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" She flung her arms passionately rouna her husband's neck." [Page 150,

The Scallywag

Grant Allen

Illustrated by G. P. Jacomb-Hood

London
Ward, Lock & Co., Limited

New York and Melbourne

# .

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAOB

I. IN V/INTER QUARTERS ... 9

II. ROOM FOR THE HERO ... 12

ni. AL FRESCO 15

IV. AT SANT' AGNESE .... I7

V. GOSSIP 20

VI. THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION . 23

VII. SIR EMERY AND LADY GASGOYNE AT

HOME 26

VIII. PAUL'S ADVISER .... 29

IX. TEMPTATION 32

X. THE HEIRESS IS WILLING . , 35

XI. BEHIND THE SCENES . . . .38

XII. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE . . 4I

XIII. BROTHER AND SISTER . . .44

XIV. THE COMING OF AGE Ol THE HEIR

TO THE TITLE .... 47

XV. COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY . . .5°

XVI. FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE . 53

XVII. REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES . . 56

XVIII. IN GOOD SOCIETY .... 59

XIX. IDYLLS OF YOUTH . . .63

XX. BREAKING THE ICE . . . 66

XXI. COINCIDENCES . . . . .68

XXII. MISS BOYTON PLAYS A CARD , 7I

XXIII. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR . . -73

XXIV. HONOURS 76

XXV. COMPENSATION 79

XXVI. AN INTRODUCTION . . . 81

CHAPTER PAOB

XXVII. THE WILES OF THE STRANGE

WOMAN 85

XXVIII. THE BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE 87

XXIX. IN HOT PURSUIT ... 90

XXX. AT THE CALL OF DUTY . . .92

XXXI. " LE ROI EST MORT ! VIVE LE F.OI 1 " 94

XXXII. THE BUBBLE BURSTS . . 97

XXXIII. FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE . lOO

XXXIV. MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE . . 102
XXXV. A PLAN OF CAMI AIGN . . . I05

XXXVI. THE PLAN PROGRESSES . . IO9

XXXVII. THE PLAN IN ACTION . . .113

XXXVIII. ON THE TRACK OF THE ROBBER II5

XXXIX. HUNTED DOWN . . . • "7

XL. " CORNWALL TO WIT " . . II9

XLI. A RESCUE 122

XLII. THE THIEF IS ARREST.-D . I24

XLIII. RELICT OF THE Li' TE LIONEL

SOLOMONS 127

XLIV. "A MODERN MIRACLE" . . I30

XLV. PRESSURE AND TENSION . . I32

XLVI. A TRANSACTION IN DIAMONDS . I34

XLVII. " PUTTING ON THE SCREW " . . I37

XLVIH. MR. SOLOMONS COMES OUT . I39

XLIX. TO PARIS AND BACK, SIXTY SHILLINGS I42

L. A FALL IN CENTRAL SOUTHERNS . I44

LI. A CATASTROPHE . . . I46

LII. ESTATE OF THE LATE J. P. SOLOMONS I48

■%.-

I-

■ ! ',C

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." .JT

/^y^^^

(n^^^

«^

THE SCALLYWAG.

CHAPTER I.

IN WINTKK gUAIlTRRS.

■' For my part," said Armitage, " I call him a
Boallywag."

•' What is a scallywag ? " N<>a Blair asked,
looking up at him from her seat with inquiring
wonder.

Armitage paused a moment, and perused
his boots. It's BO liard for a fellow to be

Eounced upon like that for a definition off-
and.

" Well, a scallywag," he answered, leaning
his back, for moral support, against the big
euc&lyptus-tree beside which he stood, " a
sc&Uywag, I should say, well— well, is — why,
he's the sort of man, you know, you wouldn't
like to be seen walking down Piccadilly with."

** Oh, I see t " Nea exclaimed, with a bright
little laugh. " You mean, if you were walkmg
down Piccadilly yourself in a frock-coat and
shiny tall hat, with an orchid from Bull's
stuck in your button-hole 1 Then I think, Mr.
Armitage, I rather like scallvwags."

Madame Geriolo brouglit her eyes (and eye-

S lasses) back from space, where they had been
rmly fixed on a point in the heavens at an
infinite distanje, and ejaculated in mild and
solemn surprise :

" But why, my dear Nea ? "

*' Oh, because, Madame, scallywags are
always by far the most interesting people in
the world. They're so much more likely to be
original and amusing than all the rest of us.
Arusta and authors, for example, are almost
alwMTS soallywags."

" what a gross libel on two liberal profes-
sions I " Armitage put in, with a shocked ex-
pression of face.

He dabbled in water-colours as an amateur
himself, and therefore considered he was very
nearly implicated in this wholesale condemna-
tion of art and literature.

" As far as I'm concerned," Madame Ceriolo
said with angelic softness, re-arranging her
pinoe-nee, "I hate originality. And I'm not
very fond of artists and authors. Why should
people wish to be different from th:iir fellow-
Christians?"

" Who is it you're calling a scallywag, any
way ? " Isabel Boyton asked from her seat
beyond with her clear American accent.

If Madame Ceriolo was going to start an
abstract disenssion on an ethical question of
wide extent, Isabel meant, with Philadelphian
practicality, to nail her down at ^once to the

matter in hand, and resolutely resist all attempts
at diKression.

" Why, this new man, Gasooyne," Armitage
drawled out in answer, annexing a vacant chair

t'ust abandoned by a fai, old Frenchman in the
lackground by the ca/^, and seating himself
opposite them.

"It's a good name — Oascoyne," Nea sug-
gested, quietly.

"Yes, indeed," Miss Boyton echoed, w' h
American promptitude. " A first-rate name.
I've read it in a history-book."

" But a good name doesn't count for much
nowadays,' Madame Ceriolo interposed, and
then straightway repented her. Anybody can
assume a good name, of course ; but surely ahe
was the last person on earth who ought to have
called attention, just then, to the facility of the
asstunption. For did she not print a ooontess's
coronet on the top of her own caxd on no better
title ? and was not her vogue in Bivierian
Society entirely due to her personal assertion
of her relationship to the Geriolos of Gastel
Ceriolo, in the Austrian Tyrol ?

"Well, he's a nice-looking young fellow
enough," Nea added, pleading his cause with
warmth, for she had committed herself to Mr.
Gasooyne's case now, and she was quite deter-
mined he should have an invitation.

" Besides, we're awfully short of gentle-
men," Isabel Boyton put in sharply. " I
haven't seen him, hut a man's a man. I don't
care whether he is a scallywag or not, I mean
to go for him." And she jotted dorvn the
name on her list at once, without waiting to
hear Madame Ceriolo for the prosecution.

It was seasonable weather at Mentone, for
the 20th of December. The sky was as cloud-
lessly blue as July, and from the southern
side of the date-palms on the Jardin Public,
where they all sat basking in the warm rays
of the sun, the great jagged peaks of the bare
mountains in tiie rear showed distinct and
hard against a deep sapphire background. A
few hundred feet below the summi^< of one of
the tallest and most rugged, the i uined walls
of the Saracen fortress of Sant' Agnese just
caught the light ; and it was to ibat airy plat-
form that Nea and Isabel proposed their joint
pictiio for the twenty-fourth — the day before
Christmas. And the question under debate at
that particular moment was simply this — who
should be invited by the two founders of the
feast f eaoh alternately adding a name to her
own list, according to fancy.

"Well, if you take Mr. Gasooyne," Nea

'^'

THE SCALLYWAG.

€:■

■aid, with a faint air of disappointment at
losing her guest, "J shall take Mr. Thistle-
ton."

And she proceeded to inscribe him.

" But, Nea, my dear," Madame Geriolo
broke in with an admirable show of maternal
solicitude, " wbb is Mr. Gascoyne, and who is
Mr. Thistleton ? I think we ought to make
sure of that. I haven't even heard their
names before. Are they in Society ? "

" Oh, they're all right, I guets," Isabel
Boyton answered briskly, looking up much
amused. "Momma was talking to them on
the promenade yesterday, and she says she
apprehends Mr. Thistleton's got money, and
Mr. Gascoyne'd got brains if he ain't <^ot
family. They can just come right along.
Don't you be afraid, Madame."

" Your momma's opinion is very reassuring,
no doubt," Madame Geriolo continued drily,
as one who liked not the security, and in a voice
that half mimicked Isabel's frank American-
ism; "but still, as being in charge of dear
Kea's conduct and society while she remains
at Mentone, I should prefer to feel certain,
before we commit ourselves to inviting them,
exactly who these young men are. The fact
that they're stopping at a decent hotel in the
town is not in itself sufficient. Such very odd
people get into good hotels on the Biviera
sometimes."

And Madame Ceiiolo, moasuring Isabel
through her eyeglasses with a stony stare,
drew herself up \vith a poker-dr.wn-her-back
air, in perfect imitation of the stereotyped
British matronly exclusiveness.

The fact was, having acoeptnd the post of
chaperon-companion to Nea Blair for the
winter, Madame Oeriolo was laudably anrious
to perform her part in that novel capacity
with strict propriety and attention to detail;
but, never having tried her hand at the pro-
prieties in her life before, and being desirous
now of observing them to the utmost letter of
the law — if anything, she rather over-did it
than otherwise.

" Now, Mr. Armitage," Nea said mis-
chievoucly, " it's you who're responsible for t^a woman of forty as you would wiib to see
our original introduction to the scallywag and macross a table d'hdte at dinner any day.'

" " ^ "ir they're really Oxford men, and yonr

fact, as a cosmopolitan and a woman of the
world, that she always thought to herself in
French or German, and translated aloud, as it
were, into English. It called attention now
and ngain in passing to what casual observers
might otherwise have overlooked — her Tyro-
lose origin and her Parisian training.

'* And Gascoyne, the scaUywag," Armitage
went on reflectively. " appears to be a sort of
tutor or something of the kind to the other
one — Thistleton . ' '

Madame Ceriolo's back collapsed altogether.

" An Oxford tutor ! " she cried, smiling most
genially. " Why, that's quite respectable.
The pink of propriety. Tout ce qu'il y a de
plus comme il faut t Nothing could be more
proper."

" I don't think he's exactly a tutor — not in
the sense you mean," Armitage continued
hastily, afraid of guaranteeing the Bcallywag
too far. " I think he's merely come abroad
for the vacation, you know, bringing this other
young fellow along with him as a private pupil,
to give him a few hours' reading and accom-
pany him generally. I fancy he hasn't taken
his own degree yet."

" Then they're both of them students still ? "
Isabel Boyton interjected. " Oh my 1 Ain't
that nice ! Two Oxford students 1 You always
read in' English books, you know, about
students at Oxford."

ArmHage smiled.

" We don't call them students at Oxford or
Cambridge, thou^, for obvious reasons," he
said, with British tolerance for Transatlantic
ignorance ; " we know too well what they go
there for. Miss Boyton, for that. We call
them undergraduates."

" vVell, undergraduates, any way," Isabel
answered good-humouredly. She was accus-
tomed to snubbing. " It don't much matter
what you call them, I guess, as long as they're
men, and come from Oxford. Are you satisfied
about them now in your own mind, Madame
Geriolo ? "

Madame Geriolo smiled her gradotts little
smile. She was as pretty and well pnQi|erved

his friend. Speak up for their antecedents!
You've got to account for your acquaintances
to Madame." And she drew, a circle with her
parasol on the gravel-path, as if to point the
moral of the impossibilities of his ever escaping
them.

" Well, to begin with, they're Oxford men,"
Armitage said, clearing his throat, and looking
dubiously about him. " They're both of them
Oxford men."

Madame Ceriolo's back relaxed somewhat.
"Oh, Oxford men," she answered in an
appeased voice. " That's always something."
Then, after a pause, under her breath, to her-
self, " Ja wohl, ja wohl I C'est toujowrs
quelque chose."

It was part of Madame Ceriolo's point, in

momma approves of them," she replied, with
just the faintest httle, undertone of malice,
" I'm sure they'll be an acquisition to Mentone
Society. Though I could wish that one of
them was not a scallywag, if Mr. Armitage
has explamed the meaning of the name he
applies to him correctly."

" Chut I " Armitage murmured in a gentle
un-^ertone. " Talk of the devil 1— Here comes
Thistleton ! "

" We sav in Austria, ' Speak of an angel,
and you hear ^V» rustle of her wings,'"
Madame answered demurely. " C'est plus
poU, notre proverbe A noun; n'est-ce pas,
monsiewrf And which ia Tbis'leton? The
pupil or the scallywag 7"

DN WINTER QUARTERS.

"The p^pil," Armitago whispered, in a
flutter of uneasiness. "But take care — taka
care. He'll see we're talking of him."

" The pupil 1 C'eat Men I " Madame mused
in reply. And in effect it was well; for
experience and analoky led her to conclude
that the pupil is usually richer in this world's
goods than his master or instructcr.

" Though, after all," Madame reflected to
herself wisely, " it isn't always the richest
people, either, you can get most out of."

Her reflections, howeror, philosophical as
they might be, were cut short by the arrival
of the pupil himself, whom Armitage advanced
to meet with friendly ri^iit hand, and pre-
sented duly to the ladies of the party.

" Madame Ceriolo, Miss Boyton, Miss Blair
—Mr. Thistleton."

The new-comer bowed. He was a blonde
young man, tall, hearty, and athletic, with a
complexion indicative of serious attention to
beefsteak for brcukfast, and he wore a well-
made knickerbocker suit that suggested im-
limited credit at a West-end tailor's.

Madame Ceriolo cast her keen black eyes
over him ona9 ^om head to foot through those
impassive gUuiAes, and summed him up men-
tally at a glance to herself; manufacturing
Interest, rich, good-humoured, a fool with his
money, strong, handsome, Britannic — the kind
of young man, in fact, whu, under other circum-
stances, it might have been well for a woman
of the world to cultivate. But then, dear ^ea!
that excellent M.. Blair ; the Cornish rectory ;
her British respectability 1 Madame drew
herself up once more at the thought and
bowed stiffly.

" Now, Nea, say, he's yours ; you've got to
ask him," Isabel Boyton remarked, after the
usual formtJibien of the weather report and the
bill of health had been duly exchanged by

either party. "The seal " She checked

herself; even Transatlantic freedom of s^ eeoh
has its final limits. " Mr. Gascoyne's mine,
and Mr. Thistleton'': yours, you know. So
fire away, there's a dear. ' On Saturday next
— the pleasure of your company.' "

" What is it ? " the blonde young man asked,
with a good-humoured smile. " Tennis, a hop,
a diimer, a tea fight? "

" Oh, dear no I only a picnic, Mr. Thistle-
ton," Nea answered, blushing ; a blush through
that clear, rich, olive- dusky skin is so very
becoming. " Miss Boyton and I are stopping
together at the ' Hdtel des Bives d'Or,' and
we've got up a little entertainment of our
own "

""V^th momma and Madame Ceriolo,"
Isabel interposed promptly, to save the con-
venances.

"To Sant' Agnese on the hill-top there,"
Nea went on, without noticmg the interrup-
tion. " It's on Saturday, the twenty-fourth,
the day before Christmas. Are you and Mr.
Gascoyne engaged for Saturday ? "

" Now, you're asking mju man. too,' Isabel

put in, pretending to be vexed ; " and I was
going to write him such a sweetly pretty in-
vitation."

"We're not engaged, so far as I'm con-
cerned," Thistleton answered, seating him-
self. " I shall be awfully delighted. But I'm
not so sure about Gascoyne, Miss Blair. He's
such a shy sort of fellow, he won't go out.
However, I'll convey Miss Boyton's message
to him."

" But the trouble is," Isabel said, glancing
seaward, " that every man Jack of us is to go '
on a donkey."

" And this meeting cordially recognises the
principle," Armitage put in Iroui behind,
" that every man Jack of us, as Miss Boyton
so charmingly phrases it, is to engage, pro-
vide, hire, and pay for his own animal."

"Where's Sant' Agnese?" the blonde
young man inquired, looking about him
vaguely.

Armitage and Miss Boyton pointed it out
together at once (of course in different places),
and Armitage's, as a matter of fact, happened
to be the right one. Such is the perversity of
men, that they actually insist upon being
usually accurate in these unimportant details.

" Why, I could hop that lot on one foot,"
Thistleton exclaimed, contemptuously. "I'll
walk, Miss Blair ; I don't need any donkey."

"But you don't understand," Armitage
answered, smiling. " The point of this par-
ticular entertainment is that it's to be funda-
mentally and essentially an exclusive donkey-
picnic."

" For which reason, Mr. Armitage, we've
included you in it," Isabel remarked, paren-
thetically in a stage undertone.

Armitage severely ignored the cheap
witticism. A man of culture can afford to
ignore Pennsylvanian pleasantry.

"And it would mar the harmony of the
entertainment," he continued, as bland as
ever, " if any of us were to insist on going up
on our natural organs of locomotion."

" Meaning our legs," Nea added, in explana-
tion, for the blonde young man seemed help-
lessly involved m doubt as to Armitage's
meaning.

Isabel Boyton glanced down at the ground
with modest coyness.

" Limbs we say in Amurrica," she mur-
mured, half-audibly to herself, with a rising
blush.

" We are all vertebrate animals," Armitage
responded, with cheerful ease. " Why seek to
conceal the fact ? Well, you see, Thistleton,
the joke is just this : we shall start some ten
or fifteen donkey-power strong, all in a row,
to scale the virgin heights of Sant' Agnese — is
' virgin heights ' permissible in America, Miss
Boyton ? — and if any one of us were ignobly
to walk by the side, he'd be ^king a mean
advantage of all the remainder."

"In short, a mean to make ourselves
ridiculous in a lot," Nea said, coining to the

:^%

TSfftiSJ.

THE SCALLYWAQ.

resene ; " and none of ns mast be less ridiculous
than the main body. You oan't think what
fjn it is, Mr. Thistleton, and what a cavalcade
we shall make, zigzagging up and down the
mountain-side like so many billy-goats I Why,
fat old Mrs. Newton at our hotel 's going to
eome on purpose, if she can get any donkey in
Mentone strong enough to carry her."

" The true philosopher," Armitage observed,
sectentiously, "is never deterred from doing
that which suits his own convenience by the
consideration that he is at the same time
afforcting an innocent amusement to other
people."

The blonde young man yielded with grace
forthwith.

" Oh, if it's nnly a case of making myself
ridiculous to please the company," he said,
with native good himiour, " I'm all there. It's
my usual attitude. I accept the donkey and
the invitation. When aid where do we start ?
We must have aMndezvous."

" At the gare at ten shtrp," Nea said, tick-
ing him off on her list of tho apprised. " And
mmd you order your donkeys well beforehand,
for there'll be a brisk demand. Every donkey
in Mentone *11 be in requisition for the picnic."

Madame Geriolo sighed. " What a character
you're giving us t " sho exclaimed lackadaisi-
cally. " But never mind, my child — lajeunesse
a'amuiera."

And she looked as young and pretty herself
when she smiled as a woman of forty can ever
reasonably be expected to do.

CHAPTER II.

BOOM FOB THE HEBO.

Ak hour later the blonde young man pursued
the even tenor of his way, assisted by a cigar
and swinging a stcut green orange-stick in his
hand, sJong the Promenade du Midi, the main
lotmge of Mentone, towards the Hdtel Conti-
nental. Arrived at the gracd staircase of the
palatial caravanserai, the most fashionable in
the town, he leapt lightl up three steps at a
time into the entrance-) ill, and calling out,
l^ " Here, you, sir," in his ative tongue— for he
"^^ was no bnguist — to the boy at the lift, mounted
hydraulically, whistling as he went, to the
second storey. There he burst into the neatly-
furnished sitting-room, being a boisterous
young man, most heedless of the conventions,
and, flinging his hat on the table and himself
into an easy chair before the superfluous fire,
exclaimed in a loud and jolly voice to his com-
panion:

" I say, Gtascoyne, here's games to the fore I
I've got aa invitation for you."

His friend looked up inquiringly. "Who

from?" he asked, laying down his pen and

rising from his desk to sun himself in the broad

flood of light by the window.

* " A pretty American," Thistleton answer«d,

knocking off his ash into the basket of olivfl<
wood; " no end of a stunner I "

"But I don't know hsr," Paul Gascoyne
gasped out, with a half-terrified look.

" So much the better," his companion re-
torted, imperturbably. " If a lady falls over
head and ears in love with you merely from
seeing your manly form in the street without
ever having so much as exchanged a single
word with you, the compliment's a higher one,
of course, tihan if she waited to learn all your
virtues and accomplishments in the ordinary
manner."

" Dinner? ' Gascoyne asked, with a dubious
glance towards his bedroom door. He was
thinking how far his evening apparel would
carry him unaided.

" No, not dinner ; a picuic next Saturday as
ever was," Thistleton replied, all unconsoious.
" The ladies of the 'Bives d'Or ' invite us both
to lunch with them on the green up yonder
at Sant' Agnese. It's an awful lark, and the
pretty American's dying to see you. She says
she's heard so much about you "

" A picnic t " Paul interposed, cutting him
short at once, and distinctly r^HMd by learn-
ing of this lesser evil. " Well^Hntresay I can
let it run to a pi'^nic. That won't dip into
much. But how did the ladies at the ' Bives
d'Or ' ever come at all to cognise my humble
existence ? "

Thistleton smiled an abstruse smile.

" Why, Armitage told them, I suppose," he
answered, carelessly. " But do you really
imagine, at the present time of day, my dear
fellow, every girl in the place doesn't know at
once the name, antecedents, position, and
prospects, of every young man of marriageable
age that by any chance comes into it ? Do
you think they naven't spotted the fashionable
intelligence wat two real live Oxford men are
stopping a ; ' I'le ' Continental ' ? I should
rather say so I Gascoyne, my boy, keep your
eyes open. We've our price in the world.
Mind you always remember it I "

Paul Gascoyne smiled uneasily. " I wish I
could think so," he murmured half aloud.

"Yes, we've our price in the world," hit
friend continued slowly, cigar turned down-
wards and lips pursed, musing. " The eligible
young man is fast becoming an extinct animal.
The supply by no means equals the demand.
And the result's as usual. We're at a pre-
mium in Society, and, as economic units, we
must govern ourselves accordingly."

" Ah, that's all very well for rich men like
you, Paul began, hurriedly.

"Whatt do you mean to say," Thistleton
cried, rising and fronting him with a jerk, "that
half the women one meets wouldn't be glad to
marry the son and heir of a British bar "

Before he could utter the word that was
gurgling in his throat, however, Gascoyne had
dapped his hand upon that imprudent mouth,
and cried out, in a perfect agony of disgust :

"No more of that nonsense, for heaven'i

^B^

ROOM FOR THE HERO.

is;

Bake, Thistleton ! I hope you haven't breathed
a word about it to anybody here in Mentone ?
If you have, I think I shall die of shame. I'll
take the very next train back to Paris, I swear,
and never oome near either you or the place
again as long as I live."

Thistleton sat down, red-faced, but sobered.

" Honour bright, not a word 1 " he answered,
gazing hard at his companior. '* I've never
80 much as even alluded to it. The golden-
haired Pennsylvanian was trying to pump me
all she knew, I confess ; but I hstened not to
the voice of the charmer, charmed she never
BO wisely through her neat little nose. I
resisted the s:ren like bricks, and kept my
own counsel. Now, don't cut up rusty about
it, there's a good, sensible fellow. If a man's
father does happen to be born "

But a darted look from Gascoyne cut him
short once more with unspoken remonstrance,
and he contented himself with pulling down
his collar and flashing his shirt-cuffs to imitate
in pantomime a general air of close connection
with the British aristocracy.

Therfr was a short pause, during which
Thistleton slowly puffed his cigar, while Paul
looked out of the window in meditative mood
and scanned the blue bay and purple sea, with
Bordighera shining white on its promontory
in the distance.

It would have been impossible for anybody
to deny, as you saw him then, that Paul
Gascoyne was essentially a scallywag. He
looked the character to perfection. It wasn't
merely that his coat, though carefully bi <ished
and conserved, had se&i long service and
honourable scars ; it was n't merely that his
tie was narrow, and his c jllar demodi, and his
trousers baggy, and b 's shoes antique : it
wasn't merely that honpst poverty peeped out
of every fold and crease in his threadbare
raiment; the man himself had something of
that shy and shrinking air which belongs by
nature to those poor souls who slink along
timidly through the back alleys of life, and
fear to tread with a fi'ee and open footstep the
main highways of respectable himianity Not
that, on the other hand, there was anything
mean or small in Paul Gasooyne's face or
bearing; on the contrary, ke looked every
inch a man, and, to those who can see below
the surface, a gentleman also. He was tall
and well-built, with handsome features and
copious black hair, that showed off his fine
eyes and high white forehead to great advan-
tage. But the day of small things had weighed
upon him heavily : the iron of poverty and
ancestral care had entered into his soul. The
sordid shifts and petty subterfuges of a life far
harder than that of his companions and fellow-
students had left their mark deep upon his
form and features. He was, in short, what
Armitage had called him, ii spite of his good
looks — an obvious scallywag, nothing more or
less: a person rightly or wrongly conscious
that, by accident ur demerit, he tills a minor

place in the world's esteem and the world's
consideration.

He stood and gazed out of the window
abstractedlv, reflecting to himself that, after
all, a climb up those glorious gray crags to
Sant' Agnese would be far from unpleasant,
even though clogged by a golden-haired Penn-
sylvanian, no doubt wealthy, if only — when
suddenly Thistleton recalled him to hhuself by
adding in an afterthought :

" Ajad we've got to order our donkeys early;
for donkeys, too, will be at a premium on
Saturday. PoUtical economy very much to
the front. Supply and demand again un-
equally balanced."

Paul glanced up at the silent rooks once
more— great lonely tors that seemed to pierce
the blue with their gigantic aiguilles — and
answered quietly :

"I think I shall walk, for my own part,
Thistleton. It can't be more than a couple of
thousand feet or so up, and half a dozen miles
across countiy as the crow flies. Just about
enough to give one an appetite for one's lunch
when one gets there."

" Ah, but the pretty American's commands
are absolute — every man Jack to ride his own
donkey. They say it's such fun going up iu a
body like so many fools ; and if everybody's
going to make himself a fool for once, I don't
object to bearing my part in it." And the ,
blonde young man leaned back in his easy-
chair and stuck his boots on the fender with a
tolerant air of perfect contentment with all
mankind and the constitution of the universe.
" I shall walk," Paul murmured agalu, not
dogmatically, but as one who wishes to settle
a question off-hand.

" Look here, now, Gascoyne, ' this is clean
rideeklous,' as the Highland meenister said
in his prayer. Do you mean to say you're too
grand to ride a donkey ? You think it infra
dig. for a B. of B. K.— there, will that suit
you ? — to be seen on a beast which is quite

good enough "

Paul cut him short once more with a gesture
of impatience.

"It's unkind of you, Thistleton," he said,
"to go on harping so often on that threadbare
string, vhen you see how very much pain and
annoysT.c- : "\uses me. You know it's not
that. Heaven knows I'm not proud — not that
way, at least — what on earth have I ^ot to be
ashamed of '/ No, the simple truth is, if you
must have it, I don't want to go to the expense
of a donkey."

" My dear fellow 1 "Why, it's only five francs
for the whole day, they tell me ! "

Paul Gascoyne smiled. *' But five francs is
a consideration to me," he answered, after a
slight mental reckoning. " Fifty pence, you
see ; that's four and twopence. Four and two-
pence is an awful lot of money to fling away
for nothing t " And he rearranged the logs on
the fire reflectively.
"Well, look here, Gascoyne, sooner than

■^r

THE SCALLYWAQ.

mar the harmony of the meet?ng, I'll tell yon
what I'll do— I'll stand you a donkey."

Paul gave a little start of surprise and un-
easiness. His colour deepened. "Oh, no,"
he said. " Thistleton, I couldn't allow that.
If I go at all, I shall go on my own iegs, or
else take a beast and pay my own expenses."

" "Who's proud now ? " the blonde young
man exclaimed, with provoking good humour.

Paul looked down at him gravely from the
corner of the mantelpiece on which his arm
rested.

" Thistleton," he said, in a serious voice,
gro- s '?dder still in the face as ^.e spoke,
"to ■ you the truth, I'm ashamed already
of how much I'm letting you do for me. When
I first arranged to come abroad with you, and
have my expenses paid, I hadn't the remotest
conception, I assuro you, of what an awful
sum the expenses would come to. I've never
lived at a hotel like this before, or in anything
like such extravagant luxury. 1 bought the
ten pounds I charged for tuition would be the
chief item ; instead of which, I see now, you've
already paid almost as much as that for me in
railway fares and so forth, and I tremble to
think how much more you may have to pay
for my board and lodging. I can't let you
stand me my amusements, too, into the
bargain."

. The blonde young man puffed away at hia
cigar for a moment or so with vigorous good
humour. ,

" What a devil of a conscience you' ve got I "
he observed, at last, in the intervals of the
puffs ; " and what a devil of a touchy sense of
honour as well, Oascoyne ! I suppose it's in
the family I Why, it's the regular rule ; if
you take a vacation tutor to a place of your
own choice abroad, you pay his way for him.
I call it only fair. You contract to do it.
There's no obligation on either side. A mere
matter of business."

" But you come to much a grand hotel and
live BO royally I " Paul objected, with fervour.

"Am I to go tj a cabaret and live upon
garlic, just to 3uit your peculiar views of ex-
penditure ? " Thistleton retorted, with spirit.
" Can I drink sour wine and eat black bread
because you like to be econonuical ? No, no,
my dear fellow. You mistake the position. I
want to come to Mentone for the winter.
Beastly climate, Yorkshire ; dull hole, the
governor's ; lovely coast, the Biviera ; Monte
Carlo always laid on at a convenient distance ;
Jots of amusement; plenty of fun; the very
place to spend the Christmas vac. in. If I go
and say to the governor : ' Look here, old boy,
I want a pony or two to run down South and
amuse myself, just to escape this infernal dull
hole of yours, and to have a tium or two at
roulette or something,' why the governor 'd
no doubt advise me to go and be hanged, in
language more remarraible for force than
elegance. Very well, then ; what do I do ? I
go to him and say, polling a long face, ' Look

here, sir, I want to read up for my next ex-
amination. Devilish clever fellow at my own
college — studious, steady, economical — ex-
cellent testimonials— all that sort of thing.
Sure to come out a first in " Greats " next
time. I propose to read with him at some
quiet place in the South of France ' — say
Mentone, suppressing the little detail about
Monte Carlo, you understand ; * he'll go for a
tenner and his own expenses.' What's the
result? The governor's delighted. Fishes
out his purse — stumps up liberally. Claps me
on the back, and says, ' Charlie, my boy, I'm
gratified to see you're turning over a new leaf
at last, and mean to read hard, and get through
with credit.' And that's the real use, you see,
of a vacation tutor."

Paul listened somewhat aghast to this candid
explanation of his own true function in the
modern sommonwealth ; then he answered
slowly :

" It's rather hard lines on the governor, I
fancy. But I suppose I can't interfere with
that. Your arrangements with your father
are your own business, of course. As to my-
self, though, I always feel a little uneasy. It
may be all right, but I'm not acustomed to
such a magnificent scale of expenditure, and I
don't want to put either you or him to any un-
necessary expense in the matter of my living."

Thiitleton threw back his head onoe more
on the easy-chair, and mused aloud :

"What a conscience! what a conscience!
I believe you wouldn't spend an extra sixpence
you could possibly save if your life depended
upon it."

" You forget," Paul cried, " that I have
special claims upon me."

The peculiar stress he laid upon that em-
phatic word " claims " might have struck any-
body less easy-goin^- than Charlie Thistleton,
but the blonde young man let it escape his
attention.

" Oh, I know what you mean ! " he retorted
carelessly. "I've heard that sort of thing
from lots of other fellows before. Slender
means — the governor poor — heavy expenses of
college life — home demands — a mo^er and
sisters."

" I wish to heaven it was only that," Paul
ejaculated fervently. " A mother and sisters
I could easily put up with. But the claims
upon me are far more serious. It's a duty I
owe to Somebody Else not tc spend a single
penny I can help, unnecessarily."

" By Jove I " the blonde young man ex-
claimed, waking up. "Not engaged? Or
married ? "

"Engaged! Married! No, no. Is it
likely ? " Paul cried, somewhat bitterly.

" The golden-haired Pennsylvanian's a jolly
good investment, I should say," Thistleton
went on meditatively, " Bollhig in coin. A
mint of money. She'll be really annoyed, too,
if yon don't come to her picnio, and, what'o
morf ; ride a d<mkey."

-J^

Ah FRESCO.

3j next ex-
at my own
nical — ex-
i of thing,
eats " next
m at some
ince ' — say
etail about
'11 go for a
What's the
d. Fishes

Claps me
ly boy, I'm

a new leaf
get through
Be, you see,

this canrlid

tion in the

answered

governor, I
erfere with

our father

As to my-
measy. It
ustomed to
iture, and I

to any un-
my living."

onoe more
I:

conscience !
^ra sixpence
e depended

lat I have

n that em-
struck any-
Thistleton,
escape his

he retorted
rt of thing
B. Slender
expenses of
no^er and

that," Paul
and sistera
the claims
t's a duty I
ind a single

g man
;aged ?

ex-

no. Is
itterly.
ian's a jolly
Thistleton
in coin. A
nnoyed, too,
and, what'o

'■ Ib ahe rich ? " Paul aaked, with sudden
and unexpected Interest, as if a thought had
instantlv darted across his brain.

" BicQ I Like Croesus, so Armltage tells
me. Rich as Paotolus. Bich as wedding-
cake. Biob beyond the wudest dreams of
avarice."

Paul moved from his place at the corner of
the mantel-pieco, fiery red in the face now,
and strolled as carelessly cs he could across
the room to the window. Then he opened
his purse, counted the money furtively, and
made a short mental calculation, unobserved.
At the end of it he gave a very dc p sigh, and
answered aloud, with a wrench :

"Well, I suppose I ought to go. It's a
precious hard pull ; for I hate this sort of
thing; but, then, I have claims— very special
claims upon me."

" Still, you'll go, anyhow ? " Thistleton
asked once more.

" Yes, I'll go," Paul answered, with the air
of a man who makes up his mind to have a
tooth drawn.

" And you'll ride a donkey ? "

" I suppose I must, if the golden-haired
Pennsylvanian absolutely insists upon it.
Anything on earth where duty calls one.''

And he sank, wearied, into the chair by the
window.

■ CHAPTER III.

All FBEQCO

Satdrdat dawned as lovely a morning as the
foimders of the feast could possibly have
wished it. It was a day to order Not a
touch of mistral embittered the air. The sea
shone liquid blue, with scarcely a ripple dimp-
ling its surface ; the great gray peaks loomed
clear and distinct in hard outline against a
solid blue firmament. It is only on the
Biviera that you get that perfect definiteness
and contrast of colour. Everything looked
sharp as in an early Italian picture, with an
early Italian sky of uniform hue to throw up
and intensify the infinite jags and tatters of
the mountain profile.

At ten sharp the first arrivals beg&n to greet
one another with shouts of derision on the road
by the station. Thistleton and Gascoyne were
among the earliest on the scene. Punctuality,
the blonde young man remarked, was one of
his companion's most hopeless failings. As
they trotted up upon their mettlesome steeds
— Paul's more mettlesome, in fact, than was
either seemly or agreeable — they found Armi-
tage with four ladies in tow drawn up in a
hollow 8<iuare to receive them. Boys with
the provisions stood expectant at the side, and
Paul noticed with a distinct tinge of awe that
from one of the baskets several necks of bottles
protruded, wired and tied, and covered with
gold or silver tismie. Then the picnic would
actually run to ahampagne I What unbridled

luxiyry) The golden-haired Pennsylvanian
must, indeed, as Thistleton had declared, be
rich as Paotolus !

A stern sense of duty induced Paul to look
around the group for that interesting person-
age. Unaccustomed to Society as he was, and
in the awkward position of being introduced
from the back of a restive donkey, he was at
first aware merely of a fiery heat in his own
red face and a confused blurr of four perfectly
unabashed and smiling ladies. Four names
fell simultaneously on his unheeding ear, of
the sound of which he caught absolutely nothing
but the vague sense that one was Madame
Somebody, and that two of the rust were Miss
Whatsername and her momma. A clear sharp
voice first roused him to something like definite
consciousness. '' Mr. Oascoyne''8 my guest,
Nea," it said, in a full and rich .Ajnerican
accent, which Paul had hardly ever before
heard, "and Mr. Thistleton's yours. Mr.
Gascoyne, you've just got to come and ride up
right alongside of me. And I'll trouble you
to look after the basket with the wine in it."

So this was the golden-haired Pennsylva-
nian 1 Paul glanced at her shyly, as who
meets his fate, and answered with what
courage he could summon up, "I'll do my
best to take care of it, but I hope I'm not
responsible for breakages."

The lady in the deer-stalker hat beyond —
not the Pennsylvanian — turned to him with a
quietly reassuring smile. "What a glorious
day we've got for our picnic I " she said,
flooding him with the light of two dark hazel
eyes; "and what splendid fun it'll be going
all that way up on donkeys, won't it ? "

For those hazel eyes and that suimy smile
Paul would have forsworn himseH before any
court of justice in all England with infinite
pleasure. As a matter of fact, he disliked
donkey-riding — he, who could clear a fence
with any man in Oxford — but he answered
sinfully (and I hope the recording angel
omitted to notice the transgression), " Nothing
could be more deUghtful ; and with such lovely
views too I The look-out frona the sunuuit
must be something too charming for any-
thing." After which unwonted outburst of
Society talk, lost in admiration of his own
brilliancy, he relapsed once more into atten-
tive silence.

Nea Blair had never, indeed, looked morb
beautiful. The tailor-made dress and the un-
studied hat suited her simple, girlish beauty to
a T. Paul thought with a sigh how happy he
could have been had the call of duty led him
thither, instead of towards the serv^'^e of the
golden-haired Pennsylvanian.

One after another the remaining guests
struggled up piecemeal ; and when all were
gathered together — a quarter of an hour behind
time, of course — for they were mostly ladies —
the little cavalcade got itself under way, and
began to mount the long steep stairs that lead
from the Borrigo valley to the scarped hog'g

THE SCALLYWAG.

i 1

back which separates the Yal des Ch&taignieni
from the Val des Primevferes. To Paul, in
spite of the eccontripities of his mount, that
first expedition into those glorious mountains
was one of almost unmixed delight. As they
threaded their way in long, single file across
the wooded col that divided the ravines, he
looked down with surprise and pleasmre into the
gracious deep gorges on either side, each tra-
versed by the silver thread of torrent, and
reflected to himself with a sigh of pleasure
that he had never known the world was so
beautiful.

" Oh my I am't it just lovely ? " MissBoyton
called out to him from behind, for he was
sandwiched "m between her and Nea Blair ;
" and ain't they jest elegant, the lemon-trees
in the valley there t "

" Which are the lemons ? " Paul asked, half
dubious, for the ravine was filled with trees
and shrubs, whose very names he knew not.

. •* Why, the awfully green trees on the ter-
races down below," Isabel Boyton answered, a
little offhandedly.

" And the silvery grey ? " Paul inquired,
witn some hesitation. "Are they olives, I
wonder ? "

"Of course they're olives," the American
answered, with some little asperity. " I guess
you've never been along this way before, Mr.
Gasooyne, have you ? "

"It's the first time in my live I've ever
been out of England," Paul answered, humbly ;
" and everything is so strange, I find I've a
great deal to learn all at once — to learn and to
remember."

" But the olives are lovely, aren't they ? "
Nea Blair remarked, turning round upon him
with that apny smile of hers for a moment.
" Lovelier wen than your own willows round
about Iffley, I think — if anything on earth can
be lovelier than dear old Oxford."

" Then you know Oxford ? " Paul exclaimed,
brightening up at Once.

" Oh, yes ; I had a brother a few years ago
at Oriel. And I know Mrs. Douglas, the wife
of the Professor."

" I wish I'd had a brother at Oxford Col-
lege," Miss Boyton put in parenthetically,
urging on her donkey; "I'd have made him
take me along and introduce me to all his aris-
tocratic acquaintances. I mean some day to
marry one of your English nobibmen. I've
made up my *nind to catch an earl, and be
Lftdy Isabel Something."

" But you ooulrln't be Lady Isabel by marry-
ing an earl," Paul answered, smiling a very
ourious smile. " In that case, of course, you'd
be a oountess."

" Well, a duke, then," MissBoyton answered,
imperturbably, " or a marquis, or a viscount, or
whatever other sort of nobleman was necessary
to make me into Lady Isabel."

Paul smiled again.

" But none of them," he said, " could make
you Lady IsabeL You'd bn Lady Somebody,

you know— Lady Jones, for example, or Lady
Smith, or Lady Cholmondeley."

" Or Lady Gascoyne ; that sounds jest lovely "
Miss Boyton interposed, with an air of perfect
simpli(>ity.

Paul started at the sound, and scanned her
close. His ears tingled. Was she really as
innocent and harmless as she looked, or had it
somehow come round to her ? — but oh, no I
impossible I

" Yes," he went on, quietly, without notio
ing the interruption ; ' but you must be born a
diuce's or an earl's or marquis's daughter, to
be called Lady Isabel."
Miss Boyton's coimtenance fell not a little.
" Is that BO ? " she exclaimed, plaintive!}'.
" You don't tell, really I Then I can't be Lady
Isabel, no matter who I married ? "

"No matter whom you married," Paul
answered, vith the stern precision of Lindley
Murray and a British Peerage in equi^l propor-
tions.

" Well, now, if that ain't jest too bad I "
Isabel Boyton exclaimed, with deep mock
pathos. " Say, Nea, Mr. Gascoyne's crushed
the dream of my life. I don't care a cent to
be Lady Somebody if I can't be Lady Isabel.
And I can't be Lady Isabel, whoever I xuijcry.
I call It jest heartrending."

" Won't an honourable or a courtesy -lord do
as well ? " Nea asked, laughing.

" Oh ! my, no 1 " Isabel answered promptly ;
though what manner of wild-beast a courtesy-
lord might be she hadn't the faintest conception.
"I'd most as soon go back to Philadelphia
again, returned empty, and marry a stock-
broker. I've made up my mind to be Lady
Isabel or nothing."

" Then I'm iSraid." Paul said with a faint
little smile, " I can do nothing for you."

" But if it were only to make her plain ' My.
Lady,' now t " Nea put in laughingly.

Paul laughed in return — an uneasy laugh.
They had just reached one of the sudden steep
ascents where the sure-footed little donkeys,
straining every nerve and muscle in their
stout, small legs, climb up < the bare rocks like
mountain coats, with their human burdens
jerking in the saiddles like so many meal-bags.
" How the little beasts grimp ! " Paul cried,
half surprised ; " such plucky little creatures,
and so strong for their size! They're really
wonderful 1 "

" That's a good word — ' grimp,' " Nea
answered from in front. "Is it packer
English, I wonder ? "

" I do admire it," Isabel Boyton replied
from behind. "Here, get up, donkey. My
Arab steed don't carry mci regularly."

Just at that moment a loud cry of ' Ach
Himmel I " resounded from the forefront of
the cavalcade, where Madame Ceriolo led the
way — Madame Ceriolo, even in the most
trying circumstanceb, never forgot to keep up
her French and German — followed next
instant by a sharp "iifon Dieul gueUe

iple, or Lady

8 jest lovely "
air of perfect

scanned her
she really as
ked, or had it
-but oh, no!

rithout notic
ust be born a
daughter, to

. not a little.
I, plaintively,
can't be Lady
?"

,rried," Paul
)n of Lindley
equp-l propor-

It too bad ! "
deep mock
yrne's crushed
Eire a cent to
Lady Isabel.
3ver I mijry.

[urtesy-lord do

•ed promptly ;
st a courtesy-
)st conception.
Philadelphia
irry a stock-
1 to be Lady

with a faint
r you."
ler plain ' My.

ngJy-

ineasy laugh,
sudden steep
ttle donkeys,
sole in their
ire rocks like
man burdens
ny meal-bags.
Paul cried,
itle creatures,
they're really

imp,"
[s it

" Nea
packer

oyton replied
donkey. My
rly."
cry of ' Ach
forefront of
eriolo led the
in the most
;ot to keep up
oUowed next
Oieu t queUe

" Paul and Armita^e followed more slowly at a little distance." iPage 23.

AT SANT* AQNESE.

' affreuse polite Mtel" and the shambling,
scrambling noise of a fallen donkey en-
deavouring to recover itself.

Paul and Arraitage were at her side in a
moment, to pick up Madame Ceriolo and her
unhappy mount. Madame made the most
noise, but Blanchette, the donkey, had received
oy far the most injury. The poor little beast's
kneoB were cut and bleeding.

"<7o Vai couronride, la mdchante," Madame
said carelessly, and Paul saw at a glance it
would be quite unable to continue the journey.

It's an ill wind, however, that blows nobody
good. Paul seized the opportunity to eiTect a
double stroke of business — to do a politeness to
Madame Ceriolo and to get rid of the onus of
his own donkey. Almost before she could
have a voice in the matter, or any other man
of the party equally gallant or equally uncom-
fortable could anticipate him, he had shifted
the side- saddle from poor, patient, shivering,
broken-kneed Blanchette, and transferred it
forthwith to the bigger beast he himself had
been riding.

"Aferci, monsieur, merci ; mille renierci-
menta" Madame cried, all smiles, as soon as
she had recovered her equanimity and her
company manners. " And you, you little
brute," turning to poor Blanchette and shaking
her wee gloved fist angrily in its face, " you
deserve to be whipped, to be soundly whipped,
for yoiir nasty temper."

" The poor creature couldn't help it," Paul
murmured quietly, tightening the girths ; " the
road's very steep and very slippory, you can
see, I don't wonder they sometimes come an
awful cropper ! "

"By Jove!" Aruiitage said, watching him
as he fastened the buckles and bands, " what
a dab you are at donkeys, really, Gascoyne !
You do it like a groom 1 you've missed your
vocation."

Paul coloured up to the roots of his hair.

"I've been used to horses," he answered
quietly. Then he turned back without another
word to take his place on foot beside Nea Blair
and Isabel. " Here, boy," ho called out to
one of the drivers quickly, "hand me that
basket : I'll take it on ; and go down to Men-
tone with this poor little beast. She'll need
looking after."

He spoke in French fluently, and Nea
turned in surprise.

" Why, you said you had never been abroad
before 1" she exclaimed, taken aback. "And
now you talk like a regular boulevardier.
Were you born Parisian, or did you acquire it
by a miracle ? "

"I've had great opportunities of talking
French at home," Pam answered, a little em-
barrassed. ' * We — a — we always had a French-
woman in the family when I was a child."

" A governess ? " Nea suggested.

" Well, no. Not exactly a governess."

" A bonne, then ? "

'* N0| not QL^te a bonne, either," Paul

replied truthfully. Thon, a happy thought
seizing him on the moment, he continued,
with truth, " She was a lady's-maid."

After that he relapsed into silence for a
while, freling painfully conscious in his own
mind that his subterfuge was a snobbish
one. For though he only meant, himself,
*■- evade a difticulty, he saw at once that
J..6& Blair would understand him to mean
a lady's maid of his mother's. And as to the
possibility of his mother having ever possessed
that ornamental adjunct — why, the bare idea
of it was simply ridiouloua.

CHAPTER rV.

AT SANT' AONESE.

Once restored to the free use of his own two
legs, Paul Gascoyne was himself again. As
the one member of the partv, except the
donkey-boys, who went afoot, he was here,
there, and everywhere, in waiting upon every-
body. What prodigies of valour did he not
perform in hauling fat old Mrs. Newton's
donkey up the steepest bits, or in slipping down
round the sharpest corners to hfllp Nea Blair
safely round some difficult gully 1 What use-
ful services did he not lavish on the golden-
haired Pennsylvanian and her shnvelled
mamma, walking by their sided where the
ledges were narrowest, and calming their fears
where the rocks towards the slope were loosest
and most landslippy! How he darted from
the rear up short-cuts of the zig-zags, and
appeared in front again, a hundred yards
i^ead, on some isolated boulder, to encourage
and direct their doubtful footsteps 1 How he
scrambled over inaccessible faces of olifif to
fetch some fern or flower for Nea, or to answer
some abstract question as to the ultimate
destination of the minor side-paths from
Isabel Boyton ! He was a good climber, and
he enjoyed the climb — though he feared for
his old boots and his carefully-conserved
trousers.

The road was long — Sant' Agnese stands
some three thousand feet above sea-lewl — but
at every turn the views grew lovelier, and the
sense of elation in the mountain air more dis-
tinct and delicious. They passed from the
region of olives into the zone of pine woods,
and then again into that of bare white rock,
scarcely terraced here and there by Provencal
industry to support a few stunted vines and
undersized chestnut trees. The path wound
slowly up the sides of the stony ravine, and
then mounted in a series of sharp elbows the
sheer peak itself, to an accompaniment of cries
of Franco-German distress' from Madame
Ceriolo and shrill Transatlantic exclamations
of horror from the golden-haired Pennsylvanian.
At last they reached the goal of their pilgrim-
age — a rocky platform high up the last peaks
of the jagged mountain, with a gray Ligurian
village just clinging to the Aopes, and almost

THE SCALLYWAG.

indUtinguiHhnble from tho still grayer wall of
bare rock that rose «bovo it in Hliarp tors and
wcatliur-woru chimneys against the deep blue
heaven.

"What a glorious view!" Nua Ulair ex-
claimed, as thuy looked down unexpectedly on
the northern side into a profound and naked
buin of rock, at whose bottom tlie iSorrigo
torrent roared and brawled amid its scattered
boulders. " And what magnificent great peaks
away across the valley there ! "

" I guess we'd better fix up lunch on that
flat piece by the chapel," Isabel Boyton re-
marked with Occidental practicability, spying
out forthwith tho one patdi of tolerai)ly level
ground within reach of the village. Ft was a
spur of the mountain, covered witli that rare
object in tiio Trovenfjal Alps, a carpet of turf,
and projecting from the mam range far into
the semicircle of the deep rock-basin.

" We'll fix it up right away," Madame
Ceriolo auawerod with good-natured mimicry.
Madame Ceriolo had the natural talent for
languages which seems to go inseparably with
the rdle of Continental adventuress, and she
spoke American almost b... well and with almost
as good an accent as she spoke her other
alternative tongues. " If your momma and
Mrs. Newton 11 set themselves down right
here, and make themselves comfortable, Mr.
(^ascoyne and I will jest unpack the baskets.
Come along here, Nea, we want you to help
us. Miss Boyton, you get the plates and things
ready, will you ? "

For a few minutes they were busy arranging
everything, Armitage, the blonde young man,
and Paul rendering all due assistance ; and
Paul was aware in an indefinite way that
Madame Ceriolo was somehow anxious to keep
him o£F as much as possible from tho golden-
haired Pcnnsylvanian. But as this gave him the
opportunity of conversing more with Nea, and
as, duty to the contrary notwithstanding, he very
much preferred Nea to the heiress of Pactohm,
he by no means resented Madame's obvious
anxiety in this respect. On tho contrary, he
salved his conscience with the reflection that it
was ^lodame rather than inclination that kept
him away from the lady of the golden hair and
prospects.

Such a picnic as that December morning's
Paul had never before borne a part in. There
were dishes from liumpclmayor's, cunningly
compounded of aspic and olives, whose very
names he had not so nmch as heard, but
whereof the rest of the party, more instructed
in cookery, talked qnite glibly. There were
curious salads, and garnishings of crayfish,
and candied fruits and prstry and nougat of
artistio Hianufaoture. There was much cham-
pagne, and vintage clarets, and Asti mouaaeux
for those who liked it sweet, and green char-
treuse poured from a Gantagalli bottle. For
though the pionio was nominally a joint afiair
of Nea's and the American's, it was Isabel
Boyton who contributed the lion's share of the

material proriaion, which she insisted upon
doing with true Western magaificonoo. The
lunch was so goo<l, inilofd, thi>t o^en the
beauties of nature wont unnoticed by com-
parison. Tliey had hardly time to look at tlie
gliiiipife of calm blue sea disclosed between the
ridges of serrated peaks, tho green br.sking
valleys that smiled a couple of thoiiHaiid fcut
below, with their orange and lemon groves, or
the flood of sunshiiie that poured in full force
upon tiie mouldering battlements of tho grim
and wasted Alps in front of them.

After lunch, however, Pa"! somehow found
himself seated on the slope cf the hill with
Nea. They had discussed n»<4ny things —
Mentone and the view, and the fiowers, and
the village — and Nea had jiiHt told him the
strange old legend of tho castle that (flings to
the topmost peak — how it was founded by a
Baracen, who levied tax and toll on all the
Christian folk of tho country round, and finally
became converted to the faith of Europe by
the beautiful eyes of a peasant-girl, whose
charms had enslaved him, when suddenly sho
came back plump to the nineteenth century
witli the point-blank question : " Where do
you live when you're at home, Mr. Gas- .
coyne ? " |

" In Surrey," Paul answered vaguely, grow-
ing uncomfortably hot.

" Surrey's a big address," Nea Blair answered,
pulling a tiny rock-rose from a cranny in the
precipice. "Any particular part — or do you
occupy the county generally ? "

Paul laughed, but not with quite a gracious
laugh. "About twenty - live miles from
London," he answered, with evasive vague-
ness.

" I've lots of friends in Surrey," Nea went
on innocently, unconscious of the mental
pangs she was carelessly inflicting on him.
" Do you know Hillboroutii ? "

"Why, that's just where I live," Paul
answered, with a suopressed start.

" Dear me ; how funny I haven't mot
you 1 " Nea exclaimed in surpriae. " I'm
always down at Ilillborough stopping with the
Ilamiltons."

" Indeed 1" Paul responded in a very dry
voice.

"You must know tho Hamiltons," Noa
persisted, all innocence. " Sir Arthur Hamil-
ton, of tho Grange, at Hillborough. He u^cd
to be Governor of Madras, you know, or
somewhere."

" I know them by name, of course," Paul
admitted uneasily.

" But not personally ? "

" No, not personally. We— a— wo move in
diflerent circles."

" Then you must know the Boyd- Galloways,"
Nea w«nt on interrogatively.

"Only by sight. I haven't any largo
acquaintance at Hillborough."

"The Jacksons?"

" Colonel Jackson I somotimos see, it's trao ;

AT SANT' AaNBSi^.

inntsted upon
llcoiioo. Tho
>>t oven the
cod by com-
,0 luol; at tlie
I botwooti tlio
rcon br.skiiig
<lmaHaii(l foot

on K''''^'"*! ^^
in full force
of tho grim
1.

nohow found
the hill with
\ny things —
Howom, and
told him the
hab clings to
founded by a
)11 on all the
id, and finally
jt Europe by
tt-girl, whose
Huddonly alio
jenth century
"Where do
le, Mr. Gas- .

aguely, grow-

lair answered,
jranny in the
:t — or do you

te a gracious
I miles from
vasivo vague-

)y," Nca went

tho mental

ling on him.

live," Paul
•t.

haven't mot
prise. "I'm
iping with the

n a very dry

niltons," Noa
Lfthur Hamil-
igli. He u^od
ou know, or

coorBe," Paul

— wo move in
d-Gadloways,"
I't any largo

s see, it's trao ;

but I don't know him. They're— they're not
the kind of set I mix with."

"Well, of courie you know the rector'*"
Nea oxolaii led, nailing him. " The dear old
Archdeacon — he's so nice with everybody."

"He oomoa to us ocoasionaily," Paul
answered with some reluctance. Then, after a
pause, he added, lest he should seem to be
churning too great an honour: " Jtiit much
more often he Hends the curate."

Even yet Nea failed to take in the situation,
not because she was slow of understanding,
but because it was quite a novel one to h«r.
" Perhaps you live alune ? " she suggested in
explanation.

Paul could put off the damning truth no
longer.

" On tho contrary," he said ; " my father
and mother live, and have always lived,
entirely at Ilillborough. liut they're not in a
position to see much of tlio local Society — in
hict, they're not in Society in any way. We're
()uite poor people — what your friend, Mr.
7^rmitago, to use a favourite word of his,
wo)dd call scallywags."

There was an awkward pause. Then Nea
said again, witn a becoming blush :

"Forgive my pressing you. It — it never
ocourrod to me. ' Next moment feminine
tact induced her to change tho subject not too
abruptly. " I vmt a good deal at Hillborough
I myself, and I thought we'd be sure to have
acquaintances in common. But I live in
Cornwall. Have you ever been in Cornwall,
Mr. Uascoyne ? In summer it's almost as
beautiful as this; it is, really."

" No, I've never been there," Paul answered,
grateful to her for the clever diversion. " But
I shall hope to go," he added quite seriously.

" Oh, you must, when I get back again
there next summer," Nea cried most warmly.
" It's so awfully lovely. As soon as I'm well
I shall long to get home again."

" You're not here for your health ? " Paul
inquired, catching her up.

•• For my health ? Yes. But it isn't serious.
No*, my lungs, you know," for Paul had laid
his hand instinctively on his chest. " Only to
recover from the effects of an upset in a boat
last summer. I've no mother, and papa
couldn't bring me abroad himself, because of
leaving his parish ; bo be got Madame Ceriolo
to take care of me. She's accustomed to
travelling —Madame Ceriolo."

" Where on earth did he pick her up ? "
Paul inquired with some curiosity, for, in-
experienced in the ways of the world as he
was, Madame Ceriolo's personality had already
struck him as a sufficiently singular one for
her present occupation.

" Oh, he heard of her from a governess's
agency," Nea answered with much confidence.
" She had excellent testimonials from people
of title. She's well connected. And she's a
good little thing enough when you really get
to know her."

jb.

" I dare lay," Paul Answorod in that dubious
tone which moans, " I don't think so, but I
wouldn't be rude enough to contradict you."

What Nea said next he didn't catch, for his
ear was that momeiit distrnctod by a side con-
versation carried on at Home little distance,
between Armltage and old Mrs. Newton.
'J'hcy were talking low, but, in spite of their
low tonos, he overheard more than oncn the
vagno murmur of his own name; and that
man were surely more than mortal whom tho
sound of his own name overheard in his neigh-
bours' talk would not draw away oven from a
pretty girl's unimportant raiinrrie. He listened
without pretending to hoar, and put in "yes,"
and " no," to Nea's remarks f) tort ci a traiu ra.
" Only one family of Gascoynes with a " y "
and without a 'g,'" Mrs. Newton was ob.'.crv-
ing, " and that's the baronet's. Old Sir Emery
GaHcoyno, the last of the lot, was very rich,
and lived down in Pembrokeshire— in Little
I'ngland beyond Wales, as they call it locally.
But this young man can't bo ono of ihoao

Gascoynes, because " and there her voice

sank still lower. Paul strained his ears, but
could hear no more. " So very odd, wasn't
it ? " Nea was saying appealingly.

" Extremely odd," Paul assented like a man,
though to what particular rioposition he was
thus boldly committing himself he really
hadn't the faintest ider. ; but, as Miss Blair
said so, he had very little doubt it must have
been positively ludicrous.

" I stopped there once, at Gascoyne Manor,"
Armltage was saying once more, when next a
scrap of the conversation was wafted towards
him :

" It was in old Sir Emery's time, you know,
before the present man came into possession.
The present man's not a baronet, I fancy ; ah,
no, exactly so ; that's just as I thought ; but
he's very rich, and will be lord-lieutenant of
tho county some day, I'm told. A splendid
place, and awfully well kept up. No sort of
connection, you may be pretty sure, with
young Thistleton's tutor."

Paul's ears were tingling hot by this time,
and it was with diiliculty that he so far roused
himself as to understand, when Nea said,
" Shall we start at once, then ? " that she had
just been proposing a climb to the castle ruins,
and that he had unconsciously promised to
accompany her on her scramble.

"Certainly," he said, coming back with a
start ; and they rose at once, Madame Ceriolo
rising too to fulfil to the letter her appropriate
functions as contracted and paid for.

" Come," she said, " Mr. Thistleton," with
her most girlish smile — and she looked seven-
teen when she meant to captivate — "come
and give me a hand over these dreadful rocks.
Mon Dieu t quels rochera I I shall stumble
and fall I know, if I haven't one of the lords
of creation to lean upon."

As they passed through the dark and vaulted
alleys of the quaint old town — mere filthy

THE SCALLYWAG.

tnolo-trooki, built round on oithor lide, and
itronKthonod with vaults thrown ncronH from
houie to houie for greater itability in times of
earthquakes — Noa glanced up quioklv at the
gloomy old roofi, and exclaimed with a gay
ease :

" Oh, isn't it pioturesquc I I should jUHt love
to sketch it."

" Very picturesque," Paul answered, looking
down at the noiHome small gutters under foot,
where barefooted children Hcramblod and
crawled among the accumulated dirt of five-
and-twcnty centuries, " but very terrible, too,
when you come to think that men and women
live all their life in it."

" Oh, they're accustomed to it," Nca replied,
lightly, with the easy-going optimism of youth
and of the comfortable classes. " They've
never known anything better, I suppose, and
they don't feel the want of it."

" Miss Blair," Paul said, turning round and
facing her sudidenly and quite unexpectedly,
"that sentiment's unworthy of you. You're
only saying, of course, what v^verybody else
Bays ; but wo expect something better from you
than from everybody. Look at (ho misery and
dirt in which these people liv^i, and if con-
tentedly, then so much the more terrible.
Discontent is the only spur to improvement.
If they're satisfied to live as they do, then
they're so much the less human, and so much
the more like the beasts that perish. Look
how here, on this breezy, open hill-top, among
these glorious rooks, their houses are built
N7ithout sun or air, turned only to the filthy,
festering street, and away from tho light and
the sea and the mountains. They don't care
for the view, you say. Their views about
views are, no dsubt, rudimentary. But isn't it
just that that's the saddest thing of all — that
where they might enjoy so much fresh aur, and
sunshine, and health, and beauty, they're con-
tent with such gloom, and dirt, and misery,
and squalor ? You talk like that because you
hardly think any class but your own is wholly
human. I know better. I know that, up and
down, high and low, gentle or simple, all tho
world over, there's a deal of human nature in
men and women. And it seems to me a ter-
ribly painful thing that they should live like
this— so painful as to spoil, to my mind, the
very sense of pioturesqueness in all this pic-
turesque durt and wretchedness ! "

He turned round upon her so sharply, and
his words flowed so quick, in such a spon-
taneous outburst of natural eloquence, that
Hea Blair was fairly taken by surprise.

" You're right, I know," she answered, in a
very low voice. " I spoke unthinkingly. I was
only saying, as you say, what everyone else
says. In future, Mr. Oasooyne, I shall re-
member to think of it and speak of it more
seriously."

Paul blushed in return. He felt he had
allowed his natural indignation to carry him
away too hastily and unreser\'edly.

Two hours later, as ho came back slone from
tho " Ilfttel doH Uivos d'Or," whither he hiAl
gone to see hiit hostess home, he reflected, with
some pangs of remorse to himself, that he had,
perhaps, done wrong in paying so much atten-
tion to Miss Blair and lo comparatively little
to thn American heiress. Gold, gold I he
should have gone for gold t It was wrong of
him, no doubt— extremely wrong, with those
heavy clainiH upon him. But then, how very
nice Miss Blair was, and how thoroughly ho
detested this hateful worship of the golden calf
and the golden image I If only his lot had
been framed otherwise I Marry for money —
the hateful idea I IIow much a man muEt
sacrifice to the sonso of duty I

On tho table of tho salon he found a letter
awaiting him, with the Hillborough postmark.
The handwriting on the envelope was boldly
commercial. He tore it open. It was brief
and succinct. And this was what he read
in it :

" My dear Paul,

" I ought to have written to you before
you left Oxford, to say that now as you are going
abroad it would be a great pity — in case you

S;et thrown into good society — to spoil tho ship
or a ha'porth of tar, as the common saying is.
The time is now coming when we may begin
to expect to pull off our ro»^;, as the sporting
gentlemen call it. Don't go singing small, as
you're too much inclined to do. Let them
know who you are, and take your proper posi-
tion. At the same time, don't spend too much,
and don't get dragged into unnecessary ex-
penses. But keep up your dignity. For this
Eurpose I enclose a ten-pound note, for which
indly sign note-of-hand herewith, as usual.
The noblfa bart. and his lady are well and
hearty, and send their respects.
" Your obedient servant,

" JuDAH p. Solomons."

Paul laid down ..he letter with a sigh of
relief. It was a comfort, at any rate, to know
he had not done wrong in paying five francs
for the beast which, as luck would have it, ho
had never ridden. He entered it without one
qualm of conscience on his accounts : "Donkey
for picnic, 48. M" The item might pass. If
Mr. Solomons approved, his mind was easy.

CHAPTER V.

OOSSIP.

" I THTNK, for my part," Nea said decisively,
enforcing her remark with a dig of her parasol
into the gravel walk, " the scfulywag's much
the nicer of the two. But then, you know, I
always did like scallywags. They've got so
much more humanity and reality about thAn
than — than most other people."
They were seated once more, tho morning

'h.^

■l-.'^«iEi>

a055IP.

rftor the picnic, on the Promenade du Midi,
very stitT from their ride, and full of mutual
notes of last night's ontorlniniucnt.

Madame Coriolo ttiiiiled lior conventional
■mile, aa iha repliod obliciuoly :

" And yet the other one— Jc ne me rappello
])lu» ion «om— oh yoB. Mr. Tliistloton : he's
very aKrcoablo too, and probably, I should say,
an excellent iiarti,"

"Oh, he ain't much," Isabel Boyton answered
with Yankee directnoai. " He's a lot too like
a piece of putty I'or mo. Of course, he's a fine
big boy, and pretty nice to look at ; but tlioro'H
nothing in him. I'm down on mind, I am,
and the scallywag's got throe times as much
of that as Mr. Thistleton."

" He's clover, I think," Nea assented, with
a nod.

" Oh, you needn't talk, Nea," the American
put in with a mock-injured air. " I call it real
mean, the way you walked off with my young
man that I'd invited on purpose for my own
amusement, and loft me to talk half tho day
to that pappy, sappy, vappy, big Englishman,
with no more conversation in his six feet six
than a ship's figuroltoad. It was jest down-
right ugly of hea, wasn't it, momma ? "

Mrs. Toyton was a dried-up old lady of the
mummified American order — there are two
classes of American old ladies : the plentiful
and the very skimpy — wL" seldom contributed
much to the interchange of thought, save when
her daughter called upon her to confirm
her own opinion; and she murmured now
dutifully :

•' If you asked him for yourself, Izzy, you'd
a right to his aUontions; but, perhaps, he
most thrust bimjolf upon Miss Blair."

"He was very kind and attentive to us all,"
Nea answered. "In fact, he did more than
anybody else to make everything go off
smoothly."

" I can't find out who the dickons he is.
though," Armitage broke in with a sigh. Ho
was an old habittid of the Biviera, and had
imbibed all the true Bivieran love for scandal-
mongering and inquisitiveness. " He beats
me quite. I never was so utterly nonplussed
in all my life. I've tried my hardest to draw
him out, but I can get nothing out of him. He
shifts, and evades, and prevaricates, and holds
his tongue. He won't be pumped, however
skilfully you work the handle."

And Armitage fiung himself back in a
despairing attitude.

Nea smiled.

"That's not unnatural," she remarked in
parenthesis.

"The worst of it is, though, the other
fellow's just as reticent as he is," Armitage
went on, unheeding her. " Not about himself,
I don't mean — that's all plain sailing : Thistle-
ton pire'a a master cutler at Sheffield, who
manufactures razors by appointment to Her
Majesty (odd implements for Her Majesty t) and
is as rich as they make them — but about this

man Oasooyno, whom you call 'the scally-
wag ' "

"Oh, say I " Isabel Boyton interposed
fniiikly, " if that ain't real good now I It was
you yourself that taught us tho word — wo
Innocent lambs had never even hoard of it—
and now you want to go and father it
upon us 1 "

" Well, anyhow, Gaspoyne seems to have put
Tliistleton up to it to keep all dork, for when I
tried to pump hun about his tutor he shutd his
big nioutt:, and looks shoepislily foolish, and
can't be got to say a single word about liim."

