Culwick, and the good feeling was recipro- cated, despite Mr, Jennings possessing many faults, and being to all outward seeming scarcely a man to take to readily. Standing on the threshold of his domicile, with the flickering light of the street lamp on his face and figure, he seemed a lank and weedy man enough, a man whom much tobacco had enervated, perhaps, and kept from standing straight at that hour ; for he leaned at an extraordinary angle against the door- post, as though he had a hinge in him, which had given way and disturbed his grace of outline. Still it was repose and ease to Mr. Jennings, and he smoked placidly. He was very pale, one could see by the gas-light, a thin and much- lined, odd- looking young man of thirty, with dusty flaxen hair that wanted cutting, hanging straight as candles on his head. The gentleman's name in full was John Jennings, but the sportive custom of Hope Street had bestowed upon him the title of " Three-fingered Jack," for the irrelevant reason that he had blown away the thumb from his left hand, afte»-the family fate, which had never left a Jennings sound and v ; ^; who had once taken to the sale of fireworks in Hope Street. The Jenningses, from the time of the grandfather of royal patronage, had al- ways striven to supply the general public with a good article for its money, and sometimes they overdid it in strength and quality. Hope Lodge, in three generations, had been thrice blown up and twice burned down — hence Reuben Culwick got his apartments at a reasonable price, people of nervous tern- til ^^ 42 SKCOND-COrSIN SAUAll. lljl ill 4 ' n .I'i perament ohj<'cting to lodge at Jennings'ss, over the surplu.> stock, after having once ascertained that })its of the family had occasionally been picked up as far as Camberwell Green and Walworth Gate. Suddenly John Jennings, firework-maker to the Court, was joined in his watch by a woman as thin as he wa .1 as pale, or else tlie gas opposite was bad for the complexion. She ])ut her hand suddenly, and possibly heavily, on his shoulder, for Mr. Jennings winced and doubled up still more under the pressure. " I wish you wouldn't, Lucy," Mr. Jennings said remon- stratively. " Wish 1 would not what, John 1" asked the new-comer on the scene. "Take a person off his guard like that, and scare him." " Have you grown a more nervous creature still, watching for what will never come again ?" said the woman, with a strange asperity of tone. " What will never come again ?" repeated h'^ brother in dismay. " Do you mean that Mr. Culwick will n me back, then r - Yes." " Bless my soul, how long have you been thinking of that 1" said Mr. Jennings ; " you didn't say so before — you hadn't such a thought an hour ago. What makes you get so foolish an idea into your head now ]" He laughed in an odd hysterical fashion, like a woman, as his greater interest took him out of his languid position, and set him upright and staring at his sister. " Well, I've been thinking it ever — what he is, and what we are — and I'm sure that he will be glad to get rid of us alto- gether. H^ has only stopped here out of compliment all this while ; but you can't see that so well as I can," she added fretfully^ " I haven't tried to see it." " You shut your eyes and trust to'chance, John — you always did." "I'll trust to Reuben Culwick," he said, leaning against the door-post again, and pufling slowly at his pipe ; " he said that if he didn't write he would be back here on the second Tuesda) .JOHN JKNNINOS. 43 said remon- }w-comer on M;iy, an before pain, and anxiety, and time — what three destroyers th< ' are I — had taken the prettiness of youth out of her. She wii not as old as her bn ther by two years, but she looked neaic; eight-and-forty than eight-and-twenty at fiist glance.. Only;; careful study of her suggested to an observer that she \va.^ younger than her looks by almost a score of years. Reuben Culwick and John Jenning ^me into the parldiii together, and the latter with a croak of triumph exclaimed " There, Lucy — who is right now ]" as the former advanced i shake hands with her. Lucy looked up into the face of the big-chested, healthtii man, and smiled faintly in response to the cheery expressidi she saw there. *' You have kept your word, then, Mr. Keuben," she said. placing her hand in his ; and a very cold hand, with not niiu h life-blood in it, it was that lay in his brown palms. " But you didn't think that I should," he cried. " No," was the fearless reply, as the thin lips closed to gether. " Now, what does she deserve, to face a man and a brothii, and a first-fioor lodger of long and honourable standing, with this odious greeting f he said, turning to John Jennings. " A good scolding, certainly," answered John to this appeal He had set aside his pipe, and was fumbling at the lock of i small cupboard by the fireplace as he replied. " I think so," answered Reuben ; "I think it shows a want of human feeling, an absence of all Christian charity ; and 1ak\ Jennings is found guilty — sentenced — executed." Reuben Culwick was in boisterous spirits, or he would hi\\> never committed the indiscretion of suddenly lifting up tli prim Miss Jennings in his arms and kissing her. In all his lii< he had never kissed her before: — never dreamed of taking sudi a liberty with his landlord's sister — but his high spirits carried him away,and he lifted Lucy Jennings as high as the ceiling be fore he kissed her lightly, and placed her, as he might huvi done a child, in her chair again, where she glared at him ii amazement, with eyes distended, and her face not destitute ■ : colour now. " You — have been drinking !" she gasped forth indignantly n wM or you would have never done that. THE WELCOME HACK. 47 'jy woman once destio)'ers tht} her. She \va looked neaic; ;lance.. Only ;; that she wa> ITS. to the parlnui jph exdainied ler advanced t^ ssted, healthfii. ?ery expressidi: ben," she siiid, with not niiuli ms. d. lips closed to- and a broth ii. standing, with Jennings, to this appeal. it the lock of a hows a want of ity ; and Lucy he would hav' ifting up tlu In all his life of taking such spirits carried the ceiling be le might have red at him in lot destitute of h indignantly 'She thinks everybody drinks," said John Jennings patheti- cally, as he produced from his cupboard a half filled bottle of Irish whiskey, and two glasses, which hr placed witli due care in the centre of the table. "No, I haven't been drinking, Lucy," said Reuben quietly ; " but this is home, and I am glad to get back to it. ' ' Ah ! I dare say you are," she added with irony. Heuben Culwick was used to her moods, but it struck even )iiin that .she was different in her manner that night. •' Don't you believe me ?" he asked, leaning forward and re- garding her with greater intentness. " She looked down at the faded hearth-rug at this direct ap- peal, and evaded his steady gaze toward.^ her. " If you say so again I will believe it," she answered after a mcmtnt's silence. • I say that I am glad to get home — that this is home," he Siiid very firmly. " I believe you then," she answered in a different tone ; " but jW hy are you glad to get back to a wretched place like this ?" •'My mother died here — you and your brother were kind to ler and me, when we could not help ourselves— when we were levy poor, and had even got into your debt. You were our mly friends then — my first start in life, such as it was, began lere, Lucy." "It is unsuited for you now^ — and we are un-suited for you o." '' How humble we are !" cried Reuben, •' and I am as poor a church mouse still." " You pretend to be." " Sceptical still !" he cried ; "John, what shall I do now f " Kiss her again," said John, as he struggled with a refrac- [tory cork, and twisted himself into hideous contortions in his sfforts to extract it. " No — I will not have any more of that foolery," paid Miss [Jennings, with intense acerbity pervading her plain speaking. " I wouldn't if she objects," said John — " if she doesn't see [the joke of it. I don't think anybody has ever kissed her ex- Icept Tots. She's not used to that kind of thing — she really m t. •John said all this in good faith, but his sister looked the shai-p- If !!•; IF- hi':' ini H i" liil if/,: , ■ k>' i- ■ i i 1 k ,:i 1 ■:; )!' 1 i t' Mi: J si' ' 1^ 1 1 48 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. est of <]aggers at him, as well she might perhaps. John Jen| nings was duller than his sister by several degrees. If she hat, desnite this miserable result ?" |"Yes> ;" Then the fault lies with him, as it did, before you went, [th you. And, Mr, Reuben," she added very earnestly, " you one sin the less, I think." [" Amen to that." [Lucy Jennings regarded him keenly, as if a suspicion that was ridiculing her earnestness had suggested itself; but buben Culwick was grave enough. It was not always easy [guess when this strong, self-reliant man was in jest or ear- 8t. " And this mortal, suffering much, and yet so happy — who ig^A she ?" inquired Lucy. '^ " Ah ! there's a lesson for you, Lucy," said John Jennings, mf he mixed the whiskey. . *' Have I ever complained ?" was the quick rejoinder. *' No — no, I^on't say that you have," answered her brother, lo was sorry he had spoken ; " you're very patient — and no- ly expects you to be jolly." MWhat kind of woman was she T asked the sister, turning iReuben. " Old and blind, and in an almshouse," said Reuben — '' rny "ler's eldest sister." vShe is provided for then — her eyes are closed against the grid's wickedness, and she is spared many trials," said Lucy, lewhat sullenly, as if jealous of one more afflicted than her- , as invalids are sometimes. I have done a deal of work in the last fortnight," said Reu- — " written my s[)ecial articles on the Agricultural Exhibi- tor the Trunqjet, earned an extra five pounds" (he did not that he had tucked it under the pillow of Aunt Sarah's bed), ^d my change of air and scene at somebody else's cost, £ I li] fii^f i 11 ' t .1 I i; if'{ lis !i 50 SKCOND-COUSIN S.VHAH. hunted up no end of relations, of whom I'll tell yon more pre- sently, and am back again, all the better for my new experience." '* Take some whiskey," said John Jennings, pushing the glasj- across to him. " Thank you, " said Reuben. " And here's good luck to all of us, before the year's over," added Jennings, as he raised his glass in the hand which want ed a thumb to it ; " your health, Mr, Reuben ; Lucy, yours." Reul)en said, " Tlip**^" ^^ou ;" Lucy Jennings watched her brother tilt down his pr ...nt liquid, but did not respond to \m kind wishes by so much as a nod of gratitude. Her observation elicited a faint protest from her brother when he set down his glass. "I wish you Wi^uldn't stare at me quite so much," he said] mildly ; " you make me feel uncomfortable." " You'll take to drinking some day, if you are not careful," said Lucy, in a tone of solemn warning. '* May I not drink a glass of grog when my friend come< home ?" he inqu'red reproachfully. " A glass does you harm anrl costs money — and you have no money to spare." " I shall have presently,'' he said, nodding his head sagacious- ly. "Mr. Reuben, I have been keeping some good news back] till you came home — for good news doesn't freshen up Lucy as it ought, I am sorry to say." "I don't remember to have had any good news in my life — ex [ cept what is to be found there, and which you know so little about.' She jerked her hand in the direction of a large, old-fashionecl Bible, on a side-table, as she spoke. " Ahem ! — yes — no — but I wish you wouldn't, Lucy, conni down upon me on week-nights like this with Sunday conversa tion — when Mr. Reuben's at home too," said her brother. *' Well, the good news, John ? — and then ' to bed, to bed," ' said Reuben a little impatiently. " The Royal Saxe-Gotha Gardens will open early next month. and I'm appointed pyrotechnist," John Jennings cried exult j antly. " Fireworks every Monday and Saturday. T shjiHl make a clear hundred and fifty pounds before the year's out " " Oh I indeed," said Reuben Cidwick somewhat listle^.^ . " but didn't they let you in last time ?" " And the time before too," added Miss Jennings. THE WELCOME BACK. 51 "These are responsible people — first-rate lot, I hear," said [r. Jennings confidently. "1 am glad to hear it," said Reuben, "but you must let me. to the business contract between you this time. I'll draw lou up a safe one, and save a lawyer's fee, John." I *' Certainly, Mr. Reuben, when it's ready I shall be only too ippy ; for you're a good business man, with a keen head for )n tracts, M'hich were never quite in my line — were they, Lucy ?" Never," said Lucy, agreeing with her brother for the first le that evening. *• Although I'm too old a bird to be taken in again, for all lat, ' added John as he reached his pipe from the mantelpiece^ id refilled it. " Why, if they were to play me any tricks, I'd )en an opposition gardens round about here somewhere, and iin the lot of them. Hanged if I wouldn't !" Lucy Jennings shrugged her shoulders, and Reuben's mouth ntched at the corners. " I wouldn't be in a hurry to do that, even if there were any )position gardens to be discovered, John," said Reuben gravt.'- ; " it's a rash experiment, and \yants energy and capital." " He never had either," added Lucy ; " and as for the Saxe- j-otha, I wish it was burnt down to-morrow." " God bless me ! " ejaculated Mr. Jennings, " you don't call lat a charitable and Christian wish ? " " 1 wish it was burnt down to-morrow ! " she repeated fiercely ; it's an evil place — it's a — Oh, Elizabeth, you naughty girl ! " " What, Tots ! " cried Reuben, holding out his arms, into rhich there ran, with pattering bare feet, a pretty flaxen-haired lild of three years old, whose long night-gown did not hinder ^er rush towards him in any great degree. " Oh, me so glad you have come back, Reuben I " said the lild, half laughing to begin with, and then wholly crying as wind-up. "She'll catch her death of cold!" cried Mr. Jennings. — Tots, how could you come down like this 1 why ain't you lleep ? " " You said -you said," sobbed the child, " that he was com- Ig home to-night.'' " Well, here I am, young one ; don't cry about it," murmured le big man, as his arms folded the child to his breast, and his :«1 m. iiii !}j i .1 I If i - 1 •I f »'i I' ' ' ^1 w I. ii * ■ 52 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. handsome brown beard hid her face from view, and tickled her terribly, for she struggled into a sitting position away from it, and rubbed her face and eyes energetically. " Elizabeth," said Lucy severely, " this is very wrong. Didn't you promise to go to sleep 1 " " I touldn't," answered Elizabeth. " Come with me " began her aunt again, when Tots let forth so tremendous a yell, that even Lucy, a woman not ea&il) put down, succumbed at once. " Let her be," said Eeuben Culwick gruffly ; then there wa< a second pause, after which he whispered in the child's ear a few words that arrested her attention, and Tots sat up again. " Where is it ? " asked Tots. " In my portmanteau, at the railway station — coming honu to-morrow, if Tots will go to bed now." " And as big as dat 1 " said Tots, opening her arms to their fullest extent. " Bigger." '*,Me go to bed," said Tots with alacrity — " but," she added, " 'oo must carry me up-tairs." " Of course I will. — Good night, uncle Jennings — good night, aunt — we're off, both of us," cried Reuben Culwick, and he was out of the room and striding up-stairs with the child before there was time for Tots to change her mind in any way. Brother and sister did not attempt to follow him ; the brother sat and listened until the trampling feet in the room above announced that Reuben had deposited his charge in her oril), and retired to his own apartments ; the thin woman with the worn face turned towards the fire, fast dying out, and passed a hand across her eyes, as if by stealth. " How fond he is of children ! " said John Jennings ; " 1 think big men always are, Lucy. There was Topping " " Don't bother me about Topping," said Lucy. " Ahem !- no," he said, with his feeble little cough prefaciirg his remarks again, " not if you wish it, certainly. Still it's odd." ''What's odd?" *' That Reuben's coming back should have put you out in I this way." " 1 prayed he might never come again." 4, i 4' -y jlf' '* THE WELCOME BACK. 5S very wrong. Jennings ; it you out in I" Why, we couldn't atiord " j" The man deserved better fortune than he can find here," |e (lied, "and so I didn't want him back. Besides, we don't so." Well," said John, gravely, " you and I don't agree, for he itter of that, but still we're company for each other in our ^ks." ["You never sulk as I do, when the evil in me gets the istery," said his sister. " Why, Lucy, though I say it, and though you're a bit hard I times, there isn't a better woman in Hope Street." ' I wonder if there's a worse," said the woman very mourn- ly. i" You're not often like this — you're generally so patient and let." ^ " I try to be." C; " Have you got anything on your mind ? " ^" Nothing that I should tell you." * Will you have a drop of whiskey now ? " * No, I won't." ohn Jennings considered a moment ; then said, with an air profound wisdom asserting itself — * I'm sorry Reuben has seen you in this tantrum, because I llftve often fancied that by-and-by you and he would get to like iMch otlier. He is a man who wants something to love — look Itl him and that child, for instance — and you're not a great 1 too old, and he's not proud, and you're " I He stopped as Lucy Jennings swung herself round, a perfect tgo in her last and worst attack of passion. He had never ?n Lucy show off in this way before. Had she been at the liskey ? ^" John, you're a fool ! " she screamed, " you are the worst of )ls to think like that, to talk like it. I marry him ! he think [me ! I tell you I hate you for saying this to-night ! " John Jennings gasped for his breath. M My dear, I'm sorry if I have hurt your feelings. If you »'t mind, I'll go to bed." [She did not answer, and John Jennings, after passing his itilated hand over his forehead in a bewildered manner, it to bed accordingly. SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. lU ■l When she was sure that he was gone, the woman sank ol heap on the shabby hearth-rug, and buried her face in her arn. which she leaned upon the chair. It was a bitter grief, which strange words escaped her. *' Why has he ome back? Wliy couldn't he stop away t good ? " '•} e stop away fJ CHAETEll IX. " TOTS." lONG before Reuben Culwick had iiiiule up liis mind to rise the next morning, tiny knuckles had rap[)ed signi- ficantly and persistently at his bed-room door. K(niijen not answer, although he smiled in his half-slee}>, and knew ^t Tots was astir, anxious to see him, to hear his voice, to )w all about the big doll that ho had told her last night was ling home with his luggage. At the fifth or sixth summons, when a Dutch clock down-stairs was striking eight, Reuben Iwick condescended to inform the young lady on the other of the door that he should be in his room in ten minutes, that he requested the favour of Tots' company to breakfast that particular occasion — a piece of intelligence which took with a tremendous plunge to the basement floor in search Lunt Lucy, the only vestige of humankind to be discovered lat hour, John Jennings taking it easily till nine as a rule. ** Me to brefiast with Uncle Roo," announced Tots, with as P>ve an air of importance as her excitement would allow. ^" Who says so 1 " asked Lucy Jennings, suspicious of the truth |the statement. I" Uncle Roo says so." I" You've been bothering him — you've been knocking at his n-, Elizabeth, after all that I told you," cried Lucy Jennings irply. " Ony once or so," said the child ; " he's ditting up fast, lintie." Aicy Jennings indulged in a little lecture on the heinous- ss of the offence which Tots had connnitted, and then carried -stairs, and into the first-floor front, a high-backed infant's |air, into which Tots insisted upon being securely screwed ini- liately, and set close to the side of the chair which awaited |e presence of its master. Lucy Jennings was still screwing len Reuben Culwick entered the room, and Imde her good )rnuig. 56 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. i W < " You're spoiling the child, yon are letting lici- liuve her own way in everyt,)iir>g ; you don't know how to manage children, remarked Miss Jennings. " No, I sujjpose I don't," said Beuhen, " but the child knows how to manage me, and that comes to the same thing." " That's a poor answer," muttered Lucy. " Befitting a poor sort of fellow. And this is a poor littlp waif to whom much happiness is never likely to come — eh, Lucyr' "I don't know — I can't tell," answered Lucy. ** When she gets older and more curious, when the world's before lier, and we can't help her in it much. Poor Tots ! " The big man sat down by the child's side, put his arm rouini her, and kissed her, and two little arms were ilung impetuously round his neck, where they clung and clasped him. '* Oh, Tots is glad 'oo've come back, uncle ! " she said, with a sigh of pleasure, as she released her hold at last. " Really ? " " Really and tooney." " And what would you have done if I hadn't come back, Tots ? " he inquired ; " if I had stopped at my dear pai)a's for ever and ever, as I warned you that I might]" " I would have come after 'oo." ** No, you would have gone to school with lots of pretty little girls, and grown up good instead." •'I would have cried till 'oo come back to roe." "That wouldn't have been right, old lady," he s ''i patting the child's back. Lucy Jennings regarded the pair cri*' , allowed ^^er gaze to wander to the breakfast-table, in ordt o see that ;> was ns the lodger required, and then passed stu. ; an^l mgularly from the room — a woman who hardly understood t.io poetry of the situation upon which she closed the door. And yet there was some poetry, possibly some sublimity, in the strong affection which bound man and child together. Tie- of kindred there were none between them, any more than thei' were between Tots and the Jenningses down-stairs. Tots was of the streets, and the warm heart of the stranger had plucked her from their desolateness some eighteen months since. He who could hardly afford to keep himself, made a great struggle |!' ':i " TOTS." 57 lowed ^'Pv gaze that i, was as mgularlyfroin ' • poetry of the a littlo sacrificf to ko('i> hor — to stand lu-twoi'ii her and the [rkliousp, where Ihe red hand oi tlie policeman woiikl liave hu'ted her on the night Tots first appeared upon the stage tcuhen ( 'ulwick's life. ?<)tH, a ragged, unkempt, fair-haired, hlue-eyed child, had found on the steps of the Prince Regent public-house after jlve o'clock had struck, and the drinkers had been turned the roadway. No one knew anytliing about her, and she 9w very little concerning herself SIk? said something about icr and father in an inarticulate fashi(m common to her iteen months of existence, and she cried for mother for five iiites aftei- the policeman had shaken her from sleep in the low of the public-house doorway, and a few loiterers had lered round, and gazed vacantly at her, and failed to recog- her as any one's child with whom they were acquainteectable young fellow gave her a home and a name, and he was left alone to fight out the rest of his battle. What that battle was to be like, Reuben Culwick was hardly certain. He was sure of a few scars ; he did not look forward to any great degree of glory. He was not a despondent man, our readers have already perceived for themselves ; but he was scarcely sanguine as to his future for all that, and he had no ambitious dreams of becoming a rich man. Once he had thought that he was cut out for an author ; that publishei's would be runni)ig after him, and the critical press singing to his praise and glory ; but he was almost certain, not quite, that he had found his level on the Penny Tnirnpety and that a few pounds a week would be the maximum sum wliich his abilities, such as they were, might be able to procure him. As for his prospects, for his chance of becoming his father's heir, they had faded completely away now. He wjis pretty certain that he had given up every hope of that, that he and 1% "TOTS." ;9 lii.s hard fatlier could not possibly agroo any iiiorr, vwn licfoio he had made up his mind to sink his pride and independence, ;iiid seek Simon Culwick at Worcester, After that meeting — which he had not conducted well, a strange young woman had taken the liberty of informing him — amen to all his day-dreams ! Tots and he were having breakfast together, and Tots was ask- ini; a hundred questions, after her usual habit, when the first post brought him in a bulky i)acket and two letters. Lucy Jeiiuings brought them up-stairs, and lingered in th(; ro m 60 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. I| ■' ':*'! li'i ' woman, too, to whom rolit^ion hanlly brous^lit ^lio comfoi't or resignation that it shoidd have done, and whom ho woidd not attempt to teazo, thoun^h he might object at times strongly to her manners. Poor ohl girl ! what liad slie to make life bear- able even ? and why should he cross her tempers, and put her out for the day ? " She writes a good hand," said Reuben, regarding the en- velo|:>e once more. "Who?" " The girl in grey silk." " I don't know who the girl in grey silk is — I have never heard you speak of her b(?fore." " No," said Reuben, ** I suppose not. She was at my father's house yesterday morning, and T wondered who she was, and where the deuce she had dropped from. A })retty girl too." " Your father's second wife perhaps." " No — I don't think that. I'm sure not, for there was no wedding-ring, I recollect." " You noticed her a great deal, it seems, Mr. Reuben." " Yes, in my way. It's my habit to take stock of everything — how coidd I be a reporter, special and otherwise, without 'I And she— Hallo ! " " You are asked to return," exclaimed Lucy ; " your father's heart has softened towards you, and Heaven wills a happier time for you, as I said that it would." "You are very kind — but this is from my 'Second-cousin Sarah." "Who's she?" exclaimed Lucy Jennings, sharply enough now. "Ah! you don't know yet," remarked our hero; "why, what a deal 1 have to tell you, and John, and Tots still ! " "So it seems," Lucy Jennings muttered to herself. " You would like to know what this is about perhaps, Lucy 1 " Reuben asked somewhat drilv. " Not I— if it's a secret." " [ never had a secret in my life." " And it's no business of mine — what's the use of telling me or John anything 1 " said Lucy, beginr ing to dust the books on a side-table near. "Well, I'll tell Tots.— Tots," Reidien said, turning suddcMily III li " TOTS." 61 »..?1 to th'i child half-buried in a large basin of sop, and hence very busy, very silent, and very much besmeared with bread and milk, " my Second-cousin Sarah sends me her grandmother's love, and the old lady's thanks for a fourpenny-bit which I gave her, and the old lady's hope that she may live to s|>end it, and the old lady's wish that I may, hear soon, very soon, of a nice sit- uiition for my second-cousin, who adds in pencU, ' Don't take Hiiv notice of this,' in an independent way that's [>eculiar to her haiiits. What an odd fish that girl is ! — she interests me." " She is pretty too, I suppose ? " said Lucy, with a twanging \oice. '• Ahem ! — I don't know — I dare say she might be, if highly "ot \i\) for the occasion. By the way, you might, with j'our ex- tensive chapel connection, hear of something for Sai-ah." '' I can't hear of anything for myself," was the short answer. " You . " I've tried more thafi once — when John has put me out with liis absurdities — when I have despaired of him, or of ever doing him any good." "But you hardly meart to leave him — that was a notion .soon got over ]" " Well -yes — we'll say so, if you like." " I sh(juld be glad to hear of something for this girl — she's a sinirular vounff woman, but one who might turn out well with H good soul to look after her. That })0or old woman, Sarah the First," added "Reuben thoughtfully, " may pass away at any moment, and 1 should like to be ready with a home for her." "Why]" " Because without a home she'll drift perhaps." " From riglit, you mean % " " Yes — it is })ossible." '• Is she so very weak then I " " Very weak. She can't carry a portmanteau proj)erly." Lucy Jennings regarded Reuben Culwick with amazement, but he had fallen into thought, or had grown tired of her want of sympathy, and jiassed into a jesting, aggravating vein, which she could brook least of all his moods. Slie went from the luum, closed the door btihind her, and then stood still. It was a ha))it of hei's to pick uj) scra|)S of information thus — a V»ad ha- bit, the result ol insulhcient training in her early youth, before u •^im^t^mamm I ll 62 SKCOxND-COUSIN SARAH. ■1,1- ! IIH 11 her fathor blew himself to bits — and she knew that Reulien often talked strangely to Tots. " There, she has not waited for the second letter — and that's very important to me, Tots." Tots stared, and then dived into her sop again. '* This is a want of confidence letter, to balance the confidence ex})resse(l in Second-cousin Sarah's affectionate epistle. Tots — this tells me politely what a fool I am — what a vain and ambi- tious ass — what a drivelling idiot, to expect sensible folk to waste money upon a fellow who writes for the Fenny Trunipet.^^ Tots looked up at the word " trumpet ; " it suggested another gift when the luggage came home. But Reuben was deep in hi.i letter. "Yes, Tots," he said, more in soliloquy than to his little golden-haired companion, " Messrs. Press and Go's compliments, and regret that the novel which Mr. C. did them the favour, etc., etc., etc., is not suitable, etc., etc., etc., to their particular style of publication, etc., etc., etc., and with thanks for the favour of a perusal, etc., etc., etc, beg to return same, etc., etc., etc., and they are the ass's — the stupendous ass's — most humble and obliged servants, Tots. That's the third time of asking and re- fusing, Reuben," he said, suddenly apostrophising himself, " and you are uncommonly well -used to this kind of thing, but still you bore the Worcester disappointment better than this one — eh 1 How's that — after all your experience — you duffer 1 " There was a long silence, and when Lucy Jennings was tired of waiting outside the door, she went down-stairs, and about her own business. Reuber. Culvvick, with the publishers' letter in his hands, sat and stared at the breakfast-cup, and was not aroused from his reverie to an active concern in minor matters until Tots, spoon and basin and chair, suddenly tilted over, and the i»rostrate young lady required much soothing after her cala- mity. He did all tlie consolation him.self ; he did not send for ''Aunt Lucy." m^ A PLACE FOR SAIIAH. or? ■'1- CHAPTER X. m iXi A PLACE FOIl SARAH. '^" KlJliKN CtTLWlCK settled down in his old groove- tlio following day ; life went on with him st(^adily, and '-^^ " there was no shadow of discontent upon the path of liis ]tm-suing. His was an enviaVde nature that made the Ixjst of tilings, that quickly adaptf.'d itself to circumstances, or sank all ]M'js()ual grievances beyond the ken of the watchftd eyes about liiin. He was a philosopher who submitted complacently to th(^ unalterable, or he was a hypocrite who disguised his bitter- ness of feeling with consiimmate ability, as Lucy Jennings con- sidered. 8he could not believe in a man who should have been rich, whose father was one of the wealthiest folk in the fat County of Worcestershire, settling down to a Camberwell V)ack street, and professing to be satisfied with his position. 8he was a well-meaning, thoughtful young woman, but she did not i:i\'e Reuben Culwick credit for so much self-abnegation as that. She liked the man, but she disl)elieved in his philosophy, and had grave doubts of his virtues ; she had many grave doubts on most matters, and was suspicious concerning every- body's motives ; and yet she was a religious woman in her way, and })ut herself out of that way to be of service at times. She was as hard to understand as most peo})le too, and she made no effort to jdace herself in a clearer light with those who set her down for an eminently disagreeable woman, which she was not exactly, though there were sour and sharp hours of which hej- brother and Tots were cognizant. Certainly she had not much faith in humanity, and Ktniben's equable temperament aggra- vated her more than she could account for. What was it to her how R(niben Culwick took the ills of life ; or why should il, distract her to hear him laughing pleasantly, when he should have been crushed down by much mortification of s}»irit ? Me had nothing to ])v thankful for, she sometimes thought, but his health and strength, and yet he professed to be happy I 64 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. — he who did not go to chapel, and kept out of the way when the pastor came to tea at Hope Lodge. He was of an easy disposition apparently ; his mother, who had died in that house, had said so constantly ; and he had been constantly kind to his mother ; but what a stubborn na- ture it must have been to hold aloof from the father so long ; and what a proud man he must be, with all his forced humility, thought Lucy. No, she could not understand him — did not even give him credit for his unselfish devotion to Tots. He knew more about Tots, and where Tots came from, than most people, she fancied. She was not going to believe altogether in that story of Tots being found and adopted by him solely out of charity — she might as well believe in every line of that rubbishing novel which he had written for gain and for fame, and which publishers were continually sending back with their respectful compliments, and they would much rather have nothing to do with it. He was a man with many good traits of character — she liked him, God knows, more than he would ever guess, more than she had ever liked a man, or should ever like one again — but she did not believe in him. Hers was a strangely dissatisfied and distrustful nature, and she could not set it aside for another. She did not even believe in herself — with or without good reason, as time may prove perhaps — she was as suspicious of Lucy Jennings as of the community about her, which constituted Lucy Jennings's world, and yet, be it understood,she was a thoughtful, well-meaning, poverty-stricken mortal, who would turn up a trump card when everybody play- ing the game of life with her thought that she was out of trumps — as happened, for instance, four weeks afterwards. It was the middle of June then ; Keuben walked in and out of Hope Lodge at uncertain hours, early and late, according to the Trumpefs claims upon his attention in town : the firework- maker was busy at last, and the Saxe-Gotha Gardens had 0i)ened for the season, and wen; doing tolerably badly. Reuben one evening had come home early and taken Tots for a walk, Myatt's Fields way, where there were " British Queens" to be purchased for a reasonable price of the strawberry grower himself, in those days not far removed from the present. Tots was fond of a walk with " Uncle Roo," and fond of strawl jerries during the progress of the journey, and this was one of the A PLAI;E for SARAH. 05 t treats which the tine weather brought round, and to which Reu- ben was unselfish enough to devote his attention, when time would permit. The big man with the beard, and the tiny child wiio clung to his hand and prattled all the way, were well-known figures ovei- the open land that was still spared to suburban folk ut Camber- well — father and daughter they were imagined to be by the Ktranirers who met them eit route. ** As if any one would walk about as much with a strange child as Reuben does with her ! " said Miss Jennings almost disdainfull}'. A cleverer mind than her brother's was that of Lucy Jennings, and yet poor, dreamy, soft-headed John had cone at once at the truth to which the other had closed her eyes systematically. *' He's a man who wants some- thing to h)ve," the firework-maker had said on the night of Keuben's return from Worcester ; and Reuben Culwick loved little Tots, though he never explained his feelings to any one, because she was as much alone in the world as himself, and wanted greater care. Lucy Jennings met Reuben and Tots in Hope Street, return- injr from their walk. " What a time you have been ! she said peevishly ; " did you not say that you Were coming home eaj.'ly this afternoon '? " " I don't remember." *' I wanted you to write a letter before the five o'clock post went out — the country post." " The country post — what for 1 " asked Reuben. •' I have found a situation for that girl." ;' What girl— Sarah Eastbell 1 " " Yes. Didn't you say, sneeringly and mockingly enough certainly, that with my extensive cha})el connection I might hear of something for her ?" •' I don't remember my sneering and mocking, Lucy." " You -said that it was likely she would drift away from right without a home, and thus it became my duty to try and do something — and I have been trying ever since." '' That's very kind of you." " But my extensive chapel connection," she continued, with bitter emphasis, " is after all very poor, and fights hard for its i!' 1^- m P'^JI 66 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. i m- if! 1 ii. I ■;!' I H >!■ ! r i bread — and dies fighting sometimes without it — and the chance to help any one does not come frequently." '' And it has come then — at last V " lor your second-cousin — if she is not too proud." *' She is proud in her way, I fancy." " You are all proud — horribly proud," said Lucy ; " yours is the pride that apes humility, but it's none the less objection- able." " I will not argue the point with you," said Reuben easily ; " granted that I am as proud as Lucifer, what are you going to do for my Second-cousin Sarah 1 " " The girl at the baker's, where we deal, is silly enough to get married the week after next — there will be wanted some one to take her place, to weigh the bread, and put the right money for it into the till afterwards. I have answered- for the honesty of this acoond-cousin of yours." " Thank you," said Reuben thoughtfully ; " I wish there had been less publicity about the berth, and less of the till." '* You can't trust her ! " " Yes, I can trust her, though I know so little about her. She has a good reference from her grandmother — she's evidently warm-hearted, affectionate, and honest — any one can take care of that poor old blind woman now — and here's an opening in life for one of my relations. It's not a swell berth," he added thoughtfully, " but the Culwicks and tlie Eastbells are down on their luck, and Sarah's plaguey })Oor." *' You see that poverty's a plague, with all your talk, then !" cried Lucy quickly. " It's a nuisance at times," he added drily, " and no one ob- jects to getting away from it, though it isn't so hard to put up with as rich people fancy." " Will you write to your cousin at once?" ** No, I will write to my aunt — and Sarah will read it uloud to her," he answered ; " and now, Lucy Jennings, thank you for remembering the girl," " I don't want any thanks." " Who knows but that I may hear of a situation for you one of these days — eh V " I'll take it — I'm tired enough of Hope Lodge," she said, as she abruptly left him to proceed homewards alone, taking m' A PLACE FOR SARAH. 67 sudden charge of Tota too, who was disposed to resist, until Reuben said that he had work to do, and she must go with Aunt Lucy. Reuben Culwick wrote to Mrs. Eastbell that night, offering the situation to Sarah, to whicli niention has been made, speak- ing of its advantages as well as he could, of the opening to an honest life, if not a brilliant opening, and intimating his wish tliat his second-cousin would consider the matter, and let him know in due course. When he had finished his letter, he sat with his hands in his ])ockets staring at it for awhile, and with a slight contraction of liis forehead as he gazed. " What a poor lot we are I" he said ; '* what indigence it all IS I " Lucy Jennings was right. He was hardly what he seemed. He had his spasms of dissatisfaction, though his common sense quickly got over them. He had chosen his own lot, and he would not mourn at the result. He posted his letter, and waited four days for the reply, which he considered was lacking at least in promptitude— Lucy Jennings said, ingratitude. The answer came at length, in a thick, sprawling, downhill hand, which the blind woman might have written herself, and which was certainly not Sarah Eastbell's. It was an ill-spelt and rambling epistle, that we need not give word for word. It came hoping that Reuben was well, as it left the writer and Cousin Sarah at present, and it thanked him for his thought of that cousin, who was a good girl, and would not leave her grandmother under any consideration now. Sarah was very happy and contented where she was ; but it might be as well for Reuben not to trouble any more about what Mrs. Eastbell had said concerning a situation for her granddaughter. This epistle put Reuben Culwick out a little. It annoyed him more than he cared to confess — it even puzzled him At variance as it was with the past anxiety of the old blind woman and with the last letter t him, which had reached London almost as soon as himself, it was hardly the inconsistency of the whole affair which irritated and bewildered him so much as the mystery which seemed to hang about his second-cousin's life. Why had she not written 1 Why was there no expres- ,111 t .■ A " Hi %i W^'St ^mi .1 (- ;-] 1 If , !i il,' :, 111 m 68 riECOND-COUSiN SAllAH. sion of thanks from Sarah Eastbell for his thought of her ( Why had the grandmother altered her mind in so sudden and abrupt a fashion — she who was very anxious concerning her grandchild's future when he had called at the almshouses of St. Oswald's i He would go for a long walk, and consider the matter attentively. When he wanted a good idea, he always went from the tirework-niaker's in search of it ; it seldom came tu him in that stuffy front room, but walking fast in the shade of the streets, or under the stars in the lonely road where the ii)ark(!t gardens and Myatt's~Fields were, he generally contrived to overtake it. After all, he was an excitable fellow — '' a fly- away man," Miss Jennings said, when he seemed disposed to dash too rapidly at conclusions, a fault that was somewhat prominent, considering what a philosopher he would like peo- ple tu think that he was. He started suddenly for his long walk, with Second-cousin Sarah's want of gratitude upon his mind. It was a gala night at the Saxe-Ootha, next door but two, and there was a heap of dirty boys and girls hanging about the front doors, where a row of coloured lamps indicated the place to pay before admittance Avas gained to the splendours beyond. He had to battle his way through this little mob before he could put his long limbs into fair marching order, and then he was off at a swinging pace befitting his size and stature, towards the Camberwell New Road, and the street on the other side of the way leading to the open ground and the railway arches that were cropping up over it. He walked so rapidly that in crossing the road he ran against a young woman, to whom he offered an apology for his clumsi- ness, and who muttered back something in return, and then made so quick and sidelong a movement fi'om him that his at- tention was directed towards her again. Second-cousin Sarah ! Was it, or was it not 1 Was he dreaming i Had he got the girl so deeply impressed upon his mind, that his thoughts had conjured up her fetch 1 Was it a figure born of his own fancies, or the shadow of a truth flitting by him in the dark street ? No, it could not be — it was not likely — it was impos- sible ! Still he stood there looking after her — watching her proceed A PF.ArE FOR SARAH. f>9 up down Hope Street as though she knew the place by heart ; and ag she passed under the gas-lamp with her head very much bent forward, and a thin rag of a shawl drawn tightly round her, the black and white dress seemed even to the observant man in the background a familiar pattern, the alternate stripes of which he had last seen from the gateway of the almshouses. A striped dress of black and white was no particular novelty, but he swung himself round on his heels, and marched sh»wly after the receding figure — a man indisposed to believe in the coincidence, but determined to make sure that his fancies were based upon nothing more than a faint resemblance to his eccen- tric relative. " Why am 1 troubling myself about her at all /" he said. " What am I to her ? — what is she to me ? Even if that wert' the girl suddenly turning up in my own neighbourhood, at a time when her grandmother would liave mr believe that she was down in Worcester, what — By George!" he exclaimed aloud. '' it is she !" The female in advance had suddenly paused on the pavement of Hope Street, injudiciously stopping b«^neath a second gas- lamp, and looking carefully and eagerly in the direction whence she had come, as if to reassure herself that no one was follow- ing at her heels. The expression on her countenance was her anxious and per- plexed look, which he had seen once before as surely as he had seen that face in Worcester, There was no doubt of it ; and he increased his pace at once. The young woman beneath the lamplight wavered for an instant, and then ran for it ; and Reuben, not to be outdone this time, began to run after her. After a second hasty glance ovei' her shoulder, and an un- ceremonious scattering of the boys and girls before the entrance to the Saxe-Gotha Gaidens, the woman pursued darted into the establishment itself, as if the sixpence for admission might con- stitute an insurmountable barrier between herself and him who followed her, or as if he would not believe in any one with whom he was acquainted entering the place ; but Reuben Culwick was in hot haste still, and gaineGOTHA (JARDKNS 'S prejudiced still further against Sarah Eastbell, if she had an inkling of the doubts which had beset him, and it was as well that Lucy should not know at present. " Yes— but " " If you say a word, I'll tell Lucy how you're being done by the Saxe-Gotiia." " They'll not do me much longer, I can tell them," said John, excited by this warning ; " I'm not the man to be imposed up- on, or let my fireworks off much longer for nothing ; that's not like me : that's not the style of — Hallo ! look there ; they're all going off without me I I thought they'd set 'em alight, if I left them for a moment — they always do." There was a fizzing, and < ■ a viking, and spluttering from the firework-ground, and much noisy laughter from the audience. The fireworks had been discovered in an unguarded position, and sportive youths had lighted them with bowls of pipes and ends of penny pickwicks, and a violent combustion was the result. John Jennings darted away, and Reuben Culwick moved restlessly about the gardens, scanning the pleasure-seekers, glaring into the arbours, looking down the dark avenues, and into tl.o refreshment saloon — a long wooden shed, where no spirits were for sale, but where bottled beer and cider, apples, nuts, whelks, hot potatoes, fried fish, and stevved eels consti- tuted the principal stock-in-trade of the purveyors. But there was no sign of Sarah Eastbell — no black and white striped dress even to identify its wcarei by. He lingered till the last- -till the crowd streamed cut in hot haste, fearful of the public-iiv'ises shutting up, and the sandy-haired proprietor had left hU box, and was helping to blow out the oil lamps in the flowerbeds and round the deserted orchestra. He leu John Jennings and the proprietor talking together of a speedy settlement of accounts ; he '^ven heard John Jea- nings say that he was in no particular hurry for a day or two, and that he was sorry to hear that the gardens were so bol stered up with orders, that no one thought of paying at the doors ; and then Reuben went moodily back to his lodgings^ <;ertain in his own mind that Sarah Eastbell had seen him and avoided him. There was another Sarah Eastbell on his mind too — the old ©•>: fi, g;:::jn;ic-!':saa^rjTT:gT v s 3a gr m j 76 SKCOND-COUSIN SARAH. M i -31: III II Culwick ? " she inquired, as the sealed-up eyes began to roll b<»- neath the hds in their old fashion. " Yes. What a memory you have ! " he replied. She stretched her hand from the bed in the direction of thn voice, and Reuben took the old woman's thin hand in his. " You bring me good news," she said, " and I have been waiting for it. I am glad that you have come ! " "I have brought no news, eil'ver good or bad, Aunt East bell," he hastened to assure her, as he sat down at her bedside. " Oh ! how's that ? " " What good news did you expect'? " he asked curiously, and the old woman was a long while in replying. ** I am always waiting for good news," she said at last ; ''didn't I tell you so when you were here in May? Good news of your father for instance, of his becoming better friends with you, of his coming to this place to see the only sister he has left. Poor fellow, he must be dreadfully dull in that big house of his." " You received my letter about Sarah 1 " " Yes. It was kind of you to think of her.'' "Where is she? " said Keuben Culwick sharply. Aunt Eastbell was endeavouring to deceive him, and he had not come more than a hundred and twenty miles to be hood winked by a blind woman. " Well," replied Mrs. Eastbell after another pause for con- sideration, " she has gone away for a little change. She will be back soon.'' " Is she in London 1 " "Yes." " Then who wrote me that letter leading mn to believe that she was with you still ? " " Why, Reuben. boy, you are cross about it ! How's this 1 " and the thin han 1 groped its way towards him again. He rested his own upon it, and said — " There was an effort made to mislead me. Why ? " " Well — it saved a fuss," Mrs. Eastbell confessed at last, "and as Sarah did not come back to answer your letter for herself, I got Mrs. Muggeridge next door f.o write a line or two. But they were all our dear Sarah's sentiments — Sally said, after you had gone, that she should never think of leaving me, or AUNT EASTBELL IS STILL CONTENT. 77 her dear brother Tom ? " getting a placp till after I was dead. And as I niayii't die for many years, what's the use of worriting ? " " Ay — what's the use ? " said Keuben dreamily. " It's worrit that walks oft' with half of us. It's a great mercy that L have never had anytliing to worrit me, but have been easy and comfortable, all my precious life." " What made Sarah leave you ? " *' Why, Tom came back from sea." " Her brother 1 " " Ves, her brother — a line strapping young fellow, who has got on in the world — that's the first Eastbell who has done that, Keuben. He came here to see me, at once, the Lord bless him ! " the old lady continued, '' and insisted upon giving Sally a bit of a change before he Avent away on board ship again, and the child wanted change, and they said looked ill, and so I persuaded her to go. I should have gone myself for a bit of a holiday with them, only I haven't been able lately to get about so briskly as I could wish. I'm not always flopping in bed like this, you know." •'■ Ah ! — and she went away with said Reuben. " Yes." '' Has she written to you since 1 " " To be sure. There's a letter of her>. on the mantelpiece now." Reuben Culwick walked across to the high mantelpiece, and took down a letter therefrom. ■■' May I read it c " he asked when the letter was in his hand, and the instinct of the gentleman had asserted itself suddenly. '*To be sure," was the reply ; *' read it out, Reuben — I love to hear my Sally's letters read over and over to me, till 1 get 'em by heart like. There's a great deal of sense in Sally's let- ters, and she's a very clever gal." The old lady crossed her hands over her chest in a monu mental-effigy style, and lay there almost as rigid and grim, un til a fly settled on her face, when she made an impatient claw at it, before reassuming her position of attetition. Reuben Culwick was in no hurry to read the letter aloud. To his surprise it was a letter addressed to two persons, the second one being communicated with in lead-pencil at the top m 78 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. of the paper. Sarah Eastbell wrote a good hand — at one time or another there had been some education given and made use of — the okl woman had seen after her grand- daughter, wlien the father wlio had seen after nobody, not even himself, had been called to his account. " Don't read this to gnmdmother," was written in lead pencil, and in a fair flowing hand, quite a lady's hand. " Keep hti as cheerful as you can without me. Let her think that 1 am coming back soon — that I am happy with Tom, and tluit he is very kind. I can't think of breaking the truth to her yet, that I can never, never come back any more. — S. E." " Who reads the letters to you, aunt 1 " he asked curiously. " Mrs. Muggeridge, or Mrs. Muggeridge's niece - the niece generally, because the old lady stammers dreadful, and puts me out in trying to listen to her. She's a great age, and can't help stammering, poor body," she added rellectively ; " I ought not to be snappish with her. 1 shall be as old myself some day, and have a mouth as full of plums perhaps." " Now, why are all these people humbugging this poor woman 'i " muttered Reuben, as he took a great handful of his beard into consideration with him. He spoke very low, but Mrs. Eastbell had quick ears, and had heard something. " We haven't a bug in the place, Reuben — but oh ! the flies, they're awful ! " Reuben read aloud Sarah's epistle to her grandmother. It was a long letter, and full of a fancy picture of how she was enjoying herself with Tom, what a holiday hers was, and how kind her brother was to her. She concluded with a promise of being back in Worcester shortly, and a hope that her grand- mother was not dull without her, and she was always her affec- tionate and loving granddaughter, Sarah Eastbell. " There, don't you call that a nice letter 1 " said the old lady admiringly when he had concluded. " A very nice letter indeed." " Ah ! and she's a nice gal too. I try not to miss her, and not to feel lonely now she's gone, but it won't do quite. Will you just read that letter over again, Reuben, if you don't mind 1 I can almost fancy that she is here, and that she speaks to me with the old gentleness I know so well, and — love so mucli ] So soothing-like." im AUNT EASTTiKLL IS STILL CONTENT. 79 Reuben Culwick read tlie letter again, and it was sufficiently soothing in this instance to send his aunt to sleep. He was sure that she was asleep by her regular breathing, and the silence which followed the conclusion of his reading. Reuben Culwick stood by the mantelpiece, letter in hand, endeavour- ing to read the story for himself, and to understand the character of his second-cousin more clearly by its lines. Sarah was away with Tom Eastbell, her promising brother, who was getting on so well towards the gallows, she had said herself bit- terly and scornfully. She had deceived the grandmother all her life, for the sake of the old woman's peace of mind, and then she had deserted her. That last step was incomprehensi- ble to him — would old Mother Muggeridge solve it, or old Mother Muggeridge's niece ? Whilst he meditated, a very sallow face chiselled deeply with ridges peered round the room door, and two greenish eyes blinked at him through spectacles with wide horn rims. " Oh ! I beg your pardon — are you the new doctor 1 " said the head. The voice did not arouse Mrs. Eastbell, and Reuben crossed the room cautiously, and backed this new old lady into the quadrangle. " How do you find yourself this morning, Mrs. Muggeridge V he said. " Terribly badly, thank you, sir," said the lady — as thin and small a woman as could possibly live, but evidently as agile as a grasshopper — " and how's the poor old soul to-day ? " " Cheerful— hopeful." " Ah! it's a wonder how she does it," said Mrs. Muggeridge, speaking so thickly that Reuben remembered all about the plums at once, " but then she hasn't got my spasms. Your worthy successor," she said, shaking her head so energeti- cally that Reuben stood on guard, perfectly prepared ^to catch it, if she shook it off along with her spectacles, " said I must bear them as well as I could. That's very fine advice from a man who has never had spasms inside him — which I trust may not be your case either, sir." *' Thank you," " For these awful spasms of mine " "■ One moment, Mrs. Muggeridge," Reuben hastened to ex- I' I hi] 80 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. plain ; " I am not the new doctor — but a friend of Mrs. East- bell's." " Oh ! indeed." " A.nd I want you or your niece to tell me about Mrs. East- bell's granddaughter — where she has gone, and why she has gone." " My niece ! " said Mrs. Muggeridge, shaking her head again, " ah ! that's a little trick to keep that poor old soul going a bit till we take her off to the cemetery — which can't be very long now. The young lady thought it would be the better plan not to tell her anything." " What young lady 1 " " She who comes once or twice a day now — ;just to see her. Why, here she is, to be sure ! " Reuben turned and looked towards the gateway, where from the shadows into the warm sunshine beyond stepped the young lady whom he had seen first in his father's house. SARAHS ABSENCE IS EXPLAINED. 81 CHAPTER XIII. SARAH'S ABSENCE IS EXPLAINED. EUBEX CULWICK'S astonishment was great, but the young lady's surprise was still more strongly marked, upon perceiving who it was standing in the courtyard of St. Oswald's. She stopped, clasped her hands together, and then came on again, with two large clear grey eyes tlistended. " Mr. Culwick ! you in Worcester ! " " Yes — it is remarkable."' " You have repented — you are going to your father ■? " Keuben shook his head, and smiled a little. " I told my lather that I would not come again to Sedge Hill until he sent for me, and I shall never break my word." " Yes, you are a foolish fellow," she said, looking at him, " and almost as strange a man as your father is. Are you still li\iing down that wretched street in Camberwell 1 " " I can only afford to live in wretched streets," was the reply. " What has brought you to Worcester ? " " An excursion train." " You knoww' it I mean," she said tetcliily, " what errand ?" " To see Aunt EastbeP " he replied, " and to discover, if pos- sible, the mystery of my Second-cousin Sarah." " What has Aunt Eastbell or your second-cousin to do with you 1 " she asked. '* They are my relatives — I am more interested in them than I can explain. May I ask in return what Aunt Eastbell and my second-cousin have to do with you 1 " " I am interested in them more than I can explain," was the arch answer, ''thatVall/^ " Iwish to heaven you would explain something. Who are you, to begin with ] " " Ah ! that's not worth elucidation," she said, after a mo- G ..-:.iw «»»»;,::„ V m i Ih Ui lA. i i mil I i ■I'i ' 'ill 'i 'i 82 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. ment's silence. " If I tell you that my name Ih Holland, will that make the position any dearer'/" '* It might," said Reuben quickly. " My father wished me to marry a Miss Holland once, a young lady whom 1 had never seen, and whom I was to take upon trust. Are you the lady ?'" " Yes, sir." She dro})})ed one of those odd little ironical curtseys which had hewildered him before that day, and he regarded her with great attention. This was the lady then on whom he had turned his back, about, whom he had quarrelled with his father, and to avoid wliom he had gone to his mother's home, and the poverty on which tiiat mother had prided herself. Why had the mother forbidden the match in eager haste 1 " And have you (narried my father instead of me y " .he asked satirically. '* I would not marry either of you for twice your father's money," she said frankly — rather pertly, Reuben considered — " I am simply his housekeeper, at a housekeeper's wage. My father was his Ijest friend, and your father has been kind to me, in his odd way, since my father's death." She would come into all his father's money he was sure. Well, it was probably in good hands, he thought ; and the ex- pression on his face must have been peculiar, fo7' she read part of it at Inast. " But he will not leave me any of his fortune — I am not to build npon that in any way." " He has told you so ? " " Yes." " You will be thrown on the world without any compunc tion, for Simon Culwick has a bad habit of keeping his word. Miss Holland," " Yes, that's the worst of it." He thought that she was returning sarcasm for sarcasm, but he was not quite certain, she kept so demure and grave a countenance. It was a singular position, those two whom the father had wanted to bring together, and whom his own stubbornness had set asunder. " And now," said Reuben, returning suddenly to the object which had brought him to Worcester thus early, *' will you try SARA.H S A.BSKNCK [S KXPLAINED. 