" What was that Mrs. Newton was saying to
you yesterday about there being a Hit Sonio-
uody Gascoyne somowiiere down in South
Wales '? " Madame Coriolo asked with languid
interest.

I'ur a foreigner, born and bred abroad,
Madame Ceriolo's acquaintanoo with English
life and iOngUsh topography was certainly
something quite surprising. But then, you
see, her dear mamma, as she was careful
always to explain to strangers, was English
born — the daughter of a dean and niece of a
viscount. Very well connected person on
every side, little Madame Ceriolo 1 And a
dean is such a capital card to play in Society.

" Oh, there was a Sir Emery Gascoyne at
Gascoyne Manor, down near Haverfordwest,"
Armitage explained glibly; "a very rich old
gentlemen of sensitive tastes and peculiar
opinions. I stopped there once when I was an
undergraduate. Hplendid old place — Eliza-
bethan house — delightful park — square miles
of pheasants; but ill-temnered, very. If this
young fellow's related to him — his next-of-kin,
heir-at-law, executor, assign, and so forth —
now's your chance. Miss Boyton, to pick up
that English title I heard you say yesterday
you'd sot your susceptible American hear upon."

The golden - haired Fennsylvanian smiled
resignedly. "It can never — never — never be
Lady Isabel," she observed with pathos. " And
yet I feel somehow like running a coronet."

" I don't think Mr. Gascoyne can be in any
way connected with these Pembrokeshire
people," Nea Blair put in, without the slightest
intention of contributing at all to the general
gossip. " He told me his family lived in Surrey
— and," she added, after a moment's faint hesi-
tation, " he implied they were by no means
either rich or distinguished."

" In Surrey ? Where — where ? " urged a
general chorus, in which Armitage's voice and
Madame Ceriolo's were by far the most con-
spicuous.

"I don't know whether I ought to say,"
Nea answered simply. " I dragged it out of
him rather, and he told me in confidence."

"Oh, if its got to telling you things in con-
fidence already," Armitage retorted with a
meaning smile, '* I wouldn't for worlds dream
of enquiring any further into the matter.
Eh, Madame Ceriolo« What do you think
about it?"

THE SCAhLYWAQ.

Thus goaded .c a reply, Nea answered at
once, with a very red face. " It wasn't so very
much in confidence as all that comes to. He
lives at Hillborough."

" Hillborough," Armitage repeated with a
very abstruse air. " Then that'll exactly do. A
friend of mine's a vicar near Hillborough— the
very next parish, in fact, a place called Uipsley,
and I'll write and ask him this very day all
about the mysterious stranger. For when a
man possesses a social mystery, its a sort of
duty one owes to Society to turn him inside
cut and unravel him entirely. Fellows have
no right to set us double acrostics in their
own persons, and then omit to supply the
solution."

" Ilere they come," Madame Ceriolo cried.
" The two Oxonians I You'll have an oppor-
tunity now to try your hand again at him."

Annitage's eye glanced like a setter's on the
trail of the quarry.

" I'll have one more try, at acy rate," he
said, with an air of virtuous resolution ; " his
birth shall no longer be ' wropped in mystery,'
like Jeames de la Pluche's. He shall tell us
oil. He shall be forced against his will to con-
^flss his secret."

The blonde young man approached them
carelessly.

" Morning, Armitage," he said, with an easy
nod. Then he lifted his hat, " Good-morning,
Madame Ceriolo. Miss Boyton, I hope your
momma's not overtired this morning."

" We're all too stiff to do anything on earth
but sit still and scandalise," the pretty
Au:erican answerad, with pert fluency. " Wo
v/ere scandalising you two when you hove In
sight round the next block. I guess you must
have felt your ears tingle."

Paul felt his tingling at that precise moment.

" What were you saying about us ? " he
inquired, eagerly.

Miss Boyton made a graceftitelmd lady -like,
though faint, variat:on on a common gesture
of street-boy derision.

" Wouldn't you jest like to know ? " she
responded, saucily. " You can't tell what
things we've all been hearing about you."

" You can hardly have heard much that was
true," Paul retorted, with some annoyance.
" Nobody here at Mentone knows anything of
m\, family."

" What, have you no friends here ? " Madame
Ceriolo inquired, estonished. "How very odd!
I thought everybody knocked up against some-
body they knew in Mentone. The world's so
absurdly small nowadays." And she sighed
feelingly.

Paul nesitated.

" Only one lady," he answered, after a brief
pause. " A friend of my mother's. And I'm
sure you haven't any of you met her, or else
she'd have told me so."

" Are you all of yuu game for a brisk walk
to Cap Martin?" Thibtleton put in abruptly,
with a jetk of his thumb in the direotiou

indicated. " We must do apmething to work
off the effects of that infernal jolting."

"Bar the swear-word, I quite coincide,"
Isabel Boyton answered.

" The rest of us are too tired, I think,"
Madame Ceriolo yawned, gazing around her
affectedly, and darting a very meaning glance
at Armitage.

"I'll go," that inquuring soul responded
promptly, catching on to it, as Miss Boyton
afterwards observed, like a detective to the
traces of a supposed forger.

" You won't come, Nea ? " the American
asked, as she rose to go.

"I don't think I can," Nea answered
hurriedly, looking down at her feet ; " I don'f
feel up to it." As a matter of fact, nothing ou
earth would have pleased her better ; but she
didn't like to walk with Paul after Armitage's
insinuations that he had been quick in taking
her into his youthful confidence.

" Well, let's start at once, then," the blonde
young man remarked, cheerfully; he was
always as cheerful as heelth and wealth and
good humour can make one. " We've got no
time to lose, I expect, if we mean to walk out
to the point and back before limch-time."

As they turned to set out, a woman passed
them very unobtrusively ; a Frenchwoman, as
it seemed, neatly, but by no means fashionably
dressed, and carrying in her hand a small
market basket. She looked at Paul very hard
as she went by, but had evidently not the least
intention of recognising him. The young
man, however, gazed at her for a moment in
obvious doubt ; then something within him
seemed to get the better of him. He raisnd
his hat, and said, " Bon jour. Mademoiselle,"
with marked politeness.

^^Bon jour, Monsieur Paul," the French-
woman answered, with a respectful emile,
evidently pleased at his recognition. And
they both passed on upon their respective
errands.

But as soon a.^ they were gone, Madame
Ceriolo put up her ^ortoiseshell eyeglass — the
eyeglass she reserved for her most insolent
starss — and regarded the unobtrusive French-
woman from a distance with a prolonged
Rtrutiny. " Nea," she said, turning round to
her charge with the air of one who has made
a profound discovery, " did you take it all in,
cettc petite comedie-laf How simple I How
comical 1 How charmingly idyllic I . He didn't
know whether to bow to her or not, in such
good company ; but at the last moment he was
afraid to out her. FOor little simpleton I How
very fresh of him I This is evidently the lady
who was his mother's friend, J suppose. She
would have saved him the exposure if she
could. But he hadn't the tact or the good
sense to perceive it."

" He was quite right to bow," Nea answered,
growing hot, " whoever she may be ; and I
respect him all the more for it."
" But do you know who she is ? " Madamo*

I do<

j 1

THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION.

(ling to work

ng."

e coincide,"

d, I think,"

around her

uiing glance

il responded
Hiss IJoyton
3tive to the

e American

answered
t; "I don'<
, nothing ou
er ; but sho
' Armitage's
ck in taiung

the blonde
y; he was
wealth and
e've got no
to walk out
time."
inian passed
hwoman, as
fashionably
nd a small
il very hard
lot the least
The young
moment in
withm him
He raisnd
lemoiselle,"

he French-
Jtful smile,
tion. And
' respective

e, Madame
eglass— the
)st insolent
vo French -

prolonged
ig round to
> has made
ke it all in,
pie I How

He didn't
ot, in such
lont he was
ton I How
Jy the lady
pose. She
ure if she
' the good

k answered,
be; and I

" Madcmo

persisted, all overflowing with suppressed
amusement.

"No, I don't," Nea answered; "and it
doesn't much matter."

Madame braced herself up, like a British
matron compelled to announce a most shock-
ing truth. " She's a lady's-maid with a family
at the ' lies Britanniques,' " she answ^ed,
shortly.

There was a brief pause after the explosion,
in the course of which Nea and Isabel Boyton's
mamma each digested by degrees this startling
item of information. Then Nea murmured
aloud once more :

" I always did and always shall like scally-
wags. I'm glad Mr. Gascoyne wasn't ashamed
to acknowledge "

CHAPTER VI.

THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION.

The square party of pedestrians turned away
along the sea front, and then, taking the main
road towards Nice, struck off for the basking,
olive-coloured promontory of Gap Martin.
Thistleton led the way with the Pennsylvanian
heiress ; Paul and Armitage followed more
slowly at a little distance. Isabel Boyton bad
arranged this order of malice prepense; for
she was a mischievous girl, like most of her
countrywomen, and, though not inquisitive
enough herself to assist in the process of pump-
ing Paul, she was by no means averse to see
that application of social hydraulics put into
practice for the general benefit by t^ third
person,

'* Queer sort of body, that little Madame
Ceriolo," Armitage began as soon as they were
well out of earshot. He was one of that \wge
class of people who can seldom t^lk about any-
thing on earth except some other hmnan being.
Personalities largely outweigh generalities in
their conversation. With all the world to
choose from, with sun, moon, and stars, and
heavenly bodies, sea and land and air and
ether, stone and soil and plant and animal,
history and science and arts and letters, to fonp
the text of a possible talk, they cap find nothing
to discuss except some petty detail in the trivifki
life of sume other fellow-creature. That Mr^.
Jones has quarrelled with Mrs. Browii, or that
Smith has been blaokhalled at the Cheyne Bow
Club, sterns to them a far more important and
interesting fact than an eruption of Vesuvius
or a caUclysm at St. Petersburg.

" She seepis good natored," Paul answered,
without profoundly gauging the depths of the
subject. It was the most charitable thmg he
could find in his heart to say about her.

" Ob, good natured enough, no doubt ! "
Armitage went on, confidentially ; " but what a
curious persop for a man of the world to think
of entrusting the care of his daughter to."

" Perhaps Mr. Blair's not a man of the
world," the younger speaker replied, witb rare

sai, u)ity for his age. " Gouqtry parsons are
often very siiuple-minded peoplp."

" He must be precious simple-minded if he
took the Ceriolo for anything but wiiat she is,"
Armitage contiiued, sneering. "A brazen-
faced specimen of the cosmopolitan adven-
turess, if ever there was ofie. But how clever,
too — how impiepsely clever ! Ton my soul, I
admire her ingenuity. Having accepted 4
situation aa guardian of thp morals of an
English young lady, she rises to the full height
of her post with astonishing success and aston-
ishing dignity. Her simulation of virtue's
something quite sublune in its own way. Why,
you'd hardly believe it; I ({.ttempted to fiirt
with her in the mildest possible manner — I,
who am the^discreetest and least compromising
of mankind,' a mountain of prudence— and tho
British indignation and icy coldness with which
she repelled my gentle adyances was truly
edifying. Np Belgravian mamma that ever
lived could have done it more beautifully."

" Perhaps she didn't care for you," Paul
suggested dryly. " Even a bom fiirt doesn't
want to fiirt with everybody indiscriiuuiately."

" Perhaps that may be it," Armitage echoed,
somewhat crestfallen. He was over thirty,
and be took it ill that a young fellow barely of
age as yet should thus calmly snub his pre-
tensions to the role of lady-kiUer. " But, at
any rate, her respectability is beyond reproach.
Being cast for her part by pur^ force of curcum-
stances, she accepts the situation t^i. plays it
to perfection."

"She's quite right to respect Miss Blair's
youth and innocence," Paul answered quietly.
" As far as that goe^ I think all the better of
her for it. Even if she is an adventuress, as
you say, she's bound, as things stand, to do
the very best she can for her present em-
ployer."

" Oh, of course, of course ! You speak like
a book, a nice little Suqday-school bop^, with
a picture on the cover. But from the othoi^
point of view, you know, the thing's so
ludicrous. Her careful assumption of the
highest piorality's so tr^sparently absufd.
Whenever she delivers herself of one of her
little copybook platitudes, I always feel in-
clined to put my tongue in my cl^eek and
wink gently. There's no doubj) about it,
though, she's devilish clever. She can talk
every blessed European language with e^ual
eas'). She seems* lUte tlie famous pnma
donna in the stpry, to hf^ve swindlp(l in eveiry
civilized country of the world — and also in
Germany."

Paul smiled.

"Her French is certainly admirable," he
said. " Ifer accent's so good. She speaks
like a Parisian."

Armitage darted a hasty glance at him side-
ways. So that fellow pretended to be a judge
on French accent, did he ? That was certainly
remarkable. A scallywag on accent !

" ^u( ber EnMish, too," he pors|stcd oncp

. V ••=■;■

fc4

THE SCALLYWAG.

more; "what's still oddot is her English.
She rolls her r'« a little, to be sure, and she
slurB her th'a ; thct's only natural ; but what
admirable fluency and what perfect com m and
she has of even our slang and our stock quota-
tions I She can pun and jest and bandy chaff
in English, French, Italian, and German.
She can bully a cabman or browbeat a land-
lord in ten languages. If her name's really
Ceriolo, which Heaven only knows, the way
she's leeumt English alone is something to my
mind truly miraculous."

" Her mother was English, she says," Paul
BUgg'.i lied in his simplicity. " A clergyman's
daugh ler, she told me— a Dean Something or
other."

The older hand laughed at him to his face.

"Do you really mean to say," he cried,
with an amused air, "you believe all that?
Oh, what charming simplicity I Why, you
might as well believe in the Countess's coronet
and the family legend and the late lamented
Count who was killed at the head of his noble
troop of Austrian sympp thizers by an infuriated
Turk in the war in Servia. No, no, my dear
fellow. Don't you see how cleverly all that's
been arranged ? Madame has to deal with a
respected papa who happens to be an English
clergyman. Whatever or whoever the Ceriolo
may be, she thoroughly understands our
English Philistinism and our English pre-
jui'.ices. The respected papa won't entrust his
precious budding daughter to anybody who's
not a highly respectable married woman and
a member of the Church of England as by law
established. Very well, then ; we can easily
manage that for you ; Madame's mamma was
an English lady — Anglican, of course— yes,
and clerical too — a Dean's daughter; and
Madame herself, though born at the ancestral
Schloss in the Austrian Tyrol, was brought up
by agreement in her mother's religion. Could
anything be simpler, more natural, or more
convincing ? And how very well planned I
French and German, with the Paris accent
and the Viennese culture, and yet all the
advantages of an English lady's care and the
precise and particular type of Christendom
exactly adapted to the needs and requirements
of a country clergyman's daughter 1 By
George, she's deep — extremely deep I But if
it were a Frenchman of clerical sympathiej
she had to deal with, I bet you she'd be a
Parisian and a fervent Catholic. Not too
divote, you knew, nor austerely rigorous, but
as Catholic as a dame du monde ought to be."

Paul shifted a little uncomfortaoly in his
pea-jacket. This cynic had clearly devoted all
his energies to the study and comprehension of
his fellow-creatures, and he read them, it
seemed, a trifle too easily. In such a man's
hands, who was safe for a moment? Paul
was afraid what the fellow might screw and
worm out of him.

" The funniest thing of all," Armitage went
on after a short pause, " is that she speaks all

languages well, but none exactly like a born
native. Her English is splendid, but her r'a and
th'a are a trifle German. Her French is good,
but her ua and her eus are a trifle Eni^lish. Her
German's prodigious, but her ch'a and her final
g'a are scarcely Hanoverian. And she can't
talk in any one of those languages for five
minutes at a stretch without helping herself
out now and again quite naturally by a word
from another."

" Perhaps," Paul said, " she lived as a child
in all three countries"

"Perhaps so," Armitage repeated; "but
there's no evidence. However, I mean in any
case to clear up her history. I was writing
last night to a friend of mine, a parson, who
knows Mr. Blair ; he's the Vicar of Hipsley,
near Hillborough in Surrey " — he eyed his
man close to see the effect upon him — "and
I've asked him to find out all he can about
her."

" Indeed 1 " Paul said, never showing sur-
prise by a muscle of his face. " I wonder you
care to take so much pains about so unimport-
ant a piece of intelligence."

" Oh, for the girl's sake, don't you know I "
Armitage added hastily. " Of course she's
hardly a proper person to have charge of a
young lady alone on the Continent. Besides,
one naturally likes to know what sort of com-
pany one's committing one's self to, doesn't
one ? "

" I don't think it much matters, as long as
as they're decent people," Paul answered
evasively.

" Ah, but that's just the question at issue,"
Armitage went on, trying another tack. " My
man at Hillborough will hunt it all up. He's
a capital hand at tracking people dovm. He
ought to have been a detective. By the way,
I fancy I heard Miss Blair say you came your-
self from somewhere near Hillborough."

"I come from Hillborough town," Paul
answered shortly.

" Then you know Bimington, of course."

" No ; I've never met him."

" Dear me, how odd I He's vicar at Hipsley.
And he's so very much ripandu, as the French
say. Spread about at every tea-fight and lunch
and garden-party for twenty miles everywhere
round Hillborough."

"Yes?" i

"Yes, really. You muat have seen him.
Though perhaps you took him for a layman or
a trainer's assistant. A bulldoggy-looking
parson — a regular slogger, with a taste for
loud tweeds and a most unolerieiJ necktie."

"Oh, I know him well by sig^t," Paul
answered in haste ; " I only meant I'd never
spoken to him."

Armitage altered the venue once more.
"I've been down in that part of the world
myself," he went on reflectively, " and I don't
remember to have met any Gaacoynes there."

" Most likely not," Paul answered with
energy.

M:i

THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION,

ly like a born
but her r'a and
'rench is good,
Eni^lish. Her
8 and her final
A.nd she can't
aages for five
telping herself
ally by a word

ived as a child

peated; "but
I mean in any
I was writing
a parson, who
ar of Hipsley,
—he eyed his
)n him — "and
he can about

■ showing sur-
' I wonder you
± so unimport-

fc you know I "
f course she's
e charge of a
lent. Besides,
bt sort of com-
lelf to, doesn't

ers, as long as
aul answered

3tlon at issue,"

Br tack. " My

all up. He's

le dovm. He

By the way,
ou oame your-
wough."

town," Paul

of course."

sar at Hipsley.
as the French
ight and lunch
as everywhere

ve seen him.
r a layman or
doggy-looking
ti a taste for
ed necktie."
sight," Paul
eant I'd never

once more.

of the world

" and I don't

soynes there."

nswered with

•,

"You spell your name like the Pembroke-
ehire people," his persecutor went on. " It's
a very rare Way. Do you happen to be related
to them ? '■

Thus brought to bay, Paul answered " Tes "
with a very great effort, and then relapsed into
silence.

But Armitage was not going to let him off
BO cheap. " You don't mean to say so! " he
exclaimed with real interest, for the scent was
growing very warm now. " Then what rela-
tion are you to the present baronet ? "

There was no escape from it any longer.
Paul gasped for breath. " Mr. Armitage," he
said, turning suddenly upon huu like a hunted
creature at bay, " you've no right to question
a stranger like this. My private affairs are
my private affairs. I refuse to answer. I
decline to say what relation I am to the
present Sir Emery."

He slipped out the words without weighing
them well. Armitage leapt upon them with
the true joy of the chase. " The present Sir
Emery I" he exclaimed with much irony,
" why, that's a queer thing to say 1 You
must be very ill-informed as to the history
of your own family, it seems, Gaseoyne. I
should be sorry to pit my information against
yours, but I was under the impression, shared,
I beheve, by Society at large, that the late Sir
Emery was the last of the name, and that the
property in Pembrokeshire haid gone to a
distant cousin, who's not a baronet at all, Mrs.
Newton tells me."

No man can stand having his veracity im-
pugned by such an obvious innuendo of false-
hood as that. Paul Gaseoyne drew a deep
breath once more and answered warmly,
" There you have been misinformed. It's not
my business to set you right. You can correct
your mistake by looking in a peerage. But if
you must know, the present baronet is my
father, Sir Emery Gaseoyne, and he lives at
Hillborough I "

Armitage gazed at the flushed young face
and angry eyes in blank astonishment. Ap-
parently, the fellow believed what he said;
but how absurd, how incredible ! This scally-
wag the heir of the Gaseoyne baronetcy and the
Pembrokeshire estates 1 What blimder could he
have made ? What error of identity ? What
mistake of fact ? What confusion of persons ?

However, being a very politic young man.
and having now obtained all the information
he wanted or was likely to get, he hastened to
answer, in his mopt soothing tones, " Dear
me I I must have been misinformed. I fancied
I'd heard so. A very great family, the
Gasooynes of Pembrokeshire. I stopped once
down at — at your uncle's plaoe," and he
glanced inquiringly at Paul, who fronted him
angrily. " What a magnificent house, and so
well kept, too, with sucn lovely gardens t "

" Old Sir Emery was not my uncle," Paul
answered curtly. "I never saw him. Bub
the subject's one I don't caro to talk about."

At the top of the hill they changed partners.
Armitage, p\l agog with his news, took Isabel
Boyton ah^ad quickly.

" Well, I've found out who he is," he cried,
with triumph in his face ; " or, at least, what he
calls himself. Now's your chance for that
Englisli title, after all. Miss Boyton. He tells
me his father's a real live baronet."

" He's quite nice," Isabel answered, gravely
digesting the news, " and I don't know that
he mightn't fit the place. I hook on to him,
Mr. Armitage."

The Englishman smiled at her credulous
simplicity. A baronet's son. That threadbare
scallywag I

They returned by the inland road in vary-
ing moods. Paul, hot with the thought that
that horrid secret would now get abroad all over
Mentone and make him the laughing-stock of
the Promenade du Midi, went home alone to
the H6tel Continental. Armitage burst radiant
into the Jardin Public, big with his latest item
of gossip.

He found Madame Geriolo equally excited
with her own discovery.

" Just fancy," she said, as he sat down by
her side : " figurez-voua, mon ami, you saw that
woman Mr. Gaseoyne bowod to the moment
he left us ? Well, who in the world do you
suppose she is? A lady's-maid — a lady's-
maid at the 'lies Britanniques ! ' And he
' raised his hat to her exactly like an equal."
k "And who do you think he is himself,"
Armitage cried, all eagerness. " You'll never
guess. It's too absurd. He says his father's
a British baronet."

" Oh, no ! " Nea Blair exclaimed, flushing;
hot with a burst of sympathetic shame. " He
never said that I He told me quite the con-
trary. It can't be possible."

" He did, honour bright ; I give you my
word for it," Armitage answered, exploding.
He's the heir to the finest estate in all South
Wales, and he's the last descendant of an
ancient aud noble family that came over, like
the Slys, with Richard Conqueror."

" I don't believe it," Nea exclaimed stoutly;
meaning, not that she disbelieved Paul, but
disbelieved the report of his ever having
said so.

" No, more do I, Miss Blair, if you ask my
honest opinion," Armitage answered, laughing.
" I expect his uncle's the same sort of baronet
as the unfortunate nobleman who lately
languished so long in Portland Prison."

"There's a good deal of doubt about
baronetcies, I believe," Madame Geriolo
mused to herself aloud. " They're not so
regularly looked into as peerages. And I'm
given to understand there are a great many
baronets knocking about loose on the world at
present, who have no more claim to be called
Sir Somebody So-and-So than I have to be
called — well, the Queen of England."

Very dangerous ground for you, Madame
Geriolo.

THE SCALLYWAG.

CHAPTER VII.

SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME.

Sib Emery GAdcoYNB, Baronet, sat ia his own
easy-chair in front of his own fireplace at HiU-
borough, Surrey. It was evening, and Sir
Emery rested after his day's labours. He had
been out driving from two in the afternoon,
and it was cold winter weather for holding
the reins, for Sir Emery always drove himself.
He had ample reason. His .fingers were
numbed and cramped with driving. He found
it diilicult, indeed, to enter in a book a few
notes ho Vvas endeavouruig to ni^ke of hib
afternoon's engagements.

"'Ere, Faith, girl," the British baronet
called to his daughter in the adjoining room,
" I can't 'old the pen. Come along and enter
them drives to-day, will you ? I'm most
clemmed with cold, it's that keen and bitter
up o' Kent's '111 this weather."

"Just wait a minute, father dear," Faith
answered, cheerily, from the kitchen behind.
" I'm coming directly. We're hotting up some
soup for your supper, here, mother and I. It's
lovely soup, darling, and it'll thaw you out just
beautifully as soon as you drink it.'

The voice wt^s a voice like her brother's own
— soft an4 sweet, with a delicate intonation
that made et^ph syllable clear and distinct as
the notes of a bell. Sir Emery listened to it
with a fatherly smile, for he loved her well.

"Ood bless that girll " he said to himself,
laying down the pen he could scarcely wield.
" It's a comfort to 'ear 'er. She do make a
man glad with that pretty small voice of 'ers."

Sir Emery's room was neither large noi
handsomely furnished. It was entered direct
from the street by a buff-coL ired door, and it
led by a second similar one into the kitchen
behind it. The centre of the apartment was
occupied by a square table, with flaps at the
side, covered with that pecuUar sort of deep
brown oil-oloth which is Imown to the initiated
as American leather. A sideboard stood againt t
the further wall, decorated with a couple cf
large spiky shells and a spotted dog in dark
red and white china. The spotted dog Faith
had attempted more than once surreptitiously
to abolish, but Sir Emery always brought it
back again to its place in triumph ; it had been
his mother's, he said, and he was sort of
attached to it. A couple of cane-bottomed
- chairs, a small horsehair pouch, and the seat
which Sir Emery himself occupied, completed
the furniture of the baronet's receptioni
room.

And yet there werfi not wanting, even in
that humble home, some signs of feminine
taste and aesthetic culture. The spotted dog
was an eyesore that Faith could never quite
get rid of ; but the cheap porcelain vases, with
the red and blue bouquets painted crudely on
their sides, and the pink paper fiowers stuck
into their yawning mouths, she had sternly)
and successfully repressed some months ago.

In their place, two simple little monochromatio
jars of Linthorpe pottery were installed on the
mantelpiece, and some sprigs of green and
late-Ungering chrysanthemums usurped the
former throne of the pink-paper monstrosities.
The curtains were plain, but of a pretty cre-
tonne ; the covering of Sir Emery's chr.ir itself
was neat and cheerful ; and the autimacassar
on the couch, worked in simple crewels, had at
least the negative merit of unobtrusiveness
and harmony. Altogether one could easily see
at a glance it was a working man's cottage of
the superior sort, kept neat and sweet by
loving and tasteful hands, which did all in
their power to relieve and diversify its neces-
sary monotony.

For the British baronet was not known as
Sir Emery at all to his friends and neighbours,
but smiply and solely as Gascoj'ne the Flj'-
man. Most of them had heard, indeed, in a
vague and general way, that if everybody had
his rights, as poor folk ought to have, Martha
Gascoyne would have been My Lady, and the
flyman himself would have ridden in a carriage
through the handsomest park in the county of
Pembroke. But as to calling him anything
but plain Gascoyne — him, the driver they had
known so well from his childhood, when he
played in the street with them all as children
— why, it would no m^re have occurred to
those simple souls than it occurs to any of us
to address the ordinary familiar descendaqt of
Welsh or Irish princes as " Your Highness "
or " Your Majesty." '•

• Sir Emery knocked the ashes out of his
black clay pipe, and waited patiently for the
advent of his soup. As soon as it arrived he
ate it heartily, at the same time dictating to
Fsiith the various items of his day's engage-
ments (for at Hillborough long credit busi-
nesses were the order of the day) : " Cab from
station, Mrs. Morton, one-and-six ; put it two
shillin' ; she'll never pay till Christmas twelve-
month I To Kent's '111 and back, Cap'en
Lloyd, 'orf a suverin' ; no, 'arf a suverin's not
a penny too much, missus ; and then to the
Bitches, Mrs. Boyd-Galloway ; that lot's worth
'arf a crown. Faith. If ever we see the colour
of 'er money, 'arf a crown's not a forden too
igh for it."

Faith entered the items dutifully as she was
bid, and laid down the ledger with a sigh as
soon as they were finished. " I can't bear to
think, father," she said, " you havp to go out
driving cold nights like these, and at your age,
too, when you ought to be sitting home here
comfortably by the fire."

" I can't abear to think it myself neither,"
Mrs. Gascoyne echoed — for why keep up, now
we're in the bosom of the faniily, the useless
farce of describing her as My Lady ? It was
only in the respected works of Debrett and
Burke that she figured under that unfamiliar
and noble designation. To all the neighbours
in Plowden's Court, she was nothing more than
plain Mrs. Gascoyne, who, if everybody bad

'¥i

»''

SIR EMERY AND LADY QASCOYNE A'l HOME.

aonocbromatio
iistalled on ihe
of green and
usurped tho
monstrosities.
! a pretty cre-
•y's chr.ir itself
) autimacassar
crewels, had at
nobtrusiveness
ould easily see
Ein's cottage of
ind sweet by
ich did all in
rsify its nccos-

i not known as
nd neighbours,
oyne the Fly-
d, indeed, in a
everybody had
I have, Martha
Lady, and the
Bn in a carriage
1 the county of
him anything
Iriver they had
lood, when he
all as children
jQ occurred to
rs to any of us
r descendant of
)ur Highness "

les out of his
itiently for the
as it arrived he
ae dictating to
day's engage-
ig credit busi-
y): "Cab from
lix ; put it two
ristmas twelve-
back, Cap'en
a suverin's not
id then to the
that lot's worth
e see the colour
>t a farden too

ully as she was
with a sigh as
I can't bear to
hav9 to go out
tnd at your age,
ling home here

lyself neither,"
ly keep up, now
[ily, the useless
Lady ? It was
of Debrett and
that unfamiliar

the neighbours
thing more than

everybody had

their rights, would no doubt have been a real
live lady.

The baronet stirred the fire with meditative
poker.

"It's a wonderful pity," he murmured,

Shilosophioally, " that nothing couldn't never
e done in the way of makin' money out of
that there baronite-oy. It's a wonderful pity
that after all them years we should ba livin'
on 'ere, missus, the same as usual, a-drivin' a
cab day an' night for a livelihood, when we're
acshally an' in point of law an' fac' baronites
of the United Kingdom. It beats me 'ow it
is we can't make money out of it."

" I always think," Mrs. Gascoyne responded,
taking out her knitting, " that you don't under-
stan' 'ow to do it, Emery."

" Mother dear I " Faith said low, in a warn-
ing voice, for she knew only too well whither
this prelude inevitably tended.

The baronet of the United Kingdom slowly
filled his pipe once more, as he finished the
soup and poured himself out a glassful of beer
from the jug at his elbow. " It can't be done,"
he answered, confidently. " There ain't no
doubt about it that it can't be done. It stands
to reason it can't. If it could be done, Mr.
Solomons 'ud 'a' done it, you warrant you,
long ago."

" This ain't 'ow you'd ought to be livin' at
your age, though, Emery," Mrs. Gascoyne
went on, sticking to her point. "If we only
knowed 'ow, we'd ought to be making money
out of it some'ow."

" Mr. Solomons is a rare clever man," the
baronet replied, puffing vigorously away at the
freshly-lighted pipe. " Wot I say is this,
missus, if it could 'a been done, Mr. Solomons
'uil 'a done it."

Faith made a bid for a gentle diversion.

" I met Mr. Solomons this evening," she
said, " as I was coming home from school, and
ho told me to tell you he'd look in on business
to-morrow morning, before you went down to
meet the 10.40."

" You're tired. Faith," her father said, eye-
ing her kindly.

Faith smoothed back the hair from her high
white forehead— so like her brother's.

"Only a little bit, father," she answered,
with rather a wearied smile. " It's the infants
that are so tiring. They wear one out. They
don't mean to be worrie.«i, poor little souls, of
course ; but thoy do distract one a bit some-
times."

" I wish you was well quit of them infants,"
Mrs. Gascoyne remarked, "and could 'and
them over to the pupil-teachers. The big girls
don't give no trouble at all, in the manner of
speaking, by the side of the little ones. It's
when you've took the infants, I always take
notice, you comes 'ome most worn and tired-
like.'^

" Oh, it's nothing," Faith answered, taking
her mother's hand in hers and smoothing it
gently. " It'll be over soon for this term— the

holidays begin on Wednesday. And when I
think of father, driving out in the cold on
Kent's Ilill this weather, I'm ashamed ol
myself to think I ever complain a word about
the infants."

" They're rarely trying, them infants, I'll
be bound," her father continued, philosophically
slow. " I mind what it was myself, when you
was all little ones, you an' Paul an' the rest,
afore we buried 'Ope and Charity, playin'
arcund the 'osses feet, an' kickin' up that row
that a man couldn't 'ardly 'ear to take a order.
Charity was a rai'e one to make a noise, she
was ; she was the biggest o' the three, when
you was all born ; ' for the greatest o' these,'
says the parson, ' is Charity.' And wot it
must be to 'ave twenty or thirty of. 'em, all to
once, a-cryin' and a-chatterin', why it beats
everything."

" 'Ope and Charity was two blessed little
creatures," Mrs. Gascoyne interposed with a
tear in her eye. " They never got in nobody's
way, I'm sure, Emery. 'Ope 'ud be eighteen
year old come May, if she'd 'a lived. An*
Charity was always 'ead of the class in 'rith-
metic. Miss Taylor, she ssys to me more 'n
once, ' Wot a wonderful 'ead that there child
o' yours have got, to be sure, Mrs. Gascoyne,
for figgers and such like I ' "

" 'E's a rare clever man, Mr. Solomons,"
the father repeated, relapsing, after the wont
of his kind, into the dominant subject ; " an'
if any man could do it, you take my word for
it, missus, Mr. Solomons 'ud 'a done it."

" It seems sort o' throwed away as things
stand now," Mrs. Gascoyne went on, in spite
of a quick deprecatory glance from her
daughter's eyes. " It ain't no good at all, as
far as I can see, except for a customer to chaff
you about sometimes."

The baronet blew the smoke slowly through
his ringed lips.

" I might 'a kep' a pubUc, an' made money
out of it that way," he said, " but you was
always agin a public, mother; an' I don't
blame you for it. A public's a poor sort o'
way for a man to employ a historical name, as
Mr. Solomons put it. 13ut if I 'adn't 'a been
married now, afore the title came to us, I
might 'a made something of it like that myself,
you see, missus — meaning to say, in the way
of a hairess."

Poor Faith saw that the bolt had fallen —
that well-known bolt which descended with
periodical regularity from the clear sky of hev
father's unruffled good humour — and she gave
up the attempt any longer to delay the rising
tempest.

" I'm sure, Emery," her mother broke in,
with a stifled sob, "you needn't always be
a-oastin' that in my teeth— that I stood in
your way agin' makin' your fortune. It ain't
no fault o' mine, nor my people's, neither,
that you was took with me and arst me to
marry you. Arnt Emily was always agin my
'avin' you. An' there was many as said at

THE SCALLYWAG.

the time, you know yourself well enough, I'd
throwed myself away, and I might 'a done
better far to take another one. Why, there
was Alfred Dyke, him as owned the mill at
Chase's Corner "

The baronet of the United Kmgdom checked
her threatened outburst of early reminiscences
kindly.

" It ain't for myself I'm thinkin', mother,"
he said, with a nod or two of his chin—" it
ain't for myself, not anyways, but for the
children. - Wot a thing it 'ud 'a been for Faith
and Paul, now, if I'd 'a 'appened to be a
bachelor, don't you see, at the time w'en this
thing fell in, and 'ad married a hairess, as
would 'ave brought 'em up like ladies and
gentlemen — ladies an' gentlemen the same as
they'd ought to be 1 "

Faith couldn't forbear a gentle smile.

"But, father dear," she said, smoothing his
hand with hers, "don't you see yourself it
wouldn't have been Paul and me at all in that
case ? It 'd be somebody else we none of us
know or oare anything about, wouldn't it ? "

" But it do seem a pity," her father went on
musingly, " that the value of the baronite-cy,
for commercial purposes," he paused awhile,
and then repeated once more that high-
sounding phrase, " for commercial purposes,"
rolling it on his palate like one who loved it,
" should 'a been clean throwed away, as SA:.
Solomons says, all through the faok that I
'appened to be married afore I come into it."

Mrs. Gascoyne's handkerchief went up to
her eyes with dramatic rapidity ; and Faith,
holding up one finger in warning to her father,
stroked her mother's hair with her other hand
with filial tenderness.

" I wish," she said, h<^lf angrily, " Mr.
Solomons had never put these ideas into your
head, father. I'm sure you'd never have
thought of it all for yourself. You'd never
have dreamt of making money out of anything
on earth so sacred as tliat is."

"I don't say, Faith," her father went on,
eyeing his beer with the light of the paraffin
lamp shining through it, I don't say as ever
I'd 'a married for money, or made capital like,
as Mr. Solomon says, out o' the title, an' that.
I don't say as I've the manners or the eddica-
tiou to do it. I'm satisfied with your mother,
as 'as always bin a true and faithful wife to
me, in sickness an' in 'ealth, an' no woman
better."

" If you weren't," Faith interposed, " you'd
be the ungratefuUest man in all Hillborough."

" If I wasn't," her father repeated dutifully,
following his cue, "I'd be the ongratefuUest
man in all 'iliborough. I know all that, an'
I ain't a-denyin' of it. But wot I says is just
this : I says to Solomon this very last Sunday,
' Mr. Solomons,' says I, ' if I'd 'a bin a bachelor
wen this title fell in, there's many a tidy woman
as 'ad her thousand pound or two put away in
the bank 'ad 'a bin glad to call 'erself Lady
GascoyiM on the strength of it.' "

"Emery," his wife sobbed, holding her
face in her hands, " I call it most onmanly of
you. Many's the time I've done a good cry,
all along of your talking in that onmanly
manner."

The father of the family turned round to
her soothingly. "Mind you, mother," he
went on, in a demonstrative voice, " I don't
say as I'd ever 'ave wanted 'er for all 'or
thousands. I ain't that kind ; I'm not one as
sets so much store by the money. Wot I do
say is, as a matter o' business, it's a pity the
baronite-cy should be throwed away, an' all
for nothing."

"It won't be throwed away," the mother
responded, drying her eyes hysterically, " not
after our time. Paul 'ave 'ad a good educa-
tion, an' Paul '11 marry a woman as is fit for
'im."

" There am't no doubt at all about that,"
the British baronet answered in a mollified
tone. " As Mr. Solomons says, our Paul 'ave
a splendid future before him."

"Oxford 'ave made a gentleman of 'im,"
Mrs. Gascoyno continued, gloating over the
words.

"It 'ave," the father replied, gazing deep
into the fire. " There ain't no doubt of it.
We've all got reason to be main grateful to
Mr. Solomons for that much."

" I never feel quite so sure about that, some-
how," Faith ventured to say. " I often wonder
whether Paul wouldn't have been happier, and
whether we wouldn't all have been happier, if
Mr. Solomons had never meddled at all in our
private business."

" I do wonder at you, Faith I " her mother
exclaimed aghast. "You, to talk like that,
when we ought all to be so beholden like to
Mr. Solomons ! "

" Look what 'e've done for Paul ! " the father
cried eagerly. " If it wasn't for 'im, Paul
might be tendin' the 'osses still, the same as I
do."

"But we've got to pay him for it," Faith
answered stoutly. " Sooner or later we've got
to pay him. And see what notes of hand he's
made you sign for it I "

"Ay, but Paul '11 settle all that," the father
replied with absolute confidence, "and afore
long, too, I warrant you, little one I Why, if
it hadn't been for Mr. Solomons, we'd never
so much as 'a thought o' sendui' 'im to college
an' makin' a gentleman of 'im. An' now, Mr.
Solomons says, 'e's a'most through with 'is
collegin', an' ready to make 'is start in life.
If 'e does as Mr, Solomons means 'im to do,
'e'll pay it all off, principal an' interest, as
easy as winkin'. We've all got reason to be
main grateful to Mr. Solomons. 'E's a clever
one, 'e is, if ever there was one. An' 'e says
it as knows ; says 'e to me, • Gosooyne,* says
'e, ' your boy Paul, if 'e ploys 'is cords weU,'
says 'e, 'as 'e'd ought to play 'em, 'ave a
splendid future,' says 'e, • before 'im.* "
" But he won't play them as Mr. Solomons

;

PAUL'S ADVI5ER.

lolding her
onmanly of
a good cry,

at onmanly

ed round to
nother," he
(6, " I don't
for all 'or
a not one as
Wot I do
s a pity the
tvay, an' all

the mother
•ically, " not
good eduoa-

as is fit for

ibout that,"

a mollified

ur Paul 'ave

an of 'im,"
ig over the

gazing deep

doubt of it.

grateful to

t that, some-
>ften wonder
happier, and
n happier, if
at all in our

her mother
k like that,
ilden like to

" the father
r 'im, Paul
le same as I

r it," Faith
er we've got
)f hand he's

," the father
"and afore
e ! Why, if
we'd never
m to college
.n' now, Mr.
igh with 'is
tart in life.
B 'im to do,
interest, as
eason to be
E's a clever
An' 'e says
ooyne,' says
cards well,'
em, 'ave a
tn.'"
r. Solomons

wants him, I'm sure," Faith answered, un-
abashed. " He'll play them his own way.
He can't do any other."

" 'E'U pay it all off," the baronet repeated,
ruminating the words with infinite pleasure;
" 'e'U pay it all off, when '0 once gets 'is start,
principal an' interest, as easy as winkin'."

The happiness he derived from the mere
sound of those opulent expressions, " principal
and interest," as he rolled them on his palate,
seemed more than to repay him for any little
passing discomfort the sense of indebtedness
to his supposed benefactor might otherwise
have cost him. It makes a man feel almost
like a capitalist himself when he can talk
glibly about principal and interest.

CHAPTER VIII.
Paul's adviser.

In another room at Hillborough, that self-
same evening, two other people were dis-
cussing still more eagerly together this
identical problem of the market-value of a
British baronetcy.

The house in which they cussed it had
a dingy, stingy, glooming-loo.wiig front, com-
manding a full view of the market and the
High Street; and on the venerable wire-
blinds in the office-window the inquiring way-
farer might make out through the dust that
clogged them the simple legend, "Judah P.
Solomons, Auctioneer and Estate Agent." Not
that Mr. Solomons really subsisted upon the
nett profits of his auctioneering and his com-
mission on rents. Those were but the-
ostensible and officially avowed sources of his
comfortable revenue. The businer^ that really
enriched Mr. Solomons — for Mr. Solomons
was undoubtedly rich — was the less respect-
able and less openly confessed trade of a general
money-lender. Mr. Solomons was, in fact, by
profession a capitalist. He made those familiar
advances, on note of hand alone, without
security, at moderate interest, which have so
often roused our ardent admiration for the
generous mixture of philanthropic spirit and
the love of adventure in the amiable lender
when we read the tempting announcement of
the proffered boon in the advertisement
columns of our pet daily paper.

Mr. Solomons himself, the philanthropist in
question, was a short but portly man of a
certain age ; it was clear he had thriven on the
results of well - directed benevolence. His
figure was rotund and his face fat; he had
small, black, beady eyes, rich in life and
humour ; and his mouth, though full, was by
no means deficient in human kindness. His
hair was curly, and displayed, perhaps, a
trifling disregard of economy in the matter of
bear's grease; but his entire appearance was
not wholly unprepossessing ; he looked like a
sharp and cunning business man, in whom,
nevertheless, the trade of assisting his fellow-

creatures in distress (for a modest percentage)
had not altogether killed out the heart that beat
within the ample and well-filled fancy waist- '
coat. "The acute reader may, perliaps, already
have jumped to the conclusion that Mr.
Solomons was by race a Jew, and in that con-
clusion the acute reader would not, as a
matter of fact, have been quite unjustified.
In creed, however, Mr. Solomons had con-
formed so successfully to the Church of Eng-
land (mainly, perhaps, for business reasons)
that he filled at that moment the onerous
post of vicas's churchwarden for the parish of
Hillborough. In a country town Judaism is
at a discount ; and Mr. Solomons was too good
a Jew at heart ever to touch anything at a
discount, except of course, for the purpose of
" bulling " or " bearing " it.

The younger gentleman, who sat opposite
Mr. Solomons at the first-fioor fireplace aboVe
the dingy ofiice, was half an inch taller, and
many inches smaller round the waist ; but he
otherwise bore a distinct resemblance in
figure and feature to his prosperous relative.
Only, in Lionel Solomon's face, the cunning
and the sharpness of his uncle's eyes and
mouth seemed, if anything, to be actually
exaggerated, while the redeeming qualities of
good-humour and good-fellowship were both,
on the contrary, conspicuous by their absence.
Lionel was handsome with the Oriental hand-
someness of the well-fed young Jew ; and he
had brought down from town with him the
offensive, underbred, jaunty cosmopolitanism
of the shady middle class in that great desert
of London which is so peculiarly repulsive to
a cultivated understanding. His hair was
even curlier and more oleaginous than Mr.
Solomons' own ; and he held between his lips
a cheap, oad cigar, which he managed with all
the consummate easy grace of a gentleman
accustomed to ride into the City every morn-
ing in the envied seat beside the driver of the
of the omnibiis he honoured with his distin-
guished patronage.

Mr. Solomons unrolled a packet of greasy,
much folded papers, which he had taken from a
pigeon-hole in the safe by his side, and laid
them one after another upon his knee, where
he regarded them close with evident affection.
" Yes, Leo," ho said reassuringly, " they're all
right. Every penny of that money's as safe
as housea."

" I'd like to see the collateral, that's all,"
Mr. Lionel answered, with a jaunty toss of his
curled head. " It's a precious lot of money
to lend upon personal security, and that a
man of straw, or less than straw, if it comes
to that. Uncle Judah."

Mr. Solomons took up the newest of the lot
and examined it tenderly.

" Twelve months after date," he mused to
himself, in a softly mur-muring tcue, " for
value received — two hundred pconds — renew-
able with twenty per cent, interest. Emery
Gascoyne — perfectly regular. It's a good in-

THE SCALLYWAQ.

vestment, TiM—tk good investment." He
turned over a second, and looked at tlie en-
'donement. "Sir Emery Oascoyne, Bart.,"
he continued, softly, " accepted as fair as an
acceptance can be. Good business, Leo, my
boy- very good business."

" How much did you give him for this two
hundred, now? " Mr. Lionel asked, in a some-
what contemptuous tone, taking it up carefully.

The older man seized it once moro with n
nervous grasp, like one who foars to let a
favourite and fragile object pass for a moment
out of his own possession.

"A hundred and fifty," he answered, refold-
ing it and replacing it in due order ; " and
than twenty per cent., you see, on the full two
hundred, every time it's renewed, aftev the first
year,, gives a good interest."

Lionel looked up with an amused air.

" Well, all I can say," he put in with a smile,
" is — that ain't the way we do busLiess in the
City."

" Perhaps not," his uncle answered, with a
faint air of vexation. It was evident that this
was his pet venture, and that certain vague
doubts as to its perfect soundness in his cwn
mind made him all the more impatient of out-
side criticism. " But, Leo, you don't know
everything in London. One of the great points
in a country business is just that — to be able
to tell who you can trust, and who you can't,
on their own sense of honesty."

Mr. Lionel sneered.

" I trust nobody myself," he responded,
vigorously, puffing at his cigar with a violent

Euff, to enforce the full depth and breadth of
is sentiment.

"Then that's bad business," Mr. Solomons
answered, with one fat forefinger raised didac-
tically. " Take my word for it, my boy, that's
bad business. I wouldn't be half what I am
now, and you'd be helping me in the old shop
in the Borough, if I'd trusted nobody. But I
knew who to trust, and that's what's made me.
Bind 'em down on paper as fast as you can,
of course : I'm not one to omit having every-
thing legal, and fixed, and regular ; but all the
papers and stamps and parchments in the
world won't do you any good if you've got
hold of a rogue. No, never a stamp of them.
A rogue can't he made to pay if he don't want.
A rogue '11 go through the court to spite you.
A rogue '11 take things before his honour the
county court judge, and explain everything;
and his honour '11 give judr,ment for reduced
interest. It ain't the paf it and the stamps
and the signatures that does it ; it's the man
himself you've got to trust to. You once get
hold of an honest man, and if he works his
fingers to the bone, and hiu knees to the
stumps, he'll pay you somehow — principal and
interest ; he'll pay you somehow. And Sir
Emery Gasooyne, Bart., he's an honest man,
and so's Paul. He may be only a cab and
fly proprietor," Mr. Solomons went on, giving
his debtor the full benefit of his whole legal

designation ; " but Sir Emery Gasooyne, Bart.,
cab itnd fly proprietor, of Plowden's Court,
Uillborougli, is as honest a man as ever
stepped, and Paul, his son, is one that takes
after him."

" It was that title of ' Bart.;' in my opinion,
that led you astray in the first instance," his
nephew went on, with a touch of scorn in his
voice; "and having once begim, yon di(hi't
like to confess your mistake, and you've kept
to it ever since, getting deeper and deeper
in it."

Mr. Solomons shufiled uneasily in his chair.
The young man had touched him on a tender
point.

" I don't deny, Leo," he answered with
apologetic softness, " that the title of ' Bart.'
had a great deal to do with it. A man who':4
born a Jew can't get over that ; and I'm proud
to think, if I've changed my religion, I've
never attempted to shake ofi my ancestors.
It came about like this, you see. It was six
years ago or more — let me see, I have it here
— yes, seven years ago on the fourth of Feb-
ruary — number one falls due on the fourth
every year ; it was seven years ago Gascoyne
came to me, and he says, ' Mr. Solomsns, I
want your advice, knowing you to be a better
man of business than any lawyer in the town '
— for Gascoyne knows Barr and Wilkie are
fools — ' and I've just come into a baronetcy,'
says he. Well, when I heard that, I lifted my
hat, having always a strong respect for rank
and title and everything of that sort — I
wouldn't be one of the seed of Abraham if I
hadn't— and I said to him, ' Sir Emery, I'm
very glad to hear it ; and if there's anything I
can do for you in the way of a little temporary
accommodation' — thinking, of course, thero
was money coming with it, as a man would
naturally expect with a baronetcy — ' I'll be
happy to arrange it on the most moderate
terms for you.' For when a man in his posi-
tion comes into a title and a big estate,
he's likely to want a little temporary accom-
modation at first, just to make a good
show when he goes to claim his own of the
executors." *

" To be sure," his nephew assented blandly.

"Well, you see," Mr. Solomons went on,
still in a very self- exculpatory tone, " it soon
turned out that there wasn't any money— that
the money'd all gone to the other branch of
the family. But having made Sir Emery a
preliminary advance, ana having been the very
first m<»n in the world to call him 'Sir
Emery ' " — Mr. Solomons loved to repeat that
title in private life whenever ne could ; it was
so dear to his soul to be thus brought into
contact wdth a real live baronet — " I thought
to myself, 'Well, having once begun, I'll see
the thing throng' to the bitter end now, what-
ever it costs me.' And I look at it accordingly,
Le3, as a long investment."

" A very long investment indeed ! " Mr.
Lionel answered, with an ugly smile. " You'll

good

pay

for it
of,"
no,
of."

'■:

PAUL'S ADVISER.

3«

laooj^ie, Bart.,
wden'B Court,
nan as ever
ne that takes

1 my opinion,

instance," his

f scorn in his

, yon didn't

yon've kept

and deeper

in his chair.
Q on a tender

iswered with
tie of 'liart.'
A. man who's
nd I'm proud
•eligion, I've
ly ancestors.
It was six
' have it here
urth of Feb-
1 the fourth
igo Gascoyno
SolomDns, I

be a better
in the town '

1 Wilkie are
I baronetcy,'
t, I lifted my
eot for rank
that sort — I
braham if I
Emery, I'm

8 anything I
le temporary
ourse, thero

man would
cy— 'I'll be
ist moderate

in his posi-

big estate,
rary aocom-
ike a good

own of the

tod blandly.
18 went on,
ae, " it soon
aoney— that
r branch of
ir Emery a
een the very
I him 'Sir
) repeat that
>uld ; it was
)rought into
"I thought
gfun, I'll see
now, what-
accordingly,

leedl" Mr.
e. " You'll

nS73r soe a penny of your money again, I take
it." »

" I'll see every farthing of it back in full,
I'll take my davy I " his uncle retorted, with a
rather red face — his heart was suspected.
" Gascoyne and his son are honest people —
good honest people as ever lived — and tliey'll
pay mo all, if they work themselves to death
for it. But it wasn't only the money I thought
of," he continued, after a short pause. " No,
no, Loo. It wasn't only the money I thought
of."

"It's all I think of," his nephew said
candidly.

" Then so much the worse for you, my
.lear," Mr. Solomons replied, with equal
frankness. "That's a mistake in life. You
miss the half of it. What I thought was
this. Here's this man — a common flyman — a
petty little cab-owner with four horses of his
own — no more than four horses, and screws
at that ; but a British baronet. If you and I
were to work all our lives, Leo, and slave and
save, and toil and moil, we'd never rise to be
British baronets. But this man's born one,
d'you see, or born as good as one ; born what
you and I'd give ten thousand pounds to be
made this minute. Says I to myself, turning
the matter over. What a pity to think there's
nothing to be made, for him or for me, out of
Qascoyne's baronetcy ! If Gascoyne was
younger, says I, and better brought up, he
might have made money out of it by marrying
an heiress. But he's married already, and the
old lady's not likely to die ; or, if she did, he's
not marketable now ; he's too old and too
simple. Still, there's the boy — there's the boy
Paul. He's young and pliable yet ; clay fresh
to hand ; yoii can make what you li'tce of him.
Well, I don't deny there was a touch of senti-
ment in it all ; for I love a title ; but I couldn't
bear either to think of a good chance being
thrown away — a chance of making money out
of it, for him and for me ; for a title has always
a value of its own, and it goes against the
grain with mo to see a thing that has a value
of its own thrown away, as it were, and let go
to waste, for want of a little temporary em-
ployment."

" To be sure," his nephew assented, with an
acquiescent nod, for there he, too, could sym-
pathise most fully.

" So the idea occurred to me," Mr. Solomons
went on, " couldn't I lend those two people
enough, oii their own notes of hand — three,
six, nine, twelve, renewable annually — to give
the young ulan Paul a thorough good school-
ing, and send him to Oxford and make a
gentleman of huu ? "

" But the security," the younger man ex-
claimed, impatiently — " the security ? the
security ? Where's your collateral ? "

Mr. Solomons shook his head with a very
deliberate and sapient shake. " There's
securities and securitieR, Leo," ho said, " and
you dou't uuderstaad but one particular kind

of 'em. I'd as soon have Emery Gascovne's
paper as any landed gentleman's in all England.
Anyhow, I made up my mind to do it, and I
did it, Leo ; that's the lon^ and short of it. I
made 'em both insure their lives — the Hand-
in-Hand, a capital company — and I've paid the
premiums ever since myself; here's the
receipts, you see, for the last six years, as
proper as proper."

" You've paid the premiums yourself ? "
Lionel echoed, with a cunning smile.

" But I've made 'em sign for 'em, of course,"
his uncle continued, hastily, " I've made 'em
sign for 'em. They've covered it all, and the
bonuses go to increase the sum insured, which
balances premiums almost. Here's the papers ;
here they are," and he fumbled the bundle
with eager fingers.

The nephew regarded them with pitying
contempt. " What's the good of all these ? "
he cried, turning tliem over sceptically. '* The
fellow was a minor when he signed the lot. I
daresay he's a minor still, if it comes to that,
They ve no legal value,"

" My dear," the uncle went on with a very
grave face, "you think a great deal too much
about what's legal, and a great deal too little
about moral obligation, that keeps alive the
money-lending. Yes, he waa a minor, and
he's a minor still ; but when he comes of ago,
you mark my words, he'll sign again for every
penny of the money. Ha's a good boy, Paul,
an honest boy, and sooner than let me lose a
penny of my advances he'd work as my slave
to his dying day — and him that'll live to be a
baronet of the United Kingdom. Besides,"
Mr. Solomons continued more cheerfully, " ho
knows I've done a great deal for him. He
knows it's me that has made his fortune. I've
sent him to school, and sent him to college,
and made a gentleman of him. He knows
he's got to benave fair and honest by^e,
as I've behaved by him. Ho knows he's
got to look out for money. As soon as he's
married, and married well, he'll pay me back
every penny, principal and interest."

" Suppose he don't marry well ? " the
nephew interposed with a provoking smile ;
"suppose the heiress don't choose to take
him?"

Mr. Solomons folded the' notes of hand and
other documents into a neat little bundle,
and tied them up once more with a dirty red
tape, preparatory to locking them up in the
safe in their accustomed pigeon-hole.

" Tliere's more heiresses than one in the
world," he said with a determined air. " If
heiress number one won't rise to the fly,
heiress number '^^wo will swallow it, I
warrant you. No, no, Leo ; don't you tcdk to
me. A baronet's worth his price in the
market any day. Young women don't get a
' My Lady ' for nothing, and Paul's been
taught exactly what he's worth. He knows
it's a duty he owes to me, and he owes to hi-i
father ; that jointly and severally they're bound

THE SCALLYWAG.

(o pay ; and that to marry an heiress is the
cheapest and easiest way to pay me."

" Her njoney'U be all strictly tied up," the
nephew exclaimed. " I know their way, these
landed people, with their contracts and their
settlements."

" A man of title can always dictate his own
terms," the money-lender answerod with more
worldly wisdom ; " at least, among the manu-
facturers. He can sell himself for as much as
he choosoH somewhere and iiang out f< his
price till thov chooso to pay it."

Mr. Lionel gave ti grunt of extreme dissatis-
faction. " Well, it's no business of mine, of
course," he observed in a distinct bad humour;
" but what I say is this : you'd got no right
ever to begin upon it ; it ain't legitimate trad-
ing ; it's too precious speculative."

His uncle glanced back at him with a re-
proachful look. " There'll be enough for vou
without it, Leo," he answered ; " anvway when
I'm gone. It's all for you, you know verv
well, that I slave and hoaii. And I only wish
you were such a young man as Paul is. I take a
sort of pride in him, I don't deny. I only wish
I'd put you to college the same as him and made
a gentleman of you."

" There ain't much to be made out of going
to college," Mr. Lionel replied, picking his
teeth with bis penknife ; " at least, if you
ain't going into business afterwards as a
British baronet."

"It's all for you, Leo," Mr. Solomons re-
peated, rising to put back the papers in their
places. "And even if this turns out a bad
speculation — which I don't believe — there'll be
more than enough for you, anyhow, with-
out it."

CHAPTEE IX.

TEMPTATION.

At Mentone the sun continued to shine and
the world to bask in the joys of his rays, in
spite of the snow on Kent's Hill and the white
fogs that enwrapped the county of Surrey.
To Paul's great surprise, tod, when once the
dreaded secret was out, the burden of bearing
it became infinitely lessened. He had shrunk,
with all the shyness of a sensitive nature,
from letting the loungers on the Promenade
du Midi know the real truth about his false
position. He thought they would find in it
nothing but cause for veiled ridicule. But, as
a matter of fact, on that very evening the
indefatigable Armitage, pursuing his quest
through every villa he knew in town, dis-
covered at last in a friend's library a copy of
Debrett's invaluable work on the people whom
one can really know, don't you know, in
England. Turning over the paged with a
triumphant hand, to put to rout and confusion
this absurd scallywag with his cock-and-bull
story about his fine relations, Armitage was
fairly dumbfounded to come upon the entry,

"Gahcoynk, Sir Emery, 14th baronet,"
followed by half a page of the usual pro-
foundly interesting genealogical detail, and
ending with the fine abrupt but concise in-
formation, " Resilience, I'lowden's Court, Hill-
borough, Surrey."

The Plowden's Court of real life was a
narrow entry oiT the main street of the sleepy
little country town, but the Plowden's Court
which these words naturally conjured up
before Armitage's fancy, seen in such a con-
nection, was a stately and dignified Eliza-
bethan mansion, standing in its own grounds
of heaven knows how many statute acres, and
surrounded by garden, lawn, and park-lands.

Armitage rubbed his eyes in blank amaze-
ment. Was it possible, then, that the scally-
wag had spoken the truth? In spite of all
appearances to the contrary, was he really the
heir to a baronetcy of Charles II. 's creation,
and to the noblest estate in the county of
Pembroke ?

He glanced through the profoundly in-
teresting genealogical details with a curious
eye. Yes, that was all plain sailing enough.
" Succeeded his second cousin, Sir Emery
Charles Emeric Qascoyne, 18th baronet, vide
infra," Armitage proceeded to vide infra
accordingly, and noticed at once that the name
of Paul seemed to alternate regularly through-
out the list with the name of Emery as the
distinctive mark of the Qascoyne baronetcy.
So far, clearly, the scallywag's story seemed to
hold together much better than he expected.
And next as to the estates ? Not a word said
about them, to be sure ; but, then, the
respected and esteemed Debrett deals only in
exalted rank, and has nothing to say on such
inferior subjects as filthy lucre. " Residence,
Plowden's Court, Hillborough." Fancy tlie
scallywag combig, after all, from a baronial
mansion in the county of Surrey 1

Next day the entire little world of Mentone
had duly digested the singular news that the
unobtrusive Oxford undergraduate, who had
come out to the Riviera strictly incog., as a
tutor to the blonde young men at the Con-
tinental, was really the heir to a baronetcy in
disguise, and the scion of a distinguished Pem-
brokeshure family. And all the world re-
marked at once, with its usual acuteness,
that, in spite of his shyness, they had said
from the first Paul Gascoyne was a delightful
young man and had most charming maimers.

AU the world, inaeed, has always divined
these things beforehand, and is immensely
surprised at all the rest of the world's stupidity
in not having perceived thraa.

Three days later, however, at the usual littlo
conclave in the Jardin Public— the "School
for Scandal " Madame Geriolo christened the j
particular corner affected by Armitage and his
grotip of intimates — that ardent inquirer came
down quite triumphant with a letter in his
hand.

"After all," he said, as he seated himself

TEMPTATION.

1th baronet,"
he UBual pro-
al detail, and
mt concise iii-
I's Court, Hill-

bl life was a
t 0/ the sleepy
owden's Court
conjured up
in such a con-
gnified Eli/a-
8 own grounds
liuto acres, and
d park-lands.

blank amaze-
hat the Bcally-
[n spite of ul
,8 he really the

II.'b creation,
the county of

>rofoundIy in-
vith a curious
loiling enough.
D, Sir Emery
I baronet, vide
to vide ivfra
that the name
ilarly through-
Emery as the
^ne baronetcy,
tory seemed to
Q he expected,
ot a word said
ut, then, the
i deals only in
to say on such
•' Residence,
Fancy tlie
om a baronial

Id of Mentone
news that tho
late, who had
ily incog., as a
n at the Con-
a baronetcy in
nguished Pem-
the world re-
aal aoutencBS,
they had said
iras a delightful
ling manners,
ilwaprs divined
is mmiensely
orld's stupidity

the usual little
—the "School
christened the
mitage and his
inquirer oame
letter in his

seated himaelf

Ttdtb Q oomprehensive nod on his favourite
bench, " it turns out the scallywag's nobody
much. I've just had a line from my friend
Bimington at Hipsley, near Uillborouffh, and
he saya, though the lad's supposed to be hehr
to a baronetcy, his father's a fellow in a very
Bmall way of business (reasons of delicacy, he
writes, prevent him from particularising
further), and not at all in Society, or anything
like it, in Surrey. It seems the grandfather of
the present baronet was a very bad lot, a
scapegrace of low habitB, who conBorted chiefly
with grooms or stable-boys, and married a
milkmaid or something of the sort ; no doubt
after circumstancos which, as Herodotus says,
it is not lawful to mention, after which ho was
very property cut off by his papa, the baronet
of the time, with the traditional shilling. With
that modest capital as liis whole start in life,
the scallywag's ancestor set up in town ; and
there his descendants, living on the change for
the shilling, I suppose, went from hsA to
worse, till the present man has sunk practi-
cally to the level of the working classes.
When old Sir Emery, whom I knew in Pem-
brokeshire, popped off the hooks, some six or
seven years ago, he entirely ignored this
debased stock — they'd intermarried, mean-
while, with cooks or BCuUerymaids — and left
the estates at Qascoyne Manor and elsewhere
to a younger branch, who had always kept up
their position as gentlemen. So the scally-
wag's papa's only a bare courtesy baronet
after all ; by birth and education the scallywag
himself is— well, just what you'd expect him
to be. Bimington says in a postscript," Armi-
tage went on, glancing around him with an
air of virtuous self-abnegation, " he hopes I
won't mention these facts to anyone for young
Gascoyne's sake ; bo I'm sure I can count
upon all of you not to breathe a word of it, or
to let it make the very slightest difference in
any way in your treatment of the scallywag."

Madame Ceriolo, raising a pair of dove-uke
eyes, saw her chance to seore a point. " But
he really is the heir to a baronetcy in spite of
everythmg, you see," she put in languidly.
•' That's very satisfactory. When people who
are born of noble blood happen to oe poor, or
to be placed in any dependent position, other
people often cast most unjustifiable doubts
upon the truth of what they say about their
own families. I sympathise with Mr. Qas-
coyne " ; and she glanced down with a mean-
ing look at the countess's coronet engraved on
the plain silver locket she wore at her bosom.

"He'll be a Sur, though, any way, won't
he ? " Isabel Boyton asked, goin^ straight to
the point with true American busmess percep-
tion.

"He'll be a Sur, any way, Miss Boyton,"
^rmitage retorted sharply. " And he'll make
his wife, when he catches one, into a real My
Lady."

" For my part," Nea Blair put in with quiet
firmness. " I don't oare a E.in whether he's

heir to a baronetcy or whether he's not. I
take him for himself. I think he's a very
nice, good, sensible young man, and, whoever
his parents are, he's a born gentleman."

" One of nature's gentlemen I " Madame
Ceriolo huterjeotod lackadaisically, with a
darted glance from her tortoiseshell eyeglasses
at Armitage, who, playing with his button,
and foellng the sense of the meeting was
entirely with the scallywag, rethred gracefully
upon a safe commonplace: "After all, it
doesn't so much matter what a man's father
is, as what he is himself— except, of course,
for purposes of probate."

So, in the end, as it turned out, the world of
Mentone agreed to accept Paul Gascoyne with
a very good grace as a future baronet, and to
invite him freely to the afternoon teas and
mild " at homes " which form the staple of its
innocent invalldish entertainments. A baronet
is a baronet, if it comes to that, be he moro or
less, as the lawyers would gracefully put it ;
and a baronet's son who has been to Oxford,
no matter how poor, has always a possible
future open before him. Kay, more, the mere
fact of the little mystery as to his origin, and
the whispered story about the lady's-maid and
the dubious grandmamma, added just a touch
of romance to the whole affair, which made up
in piquancy for whatever Paul lacked in exte-
rior adornment. If there's anything odd about
a man's antecedents (and still more about a
woman's), it's a mere toss-up whether Society
chooses to pet him or damn him. But when
once Society has made up its nodnd to accept
him, it becomes forthwith a point of honour
to stick up for him at all risks, and to see in
him nothing but the most ooneummate virtues.
The very oddity is held to constitute a distinc-
tion. In point of fact, accordingly, Paul Gas-
coyne became the fashion of Mentone. And
having once attained that proud position, as
the smidl tame lion of a provincial show,
everybody, of course, discovered in hun at
once unsuspeoted mines of learning or talent,
and agreed unanimously over five o'clock tea-
tables that young Gascoyne was really a most
charming and interesting person.

The consequence was that for the next six
weeks Paul saw a good deal of Society at
Mentone — more, in fact, than he had ever
seen of that commodity anywhere in his life
before, and amongst it of Nea Blair and Isabel
Boyton.