83 and explain why you are interested in Aunt Eastbell, to begin with 1 — wliy the girl wlio has deserted her corresponds with you ? — why you pass yourself off as the niecf of that old woman who has left us ? '' " I'll work backwards, if you will allow me.'' ^he said. *' 1 call myself Miss Muggeridge because the name of Holland is familiar to your aunt, and I don't want more explanations than I can help in this place — the girl corresponds with me because she knows that 1 read her letters to her gnindmother, and that I am the grandmother's friend whilst she is away — 1 am inter •\sted in Mrs. Eastbell, and feel for the utter loneliness in which she is left l)y hei- friends. 1 have been interested in Mrs. p]astbell for some years now, for the matter of that." " Indeed ! and her granddaughter, Sai'ah Eastbell, also l '' '' Of late days — a little. She was. not very gracious to me — she never cared to see me here. When she got into trouble, she thought that slie would make me her confidante, but it was too late.'' " When she got into trouble ! * echoed Reuben ; '• what trouble was that ? " " Come with me, and I'll show you." She led the way out of St. Oswald's into the Tithing, crossed the road to the corner of the street leading to the prison, and pointed to the "wall, on which several bills were posted. One was to the effect that a reward of five pounds was offered for the a)>prehension of Sarah Eastbell, late of Worcester, who had conspired with others for the unlawful issue of spurious coin, and who was last seen in the town at the end of May of that year. Reuben stared with amazement at the placard. ^' It is well that the old woman is blind," he murmured. " I did not think it was so bad as this." " Neither is it." •* You mean that- " " That her brother is at the bottom f)f it. Y(>u don't know what a scamp he is, I suppose 1 " " I have had my suspicions." '* This Tom Eastbell gave her the money, [ believe. She offered a sovereign in all good faith — it was detected as false coin— she was asked where she lived, and how she became pos- pfp ■■ ^ ^. ".'^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V ^ b^O // V .^ % ■^^p c^ r/j fA 1.0 I.I 1^ 140 22 2.0 1.8 . 1.25 1.4 16 ■^ 6" ► V] <^ c^. /i ^ ^. VI o A «»V. '? / /^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY )4S80 (7)6 1 873-4503 V iV ^9) V ^^ \ \ 4^ ^ ^ ^** <*) V' L<^ 84 «ECOND-COUIS1N fcJAKAH. sessed of it, aud she took fright and ran away. They found out presently her name and address, but she had left Worcester." " Is she with her brother ? " *' Yes." " That's bad." " She wrote to me without giving her address, stating that she must remain with her brother Thomas for a while. He was in business, and was taking care of her. She left Grand- mother Eastbell in my charge, she said. It's a responsibility," she added, '* but I have accepted it." " You are very kind." They walked back together to the almshouses. When they were in the courtyard she said — " Have you come all the way to Worcester to find out the truth of this 1 " " Yes." *' Y our second-cousin must have interested you very strangely." " Yes," he responded. " I saw, as I thought, a strong, self- reliant, earnest nature by the side of that old woman's. I saw much sacrifice of self in one who might have grown up very belfish, and it was a character that deeply interested me." " There were good points in f^arah Eastbell — there are now, for -hat matter. But she is in bad hands." "Ifeafso." " If you could find out where she is, it might be possible to liave her." " I saw her last night." "Where?" Reuben related" the story of his discovery of Sarah Eastbell, of her flight from him, and the way in which he had lost her in the gardens of Saxe-Gotha. Miss Holland reflected for a few minutes, then she said — " 1 wonder if her brother j)erforms there." " Is he a performer, then 1 " " An acrobat at times. When he was first in prison, he was airested in his tumbler's dress." ** In prison — an acrobat ! " Reuben Culwick remembered at once the tumbler who had l)eun spinning round on the slack-rope at the Saxe-Gotha, when SARAHS ABSENCE IS EXPLAINED. 85 e to bell, her for a lie had first entered thu gai Jch.-j. Could tliaL be Tom Eajsibjill, the scamp who had brought hin sister into difRculties, who had caused her to fly from Worcester in order to escape the charge of uttering base coin — in all probability to escape the gaol f •* If that's Thomas Eastbell, Sarah is easily found." "But not easily re.scued." " I will make the attempt," said Reuben. On the following evening Reuben Culwick was in the Saxe- Gotha Gardens again, waiting patiently for the appearance of Signer Vizzobini, who had postponed his departure for Turin for six nights, by special request of the nobility, gentry, and public in general, and wlio was announced to appear every evening at half-past nine in his highly graceful and artistic en- tertainment, as performed before all the crowned heads of Europe, to the immense delight and manifest satisfaction of every crowned head amongst them. had when — nrr--— iii 86 SKCUND-COUSIN SARAH. (JU AFTER XIV SKJNOK VIZZOBINI. HE Saxe-Gotha Gardens were not doing well. Even the re-engagement of Signer Vizzobini had not aroused the locality to enthuBiasm. The people had grown tired of the 8axe-Gotha, and even the orders were slow in coming in ; the dancing license had been suspended that season also, and the patrons and patronesses of the gardens found it dreary work, promenading round the refreshment shed, and the stone boy with the everlasting squirt. It was a terribly dull evening, even for the Saxe-Gotha, Reuben Culwick discovered, when he had entered for the second time on what the programme informed him was a fairy tableau of surpassing brilliancy and splendour ; seen under the aspect of a damp and drizzling night, tlie brilliancy was impaired and the splendour was nowhere. The orders, that had been most freely circulated in the neighbourhood, in the hope that free admissions would drink a little when they did come, had not responded gratefully to the invitation ; and there was but a sparse representation of humanity, which huddled itself un- f that. I more swells, irest to )n had IS Eiay tgested [wly-*- $later some I of re- what bothers me a bit," said Mr. Splud, by way of explanation and apology for his numerous questions. Reuben did not tell him that he was lodging next door but two, and that they had passed each other in the street with tolerable frequency ; but the idea had suggested itself to put a few questions on his own account, and even to throw an air of mystery, a detective policeman's air of mystery, over his in- quiries, when a third person, smoking a short pipe, joined them. The new-comer was a small spare man, in a long seedy great- coat with big horn buttons, extending from his chin to his heels, and who wore a dirty yellow handkerchief tied loosely round his throat. He was a man of an unearthly pallor, and pitted so deeply with small-pox, that one wondered how he had ever struggled out of his malady alive. It was an unpleasant face to regard closely, and the red ferrety eyelids, and the small < sunken black eyes, did not redeem in any way the general ugli- ness of the new-comer. He came up with his hands and half his arms thrust in the side-pockets of his coat, and talked to Mr. Splud, with his little eyes regarding Reuben Culwick from # their corners in the lessee's own peculiar way. " You don't want me to-night, I suppose ? " he said to the proprietor. " Yes, I do want you." " What fir ? " "BecaLselpay you," said Mr. Splud sharply; "you don't want your money next Saturday, I suppose ? " he asked, with so much biting sarcasm in the question that he showed every yellow tooth in his head — and uncommonly yellow they all were — at the gentleman whom he addressed. "Yes, I do — and I'll take care I get it," said the other, far from civilly, " along with last week's." ** Well, I wish you map get it — but you'll have to do your work for it." " What's the use of dressing up, and a performing in the blessed rain " — he did not call it blessed rain, however — " be- fore nobody] There's riobody here, there's nobody coming — and it's a beastly shame on me." " The gardens are open — the public expects to be amused," said the lessee grandiloquently, " and it is not the mission of Samuel Splud to break faith ■'^rith the public. If there were 90 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. only one child in the gardens on this unfortunate juvenile even- ing, and that child were fast asleep and clasped to the fond bosom of its mother, I would carry out the programme in its entirety, or perish in the attempt to do my duty to my patrons, ft is the knowledge that I keep faith with the public that ren- ders the Saxe-Gotha the most popular place of recreation on this side of the Thames." The man marked with the small-pox opened his mouth in amazement at this long address, and turned suddenly to Reuben at its conclusion. " You're going to take the crib off of his hands, I see^ — buy him out, and his goodwill and fixtures and all 1" Mr. Splud appeared to be annoyed at this, and said — " If the gentleman has any idea of that kind, he will talk to me, not you." "I have no idea of purchase," said Reuben, " and if I have the honour of addressing Signor Vizzobini, I may add that 1 have come here this evening expressly to witness his perfor- Jnance." " Have you though 1 " said the acrobat, once more surprised, and in an extraordinary degree, by this explanation ; " good Lord!" . " You may well be iistonished. F am," said Mr. Splud sol emnly again. " Well — if you can't let a fellow off, I'll go and dress," said Vizzobini, and after another sharp glance at our hero, he walked, away in deep thought. " I think you said that you were not in the police, sir ? " said Mr. Splud with great urbanity. '' Certainly not." * The same idea has suggested itself to my employe, at all events, and you have rendered him extremely uncomfortable, but it serves him right. He's an ill-tempered, hateful, insolent cur, and. Heaven be praised, next Saturday sees the last of him." " He will leave the gardens, perhaps 1 " " I wish he would. It would be breach of contract, and 1 should not pay him a farthing." Reuben moved towards the entrance gates, and Mr. Splud ■# .¥ srONOR VIZZOBINI. 91 eveii- j fond in ith trons. it ren ion on nth ill leubeu 5— hiiy talk to I have that 1 pert'or- rprised, " good lUul sol ss," said walked. 1 " said re, at all fortable, insolent last ot ^t, and 1 Splud laughed tor the first time — laughed so heartily that it waii evi- dent it was only bad luck that kept his spirits at zero. * Oh ! not in the police at all — certainly not," he -"aid knowingly ; '* but you need not be afraid of losing your man. He has gone into the room under the orchestra to dress." Reuben returned to hi.s place beneath the tree, and Mr. Splud • tuce more joined him. "What's the case — murder or burglary or petty theft ( They are all three in his line, I fancy." " Do you know anything of him ? " *' Only that he is a vagabond not up to his work," said Mr. Splud. " I took him by advertisement, on the faith of hi.s re- commendations, which I firmly believe now are forgeries. He has fallen off three times this week, and if he breaks his neck one of these fine days, it will be a happy release to the profes- sion. I shan't go into superfine black for him myself," he added vindictively. " Why did you I'e-engage him ? " " I didn't, sir — it was all in the first contract — only it became necessary to puff him. Fancy a man of my attainments re duced to puffing that brute ! " and here a real tear made it» appearance at one of the favourite corners of his eyes, and trickled forlornly down his cheek. " I haven't been used to this kind of thing," said Mr. Splud. by way of apology for his weakness ; " I have been in a larg«* way of theatrical business — real horses — legitimate drama, over the water, sir." *' What is that man's real name ? " asked Keuben. " I haven't the slightest idea ; Jack Sheppard perhaps." ** You know his address surely ? " •' Oh ! yes. Xo. 2, Potter's Court, Walworth Hoad." " Thank you. Good night." Reuben Culwick was gone. Even Signor Vizzobini observed it, when he was sitting astride an uncomfortably wet rope, with the rain pouring down on his fleshings and spangles, and the band wheezing out its melancholy old waltz. Signor Vizzobini looked down at the lamps and scanty audience, and at the lessee standing opposite sneering at him ; but of the stranger, lured to the Saxe-Gotha by the report of his abilities, there was not a sign. Vizzobini's feelings were hurt, for he mut^ - 92 SFX'ONn-COITSiN SARAH. tered " What ii liar ! " Ijet'ore commencing his performance, which he hurried through in such indecent haste, that Mr. Splud was more than ever disgusted with his contract with him. ■;{!»;; (nance, at Mr. ;t with FOUND. 93 CHAPTER XV. FOUND. 'Wt_>--) s»^ ^ O. 2, Potter's Court, Walworth Road, was somewhat dif-. ficult to find ; but by aid of a few inquiries from the police, Reuben Culwick discovered it amongst a nest of little streets half-way towards the Elephant and Castle. Potter's Court was not a cheerful thoroughfare at that time of night, and it required a fair amount of nerve — which our hero did not luck, however — to descend three or four broken steps at the entrance, and dive into the darkness that stretched beyond them. The gas-light at the top of the steps down which the indis- creet traveller and the tipsy tenant of Potter's Court were con- tinually floundering, shed but little light upon the first few yards of the way, and was of no service at the extremity of the passage, where, it was rumoured, murder had been done once, with no one the wiser till the morning. Potter's Court, Walworth Road, bore an ugly name, and its lank, dingy tenements were full of "ugly customers." There were all degrees of ugliness — the hideous and variable ugliness of crime — in Potter's Court, and but a few specimens of honest industry, or of poverty rendered respectable or heroic by its struggle to keep out of the workhouse. The " dangerous classes "had the place pretty well to themselves, and were called for frequently by enterprising gentlemen with numbers on their collars ; it was a thoroughfare with a brand upon it — a jungle where the wild beasts of the streets herded together, and shunned the light, after the habits of their kind. Reuben Culwick knew nothing of Potter's Court ; but he muttered " Poor Sarah ! " as he went down the cavernous entry in search of No. ^. There were several lodging-houses in the court, with " Beds, Threepence per Night/' written over the front door, although the hoiiT ^as too late to read the inscriptions ; but No. 2 was 94 SKCOND-COU8IN SARAH. a private house in its way, with a family on each floor, and the door left open for the convenience of the tenants' ingress and egress, like a house in a Glasgow close. Reuben knocked at the parlour door with the handle of his stick, and a grim-looking individual in his shirt-sleeves an swered the appeal, and stood with a light in his hand, glaring at the intruder. " What's up ? " he said, in not too civil a style of address. '' Does a Mr. Eastbell live here ?" " Don't think ho does." " Do you know a Mr. Vizzobini t " said Reuben, suddenly recollecting himself, and thinkin;^ also that, for reasons too numerous to mention, Thomas Eistbell, late of Worcester, might have arrived in London incognito. " Fitser— who 1 " " He performs at the Saxe-Gotha Gardens on the slack-rope," Reuben explained still further, " Oh ! that bloke," said the parlour floor disparagingly ; " toy of the 'ouse — front room." " Thank you." The man slammed the door upon our hero, and did not wait for his thanks ; but as Reuben went up the dark stairs, it is worthy of remark that he came softly into the passage again, and stood there listening to the firm regular tread of him who ascended thus fearlessly. When the footsteps were echoing up the second flight, the man put his head into the court, looked steadily along its whole length, to the dingy lamp at the top of the distant steps, and then drew back into the shadow again. " Cheek ! " he muttered ; " a friend, or information received 1 — Here, Pincher." Pincher, a wiry little terrier that in the darkness might have passed for a rat, darted from ohe room at his master's call, and, as if trained to the business — and it was highly probable that it was — darted up-stairs with a rattling, scuffling noise, passed Reuben, and commenced barking vociferously, when it had reached the top landing, where Reuben presently followed, with his hand clutching carefully at his stick, prepared to brain Pinoher on the spot, should it make a sally at his lower ex tremities. But the animal was content to sit on his hind-legs .-v FOUND. »5 and bark, and howl, and shriek, like a dog in a rat-trap, or un- der the wheel of a waggon. Reuben reached the front-room door with his stick, and rapped gently but emphatically against the panel. The dog ceased barking when he had knocked, and went scuffling to the bottom of the stairs again, where the master picked him up by the nape of the neck, and carried him indoors. Meanwhile Reuben, after waiting patiently for a reply to his summons, knocked again. " Wlio's there ? ' said a faint weak voice, which Reuben did not recognise. " A friend." " We've no friends here.'' *' I come from the Saxe-Gotha. " From Tom ? " " Yes." '*0h!" The door was cautiously opei.ec!, and there streamed through the aperture, through whicU a woman's face was peering — white, and wan, and pinched — a iush of hot air as from a fur- nace-mouth. *' Is he locked up ? " said the woman somewhat apathetically. " No. He will be back presently, I think." " I thought he was locked up. Do you want to come in ? " "Yes." . "Come in if you like, then — we don't charge any more," said the woman with a sombre flippancy, that sat particularly ill upon her, and which was followed by a fit of coughing that seemed more natural to the miserable appearance she pre- sented. The woman, who wore no boots, glided back noiselessly to the side of a big fire that was blazing inappropriately in the grate that summer night, sat down in the chair she had quitted, and leaned her head against the wall like a woman tiled out. But it was not her at which he gazed so intently, as at the figure of a girl in a striped cotton dress, who lay face-foremost on the patch- work counterpane of the bed, and whose face was hidden by her hands. It was a figure of despair that thrilled him ; it was surely Second-cousin Sarah cowering from him in that hour of her discovery. ■'-il^. U 96 SECOND-COUSIN SAKAH. The woman with her head against the wall observed the in- tent gaze uf Reuben in the direction of the prostrate girl. " She's asleep ; you need not mind her." "Are you sure 1" " As sure as I'm a living woman — or a living skeleton. She's been like that for hours, the silly." » Why silly 1 " " Because she — Here, I say, what's your message 1 " asked the woman, putting a sudden check upon her volubility ; " what have you got to say about Tom, and what has Tom to say t " " Are you Tom's wife ? " *' Yes, 1 am." " And that's Tom's sister i " " What of it 1 " was the rejoinder. "From St. Oswald's Almshouses, Worcester ? " '' Eh — yes. You're pat enough with your facts. How did you get them ? If you've come for her, I — I " Here the woman burst into a second paroxysm of coughing, for the cessation of which Reuben waited patiently, keeping his eyes upon the figure on the bed, and doubtful still if it were sleep that kept Sarah so dumb and passive. It was a violent cough, that of Mrs. Eastbell's, which was rending away all the life that was left in the sufferer, who carried consumption in her every look and fitful breath. The woman struggled and choked for awhile, with her thin hands pressed to her side. " Yours is a bad cough," Reuben said at last. " There's not much more left of it, or me," was the callous answer, "and thank God for it." " Is not the room too hot for you 1 " The woman shook her head. It was an unhealthy air that the huge fire had burned up, and there was a strange smell of hot metal, for which Reuben could not account, and which the flat-iron on the hob, had it been in the most active service of ironing, could scarcely stand as an excuse for. An extensive plumbing job would have left traces in the atmosphere like unto it, possibly. " You have come for her," said Mrs. Eastbell in a husky voice, returning once more to the subject which had brought on her paroxysm of coughing, " but you can't prove ndthing." Once more had his manner and appearance suggested a de- FOUND. 97 tective officer — it was only the policeman who haunted such places as he had seen tonight, and who made himself obtrusive and objectionable. " Yes, I have come for her if she'll trust me." "You're just the chap for the likes of us to trust," said Mrs. Eastbell ironically, " and jioor Sally is sure to be uncon'mon glad to see you. Not that she'll mind much which way it is, for she's been awful down." " Indeed ! Has she 1 " " If it ain't Worcester Prison, it'll be the Surrey Canal. Here — hi — Sally ! " screamed the woman, " you're fetched, my gal. Here's a cove from Worcester says he wants you partikler." The girl lying upon the bed sprang up on her hands at once, and glared towards them both, shaking her long black hair from her head as she did so. Her face was flushed with sleep, but the pallor rapidly stole over it as she recognised Keuben Gulwick standing by the fire-place observing her. '1 98 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER XVI. THE APPEAL. ER. CULWICK ! " Sarah Eastbell whispered to her- self. " Yes — it is I," said Reuben. " What can you want 1 ' she murmured — " what has made you come in search of me 11 " " To help you," was the answer, " for I am afraid that you are in bad hands, and I wish to take you from them." Sarah Eastbell was sitting on the side of the bed now, with her big dark eyes regarding the speaker, and her hands clasped together tightly. " It is too late," she muttered. " I hope not." " Oh, yes," she replied, with grim confidence in her asser- tion, " by a long sight. Ah ! when I saw you last, I did not think that it would come to this, sir — that I should have to run away from grandmother. I felt so strong. I was sure that I should grow stronger as I got to be more of a woman ; and see now where I am. Oh ! my God, see now ! " cried Sarah Eastbell with a sudden passion, as she raised her hands above her head in angry protest against her own ill-fate. " I don't see what's the use of shrieking out like that," said Mrs. Eastbell reprovingly ; "they'll think down stairs we're a- murdering of you. You came away with Tom of your own accord — didn't you ] and Tom and I has taken care of you since, and kept you out of the way of the perlice — hasn't us 1 This isn't such a sight of complaint to bring against a hard-working couple, is it, Mr. Cutstick 1 " " You came to London with your brother 1 " said Reuben to his cousin. " What was I to do 1 " replied the girl ; " it was that or the prison, though I wouldn't have cared for the prison so very much, only they would have come to the almshouse and taken me away THE APPEAL. 99 II <( from that poor old woman, who would have thought the worst of me for ever afterwards." " I don't think that she would." " I have told her so many lies," said Sarah moodily, " and they would all come out, and set her against me." " They were white lies, to keep her mind at rest." " Ah ! but what a lot of them there were ! " said Sarah : " why, I began to lie for the sake of lying at last, for the sake of brightening her up when she was dull and thoughtful, just as I do now by letter. I used to invent all kinds of — Oh ! I can't think of it any more — I can't — I daren't. If I could only die now ! " " Sarah Eastbell, you must come away with me," said Reu ben firmly. " No," was the reply ; ** it's only by hiding here that I'm safe. They're after me still-r-e very where," she added with a shudder. Your brother tells you that t " I know it for myself too well." " Did you attempt to pass bad money in Worcester, then 1 " " Yes." " Knowing it to be bad ? " " No, no — I did not know that. Somebody gave it me — I won't say who it was — to get change, and then pay myself what was owing, and " " Sarah ! " cried Mrs. Eastbell, " the least said about that to this gent, the better." " Come with me to Worcester, and tell the story for yourself," said Reuben; " I will stand by you." " And see you carried off to gaol," said Mrs. Eastbell. " Well, that's pretty nice advice for a man to give a weak young thing like you." " No, no— let me be, please ; what's the use V muttered Sarah Eastbell ; " I must go on as I am — there's no help for me ; I'm past your help, Mr. Culwick — though I didn't think you were s» good a man as this," she added, with a strange yearning look towards h\^ '* or that you would take all this trouble, and I'm thankful ^ry — but to get away from here is to kill the only friend I ever had." " Your grandmother 1 " f m '•'(til hi i « 100 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " Yes." " She may hear of this at any moment." " Ay — she may," said Sarah Eastbell sadly, " and then she will die." *• Have you any idea of what your future life is to be in this place ? " asked Reuben, " I haven't thought much. I can't think," replied his cousin with strange helplessness. " I mayn't come to much harm — I don't know." *' Would not anything be better than remaining 1 " " There's no getting away," answered Sarah ; " ask her." " Tom wouldn't like it," said Mrs. Eastbell thus appealed to. " Sally's handy." " And Sally knows too much," added the girl scornfully, " and if she moved one step away from home — see, this is my home ! " she cried with another exhibition of passion, as she looked round the four walls of the squalid room — " they would tell the police where to find me." " I wouldn't Sally," said the woman, raising her head from the wall, and inclining it forward in her self-defence. " You know who would." " Ah ! I can't answer for him," replied Mrs. Eastbell, lean- ing her head back again ; " when his back's up he don't much mind what he does, certainly, and misfortun' has soured him awful." " Your husband ] " inquired Reuben. " I don't mention no names," said the woman with low cun- ning. Sarah left the side of the bed, and walked to the door, which she opened and listened at. " I'd go now," she said anxiously to Reuben ; " it's no use stopping longer — it isn't safe." Reuben was puzzled at her manner, and perplexed by her stubbornness. Here was a girl in the toils — a woman hemmed in, and who, v.-ithout money and friends, without hope even, must infallibly give up. He felt almost powerless in the mat- ter ; and yet she had been an unselfish and honest girl, and might under other circumstances have been so easily saved. There was one more train of reasoning to urge — he could not leave her to her fate without a struggle. THE APPEAL. 101 " I saw your grandmother yesterday." " You did ?" exclaimed she—" at Worcester 1" " Yes." " I hope she was well — that she didn't know anything 1 " was her eager questioning. " No — she lay there just as I saw her weeks ago, very patient, very gentle, and very full of love for you. She was waiting for her granddaughter to come back." " Ah ! if I could." " Couldn't she come to you ? I don't mean at once," he add- ed, as Sarah recoiled at the suggestion, " but after you had left here and got some situation, which might enable you to hire a room for her. A friend of mine has found a situation for you already, and I will be security for your faithful service, until they learn to trust you for yourself" Sarah broke down at last. The thin little hands went up quickly to the face, and she sobbed forth — " God bless you, sir ; but don't — oh,don't say another word !" But Reuben Culwick, carried away by his theme, seized his advantage and went on. He had one object in life now — to get Sarah Eastbell from that house. " Why, you are my cousin," he said earnestly, " and why shouldn't I help you for your own sake, as well as for the sake of that old woman grieving for you down in Worcester 1 You can't be worse oflf in Worcester Prison — say that that's the worst — than in this den." "No, no — but she would hear of it. I have told you so," she added peevishly, " or you don't know — you don't see ii Sally," said her sister-in-law, slowly and emphatically, "I've been a-thinking it all over." " Well 1 " said Sarah Eastbell. " And if you'd like to go, I'll not blab a single word against you, even if he kills me, and he's often said he would. He mayn't find you out, and if he does he'll think twice about do- ing you an ill turn. He's not so bad, you know, take him altogether. Go — run away— hook it," exclaimed Mrs. Eastbell, with increasing excitement evidencing itself along with her slangy phraseology, " whilst there's time !" Sarah wavered, for she turned quickly to her sister-in-law. " You — you mean this 1 " , " Yes." f 102 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " You will not tell Tom, or Tom's friends — you will let me pass from this place unwatched — you will give me time to get away ]" " Of course I will." " I came here of my own free will, sir, not knowing where to go in my despair and fright," she said, turning to Reuben ; " but, oh ! if I could get away again. If you only knew that " Her hands fell helplessly to her side, and she went backwards step by step to the bedside again, where she sat down with a new horror on her countenance. ^ The door had opened, and Tom Eastbell, with his long great- coat buttoned round him, was standing in the doorway regard- ing them. Over his shoulder loomed the forbidding counte- nance of the man who had met Reuben at the entrance, which, by the jarring and clanging that echoed through the house, was evidently being bolted and barred. IN DANGER. 103 CHAPTER XVII. IN DANGER. (HE man who in his zeal had adventured into Potter's Court did not betray, by any change of feature, his sense of the danger which seemed hanging over him. It was not an enviable position, but his coolness did not desert him. He looked steadily towards the two men in the doorway, and calculated their strength and weight against his own, and the extra odds that might be lurking on the dark landing-place and staircase. Had it not been for the clanging of bolts below, and for the careful locking up of the house, he would have been disposed to regard the arrival of Thomas Eastbell and his companion in a friendly spirit, despite the scowls with which they favoured him, and the anxious faces of the women. He was standing by the fireplace, and he glanced down for any weapon of de- fence that might come in handy if the gentlemen in the house grew disputatious ; but the fire-irons were missing, and there was only his own natural strength to rely upon, if necessary. " Hanged if I didn't think so ! " exclaimed Thomas Eastbell, alias Vizzobini, of the crowned-head patronage department; " so this is why you have been creeping about the Saxe-Gotha, is it 1 Well, what have I done, that you come into my crib in this way ? Now you've found me out, what have you got to say ? What the blazes have you got to say 1 " he roared forth in a louder key. " That you keep too big a fire for the time of year, and that it isn't good for your healths," said Reuben in a quiet tone of voice ; " 1 have been telling Miss Eastbell so." " What's the fire io do with you 1 You don't send in the coals and coke to make it up, do you ] There ain't a law against a man having as much fire as he chooses, if he can pay for it. You ain't put yourself out of the way to come to Pot- ter's Court to tell us that ] " ! i 104 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " I have come to see your sister." ** Weil, that's uncommon kind of you ! " he answered ironi- cally. " Tom," said Sarah at this juncture, " this is Mr. Culwick — young Mr. Culwick — our second-cousin. You have heard me speak of him. You must not attempt in any way to interfere with him." ** You shut up I Hasn't he interfered with me 1 " snarled forth her brother, " hasn't he been dodging after me for the last three days 1 " " He has been trying to find me." " What business has he with you ? — why can't he mind his own business, and let you alone 1 " cried Tom. " What's this second-cousin chap to us ? What good is he 1 What notice has he ever taken of us till now 't Hang me ! I don't believe he's a cousin at all, but a policeman trying to work up a case against people more honest than himself." " I dun't ask you to believe anything," said Reuben. " After tt lling me to-night that you'd come to see me per- form, I shouldn't think you would ! No, the cousin dodge won't do for me," he added, " I'm not likely to swallow that yarn. What's your game V . " I came to help your sister." ** Oh ! that's it.— Eh ? " The interrogative was addressed to the man looking over his shoulder, who had touched his arm and whispered in his ear, keeping his eye« fixed upon Reuben meanwhile. *' My friend remarks," said Mr. Eastbell, with a grim smile upon his countenance as he addressed Reuben once more, '* that if you have come to help the family, perhaps you will be kind enough to prove your words by doing the handsome to us peo- ple out of luck." " You mean give you money? " " We are precious poor," said Tom. " So am I." " We are out of luck, and you are here to help us." " To help Sarah Eastbell, if she will." " To help all of us or none — we share and share alike in Potter's Court." " Then, gentlemen, I am sorry that 1 can't help you." TN DANGER. 105 '' But you must," growled forth the man in the background, who had recently whispered to Tom Eastbell ; " you've walked in without leave after the gal, and you'll pay your footing be- fore you go." An awful oath closed this assertion. " I think not," said Reuben Culwick. " Then you 11 have to stop," cried the man. " The house is locked up for the night, and we can't afford to part with you — can we, mate 1 " " No, we can't," answered Thomas Eastbell, " Am I to understand that I'm a prisoner 1 " inquired Reu- ben sternly. " You're to understand nothing, but that you've come here of your own free-will, and that it ain't convenient to unlock the house again to-night," said Tom. "We don't know what you've come for — what you've seen to make a case of, or what story you may trump up to-morrow to lug some innersent people off to prison." " You've taken up your lodging, and you can't go without paying for it," said the other man ; " that's the law, fair and straight, you know, in any court ; so pay up, if you mean well." " Ingenious," said Reuben, shrugging his broad shoulders, '* but 1 have nothing to give away." " There's men down-stairs who say you're a spy on them,** said Tom, in further explanation, "and they're Irish, and soon riled. So help me," he added in a confidential tone, " if I would answer for your life if you stop much loiter. They're awful chaps, I swear ! " Reuben smiled incredulously. " I am not afraid of them." " Ask my sister. As you're dead nuts on her, p'raps youTl take her word. — Sally," he said, " will the Petersons stand as much of this man as I have 1 " " They will not come up here ! " cried Sarah. " They're sitting on the stairs waiting," said Tom, " and they will know all about this fellow. They are as sure as I am thai he's a detective ! " " You have told them so ! " said Sarah indignantly. " P'raps I have, and p'raps I haven't," answered her brother. " And now you and Soph just move out of here — we can't 106 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. Si I I come to terms with women in the room. The gentleman will be much more reasonable when we are all men of business to- gether. Do you hear 1 " he yelled, as a want of alacrity in res- ponding to his summons disturbed the last fragment of self- possession that was left him. Mrs. Eastbell rose to comply with her husband's request, but Sarah darted to the window of the room, and threw it open. " What now ? " exclaimed her brother, as the cold air rushed in, and Mrs. Eastbell, taken aback by it, began to cough herself to pieces. " There's mischief meant," cried Sarah ; " I shan't leave this window whilst Mr. Culwick remains, and I will scream my heart out if you touch him ! — This is a dreadful house, sir," she said to Keuben, " with dreadful men in it. Be on your guard." " Come back from that window ! " roared Tom. " I will do nothing of the kind," cried Sarah, standing there erect and defiant ; " till Mr. Culwick is allowed to quit this place I'll not move away." ** Don't you see how you're making your sister-in-law cough, you brute 1 " said Thomas Eastbell. " If we were the Forty Thieves you couldn't make more fuss. Why " He was striding step by step towards his sister as he spoke, when Reuben Culwick crossed the room in one stride, and thrust him forcibly away before his panther-like spring could fasten on her. It was a bold move, assuming the offensive in this fashion, but Keuben had grown angry at restraint, and it was the time to act, or never. Thomas Eastbell, despite his athletic profession, was a slight man, with an undeveloped physique, and no match for the strength of the honest young fellow who had confronted him thus unceremoniously ; Reuben's thrust sent him staggering with violence against his friend, who, taken off his guard, received Tom's bullet-head between his eyes, and fell backwards into the passage with Tom on the top of him. The sudden change in the condition of affairs approximated s« closely on burlesque, that a short sharp laugh escaped our hero as the men tumbled over each other. Still it was a crisis ; he had thrown down the gauntlet, and must face the result. The clear doorway suggested a temporary expedient, and he IN DANGER. 107 tan will ness to- r in res- of self- est, but open. ' rushed L herself ave this earn my ise, sir," on your closed the door quickly, locked it with the key which he knew was on the inner side, and set his foot against the lower portion of the woodwork. " There'll be murder done now," said Mrs. Eastbell, wring- ing her hands ; " oh, you fool, to come to this place ! Oall out you'll give 'em money, or they can have your watch — say some- thing. They're coming up the stairs ! " " Who are they ? " asked Keuben, sternly now. Mrs. Eastbell did not answer, but Sarah whispered — " Coiners ! " ng there ^uit this v^ cough, le Forty e spoke, ide, and ig could snsive in t, and it }pite his Bveloped jt young ieuben's s friend, between n on the ximated ped our a crisis; e result, and he 108 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER XVIII. ON DEFENCE. EUBEN began to consider his position with a greater degree of seriousness, although his courage did not in any way desert him. Tliat it would be a fight for life now, he did not doubt, for the house was full from roof to base- ment of desperate men, with whom life might be of little value in comparison with the secret of their nefarious trade. If he could disappear without any fuss, it would be better for the welfare of the community at Potter's Court ; and he had set them all at defiance, and would betray them, if allowed to leave the premises. He could hear the trampling rush of heavy feet up the stairs, and the low oaths and curses of the men whom he had left on their backs on the landing-place, and then the door creaked and shook with the heavy pressure of shoulders from without. Sarah Eastbell was as good as her word. Her watchful dark eyes had observed the door vibrating, and a scream of extraor- dinary shrillness and volume startled the echoes of Potter's Court, and welled forth into the narrow street beyond. " Oh ! don't, Sally — it's only their fun, perhaps," cried Mrs. Eastbell ; but Sally, excited by the proximity of danger, screamed again with fifty horse-power, and then swept from the window-sill a whole collection of flower-pots that had held the geraniums and fuchsias of the last tenant, and which de- scended with a tremendous crash on to|the paved footway below. The pressure against the door ceased, as though the people in the house had stopped to listen ; the windows of other houses in Potter's Court began opening rapidly ; there were voices shouting out innumerable questions ; there were three or four shrill whistles, and then the ominous crack cl z rattle, fol- lowed by another in response, and at a little distance. " You are safe," said Sarah ; " the police are coming." ON DEFENCE. 109 greater I not in for life to base- )f little IS trade. Btter for I he had lowed to up the , [ he had he door ers from ful dark extraor- Potter'fi led Mrs. danger, pt from lad held hich de- y below. Bople in other re were three or ,ttle, fol- " You have brought it all upon us, Sally ! " cried Mrs. East- bell, bursting into tears, " it s all your wi(;ked temper and wilfulness. We shall go to prison — every one of us." " Mr. Culwick will not say a word to add to any misery here, I'm sure," said Sarah meaningly. The court was full of noise now, amidst which were heard rough peremptory voices asking questions, and receiving a grand chorus of explanation ; but in the house and beyond the door which Reuben had locked, was the stillness of the dead. Pre- sently the street-door below was being unfastened in response to solemn knocks without, and and then the ponderous un- mistakable boots of the metropolitan force were heard clamping up the stairs. Reuben unlocked the room-door, and Thomas Eastbell, white as a ghost, crawled in on his hands and knees, took a harlequin's dive into bed, and drew the tattered coverlet to his chin. The burly figures of ^hree policemen were in the room an instant or two afterwards -the representatives of the force never went singly to Potter s Court when a dispute was raging amongst its inhabitants. ** Now then, what's the row 1 " said the principat spokesman ; " who's been trying to throw the other out of window ? " " Who's been melting leadl" inquired another, whom the peculiar nature of the atmosphere had impressed as it had done Reuben at an earlier hour. No one had been throwing another out of window, whined forth Mrs. Eastbell, no one had been melting lead or anything. They had had a little wrangle as it got late, and just as their cousin was a-going home, and the flower-pots somehow gave way and fell into the court, which frightened the gal at the window, who began to scream. The policeman who had first spoken listened to this explanation with a stolid stare upon his countenance ; the second official, being of an inquisitive turn of mind, opened all the drawers and cupboards, and examined their contents ; the third man inspected Mr. Thomas Eastbell as he lay recumbent, and inconvenienced him by giving him the benefit of the glare from a bull's-eye lantern on his face. " Come, that sham won't do, young feller," said he ; "is there any complaint to make V^ No one had any complaint to make. ■:;?■ V SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. t( Has any one been robbed, or threatened, or maltreated ? asked the first policeman, looking hard at Reuben. No one answered. *' Who are you ? " asked the policeman abruptly of our hero. " Oh ! I'm the cousin," answered Reuben. " You've nothing to say? " " Nothing." " Are you going to stop here ? " " Thank you, no," said Reuben ; " T was just thinking of getting home. We have had a little dispute certainly, and Tom and I — this is my cousin Tom, who performs at the Saxe- Gotha — got to high words and a playful scramble — and that's all." '• Yes — that's all," asserted Tom with alacrity, " and it's precious little to come into a man's house for — three of you too — and rummage over his things." *' What's your name ? " " Vizzobini." " From the country ? " " From Rome." " I should like to know where this smell of lead comes from," said the inquisitive policeman again. Reuben had crossed to Sarah. " Here is your chance still. Will you leave this place ? " " Not yet," she answered, " not till Tom's safe." " Tom's a scoundrel." " He is my brother." " But v/hen I am gone, they " " They will not hurt me," she said with a forced smile ; " I shall not come to any harm. Go now, please." " Shall I ever see you again 1 — or do you pass away from me, as from the poor old woman you have left alone in St. Oswald's?" It was a reproof, but he intended it. " You will see me again soon," she answered with a strange look towards him. " Good-bye then." " Good-bye." Reuben went out of the room, and the policemen followed m ON DEFENCE. ^H :m him down-stairs, and into the court, strewn with innumerable fragments of flower-pots, which were crunched beneath their heavy heels. " Blest if you mightn't have smashed somebody with your larks," said the observant policeman, looking up at the window from which the avalanche had descended. " It was rather rough play," answered Eeuben. " Have you been there before ? " asked the first policeman. "No." * " You'll not go there again, cousin or no cousin, if you have anything to lose." '♦ Which I have not." " I don't think you're one of the lot," said the policeman, eyeing him closely, when they were up the steps and under the gas-lamp, " but I shall remember you, my man." "Thank you." And then Reuben Culwick, somewhat ungratefully, left the triumvirate who had arrived in good time to his rescue. But he could not explain, and it seemed the better policy to be silent for Second-cousin Sarah's sake. She wished it — and it was she who had saved him from danger. He had to think ae-fiin of the way to save her, now that he had become more tlian ever resolved to get her away from Potter's Court. ; 1 I 112 SECOND-COUSIN SAUAH. m 11 CHAPTER XIX. ATONEMENT. EUBEN CULWICK did not attempt in any way to account for his late hours to the inmates of Hope Lodge. He was the master of his own actions, which no one, he felt, had any right to criticise. Hence, with this impression on his mind, the deep reveries of Lucy Jennings, and the studious stares of her brother, who, when not too busy with his fire-works, appeared to be taking him in far too in- tently, became a «ource of irritation to him. It had impressed itself upon the Jennings's mind, brother and sister's, that he, Reuben Culwick, was not sos teady as he used to be — that he had come back from Worcester a changed man. He had been at the Saxe-Gotha Gardens more than once, and John Jennings knew that he was interested in a girl in a black and white cotton dress, for he had not only made in- quiries concerning her, but had warned him not to tell Lucy. Then he was eccentric, and kept late hours ; he had become reticent when people wanted him talkative ; a portion of his bright cheery nature had suddenly vanished, and he had grown wondrously thoughtful, as men will do when theii* consciences are ill at ease. Neither John nor Lucy Jennings thought that Reuben Cul- wick had his second-cousin on his mind, and thatf it was his own generous concern for her that had turned him grave of late days. And why Second cousin Sarah should oppress his mind in this way, he could hardly account for himself, for she bad seemed scarcely grateful for his interest, and in some respects to be opposed to it. He exercised no influence over her ; she was on the wrong road, and no persuasions of his had power to turn her bi:;k. She was a relation certainly, but then so was Tom Easioell, and the old woman in the almshouse of St. Oswald's. Was it her helplessness, hemmed round by the Ad- verse circumstances of life, and through which it seemed impoa- ATONEMENT. 113 sible to break 1 Was it the forlornness of her youth, and the good traits of character that seemed to fight hard in her for fair play ] It was not a romantic interest, though there had been a certain amount of romance in the meetings and partings between them ; she was only a " bit of a girl," and there was not the ghost of a tender sentiment inspiring him, he was cer- tain. She had been so obstinate and self-willed at times, too, that he had felt disposed to shake her, but still there was an intense longing to save her, and a sad feeling almost of despair at his own inability to accomplish it. He took no one into his counsel ; if he had small faith in himself, he had less in anybody else, and, for reasons which he will explain presently, he kept the story of his discovery of his cousin, and of the adventure which had followed it, a secret. He went his own course, and he waited and watched for Sarah Eastbell still ; and even Tots knew that there was something different in the little world they shared together, by his more constant absence from home, and by his leaving her to Aunt Lucy's care and guidance, which, however well carried out, was ^accompanied by more scoldings and lectures than even Tots re- membered suffering from at any period anterior to this. John Jennings was suffering also from the same cause. His sister Lucy's temper was certainly not improving ; every day she was becoming harder and more grim, more uncharitable and more suspicious, and thus the change in Reuben Culwick seemed to work its change on the household in its turn. John set down his sister's acerbity, and her bad habit of slamming the doors behind her, to her consciousness that all was not well with his Saxe Gotha Gardens account, and he essayed to render matters more cheerful by giving highly coloured versions of the position of affairs, which Lucy did not respond to, and proba- bly did not believe in, judging by the stony apathy with which she listened to his statements. Reuben was the first to com- ment upon the change in Lucy Jennings. He was quick enough to note her taciturnity and stolidity, although unaware that he had been extra grave and a trifle mysterious himself ; and when it came to bringing in the breakfast tray without a word, setting it down with a bang that jarred on his nerves, and leaving the room without so much as a " good morning," he thought it was quite time to make a few inquiries on his own account. I V' f! 114 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " Is anything the matter, Lucy 1 " he asked at last, one morn- ing. •* Anything the matter ! " answered Lucy at once ; " with you, do you mean 1 " " No, with you ] " *' I'm not very well, but I don't know that I am worse than usual. Why ] " " You don't seem quite so lively, that's all," said Reuben ; " I was aiTaid that you and John had had a little difference, and 1 was going to volunteer to act as mediator." " Tliaiik you," was the answer, " John and I understand each other very well without any mediation. We have not quar- relled — we never do quarrel." "Yon haven't heanl any bad news?" "Not at present. We're waiting." " Waiting for bad news ! Well, Lucy," he added with one of his oil laughs, " I would wait till it came before giving way." Lucy saw her opportunity, and being a woman, dashed at it. " It has come, though we don't know what it means." " Eh— how's that 1 '*' Lucy Jennings sat down suddenly in the chair nearest to her lodger, and burst forth with her catalogue of wrongs, making amends for all past reserve in one breath. " It has come to you. You're not the man you have been. You keep away from home too much — you have been seen at low places of amusement — you're going wrong — you — you — ^you never tell us anything ! " cried Lucy passionately. " Yes, I have been seen at low places of amusement," said Reuben quietly, " and my hours of return to Hope Lodge are somewhat irregular at present. And so I am going wrong, Lucy V ** You are not doing what is right." " That's frank," said Reuben drily. " You must be ashamed of something, or you would tell us," said this extraordinary plain-speaking young woman ; " there's always a bad reason for hustling the truth into a corner, and hiding your life away from those who are anxious about it." " You are very kind to be anxious, but " " I never said that I was anxious," cried Lucy, " only that there were those whom you were disturbing by your change of # ATONEMENT. 116 life — by your strange ways. You are neglecting your work — there's that paper been lying on your desk untouched for the last three days — you don't go to the office, because letters from the Ti-umpet come to you. I know the seal ! John says you're often at the Saxe-Gotha — that last night you were asking the waiter why Vizzobini had given up performing — and altogether you're restless, ill at ease, unhappy." " You will excuse me, Lucy," he said, more gravely and coldly than he was in the habit of addressing her, " but is it your place to tell me of it, e^ en in this irrelevant and insane fashion ? " " If no one else will — yes," cried Lucy stoutly ; " I never saw any one going wrong — by ever so little — but what I felt it my place, my duty, to try and set the sinner right again." " Yes, but you jump too rapidly at conclusions, after the habit of enthusiasts. I'm not a sinner — that is, no more of a miserable specimen than I was three weeks ago." " Why did you ask John about the girl in the striped dress, at the Saxe-Gotha " " Ah, the rascal has turned king's evidence then ! " cried our hero. " Why did you ask him not to tell me 1 — why are you always at the gardens ? — why had you the effrontery," she cried, with eyes ablaze now, " to ask that wretched, miserable girl to call here for you ? " ** What ! " shouted Reuben, so forcibly that even Lucy was unprepared for his excitement, and jumped back in her chair some distance from him. " What do you mean ? " he continued ; " who has been here ? Speak out — don't glare at me, you suspicious, heartless, disa- greeable woman. What girl called here for me ? " Lucy was very pale, but she held her ground against his rage, though she had never been a witness to it before. He had been always a pleasant man till this day, but now he was full of passion and, perhaps, hate of her. She could understand more clearly now why his quarrel with his father had been a bitter one. " It was a girl in a striped cotton dress," said Lucy with em- phasis. " Somewhat tall and thin, with great black eyes 1" — u-^i-j nfwcavm^^ 116 SECOND-COlfisiN SARAH. "I didn't notice her eyes," said I^icy aggravatingly ; " she was a pert, insolent, miserably-clad woman. She would not answer any of my questions, save that you had told her to call, and she grew impertinent at last." " You sent her away 1 " ^ "Yes." ' ^ " You did not tell her that I should be home soon — ask her to call again — anything 1 " " She said that she would never com^i again." " Because of your hardness and harshness 1 " *' Did you expect me to be civil to her 1 " "V\^hynotr' ' " She carried effrontery and desperation, in her face." |g| " It's a lie !" shouted Reuben Culwick ; " you don't know what you are doing, what you have done, in your heartlessness." " If I have stopped her coming, if I " " Don't say any more," cried Reuben, " for I can't listen to you. There was a soul to be saved, and you have wrecked it!" " No," said Lucy, growing paler still, "you don't mean " " I mean that that girl is my cousin, for whom J^ou tried to obtain an honest place in life," he replied, " for whose salva- tion I have been struggling after my useless fashion." " She is at Worcester." "She left Worcester — there was a false charge against her, she could not meet it, or account for it, and she ran away from home," said Reuben. " It was a false step, for she trusted a vagabond brother, and lost faith in herself; but she lived on in hope, for all that, and she kept strong amidst it all." " And then ? " " And then I found her in London, and tried to save her from the evil that was surrounding her. Sht saved my life, perhaps, then, and rendered me for ever her debtor. When there was a chance for her, she was to come here. She came," he said fiercely, " and you sent her away. How will you, with all your narrow views of charity, and God's mercy, and God's vengeance, answer for it, if you have cut from her the last thread which led her to a better life 1 " Lucy Jennings was cowed by his reproaches, by his vehe- mence. Suspicious, awfully suspicious, as she was, she was still a religious woman, and the horror of having cast back a m her life, 'hen me," with rod's last ATOl^MENT. 117 stubborn, wilful nature on itself rose before her even in more terrible colours than he had painted it. " Why — why didn't you tell me ? " she gasped forth, " why , didn't you trust me ? " j^ " You were not to be trusted," said Reuben remorselessly ; " you would have belied the worst of her, until I could have proved how merciless you were. You are a woman, and you , . judge your sex as women will ! " " I will find her," said Lucy, very meekly now, " I will bring her back." " It is impossible." * " I will tell her that I was wrong in my judgment ; I will 1,3k her pardon. You must not charge the loss of this girl to me." " She will never return." " Where did you see her last '\ " " In Potter's Court." " I know it — in the Walworth Road," said Lucy ; " it is part — ^ , of my mission to go amongst the people there. What is the IB? number of the house r' " Two." " Where the Petersons live — the Irish people. I will go at once — don't judge me too harshly, till I have made amends for my mistake," she pleaded. " It is too late," said Reuben gloomily, " the house was empty two days since. There were coiners in it, and the suspicion that I might betray them, or that the police were on tl\e scent, led them to leave the premises." " I will find them," said Lucy ; " I am known. People trust me there, who know me better than you do," she added, almost disdainfully again. " Why should they trust you ? " asked Reuben. " Because they understand me — because in the midst of crime and suffering I have been often at my best, and tried to do my best. Because I have been less suspicious and more in earnest there. I am not a good woman," she said, with a sudden ab- * jectness once more predominant, " but God knows that I have tried hard to be good, and to forget self at times, amidst the misery I have moved in. I will find her, or " (mth a hard ex- pression on her countenance) " I will never come back again," 118 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " That is an unwise threat, scarcely consistent with your duty to your brother." " I have said it," answered Lucy ; " I never break my word." Lucy Jennings walked out of the room with her hands rigidly clasped together ; in a few minutes afterwards she had passed out of the house. ** Have I been too hard with her 1 " thought Reuben, looking after her ; " have I driven her from home 1 Is she quite right in her head, I wonder?" Lucy Jennings was not quite right in that department, pos- sibly, but she knew what she was about, and she was a woman of a strong determination. She had made a mistake, and her pride was abased. There was an atonement to make, and a woman to save, and in the midst of all the contrarieties of her singular character, a heart somewhat stony had been set in the right place. Lucy Jennings was not far wrong in her self-esti- mate — it was only amidst much privation, crime, and misery that she was at her best. It was late, and when John Jennings and Reuben Culwick had taken counsel together, and had arrived at the conclusion that she would not return that night — when Tots, with the in- consistency of childhood, had jDegun to fret after her hard cus- todian — Lucy, stiff-backed and grim, came up the front garden, with a tall girl, who walked with difficulty, resting on her arm. " Here's your Second-cousin Sarah," she said to Reuben, in her old jerky manner, as the two women came into the house. I'! i;i THE RETURN, 119 CHAPTER XX. THE RETURN. EUBEN CULWICK rose to greet his second-cousin, and to introduce her to John Jennings, who was filling in some Roman candle cases for Mr. Spiud's benefit, which was to take place in a fortnight's time at the Saxe- Gotha, after which a faithful settlement of accounts was so- lemnly promised to all those whom it might concern, and it concerned Mr. Jennings very much indeed. " I am glad that you have come," said Reuben, heartily. — " John" (to the firework-maker), *' this is my Second-cousin Sarah." " How d'ye do, marm 1 " said Mr. Jennings, with a solemn bow. Sarah Eastbell was very like Sarah Eastbell's ghost, as she looked from one to another, and tried hard to raise a smile, without success. ** Can't you find the girl a ser> instead of staring at her 1 " said Lucy sharply to her brother, who immediately tendered her his own chair, and began to put away his fireworks. "You have been ill," said Reuben, to his cousin, as she sat down wearily ; " how's that 1 " " Not ill exactly. A little weak, perhaps," answered Sarah ; ** I shall be better in a minute." " I am very glad that you have found her, Lucy," said Reu- ben to Miss Jennings, who was untying her bonnet strings in rather a violent manner ; " you will let me thank you for all the trouble that you have taken 1 " Lucy shook her head emphatically. "I never cared for people's thanks," she answered. " She has been very good to me," Sarah Eastbell murmured ; " I made a mistake when I thought her very hard — but my life's been pretty well all mistakes, I think." *' There's plenty of time before you," said Reuben ; " why, 120 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. life is only just commencing — you're not an old fellow like me, who has worn out life and all his hopes in it." " Don't mind him," said Lucy Jennings, as the great dark eyes were upturned to Reuben with much wonder in them, " he talks like that at times, and for no reason." " Perhaps it's a way that I have," said Reuben. " And now, how did Miss Jennings find you ? " " You are not going to worry her into a long statement to- night," said Lucy, interfering ; " can't you see that she is ill 1 " " The young woman would like a drop of whiskey, perhaps," • said John, suddenly producing the bottle from the cupboard in which he had put away his Roman candles. " You can't think of anything but whiskey," cried his sister •^ acrimoniously ; " lock your poison up and be quiet." (^ '"^--^ " Mr. Reuben, perhaps you " '' No, thank you, John." " Well, as it is out, perhaps a thimbleful will not do me any harm," he said, as though some invisible being had pressed him very earnestly not to put it away without tasting it. He filled a small glass, and drank off its contents, and Sarah Eastbell turned to Reuben. " I don't want any money," she said with sudden alacrity. "Well, I haven't asked you to take any," he answered laughingly. " She wants rest," muttered Lucy Jennings. " I don't want rest — only a few hours, that is," said Sarah, correcting herself, ** and then I hope to set oif." " Set off ! " repeated Reuben, " where 1" . "To Worcester," answered Sarah. "I have been thinking of what you said to me at Potter's Court, and when Tom and his wife left me in the lurch — ^they went away in the night whilst I was asleep, as if they had grown suddenly afraid of me — I came to this place, and " "And I sent you away," added Lucy, as Sarah Eastbell paused. " That was one of my mistakes. We all make them. Go on." " I wanted you to take me down to Worcester, then," she said to Reuben, " to stand by me, as you promised that you would, being a good man." " My dear girl, I am a very bad man. Ask Lucy." THE RETURN. 