Nea he liked and adnured immensely. And
with good reason. For it was the very first
time he had ever had the opportunity of meet-
ing an educated English lady and conversing
with her on equal terms about subjects that
both could alike discourse of. He was always
flattered when Nea talked to him ; the subUe
delight of finding one's self able to hold one's
own fairljjr with a beautiful and clever woman
moved hun strangely. Hitherto he had only
seen and adnured suoh beings from afiur. To
stand face to face with Nea Blair, and find

THB ACALLYWAQ.

that ah* did not diid«in to talk with hiai— nay,
that the avldently p-otarred lili Hooiaty to
Thiatlaton'a ur Arniitr 'o'l— waa to the ahy
young nian (roiu I'lowden'i ('ourt a poaitiva
ravelatlon of dulight and ({ladneaa. It ii to ho
feurad that he oven nuKlectod Ariitotlo'H I'Uliioi,
and hia duty to Mr. Huloiuuna, luure thnn onoa,
in hia rcadineaa to go where Nea IJlair might
poaaibly meet liini. He paid for it afterward*
in (luaiiua ( f oonsoienoe, to be aura ; but aa
long as it lasted it waa perfect bliu to bitn.

Not that he believed or knew ho was falling
in love witli Nea. If that explanation of hii
mental phonnincna liad ever occurred to hia
honest soul, Paul would have felt that thope
myiterioua Claims which weighed on him ao
heavily made it quite nocessary for him to see
aa little aa poaaible of the fair enohantreaa.
He knew he waa bound by solemn bond and
pact to Mr. Holomons to sell hinisolf finally in
the matrimonial market for l\ard cash .to the
highest bidder ; and thouKli even then uncom-
fortable doubta as to the justice c^r morality
of such a prooeading sometiuio* forced thom-
aelvaa obtrusively upon Paul's mind, while the
day of sale seemed still so far off, he would
nevertbeleBs have shrunk from letting himself
get entangled in any other bund which niiglit
prove adverse in the end to Mr. Solomons' fair
chance of repayment, After all, he thought
oaauistically to himself, there was always a

!)08sibility that be might finally happen to fall
n love with some nice girl who was also the
heiress Mr. Bolomons dreamed about ; and
then, and in lliat oaso— but there ho broke
down. The nearer he drew to the actuol fact
Mid pact of marriage, the more repugntxt did
(he whole wild scheme appear to him.

One sunny afternoon, a week or two later,
the whole little coterie of the " Hives d'Or" had
toade an excursion together on to the rocky
hills that bound either side of tho old mule-
path to Castellar. When they reached the
ridge where great rounded bosses of ice-worn
aandatone form a huge hog's back overlooking
the twin-valleyB to right and left, they dispersed
by twos and threes, aa men and maidens will
do, among the rosemary bushes and the scanty
umbrella-pines, or sat down in groups upon
the bare, smooth rocks, in full view of the sea
and the jagged summit of the gigantic Berceau.

Paul foimd himself, quite unconsciously,
wandering among the low lentisk scrub with
Kea Blair, and, seating themselves at last on
the edge of the slope, with the lemons gleam-
ing yellow in the Carei Valley far below their
feet, they discoursed together, as youth and
maiden discourse, of heaven and earth, and
fate and philosophy, but more particularly of
their own two aelvea, with that profound
interest which youth and a freo heart (dways
lend to that entrancing subject when discussed
i d»u», under tho 'spreading shade of a romantic
pine tree.

" And when you've taken your degree, what
tbea ? " Mea (uked. with some eagerness, after

Paul liad duly onli){ht«ned her mind as to the
precise period of his Ureats oiamination, and
tha chances for and against his obtaining a
First in that arduous undertaking.

" Well, then," Paul answered, with aorao
little embarrassni«»t, " after tlmt, I lupposa, I
must go in fur a relluwship."

" But if you get a FellowHhip you won't be
able to marry, will yuu ? " Nea inquired, with
interest, "ilaven't they got some horribly
barbarous rule nt Oxford, that if a Fellow
marries he must lose his position ? "

" No, no ; not now," I'aul answered, smil-
ing. " ' C'ctail aulrrfoii ainai, mail nout
nvons shangd tout cela,' as Bganarelle says in
tlie play. A Fellowship, now, is for a fixed
period.''

" Well, that's well, anyhow," Nea went on,
more easily. " I hope, Mr. Qaicoyne, you'll
get your Fellowship."

"Thank you," Paul replied. "That's very
kind of you. But I'm ashamed of having
bored you with all this talk about myself —
the BUDJect upon which, as somebody once
put it, ' all men are fluent and none agree-
able.' "

" The somebody was wrone, then," Nea
answered with decision. "Whenever ono
meets an interesting individuality one wanta
to know as much as possible about it. Don't
you think," and she looked up at him with her
charming smile, " in our society, nowadays,
we never really get to know half enough about
one another? "

" I know nothing about Society," Paul re<
plied, frankly. " I've never been in it. I've
had no chance. But I think — in as much of
the world aa I know, which is a very tiny
world indeed — we do somehow Beem to go
round and round, like people in the maze at
Hampton Court, and never get at the heart
a]id core one of the other."

Dangerous ground, dangerous ground, dear
Paul, for Mr. Solomons' chance of recovering
in full on that long investment.

Nea felt it so, perhaps, for she paused a
moment, and examined a little pink rock-oistug
that sprang from a cleft in the sandstone at
her feet with unnecessarily dose attention for
anyone who was not a professed botanist.
Then she said, suddenly, as if with a burst of
inspiration :

" I shall be up in Oxford myself, I expect,
next Bummer term. Mrs. Douglas, the wife of
tho Aooadian professor — at Magdalen, you
know— means to ask me up for the Eights or
something."

" That'll be just delightful i " Paul answered,
warmly. " We shall have some chance then
of really getting to know one another."

" I always liked Oxford," Nea murmured,
looking down, and half afraid the converBation
was leading her too far.

" I just love every inch of it," Paul replied,
with fervour. " But, thon, I've much reason
to be grateful to Oxford. 1 owe it everything."

Ind ft! to the

lination, and
obtaining u

I with lorao
I luppoio, I

yon won't bo
quired, witli
me horribly
if • Ftllow

vtrod, imll-
mait noui

trelle laya in
for a fixed

ea went on,
oyne, you'll

That's very
I of having
ut myielf —
lebody once
none agree-
then," Nea
lenever one
f one wants
t it. Don't
lim with her
, nowadays,
nough about

y" Paul re-
in it. I've
I aa much of
a very tiny
seem to go
khe maze at
it the heart

rround, dear
: recovering

le paused «
k roek'Oistus
landetone at
Utention for
9d botanist,
kh a burst of

ilf, I expect,
I, the wife of
Sdalen, you
le Eights or

ul answered,

chance then

kher."

I murmured,

conversation

Paul replied,
uuch reason
everything."

THE HGtfefe^i is WILLING.

"You'll live ilioro when you're a Tellow? "
Koa asked, looking; up again.

I'aul hesitated a second, and pulled grasses
in his turn.

" I have to g»l my Fellowship first," he
said, with some rcsorve. " And then — and
then [ suppoHO I must do something or other
to make some money. I have heavy claims
upon me."

"Oh dear, what a pityf'Kea cried, with
genuine regret.

" Why so. Miss Blair ? "

** Because it's bo droadful you should have
to enter the world with claims, whatever they
may be, to clog you. If you were free to
choose your own walk in life, you know, you
might do such wonders."

"I should tike literature," Paul went on,
relat>slng once more into that egoistic vein.
"l3ut, of course that's impossible.'

" Why imposHible ? " Nea asked, quickly.

" Because nobody can make money at litera-
ture nowadavB," Paul answered, with a sigh ;
"and my circumstanoos are such that it's
absolutely necessary, before everything else, I
should make money, and make it quickly. I
must sacrifice everything to my chance of
making money."

" I see," Nea answered, with a faint tinge
of displeasure in her tone. And she thought
to herself, " Perhaps he means he must get
rich BO as to keep up the dignity of the titlo.
If BO, I'm really and truly sorry; for I
thought he had a great deal better stuff than
that in him."

"There are so many claims I have to
satisfy," I'aul went on, in a low voice, as if
answering her inmost unspoken thought. " My
titiie's not my own. It's somebody 6»e's. I've
mortgaged it all by anticipation."

Nea gave a start.

" Th^n you're engaged," she said, putting
the obvious femlnlnb interpretation upon his
ambi^oue sentence. (A woman reads every-
thing by the light of her own world— courtbhip
&nd marriage.)

"Oh, no," Paul ariswered, smiling. •*!
didn't mean that, or anything like it. I
wouldn't mind that. It was something much
more seriottii. I start in life with a grave
butden."

CfiAPTER X.

THE HEIRESS IS WILLINO.

"Sat, Mr. Giwcoyne," Isabel Boyton ex-
claimed, catching mm up, breathless, on the
Promenade dtl Midi, one day in the last week
of Paul's stay at Mentone ; " will you come
and ride with us over to La Mortola to-
morrow ? "

" I'm sorry," Paul answered, smiling at her
free Pennsylvanian mode of address, "but I've
no horse to ride upon."

" Oh, t don't mean ride horseback," Isabel
explained promptly; "momma and I have

chartered a kahrriago— it brake, t think you
call it over here in Europe — and we're taking
a party of ladies and gentlemen acrosB to see
the gardens."

"I shall bo delighted to bo," Paul answered
truthfully— for Nea would be there, he knew,
and he went accordingly.

At La Mortola, however, he soon found out
that Miss Isabel meant to keep him all
for herself, and, indeed, she stuck to him
with creditable persistence. This was a very
new sonsatlon for Paul, who had never before
been mode so much of ; but he acjeptod it as

Jrouth accepts almost everything — with the
rank delight of a new experience.

A nd how charming it was, that drive across
to La Mortola, with the hot southern afternoon
sun beating full upon the hills, Bordighera
gleaming white upon its seaward point, and
Cap Martin behind bathed in broad floods of
glorious sunshine ! How Qrimaldi shone
among its silvery olives t How the spires of
Mentone rose tall and slender in the glisten-
ing background I At the deep dark gorge,
spanned oy the Pont bt. Louis, they crossed
the frontier, and Paul found himself for the
first time in his life on the soil of Italy. Past
the Italian Custom House and the old Sartioen
tower in Dr. Bennett's garden, they wound
along tiio ledge to the corner by La Mortola ;
and tiicn they skirted a deep rocky ravine, all
in darkest sliade, with green pines clambering
up its steep sides, till they halted agninst a
broken eliff near the summit. At last they
reached those marvellous hanging gardens,
hewn out of the bare rock, where feathery
African palms and broad-leaved tropical veee-
tation bask in the hot sun as on their native
deserts. There they descended and wandered
about at will, tbr it was a " free dav," knd
Isabel Boyton, taking possession of Paul,
walked him off alone, with American coolness,
to a seat that overhung the villa and the sea,
with a view along the coast for a hundred miles
from San Bemo to Toulon.

"You go back next week," She said at once,
after an awkward pause, when Paul had found
nothing more to say to her, for he talked far
less freely with the heiress than with Nea
Blair.

" Yes ; I go back n6xt Week," Paul rep^&tedi
vaguely.

" To Oxford ? "

"To Oxford."

" "We Shall miss you so at Mentone," thb
Pennsylvanian went on with genuine regret.
" You see, we're so shorthanded for gentlemen,
ain't we ? "

" You're very kind," Paul murmured, much
abashed by this frank remark. " But perhaps
somebody else will come who'll do as well— oir
better."

" What's a good titue to come and see Oxford
in ? " Isabel asked abruptly, without heeding
his remark, and gazing with a vacant ex-
pression seaward.

THE 5CALLYWAa.

" Siumncr tenn's the best for visitora," Faal
answered, taken aback. " I should say about
the twentieth of May, for example."

" Perhaps I'll fetch momma alone and have
a look at it then," the golden-haired American
continued, playing nervously with her parasol.
" We could have a good time at Oxford about
May, couldn't we ? "

" I'll do my best to help you enjoy your-
Mlf," Paul replied, as in duty hound, but with
a sinking recollection that just about that
precise date he would be straining every nerve
for his final examination.

"T call that real nice of you," Isabel
answered, still poking her parasol into the
ground by her side. " Will you take us about
and show us the college, the same as we read
about in • Tom Brown at Oxford ? "

" The University's changed a good deal since
those days," Paul replied with a smile, " but I
shall be glad to do whatevei- I can to make
TOUT visit a pleasant one. Though Thisleton,"
he added, after a short pause, *' would be able
to show you a great deal more about the place
than I can."

The Pennsylvsmian brought back her clear
blue eyes from space with a sudden flash
upon bun.

" Why ? " she asked curtly.

" Because he's so much richer," Paul
answered, boldly shaming the devil. " He's
a member of all the clubs and spciis and
everything. His father's one of the wealthiest
men in Sheffield."

Isabel drew a face with her parasol on the
gravel below.

" I don't care a pin for that," she answered
shortly.

" I suppose not. You're so rich yourself,"
Paul retorted, with a sigh. Then he turned
the subject olumsily. "These are lovely
gardens."

" My poppa could buy up a place like this
with a month's income," the young lady
answered, refusing to follow the false trail.
She said it, not with any vrJgar, boastful \ir,
but simplv as if to put him in possession of the
facts of the o&ae. She wanted him to know
her exact position.

"Why isn't he here with you?" Paul
ventured to ask, just to keep the conversa-
tional ball rolling.

" Oh my 1 " Isabel exolaimed. " What a
question to ask t Why, he's got to stop home
and mind the store, of course, like every other
man, hasn't he ? "

" He's In business, then t " Paul said, with
a start of surprise.

" In my country," Isabel answered gravely,
"it ain't respectable not to be in business.
My poppa's the richest man in Philadelphia."
Then she looked down at her shoes, and added
once more, " But I don't care a pin about
money myself, for all that. What I care for
is whether people are nice or not. And I like
Mr. Thistleton well enough in a sort of way ;

he's quite nice, of course and there's nothing
grabby about him. But he kind of don't
take me."

"No?" Paul said, feeling he was called
upon to say something.

"No," Isabel answered; "he don't," and
then relapsed into strange silence.

For a moment or two they sat with their
eyes fixed on the ground, and neither spoke a
single word to the other. Then Isabel began
once more, just to encourage him a bit, for
she misinterpreted his awkwardness and
shyness :

" It is a lovely place. I'm most inclined to
make my poppa give up the States and come
across to reside for a permanence in some
elegant place like thic 'n Europe."

"Your father would come if you wished
him, then ? " Paul asked, all trembling with
excitement, for he dimly suspected he was
neglecting his duty (and Mr. Solomons'
interests) In the most culpable manner.

Isabel noticed his tremulous voice, and
answered in the softest tones she could
command :

"He'd do anything 'most to make me
happy."

" Indeed," Paul replied, and gazed once
more with a preoccupied air towards the dis-
tant Esterels. They came out so dear against
the blue horizon.

" Yes, pvppa just spoils me," Isabel went on
abstractedly ; " he's a real good poppa. And
how lovely it'd be to pass one's l&e in a place
like this, with all those glorious mountains
and hills around one, and that elegant sea
timibling and shining right in front of one's
eye — with somebody uiat loved one."

The running was getting imcomfortably
hot now.

"It would be delightful indeed," Paul
echoed, very warm in the face, " if only one
had got the money to do it with."

Isabel waited a moment again with down-
cast eyes; but her neighbour seemed dis-
inclined to continue the conversation. And to
think he had the power to make any woman
My Lady I She paused and looked long at
him. Then she rose at last with a stifled
. sigh. He was real nice, she thought, this
British baronet's son, and he trembled a good
bit, and felt like proposing, but he couldn't
just make up his mind ri^t away on the spot
to say what he wanted. English young men
are so absurdly awkward.

" Well, we Ehall meet at Oxford, any way,"
she said lightly, moving down towards the
shore. " Let's got along and see what those
great red plants on the rocks are, Mr. Gas-
coyne. I expect by this time momma '11 be
looking out for me.''

Paul went home to the Continental that
night with a terrible consoiousnass of neglected
duty. Modest as he was, he couldn't even
pretend to conceal from himself the obvious

THE HEIRESS IS WILLING.

fact that the golden-haired PennBylvanian had
exhibited a marked preference for his conversa-
tion and society. He fancied she almost ex-
pected him to propose to her. And, indeed,
the idea was not wholly of his own suggestion,
Thistleton, when relating the common gossip
of the Promenade du Midi, had more than
once announced his firm belief that Paul
might have " the Yankee girl for the asking."
And Paul himself, much inclined to underrate
his own powers of attraction, could not, never-
theless, deny in his own soul the patent
evidences that Isabel Boyton, for aU her
wealth, was .'ully susceptible to the charms of
a British baronetcy.

He stood at last face to face in eamest with
a great Difficulty.

Could he or could he not carry out his Com-
pact?

As he sat by himself in his room at the
" Continental " that night, he thought it all
over, how it had gradually grown up step by
step from the very beginning. It seemed so
natural, every bit of it, to him, who had grown
up with it himuelf, as a sort of religion. So
strange to anyone else who heard it only for
the first time now as a completed transaction.

For six years past and more, his father and
mother and Mr. Solomons — the three great
authorities that framed his life for him — ^had
impressed it upon him as the first article of
bis practical creed that he was to grow up a
gentleman and marry an heiress.

To us, what an ignoble aim it seems t but
on Paul it had always been eaforced for years
by all the sanctions of parental wisdom and
commercial honesty as the supreme necessity.
He was indebted to Mr. Solomons for his
schooling, and his clothing, and his Oxford
education ; and the way he was bound to re-
pay Mr. Solomons was to follow instructions
to the very letter and marry an heiress. His
stocK-in-trade in life was his prospective title,
and he was to sell that commodity, in accord-
Euice with rr cognised commercial maxims, in
the dearest mantet.

And yet, strange to say, Paul Gascoyne
himself was not mercenary. He had passively
accepted the rdle in life, as most young men
passively accept the choice o' a profession
made for them by their parents, without think-
ing very much, one way or the other, as to
either ito morality or its feasibility. He was
so yoimg when Mr. Solomons first hit upon
his grand scheme for utilising the reversion to
a British baronetcy — no more than fourteen —
that he had got the idea thoroughly dinned
into his head long before be was able to recog-
nise in all its naked hideousness the base and
sordid side of that hateful compact. Solomons
had supplied him with money from time to
tinje — not liberally, to be sure, for he did not
wish to make his proUgi extravagant, bri in
sufficient quantities for the simple needs and
wants of a scallywag ; and Paul had accepted
the money, giving in return hia worthleu notes

of hand, as youth always accepts its livelihood
from its acoustomed purveyors, without much
care or thought as to the right or wrong of the
customary supplies.

And then there had been so much besides
to distract his attention from the abstract
question of the ethios of marriage. He was
occupied so much with reading for the schools,
and taking pupils in his spare time to help eke
out his scanty income; for he felt deeply
what a drain he had always made on the
family resources, and how much bis father
was beginning to stand in need of a son's
assistance in the management of his business.
The question of the moment — the definite
question then and there before him at each
instauc of hi.^ life — the necessity for reading
hard pjid taking a good degree, and the
parallel necessity for liTing at Oxford as
cheaply as even a scallywag could do it — had
overshadowed and eclipsed that remoter ques-
tion of the imderlying morality of the whole
transMtion, which had been settled for
him beforehand, as it were, by his father and
Mr. Solomons.

Paul, in iact, was the inheritor of two
arduous heritages — ^the barren baronetcy, and
Mr. Solomons' Claims to principal and
interest.

Till that evening, then, though qualms of
conscience had now ard then obtruded them-
selves, he had never fairly and squarely faced
his supreme difficulty. But to-night, in the
solitude of his room at the " Continental,"
sitting by himself in the dark (so as not to
waste bis friend Thistleton's bougies at a franc
apiece, hotel reckoning ; for economy in small
matters had long since become instinctive with
him) he turned the matter over for the first
time in his soul, with the definite issue clearly
before him — could he or could he not ever con-
scientiously marry Isabel Boyton ?

His whole soul within him revolted at once
with a tempestuous No. Now that tlxe chance
for carrying Mr. Solomons' sobeme into actual
practice had finally arrived — nay, even had
thrust itself bodily upon him — ^he felt at once
the whole meanness and baseness of the entire
arrangement. Not so far as Mr. Solomons
and his father were concerned — of their
wisdom and goodness he could hardly have

Sermitted himself even now to entertain a
oubt — but so far as bis own execution of their
plan was at issue, he realised that at once in
its true colours.

It would be wickedly and grossly unjust to
Isabel. And it would be doing violence at the
same time to his own inner and better nature.
But then the claims upon him ? Those ter-
rible notes of hand. He took out his pocket-
book, lighted one candle, and totted them dl
up, sum by sum, at compound interest, as they
stood there confessed, from the very first
moment. School expenses, tailor's bill, travel-
ling, rooms and sundries; all renewable
yearly at twenty per cent., and all running on

TliE SCALLVWAO.

indefinitely for ever at a rapidly -growing rate.
Premiums on policies, washing, books — good
heavens ! how tne totals appall&i and staggered
him. If he worked his lite long at any eda-
oated profession he would never be able to earn
enough to clear off that deadly load of debt
with which he started. He saw clearly before
him (wo awful alternatives: either to hunt
and capture his heiress, as originally designed
— in spite of all his seething internal repug-
nance ; or else to play false to his father and
llr. Solomons — to whom he owed everything
—by keeping his benefactor (as he had been
taught to regard him) waiting for years perhaps
for his full repayment.

Waiting for years, indeed I "Why, at twenty
per cent., renewable annually, the sum could
never get paid at all. It would go on accu-
mulating as long as he lived, bond behind
bond, and remain, when he died, as a heritage
of debt to whoever came after him.

Not that anybody would ever come after
him at all, if it came to that ; for, as tbiugs
then stood, he would never, never be able to
marry. The baronetcy might revert to the
remote cousin in Pembrokeshire.

And then, for one brief moment, Nea Blair's
sweet face as she sat on the hillside that day
at Sant' Agnese flashed across Paul's mental
vision as he blew out the candle once more in
utter despair, and gave him one further in-
ternal qualm of conscience. Was it possible
he was influenced in ^hat he had just been
thinking by any wicked arvUre-pensie as to
Nea— that beautiful, impossible, unattainable
Nea ? He, who was nobody, to dream about
her. In his inmost soul, he trusted not ; for
he felt how imworthy a thing it would be to
betray his father, and Faith, and Mr. Solomons,
and lus duty, all for the sake of his own wicked
personal likes and fancies. Whatever came,
he would at least try to keep Nea out of his
mind severely, and decide the question upon
its own merits.

He would try to envisage it thus only to
himself. Dare he do this great wrong to Isabel
Boyton ?

Or to any other woman circumstanced like
Isabel ?

He would try to let it hinge on that,not on Nea.

For, lifter all, what was Nea to him or he to
Nea ? Six weeks before he had never seen
her; and now — he realised with a pang to
himself that he wouldn't like to think he should
never again see Nea.

And all through the long sleepless night
that followed, one truth kept breaking in upon
him more clearly than ever : if he would, he
might marry Isabel Boyton — and pay off Mr.
Solomons without Isabel's ever missmg those
few paltry hundreds. To Isabel's poppa they
were but a drop in the bucket: and yet to
him, Paul Qascoyne, they were a millstone
round his neck, an insupportable burden put
upon him aUnost against his will before he
had yet arrived at yean of discretion.

CHAPTEB XI.

BEHIND TBB 80ENS8.

Thbee days later Paul and his companion
turned their backs on Mentone en route for
England. Scallywag as he was, Paul had so
far succeeded in interesting the little world of
the "Bivesd'Or " that Madame Ceriolo, and Nea
Blair, and Isabel Boyton, and her mamma,
and even the great Armitage himself — the
leader of the coterie — came down to the station
to see him off. Armitage thought it was
always well to fall in with the general opinion
of Society upon anybody or anything. But

i'ust before they bade their last adieus at the
•arrier, a tidy little Frenchwoman in a plain
black dress pushed her way to the front with
a bouquet in her hand of prodigious dimen-
sions. The Ceriolo recognised her in a m' ment
again. It was that compromisii'g litt - quay's-
maid at the " lies Britanniques."

' ' Comment c'eat vous, Mademoiselle Clarice ! "
Paul cried, taking her hand with perfect c»i-
pressement, though he blushed a little before
the faces of all his une acquaintances. " How
kind of you to come and see me off t I called
last night at your hotel, but they told me you
were engaged and couldn't see me."

" Justement; je faisais la coiffure de
Madume" Mademoiselle Clarice answered,
unabashed by the presence of the Ceriolo and
so much good society. "But clier Monsieur
Paul, I couldn't let you go and leave Mentone
sans vous serrer la main — moi qui votia a/i
connu quand vous itiez tout petit, tout petit —
mais tout petit 'comme ga, monsieur. And I
do myself the pleasure of bringing you a
bouquet for cette chire maman. You will
make her my compliments, cette chire maman.
Tell her it has been so delightful to see yoa
again. It has recalled those so happy days at
Hillborough."

Paul took the big bouquet without any dis-
play of mauvaise honte, and thanked the
voluble httle Mademoiselle Clarice for it in
French as fluent almost as her own.
Mademoiselle Clarice had tears in hei' eyes.
"And to hear you talk that baautiful
language," she cried, " cette belle Icngue que
je vous a/i enseignee m^oi-meme — ah qv^ c'est
charmant I " She stooped forward irresistibly,
and kissed him on both cheeks. Mademoiselle
Clarice was forty, but plump and well pre-
served. Paul accepted the kissos with a very
good grace, PS well as the two hands with
which she bid him farewell. "And now I
must run back," she said ; " I must run back
this minute. Madams m'attend — elU e'em-
patiente tant, Madame I " And with another
good kiss and two shakes of the hand she wan
gone, and Paul was left standing alone by the
barrier.

"What a strange creisure!" Madama
Ceriolo cried, putting up those long-handled
tortoiseshell eyeglasses of hers, and following
the impresBionabie Frenchwoman with, b&i

tl..M,

BEHIND tHB SCENES.

is companion

en route for

, Patil had so

little world of

iriolo.andNea

her mamma,

himself — the

to the station

raght it was

incral opinion

ything. But

adieus at the

lan in a plain

;he front with

giouB dimen-

in a m' ment

fj litt „ ikjy's-

lelle Clarice I"
1 perfect em,'
i little before
oces. " How
3ff! I called
r told me you
e."

coiffure do
:e answered,
le Geriolo and
her Monsieur
javc Mentone

qui V0U8 ai
t, tout petit —
ieur. And I
nging you a
I. You will
fhire maman.
il to see yoa
lappy days at

hout any dis-
thanked the
rice for it in
her own.
in he!' eyes,
at beautiful
) Icngue que
-ah ^v^ c'est
d irresistibly.
Mademoiselle
>nd well pre-
I with A very
> hands with
"And now I
Qst run back
I — elle a'em-
nrith another
land she waa
alone by thQ

" Madams
long-handle^
ad fo|?owing
m with, hoi

oiiony glancd as she left the station. " Who
is she, Mr. Gascoyne, and how on earth did
you ever come to know her ? "

" She's an old friend of my mother's," Paul
answered onoe more, blurting out the whole
simple truth, " and she tauent me French at
Hillborough when I was a little chap, for she
was a lady's-maid at a house where my father
was coachman." And then without waiting
to observe the effect of this painful Parthian
shot, delivered trembling, he raised his hat,
and biddiug a comprehensive good-bye to all
at onuc, took refuge with Thistleton behind the
passengers' barrier.

" Goodness gracious I " Madame Ceriolo
cried, looking round with an astonished air of
surprise to Armitage, " did you ever in your
life see anything so funny ? One would have
thought the woman would have had good feel-
ing and good sense enough not to inflict her-
self upon him in the present company. She
may have been a friend of his mother's, of
course, and all that sort of thing ; but if she
wanted to see him she should have gone to his
hotel and seen him quietly. She ought to
remember that now he's heir to a baronetcy
and a member of a university, and admitted
as such into good society." For since Mentone
had decided upon adopting Paul, and therefore
backed him up for every possible virtue, it had
been Madame's cue to itisist most strenuotlsly
upon the genealogical fact that wherever a
person of noble race may happen to be born,
or whatever position he may happen to fill, he
retains his sixteen quarters of nobility intact
for all that. This was one for Paul, and two
for Madame Geriolo.

"Why, I thought it was so nice of her,"
Nea objected, with her simple English tender-
heartedness, "to come down and see him off
BO simply before us all, and to brihg him those
flowers, and, in the simplicity of her heart, to
fall on his neck and kiss him openly. Her
eyes were quite full of tears, too. I'hi sure,
Madame Ceriolo, she's very fond of him."

" Nea, my dear," Madame Ceriolo remarked
sevetely, with the precise smile of the British
matron, " your views are really quite revolution-
ary. There should be natural lines between the
various classes. People mustn't all get mixed
up promiscuously. Even if she liked him,
she shouldn't let her feelings get the better of
her. She shotild always remember to keep her
proper place, no matter what her private senti-
ments may prompt her to."

And, indeed, in Madame Ceriolo's family
they managed these things a great deal better.

For, as Nea and Madame Ceriolo were
coming to Mentone that very autumn, a little
episode had occurred in a coffee-room at
Marseilles which may be here related, as
flashing a ray of incidental light on the
character of Madame Ceriolo's aristocratic
antecedents.

They reached Marseilles late in the evening,
and drove at once to the Hotel da Louvre— It

was paii of Madanio's cue that she knew the
best and moSt luxurious hotel at every town in
Europe — where they went down in their
travelling dress to the restaurant for supper.
As they entered they found they had the room
to themselves, and an obsequious waiter, in an
irreproachable white tie and with a spotless
napkin hanging gracefully on his arm, inotioned
them over witiiout a word to a table near the
fireplace. For the indivisible moment of time
while they took their seats an observant
spectator might just have noted a flash of
recognition in Madame's eyes, and an answr:--
ing flash that twinkled silently in the obse-
quious waiter's. But neither spoke a word
of any sort to the other, save in the way of
business. Madame took the carte that the
waiter handed her, with a stifled yawn, and
ordered an omelette and a bottle of Beaujolais
with the same careless air with which she
would have ordered it from any other youn^
man in a similar position.

At the end of the supper, however, she sent
Nea up to get her necessaries for the night un-
packed, and waited down herself to ask a few
questions, to make quite sure, she said, aboht
the trains to-morrow.

As soon as Nea had left the room, the
obsequious waiter approached a little nearer,
and, still with his unequivocally respectful air
and his spotless napkin hanging gracefully over
his arm, stood ;3Vidently awaiting Madame
Ceriolo's orders.

Madame eyed him a moment with a perfect
calm through those aristocratic glasses, and
then observed quietly, " Tien«i c'eai toi," with-
out moving at all from the position she occu-
pied when Nea left her.

"Yes, it's me, Polly," the irreproachable
waiter answered, in his native English) straight
and stiff as ever.

" I thought you were going to make the
season at Pau this Winter," Madame Ceriolo
remarked in an arid tone of voice, a little sour
about the upper notes, and crumbling her
bread with one hand uneasily.

" I was," the irreproachable waiter replied,
without moving a muscle, " but I ain't now.
The governor and me had a blow-up about
terms. So I gave him the slip, and engaged
on here — extra hand for the Biviera season."

" You made the summer at Scheveningen, I
think ? " Madame Ceriolo remarked languidly,
as one discusses the affairs of an indifferent
acquaintance.

The irreproachable waiter bowed his stiff,
official bow.

" At the ' H6tel des Anglais,' " he answered,
in his unvarying hotel tone.

" Good busmess ? "

"No; beastly. All Dutch and Germans.
Them gentlemen button, up their pockets too
tight. If it hadn't been for a family or two of
English and Americans droppin^r in casual,
the tips wouldn't so much as have paid for my
washing. Dickeys and cuffs come dear at

THB SCALLYWAG.

Soheveningen." There waa a slight panse.
Then Macume Ceriolo spoke again.

" Tom."

"Yes, PoUy."

*' Where's Karl ? "

" With a variety troupe at Berlin, when I
last heard from him."

•' Doing well ? "

"Pretty well, I believe. Feathering his
nest. But banjos ain't anything like what
they'd used to be. The line's overstocked,
that's the long and the short of it."

" How's mother ? " Madame Ceriolo asked,
carelessly.

"Drunk," the irreproachable waiter re-
sponded, rearranging his tia. "Drunk, aa
usual."

"Still at the Dials?"

The waiter nodded. "She can't go far
from dear old Drury," he answered vaguely.

" Well, I love the Lane, myself," Madame
Ceriolo responded. " It's a rare old place. I
never waa happier, Tom, in all my life, than
in the days when I was on, long ago, in the
pantomime."

"You're on the quiet now, I see," the
waiter remarked, with a respectful inclination
^in case anybody should huppen to see him
through the glass doors that opened on to the
corridor.

Madame Ceriolo bent her head. " On the
strict quiet," she responded coldly.

" Governess ? "

" Well, pretty much that sort of thing, you
know* Companion. Chaperon."

" To an English yoimg lady, I gathered ? "

" Yes. Clergyman's daughter."

The waiter's face almost relaxed into a
broad smile. "Well, you always were a
clever one, Poll^ t " he exclaimed, delighted.

Madame Cenolo drew herself up very stiff,
as one who prefers to discourage levity in the
lower classes. " I hope I know how to behave
myself in whatever society I may happen to
be placed," she answered, chillily.

"You do," the waiter replied. "You're a
rare one at that. I wish I could make as
much out of the French and German as you
and Earl do. Mine's all thrown away — all
waiters speak the lot. Say , though : what are
you now — I mean in the way of name and
nation?"

" Toujours Ceriolo" Madame answered,
with a quiet smile. " After all, it's safer. If
anybody who knew you before comes up and
eaUs you by a different name when you've
taken an alias, how awfully awkward I And
really, if it comes to that, Ceriolo's as good a
name for a person to own as any I could in-
vent. It's suggestive of anything on earth but
organ-grinding."

For, in truth, Madame's father, the reputed
Count, had really earned a precarious liveli-
hood by the production of sweet music on that
despised instoument.

The irreproachable waiter smiled an im>

maculate smile. "And are you Italian, or
what ? " he asked, always respectful.

"Tyrolese," Madame answered carelessly;
"it's better so. Widow of a Count in the
Austrian service. Mother an Englishwoman
— which is true for once, you see — brought up
in Vienna in the English Church by special
agreement — to suit the clergyman."

" And how much are you going to stand me
for my discreet silence ? " tiie waiter asked,
comine half a step nearer, and assuming a less
agreeable tone and countenance.

Madame pulled out ten francs from her
dainty purse, and laid the coin gingerly on the
edge of the table.

"Won't do," the waiter observed, shaking
his head solemnly. " Not enough by a long
way. Won't do at all. When an affectionate
brother meets his sister again, whom he hasn't
seen for more'n a twelvemonth — and keeps
her secrets — he c(ui't be put off with half a
Napoleon. No, no, Polly; you must stand
me a sovereign."

" It's an imposition," Madame Ceriolo, re-
marked, growing very red in the face, but
remembering even so to preserve her blandest
tone, and drawing the sum in question im-
willingly from her pocket. " Tom, I call it
a perfect imposition."

"All right, my angel," the waiter replied
calmly, supping the coin at once into his
pocket. "I've done as much more 'en once
for you, Poll^ , when you were hard up ; and,
after all, it am't often we meet now, is it, my
chicken?"

" You're rude and coarse," Madame Ceriolo
answered, rising to go. " I wonder you dare to
address me in such vulgar language."

" Well, considering you're a countess, it is
rather cheeky," the waiter replied, smiling, but
still with the imperturbable attitude of the
well-bred servant. " You see, Po%, we ain't
all like you. I wish we were t We ain't all
learnt to speak the Queen's English with ease
and correctness from the elocution master at
Drury."

At that moment, before he oould reveal any
further items of domestic history a head ap-
peared at the door, and the waiter, without
altering a shade of his tone, continued respect-
fully, in fluent French :

" Trie bien, madame. The omnibus will be
here to take down your luggage to the 11.40."

All which will' suggest to the intelligent
reader's mind the fact that in Madame Ceriolo's
family the distinctions of rank were duly
observed, and that no member of that noble
and well-bred house ever allowed his feelings
of affection or of contempt, of anger or of
laughter, to get the better at any time of his
sober judgment.

But this had happened three months before
the moment when Paul Gascoyne and Charlie
Thistleton were seen out of the station, away
down at Mentone, by Mademoiselle CUurice,
the lady's-maid. „.. .,. ■.:.,,. , , , -

}

A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE.

oil Italian, or
otful.

■ed careleBBlv;
Count in the
Englishwoman
16 — brought up
roh by speciid
an.

ig to stand me
waiter asked,
SBuming a leas

nos from her
ingerly on the

irved, shaking
igh by a long
m affectionate
horn he hasn't
|j — and keeps
f with half a
11 must stand

16 Ceriolo, re-
the face, but
3 her blandest
question un-
'om, I call it

wMter replied
•noe into his
lore 'en once
tiardup; and,
low, is it, my

^ame Ceriolo
er you dare to
age.

lountess, it is
i, smiling, but
ititude of the
'oily, we ain't
We ain't all
iish with ease
ion master at

lid revetfl any
ry a head ap-
alter, without
inned respect-

nnibuB will be
bo the 11.40."
tie intelligent
lame Ceriolo's
ik were duly
of that noble
)d his feelings
anger or of
ly time of his

;

nontbs before
i and Charlie
station, away
iselle Clarice,

'■«/iii htut'-''

CHAPTER XII.

A CHAMCB ACQUAINTANCB.

While Paul and bis pupil were travelling
north to Paris by the tram de luxe (at the
pupil's expense, of course — bien entendu),
away over in England Faith Qasooyne was
journeying homeward with a heavy heart and
a parliamentary ticket by the slow train from
Dorsetshire and Hillborough.

For Faith had managed to get away for her
holiday to her mother's friends in a sheltered
coastwise nook in the beloved West Country,
where the sun had shone for her (by rare'
good luck) almost as brightly as on the
Biviera, and where the breakers had whitened
almost as blue a sea as that which shattered
itself in shimmering spray upon the bold
and broken rocks of La Mortola. A delightful
holiday indeed for poor hardworked Faith, far
from the alternate drudgery of school or
home, and safe from the perpetual din and
uproar of those joyous but all too effusively
happy infants. And now that short, peaceful
interlude of rest and change was fairly over,
and to-day Faith must return to her post at
Hillborough in good time for the reopening of
school, the day after to-morrow.

At the second station after she left Sea-
minster, Faitli, who had hitherto enjoyed all
to herself the commodious little wooden horse-
box known as a third-class compartment on
the Great Occidental Bailway, was somewhat
surprised to see the door of her carriage
thrown open with a flourish by a footman in
livery, and a middle-aged lady (for to Faith
thirty-seven was already middle-age), far
better dressed than the average of Parliamen-
tary passengers, seat herself with a quiet
smile of polite recognition at the opposite
window.

Faith's democratic back was set up at once
by the lady's presumption in venttiring to
intrude her well-bred presence into a Parlia-
mentary compartment. People who employ
footmen in liverj ought to hord with their
equals in a well-padded first, instead of rudely
thrusting themselves to spy out the manners
and customs of their fellow Christians whose
purses compel them to travel third in oommo
dious horseboxes. Faith resented the intru-
sion as she resented the calls of the district
visitors who dropped in at all times and
seasons to bestow good advice gratis upon her-
self and her mother, but would have been verv
much astonished if the cab-owner's wife had
reciprocated the attention by sending in a card
casually on their own " at home" day. These
de haut en baa civilities were not much to
Faith's taste: she had too much self-respect
and self -reverence herself to care either for,
obtruding on others or being herself obtruded '
upon.

But the lady settled herself down in her seat,
and spoke with such unassuming and sprightly
graciousness to Faith that even that Nationiil

Schoolmistress's proud heart was melted by
degrees, and before the two had reached Wil-
mington Junction they were hard at work in
conversation with one another.

"Dear me, where's my lunch-basket? " the
lady said at last, looking round for the racks
which did not exist in the commodious horse-
box ; " is it over your side, my dear ? "

She said " my dear " so simply and naturally
that Faith could hardly find it in her heart to
answer :

" I think your footman — or, at least, the
gentleman in tight silk stockings who saw you
off— put it under the seat there."

The lady laughed a good-natured laugh.

" Oh, he's not my footman," she answered,
stooping down to look for it ; " ho belongs to
some friends where I have been spending
Christmas. It doesn't run to footmen with
me, I can assure you. If it did, I wouldn't be
travelling third this morning."

" No ? " Faith queried coldly.

" No," the lady answered, with a gentle but
very decisive smile, "nor you eilher, if it
come? to that. Nobody ever travels third by
preferb^'^e, so don't pretend it. There are
peoijle who tell you they do, but then they're
snobs, and also untruthful. They're afraid to
say they do it for economy ; I'm not. I travel
third because it's cheap. As Pooh-Bah says in
the play, I do it but I don't like it. Now, say
the truth yourself: wouldn't you, if you could,
always (ravel first or second ? "

" I never tried," Faith answered evasively ;
" I've never had money enough."

" Now, that's right I " the stranger exclaimed
warmly opening her lunoh-basket and taking
out some cold grouse and a fiask of olaret.
"That shows at once you have blue blood.
I'm a great admirer of blue blood myself ; I
firmly believe in it."

" I don't precisely see what blue 'lood s got
to do with the matter," Faith answered, be-
wildered. "I come from a little country town
in Surrey, and I'm a National Schoolmistress."

" Exactly," the ady echoed. ' The very
moment I set eyes on you I felt sure you had
blue blood. I saw it in your wrists, and I
wasn't mistaJcen. You mayn't know it,
perhaps ; a great many people have got blue
blood and aren't aware of it. But it's there,
for all that, as blue as indigo ; and I, who am
a connoisseur in matters of blood, can always
spot it ; " and she proceeded to taJte out from
a dainty case a knife, fork, spoon, and a couple
of drinking-glasBcs.

"But how did you spot it in me just
now ? " Faith asked with a smile, not wholly
unflattered.

" Because you weren't ashamed to say you'd
never travelled anything but tliird, and be-
cause you insisted then with unnecessary zeal
on the smallness and humility of your own
surroundings. Only blue blood ever does that.
Everybody s descended from a duke on one
side and a cobbler on the other. Snobs try

THfi SCALLYWAd.

ftlways to brincr forward their duke and
conceal their cobbler. Bine blood's prouder
and franker, too. It insists upon its cobbler
bein^ duly recognised."

"Well, I'm not ashamed of mine; I'm
proud of him," Faith answered, colouring up ;
" but all the same, I don't like blue blood,
It's so hard and unfeeling. It makes me mad
sometimes. You wouldn t believe how it keeps
people waiting for their money."

" I'm sorry you don't like it," the lady said,
with the same soft smile as before and a
bewitching look, " for then you won't like me.
I'm blue, very blue, as blue as the sky, and I
don't pretend to deny it. Will you take a
little grouse and a glass of claret ? "

" Thank you," Faith answered coldly,
flushing up once more; "I have my owa
lunch here in my own parcel."

" What have you got ? " the lady asked,
with the inquiring air of a profound gourmet.

" Hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches," Fait
said, half choking.

•• Well, Lady Seaminster didn't give me any
hard-boiled eggs," the lady said, searching in
vain in her basket. " May I have one of
yours ? Let's share our provisions."

Faith could hardly say no, though she saw
bi once through the polite ruse ; so she passed
ah egg to the lady with an " Oh, of course, I
shall be delighted," and proceeded herself to
eat a very dry sandwich.

" Have some grouse," the lady said, passing
her over a piece on a little eleotro-plated dish,
"and a glass of claret."

" I've never tasted claret," Faith answered,
grimly ; " I don't know if I'U like it."

" ^1 the better reason for trying it now,"
the lady replied, still cheerfully kind, in spite
of rebuffs. " And so you thought that elegant
gentleman in the silk stockings was my ser-
vant, did you? What a capital joke I But
people at Oxford can't afford to keep footmen
in tights, you know. We're as poor as ehurch
miise there — ^psor, but cultured."

A flash of interest gleamed for a oecond in
Faith's oyo at the mention c f Oxford.

" Oh, yrn livo there, do you ? " she said. " I
should lo' T to see Oxford"

•' Yes, my husbai^d 's professor of Accadian,"
the ad.v remarked; "his name's Douglas.
But I dare ray yon don't know what Accadian
is. I didn't, I'm sure, till I married Archie."

A fuller flush came on Faith's cheek. " I've
heatd of it from mybruiher," she said, simply.
"I think it was tho language spoken in
Assyria before the Assyrians went there,
wasn't it ? Ah, yes, Paul told me so 1 And
I've heard him speak oi your husband, too, I
fancy."

" Have yon a brother at Oxford, then ? *'
the lady asked, with a start.

" Yea, at Christ Church." * ' "

"Why, that's Archie's coUego," the lady
Wient on, smiling. "What's ms natue? I
may know him."

" I don't think So. Hie name's Gascoyne."

Mrs. Douglas fairly jumped with her
triumph. " There I didn't I tell you so ? " she
cried, clapping her hands in her joy. " You
have blue blood. It's as clear as mud. ArchI j's
told me all about your brother. He's poor but
blue. I knew you were blue. Your father's a
baronet."

Faith trembled all over at this sudden
recognition. " Yes," she answered with some
annoyance ; " but he's as poor as he can be.
He's a cab-driver, too. I told you I wasn't
ashamed of my cobbler."

" And I told you I was sure you had blue
blood," Mrs. Douglas echoed, delighted.
" Now, this is quite too lovely, trving to pass
yourself off for a ro' ' ■ like tnat; but it's
no use with me. I bcu through these flimsy
disguises always. Have some more claret ?
it's not so bad, is it ? And so you'd love to go
to Oxford ? "

" Yes," Faith faltered ; " Paul's told me so
much about it."

" Guard," the lady cried, as they stopped at
a station, " do we change here ? Mind you
tell us when Tve ^et to Hillbotough Junction."

She had enjomed this upon him already
more than a dozen times since they started on
their journey, and the guard was beghining to
get a l^ittle v'ired of it.

" All right, mum," he said, in a testy voice ;
" don't you be afeard. I'll see you all right.
Jest you sit whete you ate until I come and
tell vou."

"^Vhy, that's whete I have to change,"
Faith observed, as Mrs. Douglas withdrew her
head from the window.

"Well, that's all right," Mrs. Douglas
replied, with a cheery nod. " Now we can
have such a nice Ule-d-tlte together. You
must tell me all about your brother and
yourself. Do you know, my husband thinks
your brother's awfully clever ? "

She had found the right way to Faith's
hpart at last. Thus adjured. Faith began to
gosnp with real goodwill about Paul, and her
mother, and th . bushiess at Hillbotough, and
the life of a schoolmistress, and the trials she
endured at the hands (and throats) of those
unconscious infants. She talked away more
and more familiarly as the time went on till
dusk set in, and the lamp in the horsebox
alone was left to light them. Mrs. Douglas,
in spite of her prejudice in fatour of bluo blood,
was really sympathetic; and by dexterotis
side-questions she drew bilt of FeAih the
inmost longings and troubles of her heart:
how the local HUlborough grandees owed
long bills which they woului't pay how Paiil
was cramped at Christ Church 'or want of
money; how her fathet was grqwing rheu-
matic and too old for his wora. ^ how hard a
time they often had in the winter ; how fond
she vvas of Paul, atid Paul of bbr ; how he
had taught her ... his holidays all he learnt
himself; how they two read Datt(!et and

]

A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE.

e's Gascoyne."
led with her
1 yon so ? " she
ler joy. "You
mud. Arohlj's
He's poor but
Ycnir father's a

it this sudden

ered with some

as he can be.

yon I wasn't

you had blue
ed, delighted,
trving to pass

that; but it's
b these flimsy

more claret ?
ou'd love to go

I's told me so

ihey stopped at
e? Mind you
igh Junction."
1 him already
they started on
w beghining to

a testy voice ;

you all right.

il I come and

e to change,"
s withdrew her

Mrs. Douglas
•' Now we can
;ogether. You
r brother and
msband thinks

ay to Faith's

i'aith began to

Paul, and her

llborough* and

the trials she

■oats) of those

3d away more

e went on till

the horsebox

Mrs. Douglas,

r of bluo blood,

by dexterous

of Faith the

of her heart:

ruAdees owed

ay how Paiil

i -'or want of

prqwing rheu-

i how hard a

»r; how fond

bbr ; how he

all he learnt

Dfttt(!fit and

Viotov Hugo together, and how she longed
with all her heart and Boul to be free from the
indescribable bondage of the infants. Every-
thing she told — Mrs. Douelas was so excellent
and friendly a wielder of tne pump — save that
one hateful secret about Mr. Solomons. There
Faith was always discreetly silent. She hated
that horrible compact so thoroughly in her
soul that she could never so much as bring

"That would be no use, thank you — thank
you ever so much," she replied, gasphig ; " I
couldn't pay it back — I mean, I couldn't afford
to pay so much for — for a mistake of my own
in not getting out at the right station."

" The mistake wm mine," Mrs. Douglas said
with prompt decision. " It was I who misled
you. I ought to have asked." She hesitated
for a moment. " There's a good hotel here, I

herself to speak of it, even in the family circle.>Jknow," she began oncd more timidly, " if
They talked so long and talked so earnestly ^ou'd only be so nice as to come there as my

that they quite forgot about Eillborough
Junction.

At last, as the clock was sounding seven,
they arrived at a big and noisy station, where
porters were shouting, and trains were pufGing,
and the electric light was fizzing and splutter-
ing. Mrs. Douglas put her head out of the
wmdow once more, and called out to the guard,
" Now, is this Hiliborough Junction ? "

The guard, with a righteously-astonished air,
cried back in reply, " Hiliborough Junction ?
Why, what are you thinking of, mum ? We
passed Hiliborough Junction a clear two
hours ago."

Faith looked at Mrs« Douglas, and Mrs.
Douglas looked at Faitn. They stared in
silence. Then the elder woman burst
suddenly into a good-natured laugh. It was
no use bullying that righteously-astonished
guard. He was clearly expostulation-proof by
long experience. " "\Vhen can we get a train
i back ? " she asked instead, with practical
wisdom.

And the guard answered in the same busi-
ness-like tone, " You can't get no train bask
to-night at all; last's gone. You'll have to
stop here till to-morrow morning."

Mrs. Douglas laughed again ; to her it was
a mere adventure. The Lightbody's carriage
which was sent down to meet her would have
to go back to the Bectory empty — that was
all. But tears rushed up suddenly into poor
Faith's eyes. To her it was nothing less than
a grave misfortune.

" Oh, where can I go ? " she cried, clasping
her hands together nervously. " And mother
'11 be so dreadfully, dreadfully frightened 1 "

Mrs. Douglas's face grew somewhat graver.
" You must come with me to an hotel," she
answered kindly.

Faith looked back at her «vith eyes of
genuine dismay.

" i can^t," she murmured in a choking voice.
" I — I couldn't afford to go to ftny hotel where
you'd go to."

Mrs. Douglas took in the whole difficulty at
a glance. " How much have you got with you,
dear ? " she asked gently.

" Four and sixpence," Faith answered with
a terrible gulp. To her that was indeed a
formidable sum to have to spend unexpectedly
upon a night's lodging.

" If I were to lend you a few shillings "

Mrs. Douglas began, but Faith shook her
head.

guest.

But Faith shook her head still more vigor-
ously than before.

"You're a dear, kind thing," she cried,
grasping her new friend's hand and pressing it
warmly, "and I'm ever so grateful. But I
couldn't— I couldn't — oh no, I couldn't 1 It
may be pride, and it may be the blood of the
cobblers in me, I don't know which ; but I
never could do it — I really couldn't."

Mrs. Douglas had tact enough to see at once
she really meant it, and that nothing on earth
would shuke her firm resolve ; so she paused a
moment to collect her thoughts. Then she
said once more, with that perfect good-humour
which seemed never to desert her, " Well, if
that's so, my dear, there's no other way out of
it. The mountain won't come to Mahomet, it
appears, so I suppose Mahomet must go to the
mountain. If you won't come to my hotel,
my child, I'll just have to go and stop at youra
to take care of you.

Faith drew back with a little cry of depre-
cation. " Oh no," she exclaimed ; " I could
never let you do that, I'm sure, Mrs.
Douglas."

But on that point Mrs. Douglas was firm.
The rock of the convenances on which she
founded her plea could not have been more
immovable in its fixity than herself.

" There are no two ways about it, my dear,"
she said, after Faith had pleaded in vain every
plea sne knew to be let go alone to her own
sort of lodging-house ; " the thing's impossible.
I'm a married woman, and older than you,
and I know all about it. A girl of your age —
and a baronet's daughter, too — can't be per-
mitted to go by herself to an urn or pubUo-
house, especially the sort of Inn you seem to
imply, without a married woman to guarantee
her and chaperon her. As a Christian crea-
ture, I couldn't dream of allowing it. Why,
that dear mother of yours would go out of her
senses if she only knew you'd been passing the
night alone in such a place without me to take
care of you." A sudden thought seemed to
strike her all at once. " Stop here a second,"
she said ; " I'll soon come back to you."

Faith stopped on the platform by her one
small portmanteau for five minutes or more ;
and then Mrs. Douglas returned triumphant.
"This is what I have said," she exclaimed,
brandishing a piece of white paper all radiant
before her. " I've sent otf a telegram : ' Mrs.
Douglas, Pendlebury, to Gascoyne, Plowdeu's

THE SCALLYWAG.

Court, Hillborough, Surrey. Tour daughter
has missed her train, but is here and safe.
Will return to-morrow. I am taking her to a
respectable inn for the night. I am a friend
of the Lightbodys, of Cheriton Rectory.' "

" How did you know my address ? " Faith
gasped, astonished.

" My dear," Mrs. Douglas replied, "I happen
to possess a pair of eyes. I read it on the
label, there, on your portmanteau."

" How much did it cost? " Taith cried, all
aghast.

" I refuse to be questioned about my private
correspondence," Mrs. Douglas answered
firmly. " That's my affair. The telegram's
mine, and sent in my own name. And now,
dear, we've got to go out into the town and
hunt about for our four-and-sixpenny lodging."

CHAPTER XIII.

BBOTBEB AND SISTER.

" So what did you do, then ? " Paul asked, two
days later, as his sister and he sat hand-in>
hand, comparing notes over their winter's
adventures.

" So then," Faith went on, continuing her
tale with unusual animation, '* we ran about
to two cr three little places, to see which one
would tuiie us cheapest. And Mrs. Douglas —
oh, she's a wonderful one at bargaining— you
and I would never dare to do it. We wouldn't
have the face to beat people down so. ' No,'
she said, ' that won't suit ui — we want bed and
breakfast for half-a-crown,' and, you'll hardly
believe it, at last she got it."

It was the luncheon-hour on the first day of
Faith's return to the slavery of the infants ;
but Faith had not gone home for her mid-day
meal. She had got Paul to bring it out to her
in her father's tin, up to the Knoll — the heath-
clad height that overhangs Hillborough, and
from wUch tld town derives its name. A
little wooden summer-house, in form like a
small Ionic temple, consisting only of a cucular
roof supported by heavy wooden columns, in
the quaint bad taste of the eighteenth century,
crowns the svuumit ; and here, on that bright,
frosty January morning, in spite of the cold,
Fadth preferred to eat her lunch undisturbed
tmder the dear blue sky, in order to enjoy an
uninterrupted interchange of confidences with
her nevriy-returned brother. In the small
houses of the labomring classes and the lesser
howrgeoiaie a Ute-^-tete is impossible. People
in that rank of life always go outdoors to say
whatever they have most at heart to one
another — a fact which explains much in their
habits and manners whereat the unreflecting
in the classes above them are apt to jeer beyond
what Ib seemly. So, brusque as was the
change to Paul from the lemon-groves of Men-
tone to the bare boughs and leafiless trunks of
the beeches and chestnuts on the Knoll at
Hillborough, he was glad to embrace that

chance of outpouring his soul to his one inti-
mate fjriend and confidante, his sister, in the
rococo summer-house on the open hill-top,
rather than in the narrow little parlour at the
ancestral abode of the Qasooyne family.

<< We couldn't have done it ourselves," Paul
mused hi reply. " But that's always the way
with people who feel sure of their ground,
Faith. They'll bargain and haggle ten times
as much over a shilling as we will. You see,
they're not afraid of losuig caste by it."

" That's just it," Faith went on. " She was
as bold as brass about it. 'Half a crown and
not one penny more we pay,' she said, putting
her little foot down smartly — just like this ;
' and we don't want any supper ; because, you
see. Faith, you and I can sup in our own
room, to save expense, off the remains of the
sandwiches and the grouse and claret.' "

" No ! She didn't say that out loud before
theu: very face ! " Paul exclaimed, aghast.

" Yes, she did, before their very faces, my
dear ; and me there, just ready to drop at her
side with shame and annoyance. But, Paul,
she didn't seem to care a pin. She was as high
and mighty as if she'd ordered a private room,
with champagne and turtle. She held up her
head like a thorough lady, and made me feel
quite bold myself, merely by dint of her good
example."

" And you slept together ? " Paul asked.

"And we slept together," Faith answered.
" She said she didn't mind a bit sharing the
same room, though she would with some
people, because I had blue blood — she was
always talking that nonsense about blue blood,
you know— and blue blood was akin all the
world over. And I said I'd always under-
stood, from the documents in the case, that
mankind was made of one flesh, everywhere
alike, no matter what might be the particular
colour or quality of its circulating fluid ; and,
for my part, I didn't care a brass farthing
whether her blood was blue, or pink, or yellow,
or merely red like us common people ; for she
was a dear, good thing, anyhow, and I liked
her ever so. And then she took my face be-
tween her hands, like this, and kissed me so
hard, and said, ' Now we two are friends for
good and always, so we'll talk no more non-
sense about debatable questions.' And, Paul,
she's really such a sweet, kind soul, I could
almost forgive her for bemg such a dreadful
aristocrat. Why, do you know, she says she
pays everybody weekly, and never kept even a
washerwoman waiting for her money, not a
fortnight in her life, nor wouldn't, either."

" Well, you see. Faith," Paul answered,
musing, " I expect the fact is, very often, they
don't remember, and they've no idea what
trouble they're causing. Perhaps we oughtn't
to judge them too hardly."

" I judge them hardly," Faith cried, flushing
up ; "and so would you, if you'd the bills to
mt^e ^up, and had to go round to their very
doors to ask them for the money. But Mra.

'■\

■J

to his one inti-
8 sister, in tho

open hill-top,

parlour at the
e family,
urselves," Paul
always the way

their ground,
acgle ten times
wm. You see,
a by it."
on. " She was
If a crown and
le said, putting
just like tlds;
r ; because, you

in our own
remains of the
claret.' "
3ut loud before
)d, aghast,
i^ery faces, my
to drop at her
56. But, Paul,
)he was as high
i private room,
•he held up her
1 made me feel
nt of her good

*aul asked,
aith answered,
tit sharing the
d with some
tlood — she was
out blue blood,
IS akin all the
always imder-
the case, that
ih, everywhere
f the particular
Qg fluid; and,
brass farthing
link, or yellow,
leople ; for she
i^, and I liked
k my face be-
kissed me so
ire friends for
no more non-
• And, Paul,
i soul, I could
ich a dreadful
, she says she
er kept even a
money, not a
t, either."
kul answered,
>ry often, they
no idea what
>s W6 oughtn't

sried, flushing
'd the bills to
to their very
y. But Mrs.

BROTHER AND SI5TER.

■ Douglas, she's quite another sort — she's quite

[different. You can't think how friendly we

got together in that one evening. Though, to

be sure, we lay awake the best part of the

night, chattering away like a couple of mag-

I pies ; and before morning we were much more

' intimate than I ever was with any other woman

before in all mv life. I think, perhaps "

And then Faith hesitated.

" You think, perhaps, it was because she was
more like the sort of person you ought natu-
rally to mix with," Paul suggested gently, read-
ing with his quick sympathetic instinct her
unuttered thought.

Faith faltered still.

" Well, perhaps so," she said. " More my
equal — at least, in intelligence and feeling.
Though I should be sorry to think, Paul," she
added, after a pause, " I had more in common
with the class that keeps people waiting for
their money than with dear, good, honest,
hardworking souls like father and mother."

'* I don't think the classes need be mutually
exclusive, as we say in logic," Paul mused
slowly. "You see, I mix a good deal with
both classes now ; and it seems to me there
may be good and bad in both about equally."

" Perhaps so. But the harm the one class
does comes home to me, of course, a great deal
more than the harm done by the other. They
give me such a lot of bother about the bills :
you wouldn't believe it. But Mrs. Djuglas is
a dear, I'm sure of that. She gave me such a
kiss when she saw me off by the tri\in next
morning, and she said to me, ' Now, remember,
Faith dear, I expect you to come in summer
term and visit me at Oxford.' "

" At Oxford ? " Paul cried, with a start of
short-lived pleasure.

" Oh, yes ; she was always going on about
that the whole night through. She kept at it
all the time ; ' You must come to Oxford.' I'd
happened to say to her earlier in the day,
while we were in the train together, and
before we got quite so intimate with one
another, that I'd always had such a longing to
see the University ; and as soon as we'd begun
to chum up a bit, you know, she said at once :
' Next summer term you must come and visit
me at Oxford.' But it couldn't be managed,
of course," Faith went on with a sigh. " The
thing's beyond us. Though I couldn't make
her understand how utterly impossible it
was."

Paul's face fell.

" I suppose it is impossible," he murmured,
disappointed. " You couldn't get the proper
sort of clothes, I expect, to go and stop at Mrs.
Douglas's, could you ? "

" No," Faith answered very decisively. " I
couldn't indeed. It may be wicked pride, but
I'm woman enough to feel I won't go unless I
can be dressed as well as all the others."

" It's a dreadful thing, Faith," Paul said,
still holding her hand and looking away
vaguely over the bare English landscape — so

painful a contrast to the green of Mentone ;
" it's a dreadful thing tiiat 1 can't do anything
in that way to help you. Now, any other
brother, situated as I am, would be able to
a-tbint bis sister a bit, and make her a little
preBent of a dress and hat for such an occasion
as that, for example. But I — I can't. What-
ever I have is all Mr. Solomons'. I can't
spend a single penny unnecessarily on myself
or you without doing a wrong to him and
father and you and mother. There's that
tenner, now, I got from Thistleton, for
coaching him : under any oth«r circumstances
I'd be able to look upon that as my own to
spend — I earned it myself— and to get you an
evening dress (you'd want a simple evening
dress, of course) to go to Oxford with. But I
can't allow myself such a luxury as that. If
I did, I'd have to get another tenner the more
from Mr. Solomons, and sign for it at once,
and burden my conscience, and father's, and
yours, with another extra ten pounds, and all
tho interest."

"I sometimes think," Faith exclaimed
petulantly, " we should all have ^oon a great
deal happier in our lives if we'd never heard
of that dreadful Mr. Solomons I "

Paul took a more judicial view of the situa-
tion, as became his sex.

" I sometimes think so, too," he answered
after a pause. "But, then, you've got to
remember. Faith, that we, both of us, are
what we ore now wholly and solely through
Mr. Solomons. We can't unthink so much of
our past as to make ourselves mentally into
what we might have been if Mr. Solomons had
never ao aU crossed our horizon. We must
recollect th \t if it hadn't been for Mr. Solomons
I should never have gone either to the Gram-
mar School or to Oxford. And if I'd never
![one, you'd never have learnt all that you've
earnt from me. You'd never even have
become a teacher — now, would you? In a
sort of way, Faith, you're now a laidy, and I'm
a gentleman. I Imow we are not what the big
people at Hillborough would call gentlefolk;
but in the only sense of the word that's worth
anything we are ; and that we are all depends
upon Mr. Solomons. So being what we are,
we can't say now what we would have wished
things to be if we had been quite other-
wise."

" That's a trifle metaphysical,'^ Faith mur-
mured, smiling. " I don't feel sure I follow
it. But perhaps, after all, on the whole, I
agree with you."

"Mr. Solomons is a factor yon can't
eliminate from our joint lives," Paul went on
quietly ; " and if we could eliminate him, and
tdl that he implies, we'd not be ourselves.
We'd be Tom and Mary Whitehead, if you
imderstand me."

" You might be Tom, but I'd not be Mary,"
Faith answered with a not tmbecoming toss of
her head, for the Whiteheads, in point of fact,
were her pet aversion. " The difference there

vr*\

THE SCALLYWAd.

U Bomotliing in the fibre. T suppose Mrs.
Douglas would say it was bluo blood; but,
anyhow, 1 believe I'm not quite made of the
same stuff as she is."

" Why, there you're as bad as Mrs. Douglas
herself, Paul retorted, laughing. " Who was
so precious democratic just now, I'd like to
know, about all mankind and its varieties of
circulating fluid ? "

Faith laughed in return, but withdrew her
hand. We all of us object to the prejudices of
others, but our own little prejudices are so
much more sensible, so much more firmly

3 rounded on reasonable distinctions I Wo
on't like to have them too freely laughed at.

" And this Yankee girl you were telling ua
about last night," Faith went on after a pause.
•' Was she very nice ? As nice as she was
rich ? And did you and she flirt desperately
together ? "

Paul's smiling face grow suddenly grave.

"Well, Faith," he said, "to tell you the
truth — you may think it an awfully presump-
tuous thing for a fellow like me to say, but I
really believe it — if I were to take pains about
going the right way to work, I might get that
Yankee girl to Bay Yea to me."

" Most probably," Faith answered, quite un.
discomposed by tliis (to Paul) most startling
announcement.

" You're lauehing at tne," Paul cried, draw-
ing back a little ahcurply. " You think me a
conceited prig for imagining it."

" Not at all," Faith replied, with supreme
sisterly confidence in her brotlier's attractions.
" On the contrary, I should think nothing on
earth could be more perfectly natural. There's
no reason, that I can see, why you need be so
absurdly modest about your own position.
You're tall, you're strong, you're well-built,
you're good-looking, and though it's me that
says it, as oughtn't to say it, you're every inch
a gentleman. You've been well educated;
you're an Oxford man, acoostomed to mix
with the best blood in England; you're
cleverer than anybody else I ever met ; and
last of all, you're the heu to a baronetcjjr.
Heaven knows I'm the least likely person m
the world to over-estimate the worth or im-
portance of thai — but, after all, it always
coTllits for something. If all those combined
attractions aren't enough to bring down the
American girl on her knees, where, for good-
ness' sake, does she expect to find her complete
Adonis ? "

" I wish I felt half as confident about
myself as you do about me," Paul murmured,
half ashamed.

" If you did, you wouldn't be half as nice as
you are qow, my dear. It's your diffidence
that puts the comhle on yoir perfections, as
dear old Clarice would say. I'm so glad you
saw her. She'd be so proud and delighted."

" And yet it was awkward," Paul said re-
flectively.

" I don't doubt it was awkward," his sister

replied. "It's always awkward to mix up
your classes."

" I'm not so much ashamed," Paul went on
with a sigh, " as uncomfortable and doubtful.
It isn't snobbishness, I think, that makes me
feel so ; but, you see, vou don't know how
other people will treat them. And you hate
having to be always obtruding on people whose
whole ideas and sympathies and feelings are
restricted to one class the fact that you your-
self are just equally bound up with another.
It seems like assuming a constant attitude of
needless antagonism."

" Is she pretty ? " Taitii put in abruptly,
not lieeding his explanation.

" Who ? Clarice ? As pretty as ever, and
not one day older."

" I didn't mean her" Faith interposed with
a smile. " I mean the other one — the
American."

" Oh, her ! Yes, in her way. no doubt.
Mignonne, slender, pallid, and golden-haired.
She looks as if a breath would blow her away.
Yet she's full of spirit, and cheek, and audacity,
for all that. She said to me herself one day :
' I'm a little one, but, oh my ! ' and I'm sure
she meant it. The man that marries her will
have somebody to tackle."
" And do you like her, Paul ? " I

Paul looked up in surprise — not at the words,
but at the impressive, half-regretful way in
which they were spoken.

" No," he said. " Faith, if you ask me
point-blank, she's a nice little girl — pretty,
and all that sort of thing ; but I don't care for
her."

" And will you take pains about going the
right way to make her say Yea to you ? "

" Faith, how can you 1 I could never marry
her. Bich as she is, and with all Mr. Solomons'
bills at my back, I could never marry her."

There was a minute's pause. Tnen Faith
said again, looking up in his face :

" So the revolt has come. It's come at la^t.
I've been waiting for it, and expecting it. For
months and months I've been waiting and
watching. You've found yourself face to face
with the facts at last, and your conscience is
too strong for you. I knew it would be."

" The revolt has come," Paul answered, with
an effort. " I found it out last week at Men*
tone, alone, and, in my own mind, it's all
settled now. It's a terrible thing to have to
say. Faith, and I've hardly worked out all it
entails yet; but, come what may, I can't
marry an heiress."

Faith said nothing, but she rose from her
seat, and putting her two hands to his warm,
red cheeks, kissed him soundly with sisterly
fervour.

"I know what it means, Paul," she said,
stooping over him tenderly. " I know what a
struggle it must have cost you to make up
your mind — you on whom it's been enjoined
as a sort of sacred duty for so many years past
by father and Mr. Solomons. But I knew,

THE COMING OP AQK OF THE HEIR.

to mix up

aul wont on
id doubtful.
t makes nie

know how
id you hate
leople whose
feelings are

you your-
th another.

attitude of

n abruptly,

8 over, and

rposed with
one — the

no doubt.
Iden-haired.
V her away,
id audacity,
If one day :
id I'm sure
ies her will

ttheworda,
tful way in

9u ask me
W— pretty,
n't care for

it going the
ou ? "
ever marry
. Solomons'
TV her."
rhen Faith

ime at la.t.
np it. For
'aiting and
face to face
nsoience is
Id be."
vered, with
ek at Men<
id, it's aU
to have to
1 out all it
y» I can't

I from her
his warm,
ith sisterly

' she said,
tow what a
I make up
n enjoined
years past
It I knew,

when onoe you oame to stand face to face with
it, you'd see through the sham and dinpel tlio
iUusion. You could never, never so sell your-
self into slavery, and a helpless woman into
gross degradation."

" It will kill father whenever I have to tell
him," Paul murmured in return. " It will be
the deatb-knell of all his hopes and ideals."

"But you needn't tell him — at present at
least," Faith answered, wisely. " I'ut oil i.he
worst till you find it's inevitable. After all,
it's only a guess that the American would tolco
you. Most men don't marry at twenty-one.
And you won't be twenty-one till to-morrow.
You've years before you yet to make up your
mind in. You can earn money 'meanwhile and
repay it slowly. The disillusionment may
come by slow degrees. There's no need to
ppring it upon him at one swoop, as you sprang
it upon me unexpectedly this minute."

" I can never earn it ; I can never repay
it," Paul answered, despondently. "It's far
too heavy a weight for a man to begin life
upon. I bhall sink under the burden, but I
shall never get rid of it."

" Wait and see," Faith answered. " For the
present, there's no need for saying anything.
To-morrow Mr. Solomons wiU want you to
sign your name afresh. But don't be foolish
enough to tell him this. Why, gooc ess
gracious, there's the bell 1 I must hurr* down
at once. And how cold it is up here jn the
hill-top."

Halfway down the slope she turned and
spoke once more.

"And the other girl," she said, "Nea
Blak? The English one ? "

" She's very, very nice," Paul answered,
with warmth. " She's a really good girl. I
like her immensely."

" Who is she ? " Faith asked, in a tremulous
voice.

" Her father's a clergyman, somewhere down
In Cornwall."

" I should hate her," Faith cried. " I know
I should hate her. I never can bear grand
girls Uke that. If this is one of that sort, I
know I should hate her. The American I
could stand — their ways are not our ways ; and
we have the better ot them in some things ;
but an Englishwoman like that, I know I
could never, never endure her."

"I'm sorry," Paul answered. And he looked
at her tenderly.

CHAPTER XrV.

THE OOHINO OF AOB OP THE HEIR TO
THE TITLE.

Next morning was Paul's twenty-first birth-
day. I'or that important occasion he had
hurried home to England three days before
his term at Oxford began ; for Mr. Solomons
was anxious to bind him down firmly at the
earliest poaeible moment to repay all the

sums borrowed on his account by his father
during his infancy, from the very beginning.
To bo sure, they had all bnen expended on
nccosaaricB, and if the sturdy infant hiinNclf
would not pay, it would alwnys be possible to
fall back upon his father. But, tnon, what
Uflo was that as a security ? Mr. Solnmonn
asked himself. No, no ; he wanted Paul's own
hand and seal to all the documents hereinafter
recapitulated, on the date of hu coming of age,
as a guarantee for future repayinent.

The occasion, indeed, was celebrated in the
Oascoyne household with all duo solemnity.
The baronet himself wore his Sunday best,
with the carefully-brushed tall hat in which hu
always drove summer visitors to church in the
Hillborough season ; and at ten of the clock
precisely he and Paul repaired, with a church-
going air, as is the habit of their class (viewed
not as a baronet, but as petite hourqcoisie)
whenever a legal function has to be performed,
to the dingy, stingy, gloomy-looking house
where Mr. Solomons abode in the High Street
of Hillborough.

Mr. Solomons, too, for his part, had risen in
every way to the dignity of tne occasion. He
had to do business with a real live baronet
and his eldest son ; and he had prepared to
receive his distinguished guests and clients with
becoming hospitalitv. A decanter of brown
sherry and a plate of plain cake stood upon tho
table by the dusty window of the estate agent's
office; a bouquet of laurustinus and early
forced wallflowers adorned the one vase on the
wooden chimney-piece, and a fancy waistcoat
of the most ornate design decorated Mr.
Solomons' own portly person. Mr. Lionel,
too, had come down from town to act as wit-
ness and general adviser, and to watch the
case, so to speak, on his own behalf, as next-
of-kin and heir-at-law to the person most
interested in the whole proceeding. Mr.
Lionel's hair was about as curly and as olea-
ginous as usual, but the flower in his button-
hole was even nobler in proportions than was
his wont on week-days, and the perfume that
exhaled from his silk pocket-handkerchief was
more redolent than ever of that fervid musk
which is dear to the Oriental nervous organi-
sation.

" Come in. Sir Emery," Mr. Solomons ob-
served, rubbing his hands with great unction,
as the cab-driver paused for a second respect-
fully at his creditor's door. Mr. Solomons
called his distinguished client plain Gascoyne
on ordinary occasions when they met on terms
of employer and cabman, but whenever these
solemn functions of high finance had to bs
performed he allowed himself the inexpensi^ i
luxury of rolling that superfluous title for i
special treat on his appreciative palate as a
connoisseur rolls a good glass of burgundy.

Paul grew hot in the face at the unwelcome
sound— for to Paul that hateful baronetcy had
grown Into a perfect bete noire — but Su*
Emery advonoea by shuffling steps with a

THE SCALLYWAG.

diffident air into the middle of the room, find-
ing obvious difllculties as to the carriago of his .
iianda, and then observed, in a very Bheopisb
tone, OS ho bowed awliwardly :

" Good-day, Mr. adomons, sir. Fine mornin',
Mr. Lionel.

" It ia a fine morning," Mr. Lionel con-
desoendod to obuerve in reply, with n distant
nod ; " but deviliith cold, ain't it ? " Then, ex-
tending his alcek white hand to Paul, with a
more gracious salute, " How de do, Oascoyne ?
Had a jolly time over yonder at Mcntono ? "

For Mr. Lionel never forgot that Paul
Oascoyne had beon to Oxford and was heir to
a baronotov, and that, therefore, social capital
might, as likely as not, hereafter be made out
of nim.

" Thank you," Paul answered, with a slight
inclination of his head and a marked tone of
distaste ; " I enjoyed myself very much on the
Iliviora. It's a beautiful place, and the people
were so very kind to mo."

For Paul on his side had always a curious
double feeling towards Lionel Solomons. On
the one hand, he never forgot tha^i Lionel was
his uncle's nephew, and that once upon a time,
when ho played as a child in his father's yard,
he used to regard Lionel as a very grand
ouug gentleman indeed. And, on tne other
and, he couldn't conceal from himself the
patent fact, especially since he had mixed in
the society of gentlemen on equal terms at
Oxford, that Lionel Solomons was a peculiarly
offensive kind of snob— the snob about town
who thinks he knows a thing or two as to the
world at large, and talks with dib familiarity
about everyone everywhere wnose name is
bandied about in the shrill mouths of London
gossip.

Mr. Solomons motioned Sir Emery graciously
into a chair.

"Sit down, Paul," he said, turning to his
younger client. "A glass of wine this cold
morning, Sir Emery ? "

" I thank you kindly, sir," the baronet re-
sponded, taking it up as he spoke. " 'Ere's your
very good 'ealth, Mr. Solomons, an' my respex
to Mr. Lionel."

Mr. Solomons poured out a glass for Paul
and then two more, in solemn silence, for him-
self and his nephew. Tho drinking of wine
has a sort of serious ceremonial importance
with certain perBons of Mr. Solomons' char-
acter. After that he plunged for a while into
Seneral conversation on the atmospheric con-
itions and the meteorological probabilities for
the immediate future — a subject which led
round naturally by graceful steps to the politi-
cal state of this lungdom, and the chances of
a defeat for the existing Miniatrj over the Bill
for the County Government of Dublin. Mr.
Solomons considered it becoming on these
State oooaaions not to start too abruptly on the
question of business; a certain subdued deli-
cacy of consideration for his clients' feelings
made him hesan the interview on the broader

and, so to speak, neutral basis of a meeting
between gentlemen.

At last, however, when the sherry and the
Ministry were both comfortably disposed of,
and Sir Emery had signified his satisfaction
and acquiescence in either process, Mr. Solo-
mons doxterously'and gracefully introduced the
real subject before the house with a small set
speech. " I think, Sir Emery," ho said, put-
ting bis square bullet-head a little on one side,
" you intimated just now that you wished to
confer with me on a matter of business? ''

" Yes, sir," the cab-driver answered, grow-
ing suddenly hot, and speaking with a visible
effort of oloqueooe. "My son, Paul, as you
know, sir, have come of age to-day, and it's
our desure, Mr. Solomons, if-so-be-as it's okally
convenient to you, to go together over them
there little advances you'v" beon kind enough
to make from time to ti' 'or Paul's eddioa-
tion, if I may so term ' to set 'em all

right and straight, ia tL .^ner o' speaking,

by gettin' Paul's own acknowledgment for 'em
in black an' white, now he's no longer a minor
but his own master."

It was a great triumph for the British
baronet to stumble through so long a sentence
unhurt, without a single halt, or a lapse of
consciousness, and he felt justly proud when be
got fairly' to the end of It. Frequently as he had
rehearsed it to himself in bed the night before,
he never thought that when the moment for
firing it ofT in actual practice really arrived be
would have got pat through it all with such
distinguished success.

Mr. Solomons smiled a smile of grateful
recognition, and bowed, with one hand spread
carelessly over bis ample and expansive waist:
coat. " If I've been of any service to you and
your son, Sur Emery," be answered with
humility, not untempered by conscious recti-
tude and the sense of a generous action well
performed (at twenty per cent, inierest, and
incidentals), "I'm more than repaid, I'm sure,
for all my time and trouble. "

'* And now," Mr. Lionel remarked, with a
curl of his full Oriental lips, under the budding
moustache, " let's get to business."

To business Mr. Solomons thereupon at once
addressed himself with congenial speed. He
brought from their pigeon -bole in the safe (with
a decorous show of having to hunt for them
first among bis multifarious papers, though he
bad put them handy before bis client entered)
the bundle of aoknowledgments tied up in
pink tape, and duly signed, sealed, and de-
livered by Paul and his father. ' " These," he
said, unfolding them with studious care, and
recapitulating them one by one, " are the
documents in the case. If you please, Mr.
Paul"— he had never called him Mr. Paul
before; but he was a free man now, and
this was business—" we'll go over them to-
gether, and cheek their correctness."

"I have the figures all down here in my
pocket-hook," Paid answered hastily, for he

at a meeting

srry and the
dispoaed of,

8 aatisfaction
IS, Mr. SolO'
atroduoed the
I a tmall set
he said, put*

9 on one side,
ou wished to
isinosB? "'
wcrod, grow*
nth a viaiblo
Paul, as you
day, and it's
i-as it's okally
3T over them

kind enough
i'aul's eddioa-
} set 'em all
r o' speaking,
i;ment for 'em
)nger a minor

the British
ng a sentence

or a lapse of
)roud when he
intly as he had
) night before,
) moment for
Jly arrived he
all with such

e of grateful
I hand spread
mnsive waist.-
ice to you and
iBwered with
nsciouB recti-
is action well
interest, and
laid, I'm sure,

irked, with a
ir the budding

enpon at once
1 speed. He
the safe (with
unt for them
its, though he
lient entered)
ts tied up in
laled, and de-
" These," he
OUB care, and
' are the
please, Mr.
im Mr. Paul
an now, and
over them to*

J88."

a here in my
ABtily, for he

le,
a

«»

.«

i
t

tMBi

Iriew

tgreei
proloi

look

in s(

JiWIlUA'WV"' ' '' '-.'JiMVi'

THE eOMINQ OP AQB OP THE HBIR.

ras an^donB to shorten this unpleasant inter-
Hew as much as possible ; " will you just
llance at their numbers, and see if they're
oourate?"

But Mr. Solomons was not to be so put off.

Por his part, indeed, he was quite otherwise

ninded. This ceremony was^to him a vastly

eable one, and he was anxious rather to

brolong it, and to increase the sense of its deep

importance by every conceivable legal detail in

lis power.

' "Excuse me," he said blandly, taking up
the paper, and laying it open with ostentatious
^BorupulouBneiJS. "This is the law, and we
toiust be striotly lawyer-like. Will you kindly
look over the contents of this document, and
leee whether it tallies with your recollection ? "
Paul took it up and resigned himself with a
fsigh to the unpleasant ordeal. " Quite
[right," he answered, handing it back formally.
' Will you be so good as to initial it on the
{back, then, with date as signed?" Mr.
[Solomons asked.

Paiil did as he was bid, in wondering silence.
Mr. Solomons took up the next in order, and
I then the third, and after that the fourth, and
; 80 on through all that hateful series of bills
and renewals. Every item Paul acknowledged
in solemn form, and each was duly handed
over for inspection as he did so to Mr. Lionel,
who also initialled them in his quality of
witness.

At last the whole lot was fairly disposed of,
and the dreadful total alone now stared Paul
in the face with his blank insolvency. Then
Mr. Solomons took from his desk yet another
paper — this time a solemn document in due
legal form, which he proceeded to read aloud
in a serious tone and with deep impressiveness.
Of "this indenture" and its contents Paul
could only remember afterwards that it con-
tained many allusions to Sir Emery Qascoyne,
of Plowden's Court, Hillborough, in the County
of Surrey, baronet, and Pai! Gasooyne, of
Christ Church, in the University of Oxford,
gentleman, of the first part, as well as to
Judah Prince Solomons, of High Street, HiU-
borough aforesaid, auctioneer and estate agent,
of the second part ; and that it purported to
witness, with many unnecessary circumlocu-
tions and subterfuges of the usual legal sort,
to the simple fact that the two persons of the
first part agreed and consented, jointly and
severally, to pay the person of the second put
a certain gross lump-sum, which, so iat as
human probability went, they had no sort of
prospect or reasonable chance of ever paying.
However, it was perfectly useless to say so to
Mr. Solomons at that exact moment ; for the
pleasure which he derived from the perusal of
the bond was too intense to permit the inter-
vention of any other feeling. So when the
document had been duly read and digested,
Paul took up the pea and did as he was bid,
signing opposite a small red wafer on the face
of the instrument, ood then remarking, as he

handed it back to Mr. Solomons, with his
finger on the wafer, in accordance with in-
structions : " I deliver this as my act and
deed " — a sentence which seemed to afford the
person of the second part the profoundest and
most obviously heartfelt enjoyment.

And well it might indeed, for no loophole of
escape was left to Paul and his father any-
where. Th')y had bound themselves down,
body and soul, to be Mr. Solomons' slaves and
journeymen lumds till they had paid him in
full for every stiver of the amount to the
uttermost farthing.

When all the other signing and witnessing
had been done, and Paul had covenanted by
solemn attestations never to plead infancy,
error, or non-indebtedness, Mr. Solomons
sighed a sigh of mingled regret and relief as
he observed once more :

" And now, Paul, you owe the seven-and-six
for the stamp you'll notice."

Paul pulled out his purse and paid the sum
demanded without a passing murmur. He
had been so long accustomed to these constant
petty exactions that he took them now almost
for granted, and hardly even reflected upon
the curious fact that the sum in which he was
now indebted amounted to more than double
the original lump he had actually received,
without counting these perpetual noinor draw-
back

Mr. Solomons folded up the document oare-
fuUy, and replaced it in its pigeon-hole in the
iron safe.

" That finishes the past," he said; "there
we've got our security, Leo. And for the
futur*), Mr. Paul, is there any temporary
assistance you need just now to return to
Oxford with ? "

A terrible light burst across Paul's soul.
How on earth was he to live till he took his
degree? Now that he had fully made up his
mind that he couldn't and wouldn't marry an
heiress, how could he go on accepting money
from Mr. Solomons, which was really advanced
on the remote security of that supposed con-
tingency? Clearly, to do so would be dis-
honest and uiijust. And yet, if he didn't
accept it, how could he ever take his degree
at all, and if h<4 didn't take his degree, how
could he possibly hope to eain anything any-
where, eiUier to keep himself alive or to repay
Mr. Solomons?

Strange to say, this terrible dilemma had
never before occiurred to his youthful intelli-

Cce. He had to meet it and solve it off-
d now, without a single minute for con-
sideration.

It would not have been surprising, with the
training he had had, if Paul, accustomed to
live upon Mr. Solomons' loans, as most young
men live upon their father's resources, had
salved his conscience by this clear plea of
necessity, and h8,d decided that to take his
degree, anyhow, wan of the first importance,
both for himaelf oir.d Mi. Solomons.

THE SCALLYWAQ.

Bat he didn't. In an instant he had thought
aJ these things over, and being now a man and
a free agent, had decided in a dash what course
of action his freedom imposed upon him.

With trembling lips be answered firmly:
" Nc , thank you, Mr. Solomons ; I've enough
in hand for my needs for the present." And
then he relapsed into troubled silence.

What followed he hardly noticed much.
There was more political talk, and more sherry
all round, with pliuu-oake accompaniment and
serious faces. And then they rose to leave,
Paul thinking to himself that now the crisis
had oome at last, and he could never return to
his beloved Oxford. Those three years of his
life would all be ''ihrown away. He must miss
his degree— and break his father's heart with,
the disappointment.

But Sir Emery observed, as he reached the
open air, rubbing his hands together in the
profundity of his admiration : " 'E's a rare
clever chap, to be sure, is Mr. Solomons. Barr
and Wilkie ain't nothin' by the side of him.
Why, 'e read them documents out aloud so as
no lawyer couldn't 'a drawed 'em up better."

And Mr. Lionel, within, was observing to
his imcle : " Well, you a/re a simple one, and
no mistake, to let that fellow Gascoyne see
where you keep his acknowledgments I For
my part, I wouldn't trust any man aUve to
know where I keep any papers of importance."

CHAPTER XV.

riOHHITTKB OF 8UFPLT.

When Paul got home, he put his dilemma, at
lunch time, before Faith, 'W'ho went out with
him once more on the knoii to discuss it.

"And what do you mean to do now?"
Faith asked, as soon as he had finished out>
pouring his difficulties into her sympathetic ear,
" Anyhow, you iniMt go back to Oxford."

"I can't," Paul answered, shortly; "I've
no money to go with."

" You've Thistloton's tenner," Faith replied,
with simple straightforwardness, unconscious
of the impropriety of such language on the lips
of the female instructor of youth ; for she had
seen so little of anybody but Paul, that Paul's
phrases came naturally to the tip of her tongue
whenever she discussed the things that pertain
to men, and more especially to Oxford.
" That'll pay your way up and settle you in,
at any rate."

" But my battels i " Paul objected. " I won't
have anything to meet my battels with."

Faith was too well up in University language
not to be well aware by this time that " battels "
are the collage charges for food, lodging, sun-
dries, and tuition; so she made no bones about
that techniocJ phrase, but answered boldlv:

" Well, the battels must take care of them-
selves ; they won't be due till the beginning of
next term, and meanwhile yon can live on tick
—as all the big people do at Billborough —
can't you?"

" Faith I " Paul cried, looking down Into lorn
face aghast. " ^t tu, Brute I Yon who altnyi
pitch into them so for not paying their little
bills promptly I "

"Oh, I don't really mean thatt" Faith
answered, colouring up, and somewhat shocked
herself at her own levity in this fall from
grace ; for, to Faith, the worst of all human
sins was hving on credit. " I only meant —
can't you try to get some more private pupils
in the course of term-time, and stand your
chance at the end of being able to pay your
battels ? "

Paul reflected profoundly.

"It's a precious poor chance," he responded,
with perfect frankness. " There aren't many
fellows who care to read nowadays with an
undergraduate. And, besides, it spoils a man's
own prospects for his examinations so much,
if he has to go teaching and reading at once —
driving two teams abreasti as learner and
tutor."

"It does," Faith answered. "That's ob-
vious, of course. But, then, you've got to do
something, you know, to keep the ball roll-
ing."

It's a great thing for a man to have an un-
practical woman to spur him on. It mAkes
him boldly attempt the impossible. So in the
end, after much discussing of pros and cona
between them, it was finally decided that Paul
must go up to Oxford, as usual, and do his best
to hang on somehow for the present. If the
worst came to the worst, as Faith put it sao-
oinctly, he must make a clean breast oi it all
to Mr. Solomons. But if not, he tLight
manage by hook or by crook to earn eno \gh
money to pull through two terms ; for in tiwo
terms more he would take his degree, and
then he might really begin to work for money.

It was a desperate attempt — how desperate
those only know who have themselves been
through it. But Paul resolved to try, and the
resolve itself had in it a gentle touch of the
heroic.

Next day, in fact, he bade farewell to Faith
and his mother, and returned with his ten-
pound note to Oxford. Ten pounds is a
slender provision for a term's expenses, but
it would enable him at least to look about him
for the moment, and see what chances arose
of taking pupils.

And, indeed, that very night fortune favoured
him, as it sometimes favours those forlorn
Lopes of work-a-day heroes. To his great sur-
prise, Thistleton came round, after ful, to hia
rooms, to ask if Paul would take him on for
the term as a private pupil.

" It's to read, this time," he explained, with
his usual frankness, "not to satisfy the gover-
nor. I really must get through my ' Mods ' at
last, and, if I don't look sharp, I shall be
' ploughed ' agahi, and that 'd set the governor's
back up, so that he'd cut my allowanoe, for
he won t stand my failing again, the Kovemor
won't, that's certain."

■*' f.'wwii'^i'j-rTr^T

COMMITTBB OP SUPPLY.

IntolMr

whoaltwyB
( their little

Mt!" Faith
hat shcoked
fall from
all human

oly meant —

rivate pupils
stand your

*o P»y your

responded,
uren't many
tys with an
toils a man's
ns BO much,
ig at onoe —
earner and

That's ob-
ra ffot to do
le ball roll-
have an un-
it makes
< So in the
" and oona
)d that Paul

do hia best
mt. If the
put it sue-
last of it all

he ixight
un eno Tgh
for in vtfo
legree, and
for money.
J desperate
wives been
ry, and the
luch of the

U to Faith
ti his ten-
imds is a
dnses, but
about hirn
aoes arose

e favoured
96 forlorn
great sur-
lU, to his
m on for

ned, with
■he gover-
'Mods 'at
shaU be
governor's
anoe, for
governor

With great joy, fheretore, Paul consented to
take him on for the term, and so double that
modest tenner.

Thistleton stopped talking long and htte in
his friend's rooms, and about twelve o'clock
one of those confidential fits came over Paul,
which are apt to come over young men, and
others, when they sit up late into the small
hours of the morning over the smouldering
embers of a dying fire. He had impressed
upon Thistleton more than once already the
absolute need for his making a little money,
and his consequent desire to obtain pupils ;
and Thistleton in return had laughingly chaffed
him about those mysterious claims to which
Paul was always so vaguely alluding. Then
Paul had waxed mor j confidential and friendly
still, and had imported to Thistleton's sym-
pathetic ear the fact that, if he didn't succeed
in earning his own living for the next two
terms, he would be obliged to leave Oxford
without taking his degree at all, and so cut off
all hope of making a Uvelihood in future and
satisfying the mysteripus claims in question.

"How so?" Thistleton asked; and Paul
answered him in guarded phrase that lus
means of subsistence had since his return from
Mentone been suddenly and quite unexpectedly
cut from under him.

" What I The respected bart.'8 not dead, is
he ? " the blonde young man asked, opening his
big blue eyes as wide as he could open them.

Paul replied, with a somewhat forced smiley
that the respected hart, still continued to walk
this colid earth, and that his ^sappearanoe,
indeed, from this mortal scene would have
produced very little effect one way or the otiier
upon his son's fortunes.

Then Thistleton grew more curious and in-
quisitive still, and Paul more confidential ; till
the end of it all was that Paul gradually un-
folded to his friend the whole of Mr. Solomons'
scheme for his education and future life, with
the financial details of yesterday's indenture,
and the supposed way in which he was him-
self to discharge thereafter those serious obli-
gations.

When Thistleton heard the entire story, he
would have laughed outright had it notoeen
for the obvious seriousness of Paul's dilemma.
To borrow money on the strength of a prospec-
tive heiress unknown was really too ricQculous.
But as soon as he began fully to grasp the
whole absurd incident, its graver as well as its
more comic aspects, his mdignation got the
better of his amusement at the episode. He
declared roundly, in verv plain terms, that
Mr. Solomons, having taken Paul's life into
his own hands while Paul was yet too young
to know good from evil, and huaving brought
Paul up like a genUoman, at Oxford, was
clearly bound to see the thing through to the
bitter end — at least, till Paul had taken his
degree, and was, therefore, in a position to
earn his own livelihood.

"It I were you, QHOOyae," the blonde

young man asserted vigorously (with an un-
necessary expletive, here suppressed), "I
wouldn't have the very slightest compunction
in the world in taking hin money for the next
two terms, and then tell him right out he
might whistle for his cash till you were able
and ready to pay him back again. It's his
own fault entirely if he's made a bad invest-
ment on a grotesque security. At least, that's
how we'd look at the matter in Yorkshire."

" I think," Paul answered, with that gravity
beyond his years that fate had forced upon
him, " if it were somebody else's case I was
judging instead of my own, I should judge as
you do, either in Yorkshire or elsewhere. I
should say a fellow waisn't boind by acts im-
posed upon him, as it were, oy his father or
others, before he arrived at years of discretion.
But then, when I was asked to sign those
papers yesterday, if I were poing to protest at
all, that wai the moment when I ought to
have prciiCi-t d. I ou(,'ht to have plainly scJd,
' I'll sign for the money, if you'll go on nnding
me in ready cash till I take my degree but,
mind, I don't engage to d anything in the
world to catch an ..eiress.' Only I h«dn't the
courage to say so then and thsr'. You sev
it's b en made a sort of religious duty for ne,
through all m;y life, to marry for money ; and
if I'd blurted out my refusal point-blank like
that, I'm afraid my father would have been
grieved and annoyed at it."

" I expect my s;overnor's grieved and
annoyed at a great many things I do,"
Thistleton retorted with the unruffled philo-
Lophical calm of oue-and-twenty — where others
are concerned. ' It don't pay to be too tender
to the feelings ui fathers, you see; it gives
them too high and mighty an idea of their
own importance. Fathers in any cas are apt
to magnify their office overmuch, and it would
never do for sons as well to pamper tihcm.
But, after all, I don t know why you need
have spoken at all, nor why you shouldn't go
on accepting this old buffer's assistance and
support, with a quiet conscience, till you take
your degree. When one looks it in the face,
you don't know that you won't marry an
neiress. Accidents tuill happen, you see, even
in the best regulated families. It's just as
easy, if it comes to that, to fall in love with a
girl with five thousand a year as with a girl
who hasn't a penny to bless herself with. If
thej^five thousand pounder's pretty and nice,
like that Yankee at Mentone with the mamma
in tow, I should say, on the whole, it's a great
deal easier."

"Not for me," Paul answered, with the
prompt fervour bom of recent internal debate
on this very question. "I can understand
that another fellow, wLo hadn't been brought
up to look out for money, migl t fall in love
with a ^1 with money quite as easily as with
a girl without any. He has no prejudice one
way or the other. But in my case it's dif-
ferent. The very fact that the money's been so

THE SCALLYWAG.

mnoh insisted apon for me, and that part of it
would go to pay Mr. Solomons "—Paul never
even thought of calling his creditor anything
less respectful than " Mr. Solomons " even to
his nearest acquaintance— " would suflBce to pre-
vent me from falling in love with money. You
■ee, falling in love's such a delicately balanced
operation T If I married money at all, it'd be
simply and solely because I married for moncv,
not because I fell in love with it ; and I could
never take anv woman's money to pay the
debt incurred beforehand for my own educa-
tion. I should feel as if I'd sold myself to her,
and was her absolute property."

Thistleton stirred the fire meditatiTely, with
his friend's poker.

" It ia awkward," he admitted unwillingly —
" devilish awkward, I allow. I say, Gascoyne,
how much about does it cost yon to live for a
term here ? "

•' Oh, cvn awful lot of money," Paul answered,
much downcast, staring hard at the embers.
"Net much short of fifty pounds on an
average."

Thistleton looked across at him with a broad
smile of surprise. "Fifty pounds 1" he
echoed. * You f.on't mean to say, my dear
fellow, you man-ge to bring it clown to fifty
pounds, do you '

Well, for summer term especially I
do, when there are no fires to keep up," Paul
answered soberly. "But spring term comes
rather heavy sometimes, Z must say, bec^us
of the cold and extra clothing."

Thistleton looked for some time at the fire,
ataring harder than ever with blank astonish-
ment. " Ghucoyne," he said at last in a very
low tone, " I'm clean ashamed of myself. '
• Why, my dear boy ? "

" Because I spend at least five times as much
as that on an average."

" AL, but then you've got five times as much
to spend, yon know. That makes all the
difierence."

Thistleton paused and ruminated once more.
How very unevenly things are arranged in this
world I He was evidently thinking how be
could word a difficult proposition for thair
partial readjustment. Then he spoke again :
" I oould easily cut my own expenses down
fifty quid this term," he said, " if you'd only
let me lend it to you. I'm sure I wouldn't
feel the loss in any way. The governor's
behaved like a brick this winter."

Paul shook his head. " Impossible," he
answered with a despondent air. " It's awfully
good of you, Thistleton, awfully kind of you
to think of it ; but as things stand, of course I
couldn't dream of accepting it."

" It wouldn't make the slightest difference in
the world to me," Thistleton went on per-
suasively. "I assure you, Gascoyne, my
governor 'd never feel or miss fifty poimds one
way or the other."

" Thank you ever so much," Paul answered
with genuine gratitude. " I know you mean

every word you say, but I oould never by any
possibility take it, Thistleton."

"Why not, my dear boy?" the blonde
young man said, laying hia hand on his friend's
shoulder.

"Because, in the first place, it's your
father's money, not yours, you propose to lend,
and I couldn't accept it ; but also in the second
place, which is far more important, I haven't
the very slightest chance of ever repaying
you."

" Bepayuig me I " Thistleton echoed with a
crestfaUen air. "Oh, dash it all, Gascoyne,
I never thought of your really repaying me,
of course, you know. I meant it as an offer
of pure accommodation."

Paul laughed in spite of himself. "That
sort of loan," he said, taking his friend's hand
in his and wringing it warmly, " is usually
called by another name. Seriously, Thistle-
ton, I couldn't think of taking it from you.
You see, I've no right to pay anybody else till
I've repaid the last farUiing I owe to Mr.
Solomons ; and to borrow money on the cheuice
of repaying it at such a remote date — say
somewhere about the Greek Kalends — would
be downright robbery."

A bright idea seized suddenly upon Thistle-
ton. By Jove I " he cried, " I'll tell you how
we'll manage it. It's as easy as pap. You
can't lose either way. You know that prize
essay you were mugging away at all the time
we were at Montone — ' The Influence of the
Benaissance on Modem Thought,' wasn't it ?
— ah, yes, I thought so. Well, how much
would you get, now, if you happened to
win it?"

"Fifty pounds," Paul answered. "But,
that's so very improbable."

"Awfully improbable," his friend echoed
warmly with profound conviction. " That's
just what I say. You haven't a chance. You
ought to back yourself to lose, don't you see ;
that's the wav to work it. I'll tell you what
I'll do. I'll bet you ten to one in Svers you
win. And yon put a fiver on the chance you
don't. Then — 'don' you catch on? 'as the
Yankee gurl used to say— you stand to come
out pretty even either way. Suppose you
get the prize, yon earn fifty pounds, out of
which you owe me a fiver — that leaves forty-
five to the good, doesn't it ? But suppose you
lose, I owe you fifty. So, you see, you clear
pretty nearly the same lot whichever turns up.
I call that good hedging." And the blonde
young man leant back in his chair with a
chuckle at his own ingenuity.

Paul smiled again. The blonde young man
seemed so hugelv delighted at the cleverness
of his own device that he was really loth
to be compelled to disillusion him. "Your
adroitness in trying to find a way to make me
a present of fifty pounds under a transparent
disguise really touches me," he said with a
faint tremar in his voice; "but don't think
about it any more, you dear, good fallew. it's

ever by any

the blonde
thia friend's

_. it's your
Ipose to lend,
In the second
jit, I haven't
rer repaying

lioed with a
|1, Oascoyne,
lepaying me,
as an offer

•If. "That
friend's hand

" is usually
8ly, Thistle,
t from you.
)ody else till
owe to Mr.
a the chance
date — say
ends— would

FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE.

pon Thistle-
tell you how
8 pap. You
V that prize
all the time
aence of the
,' wasn't it?
how much
lappened to

ed. "But,

lend echoed
1. " That's
lance. You
I't you see;
11 you what

nvers you
chance you
m ? ' as the
id to come
ippose you
ads, out of
aves forty,
appose vou

you clear
r turns up.
^6 blonde
ir with a

'oongman
cleverness
■eally loth
I. "Your
make me
•nsparent
id with a
n't think
lew. It's

quite impossible. I must try to make it up
myself with pupils and economy, and back
my chances for the prize essay. If at the
end of the term I'm still to the bad, I'll
put the matter fairly before Mr. Solomons.
\Vhether I stay up one term longer and take
my degree or not must then depend upon
what he thinks best for his own interest.
After all, my whole future's mortgaged to him
already, and its more his affair than mine in
the end what becomes of me."

" Why, I call it downright slavery ! " Thistle,
ton exclaimed warmly. "I think it ought to
be prohibited by Act of Parliament. It's a
great deal worse than the chimney boys and
the indentured labourers. I only wish I'd got
that beastly old Jew with his head in chancery
here imder my arm this very minute. By
George, sir, wouldn't I just punch it as flat as
a panctike in rather less than no time I "

" I think," Paul answered with a smile,
"punching his head flat would do me very
little permanent good. Indeed, in his own
way he really means me well. He's bound us
down by all the terrors of the law to his per-
centa$ros and his policies ; but I believe he
considers himself my benefactor for all that."

" Benefactor be blowed I " Thistleton re-
Bponded, rising with North Country vehemense.
" If I could only see the old blackguard in
college to night, it'd give me the sinoerest
pleasure in life to kick him a dozen times
round Tom Quad till he roared for mercy."

CHAPTER XVI.

FOBTUNB FAVOURS THB BRATB.

In spite of Paul's fears, however, that dreaded
spring term went off mosli happily. To be
siure, he had to work for his bread like a
London cab-horse (as Sir Emery loved pro-
fessionally to phrase it), but Paul had never
been afraid of hard work, and as long as he
could make both ends meet somehow, and
avoid running into further debt with Mr.
Solomons, he was amply satisfied. And that
spring term he got as many pupils as he could
possibly find time for. The reason for this
sudden run upon his tutorial powers was, of
course, the usual one which accounts for all
successes and failuren in life — a woman's
wire-pulling. It is a mistake to think this
world is mainly run by fnen. Genius, talent,
industry, capacity— nay, even the invaJuable
quality of unsorupulousness itself— are as dust
in the balance as a means to success com-
pared with the silent, unobtrusive, backstdra
influence of the feminine intelligence. A
woman's wit is worth the whole lot of them.

And this valuable ally in the struggle for
life Paul managed to secure almost without
knowing it.

For two days after his return to The House
(as Christ Church men insist upon calling tlieir
college) Paul received a little note from Faith'*

new friend, Mrs. Douglas, inviting him to
drink afternoon tea at her house in the Parks
— the fashionable tutorial suburb of modern
married Oxford.

The Parks, in fact, which are the natural
outcome of the married Fellow system, have
completely revolutionized the Oxford we all
knew and loved in our own callow under-
graduate period. In those monastic ages the
Fellow who married lost his Fellowship ; the
presence of women in the University was un-
known ; and even the stray intrusion of a sister
or cousin into those stern gray quads was
severely frowned upon by ascetic authority.
But nowadays, under the new petticoat rigime,
all that is changed : the Senior Tutor lives in
a comfortable creeper-clad villa in the Parks ;
his wife gives lunches and afternoon teas ; and
his growu-up daughters play tennis with the
men, and belong to the University just as
much as the average undergraduate — or even
in virtue of their fixity of tenure a little more
so. Mrs. Senior Tutor (with marriageable
girls) is quite as anxious to catch tho eligible
undergraduate for her own dance in Com-
memoration week as any Belgravian mamma
in all London ; and the Bev. the Bursar
himself smiles benignly while scholars and
exhibitioners waste the shining hours in flirta-
tion and punts on the banks of the Cherwell.
Things were not so ordered Conaule Plcmco,
when Leighton was Vice-chancellor. But as
everybody seems satisfied^with the existing
systCx^ -especially the Senior Tutor' s daughters
— there can be Uttle doubt that all is for the
best in the host of all possible Universities,
and that flurting, so far from distracting the
heads of students, as the older school devoutly
believed, is in reality a powerful spur on the
mmd of the youth to the acquisition of classical
and mathematical knowledge.

To this new microcosm of the Parks and
their inhabitants, Mrs. Douglas played the
part of centre of gravity. Bound her as
primary the lesser orbs of that little system
revolved in their various subordinate places.
Not that Mrs. Douglas herself was either rich
or pretentious. The Accadiap professor's sti-
pend consisted of the modest interest on a sum
in Beduced Two-and-three-qaarters per Cent.
ConsoxS, which he supplemented only by pri-
v&te means of the smalleat, and by a very
moderate income from his wife's family.

But Mrs. Douglas had the invaluable quality
of being able to " hold her salon " ; and being,
besides, an earl's niece, she had rapidly grown
into the principal wire-puller and recognised
leader of Oxford tutorial Society. With that
greater world where the heads of houses move
serene in placid orbits, indeed, she interfered
but little ; but the Parks acknowledged her
away without a mummr, as the representative
of authority in its most benign avatar. For
Mra. Douglaa had tact, sense, and kindliness ;
she was truly sympathetio to a very high
degree, and she would put herself out to serve

THE ACALLYWAQ.

a friend in a way that was sure to attract the
friend's wannest gratitude. Moreover, she
WM a woman, and therefore skilled in the
feminine art of mounting the back-stairs with
address and good-humour. This combination
of quaUties m<tde her ustly loved and admired
in Oxford by all save those unfortunate people
whom her kindly maohina'*.on8 often suc-
ceeded in keeping out of posts for which they
possessed every quaUfication on earth except
the one needful one oi Mrs. Douglas's friend-
ship. But drawbacks like this are, of course,
incidental to every possible system cf " influ-
ence " in government.

Now, things had made this powerful and
good-natured lady particularly anxious to
know and serve Paul Gascoyne. In th first
place, she had been deeply interested in his
sister Faith, whose curious character had en-
gaged her sympathy at once, and with whom
their one night at the country hotel togethcir
had made her suddenly quite intimate. In
the second place, on her return 'o Oxford, she
had fovuid a letter awaiting her from N^a
Blair, her little Cornish friend, which con-
tained some casual mention of a certain
charming Christ Church man, a Mr. Qascoyne,
who had created quite a puzzle for Mentone
Boeiety by his singular mixture of pride and
humility. Well, if Mrs. Douglas had a fault,
it was that of tiding too profound an interest
in the fancies and fortunes of young people
generally. Her husband, indeed, was wont to
aver that, after Bryant and May, she was the
greatest matchmaker in all England. Some-
thing in Nea Blair's letter — some mere under-
tone of feeling, that only a clever woman
would ever have guessed at — suggested to Mrs.
Douglas's quick instincts the idea that Nea
Blair was more than commonly interested in
Paul Gascoyne's personality and prospects.
That alone would have been enough to make
Mrs. Douglas anxious to meet and know Paul ;
the accident of her chance acquaintance with
Faith in the commodious horse-box made her
doubly anxious to be of use and service to
him.

So when Paul duly presented himself at the
eligible creeper-clad villa in the Parks, to drink
tea with the wife of the Acoadian professor,
Mrs. Douglas drew out of him by dexterous
side-pressure the salient fact that he was
anxious to find private pupils, or otherwise to
increase his scanty income. And having once
arrived at a knowledge of that fact, Mrs.
Douglas made it her business in life for the
next ten days to scour all Oxford in search of
men w' *> wanted to read for " Mods." with a
private tutor, going out into the very high-
ways and by-ways of the University, so to
speak, and compelling them to come in with
truly Biblical fortitude.

But wheu once Mrs. Douglas took a thing
in hand, it was v^ell beknown to the Chan-
cellor, masters, and soholara of the Jniversity
of Oxford that, sooner or latei; she meant to

get it done, and that the Chaneellor, masters,
and scholars aforesaid might, therefore, just
as well give in at once, without unnecessary
trouble, Dother, or expense, and let her have
her way as Goun as she asked for it.

" Going in for ' Mods.' in June ?" Mrs. Dou;;-
las would remark, with a sigh of pity, to the
unhappy undergraduate of limited brains, fixing
her mild brown eyes upon him with an air of
the profotmdest sympathy and friendly assist-
ance. " Then you'll want to read up your
books this ter ith a private coach or some-
body, of course;" and when the unhappy
un-ergraduate of limited brains, falling readUy
into the trap thus baited for his destruction,
admitted abstractedly, in a general way, that
a little tutorial assistance of a friendly sort
WJuld, perhaps, be not wholly unsuited to his
JTitellectual needs, Mrs. Douglas, fixing her
mild brown eyes still more firmly than ever
upon his trembling face, would nail him to his
admission at once by responding cheerfully,
" Then I know the very man that'll suit your
book just down to the ground. Mr. Gasoojme,
of Christ Church, has a great many pupils
reading with him this term, but I dare say I
could induce him to make room for you some-
how. My husband thinks very highly of Mr.
Gascoyne. He's a capital coach. If yon want
to get through with flying colours, he's just
the right man to pull you out of the moderator's
clutches. That's his card in my basket there ;
don't forget the name: 'Gascoyne, of Ghrist
Church, first pair right, nimiber six, Peck-
water.' Yes, one- of the gr<)at Gascoyne
people down in Pembrokeshire — that's the
very family. I'm glad you know them. Hia
father's the preccnt baronet, I believe, and hia
sister's coming up tc see me next Commemo-
ration. If you like you an take his card to
remember the name by ; and when Mr, Gas-
coyne comes again on Stmday. I'll make a
point of asking him whether you've been to
call upon him about reading for ' Mods.' or not,
and I'll tell him (as you're a most particular
friend of min to be sure to pay you every
poosible attention.

When a clove;-- and good-looking woman of
thirty-five, who happens to be also a professor's
wifo flings herself upon an unhappy under-
graduate of limited brains in that dashing
fasliion, with a smile that might soften the
heart of a stone, what on earth can the unhappy
undergraduate do in self-defence but call at
once upon Gascoyne of Christ Church, and
gratefully receive his valuable instructionb ?
Whence it resulted that, at the end of a fort-
night, Gascoyne of Ghrist Church had as many
pupils as he could easily manage (at ton pounds
a head), and saw his way clearly to that term's
expenses, about which he had so despaired a
few days before with Faith at Hillborough.

A woman of Mrs. Douglas's type is the most
US .'dl ally a man can find in life. Make
friends with her, young man, wherever met ;
and be sure she wul be worth to yon a great

FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE.

deal more than many hundred men at the head
of your profession.

One further feat of Mrs. Douglas's the
candid historian blushes to repeat ; yet, in the
interest of truth, it must needs be recorded.

For when, a fortnight later, Mrs. Douglas
gave her first dinner-party of the term, she
took occasion, in the drawmg-room, about ten
of the clock, to draw aside the Senior Proctor
confidentially for a moment, and murmur in
his ear:

"I think, Mr. Wayles, you're one of the
examiners for the Marlborough HistorioiJ
Essay, aren't you ? "

The Senior Proctor, a grim, close-shaven
man, with firm-set hps and a very clerical
mouth and collar, signified his assent by a
slight bow of aoquiesoence, and a murmured
reply of:

" I believe my office entails upon me that
among other honours."

Mrs. Douglas assumed her most bewitching
smile.

" Now, dear Mr. Wayles," she said, bending
over towards him, ooquettiishly, " you mustn't
really be emgry with me. I'm only a woman,
you know, and we women have always orr
little plots and conspiracies on hand, haven't
we ? I'm very much interested in a particular
essay which bears for motto the words, ' Non
jam prima peto Mneatheua neque vincere eerto,
Quanquam ! ' There, you see, though I
was dragged up before Oirton and Newnham
were invented, you didn't know befovj I could
spout out a I'Atin hexameter as p> t as that,
did you ? Well, I want you moat pa ticula/rly
to read over that identical essay wi' ii speciiJ
attention, very special a' Jentiuu, ai d if you
finj H in every respect in^mensely btscer than
aU the rest put together, to recommiind it to
the kind attention of your coI'Oagues."

The Senior Proctor — that grim, dose-shaven
man — allowed just the faintest ghost of a smile
of amused pity to pucker the comers of his
very clerical mouth, as he answered with official
succinctness :

" Every essay alike, my dear Mrs. Douglas,
will receive at my hands, and I believe I may
venture to say at those of my brother-examiners
also, the most imparticJ consideration; and
nothing that can be said to uj by any outside
person — even yourself — can have me very
slightest influence upon ns in making our award
to the most deserving competitor."

" Oh, of course," Mrs. Douglas answered,
with that mo''^c bewitching smile once more
well to the 'rent. " I know and understand
all that perfectly. I haven't Uved so long in
the University as dear Archie's wife without
havmg learnt how absolutely useless it is to
try to pull any wires or go up any backstairs
in University business. I only meant to say
if you find that essay quite undeniably the
very best, I hope you won't let the fact of my
recommendation tell strongly against it."
The Senior Proctor had an uncomfortable

sense that when Mrs. Douglas laid so pro-
found a stress upon the words "absolutely
useless " that irreverent little woman was
actually trying to chaff him or to laugh in
her sleeve ; and as the Senior Proctor repre-
sents before the world the dignity and majesty
of the University in its corporate capacity,
so wicked an attempt on her part to poP fim
at his office would, no doubt, have merited
condign punishment. But he only bowed
once more a sphinx-like bow, and answered
severely, "All the essays alike shall have my
best attention."

Now, we all of us know, of course — we who are
men and women of the world — that the Senior
Proctor spoke the exact truth, and that in
matters so important as University prizes no
shadow of partiality can ever be suspected
among Enghsh gentlemen. (If it were, we
might all be tempted to think that English
gentlemen were not, after all, so very superior
hi kind as we know them to be to the members
of every other European nationaUty.) Never*
theless, it must be noted, ^ a single and un-
accoimtable historical fact, that when the
Senior Proctor — that lone, bachelor man —
went home that night along the cold, gray
streets to his solitary rooms in Fellows Quad,
Merton, and saw a big bimdle of Marlborough
Prize Essays lying on his table unopened for
his deep consideration, his mouth relaxed for a
moment into a distinctly human smile as he
thought of the delicate pressure of her hand
with which Mri:. Douglas — charming woman,
to be sure, Mrs. Douglas I — had bid him good-
night, with a last whispered adieu of " Now,
don't forget, Mr. Wayles : * Non jam, prima
peto Mnestheus neque vincere eerto.^ " How
delicious Virgil sounded, to be sure, on those
red ripe lips! Had she learnt that verse by
heart, he wondered, on purpose to bamboozle
him? So thinking, and gloating over that
dainty pressure, the Senior Proctor flung
himself into his easy.- chair, before his
goodly fire, kicked off his boots and endued
himself in his woollen- lined slippers, fortified
his intellect with a brandy-and-soda from the
syphon at his side, lighted one of Bacon's best
cigars, and proceeded, with his feet on the
fender comfortably, to address his soul in
indulgent mood to the task of lite'«ry and
historical criticism.

But, strange to say, he did not take up the
very fi^t essay that came to hand, as a con-
scientious Proctor might fairly be expected to
do. On the contrary, he turned them all over
one by one with deliberate finger till he came
to a roll of neat white foolscap, legibly in-
scribed in a bold, black hand — I blush to
narrate it — with that very Virgilian motto
which treacherous Mrs. Douglas had been at
such pains to get by rote, without one false
quantity, and to fire off, unappalled, against
his grim clerical mouth and collar. He read
the essay through first with close attention ;
then he wrote down on a small sheet of paper

THE SCALLYWAG.

at his Bide the mystic letters '* v. g.," supposed
to stand for " very good " in our own vernacu-
lar. By the time he had read it through, the
hour was advanced, and a second brandy-and-
soda and a second cigar were needed to stimu*
late the critical faculty. As time went on,
it must be frankly admitted, those essays got
shorter and shorter shrift, while the soda got
deeper and deeper doses of brandy, imtilpy
the tim. the clock marked three, the Senior
Proctor rose with dignity, drained the re-
mainder of his last taU tumbler, and sticking
all the papers in the desk for read, stroUed on
to his bedroom unmistakably sleepy.

Kow, it must not be concluded from this
TeraciouB account that Paul Gascoyne's essay
was not in all probability, on its own merits,
the very best of the enture lot submitted for
judgment, nor that Mrs. Douglas had exerted
on its behalf anything which could be described
by the most severe moralist as undue in-
fluence. In fact, have we not already recorded
the Senior Proctor's emphatic and deliberate
assertion to the contrary ? And was not that
assertion again renewed ? For when a fortnight
later Mrs. Douglas ventured to thank the dig-
nitary in question (as she irreverently phrased
it), " for backing her man for the Marlborough
Prize," the Senior Proctor, opening his eyes
wide in his very grimmest fashion, replied with
an innocent aur of surprise:

*' Oh, 80 the successful candidate was the

Eerson yon spoke about, Mrs. Douglas, was
e ? Well, I'm sure, we bad none of us the
very faintest idea of it."

But, nevertheless, it is a historical fact, not
to be blinked at, that when the Senior Proctor
passed on the papers to his brother examiners
for consideration, Paul Gascoyne's essay went
on top, marked in plain words, " Optime
meritus eat. — P.H.W.," and it is equally
certain that the other examiners, glancing
hastily over them with an uncritical eye, one
and ul endorsed Mr. Wayles' opinion. From
which facts it may be gathered that, though
Paul Gascoyne's Marlborough Essay wasreaUy
and truly one of the most brilliant ever sub-
mitted to the Board of Examiners, and, though
favouritism of any kind is unknown at
Oxford, it is none the less a very useful thing
to have a Mrs. Douglas of your own on
hand to say a good word for yon whenever
convenient.

But Paul had no idea of all these hidden
springs of action in the Senior Proctor and liis
esteemed colleagues when a week or so before
the end of the term he read, all trembling, a
notice posted on the door of the schools :

"The Board of Examiners for the Marl-
borough Historical Essay, Chichele Founda-
tion, have awarded the Prize of Fifty Guineas
to Paul Gasooyne, Commoner of Christ
Church."

His heart beat high as he read those words,
and his knees reeled under him. So next
tanut at Isastt was safe from Mr. Solomons 1

CHAPTER XVII.

REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES.

Neverthglehs, it was not without great
damage to his own ultimate chances of future
success that Paul had secured this momentary
triumph. He was able to write back to Hill-
borough, it is true, and assure Mr. Solomons
he had no further need of assistance for the
present ; but he had lost almost a whole term,
so far as his own reading for the Greats
Schools was concerned, in that valiant spurt
at private pupils. His prospects of a First
were fai more remote now than ever before,
for a man can't support himself by teaching
others, and at the same time read hard enough
in his spare hours to enter ir.to fair coirpntiMnn
with his compeers who have been able to
devote their undivided energies to their own
education. He had handicapped himself
heavily in the race for honours. Paul ruefully
realized this profound truth when he began to
work on his own account in the Easter vaca-
tion and sammer term. He had a great deal
of leeway still to make up if he were to present
himself in a well-prepared condition before
the searching scrutiny of those dreaded
examiners. And on the issue of the examina-
tion depended, in large measure, his chance of
obtaining a Fellowship, with the consequent
possibility of earning a livelihood, and sooner
or later repaying Mr. Solomons.

Spring and the Easter vacation wore away,
and summer term came back to Oxford. The
new green foliage dawned once more on the
chestnuts by the Cherwell. The University
blossomed out into punts and flannels ; labur-
nums and pink may glorified the parks ; ices
were in brisk demand at Cooper's in the
High ; and the voice of the sister was heard
in the tennis-courts, eagerly criticising the
fraternal service. It was all as delightful and
as redolent of youth, fizz, and syllabub as
Oxford knows how to be, in full leaf and in
warm June weather. And Paul Gascoyne,
working hard for Greats in his rooms in Peck-
water, was nevertheless able to snatch many
an afternoon for a pull in a four down the
river to Newnham, or for a Ions stroll round
Cunmor and Shotover with his mend Thistle-
ton. Even the shadow of an approaching
examination, and the remote prospect of being
Mr. Solomons' bond-slave for half a lif etime
caimot quite kill out in the full heart of youth
the glory of the green leaf and the fresh
vigour of an English spring-tide.

About those days, one morning down at
Hillborough, Faith Gascoyne, sitting in the
window where the clematis looked into her
small bare bedroom, heard a postman's double
knock at the door below, and rushed down in
haate to take the letters. There was only one,
bat that was enclosed in a neat square envelope,
of better quaUty than often came to Plowden's
Court, and bearing on the flap a crest and
monogram in delicate neutral colour. It was

■■WlWl

REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES.

UES.

without great
mces of future
Ills momentarv
) back to Hill-
Mr. Solomona
stance for the
) a whole term,
or the Qreats
t valiant spurt
icts of a First
m ever before,
)lf by teaching
lA hard enough
taircoinpitiMnn
been able to
)8 to their own
apped himself
Paul ruefully
len he began to
le Easter vaca-
lad a great deal
were to present
ondition before
those dreaded
of the examina-
■e, his chance of
the consequent
ood, and sooner

lion wore away,
to Oxford. The
ce more on the
The University
Bannels; labur-
the parks ; ices
3ooper's in the
ister was heard
criticising the
i delightful and
nd syllabub as
uU leaf and in
Paul Gascoyne,
rooms in Peck-
to snatch many
four down the
ng stroll round
Mend Thistle-
ui approaching
rospeot of being
hoii a lif etime
heart of youth
and the fresh
e.

ming down at
sitting in the
ooked into her
Dstman's double
rushed down in
. was only one,
quare envelope,
ne to Plowden's
ap a orest and
Boloor. Ik waa

addreaied to herself, and bore the Oxford post-
mark. Faith guessed at once from whom it
must have come ; but none the less she tore it
open with quivering fingers and read it eagerly :

" Mt dbab Faith," it began, for that night
at the country inn had made Mt's. Douglas feel
quite at home vath the National School-
mistress, "I hope you haven't altogether
forgotten your implied promise to come and
see me at Oxford this term."

[' How can she say so,' thought Faith, ' the
wicked thing, when 1 told her aeain and again
a dozen tirnos over it was absolutely impossi-
ble ? ' But that was part of Mrs. Douglas's
insinuating cleverness.]

" Well, my dear little Cornish friend, Nea
Blair, who met your brother Paul at Mentone
last winter, and was so charmed with him, is
coming up to stay with us the week after next ;
and as I think it would be nicer for both you
gir)8 to have a little society of your own age,
so as not to be entirely dependent on an old
married woman like me for entertainment, I
want you to manage so that your visit may
coincide with hers, and then, you know, the
same set of festivities will do for both of you.
Now, isn't that economical? So mind you
don't disappoint us, as dozens of undergraduates
who have seen the photo you gave me are
dying to make your personal acquaintance,
and some of them are rich, and as beautiful
as Adonis. Please recollect I'll stand no
excuses, and least of all any that have any
nonsense in them. Write by return, and tell
me, not whether you can come or not — that's
settled already — but by what train on
Wednesday week we may expect to see you.
Mr. Douglas will go down to the station to
bring you up. No refusal allow!.
*' Ever yours affectionately,

"Eleanor Mary Douglas."

Then came a peculiarly fetching x .S. :

"As I have some reason to believa your
brother Paul has a sneaking regard for my
little friend Nea, I think it may be just as well
you should come at once and form an opinion
about her desirability as a possible sister-in-
law, before Mr. Gascoyne has irrevocably
committed himself to her without obtaining
your previous approbation and consent."

Faith laid down the letter on the bed before
her, and burst at once into a fierce flood of
tears. It was so terrible to stand so near the
accomplishment of a dream of years, and yet
to feel its realisation utterly unattainable !

Ever since Paul first went to Oxford it hod
been the dearest wish of Faith's heart to pay
him a visit there. Every time he came back
to that narrow world of Hillborough with tid-
ings of all he had seen and done since he had
last been home — of the sights, and the sports,
and the wines, and the breakfasts, of the free
young life and movement of Oxford, of the

colleges and the quads, and the walks and the
gardens, and of the meadows thronged on
Show Sunday, of the barges laden with folk for
the boat races — the longing to join in it all, for
once in her life, had grown deeper and deeper
in poor Faith's boLjcm. It waa so painful to
think how near that bright little world was
brought to her, and yet how distant still, how
impossible, how unattainable. To Paul, her
own brother, whom she loved so dearly, and
from whom she had learned so much, it waa
all a mere matter of everyday experience ; but
to her, his sister, tlesh of his flesh and blood of
his blood, it was like the vi^e murmur of
some remote sphere into which she could
never, never penetrate.

And now the mere receipt of this easy invi-
tation made her feel more than ever the vast-
ness of the gulf that separated her from Oxford.
Though Paul was in it and of it, as of right,
to her it must for ever be as Paradise to the
Peri.

So she burst into tears of pure unhappineas.

She couldn't accept. Of course she couldn't
accept. For her to go to Oxford was simply
impossible. It was all very well for Mrs.
Douglas to say, in her glib fashion, " I'll stand
no excuses." That's always the way with these
grand folks. They get into the habit of think-
ing everybody else can manage things as easily
and simply as they can. But how on earth
could Faith leave the infants in the middle of
a term ? To say nothing at all about all the
other manifold difliculties that stood like lions
in the way — how could she get her place filled
up by proxy ? how could she afford to pay her
fare to Oxford and back, after having already
allowed herself a trip this year down to Dorset-
shire for Christmas ? and, above all, how could
she \. .'ovide herself with those needful frocks
for day and night which she must needs weur
at so grand a place as Mrs. Douglas's, if she
didn't wish utterly to disgrace Paul in the eyes
of the entire University of Oxford ?

All these manifold possibilities rose up at
once before poor Faith's eyes as she read that
exasperating, tantalising letter, and filled them
with tears from some interminable reservour.

And yet how tempting the invitation itself
was. And, barring that constant factor of the
insensibility of ' grand people ' to their neigh-
bour's limitations, how kindly and nicely Mrs.
Douglas had written to her.

Faith would have given a great deal (if she'd
got it) to be able to accept that cordial offer
and see Oxford. But, then, she hadn't got it,
and that was just the difficulty. There was
the rub, as Hamlet puts it. The golden apple
was dangled almost within her eager reach,
yet not even on tiptoe could she hope to attain
to it.

When her father came to see the letter at
breakfast-time, however, to Faith's great and
unspeakable surprise, he turned it over, and,
looking across to Mrs. Gascoyne, said, thought-
fully :

.^■."I'f*

THE SCALLYWAO.

"Well, minus?"

There wu an interrogation in his tone which
drove Faith half frantic.

" Well, Emery ?" his wife answered, with the
same intonation.

"Couldn't us manage this anv'ow, mother?"
the British baronet continued, looking hard at
the monogram.

" No, we couldn't, Emery, I'm afraid," Mrs.
Oascoyne made answer.

And that was all Faith heard about it then.
Her heart sank once more like lead to the
recesses of her bosom.

But as soon as she was gone to endure the
infants once more, as best she might, the
baronet paused as ho pulled on his boots, in
preparation for meeting the 8.40 down, and
observed mysteriously to his better half, in a
oonfidential undertone, with a nod towards the
door whence Faith had just issued :

"Yon don't tUnk we could do it, then,
mother, don't you ? "

Mrs. Oascoyne hesitated.

" It'd cost a power o' money, Emery," she
answered dubiously.

The baronet gazed at the fire with an
abstracted air.

" We've made very great sacrifices for our
Paul, missus," he said with emphasis, after a
short pause, during which he seemed to be
screwing himself up for action ; " we've made
very great sacrifices for our Paul, haven'tus? "

"Yes, Emciry," his wife answered, with a
wistful look ; " I don't deny we've made very
great sacrifices." And then «ihe relapsed for a
moment into thoughtful silence.

" 'Tain't as if we was bound to pay every
penny we get to Solomons," the husband and
father went on again. " Now Paul's of age,
'e's took over a part of the responsibility,
mother."

"That's so, Emery," Mrs. Gajooyne as-
sented.

"The way I look at it is this," the baronet
went on, glancing up argumentatively, and
beating time with his pipe to the expression
of his opinion, like one who expects to en-
counter more opposition. " We've made very
great sacrifices for Paul, we 'ave, an' wy
shouldn't us expeok to make some sort o'
sacrifices for Faith as well? That's 'ow I
pats it."

"There's reason in that, no doubt," Mrs.
Oascoyne admitted very timorously.

" Now, there's that bill o' the Colonel's,"
her husband continued in a most pugnacious
tone, taking down his ledger. "Seventeen
pound fourteen and tuppence — bin owin' ever
since last Christmas twelvemonth. If only
the Colonel could be got to pay up like a man
—and I'll arst him myself this very day:
Faith won't go becos he always swears at Var
— there ain't no reason as I can see wy Faith
mightn't be let go up to Oxfoxvl."

"'Ow about the infants?" Mrs. Oascoyne
interposed.

" Infants be blowed ! Drat them infants I '
her husband answered energetically.

" It's all very well drattin' 'em, as far as
fVi^r'll go," Mrs. Oascoyne answered with
feminine common-sense ; " but they won't be
dratted without a substitoot. She's got to
find somebody as'U take 'er place with 'em."

" I'll find somebody ! " the baronet answered
with valorous resolve. " Dang it all, missus I
if nobody else can't be got to teach 'em, wv,
I'll give up drivin' and take 'em myself,
sooner 'n she shouldn't go, you see if I don't."

" She've set her heart on goin'," Mrs. Oas-
coyne said once more, with a maternal sigh.
" ix.ot dear I she's a-longin' for it. I wouldn't
say nothin' to 'er face about it, for fear of
makin' 'er too bashful like before you ; but
you seen yourself, Emery, her eyes was that
rod and tbed with cryin'."

" They was," the baronet answered. " I
seen 'em myself. An' what I say is this —
we've made sacrifices for Paul, very great
sacrifices, and we're pleased and proud of 'im ;
so wy shouldn't we make sacrifices for Faith
as well, as 'asn't so many chances in life as 'im
of ever enjoyin' of 'erseu ? "

" Wy not, sure ? " Mrs. Oascoyne re-
sponded.

"Jest you look at the letter, too," the
baronet went on, admiring the monogram and
the address in the comer. " Anybody could
see she was a real tip-topper in a minute by
that. ' The Bod House, Norham Boad,
Oxford.' An' a crest over her name, same
as Lady 'Illborough's 1 "

The crest a£forded both the liveliest satisfao-
tion.

So, after much confabulation, it was finally
resolved that the baronet himself should beard
the redoubtable Colonel in his den that very
day, and that if the siege operations in that
direction turned out a success. Faith should be
permitted to go to Oxford. But meanwhile,
for fear of failure, it was duly agreed between
the two dark conspirators that nothing more
should be said to Faith on the subject.

That selfsame evening, while Faith, with a
very white face and a trembling hand, bithig
her lips hard all the while to keep back the
tears, was slowly composing a suitable refusal
to Mrs. Douglas, Sir Emery entered, much
agitated, into the bare living-room, his hat on
his head and his brow steaming, and fiung
down a cheque on the centre table.

"There, mother," he cried, half laughing,
half crying himself in his joy, " I said I'd do
it, an' I've done it, by Oeorge I He've paid
up the lot — the whole bloomin' lot — seventeen
pound fourteen and tuppence."

Faith glanced up from her letter aghast.

" Who ? " she cried, seizing the cheque in
astonishment. " Oh, father, not the Colonel ? "

Her father gave way to a hysterical burst of
prolonged laughter

" Well, I thought 'e'd 'a kicked me down-
stairs at first," he said, chuckling, "but Z

>j»i tn

iX M

■with
I'tbe
ot to

wered
UbubI

lon't."
,. Om-
,\ sigh.
ouWn't
[ear o(
lu; but
aa that

li. "I
I thlfl—

y pe»*
loflm;
at Faith
leM'lm

IN 0000 SOCIBTY.

•yne

too

re-

the

gram and
ody could
minute by
Boad,
same

m
me,

it satiafao-

jtM finally
ould beard
. that very
ns In that
1 should be
neanwhlle,
Bd between
thing more

JOt.

iib, with a
land, biting
p back the
able refusal
ered, much
I, hlB hat on
and flung

If laughing,

. Baid I'd do

He've paid

seventeen

• aghast,
te cheque m
leColoneW
Irioal buret of

td me down-
ig, "but I

made un pay me. I says, ' Such credit, sir,'
says I, ' it clearly onreasonable. I don't want
to 'urry any gentleman, sir,' says I, quite re-
spockful like, ray 'at in my 'and, ' but if vou
could any'ow make it convenient.' An' bloss
me, missus, if 'e didn't whip out his cheque-
book on the spot, an' after sayin' in a 'uiT I
was a impident, presoomin' feller to venture to
dun un, 'e drawed out a ohciiue for the lot, an'
there it is afore you. An' now. Faith, my
girl, you can go to Oxford t "

Faith jumped up with tears in her eyes.

•• Oh, I couldn't, father I " she cried. '< Not
that way. I couldn't. It'd seem like robbing
mother and you — and Mr. Solomons."

But youth is weak and tluie is fleeting. It
was her last chance to go to Oxford. After
little persuasion and special pleading on her
mother's part, Faith was brought at last to see
matters in a different light, and to acquiesce
in her father's reiterated view, " What I says
is this — <ve've made sacrifices for Paul, and
why shov dn't us make sacrifloes for Faith as
well, missus ? "

So the end of it all was that before she went
to bod that night Faith had indited a second
letter to Mrs. Douglas (of which she made
beforehand at least a dozen rough draughts of
varying excellence), and that in that letter sho
accepted without reserve Mrs. Douglas's kind
invitation to Oxford. But so profound was
her agitation at thin delightful prospect that
she could hardly hold hor pen to write the
words ; and after she had finished her first fair
copy of the amended letter, she threw her
head back and laughed violently.

"What's the matter, dear heurt?" her
mother asked, leaning over her.

And Faith, still laughing in hysterical little
bursts, made answer back :

" Why, I'U have to write it out every bit all
over again. I'm in such a state of mind that
what do you think I've done? I was just
going to end it, to Mrs. Douglas, ' Thanking
you for past favours, and hoping for a con-
tinuance of the same, I remain, your obedient
servant to command, Emery Gascoync ' I "

CHAPTER XVni.

IN GOOD SOOIBTY.