121 Miss Jennings frowned, and would not see the joke. " And if you will take me to-morro;fr — early — I should like it," she continued, speaking with some amount of difficulty ; " I can't do very well without you, sir, or else I would. Be- sides " " Go on." " Besides, I want you to have the five pounds." " What five pounels 1 " asked Reuben ; " that I gave your grandmother when " " Oh, no — not that," said Sarah, " but to pay that one back, and part of which we were obliged to spend. There's five pounds reward offered for me, you know, and you must claim ' that, for it's through you I'm giving myself up. I shall say you have caught me, and " " Here — hold hard — that will do — no more of your highlv coloured fictions, Cousin Sarah ; it's time you gave them up at any rate," he cried ; " and as for the blood money, upon my honour you turn me to gooseflesh at the thought of it." " Why shouldn't you have the mqney as well as anybody else 1 " said Sarah reflectively. " Suppose we argue the case in the morning 1 " " As we go to Worcester ? " said Sarah — " Very well. This good woman who traced me to-day thinks it would be right to tell the truth, but, oh ! I can't tell grandmother. You will break it to her, in your best way, won't you ? " " Well, yes." " And I may rest here to-night ? " (turning to Lucy Jennings again.) " You will share my bed," said Lucy. ** And in the morning " " * Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, " quoted Lucy so- lemnly, " and the evil thoughts, the evil judgment bom of this day we will keep from the better days to come, with God to help us in the effort." She looked at Reuben, as if he had had a share in the evil thoughts and judgment of that day, and was not wholly blame- less, and then passed from the room to a little kitchen beyond, where she was heard strilcing matches so energetically that her brother stood upon tiptoe, and peered through the glass door which divided them. i»2 SECOND-COUSIN SAKAH. "Be careful, Lucy," he called out, " there's a tub of prepara- tion under the dresser, and you might blow us all up in a mi- nute." " Didn't I say the next time you put your rubbish here, in- stead 'of in the powder shed, I'd throw it into the garden 1 " cried Lucy. " You certainly mentioned something of the kind, but as it was late, I thought — By George, she's done it ! " The opening of an outer door, and the clattering of some- thing heavy along the gravel path beyond, was significant of Lucy's being as good as her word ; and John Jennings, with his mouth half-way open, listened for awhile, and then moved towards the kitchen. " As it may rain in the night, I think I'll put it under shelter, if you'll excuse me for a moment," he said with great polite- ness, as he withdrew. Reuben turned to his second-cousin. " You are not well, Sarah. How have you been living since we met last 1 " " I have been starving almost," said Sarah ; " Tom deserted me. He was afraid of me, and ran away, after that night" " When you saved my life, perhaps." " Oh, not so bad as that," said Sarah ; " Tom would not have hurt you, he's only talk ! But that coining gang down- stairs — I was afraid of them." She shivered at what might have happened, Reuben thought, until she kept on shivering, and put one thin hand suddenly ' to her chin, to stop her teeth from chattering. ^ • " You are cold." " A little cold — it's the damp cellar, where a poor old wo- man let me rest last night, that's done it. I shall be better to-morrow." " You must have food.' Sarah Eastbell turned pak at the suggestion. "Don't talk of food, ) lease. That good friend of yours made me have something to eat and drink a little while ago, and it has nearly killed me. How good she is, sir ! " " Yes, I begin to think so," muttered Reuben. " If you knew how they love her down the dark streets where such as I live ! " THE RETURN. 123 '* Used to live," said Heuben, correcting her ; " that's all gone by now." " This is beginning again — isn't it 1 " " Yes — a new beginning ! " " Opening with a prison, that's the worst of it," said Sarah ; *< for they won't believe me, it isn't likely. And then after- wards — and it's not long for the first offence, I have heard Tom say — there's life again at St. Oswald's, if the committee will let m«' go to grandmother." " And then Tom again — sneaking round for money, when he thinks that you have any." " Poor Tom ! " said Sarah, to our hero's surprise, " he only came when he was hard up. For ha has a high spirit, Mr. Reuben." " Very. I am afraid that it is high enough to hang him presently. There, don't look angry ; it's only my private opi- nion, and he's not worth defending. Hasn't he run away from you t — thank Heaven." " He couldn't trust me," she said despondently — " not even Tom ! " she cried. " Haven't I trusted you — always 1 " The girl looked at him strangely. "Ah! I shall be never able to understand you, sir. And yet I have tried hard too." " Well— do you trust me 1 " " God bless you — yes !" She would have seized his hands and raised them to her lips in a spasmodic burst of gratitude, but he evaded the compli- ment, and began walking up and down the little room. " 1 ou must remember that we are relations, Sarah — that you have a claim upon me," he said lightly ; " it'a no use looking at this seriously. I'm a comic sort of man — fond of my joke, and with an objection to sentiment." " You tell a great many stories, like me," said his cousin sadly ; s" I suppose that it is in the family, and we can't help it." " If y9u were not looking so woe-begone, I should set that down for * chaff,' " said Reuben, pausing. " Just now you said you were a bad man. As if I didn't know better than that ! " ■I ,*-: I lilt: i:^ ^i . n> 124 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " Ah ! you are a knowing young woman." " Grandmother told me all about you — and your father." *' What do you know about my father ? " • That you and he didn't agree very well, though you were both excellent men." " It's an excellent world when you thoroughly know it," said Reuben, " but then we never thoroughly know it, I am afraid." Lucy entered at this juncture, with a basin of gruel. " How you two have been talking ! Didn't the doctor tell you to keep yourself quiet ? " said she. " I have so much to say now," replied Sarah. " What do you mean by the doctor 1 " asked Reuben. " She fainted away in the street, and I took her to the near- est doctor's," Lucy explained. " I am used to fainting — it's weakness caused by growing too fast, they say," said Sarah. " Yes — I remember ; you do faint," said Reuben with a laugh, but the big dark eyes only regarded him gravely. That was the second joke of his which had fallen flatly that evening. " Bid your cousin good-night," said Lucy, " and we'll go up- stairs." " And in the morning we must leave early, please," said Sarah. ' " In the morning we vnW arrange that," Reuben replied. " Thank you. Good night, sir." "You need not 'sir' me quite so much, cousin," ftod Reu- ben; " it's a deferentiri method of address that makes me blush — and blushing *is not good for me. Good night, Sarah. Good night, Lucy." " I shall be down again presently," said Lucy meaningly. WARNINGS. 125 » CHAPTER XXL WARNINGS. EUBEN took this last remark of Lucy's as a hint to re- main, and went into the garden to see what had become of John Jennings. He found that gentleman reclin- ing in an angle of one of the most tumble-down summer-houses that had been ever constructed, placidly smoking his long pipe apart from the turmoil of Hope Lodge. " I have been looking for you, John," Reuben said as he took a seat near him. " How is she now 1 " asked John. "She is very weak and low, but a night's rest wiU do her good." "I have known twenty nights' rests only make her worse." "Of whom are you speaking ? " "Lucy." "Oh!— Lucy." " If she was only a little bit more patient — if she took things easily and smoothly — what a difference it would make I She haa^if^et half that preparation, Mr. Reuben." " You should not have kept it in the kitchen," said Reuben, siding with Lucy for once. " Who would have thought of her lighting a fire at this time of night? — but ih ^ that poor girl was ordered gruel, certainly. Will you have some whiskey ] " " What- .^'^ve you brought the bottle oi fc here ?" " No — but 1 jan soon fetch it. So far as I am concerned, limit myself strictly to one glass after s .; ^.v.x" — unless I have a friend with lae — and yet Lucy says I'm a fuddler." " Lucy is a trifle hasty, that's all," sdid Reuben, " but I'll never say a word against that brave woman again — never in all my life, John, if I can help it. She's a sister to be proud of." ] •* i 126 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. I " Ah ! and she'd make a good wife too," said John, mildly and suggestively. "That she would." " A very good wife. I should be glad to see her married to a respectable young man." " Yes — or an elder of her chapel — or the minister — or some- body that's very good to match. So should I." " Ahem ! — would you indeed ?" John Jennings was quietly surprised. It was one of his idiosyncrasies to consider that Reuben was secretly fond of his sister. This idea was constantly receiving a severe shock, which, however, he recovered from speedily. " And now, John, to business." "Business — what business 1" asked John. " How much ready money can you lend me till next Satur- day, when the * screw ' from the Trumpet turns up 1 " "Ready m6ney, did you say ? Bless my heart ! " yciaiued John, ^' I haven't seen any for weeks." ^ " Tliat's awkward. I'm going to Worcester to-morrow with my cousin." "There's a great-coat of mine, I shan't want till the winter, Mr. Reuben — and there's six silver teaspoons up-stairs," he added — " and you are very welcome to the eight-day clock, which they'll always lend five shillings on — and there's " Reuben Culwick's hand fell like a thunderclap on John Jen- nings' shoulder, and startled the pipe from his mouth to the ground, where it shivered into fifty pieces. " 1 thought as much, you secretive old tortoise," cried Reu- ben ; " you a'o hard up, and keeping it to yourself, and I can only get at the truth in this way. Now, how much can I lend you 1 — for it's no use going on like this any longer." " Then you're not hard up ? " " I'm as rich as a Jew. I have got an account at the Lam- beth Savings Bank — I am positively rolling in wealth. What shall it be T A hundred thousand pounds till I see you again, or three or four sovereigns till the Saxe-Gotha stumps up 1 " John Jennings was silent for awhile, although he sat and sniffed at the night air in a crrious and excitable way. Pre- sently he put his arm before his eyes with a faint " £xcuse me," and finally said in a low nervous treble — 1 WARNINGS. 127 »» >> " It's like you, Mr. Reuben. You are always thoughtful of us, when I try hard not to think. Times are slackish, and I'm a baby in thena. I know I am, but I can't very well heip it. If three pounds will not inconvenience you just now, it will be something like a God-send." . " Here they are." " I get plenty of credit in my own particular business, of course, for I am a well-known man," said John, after thanking his lodger heartily, and stowing the sovereigns away in his pocket, " but Lucy will pay for everything for the house. It's a good habit too — I don't blame her in the least." " No— I wouldn't." " Mr. Splud's benefit will fetch me straight again \ I am the first man he will pay, he says." " That's kind of him, if he means it." " Splud's a very well-meaning man," asserted Mr. Jennings. " And keeps on ordering fireworks — eh, John % " " He has given me an excellent order for his benefit," said John cheerfully, '' and he tells me that he has sold a heap of tickets." " Then I would ask for my money before the fireworks are let ofi"." " Oh ! I couldn't do that," said John, " that— that would only lead to words, and hurt the man's feelings. He will pay — depend upon it, Mr. Reuben, that he will pay me every far- thing." The figure of Lucy Jennings emerged from the shadows, and came towards them. " What have you two men to arrange so confidentiall y be- tv een you, that you get away from the house 1 " said Lucy querulously as she advanced. '• I came here for coolness," said John in reply, and Reuben Culwick did not offer any reason for his change of locality. " I suppose you had something to say that you did not wish me to hear," said Lucy ; '* you need not trouble me with ex- cuses, John — I know what they are worth." " How is Sarah EaBtbell now 1 " asked Reuben by way of diversion. " I have left her trying to sleep, but she will fail." ''A good night's rest is necessary before her journey." 128 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. V " To Worcester, you mean 1 " said Lucy. * " Yes ; I shall take her down to Worcester to-morrow. I think that it is the best and wisest step, and that it will be easy to get her off when the facts are clearly stated." " You don't see that she is going to be ill 1 " " 111 !— did the doctor say so ? " " He said that she was very weak, and that I must be care- ful of her." " What is the matter with her 1" " She has undergone great mental excitement and endured much privation," said Lucy, " and it is an utter break-down." " I don't see it," cried Reuben. " We wiV ''vait till to-morrow. I thought that I would warn you to-night as you are so very fond of this cousin — that you cannot go to sier yet awhile," said Lucy. " * As I am so ■■- "y fond of this cousin,' " quoted Reuben — " poor second-cousin, with only my immense aifection to rely upon at the turning-point of her miserable existence." " She can rely on her God," said Lucy. " I wouldn't, Lucy — I really wouldn't to-night go on in that kind of way," pleaded her feeble brother. " She can rely on you too, Lucy, unless your interest in her has died out with your rescue," said Reuben. We shall see," said Lucy evasively. (< ■J j ALL THE NEWS. 129 I be CHAPTER XXII. re- ed ou at er ALL THE NEWS. ISS JENNINGS was right in her j udgment. Sarah East- bell did not go to Worcester the next day— did not remember her promise to accompany her cousin Reu- ben — did not know even the man with the big beard who leant over the bedside and called her by her name. The crisis had come, and Sarah Eastbell had a battle to fight with brain- fever, or with a strange delirium which was akin to it. When she came back to herself, she lay as powerless as Grandmother Eastbell at St. Oswald's, of whom she first thought, along with the fleeting fancy that she was in one of the wings of the almshouses, « Jid that the old woman was not Tar away. A fortnight had passed then, and the face of the nurse had almost died out of her memory. " How — is — ^grandmother ? " she asked with difficulty, and pausing at each word. " She is well." " Will— you— tell her— that— I'm— better, please ? " " Yes." Sarah Eastbell remained satisfied with the promise, and was silent for awhile. She slept a great deal that day and the next, and ate but little, and it was doubtful whether the complete prostration which followed would not terminate the odd life of Second-cousin Sarah. The woman who attended upon her, and who she began to re- collect was the firework-maker's si^r, was kinder than she had ever been, and watched her with great gravity of interest as she hovered on the border -land of life and death. Lucy talked to her also with a strange earnestness of those divine truths which are not to be dwelt upon in the pages of a story-book, and Sarah Eastbell listened with reverence. " You think that I am going to die 1 " she said once. 130 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. (( << Miss Jennings never evaded a fact, but she was more consi- derate than it was her habit to be when she replied — " I would be prepared, at all events." " I'm not afraid," said Sarah Eastbell ; " I have not done any one harm, and this life is not worth stopping in — is it 1 " " I don't know," answered Lu3y ; "life's a mystery, Sarah." " You don't value it, I think." If I could change places with you, I would." And yet you have a brother to look after, just as 1 have my grandmother," said Sarah. " Oh, poor grandmamma ! I wonder how you are, and if you think of me at times.*' " You will know all about her soon. Your cousin Reuben returns to-morrow." " Has he been there ?" "Yes." ** What ?, good man he is ! " exclaimed Sarah ; " it isn't like men, I fauoy, to think of other people so much as he does." " He is sirange." '• I sa-' thp^ 1 *) was good," said Sarah persistently. " I hope he is," answered Lucy Jennings. " Oh, I'm sure he is," cried the invalid with enthusiasm. "I. wish that I could be suddenly very beautiful and very rich." " It is not a good wish," said Lucy ; " but why ? " " I would marry Cousin Reuben."' " You lying there, and talking of marriage ! " " If I died, he would have my money ; if I lived, I would try — oh, so hard ! — to make him happy." " You're not fit for him, and never will be," said Lucy, more snappish than she had been hitherto ; " and this is very foolish talk." " What is very foolish talk V said a very deep voice without the door ; and both women coloured, and the elder one rose from her chair in her surprise. " May I come in and see the invalid t " " He is back a day before his time," said Lucy ; " may he come in 1 " she said to Sarah. " Yes, to be sure," answered the sick girl. Reuben Culwick advanced on tiptoe into the room, and walked to the bedside of his cousin, whose face brightened at the sight of him. HI • ALL THE NEWS. 131 )re Lsh She was very weak, and could not reach her hand towards him, but there was a faint smile of welcome on her wan face. There was a great contrast between the vigorous ruddy health of the man fresh from the country, and this fading, fluttering life before him. Reuben Culwick regarded the invalid intently behind the smile with which he masked the shock that her weakness gave him. He had been compelled to leave London to report on a stormy election in the country, and he had hardly expected to find her strong and well, though he had been more sanguine of ultimate results than he was at that moment of his return. " Well, Sarah — better, I hope ] " he said in the cheeriest voice he could assume. Sarah smiled faintly, and shook her head. " Oh, yes, you are," said Reuben confidently ; " you have got your wits back, although you have been talking foolishly to Lucy. May I inquire the subject of conversation ? " " No, you mayn't," answered Lucy. " I will tell you to-morrow, if I am worse," said Sarah ; " to-day you have news for me." " To be sure I have. What a blockhead I am ! " " Is it good news ? " " Do you think that I would bring bad news all the way from Worcester 1 " he said laughing — " that I wouldn't have left it behind me, or dropped it out of window before reaching Hope Lodge 1" " Go on, please," said Sarah anxiously. "I went across country after writing my article for the Trumpet — by the way, the Trumpet is getting on in the world, Lucy, and there are sifrns in the air of an increase of wage for R. C. — and reached Worcester yesterday afternoon." " And saw grandmother ? " " Who was as lively as a cricket. By George, if she wasn't toddUng about the courtyard, and bullying Mother Muggeridge for not putting her kettle on to boil ! " " Who had dressed her then 1 " " Miss Holland, I hear." " That is another friend I had almost forgotten," said Sarah. Weill" " Well — I told her that you were staying at Hope Lodge « V ■I 132 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. with me and the Jenningses, for change of air — that you had not been very well, but ihat I should bring you down to Worcester shortly." " You should not have said that," said Sarah—" and yet I should like to be taken to Worcester if I die," she added thoughtfully. " But you are not going to die," said Reuben quickly ; " don't get that into your head, for Heaven's sake ! " " For Heaven's sake, it may be as well to think of it a little," said Lucy Jennings gravely. Reuben Culwick did not dispute the assertion, but he moved about the room uneasily, as if disposed to do so. Suddenly he stopped. " Yes, you are right, Lucy," he said, " Sarah is a brave little woman, who will not fret herself to death over the worst, and who will get strong if she can." " What do you call the worst 1 " asked Lucy. " I'll tell you some other time — this is not a place for argu- ment," answered Reuben evasively ; " besides, I haven't quite done with my news yet. Sarah, do you remember that bad sovereign Tom asked you to change at the grocer's for him ? " " Ah, yes ! " " Well, I have been to the grocer's — I have stated the matter with lucidity and eloquence — I have appealed to the grocer's feelings — I have made him shed tears over his own sugar — and he says that rather than prosecute, after my gentlemanly expla- nation, he'll see the authorities at the — Ahem ! how very warm it is to-day, Lucy ! " " Mr. Giles does not think that I tried to pass bad money, now 1 " cried Sarah. " Not a bit of it. And after my statement, Sarah, I went round to the police station, and threatened everybody, from the Chancellor of the Exchequer to the inspector on duty, with libel, if 'they did not take down their absurd bills about you. I told them that the grocer had discovered his mistake in making the charge — ^that he withdrew it — that it was even a splendid sovereign, considering of what stuff it was composed — and the inspector made a handsome apology, and asked to shake hands with me." " I don't see the necessity ftnr this gross exaggeration," said Lucy severely. r went from with I ALL THE NEWS. 133 " But I do. Why, Second-cousin Sarah's laughing — almost. —Aren't you 1" " I am very grateful for the trouble that you have taken," said Sarah, " and I feel very happy now." "Then I'll leave you with those sensations to get strong unon." Lucy followed him from the room. ' " You are in high spirits to-day, Mr. Reuben," she said ; " is there any reason for it ? " " Only that I am at home again — that the Penny Trumpet is blowing itself into public favour, and knowing people say it's my doing — that all's well everywhere." " Even there ? " asked Lucy, indicating by a gesture the room which she had quitted. " Yes, I hope so." " I think that she will die." " I'll not beUeve it." " It is best for her that she should, rather than face the cruel world again." " The world may change for her — we have helped to change it in our little way already," said Reuben. " You have gone a strange way to work, at any rate." " Ah ! you don't admire my style, that is all." " You should keep your flippant style of narrative for the novel that you can't sell." " Now, confound it, Lucy " But Lucy had gone back into the room after that extremely ill-natured remark, without waiting for Reuben Culwick's pro- test. Reuben went into his own apartment, and walked up and down with his hands in his pockets, and his hat on the back of his head. " What an ill-tempered, aggravating, sharp-tongued, good- hearted Christian porcupine that woman is ! " he muttered. " For the novel that I can't sell, indeed ! — that is the unkindest cut of all. Something must be wrong down-stairs, or Sarah has tired her too much, or Tots has been up to her larks whilst I have been away. Now, where's my little fairy who brightens up this firework establishment, and never gives a disappointed " said r 134 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. man a hard word ? What have they done with Tots to-day, I wonder 1 " He went down-stairs, where was John Jennings up to his eyes in powder, and coloured fire, and " lengths," the picture of a busy man. " Well, weren't they glad to see you 1 " exclaimed John, without leaving oflf his work. " Glad to see me ! — they have been laughing their heads off, especially Lucy. What is all this work 1 — for Splud ? " " Yes." " Hasn't his benefit come off then ? " " Oh, yes, with immense success. This is for a repetition f^te. The big devices and the fiery pigeon business were very much admired." " And you got your money ? " " What a man you are, Mr. Reuben, to think about money ! '* said John, with a cracked little laugh ; " I have some of it. ' "How much?" " He paid me seven pounds off the account, and he will settle for the lot presently. And that reminds me that I owe you " " We'll talk of that in a day or two," said Reuben impa- tiently ; " Where's Tots 1 " . " Tots — why, up-stairs." " I haven't seen her." " She doesn't go into the back room, for fear of disturbing your cousin. But she plays in your apartments, and Lucy looks in, and makes sure that she is not up to mischief." " She is not in my room," said Reuben, turning somewhat pale at the mere possibility of a new trouble approaching him. " Perhaps she is in mine." " Go and see," said Reuben peremptorily. " Certainly," said John Jennings, " and I'll bring her down with me. Keep an eye on the shop, please ; and you'll find some whiskey in the cupboard, if you would like a little refresh- ment after your long journey." Reuben did not answer. When John Jennings had gone, he, without any regard to the business interests, took a turn round the back garden, then walked to the front of the house, } 1 ALL THE NEWS. 135 and looked up and down the street with grave intentness. Pre- sently John and his sister came out together, white and scared and joined him on the pavement. ' " She's gone ! By Heaven, you have lost her ! " he ex- claimed. " It's— it's very strange," said John, " but we can't find her anywhere." 136 8EC0ND-C0USI^ V\RAII. 1 I CHAPTER XXIIl. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. EUBEN CULWICK did not wait to hear anv more, but ran at his utmost speed to the end of the str u the hope of overtaking the little feet that he thought might have strayed in the direction of the market-gardens where he had been accustomed to take her. But there was no sign of his adopted girl, and we may say at once that Reuben never saw her in Hope Street again. As suddenly as she had crossed his lii'e, bettering and brightening it as by a strange influence for good, so suddenly did she pass away, leaving not a trace behind by which to follow her. When he came back to Hope Lodge, bafHed and heart-sick, when to all the inquiries which he made there was only one answer returned that no one had seen poor Tots, the stern con- sciousness came to him that he had lost her — that tb " little daughter, friend, companion, would never again be as ^hine to his home. He did not betray his thoughts ; he ^ on with his search ; he expressed a confidence in her discovery that he did not realize. He " billed" every dead wall in Cata- berwell with his " Rewards," he gave all the information that he had to impart to the police, he attended at the police-court to state her case before a magistrate, and to get the facts into the newspapers, but Tots returned not, and every effort was in vain. One or two scraps of information, real or false, came to the front to bewilder him, but there was no real clue obtained. A woman in the street had seen a well-dressed gentleman stoop- ing and talking to a little golden-haired child in the Camberwell Road, and on her asking what was the matter, she remembered the gentleman saying that the little girl had strayed from home, but that he was going to take her back again, as the child had told him where she lived ; but whether this was Tots or not it was impossible to prove, and the woman begged so hard for remu- neration for coming to Hope Lodge, that Reuben believed slie had invented the story. I AN UNEXPECTED VISITOK 187 In three weeks* time Reuben Culwick had learned to despair. He did not know how much he had loved the child till the house was destitute of her presence, and the little chair stood empty in the corner, and he could only look at it through his tears. Some- times he wished that she had died, and that he had seen her buried, rather than have lost her thus, and be left to wonder where she was, and in whose hands. He became a grave man who did not care for intrusion on his thoughts, and who resented it with bitterness. He sat in his room and brooded on the mystery ; he left his desk unopened for days together ; he tried to read, and failed, and when a strange stroke of good luck — in its little way — came to him, he took it grimly as a man whose spirits misfortune had crushed out. The novel which had drifted into many hands had found a patron at last, and the sum of twenty-five pounds was offered for it, the pub- lisher taking on himself all risk. It was not a large sum, but it was more than Reuben had calculated upon, possibly more than he had been in possession of since his quarrel with his father, more than of late days he had thought the book worth. He accepted the terms, and pocketed his money, which did not make his heart lighter ; ne had rather have seen Tots back than his first novel in all the glory of paper and print, and that is saying an immense deal for this young man's love for the child. Three weeks had passed, we repeat, and they were like three years to Reuben Culwick. His second-cousin was getting well then, although coming back to strength by slow degrees ; and he was glad of that, if he showed but little sign of rejoicing in those dull days. The loss of one proUg4e appeared to have weakened his interest in another, although he was always kind to Sarah EastbelL John Jennings and his sister he ' had not forgiven in his heart ; he attributed the loss of Tots to their want of ordinary care, and when on one occasion Lucy would have sermonised upon his trouble, he turned on her with words of acrimony which she never afterwards forgot. In her own way she was sorry for the child's loss too ; but he did not be- lieve it, and he told her that she had never liked her, and was glad she was gone, and that at all events he would not have any homily or sympathy from her. The three weeks had turned, and the fourth week had com* 138 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. (( (( menced with work on the Trumpet that there was no setting aside — which was all the better for Reuben at that time, and took him out of himself — when Sarah Eastbell found strength to walk downstairs, supported bj* Miss Jennings on one side, and by Reuben on the other. The two who had rescued Sarah from danger had each a share in her first great step to- wards convalescence. Reuben had been anxious to place his own room at her disposal, but Lucy Jennings had interfered at once. " No, that won't do," she had said -, " she must keep with me and John, until she returns to Worcester." I am not going to be in it." How's that ? " asked Lucy. He had always objected to be questioned, and he was dis- posed to be harsh and irritable at times now. " Because I shall be a hundred miles away," he added sharply. " On business ? " " Yes." " I am glad that you are beginning to work again," she said very meekly. " Why ] " " You are always at your best when you are most busy." He did not reply, though her soft answer surprised him not a little. It was only when he was in high spirits that she was full of acerbity ; in his trouble she was a gentle woman enough. They were like the two figures in the child's weather-house, and only one could come into the light at a time. They took Sarah Eastbell down-stairs, and there she said to Reuben — " This is one step closer to Worcester, cousin." " Yes," answered Reuben, " you and I will be marching side by side into St. Oswald's presently." Which they never did. When he had lef^ for town, and for his instructions from the Trumpet, Sarah turned quickly to Lucy — '■ He is better to-day. The old self is coming back that made him so dear a man." " Don't say that," cried Lucy, " don't let a man know, at any time, that any one thinks he's dear to anybody." to ide } AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 139 at Sarah laughed at this inelegant summing up, and Lucy added seutentiously, " It would spoil the best of men." The next day Sarah was well enough to be of use a little, and she volunteered her services to John Jennings, who was still at work for the Saxe-Gotha. He had not done well with Mr. SpluJi, in whom he still had a certain amount of faith, despite the fallacy of many promises, but the public came on fine nights to see the fireworks, and Mr. Splud doled out a sovereign now and then, and kept the pyrotechnist going — that is, going a little further down the hill each week. Sarah found that she could manage " the lengths" better than John Jennings, and the long pipe-like strips which were filled with a thin vein of gunpowder, and were afterwards twisted into a variety of shapes, grew under her hands more rapidly than under Three-fingered Jack's. John Jennings was struck with this rapidity, and pondered over it. An odd idea that had been in his head some days took action upon it also. He was an amazingly slow man as a rule, but he went off like one of his own rockets after Sarah had been assisting him for a week, and Reuben was back again, and oscillating in the old fashion between Camberwrll and town. Sarah was stronger then ; she had walked round the garden once that day before beginning work. " You are very handy, Sarah," John said, dreamily regard- ing her, and leaving off his work to observe her more attentively, " it is astonishing how quickly you have taken to the business. " If I am of assistance, I am glad." " What a comfort you would be to a man a week or two be- fore November, when he doesn't know which way to turn." "Why November]" ^ " Guy Fawkes season." " Oh ! " said Sarah, " I shall be a long, long way from here before November." John Jennings was about to say something very quickly in reply, but he paused and stared at her instead. Suddenly he got up, unlocked his cupboard, and refreshed himself with a small glass of whiskey behind the cupboard door, which he kept well between Sarah and the bottle. Lucy was upstairs setting Reuben's room to-right, and there was a fair field before him. i 140 SECOND COUSIN SARAH. " You ai*e not obliged to go away without you like/' he said, as he came back and sat dowr.. '* Oh, yes, I am." " You are very handy," he said again, " and I'm not so old as you fancy by a good many years, and you are quite a young woman. When you are well and strong, we might make a match of it, Sarah. Why not 1 " ♦* Good gracious ! " said Sarah East bell. It was her first offer, and she took it with a fair amount of philosophy, despite her weakness. She was more astonished than confused, although there was a flickering of colour for an instant on her cheeks. " I don't want you to hurry over it," he conti? d confiden- tially, " or to tell Lucy anything about it yet, or e . en to drop a hint to your cousin Reuben."* " They are my two best friends." " Yes, exactly, but till you have made up your mind, I wouldn't. It will save a deal of bother." " But I have quite made up my mind never to marry, thank you, Mr. Fireworks." " Mr. Jennings," he said, correcting her ; " artist in fire- works, which are very profitable things." " I hope they are, for your sake, ' said Sarah, anxious to soften her refusal as much as possible, " and that you will make your fortune by them presently. And if you will never talk like this again — for it is great nonsense, isn't it 1—1 will not speak of it to any one." " Thank you, it might be as well," said John, beginning his work again ; " but it was on my mind, and I thought that I would mention it." " It was not worth mentioning to a poor bit of a thing like me, who has hardly got back to life." " Wasn't it, though," said Mr. Jennings, " I think it was. And you are not a poor bit of a thing, but growing a very fine young woman, by degrees." " Oh, sir ! — please don't." *' And you are very handy at the lengths, and so pleasant and good tempered over them, and Luey seems to like you so much, and to be less disagree — to be so much happier, I mean," he added very quickly, " with you in the house." m AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 141 " What a good woman she is !" added Sarah, striving hard for a divergence, feeling half disposed to laugh, and then to cry. " Yes, awfully good, isn't she ? She's hardly my style," he added, in his confidential tone again, " but some people would be very fond of her. She's brisk, you see." " Yes," said Sarah, " and thoughtful, and industrious, and good." " You said good before," replied John ; " but she is not lively, she does not brighten up a place as you do." " If you are going to say anything more about me, Mr. Jen- nings, I must find my way upstairs. I'm very weak," she pleaded, " I can't bear to hear you talk in this way." " I have done talking," said Jennings, " don't go. Lucy will be sure to ask what you have come upstairs for, and worm all the truth out of you. I haven't offended you 1 " " No I am not offended." " I haven't jumped at this in a hurry. Ever since you have been here, I have been thinking how forlorn you'll be when the old lady dies at Worcester — how lonely I shall be when Lucy marries and goes away." " Is she likely to marry soon ? " " I sometimes fancy that your cousin Reuben and she under- stand each other. " " That must be wrong," replied Sarah decisively, " I don't think she likes Keuben much." " You are a bad judge, Sarah. You didn't think I liked you much." " Oh, you are not coming round again to that foolish sub- ject ! " cried Sarah. " No — only to say that I do like you, and that weeks ago I sent up my shells and maroons from the Saxe Grotha with only half the quantity of bang in them, lest they should be too noisy for you when you were lying ill here. Wasn't that love 1 " " That was considerate, but " " Shop ! " " A customer ! " cried John Jennings, very much astonished. " Bless my soul so there is ! " John Jennings peered over the little wire blind that screened the back parlour from vulgar gaze, and when he had regarded ■I 142 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. nil ■i; (( li the customer sufficiently he went into the shop, and faced him behind the grimy counter. " What can I have the pleasure of showing you, sir 1 " he said politely. " Is this Hope Lodge ? " was the query in reply. " This is Hope Lodge, sir — Jeenings's." " Ah, I'm wrong," and the big man walked slowly and pon- derously towards the door again. " There is only one Hope Lodge in the street," John called after him. The broad pair of shoulders of the new-comer ha 166 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. H- sengers screamed wildly at the danger which he had not seen f'^r himself. His giddiness had overmastered him again and he fell amidst clattering, stumbling iron hoofs, and whirling, grinding wheels, and it was beyond man's help to save him. THE BEARER OF GOOD TIDINGS. 167 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE BEARER OF GOOD TIDINGS. RS. EASTBnX waited very patiently for the return of her granddaughter to the almshouses. Having faith in Sarah, knowing that she was in good hands, that she was at Reuben's landlord's house, and that Reuben was looking after her, the old woman bore the absence of her grandchild with a brave composure. The old lady next door attended to her when her own ailments would allow. There were not wanting friendly hands and friendly offers from those whom reduced circumstances had rendered brothers and sis- ters in adversity j and there came also, with a commendable regularity, the young lady who was housekeeper and general custodian to Simon Culwick, of Sedge Hill, and whom Reuben Culwick had declined to marry at his father's bidding. Thus the time passed not altogether slowly to Mrs. Sarah Eastbell ; she was living in hope. There was nothing on her mind now. Good people read the Bible to her, and she slept away l?«rge portions of her existence, which, in a more wake- ful a^d less merciful state, might have wearied her with its mouctony of darkness. She was very happy in her nest, she said. Sarah wrote her letters ; Miss Holland read them to her ; everybody was kind, and her granddaughter would soon be home again. What was there to disturb her old head in any way 1 She was well in health, too, and wonderfully strong. She would have got up every day if Sarah had been at home, "just to cheer the girl up a bit," but she would try to nurse her strength till all was as it had been before Sarah went away. Suddenly the visits of Mary Holland abruptly ceased, al- though a message was sent to the old lady that Mrs. Mugger- idge's niece had been telegraphed for to London, and would return in a few days. The niece would take that opportunity of calling upon Sarah Eastbell, and bringing back to Worcester • »'ti I * 168 SECOND-COUSIN SAKAH. B .-'I i ' It \ -:l f I I ' fv ; i . ; ' * ! ( 1 1 ; ■ 1 11 i ■ i ■ 1 1 i all the news — possibly Miss Eastbell herself, if she was strong enough to leave, the message added ; and then there followed somewhat more of a blank to the existence of the old lady, who took the change of affairs vith her usual philosophy, and put her own cheery construction upon it. How long Mary Holland was away Mrs. Eastbell did not know, one day being very much like another, and time pass- ing away smoothly and easily with this complacent specimen of age. The weather seemed to grow more hot, ard the flies to aggravate her a trifle more — that was all ; and then, one afternoon, when the kettle was singing on the handful of fire which Mrs. Muffgeridge had made, Mary Holland came softly into the room, and stood by the bedside of the old woman. " I have retur n ed," she said ; and the eyelashee of the lis- tener quivered at the voice. " Thank you, child," was the answer, as the thin yellow Laud crept from beneath the sheets to welcome her. " Have yoii brought Sarah with you ? It seems a long while now since she was at St. Oswald's." " She will be in Worcester to-morrow." " Now that's good hearing !" and the rapid movements of the pupils beneath the lids testified to so much excitement, that the young woman watching her hesitated for awhile, as though her next communications were of some moment, and had better be delayed. " Well," said the sharp voice at last, " is that all you have to tell me ? " " Oh, no— -I have brought a great deal of aews with me — good and bad." " Never mind about the bad," was the reply. ''Let me have the good news to begin with ; it will agree with me best." " 1 am afraid that you must have them both together." '' Wliy afraid ?" *' Because they both aff'ect you, Mrs. Eastbell." " Go on, girl ; let us have them in the lump, then. But," she added quickly, " is it anything to do with Sarah 1 " " It concerns yourself most of all." " Indeed ! " and the eyebrows arched themselves in a pecu- liar way, which her nephew Eeuben had already noticed ; THE BEARER OF GOOD TIDINGS. 169 rong )wed lady, , and 1 not pass- nmen e flies one ful of came le old ve y<>;: nee she f.nts of einent, lile, as it, and u have 1 me — 1 e have >» But," pecu- loticed 3 Some people " then I shall bear good news and bad news wonderfully well. You'll not surprise me in the least." Yes, I shall," was the answer. Mary Holland sat down by the bedside, and rested her arm on the hand of Mrs. Eastbell still lying outside the coverlet. *' Can you feel what trimming is on my sleeve 1 " she asked. "Yes," said Mrs. Eastbell, "crape! You have lost some one?" " I have lost one who was kinder to me than to any living soul." "He has left you comfortably off, I hope." " I shall be no richer f > r his death." " He hadn't anything to leave, perhaps, haven't, and what a deal of bother it saves ! " " I never expected anything. It was on the condition th at_ J_ should n ever touch a halfpenny uf hls "~money~that 1 became the keeper of his house the watcher of his lonely life. His father and mine had been great friends, but they had quar- relled at last, as everybody quarrelled with this man." "With what man?" " I am coming to it by degrees," she answered. " I haven't told you yet that you knew my patron very well at one time." " Aren't you then " began Mrs. Eastbell. " The niece of the old lady next door 1 No. I deceived you, for fear that the news of my visits should reach my patron's ears, and for other reasons which I will tell you at a more fit- ting opportunity. Will you try and guess now," she said very gently, " who this man was, and what relationship he bore to you, and guessing it, keep strong l '" Mrs. Eastbell thought of this, and then said very calmly — " You must mean my brother Simon ? " "Yes" was the reply. " Is he really dead ? " she asked in a whisper. " Yes ; he ;vas run over in the streets, and he died in the hospital next day." " Poor Simon j I fancied that I should outlive him, old as T was, though I didn't think he would go off in a hurry like this. I have been waiting years for him, making sure that he would come here some day, and say, ' Sister, I am sorry that we ever had any words, and there's an end of it ;' and instead of this, there's an end of him ! Well, he was a good man, with a will of his own, like the rest of the family. Tell me about the accident," ii'i> I I ii I : ■III ^* 170 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. Mrs. Eastbell had certainly received bad news with compo- sure, as age will do very often, but still Mary Holland was as- tonished at her equanimity. " You are not shocked 1 " she asked wonderingly. " I am too near the end myself, child, to be surprised at Simon's starting before me — the right way, too, for he was an honest, straightforward fellow, wasn't he ] " " Yes." " He rose from a mill-boy, at three-and-sixpence a week. I was always uncommonly proud of Simon's getting on in the world. So industrious, so very sharp, so long-headed. He died in London 1 " " Yes." " Why couldn't he have remained in Worcester 1 ** " He wished to see his son." _^iNoWjJ^m glad of that ! That's the good news you have been hinting^aT! rnr-Tery-gkdyiLsaidLthe old lady, her face beaming with delight, " for that showed the~rigKr^piritj-and- the heart in the right place. That's what I always said about Simon from the first. And so father and son made it up at last!" " I hardly know — but I think that they quarrelled again." " Well, they did not quarrel for long, it was poor over. How does Reuben bear his loss ] " " Strangely." " What do you mean by strangely 1 " " He is a strange man, if you remember." " He is a very good young man, Maiy." " I am glad to hear you say so." " And as for being strange, we Culwicks are all strange in our ways." " Yes, I believe that," murmured Mary Holland. " Reuben comes back to his rights at last, and all's well." " All is not well with Reuben Culwick, so far as his rights are concerned. His father has cut him out of his will, as he said that ht would," Mary explained stUl further, " and as I knew that he would." * " Then who has got the money?" The young woman's hand touched the dry and withered one lying close to her ow^n. " You have," said Mary Holland, after a moment's silence. BEGINNING THE NEW LIFE. 171 compo- was as- rised at he was v^eek. I a in the Led. He you have r, her face spuit, said about e it up at •_ " I again, ver. How strange in fs well." his rights will, as he " and as I lithered one s silence. CHAPTER XXIX. BEGINNING HER NEW LIFE. HIS time the self-possession of Mrs. Sarah Eastbell was not so strikingly apparent. The news came as a shock, and acted like a shock — powerful and galvanic — to the wasted frame that had lain there supinely for so long a time, and had not wearied of its life. Sarah Eastbell sat bolt upright in bed, to the amazement of her companion, turned her sightless face towards the bearer of the news, and went up two octaves, or thereabouts, in her tone of voice, and after her usual fashion when excited. There are many good souls who will bear ■ nronr coinpiaccrntTy^^'it^iir-Sr friend 'g -daath than h is nioneVj^ and the ring of a sovereign stirs a dry heart at times to its last l)eat. Mrs. Eastbell was a philosopher in her way, a patient old wo- man, who had borne bad luck and much affliction with exem- plary patience, but good fortune was too much for her. " What's that you say ? — who's got the money — me ?" she screamed forth. " Yes, you are the heiress," said Mary Holland, somewhat satirically. " Stop a bit, don't go on all at once. I'm old and weak, and must be treated like a child," cried Sarah Eastbell. " Do you mean to say that my brother Simon has left me all his money ] " " Every shilling in money or estate of which he died pos- sessed, you have a right to claim." Mrs. Eastbell went back to her recumbent position suddenly and heavily, as a figure cut out of wood might have done. " Make me a cup of the strongest tea that you can, whilst I collect myself a bit," she said. She had turned of so waxen a hue that Mary was alarmed for the result of her good news, until the breathing became less heavy and disturbed. The sh.ock was over, the worst and the best were known, and Sarah Eastbell way resigned to be rich. When, with her pillow propped behind her head, she was 4. ■m 4h ** !■; v"!" ""WW"'" '" '■A'- I' I I Iq r :lLi 172 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. sitting up again, sipping Mbt tea, she had become very cool and self-possessed. " How much money is there ? " she asked, so keenly that Mary almost fancied that the old woman was peering at her from under her sealed lids. " More than you will know what to do with." "Not more than I can take care of," she added, with one of her low chuckles of satisfaction. " For yourself, and for those who come after you," said Mary, in a low thoughtful tone. *' Yes ; but I must enjoy myself first. I haven't had much pleasure in my life, stuck here like a Guy Fawkes, goodness knows !" " No." " Why, it will take time to understand what being rich is like." " Yes, that it will." " It has only made my head ache at present. Give me another cup of tea, Mary." Mary gave Mrs. Eastbell a second cup of tea, which she sipped off slowly, her blind face turned towards the door, and a strange expression in it. " What are you thinking about 1" asked Mary. *'I am thinking too much, and the money brings trouble already," said the old woman, fretfully. " I don't know, after all, if it will be of any use. I'm blind — I shall never see pros- perity ! " " You may bring prosperity to others." " I am not going to think of other people yet," said Sarah Eastbell sharply ; " there will be time enough for that when I have learned to forget this wretched almshouse where I might have died." Mary regarded her very attentively. Had a change come to her already with the prospect of the brother's money ] " But you must think a little of the future," said Mary, as the old lady gave up her cup, and lay down again. " I shan't be able to sleep for thinking of it. That's the worst of it," she said, with a spiteful little punch to her pillow, ** and if 1 don't slee^^, I'm awfully bad next day. You should have come early with the news, not in the middle of the night,' *' It's only five o clock in the afternoon," BEGINNING THE NEW LIFE. 173 " But I get to sleep by six when Sajiy's here. Wlien shall I see Sally, did you say 1" * " She will be in Worcester by an early train to-morrow," was the reply, " and go at once to Sedge Hill." "What I Simon's big house r' " Yes, where we hope to get you soon. There is nothing settled, but those to whom the money is left have a right to take possession." "Certainly, or I shall lose half the things in the place, with a parcel of servants about," said Mrs. Eastbell ; and to the fur- ther surprise of her visitor she slid feebly but quickly out of bed, and stood up, ghost-like, in her night dress. " What do you think of doing 1 " cried Mary Holland. *' I shall take possession to-night," said the old lady ; " I must get to Sedge Hill, I shall be able to welcome my granddaughter to her new home then. I'm strong enough, if somebody will only dress me, and send for a conveyance. Why should I stop ? Haven't I had enough of this prison and this poverty ? For the Lord's sake, let me get away ! I can't live here any longer." Mai'y Holland thought that it would have been wiser to have brought hf^r news at an earlier hour then. She endeavoured to persuade Mrs. Eastbell to rest till the next day, but the old lady vvas obstinate, and not to be turned from her intentions. " You are going to Sedge Hill to-night, I suppose 1 " asked Mrs. Eastbell. " Yes." *' Then I'll go with you, and you shall take care of me till Sally comes. I'll make it worth your while." '* 1 shall not require any remuneration, thank you," said Miss Holland quietly, as she assisted Mrs. Eastbell to dress, and re- ceived directions where to find the various articles of attire, the old lady having a wonderful memorj'' of her own. "Thei'o — I haven't been up since last May," said Mrs. East- bell trijiiiphantly, as she tied her bonnet-strings with vigorous [jerks, " and I feel much the better for it. Ah ! there's nothing like good luck to pull one together. Give me some more tea, and then run and fetch me a conveyance." Mary Holland gave her the tea as requested, but although she went from the room, she did not proceed in search of a con- . veyance to Sedge Hill, but entrusted that commission to the •nHHi r Ill ! iiit ! : i I 174 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. old lady next door, who was extra agile that afternoon, like Mrs. Eastbell, and anxious to m of service. Presently Mary Holland returned to watch her companion, and to wonder if the old woman's strength would last to Sedge Hill, or if the reaction would come and leave her prostrate. She was not prepared for this sudden awakening to a new life ; it bewildered her, shrewd little woman though she was in many things. She had wished to break the news to Mrs. Eastbell, and the task had been entrusted to her accordingly ; but, had it been done wisely, and was this a wise step on the part of Mrs. Eastbell, to leave St. Oswald's in ungrateful haste 1 *• What a time the cab is ! " said Sarah Eastbell suddenly. " In your happier state apart from this life, you will not for- get the man whose place you take, whose home is yours, whose father set him aside without fair cause," urged Mary. " This isn't a time to worry me about him." " Life is uncertain always — we have had a terrible instance of it — and I wish to talk to you of Reuben Culwick, your nephew, whom you have always liked," she went on anxiously. " I've no fault to find with Reuben — he's an excellent young man — but that's no reason why I should talk about him to-night." " He is poor." *' I dare say he is," was the reply, " but I must think of my own family first. I can't be bothered with nephews just now." Mrs. Muggeridge's head peered round the door. " The cab's come," she said; " do you think you can walk to the outer gate, Mrs. Eastbell 1 " " I could walk a mile." " Good Lor' ! — I'm glad to hear that, and I'm glad to see you as brisk as a bee again," said Mrs. Muggeridge ; ** it looks like old days, when you first came here." " I hate old days." " Sometimes they're pleasant to look back upon," observed Mrs. Muggeridge, " and sometimes they ain't. And now you've come into a fortune '" " Who told you that ?" " Bless you, it's all over the tQwn ; only weVe been warned not to say anything until Miss Holland came from London, lest it should be too much for you to bear." " I thought everybody was mighty kind and civil," said Mrs. BEGINNING THE NEW LIFE. 175 Eastbell, as she took Mary's arm and moved towards the door. " Bless you, Sarah," said Mrs. Muggeridge ; " You'll not for- get us, you'll help all those who have helped you, I know. You were always grateful." "Mrs. Muggeridge," replied Mrs. Eastbell gravely, ** I shall never be ungrateful. You have been kind for one." " Aye, I have," assented the old lady. *' There's a teapot of mine on the hob, and it draws beauti- fully. Take it, tea and all, and don't forget me. Good-bye. How very glad I am to get away from here ! This way?" " Yes, this way," said Mary. " The night's cold, and though I am not used to night air, I can go through it to my new house and my new life as briskly as you can. What a change for me and Sally ! " "And for more than you two," added Mary Holland. SW^^Iry-'- v; II I f i h ' ! fy 1? !M:i lilii §ooh l^c Serontr. TWO YEARS AFTERWARDS. CHAPTER 1. A SUNDAY SERVICE. J WO years after the events recorded in our last book, there was a Sunday service of a peculiar character held under a railway-arch, in one of the darkest streets of a dark neighbourhood lying between the Lower Marsh and York Road, Lambeth. The place of worship, the worshippers, and the one who preached and prayed, were all strange together ; and there was much for skin-deep piety to protest against, and for irreverence to scoff and jeer at. It was only the downright earnestness of these fugitive atoms scraped together here, that put forth its claims to the respect of those who had time to think of the odd forms in which religion may assert itself. Amongst the myriads who turn their backs on church or chapel orthodox, there are still a few with courage to seek God in some fashion. Of the tenets of this community it is not our purpose or right to inquire too closely in these pages. The preaching was simple, the earnestness was manifest ; the one text seemed forgiveness to sinners, and the one appeal was for their repentance before the liour was too late. That which was most remarkable in the service was the fact of its being conducted by a woman — a sallow, hollow-eyed female — with a touch of fanaticism in her extravagant gestures and her high-pitched voice, and in the ser- mon which she preached to ragged and unkempt men, women, and children, three-fourths of whom were full of a grave, deep interest, and the remaining fraction very noisy, and watching its opportunity to turn a portion of the discourse into ridicule. A SUNDAY SERVICE. 177 These discontents were huddled together near the door, a grinning, coughing, and grimacing mob, whilst over tlieir heads peered occasionally a policeman's helmet, a sign of peace and order that was followed by much horse play and ironical com- ment on the proceedings, after it disappeared. The preacher was undismayed. She had grown accustomed to interruptions months ago ; and she addressed herself with the same earnestness to those who scoffed at her, as to those who seemed affected by her words. There was that " rough- and-ready" eloquence in her discourse that commanded a cer- tain amount of attention at times even from the noisiest, and her homely words, her illiterate phrasing, her little slips of syntax even, helped rather than deteriorated>from the impres- sion which she made. She was one of the pHjjDle — one of the poor — and the poor understood li^r, and a^fcv- had already pinned their faith to her, and called themselves the Jennings- ites, after the name which she bore. When the opposition grew too strong, laughed too loudly, crowed too repeatedly in the aggravated bantam-cock fashion — which generally occurred when the policeman was too long away — one or two burly members of the congregation would solemnly take their corduroy jackets off, and walk towards the door, whereat a tremendous scuffling would take place, and a few of the disputants be pitched into the street, which became the scene of hand-to-hand encounters, until the helmet floated uppermost again, and all was harmony. It had been a noisy night at Jennings's railway arch, where we resume our story ; the preacher had been more than usually powerful, and the opposition more than commonly opposed to her ; but the service had reached its conclusion ; those who be- longed to the new sect had sung their hardest in a final hymn, and drowned the voices of the discontented, and now there was hand-shaking with the preacher, and many loud good-byes, like a friendly party breaking up and parting with the hostess. From the background of the congregation there stepped sud- denly a tall well-dressed young woman with her veil down, and room was made for her into the inner circle of rags and tatters by which Lucy Jennings was surrounded, whilst many and curious faces peered closely at the new-comer. -^ile * •>! M IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // /./ .^ ^/^ i/i % 1.0 I.I <"|32 M 2.2 2.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 ^ 6" ► v^ <^ /a '^A . I was mixing mate- rial — I had gone to the cupboard for i »f a glass of whiskey to steady my nerves — when bang I we were aJl in the street or the back yard, and everything lef'> in tliu hor o was burned or blown to cinders ! The pictuPB — Reuben's* books and papers, 'r^t iture — everything clean gone to sn .sh, and not a farthing of insurance anywhere." " And Reuben 1 " asked Sarah, solicit ':u8ly. " He was out ; when he came back, the plucc wa«i a ruin. All his papers were gone, the money that he had, the novel that he was writing ; but he came to see me in the hospital that night, just as if nothing had happened." « Well— and then 1" " The worst came after the blow up. I had borrowed money on the strength of selling the picture, and Reuben had become my security ; and when I couldn't pay, he was dropped on, and he has been working off my loan as well as his own ever since — killing himself with work, poor boy." Here John Jennings began to weep again. « How much is the debt 1 " *' r don't know ; I can't recollect," said John. " I haven't been the same fellow since the accident, all my energy — and you remember what an energetic fellow I was — was blown away with my prospects, and my eyebrows and eyelashes. I'm clean done for. What a mercy that you never married me ! " The rueful aspect of JoLu Jennings, and the final tender of his congratulations to Sarah, turned his traffic recital into a burlesque, and Sanh Eastbell laughed merrily, to her compa- nion's surprise. 190 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " There, there, the worst is over, now that I have come to help you," she said. " We will change all this." ** He will not have any help." " Oh ! don't say that. He shall ; he must." " I don't see why he shouldn't ; but then there is no under- standing him now." " Why 1 " " I can't say. He changed by degrees ; he became more discontented and. aggravating like, after his awful bad luck. Then Lucy went raving mad — had her * call,' she says — and took to preaching, and bullied Reuben and me about our souls, till one day Reuben gave her a piece of his mind ; and we all went different ways after that. She spoke to me this morning ; — it was the first time for six months. She passes me like dirt — she " " There, don't begin to cry again," Sarah adjured ; " I'm sorry, but it might have been worse. I'm very glad that I came to London, to lead the way to better times." " I hope you will for Reuben's sake. Reuben was a good fellow once." "Once?" " He's not what he used to be. He's not the same man, you see. He doesn't treat me well, even I " "I see nothing; all is a mist before me," murmured Sarah Eastbell ; " let me think, please. I don't want to hear any more." FACE TO FACE AGAIN. 191 CHAPTER IV. FACE TO FACE AGAIN. -OHN JENNINGS remained silent till the cab stopped in the dingy thoroughfare of Drury Lane, before a smaU ironmonger's shop, as shabby and rusty in its exterior ad the Jew-bolstered theatres for which the parish is famous. " Here ! " said Sarah, in a low whisper. ** He is close to his work now — he saves omnibus hire and shoe leather — but he loses the country air and cheerful society of Hope Street," explained John Jennings, with a sigh. The cabman was dismissed, and John Jennings paused on the kerb-stone, and pointed to an open door on the left livid side of the shop. " You go in there, and up to the very top of all the stairs, and it's the back room. Miss EastbeU. " Stop one moment," cried Sarah, as John was about to beat a precipitate retreat ; " will you not tell him I am here 9 " *^ I ! cried John Jennings ; ** he told me never to come again until he sent for me." « He said that 1" " Yes. I was a little the worse for liquor last week. I had met a friend, and we had had a droj* of whiskey together — not so much as Reuben thought, though — ^and then I came on here, and he — he turned me out of his roouL" John Jennings had another little cry to himself, and was moving away, when Sarah EastbeU followed him. " "i ou wiU not mind this to begin with. You are not proud and I am indebted to you ; you are poor and I am a friend with too much money. Pray do," she said very hurriedly ; then a bank-note was thrust into his hand, and she disap- peared in the murky passage of the house, whither he had not the courage to follow her. He had the courage to wait a quar- ter of an hour for her, firmly resolved on restoring the ten pounds which she had given him ; although ten pounds to the 192 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. man drifting on his way to Camberwell Union was a vision of Paradise glowing with molten gold and Irish whiskey. Then he wavered, crossed slowly over to the public-house, changed his note, and patronized the establishment with a small order for immediate consumption, after which he was seen no more in Drury Lane that morning. Meanwhile Sarah Eastbell, wavering in her courage, went slowly and sof*^^ly iip the stairs, towards her second-cousin's room, speculating what she should say, and in what manner ^ she should say it. She had grown nervous, her heart was beating faster ; all that had been whispered against Reuben Culwick was assist- ing to deter her, and to add to the difficulties of the mission which she had set herself, and on which she had refused all offers of assistance. This was her own work ; let her pursue it to the end. " What a dreadful place ! " she muttered to herself, as she went up the dirty uncovered stairs, glancing through the land- ing-window, as she passed, at the wilderness of house-roofs stretching beyond it. Two years of affluence had set her old life wonderfully apart from her ; she did not remember at that moment the house in Potter's Court, to which this shabby edi- fice in Drury Lane was heaven by comparison. She reached the top of the house, and went with slow drag- fing steps to the back room door, on the panels of which she nocked, after another moment's pause. Her heart thumped on in anticipation of his well-known voice in reply bidding her enter, and then sank at the silence which ensued. " Not in ! " she whispered to herself as she knocked again, and again the deep silence in the room beyond warned her of the fruitless sequel to her expedition. She tried the handle of the door, which she found unlocked ; there was another pause, then she opened the door, and entered the room with vacillat- ing steps, resolved to wait till he came back, as under different circumstances, and with her in distress, he would have waited half a lifetime. He was of great service to her once, and she had seemed scarcely grateful ; now let her prove what a deep debt' of gratitude had always lain at the bottom of her heart. This man, this second-cousin, was already the hero of her life, despite his low estate and her magnificent prospects ; there FACE TO FACE AOAIN. 193 was no common tie between the heiress — for, in all probability, would she not be the heiress 1— of Sedge Hill and this tenant of a back room in Drury Lane. In her estimation he was always the ^eat man, and she ^the poor girl. Sedge Hill be- longed to hmi, and she was only an usurper ; she had come to tell him so, even to ask his pardon humbly for all past mis- takes, and to entreat him, with all her homely eloquence, to consider the future as she would wish him to consider it. A truly grateful and warm-hearted young woman was Reu- ben's Second-cousin Sarah— not without her faults, poor child, although selfishness at nineteen years of age was not amongst them — a little of a dreamer and enthusiast, very hot-headed as well as warm-hearted, but not a bad sort of heroine for a story- book, as heroines run now-adays. Sarah Eastbell left the door ajar, and walked across the room, littered with many volumes, towards a desk heaped high with papers. The whole place was a true author's den ; a glimpse even of old Grub Street times, when authors worked hard for their daily bread, and none knew what became of the profits of their scribbling, and no one cared save the thieves who sold books. It was a barely furnished room, in which a man like Reuben Culwick must find it hard to exist, Sarah Eastbell considered. How was it that his pride, his cleverness, his energy had des- cended to so low a level, in an age when men with a writing capacity honourably hold their own 1 Sarah Eastbell d^d not ask that latter question, the ways and means of the literary profession being a mystery to her mind; but the little, shabby, dusty room dismayed her ; it was so great a fall from the splendours of the firework-maker's first floor in Hope Street. Still he was busy, she thought. He must be earning money, unless he did his work for nothing ; in all her life she had never seen so great a mass ~^ papers and letters heaped together. She advanced more closely, with her feminine curiosity sud- denly and acutely aroused. In the midst of the chaos on the desk there lay a little dainty note, stamped and sealed and unopened, which had been placed there by the landlady during his absence from home ; and it was in a lady's handwriting, of that Sarah Eastbell was assured. N 194 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH She was not particularly reserved about examining it, in- deed her impulse towards it did not allow time for those finer feelings to develop themselves which two years* training had striven to produce. She pounced upon the note like a hawk, in fact, and took it up with trembling hands, and with her big dark eyes dilating. " Mary Holland ! " she exclaimed. She examined the letter attentively. The handwriting was large, and characteristic, and clear ; the monogram on the back of the envelope was M. H. ; the post mark was Worces- ter ; there could be no possibility of mistake. ■.^" Why has she written ? " exclaimed Sarah — " how dare she write to him 1 " At the same moment a hand touched her arm, and Reuben Culwick's voice said politely — " When you have quite done with my letter, Miss Eastbell, I should feel obliged by its return." THE SECOND-COUSINS. 195 CHAPTER V. THE SECOND-COUSINS. ARAH EASTBELL gave a little scream of surprise and turned to greet her cousin. " Reuben — Mr. Culwick," she exclaimed, " I am so glad ! " . She extended both her hands towards him, and he did not check the impulse, but received them in his own, and shook them warmly, winding up proceedings by taking his letter gently and delicately from her. " I think this is mine," said Reuben quietly. " Yes," responded Sarah with a blush. " Thank you," said Reuben ; " will you take a seat whilst you favour me with the object of your visit ? " Reuben very unceremoniously cleared a chair of about half a hundredweight of books, by tilting the volumes forward to the floor, and Sarah sat down and looked timidly and yet scrutin- isingly towards him. He did not speak to her again ; he gave her time to collect her ideas, or to observe the eflfect of two years' change, of two years* trouble and hard work and worldly drudgery upon him. This gave him time also to not« how years had remodelled Second-cousin Sarah — how the gawky girl had grown into a handsome young woman, whom he could only identify with past forlomness by her large, dark, wistful eyes. And she saw, with a strange heart-sinking for which she could not account, that there was a startling change in him who was facing her. It was Reuben Culwick, certainly, but hardly the man with whom she had parted last. Young still, some two or three years on the right side of thirty, and yet looking so old and thin and careworn, that she was uncertain if she should have known him in the streets. It was only when he smiled that the face reminded her of old timeh^, and there was an odd kind oi smile lighting up his features before she had found cour- age to enter into explanations. He waited very patiently for 196 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. her to resume the discourse, or to continue her study of him ; and a hand that had wasted somewhat, and become thin and bony, was passed through his ragged brown beard, after a habit which brought him even nearer to old days. " I am very sorry," she said at last, and in spasmodic fashion. ^ " Only a few minutes since, you were * so glad,' if you remem- ber," he said lightly, almost facetiously. " I was glad to meet you again," was-the frank response, "but I am sorry to see you lUce this, and to find you in such a place as this." " I am in my right place," he said with a little laugh that was hardly natural, " an individual totally undeserving of your sym- pathy." " Why have you never written to me, or grandmother 1 Why have you not come to Sedge Hilll Why have you kept away from those who- would have been always very proud to help you 1" " That is why I have kept away, Miss Eastbell ; because I am proud enough to be above all help." " Don't call me Miss Eastbell," cried Sarah with a sudden ex- hibition of warmth that surprised him — " you did not two years since." " No — but then you were a child, not a lady-patroness," was the answer. Here was another pause, as if the reply had been a hard one, and difficult to cope with ; and then Sarah Eastbell said — " Why do you wound me with your satire 1 In what way, Reuben, have I given you offence ] " It was an honest and an earnest question, and disaimed the man whom poverty and misfortune had rendered harsh of late days. The tears swimming in the dark eyes were evidence of the pain which he had caused her, and he said in a more natu- ral tone — in the tone which she remembered best — " You must not mind what I say ; I am more irritable than I used to be ; I have grown to like my own company, and to dis- like visitors of all degrees, in a true Timon of Athens fashion. I am a sour kind of fellow now, who prides himself upon say- ins hard things, and so the less you see of him the better. Still, you must not hint at helping him, and for God's sake, Sarah, spare the man your pity." THE SECOND-COUSINS. m There was dignity as well as passion in his words, as he beat the letter that he had taken from his cousin's hand upon his knee. Sarah Eastbell felt at the end of her generous plotting — saw already her utter inability to be of service to Reuben Culwick. Between him and the myriad of intentions for his welfare that she had dreamed of, was an obduracy beyond her power to re- move. " Yon afe not offended with me 1 " she inquired softly. " No. Why should you have given me offence 1 " " You take it as an insult that my blind grandmother and I are in your father's house, and possess your father's property, but we " *' I will not hear," cried Reuben, fiercely interrupting her. " When I knew that my father kept his word with me, I be- came less of a philosopher than I had bargained for — more human, more selfish, more of a coward — and I am only slowly getting over the sense of disappointment which followed the disinheritance. I was vain enough to think myself a hero, when I was only a poor money-loving prig." " I — I — hardly understand," said Sarah, bewildered at this confession. His manner changed at once. " No. no — probably .not," he said quickly, " and why should I trouble you about my feelings, even if you did ? " " Will you tell me why you did not answer my letters ? " " I answered the first one — the rest were all in the same key, and I wanted to get away from your world, and to forget it. I knew that you would soon grow used to your prosperity ; and every offer of assistance was galling, because I had sworn bit- terly and emphatically never to be assisted." " And yet you loved money," said his cousin reproachfully. " I was defiant, not cast down," Reuben continued, without heeding her remark. " I should have conquered myself antl my rage if all kinds of troubles had not heaped themselves upon me — if disappointments had not come — if debts had not grown large — if friends had been true — if life, even in Hope Street, had been what it was. But it was a grand transformation scene, only the Caves of Despair came last, and left me here, Sarali." 198 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. There was the faintest ring of moumfulness iu his last words, and his listener took a little hope from it, until he said — " I have told more to you, child, than to any living soul ; but then you are a relation whose interest has lasted longer than I thought that it would." " You did not believe in the gratitude of the girl whom y^u rescued," cried Sarah. " I believed in the girl becoming a woman," he replied a little enigmatically. " And you were not curious concerning her life ; in pros- perity it had not half the interest for you that her misery and grief had," said Sarah. " Prosperity tones down character, and it was your misfor- tunes that interested me," he answered ; "they were terrible troubles for one so young as yOu were." ** You were my saviour," cried Sarah £astbell. ** No, no — I was studying trouble at the time, and you came in handy," said he coolly. " What do you mean ? " " I was writing a sensational novel. That failed, and took me down another step, when I was ill of fever, and desperately in debt, too. I didn't give way. Please to understand that I fought on ; that I have been fighting ever since you and I said good-bye in Hope Street." " But your debts— if- — " " I have got them under — living economically and starving with an easy grace have helped me in an effort to pay my cred- itors every farthing that I owe them, or that the indiscretion of mes amis has let me in for ! " " A word would have saved you from this cruel drudgery." " A word to Mrs. Eastbell, who — but there, I have nothing to say against the old lady. She is still well 1 " « Still well," repeated Sarah. " She enjoys her affluence ? " " No," said Sarah, shaking her head energetically. " So I have heard," responded Rej^ben. He glanced at the letter in his hand, and Sarah said at once — " Why does my grandmother's companion write to you 9 " " Out of pity, he added drily. " How is it that she is acquainted with your address, whilst THE SECOND-COUSINS. 199 I have had to scheme and search for it — why has she not told meV " I must leave that for Miss Holland to answer for herself." " Very well — as you please — it is no business of mine," said Sarah rapidly. " You return to Worcester to-day 1 " inquired Reuben. " Yes." " And you came from Worcester — when 1 " " On Saturday." " On what errand, may I aski " " To find you — and to meet with this miserable rebuff." " Oh, my second-cousin ! " he cried, " you do not know how wonderfully complaisant I have been to-day, out of compliment to this unlooked-for visit. You are not aware that this coming of yours has done me a vast amount of good ; and will be some- thing to look back upon, and to remember you by, though I hope that you will never come here again — never," he repeated. " You do not ask me what I come for ? " said Sarah, with flashing eyes. " You have told me indirectly. To help me." " Yes — as I will help, and in spite of you," she cried ; " the money is yours, not ours — we are keeping it for you — I am watchful of fevery penny of it." *^ And you are here against the wishes of your grandmother," added Reuben. '' How do you know that ?" cried Sarah in amazement. ' * " 1 can guess it." " Mary Holland is a spy ! She has told you ! " " Not a word. Your own manner has told me that jrou have come here unadvisedly — in opposition to a strange old woman whom my father's money has rendered unhappy. And, Sarah, you must come no more — you must turn over a new leaf, or blot out the old — this running wild about the country will not suit with your position in society, and the old friend says, * Keep away.' " " Will you answer me one question 1 " " Very probably I will. I have no sectets." " No secrets ! " cried Sarah, with an indignant glance at the letter in his hand ; " yes, that's likely! " " And the question % " " Will you ever come to Sedge Hill? " 200 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. '* As soon as I can afford it/' be answered ; " when I have a decent coat to my back, and sufficient spare cash to pay my railway fare to Worcester — and coat and cash are both earned by the sweat of my brow — I will pay you a return visiti' " You bear us no ill-will 1" " Why should II" was the rejoinder, " I am only tenacious of being helped in any way. If I come to Worcester, you must not treat me as a poor relation ; you must not shock my sense of independence." " Trust us." " Then good-bye," he said rising ; "if you stay any longer, the world will be talking." " Let it ! " said Sarah defiantly, though she rose also. " And I shall be dinnerless. I have my dinner to earn before two this afternoon." « Oh !-if— " Sarah Eastbell paused. It was only by holding back her charity that she kept friends with him. " I have not done any good," she murmured, " but I am glad that I have seen you — very glad. Good-bye." " Good-bye." He shook hands with her, opened the door and allowed her to pass from his room. He stood on the landing-place and watched her descend the murky stairs ; as she glanced up at him, and smiled, he could see that the light was shining through her tears ; but he smiled back again, and called out " Good-bye" ' once more, and it was only as she passed away from his sight that the shadow stole upon him, and left him stern and - thoughtful " Time has not spoiled her yet," he muttered ; " I am glad that I have seen her." Sarah was in the street then, looking up and down Drury Lane, and doubtful which way to turn. She was still hesita- ting when Lucy Jennings suddenly stood before her. " Well — what did he say 1 What have you been talking about ail this time — what good have you done ? " 'she asked with great eagerness. Sarah only replied to the last question — only thought of her own futile expedition of relief. I have done no good," she said sadly. (( THK SECOND-COUSINS. 201 " He would not accept of assistance ? " "No.'' " He was hard and uncharitable — he taunted you with all his heaA's bitterness? " " He was kind. I— I think that he was glad to see me." " But he told you not to come again ? — I am sure of it." " Yes, Lucy — he said that." " How is he looking ! " " Older — paler — like a man who has been dangerously ill." " Did he— did he speak of me ?" " Not a word." " Not one ! I am glad of that," she answered moodily. Before another syllable could be exchanged, she had turned into a narrow court and disappeared, and Sarah Eastbell was left to proceed upon her homeward route. 202 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER VI. VISITORS AT SEDGE HILL. ARAH EASTBELL went back to Sedge Hill, with her maid, in a disconsolate frame of mind. She had left home full of confidence in the result of her mission, full of faith in being of service to Reuben Culwick, and of Reuben being grateful for her efforts in his behalf, and the result had been an ignominious discomfiture. She had left home against the wisheSi of her grandmother, and in opposition to the advice of her grandmother's companion, Mary Holland, who had taken care of the old lady when Sarah, at the grandmother's request, had spent twelve months abroad perfecting an education that had been seriously neglected in her youth. Sarah had left Sedge Hill in a rebellious spirit, angry with all who had been opposed to her impulse to set forth in search of her cousin ; and she was scarcely returning in an amiable mood. Of late days there had hardly been peace and happiness in the big house ; Sarah had had a great deal of her own way, but there was a dominant spirit at times in the feeble old woman who had risen to greatness, and who had Culwick blood in her, and that spirit which had died out apparently in the almshouse would manifest itself in the latter days of her prosperity, and in a singular fashion worthy of her dead brother's eccentricity. Still, the granddaughter was not sorry that she had been to London, although she had failed in being of service to Reuben Culwick. She had seen him ; he had promised to come to Sedge Hill some day; he was not altered so terribly as Mis.^ Jennings had asserted; he had spoken kindly to her ; he was not jealous of her position in his father's house ; he had suffered more from his own ventures in life than from his disinheritance ; it was not the one misfortune, but the many, which had altered him and aged him, and he would be the same frank, warm- hearted feflow presently, she prayed. She reached Worcester in safety, and a hired fly took her the VISITORS AT SKDOE HILL. 203 rest of the way home. There was uo carriage in waiting for her ; indeed Simon Culwick's equipage, his coachman, and footmen had been put down as unnecessary items of expenditure by Mrs. Eastbell, within a month after coming into her rights. There was a pony-chaise to the good, but that was not expected at the station to take Sarah Eastbell and maid to Sodge Hill. It was between eight and nine o'clock of that autumn evening when home was reached, and the great front door was opened to admit her. The staid man-servant wore so grave an expression of coun- tenance that Sarah said quickly — '* All is well, I hope, Wills ? " " ^''fls, ma'am — pretty well." " . [rs. Eastbell is upstairs, I suppose? " was her next ques- tion, as she prepared to ascend the stairs in search of her grandmother. " She is down-stairs this evening." "Indeed!" , Mrs. Eastbell had been in bed for the last month, and the news of the old lady having mustered sufficient resolution to get up during her absence was a surprise to her granddaughter. " Down-stairs — where 1 " "• In the drawing-room." " She has been ill-advised to go there. The place is large and cold and " Sarah Eastbell paused in mute astonishment, for the sound of a violin, not unskilfully played, came from the direction of the room in which she had been told her grandmother was. Music had filled the house with harmony of late days, for Mary Hol- land was a fair pianiste, and Mrs. Eastbell was fond of music, it had been ascertained ; but violin-playing had not been one of " the companion's " accomplishments. "Who is it?" sheened. " It's Captain Peterson, Miss Eastbell. If you will allow me to explain hqw " But Sarah Eastbell was of too excitable a nature to wait for an explanation, when the mystery was to be cleared up first- hand, and she swept by the servant, and went at once to the drawing-room — a luxuriously furnished apartment, which had not been used a great deal in Simon Culwick's time. In her 204 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. dark hat and cloak which she had worn during her journey, she entered the room with a scant degree of ceremony, pausing at the door to survey the change which had come over Sedge Hill since she had gone away last Saturday. It was a great change and took time to recover from. Presently she might under- stand it — not just then. There were four persons in the room besides herself, and she looked from one to another with a keen watchfulness, that hardly died away when her appearance was observed. Her heart sank a great deal, but she had the self possession to keep a bold front to the enemy — for surely it was the enemy who had appeared at Sedge Hill in the unlucky time of her absence, and whose coming she had feared before that day, although not expecting it in this fashion. Half sitting, half reclining by the great coal lire burning in the steel grate, was the old blind woman, her impassive face turn'd towards the flame, as if for warmth, and her spare form draped in heavy ruby velvet, over which meandered a gold chain thick enough for a door-fastening. On her grey hairs had been set a turban kind of head-dress, but it had slipped sidewise, and presented a grotesque appearance in the sleep or reverie in which she was indulging as Sarah entered the room. Sarah Eastbell had seen her grandmother once or twice in state apparel, which had been of her relative's especial selection, when she came into her property, and her gaze passed on quickly from her to Mary Holland, quiet and grave over her wool-work, and from Mary Holland to the two visitors. The younger of the two was her brother Tom, glossy as a raven in a bran-new suit of black, and with a black satin stock which concealed every scrap of linen that he possessed, and steeped him in mourning to his chin ; and the stranger was a middle-sized, good-looking, highly-coloured, dark man of eight or nine-and-twenty, who at the moment of Sarah's entrance was playing a violin fantasia for the benefit of the company, and was far too absorbed in his performance to observe the addition to the number of his audience. It was Mary Holland who first perceived our heroine, and rose as if to cross the room towards her, subsiding into her seat again as Thomas Eastbell sprang from his chair with a shout of welcome that nearly scared his grandmother into the fire. m VISITORS AT SEDGE HILL. 205 on her and her ith a the ' What, Sal — Sally — Sarah I " he exclaimed, correcting his address to her as he proceeded, "to think that you wasn't — that you weren't at home to say how d'ye do to your only bro- ther after all these blessed years ! Kiss me, gal — how are you 1 — Lord bless you ! — shiver my timbers, what a beauty you have growed to ! " Sarah drew a deep breath, and recoiled as the pock-marked face came close to hers. " Keep back, please — wait a moment," she said in a low sup- pressed voice. But Thomas Eastbell was impetuous. like his sister. He flung his arms round her, and clasped her to his bosom, crushing her hat and fall in the process. " I'm delighted to see you, Sarah — you don't know how glad I am to see you again," said Tom ; " we were always such chums like. Why, you and I scarcely ever had an angry word — we agreed together beautifully." " You camo hero — when 1 " asked Sarah listlessly, as she got away from him, and removed her hat and cloak. The fantasia had ceased, and the violinist was standing, fiddle and bow in hand, looking down at the carpet in a reserved and highly de- corous manner, as befitted a stranger in the house. " Saturday evening, late, after you had gone," answered Tom. " Grandmother was awfully pleased, I can tell you." " And how long a visit do you intend to " began Sarah, when he interrupted her. " 1, confound it ! we'll talk of going away another time. Graiidmother doesn't talk of my going away, but of my stop- ping here for good, as I have a right to, as well as other people, mind you. Why not 1 " There was a little snap of his teeth at this inquiry, and Sarah remembered the clash well, and shuddered. " We need not talk of this at present," she said uneasily ; " I haven't had time to think." " You'll be more glad to see me when you get more used to me," said her brother, nodding his head emphatically ; " I'm a fellow who always improves upon acquaintance. I don't think Miss Holland cares much phout me yet, but she will pre- sently." Mary Holland looked at. him steadily, without replying to 206 SEC ONt)-COUSIN SARAH. his remark, and the piping tones of Mrs. Eastbell now were heard "Is that my Sally?" " Yes, grandmamma, it is I," cried Sarah, hurrying across the room and kissing her affectionately. The thin arms stole round the girl's neck, and the hands were clasped behind it. If old Sarali Eastbell had changed to a certain extent with her prosperity, the love for the girl who had nursed her in her poverty had not changed with it. Thomas sat down to watch this instance of affection furtively, and the violinist, discover- ing that it was no one's place to introduce him to Miss East- bell, sat down too, put his instrument under the table, folded his arms upon his narrow chest, and assumed the position of a spectator also. " You have been a long while away, Sally," said Ivirs. East- bell. " Not very long." " I haven't got on well without you." " Oh, yes, bravely," answered Sarah. " Why, you are down stairs again — the mistress in your own house ! " " Such a house as it is," said Mrs. Eastbell disparagingly ; " for of all the beastly draughts, blowing all ways at once, I'U back this barn against a million of 'em. It's a killing me, Sally." " No, no." " I was better off at St. Oswald's — there was only one door there which let the wind- in. — Tom" (suddenly turning her sightless face towards her grandson) " you can remember how comfortable I was when you came back from sea." " Yes ; but this is a palace, old lady." " I can't see it," grumbled Mrs. Eastbell ; " I have all the inconveniences of a roomy chapel, without the comforts of a home. I nearly broke my neck coming down those slippery stairs to-day — I hate stairs. Tom, have you introduced the capting to Sal ? I don't think I have heturd you mention his name." " Bless me, no ! — Captain Peterson, my sister Sarah — Miss Eastbell, my particular friend, Captain Peterson." Sarah bowed, and looked hard at the captain, who rose solemnly, and made a grave obeisanoe in return. VISITORS AT SEDGE HILL. 207 rose " It affords me great pleasure to have the honour of an intro- duction to Miss Eastbell," he said in a low tone of voice, which died away to a whisper as he sat down again. " My friend is shy at present — excuse his shyness, Sarah, will you 1 " said Thomas Eastbell solicitously. " Certainly," said Sarah. " He's the quietest gentleman I ever remember to have met," said the grandmother reflectively, " but he plays the fiddle beautiful. Tom and he have been travelling together half over the world.-~Didn't you say so, Tom ? " " 1 did, grandmother." " And to think that you and Tom are both together in this great, grand, windy house," said Mrs. Eastbell, " both taking care of me in my old age ! — you used to tell me all the good news of Tom, Sally, and how he was getting on in the world, and prospering, and that used to keep my heart light." " Ay — it did," said Sarah sorrowfully. " And I'm very much obliged to Sally," said Tom, with a sudden grin that was as spasmodic as a clockwork figure's ; "some sisters would have back-bited a brother whilst he was away, and set his relatives against him ; but you didn't, Sally 1 " " No." " Not that you have been talking much about me lately, I understand," said Tom, " since the dear old lady has come into a fortune. But you did once — and I'm grateful to the last day of my life." "Just listen to him, Sally. He talks like a book" " And though we have always been good friends, still if there has been any little difference — I don't remember any — from this day, bygones are bygones, sister Sarah." He leaned across the table in order that he might peer more closely into her face, and Sarah answered slowly — " We will talk of the past — and of the future — at a fitting time." " As you please. Take your own time, Sarah," was the re- plv ; " vou will find me and the captain in the picture-gallery presently. We drink a parting glass and smoke a parting weed there always. The captain is a follower of the arts him- self. " Oh, Thomas ! " said the captain, raising both hands depre- catingly, "an admirer of them — -that is alJ. 208 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. , t- " A composer, by heaven — a genuine composer ! " cried Tom Eastbell, slapping his hand unceremoniously on his friend's music-book. " Thank you, Thomas, for the compliment." " You need not make quite so much banging as all that, Tom," said Mrs. Eastbell in a severe tone ; " I can't stand that noise at my time of life." ** I beg pardon, grandmother ; I am in good spirits to-night — that's all," said Tom deferentially ; " Sarah's back, and for a moment I had forgotten my bereavement. " What bereavement 1 — ah ! your wife," said Sarah ; "is she dead then 1 " " Dead and gone, poor soul. Don't you see how deep my mourning is ? " " Yes, I see it." " A better wife never lived," said Tom, making a profuse display of a white cotton handkerchief; "she was everything to me — she was the nobbiest — I should say the noblest of women. Captain, I can't stand this — I shall be better in the picture gallery — ^my feelings are too much for me'." " Don't give way, Tom — don't give way," said Captain Peter- son, as he took his friend's arm and led him sobbing from the room. " Hasn't he left the door open ? " asked Mrs. Eastbell. " Yes." " I thought so by the blowing down the back of my neck. It's a pity he doesn't know better than to leave all the doors open, but I suppose they're used to wind at sea, Sally ? " "Yes, grandmother." " Now that they've gone, I want to know about your wild- goose chase — to scold you for it — to ask after that stuck-up fellow Reuben, who " \ "Presently — presently — I must see those men at once," cried Sarah, starting up, with eyes gleaming ancl hands clenched. "What men?" " I — I must talk to Tom for a few minutes. I have for- gotten something." Sarah darted away without heeding a gesture, quick and im- passioned,, of Mary Holland. " 1 must know ail," she murmured, as she went swiftly along the corridor and towards the picture-gallery. COUNCIL OF WAR. 209 CHAPTER VII. rild- -up M ice, khed. for- im- klong COUNCIL OF WAR. ARAH EASTBELL lost not many minutes in following her brother and his friend to the picture-gallery, where the two men had already contrived to render themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted. An oil-lamp was lighted on the centre table, on which were set decanters of spirits, f^nd a box of cigars, patronised only by Captain Peter- son, Thomas Eastbell preferring a small meerschaum pipe of most unwholesome aspect. It was a weird picture, uncommon to that house ; and Sarah Eastbell surveyed it through a haze of tobacco-smoke, and won- dered how long it would last, and what would result from it. The place was full of shadow, one light being insufScient to dis- pel the gloom which hung about the corners of the room, and lurked behind the curtains of the bay-window, which was open, showing a vistai of dark, garden-ground and a sky full of stars. The costly pictures on the walls were faintly perceptible in the dim light, and the one figure in relief was that of Thomas Eastbell, sprawling in Simon Culwick's chair, with his legs ungracefully dangling over the left arm. Captain Peterson, reserved even in the presence of his particular friend, sat with his chair tilted against the marble mantelpiece, and smoked peacefully in the shadows that were there. They were taking their amusements sadly, after the fashion of their country. " Come in, Sarah ; don't be bashful," said Thomas Eastbell, whose sharp little eyes had seen his sister enter at the door and pause thereat ; " you are very welcome, I assure you." Sarah shut the door at this invitation, and walked quickly towards the visitors, taking a seat close to her brother, and looking sternly and fixedly at him. " Why do you come 1 What do you want 1 " ** Two rather cool questions to begin with," said Tom East- Q 210 SECOND-COUSm SARAH. bell ; " I put it to my honourable friend, if this is a nice way of opening a conyrersation." " You are here with a purpose," said Sarah persistently ; " state it, if you please." "Whyl" " I would understand the position." " It is a very simple one," said her brother coolly. " I am not the child I was ; I have learned to know the world, md to take my part in it. I know you, Thomas Eastbell, and —God help you ! — I know of no good or honest action that you have ever done." " I never had the chance." " Knowing that," continued Sarah very firmly, and without heeding his reply, " I will not have you and your friend in this house. You play a dangerous game in your defiance of me, for I am mistress here." " Oh, indeed ! — that's it, is it 1 " said her brother with a aneer ; " I am to tell my grandmother that she's a cipher in her own house — that she's nobody, and you're the cock of the walk, and want to grab all her money when she dies." " Tell her what you will," said Sarah ; " the answer which strips the veil from your bad life, will be sufficient to drive you from us." Thomas Eastbell was not prepared for his sister's firmness. She was right ; she was changed. She was not the woman of two years ago, who had had some hopes of him, and whom he had talked over more than once — who had been afraid of him, and who had not been altogether wanting in affection for him ; this was some one whom he had scarcely expected to find at Sedge Hill. Mr. Ea-stbell's demeanour took a sudden turn for the better ; he laid aside his meerschaum pipe, put his legs in a more natu- ral position, and leaned forward towards Sarah, with his two hands planted on his knees. "You would ruin me if you could, then," he said ; "you would stand between me and my share of the good luck which has come to the old woman. You would live on, rich as a Jew, and leave me to starve, or steal — or go to the workus, or the prison." " I have not said that," replied Sarah Eastbell. COUNCIL OF WAR. 211 3tter ; natu- two " You have not told me anything of the change ; I have found all this out for myself," he said reproachfully. " You ran away from me in London ; I did not know where you had gone." " I was easily found, if you had taken the trouble to ask." He was in Horsemonger Lane Gaol ; but did not enter into details about that. " I think that possibly I am in the way," said the gentleman by the fire-place, intruding upon the conversation for the first time ; "you and your brother can arrange this little matter so much better without me, Miss Eastbell." " I think we can," said Sarah qjuietly. " It is a family affair with wluch I have nothing to do. I will take a stroll in the garden if you will allow me." No one offered any objection to his suggestion, and Tom's friend rose and went softly out of the room, and through the open bay-window, into the night air, where he was lost to view, " Will you tell me who that is 1 " said Sarah, pointing to the window through which Captain Peterson had disappeared. " A naval officer-^merchant service," Tom explained ; " an intimate friend of mine — a regular swell" " The last time I saw him, it was in Potter's Court," said Sarah Eastbell decisively ; " he came in and out of No. 2 at un- certain hours of the night, and gave directions to men who were his brothers, and who seemed of a lower position than himself. He took away with him, I remember also, packages of bad money. He was a captain then, but it was of a gang of coiners ! " Thomas Eastbell sat back in his chair, and glared at his sis- ter. When he had recovered from hi amazement at her me- mory, or at the new affront which she had put upon him by doubting the honour of his friend, he responded with manifest excitement. " Upon my soul, Sarah, you are wrong ! " he cried with great volubility; "it's the similarity of names that's misled you. Those chaps in Potter's Court were called Peterson who lived downstairs ; so they were. I had quite forgotten it, cus me if I hadn't ! This pal of mine — this gentleman I mean — is a real, true, perfect gentleman. I wouldn't say he was if he wasn't — it's no matter to me. He's a man of property, and has been 212 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. i very kind to me since Soph died. He took a fancy to me, and we've been a good deal about togetlier, and everybody likes him much. He has nothing to do with the Potter's Court lot ; that shows how you jump at things, and think the worst of everybody. Them Petersons of Walworth weren't at all res- pectable, I'm sorry to say." Sarah Eastbell listened apathetically to a portion of this pro- test ; then her gaze shifted to the ground, and she was deep in' thought when he had concluded. The problem was intricate still, and she was no nearer to a solution. She had shown her cards, but her adversary had kept his to himself. " Have you anything to suggest 1 " asked Thomas Eastbell, after waiting for his sister's reply, which carae not. Sarah looked up. " You want money, I suppose ? " " Who doesn't 1 " he added with a short, sharp laugh. " How much will satisfy you, and take you from this house V* " Grandmother does not want to part with me," he said ; " but if you and I are not likely to agree, and matters can be arranged, I don't know that I should object, if the screw was liberal." " What do you want ? " was the practical question again, put in a different form. " A good round sum — annual — payable in advance," he said, " and my name down in the will for a fair share." « That cannot be." " Then give me a lump sum now, and have done with me. I'll go abroad — I'll take another name — I'll do anything." " Yes — for money," said Sarah with a sigh, " I think you would." "How's it to be donel If I talk of going away, the old woman will not be too ready with the cash. • She's a close un, mind you, and you won't get over her in a hurry." " I have money of my own. I must arrange with you, and spare that poor old woman. Ah, Tom ! " she said sadly, " let her think the best of you till the last." "Oh! I have no objection whatever," replied the- brother ; " but I don't understand how any money of your own -" " I act for grandmother in my own name, and for ev^rythiii^." ** The deuce ! " muttered Thomas Eastbell. COUNCIL OF WAR. 213 " So ifis in my power to help you a little, but you must not be too extortionate. I hold the money — grandmother holds the money — in trust for others." " You don't mean " " Never mind what I mean," said Sarah ; " all my meanings belong to the future, when I may be no richer than I am— when I shall have nothing to do with this house." " But grandmother " " Leaves all to me — trusts to my judgment in everything. By making me your enemy, Tom, you make yourself a beggar." She could not impress this fact too strongly upon a gentle- man of Mr. Thomas Eastbell's turn of mind, and he sat with his hands clutching his knees, perplexed at last by the problem which she had set him to solve. He did not know that she had risen till her hand fell lightly on his shoulder, and then he started, as at the touch of a police-officer. " Make up your mind to go away, and to go soon — before grandmother has time to guess whai vou are, and what your life has been." " What do you call ' soon ? ' " "To-morrow — the next day at the farthest." " It's hard. It's beastly unfair," he muttered as Sarah left him with another warning of the evils of delay. He reflected on the matter after she had gone; if Sarah were perplexed what to do, equally was he perplexed now as to the right course to pursue. A false step might ruin every chance that he had. He had come for money, but he did not know what to ask, or how much money was at his sister's disposal. Captain Peterson came back into the room, and shut and fas- tened the bay-window carefully after him, as though he were nervous about thieves. Having secured the bolts to his satis- faction, he advanced softly towards his friend, who sat there still perplexed, with his dirty meerschaum pipe in his hand again. " How have you got on with her, Tom ? " he asked in a low tone, as he dropped into his old place by the mantelpiece. " Middling." " She does not like you — she is afraid of you." "Of both of us." " I am sure that I have been particularly q^uiet, Tom/' sitid the captain, 214 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " She remembers you at No. 2, Potter's Court, old fellow." '* The devil she does ! " ejaculated Captain Peterson, with more animation than he had hitherto evinced ; " that's infernally awkward. Why, I never spoke to the girl in my life." " She can swear to you in any court of justice in the world," added Thomas Eastbell savagely. " It's awkward," said Captain Peterson thoughtfully. " What did you tell me that this girl was weak and nervous for, and that she and her grandmother were only living together? Didn't Mary Holland count for anything 1 " " I thought that you would be glad to see hm again," said his companion with a short laugh. " I am not afraid of her,' said the other, "but I don't make out your sister exactly. She's dangerous." "Yes." " She would not stai\d nice about blowing up the whole thing, I can see." " So can I." " How long does she give you to clear out ? " " Till to-morrow nighi; — or the day after that." Captain Peterson lighted another cigar. " What we make up our minds to do, Tom, must be done quickly," he said. " I don't know what to do," Thomas Eastbell confessed. He was a man of small imaginative abilities — of no great powers of resource. Naturally dull in many things, he had naturally got into a great deal of trouble during his nefarious career. Of late days, he had renewed his acquaintance with Captain Peterson, who had had a better education than he, and knew more of the world, and Captain Peterson had put him up to a thing or two. He had known the captain years ago, ana he was glad to meet him again, and to talk over old times with him. It was Peterson who had first told him of the rise in life of his grandmother Eai^itbell, and ascertained for him that Sarah was back with the old lady ; and he and Peterson had taken a great deal of trouble to read and study Simon Culwick's will, now duly deposited in national custody. " You don't know — you never do know, Tom," said the captain. * COUNCIL OF WAR. 215 "Here's a fortune fooling about — and I so precious close to it/' said Tom mournfully. " Does your sister want to pay you out of the ship 1 " "Yes." " She's a deep one. She'll get the old lady to make her will in her favour next." " Better that the respected old lady did not make a will." " Ah 1 " " You would come in for a clear half of everything then." " But she will make a will." " And if your sister were to " Captain Peterson did not finish his sentence, and Tom writhed uneasily in his chair, and puffed at his dead pipe un- consciously. They did not speak again for full half an hour ; although they drank a little, and glanced askance at each other, now and then. " Tom," said the captain suddenly, " you had better leave all this in my hands." " Yes— but " " If you don't leave it to me, I shall cut the whole business to-morrow." Tom Eastbell left the management of his affairs to Captain Peterson forthwith. 21 « SF/'OND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER VIII. A DEEPER PERPLEXITY. ARAH EASTBELL spent the next hour with her grand- mother, who had been led to her room during the confer- ence in the gi-eat picture-gallery. The old lady had left word that she wished to see Sarah directly that she was disen- gaged, and our heroine had proceeded up-stairs upon receiving the message, and found Mrs. Eastbell in bed, lying there rigid and sallow, as in the old almshouse days. The maid in atten- dance upon Mrs. Eastbell quitted the room as Sarah entered softly, but not so softly as to escape the quick ears of the grand- mother. " Sally — what a dreadful time you have been ! " said Mrs. Eastbell. " I have been talking to Tom." " You will have years to talk to him — I may be only with you a few more days. It's awfully tiring, this up and down- stairs business. Not half as comfortable as at St. Oswald's, after all. I wish that I had never left the place." " You are tired to-night, and dospondent, that's all." " I'll keep in bed for six montKs now, if I live as long," said Mrs. Eastbell almost snappi^ihly. "I won't have any more of this rushing about the premises," she added fretfully. " Well, what does Tom say ? " " That he shall soon go to sea again." "He's a fool if he does." ' " I am not certain what is best for him," said Sarah wearily, " shall we speak of him to-morrow 1 Will you try and rest nowl" " Rest in this house, Sally ! " cried the old lady ironically, " there isn't much chance of that, with people tearing up and down-stairs at all hours, and the servants banging shutters and locking doors as if we were in a prison. Somebody came into ■■m A DEEPER PERPLEXITY. 217 my room last night, blundering, but I could not find out who it was." " Into your room ? " asked Sarah very anxiou,':ly now ; " where was Hartley 1 " " I packed her off two days ago. She snorted in her sleep like a horse. I want rest, child, not the noise of a steam-en- gine in my ears." " You are too old to rest alone — you cannot lock your door even," said Sarah. " I'm not nervous— I'm not very old," said the grandmother ; " here's a bell-pull at the head of the bed, if I want anything." " I must come back as in the old days, grandmamma, if you send Hartley away. Why shouldn't I have my little crib in one corner of this great room, as when you and I were sharing life together in St. Oswald's ] " " I like to be alone at night — even you would disturb me now." "I don't think so." " You're mighty anxious about me," said Mrs. Eastbell fret- fully, " and yet you have flounced yourself off for three days, and without rhyme or reason." " I was anxious about Keuben Culwick ; I could not rest longer without seeing him." " A nice thing for a young lady, properly educated and fin- ished off, to confess ! Did vou tell him so 1 " " I told him that we were both anxious." " I'm not anxious a bit." "He is very poor, grandmother," said Sarah ; " he has been very unlucky in life. I found him in a back room in Drury Lane — a half-starved, haggard-looking man, borne down by the disappointmenls of his life. This was Reuben Culwick — in whose house we are — who was once our friend when we were poor and low — who saved me when I had not power to help myself — whose kind words seemed to bring me back from fever, when everybody thought that I should die. This is the man for ever foremost in my thoughts. Why should I hide it from mypelf or you 1 " She buried her head in the bed-clothes, and the shrivelled hand stole forth and rested on the flowing mass of raven hair there, • 218 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " Don't go on so, Sally — I won't forget him. I promised long ago that I would never forget Reuben Culwick, didn't IV* " Yes." " I'll keep my word. As soon as ever I am strong enough, the will we talked about shall be prepared." " Next week, perhaps ? " said Sarah suggestively. " Well, next week — there. I dare say that I shall make one or two alterations," said the old lady, " not forgetting you and Tom." "Yes— but " Sarah paused, for the subject was a delicate one, and there was danger in details. The world was far from clear before her — she could not guess how the story of her life would end — what would become of her, or Tom, or Reuben Culwick yet. For years she had deceived this poor old blind woman as to Tom's character, and here was the retribution that had sprung from her untruthfulness. She had tried to save the heart-ache from one withered life, in her own wild fashion, and it had come to her instead. Why, Reuben Culwick had told her that she did not speak the truth on the second day of her acquain- tance with him ! " May I read to you to-night ? " she asked suddenly. " I am tired, Sally, and cannot listen. I don't think that I have been a very bad woman in my life." "No, no — why do you say that 1 " '* I don't know — it hi^ just occurred to me. And SaUy 1 " " Yes." " I am sorry that you think too much of him who is too proud to come here — this will end by your falling in love with a man who will never care for you." " My dear grandmother," said Sarah Eastbell in a whisper, " I loved that nlan when he came back to Worcester, and was kind to you." " Yes — but not in the way I mean." " I was afraid of him, but I loved him very deeply — I am sure of that. To keep away from him and not to know how he was living, has been a long, long torture to me. If I had only known that he had been poor and in trouble, twelve months ago ! — if I had not thought that he was happy and contented, fmd could wait }us time 1 " A DEEPER PERPLEXITY. 219 You know that." " This is the craziest kind of love I ever heard of." " Ah — perhaps it is," said Sarah, " but you understand now why I ran away from you 1 " " Yes." " And you forgive me for going 1 " " Well — yes — I can't help forgiving you. " Now try and rest. We shall have a great deal to talk about to-morrow." " You will come in early ? " " Yes." "Good-night, Sally." The granddaughter stooped and kissed her affectionately, and the old woman murmured — " There's no going away again, girl?" " Never again," answered Sarah ; '* good night." " Good night." Sarah Eastbell passed from the room^ and then stood reflect- ing on the sheep's-skin mat outside the door. A woman pass- ing in the distance attracted her attention, and seemed to shape her motives, for she beckoned to her cautiously, and even went a few steps towards her. " You should not have left your mistress whilst I was away," Sarah said repi ^a* pfuily, "she is too old to be left." " She wouii nc 6 allow me to remain^ ma'am." " Watcb = ' '.;s room till T return, and see that no one disturbs my grandno vlit r by passing noisily along zhe corridor." " Is she n >t veell to-night 1 " "Sheisfj.tigued." Sarah left Miss Hartley to marvel a little at the instructions which she had received, and went thoughtfully down-stairs, pausing now and then to consider the new position of affairs. Had she been successful, or had ebe failed? Would her brother and his compauion ge a v/ay in peace, heavily bribed to depart, or would Tom relViSe i>t tne eleventh hour to quit a relative to whom he wrui as cir^ely allied as she was, and from whose ucttlu ho had a rij^ht crv ar acipate as much advantage 1 From her death 1 Oh i jyvoi TTi ';admother Eastbell, if you were to die soon, how glad th«;.t xian would be, and what a differ- ence it would make to many lives ! Sarah paased into the gruden. She was hot and feverish; ^ 220 . SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. and the night was close. In the cool fresh air, she might be able to shape out a better, clearer course, if the current of events should turn against her and her projects for Tom's de parture from Sedge Hill. She had grown very much afraid of him, of late days ; she had lost every atom of confidence ; and the man whom he had brought into the house had been a well- known character in Potter's Court, for whom the police had made inquiries during her short stay there. A man, too, of some attainments, of talents misplaced, and a mind directed to evil ; who spoke more than one language, she remembere^^ have heard, and who kept his brothers, rough and despt: ;te characters as they were, in strong subjection to his will. It was this man whom she feared more than her weak brother — although she had disguised her sense of alarm from him. At Sedge Hill there was no safety yet. There were only three weak women in the house against two men who had taken possession of the place, and who belonged to a dark and awful world, looming beyond all honest life. She had left the house some hundred yards when footsteps on the gravel path arrested her attention, and checked her fur- ther progress. They were coming slowly towards her; and she shrank at once into the shadow of the trees, with the instinct to be unperceived and watchful. Trouble had come thickly in her way, and she must fight against it as best she might. There were two persons advancing in her direction— who could they be, at that hour of the night, but Thomas Eastbell and Peterson, plotting together against the peace of Sedge Hill 1 They were soon close upon her ; they could have heard her loud breathing had they listened ; but they were deep in con- versation, and unmindful of a watcher. The path was broad and white, and their figures were et ily distinguishable, as they passed on towards the house, striking at Sarah Eastbell's heait with a new surprise and an awful sense of treachery. Thoy were those of Captain Peterson and Mary Holland ! — the former talking in a low and energetic manner, and with no small degree of gesticulation ; the other listening wii i^ -ler gaze directed to the ground, and with her hands clasped- Sarah could see them plainly — on the bosom of her dress. There was a light gauze scarf on Mary Holland's head, and the endg ^ A DEEPER PERPLEXITY. 