The next week was for Faith a crowded week
of infinite preparations. There was the ques-
tion of a substitute first to be settled, and the
price of the substitute's honorarium to be fixed
(as the head-mistresR magniloquently phrased
it), and then there were three dresses to be
n: ^e forthwith, two for morning and one for
evening — a greater number than Faith had
ever before dreamed of ordering in her life all
at one fell swoop, for her own personal adorn-
ment. Little Miss Perkins, the dressmaker at
Number Five, two pair back, in the Court, was
in and out of the Gascoynes' all day long,
especially at lonch-timei measuring and fitting,

and receivins instructions ; for Faith wouldn't
trust herself to make with her own hands
those precious dresses, the neatest and prettiest
she h(Kl over possessed. But sympathetic little
Miss I'erkins made them as cheaply as she
could possibly afford, being a friend of the
family ; and tho stuffs, though new and grace-
ful, were simple and inexpensive ; bo that
when the bill itself at last came in, even Faith
wasn't ovorshocked at the joint price of the
three, and felt easier in her oonsoienco about
her hat and flowers. On the Tuesday night
when sho tried them all on, before an admiring
committee of the whole house, they were
unanimously voted to be without exception
perfect successes ; and a British baronet who
chanced to stand by, his bat in his hand, re-
marked approvingly, in a fervour of paternal
admiration, that he'd driven "more 'n one
young lady to a ball in his time, an' at great
houses too, who didn't look one 'arf as much
the lady as our Faith, God bless 'er 1 in that
pretty evenin' dress of 'ers. Why, sho looked
so fine he was 'tuci afeard it was takin' a liberty
to think o' kissin' 'er."

Next afternoon, in a flutter of excitement.
Faith took the train to London and thence to
Oxford, travelling in her old Sunday gown and
hat, so as not to spoil her new Oxford dresses.

On the way, one thought alone poisoned
Faith's enjoyment, and that was hor fixed
expectation and belief that Nea Blair would be
" awfully nasty " to her. Nea was one of
those "grand girls," abe knew. Her father
was a rector down in Cornwall or somewhere
— rich, no doubt, for he'd sent bis daughter
abroad for the winter with a lady-companion ;
but, at any rate, a beneficed clergyman of the
Church of England, and, therefore, as Faith
read the world she lived in, almost to a cer-
tainty proud and haughty. Nea would have
no end of fine new dresses, of course, which
would throw poor Faith's tiaee cheap gowns
entirely into the shade ; and as Mrs. Douglas
would, no doubt, have told her that her fellow-
guest was a National Schoolmistress, she
would foolishly try to suggest between them,
as far as possible, that " dim spectre of the
salt " that Faith had read about in " Lady
Geraldine's Courtship," and whose meaning
Paul had succinctly explained to her.

From London to Oxford, Faith travelled
second class, permitting herself that hitherto
unknown extravagance partly from a vague
sense that the occasion demanded It, but partly
also lest Nea should happen to be in the same
train, und, travelling first herself, should set
down Faith as an outer barbarian if she saw
her descend from a Parliamentary carriage.
At Oxford Station Mrs. Douglas met her —
Archie was engaged that afternoon on one of
those horrid boards, she said, delegates of
lodging-houses, or something equally dull and
uninteresting — so she'd come down instead in
her proper person to hunt up their luggage.
What a pity they two hadn't travelled together!

THE SCALLYWAQ.

" Ii MiM Blair in the ume train, then ? "
Faith asked, as she descended.

'« Oh yes," Mrs. Douglas answered. " I see
her, just back there. Corae along. Faith.
Nea, this is Mr. Oosooyne's sister. Now, my
dears, what have you done with your lug-
gage?"

" Mine's in the van there,' Faith said, pohit-
ing vaguely forward.

"And mine's partly nnder the seat," Nea
■idd, directing a porter at the same time to get
out a nnall portmanteau from — wonder of
wonders! — a third-class carriage.

Three hot, disagreeable feelings or ideas rose
at once in Faith's mind. The first was that
Nea Blair had travelled third on purpose,
because she thought she might meet her. The
second was that she herself had wasted the
difference in the fares all for nothing. And
the third was that she hoped Mrs. Douglas
wouldn't betray to Nea tne fact that the
National Schoolmistress had come down
second. It was just like these nasty grand
girls' condescension to travel thUrd on purpose
to put one out of countenance.

Mrs. Douglas, however, didn't play her false,
and the three went off to fetch Nea's other
box, which was so big that Faith fairly
trembled to think how many evening dresses
might not be In it. They drove up together to
the creeper-elad villa, and Faith, for the very
first time hi her life, found herself actually iu
good Society.

She went xm to her room very nervous
inaeed, and began to get ready lor Jinner
hastily. She sat on her one evening frock
with many doubts on rn whnt Nea would wear,
and went down at iast, a few minutes before
the bell rang, into the drawing-room.

Nea was there before her, in a dress still
simpler and moro unstudied than her own ;
and as Fcdth entered she drew her over in-
stinctively somehow to the sofa with a friendly
gesture.

" Oh, what a sweet gown I " she cried, in
unaffected admiratbn, as Faith seated herself
by her side ; and, indeed, Faith did look very
beaatifol, with her lustrous black hair knotted
neatly in a roll at the back of her head, and
her diark eyes and olive complexion thrown up
by the delicate colour of her dainty foulard.

" You'll be tired enough of it before you go,
I expect," Faith answered, defiantly, " for it's
the only evening frock I've got, and I shall
have to wear it every night wlme I stop here."
Her very pride oompMled her to fling her
poverty unprovoked thus point-blank at the
unoffending faces of others.

" Oh, of course. One doesn't bring a whole
stock of dresses with one (or a short visit like
this," Nea answered, smiling ; " and this one's
so prettv, one could never get tired of it. I
think tnat's the best of simple gowns— they
always look well if you wear them for ever ;
and nobody ever notices they've seen them
before, because they're so unobtrusive.

Whereas, if one has a showy, striking dress,
and wears it often, it attracts attention, and
then everybody says, ' Oh I that's the same old
thing she wore loitt season, don't you know, at
the Boand-so's t ' "

"That's just what I thought," Faith an
Bwered, trying to look unconcerned, " when I
ordered this one."

" And I always sa^," Nea went on, glancing
down at her own little quiet cashmere, " if
one's poor, one should buy the simplest possible
things, which never look out of place, and
never go out of fashion."

Sho said it in the sense good Society always
says such tilings in — the purely relative sense
which regards the country parson's endowment
as polite poverty ; and she was thinking really
of her own wardrobe, not of Faith Oascoyne's.
But Faith, like all the rest of us, chose to,
accept the remark from her own standpoint,
according to which Nea Blair was a " nasty
grand girl," a representative of wealth, rank,
class, and fashion.

" If one's poor," she answered, flaring up
internally, "one must buy what one can
a^* 'd ; but that's no reason why one should
b. .Ictated to in that, or in anything else, by
others."

For in the phrase "one should buy the
simplest possible things," Faith thought she
detected the hateful didactic leaven of the
district-visitor.

By a rare flash of intuition — due, perhaps,
to her profoundly sympathetic and affectionate
nature — Nea divined with an instinctive in-
sight the nature of the error into which Faith
had fallen, and hastened to remove it as
delicately as possible. "Oh, I don't mean
that I do it to please other people," she
answered, with her winning smile ; " I do it to
please myself. Papa never dreams for a
minute of dictating to me about dress. I get
;ny aUowance four times a year, and I spend
it as seems best to me."

Faith coloured up with regret for her foolish
mistake, which she couldn't fail now to recog-
nise. " But you're not poor," she said, with a
marked emphasis.

" We're certainly not rich," Nea replied,
looking down so as not to meet those half-
angry eyes. " Of course, these things are all
comparative. But I have to be very careful of
my expenses."

" Well, but you went abroad for the whole
winter with a companion," Faith objected,
sternly.

" Oh, that was a very special tUng, because
I'd been ill. Papa did that, not because he
was rich, but because he was so anxious to
make me well again."

"I see," Faith answered, and wished to
herself people wouldn't use words in such un-
natural senses. Talk about being poor, indeed,
when you're a beneficed clergymem of the
Church of England, and can send your
dai^ghter to a good hotel on the Biviera, with

IN QOOD SOCIETY.

, and

le old
iw, at

1 an
ben I

moing
e. "If
sBilble
i, and

always
B sense
iwment
{ really
•oyne's.
hose to,
idpoint,
'• nasty
h, rank,

iring up

ane can

e should

else, by

buy the
lught she
n of the

, perhaps,
[ectionate
active In-
lioh Faith
ove it as
)n't mean
iple," she
I do it to
,inB for a
IBS. I get
i I spend

her foolish
torecog-
laid, with a

ea repUed,
those half-
Dgs are all
r careful of

the whole
objected,

ing, beoauf e
l^cause he
anxious to

a wished to
I infuohun-
poor, indeed,
rman of the
send your
Biviera, with

a hired companion to be her guardian and
chaperon t

Presently the Douglases themselves oame
down, and the four went in to dinner together.
" We haven't asked anybody to meet you, this
first evening.Nea," Mrs.Douglas said, "because
we thought you'd be tired after your long
journey; but your brother's coming in for a
chat after dinner. Faith ; as he ana Nea are
old friends, you know, we thought he wouldn't
matter. And he's going to bring young
Thistleton of Christ Church with him."

Faith almost shook in her chair at the
terrible prospect. However would she get on,
she wondered, with ail these fine people tburust
at once upon her? Qood Society began
positively to appal her.

Dinner, however, passed off very well. With
Mrs. Douglas herself Faith felt quite at home
now ; and the Professor, though prodigiousl v
learned, was a very pleasant man, Faith
thought, with lots of fun in him. Nea didn't
always understand what he said, apparently ;
and it struck Faith with some little surprise
that Nea seemed on the whole to know less
about the subjects Mr. Douglas discussed than
she herself £d. And yet Nea had had the
very best education t Strange, then, that she
thought the Prometheus was written by
Sophocles, when Faith, who had read it
through in Paul's Bohn, couldn't imagine how
anyone could mistake the ^sohylean touch in
it. And then she had never even heard of
Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound!" Faith
began to consider her quite a little ignoramus.

The fact was, Faith's whole days had been
spent at home (or with the infants) and among
Paul's books, and her one native longing and
desire in life was for more culture. Hence,
like many self-educated people, she had a wide
though not a deep knowledge of books and
things, exactly suited to make a brilliant show
in general society ; while Nea, whose tastes
were by no means learned, had only aoqubred
the ordinary English sohoolml's stock of
knowledge, and was far behind Faith in every-
thing that pertains to general education.

The Professor, for his part, being an easy-
going man, soon found out that Faith and he
had most in coii:mon, and addressed his con-
versation mainly to her throughout the dinner.
This flattered Faith and gave her confidence.
She began to suspect that, after sU, she might
be able to hold her own fairly in Oxford, if one
of the very heads of that learned society thought
her not wholly unworthy of wasting his time
upon. Appreciation brought out her best
points, as opposition did her worst ; and before
the end of the dinner she was positively
brilliant.

Once, too, in the course of it, she discovered
to her surprise another littiie point of superiority
to Nea. The Cornish girl had been talking of
her experiences at Mentene, and had been
partioularly kind in her remarks about Paul,
which made Faith's face flush once more, but

this time with pleasure. There was nothing
she loved like having Paul appreoiatod.

*' You weren't at the same hotel, though,"
she said after a while. " I suppose yours
was a much bigger and a more expensive
one?"

" Oh, dear no I " Nea answered simply ;
"your brother and Mr. Thistleton were at
the swell place ; but Madame Geriolo took me
to quite a foreign hoose, that she liked much
better, partly because it was cheap, and partly
because hat tastes are awfully cosmopolitan.
I never was in such polyglot society in my life
before. We had Poles, Hungarians, Greeks,
Germans, Swedes and Itussians at table d'hdie
beside us."

" Dear me," Faith exclaimed, " how awk-
ward that muBt have been 1 You must have
felt every time you opened your mouth that
the eyes of Europe were upon you."

" I did," Nea answered, with an amused
smile. " But as they didn't understand me, it
didn't much matter.

"The conversation was all in Frenob, of
course," Faith went on innocently.

" With the foreignerf, oh yes I But I don't
speak French myself at all fluently— not any-
thing like as well as Mr. Gascoyne, for example.
He speaks just beautifully."

" Oh, I don't consider Paul's a verv good
accent," Faith answered with easy confidence.
" We learnt together when wo were quite little
things, he and I, and I know he could never
pronounce his r'a with the right suuount of
rolling, or distinguish between words like
' tremper ' and ' tromper* This is how Paul
speaks," and she repeated a few lines of one
of Victor Hugo's odes that they had read
together, in perfect mimicry of the few English
faults in her brother's pronunciation. They
were merely the minor tricks of intonation
which must almost inevitably persist in any
foreigner's mouth, however profound his ac-
quaintance with the language; but Faith's
quick feminine car detected them at once,
compared with Mademoiselle Clarice's Parisian
flow, and her ready tongue imitated them
absolutely to perfection.

Nea listened, lost in amazement. " I
shouldn't know that wasn't the purest Paris
accent," she answered, half jealous on Paul's
accoimt. " I thought myself Mr. Gascoyne
spoke admirably."

" Oh no ; this is how it ought to be," Faith
answered, now quite at home. And she de-
livered the lines in excellent French as
Mademoiselle Clarice herself might have said
them, only with infinitely more appreciation
of theur literary vigour.

Nea was astonished. '* You speak splen-
didly," she said. " I'd give anything myself
to be able to speak that way."

'* Oh, I've spoken it ever since I was two
years old," Faith answered offhand — for, to
her, it seemed the most common-place accom-
plishment on earth to be able to talk like

THE SCALLYWAG.

the French lady's-maicl. But to Nea it was
proof of a conmmmate education.

After dinner they rose and went into the
drawing-room, Faith feeling rather awkward
onoe Doore, now, aa to how to proceed, and
keeping her eyen firmly fixed on everything
Nea did for guide noe.

Presently Paul, and hi» friend came in. Faith
walked to.vards (he door with what self-
poasesrion she oould, most conscious of her
gait 9» she crossed the room and kissed her
brother. Then she turned and was intrc-
duced to the blondo young man. Why,
what a curious thing Paul should never have
told hert The blonde young man was ex-
tremely handsome.

Paul had always described Thistleton as a
very good fellow and all that sort of thing,
bat had never enlarged in the least upon his
personal appearance ; and Faith had somehow
imbibed the idea that the blonde young man
was stumpy and unpleasant. Perhaps it was
because she had heard he was rich, and had
therefore vaguely mixed him up in her ovm
mind ^vith ti^e Gorgius Midas, junior, of Mr.
Du Maurier's sketches in Punch. But cer-
tainly, wuen she saw a fine, well-built young
fellow of six feet one, with intelligent eyea
and a pleasing, ingenuous, frank countenance,
she failed to reoognfw in hun altogether the
Thistleton of whom her brother had told her.
The blonde young man took her fancy at
onoe, so much so that she felt shy at the
idea of talking to him.

For to Faith it was a very great ordeal
indi ^d, this sudden introduction to a Society
into which, till this moment, she had never
penetrated. The very size and roominess of
the apartments — though the Douglases' house
was by no means a urge one— the brilliancy
of the gas, the lightness of the costume, the
flowers and decorations, the fiuffinebs and
airiness, and bright colour of everything,
fairly took her breath away. She felt herself
moving in a new world of gauze and glitter.
And then to be seated in these novel surround-
inffs, to undertake conversation of an un-
rehearsed kind with unknown strangers, it was
almost more than Faith's equammity was
proof against. But she bore up bravely,
nevertheless, for very shame, and answered at
first almost as iu a dream, all that the blonde
young man said to her.

Thutleton, however, had no such diifioulties,
for he was born lich ; and he talked away so
easily and pleasantly to the National School-
mistress about things she really took an inte-
rest in and understood, that at the end of an
hour she was hardly afraid of him, especially
as he seemed so fond "f Paul, and so proud
and pleased about his Marlborough Essay.

" I wanted to bet him ten to one in fivers
he'd get it," Thistleton remarked, all radiant ;
" but ne wouldn't bet. He knew he was sure
of it, and he wasn't going to hedge. And all
the House w*» iwfnUy ^ad of it. Why, t^e

Dean himself called him up and congratulated
him I"

As for Paul, he 'alked most of the tim'^ to
Nea, with occasional judicious intei mentions
on Mrs. Douglas's port, who was never so
pleased as when she could make young people
happy.

When they took their departure that evening
Faith said to her hostess, " What a very nice
young man that Mr. Thistleton isT' As a
matter of fact, it was the ->'ery first opportunity
she had ever had of talking to any voung man
of decent education and gentlemanly manners
on equal terms, except her own brother, and
she was naturally pleased with him.

Mrs. Douglas shrugged her shoulders a little
bit — almost as naturally as Madame Ceriolo.

" Do you think so ? " she said. " Well, he's
nice enough, I suppose ; but his manners
haven't that repose that stamps the caste of
Vere de Ve^-e, somehow. He's a trifle too
boisterous for my .taste, you know. Good-
bearted, of course, and all that sort of thing,
but not with the stamp of Blue Blood about
him."

"Oh, nonsense, my dear Eleanor," the
Professor ejaculated with a good round mouth.
'* The young fellow's as well behaved as most
earls in England, and, if it comes to that, a
gieat deal better."

"I'm so glad you say so, Mr. Douglas,"
Faith put in wi& a smile — " that it's non-
sense, I mean — for I should have been
afraid to."

"WeU, but reaUy, Faith," Mrs. Douglas
retorted, " he isn't fit to hold a candle any day
to your brother Paul."

"I should think not, indeed!" Nea ex-
claimed immediately, with profound convic-
tion. "Wh", Mr. Gascoyne's just worth a
thousand of him I "

Faith turned with a grateful look to Nea for
that kindly sentence ; and yet she would have
liked the praise of Paul all the better if it
hadn't been contrasted with dispraise of Mr.
Thistleton. For her part, she tiiought him a
mjst delightful young man, and was only
sorry he was so dreadfully rich, and there-
fore, of course, if one got to know him better,
no doubt nasty.

They parted in the passage outside Faith's
bedroom, and Nea, as she said " Good-night,
dear," to her new friend, leant forward to kiss
her. Faith hesitated for a moment: she
wasn't accustomed to cheapen her embraces
in the usual feline feminine manner, and as
^et she didn't feel sure of Nea; but next
mstant she yielded, and pressed her com-
panion's hand. " Thank you so much," she
said, with tears in her eyes, and darted into
her room. But Nea didn't even so much as
know for what she thanked her.

Faith meant for not having been " grand,"
and crushed her. To herself she was always
the National Schoolmistress.

But Nea saw in her only a graceful, hand-

btulated

IDYLS OP YOUTH.

tirn^ to
lentiona
ever bo
J people

evening
ery nice
• As ft
lortonity
ing man
manners
iher, and

rs a little
;;eriolo.
;7eU,he's
manners
I caate of
trifle too
. Good-
o{ thing,
x>d about

nor," the
ad month,
id as most
to that, a

Douglas,"
1 it's non-
Ave been

. DouglaB
le any day

Nea ex-
ind oonvio-
it worth a

to Nea for

would have

better if it

aise of Mr.

Qght him a

was only

and there-

him better,

iBide Faith's
Good-night,
ward to Kiss
)ment : she
»r embraces
aner, and as
,; but next
1 her corn-
much," she
darted into
Bo much as

■en "grand,"

aceful, hand*

Bonbe, well-read girl, and Paul Gascoyne's
sister.

So ended Faith Gascoyne's first equally
dreaded and longed-for evening in Good
Society.

Outside the Douglases' door Thistleton
paused and looked at his friend.

•' Why, Gasooyne," he said, " you never
told me whav a beautiful girl your sister was,
and so awfully clever 1 "

Paul smiled. " As a rule," he said, " men
don't blow the trumpet for their own female
relations."

Thistleton accepted the explanation in
silonoe, and walked along muto for two or
three minutes. Then he began again, almost
as if to himself : " But this one," he said, '■ is
so exceptionally beautiful."

Paul was aware of an uncomfortable sensa-
tion at the base of his throat, and diverted the
conversation to Jho chances of a bump on the
first night of the races.

CFAirrER XIX.

IDTLS OF YOUTH.

To Faith those ten delicious days at Oxford
were a dream fulfilled — pure gold, every one
of them. How glorious were those strolls
round Magdalen cloisters; those fresh morning
walks in Christ Church meadows ; those after-
noon lounges in the cool nooks of Wadham
Gardens! How grand the tower of Merton
loomed up in the moonlight ; how noble was
the prospect of the crowded High, with the
steeple of St. Mary's and St. Laud's porch in the
middle distance, viewed fron the atone steps
of Queen's or University 1 How she loved
each mouldering pinnacle of Oriel, each
vaulted boss in the great roof of Christ
Church! What delightful afternoon teas in
Tom Quad ; what luxurious breakfasts in the
New Buildings at Ballioll To the National
Schoolmistress, fresh from the din of the
infants and the narrow precincts of Plowden's
Court, the height and breadth and calm and
glory of thobe majestic colleges were some-
thing unknown, unpictured, unfanoied. Even
after all Paul had told her, it eclipsed and
eiliMed her best ideal. She had only one pang
— that she must so soon leave it all.

And what a grand phantasmagoria it pro-
duced in her mind, tiiat whirlmg week of
unparalleled excitement ! Tn the morning, to
view the Bodleian or the Badcliffe, to walk
under the chestnuts on the Cherwell bank, or
to admire from the bridge the soaring tower of
Magdalen. At mid-day, to lunch in some
undergraduate's quarters, or with bearded
dons in some panelled common-room: for
Mrs. Douglas was known to be the best of
hostesses, and whoever saw Oxford under her
auspices was sure not to lack for entertainment
or for entertainments. In the afternoon, to
float down the rivr ir to Iffley in a tub pair ; or

to lounge on padded punts under the broad
shade of Addison's Walk ; or to drink tea in
rooms looking out over the Benaissanoe court
of St. John's ; or to hear the anthem trilled
from sweet boyish throats in New College
Chapel. In the evening, to dine, at home or
abroad, in varied company ; to listen to some
concert in the hall of Exeter : or to see the
solemn inner quad of Jesus incongruously
decked out with Japanese lanterns and hanging
lights for a Cymric festival. A new world
seemed to open out all at once before her. A
world all excitement, pleasure, and loveliness.

To most girls brough'; up in quiet, cultivated
homes, a visit to Oxfotd is one long whirl of
dissipation. To Faith, brought up in the cab-
man's cottage, it was a perfect revelation of
art, life and Deauty. It sank into her soul like
first love. If you can imagine a bird's-eye
view of Florence, Paris, and educated Society
rolled into one, that is something like what
those ten days at Oxford were to Faith
,e.
ve- nighii Nea Blair went out with her,
and e\ .ry night, to Faith's immense surprise,
Nea wore the same simple cashmere dress she
had worn at Mrs. Douglas's that first evening.
It made Faith feel a great deal more at home
with her ; after three days, indeed, she quite
got over her fear of Nea. Nea was so gentle,
BO sweet, so kind, it was impossible for any-
body long to resist her. By the third evening
they were sworn friends, and when Faith went
up with her after the little carpet-dance to
bed, it was actually with her arm round the
"grand girl's" waist that she mounted the
staircase.

On the morning of their fourth day at Oxford
they were walking in the High with Mrs.
Douglas — on their way to visit the reredos at
All Souls' — ^when just outside the doors of the
" Mitre " Nea was suddenly stopped by a
g(Men-halred apparition.

"Oh my, momma!" the apparition ex-
claimed, in a fine Pennsylvanian twang, " if
here ain't Nea Blair as large as life and twice
as nat'ral 1 Well, now, I do call that jest
lovely! To think we should meet you here
again, Nea. But I felt like it, somehow ; I
said to momma this morning, as we were un-
loading the baggage down at the oars, <I
shoulchi't be a bit surprised if Nea Blair's at
Oxford.' I knew you were coming up this
summer term, you know, to visit friends, and
I kind of guessed we should probably syn-
chronise."

remarked,
your
acquaintuices ? "

For Mrs. Douglas's British back was con-
siderably stifiEenea by the newcomer's obviooi
lack of the Vere de Vere emotipnal tempera-
ment.

" This is Miss Boyton," Nea said, presenting
her ; " she was with us at Mentone. And this
is Mrs. Boy too."

" Nea, my dear," Mrs. Dou^laa rema:
with chilly dignity, " will you mtroduee

THE SCALLYWAG.

For where Isabel was, there her mother sank
naturally into the background.

"Yes; and, my dear, we've only just
arrived. We wired to Mr. Thistleton to engage
rooms for us at the " Mitre." There's another
hotel at Oxford, he told ua — the Bandolph —
but it doesn't sound so mediaeval and English
and aristocratic as the " Mitre." And now
we've come out to look around a bit and see the
city."

"Oh, you're Mr. Thistleton's guests, are
you ? " Faith asked, with a faint imdercurrent
of suspicion, for she didn't half like this
sudden intrusion of the golden-haired Penu-
sylvanian upon her special undergraduate.
Though she had . only been three days at
Ozfora, Thistleton had already been most
marked in his politeness, and Faith, though
innocent as a child of ulterior designs upon
tiie rich young man, didn't want to have lus
immediate kind attentions diverted upon
others.

" Yes, indeed," Isabel answered. " We've
gotten oiur own rooms for ourselves at the
' Mitre,' of course, but we expect Mr. Thistleton
to walk us around and give us a good time
while we stop in Oxford. Monuna and I are
looking forward to enjo;>^g ourselves riU the
time. Oh, don't the place look jest lovely t "

" It is lovely," Nea said ; " I always enjoy
it so much. But why did you telegraph to
Mr. Thistleton, instead of Mr. Gascoyne ? We
saw so much more of Mr. Gascoyne at
Mentone."

" Well, to tell you the truth," Isabel answered,
" I didn't jest feel like asking Mr. Gascoyne ;
while that young Thistleton fellow — he's a real
good sort, but only a boy, you know — so I
didn't mind asking him."

" This is Mr. Gascoyne's sister," Nea said,
with a slight wave towards Faith, who stood
irresolute in the background. " She's stopping
with me at Mrs. Douglas's. We're going just
now to see one of the colleges— All Souls'. "

" Well, I don't mind if we catch on to it,"
Isabel answered, briskly. "We've jest come
out to see what the place is like, and one col-
lege 11 do for us, I presoom, as well as another.
Aocording to the Guide, the city must be full of
them."

Mrs. Douglas knocked under with con-
descending tact. She reoollected that Nea had
told her Miss Boyton was rich ; and, after all,
there are always lots of nice young men lying
aboat loose who'd be glad to pick up with a
rich and pretty American.

" If your mamma and yon would like to join
cor party," she said, Mrith her beet second-class
smile (Mn. Douglas's smiles were duly gra-
duated for all ranks of Society), " I'm sure we
shall be delij^ted. Any friends of Nea's are
always weleome to ns. "

So from that moment forth the Boytons
were duly accepted as part and parcel of Mrs.
Dooglas'i set durins that crowded race week.
They went aTsrywhere with Faith and Nea,

and shared in most of the undergraduate feafets
which Mrs. Douglas offered vicariously for her
young friends' amusement.

Undergraduate Oxford loves anything fresh,
and Isabel Boyton's freshness, at any rate,
was wholly beyond dispute. Before the week
was out, the golden-haired Fennsylvanian had
become a feature in Christ Church, and even
betting was offered in Feckwater whether or
not Gascoyne would marry her.

The same evening Mrs. Douglas gave her
first dinner-party for her two guests, and as
they sat in the drawing-room, just before the
earliest outsider arrived, Mrs. Douglas turned
to Faith (Nea hadn't yet come down) and re-
marked parenthetically :

" Oh, by the way, Mr. Thistleton will take
you in to dinner, my dear. He'll go after
your brother Paul, and then Mr. Wade '11 take
in Nea."

Faith shrank back a Uttle alarmed.

" Oh, but teU me, Mrs. Douglas," she cried,
somewhat shamefaced, " why mayn't I go
last ? I don't want to go in before Nea."

Mrs. Douglas shook her head in most
decided disapproval. " It can't be helped, my
child," she said. " It's not my arrangement.
I've got nothing on earth to do with settling
the table of precedence. It's the Lord
Chamberlain who has long ago decided once
for all that your brother Paul, as a baronet's
son, walks in before young Thistleton, and
that you, as a baronet's daughter, walk in
before Nea."

Faith gave a little gesture of extreme dis-
satisfaction. This playing at baronetcy was to
her most distasteful.

"I can't bear it," she cried. "Do, dear
Mrs. Douglas, as a special favour, let Nea at
least go in before me."

But Mrs. Douglas was inflexible. " No,
no," she said; "none of your nasty Badical
levelling ways for me, turning Society topsy-
turvy with your new-fangled ideas, and all
just to suit your own unbridled fancy. People
of quality must behave as such. If you happen
to be bora a baronet's daughter you must take
precedence of a country parson's girl. NohUite
oblige. That's the price you have to pay for
being bom in an exalted station in life. You
must fulfil the duties that belong to your place
in Society."

So, with a very bad grace, poor Faith yielded.

When Nea came down, F<uth observed with
8urpris3 that rHo was weu: nig even now the
same simple .a^hmere dress as on the first
night of her visi.. Faith had expected that
for this special function at least Nea would
have appeared arrayed, like Solomon, in all
her glory. But no ; the plain cashmere was
still to the front, as invariable us Faith's own
delicate foulard. A curious thought flashed
across Faith's mind : Could the " grand girl "
herself, as sb' still sometimes thonght her,
have brought but one evi xng dress m her box,
just as she herself had done f

IDYLS OP YOUTH.

For, after all, Faiih began to observe that,
in a deeper sense than she had at first
expected, we are all in the last resort built of
much the same moald, and that the differ-
ences of high and low are a great deal more
mere differences of accent speech, and dress
than of intellect or emotion.

That evening Mr. Thistloton, she thought,
was more attentive tc her than ever; and
when she spoke to him once about the golden-
haired apparition that h; 'ashed upon them
in the High Street from ae "Mitre" that
morning, he only laughed good-humouredly,
and remarked, with tolerant contempt, that
Miss Boyton was " real racy," of American
soil, and that her mamma was a most amiable
and unobtrusive old Egyptian mummy.

" You saw a good deal of her at Mentone, I
suppose," Faith said, looking up at him from
her niche in the ottoman.

"Yes, and heard a good deal of !.or, too,"
Thistleton answered, smiling. "She wasn't
bom to blush imseen, that excellent Miss
ifioyton. Wherever she goes she makes her-
self felt. She's amusing, that's all ; one
endures her because one gets such lots of fun
)ut of her."

"But she's very rich, Paul says." Faith
murmured, abstractedly.

" Oh, they grow 'em very rich in America,
I fancy," the blonde young man replied, with
careless ease. " So do we in Yorkshire, too ;
we don't set much ato; > by that up in the
North, you know. People are all -ning in
money with as in Sheffield. To bi^ ch up
there is positively vulgar, so far as that goes.
The distinguished thing in the North is to be
poor but ctutured. It's almost as fashionable
as bemg poor but honi>st used once to be in
Sunday-8<mool literature."

" SdU, she's pretty, don't you think, in her
own way?" Faith asked, pleading Miss
Boyton's case out of pure perversity.

" She's pretty enough, if you go in for
prettiness," the blonde young man retorted,
with a glance of admiration at Faith's own
raven hair and great speaking eyes. " I don't
myself — I don't like women to be pr«tty."

"Don't like them to be pranf!" Faith
repeated, aghast.

" No," the blonde young man replied, stoutly.
" I prefer beauty to prettiness. ' never cared
much for tow-haired iolls. £ye« with a soul
in them are much man to my tasw. Besides,"
he added, breaking off suddenly, "she's not
quite our sort, you know, Miss Oasooyne."

" OvT sort? " Faich echoed interrogatively,
taken aback at the ineiueveness of the first per-
son plural. " I — I don't quite understand you."

" Well, yow sort, then," the blonde young
man oorreoted, with imperturbable good-
hnmonr, "if you won't let me reokon myself in
the same day with you. I mean, she's not a
person of any birth or pontion or refinement ;
she's a panmue, you know, a perfect parvmutf.
I don't mean to say I go in for a Pumtagenet

ancestry mjrself," he continued quiokly, seeing
Faith was trying hard to put in a word and
interrupt him ; " but I don't like people quite
so freshly fledged as she is. T prefer them with
some tincture of polite society."

Faith blushed up to the eyes with some
strange sense of shame. It was so novel a
position for her to find herself in, that she
hardly knew how to brazen it out. " She
was very well received at Mentone," she
stammered out uneasily.

" At Mentone ? Oh yes ; in a cosmopclitan
place like that one can swallow anybody— why,
we even swallowed Miss Blaur's chaperon —
that delightful little humbug and adventuress,
Madame Geriolo, who anywhere else in the
world would have been utterly impossible. But,
hang it all ! you know. Miss Oasooyne, you
womdn't like your own brother, now, for in-
stance, to marry her ? "

Faith looked down, and hardly knew what
to say. " If ever Paul marries," she answered
at last, speaking out of her whole heart, " I
should like him to mavry — someone more
worthy of him."

As she spoke she lifted her eyes again, and
met Nea Blair's, who, seated dose by, had
just caught by amident the last few words ol
their conversation. Nea let her glance fall on
the carpet and coloured faintly. Then Faith
felt sure, with an instinctive certainty, that
Nea was not wholly indifferent to her penni-
less brother.

When they went upstairs that night again,
they sat long talking in Nea's room, till their
candles had burnt low in the sockets. They
talked unrestrainedly, like two bosom friends.
Faith wasn't afraid any longer of the " grand
girl." She was more at home with Nea than
she had ever been with anybody else, except
Paul, before. As she rose at last, reluctantly,
to go to bed, she held Nea's hand a long
time in hers. "Nea," she said, pressing it
hard, "how strange it all seems! I was so
afraid to meet you only four days since —
though it's like a year now, for every day's
been so cranomed full of pleasure — and to-
night I can't bear to think I've got to go
back so soon to my school once more, and
my dull routine, and my petty life, and
never again see anything more of you. It's
been all like a beautiful, beautiful dream —
meeting you here, and all the rest — and I shall
feel so sad to have to go away by-and-by and
leave it all."

" Perhaps we shall meet often again in the
future, now we've onue got to know and love
each other," Nea answered, soothing her.

Faith turned with the candle in her hand to
go. Great tears were in her eyes. She trembled
violently.

" No, no," she said ; " I sometimes think it's
all a mistake over for a moment to come out of
one's native sphere. It makes the Avulsion
seem all tixe worse when you have to go back
to it."

• a

THE SCALLYWAG.

' • . U"^' CHAPTER XX.

BBBAKINa THS ICB.

The row ap the river to Ensham was delight-
ful; the sky was blue, the meadows were
green, the water was clear, and the lillies
that lolled like Oriental beauties on its top
were snow-white and golden. Only one thing
damped Faith's and Nea's happiness— it was
the last day of their visit to Oxford.

They had much to regret. The gardens
were so beautiful, the colleges so calm, the
river so peaceful— and the two young men had
been so very attentive.

Faith wondered how, &fter Mr. Thistleton's
open and unaffected homage, she could ever
endure the boorish poUteness of the few young
fallows slw saw from time to time after rare
intervals at Hillborongh. Nea wondered how,
after seeing so much of that nice Mr. Graaooyne
at Mentone and Oxford, she could ever relapse
into the hum-drum life of iiaeping house for
her father in the Cornish reotory. Mr. Gas-
eoyne was so clever, and so full of beautiful
ideas. He seemed to be so thoron^y human
all tbroogh I Nea loved to hea:' him lalk ahont
men and things. And she really did think, in
a sort of way, that Mr. Gasooyne, pnhapa, to
some extent, liked her.

So when she found herself, after lunoh at
Mra. Douglas's picnic, strolling away with
Paoi towards the field where the fridUsries
grow, and the large purple orcliises, she was
oonseiouB generally of a faint thrill ojf pinsure
— that strange, indefinite, indefinable thrill
whioh goes so much deeper than the shallow
possibiStiM of oar haphazard language.

They wandered and talked for many
minutes, picking the great chequered blossoms
as they moved, and never thinking whither
they went, either with their feet or their
tongues, as is the wont of adolescence. Nea
was fall of praise for Faikii — such an earnest
girl, so sincere and profound when you came
to know her ; and Paul, who, to a great extent,
had been Faith's teacher, was proud that his
pupU idioald be liked and appreciated.

"But what a pity," Nea said at last, "we
should have to part to-morrow t For we've
both of as got on so well together."

" It i« a pity," Faol said, " a very great
pity. Faith hM never enjoyed anything so
much in her life, I know ; and your being
there has made it doubly mjojrable for her."

" Oh, I'm so glad to hear yon say so," Nea
exclaimed, with evident delight. " Ton can't
think how much I've enjoyed having her here
too. She's a dear girl. We've had saeh long,
long tidks together in our own rooms everv
evening. And, do yoa know, Mr. Gasooyne,^'
she added shyly, "before she ctune I was so
afraid of OMCting h«r."

" Wbv f " Paul asked, unable to nndarstand
saeh a mliag towards Faith on the part of a
bom lady like Nea.

"Oh, I don't know." Nea answered. "I

can't exactly say why. But sometimes, when
you want to like somebody ever so much,
don't you know, you're so afraid in return
they won't like you."

" And you wanted to like Faith ? " Paul
asked, dl tremulous.

" I wanted to like her, oh, ever so much t
But I was afraid she mightn't take a fancy to
me. It often happens so, of course; but I
didn't want it to be so with her. AJid now
I'm sure she likes me very much, and that's
such a comfort to me."

''You're very kind," Paul answered, em-
barrassed.

There was a long pause, and their eyes mot.
Eyes can say so much more than tongues.
Nea's fell again as she added slowly :

" And I hope now we shall meet very, very
often."

"Who? You and Faith?" Paul cried,
biting his lip hard, and holding in his words
with difficulty.

" Yes," Nea sidd. " Some day she must
come down to Cornwall and see us."

Paul looked up from the fritillaries, and felt
his heart beat and heave.

'* That can never, never be," he answered
solemnly. .

Nea turned to him all at once with an
astonished look.

" Never, Mr. Gascoyne ? " she cried. " Oh,
don't say that 1 I want to meet her very often
now. We're friends for life. Why shouldn't
I see her?"

It was one of those moments in a man's life
when, do what he \i;ill, the passion within him
gets the better of him and out-masters him.
He looked into Nea's deep eyes — those eyes
he would never see after to-morrow again —
and answered in a tone of poignant regret :

" Because you and I must keep as far apart
as we can from one another."

Nea more than half guessed his meaning at
once, but she would have it direct from his
own very Ups before she could believe it.

"And why, Mr. Gascoyne?" she asked,
with a throbbing heart.

" Because," Paul said boldly, blurting out
the whole truth in spito of himself, "Nea, I
love you."

There was a faint short interval, during
which Nea felt a sort of electric quiver pass
through all her frame; and then she mur-
mured very low :

" Thank you, Mr. Gascoyne, thank yoa."

" And I'm afraid," Paul went on— with in-
sensate folly, as he thought to himself—" I'm
afraid — I'm sure — ^you love me a little in
return, Nea."

Nea raised her eves, one Mash from ohin to
forehead, and met bis gace bashfully.

" More than that : a great deal," she
answered, with a tremor.

Paul sat down on the dry bank by the hedge,
and seated Kea gent^ on a big stone benoe

Bwe

BRGAKINQ TtIB IQB,

"And thongh I shall never see you again
after to-morrow," he said, " I was wicked
enough and foolish enough — it canie over me
BO just now, that I couldn't avoid giving myself
the satisfaction of telling you so."

" I'm glad you did," Nea murmured through
the tears that struggled hard to rise and choke
her ntteranca. " I like to know it."

" It was wrong of me, very wrong of me,"
Paul cried, already penitent; "but, Nea, I
can't be sorry I did, when I tihink how sweet,
how delicious, it is for me to know that
through all my future life I can carry away
the memory of those words you just uttered.
' More than that : a great deal ' — I shall never
forget them."

"Thank ^ou," Nea cried once more, with
sweet simplicity.

Paul looked at her long, with a great yearn-
ing in his heart.

" And it's hard to think," he went on, " we
must part for ever to-morrow."

" Why for ever ? " Nea asked, looking back
at him again with womanly trust. " Why for
ever, Mr. Qascoyne ? If you love me, and I
love you, why need it be for ever ? "

Paul tore a purple fritillary to pieces ner-
vously.

" Oh, what have I done ? " he said, looking
up at her anxiously. " "Why did I ever begin
it? I've acted so wrong, so wickedly, so
cruelly I I ought never to nave spoken to vou
on the subject at all. I ought to have looked
it up tight — tight in my own bosom."

" I should nave found it out, even if you
hadn't told me," Nea answered, rimply. "And
whether you told me or not, I, at least, would
have IovmI yon."

Paul took her little hand unreproved in his
own.

" I was mad, though," he said ; " I was
wicked to trouble you. Nea, I won't say any-
thing about the d^erence in our positions, or
anything like that, for I know you are good
enough and true enough to love a man for
bL^iiitdlf, and not for his wealth or what else he
can give you. I know, poor as I am, and
sprung from where I spring, you'd be willing
to take me. But I oughtn't to have spoken to
you at all about my love. I ought to have
stifled and hidden it all from you, knowing, as
I do now, that we can never marry. It was
cruel of me so to cross your path, so to wring
that oonf ' . don from your own sweet lips — only
to tell yi ' that I can never marry you."

" Yon oidn't wring it from me," Nea whis-
pered low. " I like to tell you so."

" Oh, Nea I " Paul oried, and pressed her
hand in silenee.

" Yee, I like to teU you." she repeated. " I
love to tell you.* I'm glad for my own sake

Kou've made it possible for me to tell you. I
ked you very, very moeh at Mentone ; and
every day I've seen you since I've liked you
better, and better, and better. And then, I've
talked so much d»out you with Faith. Every

evening she and I have done nothing but talk
about you. That was why I wanted to like
Faith so much, because — because I was so very
fond of you. But, Paul," she said it out quite
naturaUy, " Paul, why can't you marry me ? "

Paul began in some vague, shadowy, in-
definite way to tell her once more about Uiose
terrible claims that so weighed upon his con-
science, but before he'd got well through the
very firat sentence Nea said, interrupting him :

"I know, I ktiow. I suppose you mean
about Mr. Solomons."

" Has Faith told you all about Mr. Solomons,
then ? " Paul exclaimed, in surprise.

" Yes," Nea answered. *' Of course I wanted
to know as much as I could about you, because
I was so much interested in you, and — and — I
loved you so dearly ; and Faith told me all
about that, and it made me so very, very sorry
for you."

" Then, if you know all that," Paul cried,
" you must know also how wrong it was of me
to speak to you, how impossible lor me ever to
marry you."

Nea looked down at the fritillarles in ht..'
hand, and began to arrange them nervously
with twitching fingers. After a while she
spok$.

" i don't think jo," she said, in » very calm
voice. "Even if we two can never^ never
marry, it's better I should know you love me,
and you should know I love you. It's better
to have found that out, even thougn nothing
more come of it, than to go through life
blindly, not knowing whether we haid ever
won one another. I shall go back to Corn-
wall, oh, ever so much happier than I came
away, feeling certain at least now tiiat you love
me, Paul."

The young man leant forward. His lips
pursed up of themselves. Nea didn't shrink
away from him. She didn't tremble or with-
draw. She ^owed him to kiss her. The kiss
thrilled through her iiunost behig.

Paul leant oaok once more, all penitence,
against the bank.

" What have I done ? " he oried, aghast at
his owo folly. "Let us rise and go, Nea.
The longer we stay here, the worse and worse
will we make matters."

" No," Nea answered, quietly. " I don't
want to go. I like sitting here. I can't let
you go yet. We must understand better how
we stand with each other. You mustn't go,
Paul, till you've told me everything-"

Paul, delighted in his secret heart at the
moment's respite, began once more, and told
her all his fears and doubts for the future —
how he was bound hand and foot to Mr.
Solomons ; how he must spend his whole life
in trving to repay him; and what folly it
would be for him to dream of marrying. He
reproached himself bitterly for having let Nea
see into the secret of his heart. He ought
never to have told her, he said ; he ought never
to have told her.

THE SCALLYWAG.

Nea liBtened to him to the very end. Then
•he fixed her earnest eyes upon him and
answered softiy : " Paul, I will wait for you,
if I wait a lifetime."

"It isn't a ease for waiting," Paul cried:
" it's a case for despair ! "

"Then I won't despair," Nea answered.
"Not even to please you. I'll be happy
enough in knowing you love me."

For a minute or two more they talked it
over together in gentle whispers. Nea could
never love anyone else, she said ; so what did
it matter whether they could marry or not ?
She would be hiu, at any rate, for she could
never be anybody else's.

"And when I ^o, you'll write to me, Paul? "
she added, pleaT'ngly.

Paul hesitated.

" I musn't," he cried. " I oughn't to, Nea.
Remember, we two are not engaged to each
other."

" We're mora than engaged," Nea answered,
boldly, with the boldness of a true woman's
heart. "We're each other's already. Paul,
I'll write to you, and you must write to me.
Tou have great powers, and you'll do good
work in the world yet. In time, perhaps, you'll
pay off all this weight of debt wat clings like
a millstone round your neck, and then you'll
marry me. But, if not, we'll live for one
another for ever. And I shall live happy if I
know yon love me."

" One more kiss, Nea 1 "

"As many more as ever you like, Paul."

. *■

' • CHAPTER XXI.

OOIMCIDENOBS.

In another part of the fields, meanwhile,
Faith Oascorrne and Charlie Thistleton had
wandered on together along a backwater of
the river, in search of forget-me-nots, they
Baid, and white water-lilies. Oh, those inno-
cent flowers, how much tiiey have to answer
fori How many times have they not been
made the excuse for such casual divagations
from the stndght path of Britannic chaperon-
age!

Thistleton had helped to row them up
stream, and Faith thought she had never seen
him look so handsome as he looked just then
in his bright Christ Church boating-jacket,
with the loose flannel shirt showing white in
front where the jacket l&y open. A manly
man seldom looks manlier wan in boating
costume. In evening clothes, to be sure, as
she had seen him at Exeter concert, he was
perhaps as gentlemanly; but that was mere
gloss and outward show ; the young Greek god
came out more fully in the garb of athletics.
Faith thought with a sigh that to-morrow her
holiday womd be over for ever, and she must
needs go back to the vacant young men of
Hillborough.

They sat down bv a flood-gate on a tiny

side-stream, and arranged their forget-me-nots
into a respectable bunue. The flood-gate had
a sluice-door in it, and the water pouring
through made murmuring music. The sky
was just chequered with fleecy clouds, and the
wind whispered through the willows on the
margin. It was all a sweet idyl to Faith's
full young heart ; and Mr. Thistleton by her
side was so kind and attentive.

She Imew Mr. Thistleton admired her— in a
way. She couldn't help seeing, as she sat
there in her prettiest morning frock, that he
cast eyes of delight every now and again at
her rich brown complexion and her imcommon
features. For Faith Gascoyne was above
everything uncommon-looking; a certain in-
dividual stamp of distinction, half high-bred,
half gipsy-like, was the greatest charm of her
peculiarly cut features. And Thistleton gazed
at her with almost rude admiration — at least,
Faith would almost have thought it rude if it
hadn't been so evidently sincere and simple-
minded.

Nevertheless, when Thistleton, turning
round abruptly, asked her point-blank that
alarming question, " Miss Gascoyne, do you
think yon could ever like me ? " Faith was so
completely taken by surprise that she started
back suddenly, and let the forget-me-nots
tumble from her hands on to the beam of ^e
flood-gate.

"Why, of course, Mr. Thistleton," she
answered, with a faint smile, " I like you —
oh, ever so much I You're so kind and good-
natured."

" But that's not what I mean," the blonde
young man corrected hastily. " I mean —
well. Faith, I mean, do you think you could
ever love me ? "

If ever a man took a woman by storm in
this world it was surely this one 1

There was a long pause, during which Faith
picked up the forget-me note one by one, and
arranged them together with deliberate care
into a neat little bouquet. But her heart
was throbbing fast all the while, for all
that.

At last, she looked down and whispered
low, while the blonde young man waited
eagerly for her answer :

" Mr. Thistleton, you ought never to have
asked me that question at all. Consider —
consider the diflerence in our positions."

Thistleton looked down, a little bit crest-
fallen.

"Well, I know it's presumptuous of me,"
he sud with a shy iJr, just emboldened by his
eagerness. "A Sheffield cutler's son has no
ri^t to ask a — a lady of birth and rank to be
hi-« wife off-hand; but I thought, Miss Qas-
coyne "

Faith cut him short with an impatient
gesture. Was this mauvaiae conUdie of her
father's baronetcy to pursue her like an evil
fate through life, even in these its supremaii
moments? -..,,- ,_ .. ,„.,„„

■ -wrra- - t^vcm-f-

C0INCIDBNCE5i

<•! didn't mean that" she said, leaning
eagerly forward, and looldng up at him witli a
little appealing glance for merov. " Surely,
Mr. Thiatleton, you must have known your>
self I didn't mean that. But you are so much
richer and better brought up than me, and
you move in such a very different society. I
—I should be ashamed myself of publicly dis-
gracing you."

Tbistleton glanced across at her with a
curiously doubtful, half-incredulous air.

" Why, how much at cross-purposes we all
live I " he said, with a little awkward laugh.
" I've been wanting all day to speak out my
n^d to you, and I've been afraid all along,
for I thought you'd think me so very presum-
ing. And I'd made up all kinds of pretty
thmgs to say to you, don't you know, about
trying to live up to your level, and all that
sort of thing — because you're so clever, and so
brilliant, and so much above me in everyway ;
and now as soon as ever I open my mouth,
vou knock me down with a regular stunning
baok-hander like that, and I don't know where
on earth to begin or go on again. I can't
remember what I meant to say to you. I
thought if, after I took my degree, and went
to the Bar in London — my father wants me to
go to the Bar, just as a nominal thing, you
see, because it's so very respectable; but, of
course, he'll make me a handsome allowanoe
for all expenses— I thought, if I lived in town,
and kept up a good establishment, and made a
home fit for you, you might perhaps, when
you got to know me a little better, think me
not quite altogether beneath you. And, to
tell you the truth, Miss Gascoyne, to make
security doubly sure, I wrote to my father
day bcnore yesterday, telling him everything
about your brother and yourself, and saying
that I thought of venturing to ask you to
marry me, and I got this telegram in reply
from my people last night — ^you can see it u
you like, it's rather long of it's sort: my
father 's always just a trifle extravagant in the
matter of telegraphing."

Faith bit her hp as she took the telegram
from the blonde young man ; the whole thing,
in spite of her agitation, was so supremely
ridionlonst "Your mother and I have read
your letter with satisfaction and pleasure," the
telegram sidd, " and are delighted to see you
thiiUc of looldng so high in that matter. We
are gratified at the choice you have made of
companions, and now in another more im-
portant relation. It would be a very proud
thing for us if at the dose of our career,
which has been long and prosperous, we could
see our dear boy the brother-in-law of a man
of title. • You may be sure we would do every-
thing to make you both happy. Don't delay
on any account to ask the young lady as soon
as possible, if a fitting ooeasion for doing
so snould arise. And if ihe accepts you, take
any credit necessary to nuke her a suitable
present of whatever object yoo think desirable.

Let us know the lady's answer at once by tele-
gram."

Faith handed it back to him with a burning
face. Her hands trembled. " It's all so strange
to me," she murmured, bewildered.

"At any rate," Tiiistleton cried, "your
objection's answered beforehand, you see. So
far as any difference in position goes, both my
parents and I looked at that question exactly
opposite from the way you look at it."

" I see," Faith answered, looking down, all
fiery red, and with her soul one troubled whirl-
wind within her.

" Then what do you answer me ? " Thistle-
ton asked, taking her hand in his. " Faith —
may I call you Faith? — ^yon struck me so
dumb by taking such a topsy-turvy view of
our relations, that I hadn't got words to tell
you what I wanted. But I love you, Faith,
and I want vou to marry me."

Faith let her hand lie unresistingly in his,
but turned away her face, still hot and fiery.
"You— you are very kind, Mr. Thistleton,"
she answered.

" But that's not what I want," Thistleton
put in, leaning forward once more. " Faitii,
I want you to tell me you're ready to marry
me."

" No," Futh answered resolutely. " I can't.
Never, never, never I

"Whv?" Thistleton asked, dropping her
hand all at once. She let it hang idle at her
side as if sorry he had dropped it.' '

" Because— I mustn't," Faith answered, all
aglow.

"Don't you like me?" Thistleton asked
with a very wistful look. "Oh, Faith, I've
been watching yon ever since you came to
Oxford, and I really began to think yon did
like me, just a little."

"I like you very much," Faith answered,
trembling. "I never was — so flattered — at
anything in my life as that — that you should
thmk*me worthy to marry you."

" Oh, don't say that I " the young man cried
in a voice of genuine distress. " It hurts me
to hear you talk like that. It's so upside down,
somehow. Why, Faith, I lay awake trembling
all lost night, wondering now I could ever
venture to ask you— you who are so beautiful,
and good, and dever. I was afraid to speak to
you. OoHy ta.y love could have emboldened
me to speaJc. And when I did ask you at last,
I blurted it out point-blank like a schoolboy, -
because I felt you so much above me that I
hardly dared to mention such a thing in your
presence."

Faith smiled a troubled smile. "You're
very good," she said. " I like yon ever so
much, Mr. Thistleton. I should like to sit
here with you — always."

" Then why won't yon marry me ? " Thistle-
ton cried euerly.

Faith pulkd about the forget-me-nots osten-
tatiously once more. " I hudly know myself
yet," MO answered. " It's m. so new. It's

THfi itALtt^Aa,

.^-

ootne B8 saoh a rarprise to me. I haven't
bad time to collect my thoughts. I only
know in a dim sort of way that it's quite, quite
impouible."

"Don't you think you could love me?"
Thistleton asked very low.

Faith looked at him as he sat there in his
numly boating suit — so much more of a man
than anybody she had ever before dreamt of —
and then she thought of the infants. " I could
— like you a good deal, I'm sure/' she
answered slowly. " It isn't that, Mr. Thistle-
ton. It isn't that at all. If— if I yielded to
my own heart," she spoke very low, ' perhaps
I might say to yoti Yea at once "

BMore sne could finish her sentence she felt
an arm placed boldly round her shapely it^aist,
and two eager lips pressed hard against hers.
She rather fancied Mr. Thistleton was kissing
her. "If you say as much as that," the
blonde yoong man cried oat triumphantly,
" yon have 8<dd all. I don't mind any more
now. ^th. Faith, you belong to me I "

Faith struggled to be free so hard that
Thistleton let her go and sat looking at her
admiringly.

"Mr. Thistleton," she said, with quiet
dignity, "you must never do that again. I
like yon very much, but I told you just now
I can never marry you."

" And I asked you why," Thistleton retorted
with the audodty begotten of love j " and

Sou'd no good Tbottati to give tue ; M> I sfty, on
le ^bnittiry, you'll have to marry ttie."

Faith drew a long breath and pulled henelf
together. The reasons why it watf impossible
Q{hme olearer to her now. They dawned slowly
on her tnind. She leaned baok and explained
them One by one to ISiistleton— her father's
oalline; the family poverty; her mother's
need ror somebody to help her ; his own future
in life; the impossibility of keeping in two
societies ai Once anywhere.

But Thistleton, with the unconscionable
ardour of youUi, would listen to none of these
lame excuses. As for her father, he said, he
was a Britidb baronet, and what better father-
in-law any member o) a North-Country busi-
ness house could possibly want he was at a
loss to discover. As to the family poverty,
that was all the more reason why the family
should restore itself to its proper position by
marrying into other families tliat had more
'money wan brains, and more land than ances-
try. When Paul came into his titl6— which
he hoped wouldn't be for tnany years yet—
they'd be none the prouder than they were of
him tiow, with his cleverness, and his In-
dus^, ahd his fine, high character.

" But still, you know," he said, coming back
to the on 4 undeniable truth of logiA, "a
baronet's a bitfonet."

As Faith seemed dinnclined to dispute that
Mlf-6vid6ftt MMeitneft of an identical Droposi-
tion, ThlstlMtih W6ot on to remark that F^lth,
if married, edoia do it great AM iaoi^ to htil

her mother than in school with the iniants;
that his own future would be all the more
assured in Society's eyes if he allied himsOlf to
a member of a titled family ; and that, as his
father wanted him to go into Parliament
finally, he wished to have a wife who would
be a credit and an aid to him in that arduous
position. Finally, when Faith urged the
difiicuUy of mixing in ' vo societies at once,
Thistleton looked her baok very gravely in the
face, and remarked with a solemnity that
fairly made her laugh :

"And the governor, you know, doesn't
always get his tongue quite straight ronild his
most slippery h'». Yet he might have been in
Parliament more than once if ne liked. "Why,
the floor of the House is literally strewn nowa-
days, they say, with the members' aspirates."
They sat there long, debating and fencing,
Faith confident that the idea was wholly im-
practicable, and Thistleton determined that
Faith should say Yea to him. But, at last,
when time had gone too far, they rose, and
Thistleton fired one parting shot before re-
joining Mrs. Douglas at the shore by the row*
boats.

" At least," he said, " I suppose I may write
to you ? "

Faith hesitated for a moment. She couldn't
forego that innocent pleasure.

"Well, yes," she said falteringly« "you may
write to me if you like. As Mr. Solomons
says, 'without prejudice.' you may write
to me."
The blonde young man smiled triuinphant.
" Well, that settles It," he exclaimed with
delight. " I shall telegraph back this evening
to the governor."

"And whM'U you say?" Faith asked, not
wholly displeased.

" The lady accepts, but defers for the pre-
sent," Thistleton answered boldly.

" But I don't accept," Faith cried. " Oh,
you mustn't say that, Mr. I'bistleton. I dis-
tbictly said No to yOU."

The Professor came upon them before
Thistleton could reply.

" My dear young truants," he said, beaming
hard on Faith through his benevolent tnnee-
nee, " where on earth have you been hiding
yourselves ? I come a« ambassador from the
court of Mrs. Orundy. My wife hae been
looking for you any time this half-hoar."

As they rowed home that evening, down the
cahn blue stream, everybody notieed that
Isabel Boyton, who was one of the guMts, had
lost her irrepressible gbod gpirits for onoe, and
seemed th«d and moody. She Mt silent in
the stem, with her ftrm round Koii Blaii*'8
waist, and hardly even flaidied ool a saujy
retort #hen the Professor ohoffed her upon her
unezpeeted taoitttmity.

But when she reiMshed her rooms at the
" Mitre,'* in the dusk, that night, she flung her
Mtia mAif tib«tit her mother's neck, and

MISS BOYTON PI.AYA A CARD.

eried out aload, "Oh momma, momma, do
vou know what's happened ? He propoaed to
Nea Blair to day — and she's aooepted him t "

" How do you know, darling ? *' her mother
asked, soothing her.

" I could see it," Isabel cried. " I'm sure
of it! I know it! And oh, momma, it was
the title and the fun of the thing I thought of
at first ; no more than that ; but, in the end,
it was himself. I love him t I love him ! "

Your American girl is the coquette pushed
to its utmost limit. Who wants her may go ;
but who shows himself indifferent to her
charms and dollars, she would die to win
him.

That night, when Thistletoo met Faith at
the Christ Gliurch concert, he slipped a little
packet unobtrasively into her hand. Faith
would have returned it, but she couldn't
without attracting attention. She opened it
in her own room, after Nea had left her — Nea,
who had come with kisses and tears to bid her
good-night, but not to tell her about her
episode with Paul. It contained a short note
—a very short note— and a tiny jeweller's box.
The note said :

" Mt dablino Faith,

" I was always a dutiful and obedient
son, and I've felt compelled to-nip[ht to obey
my father's instructions. He said I was to
buy you a suitable present, and I send it here-
with. I might have chosen a diamond or
something of the sort, but then I know yon
wouldn't nave worn it. This little ring will be
really more serviceable.

" Your own grateful and devoted

"C. H. T.
" P.S. — Enclosed telegram just arrived from
Sheffield."

Futh looked at the ring. It was simple
and prettv enough; but what she liked best
was his thoughtmlness in sending her those
five small pearls instead of anything more
showy and therefore more unsuitable. Then
she turned to the telegram :

"We congratulate yon warmly. We are
pleased and proud. Please send a photo*
graph."

CHAPTER XXII.

MIB8 BOYTON PLAYS A OARD.

Next morning, as Nea was busy packing.
Faith burst unexpectedly into her room with
a sudden impulse. To say the truth, girl that
she was, she couldn't resist the temptation of
showing Nea her ring, though she said nothing
about we note that accompanied it. Nea
admired it with a placid sigh. It would be
long before Paul could give her such a ring.
iTot H^i she wanted one, of coune : nobody

was less lUcely to think that than Nea ; bat,
then, poor Paul must feel the diffsrence so
keenly 1

She folded up the dress that lay stvetohed
on the bed, md laid it neatly into her small
portmanteau. Faith glanced at it all at one*
with a sharp glance of surprise.

" Why, Nea." she cried, taking it out once
more and holding it in her hand, " whatever
do you call this, you bad, bad creature ? "

Nea blushed a guiltv blush of conscious
shame. She was caugnt in the act — fairly
found out. It was an evening dress she had
never worn all the time she was at Oxford.

Faith looked down into the portmanteau
once more, and there in its depths caught a
passing glimpse of yet another one.

" Oh, Nea," she cried, half tearful with
vexation, taking it out in turn, " this is really
too wicked of you. You had these two nice
evening gowns here all the time, and you've
only worn the old cashmere ever since you've
been here on purpose not to be better dreesed
thap I wag I "

Nea gazed at these two mute witnesses to
her guilt wiUi an uncomfortable glance. Her
tender little conscience would nave moittea
her greatly had she allowed that simple ex-
planation of Faith's to pass unqualified.

" It wasn't altogether that," she answered,
fixing her eyes on uie carpet. " It was partly
on your account, Faith, I don't deny, that I
wouldn't wear them ; but partly, abio " — she
hesitated for a second — " to tell you the truth,
I didn't want— your brother to think I was—*
well— so very much more expensively dressed
than you were."

She said it so simply that Faith guessed tbfl
rest, and ipade no answer save to fling her
arms round Nea's neck and kiss her passion-
ately. For now, she felt, they were almost
sisters.

They drove to the station together, and went
up — both third—in the same ^ain to Padding*'
ton. There they parted; Nea to Comww,
Faith to Waterloo, for Hillborough and the
infants.

Her dream was over. She must go baolt
now to the work-a-day world again.

But always with that ring and note in her
pocket. For she dared not wear the ring;
that would attract attention. Still, what a
difference it made to her life! It would
sweeten the days with the infants to feel it
furtively from time to time. It would bring
the dream back to her, and she would work
the more easily.

Thiatleton and Paul had come down to see
them off at the station, and with them Miss
Boyton and her inseparable momma. Poor
Isabel couldn't deny herself the pleasure of
watching her victorious rival safe out of
Oxford, and waving her a farewell from Paul's
gide on the platform. Not out of anv ill-will
or unkindness — of that Isabel was wholly in-
capable — biit umply as a sort of salve to her

ir\J

THB 5CALLYWAa.

f'-

ownfeelbn. Nm had engaged Paol'i hMurt,
and Imbel Meepted her defeat with good
graoa. Not only did ihe bear Nea no grudge
for having tiiui ousted her, but the kissed her
a kisa of exceptional tenderness, and pressed
her hand wiUi a friendlv pressure as she
entered the carriage. Nea knew what the kisa
and the pressure meant. Among women
words are very seldom necessary to pass
these little confidences from one to the other.

From the station Isabel walked back to the
*' Mitre " with Thistleton, allowing her momma
to take possession of Paul. She had reasons
of her own for this peculiar arrangement. She
wanted, in fact, to apply once more that
familiar engine, the common pump, to Thistle-
ton. And the blonde young man, being by
nature a frank and confiding personage, was
peculiarly luaoeptible to the pumping opera-
tion.

When they reached the " Mitre," Isabel
deposited the obedient momma in her own
roona.

" I'm going a turn round tho meadows with
Mr. Thistleton," she said, abruptly.

"You've a lecture at twelve, Thistleton,
haven't you ? " Paul asked, anxious to spare
bis friend Miss Boyton's society if he didn't
want!;.

"Oh, I'll out the leeturel" Thistleton
answared, good-humouredly. " It's Aristotle's
Ethics; and I dare say ^stotle don't mind
being cat. He must be used to it now, after
•o many centuries. Besides, a just mean
between excessive zeal and undue negligence
^>/ vntf his own ideal, you know. He should bo
,• flattered by my conscientious carrying out of
4 Mr .his principles. I haven't missed a lecture for
a whole week now. I think it's about time I
■hould begin to miss one."

For, in fact, the blonde young man vaguely
inspected, from what Isabel had told him on
her way from the station, she hoped to benefit
the Gaseoyne family, and taking now a pro-
found intereet in all that eoncemed that dis-
tinguished honse, of which, in spite of Faith's
disclaimer, he almost considered himself at

1>resent a potential member, he Mras anxious to
earn what her scheme might be, and to see
how far it might be expected to lighten the
burden of the family difficulties. Isabel, how-
ever, WM too thoroughbred an American to
let Thistleton see too much of her own inten-
tions. She led him dexterously to the round
■eat in Christ meadows that overlooks the
Cherwell, and, seating him there at close
quarters, proceeded to work the pump-handle
with equal dcill and vigour. She succeeded so
well that even Armitage himself, that past
master in the art of applied hydrostatics,
eould hardly have surpassed her. At the end
of an hour she had got out of Thistleton almost
all he Imew about the strange compact between
the Gtesooynes and Mr. Solomons. Motives of
delieaoy, hideed, restrained the blonde young
from mentioning the nature of the

security on which Mr. Solomons reposed his
hopes of ultimate repayment— Paul's chance
of marrying an heiress. He thought such a
disclosure might sound a trifle personal, for
the name and fame of Isabel's proapective
dollars had been noised abroad far and wide
both in Mentone and in Oxford. Nor did he
allude in passing to his own possible future
relations with the heir • apparent to the
baronetcy and his handsome sister. Other
personal motives tied hi- tongue there; while
as to the state of affairs between Nea and Paul
he know or guessed 'ar lea. than Isabel ht i nelf
did. But with these few i.rifling exceptions,
he allowed the golden-haired Pennsylvanian
to suck his brains of all his -riv. e acquaint-
ance with the Gascoyn> affairs, being
thor hly convinced, like an innocent, go )(1
youii man that he was, that Isabel could
desire this useful knowledge for no other
purpose than to further the designs of the
Gaseoyne family. If Maf^.me Geriolo had got
hold of a joung man like Thistleton she might
have twisted nim round her little finger, and
used his information to ve—^ bad account;
fortunately, the American heiress had no plana
in her head but such as deserved the unsus-
picious undergraduate's most perfect oonfi-
dence. <

When Isabel had sucked her orange quite
dry, she rose at last, and remarking in the
cheerful American tone of virgintd discovery,
" it must bo getting on for one : I feel like
lunching,' led the way back direct to the city.

As soon as she found herself in her own
room at tho " Mitre," however, she took out a
russia-leather notebook from her puoket, and
entered in it, with a neat gold pencil-case- . and
not without aome rising tears, three short
memoranda : " Judah Solomons, High Street,
Hillborough, Surrey. Faith Gaseoyne, 6,
Plowden's Court. Drexel, Morgan and Co.,
Bankers, Paris."

Then she dried her eyes with a clean white
handkerchief, hummed a cheerful tune for a
minute or two to herself to restore her spirits,
and having satisfied herself in tiie glass that
all *^ -aces of recent weeping ha< disappeuwd,
descended, smiling, to her momma in the
coffee-room.

" On Toosday." she said to her mother, with
an abstracted air, as they sat down to a lunch
of Transatlantic splendour, " I shall "o back to
London. Appears to me as if I'd £ad about
enough now of these Oxfox-d Colleges. There's
too many of 'em at once. They run into the
monotonous."