221 iSiuttered in the night breeze as she passed by. There was not a word which Sarah could catch at — it was a new phase of mystery for which she was not prepared, which seemed to place her very much alone in the world after the discovery. When they were in advance of her, Sarah stole from her hiding-place and proceeded in their direction, keeping to the shadow of the trees. She paused before entering upon the broad and open space of ground in front of the house where they were standing, and where Captain Peterson was still de- bating with the silent woman still looking on the ground. She watched them separate without a glance towards each other, the man entering the picture-gallery through the bay-window, and Mary Holland proceeding to the French window of the drawing- room, opening it and passing through. Sarah followed her, still clinging to the shadow, and making a wide circuit so that watchful eyes from the picture-gallery should not observe her. She reached the drawing-room, to find the blinds drawn before the windows, and the windows closed. As she paused to consider her next step, the shadow of Mary Holland was thrown upon the blind — a strange appealing phan- tom, with its hands upraised as if in supplication. Sarah's hand shook the window-frame. There was another pau«a, and then the blind was snatched iiastily aside, and Mary's face was pressed against the inner side of the glass. "Who's there r' " Let me in. It is I — Sarah," replied our heroine. Mary Holland unfastened the window and admitted her. Both women looked keenly at each other — and both wer i! 2S2 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. He's a good lad." as unsettled about her as I was when you came to me at Wor- cester, for she's an unsettled kind of child, and does strange things. I didn't want her to meet you, but she would run away at last." " But " " But I am not going to keep awake all night, talking at this rate," said Mrs. Eastbell ; " between the lot of you, I have lost a heap of my natural rest already/* " Shall we defer further conversation till to-morrow 1 " " No, we shan't," was the decisive answer. " Proceed, aunt," said Keuben Culwick, " what are your wishes 1 " " You know my grandson Tom has come to see me 1 " . " Oh, yes." " I have Tom to think of too. " Is he 1 " was the quiet rejoinder. " He hasn't forgotten me — I hate people to forget me, Reuben." " No one cares to be forgotten," said her nephew senten- tious! v. *• Still, Sally's right, and neither she nor I — nor Tom, for that matter — has any business with your father's money. I didn't see it quite so clearly a little while ago — half an hour since — as I do now." " But " " There you go," said the old woman querulously ; " what's the use of interrupting people whilst they are talking 1 When I got rich, Reuben, I grew greedy, somehow — as if riches, after all, were any good to me ! Wasn't I a happy woman at St. Oswald's 1 " "Yes." " I haven't been happy since then. When my foolish bro- ther left me money, he left me trouble too," she said, " and I was too old for trouble. Now about my Sally — a wilful, girl enough, but true as steel, Reuben." " What of her ? " said Reuben, looking across at Sarah, who sat with her arms cro'ised, and her face bent very low, like a woman asleep. " I think that I can trust you to see after my family, if I leave you all my money, as she wishes." ' BEUBEN S IDEA. 233 ^». " As she wishe« ! " echoed Reuben. " You are not likely to turn your back upon Sarah or Tom, because it is Sarah's wish that I give up every penny of my own free will. " Sarah is rash," muttered Reuben Culwick, " very rash." " I think it is overdoing it myself," said the old lady very calmly, " but what peace shall I have until it's done ? Has my maid put pens and ink and paper on that table t " " Yes." " You are a scholar — write out my will, Reuben, in half a dozen lines." "I am not a lawyer," said Reuben moodily, almost rebel- liously. " Put it all down to yourself — fifjehold, leasehold, money, pictures, plate — the old woman gives it all." " At her granddaughter's wish ^ " " And at her own — in common fairness, Reu., to my dead brother's son. There, write, and let me sign it." Reuben looked across at Sarah again. From the shadowy background she made a gesture of assent, earnest, imperative, and supplicatory. " And this strange idea is my second-cousin's 1 " Reuben said, still looking at her. " She trusts me so much, knowing so little of me, in a foggy dream of restitution. She thinks of my wrongs, at a time when I am learning to forget them. She accepts dependence, she risks poverty and privation, and puts herself entirely in my power." " Entirely," replied the old woman ; " isn't it safe 1 " " It is romance, not reality. A wild folly, and not the com- mon prudence that should regulate all lives. I will have nothing to do with it." ; Saradb Eastbell stood up, and came with two silent steps nearer to her cousin. The old lady struggled to her side, and seemed trying hard to open her sealed lids. " You won't have the money 1 " she said in a high key. " No." " How am I to get to heaven if you don't 1 Sally says that I haven't a chance if I don't act right by you," whimpered Mrs. Eastbell. " Sally is only frightening you, aunt," said Reuben, " and 234 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. Sally is a weak little woman who is terribly ignorant of justice, and who will see this in a better light some day." Sally shook her little fist at him in her anger at his obsti- nacy. ** He who writes a will in which he is interested, and by which he is to profit, does it at his own risk — a very great one in the eyes of the law, aunt," continued Reuben, " and after all the document may not be worth the paper on which it is written. Hence your will would get into Chancery, Mrs, "" ^tbell, de- pend upon it." " Then what is to be doner ' " I'll give you my idea," replied Reuben Culwick, "if you'll keep quiet for five minutes." " I don't think much of your ideas," said Mrs. Eastbell can- didly, " but go on." Reuben took up a pen, dipped it into the ink, and com- menced writing very rapidly. The old woman lay back and listened to the scratching of his pen upon the paper, and Sarah EastbelF, intensely curious, advanced on tiptoe towards him, and regarded him defiantly as he curved his hand before his work and looked hard at her, with his mouth twitching at the corners, as if his old aggravating smile were difficult to repress. When he had finished writing, he said— " Are you asleep, aunt 1 " " I am as wide-awake as you are," was the reply ; " have you done it?" *• Yes — now listen," he said. " * I, Sarah Eastbell, of Sedge Hill, in the County of Worcestershire, relict of ' " "Never mind that rubbish," interrupted Mrs. Eastbell; " what does it mean when you have got through it all 1 " " This," replied her nephew, looking at his second-cousin again, " that you leave all your property to your granddaughter Sarah." " No — no ! " cried Sarah, taken ofif her guard, and coming into the foreground, rebellious and angry ; " I will not have this jugglery, grandmother — I will not have this done." " Good gracious ! " cried the old lady, " are you here too ? Why don't you shriek a little louder, or fire a blunderbuss off in my ears, or something, Sally ? Of all the aggravating peo- ple in the world, I think you two are the worst, playing at REUBEN'S IDEA. 2S5 shuttle-cock with my money, and not letting me have a word to say about it for myself. I'll die without a will now — see if I don't ! And here goes, too ! " Mrs. Eastbell flopped wildly over in bed, and turned her back upon them. " See what your obstinacy has done ! " said Sarah angrily to her cousin. " One moment," said Reuben ; ** this is an idea, Mrs. East- bell, by which a large amount of legacy duty is saved. You can trust Sarah — so can I." " Yes, but how's it to end 1 " said Mrs. Eastbell. " Only in one way, and that I submit to your kind considera- tion. Aunt," he said in an earnest tone, " before I leave Sedge Hill, I shall ask your permission to pay my addresses to my Second-cousin Sarah. I am not worthy of her — she knows that ! — but I have learned to love her very much within the last four-and-twenty hours." 286 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER XII. DANGER. ' HIS was Reuben Culwick's coup de thidtre. Mrs. Eastbell rolled herself slowly over in bed toward the speaker again, and her grandchild sank into the nearest chair, and put two trembling hands before her face. There was a long sUence before Mrs. Eastbell said, in a husky voice : " You don't mean to say, Reuben, that you have been think- ing of my Sally V* ** Yes, I have," was the quiet reply. " That would make this business very straight and square," said the old lady ; ** and as Sally's fond of you — " " Oh, grandmamma ! I never said so," murmured Sarah Eastbell, without lowering her hands from her face. " What a horrible story-teller you are ! " cried her grand- mother. " That is, I never said — " And then Reuben's second-cousin was silent, fearful of what her grandmother would reply, and how much her grandmother had remembered of her late confession of faith in Reuben Cul- wick. " It is a mercenary match," said Reuben ; " I offer myself, without a penny in the world, to a rich young heiress, who could do much better for herself, and who is far above me in every respect — who is even too young for me, considering what an old fogy I have grown of late days." " You're no great catch for Sally, certainly," observed Mrs. Eastbell ; " but if Sally says she'll have you, it ends the bother of the money in a proper sort of way." " Suppose I talk to Sarah presently about this ? " " Yes, yes," said the old woman, impatiently, "and get on with the will ; I don't feel easy till I have signed it now." *' All your money to Sarah Eastbell, it being privately under- DANGER. 237 stood that Sarah is not to forget her brother Tom, or her Second-cousin Reuben," said our hero, taking up the pen. " Yes, Tom and you can both trust Sarah," Mrs. Eastbell replied. Sarah Eastbell was even now scarcely satisfied with the drawing up of the will in her favour. It was not what she had wished. Had she been less confused, less happy, she might have suggested fresh additions and conditions j but she stood on the threshold of a new world, with the man who was the hero of her life in the foreground of its brightness. She seemed to hesitate as her hands were lowered from her face, and Reu- ben said, meaningly : " And Sarah Eastbell can trust me, I hope 1 " " Yes," she answered to this appeal, " but the will should say-" " The will must say neither more nor less than that you are sole legatee. I will not have my name in connection with this money," he said, very firmly ; " and I prefer," he added, in a different and softer tone, "to be wholly at the mercy of my second-cousin." Sarah said no more in argument. If there were a man to be trusted in the world, it was Reuben Culwick ; or if there were a man less likely to be moved from his position, it was surely he also. After his own fashion he had oiTered a solution to the enigma of the future, and she for one could not oppose it. It evinced a perfect faith in herself — it asked for faith in him — and she was very happy. She had forgotten her brother Tom and Captain Peterson in the new whirl of ideas that had come to her ; her suspicions of Mary Holland might have lain months back instead of two hours for the trouble that they gave her. Reuben was at Sedge Hill, and there was nothing to fear ! She slipped quietly from the room, leaving Reuben with her grand- mother — first sign of that faith in him which he seemed to exact — and went down stairs into the drawing-room, to collect her sober thoughts together. It was a " deep think," upon which no one quickly intruded. Mary Holland was not visible, and the two men who had stolen upon the peace of Sedge Hill were still in the picture gallery, wondering, she thought, what Reuben Culwick 's pre- sence portended, and planning against its consequences. rSJil'M i BI! ass 238 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. She took her place before the fire, fast dying out with neglect, and thought of the end of all anxiety and uncertainty, and of the beginning of her happiness, with Reuben's love growing stronger every day, and Reuben's troubles at an end forever. She was an unselfish girl, who valued money very little, and yet she thought that Reuben's peace of mind must come with the res- toration of his father's wealth to him. She would accompany that wealth — strangest and most marvellous incident of all her life of changes, that this jaan who had saved her should open his heart toward ^r, and place her first and fore most there ! In her flush of happiness, bom of that cer- tainty, she strove oddly enough to find a doubt or two where- with to dash down her girlish vanity. He was going to marry her out of gratitude — to return unselfishness for unselfishness — reading thoroughly her heart, which she had not taken very great pains to disguise, and over which it had not been always possible to draw the ve^l She was not fit for him ; he was too good and clever for her ; only two years ago she was a poor waif, with a reward offered for her, placarded on the walls of Worcester ; only of late days had she stepped into the light, and learned to be a lady, and while acquiring that knowledge, Reuben Culwick, her preserver, had been neglected by them all. Her time for reparation had arrived late in the day, but it should be complete and lasting. All that love and money could do — and what wonders can they not perform 1 — should be devoted to the life of her second-cousin. This was the end of every trouble, and Heaven be praised for it ! She had gone deeper than this into thought before the pru. dent man above-stairs had finished the last will and testament of Sarah Eastbell, relict of James Eastbell, late of Worcester, of uo calling in particular. She had forgotten all danger in her love-dream, but she awoke suddenly to it at finding a figure standing at her elbow, wan and ghost-like, a something from the other world, she verily believed, in her first surprise and horror. Two years ago this being had lived — only to-night she had heard that she was dead — and she sprang up and went back with hands spread out against the wall, too terrified to scream. " Hush ! don't make a row — don't you know me ! " croaked the haggard figure, huskily. " Sophy—Tom's wife! ''^ ejaculated Sarah Eastbell. DANGER. 239 II Yes — but not dead yet — oh dear, no — ^black as Tom's coat is ! " she whispered back. Sarah glanced at her. She had not yet recovered from the shock, and the woman was terribly forlorn and ragged, with her death's-head gleaming from a battered black straw bonnet. ** How did you obtain admittance to ihe house ?" , " Through that window — it wasi unfastened." " You have come in search of Tom 1 " " No, no — to warn you of a danger — of an awful danger, as I live, Sally, to you arid your grandmother ! " " Great Heaven ! what is it 1" " I can't tell you here — I daren't be seen by Tom," she whispered still ; " he would kill me if he found me at his heels. Outside in the garden I can breathe a bit." " I will come with you." Sarah followed Mrs. Eastbell, who walked very feebly, into the garden, where a little while ago she had seen Miss Holland and Captain Peterson together. Was this a farther instalment of the mystery about her t — or in the shadows of the night would she approach closer to the truth 1 In thinking of Reu- ben Culwick, and forgetting every thing else, what valuable timo might she not have lost? — she who should have been watchful at all hazards of the men who she knew were dangerous. Thus from one mystery to another passed Second-cousin Sarah. ! '■ \ 240 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER XIII. SARA^ IS MISSED. I HE will of Sarah Eastbell was completed, and Hartley, the maid, with a second servant, was introduced into the room to witness the old lady's effort at a signature, made under considerable difficulty, with Reuben supporting her and guiding her hand across the paper. Reuben Culwick was particularly careful that there should be no mistake, and no ground for future objection to the will, for he read every line aloud to her in the presence of the witnesses, who saw after- ward that the testament tallied with the text. Mrs. Eastbell was blind, and there must be no doubt in any one's mind that she had signed a document setting forth her own especial wishes. What those wishes were might possibly be bruited half over the County of Worcester in due course ; but there was little oc- casion for secrecy concerning the disposal of his aunt's property. " It's a good thing done, after all," muttered Mrs. Eastbell, as she lay down, wearily. " It's brief and unlawyer-like" said Reuben, contemplating the will; " but I think it sets forth your intentions clearly, aunt. What shall I do with it? " " Lock it in that iron box ; the key is under my pillow," said Mrs. Eastbell. Reuben found the key, and locked up the will, restoring the key to its place beneath his aunt's head. " And now, concerning Sarah," said Reuben. The old lady did not answer him. She had passed into a deep sleep, and was breathing heavily. It had been a day of more than ordinary fatigue and excitement to Mrs. Eastbell, and she was tired oiit ; sleep was life to a woman of her age, and he wouLgl not trouble her again concerning the grand- daughter, or ask her any questions respecting the engagement. There would be time enough to-morrow to consider that, and Sarah«was waiting for him. k SARAH IS MISSED. 241 It a of He went out of the room, where he found the maid Hartley sitting by the door. " Are you on watch here ? '* he asked. " Yes, Sir. Mrs. Eastbell will not have me in her room, and Miss Holland has given me instructions to remain till she comes." ~** Miss Holland acts with commendable precaution," said Reuben. " Where are the visitors ! " " In the picture-gallery, Sir. They sit up half the night there." Reuben went down stairs thoughtfully. He had almost resolved to proceed to the gallery m the first place, but the temptation was too strong to seek out his second-cousin, who would surely be in the drawing-room awaiting him. He had a great deal to tell her now, and a little to explain concerning his past misanthropy, which had grown more strongly developed as she at last seemed to fade away more completely from him. Sarah Eastbell had been always on his mind since her illness in Hope Street, Camberwell — in the midst of his own troubles, brought about by being security for John Jen- nings, and by various failures which had followed, and which proved how luck was always dead against him, the girl in whom he had become interested was ever present to him, and though her early letters angered him by her pity and her offers of assistance — he who had been ever too proud to receive help — still he took it as an offence when Sarah ceased from writing and apparently forgot him. He had lost confidence in all human-kind save Sarah Eastbell, and she followed with the rest then. Prosperity had worked its usual change, and he was very poor ! He was ashamed now of the past, but why he had given way required a long explanation to the girl whom he had resolved to make his wife, and whom he thought had he only loved in real earnest a few hours. A few hours ago, in his Drury Lane garret, he had discovered her real worth, and the sincerity of her disinterestedness. A real heroine liad his Second-cousin Sarah proved herself to be ; he wished that he had been more of a hero to match — that he had fought more bravely against the impossible. She did not know yet what an obstinate and bad-tempered man he was, and how he had quar- relled with every body in turn after his father's death. He ■H 242 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. It \ would certainly give himself the worst of characters, and not win Sarah Eastbell under false pretences ; so peculiarly consti- tuted was this man's mind that he already began to feel that he was acting ungenerously in seeking to win the affections of a girl who was far above him in position. He did not recollect that he was the son of Simon Culwick ; he only remembered that he had sold his favourite books to raise funds to reach Sedge Hill that night. He must impress upon his cousin that he was " no great catch," as Mrs. Eastbell had told him that very evening. He went into the drawing-room full of these odd resolutions and found Mary Holland there. " Where is Sarah ? " he asked, after a glance round the room had assured him of the absence of his second-cousin. " Sardih 1 " said Miss Holland, springing to her feet. " Has she not been with you in Mrs. Eastbell's room 1 " " She left it half an hour since." " And you expected to find her here 1 " « Yes." " Wait an instant." Mary Holland left the room ; and Reuben remained, with a new perplexity to battle with, and rising doubts and fears to beat down. " I am getting as nervous as these women," he exclaimed, as he took one or two turns up and down the drawing-room ; " as if any thing were going to happen because Sarah Eastbell has not been seen by Mary Holland, and two disreputable scamps are in possession of my aunt's house. As if — well, what is it ? Why don't you speak ? " Mary Holland had entered the room again, and was standing at the door, a paler and more affrighted woman than when he had seen her a few minutes since. " Gone ? " she said at last. " What do you mean 1 " " That — that Sarah Eastbell is not in the house," exclaimed Mary. ** It can't be true ! " ejaculated Reuben. " Stay, let me think still. For Heaven's sake give a dis- tracted woman time to think ! " Reuben, in the midst of his excitement, remembered after- SARAH IS MISSED. 243 (( as imps is it] ^ding 3n he limed dis- ifter- ward that the demeanour of Vi&Ty Holland aroused in him for an instant a half-wondering interest, as in a dream of vague be- liefs and startling inconsistencies ; and then the trouble of Sarah's absence took away all thought of every thing else. " Her brother and the man he brought with him," said Reu- ben — " where are they 1 " *' They are in the gallery still ; they could not have left the room without my being warned." " They are in this plot, if plot therti can be," said Reuben. Mary Holland ran to the window and looked back at Reuben. " Open ! " she cried. Reuben and Mary Holland stepped into the garden, and looked round them. It was a dark, dry night, with the stars hidden now, and the wind soughing through the larches on the hill-side with such plaintive moanings that Reuben strove to catch the accents of his cousin's voice amidst them. " We shall find her in the garden," said Reuben, assuringly, as he strode along the paths, with which he was acquainted, and directed Mary Holland in a different direction. When they met again a quarter of an hour had passed, and they were no nearer the discovery of Sarah Eastbell. She had vanished away completely, as by a miracle, and Reuben stood discomfited by the drawing-room window. " This is beyond all guessing at," he said, with a half groan. " The window of the picture-gallery is closed and barred," said Mary Holland, " but they are there still." " I wiU see them at once," said Reuben. " Meanwhile send out the servants to search the country. There has been foul play here." " No, no ! God forbid ! " exclaimed Mary Holland. " He said — he promised — " " Who promised ? " asked Reuben, quickly. " Sarah's brother," answered Mary, after a moment's silence. " Well — promised what ? " said Reuben, fiercely. " That he and his friend would not in any way disturb the peace of this house, that they were here in all sincerity, that — " Reuben interrupted her. " Do you ask me to believe in that vagabond, Tom Eastbell 1 " he cried. "No." r Ili! ■:-..■ : 244 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " Or in his friend, whoever he may be 1 " " If I had not distrusted both of them, should I have written to you to come and help us 1 '* " Right," said Reuben ; " and, my God ! I fe distrusted in vain." " But I have not given up hope yet, Reu vously. " This T<^f*.y bp a coincidence away on some sudden errand. She whom we suspect are )yhere I saw th ' Send the servants abroad, as I men to me," said Reuben, passing from room, and proceeding through the room into ^, the corridor toward the picture-gallery. Mary HoUaii^ followed him, with the same white face and staring eyes, and-if was not till his hand was on the door that he perceived her. " Let me hear what they say," she adjiired. " I will tell you afterward. You are losing time. Summon the servants quietly, and do not disturb my aunt. Let her sleep if possible." She walked away again, and he watched her down the cor- ridor, perplexed by her manner, and then again forgetting it in the stern nature of the task which he had set himself, and in the deepening of the mist about his life. you have not said, ner- have gone and they ve these drawing- nd alone ! ;! i; • (' *f WITH THE ENEMY. 245 CHAPTER XIV. WITH THE ENEMY. S REUBEN CULWICK stood outside the door of the picture-gallery, he became aware that some one within the room was playing not unskilfully a violin. Ho turned the handle sharply the moment afterward, and entered. Yes, the two men were there. In the first light of the lamp, and amidst the thick haze of tobacco-smoke, he could perceive them. In the man* lolling in the arm- chair, with the meer- schaum pipe in his mouth, there was no difficulty in identifying Thomas Eastbell ; but he who bent closely and in a near-sighted fashion over a music book propped against the lamp was a stranger whom he had never met before. It was at him that Reuben gazed, distrusting him more at first sight than Thomas Eastbell, and approaching him closelyj in order to study every line upon his face, and in the hope of recognizing him within a hand's grasp. Captain Peterson continued playing till Reuben was by the table, when he lowered his bow, and said, with modest con- fusion : " I beg pardon ; I am short-sighted, and did not perceive that we had an addition to our company. Thomas," turning to his friend, " will you have the goodness to introduce me to this gentleman ? " " He is no friend of mine that 1 am aware of," said Thomas Eastbell, sulkily, " and I dare say he won't care to make friends with one whose character has been took away right and left, and without rhyme or reason. You are Reuben Culwick, ain't you ?" " I am Reuben Culwick," said our hero, sternly, looking from one to the other. " I don't bear you ill-will, mind," said Tom. " When I was in trouble once in Potter's Court, and the police came, and you might have made mischief out of a little bit of innersent chaff we had together — the purest bit of fun — you stood by me like mm :•; 246 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. ii) 1 1 H i,| iii'i If >> H i !'* a trump, and I'll shake hands with you, if you ask me, just for my sister's sake." " Which of you two men will save himself from jail by tell- ing me where Sarah Eastbell is ? " thundered forth Reuben Culwick. Thomas Eastbell's lower jaw dropped at Mr. Culwick's vehem- ence, and his semblance of astonishment was admirably feigned, unless he was astonished in real earnest. Captain Peterson put his violin and bow on the table, and sat down with his hands upon his knees, in the attitude of one who anticipated a narra- tive of great interest to follow. " Where Sarah Eastbell is ! " said Peterson. *' Why do you put such an extraordinary question to us, Sir, and accompanied by such a threat as the jail 1 " " She is not in the house, and you two know where she has gone." " Miss Eastbell was in the drawing-room a quarter of an hour ago, when I stepped in for my violin," said Peterson ; " surely she has not left the house since. There must be some mistake, Mr. Culwick ; and, mistake or not, you will excuse me for pro- testing against your manner of addressing Mrs. Eastbell's guests." Captain Peterson spoke with a fi'ltering voice and with con- siderable warmth, as a man might do whose feelings had been unnecessarily wounded, and Reuben Culwick regarded him with graver interest. Here was a being to be wary of, if this were acting — if all this were part and parcel of the plot by which his second-cousin had been spirited away. " May I inquire your name 1 " said Reuben. " My name is Peterson, Sir — Captain Peterson, of the mer- chant service — a friend of Thomas Eastbell's, and if not an old friend, still one who does not feel disposed to allow him to be browbeaten without a word of protest." " I can take my own part, Ned ; you speak up for yourself, when called upon," said Thomas Eastbell, as he puffed at the stem of his meerschaum with grave composure. " Peterson," muttered Reuben, half aloud. The name was wholly unfamiliar to him : it had not been mentioned on that night in Potter's Court, and only incidentally some days after- ward by Lucy Jennings, when it had not lingered in his I;'!'! I WITH THE ENEMY. 247 that ifter- his memory. Captain Peterson's dark eyes peered from under liis brows at Mr. Culwick as he repeated his name in a low tone, and there was the faintest smile of satisfaction flickering ovtT his fresh-coloured face at the discomfiture expressed on Reuben's. *' You both deny all knowledge of my cousin's disappearance V said Reuben. " We do," said Peterson, with grave politeness ; "and Tom took his oath upon it at once, by way of adding force to his denial. And now, Sir, perhaps you will tell us what has hap- pened." " And relieve a brother's anxiety," added Tom. " She's the only sister that I have got in the world, and we have always been very fond of one another.' " You overdo your anxiety," said Reuben, dryly, " and I am still suspicious of you. Sarah Eastbell has disappeared sud- denly from this house — within the last half hour — and you are the men of whom she has been in fear. To that fact I swear before a magistrate to morrow." Thomas Eastbell put his pipe upon the mantelpiece, and writhed uneasily in his chair. Captain Peterson shrugged his shoulders with an air of supreme indifference to Reuben's warn- ing. " Mr. Culwick," said Peterson, with dignity, " once again I must protest against the unfriendly position which you assume towards us. It is unjust — nay, I will go so far as to say that it is wholly unjustifiable." " To-morrow the police will search the house and grounds for traces of her. I telegrtiph to-morrow to Scotland Yard for one of its ablest officers to meet us here." Thomas Eastbell was heard to mutter a malediction of the most violent kind upon his second -cousin's promptitude, but his friend turned quickly to him, and said. " Don't give way, Thomas. Don't let your sensibilities get the better of you, and lower your character before this man of many threats. You have been unfortunate in your early days ; you have had the frankness to confess it to jne, and the gener- osity to atone for it to others — but your later life is without stain or blemish. T.«et the police come : you can face them in your aunt's house — where this gentleman is more an intruder than yourself — without a blush upon your honest cheek." 248 SfiCOND-COUSlN SARAH. Thomas Eastbell put his hands in his trowsers' pockets, raised his shoulders to his ears, and considered the question very deeply. •' Oh yes, I can do that," he said,' in an aggrieved tone, at last ; " but what right has this chap to fill my house — I mean ray aunt's house — with a cussed lot of cusseder perlice, and make this row about my sister's larks 1 Hasn't she run away before from grandmother? — isn't she always cutting off? — didn't she go with me once to London 1 — wasn't she off again when we first came here 1 — is her actions to be accounted for, or to be surprised at, that all Wooster is to be up in harms about it 1 " " Exactly, Tom, exactly," said his friend, " but take it coolly. You and I, who have been in this room some hours — barring my one minute's absence to fetch my violin — are above the insinu- ations of this gentleman, and there is no occasion to be excited by them." " At your peril be it, if she is not found," said Reuben, still more passionately ; then he strode from the room, doubtful in his own heart, and despite his sternness, of these men's com- plicity in the mystery of Sarah Eastbell's disappearance. As the door closed, Tom leaped to his feet, and wenti, across to his friend, whom he, clutched by the shoulder nervously; "Has she really gone ? '* " Yes," said Ned, coolly, as he took a fresh cigar from the box on the table, " fortune has favoured us, and she has left your grandmother's establishment." " There must be no harm done to her," Tom said, trembling ; " I won't have her hurt, I swear." " You left all to me, Tom Eastbell," said Captain Peterson, lighting his cigar ; " it's too late to complain, whatever hap- pens." •* REUBEN LOSES FAITH. 249 CHAPTER XV. REUBEN LOSES FAITH. ^NLY one person slept that night in the big house at Sedge Hill. While Mrs. Eastbell slumbered, the inmates were astir, and not a few of them abroad, beating right and left for scraps of information, and failing in their object misera- bly. Sarah Eastbell had disappeared, leaving not a trace by which she might be followed. Reuben Culwick moved to and fro like a restless spirit, uncertain what to do ; but when the hour was late, and all hope of finding her within the house or grounds was wholly given up, he saddled the one horse of the establishment and rode away to Worcester. As he rode on in the darkness of the night, with the trees overshadowing him, and the black hills rising right and left, he thought with a shud- der, how easy it was for one poor soul to disappear amidst this desolation, with no one but herself and those who had betrayed her the wiser for her going. There were sheep-tracks and foot- paths across the hills, along which she might have been dragged by those who saw in her life a barrier to their advancement — there was the Severn, deep and treacherous, flowing on through the night's landscape, and what might its sullen waters hide from him who was in search of her ? He was not a man who took a morbid view of things, and put the darkest construction on a mystery ; but he was scarcely hopeful in that hour. Sarah had disappeared strangely and awfully ; he and she had been warned of danger, and were both on guard against it ; he had been sent for by Miss Holland in her fear of foul play ; there were Tom Eastbell and a companion in possession of his aunt's house — and there was a hundred thousand pounds or more trembling in the balance against two women's lives. Had not lives been sacrificed for one-hundredth part of such a fortune by men whose greed of gold had turned them into wolves, and was Tom Eastbell to be trusted even with his sis- ter's life when a fortune was at stake 1 God forgive him if he m Ml 250 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. were wrong, but he thought the worst and feared the worst in the first hour of his search for Second-cousin Sarah. As he rode on to Worcester he scanned the hedge-rows and the dry ditches for a trace of her ; he turned into yawning lanes where all was of an indistinguishable darkness ; he reined in his horse fifty times to listen to the noises of the night — the shriek of a distant engine toiling on with its luggage through the country to some bustling centre ; the rattle of the train, the rustling of the trees, the whirring of a night-bird in the long grass of the meadows, the yelping of dogs in the farm-house yards, as he dashed by. Once he rode down a narrow cause- way, between two high banks, into the river, where his horse stood shivering and snorting, while he peered along the water for a sign of life going with the tide; and baffled at all points, he found his way at last to Worcester, and went slowly, hope- lessly along its deserted streets in the direction of the police station. " It was seven in the morning when he was at Sedge Hill again. He rode back in hot haste, as if something unforeseen were to be thwarted by his quick return ; and he was prepared for evil tidings as he passed into the hall, and found Miss Hol- land, pale as he had seen her last, awaiting him with eager eyes. " What news ? what has happened since I have been away 1 " he exclaimed. " Nothing has happened," answered Mary Holland. " And you 1 — have you heard or seen — " He did not wait for the completion of her sentence. " There is not a trace of her." Mary Holland walked into the drawing-room whence Sarah had disappeared last night, and he followed her, and sank upon the couch. " You are ill — you have overtaxed your strength," she said, bending over him anxiously. "No — let me be," he said ungratefully. " I am only heart-sick, and crushed down by suspense." " You regard all this too gloomily." " The servants — have they heard anything 1 " " Nothing." '* What do you think they told me at the police station 1 " said Reuben, with a stamp of his foot upon the carpet that made the windows rattle in their sashes. REUBEN LOSES FAITB. 261 'And " I cannot guess." " That there was nothing in the case which waiTanted their interference — that they would make a few inquiries at my re- quest, but that I might rest assured that Sarah Eastbell had gone away of her own free-will." " It is possible," said Mary Holland, thoughtfully. " It is false ! " shouted Reuben, springing to his feet again ; " and you are not her friend to believe it. Great Heaven ! if I could only see my way more clearly." It was the cry of a man in despair, and its intensity thrilled his listener. " You loved your cousin, then ? " " With all my heart. There was no one else in the world who cared for me ! " "Hope for her now. She will come back, I, think," said Mary Holland, with excitement. " You must not give way, and leave us helpless here." He became stern and grim again. " No — I must not give way yet," he muttered. *' There is the old woman to sustain — to deceive." " Ay, to deceive ! Is that possible, in the face of so great a calamity as this ? " '* I don't know," was the reply. ** She is a child, and easily led. We must not tell her at once that Sarah is gone. She will not wake till late — and then her granddaughter may be back again." "You are strangely hopeful," said Reuben, surveying her moodily. " Can you believe in either of those men who hold possession of this house 1 " " I don't trust them ; but even if they know where Sarah is, I cannot think so badly of-them as to believe that her life is un- safe in their hands." " You do not know." " Not know ! " she whispered to herself, as she stole out of the room, and left Reuben brooding on the next step to be pur- sued. He sat before the fire where we, who are behind the scenes, are aware that his cousin Sarah was surprised by her sister-in- law, and endeavoured from his bewildered brain to shape out a scheme for her discovery, when the maid Hartley entered with IK.. iijl m ! 252 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. breakfast on a little tray, and set it down on a coffee-table at his side. " Take it away, girl," he said, with a shudder ; " I can't eat." " It was Miss Holland's wish, Sir." " I thank her," he answered, " but I haven't time or inclina- tion ; I mu?t be afoot again at once. What's this 1 " There was a letter lying on the tray, addressed to himself. The superscription was in a strange hand, in fine, bold handwriting characterized bj^ too many flourishes to be wholly satisfactory, and he took up the letter curiously. " Miss Holland told me to place it in the tray, Sir." " Stay one moment ; it may require an answer." He broke the seal and read the following epistle : " Sedge Hill, September, 18 — . " Sir, — After your discourteous behaviour of yesterday eve- ning, I cannot, with satisfaction to myself, remain a guest in your aunt's establishment. I feel compelled to withdraw from a position which it is incompatible with my dignity to retain. I have intrusted Mr. Thomas Eastbell with my kind regards to his grandmother, to whose hospitality and invariable kindness I am forever deeply indebted. My servant will call for my violin in the course of next week. " I beg to remain. Sir, " Your obedient servant, "Edward Peterson. " P.S. — If I should hear any thing of Miss Eastbell, I shall take the earliest opportunity of communicating with her relatives." There was a deep furrow on the brow of Reuben Culwick when he had finished the perusal of this letter. " Why wa« this man allowed to leave the house ? " he asked. Whatman, Sir?" He who calls himself Captain Peterson." I didn't know that he was gone, Sir." "Not know r' " Not that I could have stopped him, Mr. Culwick, as all the servants were away when I saw him last." (( (( (( REUBEN LOSES FAITH. 253 shall her rick Iked. the " When was that 1" " At five o'clock this morning. He was talking to Miss Holland — here, just where I stand, Sir — and I think that they were having a few words. I don't knotv for certain, but I think so. « « (( With Miss Holland," said Reuben Culwick. " They were together in this room 1 " " Yes." And quarrelling i " Hardly quarrelling. 1 could not hear a word, they spoke so low ; but I tried hard, Sir, I did indeed ! " •* You suspected them 1 " said Reuben, quickly. " N-no, Sir, I don't say that," was the quick answer, as the woman flinched before his steady gaze ; " but I was curious of course. It's all in such a muddle. Sir. just now, and Miss Holland's very kind ; she's been always very kind to all of us, but I wanted to hear what they had to say, because poor Miss Sarah — I can't help calling her poor Miss Sarah somehow — was angry at those two being together in the garden last night." " Those two — which two ? " " Miss Holland and the captain," " Sarah was angry," repeated Reuben — " with whom 1 " " With Miss Holland, just before you came. She said she couldn't trust her. I heard that as I was passing with my mistress's gruel, quite by accident." " That will do," said Reuben, moodily ; " don't say any more. I will wait for Miss Holland." " Shall I tell her that you want to see her, Sir T' " Ay, do," was the reply. When the maid had withdrawn, Reuben leaned his elbows on the coffee-table, clutched his beard, and stared before him at the opposite vidndow, where last night Sarah Eastbell had passed through, ghost fashion, to a fate at which no one guessed. Here was a new mystery, a new complication, unless Mary Holland could dissipate it with a breath. What had she to say to Tom Eastbell's friend, that she must steal into the grounds with him after dark, and thus arouse the suspicions of his second-cousin ? He could remember that he had been sus- picious also for a moment ; that words that Mary Holland had said had struck him as remarkable, before the rush of events ■f- Ill iilil m 254 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. had carried him beyond them. What had he ever knoMm — what had Sarah ever known — of this young woman that he should put faith in her, after all ] He could have remembered many little acts of kindness and womanly courtesy if he had stopped to reflect — he did remember them, when it was too late — but all that flashed to his mind at that crisis was the con- sciousness of something kept back from him concerning the man whom Tom Eastbell had brought into the house, and from whose coming had followed awful doubts and grave perplexities. What did it all mean 1 If Mary Holland were not to be trusted, if this strange girl had for years deceived him, if his mother's warning were, after all, correct, what was to be done at the eleventh hour, when he was in great trouble ? The door opened, and Mary Holland came into the room again. " You sent for me," she said. " Yes," he said ; " in misery and fear I sent for you." " Indeed ! " " Sit down, please," he said. " I am anxious to ask you many questions." The old pallor which Sarah Eastbell had perceived stole to Mary's face as Reuben spoke, but she took the chair which he had indicated, and which was at a little distance from the couch, and sat down facing him. MISUNDERSTOOD. 255 own — bat he nbered he had ;oo late le con- tie man d from iexities. t to be 1, if his be done le room I." ask you I stole to vhich he 'rom the CHAPTER XVI. MISUNDERSTOOD. OW that Mary Holland was before him, Reuben Culwick found a difficulty in framing his questions so as to avoid all semblance of his suspicions at the outset. He could not look at her and doubt her, even then ; and he was hopeful of a rational explanation to it all. " Though we have not seen a great deal of each other in our lives, Mary," he began, kindly and earnestly, " still it is through you that great changes have occurred ; that I have lost my father's love, and home, and fortune." " Yes," said Mary, sadly, " that is true." " I lost the three without losing confidence in you. As I learned to respect you, I began to think of the possibility of many past mistakes on my side and my mother's. Of late days I have considered you the friend of all in this house." " I have done my best to be the friend," she answered. " Last night, and for the first time in my life, a suspicion seized me. I hardly know what it was. It would have passed away, but that it came again to-day, strengthened by new doubts. You see this letter ? " " Yes." " Are you aware of its purport ? " " No, save that it was written in my presence by Captain Peterson. Dare he — does he refer to me in that 1 " she cried, with the colour mounting to her cheeks for a moment, and then dying away into the old grey tint. " Not by a word. He i as silent respecting the past rela- tions between you as you have always been," said Reuben. Mary Holland pushed her chair back from him without ris- ing in her seat. " You know, then 1 " she said, in her dismay. " I know that you and he were conferring together in the garden last night ; that there is a secret between you which I ' i 256 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. ^■ %■ V. do not share, and which you have made no effort to reveal ; and I believe that man knows where Sarah Eastbell is, and is in all respects a villain." " In all respects a villain — yes," said Mary Holland, in reply. " Tell me what you know of him, and when you knew him first." Mary Holland clasped her hands together, and looked down. " I can not," she said, in a low voice. " He is at the bottom of a terrible mystery ; he has brought grief to me ; he is linked with Thomas Eastbell against the peace of this house, and you will not give me one clew to his life." " I know but little of him, Reuben," she answered, " and that I cannot divulge now. It is more than my life's worth to attempt it." " You fear him r' "Yes." " You know that Sarah Eastbell is in his power 1 " " He denies it all." " And you take his word, siding with him against me and the happiness of that old woman whom you profess to serve faithfully." " I have no confidence in any thing he does or says," said Mary Holland, fretfully ; " but my hands are tied, and I am helpless." " In not helping us, you betray us." " God help me ! Think so if you will, Sir," she cried, des- pairingly ; " I give up. I have done playing my old part, when you see fit to cast a slur upon me." " What else can I do ? " " Nothing," she said. '' I could not explain to Sarah East- bell; I cannot explain to you at this time. I can only say that I am a woman grievously misunderstood." " Miss Holland," said Reuben, " I am sorry, but I cannot trust you any more in this house." " I will go away." " For your own satisfaction it will be better, though I have no power here to command you to withdraw. I should watch your every action after this, and it would be my duty to put old Mrs. Eastbell on her guard against you." " Ah ! don't do that," cried Mary ; " let one'Jieart think the MISUNDERSTOOD. 257 veal ; md is reply. N him down. rought 3 peace life." , *« and , worth me and to serve rs," said id I am ed, des- rt, when ih East- nly say cannot best of me to the last. There will come a time for explana- tion, but she may not be living to say, * I am sorry that I did not trust you. ' " Reuben wavered at this outburst of passion on the part of his companion, and then grew hard again. She knew this Peterson ; she had been in secret conference with him ; she had let him escape from the house ; and she might be in league with him against Sarah Eastbell. There was no honest secret which she could not have confessed, he thought, and there was no honest motive which could afford to screen the man in that hour of tribulation. " Mrs. Eastbell never cared for me much," said Mary Hol- land, sadly ; " but then I have never been liked a great deal, though I have tried hard to be more than once. Ah ! it was all acting, and I failed — failed in every thing but in concealing the utter misery of my life till now." She broke down here, and spread her hands before her face to hide her tears from him. He was puzzled. Was this act- ing too ? he thought, till his generous nature sided with her, even against his caution. " Mary Holland, trust me with the truth." ** No, no," she cried, starting to her feet : " it is impossible ! You do not know — you cannot guess ! If it were Sarah East- bell's life at stake, I — I could not tell you — there 1 " " After that I have no faith left," said Keuben, very sternly. " It's as well, perhaps," she said, slowly ; "I am no use here after your avowal, and I will go away at once. Hartley is a good nurse and servant, and will take care of Mrs. Eastbell till Sarah comes back. I shall not be missed." " Till Sarah comes back," he echoed, scornfully. " She will not be long, I think — I hope." " You know where she is ! " cried Reuben, fiercely. "As I hope for Heaven, I cannot guess," she answered, solemnly. " Will you try and find her ? " " I am powerless," she replied ; " I know not which way to turn." " But will you try ] " said Reuben, persistently. He had nq faith in her power, but he was anxious to test her to the utmost, ^^ Not yd^^ Was the strange answer. R 258 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. i ** Be it so, Miss Holland/' said Reuben, turning away ; " I have at last lost faith in you forever." She did not speak again. She looked at him steadily for a few moments, and then went away, and up the stairs to her own room, at the end of the corridor, and it was some hours before she was seen again in that house. It was nearly mid- day when, dressed as for a journey, she reappeared in the cor- ridor, and faced Hartley, still at her old post, a womaii forever on guard. "You are a trusty servant. Hartley," she said, as she advanced; " but you must be extra vieilant, extra strong, and clever and cunning, while I am away.' " Are you going — at this time, Miss Holland ? " exclaimed Hartley, in surprise. " Yes — for a little while. I will write to Miss Sarah by next post." « To Miss Eastbell ! " exclaimed Hartley. " Meanwhile listen at this door — you are good at listening, I believe." " Oh, madam ! — I — What makes you say that ? " ''•All is mystery in this house, and I set you on the watch for all of us. If I have seemed part of the mystery too, it was your place to warn one who will soon be rightful master here. But listen now for me." " I do not understand, madam." " On the brink of many strange catastrophes that poor woman has slept in much security. It has been our mission more than once to keep the truth from killing her, and Heaven will pardon the fiction we have woven round her life, as I pray that Heaven will pardon me." At the door of the room she paused again. " Listen," she said once more ; " it will be your cue for to- day, at all hazards." She entered the sleeping-chamber of Mrs. Eastbell, and the sharp voice of her who lay there challenged her at once. "Who's there?" The voice was very light and crisp with which she answered. Yes, Mary Holland was an actress in her way. " It is only I," said she, in answer to her. " I have just woke up, Maiy," said Mrs. Eastbell, " but I am weary still." i nir ;"l for a o her hours r mid- le cor- Drever anced; er and laimed by next ening, I watch , it was ler here. it poor 1 mission Heaven I pray for to- and the iswered. )ut I am MISUNDERSTOOD. 259 (( rii " You must rest to-day — and to-morrow." " I shall rest till Christmas," said the old lady, firmly ; have no more running up and down those horrid stairs for any hody. Where's Sarah?*' " Do you want her ? " " No. I dare say she'll like to be with Reuben to-day. .I'll not disturb their sweethearting, not I." *< That's well. And do you think you can spare me ? " " To be sure." " Hartley is here. You like Hartley ? " " Very well indeed : a worthy young woman, Mary ; but she snored awful when she slept here. I couldn't bide her snores." " If you could spare me for a day or two — a week, perhaps ; I should be glad of a holiday, Mrs. Eastbell." " What for 1 Yes. Take a week — take a fortnight — any thing," said Mrs. Eastbell, with easy alacrity ; *' Reuben is in the house — and Sarah's back — and Tom's here. All I care for now — and all together." " But they are busy — you may miss me." " So that I know they are in the house, I shan't miss any body. When I want company, I can be dressed and go down to them." " And to-day you will sleep ? " " I shall be sleepy enough after breakfast. Those stairs would tire a horse, Mary." " Good-by, then." There was a true affection in the kiss she gave the old woman, and in the earnest pressure of the hand, but there was some- thing singular in it, for Mrs. Eastbell said, " Is any thing the matter 1 " " No — no— nothing. What should there be the matter 1 " " Where are you going 1 " Miss Holland paused for a moment. " To London," she answered. " Have you friends there ? " " Yes — one friend, whom I am going to meet." " Oh ! indeed. If you want any money for your journey, Sarah will give it you." " I have plenty of money, thank you." " Ask Sally to give you some, though. I shall want a cap i 260 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. from Bond Street — any price, so that it's becoming, and you know what becomes me, Mary. T)on't stand about a sovereign or two. And — wait a moment — 111 have two caps ; one for Mrs. Muggeridge, at St. Oswald's, juist to let her know I ain't forgot her." " Good-by," said Mary Holland again — " God bless you." " Well, God bless you, too, for the matter of that, child — but why — " " If you please, ma'am," said Hartley's voice, " she's gone." " Oh ! has she 1 What's all her hurry about. Hartley 1 " " The train starts at 1.30 from Worcester." "Ah, yes. But she's uncommon strange to-day. Uncom- mon," she added, after a long pause. " And, Hartley ! " " Yes, madam." " Ring for my breakfast. It's my belief they're going to starve me, now I have made my will." " Yes, madam." Hartley rang the bell, and then joined Miss Holland, waiting outside. " Where is Thomas Eastbell 1 " asked Mary, in a whisper. " In the picture-gallery." " Watch him still. Keep guard here till Miss Eastbell comes back, at any cost." " Till Miss East—" " Where is Mr. Culwick ? " " He went away on horseback an hour ago." " Has he seen Sarah's brother this morning? " " Yes — but Miss Sarah ? Do you know, then, that she will return *? " " She will return late this evening. Tell Mr. Culwic^i so when he comes back," said Mary, as she went swiftly down the stairs, and out of the house wherein she had spent nearly six years of her life, winning no man's love or woman's gratitude. TOM EASTBELL IS ALARMED. 261 CHAPTER XVII. TOM EASTBELL IS ALARMED. EDGE HILL was more desolate after Mary Holland had departed. Tbovigh Miss Holland knew it not, she had been the ruling agent of that house, for good or evil, for a longer period than that from v/hich the opening of our story dates. A forlorn little woman, set for ever under suspi- cion by an adverse fate beyond her power to resist, she was still to be missed when she had passed from the home into which Simon Culwick's charity had installed her. She was missed at once. She had remained the lady house- keeper in Mrs. Eastbell's time as in Mr. Culwick's ; no one had interfered with her jurisdiction, until the dark days came again, suddenly and swiftly, to this unlucky house. The servants knew that she was gone, although her boxes had not been carried from het room, and she had only spoken to Hartley of her going. This was one more change, sudden and unlooked-for — what would happen next at Sedge Hill ? The news reached Thomas Eastbell last of all in the house — when W^ills had brought him his lunch into the picture-gallery aftei he had rung for it, not before. It was strange what a sn'all amount of respect he had gained from the servants during his stay, and with what distrust he was regarded, consi- dering the trouble he had taken to make himself agreeable to the members of his grandmother's household. Still, in response to one or two questions, the news was elicited from the man- servant that Miss Holland had left Sedge Hill for good. " And a good job too," said Thomas Eastbell, frankly and inelegantly ; " what did the old gal want with her about the place 1 It's full enough now of people who've no business here, although they're making themselves scarce by degrees. Where's that Culwick 1 " " The young master, sir ? " ** The young humbug ! — the young pauper ! — the thundering W' 262 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. ail'' I ! ii i- !i i; ;! ■ t ii ■ I 1 •M t i > . 1 1 I big bounce ! ' screamed Thomas Eastbell with unnecessary violence; " you shut up about * the young master,' or you'll go next, if I have any thing to do with this house — which I may have — which I shall have, mind you — though everybody treats me bad here." " Indeed, sir ! " said the servant quietly. Mr. Thomas Eastbell was not drunk — scarcely half drunk — but he was excited, and he had paid a fair amount of attention to a brandy -bottle, which was on the mantelpiece, in the course of the morning. He was scarcely himself. He was not a jold man ; all the cunning in his nature — and a very fair stock of it he had — had been invariably impaired by a want of nerve at critical moments of his career, when a steady hand and a calm heart would have been worth a Jew's eye to him. He had been nervous since last night ; he had been perplexed, and surprised, and alarmed then, and he had not got over it. He was a man of no forethought, the end of this plotting and counter-plotting he was unable to perceive, and in his embarrassment he had taken brandy, which had given him courage to act upon the advice of Captain Peterson, and stand his ground at Sedge Hill. Perhaps it was best, but it was decidedly uncomfortable. Peterson kept him very much in the dark, but beyond the dark- ness there was money to be made ; he could hear the melodious jingle of the coin now — unless his imagination was too strong for hmi, and it was simply the rattle of the hand-cuffs with which he had been familiar at odd periods of his career. Yes, he had been nervous, and it had required ardent spirits to support him. " Where's he gone now ? " shouted Thomas Eastbell at the servant ; " can't you open your mouth a little wider, and answer my question 1 Where's he gone 1 " ** I think he has gone to Worcester again." " I hope he will break his neck before he gets back — that's all the harm I wish him," muttered Tom. The servant was at the door, when Mr. Eastbell's voice was once more raised a note or two. " Here ! — hi ! — wait a minute, will you" he screamed forth — " where's my grandmother ? " " In her room." Is she coming down to-day ? " I don't know, sir." <( (< TOM EA8TBELL IS ALARMED. 263 " Have game 1 " they locked her up away from me — is that their <( My mistress does not come down-stairs every day — some- times she will remain in bed for months." " Because no one tries to rouse the poor lady — that's it," said Mr. Eastbell with a sudden quaver of emotion in his voice, as he sat down and shook his head over the mutton-chop which had been brought to him. The door of the picture-gallery was opened by the servant, who found himself once more checked in his movement to de- part. " Here ! — hi ! — what au you in such an infernal hurry about ? " Eastbell cried. " Take my love to the old — to Mrs. Eastbell — and say that I shall be glad to see her as soon as she can make it convenient for me to pay my respects, and that I have important news for her — most important." " Yes, sir." Wills withdrew, but outside the door he shook his fist in the direction of the room he had quitted, and then repaired to the servants' hall without delivering the message with w' ich his mistress's grandson had entrusted him. Presently he would inform Hartley, who had had her instructions from Miss Hol- land, and Sarah Eastbell, and Reuben Culwick ; but there was plenty of time. If he knew anything of Mrs. Eastbell, he was certain that the old lady would receive no one after the fatigue of yesterday's dressing and undressing ; and it was already well circulated in the house that the mistress must not hear of Sarah Eastbell's flitting, a fact which the man in the picture- gallery was probably dying to communicate. Thomas Eastbell consumed his lunch with difficulty. He had no appetite, but it was necessary to keep himself up, the captain had said, and all his life he had believed in Captain Peterson. He fell asleep after his meal, and over one more tumbler of biandy and water, which he had the discretion to mix weak — as the Fates only knew what might hinge upon the next few ho^urs. He did not know — no one could ever charge him with anything, if he didn't know anything, could they 1 If he had never moved from the house — if he had been at Sedge Hill from first to last — who was there in all the blessed world to say a word against him i '"i gsammm j[i'f 2G4 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. He fell asleep asking himself these many questions, mutter- ing them over to himself like a man demented ; and when he woke up, they were the first words on his parched lips as he stared vacantly round, and fought hard to recollect where he was, and how long he had sat huddled in the arm chair, an an- gular distortion in hip, comfortless slumber. It was night, and the huge room was full of darkness, which had crept upon Sedge Hill before its time, or he had slept long and late, and all in that unsettled house had forgotten his ex- istence, were his first ideas when he began to remember that he was in the picture-gallery which Simon Culwick had built. What a heavy sleep his must have been, to be sure ! He had taken too much brandy after all then ; he had been a hideous fool when he should have been over-wise, and one fair opportu- nity which chance had given him had drifted by in his torpor. He cursed his stupidity as he sat there. He stood up, and tried to pierce through the darkness, and a sudden chill seized upon his veins, and turned him sick as he fancied that he might have woke up blind like his grandmother ! Why not ? — it was in the family — and all before him was awfully black and thick and impenetrable. It was raining outside too — that accounted for the hissing in his ears which he had awakened with, and which he had thought was at his brain. It was coming down in earnest on the ground-glass roof, which he looked up at, fancy- ing that he could see the panelled frames in relief against the denser blackness of the night. Yes, he could see them ! — he was not blind, thank God ! He felt along che marble shelf for a box of wax vestas, and only succeeded in sending his favourite meerschaum — which he had expended nine months in colouring — with a crash into the fender, where it shivered into many pieces, and over the ruin of which he broke into fres'.i oaths. Finally he groped his way towards the door, keeping his hand on the wall, or on the varnished surface of the paintings with which the wall was hung. He had made up his mind ; he would seek Grandmother Eastbeil, and tell her the truth, and more than the truth if it were requisite. He was being imposed up^. People of no principle had taken advantage of his slum^bers, and were setting his nearest and dearest relation against him. Reuben Culwick was at the head of affairs, and poisoning the public mind. TOM EASTBELL TS ALARMED. 2f)5 ;d and ichhe the ruin his or on 1 was lother h if it of no etting ilwick mind. Even the servants had turned upon him, and brought him no dinner, and left him in the dark. He came to a full stop once more, and fell against the pictures, scratching them with his trembling hands, in his alarm ; for the door behind him in the distance — the side door leading away from the corridor — had opened suddenly and* sharply, and was shut again as he glanced towards a fitful gleam of light which narrowed and then passed away. In that fleeting moment he had seen enough to scare a stronger nerve than his — for a white figure had glided into the chamber, and was advancing towards him, he was sure ! He had seen it in the dim light of the passage without, before the door was shut ; he believed that even now the fitful shimmer of white drapery was faintly perceptible, a moving mystery in the gloom of the great room. He remained silent and trembling till the rustling of garments assured him that something was approaching him with noiseless steps, that reminded him of the ghost in the Castle Spectre, which he had seen once from the gallery of a theatre. He made a swift plunge for the door in his horror. It was his sister's spirit, he was sure — she had been mur- dered by those from whose clutches he had made no eff'ort to save her — and she had come for him ! His last hour had ar- rived, and it was all over with his dreams of glory. " Tom Eastbell," said a sharp voice in his ears, " are you here ? Why don't you speak to me ? " ** Grandmother," he ejaculated, " is it you then 1 " ' _ " Can't you see 1 " " It's all dark — I've been asleep, and I couldn't make out who it was. Oh, Lor ! how you've frightened me ? " " Are you alone? " " Yes — I wish I wasn't." " Come here and sit down — we can talk best in the dark, and I want to talk to you." " I'd rather have a light, thank you," said Tom, who still had his suspicions that all was not right. He found his way to the principal door, and opened it, letting in a stream of light from the corridor without. He looked back at his grandmother, who was standing by the chair which he had quitted, a strange phantom enough in her white niglit-dress, with a counterpane wrapped round her toga-fashion, and trailing on the ground be- it /W 'Hi ■ 266 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH, hind her. Her big frilled night-cap was awry, her grey hair hung from it in mad disorder, and there was an awful expres- sion on her face, which was not pleasant to confront, even at that distance. " What's the matter ! " said Tom irresolutely ; " ain't you well "? What have you come down-stairs for, such a sight as this 1 " " I can't rest. There's something wrong, Tom. I'm unhappy." " Why ?" " They're all — you with the rest of 'em — keeping something from me. Where's Sarah 1 — oh ! where's my Sally 1 — tell me." " Wait a moment — I'll tell you everything," An idea had seized him at last. The opportunity which he thought that he had missed had come to him in this manner. There was no time to lose. J M' MORE SHADOW. 267 you CHAPTER XVIII. II MORE SHADOW. jN that particular day Mrs. Eastbell bad not been ren- dered comfortable in her mind by the expedients with which it had been necessary to beguile her from a tnith that might have killed her ofF-hand. Old age had awakened to more critical perceptions at a moment when deceit meant life to her, and there had been many questions hard to battle with and to baffle. Hartley had done her best, but her inventive faculty was speedily exhausted, and Mrs. Eastbell remained terribly wakeful and inquisitive. There followed no sleep to relieve guard, and Hartley's excuses for all things that were mysterious became lame and impotent, and at times incompre- hensible. Mrs. Eastbell had not been in the habit of asking many questions — she had taken everything for granted, and had had faith in the honest service of those by whom she was surrounded; but with the signing of her will had followed much perplexity, and, to all outward seeming, a complete deser- tion of her. She left off cross-examining Hartley from sheer weariness at last. Her granddaughter was walking with Mr. Culwick — she was asleep — she was writing letters — she was everywhere but at the side of the old woman who asked for her. Was it possible that, having signed everything away, the mistress of Sedge Hill was to be deserted 1 or had something happened which these ser\''ants were endeavouring to conceal, trusting to her blindness and her time-benumbed faculties 1 Some hours after luncheon she became suddenly very silent, and Hartley after a while stepped in, stood by her bedside, listened to her breathing, and even said " Mistress," in a low tone. " Asleep," Mrs. Eastbell heard Hartley say in a whisper to a second person in the room ; " she will sleep now for hours, I hope. Still watch her till I return, Jane." Jane, an under-housemaid, promised faithfully to perform •"J. 268 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. this task, and Hartley went down-stairs, glad of a respite from long hours of watchfulness. She had not intended to stay- away more than half an hour, but it had been a long and anxious time with her, and she was tired out. She curled her- self upon a couch in the housekeeper's room, and went to sleep immediately ; and the girl she had left in trust, after half an hour's duty, stole away to talk to the under-gardener, to whom she was solemnly engaged to be married next spring. Mrs. Eastbell heard her creep out of the room, after listening to her breathing, as Hartley had done ; and as the soft footfalls of the careless attendant died away along the landing-place, the old lady sat up ir bed, alert and eager. New strength seemed to have come to her in that hour of her suspense ; she had brooded upon the silence in the house, and the hidden motives for it, upon Mary Holland's words before departure, and the evasions of Hartley when she had become too curious, and the suspicion was very close to the old woman that something had occurred which everybody was hiding from her. They were over-wise, she thought — they had not calculated on her ability to seek information for herself ; she was not so childish and helpless as they would have her believe. If she did not act for herself, presently they would tell the world, perhaps her, that she was in her dotage. The blind woman struggled from her bed without assistance, put her feet into slippers, wrapped the counterpane round her, shawl-fashion, and crossed it once again upon her chest. She was too weak to dress, and so they thought to keep her there a prisoner, but they were very much mistaken ! She presented an unearthly appearance in that guise, but she was not going to study appearances, now that there was a mystery to be cleared up. If they would not bring the news to her — bad or good news, Heaven knew, but she believed that it was bad — she would seek the news for herself. She walked feebly at first, but gathered strength as she proceeded. Accustomed to the house, and sensitive of touch, there was no difficulty in finding her way to the door, and in proceeding down-stairs to the hall, and across it to the drawing-room, the door of which she opened and passed in. All was silent, all was desolation. There was no exclamation of surprise at her appearance, no response to her call of " Reuben ! " — to her wilder cry of " Sarah ! " She was I ! I MORE SHADOW. 260 »ite from to stay ong and rled her- t to sleep : half an to whom listening i footfalls place, the h seemed she had 1 motives , and the }, and the thing had hey were ler ability Idish and lot act for her, that issistance, ound her, st. She er there a ^resented not going cry to be • — bad or bad — she y at first, led to the in finding the hall, he opened There was nse to her She was alone in the house, she was sure now. Even the servants were away. She had encountered no one in her progress, and the only sound in the establishment was the rustle of the heavy counterpane, as it trailed behind her on the carpet. What could it mean 1 She was alarmed now at the desertion of her, and reached her thin hand towards the bell by the man- telpiece, pausing before she touched it, as she remembered that the picture-gallery was a favourite room of Sarah's, before Thomas Eastbell and his friend had taken possession of it for themselves. She should find her grandson there, unless he had run away with the rest of them. Perhaps she should find them all there. She went slowly from the room, crossed the corridor, and went steadily by the longest route to the picture galleryjas it gave her time to think, and to prepare for the worst, if the worst had come to her in her latter days like this. She reached the little side door, through which Mary Holland had passed when Reuben Culwick had called to see his father, at an early period of this history, and here she paused again, afraid of the truth at the eleventh hour — if the truth were on the other side of the panels — until her old spirit reasserted itself, and she en- tered the room, frightening her grandson almost to death, as we have already seen. The alarm of Thomas Eastbell recovered from, and the oil lamp on the table lighted by his hand, grandmother and grand- son sat facing ach other by the fireplace, where the fire had long since died out. It was a weu'd picture even then, though the supernatural had been dismissed from Tom's mind, and the reality was only before him. He did not like the look of his grandmother, huddled in the easy chair which he had quitted, with the countei-pane drawn to her chin, and her strongly marked face above it — a countenance which might have been chiselled out of yellow marble, so grim and deeply lined \vas it. A dead old woman, galvanized into a mocking semblance of life, and propped up in the easy chair, would have looked like unto her. " Now then — tell me all, Tom," said Mrs. Eastbell at last ; " if anything has happened, I can bear it." " Well, something has happened, grandmother," answered Thomas Eastbell with a wrench. *' What is it 1 I'm strong — I'm full of life — can't you see 'i " m ■Bi 270 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " I'm afraid of distressing you too much," said Tom with great solicitude ; " you're shaking like a jelly." " It's only the cold. You've let the fire out, haven't you? " " Yes ; I've been in too much grief to think about a fire," he said with a forced groan. " Grief about what i " asked the old woman, leaning forward so suddenly and eagerly that Tom drew back, half afraid of her again. " You're sure that you can keep calm ? " " Tom, I have been all my life the patientest of women — ask 'em at the almshouses — ask anybody, and they'll tell you." " Yes— I know— but " " You've a feeling heart, Tom — I've always heard so — and you will not keep me in suspense," she urged. " No," replied Tom ; " I am breaking it to you by degrees." " Breaking what ? " gasped forth Mrs. Eastbell. " Tke truth. I always sticks to the plain truth, as best and fairest to us all." " Ay, that's right, Tom, surely," said the old woman ; " and the truth is that " She paused, and Tom came out with the truth forthwith. "That Sally's run away," " Eh— what?" shrieked Mrs. Eastbell ; " run away — from ME? " " Yes — that's it — wish I may die I " asseverated Tom, becom- ing bolder in his statement as his grandmother put implicit faith in every word he uttered. " Run away — for ever, do you mean ? " exclaimed Mrs. East- bell in her highest key. ** Yes, for ever." " Ah ! don't say any more," said the old woman piteously ; " I'll try and die now, Tom. I don't want to live an hour longer." She raised the heavy bed-covering before her face, and hid it from him, and Tom was alarmed at the wail which followed her last words. " There don't try and do anything of that sort," he cried. " Pull yourself together, grandmother ; don't give up." " I was always so fond of Sally, Tom." " Yes — so was I," he exclaimed ; " but if she don't deserve MORE SHADOW. 271 our love, what's the odds 1 I've been cut up all day, but I'm getting more composed like. Don't die — that's what she wants — what she expects, p'raps — can't you see it all ? " The hands that were muffled in the counterpane were brought down with their covering from the face, which seemed harder and sterner now, and looked so like her brother Simon's, that any one acquainted with the late owner might have thought that he had come back in the flesh. " Ah, yes — I'm beginning to find out what a wicked and un- grateful world it is, Tom." she said. " That's right. Cheer up, and look about you." " She and that Reuben planned this, then ! They have gone away together, ain't they t — gone without a word ! " Thomas Eastbell hesitated in his reply. He would have been extremely glad to offer that as a solution to the mystery, and turn the tables against Reuben Culwick and his sister, but Reuben might come back at any moment and defeat his machi- nations. " No, they ain't gone," he replied ; " it's Sally and the cap- tain." " What ! " and Mrs. Eastbell's high note rang out again with startling shrillness, and vibrated through the room. " Yes — Sally and the captain — both together — ^^wish I may die ! " he said again with great solemnity. " How's that ? Go on," asked Mrs. Eastbell ; " I'm calm enough now. I'm iron — stone — hadamant, Tom." " 1 did'nt know that the captain and Sally knew much of each other, though they used to meet at my house two years ago, when I took Sally for a holiday, if you remember." ** I remember. Go on." " The captain deceived me too. I wasn't prepared for it, grandmother; I — I — I wasn't indeed." " Are you pretending to cry 1 " asked Mrs. Eastbell. " I am struggling with emotion. I can't help it." " You can help being a fool. What was such a coward and sneak to you, that you should cry ? " " Ah ! — then there's Sally too," said Tom. " Yes — yes — but go on. I am past fretting for Sally now, and she was more to me than to you. Wasn't she 1 " said the old woman passionately. ff. jij m .-..i%3 .V ^".o. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. ^ .A^4^. 1.0 I.I 1.25 ISO '"'■■ IM 2.0 U III 1.6 V] <^ /}. '<^. e c). VI c% ^ /. "^ > V /<;^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY 14580 (716) 872-4503 €^ A iV :\ \ ^ "what say more, to scream or to struggle. Two strong arms closed round her, and a cloth, wet and sickly with drugs, was pressed to her mouth and nostrils, by a merciless hand, that seemed to snatch her from active life to oblivion. It was an incomprehensible world into which she passed after that, with strange whirring noises in her ears, and a terrible pressure on the brain, like a soft weight, bearing down all sense of reasoning or perception. Amidst it all the faint odour of the drug pervaded the semblance of existence that was left her, becoming weaker at times, and then growing stronger, and tak- ing her wholly from the misery and treachery by which she had been betrayed. She remembered no more. She was conscious that she lived and breathed, but it was in a wild dream, of which she formed a part. She seer^ed to be moving without any power of volition in herself ; there were times when she could hear voices ; there was ever before her a dense mist, in which she once caught the glimmer of stars, and tried to pray to them ; and then the drug again, and the awful feeling of lying like one dead, with the knowledge at her heart that it was only a death-like aspect, from which there was no power to wrench herself away. When she came back to consciousness it was to a life apart from Sedge Hill, and those who loved her there. She was lying on a bed) with Sophy Eastbell dozing by the side of a 8( antily furnished fire. There was a narrow window in the sidi; of the room, with some boards nailed across it to keep the light of one spluttering candle from betraying itself to the night. The smallness of the room, the meagre aspect of the furni- ture, the dirty boards and blackened ceiling, the torn patchwork quilt, the woman sleeping by the fire with her head against the mantelpiece, were all parts of an old picture, which, combined with a hot, close atmosphere, with the smell of lead in it, was terribly suggestive of a past and woful episode in her life. Sarah supported herself on her elbow and looked around her dreamily, the horror in her looks deepening as she gazed. Was she blM^k in Potter's Court 1 Had it all been a dream of pros- peri^- with Reuben, and Miss Holland and her grandmother, th« neiftting figures of the hour, as false as the happiness which THE PRISONER. 277 apart lying antily of the jht of had seemed to be dawning on her life ? This was so like the old home that it was possible in the first moments of waking to believe that it belonged to her, and that the brighter days had only been a fallacy. She had not been saved. She was the girl who had passed bad money, and had run away from Worcester to Tom's home. She had thrown herself upon the bed in one of her fits of des- pair, and had cried and raved herself to sleep, and — then her hand fell on her stiff black silk dress, and not upon a ragged cotton gown, and there was deeper thought to follow. How her head ached I She clasped it with both hands, as if to stay the hammering at her temples, or to think the harder between the heavy beats ; and by degrees — it was an effort of some strength, with the old sense of confusion coming upon her, and rendering her giddy — she thought out the last chapter of her life, and where, and in what manner, it had ended in this chaos. The woman by the fire assisted her in her reverie ; the haggard pinched face was years older than in the Potter's Court days, and years closer to the grave. Seldom had a wo- man looked so near death, and been moving to and fro amongst the living, as this disreputable fragment of humanity. Years of life with Tom Eastbell and Tom's friends, years of penury and crime, and hiding from the police, had hardened and de- based hsr ; she had fallen from her level to a lower depth ; one could see it at a glance. In the thin mouth, firmly compressed even in her sleep, Sarah Eastbell read no sign of mercy. Suddenly Sophy woke up and and gave a nervous jump in her chair at finding her sister-in-law crouched upon the bed, with her great dark eyes glaring at her. " Where have you brought me 1 Why am I in this dreadful place 1 " Sarah asked in an eager voice. " You've come round, have you 1 " said Sophy. " Well, I am glad of that. Blest if I didn't think they'd overdone it with their klory-what's-its-name, and sent you bang off afore they meant it." " They f Who are they ? " was Sarah's next question. " Ah ! that's it. I can't tell you. It's more nor my life's worth to say too much, and I ain't a-going to say it, Sally. I ain't a-going to " Her old cough seized her, cut short her utterance, and might 278 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. i;i'! 3 1, 1. .1 :'!• • ' have strangled her had she not risen to her feet and shuffled about the room, fighting for breath, and flinging her thin arms to and fro in the contest. " It's.the night air, rot it I" she gasped forth at last ; '' it allers catches me so, Sally. It gets on my chest and racks me orful. It's a wonder how I lived on all this time, ain't it 1 " Sarah Eastbell was sitting at the edge of the bed now, re- garding her gaoler with eager attention. The statement of the woman's complaints did not interest her in her own anxiety ; she had not listened ; she was scarcely back from dreamland yet. " Why have I been brought here ? " she asked less patiently. " You'll know in good time, gal. There's no 'casion for a nurry, or a flurry. Take it cool. You're safe enuf." " Safe ! " echoed Sarah. "As safe as in your grand 'ouse, to which you never asked one of the family — no, never !" replied her sister-in-law. "That's where Tom and I felt it, for we had taken care of you. We'd sheltered you, we'd been mother and father to you in Wal- worth. You was rich, and we was crawling on as usual, with- out a soul to help us in the blessed world. S'elp me, not a soul ! " Sophy took this as a grievance, and stamped her foot upon the floor, and raised her voice to an angry screech, until the cough caught her by the throat again, when she leaned against the wall with her hands to her side till the paroxysm was over. Sarah Eastbell was standing at the door of the room when she had recovered herself. It was locked as she had sus- pected. " It's no good your thinking of getting out, Sally," said Tom's wife ; " don't build on that, or harm will happen to you. That's certain." " Do you think I am the weak girl whom you remember last 1 " said Sarah, walking from the door to the woman's side, and clutching her tightly by the wrist, " or that I am to be frightened by this trick of yours, and of the wretches who have assisted you ? Do you know in what peril you have put your- self 1" " Oh, yes, we all know ; its all been thought on," said the woman ironically. " We're of the don't care sort, and have chanced it. You can't say it wasn't well done, Sally." THE PRISONER. 279 " Give me the key of that door, or you will fiud me the stronger woman of the two I " cried Sarah. '" Don't ketch hold of my wrist like that," cried her sister- in-law, " or you'll be sorry for it. You'll be sorry if I go away, or if any one down-stairs comes up instead of me, because you are too wiolent for my company. You can't behave like a lady, for all your fine flash silk. I have only to skreek out, and there are three men below who don't stand nonsense sich as yourn." Sarah Eastbell released her hold. Yes, she was in danger, and must be cautious. They who had brought her to this den had risked a great deal in entrapping her, and would risk more rather than allow her to escape. She must be prudent and on her guard, not defiant and aggressive. " I ain't got no key, if you must know,^' said Sophy as she returned to her chair and sat down ; " this is my room, and we're both locked in together. I'm to take charge of you, that's all, my gal, and think yourself lucky it's me." *' If this is for money, what money is wanted to let me go back at once 1" " Ah ! goodness knows, Sally ! I don't. We must wait till moniing.' " Why 1 " cried Sarah. " Tom will be here then, p'raps ; I say p'raps — mind," she added cautiously, " don't mistake me ; don't try to get any- think out of me ; it's no use." ** Open that window — let me tear it open, and escape. I will send you to-morrow a hundred pounds, and my blessing on you, for your help. You can't be against me, Sophy. You can't wish me any harm." " I shouldn't be here if I did," said the woman sullenly ; " I'm to take care of you — ^ain't I said so 1 I'm your right hand, so treat me square. As for that window, silly, its forty feet from the ground, and there's the river underneath to sink your silks and satins in." Mrs. Eastbell's bile had been seriously stirred up by Sarah's costly raiment. The silk dress was a deliberate affront to her own rags and tatters, and she resented the offence of her rela- tion being better dressed than herself, with all a woman's bit- terness of spirit. m> 280 SiSCOND-COUSIN SARAH, i{ What place is it t " Sarah asked again wonderingly. " A place of bis'ness," was the enigmatic answer. " Coiners — the old gang from Potter's Court — the Petersons," cried Sarah. Mrs. Eastbell did not answer. She warmed her thin hands at the fire, and a convenient cough prevented all possibility of reply. She was a prudent woman, and not likely to commit herself and her friends by responding to leading questions of this character. It was a very good guess of Sarah Eastbell's, though the captain's presence at Sedge Hill might have suggested the fact, but she was not going to answer her. " Least said, soonest mended," had been her motto through life, and though she hadn't flourished upon it, she had been the only member of "the school " who had not seen the inside of a prison. Sarah once again attempted to corrupt the fidelity of her invalid gaoler. " Will not money buy your help against the wretches who have planned this scheme 1 " she asked. " Sally," said Sophy Eastbell, with great gravity of expression, " there's no tellin' what money would do in my case, if I had the hopportunity — but it's unfortunit I haven't. I won't de- ceive a relation — I ain't got a chance to get you out of this ; I ain't got 'arf a chance. And don't say ' wretches,' " she added in a lower key. " What are they 1 " " Working men. You mustn't hurt their feelings, for they may be a-listenihg outside the door, you know." A gentle tap on the panels from without made good Sophia Eastbell's remark, and Sarah, still rebellious, ran to the door, a caged animal that would escape its bondage at all risks. Her sister-in-law called out that Sarah was there ready to break through, after which notice heavy feet were heard descending the wooden stairs. " You'd better take it easy," said Sophy ; " you must bide your tim&— it's no use going on like this. There's been too much pains to get you here, to let you off all in a flash. This has been thought on for weeks, and ony your going to London spiled their arrang-ements last Saturday. Now take it easy — it's the best adwice." THE PRISON KR. 281 It )phia door, Her break bnding |e your much lis has spiled 's the " Don't H))eak to me," snid Sar th, sliuddoring, " I will not listen." " Nobody wants to speak — nobody wants you to listen,'* an- swered Sophy. " I hope that I shall not go mad before God helps me," said Sarah despairingly, as she returned to her seat by the bed-side. Half an hour later the hand tapped against the door once more, and Sarah started to her feet again, with eyes blazing, and hands clenched, and her spirit of resistance to this injury unquenched within her still. Mrs. Eastbell screamed forth her warning again, but this time the knocking was re|)eated. " You had better let me see what they want," she said to her captive ; " you're safer here, I say agin, than in any other part of the 'ouse." Sarah resumed her seat at this injunction ; the woman's man- ner was impressive, and though she distrusted her, it was pro- bable that the truth had been spoken. She could make no effort at escape in this fashion ; it would but resolve itself into greater oppression and indignity. She had better bide her time, as Sophy Eastbell had advised her. She glanced towards the door as it was unlocked from the exterior, but there was only a long lean arm, with a dirty shirt sleeve rolled up to the elbow, thrust through the aperture allowed by him who held the key. There was a rush of hot air from the darkness beyond — the old hot metallic vapour which Sarah Eastbell knew so well ! — and then a basket was passed through, and the door closed and re-locked. " Here's supper, Sally," said Sophy, with a rusty little laugh ; " they are not going to starve us." " I will not eat or drink in this place." " It's safe enough, You're not likely to be piaoned." Sarah did not answer. She stared before her at the window, and at the rough planks nailed across it, and wondered what lay beyond them in the shape of rescue or escape. There was no sleep in her great dark eyes, no peace of mind or prospect of rest — the one thought, the one hope to get away, was overcom- ' ing the dazed feeling at her brain. Mrs. Thomas Eastbell sat down before the fire, with her bas- ket on her knees, and partook of bread and cheese and beer, pressing her relative by marriage, more than once, to eat and 282 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. drink, and not make a " young fool of herself," but Sarah took no heed. " Good lor' ! how much longer are you going to stare like that 1 " cried Mrs. Eastbell at last ; " my flesh creeps to see you, gal." The darkness of a blank despair had Sf.ttled on Tom's sister, and there was no reply; Sarah was thinking of Reuben Culwick, and her grandmother, and Mary Holland, of their anxiety con- cerning her, and of the impossibility of tracking hei to this haunt. A.11 then had been plotted for, and pi-epared against, by Tom and Captain Peterson, and others ; they had been weeks in hid- ing for her, Sophy said ; there was a fortune to be made, they considered, from her capture and her fears — perhaps from her life. What was to be the end of it all — if this were the beginning of an elaborate plot against her 1 If she could only see her way upon the unknown road a little ! How long she thought in this way, she never knew. Hours must have passed thus, for the candle burned low and was re- placed by another, which had been brought in along with the biead and cheese ; Sophy went to sleep in her old position by the fire, until the coals blackened and collapsed, and woke her, when she moved about the room, coughing and grunting, and muttering complaints against the hardness of her life ; the grey daylight began to show through the rifts and cracks of the planks, and a keen draught of air to steal into the room, as though an outer door were open and the cold morning breath had passed into the house to purify it of its grosser vapours. Sarah remem- bered closing her eyes, for an instant as it seemed, overpowered by fatigue, and benumbed by trouble, and then waking, with a start, to find the light brighter aiid whiter behind the window- planks, the candle inverted in the brass candlestick, and the room devoid of the presence of her brother's wife. She was alone at last. THE TEltMH OF RELEASE. 283 CHAPTER XX. THE TERMS OF RELEASE. I HE Spiriting away of a young lady from home without her consent, and withofM leaving a clue wherewith to trace her, is no light feat the nineteenth century, and Mrs. Thomas Eastbell had shown a natural pride in the neat- ness of the achievement. T» e, t}.<' hous' ^as five or yix miles from a quiet city, and wis desolnte Miough at all times, the hour was late, the circumstancef* f^ro opportune, and how to profit by the riches of old Mrs. £, iitbell and her graDddaughter had been the study of six months, but still Mrs. Thomas East- bell had something to take credit for. It v.'.hs a bold stroke car- ried out by desperate men, and it had succeeded whf;re a more timid line of policy would have assuredly failed. \V'hat the final result would be, it was difficult to surmise, and Tom' • wife was scarcely easy in her mind concerning It, though her ill-health, and a fair shai*e of human ittpacity, had left her with but little consideration for others. Sarah was to come to no harm — that the Petersons had promised — and Sarah was rich enough, and had sufficient means at her own disposal, to make the whole of them extremely comfortable. It would be easy to frightf'n Sarah Eastbell into anything, everybody had thought, until Sarah Eastbell was a prisoner, and her sister-in-law had found her difficult to manage. Time might work wonders, but then time was against them, and what a day or two might bring forth, to their discomfiture, there was no guessing at. It was to be a coup (TSiat and away with the booty in various directions, meet- ing never again "together — a real shower of gold, instead of neat little parcels of bad mvney sent with difficulty to friends residing in busy towns and cities, and sold at an alarming discount. It was the boldest bit of business that the Peterson gang had been ever engaged in, and the Petersons had been engaged, un- der various aliases, in innumerable shady transactions. They had come to " fresh fields and pastures new *' by adopting the 284 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH., fair County of Worcester as a sphere for their operations ; they had rented a tumble-down old edifice in a wild part of the country, aud put on the door the name of Jackson, and gone foi-th to the world as Jackson, Button-maker ; they had even made a few acquaintances in distant villages, and bore a respectable name amongst honest unsuspicious folk who believed in them and their buttons. No one visited them certainly — it was an out- of-the-way place, U) which nobody was invited, and where only button-making was the order of the day. A stray native or two had got as far as the front door, but had never been asked to step inside— it was all business and no pleasure at Jackson's. No one confounded the name of Jack- son with Peterson — and it was possibly good policy in the cap- tain adopting his own name when he went with Thomas East- bell tp Sedge Hill. It kept matters clear and distinct, though he had not bargained for Sarah Eastbell's good memory, or imagined that he was known to her by ^ght. The cleverest of men make their little mistakes, and this shrewd scamp, whose shadow falls on our pages for a while, was not infallible. It was he who unlocked the door of Sarah's, extempore cell at seven in the morning, and stood before her, the avowed agent of her captivity. Mrs. Thomas Eastbell stepped into the room after him with a few sticks of firewood in her lap, and pro- ceeded to lay and relight the fire, looking from one to another very critically, the representative of her absent husband's in- terest in the matter, and one who would see fair play on both sides. Sarah Eastbell was busily engaged when her visitors arrived. She had failed in removing the planks from their stout fastenings, and was now boring holes through the wood with the points of a pair of scissors, that she had found on the mantel- piece, with the evident object of obtaining a view of the country. She stopped as Peterson and her sister-in-law entered, and re- garded both of them very steadily and watchfully, holding her scissors like a dagger. Edward Peteraon smiled at the position. " Come, come. Miss Eastbell ! you think too badly of us," he said politely ; " there is no one in this pleasant country-house who Would hurt a hair of your head." " I am glad to hear it," answered Sarah. " I have come to apologize {or my friends' rough treatment THE TERMS OF RELEASE. 285 of last night/' he said, reclining languidly against the wall, and crossing his gloved hands, one with a very glossy hat in it, " and to express a hope that you have suffered no inconvenience from a temporary withdrawal from a home which you are ac- customed to adorn. I, for one," he added with a low bow, " should regret very much to hear one word of complaint." " This is your work then," said Sarah bitterly ; *' it is as I suspected." *' Pardon me," he said obsequiously, but it is not my work. It would be an act of justice to say your brother's, perhaps. I do not own to any complicity in this proceeding, and I simply come here as his messenger." Sarah shrugged her shoulders incredulously. " Tell me what my brother wants 1 " she asked. " Can you not guess ? " " Money." " If you will pardon me for correcting you once more, I would say a fair redress for the injury which you have done him." " I ! — but go on. Let me understand you, if I can." " Your grandmother is rich, and will leave you all her money." " You know that ! " cried Sarah. " And your only brother," he continued — " a man of many admirable qualities — will be left to drag on his life in indigence, and to die in utter abjectness of spirit, without you assist him as fairly and liberally as a fond sister should do." " If he had waited " " Pardon me again, but if he had waited till your marriage Arith Mr. Keuben Culwick, I am afraid that his chances of in- dependence would have been exceedingly remote. Thomas has not the least confidence in Mr. Culwick's generosity. I hurt your feelings," he added quickly, " but forgive me. I am ex- ert ing myself to lay the truth plainly before you, and to trust in your sense of justice afterwards." '* And yoa begin by kidnapping me ? " cried Sarah scornfully ; " do you think I am a child, to be deceived by your false show of respect for one whom you have helped to drag from her home 1 Tell me what you want 1 " " I do not want anything for myself," said this unselfish be- ing, with a light and airy flourish of his hat, " I am wholly 286 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. disiaterested in the matter, on tbe honour of a gentleman. But Thomas, who is in difficulties, wants fifteen thousand pounds." Sarah drew a sudden and deep breath, but did not reply. The thin face of the woman stooping over the fire peered round at her, horrible in its eagerness and greed, and the task at which she was employed was ceased at once. Captain Peterson continued — '* Fifteen thousand pounds only from that immense fortune which must come to you when old Mrs. Eastbell dies, the sim- ple conditions being that the sum must be paid at once, as your brother is very poor, and there is a balance of sixteen thousand three hundred and twenty-eight pounds lodged at your banker^s, in your name, for the convenience of a current account. It is an extraordinarily large sum to keep at one's banker's in my humble opinion, and the sooner it is reduced the better, Tom thinks so too." " How do you know what money is lodged in my nam6 at the bank 1" " Thomas tells me — ^that is all." " You have picked the lock of my desk, and seen the pass- book," said Sarah ; " well, the money is not mine." " It is lodged in your name. You draw the cheques." " To save trouble — that is all." ** What is your grandmother's is yours, and you can make use of it without any questions being asked," said Captain Peterson ; " you might even say you had lent that sum to Thomas for a while.' '' Ah ! I have been ready at excuses for him in my time," said Sarah bitterly. " Thomas sent me here with your cheque-book — he found that in your desk too, he tells me. You have only to draw a draft for the amount, and you are free. Miss Eastbell. I promised a friend of yours that you should be at Sedge Hill this evening." "Mr. Cidwickr' '*No. MissHoUand." " Is she in this plot against me ! " said Sarah.- " Miss Holland will tell you everything to-night," he said as he drew the cheque-book from his pocket, and pii«ued it care- lessly upon the deal table that was there, " I have left every- THE TERMS OF RELEASE. 287 . But inds." reply, round Bisk at )rtune e aim- s your msand nker's, It is in my better, ame at le pass- make Captain sum to time," thing fof that young lady to explain. It is a story apart from yours, and suits not my style of narrative." His thin lips closed together for an instant, as if with pain or passion—it was a momentary change of expression which did not occur again in the presence of his captive. ** Have you anything more to tell me 1 " asked Sarah. ^* I don't know that I have," he replied, " I believe I have faithfully performed the mission with which your brother has done me the honour to «ntnist me. I have only to assure you that you are in safe hands, and to remind you that had your brother Tom been of a less affectionate nature, or his friends more desperate, you might have been in peril here." He said this in the same light and easy tone, but there was an under-current of deep meaning which Sarah Eastbell was quick enough to take to herself. It conveyed a threat in the event of non-compliance. But with the morning had come to her a vast amount of courage, and of strength to resist. Now that she understood the position of afifairs, she was less fearful of results. " This money is held in trust for another," she said, " it be- longs neither to me nor to my grandmother." " If to Mr. Culwick, we — I should say, your brother Thomas objects to the title." " Let him ! " cried Sarah with a sudden outburst of anger. " Am I to understand then " " That I will not sign one of those cheques. Yes, understand that for your friend. You may kill me," she cried, " but you shall not touch a penny of Reuben Culwick's money." found Iraw a all. I re Hill Isaid as it care- every- 288 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER XXI. CLEARING THE HOUSE. APTAIN PETERSON, merchant service, received the ultimatum of Miss Sarah Eastbell with his customary sang-froid. He was a man whom it took a great deal to disturb, or who concealed his annoyance by an enviable sem- blance of imperturbability. He took his back from the wall, and set his hat carefully on his head. " After that, I need not trespass further on your time," he said, " I will communicate with Thomas at once." When his hand was on the door, he added — " I will leave you to reflect on the matter — reflection will bring more prudence to bear upon the question. I have taken you by surprise." "No, I have expected something of the kind," answered Sarah EastbeU. "There is no occasion for any haste in the matter,*' said Peterson coolly ; " take a day, two days, three days, to consider it in all its bearings, and how unjustly you are acting by a brother who has been invariably kind to you. This room is at your service, you are perfectly safe here. Good morning." He unlocked the door, and went on to the landing-place beyond, closing and locking the door behind him. On the landing-place he stood with the handle of the key pressed to his teeth, and with a graver expression on his flesh-coloured countenance than he had betrayed to her before whom he had laid the conditions of release. Finally he went down the rickety stairs, which were crumbling to pieces with the house, halted at the bottom of the next flight, and listened at the right-hand door, as though there were another prisoner close at hand. The door was not locked, and he opened it softly, and put his head into the room beyond, withdrawing it in silence, as if contented with what had met his gaze ; and proceeding down another flight of stairs, to a room on the ground floor, 61^ THE TERMS OF RELEASE. 289 where three tall men, in shirt-sleeves, were cowering befor^ a fire. They looked round as he entered, and three more villan ous faces, more horribly ugly and atrociously dirty, could not have been discovered in all the back slums of St. Giles's. If these men were Petersons, Captain Edward had taken the good looks of the family to himself. Mrs. Thomas Eastbell had been evidently right in her assertions of the preceding night — Sarah was safer with her than with the gentlemen down-stairs. Edward Peterson took a rush-bottomed chair from the wall- side, and placed himself between his brothers — a very different man to lum we have seen up-stairs and at Sedge Hill It was a fierce, hard, and merciless face now, to match his friends." " You've done your parts well, boys," he said in a quick sharp voice, " but there may be more to do." ** How's that 1 " inquired scoundrel number one ; " we've done enough now to get ourselves lagged for ten years." " I don't like the job," muttered scoundrel number two ; " I never did." The third blackguard leaned over a huge iron ladle, and stirred reflectively at a dull bubbling mass of metal, but did not com- mit himself to an opinion. " It's not easy," said Peterson, " but " — and here a blood- curdling oath escaped him — " it must be gone on with at any risk. Failure means Worcester Gaol, success means ten thou- sand pounds between us all." He had mentioned fifteen thousand pounds up-stairs, but he and Thomas Eastbell were keeping an extra five thousand to themselves. Edward Peterson did not tell his brothers eveiy- thing when money was in question. *' What more is to be done? " asked the first scoundrel, who was the worst-tempered and most disputatious member of the gang. At school — and he had been to a school once in Dublin —he was a quarrelsome boy, but dull of learning — ^very. " You will know when it's necessary," was the short answer ; ** at present the young lady is refractory." " Not frightened 1 'said the second scoundrel. "Not at all." The three ruffians laid their shock heads together, and swore in unison. ** She will give in before the day's out," said Peterson assur- T 290 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. - ingly ; " a girl of her age, surrounded by mystery, must give up. It's her money or her life, as in the dear old days of Rich- ard Turpin." He said this with some degree of enthusiasm, but his brothers . did not rise to it. Two of them looked at him vacantly, and the third went on stirring his metallic broth. " To tbink that you fellows are so near a fortune, and yet take it so coolly ! " cried Peterson reproachfully ; " to think that two thousand pounds apiece — two thousand pounds ! — does not warm your sluggish blood a little ! " " Ah ! " said the third ruffian between his set teeth, " we haven't got it yet." " It's a risky business," muttered another. " So is making pewter money," added Peterson, " but we have gone at it for years, haven't we t And what have our trouble and risk, our dies and galvanic batteries brought us in, after alU Two thousand pence — hardly." " Will the girl sign the cheque before the day is out? that's the question," asked number one, " for we can't go on like this." " I have said that it's her money or her life, and by Heaven I mean it ! " he said with another oath ; " she will be back to- night at Sedge Hill, or she will never return again. Mark that." He struck his clenched fist on his knee, to give emphasis to his words, and his brothers looked from one to the other again, and moved restlessly in their seats. " Do you think I have planned it all for nothing ? " he con- tinued, " or that I am a man to be played the fool with at the last 1 Is it my way 1 Is it Ned Peterson's style 1 Do you think any woman would prefer to be found in the Severn, to paying away money that she can afford to part with 1 " " We don't want to hear anything about the Severn," said the first scoundrel ; " you know what's safe better than we do, but we'll hav3 no hand in it. Dennis and I and Mike have talked it over, and won't go further than we've done already — there!" " You are ready for your share of the money, but not of the risk," observed the captain satirically. " The money was promised for getting the girl here. It's done," was the reply, " and a nasty job it was. I thought she was dead when we were coming down the river." tUK TERMS OF RELEASE. 291 i give Rich- others \f, and ad yet k that )es not « we ^e have trouble fter all"? ? that's :e this." Heaven )ack to- c that." lasis to again, le con- at the )o you ^ern, to »> said Iwe do, \q have ly— of the It's tht she " Poor fellow, you were nervous," said Peterson, still sarcas- tic, '' and you thought of a gallows as well, and of your amiable self dangling from a rope, in a private yard of the county gaol, with the reporters making notes for their sensation articles on your lamentable decease. ' A man who came of a good Irish family, but died unlike an Irishman ' — that would have been your epitaph, Barney, and much too good for you." '' Ah ! you can talk," said Barney, shrugging his shoulders, "you have been so much wiser than the rest of us, but divil a bit of good have you or we done, though we have stuck to you through thick and thin. But we can't be hanged for you, Ned — at present." " You fools, have I asked you 1 " shouted Peterson, springing to his feet ; " you've done the work I've set you to do, and I will pay you for it, and be rid of you. The money's sirfe, and I'll keep my word — as I always do, and always will. I don't want your help — you are in the way, and must go." ^ ** Go ! " echoed the men. " This house will be unsafe after to-night, and we must vanish before it's spotted. I will be in London to-morrow evening, at the old place, with your money. Can you trust me ? " « Yes. But if the girl " *' I shall be with you," he added meaningly, " and afterwards you'll go your way and I mine, and a good riddance to the lot of you." « But " " I have had enough of your company," he cried, as he walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets ; ** I will make your fortunes, and have done with you. You sneer at the grandest idea I have ever carried out successfully ; you tremble at the consequences, like a parcel of children ; and to-morrow night I leave you to yourselves for ever. And see how you get on without me, that's all," he added less grandilo- quently, and far more spitefully. The brothers did not reply — they had no arguments to urge in defence ; they were stolid scamps, who had plodded on per- sistently and doggedly in crime, and been ruled by a stronger and more audacious mind, until this audacity had U^ked of murder. Then they were afraid of him, and dad to seize upon a pretext for separation. They beUeved in his word too, for 292 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. there were a few striking antecedents that assured them he was in the habit of keeping it. It was time to be moving, before Worcester became a difficult place to escape from. Ned was right — the house might be marked at any moment, and the button-makers become objects of distrust, until the London police turned up, and claimed them as acquaintances. They would be glad to leave Ned to himself ; they had joined him in a little speculation that was out of their line, and its novelty had rendered them nervous, as Captain Peterson had seen for himself. It was high time to be gone. One by one these men drifted away from home, without a thought of Sarah Eastbell's safety, and with an immense amount of consideration for their own. It was not murder that troubled their minds so acutely as complicity with it, detection, and sen- tence. If Ned would take all the risk, he might murder half Worcester, for what they cared ; but it was out of their line, and they would prefer to return to London as quickly as possible, and wait for the money that had been promised them, or the bad news they half expected instead. Each man went away with a little carpet bag containing the implements of his trade, and left the furniture to the Fates. Each man suggested before he went an idea of his own for scaring Sarah Eastbell out of her wits and her money, but the ruling agent scoffed at their de- vices, and would have none of them. It was two o'clock in the afternoon before the last of the three men passed out of the house, and went away down the narrow lane which led from the high-road. Captain Peterson stood at the front door smoking a cigar. He was in excellent spirits, and he waved his hand to the disputatious Barney, who was the last to leave, by way of friendly salutation at parting. " They're gone," he muttered, " and they're better gone, no matter which way this affair is likely to turn out." He lingered at the door meditating on the great scheme of his life, and it was not till his cigar was smoked out that he seemed to wake again to action. The sky was overcast then, and he looked up at it and prophesied to himself that it would rain before the morning. He walked round to the opposite side of the house and gazed moodily at the water flowing some twenty paces from him, and at a boat lying on the long grass above th6 THE TERMS OF RELEASE. 29S river-bank. One glance at the darkened 'window in the top- most story where his fortune lay, he thought, and then he re- turned to the house meditating on the difficulties in his way, and of his genius to surmount them. He had been always con- sidered a clever and a daring fellow — what would they say pre- sently if he should get the money ? How they would all look up to him afterwards ! "What an end there would be to his pretty scheming life — what a chance of settling down in the world even, and trying his hand at respectability for a change ! He went into the house, and up-stairs to the first-floor room, wherein we have seen him gazo with interest at an early hour of the morning. " Bess," he said in a sharp voice, and at the summons a small thin-faced child, in a hat and cloak, appeared at the door. ** You have come back then, father." " Are you ready 1 " " Yes." Edward Peterson went down-stairs followed by the little girl. At the front door he said — " You were wise to keep to your room to-day, little woman, for they have been very cross, and Mrs. Eastbell has been worse than ever." The child shivered. " Have you had enough to eat up there 1 " ** I should think so ! " was the half cunning answer, at which the man laughed heartily. " That's right, Bess. Look after yourself in this world, for no one else will, as the world goes round. Now listen to me." The child looked up at him with a wonderful amount of in- telligence in her sunken eyes. " You must find your way to Worcester to-night, all by your- self. Two miles from here is a railway station — ^you know it, where the red and green lights shine out like big eyes after dark. " Yes—I know." " You have run about here a good deal, and know your way well, and you can find the station." " Oh ! yes," replied the child again. " When the train comes up to the platform, get in. When they call out * Worcester,' get out. At Worcester a lady, very 294 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. %■ pretty, and with hands full of toys, will be waiting for you at the post-office. Ask the way to the post-office like a woman as you are, and when yau see the lady under the clock, say, * Pa keeps his word — I'm Bessie.' You'll be glad to get away. I've been hard with you, and you don't like me much ? " " Not much," was the slow answer, " but " " But what 1 asked Peterson. " But the lady — will she shake me when she's cross 1 Will she beat me when she's angry ? " " She will be very fond of you, and you will call her * MotheiS' " said Peterson very gravely. " Mother — my mother ! " " You'll see soon," he said ; "now take care of that money." He placed some money in her hands, and she wrapped it up in a comer of a dirty white handkerchief and tucked it down the bosom of her dress, wrapping her cloak round her afterwards with all the carefulness and confidence of a woman. " All right," she said. " At the railway station ask for a third-class ticket for Wor- cester. Can you remember that 1 " The little girl nodded quickly. ** All right," said the child again, with a rare amount of con- fidence in her own comprehension of the details, which however he asked her to repeat, listening attentively to the recital. " You're a clever girl, Bess — you've some of your father's cleverness, too," he added conceitedly. " Now go." As he stooped towards her she cowered down, but to her sur- prise he put his arms round her, lifted her to hisiace, and kissed her. " I'm jiot going to hurt you ever any more, Bess," he said," " I'm not going to see you ever any more." " Shall I stop with you 1 " said the child slowly, as he set her down again. " What, not meet the lady, and the toys, and the new home for you that I've told you of? No, no, Bess ; you'll do better without me, she knows — and God knows. There, be oflf with you. Remember Worcester Station — ^the post-office — under the clock — and * Father keeps his word ; I'm Bessie.' " " All right," was the child's answer for the third time. She needed no second bidding to be off — it had not been so happy a home better with er the She ippy a THE TERMS OF RELEASE. 295 home that she should gideve for it or him, and there had been a promise of a glorious change for her, and a bright child- world. She ran off quickly towards the narrow lane, already full of shadow that murky afternoon — there was one glance over her shoulder at him, and then he never saw her again in all his miserable life. He had prophesied that it should be so, and he was right again, as usual ! r safety. Oh, Ned, I shall be hanged 1 " Tom cried. ** The old woman is dead, and everybody thinks I have done it. ^p^' .