"Very well, Izzj, " her mother responded,
dutifully.

And on Tuesday morning, in real earnest,
they were back again once more, with all their
boxes, at Hatchett's Hotel in Piccadilly.

That afternoon, as Isabel, somewhat diaeon-
solato, strolled along Bond Street, she saw a
familiar figure steering its way towards her
loongily on the opposite side of the street. Tho

(5gur
ashi
cuffe
As

prec
figui
o( I

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

figure was attired in a faultless f'-oclc-eoat and
a shiny tall hat, and wm bootoa, gloved, and
cuffed to match with irreproachable exactitudu.
As a faint smile began to develop itself by
premonition on Isabel's countenance, the
figure displayed some momentary symptoms
of nascent hesitation, not unmixed with an
evident tendency to turn away, without the
appearance of obaerving her, into Burlington
Oardena.

Miss lioyton might bo very good fun on the
Promenade du Midi, but was she quite the
right sort of person to acknowledge in Bond
Street? The authority on the meaning of the
word " scallywag " had his doubts on tne sub-
ject.

Before he oould oan^ his hesitancy into
efToct, however, Isabel had darted promptly
across the street with American irrepressibility,
and was shaking the limp gloved hand with
good-humoured fervour.

" Oh my 1 Mr. Armitage," she said, " how
funny I should meet you — you of all people in
the world — right here in London."

Armitage drew himself up with stiff polite-
ness.

" One usnally does expect to meet one's
friends in Bond Street," he retorted, with
dignity. " And, indeed, I was here this very
afternoon on the look-out for another old
Mentone acquaintance whom I often meet
about these parts. I mean Madame Ceriolo."

" Oh, she's in London, is she ? " Isabel asked,
with languid interest.

"Well, yes, she's in London," Armitage
answered, cautiously. " Where, I don't know ;
perhaps it would be wisest not to inquire too
deep. Madame Ceriolo's movements should be
judged, I take it, with tolerant leniency. But
she amuses me, you know — she undoubtedly
amuses me." He spcke with a marked apolo-
getic tone, as one who fee > half ashamed of
his own undeveloped taste. " I like to meet
hor and have a little chat with her now and
again. She gives me a fillip. After all, one
can forgive muoh to a person who amuses
you."

" I guess that's about what we all want out
of one another in this valf of tears," Isabel
answered frankly.

"The philosophy of life in a nutshell,"
Armitage retorted, reassured. "And really,
in her wav, the little woman's quite present-
able."

"Oh, quite presentable," Isabel answered,
smiling.

" So why shouldn't one know her ? "
Armitage went on, with the timid air of a
man who desires to bo backed up in a heretical
opinion. " I mean to find her out and look
her up, I think. And you, Miss Boyton, what
have you been doing with yourself since you
left Mentone ? "

The devil entered into Isabel Boyton (as he
frequently does into her saucy fellow- country-
women) and prompted her to respond with
inoialTeness >

" I'vh been up to Oxford, to see the soally-

" No ? " Armitage cried, with a look of pro-
found interest. "And tell rae, Miss Boyton,
what did you seu or hear there ? "

Isabel took a cruel revenge for his desire to
avoid her.

" I saw Nea Blair," she said, " who was
stopping at a house in Oxforu with Faith Qas-
ooyne, the scallywag's sister ; and we went
out a great deal together, and saw Mr. G i-
coyne and Mr. Thistleton, and a great ma.iy
more. And no end of ongaj^emenis and things
have happened ; and there's lota of news ; but
I'm so sorry I'm busy. I must call a hack I "

And, quick as thought, she hailed a hansom,
and left the poor scandalaionger lifting his
hat, alone on the pavement, tantalized.

It was a cruel revenge, but perhaps he
deserved it.

Armitage would have civen five pounds that
moment to know all aoout these rumoured
engagements.

Had that fellow Gasooyne succeeded in
bagging the American heiress who was so
sweet upon him at Mentone ? And had
ThisUeton fallen a victim to the seeming
innocence of Kea Blair ? He rather suspected
it. These innocent bread-and-butter misses
ofton know, at any rate, on which side their
bread's buttered. So, twenty minutes later,
Armitage was expounding both apocryhal en-
gagements to little Madame Ceriolo, wliom he
happened to run up against, quite by accident,
of course, near the comer of Piccadilly. And
little Madame Ceriolo, smiling her most win-
nhig smile, remarked confidentially that it's
often the women of the world, whom every-
body suspects, that have after all the mostv'v
profound and disinterested affections.

As she said so, she looked most meaningly
at Armitage.

CHAPTER XXIII.

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOB.

" Momma," Miss Isabel Boyton remarked at
breakfast on Wednesday morning, balancing a
fragment of sole on the end of her fork, as she
glanced up sideways, "you needn't worry to
expect me to lunch to-day. I'm going out by
myself, and I mayn't be back till somewhere
near dinner-time. If you happen to be loafing
around anywhere about Bond Street, I dare
say you'll pick up Mr. Armitage ; he's there
most all the time — afternoons, he says. But
if you don't, I guess you can drop in and look
at the National Gallery, or something instruc-
tive and entertaining, most as well with-
out me."

Mrs. Boyton helped herself to a third
poached egg and some more broiled ham — she
hod the usual surprising appetite of the sallow
Americtm dyspeptic — as she answered meekly :

" Yes, indeed, Izzy. I've got to moil my

THE SCALLYWAQ.

Utton to your poppa thi« morning, »nd after
lunoh I'll dx tn yself up uiid lit out in the Pork

Miu laabel went up to her own room, and
eoDiultod Bradihaw. The high mathoraatical
training abe had received at the Harrbburg
Lyceum enabled her in less than half an hour
to arrive at the abstruse faot that a train for
Hillborough left Victoria Station at 11.5, and
that a return train might be expected at B.17
or at 4.60. Armed with theio datii, and with
th« ooniciouineM of virtue, slie summoned a
hansom— it was one of the chief joys of London
In Isabfll Boyton'a eyes to " ride a hansom "
from place to place — and commanded her
driver to take her " right away " to Victoria.

Arrived at the station which bore that regal
and imperial name (Isabel did just love these
faint eclioes of royalty, resonant througli the
length and breadth of modern England), she
went into the tele^raphoitice and framed a
hasty cablegram, m the imperative mood,
addressed to Syl^anus P. Boyton, Philadelphia,
Pa. — which last > aterious addition bad refer-
ence, not to Mr. Boyton's respected parental
relation towards herself, but to his local habi-
tation in the State of Pennsylvania. The
meeaage itaeU waa pithy and to the point :

"Open me a oredit for three thousand
poonds aterliug at once at Drexel and Morgan's,
Parie.

" Ibabeii Bottom."

" ' Honour your father and mother ' 'agone
out of data," Mr. Sylvanna Boyton remarked,
in hia ooonting-houae at Fhiladelpbia, when
he received that cablegram four houra earlier
(by American time), " and * Honour your sons*
and daughters' cheques ' has come in histead
of it ! " But he understood hia duty in his
own generation, for all that, for ho telegraphed
without delay, " Have advised Drexel and
Morgan, aocordin'^ to wish. You seem to bo
going it."

And going it .Vliss Isabel undoubtedly was,
in her own unconventional American fashion.

At HiUborough Station she found but a
aingle cab in attendance. Thia she hailed at
onoe, and observed in a confidential tone to
the driver, " I wont you to drive me to Mr.
Solomona', Auctioneer and Estate Agent some-
where in tile High Street ; but please, in goine,
don't paaa a place called Flowden'a Oourt, if
you can poaaibly help it, and don't go near the
Bchooi where Miss Qasooyne teaches. I don't
want her to know I've come to HiUborough."

The driver smiled a curiously knowing
smile; and his right eye was with difficulty
prevented from winking ; but he was a discreet
man, as is the wont of cabmen — those involun-
tary depositaries of so many other folks' secrets
— ao he answered merely, " All right, miss ; I
understand I " with an air as confidential as
laabel'a own, and drove her forthwith to the
dingy, atingy little ataoooad houae in tha old-

fashioned High Street, without farthar oom-
ment.

Mr. Solomona waa in somewhat low apirita
that morning. Thio(;a generally had been
using him very hard. A debtor against whom
he had obtained a judgment summons had
" sold up " so ill that barely enough remained,
after rxpenses paid, to cover the principal of
Mr. Solomons' debt, let alone the interest.
Oreat Occidental Shares wliich ho held for a
rise had fallen yesterday five-eighths to three-
quarters. His nephew Lionel, whom he sup-
plied so liberally, had written again to ask fur
more. And, to crown ail, sitting clumsily
down himself with all his weight of care, he
had broken an office stool, value three-and-a-
penny, which would have to be replaced by a
fresh article from the carpenter s. These
accumulated misfortunes told heavily upon
Mr. Solomona. He waa distinctly out of
sorts, and he would have been glad of an
excuse to vent his ill-humour, if occasion
turned up, upon aome fitting object.

Nevertheless, when he saw a pretty young
lady with golden hair— slim, too slim for Mr.
Solomons' Oriental taste, but still distinctly

Eood-looking, and dressed with the nameless
icommunicable obarm of American pluto-
cracy— descend at hia own door and enter hia
ofiice, doubtless on business thoughts intent,
professional spirit rose so triumphant in Mr.
Solomons' breast that be advanced to meet the

Kretty young lady, smiling a amila of ten
ouse-and-estate-affent power of perauaaion.
He saw in her, mth the eye of faith, that
valuable acquisition to the professional man
— a new client. The new client was probably
come to inquire for a furnished villa at Hill-
borough for the summer season. Mr. Solo-
monshad always many such inquiriaa in July
and Auguat.

The young lady, however, declined the 'aug-
eestion of wanting a house. She was in a
hurry, she said — in a very great hurry, might
she speak with Mr. Solomons half oi) hour —
alone — on strictly private business ?

Mr. Solomons rose, and led the way upataira
with a beating heart. Sixty yeara of reaolute
bachelorhood had made him w jry. Could th«
lady's little game by any possibility be breach
of promise ? He trembled at the idea. If only
Leo were here now to listen unobtrusively and
act as witness through the medium of the key*
hole. But to face her alone, unsupported even
by the office-boy's evidence — the bare notion
of such damages as the Court might award vaa
really too appallinf.

The young lady, however, soon set hia
doubts on that score at rest. She went straight
to the point with Transatlantic directness. Mr.
Solomons had certain bonds, notes, or accept-
ances of Mr. Paul Qasooyne's, of Christ Church,
Oxford. How much were they for? And
what would Mr. Solomona take, in a lump, for
them?

At thia astounding proposition, fired ( *T at

hia
ori
the

jj|k;-v:

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

hli h««d polnt-bUnk, without eiplnnation
or introdaotion, without e\en k knowledge of
tho .young lady's name, Mr. Holomoni' breath
oame and went painfully, and a curious oon-
fliot of doubt and hope took possession of his
bosom. He was a business man, and he must
know more about this offer before he even
admitted tho existence of the bonds. Who
knew but that the strange young lady wanted
to rob and murder him I

So Mr. Solomons temporised. Bv long and
slow degreHs he drew out of Isabel the various
facts that she was a rich Amerioan ; that she
had met Paul Ganooyne at Mentone and
Oxford ; that she wished to get the bonds into
her own hands ; and that, apparently, she was
well disposed towards the parties of the first
part in those valuable documents.

On the other hand, he gathered, by various
suggestive side-hints, that the young lady was
not aware of the precise position of Paul's
father, beyond the fact that he waa a baronet
of tho United Kingdom in very small ciroum-
stances ; and, further, that she had no sort of
authority from Paul himself to make any ofTer
whatsoever for the documents in question. She
was prepared to buy them, she said, for their
fair money value in prompt cosh, and she
would engage to cause the parties of the first
part no unnecessary trouble in the matter of
repayment.

Mr. Solomons' heart, like the Homeric hero's,
waa divided two ways within him at this sin-
.gular applloatlon. He had never oonoealed
from himself, and his nephew Lionel had oer-
tainly not concealed from him, the painful faot
that these bonds were » very doubtful and
problematie«l Monrlty. Ha had ventured
much on • eook*uid-bull aohame — a little

Erivate mare'a-neet of bis own invention ; and
e had trembled for yeara for his precious
money. And, here, now, was the very heireaa,
the diua «m tnaehina (or dea, if we must speak
by the card, lest equivocation undo us), who
waa to relieve him from all hla financial folliea,
and justify his daring, and marry Paul, and
make repayment certain. Nay, more than
that, as Mr. Solomons read the problem, the
heiress was even prepared to pay up before-
hand, in order to relieve her future husband
from the weight of debt, and put him in a
better way, no doubt, for building up for hlm-
aelf a poaition in life and Society.

Mr. Solomons held hia double chin between
finger and thumb as be pondered deeply. A
venr strong bait, no doubt, this offer of prompt
oaab— a tary atrong b*it indeed to nnman
cupidity.

And yet two othar feelinga rose powerful at
once in Mr. Solomon's nund— two atrange,
deep leellnga. The first waa this: If here
waa the heiress who indeed waa ret^dy to marry
Paul, and aave him at onoe from all his
atrugglea and diffloultiea, why ahould Mr.
Solomona let her diaoount him, aa it were, at
preaent value, and ao get him cheap, when, by

holding on till the end, and selling dear, ha
would reap the full benefit himnelf of his long
investment ? What's the use o* embarking in
a doubtful speculation if you don't e]pe<;t to

f;et well repaid, cent, per cent., in the end for
1 7 How foolish to get frightened with land
in sight, so to speak, and forego the harvest of
vour own wise adventurousnesa t Why, Mr.
Solomons would like to hold on, if for nothing
else, in order to show liis nephew Leo he was
vrrong after all, and that Paul would book his
heiress at last, and pay up, like a young man
of honour as lie was, to tho uttermost farthing.
Twenty per cent., and annual renewals, with
discount off for the extra risk to start with —
and to the uttermost farthing.

And the second foelins? Ah, that Mr.
Solomons hardlv even admitted to his own
soul. Ho would have been ashamed, aa a
business man, to admit It. But it waa there,
nevertheless, vague and undetermined, a
genuine sentiment, In some undercurrent of
consciousness. Had he not conceived all this
scheme himself, and risked his solid cash on
the chimerical proposition ? Was it not he who
had put Paul to school and college, and thus
acquired, as it were, a proprietarv interest in
him ? Waan't Paul'a auooeaa in life hia own
business now? Had he backed It ao long,
and would he hedge at the last moment m
favour of a stranger? And what stranger?
Whatever did he know of this queer young
lady, who had dropped down nnon him from
the clouds, with her bruaqua, anttp mannera
and her eager American promptitude ? Why
sell Paul's future to har or to anyone ? Waa
not Paul hia by right of invaatment, and
lAiould not hi ran him on hia own aeoonnt, to
win or to lose, aa the ehancea of the game
of Ufa would have it? The gambling apirit
waa atronc in Mr. Solomona, after all.
Having backed his horse, he liked to stand by
him like a thorough-going aportaman. No
hedging for him. And ft aartain anaaUng
human regard for Paul made him aay to him-
self, " Why hand him over, bound body and
soul, to a golden-haired young lady from parte
unknown, whose motivea for buying him A me
are, after all, doubtful ? "

So he stared at Isabel hard aa ha opened bla
aafe and took out the predooa doenmanta with
trembling fingera. Than he aald, "The total
sum up to date eomea to a trifle om fifteen
hundred pounds aterling."

" Only fifteen hundred ? " Isabel aried with
a start. "And he makea All that fuaa over
fifteen hundred ponndat Why, aay, Mr. Solo-
mons, I'll give you two thouaaod, money down,
for the lot, and we'll make it a baroain."

Mr. Solomona drew a deep breatn and heai-
tated. Four hundred and aaventy odd pounds
dear plrofil—be.>idea the compound Intereat at
twenW per oent.— WM mora than hia fondeat
wish nad ever anticipated. Sueh a young
w(mian aa that, prtmerly worked, woold mdeed
be a perfect mine of wealth for • oi^taliat to

THE SCALLYWAG.

draw upon. He looked at her long, and hif
heart faltered. Four hundred and seventy
odd poundb I " WeL, what do you want them
for? " he asked at last, cautiously.

"That's my business, I guess," Isabel
answered with sharp decisiveness. " To| bum
'em if I choose, perhaps. When I buy thuigs
at a store, I don't usually expect to tell the
dry-goods man what I want to do with them."

Mr. Solomons eyed her with an inquisitive
look. " Let's be plain and aboveboari with one
ano^er," he said. " Do you intend to marry
him?"

*• Oh my, no, ' Isabel answered at once, with
prompt decision that carried conviction in its
very tone immediately.

Mr. Solomons was nonplussed. "Tou
don't want to marry him ? " he exclaimed, taken
aback.

" No, I ahi't going to marry him," Isabel
answered stoutly, just altering the phrase into
closer accordance with the facts of the case,
but otherwise nodding a bland acquiescence.
" I ain't going to marry him, I give you my
word, Mr. Solomons."

" Then what do you want ? " Mr. Solomons
asked, all amazed.

"I want those papers," Isabel answered
with persistence.

Mr. Solomons rose, faltered for a second,
replaced them in their pigeon-hole with a
decided air, looked the safe, and put the key hi
his pocket. Then he turned round to Isabel
with a very gracious smile, and observed
politely :

" Have a glass of wine, miss ? "

It was Ms mode of indicating with graceful
precision th.<st ^<Le question between them was
settled — in the negative.

Against the rock of that decisive impasmve
attitude the energetic little American broke
herself in wide foam of entreaties and ex-
postulations, all in vain. She stormed, begged,
prayed, and even condescended to burst mto
tears, but all to no purpose. Mr. Solomons,
now his mind was once made up, remained
bard as adamant. All she could obtain from
Solomons was the solemn promise that he
would keep this fruitless negotiation a dead
secret from Paul and Faith, and would never
even mention the fact of Ler visit to Hill-
borough. Thus reassured, the kind-hearted little
Fenna^^vanian dried her eyes, and, refusing
in return to make Mr. Solomons the confidant
of her name, descended the stairs once more,
wondering und disappointed.

"Shall I call you a cab, miss?" Mr.
Solomons asked, politely, as he went down by
her side.

"Thuik yoo, I'vb gotten one waiting,"
Isabel answered, trying hard to look uncon-
Aerned. "Will yoi. iell the mpr i.,- ;ri ^ to
the best place in the village >v^>. ..i i. • •■ ::t
something to eat? " For Am-" -^ .• • ^v. rot
of the existence of towns — to tnei:.-. . . >,.. ihing
that isn't a city is a mere village.

But when Mr. Solomons saw the driver of
Isabel's cab, he gave a sudden little start of
surprise, and exclaimed involuntarily, " Why,
bless my soul, Oascovne, it's you, i« it ? The
young lady wants to be driven to the ' Qolden
Lion.' "

Isabel Boyton drew back, herself surprised
in her turn. " You don't mean to say," she
cried, looking hard at the cabman, " this is
Mr. Gascoyne's father ? "

Mr. Solomons nodded a nod of acquiescence.
Isabel gazed at him with a good hard stare, as
one gazes at a new wild beast in the Zoo, and
then held out her hand frankly. "May I
shake hands with you ? " she said. " Thank
you very much. You see, it'll be something
for me to tell my friends when I get back home
to America that I've shaken hands with an
English biuronet."

At the " Golden Lion " she paused as she
paid him. " You're a man of honour, I sup-
pose ? " she said, hesitating slightly.

And the English baronet answeref*. with
truth, " I 'opes I are, miss."

"Then I trust you, Mr. Gasoovne, Sur
Emery, or whatever else it ought to be," she
went on, seriously. "You won't mention
either to your son or your daughter that you
drove an American lady to-day to Mr.
Solomons' oflBice."

The English baronet touched his hat
respeotfuUy. "Not it I was to die for it,
miss," he answeted, with warmth; for the
honest grasp of Isabel's hand had touched
some innermost chord of his nature till it
resounded strangely.

But Isabel went in to gulp down her lanoh
with a regretful sense of utter failoxe. She
hadn't suooeeded in making things easier, as
she had hoped, tot Paul and Nea.

And the English baronet and Mr. Solomons
kept thehr troth like men. Paul and Faith
never knew Isabel Boyton had visited Hill*
borough, and Mr. Solomons himself never
learnt the name of his mysterious little golden*
haired American visitor.

5^^ycH

CHAPTER XXIV.

HONOUBS.

All the rest of that term at Oxford was a dull
one for Paul. As soon as Faith and Nea
" went down " (to use the dear old Oxford
phrase) he set to work with redoitMed vigour
at his reading, and went in at last for his final
examination. Upon that examination much,
very much, depended. If only he could gain
a First, he would stand a fair clumce in time
for a Fellowship ; and a Fellowship would
allow him leisure to look around and to lay
his plans for slowly repayhig Mr. Solomons.
But if he succeeded merely in attaining a
Second or Third, his prospects of a Fellowsnip
would be greatly decreased, and with them the
probability of his shaking off that load of debt

HONOURS.

with

Ir.

that clogged and oppressed him in all his
schemes for the future.

He knew, of oouree, that the necessity for
taking pupils during his undergraduate years
told heavily against him. No man con row in
two boats at once ; and the time he had used
up in reading with Thistleton and his other
pupils had been so much subtracted from the
time be ought to have devoted to his own
reading. Still, he was able, undeniably able ;
and little disposed to overestimate his own
powers as he was, he had, nevertheless, a din?
consciousness in his own soul that, given even
chances, ho was more than a match for most
of his contemporoi-ios. He had worked hard,
meanwhile, to make up for lost time ; and he
went into the exambatlon cheered and sus-
tained by the inspiring thought that Nea
Blair's eyes were watching his success or
failure ijrom afar in CornwalJ.

Day after day he worked and wrote in thc^e
dreary schools ; deep in Aristotle, Plato, Grote,
and Mommsdn. Night after night he com-
pared notes with his competitors, and marked
the strong or weak points of their respective
compositions. As time went on his spirits
rose higher. He was sure he was doing nim-
self full justice in his papere. He was sure
what he nad to say upon most of the questions
asked in the schools was more original and
more philosophical than the ideas and opinions
of any of his neighbours. He felt quite at
ease about his success now. And If only once
he could get his First, he was pretty sf.re of a
Fellowship, and of some chance at If^ast of
repaying Mr. Solomons.

At last the examination was over, the papers
sent in, and nothing remained but that long,
weary delay while the examiners are glancing
over the tops of the answers and pretending to
estimate the relative places of the candidates.
Paul waited and watched with a yearning
heart. How much hung for him on the Issue
of that dreaded class-list !

On the day when It came out, nailed up
according to Oxford wont on the doors of the
schools, he stole into the quudrangle half an
hour late— he couldn't bear to be thero with
the first eager rush— and looked among the
6's in the First Class for the name of Oascoyne.

It was with a thrill of surprise— only sur-
prise at first — that he noticed the list went
blraight from Oalt to Groves; there was no
Gascoyne it all in the place where tie expected
it. He 'ubbed his eyes and looked again.
Surely some mistake ; for the names go In
each class In alphabetical order. 0-a-l, Gas,
G-r-o. Had they misspelt it sntiiohow?
Then, all at once, the truth flashed across his
mind In a horrible revulation. Tlio truth, or
part of It. His n&um wasn't put in the Vinf
Class at all 1 He must liavo taken a Socond I

For a moment he could hardly l)elieve ills
eyes. It was all too strange, all too incredible.
He hod worked tio hard, he had deserved it so
well 1 But still he must face the worst like a

man. He fixed his glance steadily on the
Second Class. Farrington, Flood, Galbralth
Glrdlestone. He rubbed his eyos once more.
AVos he going mad on the spot ? Or had the
examiners neglected to place him altogether ?

AVitk a vague sinking feeling about his left
breast, he glanced down yet lower to where
the Third Class filled up Its two much longer
colunms. About half-wav down, his eye
caught his own namt with that miraculous
rapidity which enables one always to single
out tliose familiar words on a printed page
from a thousand others. " Gascoyne, Paulus,
ex iEJe Chrlsti." Yes, yes, It was too true.
There was no denying It. A Tlilrd — the
lowest of all classes In Honours — was all he
had got for all his toll and trouble t

He reeled as he stood, sick — sick with dis-
appointment.

How had it happened ? Who knows ? Who
can bay? It's the greatest mistake In the
world to suppose the best men always come
uppermost. If a board of Third Class men In
after- life were to examine their examiners, it
is highly probable they might often turn the
tables on the dons who :7iisplaced them.
Humanum eat errcvre, and examiners are
human. They often niake blunders, like all
the rest of us, and they added one more to
that long list of mistakes when they gave Paul
Gascoyne a Third In Finals.

The fact Is, Paul was original ; and Oxf-jrd,
like Mr. Peter Magnus, hates originality. A
decorous receptivity Is what It most prefers.
It likes a human mind to be modelled on the
phonographic pattern — prompt to take In
exactly what It Is told, and ready to give It out
once more, precisely as Inspired, whenever you
turn the barrel on again by pressing the
handle. In Paul's essays, the examiners de-
tected some ti&your of ideas which appeared
to them wholly unfounded on any opinions set
forih by Professor Jowett or Mr. T. H. Green,
of Balliol ; and, shocked at this revolt from
establuhed usage, they relegated their author
to a Third Class, accordingly.

But Paul for the moment knew none of
thei»> things. He was only aware thnt a
crushing blow had fallen upon him un-
expectedly ; and he went back inconsolable to
his own ro<iinB in Peckwater, where he sported
hie oak, or big outer dtor, flung himself pas-
sionately into his easy-chair, and had his bad
hour olono by himself In unutterable misery.
It was hard to have worked so long and so
well for so bitter a disappointment. But these
things happen often, and will happen always,
as loMg as men consent to let themselves be
measurcil liv a foot-rule measurement like so
many yurds of bricK and mortar. They are
the tiibulo we pay to the examination Jugger-
naut. It crushes the best, and rolls unbelt
over the bodies of the hardest.

IViil luiichod alone; he was incapable of
going into ThistU ton's rooms, as he often did
for luncheon. Bat at two o'clock he heard a

THB SCALLYWAG.

loud knocking at hia big oak dbor— contrary to
all established rules of University etiquette ;
for when onoe a man fastens that outer bar-
rier of his minor oasUe, he is supposed to be
ill, or out of town, or cthiw^'.w engaged, and
inaccessible for tho tiroo being even to his
nearest and dearest intimatet. However, he
opened it, regardless of the breach, and found
Tnistleton waiting for him cu the landing, very
red faced. The blonde young man grasped hu
hand hard with a friendly pressure.

" Oascoyne I " he cried, bursting, and hardly
able to gasp with stifled indignation, " this is
just atrocious. It's wicLdd; it's incredible I
I know who it was. Confound his impudence.
It was that beast Pringle. Let's go round to
John's, and punch his ugly old head for him."

In spite of his disappointment, Paul smiled
bitterly. Of what good would it be to punch
the senior examiner's bead, now that irrevoc-
able class-list had once been issued ?

" I wanted to be alone, Thistleton," he said ;
" it is almost more tlian I can bear in com-
pany. It isn't for myself, you know, but for
— for the heavy dainu that weigh upon me.
However, since you've come and broken my
oak, let's go down the river to Sandford Laaker
in a tub-pair and work it off. There's nothing
like muscular effort to carry away these things.
If I don't work, I feel as if I could sit down
and cry like a girl. What I feel most is — the
gross injustice of it."

And gross injustice is quite inevitable as long
as men think a set of meritorious and hard-
working schoolmasters can be trusted to place
in strict order of merit the pick and flower of
intelligent young Englishmen. The vilo ex-
amination system has in it nothins viler than
this all but certain chance of crusuing at the
outset by want of success in a foolish race,
the cleverest, most vivid, and most original
geniuses.

They went down the river, Thistleton still
protesting his profound Intention of punching
Pringle's head, and as they rowed and rowed,
Paul gradually worked off the worst of his
emotion. Then he came back, and dined alone,
to try and accommodate himself to his new
position.

All his plans in life had hitherto been based
upon the tacit ossmnption that he would take
a First — an assumption in which he had been
duly backed by all who knew him — and now
that he found himself »tranded on the banlc
with a Third, in8v:.td, ne had to begin an'^ re-
consider his prospect in the world, under the
terrible weight of this :indden disillusiounient.
A Fellowship would now, no doubt, be a prac-
tical impossibility ; he must turn his attention
to some other opening — if any.

But tlie more he thoucht, the less ho saw his
way clear before hun. And, in eflect, what
can a young m%n of promise, but without
capital, and baokdd only by a Third in Greats,
find to turn hut band to in these latter cnya
in this iammed and overstocked realm uf

England ? Of what practical use to him now
was this costly education, for which he bad
mortgaged his whole future m years in
advance to Mr. Solomons? The Bar could
only be entered aftesi a long and expensive
apprenticeship, and even then he would in all
probability do nothing but swell the noble
ranks of briefless barristers. Medicine required
an equallv costly and tedious novitiate. From
the Cnurch he was cut off by want of suflicient
faith or natural vocation. No man can be-
come a solicitor off hand, any more than he
can become a banker, a brewer, or a landed
proprietor.

Paul ran over all conceivable professions
rapidly in his mind, and saw nono open before
him save that soUtary refuge of the destitute
— to become a schoolmaster ; and even that,
with a Third in Greats for his sole recom-
mendation, would certainly be by no means
either easy or remunerative.

And, then, Mr. Solomons. What would Mr.
Solomons say to such a move? He would
never allow his proUgi to take to school-
mastering. Mr. Solomons' ideals for him were
all so different. He always figured to himself
Paul tddnr hf roper place in Society as tlie
heir to a baic jtcy, and there captivating and
capturing that supposititious heiress by the
charms of his person and the graces of his
high-born aristocratic manners. But to be-
come a schoolmaster I In Mr. Solomons' eyes
that would be simply to throw away tho one
chance of success. \Vhat he wanted was to
see Paul living in good chambers in London,
and moving cubout among tho great world,
where his prospective title would mean in the
end money or money's worth for him. If the
heir of all the Gasooynes had to descend to the
drudgery of mere sohoolmasterin^, it would be
necessary to have an explanation with Mr.
Solomons ; and then — and then his father's
dream must vanish for ever.

How could he ever have been foolish enough
in such circumstances to speak to >4ea? His
heart misgave him that ho liad been so unkind
and so cruel. He would have bartered his
eyes now if only he could undo the past. And
even as he thought so, he unfastened his desk
and, so weak is man, sat down to write a
passionate appeal for advice and sympathy
and aid from Nea.

He couM nev r njany her. But she would
always bo his. And it calmed his soul some-
how to write to Nea.

As he wrote a knock came at the sported
oak — the sharp double rap that announces a
telegram. He opened the door and took it
from the bearer. -

" To Paul Gascoyne, Christ Church, Oxford.
" Mrs. Douglas has telop-aphod me result of
class-list. Your disappointment is my dis-
appointment. I feel it deeply, but send you
all sympathy. Yoli nuit take to liteiature now.

paper
troub

DOUK

puzzl

lems.

huml

clear

still

later

Til

thin!

despt

oredi

Miiiiati^h^idHidk^ill^Ullta^a^U^^ial^bu^WL

COMPENSATION.

He flong himself back in his easy-chair
once more, and kissed the flimsy bit of cheap
paper fervently. Then, Nea had taken the
trouble to arrange beforehand with Mrs.
Douglas for a telegram. Nea had been

Iiuzzling her head about the self-same prob-
ems. Nea had felt for him in his day of
humiliation. He would work away yet, and
clear himself for Nea. Mr. Solomons should
still be paid off somehow. And sooner or
later he must marry Nea.

Till that night he had never even dared to
think it. But just then, in his deepest hour of
despair, that bold thought came home to him
as a frflsh spur to effort. Impossible, in-
oredibla, unattainable as it seemed, he would
pay off all and marry Nea.

The resolve alone was worth something.

Mechanically he rose and went to his desk
once more. This time he pulled out a clean
sheet of foolscap. The need tor an outlet
was strong upon him now. He took up his
pen, and almost without thinking sat down
and wrote furiously and rapidly. lie wrote
as he had rowed that afternoon to Sandford
Lasher, in the wild deaire to work oil his
excitement and depression in some engrossing
occupation. He wrote far into the small hours
of the morning, and when he had finished some
seven or eight closely-written foolscap sheets,
be spent another long time in correcting and
repolishing thorn. At last he got up and
strolled on to bed. Ho had followed Nca's
advice, red-hot at tlio moment. He had
written for dear life. All other means failing,
be had taken to literature.

And that is about the way wo all o'i us who
live by the evil trade first took to it.

CHAPTER XXV.

COMPENSATION.

As it happened, that most terrible disappoint-
ment in all his life was probably the luckiest
thine on earth that could possibly have befallen
Paul Qascoyne. Had he taken a First, and
then gained a fellowship, he would doubtless
have remained up at Oxford for many years
to come, plodding and coaching, leading a
necessarily expensive and useless life, and

|)aying o£f Mr. Solomons but very slowly by
ong-deferred instalments out of his scanty
savings. As it was, however, being thus cast
adrift on the world upon his own resources, he
was compelled more frankly to face life for
himself, and to find some immediate paying
work, which would enablo him to live by hook
or by orcok, as best he might, over the next six
months or so. And that prompt necessity for
earulnst his salt proved, in fact, hii real salva
tion. Not, of course, tnat he gave up at once
the idea of a Fellowship. He was too brave
a man to let even a Third in Greats deter him
from having a final fling at the hopelessly un-
attainablf , A week later he went lu for tlie

very first Taoaooy that turned up, and missed
it nobly, being beaten by a thickheaded
Balliol Scot, who knew bv heart every opinion
of every recognised autnority on everything
earthly, from Plato and Aristotle down to John
Stuart Mill and Benjamin Jowett. So having
thus finally buried his only chance oi Uni-
ve: -.ity preferment before October term, Paul
set to work with a brave heart to look about
him manfully for some means of livelihood that
might tide him over the summer vacation.

Uis first idea — the stereotyped first idea of
every unemployed young Oxford man — was of
course to get pupils. But pupils for the " Long "
don't grow on overy busn ; and here again
that strange divinity that shapes our ends,
rough-hew them how wo may, proved kindly
favourable to him. Nr a single aspirant
answered his intimation, .. ':ly hung among a
dozen or so equally attractive announoenients
on the notice-board ;f the Union, that " Mr.
Paul Qascoyne, uf Christ Church, would be
glad to road with pupils for ' Mods.' during
the Long Vacation." Thus thrown upon his
baam-ends by the necessities of the case, Paul
was fairly compelled to follow Nea's advice
and " take to Uterature."

But *' taking to literature " is not so easy aa
it sounds to those who have never tried it.
Everybody can write nowadays, thaoks to the
Board Schools, and brave the supreme diffi-
culty of the literary profession. An open
trade — a trade which needs no special appren-
ticeship — is always overstocked. Every ^gate
is thronged with suitors : all the markets over-
flow. And so Paul hardly dared to hope even
for the modest success which may keep a
bachelor in bread-and - butter. Bread-and-
butter is much, indeed, to expect from one's
brains in these latter days, when dry bread is
the lot of most literary aspirants. Little as he
knew of the perils of the way, Paul trembled
to think what fate might have in store for
him.

Nevertheless, on the very night of his bitter
disappointment over the Oxford class-list, he
had sat down and written off that hasty article
— a mere playful sketch of a certain phase of
English life as he well knew it, for he wat .^ot
without his sense of humour ; and reading i*
over at his leisure the succeeding morning ha
saw that, though not quite so good aa he
thought it the night before, in his feverish
earnestness, it was Ptill by no means wanting
in point and brilliancy. So, with much fear
and trembling, he enclosed it in an envelopei
and sent it on, with a brief letter oonaoanda-
tory, to the dreaded editor of the Monday Re-
membrancer. And then, having fired liie bott
in the dark, he straightway tried to forget all
about it, for fear df its entailing on him still
further disappointment.

For a week or ten days he waited in vain,
during which time he occupied all his spare
moments in trying his 'prentice hand at yet
other articles. For, indeed Paul hardly

THE SCALLYWAQ.

understood himself as yet how strait is the
gate and how narrow is the way by which
men enter into even that outer vestibule of
journalism. He little knew how many
proffered articles are in most oases " declined
with thanks" before the most modest little
effusion stands a stray chance of acceptance
from the journaUstio magnates. Most young
men think it a very easy thing to " write for
the papers." It is only when they come to see
the short shrift their own best efforts obtam
from professional critics that they begin to
understand how coy and shy and hard to woo
is the uncertain modern Itluse who presides
unseen over the daily printing-press. But of
all this Paul was still by rare good luck most
innocently ignorant. Had he known it all,
brave and sturdy as he was, he might have
'alien down and fainted perchance on the
threshold.

At the end of ten days, however, to his deep
delight, a letter came back from that inexor-
able editor — a cautious letter, neither accepting
nor rejecting Paul's proffered paper, but saying
in guarded roundabout language that if Mr.
Gascoyiie happened to be in town any time
next week the editor could spare him just
twenty minutes' private conversation.

By a curious coincidence Paul was in town
early next week, and the inexorable editor,
sitting with watch open before him to keep
jealous guard lest Paul might exceed the
stipulated twenty minutes, expounded to him
with crude editorial frankness bis views about
his now contributor's place in journalism.

" Have you ever written before ? " the
editor asked him sharply, yet with the familiar
wearied journalistic air (as of a man who has
sat up all night at a leader), pouncing down
upon him hke n hawk upon a lark, from under
his bushy eyebrows.

Paul admitted with some awe, and no little
diffidence, that this was his first peccadillo in
that particular directioii — the one error of an
otherwise blameless existence.

" Of course," the editor answered, turning
over his poor foolscap with a half-con-
temptuous hand, " I saw that at a glance. I
read it in the style or want of style. I didn't
neM to be told so. I only asked by force of
habit for further confirmation. Well, you
know, Mr. Ga«eoyne, there's no use disguising
the fact. YoTJ can't write — no, you can't write
—yon can't write worth a kick, or anvthing
like it ! " and he mapped down his mouth with
a vicious snap as one snaps a rat-trap demon-
stratively between one's thumb and finger.

" No ? " Paul said, in an interrogative voice
and somewhat crestfallen, much wondering
why, in that case, the busy editor, who
measured his minutes strictly by the watch,
had taken the trouble to send for him all the
way up from Oxford.

" No, indeed you can't," the editor answered,
argumentative, Uke one who expects to be
oontradicted, but won't brook contradiction.

" Just look here at this now, and at this, and
this," and as he spoke the great man rapidly
scored with his pencil one or two of the most
juvenile faults of style in Paul's neatly-written
but undeniably amateurish little essay.

Paul was forced to admit to himself, as the
editor scored them, that these particular con-
structions were undoubtedly weak. They
smelt of youth and of inexperience, and he
trembled for himself as the editor went on
with merciless quill to correct and alter them
into rough accordance with the Betnem-
brancer'a own exalted literary standard.
Through the whole eight pages or so the
editor ran lightly with practued pen — enlarg-
ing here, contracting there, brightening
yonder — exactly as Paul had seen the tutors
at Christ Church amend the false concords or
doubtfi.'! quantities in a passman's faulty Latin
versas. The rapidity and certainty of the
editor's touch, indeed, was something sur-
prising. Paul saw for himself, as the ruthless
censor proceeded in the task, that his work-
manship was really very bad. He felt in-
stinctively how crude and youthful were his
own vain attempts at the purveyance of
literature. At the end, when the editor had
disfigured his whole beautiful, neatly-written
article with illegible scratches, cabalistic signs,
and frequent alterations, the poor yoimg man
looked down at it with a sign and half-mur-
mured below bis breath :

" Then, of course, you don't intend to print
it?"

The editor, for all reply, sounded a small
gong by his side and waited. In answer to
the summons, a boy, somewhat the worse for
lamp-black, entered the Bki^ga^t presence and
stood attentive for orders. Tno editor handed
him the much-altered pages with a lordly
wave. " Press ! " he said, laconically, and
brushed him aside. The hoy nodded, and
disappeared as in a pantcmlme.

Then the editor glanced at his watch once
more. He ran his fingers once or twice
through his hair with a preoccupied air and
stared straight in front of him. For a minute
ho hummed and mused as if alone. After
that he woke up suddenly and answered with

do, though ; I m
. A great ('.: tu ci
course : but X inc .

a start: " Yes I
it— as amended
to come out, of
it."

" Thank you very r-u'. ih," Pan» ^ *rd, o\ '
powered.

" And I'll tell you why," the editor weji., > ;
never heeding his thanks — to editors b^'.. ti)
is mere contributors' business. " U ko

't wiii iiflV,

.li to ntim

written a bit ; oh, dear no, not written ; but
it's real— it has stuff in it."

" I'm 80 glad you think so," Paul exclaimed,
brightening.

The editor cut him short with a rapid wave
of his imperious pen. Editors have no time
to let themoeU'es be thanked or talked to.
"You have Bomethlug to write about," ho

a
a*

o
to

•J

a
o

said, "

word, '

that's

journali

whoko

a more

than a

English

you ma

omavit

moonsb

ality ar

want is

them.

know ;

thorou{

of thou

••lb

interru

The(

tion wi

matten

oontrib

What I

thing t

and GUI

"Qu

clasH.

Thoy'r

vour a

'rhdrnfi

thoiu.

sumcd

own e

wants

how th

verb.

it exiai

of reoo

rooogn

Malul

wall a

your

want

artiuloi

Paul

The ed

"Ar

tinns f

1 see.

avoid

go wrc

out ol

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Satire

Three

would

penne

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deal

have t

in yoT

once I

went

door.

hand

AN INTRODUCTION.

eoM, "Bomething new and fresh. In one
word, ' Vou$ connaisaez voire monde,' and
that's jast what's wanted nowadays in
joarnalism. We require apicialitiia. A man
who knows all about the Chicago pork trade's
a more useful man to us by a hundred guineas
than a fellow who can write well in limpid
English on any blessed subject under heaven
you may set him. ' Nullum tetigil quod non
omavit ' — Dean Swift and the broomstick — all
moonshine nowadays I Crispness and origin-
ality are more drug* in the market. What we
want is the men who have the actual stuff in
them. Now, you have the stuff in you. You
know your world. This article shows you
thoroughly understand the manners and modes
of thought of the petite botirgeoiaie,"

"I belong to them, in fact,'' Paul put in,
interrupting him.

The editor received the unnecessary informa-
tion with polite indifference. For his part, it
mattered nothing on earth to him whether his
contributor were a duke or a Manchu Tartar.
What mattered was tlie fact that he had some-
thing to communicate. He nodded, yawned,
and continued listlessly :

" Quite so," he said. " You understand the
clasb. Our readers bolons to a different order.
They're mostly gentle/olKs. You seem from
your article to be a greouLTocer h aHsistii/it.
Tlmrafore you've got BHUiething fresh to toll
thorn. Tills is an age when Kocioty's con-
sumed with a burning desire to understand its
own component elements. Half the world
wants to know, fur the first time in its life,
liow thr> other half lives, just to Rplte the pro
verb. Till) dnsire's inoumprehonaible, but Htill
it exists ; and the journalist thrives by virtue
of reoosnising all actualities. If you refuse to
recognise the actual— like the Planet and tlie
Mattiiliiiil Herald, for example — you go to tlio
wall as sure as fate. Mr. — ah'm -whore's
your card ? — ah, yes — Qasooyno, we shall
want a series of a dozen or so of these
artiules."

I'aul hardly knew how to oppress bis thanks.
The editor cut him short with a weary wave.

" And mind," he said, drawling, " no quota-
Uons from Juvenal. You're an Oxford man,
X see. Young man, if you would prosper,
avoid your Juvenal. University men always
go wrong on that. They can't keep Juvenal
out of modern life and newspaper leaders.
You'vo no less than three tags from the Third
Satire, I observe, in this one short article.
Three tags from the classics at a single go
would damn tlie best middle that ever was
penned. Steer clear of them in future, and try
to be actual. Your articles '11 want a great
deal of hacking and hewing, of course ; T shall
have to prune them ; but, still, you've the stuff
in you." He glancM at his watch uneasily
once more. " The first next Wednesday," ho
went on, with a signitioant look towards the
door. " I'm very busy just at present." His
hand was fumbling nervously among his papers

now. He rang the little gong a second time.
•' Proof of the « Folly of the Government,' "
he remarked to the boy. " Oood-moming,
Mr. — Qasooyne. Please don't forget. Not
later than Wednesday."

" Please don't foreet I " As if it was likely,
or as if he suffered from such a plethora of
work that he would fail to supply it I Why,
the very chance of such an engagement as
that made him wild with excitement. And
Paul Oascoyne wont down the wooden steps
that afternoon a happy man, and a real live
journalist on the staff of the Monday Bcmem-
brancer.

CHAPTER XXVI.

AN INTRODUCTION.

" NEMO repcnte fit turpiaaimui " : and no-
body becomes by design a journalist. Men
drift into tl e evil trade as they drift into drink,
crime, or politics — by force of circumstances.
They take it up first because they've nothing
else ready to liand to do, and they go on with
it because they see no possible way of getting
out of it. Paul Oascoyne, however, by way of
the exception to every rule, having thus un-
expectedly drifted into the first head- waters of
a journalistic career, began seriously to con-
template making his work in life of it. In this
design he was furth(T encouraged by the
advice and assistance of Mr. Solomons, 'vho
would have energetically protested against
anything so vulgar as schoolmastering, as
being lUcely to interfere with his plans for
I'aul's brilliant future, but who considered an
occasional excursion into the domain of litera-
ture as by no means derogatory to the dignity
even of one who was destined to 'oecomc, in
course of time, a real live baronet. Nay ; Mr.
Solomons went so far in his commendation of
the craft as to dwell with peculiar pride and
pleasure on the career of a certain noble lord
who was not ashamed in his day to take his
three guineas a column from a distinguiHliod
weekly, and who afterwards, by thfl unexpected
demise of an elder brother, rose to the actual
dignity of a British marquisate. These things
being so, Mr. Solomons opined that Paul,
though born to shine in courts, might blame-
lessly contribute to the Monday Itemem-
hravccr, and might pocket his more modest
guinea without compunction in such excellent
company. For what company can be better
than that of the Lords of th* <"ouncil. endued,
as we all well know them te be, with grace,
wisdom, and understanding ?

Moreover, Mr. Solomons had other idous ol
his own for Paul in his head. It would be so
well for Leo to improve his acquaintauoe with
the fiture bearer of the Gascoyna title ; and
it would be so well for Paul tc keep ip his
connection with the house of SoWuxuns by
thus Associating from time to tim<> with Mr.
Lionel. For this double-barrelled purpos*

THE SCALLYWAG.

Air. Solomons suggostcd that Paul should take
rooniB in the same house with Lionel, and
that they should to some extent share ex-
penses together, so far as breakfast, lights, and
firing were concerned. From which acute
suggestion Mr. Solomons expected a double
advantage— as the wisdom of our anoestora
has proverbially phrased it, he would kill two
birds with one stone. On the one hand, Paul
and Lionel would naturally be thrown much
into one another's society, and, on the other
hand, Lionel's living expenses would bo con-
siderably diminished by Paul's co-operation.

To Paul himself the arrangement was a trifle
less Hatisfactory. ^Ir. Jiionel Solomons wan
hardly the sort of person he would have spori-
tancouHly chosen as the friend and companion
of hJH enforced solitude. Paul's tastCH an<l
ideas liad undergone a considerable modifica-
tion at Oxford, and he was well uware of tlie
distinctions of tone which marked ofT Mr.
Lionel from the type of men witli whom In-
had now long been accustomed to associate.
But still, he never dreamt of opposing himself
in this matter to Mr. Solomons' wishes. The
habit of acquiescence in all Mr. Solomons'
plans for his future had been so impressed
upon his mind by constant use that he could
hardly throw it off in a month or two ; and lie
went uncomplainingly, if not quite cheerfully,
to share the nospitality of Mr. Lionel's rocm)
in a small back street off a I'imUco highway.

For the first few weeks Paul was busy
enodgh, endeavouring to eain himself an entry
into the world of ioumuism. And by great
good luok his prehminary efforts were unex-
pectedly, and it must be confessed unwontedly,
suoceisful. Ah a rule, it h only by long and
strenuous pusliing that even good workmen
succeed in making their way into that most
crowded and dillicult of all triuics or profes-
pions. But there is luok in everything, even
in journalism; and Paul herein was exception-
ally lucky. Mrs. Douglas, feeling herself
alniDHt tiBrsonaljy rcBponsiblo for his mishap
hi liruMM fur || iiiify »*)in liiid imbblod the

UliuiHUHtt III sannre fur iuui at least a dmteiit
mm y mitlKKMrnrHtl in iiiiik«> tip f»r hor ro-
nilssnoss iin thai Jnipiiilunt nmtttHldii liy nilii^
all linr bust Iiii<i|4hImIih wll<m and IiIii'hIIhIi
lituiilii III (III) |i«rHniiii lit nil tlin iiijilii N luid
laador writdrit of liui wide iiii|uatnti)npn.
NiiWi tlie Iiouduii pr«M, as Im wnll Imktiowri to
illiiso (uirhiiii in Nuoh inallitrH, In itliiiimt
entirely uiMiiiiod and run by (Ufonl griiilllllliHs.
Among those magnates of the jouiiiallMli«
World Mrs. jtiiuglas possessed no sui&lt
fAinliiliie iiitluenoe; her dearnut friend was
married to the staff of the '/'miics, and two of
linr MMOimil iiMiinliiD H'Miu iMapxniivoly engaged
to tlio Frnnoli piilUlus of lliu I'luurl utii the

Ul (irlllnlsiil of Hi TTebduiiiadal Conmiiondent.
B.V (ieiltilfiUtlv 'i|iiph)vliig hnr p«<rs(iasivH
powers uii tlie-u puteiit ladles, Mr* hougliut
iu»u»||tid to mwiirn fiii- rivul'it iiitild«>ii efforts

the difficult favour of editorial oonslderatlon.
The rest Paul worked on his own account.
For although, as his first editor had justly re-
marked, he couldn't write worth a kick when
he began his experiments, he sat down bo
resolutely to conquer the intricacies of
English style, that oefore three weeks were
fairly over Ids mamiscript made as decent
copy as that of many journaliatB to the manner
born, with loss brains and perception than the
young Oxford postulant.

It was during these first weeks of toilsome
apprenticeship that an event happened of
great importance to Paul's future history,
thougli at the moment he himself saw in it
nothing more than the most casual incident
of everyday existence.

One Saturday afternoon Mr. Lionel
returned home early from the City, on fashion-
able promenade intent, and proposed to Paul
to accompany him to the Park, to take the
air and inspect the marriageable young ladies
of this isle of Britain there on view to all and
sundry. " Let's have a squint at the girls,"
indeed, was Mr. Lionel's own precise and
classical suggestion for their afternoon's enter-
tainment.

For a moment Paul demurred. "I want
to get this article fmished," he said, looking
up from his paper with a rather wearied air.
"I'm trying one on spec, for the Monthly
Intelligencer."

" Rot I " Mr. Lionel ejaculated, with pro.
found emphasis. " You're working too hard,
Oascoyne ; that's just what's the matter with
you. "We don't work like that in the City, I
can tell you. You're muddling your brains
with too much writing. Much better come
out for n. walk with me this afternoon, and do
the Park. You can't expect to hook an
heiress, you know, if you don't let the heiresses
see you put yourself in evidence. Besides,
your article '11 be all the better for a little
froshenhig up. You're getting dull for want
of change. Come along with me to the Row,
and you'll see what'll stir up your Pegasus to
H trot, I'll bet you fourpence." Even in
iiintnphor, fourpence was Mr. Lionel's extreme
extravacance in the matter c! risking money
needlossly.

Paul sighed a faint sigh. He had never yet
dared to confide to Mr. Lionel the painful
announcement that he was no longer intent on
the prospective pursuit of th« British heiress,
liut ho admitted to himself the justice of the
other plea that he needed change ; for. indeed,
of late he had been sticking a great d««l too
closi' to the hterature of his cosjKtry. Ro,
after a moment's hesitation, ho to** from his
desk, and putting off his working coat, endued
himself in hi» best editor-visiung clothea for
the afternoon's stroll, and a&llied forth into the
street * ith Mr. Lionel.

An they wont towards the Park, Mr. Lionel
regaled liia fel!o'.v-lodger with various amusing
aueodotes of Mr. Solomons' outeness, sad of

AN INTRODUCTION.

the oare with which he audited his nephew's
accounts, paying special attention to the item
of sundries in the expenditure column. At
these anecdotes Paul was somewhat surprised,
for Mr. Solomons had always seemed to him
lavish in only one respect : and that was on
Mr. Lionel's personal expenses. lie liod
fancied, indeed — and he still continued to
fancy — that Mr. Solomons spoilt his iiepliuw.
Thai was not Mr. Lionel's own opinion, liow-
ever. He descanted much upon hiu' uncle'd
" closeness," and upon his want of sympathy
with a fellow's natural wish to " see life."

'- Never mind, though," Mr. Lionel roumrked
at last, with a significant gesture uf his pro-
truding lips. " The two old mon'll drop uiT
before long; and then, Qascoyne, you and I
will have our innings."

Paul was shocked at the heartless levity of
the phrase, and, indeed, the whole point of
view was one entirely foreign to him.

"I don't feel like that, mvself," he said,
drawing back, a little disgusted. " I hope my
father will live for many years yet. And I'm
sure Mr. Solomons has always been very good
to you."

Mr. Lionel's faoe broke into a genial smile.
"Come, come," he said frankly, " none of that
humbug, you know. We're alone, and I ain't
going to peach on you to the worthy governor.
Don t go trying to talk auy nonsense to me, for
it don't go down. You must want to suooeed
to your title, naturally."

Paul hardly even liked to continue the dis-
cussion, his companion's tone was so distaste-
ful to him ; but be felt '- ^lled upon to dissent.

" You're mistaken," j said curtly. " I'm
not talking humbug. My father is extremely
near and dear to me. And as to the baronetcy,
I hate the very idea of it. Had it rested from
the first outset with me to take it or leave it,
I don't think I'd ever so much as have eveu
claimed it."

"Well, you are a rum chap I " Mr. Lionel
interjected, much amused. " For my own
part, you know, I'd give a thousand pounds
down to have such proBpects as you have.
And it won't be so long before you come into
them, either. The old man drove ine up to
my uncle's the last time I was at Hillbuioughi
and I thought he was looking precious shaky.
Old age, as the preacher said, with rapid
strides is creeping upon him. I only wish my
own respected uncle was one-half as near
popping otr the huokfi as he is. But that's tho
worst of my old boy. He's a tough sort, ho
is : belongs to the kind that goes on living for
ever. The doctors say there's something the
matter with his heart, to be sure, and that he
mustn't excite himself. But, bless your soul t
the stingy old beggar's too cunning to excite
himself. He'll live till he's ninety, I verily
bfllieve, just on purpose to stick to his tin and
spifi me. And I, who'd make mi much a hotter
use of tho money than he does I'll \m i'lnntf
aixty, I expect, before ever I come intu Hi '

Paul was too disgusted even to answer. His
own obligations to Mr. Solomons, if any, were
far less in every way than Mr. Lionel's ; but
he couldn't have endured so to speak or think
of any man to whom he owed the very slightest
gratitude.

Tliey went on into tho Park vtdth more or
loss of conversation, and strolled up and down
the Kow for some time, Mr. Lionel, with a
flower gaily stuck in button-liolo and a cane
poised gracefully in his len'n gloved hand,
staring iiard into the face of every ^irl ho
pusBod, and Paul lialf regretting in hia own
soul ho had consented to come out before the
(lyes of the town in such uncongenial compnny.
At last, as they neored the thronged corner of
Hyde J 'ark Gate, Paul was roused from a
reverie into which he had momentarily fallen,
by hearing a familiar voice at his side fall
musically on his ear, exclaiming, with an
almost imperceptible foreign accent, " What i
you here, Mr. Gascoyne? Viw charming I
How deUghtful 1 "

Tho heir to the baronetcy turned quioklv
round, and beheld on a chair in the well-
dressed crowd the perennial charms of little
Kadame Ceriolo.

She looked younger and prettier even than
she looked at Mentone. Madame Ceriolo
made a point, in fact, of looking always hor
youngest and prettiest in London — for hers
was die beauty which is well under the con-
trol of its skilful possessor. To be pretty in
Ijondon may pay any day. A great city en-
closes such endless possibilities. And, indeed,
there, among the crowd of unknown faces,
where he felt acutely all the friendless loneli-
ness of the stranger in the vast Metropolis,
Paul was really quite pleased to see tlie
features of the good-humoured little adven-
turess, lie shook hands with hor warmly in
tho innocence of his heart, and stopped a
moment to oxohange reminiscences. Madame
Ceriolc 's faoe lighted up at once (through the
pearl powder) with genuine pleasure. This
was business indeed. She saw she had made
a momentary conquest of Paul, and she tried
her best to follow it up, in order, if possible,
to ensure its permanence, i'or a British
baronet, mark you, is never to be despised,
above ail by those who have special need of a
guarantee pa»(Hport to polite Society.

"So I have to congratulaie you," she said
arcJjiy, b/iaming on nlui through hor glasses,
"upon Bfcciirlng tho httle American heiress.
Ah, you thought I didn't know ; but a little
bird told me. And, to tell you the truth, I felt
Hiire of It myself the moment I saw you with
iiof on the hills at Mentone."

Puul, gJarujinK round with burning cheeks,
would have given anything that minut« to sink
into the ground. Tii^re, before tli« face of
ftssonibled Londtm ! and the p*^j'p]e m all the
neighbouring chairs /«rt eranju^ their neck* to
catch tlie smalleM fnfMiHui* of their CCU'
7*rgation.

.*:I!*J

THE SCALLYWAG.

'I— Idon'tquiteundcrsUnd/'heBtammered
oat nervously.

"Oh, yes," Madame Coriolo went on, aa
oool aa a cucumber and atill amiling benignly.
" She'd made up her mind to be Lady Oaa-
ooyne, I know, or to perish in the attempt ; and
now, we hear, a'le'a really auccecied."

Aa ahe apoke, Madame Ceriolo cast furtive
ayea to right and left to see whether all her
neighbours duly observed the ftict that ahe was
talking to a proH|)ective man uf titio, At that
open acknowledgment of I'aul's supposed
exalted place in the world, the necks of the
aud'enoe craned still more violently. A young
man of rank, then, in the open marriage
market believed to have secured a wealthy
American 'idy I

*' You're mistaken," Paul answered, speiiking
rather low and trembling with niortitication.
" I am not engaged to Miss lioyton at all."
Then he hesitated for a second, and after a
brief pause, in spite of Mr. Lionel's prenence
(aa witness for Mr. Kolomona to ao barefaced
a dereliction of duty), ho added the further
incriminating olauao, "And I don't mean
to bo."

The intereat of the byRtandora reached its
highest pitch. It was as good as a paragraph
in a Society paper. The young man of titlo
diacloimed the hand of the American heireaa I

" But Mr. Armitage told me ao," Madame
Ceriolo retorted, with womanly peraiatenoe.

" Mr. Armitage is hardly likely to be aa well
informe<l on the point as I am myaolf," Paul
anawered, flushing rod.

" Why, it was Miss Boyton herself who
aiaured him of the fact," Madame Ceriolo
W(/nt on, triumphant. " And I suppose Miaa
Boyton ought at leaat to know about tier own
engagement ? "

" You're mistaken," Paul answered, lifting his
hat curtly and moving ofT at once to cut snort
the painful colloquy. And the bystanders,
whispering low behind their hands and fans to
one another, opined there would soon be a
aenaation for Society in the shape of another
aristocratic breach-of-promiae case.

As they mingled in the crowd once more,
Mr. Lionel, turning to his companion, ex-
claimed with very marked approbation,
" That's a devilish fine woman, anyhow, Oas-
ooyne. Who the dickens is ahe ? "

Paul explained in a few words what little he
knew about Madame Ceriolo'a position and
antecedents.

" I like that woman," Mr. Lionel went on,
with the air of a connoisseur in female beauty.
" She's got fine eyes, by Jove ! and I'm death
on eyes. And then her complexion! Why
didn't you introduce me ? I should like to
cultivate her."

" I'll introduce you if we pass her again,"
Paul answered, preoccupied, lie was wonder-
ing in his own mind what Mr. Lionel would
think of this awful resolution of his about the
American heiress.

For the moment, however, Mr. Lionel, Intent
on his own thoushta, was wholly absorbed in
his private admiuration of Madame Ceriolo's
well-developed charms.

" As fine-looking a young woman as I've
seen for a fortnight," he went on meditatively.
" And did you notice, too, how very hard she
looked at me ? "

" No, I didn't," Paul anawered, just stifling
a faint smile of contempt ; " but, to tell you
the truth, I think she'd look hard at anybody
upon earth who looked hard at her. And she'a
scarcely young. She's not far off forty, if any-
thing, I fancy." (At twenty-two, as we all
know, forty aeema quite medieeval.)

"Let'a go back and pass her again," Lionel
exclaimed, with effusion, turning round once
more.

Paul shrank from the ordeal of facing those
craning bystanders a second time ; but ho
hadn't the courage to say No to his impetuous
companion. Mr. Lionel's enthusiaam was too
torrential to withatand. So they threaded their
wny back amonp the crowd of loungers.

Fortunately, by this time Madame Ceriolo
had risen from her seat, after taking her full
pennyworth, and was walking br skly and
youthfully towards them. She met them once
more — not quite undesignedly, either — with a
sweet amile of welcome on those cherry-red
lips of hers. (You buy the stuff fur ten sous a
stick at any coiffeur's in the Palais Royal.)

" My friend was anxious to make your ao-
quaintancn," Paul raid, introducing him. " Mr.
Lionel Solomons — Madnmo Coriolo."

" Not a son of Sir Saul Solomons?" Madame
Ceriolo exclaimed, inventing the existence of
that eponymous hero on the spot with ready
cleverness to flatter her new acquaintance's
obvious snobbery.

"No, not a son," Mr. Lionel answered,
airily, rising to the fly at once ; " but we
belong, I believe, to the same family." Which,
if Sir Saul Solomons had possessed any objec-
tive reality at all, would, no doubt, in a cer-
tain broad sense, have been about as true as
most other such claims to distinguished rela-
tionship.

Madame Ceriolo measured her man ac-
curately on the spot.

" Ah, that dear Sir Saul," she said, with a
gentle sigh. "He was so good, so clever; I
was always so fond of him. And you're like
him, too 1 The same profile I The same
features 1 The same dark eyes and large, full-
browed forehead 1 "

This was doubtless, also, in an ethnical
sense, strictly correct ; for Mr. Lionel's per-
sonal characteriatica were simply those of the
ancient and respected race to whom he owed
his existence, and of which, apparently, the
hypothetical Sir Saul was likewise a bright and
shining example.

" May we walk your way ? " Mr. Lionel
said, nulantly ogling his fair companion.

Madame Ceriolo was always professionally

amlabh
her mo
They
the Pai
dinate

ingly.
alone \
"Th
vou?"
he gr'
partln
Mad
his tha
man tl
" Tl
cioQS I
with'
relief,
self,
Tyrol,
you n
that a
alway
Mr.
rimli<
which
his h
compi

THE WILE5 OP THE STRANGE WOMAN.

»5

ao<

amiable. She accorded that permission with
her most marked amiability.

They walked and talked for half an hour in
(he Park. Then Paal got tired of hib subor-
dinate part, and strolled ofT by himself oblig-
ingly. Mr. Lionel waited, and had ten minutes
alone with Iiis new-found charmer.

"Then I may really come and call upon
you ? " he asked at last, in a melting tone, as
he grasped her hand— somewhat hard — at
parting.

Madame Ceriolo's eyes darted a glance into
his tliat might have intoxicated a far stronger
man than Lionel Solomons.

" There's my card," she said, with a gra-
cious smile, producing the famous pasteboard
with the countess's coronet stamped on it in
relief. " A humble hotel— but I like it my-
self, because it reminds rae uf mj beloved
Tyrol. Whenever you like, Mr. Solomons
you may drop in to see rae. Any relation of
that admirable Sir Saul, I need hardly say, is
always welcome."

Mr. Lionel went home to his rooms in
Fimlico that afternoon half an inch taller —
which would make him fully five feet six in
his high-heeled walking shoes on a modest
computation.

CHAPTER XXVII.

TBB WILES OF TUK STRANGE WOMAN.

" Zbbie," Madame Ceriolo cried in a shrill
voice to the maid-in-waiting, "^0 ne regoit pau
aujoiird'hui, evtrvihtu, imhicilef"

Mademoiselle Eus^bie, more shortly known
to her intimates as Z^bie, was the fille ile
chambre and general upstairs factotum of the
Hdtel de I'Univers, in Glandon Street, Soho.
Madame Ceriolo preferred that modest hostelry
to the more usual plan of West-end lodgings ;
partlv, to be sure, because it helped to keep up
the fiction of her noble birth and Tyrolese
ancestry, but partly also because it lent itself
more readily to practical Bohemianism than
do the straiUaoed apartments of Netting Hill
or BAVswater. In Clandon Street, Soho, one
ean live as one chooses, no man hindering ;
and Madame Ceriolo chose to live d la Zin^ari.
" On y eat ti bien" she said, with a delicate
shrug of those shapely shoulders, to hor re-
spectable acquaintwoes when she was doing
propriety; *'and, besides, the landlord, you
know, is one of my poor compatriots. I take
such an interest in his wife and children, in
this foggy London, so lar from the fresh breeze
of our beloved mountains." For Madame
Ceriolo was strong on the point of sensibility,
and sighed (in public) for her native pine-clad
valleys.

"And if Mr. Armitage calls? " Z^bie asked
inquiringly. " I am not to deny Madame, I
suppose, at least to Mr. Armitage ? "

** Z^bie," Madame Ceriolo exclaimed, looking
up at her sharply," tu m d'unc inconvenanoe —

tnaii d'une inconvenanoe I " Madame paused
and retiocted. " Well, no," she went on, after
a brief mental calculation, " I'm not at homo,
even to Mr. Armitage."
'• Tient" Z6bie answered ; " c"e»t drole.

Et cependant "

"Wait," Madame Ceriolo continued, re-
flecting profoundly. " There is y' ono thing.
If an ugly little Jew oallr* and Madame
swept her finger rapidly through tlie air in
burlesnue representation of Mr. Lionel's well-
marked pronle — " nose so, lips so, ctirly hair,
bulging forehead, odour of hair-oil— gives his

name, I fancy, as Mr. Lionel SolownH "

" Well, Madame '<> " Z6bie repeated duti-
fully, with her hand on tlie door-edg«>.

" If he calls," Madame went on, gathering
hor robe around her, " you may tell hira I'm
indisposed— a slight indisposition — and will
see nobody. Uut say to him, after awhile,
with ever so little hesitation, you'll take up
his card and inquire if I can receive him.
And, then, you may show hirameanwhilo into
the salon. That U ^ive me time, of course, to
change mv peignoir."

It was four o'clock gone, in the afternoon, a
few days Inter than their meeting in the Park ;
and Madame, who had been up late at a little
supper the evening before, was still in .ae
intimacy of dressine-gown and curl-papers.

" Parfaitement, Madame," Z^bie responded
cheerfully, in the tone of one well accustomed
(0 receiving such delicate orders, and left the
room; while Madame lounged back on the
sofa of her little sitting-room, and glanced
lazily over the /eui{{«<on of the previous day's
Figaro.

The hotel was of the usual London-French
type — a dingy, uncomfortable, dead-alive little
place — mean and dear, yet Madame liked it.
She could receive her callers and smoke her
cigarettes here without attracting attention.
She was rolling a bit of rice-paper, in fact,
with practised skill between those dainty
plump fingers ten minutes later, when Z^bie
reappeared at the door once more, with a card
in her hand and a smile on her saucy Parisian
features.

"The Monsieur Madame expected," she
said : " he attends you in the salon."

Madame iumped up and roused herself at
once. "M> blue gown, Z^bie," she cried.
"No, not that, stupid! Yes, that's the one,
with the pleata in front. Now, just give me
time to slip myself into it, and to oomb out
my fringe, and touch up my cheeks a bit, and
then you may bring tne gamin up to me.
Poor little imbecile I Tell him I'm in bed and
meant to receive nobody — but hearing it was
him, in spite of my migraine, I decided to
make an effort and raise myself."

" Parfaitement, Madame," Zibie echoed

once more, with ready acquiescence, and

disappeared down the stairs to deliver her

message.

" So it's you, Mr. Solomons," Madame cried,

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THE 5CALLYWAO.

looking up from the sofa, \7here she lay in
her bhawls and her becoming tea-gown, with
a hasty lace-wrap flung coquettislJy round
her pearl-white neck, as Mr. Lionel entered.
"How very good of you to come and look
me up so soon I Now admit, Monsieur, that
I'm not ungrateful. I was ill in bed when
my maid brought me up your card just now,
and for nobody else in the world would I have
thought of stirring myself. But when I heard
it was you "—she gave him a kUling glance
from beneath those pencilled lashes — " I said
to Eus^bie, ' Just hand me the very first dress
you come across in my wardrobe, and tell the

fentlenun I'll see him directly.' And so up
got, and here I am; and now I'm sure
you'll excuse my lighting a wee little cigarette,
inst a cigarette of my own rolling, because
I've made my poor fluttering heart beat so
with the exertion."

ilii. Lionel would have excused a hundred
cigarettes, so enchanted was he with this
gracious reception. In fact, he admitted to a
weakness for the fragrant Latokia himself,
and in two minutes more he was actually
inhaling the breath of )ne, deftly manufactured
for his special use by Madame Geriolo's own
cunning fingers.

Madund Geriolo twisted him as she twisted
the cisarattes. He sat there, intoxicated with
her oharms, for more than an hour, in the
oourBe of which tim^ the little woman, by
dexterous sid^-press^e, had pumped him of
all he knew or thought, far more effectually
than even Armitage huuself could have done
it. She handled nim gingerly with infinite
skiU.

" No, you're not in tJus City I " she ex-
claimed once, with well-assiuned surprise,
when Mr. Lionel happened incidentally to
aUude to the nature of his own accustomed
pursuits. "You're trying to take me in.
You don't mean to tell me you're really in
the City I "

" Why not ? " Mr. Lionel asked, with a flush
of pride.

"Oh, you're not in the very least like a
City man," Madame Ceriolo replied, looking
up at him archly. " Why, I thought from your
manners you were one of the people who pass
their lives dawdling between their club and the
Bow. I never should have believed you could

Sssilly be in the City. What i» your club, by
e way ? " she added with an afterthought,
" in ease I should ever want to write to you."

Mr. Lionel's lips trembled with pleasure.

" I'm down for the ' Oarrick,' " he said
(which was, in point of fis.et, an inexact re-
mark) ; " but until I get in there, you know —
it's such a long job, nowadays— I hang out
for the present at the 'Junior Financial.'
It's a small place in Duke Street, St. James's.
If ever you should do me the honour to write
to me, though, I think you'd better write to
my chambers in Pimlico."

He called them "ohambers" instead of

lodgings because it somided more swell and
rakish. And he produced » card with his
name and address on it.

Madame Ceriolo placed it with marked care
in an inner onrapartment of her pretty little
tortoise-shell purse— the purse with the coro-
net and inititJs on the case, which had been
given her in Paris by — well, never mind those
forgotten little episodes.

" And so you live with Mr. Oascoyne 1 "
she said, noting the address. "Dear Mr.
Gascoyne ! so quaint, so origmal ! Though we
all laughed at him, we all liked him. He was
the life and soul of our party at Mentone."

" Well, I live with him only because I find
it convenient," Mr. Lionel interposed. " He's
not exactly the sort of chap I should take to
naturally.' 1

Madame Ceriolo caught at her cue at once. '
" I shoiild think not," she echoed. " A
deal too slow for you, one can see that at a
glance. A very good fellow in his way, of
coi'iTse ; but oh my ! u» straitlaced, so absurdly
puritanical."
And she laughed melodiously.
" And how about the American heiress you
spoke of in the Park? " Mr. Lionel inquired,
with professional eagerness. j

" Oh, that was all chaff," Madame Ceriolo
answered, after an imperceptible pause, to gain
time for her invention. She was a good-
natured little swindler, after all, was Madame
Geriolo ; and from the way he asked it, she
jumped to the conclusion he wanted the in-
formation for no friendly purpose, so she with-
held it sternly. Why should she want to do
a bad turn to the poor little scallywag ?

So the conversation glided off upon Paul,
his Quixotic ideas and his moral absurdities ;
and before it had ended, the simple-minded
young cynic, like clay in the hands of the
easy-going but cunning adventureus, had told
her all about Mr. Solomons and himself, and
the plan for exploiting the British baronet,
and the confounded time an uncle always con-
trived to live, and the difficulty of extracting
blood from a stone, and the trials and troubles
of the genua nephew in its endeavour to per-
form that arduous surgical operation. To all
of wh..h Madame Ceriolo, feeling her way
with caution by tentative steps, had extended
a ready and sympathetic ear, and had made a
rapid mental note, "Bad heart, weak head,
good mtiterial to work upon — fool, vain, im-
pressionable, unscrupulous." Such men as
that were Madame's stock-in-trade. She bat-
tened on their money, sucked them d" ^ fast
as she could, and then left them.

Not that Madame was ever what British
respectabiUty in its exactest sense describes as
disreputable. The wise adventuress knew a
more exoellent way than that. Never throw
away the essentials of a good name. She
traded entirely upon promises and expecta-
tions. Her method was to make a man head
over ears in love, and (hen to delude him into

andl

sooJ

THE BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE.

the fallaoions belief that she meant to marry
him. As soon as he was reduced to the flaccid
condition, by constant draining, she retired
gracefully. Some day, when she found a man
rich enough and endurable enough, she in-
tended to carry the programme of marriage
into execution and end her days in the odour
of respectability. But that was for the remote
future, no doubt. Meanwhile, she was con-
tent to take what she could get by her drain-
age operations, and live her own Bohemian
life untrammelled.

At last, most unwillingly, Mr. Lionel rose
and took up his hat to go.

" I may come again soon ? " he said inter-
rogatively.

Madame's professional amiabilitj' nev3r for-
sook her in similar circumstances.

" As often as jou like," she answered,
bmiling a benign smile upon the captured
victim ; " I'm always glad to see nice people
— except on Fridays," she added after a pause.
Friday was the day when Armitage most often
called, and she didn't wish to let her two
principal visitors clash unnecessarily.

At the door Mr. Lionel pressed her hand
with a tender squeeze. Madame Ceriolo re-
turned the pressure with a demure and well-
oalculated diminution of intensity. It doesn't
do to let them think they can make the run-
ning too fast or too easily. Draw them on by
degrees and they otick the longer. Mr. Lionel
gazed into those languid eyes of hers. Madame
Ceriolo dropped the lids with most maidenly
modesty.

"Don't mention to Mr. Gascoyne," she
murmured, withdrawing her hand, which
Lionel showed a tendency to hold too long,
''that you've been here this afternoon, I beg
of you as a favour."

•' How curious I " her new admirer ex-
claimed with surprise. "Why, I was just
going to ask you not to say anything to nim
for worlds about it."

"Sympathy," Madame Ceriolo murmured.
• The common brain-wave. When people are
cast in corresponding moulds, thesa curious
things often happen pat, just so. Figivrez-
voua »i je suia sympatMque." And she took
his hand once more, and let it drop suddenlv ;
then she turned and fled, like a ghl, to tne
sofa, as if half ashamed of her own unwise
emotion.

I Mr. Lionel went down the stairs in the
' eever.th heaven. At last he had foimd a
beautiful woman ready to admire him. She
saw his good points -~d appreciated him at
once at his full worth. Forty ? What male-
volent, ill-natored nonsense 1 Not a day more
than twenty-seven, he'd be bound on affidavit.
And, then, what mattered the disparity of
age? Such grace, such knowledge of the
world and Society, such noble birth, such a
oountess's coronet embroidered on her hand-
kerchief !

" Z^bie," Madame cried from her sofa in the

comer, as that well-trained domestic answered
her double ring ("sonnea deux foia pour la
fille de chamhre ") while Lionel's footfall still
echoed on the stair, "if that little fool of a
Jew calls again you can show him 'zp straight
o£f at any time. Do you understand, idiot ?
at any time — unless Mr. Armitage is here
already."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE.

ScHMER and autumn Paul worked away, very
mv..l: uphill at journalism in London, push-
ing nls road ahead slowly but surely into
steady occupation, and not only covering all
his modest expenses, but even laying by a
trifle at odd times towards wiping out those
terrible claims of Mr. Solomons'.

It was hard work and uphill work, tm-
deniably. No matter how good a start a man
may get in literature — and, thanks to in-
defatigable Mrs. Douglas, with her backstairs
instinct, Paul's start had been an unusually
easy one— the profession of letters must needs
be an arduous craft for every beginner. The
doors are crowded ; the apprenticeship is long,
toilsome, and ill-paid. Paul had to endure
that painful fate, common to all of us who
earn our bread by spinning material out of
our own brains for pubUc consumption, of seeing
manuscript after manuscript " ieclined with
thanks," and of labouring for hours and hours
together on that which, after all, proflted
nothing. Nevertboless, a certain proportion of
his work was accepted and paid for ; and that

Eroportion broU(;ht him enough to pay tor his
alf of the rooms he shared with his
uncongenial fellow-lodger, and to keep him in
food, clothing, and washing. It was a great
joy to him when he began to find hie weekly
receipts outbalance expenditure, and to lay by,
were it only a few shillings at a time, towards
the finiJ extinguishment of his debt to Mr.
Solomons.

Had it been the National Debt of England
that he had to wipe out, it could not have
seemed to him at the time much more hopeless
of accomplishment. But still he toiled on,
determined at least to do his best by it — with
Nea in the backgromid watching over him from
a distance.

Summer and autumn passed away, and at
Christmas, when Faith was freed once more
from the tyranny of the infants, and bueiness
was slack in London offices, he determined to
run down for a week or two's rest and change
to Hillborough. But he must pay for his board
and lodging, he told his mother ; he was a free
man now, earning his own livelihood, and he
must no longer be a burden to his family in
any way. with many remonstrances, he was
at last allowed to have his wish, and to con-
tribnte the modest sum of £ifteen shillings a

iff

THE SCALLYWAQ.

week, in return for hia keep, to the domestio
exchequer.

He had only been home one day, when
Faith took him for their favourite walk on the
Knoll, and confided to him all her most recent
family observations.

"Do you notice any difierence in father,
Paul ? " she asked a little anxiously, as they
walked along the springy turf of that long
ridge, looking down upon the wide weald on a
beautiful bright December morning.

Paul hesitated to answer.

" Well, Lionel Solomons said to me in the
summer," he replied at last, after a long pause,
" that he was getting shaky, and that made me
nervous; so I've been watching him close
yesterday and to-day, and, to tell you the
truth, Faith, he isn't quite so strong on his
legs as he used to be."

Faith's eyes filled with tears. To her and
to Paul, it was nothmg that their father's h'a
were weak or non-existent, and that theii'
father's grammar was deficient in. concords.
They loved him as dearly as if he had been a
lily-nanded baronet of many broad acres, with
courtly manners and an elegant drawl, but
possessing no final g's to his name, and hardly
a trace of the letter r to speak of. To say the
truth they loved him even much better. They
realised how hard he had worked all his days
to keep them, and how, according to his light,
feeble and flickering enough, he had tried to
do the very best for them. He had always
been a kind and indulgent father, and the bare
thought of losing him was to Faith and to
Paul a terrible source of coming trouble.

"nis life's so hard," Faith murmured
through her rising tears. "At his age he
oughtn't to have to be driving about all day or
all night in the rain and the cold. He isn't
strong enough for it now — I'm sure he isn't,
Paul — and it makes my heart bleed to see how
he has to go and do it."

"The fact is," Paul answered, "a man in
bis position ought to have a son who can fill
his place, and take the heaviest work at least
off his shoulders. If dear father 'd done what
he ought to have done with me, I really believe
he'd have brought me up to his own trade,
and to carry on the business now he isn't fit
tor it.'

Faith's womanly soul revolted at the alter-
native. She was proud of Paul, her clever,
well-educated Oxford brother, and she couldn't
bear to think of him, even in fancy, degraded
to the level of a mere common horsey hanger-
on of stables.

"Oh, don't say that, Paul darling 1" s\e
cried, half aghast. " I wish dear father had
somebody to help liim and take his place, now
he's old, of course ; but not you, Paul — not

?ou — oh, never, never 1 Don't talk of it, even,
t seems such a perfect desecration."
" I'd come back now and help him," Paul
answered stubbornly. "I'd come back and help
him, even as it is, only I know the shook of it

would break his heart. Ho could never put up
with the disappointment. I can manage a horse
as well as anybody even now, and I wouldn't
mind the work one bit — I hope I'm strong-
minded enough not to be ashamed of my
father's trade— but I'm sure he himself would
never consent to it. He's brought me up to
be a gentleman as well as lie could, and ne's
fixed his heart on my being a credit to the
title, whenever the miserable thing falls in to
me ; and if I were to turn back on it now and
come home to help him, he'd feel it was a
come-down from all his high hopes and ideals
for my future, and he'd be a disappointed man
henceforth and for ever."

" Oh, yes ; and to think of the disgrace
before all the county I " Failh added with a
sigh. A woman must always see things
mainly from the social point of view. " I
should hate all the nasty rich people— the
Hamiltons and the Boyd-Galloways and all
that horrid lot — to go sniggering and chuckling
over it among themselves, as I know they
would, and to say, ' So that fellow Gascoyne,
after sending his son to Oxford and trying to
make a gentleman of him, has had to come
down from his high horse at last, and bring
him back to Hillboroueh in the end to look
after the stables 1 ' The wretched sneering
things ! I know the nasty ways of them ! "

"Father could never stand that," Paul
answered reflectively.

" No, never," Faith replied. •= Paul, don't
you ever even speak of it to him."

But for the three weeks of his stay at Hill-
borough, Paul watched his father with close
attention. The baronet cabman wasn't well,
that was clear. He complained constantly of
a dull pain in his side, and manifested an un-
wonted dislike to going out at nights when-
ever the sky was cold or frosty. " The wind
seemed to ketch him," he said, " as it'd never
ketched him in all his life afore, out Kent's
Hill way specially, where it blew 'most hard
enough to take a man off the box these bitter
evenings. He didn't want no jobs out there
by Kent's Hill this weather if he could
help it."

New Tear's week, however, was a busy
week ; there were parties and dances at many
country houses, and Sir Emery's slate, hung
up be^iind the door, was thick with orders.
Paul was busy, too, with work for editors,
which kept him close at his desk, writing for
dear life the best part of the day, for journalism
knows no such word as holiday. As much as
Su" Emery would let him, however, Paul went
out to the yard at odd moments to harness in
the horses and do small ends of work when-
ever the hired man was off on a job ; but that
wasn't often, for Sir Emery fretted and fumed
to see Paul so occupied, and Faith declared
the worry it engendered in father's mind was
almost worse for him, she believed, than the
cold and exposure. Pulled two ways, in fact,
by her double devotion, she conspired with

at]
me

THE BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE.

Paul to help her father, and then conspired
with her father in turn to keep Paul, their
own precious Paul, outside the stables at all
ha: M:d8.

The fourth of January was a bitter cold day.
So 3old a day had not been known for years
at Hillborough. In the morning, Mr. Solomons
met Sir Emery by ohance a'<i the station.

•• Why, bless my soul, Gasooyne," he cried,
with a start, " how ill you look, to be sure ! "
Then he made a mental note to himself that
the premium on the noble baronet's life policy
shotUd have been paid yesterday, and that by
all appearances settlement ought not to be
delayed longer than to-morrow. You never
know what a day may bring forth ; and,
indeed, if Mr. Solomons hadn't had an execu-
tion to put in that very morning at Shilling-
ford, he would have rushed off there and then,
with money in hand, to make sure of his
insurance at the London office.

Instead of which he laerely remarked in a
casual tone, as he jumpei^. into his train :

" My thermometer registered nine degrees
of frost last night. Take care, Gascoyne, how
you expose y mrself this weather."

At ten o'clock that evening, as they sat
round the fire, chatting family gossip in a
group together, Sir Emery suddenly rose and
looked at the clock.

" I must be going now," he said in a shuffling
way. " 'Arf-past ten was the hour Miss Boyd-
Gfdloway told me."

Faith glanced up at him sharply with a
pained look.

" Why, you're not going out again to-night,
father ? " euie exclaimed in surprise. " There's
nothing on the slate ; I looked myself to see
about it."

" Well, this 'ere was a verbal border," Sir
Emery answered, putting on his coat with
evident difficulty and some marks of pain in
his right side. " Miss Boyd-Galloway, she
met me down in the 'Igh Street this morning,
and she told me I wap to go- out to Kent's '111
to fetch her. Dinner, I expect, or olse a small
an' early. But I reckon it's dinner; it's
'most too soon to go to take up even for »
children's or a Cindereller."

Paul glanced at Faith, and Faith glanced at
Paul. Sir Emery had evidently omitted to
note it on the slate on purpose. A rapid
signalling went on between their eyes.
" Dare I venture ? " Paul's asked in mute
pantomime of Faith's, and Faith's, with a
droop of extreme reluctance, made answer
dumbly : " I suppose you must. He's too Ul
to go ; but oh, Paul, Paul, the disgrace and
humiliation of it 1 "

The young man made up his mind at once
and irrevocably.

" Father," he said, rising and fronting him
as he stood, still struggling with his coat, " sit
down where you are. I can't allow you to go
up Kent's Hill to-night. ' You're not feeling
well. I can see you're suffering. You're unfit

for work. You must let me go to take up
Miss Boyd-GtJloway instead of you."

Sir Emery burst into a sudden laugh of
genuine amusement. His Paul to go cab*
driving I It was too ridiculous. Then the
laugh seemed to catch him violently in the
side, and he subsided once more vnth a pained
expression of face.

" Paul, my boy," he answered, sinking back
into his chair to hide the twinge, " I wouldn't

let

zo— no, not for five 'undred pounds

you go
down. You, as is a gentleman born and bred,
and out there, afore the eyes of all 'Illboroagh
and Surrey 1 "

Faith looked at her mother with an im-
perious look.

"Father," she cried, seizing his arm con-
vulsivoly in her grasp, " you know I hate it as
much as you do. You know I can't bear for
Paul to do it. But it must be done. It's a
hard wrenoh, but you must let him go. I can
see you're ill. Dear father, you ought to have
told us before, and then perhaps we might
have managed to get some other driver."

" There ain't no other driver nor other 'oss
disengaged in aU 'Illborough to-night," her
father answered confidently, shaking his head
as he looked at her.

Once more Faith telegraphed with her eyes
to Paul, and Paill telegraphed buck to Faith.

"Father," he said, layhig his hand on the
old man's shoulder persuasively, " you must
let me go. There's no other way out of it.
I'll wrap myself up tight, and muffle my
throat, if you Uke, so that nobody '11 notice
me ; and in the dark, at the door, they're not
likely to look close. ButgoImtt«<; of that
I'm determined."

The father humoured him for a moment.

" Well, you can go, any way, and put in the
'osses," he answered reluctantly, for he hated
his son to do anytibing at all about the stables
and coachhouse.

Paul went out and put them in at once with
the confidence of old habituation. Then he
left them standing alone in the yard while he
ran upstairs to get his ulster and comforter.

" Wait a minute," he said, " I'll soon be
down."

Faith went up with him to see that aM was
snug and warm.

" Mind you wrap up well, Paul," she cried,
with her eyes diinmed sadly for the family
disgrace. " It's a bitter cold night. If father
was to go to Kent's Hill this evening, I'm sure
it'd very nearly be thu Jitath of him."

In two minutes more they descended the
stairs. At the door Faith stopped and kissed
him convulsively. It was a hard wrench, but
she knew they must do it. Then they went
together into the little parloiur. There thew
mother sat, looking very uncomfortable in her
easy-chair. The larger one opposite, where
Sir Emery usually took his ease by ni^ht, was
nov vacant. Faith glanced at Paul m muto
inquiry.

THE SCALLYWAG.

" Where is he, mother ? " Paul gasped out
anziouily.

" 'B'« gone, Paul," Mrs. Gascoyne answered
with a sudden gulp. " The minute you was
oat o' the room, 'e whipped up his things,

iumped up from 'is chair, and says to me in a
lurry, ' Mother, I'm off,' says 'e, an' out he
run in 'is overcoat as he stood, scrambled up
on to the box, gave the 'osses the word, an'
afore I could as much as say ' Emery, don't,'
drove off up the road as 'ard as ever 'is 'ands
oonld drive 'em."

Faith sank into the chair with a despairing
look.

"It'll kill him,"8he cried sobbhig. "Oh,
Paul, it'll kill him 1 "

Paul did not wait or hesitate for a second.

" Where's he gone ? " he cried. " To which
house on the hm ? I'll run after him, catch
him up, and drive him back home, if only you
know which house he's going to."

" He never told us," Faith gasped out, as
white as death. " He only said he was going
to Kent's Hill to fetch Miss Boyd-Galloway.
T lere are so many big houses on the hill, and
BO many roads, and so many dinners just now.
But perhaps the likeliest is Colonel Hamilton's,
isn't it?"

' Without another word Paul opened the door
and darted up the street.
' " I'll catch him yet," he cried, as he dashed
rormd the corner of Plowden's Goort. "Oh,
mother,, mother ! you ought to have stopped
Urn!"

CHAPTER XXIX.
nr HOT FUBsurr.

Takin<> it for granted his father had driven,
as Faita suggested, to Oolonel Hamilton's,
Paul ran at full speed along the frosty high
road in the direction of that end of the Kent's
EUl hog's back. For the hill rears itself up
as a great mass of narrow sandstone upland,
extending for some three miles in a long
straight Une down the centre of the valley,
and exposed to all the four winds of heaven
impartially. Snow was beginning to fall now,
and the road under-foot rang hard as iron.
Paul ran on without stopping till he was out
of breath. Then he halted awhile by the foot
of the first slope, and climbed slowly on
towards the lower platform.

Half-way up he met a returning oab, full
of course, and therefore unwilling to wait and
be questioned. But it was no tame to stand
on ceremony now. Paul knew his father's
life was absolutely at stake. He called to it
to halt. The driver recognised his TOico and
pulled up to a walk.

"Have you passed mv father anywhere,
going up the hill f " Paul mqnired eagerly.

" a)w do I know ? " the man answered in .a
very gruff tone, ill-pleased at the interruption.
"I've passed a dozen or more of kobe and

kerridges goin' to fetch parties 'ere and there
on the 'ill ; but it's as dark as pitch, so 'oo's
to know by magic 'co druv them ? " And
whistling toliimself a dissatisfied whistle, he
whipped up again and drove on, leaving Paul
no wiser.

It's a very long way from Hillborough to
Kent's Hill, five miles at least by the
shortest road; and long before Pam had
reached the top his hcvt oegan to sink within
him as he saw how impossible it was for him
to ovei>take his father. Nevertheless, he per-
sisted, out of pure stubboi'n doggedness and
perseverance; he would rjo at least to the
house and let him know he was there. And,
if possible, he would persuade him to remain
under shelter at some neighbouring cottage till
the next morning.

But, oht the long, weary way up those
frozen hills, all in the dark, with the snow
falling fast ir the road, and the bitter cold
wind heating hard all the time against his face
as he fronted it. It was cold for Paul even as
he walked and faced it — cold, in spite of the
exertion of mounting. How :!jifinitely colder,
then, it must ba for his father, sitting still on
the box, with that dull fcAn growing deeper
every minute in his side, fi^nu the chill wind
whistling roimd the corners oi the carriage !

On, and on, and on, through the soft snow
he trudged, with his heart sinking lower at
every step, and his feet and hands growing
colder and colder. Of all the hills in England
Kent's Hill is the most intermina'ole. Time
after time you think you are at the top, and
time after time, just as you reach the apparent
summit, you see yet another slope opening out
with delusive finality in front of you. But at
last Paul reached the end of those five long
miles and those nine hundred feet of sheer
ascent, and turned with wearied and aching
limbs under the gateway of Colonel Hamil-
ton's garden. At the door he saw at once he
had come in vain. There was certainly no
party at the Colonel's to-night. Not a' carriage
at the door ; not a sign of life. It was close
on eleven now, but emboldened by necessity,
he rang the bell. After some minutes his ring
was answered by a supercilious footman in
incomplete costume.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," Paul gasped,
" but can you tell me, please, whereabouts on .
the Hill there's a party to-night ? "

The supercilious footman eyed him aska&ee
with profound astonishment.

" Young man," he said severely, " do you
mean to say you've rung me up this time of
night from my own bedroom, for nothink else
but just to ask me where there's a party on
the 'ill ? There's parties on the 'ill everywhere
this evemng." And without waiting for Paul
to explain nimself farther he dammed the
door in his face with onoompromising rude-
ness.

Paul turned from the porch, too much dis-
trMsed on his father's aeooont even to notice

IN HOT PURSUIT.

tho personal insult, and made his way through
the snow, along uncertain paths, to the very
top of the ridge, where he could see on either
hand over the whole surrounding country, and
just at what house the lights burned brightest.
Lady Mary Webster's seemed most thronged
of nny, and Miss Boyd-Qalloway was intimate
with Lady Mary. So thither Paul plodded
along by the top of the ridge, descending
through the grounds, reckless of fences or
proprietary rights, till he stood In front of the
crowded carriage-drive. Coachmen were there,
half a dozen or more, walking up and down
in the snow and beating their chests with their
arms to keep themselvess warm, while their
weaipr horses stood patientlv by, the snow
melting as it fell on their flanks and faces.

It was no night for any man to keep another
waiting.

" 'Ere'fl Gasoojsme's son I " one of the cab-
men cried, as he came up, for they were
mostly cabmen, nobody caring to risk their own
horses' lives abroad in such slippery weather ;
since rich men, indeed, take more heed of
horseflesh than their fellow-Christians.

" "Why, what do you want, Mr. Paul ? "
another of them asked, half touching his hat in
a kind of undecided salute to the half-made
gentleman ; for they all imew that Gasooyne's
son had been to Oxford College, and would
develop in time into a real recognised baronet,
Mdth his name in the peerage.

" Is my father here, or has he beon here ? "
Paul cried out breathless. " He went out
to-night when he wasn't fit to go, and I've
come up to see if he's got here safe, or if I
could do anything in any way to help him."

The first speaker shook his head with a very
decided negative.

" No, 'e ain't been 'ere," he answered. " 'E
'aven't no job. Leastways, none of us ain't
a-seen 'ira anywhere."

A terrible idea flashed across Paul's mind.
Could his father have started and failed on the
way? Too agitated to care what might
happen to himself again, he rang the bell, and
asked the servant boldly, " Is Miss Boyd-Gallo-
way here ? or has she been here this evening ? "

" No, sir," the servant answered ; he was a
stianger in the land, and judged Paul rightly
by his appearance and accent. " Miss Boyd-
Galloway's not been here at all. I don't
thinkt in fact, my lady expected her."

•' Will you go in and ask if anybody knows
where Miss Goyd-Galloway's spending the
evening ? " Paul cried, in his agony. " Tell
them it's to matter of life and death. I want
to know where to find Miss Boyd-Galloway."

In a few minutes more the servant returned,
bringing along with him young Mr. Webster,
the son of the house, in person. "Oh, it's
you, is it, Qa80O3me ? " the young man said,
eyeing him somewhat astonished. "Why,
what on earth do you want with Miss Boyd-
Galloway this evenmg? "

"My father's gone to f«toh her," Paul

gasped out, in despair ; " he's very ill to-night,
and oughtn't to have ventured out, and I've
come to see whether I can oveitake him."

Young Mr. Webster was kind-hearted in his
way. "I'm sorry for that," he said, good-
naturedly; "but I'm glad it's nothing the
matter with Miss Boyd- Galloway herself, any-
how. Ladv Mary was in quite a state of mind
just now when she got your message. I must
run in at once and reassure her. But won't
you step inside and have a glass of wine before
you go ofif yourself? You don't look well,
and it's a freezing cold night. Here, Boberts,
a glass of wine for Mr. Gasooyne in the hall.
Now, will you ? "

" I won't take any wine, thanks," Paul
answered, hurriedly, declining the proffered
hospitality on more grounds than one. " But
you haven't told me if you know where Miss
Boyd-Galloway's spendmg the evening. I
muat find out, to go to my father." He spoke
so anxiously that there was no mistakhig the
serious importance of bis errand.

" Oh, I'U go and inquhre," young Webster
answered, carelessly ; and he went baoK at
once with his lounging step to the bright warm
drawing-room.

"Who is it?" Lady Mary exclaimed,
coming forward, eagerly. "Don't tell me
anything dreadful has happened to dear
Isabell" .(

"Oh, it's nothhig at all," ycung Webster
answered, laughing outright at her fears.
" It's only that young Gascoyne from Hill-
borough wants to know at once where Isabel's
dining."

" That young Gascoyne 1 " Lady Mary cried,
aghast. " Not the young man they sent up to
Oxford, I hope I Why, what on earth can he
want, my dear Bertie, with Isabel ? "

"He doesn't want Isabel," the young man
tmswered, with an amused smile. " It seems
his father's gone somewhere to fetch her, and
he thinks the old man's too ill to be out, and
he's come up on foot all the way to look after
him."

" Very proper of him to help his father, of
course," Lady Mary assented, with a stiff
acquiescence, perceiving in this act a due
appreciation of the duty of the poor to their
parents, as set forth in the Church Catechism ;
" but he ought surely to know better than to
come and disturb us about such a subject. Be
might have rung and inqui red of Boberts."

" So be did," her son answered, with
masculine common-sense. "But Boberts
couldn't tell him, so he very naturally asked
for me ; and the simple question now is this—
Where's Isabel ? "

" She's dining at the Dean's," Lady Mary
replied, coldly ; "but don't you go and tell
him so yourself for worlds, Bertit. Lot
Boberts take out the message to the young
person." For Lady Mary was a stickler in
her way for the due subordination of Uio
classes of Society.

*•"

THE SCALLYWAG.

Before the words were well out of her lady-
ship's mouth, however, her son had made his
way into the hall once more, unheeding the
prohibition, and conveyed to Paul the informa-
tion he wanted as to Miss Boyd-Galloway's
present whereabouts.

The message left Paul more hopelessly out
of his bearings than ever. The fact was, he
had come the wrong way. The Dean's was at
the exact opposite end of Kent's Hill, three
mUes from the Websters' as the crow flies, by
a trackless route among gorse and heather.
There was no chance now left of overtaking
his father before he drove from the house. All
Paul could possibly do was to follow in his
uteps and hear what tidings he could of him
from those who had seen him.

Away he trudged with trembling feet, along
the crest of the ridge, stumbUng from time to
time over bushes htjf hidden by the newly-
fallen snow, and with the keen air cutting
against his face like a knife as he breasted it.
It was kideed an awful night — awful even
down in the snug valley at Hillborough, but
almost Arctic in the intensity of its bitter cold
on those bleak, wind-swept uplands. They
say Kent's Hill is the chilliest spot in winter
in all Southern England ; as Paul pushed his
way across the long bare summit that January
evening, he trembled in his heart for the effect
apon hia fa^er. It was slow work indeed to
cover the three miles that lay between him and
the Dean's, even disregardfnl as he was of the
frequent notice-boards which threatened the
utmost rigour of the law with churlish plain-
ness of speech to inoffensive trespassers. More
than once he missed his way in the blinding
snow, and found himself face to face with the
steeply-soarped southern bank, or with some
wall or hedge on the slope to northward. But
at last, pushing on in spite of all difficulties, he
reached the garden at the Dean's, and stood
aloiie within the snow -covered gateway.
There, all was still onm more; the party
had melted away, for it was now nearly mid-
night. But a light still burned feebly in one
of the upper rooms. In his eagerness and
anxietv Paul could not brook delay; he ven-
tured nere agam to rmg the bell. A servant
put out his head slowly and inquiringly from
the half-opened window.

" Was Miss Boyd-Galloway dining here to-
night ? " Paul asked, with a sinking heart, of
the sleepy servant.

" Yes,*' the man. answered ; " but she's gone
half an hour ago."

"Who drove her home, or did she drive
home at all ? " Paul inquired once more.

" How should I know ? " the servant replied,
withdrawing his head testily. " Do you think
I take down their numbers as they pass, like
the bobby a^-' the station? She ain't here,
that's all. Ask me another one."

And he slammed the casement, leavLig
Paul alone on the snow - covered gravel-
walk.

CHAPTER XXX.

AT THE CALL OF ODTY.

Meanwhile, Sir Emery Gasooyne, Baronet,
had been faithfully carrying out the duties of
his station. He had promised to go and fetch
Miss Boyd-Galloway at the Dean's, and coma
snow or rain or bail or frost, with perfect
fidelity he had gone to fetch her.

His fatherly pride would never have allowed
him to let Paul — his gentleman son— take his
place on the box even for a single evening.
Better by far meet his fate than that. To die
was a thousand times easier than disgrace.
So, as soon as Paul was out of sight upstairs,
he had risen from his seat, seized his whip
from the rack, and, in spite of that catching
pain deep down in his side, driven off hastily
before Paul could intercept him.

The drive to the Hill — by the west road to
the further end, while Paul had foUowed by
the shorier and steeper eastern route — was a
bitter cold one: and the horses, though
roughed that day, had stumbled many times
on the frozen slopes, having ntern work indeed
to drag the heavy cab up that endless zigzag.
As Sir Emery drove, the pain in his side grew
duller and deeper : and though he was too un-
skilled in diagnosis to know it for pleurisy, as
it really was, he felt himself it was blowing
up hard for a serious illness. But, accustomed
as he had long been to exposure in all weathers,
he made light of the discomfort, and drove
bravely along to the Dean's doorway.

It was half-past ten by Sir Emery's watch —
the necessary business silver watch of the
country cabman — when he reached the house ;
but though he sent in word that he was there
and ready, his fare was in no great hurry, as
it seemed, to present herself.

" Miss Boyd-Galloway's carriage," the foot-
man announced; but Miss Boyd-Galloway,
immersed in her game of whist, only nodded
in reply, and went on playing out the end of
the rubber in dignified silence. She was a
lady who loved the rigour of the game. It
was comfortably warm in that snug country-
house ; and who thinks of the cabman outside
in the cold the^e ?

The other coachmen walked up and down,
and slapped their cl' ^ts, and exhorted their
horses. But Su: Emery sat motionless and
chilled on the box, not daring to dismount,
lest when once down he should be unable to
get up agam. The butler, a good-natured soul
who had known him for years, offered him a
glass of whisky-and-water to keep him warm.
But Sur Emery shook his head in dissent : it
would only make him colder if he had to sit
long on the box in the snow there.

" Gascoyne's off his feed," another cabman
remarked, with a cheerful nod ; and the rest
laughed.

But Sir Emer^ didn't laugh. He sat stark
and stiff, breatmng every moment with in-
creasing difficulty, on his seat by the porch,
under shelter of the yew-tree.

AT THE CALL OF DUTY.

For half an hour or more he waited in the
cold. One after another, the guests dropped
out and drove away piece-meal ; but not Miss
Boyd-Qalloway. He trembled and shivered
and grew numb within. Yet wait he must ;
there was absolutely no help for it. Colder
and colder he grew, till he seemed all ice. His
father's heart was broken within him. More
than once in his miserable faintness he half
wished to himself he had allowed Paul, after
all, just this one night to relieve him.

At last the door opened for the tenth time,
and " Miss Boyd-Galloway's carriage " was
duly summoned.

There was a moment's pause. Sir Emery
was almost too numbed to move. Then slowly,
with an eiTort, he turned his horses, and,
wheeling round in a circle, brought them up
to the doorway.

** What do you mean by keeping us waiting
here in the cold like this?" Miss Boyd-
Galloway asked in a sharp, rasping voice.
Bhe was a sour-looking lady of a certain age,
and losing the rubber never improved her
temper.

Sir Emery answered nothing. Ho was too
well accustomed to the ways of the trade even
to reflect to himself in his own silent soul that
Miss Boyd-Galloway had kept him waiting in
the cold — and in far worse cold — for consider-
ably more than half an hour.

The footman stood forward and opened the
door. Miss Boyd-Galloway and her friend,
wrapped in endless rugs over their square-cut
dresses, stepped inside and seated themselves.

" Home I " Miss Boyd-Galloway called out
with an authoritative voice. There was
another pause. Miss Boyd-Galloway put out
her head to see the reason. " Home, I said,
Gascoyne," she repeated angrily. " Didn't
you hear me speak? Why, what are you
waiting for?"

Sur Emery raised his whip with an evident
effort.

" I'm a-goin', miss," he answered, and his
voice was thick. " But it's a main cold night,
and the road's 'eavy, and the 'osses is tired."

" Good gracious, what impertinence ! " Miss
Boyd-Galloway observed, withdrawing her
head and shivering audibly. " It's my oelief,
Louisa, that man's been drinking."

" He certainly didn't seem able to move on
the box," her companion retorted ; " I noticed
his manner."

" Oh, he's drunk," Miss Boyd-Galloway
answered, with prompt decisiveness. " Dead
drunk, I'm certain. Just see how he's
driving. He hasn't even got sense enough
left to guide his horses, and it runs in the
blood, you know ; they're a precious bad lot
all through, these Gasooynes I To think that
a man should have oome down to this, whose
ancestors were gentlemen born and bred and
real Welsh baronets 1 A common cab-driver,
and drunk at that ! And the daughter's just
as bad — that horrid girl at the National School

at Hillborough. A proud, discontented, im<
pertinent hussy 1 Why, she won't even say
' miss ' to my face when she speaks to me."

" Phew, what a jolt 1 " the other lady ex-
claimed, seizing Miss Boyd-Galloway's arm as
the cab tipped up over a rut in the roadway.

" Drunk t quite drunk I " Miss Boyd-Gallo-
may repeated with a meditative air, now con*
firmed in her opinion. " I only hope to
goodness he won't upset us in the snow — it's
awfully drifted — anywhere here by the
roadside."

And, indeed, to do the fare full justice, there
seemed good reason that particular evening to
blame Sir Emery Gascoyne's driving. As a
rule, the baronet was a careful and cautious
whip, little given to wild or reckless ooaohman-
sbip, and inclined to be sparing, both by in-
clination and policy, of his valuable horsenesh.
But to-night he seemed to let the horses
wander at their own sweet will, from side to
side, hardly guiding them at all through the
snow and the crossings. At times they
swerved dangerously close to the off-hedge ;
at others they almost neared the edge of the
slope that led down the zig-zag.

" We shall never get out of this alive," Miss
Boyd-Galloway rem.arked, leaning back philo-
sophically ; " but if we do, Louisa, I shall
certainly get Gascoyne's license taken away,
or have him well fined at Uncle Edward's
petty sessions for reckless driving."

At the corner by the larches the horses
turned sLaip into the main road. They turned
80 abruptly that they almost upset the cab and
its precious freight. Miss Boyd-Galloway's
patient soul could stand it no longer. In spite
of the cold air and the driving snow, she
opened the window wide, pushed out her
woollen-enveloped head, and expostulated
vigorously: "If you don't take more care,
Gascoyne, I shall have you fined. You're en-
dangering our lives. You've been drinking,
I'm Biure. Pull yourself together, man, and
drive carefully now, or else we'll get out and
walk, and then report you."

Sir Emery essayed an inarticulate answer.
But his breath was feeble, and the words
stuck in his throat. Miss Boyd-Galloway
withdrew her indignant head more angry
than ever.

"He's absolutely ntupid and dumb with
drink," she said, musing with positive pleasure
over the cabman's delinquenciea. " He can't
get out a word. He's too drunk to sit straight.
It'll be a mercy if we all get back alive. But
I'm moriClly confident we won't, so make up
your mind for the worst, Louisa."

Near the entrance to the town, Miss Boyd-
Galloway didn't notice through the dimmed
window-panes that their coachman was taking
them in the wrong direction. Or, rather, to
speak more accurately, the horses, now left to
their own devices, were rettumlng at their own
pace to their familiar stable.
They plodded along slowly, slowly now, for

THE SCALLYWAO.

the snow on tha ^und grew ever deeper and
deeper. Their gait waa reduced to a shambling
walk, with oooasional interludes of stumbling
and slipping. Miss Bovd-Oalloway's wrath
waxed deep and still. Sne didn't remonstrate
any longer; she felt sure in her own heart
Gasooyne had got beyond all that long since :
■he meditated "fourteen days without the
option of a fine " as the very slightest punish-
ment Unole Edward could m reason award
him.

Finally, and suddenly, a jerk, a halt. They
turned unexpectedly down a narrow side-
entrance. Miss Boyd-Galloway was aware of
a oourtlike shadow. Houses rose sheer around
her on every side. Surely, surely, this was
not the Priory, not the paternal mansion!
Miss Boyd-GiJloway put out her head and
looked about her cnce more.

" Oh, Louisa, Louisa, what on earth are we
to do ? " she cried in impotent despair. " The
nan's so dnmk that, instead of taking us
home, he's allowed the horses to como back to
their own stables I "

"I shall get. out this minute and walkl"
her friend ejaculated sleepily.

They got out and stood by the side of the cab.

"Now, Gasooyne," Miss Boyd-Galloway
began in a very shrill tone, " this is really too
bad. You're asleep on the box, sir. Wake
up, I say ; wake up now, will you ? "

But Sir Emery sat stiff and stark in his
place, and never needed even the admonition
of Miss Boyd-GaL'oway's stout umbrella poked
hard against his side in practical remonstrance.

Ab (hey stood there, wondering,^ the back
door of the house was flung open wide, and
Faith Gascoyne, with her head imcovered,
rushed hastily out into the dark, cold court-
yard. She took no notice of the two ladies
who stood there, shivering, in their wraps and
shawls, on the snow-clad stones, bat darted
wildlv forward towards the figure on the box.

" Father, father I " she cried in an agonized
voice, "are you all right, darling ? "

"No, he's not Ol right,' '^ Miss Boyd-
G^oway answered testily, retreating towards
the paasage. " lie's anything but ridbt, and
you onght to be ashamed of him. He's us
drank ae an owl, and he's brought us back
here to hia own place, instead of taking us
home as he ought to the Priorv."

Bat Faith paid little heed to the lady's
words. She was far too agitated and
frightened for that. She flung 'her arms
wildly round that stiff, stark figure, and kissed
its month over and over again witii a terrible
foreboding. Sir Emery sat there tmheeding
still. Then Faith started back aghast, with a
sudden flash of discovery, and held up her
hands in an agony of horror and alarm to
heaven. A fierce cry burst inarticulately &om
her quivering lips.

" He's dead I " she sobbed out in her agp'jy.
" He's dead I Oh, father, father I "

And so he was. He had died in harness.
" Acute pleurisy, aggravated by exposure," the
doctor oidled it in his official statement next
day. But for the present, all Faith knew and
felt was that her father was gone, and that
she stood there that moment alone in her
bereavement.

In time, as she stood there, helpless and un-
nerved, a neighbour or two came out and
carried him in. He was quite, quite dead :
almost as stiff and cold as stone with the frost
already. Thev laid him down tenderly on the
horso-hair sofa in the little parlour. Sir
x^mery Gascoyne, Baronet, had met his death
well, performing his duty.

And Miss Boyd-Galloway in the yard with-
out, staring hard at her friend and wringing
her hands, remarked more than once in a
hushed voice, " This is very awkward indeed,
Louisa ! How on earth are we to get home
without any carriage, I wonder? I really
believe we shall have to tramp it t "

CHAPTER XXXI.

" LE ROI EST MOUT : VTVB LB ROI 1 "

With a heavy heart and with vague forebod-
ings of evil, Paul tramped wearily nome along
the frozen roadway. As he near Plowden's
Court, at the end of that slow and painful
march, he saw for himself there were lights in
the windows, and signs within of great bustle
and commotion.

Cold as it was and late at night, the news
had already spread over the neighbourhood
that " Gascoyne was gone," and more than one
sympathising friend had risen from bed and
^oj^ied in to comfort Faith and her mother in
their great sorrow. The working classes and
the smaller tradesfolk are prompter and
franker in their expressions of sympathy with
one another than those whom in our self-
satisfied way we call their betters. They come
to help in the day of trouble, where servants
and dependents are not ready at call to do the
mere necessary physical work entailed on every
house by moments of bereavement.

At the door Mr. Solomons was waiting to
receive the poor weary young man. He
raised his hat respectfully as Paul straggled
in. " Good-evening, Sur Paul," he said, with
marked courtesy. And that unwonted salute
was the first intimation Paul received of his
sudden and terrible loss that awful evening.

" No, no, Mr. Solomons," he cried, grasping
the old man's hand with the fervid warmth
which rises up spontaneous within us all at
moments of deep emotion. " Not that ! not
that I Don't teU me sot don't tell me so!
Not that! He isn't dead! Not dead! Oh,
no, not dead 1 Don't say so I "

Mr. Solomons shook his head gravely.
"Doctor's been here and found him quite
dead," he answered, with solemn calmness.
"He drove Miss Boyd-GalloT/ay back toxxx

*»LE ROI EST MORT: VIVE LE ROI !

harness.

re," the

lent next

knew and

I and that

|e in her

Is and un-
lout and
he dead:
J the frost
|ly on the
hr. Sir
Ills death

d with-
wringbg
ce in a

indeed,
^et home
I really

the Dean's through the snow and wind till he
froze on the box. He was too ill to go, and he
died at hla post, like a Oasooyne ought to do."
Paul flung himself back on a chair and burst
at onoe into a wild flood of tears. His heart
was full. He didn't dare to ask for Faith or
his mother. Yet, even in that first full flush
of a great sorrow, strange to say, he was dimly
consoious within himself of that indefinable
self-satistaotion which so buoys us up for the
moment under similar oiroumstances. He felt
it would always be a comfort to him to re-
member that he had done his very best to avert
that terrible incident, had done his very best
to take his father's place that night, and to
follow in his footsteps on his last tki journey.
Mr. Solomons moved slowly to the foot of
the stairs. " Sir Paul has returned," he called
softly to Faith in the room above, where she
sat and sobbed beside her dead father.

And, indeed, from that time forth M.*.
Solomons seldom forgot to give the no.v
baronet the full benefit of his title whenever
he spoke to him, and to exact the rigorous use
of it from all and sundry. It was part of his
claims on Paul, in fact, that Paul should accept
the heavy burden of the baronetcy. Meaning
to float him in the social and financial sense,
Mr. Solorions appreciated the immense im-
portance of starting Sir Paul as Sir Paul
Oasooyne, Baronet, from the very beginning.
It must be understood at the outset that thie
was a genuine titled Gascoyne, and no shadow
of a doubt or an incognito of any sort must
hang over the fact or the nature of the evi-
dence. It was all very well for Sir Emery to
hide his light under a bushel in a country
town; but Sir Paul, as exhibited by his
financial adviser, mv. ;t be carefully pro-
claimed from tho housetops in the city of
Westminster.

In his own interests Mr. Solomons wan
determined that everybody should recognise
his protigi as a man of fashion.

Faith came down and threw herself uito her
brother's arms. " You did your beot, Paul,"
she cried, faltering ; " I know it, I know it 1 "
The tears stood dim in Mr. Solomons* eyes.
He could stand an execution for debt with
stoical stolidity, but he could not stand this.
He took out his pocket-handkerchief and
retired into the stairway, leaving brother and
sister to their own silent sympathy.

Slowly and gradually it came home to each
of them how great a change that night had
wrought in their joint existences. The old life
at Hillborough would now be broken up for
them both altogether. Itew ways and fields
lay open before them.

The next few days, indeed, were of course
taken np by the needful preparations for Sir
Emery's funeral. It was a new sensation for
Paul to find himself the head of the family,
with his mriJber and sister dependent upon
him for 'id and advice, and compelled to
decide oil questions as they arose upon his

own responsibility. Mr. Solomons, however,
who had his good side, though he kept it often
most studiously in the background, was kind-
ness itself to Paul in this sudden emergency.
To say the truth, he liked the young man ;
and, with his ingrained Jewish respect for
rank, he was proud of being able to patronise
a real British baronet. He had patronised Sir
Emery already, to be sure; but, then, Sir
F.raery had never been born in the purple. He
was nt best but a country cabman who had
unexpectedly inherited a barren baronetcy. It
was otherwise with Paul. Mr. Solomons was
determined that, as his voung friend had had
an Oxford education, so he should be received
everywhere from the very beginning in his
own proper place in English Sooiotjy. The
fact was, Mr. Solomons' relations with Paul
had made him feel, at last, a certain parental
Interest in his yoimg debtor's position and
prospects. Regarding him at first merely in
the light of a precarious investment, to be
diligently exploited for Mr. Lionel's ultimate
benefit, he had come in the end to regard him
with some personal liking and fondness, as a
pupil with whose progress in life he might be
fairly satisfiod. So he came out well on this
occasion— so well, indeetl, that for several days
after the sad event he never mentionecf to
Paul the disagreeable fact about his having
neglected to pay Sir Emery's life-preminm on
the very day of that fatal engagement.

The neglect left Paul still more heavily
indebted than ho might otherwise have been.
But as he had voluntarily assumed all respon-
sibility for the debt himself, he had ^really
nothing on this ground to complain of.

The funeral was fixed for Wednesday, the
tenth. On Tuesday afternoon, as Paul sp.c
alone in the little front parlour with the spotted
dog on the mantelpiece — that spotted dog of
his father's that Faith had so longed for years
to remove, and that ihe wouldn't now have
removed from its fe miliar place for untold
thousands — he heaid a well-known sturdy
voice inquire of the stable-boy who lounged
about the door, *' Is this Sir Paul Gasooyne s ?
Does he happen to be in ? Will you give him
my card, then ? "

With no shadow of shame or compunction
on his face, Paul flung open the door and wel-
comed his old college friend into that dingy
little sitting-room.

"Why, Thistleton," he cried, "this is so
kind, so good of you I You're the only one of
all my Oxford acquaintances who's come to see
me, silthough, of course, 1 didn't expect them.
But you were in Yorkshire last week and meant
to stay there. What on earth's brought you
down to this part of England so snddenly ? "

The blonde young man's face on receiving
this question was a study to behold. It would
have made the fortune of a rising dramatic
artist. He changed his hat in his hand
awkwardly as he answered with a distinctly
shame-faced air :

THE SCALLYWAG.

" I thought— M ft mark of ronpoct for tlio
family — I — I ought to bo prcBont at Sir
Emery'B funeral. And, indeed, my father
and mother thought that, in view of existing
and future ciroumstances, I couldn't possibly
absent myself."

Faul failed to grasp the prociio reason for
this interposition on the part of tiie senior
Thistletons in so strictly private and personal
an affair as his other's funeral ; for as yot he
had no idea of the state of relations between
Faith and his friend, but he confined himself
for the moment to asking in some surprise,
" Why, how did you hear at all about my poor
father?"

The blonde young man hesitated oven more
remarkably and distinctly than before. Then
he blurted out the truth with that simple-
hearted di. ^ctness of speech which was natural
to him: " ^aith wrote and told me," he
answered in i is straightforwardness.

It struck I'aul as odd, even in that time of
trouble, that Thistleton should speak of his
sister as " Faith " and not as " Miss Oas-
coyne," as he had always been accustomed
to do at Oxford; but he set it down to the
privilege of intimacy with the family, and to
tho greater frankness of tongue which we all
of us use when death breclkB down for a
moment the conventions and barriers of our
artificial intercourse. Still, it certainly did
strike him as odd that Faith should have
found time at such a moment to write of their
loss to a mere casual acquaintance.

Thistleton rightly interpreted the puzzled
look upon Paul's face, and wont on sheepishly,
though with charming frankness: "I hadn't
heard for several days, much longer than
usual, indeed, so I telegraphed night before
last to ask the reason."

Then a light burst in all at once upon Paul's
mind ; he saw it all, and was glad, but he fore-
bore to speak of it under existing oiroum-
stances.

"Might I see Faith?" the blonde young
man inquired timidly.

" I'll ask her," Paul answered, moving slowly
up the stairs to tho room where his sister sat
alone in her grief with their mother.

But Faith only shook her head very de-
cidedly. " Not now, Paul," she said ; " it was
kind of him to come, but tell him I can't see
him — till, till after to-morrow."

•• Perhaps he won't stay," Paul put in, with-
out attaching much importance himself to the
remark.

" Oh yes 1 " Faith answered with simple
confidence. " Now he's once come he'll stop,
of course — at least, until he's seen me."

Paul went back to his friend in the dull
little parlour. To his immense surprise,
Thistleton, after receiving the message with a
frank, satisfied nod, began at once talking
about the family plans with an interest that
really astoniBbed him. Paul had always liked
the blonde young man, and he knew the blonde

,>aung man liked him. But he was hardlv
prepared for so much panional sympathy In all
their arrangements au Thistleton manifested.
Tho blonde young man was most anxious to
know whore Paul would live and what ho
would do; whetlicr or not he would at once
assume his title ; what would become of his
mother and Faith ; and whether the family
hoadiiuartors wero lilioly under those new
circumntances to be shifted from Hillborough,
say, in tho direction of London.

All these questions took Paul very much at
a disadvantage. Absorbed only in theh* own
immediate and personal loss, he had found no
time as yet to think or arrange in any way
about the future. All he could say was that
he would consider these things at some later
time, but that for the moment their plans were
wholly undecided.

Thistleton sat still and gazed blankly into
l'.:o fire.

" I shall have to talk it all over with Faith,
you know," he said quietly at last. " I see
many reasons for taking things promptly in
hand at the moment of the crisis."

" I'm afraid Faith won't be able to talk
things over calmly for some weeks at least,"
Paul answered with deepening wonderment.
" This sudden blow, of course, has quite
unnerved us. It was so instantaneous, so
terrible, so unexpected."

" Oh, I'm in no hurry," Thistleton replied,
still gazing straight ahead into the embers of
the fire. " Now I'm here, I may as well stop
here for the next few weeks or so. They've
given me a very comfortable room at the
' Bed Lion.' And one thing's clear, now your
father's gone, Gascoyno, you've enough to do
with those Claims alone ; your sister mustn't
be allowed to be a further burden npon you."

Paul flushed fiery hot at that way of putting
it. He saw now quite clearly what Thistleton
was driving at, though he didn't know, of
course, what measure of encouragement Faith
might already have accorded her wealthy
suitor. Oh, those hateful, hateful Claims of
Mr. Solomons' I If it hadn't been for those,
he might have answered proudly, " I will take
care myself of my sister's future." But how
could he now — he who was mortgaged, twenty -
years deep, for all his possible earnings to that
close-fisted taskmaster ? The very thought of
it made him hot and cold alternately with deep
humiliation.

All he could do was to murmur half aloud,
"Faith can almost support herself, even as it is,
by her salary as a schoolmistress."

Thistleton answered him very decisively
this tune.

" Not as she ought to be supported, my dear
fellow," he said in a firm tone of voice.
"Gascoyne, you and I have always been
friends, and at a time like this we may surely
speak our minds out to one another. You'll
have enough to do to keep yourself and your
mother, let alone the C]«ims: and I kaovr

1*
o

(

„&■■, ^ -. \

THE BUBBLE BURSTS.

how they weigh apon you. But Faith mustn't
dream of tiding to live upon what she earns
herself. I ooold never stand that. It would
drive me wild to think she should even
attempt it. This hat made a p^reat change in
the position of all of you. I thmk when I talk
it all over with Faith she'll see the subject in
the same light ae I do."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THB BUBBLE BURSTS.

The morning after the funeral Paul went
down, by Mr. Solomons' special desire, to the
office in the High Street for a solemn
consultation. Mr. Solomons wished to see
him "on important business," he said; and
Paul, though weary and sick at heart, had
been too long accustomed to accept Mr.
Solomons' commands as law to think of
demurring to a request so worded.

As he entered, Mr. Solomons rose to greet
him with stately politeness, and handed him
solemnly a little oblong packet, which felt like
a box done up in paper. Paul opened it
vaguely, seeing so much was expected of him,
and found inside, to his immense surprise, a
hundred visiting-cards, inscribed in copper-
plate "Sir Paul Gascoyne," in neat small
letters.

" What are these, Mr. Solomons ? " he
asked, taken aback for the moment.

Mr. Solomons, rubbing his hands with
unction, was evidently very well pleased at
his own cleverness and forethought.

" Tney're a little present I wished to make
ycM. Sir Paul," he answered, laying great
stress upon that emphatic prefix of honour.
" You see, I think it necessary, as part of my
scheme for our joint benefit, that you should
at once assume your proper place in the world
and receive recognition at the hands of Society.
I desire that you should make a feature of
your title at once ; that you should be known
to all England from the very outset as Sir
Paul Gabcoyne, Baronet." He spoko it
pompously, like one who basked in the re-
flected glory of that high-sounding social
designation.

" I hate it ! " Paul blurted out, unable to
restrain his emotion any longer. " Mr.
Solomons, I can't bear the whole horrid
business. It's a hollow mockery for a man
like me. What's the use of a title to a fellow
without a pennv, who's burdened with
more debt than he can ever pay, to start
with ? "

Mr. Solomons drew back as if he had been
stung. He could hardly believe his ears.
That a man should wish deliberately to shuffle
off the honour of a baronetcy was to him, in
his simplicity, well-nigh inconceivable. Not
that for the moment he took in to the full
Paul's actual meaning. That his pet design,

the cherished scheme of years, could be upset
offhand by the recalcitrant obstinacy of a hot-
headed youth just fresh from college, lay
hardly within the sphere of his comprehen-
sion. He contented himself for the time
with thrusting his thumbs into the armholes
of his waistcoat, protruding hiu already
too obvious watch • pocket, and observing
jauntily :

"That's exactly why you've got to make
the most of the title. Sir Paul. You must use
it as your capital — your stock-in-trade. So
long as your father lived, of coiuse, we could
do very Uttle ; we could only point to you as a
prospective baronet. Now that Sir Emery's
dead and gone, poor gentleman I the case is
altered ; we can put you forward as the actual
possessor of the Gascoyne title. It's extremely
fortunate this should have happened (as it had
got to happen) so early in the year, before the
Peerages are out — they don't' pubUsh them till
March — and I telegraphed off full details
yesterday to the dilTerent editors, so that your
name may appear in its proper place in due
courso in the new issues. There's nothing
like taking Time by the forelock, you know,
Sir Paul ; there's nothing on earth like takmg
Tune by the forelock." And Mr. Solomons,
standing with his back to the fire and his
thumbs in his armholes like a British church-
warden, raised himself gently on the tips of
his toes, and let his heels go down again with
an emphatic snap, as he pursed up his lips
into a n^ost determined attitude.

Paul saw the time for temporizing wm
passed. While his father lived, he hadn't
dared to explain to Mr. Solomons the simple
fact that he couldn't and wouldn't sell himself
for money to any woman living, lest he should
break his father's heart by that plain avowal.
But now it would be flat cowardice to delay
the confession one day longer. For Mr.
Solomons' sake he must take the bull by the
horns. Already Mr. Solomons had put him-
self to needless expense in having those cards
printed and in telegraphing to the editors of
the various Peerages, on the strength of an
understanding which ought long ago to have
been broken. There was no help for it now.
He must prick the bubble.

So he deated himself nervously hi the
office-chair, and with hesitating speech, amid
awkward pauses, began to break the news as
gently as he could to poor startled Mr. Solo-
mens. He told him how as long as his fathor
lived he had felt it his duty to keep silence on
the matter. He expiained to him in plain
and straightforward terms how the plan had
been devised and broached and furthered when
he himself was too young to understand and
enter into its sinister significance ; and how,
as soon as he had iVttnined to years of discre-
tion, ttnd comprehended :be plot in its true
colours, a revulsion of feeling had set in which
made it impossible for him now *o carry out in
full the implied engagement. He begged

THE SCALLYWAG.

Mr. SolomonB to observe that as wuon as he had
dearly reaUzed this change of front he had
ceased to accept a single penny of his task-
master's money, but haid worked his own way
by unheard-of effort through his last two terms
for his degree at Oxford. Finally, he assured
Mr. Solomons, with many piteous assurances,
that be would never be forgetful of the claims
upon his purse, his time, and his labour, bat
would toil like a slave, month after month and
year after year, till he bad repaid him in full
to the uttermost farthing.

How much it cost Paul to make this bold
avowal nobody, but himself could ever have
realised. He felt at the moment as though he
was shirking the dearest obligations in life, and
tmiiing bis back most ungratefully upon his
friend and benefactor. As he went on and on,
floundering deeper and deeper in despondency
each moment, while Mr. Solomons stood there
silent and grim by the fireplace, with his jaw
now dropping loose and his thumbs relaxing
their hold upon the armholes, hi.s voice faltered
with the profundity of his regret, i\nd big beads
of nervous dew gathered thick upm his fore-
head. He knew he was disapyointing the
hopes of a lifetime, and shaking his own credit
at every word he spoke with his powerful
erbditor.

As for Mr. Solomons, the startled old man
^eard him out to the bitter end without once
interposing a single word of remark— without

Smuoh At a nod or a shake of disapprobation,
e heard him out in the grimmest of grim
mlenoes, letting Paul flounder on, unchecked
and unaided, through his long rambling expla-
nation of his conduct and motives. Once or
twice, indeed, Paul pa sed in his speech and
glanced tip at him appe.<.lingly ; but Mr. Solo-
mons, staring ct Mm still with a fixed hard
stare, vouohmfed not even to relax his stern
face, and gazed on in blank astonishment at
this strange case of mental aberration gradu-
.ally unfoldiug itself in the flesh before him. At
last, when Paul had exhausted all his stock of
arguments, excnsfcs, and reasons, Mr. Solomons
moved forward three deliberate paces, and,
gadng straigl.u down into the young man's
eysB, said sic /ly and solemnly in the Scrip-
tural phrase "Paul, Paul, tiiou art beside
^seH."

" Mr. Solomons," Paul answered with a
cold shudder down his budi, " I mean what I
say. Yon shall ne'.jr lose a penny of all
you've advanced me. You meant it well.
You meant it for my advantage. I know all
that. But I can never consent to marry an
heiress, whoever she may be. I'll work my
fingers to the bone, day and night, the year
round, to pay you back ; but I'll never, never,
never consent to pay you back the way you
intended."

" You mean it ? " Mr. Solomons asked,
sitting down in another chair by his side and
regarding him closely with curious attention.
" Sir Pava Oaseoyue, you really mean it ? "

" Yes, I .really mean it, Mr, Solomons,"
Paul answered remorsefully.

To his immense astonishment, Mr. Solomons
buried his face in his arms on the oMce table,
and sobbed inarticulately, through floods of
tears, in 'dead silence, for some minutes
together.

This strange proceeding, so utterly unex-
pected, broke down for the moment Paul's
courage altogether.

" Oh, Mr. Solomons," he cried, in a frenzy
of regret, " I knew I should be disappointing
jou very much indeed — I knew that, of
course ; but I never imagined you'd feel like
this about it."

Mr. Solomons rocked himself up and down
in his chair solenmly for a considerable time
without making any answer. Then he rose
slowly, unlocked his safe, and took out the
well-thumbed bundle of notes and acceptances.
One by one he counted them all over, as if to
make sure they were really there, with a re-
gretful touch; after which, regarding them
tenderly, as a mother regards her favourite
child, he locked them all up once more, and
flung himself back in the office-chair with an
air of utter and abject despondency. "As
long au you live, Sir Paul," he said slowly,
■■ handicapped as you are, unless you do as we
mean you to do, you can never, never, never
repdy them."

"I'll try my hardest, at least," Paul
answered sturdily.

" There's the horses and cabs," Mr. Solo-
mons went on, as if musing to himself ; " but
they won't fetch much. As for the furniture
in the house, it wouldn't pay the quarter's
rent, I expect ; and to that extent the land-
lord, of course, has a prior claim upon it. In
fact, it's an insolvent estate — that's the long
•>.id the short of it."

" My father's life was insured," Paul ven-
tured to suggest.

Mr. Solomons hesitated with natural deli-
cacy.

"Well, to tell you the truth, tShr Paul," he
answered after a long pause, "the premium
was due the day before your father's unfortu-
nate death, and I neglected to pay it. I
meant to do so the very next morning, but
was too late. But I didn't like to mention the
fact to you before, in the midst of bo mueh
other personal trouble."

" That was very kind of you, Mr. SolbmOBS,"
Paul put in in a very low voice.

Mr. Solomons ran his fat hand throu]^ Ids
curly black hair, now deeply grizzled.

"Not at all. Sir Paul," he anstperefl, "hot
at all. Of course, I couldn't dream of obtrud-
ing it on you at such a time. But what I was
thmkmg 's this— that the failure of the pbliov
largely increases the amount of your indebtM"
ness. It was " jomtly and severally " tttOa tiie
beginning, you remember; and When you
came of age you took the entire responslbflity
upon yourself in this Very ibtitti here."

THB BUBBLB BUR^T5.

Jomons,"

Solomons

Bee table,

floods of

minutes

a frenzy

ppointing

that, of

feel like

Paxil

And Mr. Solbmons walkedf once more to-
warda the safe in the corner, as if to assure
himself again of the safety, at least, of those
precious papers.

" I admit it to the full," Foul aoswered,
frankly.

Mr. Solomons turned upon him with unex-
pected gentlsnAss.

'* Sir Paul," he said, seriously, "my dear Sir
Paul, it isn't so much that — &at's not the
worst of it. It's the other disappointment I
mind the most — the strictly personal and pri-
vate disappointment. The money I'll get paid
back in the end ; or, it I don'^ live to see it
paid back, why, Leo will, and I always regarded
it as a long investment for Leo. A man sinks
his money in land for the rise as long as that,
every bit, and is satisfied if his chilmren come
in for the benefit of it. But, Sir Paul, I thought
of you always as a success in life — as great and
rich— as married to a lady yon ought to marry
— as holding your own in the county and the
country. I thought of you as sitting in Parlia-
ment for a division of Surrey. I thought I'd
have helped to make you all that; aild I
thought you'd feel I'd had a hand in doing it.
Instead of that, I've otHy hung a weight like
a miUstone round your neck, that I never
intended: — a weight that you'll never be able to
get rid of. Sir Pi\ul I Sur Paul 1 if B « terrible
disappointment."

Foul sat there long, talking the matte: over
from every possible point of view, now per-
fectly friendly, but never getting any nearer
to a reooncilir.tion of their conflicting ideas.
Indeed, how ci old he ? When he rose to go,
Mr. Solomor.r, grasped his hand hard.

" Shr Pawl,*' he said, with emotion, " this is
a hard day's work. You've undone the task
I've been toiling at for years. But perhaps in
time you'll change your mind. Perhaps some

day you'll see some lady "

Paul cut him short at once.
" No, never," he said. " Never."
Mr. Solomons shook his hand hard once
more.

" Well, never mind," he said ; " remember,
I don't Mrant in any way to press you. Bepay
me whenever and however you ctm ; it's tM
running on at interest meanwhile, renewikb!<«
annually. Work hard and pay me, but not too
hard. I trust you still. Sir Paul, and I know
I can trust you."

As soon as Paul was gone, Mr. Solomons
could only relieve hin mind by taking the first
train up to to\7n, and pouring the whole strange,
incrediole story into the sympathetic ears of
his nephew, Mr. Lionel.

Lionel Solomons listened to his uncle's nar-
rative with supercilious disdain ; then he rose,
with his sleek thumbs stuck into his wtdst-
coat pockets and his fat fingers lolling over his
well-covered hips, in an bttitude expressive of
capitalist indifference to such mere sentimen-
tati«m as Paul had been gnil^ of.
'^'The fellow's of age, and he's signed for

the lot, that's one comfort," he observed, com-
placently. " But I've got no patience with
such pig headed nonsense myself. What's tiie
good of being bom to a baronetcy, I should
like to know, if you ain't going to make any
social use of it ? "

" It's chucking it away— just chucking it
away — that's true," his uncle assented.

Mr. Lionel paused, and ran one plump hand
easily through his well-oiled curls.