\ [1 I %i. m t 298 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. Here's a blessed go for an innersent man ! I never touched her, upon my soul; she died right off, bang, in the picture- gallery, and it was nothing to do with me. I wouldn't have thought of such a thing." " Dead ? The old woman dead ? '' said Peterson, surprised again at this avowal. "Ohl — ugh! — yes," he said, shuddering more strongly. " Her eyes opened sudden, Ned, and she was off. I shall never forget it. And then that beast of a woman, Hartley, came in when I screamed, and said I had murdered her. I was talking her over to make a will, when she died — that's all. Oh ! let's get to London." "^om," said Peterson with excitement, " you must go back. You . must not leave everything to that Culwick. The old woman has died naturally — the doctor will prove it — and you have nothing to fear." " Oh ! haven't 1 1 That's all you know about it ! " " You accursed idiot ! don't you see that you are rich 1 — that Sarah Eastbell was only between you and a colossal fortune 'i — and Sarah Eastbell is dead too." " Sarah dead too ! " screamed Tom Eastbell in his new excite- ment ; " oh ! don't say that. It can't be." " Hush ! Keep it quiet ; it is an eternal secret between you and me ; but she sprang out of the boat suddenly last night, they tell me, and was drowned." . « Good Lord ! " cried Tom Eastbell ; " let me think a bit. This is too much for me. I am going mad." " In a day or two they will find her in the Severn, and you will be heir-at-law." " What's that ?" " The owner of Sedge Hill, and of all the money." " They'll say I killed the couple of them." " Sarah ran away from home — everybody knows that — and came to harm by accident. There is nothing more natural." " Poor Sally ! She was a good sort,*" said Tom ; " and she — she's dead then. Thank goodness it was quite an accident — for nobody meant to kill her." "No." " I never even knew what game was up, until it was done — didU" A CHANGE OF PLAN. 299 bit. you -and 11." she bnt— me — " No, you did not." " Poor Sally — dead too ! She and her grandmother gone co heaven together, almost arm-in-arm. Yes, it's too much, Ned ! And all the money mine, too — that will be too much, too. I shall go out of my mind." " Get back to Sedge Hill. Is Reuben Culwick there 1 " " He wasn't when I left." " Get back in haste — at any cost. Say you were distracted, and did not know what you were doing — that you have been in search of Culwick — or a doctor. Get back." " Suppose they take me up for killing my grandmother ; that's what I'm afeard of." " Get back ; you are safe. Get back, fool, to all the wealth God sends you ! " . Edward Peterson's excitement was greater than Thomas Eastbell's now. He thrust him from the house ; he locked the door after him ; he tottered back to the room, and to a cup- board where there was brandy, which he drank eagerly ; and then he drew his chair very close to the fire, and sat with his hands upon his knees, panting like a man who had been run- ning for his life. Tom Eastbell would be rich — immensely rich — if his sister Sarah were removed from all the troubles of this world ! Tom Eastbell in his power — at his mercy for maiiy past offences — a weak fool whom he could rule implicitly, and get money quickly by. And yet fifteen thousand pounds at one blow might be as well, if he didn't keep his word with his brothers — he who had been all his life very proud of saying what he meant, and doing •what he said. Fifteen thousand pounds ! Well, all depended upon Sarah Eastbell's obstinacy now; and' it was time for action. It was her money or her life ; and if the latter, what excuse should he make to Mrs. Eastbell, so that that dull lonely house should be left to him, and to that deadly purpose to which he had steeled his heart in his cupidity 1 He would drink more brandy and go up-stairs. There should be no more acting, and no more half-measures. He drank more spirits, as if his courage even now required support by drink ; and then, with the light in his hand, he proceeded with a wonderful steadiness of step up the stairs. A i! y 300 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. strange specimen of villain this — for he went into his daughter's room first, and said, "Poor Bess — you have gone for good then," and walked out again, and up the remaining flight, with a very sorrowinl countenance'. He drew the key from his pocket, un- locked the door, strode in, and then stopped suddenly — a man struck, as it were, into stone by his amazement. The room was empty ! THE RETURN. 301 CHAPTER XXIII. THE RETURN. EUBEN CULWICK did not reach Sedge HiU till a kte hour, when the blinds were down before eveiy window of the great house. He did not dream of death at home whilst he had been abroad in pursuit of the living, and in the deep thought born of his baffled search, he strode up the broad garden path without being struck by the blank aspect of the mansion. He had been following phantoms all day ; he had been sent on many fruitless quests ; he had searched for himself unavailingly ; he had set others to search. He had telegraphed to London early that day to John Jennings, and to Lucy, instructions to discover for him what had become of the Petersons after their break-up at Potter's Court ; he had sketched forth in a few words the misery which had befallen him, and the suspicions which he had. He had forgotten in his anxiety that he had quarrelled with the sister, and was scarcely friends with the brother ; but then he was scarcely the cool matter-of-fact Reuben Culwick whom we have ever known. Romance had met him at Sedge Hill, and he had discovered that his second-cousin loved him, and that he was in love with his second-cousin, oddly, suddenly, and passionately, at the very instant that she had vanished, like a spirit, from him. In the great hall the new hard truth met him,|to begin with. Mrs. Eastbell had been dead some hours. She had struggled down-stairs into the library, and died there. She had been carried to her own room again, and the shadow of death was over Sedge Hill. " How did it occur 1 Tell me everything 1 " he asked, as he went into the picture-gallery, and Hartley followed him. The story was related, and he listened patiently enough, until Hartley became prolix over details, when he beat his foot im- patiently upon the carpet. He heard of his aunt's death, and of Thomas EastbeU's flight — of the suspicion which attached to I aaa? 302 SJECOND-COUSIN SAKAH. Thomas Eastbell until the doctor's ar-^ival, and that gentle- man's belief in the natural termination to the life and cares of the old lady — of the inquest that must follow her decease. " Where was Miss Holland ? " he asked, forgetting that his own words had sent one friend from the house until Hartley told him she was gone. She delivered Miss Holland's message to him also, that Sarah would return that evening she thought, and he looked up, and said quickly — " She was in this wretched plot then ! I did her no in- justice." His thoughts were with the living rather than the dead, and he walked up and down the great picture-gallery in his old restless fashion, planning and scheming for the morrow, and thinking but little of Miss Holland's promise. Suddenly he quitted the gallery, and went up-stairs to Aunt Eastbell's room, at the door of which Hartley sat as if the poor old woman needed protection still. " Why are you waiting here now ? " he asked. " If you please, sir, Mr. Thomas Eastbell has come back again. He has been looking for you, and for the doctor, he says — ^and I thought that I would sit here as usual. Oh, sir ! " — bursting into tears — " she don't seem dead yet." '* Courage ! " he answered. " Where is the man ?" " In his own room — changing his clothes which are wet." " We will not disturb him. Have you my aunt's keys 1 " " Here they are, sir." There was a little lamp upon the bracket, and he passed into his aunt's bed-chamber. Hartley remaining at her post. It was a solemn moment in his life, which he remembers still. It was his last duty to the dead woman, and to the wishes of yesternight, before the tragedy of life fell on them like a pall. To the living first, for the dead wait patiently. He opened the iron box in which the wilj had been deposited, and where a glance assured him that it lay undisturbed, and then he closed and locked the box again, whilst the thought came to him that it might never be of use to Second-cousin Sarah. " Has that man come back because he thinks so too ? " he . muttered, "i^ it possible that this should be the end of my father's money — of yours, poor worn-out heart, that never waa made happy by its acquisition ] " THE RETURN. 303 M into It stUl. les of )all. He drew the sheet from the waxen face lying in the bed. How like it was to his father's in its stem rigidity ! — what a strange end, and yet how common, to all the ambitions of one's petty life ! "If I have done you wrong, old soul, by my secret envy of your lot, or of your riches, or your place here, I pray forgive- ness now," he murmured. " Amen," said a deep voice at his side, and he turned at the solemn response, for which he was unprepared. A thin wo- man, clad in shabby black, stood at the doorway looking at him. " Lucy Jennings ! " he exclaimed. " You telegraphed to me this morning," she said, advancing, " you asked me many questions, and I have come to answer them in person." " It was kind of you, Lucy," he said, holding out his hand to her, " for I am in great trouble. See here too ! " " I see one lying apart from all trouble," answered Lucy coldly, touching his hand and then withdrawing it, sign of a hollow peace between them — possibly of her unforgiveness for past offence — certainly not of any reconciliation — " and one might rejoice at that, instead of mourning for her loss. Your aunt?" "Yes." " She who came between you and your rights." "Yes — if rights they were." "We will not speak of them now." They went out of the room together. Beuben Culwick locked the door, and gave the key to Hartley, after which Lucy and he descended to the hall, Lucy calm and grave. " What do you know of the Petersons ? What became of them after leaving London 1" asked Reuben eagerly, " have you found a clue to their ^dress?" " I think I have." " How did you find it ?" " Amongst my circle of penitents and of poor mortals strug- gling out of crime, there are many links of life to the dark world. I found friends to help me at once." " 1 am glad. But tell me " " Patience. If Sarah Eastbell has been lured away by these it! i m 304 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. Petersons, the clue to their haunt has been already pointed out." " Heaven bless you, Lucy but " " Don't bless me," she said tetchily, " I don't want your bles- sings — I think I am above them." "Well— well!" " Probably I bring a blessing to you — it is in there." She pointed to the door of the drawing room, and he said eagerly as he strode towards it — " Sarah ! " " Not she. It is something you lost before your second - cousin, and took as much to heart in losing. It is something that changed you — and from which dated your hardness, and your suspicions of me — first of all. It may be your own flesh and blood for what I know." " What do you mean 1 " " Reuben, I believe you thought I lost her — and hated me from that day. See if I have brought her back again." « It can't be that — --" He did not finish his speech. He left Lucy Jennings, and went with quick steps into the drawing-room, where on the sofa lay a child asleep, a poorly clad little girl of five years old, with her hat lying by her side, and a tangled mass of fair wavy curls thrust back from, her face. " Tots ! " he cried in astonishment. FORGOTTEN. 305 JL CHAPTER XXIV. FORGOTTEN. ES, it was the little girl whom Reuben Culwick had lost in Hope Street — who had been part of his life, and of his best life. When she had disappeared from his home something that had kept him strong and happy, and regardless of adversity, passed away from him alsci^ and changed him very much. The simple-minded, whisl^ej^^^drink- ing, blundering brother of the stern woman in the background had been very close to the truth when he said one night that Reuben had loved the little waif from the sheer necessity of loving something with the strength of his full heart. " Tots ! " Reuben said again in a lower key, and looking back at Lucy Jennings. " It is she — isn't it ? " " Yes ; there is no doubt of it." " How she has altered ! — how she has grown ! — how pale she is ! " said Reuben leaning over and kissing her." " Don't wake her. The child is tired out." " There's the little mole on the left cheek, too," said Reuben. " Its dear old Tots. Strange that she should come to me in the midst of so much trouble, and I should find her in this house. Tell me all about her, Lucy." ^' I met her in the streets of Worcester, near the post-office. It was raining hard, and she was crying because a lady had not come to fetch her. Her father had sent her to Worcester, she said." " Did she recognize you ? " " No ; two years make a vast difference in things. I had died out of her recollection and her liking, as I have died out of many people's." " Will she remember me ? " " It is unlikely—it is impossible." " She was very young when she went away, poor Tots," said Reuben, sadly regarding her. "Yes, I suppose it is impossible." u wm. 306 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. fi " She came with me in all confidence. I told her that I would take her to her friends, and she believed me." *' You are very kind, Lucy," said Keuben. " How is it that you do me these good services, and yet dislike me so much V* " I dislike the pride and anger in you," answered Lucy, " and they have turned me against you." "I am sorry." " I have had my great work to think of lately — not of the petty differences of eighteen months ago." " What, are you writing a book too 1 " " A book I — no," cried Lucy with supreme contempt. " I speak of my work of saving souls amongst the London poor. " I had forgotten." . " And I have forgotten them in coming to this place," i^ id Lucy. " I have done wrong, Heaven forgive me. I did not think," she added with more excitement, " that anything you could say or do would affect me for an instant now ; but when you telegraphed of danger, I thought that I might be of use." " It was of danger to one you saved two years ago — ^to one you loved." "I never loved Sarah Eastbell," was the flat contradiction here " I never liked her." "Why not r' " I don't know ; I can't tell," was the hasty reply. " I have never stopped to consider why she did not please Ae — ^why in many things she was opposed to me." " And yet you " " Don't say any more. I dislike to talk of these things now," she said. " I have learned to value this world as nothing in the balance against the riches of a world to come." Yes, she had degenerated, or risen, to fanaticism, thought Keuben as he watched her eyes blaze with the fire that was in them. She was a woman with a mission — always, in Beuben Culwick's opinion, an objectionable female, if the mission were paraded too frequently before e very-day folk. He was sorry, but he was never again going to be angry with her, or to sting her with a careless word. She was to him an incomprehensi- bility — she would ever remain so ; but he understood that her life was a sacrifice to others, and he respected her. " Lucy," he said, " I don't think there is any forgetting this world whilst we have duties in it. Your duty has brought you FORGOTTEN. 307 have ly in ingin fought rasiu juben were I sorry, sting Ihensi- lat her this it you to Worcester — the old friend whom I can trust, and who I thought might aid me in an hour of tribulation. We have both said hard things of each other in our day — we never could agree together ; but we have both believed, I hope, in each other's honesty and good faith. We clashed fearfully at last, because you grew more severe upon my faults, and because I had become a disappointed man, to whom extra severity was an affront; but, Lucy, for all past words of mine, for all past actions that have in any way aflFected you, I hope you will forgive me." Lucy Jennings tried to look hard at him, to show her firm- ness and her calm disregard of these mundane matters ; but she failed for once. She was only a woman, and Reuben's words touched her heart, and the past life in Hope Street, sor- did and unpoetical as it was, was a memorable episode that only the grave could close over. She would have shed tears some time since, but she was strong enough to resist them now, though they welled to her eyes. " I am glad you are sorry," she murmured ; " you were very hard and cruel, Reuben." " Ay, I think I must have bco^/' lie replied ; ** I wasn't my- self ; but you always would have it that I was fretting after my father's fortune, and it was nothing of the sort." " What was it then ? " asked Lucy, inclined to argue the question afresh. ** My ill-luck with my books for one thing, my Second-cousin Sarah for another. And now tell me what plan you have adopted to discover these Petersons — whether you think that " ** Tell me first, are you going to marry Sarah Eastbell ? " asked Lucy, interrupting him. " God willing, I am. But Sarah is away ; the best and most unselfish woman in the world is set apart from me, Lucy, at the instant that I discover the value of her love." Lucy was not to be touched again by any fervour in the re- marks of Reuben Culwick ; on this occasion the sharp face seemed to grow sharper, and the thin lips to close more firmly. " She asked you to marry her, I suppose," Lucy Jennings said almost contemptuously. " On the contrary, I asked the poor woman, lying so still up- stairs now, permission to address her granddaughter." 308 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " What could you see in Sarah ? " " A rare unselfishness, and a deep affection, I have already said," said Reuben ; " is not that enough ? " " Along with the money — yes." " If Miss Jennings will take the trouble to consider " began Reuben sternly. Then he started to his feet, and cried, " No, Lucy, I will not utter a word to wound you again. Say what you will of me and think the worst of me and my ac- tions, as you may. You are here as my friend, to assist me, and I am silent." Lucy Jennings rose and stood by his side. "Still, I cannot understand why a thoughtful, educated man should care for a child like her," "ihe said. " Or a child like Tots," he added. "Yes— add that if you will." " After my mother's death, Lucy, I had only those two fugi- tives to look up to me — to believe no wrong of me — and T gave them very readily, and gratefully, all the affection in my heart. It was love for love," he said. " Only those two ! Well, sir," she answered with strange coldness, " you were lucky to have two to love you, although one was a baby " — pointing to Tots — " and the other a young woman who, in her prosperity, assumed the manner of the patroness." " You talk in this way of one whom you have come to help ! " said Reuben sadly. " I was never afraid of the truth.'' " No, but you will make others afraid of it, if this is it. But there, I am silent," he said, as she drew herself up rigid and grim at his last taunt ; " I will not quarrel again with you — I will for ever call you my best friend, if you will show the way to Sarah Eastbell's safety." " You are too romantic for your years, Reuben," said Lucy in reply, "but I will not trouble you to keep your temper with me. See the child is waking." Reuben turned to the little girl, who had struggled into a sitting posture on the sofa, and was looking at them, all eyes — all blue eyes too — as Tots had looked at him in Hope Street, years ago. " Tots," he said, advancing to her, " Tots, old lady — don't you know me 1 " FORGOTTEN. 309 t " His manner was too impetuous, and his quick strides towards her were so symbolical of punishment for some offence which she in her ignorance had committed, that the child sprang up and ran to Lucy Jennings, burying her face in the skirts of her protector. " The child is frightened of you," said Lucy calmly ; " let her be a while." Keuben was dismayed. "Why, Tots, it's Uncle Roo," he cried, "old Uncle Roo— you know ! " The child still clung to Lucy's skirts, and would have none of his affection. He gave up, and walked away to the window. " You see how this kind of love lasts," said Lucy, bitterly, " and yet you value it so highly." " Because it set a high value upon me," he answered quickly. "It is. dead." " It will live again — it will come back." " And if not," Lucy answered, " there is your second-cousin to console you." Reuben could not bear this last taunt — from a woman whose misgion was to preach peace on earth and good-will amongst men, it was strangely uncharitable. He swung round with a dark look on his face, and Lucy knew the warning and drew herself up, ready for one more war of words with him. The opening of the door cut short the clash of arms. Ill I 310 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER XXV. UTTERLY CONFOUNDED. Qii T was Thomas Eastbell who advanced into the room with a forced and swaggering air, and whom Reuben Culwick and Lucy paused to confront. Tots clung still to the skirts of Lucy Jennings, with her face hidden in the folds. " Oh ! you're back," he said to Reuben ; " of course you know what has happened since you've been away ? " " Yes," answered Reuben laconically. " I've been looking for you everywhere — I've been running after the doctors — if we had a plague in the house, I think people would stop in it more than they do," said Tom Eastbell. " Have you heard anything of Sally ? " " Your sister is expected home presently." '*Eh!" Mr. Eastbell's lower jaw dropped, but it was a temporary re- laxation of the muscles, for he laughed and said — "J am glad to hear it. Didn't I tell you that it was one of her fly-away touches 1 Didn't I say all along — Who's this 1 " " My name is Jennings," said Lucy. " Oh ! you're Jennings. I have heard of you, but I don't know that we have ever met before." "Probably not." " May I ask what you want, marm, now you are here 1 " asked Thomas. " YouU excuse me, but since my grand- mother's death and Sally's disappearance — and until Sally re- turns — I consider I am the head of this establishment." " I am compelled to answer your questions if this is a true statement," said Lucy. ** Yes, I should think you were. True indeed — that's a good one ! Why, you don't know that my poor grandmother killed herself thinking about me," he said. " She was worried — she wanted to leave me all her money — and she died of disappoint' ment because she hadn't time to finish her new will." UTTERLY CONFOUNDED. 311 He addressed Lucy Jennings, but he was watching the effect of this announcement upon Reuben Culwick from the corners of his eyea. " It is Heaven's mercy that your grandmother died, then," replied Lucy to him. " What 1 " ''I have been making inquiries concerning you to-day, and I have heard of nothing to your advantage." " Who cares what you have heard 1 " he shouted ; " what business was it of yours to make inquiries ? " '' You and one Edward Peterson were in this house, from which your sister has disappeared," said Lucy. '' Amongst my congregation there were two or three who remembered the Petersons, and thought they could be traced. We are search- ing for them now under the name of Jackson." Thomas Eastbell put one hand to his shirt-collar ; his throat had begun to swell suddenly, and he felt uncomfortable. " Oh ! " he said, " if that's it you're on a wrong " Tots had looked round at the sound of his voice some mo^ ments since, but he had not noticed her till then, and then his voice utterly deserted him, and his eyes protruded in his amaze ment. He did not ask any further questions of Miss Jennings. The child belonged to Edward Peterson. He and his wife had had the charge of her once, and erown tired of her, and lost her in a Camberwell back street, where Reuben had found her ; and Edward Peterson had discovered hir a year or so after- wards, and taken her from the Jenningtes ; but he could not stop to explain that now. A few days ago that child was at Jackson's button factory, and she must have come to Sedge Hill with the news. He was caught in a trap again. He knew it had not been safe to return, but that fool Peterson had per- suaded him. They knew all, and were getting him into a line by degrees ; everything might have been discovered, for what he knew to the contrary. He must " cut it," at any risk. He would come back again if all were safe, but he could see Wor- cester Prison very plainly in the distance now. He backed to the door, prepared for a rush in his direction from that brute of a fellow with the beard. But no one moved — no one uttered a word to bid him stay and confess his rascality. It was re- markable ; but perhaps the police were round the house by this 's 1*1 ^ 312 SECOND-COUSIN SAllAH. t'me, and they felt that they were sure of him. What had happened, he wondered, to bring Peterson's daughter to Sedge Hill. Had she blown upon them ? — a child of that age ! The Lord forgive the depravity of a baby like that. He went into the passage and closed the door behind him. He took down a hat from the tree in the hall and put it on. It was Reuben's hat, and went over his eyes, and was alto- gether a bad fit ; but the sooner he was off the better, and where he had put his own hat he could not recollect in the pre- sent confusion of his faculties. All that concerned him materi- ally was his own personal safety ; if Sally was dead the child might have brought the news — might have seen him at the fac- tory two hours ago — and he might be hanged before he knew where he was. It was a dreadful business altogether ; why had he ever embarked in it 1 Why had he not trusted to his grand- mother's generosity and Sally's kindness, and come in a quiet way to Sedge Hill "J W^hy had he let that Edward Peterson talk him over all his life 1 He went on tiptoe to the front door and drew back the heavy bolts and the big lock. He opened the door and let in the wind and rain — and Sarah Eastbell ! Yes, it was his sister, with a shawl over her hair, and her face, white and wild, peering from it. She had come back — she knew all — he was dond for ! " Tom, you villain ! " she shrieked forth, at first sight of him. Thomas Eastbell went down on his knees at the same mo- ment as Reuben came from the drawing-room. "Oh, Reuben ! take care of me," Sarah murmured, as she went fearlessly to the friendly shelter of his arms ; " I have no one else." '' She could never take care of herself," muttered the in- flexible Lucy, as she followed Reuben Culwick into the hall. It was as Mary Holland had said, and Sarah Eastbell was back in her own house. THE BAD NEWS. 313 I, \i I CHAPTER XXVI. she no THE BAD NEWS. I HE great conspiracy was at an end, and Sarah Eastbell had baffled the conspirators. All that had been planned by Captain Peterson, and which Sarah's absence from Sedge Hill had rendered nugatory, all the new scheming to which that absence had given rise, and which was set in action with Sarah's return, had collapsed at the eleventh hour. Sarah was neither dead nor a captive, and Tom Eastbell was as far removed from prosperity as he had ever been. He had believed that Peterson had told the truth, and Sarah's death had left him heir to the estates, until his sister faced him in the hall ; where he thought at first that it was her spirit, pale, revengeful, and terrible. To know that she was alive and well, was only to cast fresh tribulation on him ; for life meant discovery of the plot, and punishment to those who had acted treacherously towards her. The Petersons might be already in prison, and he had walked into his own trap when the chance had been open for escape. It was like his luck. He had never known what was best for biF»ie}f, with all his cleverness 1 " I — 1 p •- i meant " he began, then he burst forth with — " Oh ! I am so glad that you have come back, Sally — so glad thn' > jai ain't dead ! " The djor remained open to th'^ night, where the rain fell still, i, heavy dcwn-pour with buu laint hope of cessation till the marning. " Were you waiting for the news of my death then 1 " asked Sarah with ii;dign5.tion, " I— I did not thmk that. 0\i ! no— but " Sarah Eastbel?. woulu hear r.o :.aore. She was mistress of the position, and strongor t'ian h j tiow. "There is your I'orU, T(>m," she said, pointing to the door, " beyond this housv^, a: d ar y love of mine, fi-om this day. You 314 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. I i could uot trust me — you set a snare for me, and called in rogues and villains to assist — ^you begrudged me my prosperity and my life. Now go." " But- u li I win not helMfeu/' she cried impatiently ; " thank Hea- nercuu] Vnees ; ven that I am mercuul enough to let you go away." *' What have I done ? " he said as he rose from his " who can prove anything against me ? If the Peter — Lucy Jennings' hard voice cut short his defence, and he backed from the woman to the open grounds beyond the house with every word she hurled at him. '* Tom Eastbell, some hours ago, in London, I gave informa- tion to the police where the Peterson gang were likely to be found — where you were, and in what way you were ^ tnected with them. You have not any time to lose." He lost no time accordingly. In the darkness and t 'le rain Thomas Eastbell disappeared at once, conscious that the game was over, and he was trumped out of play. If Sarah could for- give him all past trespasses— and that seemed doubt^il — there were other matters, foreign to her and to the thread of this eventful history, which necessitated his immediate retreat. He vanished away, a thief to the last — for he departed with Reu- ben Culwick's best hat rammed over his eye-brows. Sarah turned again to Reuben, her watchful protector, who would keep her for ever in his sight now, and as the door closed she linked her hands upon his arm. " Take me in, please — I am tired out, Reuben. I have fought hard to get home ! " He led her very tenderly and carefully to the drawing-room, where the presence of Tots came as another surprise to her. " You here ! — is it you 1 " she said wonderingly, as she sat down in the big arm-chair whfuh her grandmother had occupied for the last time on the preceding night. " Do you remember her, then — when you lay ill at John's house ) " asked Lucy. '^ I thought I kept the child aw|K from you." - ^& " I saw this child some hours ago," said Sarah ; '' it was she who brought a duplicate kev of the room in which the Peterao//. had confined me. I bribea a woman — who was vith me," she added after a pause — " ah ! forgive me, Reuben^ it was wivU K THE BAD NEWS. 315 too ! — to let the child unlock it and set me she J0f>'- she your money free." "Now God bless Tots?" cried Keuben; "she brings a blessing back at her first step towards us/V " She brings your second-cousin back JHaid Lucy Jennings calmly, and by way of a correction. " Tell me how it happened — how it was that you dis- appeared from all of us so suddenly," said Eeuben impatiently. He did not regard Lucy Jennings — he drew his chair to his cousin's side, took her hand in his, and gazed eagerly into her face. She might fade away again from his life, if he did not make sure of her. " Yes, yes," said Sarah, in answer to his questions ; " but grandmother — tell me first,' is she not very anxious about me 1 " Reuben stopped for a moment in dismay. There were stem facts on both sides, and the death of the poor old woman was one of them. He looked towards Lucy Jennings, not for help in this crisis which there was no evading, but to arrest her blunt announcement of the truth which he ^ared would at once escape her. But Lucy Jennings, though fond of plain speaking, was woman enough to perceive the danger of a sudden state- ment of all that had happened at Sedge Hill since Sarah had been away. " Your grandmother is not anxious, Sarah," said Lucy in a low tone. "IssheilH" *' No. She is not ill now." " Is she — ah ! you are keeping something back ! Tell me, please," she said in great excitement, " where she is. She is not dead — oh ! she has not died without a word to me V " She is in God's hands — and God keep you strong to bear the loss of her," said Lucy Jennings solemnly. Sarah Eastbell closed her eyes, and sank back in the chair like a dead woman. Reuben, a man wholly uncharitable — as men Agll be in stages of excitement which strike home to them, and.91 them of theii' self-possession — turned upon the poor preacher, who, in this instance, had done her best &t least. " There, you have killed her ! Are you satisfied now i " he shouted at Lucy Jennings. J am not satisfied with this world, or with ^f ou," was the ;1! !i 'hi ■ :i ill « rw^. i^mti. 316 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. cold answer, as she bent over Sarah, and loosened the fastenings at her throat. But Sarah Eastbell had not fainted ; she v^as only stunned by the truth, and she sat up the instant afterwards, eager for the whole story, and looking piteously from one to another. It was not in Reuben's power to break the news to her after all, and he left it to the woman whom his impatience had wounded. '* Tell her, Lucy. It is beyond me," he said. The tragedy of Sedge Hill was over, and he could not dwell upon i^ details, with Sarah Eastbell for a listener. In the early m ne^its of a great loss, he knew too well how vainly consolativ .. ks to find its way to the afflicted. He had lost a mother ul'. hard circumstances of life ; and his father had died in enmity, and he had not done his best to become friends with him at the last ; Lucy Jennings had told him that, as well as his own heart, which had been too proud to speak out. He had been in the wrong — he had given way like other men, when trusting too much to his own strength ; and he felt suddenly very weak and child-like, sorry for the past and for the present, but looking hopefully forward to a future beyond the natural griefs of that night. g0oh i^t Cfeirb. MANY CHANGES. CHAPTEK I. THE UNLUCKY HOUSE. [IME brou, ht resignation to the heart of Second-cousin Sarah. A few weeks after the death of Mrs. Eastbell, it was possible to believe in content, and look forward to happiness. After the storms of the latter days, had come peace to Sedge Hill, and more than one talked sanguinely of life's troubles lying back from their path. The hill was not steep, on the rest of the journey lay no pitfalls, doubts, or mis- conceptions ; only a few steps away, counted by the beats of full hearts, was surely the brightness and clearness of a day in which no sorrows could Uve ! Beuben Culwick was still at Sedge Hill, visitor and sentinel, and Lucy Jennings had not returned to her flock in the dark London streets. Reuben wrote his articles in Worcestershire, and Lucy's work for a while, and against her will, was left to earnest, red-hot deputies. Sarah had given up on the night of her return, and after the news of her grandmother's death ; she did not fall ill, but she gave way, and grew grave, despon- dent, and nervous, until the inquest was over, and " Died by the visitation of God " was duly recorded by twelve wise men. Thomas Eastbell was no witness at the inquest ; he had passed away from Sedge Hill, and though the inquest was once ad- journed for his appearance, he did not condescend to return and give his evidence. Hartley, who had entered the picture- gallery at the moment of Mrs. EastbeU's death, and the doctor offered sufficient testimony as to the natural decease of the old 318 SECOND-COUSIN SARAtt. lady ; and it was generally known in Worcestershire that there were valid reasons for Tom Eastbell's absence, without attri- buting to that gentleman the deliberate murder of his grand- mother. It was possible that Sarah in her heart had feared the verdict of a coroner's jury, had even suspected the worst, judging by the act of which she had been nearly the victim, and the antecedents of her brother's life. From the trials by v«rhich she had been surrounded, she had hardly emerged — and this old woman had loved her very much, both in her poor and rich estate. Still time brought its natural relief, and its fairer colouring to life. Grief cannot lie long at the heart of the young, and Reuben Oulwick i^as at Sedge Hill a different man from him whom . . ' had seen in London lately. It was the Reuben of old Hope Street days — not the ascetic who h?d shut ^fimself from his kin and offended Lucy Jennings ; it was ii,eubf5n Oulwick who thought of others and had belief in others again. His misanthropy had been engendered by many accidents, which he now condescended to explain, and at which explanation Sarah clasped her hands, and Lucy Jennings elevated her eyebrows. His father's death had brought him remorse for his share of disaffection, and Reuben had set himself in a worse light than he deserved ; then there had followed the misery of debt, and the greater misery of what he considered neglect, until Sarah Eastbell had stolen like a vision to his cell, and brought him back faith in human kipd. It was not the loss of his father's money — ^for he had always been prepared for it, he said — ^''though he had tried hard once to place himself in the worst light, and to set his Second-cousin Sarah against him by calling himself a moiiey-loving prig ! When Sarah had not believed in his self-disparagement, the man's heart had softened more rapidly than he had bargained for. There was more truth and less ingratitude in the world, and his second-cousin had saved him. Nay, more, his second-cousin had loved him, and all the past sank back like an ugly dream, after that discovery, and the future became full of golden promise. This was the end, he thought. He should marry Sarah Eastbell, live happily ever afterwards. Happy and rich ! It was the riches that furrowed his brow ; though, occasionally, the shadow of the THE UNLUCKY HorSE. 319 money fell across the path of his rejoicing — the eternal shadow of his father's money ! If he could only prove that he had never cared for it, if Sarah would not believe that she added to his happiness by bringing with her the wealth of which his father had deprived him, if the unselfish thought of transferring to him his inheritance did not add to her happiness so much, he should have been glad — man being a selfish and proud animal, that is never at rest until the smirk undertaker measures him for his last ireehold. Sarah Eastbell would di&codrse too much upon her own un- worthiness when she grew stronger, and would dwell toe elo- quently upon the riches which she would bring him on her marriage-day. They were eng<»ged to be married then ; they were betrothed, and had no secrets from each other ; they could talk of their future together in all that blessing of perfect con- fidence which comes once to most men, and lifts them for a while — ah I God help them, for what a little while ! — above the selfishness of daily life. Even the present condition of things could not last, and be- fore Sarah £astbell had given much consideration to it, Lucy Jennings, severe moralist, had called attention to the position. Beuben Culwick was in the garden then with Tots, and Lucy and Sarah were at the window, glancing towards them occasion- ally. Eeuben had won all the child's love back, without win- ning back one reminiscence of Hope Street. The child had faith in him, and had found a strange tenderness and kindness rising suddenly in a path of much privation, and she had turned to Eeuben with the instinct of old days. " This cannot last, Sarah," Miss Jennings said, so suddenly that her listener jumped again. " What cannot last, Lucy 1 " " This kind of life. When is he going away 1 " " Who 1 — Eeuben 1 " asked Sarah Eastbell, turning pale at the inquiry. « Yes." " Going away from here, you mean 1 " added Sarah, as if hardly able to understand the suggestion in its entirety. '* You keep him from his work — and you are strong enough to let him return to it." ** I thought he might remain here, master of the house — that # 320 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. there was no occasion for him to go away ever again," said Sarah half thoughtfully, half sadly. " Do you mean, to remain with you till your marriage 1 " asked Lucy sharply — ** you two alone together !" " Oh ! no — the world would not call that fit and proper, Lucy, any more than you would," replied Sarah, " but I thought that he might take his place at once in his father's house, whilst I went away with you." " With me ? " repeated Lucy. " Till he came to fetch me for good — a year hence, say, when the grief has gone further back." "Have you suggested that) " "No." . " Don't, or you'll begin to quarrel," was the reply. " His is a pride which you do not understand, any more than you un- derstand him." " Not understand my Reuben 1 " " Your Reuben does not understand himself," said Lucy tartly ; " he is lacking in stability — there is no religion in him — he gives wtiy under trouble like a child." " You are thinking of the past — which he has explained." " As well as he can," said Lucy moodily ; " do you make out his explanation 1 " " Yes," answered Sarah, blushing, " I fancy I do." Had he not said that the thought of her ingratitude had cast him wholly down, at a time when he was in adversity, and his father's death was on his conscience — and in these golden days was she not ready to believe him 1 " I don't want to hear it," said Lucy, with a little jerk of her head ; " and I shouldn't believe it, I daresay, whatever it • >i IS. " Ah ! Lucy, if I didn't know what a good woman you are, how your hard words would pain me ! " " I am only striving to be good — I am a miserable sinner, Sarah," announced Lucy, softened somewhat by her companion's words, and suffering two fair arms to steal around her neck ; " the world is full of miserable sinners, too, and my mission is amongst them. I have neglected their interests, and turned my back upon them — there are those in my place who may mis- guide and misinstruct them — who have not my tact," she added T ! ; i ; THE UNLUCKY HOUSE. 321 with that naKve conceit in her own powers which was her char- acteristic hit of pride. " I have oeen jtoo long here. I am going away to-morrow." " To-morrow. Oh, Lucy ! " ** On Sunday next I shall preach God's word again," she said with glistening eyes ; " I shall be happier in doing my duty than in neglecting it thus sinfully. I shall have forgotten you and him." " Why should you wish to forget us 1 " asked Sarah, won- deringly. " Because you trouble my mind in spite of me," she answered, releasing herself from Sarah E ^'h she was willing to take care of her. She vf^"- aid as in Hope Street days, perhaps, although there we , ange sul^ i fits that were incomprehensible to every one. he anrl Reuben did not exchange sharp words as heretofore; bat i'^ acy was cold and distant, and Reuben had grown strangely deferential. He put himself out in the way to be complaisant to Lucy Jennings but Lucy was not softened by the effort. tots' nurse. .189 " It's because you are here that he plays the hypocrite," said Lucy one day to Sarah. " It is because he has learned to understand your good heart," Sarah replied. " He always hated me," affirmed Lucy, " although he dis- guised it for a time — whilst his mother lived, and 1 took care of her, as I take care of you. He thinks when he smiles a little and drops his hateful jesting at religion, or at me, that he is showing his gratitude for all I have done." " Now, Lucy " " I don't want to argue about it — I am not likely to be deceived," said Lucy, and she hurried away to evade a discus- sion on the subject which always shook her variable temper the most. Reuben came courting in the evening once or twice a week at first, when the newspapers would allow him ; and there were odd half-holidays when Keubeu and Sarah would stroll in St. James's Park, and talk of the happiness ahead. They both spoke of the patience to wait for each other — of a calm present and (^ happy future — and they laughed together, not before Lucy, at Lucy's past forebodings of the misery in store for them. They laughed at the riches of Sedge Hill too, these happy philosophers whom love had made strong, and the epochs of past privation, of past misunderstanding, became the fairest reminiscences in the clearer light about their lives. They loved each other all the more, these two, talking of the railway station in the rain where Sarah Eastbell was first of service to her cousin ; of the alms-houses of St. Oswald, where he thought her a cross-tempered and untruthful girl ; of the Saxe-Gotha Gar- dens, and Potter's Court, and Hope Street, all shining in the sun now, with their hard angles softened down and tipped with gold. The special reporting was the one drawback to perfect peace — Reuben was clever at this, and was worth more money at it than his employers cared to inform him, though they did not begrudge him a few extra guineas. When there were stirring times in the provinces, Reuben was despatched to report upon them — and he had flitted once to Paris, in the stormy days when " a little revolution " was on the cards, and Sarah was dull and miserable till he came back safe and sound again. ; i 1 1 i M ' 340 SECOND-COtTSiN SARAH. When he was very busy — and he got very busy by degrees— when he was earning money with a fair amount of rapidity, Sarah became less happy, because she saw less of him — because a week would pass, and nothing but hasty lines on odd sheets of paper told her of his existence. Lucy Jennings was grave at these periods too, and regarded Sarah with a grim attention that she did not at first explain, although a time came for ex- planation before the spring buds were green. Tots was at Reuben's house in Drury Lane, too. His love for this little waif was still as much part of his life as his love for his second-cousin. Tots belonged to old days ; she had been his one comfort when he felt wholly desolate ; she had been lost, and his heart had been terribly wrung in losing her ; she was back, and as fond of him as ever, although there had never come again a memory of Hope Lodge. His landlord's wife took care of her as Lucy Jennings had done, and it was pleasant to have Tots with him at breakfast time — his only leisure hour very often — or Tots sitting quietly with a doll in a corner of his room, whilst he worked on with his " copy." When the extraordinary rush of business set in at which we have hinted, there came a strange nurse for Tots — a faithful attendant, who took Tots for Jong walks, and was very careful of her, and drank no whiskey till he had brought her back in safety to Reuben's apartments. It need hardly be said that this was the weak and maimed John Jennings, whom his sister had not forgiven, although Reuben Culwick had. Lucy Jennings, as well as Reuben, found a little money for John, and John at times, and in firework seasons, worked as journeyman to p)rrotechnic artists greater than he — or who had certainly not blown themselves up so often- -and did jus- tice to his employers until whiskey came in his way after a week's savings, and he fuddled himself out of his situation by slow and sure degrees. Still John was a capital nurse and he had been always fond of Tots. He taught her to call him Uncle John again, and though the child was older and sharper than when Reuben found her first in Camberwell, there was quickly a return to the old affection under the old kindness and attention. Life with Captain Peterson and his brothers had not hurt her — it was part of a bad dream in the beginning of the new year, TOTS NURSE. 341 though the dream-figures had scarcely vanished, and one pre- sently crossed her path and startled her. This was the man whom she had seen frequently at her father's house, who had lodged with them at the button factory, and of whom she had caught a glimpse even at Sedge Hill. Tots and Johu Jennings were in the main thoroughfare of Hol- born, both interested in the shops, when he touched Tots on the arm. " Don't you know me ? " he asked in a husky voice. Tots gave a little scream, and clung more closely to John Jennings. " Oh ! don't let him take me away ! " she cried at once. " I don't want to take you away, Bessie — I only want to ask you how you are, after all these months," said Thomas Eastbell, offering a very dirty hand to the child to shake. " Come, you let her alone, will you 1 " said John Jennings sharply. John did not admire the looks of the man who had forced himself upon the notice of Eeuben's adopted child ; John held Tots in trust, and was watchful of his charge. The man before him was a forlorn specimen of humanity, ragged and dirty, with an old great-coat hanging loosely on an attenuated frame, and a red worsted comforter twisted round a neck which seemed less bull-like than usual despite its wrappings. Johu did not know Thomas Eastbell at first sight, but he was a judge of disreputability — he had seen so much of it in Hope Street — he had become so disreputable himself. " I have as much right to the child as you have," said Tom in a surly tone, " or as your master has, for the matter of that. The child's stole, and you know it." " I don't know it." " And its father will come to claim it precious quick too — see if he don t — and you can tell Mr. Culwick too, direckly you get home. Say Tom Eastbell told him so — or Vizzobini. You ought to know Vizzobini of the Saxe-Gotha." John Jennings was surprised at last. He held the child more tightly by the hand, and Zi.id — " You are Thomas Eastbell then ?" *• Y o::, and I don't care who knows it. You can give me in charge if you like — say for coining last year — I shall do it my- self in an hour or two, if you don't — I hate the workus, and it's awful cold outside the prison. Where's Sally 'i " 342 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. I " Your sister, do you mean ? " " Yes, of [course I do," answered Tom ; " she ain't at Sedge Hill." " Never mind where she is. " " Oh ! I don't mind. She won't help me — I'm her only brother, and starving in the streets. But you can take my compliments to her, Mr. Jennings, and I'm to be heard of at the 'Magpie.'" " That's over the way, isn't it ? " *' Yes — the nextj street," he added with a jerk of the thumb in the direction which he desired to indicate. " I shan't tell her anything of the kind," said John Jennings sturdily. " You could let her know I'm starving — and I'm sorry — and my wife's run away from me. Blest if I've set eyes on the old 'ooman since that young cat " (turning sharply on Tots) " took a key from the door, and let the couple on 'em out." " Think yourself lucky you're not in prison for that," cried John indignantly. " I want to go to prison — it's comfortable — it's warm — ^it will disgrace the family a little more. If nobody comes to me at the * Magpie ' to-night, with an odd sixpence, I shall disgrace the family. I shall give myself up." " It's the best thing you can do. You'll be out of the way." " I'll put you out of the way, old man, if you give me any of your sauce," snarled Thomas Eastbell, groping in his right-hand coat-pocket in a manner that suggested clasp-knives. John Jennings was not naturally a brave man. He turned and fled, dragging Tots not unwillingly along with him. Thomas Eastbell stood on the edge of the kerb, and watched their unceremonious retreat, his little sharp eyes glinting from under the broken peak of his cap. When they turned the cor- ner of the street, he followed them, seized with a sudden de- sire to track them home, to ascertain the dwelling place of Reuben Culwick, or his sister Sarah. John Jennings and Tots both looked behind, saw him in their wake, and went on at a more rapid pace ; and Thomas Fastbell, exulting in their fear of him, increased his rate of progression after them. It was a brief pursuit — a tall thin man, in a fur cap, saunter- ing along on the opposite side of the way, with his hands in his pockets, and a thick yellow stick under his arm, stopped tots' nurse. 343 the chase, though he was unaware of it till his dying day. TonoL saw him, recognized in him an active member of the de- tective force, Scotland Yard, and slunk away into a side-court at once. Tom was in great difficulties, and had determined to try prison fare for a change, he said, but his nerves were not wholly strung to the sacrifice, and the sudden sight of a police- man in private clothes turned him heart sick. He would keep out of the way a little while longer, if he could. The world was against him, and even his old pals would have nothing to do with him, but liberty was precious, after all. 344 SECOND-COUSIN SABAH. CHAPTER VI THE MAGPIE. EUBEN CULWICK was hard at Trumpet work when John Jennings and Tots arrived home with the news of their meeting with Thomas Eastbell. He was work- ing against time somewhat, but he set his pen aside to listen to John Jennings' recital and Tots' scared interpellations, paying particular attention to Mr. Eastbell's information that the child would be fetched away presently by her father. " And he said that Sarah might hear of him at the * Magpie?' " "Yes," answered John Jennings. " Where's the * Magpie ?' " " It's a little public in Burker's Street, where they sell very fair whiskey. " Ah, yes, poor John, I suppose you know it," said Reuben, shaking his head at him. " Well, will you go there this even- ing for me and face that man again ? " " If — if you wish it, I will," answered John, taken aback by the request. Reuben had promised to see Sarah that evening. It was a leisure night, on which Reuben could leave work with an easy conscience ; and he had written that morning, announcing his intention of calling at York Road ; and now Thomas Eastbell, her brother, had started up, and he felt that he had more than one question to ask him. He could not trust John Jennings at a whiskey-shop, and in Tots' defence, perhaps in Sarah's, it might be necessary to proceed with caution. He wished to see Captain Peterson too, and Tom Eastbell might be able, for a bribe, to tell him where he was. He must act for himself, and with caution. He would not alarm Sarah by any mention of her brother's name at present. She was easily excited, and for ever in fear of the scamp. "John," he said suddenly, "you must take a letter to Sarah at once." THE MAGPIE. 345 U, it h "Very well, Mr. Reuben." " Don't say anything of your meeting with her brother." " Trust me for that," said John knowingly. '*She is not strong enough for any fresh trouble," said Reuben, as he drew a sheet of note-paper towards him, and wrote very reluctantly an excuse for not being able to see her as he had promised. He alleged no reason — he would explain when he saw her, he said — and he re-read the letter somewhat critically after he had finished the writing of it. It was a brief epistle; he should see her to-morrow, he hoped, and that would be time enough for explanation of his breach of promise. Sarah trusted him implicitly, and would know that only business of importance could keep him from her. She did not expect a long letter from him, and a heap of reasons, at that busy hour of the day. Let the letter go. In the evening, somewhat late, Reuben Culwick, not too fashionably attired, was at the bar of the "Magpie," endeavour- ing to relish the ale with which its proprietors had furnished him, and smoking a pipe by way of giving character to his present appearance. On a Saturday night the " Magpie " was full of customers, chance and regular, and his presence called for no particular degree of attention. The " Magpie " was a respectable house in its way ; that is, it did not put itself out of the way to become a very bad one. Barl characters, patent to bad neighbourhoods, came in and out at all hours for their drams, and were welcome enough so that they paid their money and drank their liquors without quarrelling over them. But the landlord was respectable and had no back parlours wherein thieves might congregate and talk treason against householders. When thieves required stimulant in front of the bar, which they often did, they could have it as well as honest men, and their money was as welcome to the " Magpie's " rattlin^r till. It was eight o'clock, or later, when Thomas Eastbell's pock- marked countenance peered round one of the swing doors. The " Magpie " was Tom's forlorn hope. He had sent a mes- sage to his sister, and she might attend to it. Who knows ? He caught sight of Reuben Culwick, and his first impulse was to back into the street. Then he wavered ; and whilst he was hesitating, along with a crowd of orange-women and costermong- ers, Reuben came from the public-house and confronted him, ) '|!l I I I 346 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " You need not run away, Tom Eastbell," said Reuben. " You're not going to split on me % " " No." " I haven't done you any harm," he returned ; " I haven't done nobody any harm — never. All that you have heard about me has been a pack of lies. I've been as honest as I could be, and this is what comes of it." "Indeed!" " I'm hard up — I'm starving. Wish I may die, Mr. Culwick, but I haven't tasted food to-day." " Where are your friends ? " " I haven't got none." " That's hard," said Reuben ; " but the Petersons ? " " They turned me out of their house. They said I was a blundering fool. One of 'em kicked me, last time I saw him." "The captain?" Tom Eastbell laughed sardonically. " No, he can't kick. He broke both his legs in the country, jumping from a window of the button factory to get out of the way of the police. He can only swear and cus me now." « But " " But talking's dry work," Tom hinted. Reuben Culwick took the hint. There was information to be gained from this outcast, with whom crime had not agreed, and Thomas Eastbell was to be rendered communicative at a small outlay. They reentered the " Magpie," where Reuben, at his request, gave him cold gin and Abernethy biscuits, the former of which was tilted speedily down his throat, and the latter voraciously devoured. He was a thorough blackguard, but Reuben felt a strange kind of pity for his low condition, villain as he was. Was he not going to be a relation by marriage, too? Reuben thought, as he watched him tearing w^lf-like at his biscuits. " Have you brought me any money from Sarah 1 " Thomas Eastbell asked, suddenly and eagerly. " Not a penny." " Now, that's too bad " Reuben did not allow him to finish the sentence. " Your sister Sarah is very poor. Another will of my father's has been found," Reuben condescended to explain, " and she THE MAGPIE. 347 to be 3d, and small at his brmer latter d, but villain e, too] at his 'homas ather's nd she has no money .to spare for you, even if she had the inclina- tion." " " Good lor ! Then you " " I have brought you a little money, though I am poor too. Your sister has done with you for ever." " So she said, sir. It was an unfeeling speech," he added with a faltering voice, " and I've never got over it. But poor, you say?" " Very poor." " I don't believe a word of it," he muttered. " I haven't come here to explain," said Keuben, " only to give you a couple of sovereigns — more than I can afford — for information." " Oh, that's it," said Tom artfully ; " well, sovereigns are sovereigns just now. Hand them over, governor." " First — is this Edward Peterson the father of the little girl you met this morning 1 " *' He says he is. He gave me money to take care of her altogether. But it wasn't enough, so I lost her," said Tom coolly — " or rather," he added, interpreting Eeuben's look of disgust correctly, " my old woman lost her. It was her fault. She never had a mite of feeling in her for anybody save her- self." " And I found the child when she was lost." " And then Peterson turned up, and stormed and raved at me, till I told him where the child was, and he stole it from you back again. He was fond of that child when he was in a good temper, which wasn't often, though." " His wife — is she dead V "Long ago, he tells me." " Where is Edward Peterson now 1 " " In Worcester — Mitcheson's Place, near the river — and you can put the bobbies on to him, if they're not taking care of him alreadv. He has treated me bad enough." " How's" that ? " "He says it's all my fault that— are you going to stand any more gin"? " " Here is your money. Do what you like with it." " Thankee. Are you going to split on Ned Peterson 1 Hsi, ha ! He can't run away." 348 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH, %• '■!'■' WW ' jl i i ! B! t m "Who is with him 1" " An old sweatheart, who will marry him when his legs get better. She has always been dead nuts on him, Ned tells me." "Is it Mary Holland?" " That's her name. The woman who was at Sedge Hill. You know her well enough." " And she is with Edward Peterson at Worcester ? " " Yes." Keuben Culwick waited for no further news ; he had learned more than he had anticipated ; he thought he saw all very clearly to the end now, and where his duty lay. He darted from the friendly shelter of the " Magpie," and hurried into Holborn, and from Holborn through sundry back turnings into Drury Lane, where he met John Jennings, who passed a great deal of his time walking up and down the street in which Reu- ben Culwick resided. " John," said he, seizing him by the arm, " are you sober 1 " " Quite sober," answered John. " Not quite. You have had a glass, you dolt." " Only one. It's such a dreadfully cold night." " Don't take any more. Think what a fool it makes of you, John, and what Lucy will say." " Lucy ! " said John, aghast. " I'm not going to see her again to-night, am I ? " " You must go to your sister's house once more." " Oh, gracious ! *' " You must see Sarah " " Bless her, yes. If I had married her, Mr. Reuben, what a different man I should have been ! What a " " You have had more than one glass. You're maudlin." " Only one since tea, upon my honour." " Where did you have tea ? " " Since tea-time, speaking more correctly. But I am sober, Mr. Reuben, I really am." " Find Sarah Eastbell. Tell her I have discovered that Miss Holland is in Worcester, that I have left London in search of her, and to end all suspense at once — her suspense as well as mine." " Yes." '* 1 hope to be back on Monday." uSS**' legs get )Us me." ge Hill. learned all very darted led into Qgs into a great ch Reu- the magpie. 349 *' Is that all?'' "Yes. Now be off at once." .nr^fM^^'^T^f ^.•t?u*'' ^'' l«dgi»g8» ^^gged his landlady to be careful of Tots till his return, looked in at Tots sleeping calmly m her little crib, stooped over her and kissed her without awakening her, and then hurried away to the railway station, m the hope of catching a night mail that should carry him on a portion of his journey towards Worcester. / sober 1 " of you, see her what a m. >» tt sober, lat Miss jarch of well as I m 360 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER VII. IN WORCESTER AGAIN. EUBEN CULWICK was in the loyal city early the next day. He had travelled by a roundabout route, catch- ing a night mail that took him a certain distance on his way, whereby he was enabled to start early for Worcester pn the following morning, in search of Mary Holland. He passed over some superfluous ground, but he saved valuable time — on Monday he hoped to be back at his work in Drury Lane, as if nothing so serious had happened as the surrender of all claims, on his part and his cousin's, to the estate at Sedge Hill. He should be happier when that was settled, he thought, when he had found Mary Holland, and surprised her by the news of her good fortune. Whether she deserved that fortune or not, he did not stop to consider — she was a mystery to him, and would probably remain so to the end of the chapter. Per- haps he had misjudged her — possibly she had betrayed Sarah Eastbell — certainly she was in league with Edward Peterson — and under all circumstances of life his father had willed that Mary Holland should come into the property. So be it. It was his father's last wish, and it should be carried out to the letter and in the right spirit. It was the one wish of his father's that he had respected of late days, and there was a strange satisfac- tion in setting about its accomplishment. After all he did not care for money, for he took extraordinary pains to get his father's property out of his reach, as if to prove in his latter days how far he was above its temptations. The cathedral bells were ringing when he was searching in Mitcheson's Place for Edward Peterson. The man who had leaped from the top window of the button factory, and broken both his legs, was not difficult to find — the inhabitants of Mitcheson's Place knew all about him, who he was and where he was, and the county police had been watching for his con- valescence for weeks past, in order to conduct him to safe IN WORCESTER AGAIN. 351 the next e, catch- ;e on his ester jon 8 passed 5 time — Lane, as )T of all Ige Hill, thought, ' by the t fortune to him, er. Per- jd Sarah erson — led that It was le letter er's that satisfac- did not get his lis latter 3hing in vho had broken ants of where his con- to safe quarters. Edward Peterson was too ill to be moved at present — indeed of late days the police had not been vigilant, a turn for the worse having taken place in the sick man's condi- tion, and it being tolerably certain that he was drifting from the laws of his country in undue haste. Reuben understood the position before he had reached the house — a policeman on duty in the street gave him the fullest particulars, when he was certain that Reuben was not one of the gang who had swamped Worcester with pewter half crowns — and he went up the steep and rickety stairs of the place, wondering if he should meet Miss Holland after all, and of the nature of the tie between her and the coiner that had taken her from their side to his. There could be only one solution to the riddle, he thought, and he was close upon it. It was the back room of the first floor to which he had been directed, and where he knocked softly for admittance. Some one crossed the room lightly, opened the door, and looked hard at him, with the colour flickering faintly on her cheeks. It was Mary Holland, pale and thin, who faced him on the landing- place, drawing the door behind her very carefully so that the whispers of their conference might not reach the ears of him who lay within the chamber. " You have found me at last, then 1 " she inquired. They did not shake hands — the shadow of the past mistrust was still between them, and there was no getting from it in the first moment of their meeting. " You know that we have been searching for you — advertis- ing for you ? " said Reuben. " Yes, but I did not care to answer yet," she replied. " You are attending upon Edward Peterson ? " " My husband — yes." " Your husband," repeated Reuben slowly. He was prepared for the avowal ; he had looked forward to this explanation, and yet it came to him with a surprise for which he could scarcely account. " He is wholly friendless now — he is terribly alone — ^and at the last I have found the courage to do my duty," she said. « Then the little girl— Tots " " Is mine. God bless her, yes. It was his promise that I should have the child back — it was the revelation that she ij I ill' I Pi fill 11 i! 352 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. lived — that kept me silent when my suspicions might have given a clue to the truths which perplexed you. To have be- trayed him at that bitter hour, was to kill my little girl. He swore it — and I knew how desperate a man he was, years ago," she added sadly. " When he first came to Sedge Hill, I wrote warning you of danger — but not knowing what the danger was which threatened Sarah Eastbell." " I see," murmured Reuben Culwick. " I was a woman in the toils, and knew not what to do," she continued. "When Sarah had disappeared, he said she should return in safety to Sedge Hill, if I would keep my peace — and I was forced to trust him. Ah, sir ! do not blame me too harshly — it was my child's life, my child's happiness against Sarah Eastbell's, and I acted like a mother, in the one hope of clasping her to my heart. I could not have brought your cousin back, had I owned that man for my husband — I was in the dark with you — and my little Bessie lived." " I understand," said Reuben still thoughtfully. " When the child did not come to me — when I thought he had deceived me — I grew mad and desperate. It was I who set the police in search of Edward Peterson — who gave the clue by which they knew where to find him — who accompanied them to identify a man of whom they had been long in search — who betrayed him and brought about this tragedy. Heaven help me ! " she added very sorrowfully, " I have been always in the wrong." "What does he say r' " He has not forgiven me," she said, " but I am at his side to the last — asking for no thanks, expecting none." " Is there any hope of his life 1 " " Not any." " Is he aware of his approaching end ? " " At times," was the reply, " and at times he loses all recol- lection of his danger, and talks of a future which can Aever come." " And you love this man ? " She answered, " He killed my love years ago. I do my duty in calm apathy, that is all." " Poor woman ! " " Years ago, he was my hero. He was honest then, and I IN WORCESTER AGAIN. 353 have ive be- . He 3 ago," wrote :er was to do," aid she eep my b blame ippiness the one brought jand — I •ught he [ who set the clue >mpanied n search Heaven ilways in his side » all recol- lan Aever was very young," she said. " We were married secretly. When he grew tired of me, when he went wrong, he abandoned me without remorse, and took my child with hira, in a spirit of revenge that nearly broke my lieart. My marriage and that child's birth were not known to the world I found at Wor- cester—although your mother always doubted me. I tried hard to live apart from the past, when I believed my little girl was dead, but it all came back last autumn. This," she added almost bitterly, "is a strange time for explanation." "I have not come for explanation — I have no right to demand it," said Reuben, " but let me ask if my father knew of your marriage to Edward Peterson." " I dared not to tell him. I was very poor — T was alone in the world, without a friend, and he had confidence in me, and liked me for my dead father's sake. Would he have wished you to marry me, had he dreamed of this ? " she added with an impressive gesture towards the door of the sick-room. " Why did he wish this marriage 1 " said Reuben. ** He told me on the day he died that he had ruined my father — deceived him in some way of business, and got rich by his disgrace," she said. " Heaven knows if this were true, or the wanderings of a demented mind. It is beyond our guess- ing at, and belongs not to our present lives." " Mary Holland, it was true," said Reuben solemnly ; " I bring a proof of it, in his atonement — reparation.'^ "Impossible." " He has left you all his money." There was a wild scream— an awful yell from the room which Mary Holland, or rather Mary Peterson, had quitted, and Mary ran back into the chamber, followed by Reuben in his haste to be of assistance to the aflfiighted woman. It was only a cry of delight. Captain Peterson had heard all the news. Imy duty In, and I V 354 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. ! « CHAPTER VIII. EDWARD PETERSON LOOKS FORWARD. J HE man sick unto death lay in his bed a prey to violent excitemont, Reuben saw at the first glance as he stood with Mary looking down at Edward Peterson. The eyes were widely distended, and two claw-like hands had clutched at the bed-curtains in a vain effort to raise the body, whilst the whole room vibrated with the passion which shook the sufferer. It was a ghastly face that met Reuben Culwick's at this juncture, and the terrible earnestness and greed stamped on it was not a pleasant sight to witness. " Is it all true 1 " he gasped forth, turning to Reuben as if to a friend on whom, in this crisis of his life, he might rely. " It is true," responded our hero, " That she has got the money — that it is all left to her — for God's sake don't keep me in suspense ! Think what a deal de- pends upon my being calm just now,'' he cried. " All the money is left to Mary Holland," answered Reuben. " How is it — how is it that — that — this can be ] " he in- quired, catching at Reuben's hand and clasping it with his trembling fingers ; ** you see how excited I am, but I can bear good news. Good news will save me yet — please Heaven." Reuben looked across at Mary, who said in r, low tone — " Tell him." "There has been discovered another will, signed by my father the day before his death." *' Yes — yes — go on." " In it, my father bequeaths the whole of his property to his faithful friend and housekeeper, Mary Holland." *' That's my wife," said Peterson quickly — " don't forget she's my wife. We were legally married years ago, upon my soul, I swear it — it's easily proved — isn't it easily proved, Mary? Tell him so — don't stare at me like that.*' EDWARD PETERSON LOOKS FORWARD. 355 am violent le stood 1. The ids had le body, ih shook ul wick's stamped 1 as if to her— for , deal de- Reuben. " he in- Iwith bis can bear iven." )ne — by my rty to his I't forget I upon my fed, Mary 1 (( " Yes, I am his wife," said Mary, thus appealed to ; not Mary Holland." " Oh ! that makes no difference," cried Peterson ; " you were Mary Holland, you have always been knovj^n by that name to old Culwick, and it's your money, by Heaven it is — I know law enough for that. All yours — and all your husband's — why, it's as clear as daylight. This brings me — back — to — life ! " The fir.gers relaxed their grasp of Reuben's, the eyes closed, and a dull leaden hue spread itself over the face. " He is dyin^i ' cried Reuben. " No," said the wife, " it is only the reaction which has ex- hausted him." She placed a glass to his lips, and he drank with difficulty of the spirit which it contained, after which his eyes opened and he lay and looked at them, his breath flickering at his grey lips like a dying man's. He was too weak to speak, and con- scious of his weakness he lay and gathered power to himself, watching the wife and visitor meanwhile. " Why did you come at such a time as this 1 " Mary said re- proachfully. " I was anxious you should know the truth." " I knew it all along," she answered. Reuben uttered an exclamatcon of surprise. " Was not the will given to nie 1 " she asked. " But you were unaware of its contents ? " *' No," said Mary ; " he told me, on the day he left for Lon- uon, what was in the will entrusted to my care." " And you have not acted upon it — you have suffered a prior will to be proved — you have preferred to be poor 1 " he cried. ** I have preferred, Reuben Culwick, to wait," she said coldly, " to see who were my friends or enemies — who loved me a little, and who distrusted me altogether. Take that for all the answer I can aflford you now. "Where — is — the will 1 " said a voice like a sick child's." They turned. Edward's interest had re-awakened in the great question of his life — of the little life that was left in him. " 1 have brought it with me." " Give it — to me," said Peterson ; " it isn't safe in other hands. I — I will keep it till I'm — stronger." 356 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. Reuben hesitated. " Let him have it," said the wife carelessly, " it will calm him — and rest is necessary." " I would prefer your taking it, Mrs. Peterson," said Reuben, producing the will , " better still to leave it with a trustworthy solicitor to act upon. There will be no opposition to it in any way from Sarah Eastbell." " It will be safe enough in my husband's keeping," said Mary, with strange listlessness. Reuben gave her the will, and she crossed with it to her husband's side, and placed it in his hands, which with great difficulty began to unfold the paper on which Simon Culwick's last testament was written. "I — 1 shall be glad — when I'm better," Edward Peterson whispered at last ; *' you can put it under my pillow — now." Mary did so at his request. " We may begin a different life together now, Mary," he said, with a sudden tenderness in his weak tone of voice that was startling at the time ; " I only wanted to be rid. - /* was poverty that made me bad — that turned me wrong — alto^oiiher." " Don't speak any more," adjured his wife. " You kept this back — because you were — afraid of me 1 " There was no reply. Whj'' don't you answer ? " he cried querulously. I was afraid 'of you," she replied ; " I knew that with these riches there would come from you cruelty and oppression. I was happier in my dependence." " But— when I get better 1 " " She looked sadly at him. " When you get better, Edward, we v/ill claim the money which Simon Culwick has left me." " That's a good — girl. That's well," he cried exultantly. •* I thought, Mary, there was some plant in this. I couldn't see why " '' Couldn't see what ? " inquired his wife, as he came suddenly to a full stop. " I couldn't see why you should care for me like this — after the scamp that I have — been— to you." ** I betrayed you in my rage and haste. It is all my work," she said regretfully, " and I am at your side again." 'ice here with you — if " • " I would prefer to be alone — to the end," she said in a low tone, 358 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. Reuben passed from the room and left the dying man to his strange v/ife's care. He had done his duty, he had surren- dered his father's will into the hands of those whom it was to benefit, and it had been coldl;" almost unthankfully received. Let him get back to Sarah Eastbell and to the brighter life wherein she moved. JOHN DELIVERS HIS MESSAGE. 359 ,n to his surren- was to eceived. iter life CHAPTER IX. JOHN DELIVERS HIS MESSAGE. ^OHN JENNINGS departed on his mission to Sarah East- f^h bell late that Saturday evening in good faith. It was *^^ never a pleasant task to face his sister Lucy, at whose house Sarah was residing, for Lucy was always '' down " upon him, and taking him to task for his numerous transgressions. Certainly Sarah would be at home, and that would be some recompense, although Lucy would not study her company, or " let him have it " less on account of the presence of a visitor. He was not drunk ; he had not been too often to his favourite bars ; but there was the painful consciousness of a certain amount of whiskey in his system that it was impossible to dis- guise from his lynx-eyed sister. Reuben had seen it, and taxed him with it ; and Lucy, unl'sss she was particularly busy that evening- and it being Saturday evening, when the sermons of to-morrow had to be considered, he prayed fervently she might be — would perceive it also. John Jennings went down Bow Street and crawled over Waterloo Bridge for the second time that day, like a man going to be hanged ; and he thought so much of his meeting with Lucy, and so little of the nature of his errand, that he had only a confused idea of the message he had been entrusted to deliver, when he was clinging to the railings of the house on the first floor of which Miss Jennings resided. Yes, poor John was weak. It is charitable to believe that constant explosions of gunpowder had shattered his nerves as much as dram-drinking ; but he could not face his sister again, so close upon her " Sunday conversation," too, without a. further stimulant. He tried and failed, for he put his hand on the knocker and then fairly ran across the road to a gin-palace, where, at a sraa)^ outlay, he fortified his nerves for the ordeal. It was half an hour later in the niyrht when he knocked at the door, and was presently stumbling up the stairs, a limp and \ !l "!i! 360 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. Sli"; miserable visitor. His modest tap at the door of the first floor was aiisweied so quickly by a sharp " Come in," that he went down two steps in dismay before he resumed his progress and entered the room with gravity and decorum. He was not pre pared at the York Road lodginqjs for half a dozen people besides his sister and Miss Eastbell, but he was glad to se> them never- theless. In a small crowd like this he mightescape observation or comment. Lucy was at a table covered with books and papers, and Sarah Eastbell at her side m as evidently acting as her aman- uensis. The men and women in the room were poor cadave- rous beings connected with the Jennings mission, and the order of the establishment under the railway arch to-morrow, and were receiving their final instructions after general rule. There were books and tracts to give out, and reports of the day's pro- ceedings to hear ; and other co-operators in Lucy's good work followed John Jennings' advent, and sandwiched him in with serious-minded folk, and kept him from the fire and the door. Lucy saw him on his first arrival, and Sarah smiled at him a welcome ; but no one inquired his business, until an angular man on crutches at his side asked if he were a new convert to the blessed work. John Jennings shook his head and said he wasn't, at which piece of infoimation the cripple hung on to the lappels of John's coat and tried to convert him on the spot. " Let him be, Flood," said Lucy Jennings, whom nothing escaped ; " there is no hope for him. Where I have failed, you will fail." "But we can't give him up." "You can let go* my coat, though," said Joha Jennings crossly ; " what am I to do for buttons if you pull me about like this 1 " " He is only a drunken brother of mine," said Lucy scorn- fully. '' Take no heed of him ; he is not in a fit state to be reasoned with upon the enormity of his iniquities," said Lucy more sharply. " Oh, I didn't want to come here ! " cried John, " I've brought a message from Mr. Culwick — that's all." ** Give it to me, and go, then," said Lucy. " It's not a letter. It's a verbal com-com-communication." " I am sorry for it. Wait." John Jennings found his v.^ay to the fire and to a chair, JOHN DELIVERS HIS MESSAGE. 361 , floor went s and >t pre- esides never- vation )apers, aman- adave- 5 order w, and There ^'s pro- cl work in with door. t him a angular ivert to said he ig on to he spot, nothing ed, you ennmgs about scorn- ,te to be id Lucy (( I've nation, a chair, t which he occupied in a sullen spirit, until he fell asleep with his chin upon his dirty shirt. How long he slept he never knew, but it was a deep and profound slumber, with so much murmuring in his ears that he dreamed he was in Clare Mar- ket, haggling for to-morrow's dinner, until a heavy joint fell on him from the shop-blind of the butcher's, and he woke up with Lucy's hand upon his shoulder. The room was empty of its visitors. Lucy was standing by his side, grimmer than ever ; and Sarah Eastbell was sitting op- posite, watching him intently. " Have you slept away your drunkenness, do you think 1 " asked Lucy. " I haven't been asleep," said John. " Oh, John ! I think you have," cried Sarah. " Well, I may have dozed," he confessed, " just a little." " What message have you brought from Mr. Culwick 1 " asked Sarah very anxiously. " What message 1 Ah ! that's it ! Wait a moment." Lucy and Sarah waited several minutes, but John Jennings did not collect his faculties together, until Lucy told him to call to-morrow morning early, before the service commenced under the railway arch, if his message were really of importance. Then he dashed at something like the truth in his haste and confusion. " Mr. Reuben won't be here to morrow." Sarah Eastbell felt her heart sink, for she had not seen Reuben for many days, and he had put off calling, oii that evening, and she had looked forward longingly to his Sunday visit to her — with wicked worldly eyes, Lucy had already affirmed. " Not coming 1 " said Sarah with a sigh. " Did he say why he had altered his mind again 1" " No — yes — yes, he did. He was going into the country with Miss Holland." There was a long silence after this explanation, and Lucy and Sarah looked at each other in a strange way, which John Jen- nings was not able to comprehend. " W^hat did I tell you long ago 1 " said Lucy in a low toue. 362 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER X. A FEW WORDS. I HE inquiry which Lucy Jennings put to Sarah Eastbell was not responded to ; the younger woman had turned her head away, and was looking very thoughtfully at the fire. "Reuben Culwick knows where Miss Holland is, then?" Lucy a«ked of her brother. " Oh, yes, he knows." " Do you 1 " " It's in the country somewhere." " Worcester 1 " suggested his sister. " Yes, Worcester ; that's it." " Then he started for Worcester this evening 1 " " Yes; that's it again." Lucy had no further questions to ask, and Lucy remained silent. John, half sleepy still, and half confused, rose to his feet and walked towards the door. He was conscious that he had not fulfilled his mission to perfection, but why he had blun- dered, or in what particular, he could not understand for the life of him. He had not made any mistake ; but Lucy was look- ing very grave, and Sarah Eastbell did not speak to him. When he was at the door Sarah's voice arrested him, however. " Did he say, John, when he should return 1 " " Oh, yes— I had forgotten that. On Monday." " Good night, John. Thank you for calling." " Thank ycu," he answered, with a certain amount of emphasis. " What for] " asked Lucy sharply. " For many things. For not treating me quite like a brute," he added, with a flash of spirit. " Are you any better than a brute to call here in this con- dition ] " asked his sister. " I'm in very good condition," said John, " I don't see any- thing the matter with me." A FEW WORDS. 363 astbell turned ally at thenr* jmained 3 to his that he ad blun- for the Hi^as look- When mphasis. a brute," ihis con- see any- " When you do — when you are sure what a poor degraded being you have become — I shall be glad, for it will be a sign of your repentance. It will be " " Good evening," said John Jennings, darting with alacrity from the room to escape the sermon which threatened him. He had delivered his message — it was correct in all its details, he was certain — and he was not drunk. If he had taken too much whiskey, he would have blurted out that Reuben had met Thomas Eastbell, and so have frightened Sarah, who was afraid of her vagabond brother, he knew. They had not received his message cheerfully — they were disappointed at Reuben's putting off his visit to them — but that was not his fault. He had done his best, and that Lucy had not received him cordially or treated him well was only what he had expected from the first. When the street door was heard to slam behind John Jen- nings, Lucy rose and moved about the room, putting her books and papers away, and setting the place in order for the night. Sarah did not help her ; with her hands clutching her rounded chin, and her great dark eyes fixed upon the fire, she had passed away into a world of her own, wherein there was speculation and doubt. The stern woman, whose weakness it was to think herself above the world, glanced at her from the background with more sympathy upon her face than she was in the habit of exhibiting in Sarah Eastbell's affairs as a rule. Sarah was downcast and disheartened that night, and Lucy watched her fur- tively. There was trouble at the heart of Sarah Eastbell, and for Sarah's good she had planted it there by a few meaning words, not knowing what was best for her, for all that. She thought that she did — but then she was not always in the right, poor Lucy. She came back to Lucy's side at last, and drew her chair more closely to her. Sarah did not know that she was there uiitil Lucy touched her hand. " You are seeing the truth, as I saw it long ago," said Lucy very gently to her ; " I warned you to prepare for it." " No," said Sarah hesitatingly, " I do not see it yet, as you see it." " He comes less often here." " Because his work accumulates," answered Sarah quickly, '♦ »ot because he is tired of me. Ah, Lucy ! you woulcl 364 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. i I !( not ask me to believe that, if you knew how much I loved him" " I do not ask you to believe anything," said Lucy queru- lously. '* You are too suspicious of Reuben." " I suspicious ! What next 1 " Lucy objected to the accusation. She had never been able to see her own faults clearly, and yet she believed that she judged herself unsparingly. < It is the natural weakness of such good folk as Lucy Jen ningf^ sometimes. U 'iJ.k-'L " You consider Reuben is inventing excuses to keep away." " I consider Reuben is very poor, and must work. I do not dispute that he loses money every time he spends an evening in this house — do you % " asked Lucy. " Ah, my poor Reuben ! whom I cannot help any longer ! " cried Sarah, brushing some tears from her eyes with a hasty hand ; " yes, he loses time and money — not very often now," she added with a sigh. " He does not tell you he is poor," Lucy continued ; " he is too proud for that ; and when he says he is not busy, and comes here, I am distrustful of the truth of his statement. But that is not being suspicious." Sarah Eastbeil did not feel disposed to continue the argu- ment. In argument Lucy generally lost her temper, more especially when Reuben Culwick was the subject under discus- sion. Lucy returned to the charge, however. "I said a week or two ago that Reuben knew where Mary Holland was, but did not care to tell you." " Why." " Because the discovery of her is complete poverty for you." " I am not afraid of poverty." "He is." " No, Lucy — no," cried Sarah, still more energetically ; " don't tell me so. I am afraid of that — I try to keep it back ! " " I have seen it for some time," replied Lucy pityingly, but is it not better to face the truth than to hide from it, when the truth tramps on and gets bigger every day 1 " " I know, Lucy, what you think would be best now," gaicl ^i^r^h, loved queru- en able lat she of such away." [ do not evening jnger ! " a hasty u now, M , " he is id comes But that he argu- r, more discus- re Mary or you )> ; " don't !" ly, but is v^hen the ►w," 8ai4 A FEW WORDS. 365 " Well— what ? " " That Reuben should marry Miss Holland." ** It would be better for him — yes," was the moody answer. " He does not think so." " He does not say so," answered Lncy. " He would never say it. He is pledged to you, and will marry you unless yon release him of your own free will. And, Sarah, however hard and cruel my advice may seem," she added solemnly, laying her hand upon Sarah's arm again, " it is the best for both of you." " I try not to believe it," murmured Sarah, bowing her head lower. " He has a right to his father's possessions ; it was his father's wish, long ago, that he should marry Miss Holland. Has ho not told us both so, with many a forced jest ! " " He has laughed at others arranging his life for him — that's all." " What is this new will but the father's latest effort to bring a stubborn son to his senses — perhaps to a sense of justice ] " said Lucy restlessly. " What do you mean ? " asked Sarah, very quickly now. " Don't ask me." " Tell me what you mean ?" demanded Sarah almost peremp- torily. " It is a thought which has haunted me for years," said Lucy very gloomily, '• but you had better leave me with it." " No, not now." " Call it a suspicion, I don't mind," said Lucy, " Heaven send I am in the wrong, in part ; but men are weak and vain, and wicked, all of them ! Why should Reuben Culwick be an exception ?" " 'Tell me what is on your mind, Lucy 1 " Lucy still hesitated. It was a bitter thought, which she pre- ferred to keep rankling in her own heart, but Sarah p'3rsisted. " Lucy, I will know," she cried. " Not from me," said Lucy, " unless you guess already." "You would imply — you dare to imply — that the father wished this marriage between them because it was the one hon- ourable act of reparation which Reuben could make to Mary Holland," cried Sarah—" ha ! is that itf' " God knows," answered Lucy, "but I have thought so — yes." IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. 1^ ■^^^ w. :A 4e 1.0 I.I 1.25 .■■ 13 2 WIS 1.4 IIM IIM 1.6 V] ^ /a ^a W V '#. ^;. 7W /A Photographic Sciences Corporation « iV ^^ \ \ ^ ,T waa a strong outburst of passion, that took the staid Mips Jennings out of herself, and transformed her into a jealous and excitable woman. Sarah Eastbell's accusation must have struck home, for the preacher to have given way in this fashion — to have owned that she was as weak and susceptible as the timid girl who shrank away from her. In all the dull cold life of Lucy Jennings, and under every circumstance there- of, she had treasured up this secret until now ; she had fought against her passion and its hopelessness, she had kept strong and rigid and unswerving, till Sarah's accusation had overcome, suddenly and strangely, the self-command upon which she had ever prided her poor self. It was a virago rather than a woman who glared at Sarah, with gleaming eyes, and hands clenched menacingly. Well for Lucy Jennings was it that religion had taken a firm hold of her, and turned a strong will and a fierce nature into a channel of self-sacrifice and prayer, or she might have been swept away by the current which for ever surges round our humankind. Religion saved her. If she had not be- come a gentle and amiable woman, it had given her work to do and set her in a sphere wherein she had become useful ; and from this storm even, much good might follow in due course, teaching her in after days the lesson of more humility and patience. " You — you loved Reuben ! " exclaimed Sarah in her first surprise. " Ay, you may well glare," cried Lucy, who was terribly roused now, " you may well turn pale at the madneRS that is in me. Yes, I loved him. What else on earth have I ever had to love in all my wretched life but that man 7 I would have died for him at anytime, if he had asked me. I would have been his slave and thanked God for my bondage. I have prayed to A PASSING TEMPEST. 869 1 Mips ealous must in this jptible le dull there- fought strong srcome, he had woman enched Dn had a fierce might surges not be- t to do ; and course, ity and er first ;erribly at is in had to ve died been kyed to Heaven for one kind word from him — he has stood between me and Heaven very often !" " My poor Lucy !" said Sarah in a soft low whisper. " Don't pity me — don't talk to me in that way," cried Lucy violently. *' Did I ever pity you, or do anything but hate you for liking Reuben, and for Reuben's liking you ] What are you but a child — what should he have seen in you but a baby's face, a bab/'s heart, and a trick of being grateful 1 — why should he be f beggar all his life, because he asked you to marry him whf his iiiheritance had been stolen from him by your grand- mo I r ? Do you think T want consolation from you, of all the ^ .e in the world, who have vexed me nearly unto death 1 '.* Sarah did not reply. This was a storm there was no quelling, she felt assured. It was the reaction after long yeais of self- repression, and must burn itself awa)*. The face strangely con- vulsed, the fiery eyes, the figure swaying on the chair, the rest- less hands for ever clenched together, were all witnesses to it. " But he never knew of this — I would have killed myself with shame if he had ever guessed it — I could kill you now, if you were to tell him what your taunts have dragged out of my heart in this way," she raved on. '' It was an agony to love him — there was no grain of comfort in it ; if he had died, .1 should have been happier. I felt he despised me . " No, no ! " cried Sarah, at this juncture. " That he laughed at me — that he tried at times to make me hate him — that my poor ways, my bad temper, my mean house, this mean face with which I have been cursed," she cried, strik- ing it passionately with her right hand, " were all matters for his jest, or indifference. I was nothing to him — not for one minute of his life — and he to me was all I cared to live for. I gave him taunt for taunt at times ; but — oh, my God ! — you know how much I have loved him to this day 1 " " And yet " began Sarah. " And yet I saw his faults — distrusted him — knew that there were in the world hundreds of better men — is that what y *, were going to say 1 " she asked fiercely. " Hardly— but " " Don't ask me any questions ; you see what a wretch I am — how cast down, and torn away from every thought that should give me peace, if I were what I try to be." Y mm hill; 870 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. There was a long low wail, and a sudden and passionate rain of tears — an utter collapse to a grief which saved her, and made her woman-like and hysterical. Sarah let her weep and sob, and made no effort to compose her— the younger woman felt that it was best to leave her thus, that the brain which had rocked strangely in the storm would more quickly compose itself if she attempted no consolation. She stole from the room when Lucy was cowering in her chair, with her hands out- spread before her eyes, and it was half an hour later when she returned to her side. Lucy Jennings was reading her Bible, with her hands clutch- ing her temples, her grey hair pushed back, and her elbows planted firmly on each side of the book which she studied. ♦* Are you going to sit up late to-night 1 " Sarah said, gently. " A little while longer," was the slow reply. ** Are you well now 1 " she asked, timidly. " Yes," Lucy answered. " May I kiss you before I say good night 1 " said Sarah ; " may I think that we're more like sisters now, Lucy 1 " " You should despise me," she said, humbly. '* No ! " was the quick denial ; " I think I understand you at last." " And love me none the less, child ? " " Ah ! no," said Sarah. " We may be sisters soon, then — ^perhaps, in adversity to- gether, we may grow to like each more," she added, mourn- fully. *' Good night," said Sarah, kissing her. " Good night. God bless you," answered Lucy Jennings. SARAH MAKES UP HER MIND AGAIN. 871 3 rain made I sob, n felt ti had napose troom 8 out- en she clutch- elbows 'A. gently. Sarah ; ind you sity to- mourn- ings. CHAPTER XII. SARAH MAKES UP HER MIND AGAIN. ,T was the old position — and yet vnth a grave difference. It was the old line of argument cropping up afresh in Sarah £astbeirs mind, with no Reuben Cuhvick at hand to laugh down her logic — with Reuben Culwick's power to laugh it down, perhaps, wonderfully diminished. She must give him up — she must not remain that weight upon his life, that clog upon his industry, which she had always thought she was, when her love was not bewildering her too much. Reuben loved her, she hoped still — she did not put faith in those strange suspicions of Lucy Jennings which pre- ceded a stranger confession — but Lucy was right in one thing : that she, Sarah Eastbell, could not add to the happiness of Reuben Culwick's life. She could only add to the expenses ! — she could only keep him poor. If she stood apart now, perhaps he would marry Mary Holland, and be master of his father's house again, just as the father had wished from the first. She had no right to bind him to this long engagement, to shackle his ener/jies, to keep him from " bettering " himself — now that she felt herself as poor — morally, if not legally as poor — as when he came in search of her to Potter's Court. She was very silent all that Sunday — very patient and thoughtful, and heart-sick, as a good woman resigned to the inevitable might be, knowing the mighty difference that her own sacrifice would make to every hour of her after life. She went with Lucy to the service under the railway arch, and strove hard to interest herself in Lucy's prayers and Lucy's ser- mon ; but despite Lucy's being extra powerful, extra severe on her own particular failings — as Sarah saw at once — she could not follow the extempore devotions, or the rough eloquence of the speaker. It was a quiet morning at these Sunday services ; those who came to pray were not disturbed by those who came to scoff; but the evening was boisterous and stormy, and made 372 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. up for it. Lucy Jennings read the signs of it in the noisy crowd about the door, and compressed her lips and held her breath at the strong language which echoed from the street as she and Sarah approached, under the escort of two policemeu, who were waiting for them. " You are trembling — you are afraid," said Lucy Jennings to her companion ; will you turn back now V " Why V " There will be but little religion there to-night," said Lucy, " and you are not a strong woman." " I was not thinking of the crowd — or the service," answered Sarah. " Of what then ? " was the sharp enquiry. " Of all I shall say to Reuben presently. It's very wrong, I know, Lucy, but you must not blame me for thinking of him so much. I can't help it," she said plaintively. " This is not a time or season for What are you going to say to Reuben then ? " she asked suddenly. " What you would say, Lucy, in my place — for his sake. " I don't know what I should say," she replied ; " I am a terrible hypocrite — and despicably weak." They passed under the arch, where the service commenced, and was interrupted — where the old uproar went on, and the police were tolerably busy for an liour and a half — and where, amidst all the difficulcies in the way, Lucy Jennings preached and pounded at sin, and worked herself into a white heat, and was so especially eloquent at last, that the crowd at the doors was silenced if unconvinced ; and one tall man with a beard, who had recently arrived, and had kept guard as it were over the unruly, muttered to himself — " It is her mission after all, perhaps." The service came to an end ; the stormy elements subsided ; men, women, and children went their various ways, and Lucy Jennings and Sarah Eastbell came out together, and confronted Reuben Culwick, who was waiting for them. " You have come back, then I " cried Sarah in her first de- light at seeing him, in her new forgetfuluess of all that she had resolved upon. ** Yes — it was no use stopping longer in Worcester, Sarah. WeU, Lucy." SARAH MAKES UP HER MIND AGAIN. 878 noisy d her -eet as lemeu, ngs to I Lucy, Bwered ^rong, I t him 80 going to ake. I am a imenced, and the d where, preached leat, and ihe doors a beard, lyere over " Well," answered Lucy, in her old short tones. ** I congratulate you on your sermon, but I wish the sur- roundings had been more orthodox, and the congregation less quarrelsome ; for some of these days " Lucy was gone. She had 8ud(lenly " doubled," and disap- peared down one of the dark turnings, and Sarah and Beuben were left looking at each other. " There, I have offended her again," cried Reuben ; " she never will listen to a fellow, or hear a fellow out. Poor old girl ! she would have led a husband — if she had ever caught one, Sarah — a very sensational kind of life. Its no use waiting for her, I think." " No." ;^ She will be home before us, I dare say — being well , up in the back-slums about here. Take my arm, little woman, while I tell you all the news." Sarah Eastbell took his arm and sighed. This might be for the last time that they would ever walk together thus ; who could tell ? She had made up her mind now, and the sooner the truth was told him the better. He gave her the opportunity to speak at once, and her impulsiveness leaped towards it, indis- creetly, desperately. " 1 saw Miss Holland this morning — I gave her the will — and, by Jove, you are as poor as old Job, girl ! " subsided ; and Lucy onfronted first de- at she had icr, Sarah. 374 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. I! ^^^•-^--^►-vi'. CHAPTER XIII. I ! JEALOUS AT LAST. EUBEN CULWICK could afford to treat poverty as a jest still, unless this was histrionic display to deceive and comfort Sarah Eastbell. If the latter, it was a terrible failure, which surprised even himself when his second- cousin spoke. •' Yes, Reuben, I have been waiting for this poverty to tell you that you must not share it with me. " Indeed ! " was his quiet answer. " That you and I are not fit for each other. Oh, Reuben," she cried, " I am quite certain of it now 1 " " Do you remember what I said on the day we first spoke of this down in Worcestershire ? " Heuben inquired. " Ah ! every word." • " And yet not one word left to pin a second-cousin's faith to," he said lightly. " "Well, let us go over the old argument again." " No, no," she said, shrinking from him, " you cannot con- vince me that it is better for our foolish engagement to continue." " Shall I tell you why 1 " said Reuben, looking down very intently into her face. Sarah did not answer, and he continued after a moment's pause — " Because Lucy Jennings — charming Lucy ! — has been at her old work, reckoning after her own style, fashioning out human lives after her own purposeless way, choosing for others a path ahead that no human being out of bedlam could follow, doing everything for the best and for -one's good, but scattering dust and ashes right and left like a violent Vesuvius. Come, is not Lucy Jennings at the bottom of this resolution 1 " ** I have been thinking oi this for weeks. I have been see- ing the .necessity for it " » JEALOUS AT LAST. 375 rty as a deceive b was a , second- j to tell Jeuben," spoko of In's faith jgument inot con- ment to >wn very oaoment's been at ming out or others Id follow, icattering . Come, 1" been see- " Ay, through Lucy's spectacles." " You are hard on Lucy, Reuben." " I say, God bless her for a w^ll-meaning woman, Sarah," said Reuben, " but if she had a trifle more consideration, more heart, it would be better for us all. I have left you too long, and the position or the companionship has unnerved you. We must alter all this ; there must be less work and more holiday- making. We will go to the pit of a theatre to-morrow as a start off, girl." '* You would lose money by coming to me," said Sarah mournfully. " Nonsense. I have begun to save money again." " Ah ! Reuben, let us understand each other at last ; don't ask roe to say anything, do anything, but end this unnatural position between ue. I am unhappy." '' Because of this engagement 1 "Yes." . " You are afraid of poverty with me ? " " I am afraid of making you poorer than you are — of keep- ing you poor all your life, said Sarah. " Yes, you have been over-dosed by the Jennings* powders. I know their effect, and should have been more considerate," said Reuben caustically ; *' but then I had more faith in your courage." More faith in her courage ! She who had the courage to re- sign him — who gave up her one hope of happiness lest he should grow unhappy presently. But he could not see this, or he would not see it, Heaven only knew which. *' I " she began, almost indignantly, when he stopped her. " If this is to be our last meeting, or our last parting, Sarah," he said quickly, " let it be marred by no harsh reminiscence. We are going to say good-bye. We have discovered that housekeeping expenses will shipwreck us ; that I shall grow in time a big brute, to whom no second-cousin's devotion will bring comfort. But we need not quarrel over the discovery. We can part friends." " Yes," answered Sarah, " the best of friends." There was something in his manner that she hardly fath- omed. She had been more prepared for an angry outburst than for this easy-going style of acquiescence. 876 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " It is hardly justice," he continued, " for you, vho would have Tiiarrit'd a poor man, will not let me marry a poor woman in my turn. You want all the 8elf-s:icrifice on one Ride, Sarah ; and even my good luck with my pen is turned into a weapon against me. But," he added, " we will not quarrel. Never an angry word between these two blundering relatives, who do rot know their own minds." " I know that " "No, Sarah, I am sure you don't/* he said, interrupting her again ; " but we will not argue about it, and wound our feel- ings unnecessarily. We will spare each other between this and the York Road. We will wait till Miss Holland gives us her opinion on the matter." "Miss Holland!" cried Sarah Eastbell. "What do you mean 1 " "Miss Holland is in the York Road apartments. She came from Worcester with me this afternoon." " With you I You went to escort her then 1 " " No. I went to see her to tell her the news of her pros- perity, and to offer my congratulations, after which I said good morning." " Well 1 " said Sarah, almost sharply now. " Well, an hour or two afterwards she turned up at the rail- way station, and in common politeness I could but offer her my escort back to town. She was very anxious to see you, she said." " Ah ! she said so," answered his second-cousin. There was no further argument after the introduction of Mary Holland's name into the conversation. The harmony of their last even- ing together was effectually settled after that. Better to have ended all in a storm of words and tears than in the grave and unnatural silence which followed. Sarah had no idea that she was a jealous woman until then for Lucy had not made her jealous last night— only roused in her a feeling of intense in- dignation at the suspicions which she had sown broadcast. But for Reuben Culwick to speak of Mary Holland in this off- hand way was a very different matter; and her heart sank like a stone, and refused to stir any more with hop^ or pleasure, or even surprise. When they were in the York Road, Reuben said — JEALOUS AT LAST. 877 ronld oman aiah ; eapon Never ho do iglier r feel- lis and U8 her lo you e came " She is not in good spirits, but I hope Tots has been a com- panion for her whilst we have been away." " Is the child with her 1 " "To be sure," said Reuben ; " is not Tots— but there, Mary will explain for herself," " Mary ! " echoed Sarah Eastbell. They went up stairs into the front room on the first floor, where sat by the fireside the young woman whom we have known by the name of Mary Holland. Tots was in her lap, with her child's arms round her neck, and her little head soothed upon a mother's bosom fur the first time in her child- ish recollections. " It is her child then ! " sal ■ ">?\rah in a low whisper. " Yes, to be sure," answered J.; uben carelessly. " I am in a dream," murmun d Sarah. " But you are very close ^i Reuben. the vvakir,^. ' added hei cousin 6* r pros- id good ihe rail- er her ,ee you, lere was Holland's [st even- [to have tve and that she [ade her Icnse in- joadcast. this off- ink like jure, or 378 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. CHAPTER XIV. CONFIDENCE. I HERE was another inmate of the room which Reuben and his cousin had entered. Lucy Jennings was standing on the hearthrug with her hands clasped toge- ther, and her grave white face turned towards mother and child. Reuben was right. She had reached home before them, having a better knowledge of the shortest cut to York Koad than Reuben had. Mary looked around as the cousins came in together, and & sad smile flickered on a face grown careworn with anxiety. She did not raise her head from that of her child's as Reuben and Sarah advanced, and Reuben said — "Mrs. Peterson, I have brought an old friend to shake hands with you — to express her regrets for all that past dis- trust which she has had, as well as I." - Sarah had only heard the first two words. " Mrs. Peterson ! " Then you — you - " I was Edward Peterson's wife," she added wearily and sadly — " yes." " But not in the plot against you, Sarah," said Reuben j " fighting for you in the first instance — writing to me to come to the rescue — kept forever in doubt concerning you — held down at last to silence by the awful threat of her child's death — believing in your safety through it all, and striving once more for you and against her husband when she feared hw treachery had deceived her." " And he was true to his word," Mary added with a sigh, « for the first time in his life." Sarah looked from Reuben to the companion and friend, and said — " I do not see how Edward Peterson " " It is a long story," said Mary, interrupting her ; " spare me for a few days the history of a school-girl's secret marriage, a M CONFIDENCE. 879 ieuben 5fl was jdtoge- ler and before « York •, and a jty. She iben and to shake past dis- irily and Reuben ; e to come ^ou— held lid's death once more treachery Lth a sigh, riend, and <« spare me marriage, a bitter repentance, a husband's desertion, a long up-hill fi^ht to forget a past that had become terrible and full of humiliation. I did not know then that Bessie lived," (clasping the child more tightly in her arms,) and it was one link of love that held me to my old life. She showered a hundred kisses on the child, who cowered at this passionate demonstration of affection, and at the sudden outburst of tears which followed it. Children cannot love even their mothers at first sight ; and poor Tots, tossed from one heart to the other through her life, sprang from Mary's lap and ran into Reuben's arms as a safer shelter for her. " She will soon grow used to you," said Lucy in a low voice. " You are too eager for the child's affection." " She will soon love me too, I hope, Mr. Culwick," she said, turning to Reuben and passing her hand across her eyes. " I shall be a formidable rival to you presently, and remembering all past kindness, past sacrifices of which Miss Jennings has told me, I shall be never jealous of you." " I told you not to say anything about it," muttered Lucy Jennings. *' What have you been singing to my praises, Lucy 1 " cried Reuben. " I never praise anybody," answered Lucy. Sarah meanwhile had crossed to Mrry Peterson at last, and sat down by her side, and taken her by both hands. "Yours has been a strange life, and I have jud&:ed you wrongly in it," she said. " If only for a little while, stul it was a great wrong." " How do you know 1 " asked Mary. " Reuben says so, and " " And you believe in Reuben, — ua you always will." Sarah Eastbell felt herself blushing, but she did not hazard a reply. " I have come to London for a few words of explanation, Sarah ; they are made at a sad time," Mary said, but I could not rest, after Reuben's visit to me — not even an hour after my husband's death." " Edward Peterson is dead ! " exclaimed Sarah Eastbell. She was surprised — she hardly knew why, but she was sorry for his death. He had plotted against her — he would have ■f ! 380 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. killed her rather than let her escape without a ransom — but she did not begrudge him his life. And it left Mary a young and pretty widow too— but what had that to do with it 1 "He died within an hour of your cousin's visit this morning," said Mary. " And you are here," said Sarah wonderingly. " Ah ! you cannot understand that," said Mary, " you who will love your husband all your life. But my love was crushed out quickly, and [only my duty took me to his bedside — my regret for the last mistake which had brought about his death, and his last act of vengeance." " His Icist act of vengeance ! " repeated Sarah. " Half-an-hour after Mr. Culwick had left me my husband, changed suddenly ; he wholly realized and for the first time, that there was no hope for him in this world, and — what did he do ] " she added with a shudder. "He should have asked pardon of you for blighting your life," said Sarah. " He should have sought pardon of his God," added Lucy Jennings. ** He tore the last will of Simon Culwick into a hundred pieces, lest I should claim my right to riches by it," answered Mary ; " he cursed me and he left me poor." "But " " But I have all the fragments," added Mary, opening a purse heaped to the clasp with small pieces of paper ; " see — there they are." Sarah glanced at them but did not speak. ** It would be a specimen of patchwork that the law would hardly acknowledge said the widow, " but you would not dis- pute the will, Sarah, if I by patient study and great care, render this testament complete again?" " No," answered Sarah Eastbell. " In my husband's life-time I dared not make him rfch ; and now in memory of much kindness, of old trust — of new con- fidence, may I say 1 — I have the courage to remain poor." She held the open purse oyer the fire, and the fragments fell from it into the red coals. Both Reuben and Sarah started forward to arrest her hand, but it was too late. " You should not have done this/' cried Reuben. CONFIDENCE 381 it she g and ling, it 1 who rushed e— my death, isbaiid, it time, hat did ig your sd Lucy hundred answered )ening a ♦'see — tw would i not dis- re, render rich ; and new C01-- koor." ments fell ih started " It was nob a just will," answered the widow, " I told your father so when he placed it in my hands, although I did not tell him that never in all my life should I avail myself of his munificence." " He had wronged your father in some manner which we c'-nnot guess at — but which he owned himself. You told me that/* said Reuben " He was strange that day. It might have been the raving of a madman." " As that," said Lucy pointing to the fire, " was the act of a madwoman." " I think not," answered Mary confidently ; it is an act of justice to the man entitled to his father's money, and who will marry this brave young lady in possession." ** She has given me up," said Reuben drily, but Mary turned from one to another, and read no distress or doubt on either face. Here were two lives in the sunshine at ' ist. " I believe it was always Simon Cul wick's \ a that Reuben should have this money," continued Mary ; '* he did not know of my marriage, and I dared not tell him for my home's sake, and so we went on from one complication to another. There were only two wills," said Mary ; the first left all to his sister, the second to me^ — and the second I could not, and I did not care to prove. The answer to the riddle came round in the way I thought it might do, if I were watch fid and reserved — for I knew in what high estimation Sarah Eastbell held her cousin, and how she had made up her mind — quite made it up — to give an obstinate man his rights. She and I together planned more ways than one — she very artless, I very artful perhaps — but the best and simplest and happiest way has come without our plotting." ** But you ? " said Sarah and Reuben together. " You two are not likely to forget me, or my little daughter here - to shut me from yo '"^iendship — to help me in the world, should I want help." " Help ! " echoed Reuben ; " why, it is all yours." " You can't prove that," said Mary emphatically, " and I would prefer to be dependent on your bounty. I will not be too proud to ask for a pension, when my little girl grows up and tires of her mother." ) 382 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. " The future, for you and Tots, you will leave to Sarah and me," said Reuben ; "you will trust in those whom you have trusted so much already." "As they will trust in me now," said the unselfish woman, holding out her hands to them. It is a fair picture on which the curtain is rung down — on perfect confidence, and true affection, and prosperity — on life opening out before these three with no shadows on the scenes beyond. Reuben and Sarah will live happily for ever after- wards — as young couples always should in books — and Mary and her daughter will be their faithful friends and loving com- panions to the end of life. In the.red glow 'of the sunset of our story, stands poor Lucy Jennings — grave and stony as the Libyan sphinx — commenting but little upon the happiness about her, and yet feeling that it reaches to her heart, and makes her more Uke other women. She does not own this, but as years steal on, she will become wiser and kinder, and more considerate — be not above the vanity of a visit to Sedge Hill, and work as hard and as successfully to reform her brother John, as she has done in old days to re- form the mysterious lives of society's oflFshoots. She will have civen up preaching under railway arches then, and be a white- haired woman, whom Reuben will be kind and courteous to, and Reuben's children will love, although they will run away and hide when she preaches too long sermons to them — a weak- ness that will never wholly leave her, even when asthma turns up. Reuben's brother-in-law, one Thomas Eastbell, will not visit Worcestershire again, and Reuben's wife will not learn for years of his disappearance in the Australian bush — where we can a£ford to let the last of our villains hide himself. In the bright early morning, gazing from the window of her room at the fair landscape beyond, with the silvery laughter of little children ringing upwards from the lawn, and with her husband's arm linked within her own. Second-cousin Sarah will talk no longer of Sedge Hill being an unlucky house. THE ENP. •^Jf^ h and I have roman, m — on on life scenes r after- i Mary ag com- or Lucy naenting 5 that it women, become le vanity icessfuUy tys to re- ff'AX have a white- rteous to, run away —a weak- ima turns [ not visit I for years re we can low of her aughter of i with her . Sarah will