" For my part," he said, " if ever those
papers come to me "

"They'll all come to you, Leo; they'll all
come to you," his uncle put in, affectionately.
" What else do I toil and moil and slave and
save for ? "

Mr. Lionel faintly bowed a gracious acquies-
cence.

" If ever those papers come to me," he con-
tinued, unheeding tiio interruption, " I'U not
let him off one farthing of the lot, now he's
si^aed for 'em all after coming of age — not if
he works his life long to pay me off the whole,
principal and interest. He shlJl suffer for his
confounded nonsense, he dball. If he won't
pay up, as he ought to pay up, in a lump at
once, and if he won't go to work the ri^ht way
to make himself solvent, I'll grind mm and
dun him, and make his life a burden to him,
till he's paid it all to the uttermost larihing.
He's a focd of a sentimentalist, that's jo^twhat
he is— wi& an American' giii ready to pay him
a good round sum for the title, as I've reason
to oelieve, if he'll only marry her."

" Leo 1 " his uncle exclaimed disapprovingly.

"I'll tell you what it is," the nephew
continued, tilting himself on tiptoe, and
shutting his mouu hard till the lips pursed up
to express decision of character, " the fellow's
in love with some penniless girl or other. I've
known that a long time; he was always
getting letters from some pis .e in Cornwall, in
a woman's hand, that he put away imopened,
and read in his bed-room ; and he's going to
throw o\ ^)oard your interest and his own,
just to satisfy his own foolish, sentimental
fancy. I could forgive him for throwing yours
overboard for a pretty face, for that's only
human ; but to throw over his own, why, it's
"imply inexcusable. He shall pay for this,
though. If ever I come into those papers he
shall pay for it ! "

" Leo," the elder man said, leaning back ir
his chair and fixing his eye full upon his
uncompromising nephew.

" Well, m," Mr. Lionel answered, replacing
his thumbs in his waistcoat-pocket.

"Leo," Mr. Solomons repeated slowly, "I
often wish you were a little more like Paul. I
often wish I'd sent you, instead of him, to
Oxford to college."

" Well, I don't, then," Mr. Lionel responded,
with a short toss of his head. " I'm precious
glad you put me where I am — in the proper
place for a man to make money in— in ths
City."

ii
i

100

THE SCALLYWAG.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIOENCB,

Thb air of Surrey suited the blonde young
man's complaint to a T. Thistleton spent
some two or three weeks at Hillborough, and
seemed in no very great hurry to return to the
bleak North from his comfortable quarters at
the " Red Lion." Meanwhile Paul was busy
clearing up his father's affairs, selling what
few effects there remained to sell, and handing
over the proceeds, after small debts paid, as
remnant of the insolvent estate, to Mr.
Solomon.'. Mr. Solomons received the sum
with grim satisfaction; it was a first instal-
aent of those terrible Claiii:.s of his, and better
than nothing; so he proceeded to release a
single small note accordingly, which he burnt
in the office fire before Paul's very face, with
due solemnity. Then, as if to impress on his
young friend's mind the magnitude of the
amount that still remained unpaid, he counted
over the rest of the bills in long array, jointly
and severally, and locked them up once more
with his burglar-proof key— Chubb's best
design — in that capacious safe of his.

Much yet remained for Paul to arrange.
The family had now to be organized on a fresh
basis ; for it was clear that in future the new
baronet must support bis mother, and to some
extent, apparently, his sister also. His own
wish, indeed, was that they should both
accompany him to London; but to that
j:SVolutionary proposal his mother would
never for a moment accede. She had lived all
her life long at Hillborough, she said, among
her own people, and she couldn't be dragged
away now, in her old age, from her husband's
grave and her accustomed surroundings.
Paul thought it best, therefore, to arrange for
a couple of rooms in a cottage in Plowden's
Court, hard by, where Faith and she might
take up their abode for the present.

It was only for the present, however, so far
as Faith was concerned. For before Thistleton
left Hillborough he had sat one afternoon with
Faith in the bare little parlour, and there,
before the impassive face of the spotted dog^
once more discussed that important question
which he had broached to her last spring in
the flowery meadows p*. Ensham. At first, of
course. Faith would have nothing to say to any
such subversive scheme. She wouldn't leave
her mother, she said, alone in her widowhood.
She must stay with her and comfort her, now
nobody else was left to help h6r. But
Thistleton had a strong card to play this time
in the necessity for relieving Paul of any
unnecessary burden.

"Faith," he said, taking her hand in his
own persuasively — there is much virtue in a
gentle pressure cf the human hand — "you
know you as good as promised rae at Oxford,
and we only pot it off till a mo^e convenient
season."

" ^Vhy, I never promised you, Mr. Thistl'?-
ton," Faith retorted, half-angry.

" I said, you as good as promised me," the
blonde young man corrected, unperturbed.
" We left it open. But now, you know, Paul's
left the sole support of the entire family, and
it becomes vour duty to try and relieve him as
far as possible. If you and I were married,
your mother could often come and stop with
us for a time— in Sheffield or London ; and,
at any rate, Paul would be freed from all
anxiety on your account. For my part, I
think it's a duty you owe him."

" I won't marry anyone as a duty to Paul,"
Faith exclaimed, firmly, bridling up like a
Gascoyne, and trying to withdraw her fingers
from the hand that imprisoned them.

" I don't ask you to," Thistleton answered,
with another soothing movement of that con-
solatory palm. " You know very well it isn't
that : I want you for yourself. I telegraphed
to my people last spring : ' The lady accepts,
but defers for the present.' So you see, the
question of marrying me was settled long ago.
It's only the question of when that we have
to talk about now. And I say this is a very
convenient time, because* it'll make it a great
deal easier for Paul to arrange about your
mother and himself comfortably."

"There's something in that," Faith admitted,
with a grudging assent.

So the end of it was that, after many pro-
tests. Faith gave in at last to a proposal to be
married in March — a very quiet wedding, of
course, because of their deep mourning ; but,
as Thistleton justly remarked, with a tri-
umphant sigh of relief, a wedding's a wedding,
however quiet you make it. and it was Faith,
not the festivities, that he himself attached the
greatest importance to.

At the end of three weeks, Iherefore, the
blonde youn^ man returned to Yorkshire with
victory in his van (whatever that may be);
and Mrs. Thistleton, senior, was in a position
to call upon all her neighbours in Sheffield —
master-cutlers' wives every one of them to a
woman — ^with the proud announcement that
her son Charles was to be married in March to
the sister of his Oxford friend. Sir Paul Gas-
coyne, Baronet, who had lately succeeded to
his father's title. And all the other ladies
in Sheffield looked out the baronetcy in
Debrett forthwith, as in duty bound ; and
when they found it was quite an ancient
creation, of seventeenth-century date, and un-
connectc 1 with cutlery, were ready to die with
envy to think that that fat old Mrs. Thistleton,
a person in no wise richer or more diutin-
guished than themselves, should become con-
nected at last with most imdoubted aristooraoy.

At Hillborough, meanwhile, the sister and
daughter of those noble fourteenth and fifteenth
baronets had a busy time in her own small
room, making such preparations as she was
able for that quiet wedding, which must
nevertheless tax the family resources to the
very utmost. Indeed, it gave Paul no snuJl
quuma of conscience to buy the ttriot neces-

FASHIONABLE INTELLIQENCB.

lOI

f wfl," the _

>erturbed. I saries for ao Important an occasion; for how
Dw, Paul's I could he devote to his sister's needful outfit—
mily, and I the outfit indispensable for the wedding-day
ve him as I itself, if she was not to put the TUistleton
married, I family to open shf^sac — a single penny of his
stop with I precarious earnings, without neglecting the
ion ; and, I just claims of Mr. Solomons ? Paul felt even
from all I more painfully than ever before how he was
part, I I tied hand and foot to his remorseless creditor.
It was impossible for him to spend money on
Paul," I anything beyond the barest necessaries with-
like a I out feeling he was wronging his universal
er fingers | assignee.

However, he put it to himself on this
special occasion that for Faith to be married,
and to be married well, was, after all, the very
best thing in the end for Mr. Solomons'
interests. It would leave him freer to earn
money with which ultimately to repay those
grinding claims; and so he judged he might
honestly devote part of his still very modest
income to buying what was most indispens-
able for Faith's wedding. Faith herself, with
the help of the little dressmaker from the
neighbouring court, would do all the rest ;
and, fortimately, their mourning gave them
a good excuse for making the wedding prepara-
tions on the smallest possible scale of
expenditure under the circumstances.

So as soon as everything was arranged at
Hillborough, and Faith and her mother fairly
settled into modest lodgings, Paul returned
once more for a day to his rooms in Pimlico.
But it was only in order to remove his books
and belongings from the chambers he shared
with Mr. Lionel Solomons to a new address
across the City. The welcome change had
been forced upon him by his interview vnth
his old provider. Mr. Lionel's society had
never been agraeable to him ; and now that
he had cleared up matters with the uncle at
Hillborough, Paul saw no reason why he should
any longer put up with the nephew's company
in London. Besides, he contemplated now
living on a still more modest basis than before,
since it would be needful for him in future to
support his mother as well as himself out of
his journalistic earnings.

Mr. Lionel met his proposals for removal
with a shrug of contempt.

" I suppose now you're a baronet," he said,
just suppressing a decent sneer, *' you think
yourself too fine to associate any longer with
City gentlemen ? "

" On the contrary," Paul answered ; " now
that I shall have to keep my mother as well
as myself, I must manage to do with smaller
and cheaper lodgings."

" Well, you're a devilish odd fellow ! '' Mr.
Lionel remarked, with a cheerful snule, pro-
voked in part by the sight of an embossed
coronet that just peeped trom the comer of a
dainty note on the mantelpiece. " If I were
a baronet, I wouldn't do like you, you may bet
your last sixpence. If I didn't intoid to marry
tin, at any rate I'd go in for maldng money in
a modMt way m a guinM-pig."

Paul's ignorance of City ways was so pro-
found that he answered with a puzzled
expression of countenance : " What m a
guinea-pig?"

" A guinea-pig," Mr. Lionel condescended to
explain, gazing down with approbation at his
own well-filled waistcoat — " a guinea-pig is a
gentleman of birth, rank, title, or position,
who accepts a seat at a board as director of a
company, which he guarantees by his name,
receiving in return a guinea a day every time
he attends a meeting of the directorate. For
example, let's suppose I want to start an
Automatic Pork Pie Company, or a Universal
Artificial Guano Supply, Association, Limited.
Very well, then ; I promote the company
myself, and get two or three City people — good
men, of course — to back me up in it. And I
ask you to let me print your name at the head
of the list. Directors : Sir Paul Gascoyne,
Bart.; Timothy Twells, Esquire (Twells,
Twemlow, and Handsomebody) ; and so forth
and so forth. You give your name and you
draw your guinea. We consider the advertise-
ment worth that amount. And a person who
lives by bo lending his name to industrial
undertakings is called a guinea-pig."

"But I couldn't be a director of a public
company," Paul answered, smiling. " I don't
know anything at all about business."

" Of course not," Mr. Lionel retorted.
"That's just where it is. If you did, you'd
be meddling and enquiring into the affair.
That's exactly the good of you. What we
particulpxly require in an ideal guinea-pig is
that he should attend his meeting and take his
fee and ask no questions. Otherwise he's
apt to be a confounded nuisance to the working
directorate."

" But I call that dishonest," Paul exclaimed
warmly. " A man lends his name and his
title, if he has one, if I understand what you
mean, in order to induce the public at large
to believe this is a solid concern, with an
influential board of directors; and ^ou want
him to do it for a guinea a day without so
much as inquiring into the solidity of the
undertaking I "

Mr. Lionel's face relaxed into a ijroad smile.

" Well, you are a rum one I " he answered,
much amused at Paul's indigncnt warmth.
"I don't want you to do it. It don't matter
tuppence either way to me whether you sink
or swim. You're at liberty to starve, so far
as I'm concerned, in the most honest and
Quixotic way that seems good to you. All I
say is that if I were you I'd go in, for the
present — till something neat turns up in the
matrimonial line — for being a professional
guinea-pig. I throw out the hint for your
consideration, free, gratis, given away for
nothing. If you don't like it, you'ro at liberty
to leave it. But you needn't jump down a
man's throat, for all that, with your moral
remtttlu, as if I waa an idiot."
>_ " I don't care to sell my name for money to

102

THE SCALUVWAQ.

ftnybody," Paul auswored, gicwinghot ; "either
to men or women. I neve>. sought the title
myself : it's been thrust upon me by circum-
stances, and I suppose I munt take it. But il
I bear it at all, I trust I shall so bear it as to
bring no disgrace upon my honest anoestoTB.
I will lend it or sell it to nobody for my own
advantage."

*'So my uncle informed me," Mr. liiooel
answered, showing his even teeth in a very
ugly smile, and once more ogling that coro-
neted note-paper ; " and I'll tell you what I
think of you, Gascoyne — I think you're a fool
for your pains : that's just my candid opinion
of you ! you're a sight too sentimental, that's
where it is, wit^ these notions and ideas of
yours. You'll find when you've mixed a little
more with the world, as I've done in the City,
you'll have to come down a bit at last from
that precious high horse of yours. If you
don't, he'll throw you, and then there'll be
an end of you. And I've got another thing to
tell you, too, now I'm once about it. My
uncle Judah ain't as strong a man by any
means as he looks. His heart's b Gfected. His
doctor tells me so. He can't stand running
about too much. Some day he'U go running
to catch a train, getting too much excited over
a matter of a bargain, or putting himself in a
fluster at an execution ; and hi presto ! before
he knows where he is, his heart'll go pop, and
there'll be the end of him."

"Well?" Paul said, drawing his breath
"lowly, with a faint apprehension of Mr.
Lionel's probable meaning.

" Well, then," Mr. Lionel went on, unmoved,
that ugly Rmile growing more marked than
before, "I'll inherit every stiver my uncle
leaves— and, amongst the rest, those precious
notes-of-hand of yours."

" Yes," Paul answered, growing uncomfort-
ably warm again.

" Yes," Mr. Lionel repeated, fixing his man
with those nasty eyes of his ; " and I'll tell
you what, Gascoyne — Sir Paul Gascoyne,
Baronet — you'll find you've got a very different
sort of man to deal with from my uncle Judah.
Sentimentality won't go down with me, I can
tell you. It ain't my line of country. You
think you can do as you like with my uncle,
because he takes a sort of personal interest in

Sou, and feels proud of you as his own tame
ve baronet that he's raised by hand, and sent
to college at his own expense, and floated in
the world, and made a gentleman of. You
think you can force him to wait as long as you
like for his money. But mark my words— my
uuole's life ain't worth a year's purchase. I^o
office in the City'd take him at any ra1)e he'd
like to offer. It's touch and go with that r^m-
ehaokle old heart of his. So my advioe tp you
ifl, don't put him to a strain, if yon doa't wa^t
to lose by it. For when once ikow papers
oome into my hands, I give yoa Imt w^hmingi
I'll have nt^ money's worth out oi thWQ* I^
drive you to marrj somiBbody wbo'ti I»y me

up in {i41, 1 o«n tell you th»t : or. if I dpn't,
I'll h«ve you shown up for a defa,uUer, as you
are, in every papeir in flngland. They shaU
know ho\!|r you got your education by fraud,
and then turned round and refused to carry Qut
your honeft bargain."

Paul's lips quivered, apd his qketik VM
pale, bat he made no reply to this eoarse out-
burst of the inner self in Lioi^el Solomons.
He knew too well what was due to his own
dignity. He went without a word into his
bMlroom next ^oor, packed up his few belong-
ings as hurriedly as he could, and slipped out
himself to call a hansom. Then, oringing
down his portmanteau to the door in his own
hands, he left Mr. Lionel in ludisturbed pos-
session of their joint apartments, and started
off to his new rcoms in a by-way off Gower
Street.

Nevertheless, that hint of a possible eventu-
ality disturbed his mind not a little in the night
watches. It was a fact, indeed, that Mr. Solo-
mops' heart was a feeble member ; and Paul
by no means relished the idea of being left
with such a man as Mr. Lionel for his life-long
creditor.

As for Mr. Lionel, no sooner w^ Paul's
back turned than he drew out tr photograph
from his inner breast-pocket with effusion, and
gazed at it tenderly. It was a photograph of
a lady of mature and somewhat obviously arti-
ficial charms, enclosed in a bce^ted russia-
ieather case with a gilt coronet.

" Well, he did me one good turn, anyhow,"
Mr. Lionel murmured, with a rapturous look
at the lady's face, " when he introduced me to
the Ceriolo. And now he's gone, I'm not
sorry to be rid of him, for I can ask her here
to supper as often as I like next summer, with
no chance of its getting round in the end to
Uncle Judah."

For Mr. Lionel's charmer had now gone
abroad, as was her worn, to winter-quarters.
But even in those remote foreign parts she
never neglected to write to her new admirer.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MABBIAOE m BIOH LIVE.

How curiously different things look to each of
us according to our particular point of view !
While Faith at Hillborough and Paul in
London were reflecting seriously how to make
things decent for the Thistleton family ^t the
approaching ceremony > the Thistletons m turn,
in their opuleut mansion in the park at Shef-
field, were all agog with the unwonted ei^cite-
ment of prepwation for their Charlie's milage
with ^ pi^tar of 'Sir P^yl (Gtascoyne, ^teenth
baroQet.

"The weddipg must be in London, of
course," Mrs. Thistleton said musingly— she
wad » comfortable Itody of a certain a^ge, with
a matw^ plenitude 9i face and figure ; "and
^^lr fj^ % giyie Iwjc «wfty bipspU, you p»y l»e

MARRIAGE IN HIOH LIFB.

to|

Pr, w J'ou

by ffaud,
o»irry Qui

heek wa«
owrse ou(<
Sojowons.
his own
ink) Ilia
W belopg-
'ppecl out
bringing
bis own
lurbed pos-
id started
oflf Gower

le eventu-
the night
Mr. Solo-
and Paul
being left
8 life-long

<» Paul's
lotogroph
ision, and
3graph of
msly arti-
id russia-

anyhow,"
rous look
Bed me to
I'm not
: her here
ner, with
le end to

low gone
quarters,
partf she
limi^r^r.

> each of
of view I
Paul in
to make
ly at the
in turn,
at Shef-
1 eipcite-
aiMrriage
ifteenth

Ion, of
ly— she
je, with
; "and

certain. I suppose they won't want it to be at
HiUboroagh, Charlie? I'd mudb rather, for
my part, you should be married fai London."

"I think Faith would prefer h, too,"
Thistleton answered, smiling. "Yon must
remember, mother dear, I've always told you
they live in a very quiet way of their own
down at HiUborough; and I fancy they'd
rather we were married — well, away from the
place, of course, where they've just lost their
poor father."

"Naturally," Mrs. Thistleton went on, still
turning over with those matronly hands of
hers the patterns for her new siik dress for the
occasion, sent by post that morning — the
richest Lyons — from Swan and Edgar's.
" ThereTl be an account of it in the World,
I suppose, and In the Morning Post, and the
bride's dress '11 be noticed in the Queen. I
declare I shall feel quite nervous. But I sup-
pose Wh" Piiul will be afibble, won't he ? "

Her BOi) laughed good-humouredly.

" Qaseoyne's a first-rate fellow," he answered
unabashed ; "but I can hardly imagine his
befng affiible to anybody. To be arable's to
be ooodesoending, and Gasco^ne's a great deal
too tlby ami retiring himself ever to dream of
condescending to or patronizing anyone."

'• Wall, I hope Faith won't give herself any
airs," Mrs. Thistleton continued, layfng four
fashionable shades of silk side by sid<e in the
sunlight for critical compan^^n ; "because

Jour father's a man who won't stand airs ; and
should be very sorry if she was to annoy him
in any wiiy. It's a great pity she couldn't have
come up to stay with us beforehand, so that
we might all have got to know a little more
about her and not be so afraid of her."

" It would have been impossibte," Thistleton
replied, gazing across at his mother with an
amused air. "But I wish I could disabuse
your mind of these ideas about the Gascoynes.
Paul and Faith will be a great deal more
afraid of you than you are of them ; and as to
Faith giving herself airs, dear girl t she'll be so
awfully frightened, when she comes to stay
here, at the size of the house and the number
of the servants, that I wouldn't for worlds have
had hw come to visit us before she's married,
or else I'm certain she'd try to cry off again
the moment she arrived, for pure nervous-
ness."

" Well, Tm sure I hope you're right," Mrs.
Thistleton replied, selecting finally the exact)
shade that suited her complexion, and laying
it down by itself on the costly inlaid table that
stood beside the Oriental ottoman in the alcove
by the bay-window. " For though, of course,
one naturally likes to be connected with people
of title, and all that, one doesn't want them to
trample one under foot in return for all one's
consideration."

But at tiie very same moment, away over
at RiUborou^, Faith, as she sat in her simple
black trock by the window of her new lodgings
stitching away at the skhrb of her weddmg-

dress with aching fingers, was remarking to
her mother :

" What I'm afraid of, dear, is that, perhaps,
Charlie's father and mother will turn out,
when one comes to know them, to be nothing
more or less than nasty rich people." To
which her mother wisely answered :

"If they're like himself. Faith, I don't
think you need be afraid of them."

In accordance with the wish of both the
high contracting parties, it had been finally
arranged that the wedding should take place
in London. Mr. Thistleton, senior, therefore,
went up to town a week or two in advance,
"to consult with Sur Paul," whom he was
able to guarantee in his letter to his wife the
same evening as " extremely amicable." But
it would be quite out of the question, the
master cutler obseved, when he saw the
fifteenth baronet's present abode, that Miss
Gascoyne should be married from her brother's
chambers. (Mr. Thistleton, senior, intluenced
by somewhat the same motives as Mr. Liond
Solomons, wrote " chambers " in the plaee of
" lodgings " even to his wife, bec^vuse be felt
the simplicity of the latter word unsuitable to
the fifteenth baronet's exalted ^gnity.) So he
had arranged with Sur Paul — much against
Sir Paul's original wish — to take rooms for the
breakfast at a West End hotel, whithe^ the
bridal party would ]^ooeed direct from the
altar of St. George's. Of course the ceremony
was to be the simplest possible — only a few
very intftaOite friends of either family ; but
the master cutler couldn't forbear the pleasure
of the breakfast at the hotel, and the display
of Sir Paul, m the f^ glory of his fifteenth
baronetcy, before the admiring eyes of a smaU
but select Sheffield audience. If they
smuggled their baronet away in a corner, why,
thek Charlie might almost as well have mar-
ried any other girl whose name was not to be
found in the pages of the British book of
honour. To all these suggestions Paul at laet
gave way, though very unwillingly, and even
consented to invite a few common - Oxford'
friends of his own and Thistleton's, including,
of course, the invaluable Mrs. Douglas.

From the very first moment of Paul's return
from HiUborough, however, it began to strike
him with vague surprise and wonder what an
immense difference in people's treatment and
conception of him was implied by his possess-
sion of that empty little prefix of a barren Sir
before the name bestowed upon him by his
sponsors at his baptism. When he took the
dingy lodgings in the by-way off Gower Street,
and handed the landlady's daughter one of the
cards Mr. Solomons had so vainly provided
for him, with " Sur Paul Gascoyne " written in
very neat copper-plate upon their face, he was
amused and surprised at the instantaneous
impression his title produced upon the manners
and address of that glib young lady. The
shrill voice in which she had loudly proclaimed
to him the advantages cf the rooms, ths cheap

104

THE SCALLYWAG.

price of coals per scuttle, the immecliate
proximity of the Wealee-yan chapel, and the
excellence of the goods purveyed by appoint-
ment at the neighbouring beef-and-bam shop,
sank down at once to an awestruck " Yes, sir ;
I'm sure we'll do everything we can to make

irou comfortable, su-," the moment her eyes
ighted on the talismanio prefix that adorned
hip name on that enchanted pasteboard.

A few days later Paul decided with regret,
after many observations upon his scanty ward-
robe, that he really couldn't do without a new
coat for Fdth's wedding. But when he pre-
sented himself in due coursa at the httle
tailor's shop in the City (" specially recom-
mended by Mr. Solomons") where he had dealt
ever since his first appearance at Oxford, he
noticed that the news of his acquisition of
dignity had already preceded him into the
cutting and fitting-room by the unwonted
obsequiousness of ooth master and assistants
as they displayed their patterns. " Yes, Sir
Paul," " No, Sir Paul," greeted every remark
that fell from his lips with unvarymg servility.
It was the same everywhere. Paul was
astonished to find in what another world he
seemed to live now from that which had voted
him a scallywag at Mentone.

To himself he was still the same simple,
shy, timid, sensitive person as ever; but to
everyone else he appeared suddenly trans-
figured into the resplendent image of Sir Paul
Qasooyne, fifteenth baronet.

Strangest of all, a day or two before the date
announced for the wedding in the Mormny
Post (for Mr. Thistleton, senior, had insisted
upon conveying information of the forthcoming
fashionable event to the world at large through
the medium of that highly-respected journal),
Paul was astonished at receiving a neatly-
written note on a sheet of paper with the em-
bossed address, " Gascoyne Manor, Haver-
fordwest, Pembrokeshire." It was a polite
intimation from the present owner of the
Gascoyne estates that, having heard of Sir
Paul's accession to the baronetcy, and of bis
mater's approaching marriage to Mr. C. E.
Thistleton, of Christ Church, Oxford, he would
esteem it a pleasure if he might be permitted
to heal the family breach by representing the
other branch of the Gascoyne house in his own
proper person at the approaching ceremony.
Paid looked at the envelope ; it had been re-
addressed from Christ Church. For the first
time in his life he smiled to himself a cynical
smile. It was evident that Gascoyne, of Gas-
coyne Manor, while indisposed to admit his
natural relationship to .the EQUborough cab-
man, was not unalive to the advantages of
keeping up his dormant connection with Su:
Paul Gascoyne, of Christ Church, Oxford,
fifteenth baronet.
. However, it appeared to Paul on two
accounts desirable to accept the olive-branch
thus tardily held out to him by the other
division of the Gascoyne family. In the first

place, he did not desire, to be on bad terms
with anyono, including eveli his own relations.
In the second place, he wished for the Thistle-
tons' sake that some elder representative of
the Gascoyne stock should be present, if
possible, at his sister's wedding. His mother
absolutely refused to attend, and neither Paul
nor Faith had the heart to urge her to re-
consider this determination. Their recent
loss was sufficient excuse in itself to explain
her absence. But Paul was ijot sorry that
this other Gascoyne should thus InckUy inter-
pose to represent before the eyes of assembled
Sheffield the senior branches of the bride's
family.

Nay, what was even more remarkable, Paul
fancied the very editors themselves were moi'e
polite in their demeanour, and more ready to
accept his proffered manuscripts, now that the
perfect purity of his English style was further
guaranteed by his accession to the baronetcy.
AV .0, indeed, when one comes to consider
seriously, should write our mother-tongue with
elegance and correctness if not the hereditary
guardians of the Queen's English ? And was
it )\stonishing, therefore, if even the stem
ediiiorial mouth relaxed slightly when office-
boys brought up the modest pasteboard which
announced that Sir Paul Gascoyne, baronet,
desired the honour of a ten minutes' inter-
view? It sounds well in conversation, you
know, " Sir Paul Gascoyne, one of our younger
contributors — he writes those crisp little occa-
sional reviews on the fourth page upon books
of travel." For the wise editor, who knows
the world he lives in, will not despise such
minor methods of indirectly establishing public
confidence in the " good form " and thorough
Society tone of his own particular bantling of
a journal.

Well, at last the wedding-day itself arrived,
and Faith, who had come up from Hillborough
the night before to stop at Paul's lodgings, set
out with her brother from that humble street,
in the regulation coach, looking as pretty and
dainty in her simple white dress as even
Thistleton himself had ever seen her. They
drove alone as far as tlie church ; but when
they entered, Paul was immensely surprised
to see what a crowd of acquaintances and
friends the announcement in the papers had
gathered together. Armitage was there, fresh
back from Italy, where he had been spending
the winter at Florence in the pursuit of art ;
and Paul couldn't help noticing th^ friendly
way in which that arbiter of reputations
nodded and smiled as Faith and he walked,
tremulously, up the aisle together. Th'
Douglases from Oxford were there, of course,
and a dozen or two of undergraduates or con-
temporaries of Paul's, who had rather despised
the scallywag than otherwise while they were at
college in his company. Isabel Boyton and
her momma occupied front seats, and smiled
benignly upon poor trembling Faith as she
entered. The kinsman Gascoyne, of Gascoyne

; T^.'ii^ J ^ ; J- Ui. UAiAi..\i-i! *

A PLAN OP CAMPAIGN.

Jid teriug
pelations.

Thistle.

ttive of
asent, if

mother
ler Paul
\r to re-

recent

explain
pry that
Jy inter-
Isembled

bride's

Manor, met them in the ohancel, and shook
hands warmly — alBirge-built, well-dressed man
of military oearing and most squirarcbical
proportions, sufficient to strike awe by his
frook-coat alone into the admiring breasts of
all beholders. The Sheffield detachment was
well to the fore, also strong and eager; a
throng of v/ealfhy folk, with the cutlery stan^p
on face and figure, craning anxiously . .ward
when the bride appeared, and whispering loudly
to one another in theatrical undertones, * That's
Sir Paul that's leading her ; oh, isn't he just
nice-looking I ' Thistleton himself was there
before them, very manly and modest in his
wedding garment, and regarding Faith as she
faltered up the aisle with a profound gaze of
most unfeigned admiration. And everybody
was pleased and good-humoured and satisfied,
even Mrs. Thistleton senior being fully set at
rest, the moment she set eyes on Paul's slim
figure, as to the fifteenth baronet' a perfect
affability.

It is always much more important in life
what you're called than what you are. He
was just the very selfsame Paul Oascoyne as
ever, but how differently now all the world
regarded him!

As for Faith.when she saw the simple, eager
curiosity of the Sheffield folk, and their evident
anxiety to catch her eye and attract her atten-
tion, her heart melted towards them at once
within her. She saw in a moment they were
not ' nasty rich people,' but good, honest, kindly
folk like herself, with real hum^n hearts beating
hard in theu: bosoms

So Faith and Thistleton were duly proclaimed
man and wife by the Beverend the Beotor,
assisted in his arduous ^ask by the Beverend
Hemy Edward Thisileton, cousin of the bride-
groom. And after the ceremony was finally
finished, and the books signed, and the signa-
tures witnessed, the bridal party drove away to
the hotel where Mr. Thistleton senior had com-
manded lunch ; and there they all fraternized
in imwonted style, the Master Cutler proposing
the bride's health in a speech of the usual neat-
ness and appropriateness, \ aile Mr. Gascoyne,
of Qasooyne Manor, performed the same good
office for the bridegroom's oonstitution. And
the elder Thistletons rejoiced exceedingly in the
quiet dignity of the whole proceedings; and
even Faith (for a woman will always be a woman
still) was glad in her heart that Mr. Gascoyne,
of Gascoyne Manor, had lent them for the day
the countenance of his ereatness, and not left
them to bear alone in their orphaned poverty
the burden of the baronetcy. And in the after-
noon, as the Morning Post next day succinctly
remarked, " the bride and bridegroom left for
Dover, en route for Paris, Bome, and Naples,"
while Sir Paul Gascoyne, fifteenth baronet,
returned by himself, feeling lonely indeed, to
his solitary little lodgings in the road off Gower
Street.

But it had been a very bright and happy day
on the whole for the National Schoolmistress.

And when Mrs. Douglas kissed her on both
cheeks, and whispered, " My dear, I'm so glad
you've married him I " Faith felt she nad
never before been so proud, and that Charlie
was a man any girl in the world might well be
proud of.

CHAPTEB XXXV.

A FLAN OF CAHPAION.

Madame Ceriolo had passed the winter in
Italy — or, to be more precise, at Florence.
Her dear friend (she wrote to Lionel Solomons),
the Countess Spinelli-Feroni, had asked her to
come out and stay with her as companion at
her beautiful villa on the Yiale del Colli, so as
to assume the place of chaperon to her accom-
plished daughter, Fede, now just of an age to
take part as a dihutanie in the world's frivoli-
ties. The poor dear Countess herself had been
paralyzed last year, and was unable to accom-
pany that charming gi>-l of hers, who couldn't
of course, be allowed to go out alone into the
wicked world of modem Florence. So she be-
thought her at once of her dear old friend,
Maria Agnese Geriolo. As a matter of fact, as
everybody knows, the Spinelli-Feroni family
became totalhr extinct about a himdred years
ago; and l^fadame Geriolo had been made
aware of their distinguished name only by the
fact that their former Palazzo, near the Ponte
Santa Trinita, is at present occupied by Yieus-
seaux's English Circulating Library. The title,
however, is a sufficiently high-sounding one
to command respect, and doubtless answered
Madame Ceriolo's purpose quite as well as any
other she could possibly have hit upon of more
strictly modern and practical exactitude.

It may be acutely conjectured that a more
genuine reason for the little lady's selection of
her winter abode might have been found in the
fact that Armitage happened to be spending
that season at a hotel on the Lungarno. And
Madame did not intend to lose sight of Armi-
tage. She was thoroughly aware' of that pro-
found paradox that a professed cynic and man
of the world is the safest of all marks for the
matrimonial aim of the cosmopolitan adven-
turess. True to her principle, however, of
keeping always more uian one string to her
bow, she had not forgotten to despatch at the
New Year a neat little card to Mr. Lionel
Solomons, with the Daomo and Campanile
embossed in pale monochrome in the upper
left-hand comer, and " Svneeri auguri " written
across its face in breezy gold letters of most
Italianesque freedom. The card was enclosed
in one of Madame Ceriolo's own famous little
Society envelopes, with the coronet on the
flap in silver and gray ; and Mr. Lionel was,
indeed, a proud and happy man when he read
on its back in a neat feminine hand, " MolH
anni felice. — M. A. Cebiolo."

To be sure, Mr. Lionel knew no Italian;
but it flattered his vanity that Madame Geriolo

f<36

THE SCALLYWAQ.

nhoald take it for granted he did. Indeed,
Madame Ceriolo, with her uiual acutenesH,
had chosen to word her little message in a
foreign tongue for that very reason — so accu-
rately had she gauged Mr. Ltonel's human
peculiarities.

Early in March, ho-.vever, Armitage had
been suddenly recalled to England on unex-
pected business, reaching London by mere
chaiice in time to be present at Thistlcton's
marriage with Faith Gascoyue. So Madame
Ceriolo, hitving nothnig further to detain her
now in Italy .vnd being ausious not to let Mr.
Lionel languish too long uncheered by her
sunny presence— for man i^i tickle and London
is large — decided to return with the first April
swallows, after Browning's receipt, to dear,
dingy Old England. She stopped for a night
or two on her way In Brussels, to be sure,
witli a member of her distinguished aristo-
cratic family QMt then engaged as a scene-
shifter at the Theatre Poyal) ; but by the
morning of the fifth she was comfortably
settled once more at the Hdtel de I'Univers,
and bad made Mr. Lionel aware of her serene
presence by a short little note couched in the
simplest terms : " Back in London at last.
This minute arrived. When may I hope to see
you ? Toute tl voua de coeur. — M. A. Ceriolo."

Mr. Lionel read that admirably-worded note
ten tiiDfis over to huuself — it said so much
because it said so little ; then he folded it up
with Mb fat, short fingers and placed it next
bis heart, in his bank-note pocket. He was a
man of sentiment in his way, as well as of
businesB, was Mr. Lionel Solomons, and the
Ceriolo was undoubtedlv a deviliBh fine
woman. It was not for nothing that a countess
should write to him thus on her own initialled
and coroneted notepaper. A countess in dis-
tress is still always a countess. And " Toute
A V0U8 de coev/r, too I Mr. Lionel was not
learned in foreign tongues, but so much at
least of the French language bis OUendorffian
studies permitted him readily to translate.
He bugged himself with delight as be rolled
those dainty words on bis mind's tongue once
more. " Toute a voua de caeu/r " she wrote to
bim; a devilish fine woman, and a born
countess.

It was with infinite impatience that Mr.
Lionel endured the routine work of the office
in the City that day. His interest in the
wobbling of Consols nagged visibly, and even
the thriUing news that Portuguese Threes had
declined one-eighth, to 53f -g for the account,
fttilied to rouse for the moment his languid
enthusiasm. He bore with equanimity the
boom in Argentines, and seemed hardly in-
clined to attach sufficient importance to the
Srobable effect of the Servian crisis on the
oubtful value of Roumanian and Bulgarian
securities. All day long, in fact, he was
moody and preoccupied ; and more than once,
when nobody else was looking, be drew from
the pocket nearest his heart a tiny square of

once moffl
Toute i

cream-laid note, on wbUb he
devoured those intoxicating vvorJ
voua de cceur.—'il. A. ckbiolo."

In the evening, as soon aa the oftce closed,
Mr. Lionel indulged himself in the unwonted
luxury of a hansom cab — he mrre usoally
swelled the dividends of the Metropolitan
Itailway— and hurried home post haste to his
own rooms to make himself beautiful with
hai/-oil and a sprif^ of Roman hyacinth.
(Roman hyacinth, relieved with two sprays of
pink bouvardia, suited Mr. Lionel's complexion
to a T, and could be porobased cheap towards
nightfall, to prevent loss by fading, from the
florist's round the corner.) He was anxious to
let no delay stand in the way of bis visit to
Madame Ceriolo's aalon. Had not Madame
herself written to him, " This mmute
arrived"? and should be, the happy swain
thus honoured by the fair, show himself
unworthy of her marked empreaaement 7

So, as soon as he had arrayed his rotund person
in its most expensive and beooming apparel (as
advertised, fotu and a half guineas), he
hastened down, by hansom once more, to the
H6tel de I'Univprs.

Madame Ceriolo received him, metaphori-
cally speaking, with open arms. To have
done so literally would, in Madame's opinion,
have been bad play. Her policy was to
encourage attentions in not too liberal or
generous a spirit. By holding off a little at
first in the expression of your emotion you
draw them on in the end all the more ardently
and surely.

And Madame Ceriolo felt decidedly now the
necessity for coming to the point with Lionel
Solomons. The testimony of her mirror
compelled her to admit that she was no longer
so young as she had been twenty years ago.
To be siure, she was well preserved — remark-
ablv well preserved— and even almost without
majking up (for Madame Ceriolo relied m little
as possible, after all, upon the dangerous and
doubtful aid of cosmetics) she was still an
undeniably fresh and handsome little woman.
Her easy-going life, and the zest with which
she entered into ijl amusements, had com-
bmed with a naturally strong and lively
constitution to kee^ the wrinUes from her
brow, the colour m her cheeks, and the
agreeable roundness in her well-turned figure.
Nevertheless, Madame Ceriolo was fully aware
that all this could not last for ever. Her
exchequer was low — uncomfortably low : she
had succeeded in making but little at Horenoe
out of pla^ or bets— the latter arranged on the
simple prmciple of accepting when she won,
and smilmg when she lost in full disobarge of
all obligations. Armitage badi circled round
her like a moth round the candle, but had
mani^ed to get aw^ in the end without
singeing his wings. Madame Ceriolo sighed a
solemn sigh of pensive regret as die oonolnded
that she must declare for the present, at leoBti
upon Lionel Solomons.

woull
monl
welll

to Slf

him I

annd

Mail

Florf

frai^

povJ

notq

ret«

A I'LAN op CAMPAIGN.

107

more
ToutH tl

Not thi^t sho had tho very slighteit iilea of
pauing the whole remainder of her earthly

ftilgriinage in that engaging young person's
iitiiuate society. Folly of such magnitudo
would never even have occurred in her wildest
moment to Madame Ccriolo'a wellbnlanced and
well-regulated intellect. Her plan was merely
to suok Mr. Lionel quite dry, and then to fling
him away under oircuuistancns where he could
be of no further possible inconvenience or
annoyance to her. And to this intent
Madame Ceriolo had gradually concocted at
Florence— in the intervals of extracting five-
franc piecea by slow doles from some im-
poverished Tuscan count or marchese— a
notable Boheme which she was now in course
of putting into c^ctual execution. She had
returned to London resolved to " fetch " Mr.
Lionel Solomons or to perish in the attempt, and
she proceeded forthwith in characteristic stylo
to the task of " fetching " him.

In the shabby little salon everything was as
neat as neat could be when Mr. Lionel entered
to salute his charmer. A bouquet — presented
that day by another admirer — stood upon the
tab'e by the sofa in the corner, where Madame
Ceriolo herself lay in the half-light, her lamp
just judiciously snaded from above, and thu
folds of her becoming, soft-coloured tea-gown
arranged around her plump figure with the
most studied carelessness. Aa Lionel ap-

Eroaohed, Madame Ceriolo held out both her
ands in welcome, without rising from her
seat or discomposing her dress.

" How nice of you to come so soon ? " she
cried, pressing either fat palm with dex-
terously-adjusted pressure. " So long since
we've met 1 And I thought of you at Florence.
Even among those delicious Fra Angelioos,
and Lippis, and Andreas, and Delia Bobbias, I
often longed to be back in England, among all
my friends. For, after all, I love England
best. I sometimes say to her. With all thy
virtues — thy Philistine, obtrusive hypocritical
virtues— England, with all thy virtues, I love
thee stiU 1 " •

Mr. Lionel was charmed. What wit ! what
playfulness 1 He sat down and talked, with a
vague idea of being a tnorough man of the
world, about Florence and Italy, and all
Madame Ceriolo had seen and done since he
last set eyes on her, till he half imagined him-
self as cosmopolitan as she was. Indeed, he
had once run across (when business was slack)
for a fortnight to Paris, and made acquain-
tance with the Continent in the caf6s-chan-
tanU of the Ghamps-Elys^es in that seductive
metropolis, so that he almost felt competent to
disauBB the XJffizi and the Pitti Palace, or to
enlarge apon St. Mark's and Milan Cathedrals,
with as much glib readiness aa Madame Ceriolo
herself conld dp.

Ab for Madame, she humoured him to the
very top of his bent.

" Ah, what a pity it is, Mr. Solomons," she
9Zolftimedi 9^ Itwt, gazing across at him with

a look which was intended to convey tho iU-
concealod admiration of a simple but ail-too-
trusting lieart," what a pity it is that you, with
your high instinctH and aspirations— f^oM, who
would HO much onjov and appreciate all these
lovely things, should be condemned tu pass
all your youth — your golden youth — in iuoiling
and toiling after tho pursuit of wealth in that
dreadful City I "

" Well, tho City ain't so bad, after all," Mr.
Lionel answered dopreoatingly, but w>^^ ^
self-satisfied smirk. " There's lots of fun,
too, to bo had in tlie City, I can tell you."

" That's true," Madame Ceriolo answered,
beaming upon him angelically ; " oh, so very
true — for you who say it I Of course, whoa
one's young, every wneie has its delights.
Why, I love even this dear old iingy London.
At our age, naturally, the universe at large
ought to be full of interest fo" us. But still,
I often think to myself. What a terrible thing
ib is — how badly this world we live in is
organised. It's the old who have all the
world's money in their hands. It's tho young
who want it, and who ought to have it."

"Just my notion to a T," M{. Lionel
answered, briskly, gazing at the '"enchantress
with open eyes. *' That's exactly what I stick
at. What's the good of tho tin, I always uay,
to a lot of hel^/less and hopeless old mumbling
cripples '? "

" Quite so," Madame Ceriolo continued,
watching his face closely, "''''hat a capital
principle it would be, now, if Nature made all
of us drop off satisfied, at sixty or there-
abouts, like leeches when they're full, and
leave all our hoarded wealth to be used and
enjoyed by those who have still the spirit to
enjoy it."

" Instead of which," Mr. Lionel y.\i in,
with a promjpt air of acquiescence, " one's
relations always go living and liying and living
on, on purpose to spite one, till eighty-five or
ninety! "

"Keeping the young people out of their
own BO long 1 " Madame Ceriolo echoed, to
pursue the pregnant train of thought uninter-
ruptedly. " Yes, that's just where it is. It's
a natural injustice. Kow, when I was out
over there in Florence, for example, I thought
to myself — I can't tell you how often (forgive
me, if I confess it): Suppose only Lionel
Solomons could be here with me too — you'll
pardon me, won't you, for thinking of you to
myself as Lionel Solomons? — how much
more he'd enjoy this delightful, charming
Italian life, with its freedom and its uncon-
ventionality, its sunshine and its carnival,
than the dreary, dismal, foggy world pf
London 1 "

" No, did yon really, though ? " Lionel cried,
open-mouthed. " I'm sure that was awfully
good and kind of you, Madame."

" And then I thought to myself," Madame
Ceriolo went on, closing her eyes ecstatically,
" one afternoon in the Cascine, when the sun

xoQ

THB 5CALLYWAa.

WM ihining, and the band waa playing, and
a crowd of voong Italian noblemen were
preuiiig round our carriage — Gounieu Splnelll-
Feroni'i carriage, you know, where Fede and
I were aUtlng and chatting with them— it
came upon me luddenly, as I looked around
and m»ied you : How happy dear Lionel
Solomoni would be in such a world aa this, if
only ••

She broke off and pauaed aignifloantly.

" If only what ? " Mr. Lionel asked, with an
ogle of delight.

" If only that rich uncle of his, old Cento-
Cento, down yonder at Hillborough, were to do
hla duty like a man and pop off the hooka at
once, now there's no further need or use in the
world any longer for him."

"Old what?" Mr. Lionel inquired, not
catching the niuue exactly.

" Old Cento-Cento," Madame Ceriolo an>
awered, with a beaming smile. " That's what
I always call vov^ respected uncle in Italian,
to myself. A hundred per cent, it means, you
know, in English, i usually think of him ia
my own mind as old Cento-Cento."

Mr. Lionel hardly knew whether to be
annoyed or not.

" He don't ask mor«i than other people do
for the same accommodation," he objected
half grumpily.

" No, doesn't he, though ? " Madame Ceriolo
replied, with the infantile smile of a aknple
marble cherub. " Well, I'm sorry for that ;
for I thought he was laying by a nice round
aum for aomebody else to enjoy hereafter.
And for somebody else's sake I think I could
forgive even rank uaury to old Cento-Cento.
He might behave like a perfect Shylook if he
liked, provided only it redounded in the end to
somebody elae'a benefit."

Mr. Lionel's face relaxed once more. " Well,
there's something in that," he answered, molli-
fied.

'* Something in that!" the enchantress
echoed, with a little start of surprise ; " why,
there's a great deal in that. There's every-
thing in that — Lionel." She paused a moment
as she let the name glide hsJf reluctantly oiT
her tongue. " For your sake," she went on,
letting her eyelashes fall with a drooping lan-
guor, expressive of feminine reserve and
timidity, " I almost fancy I could forgive him
anything, except his perversity in living for
ever. How old is he now, Lionel ? "

" Sixty-something," the younger Mr. Solo-
mons answered ruefully.

" And he may go on living to all eternity ! "
Madame Ceriolo cried, excited. " When I say
' to all eternity,' I mean for twenty years — at
our age a perfectly endless period. Oh, Lionel,
think how much enjoyment you mi^ht get out
of that old man's money, if only — if only my
plan for dropping off at sixty nad met with
the approbation of the authorities of the
universe ! "

" It's very good of you to interest yourself

BO maoh In my happlneaa," Mr. Llond aald,
melting, and gazing at her fondly.

"Whatever intereata you Intereata me,
Lionel," Madame Ceriolo anawered truth-
fully, for ahe meant to make what waa
hia hera, And ahe gazed back at him lan-
guishing.

Fleah and blood oouM atand It no longer.
Mr. Lionel waa compoaed of thoae familiar
human }M8tological elementa. Leaning over
the daughter ofTyrolese aristooraoy, he seized
Madame Ceriolo'a hand, which half reaiated,
half yielded, in his own. In a fervour of
young love even Mr. Lionel could bo genuinely
carried away by the tender passion — he lifted
it to his lips. The Countess in distress per-
mitted him to impress upon it one burning
kiss. Then she snatched it uway, tremulously,
like one who feels conscious of having allowed
her feelings to get the better of her judgment
in a moment of weakness.

" No, no," she exclaimed faintly ; "not that,
not that, Lionel 1 "

" And why not ? " Mr. Lionel asked, bend-
ing over her, all eagerness.

" Because," the Countess in distress answered
with a deep drawn sigh, " I am toe, too weak.
It can never be. I can never, never burden
you."

Mr. Lionel had hardly before reflected with
seriousness upon the question whether he
desired to be burdened with Madame Ceriolo
as a partner for life or not ; but thus suddenly

Eut upon his mettle, he forgot to reason vitn
imself as to the wisdom of his course ; he
forgot to pause for committee of supply ; he
forgot to debate the proa and coru of the state
of matrimony ; he retained sense enough
merely to pour forth his full soul in unpre-
meditated strains of passionate pleading, aa
conceived in the East Central postal district.
He flung himself figuratively at Madame
Csriolo's feet. He laid his heart and hand
at Madame Ceriolo's footstool. He grovelled
in the dust before Madame Ceriolo's throne.
He begged Madame Ceriolo at iJl risks and
hazards to make him the happiest of mankind
at once and for ever.

And being human after all, he meant it all
as he said it ; he meant it every word, without
deduction or discount. She was a devilish
fine woman, and she intoxicated him with her
presence.

But Madame Ceriolo, with .difficulty pre-
serving her womanly dignity and trembling
all over with profound regret, reluctantly
declined the proffered anatomical apeoimena.
His heart and hand she muat perforce deny
herself.

"Oh, no," ahe anawered; "Lionel, dear
Lionel, it can never be 1 Weak aa I am, for
your sake, I must steel myself. What have I
to offer you in return for your love ? Nothing
but the bare shadow of a noble name — an
empty title — a useless coronet. I won't
burden any further yomr youth that onght to

OenU

now,

vroB

aa i

you:

botti

THE PLAN PROQRBSSBS.

X09

|n«l Mfd,

Mti me,

truth,
[hat was
\im Jan.

lonmr.
/amUiar
[ng over
^a Mized
resisted,
vour of
>nuinely
le lifted
5M per.
[burning
lulousJy,
lallowed
dgment

be BO free — while the unole lives. If old
Cento-Cento were to be gathered to his fathers
now, or were to see his way to malting you a

}.roper allowance — perhaps in time But

as it is — impossible t I won't even wait for
vou : I won't let you wait for me. Let uu
both be free, ... I, at least, will never make
anv use of my freedom I "

Mr. Lionel rose and p(.oed the talon. " Yon
won't have long to wait," he exclaimed,
stran^i^e thoughts surging within him. " Marie
— may I call you Marie ?— ^)li, thank you I I
swear it."

Madame Ceriolo dropped back upon her
cushions in admirable ui, "m. " Oh, Lionel,"
she cried, all aghast at his 'uoldneas, " what-
ever you do, whatever you mean, for my sake
be prudent 1 "

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE PLAN PR00RKS8RS.

When Lionel Solomons left tho Hdtel de
rUnivers that evening, at a very late hour,
Madame Ceriolo lay back on her cushions
with a smiling face and laughed low to herself.
'* Booked t " she murmured, under her breath,
much amused. "Distinctly booked I I've
only just go*; to play him carefully now and
my nsh is landed I For Madame Ceriolo
was not such a purist in her metaphors as
many diutinguished critics would wish us all
to be. Khe tliought in the natural terms of
everyday humanity, not in the forced language
pedants would fain impose upon us. They
would have insisted upon it that she must
have said to herself " hooked ! " not " booked I "
in order to guard against a mixture of meta-
phors. Only, unfortunately, as a matter of
foot, being human, she didn't.

But Mr. Lionel went home much perturbed
in soul. He had let himself in for Madamo
Ceriolo in real earnest now, and he must face
the difficulty he had himself created in his
own path through life. Money must be found
somehow ; money, money, money, if possible,
by fair means ; but if those failed, then other-
wise.

Not that Mr. Lionel repented him of his choice.
She was a devilish fine woman and a real
countess. Her notepaper was stamped with
an indubitable coronet. She knew the world,
and could open the way for him into Society
he had never as yet even dreamed of attempt-
ing. She could help him to take down that
png Gascoyne, who sadly wanted taking down
a peg or two. Nothing could be nicer — if only
it were practicable. But there came the rub.
If only it were practicable !

And the next three weeks were wholly
spent by Mr. Lionel Solomons in trying to
tnink how he could make it all possible I

During those few weeks he saw much, it
need hardly be said, of Madame Ceriolo. The
Countess in distress, having once decided upon

her course of action, had no intention 0. lotting
the grass grow under her feet. Her plan was
to strike while the iron was hot. The fish
tnust be landni without delay. So she devoted
liur by no luv ms inconsiderable talents to the
(■•m^-eiiial task of gently suggesting to Lionel
Buluiiions her own preconceived somtion of her
own created problem.

Hho didn't let Lionel see she was suggesting
it, of course. Oh, dear no : Madame was far
too clever and too cautious for that. To pro-
pose, however remotely, that he should do
anything dishonourable for her own dear sake
would be inartistic and disenchanting. The
Countess in distress played her cards more
cleverly. She only made him feel, by obscure
innuendoes and ingenious half -hints, how
admirable a thing it would be in the abstract
if the money that lay in Mr. Solomons' safe
oould be transferred without difficulty to the
bottom of his nephew's waistcoat-pocket.
Madame Ceriolo had no intention, indeed, of
mixing up her own unsullied name with any
doubtful transactions in the matter of the pro-
posed readjustment of poourities. She avoided
all appearance of evil with religious avoidance.
During a longer course of life than she cared
to admit even to her own looking-glass, she
had carefully kept outside the law-courts of
her countrv. She hadn't the slightest idea of
entering them now. If swindling must be
done, let others swindle ; 'twas hers to batten
innocently on the booty of the swindled. Her
cue was to urge on Mr. Lionel by vague sug-
gestions that suggested nothing — to let him
think he was planning the whole thing liim-
self, when, in reality, he was going blindfolded
whither his charmer led him.

Nor was it part of her design, either, to
commit herself unreservedly to Mr. Lionel for
any lengthened period. She saw in him a
considerable temporary convenience, whose
pickings might even bo juJlclonsiy applied to
the more secure capture of Armitage, or some
other equally eligible person, in the remoter
future. Funds were necessary for the further
prosecuticn of the campaign of life ; Mr.
Lionel might well consider himself flattered
in being selected as the instrument for supply-
ing the sinews of war for the time being to so
distinguished a strategist. So Madame Ceriolo
contrived to spread her net wide, and to en-
tangle her young admirer artfully within its
cunning coils.

It was a Sunday in autumn— that next
succeeding autumn — and Madame lolled once
more upon those accustomed cushions. To
loll suited the Ceriolo figiure; it suggested
most amply the native voluptuousness of the
Ceriolo charms.

*' Z^bie," Madame Ceriolo called out to her
faithful attendant, " put away these flowers
into my bedroom, will you? They are the
Armitage's, and the Armitage must be sternly
ignored. Set the ugly little Jew's bouquet
here by my side. And listen, imbecile ; don't

:\\

THE SCALLYWAG.

go grinning like that. I expect the little Jew
himself to drop in this afternoon. Entends-tu
done, stupidef The uglj little Jew, I tell
yon, is coming. Show him vp at once, the
minute he arrives, and for the rest, whoever
comes, ' Madame ne regoit pae avjourd'hui ; '
now, do you hear me, image ? "

" Owi, Madame" Euslbie answered with
imperturbable good-humour. " Though I should
think Madame ought almost to have cleared
out the little Jew by this time."

" Z^bie," Madame answered with a not un-
flattered smile, " you medule too much. You
positively presume. I shall have to speak of
your conduct, I fear, to the patron. You are
of an impertinence — oh, of an impertinence I
What is it to you why I receive this gentle-
man t His attentions are strictly pour le ban

motif. Were it otherwise " Madame

leaned back on her cushions and composed her
face with profound gravity into the severest
imitation of the stern British matron. " Go,
Z6bie," she continued. " This levity surprises
me. Besides, I rather think I hear — on sonne.
Go down »nd bring him up. It's the ugly
little Jew — I know his footstep."

" Lionel I " Madame Ceriolo was exclaiming
a moment later, her left palm pressed un-
obtrusively about the region of her heart, to
still its beating, and her right extended with
effusion to greet him. " I hardly expected
you would come to-day t A pleasure un-
expected is doubly pleasant. Sit down, dear
heart " — in German this last — " l3t me take a
good look at you now. So delighted to
see you!"

Mr. Lionel sat down, and twirled his hat.
His charmer gazed at him, but he hardly
heeded her. He talked for some noinutes
with a preoccupied air. Madame Ceriolo
didn't fp.il to note that some more important
subject than the weather and the theatre, on
both which he touched in passing with light
lips, engrossed his soul. But sho waited
patiently. She let him go on, dnd went on
herself, as becomes young love, with these
minor matters.

" And so Mignonette was good ? " she said,
throwing volumes into her glance. " I'm sorry
I wasn't able to gu with you myself. That
box was a temptation. But I think, you know,
so long as nothing definite can be arranged
between us," and she sighed gently, " it's best
I shouldn't be seen with you too much in
public. A Woman, and especially a woman
qui cowrt le monde toute aeule, can't be too
careful, you see, to avoid being talked about.
If only for your sake, Lionel, I can't be too
careful."

Mr. Lidnel twirled his hat more violently
than ever.

" Well that Ivfit wLat I've come to talk to
you about, Marie," he said with some awkward-
ness—though he called her plhin Marie quite
raiu rally now. " ' So long ns nothing definite
can be arranged between ns,' you say. Well,

there it is, you see ; I want to put things at
last upon a definite basis. The question is,
Are you or are you not prepared to trust your-
self implicitly to my keeping ? "

The Countess In distress started with a well-
designed start.

"Oh, Lionel," she cried, like a girl of
sixteen, " do you really, really, really mean
it?"

"Yes, I really mean it," Mr. Lionel
answered, much flattered at her yovlthful
emotion. " I've worked it all out, and I think
I do see my vi'siy clear before me in essentials
at last. But before I take any serious step
I wish you'd allow me to explain at fuU
to you."

" No, no I " Madame Ceriolo answered,
clapping her hands on her ears and turning
upon him with a magnificent burst of feminine
weakness and trustfulness. "I'd rather not
hear. I'd rather know nothing. It's quite
enough for me if you say you can do it. I
don't want to be told how. I don't want to
ask why. I feel sure you could do nothing
untrue or dishonourable. I'm content if you
tell me you have solved our problem."

And, indeed, as a matter of fact, it suited
Madame Ceriolo's book best to be able to
plead entire ignorance of Mr. Lionel's doings,
in case that imprudent young gentleman
should ever happen to find himself face to face
with a criminal prosecution. She knew the
chances of the game too well. She preferred
to pose rather as dupe than as accomplice.

Lionel Solomons winced a uttle at that
painfully suggested clause, " untrue or dis-
honourable," but for all that he kept his own
counsel.

" At any rate," he went on more cautiously,
•' whatever I did, Marie, I hope and trust you
wouldn't be aigry with me ? "

"Angry with you? " the Ceriolo echoed in
a blank tone of surprise. "Angry with you,
Lionel ! Impossible ! Incredible 1 Incon-
ceivable I How could I be ? Whatever you
did and whatever you dared. Would be righ/ to
me, dehrest one. However the world might
judge it, I at least would understand Sai
appreciate your motives. I would know ^at
your love, your love for me, sanctified and
excused whatever means you might be
compelled to adopt for my sake, Lionel I "

The young man leant forward and pressed
that plump hand tendorly.

" Then you'll forgive me," he said, "what-
ever 1 may risk for tou ? "

"Everything," Madame Ceriolo answered
with innocent trust, " provided you don't
explain to me and ask me beforehand. I have
perfect confidence in your wisdom and your
honour."

And as she said the last words, she looked
up in his face with a guileless look that quite
took him captive. For guilele<is as it was,
Lionel Solomons somehow felt in his heart of
hearts that Madame Ceriolo, in the most

deUe

ment

ness

quite

rate.

THE OLAN PROQRESSES.

Ill

hingsat
stion is,
8t your-

a well.

delioate and graceful manner possible, had
mentally winked at him. And the conscious-
ness of that infantile implied wink set him
quite at his ease on moral grounds, at any
rate.

" We shall have to leave England," he went
on after a brief pause, du ing which his siren
had been steadily transfixing him with those
liquid eyes of liers.

" That's nothing to me," Madame responded
passionately, in soft, low tones. "Where
those I love are with me, there is my home,
Besides, all Europe is pretty much the same to
a woman who has travelled as long as I have
done." She sighed once more. " I've been
buffeted about the world," she went on, with a
pathetic cadence, " in many strange places —
Italy, Germany, Bussia, Spain — it's all one to
me."

" Spain won't do, though," Mr. Lionel
responded briskly, half letting out his secret in
the candour of private life (as encouraged by
Madame). " Spain's played out, they say.
No good any longer. A man's no safer there
since the last treaty than anywhere else on the
Continent."

"I don't quite understand you," Madame
went on, once more, with that infantile
smile repeated for his benefit, half as a wink
and half as a warning. " We shall be safe
wherever we go, dear heart, if we're true to
one another. Spain would be as good as
anywhere else, Lionel."

" y/ell, I don't mean to go there anyhow,"
Mr. Lionel rejoined with prudent vagueness.
" Marie — can you follow me — across the broad
Atlantic?"

The Geriolo gave a start of pleased surprise.

Nothing on earth would suit her plans so
welL It was she herself who, by her
dexterous remarks, a vropos dea bottea, had
first put into his head the notion of South
America as a possible place of refuge from
impertinent inquiry. But he didn't know that
himself ; he thought he had hit upon it all of
his own mere notion. And he waited
anxiously after playing this very doubtful
card ; while Madame, pretending to be taken
aback with astonishment, turned it over in her
own mind with sadden lovesick infatuation.

"With you, Lionel," she cried, seizing his
hand in hers, and pressing it to her lips
ecstatically, " I could go to the world's end-
anywhere — everywhere 1 "

And, indeed, if it came to that, the nearer
the world's end she got, the easier it would be
for her to leave Mr. Lionel in the lurch as
soon as she was done with him. In Paris or
Madrid he might get in her wajr in the end
and defeat her purpose ; but in Bio or Buenos
Ayres he would be harmless to hurt her, when
the orange once sucked dry, she turned her
wandering back anew towards the lodestar of
London in search of Armitage.

"Thank you," Mr. Lionel said, with warmth,
imd imbraoed her tenderly.

"Will it be New York?" Madame Ceriolo
asked, gazing up at him yet again witli in-
finite trustfulness. "Or do ^'ou prefer Phila-
delphia ? "

" Well, neither, Marie," Mr. Lionel an-
swered, fearing once more he might rouse
suspicion or disgust in that innucent bosom.
" I think— the— peculiar circumstances under
which we must sail will compel our port to be
Buenos Ayres."

" That's a long way off," Madame mtised,
resignedly — "a very long way off, indeed.
But where you are, Lionel, I shall be happy
for ever."

The unfortunate young dupe endeavoured
to hedge. Madame Ceriolo was forcing his
hand too fast.

" Well, I don't say yet I've made up my
mind to go," he continued, hastily. " There
are contingencies that may occur which might

easily prevent it. If my uncle "

Madame Geriolo clapped her hand promptly
upon his mouth.

" Not one word," she exclaimed, with fer-
vour, "about old Cento-Cento. He's a bad
old man not to make things easier for you.
It's a sin and a shame you shouldn't be able
to come into your own and live comfortably
without expatriation. I won't hear the
ancient wretch's name so much as uttered in
my presence. When you've finally emigrated,
and we settle down on your quiet little farm
in South America for life, I shall write to the
old horror, and just tell him what I think of
him."

" Oh no, you won't," Mr. Lionel interposed,
hastily.

"Oh yes, I will," Madame Ceriolo persisted,
all smiles.

Mr. Lionel glanced across at her in doubt
once more. Was she really so childishly in-
nocent as she seemed? Or was she only
doing it all just to keep up appearances? He
was almost half afraid she really meant what
she said. For a moment he faltered. Was it
safe, after all, to nm away with this guileless
creature ?

Madame Ceriolo read the passing doubt in
his eyes. And she answered it characteristi-
cally. She drew out from her pocket a little
packet of thin rice paper and a pouch of deli-
cately-scented Bussi&n tobacco.

" Let me roll you a cigarette," she said,
peering deep into his eyes.

Her gaze was full of unspeakable compre-
hension.

" Thanks," he answered.
And she proceeded to roll it. How deftly
those plump but dainty little fingers did their
familiar work ! He watched and admired.
What a magical charm, to bo sure, that fawn-
eyed Countess carried about with her! He
took the cigarette from her hand, and she held
the match herself to him. Then she went on
to roll a second for herself. As soon as it was
finished she placed it jauntily between those

112

THE SCALLYWAG.

rich red lips and lighted it from his. How
their eyes met and darted contagious fire as
she puffed and drew in at two cigarettes'
length of distance between their faces t Then
Madame leaned back on the pillows and puffed
away, not vigorously, but with languid and
long-drawn enjoyment.

Lioiiel had seen her smoke so a dozen times
before ; but this time the action had a special
significance for him. She smoked like a
woman to the manner bom. How impossible
to conceive that a person who handled her
cigaiette like that could be quite so blindly
innocent as his charmer pretended to be.

And if not so innocent, then, why, hang it
all I what a clever little actress and schemer
she was 1 How admirably she let him see,
without one incriminating word ever passing
between them, that she knew and approved
exactly what he intended.

" So we understand one another ? " he asked,
leaning ovor her all intoxicated.

' ' And Madame, pausing to blow out a long,
slow current of thin blue smoke between her
pursed-up lips, answered at last, gazing hard
once more into the depths of his eyes :

" We nnderstand one another perfectly.
Make what arrangements you choose, and take
your passage when you like. I am only yours.
What day do you fix ? "

" For — the ceremony ? "

" Yes."

" Saturday."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE PLAN IN ACTION.

To finish all needful preparations by Saturday
was very hard work indeed ; biit having
plighted his troth thus hastily to lady fair — as
fair as pearl powder and crSme de Ninon could
make her — Mr. Lionel Solomons would have
been loath in heart to fail her at a pinch, and
he strained every nerve accordingly to com-
plete his arrangements by the date agreed
upon.

And yet there was a great deal, a very great
deal, to do meanwhile. Let alone certain im-
portant but doubtful elements in the case,
which Madame Geriolo in her prudence would
not so much as permit to be named before
her, other more prosaic and ordinary prepara-
tions had still to be performed, as per Act of
Parliament in that case made and provided.
There was the paternal blessing of the most
Reverend Father in God, the Archbishop of
Canterbury, to be obtained for this propitious
union, on a piece of stamped paper duly sealed
and delivered ; for Madame Ceriolo, true to
her principles to the last, intended to be mar-
ried with all proper solemnities to Mr. Lionel
Solomons, in a building legally set apart for
the solemnisation of matrimony, in accord-
ance with the rites and ceremonies of the
Church of England as by law established. No

Registrar's office or hole-and-oomer prooeed*'
ings of doubtful rospoctability would suit
Madame' s delicate sense of the becoming in
these profound matters ; she must be married,
if at all, by special license, and according to
the rites of that Church in which, as she often
remarked, her dear mamma's father bad
formerly been a distinguished and respected
dignitary. To be sure, once tied to Mr. Lionel
Solomons by this stringent bond, there might
be difficulties in the way of getting rid of him
'^ereafter ; but, like a wise woman, Madame
resolved to take short views and chance tidem.
It's better to be decently married even to a
man you mean to suck dry and desert when
completely drained, than to create a scandal.
A separation between married folks is now-
adays almost fashionable, and certainly not
under the ban of the omnipotent Mrs. Grundy.
And who knows what becomes of a beggared
man in Buenos Ayres? Madame Ceriolo
trusted to the noble modern principle of
natural selection to improve Mr. Lionel
shortly off the face of the earth in those re-
mote parts ; and at any rate she felt sure she
was doing the very best possible for herself at
present in marrying him.

Mr. Lionel, for his part, showed unwonted
energy in getting everything ready beforehand
for that eventful Saturday. After procuring
his license, and securing his berths, and
engaging his parson, and making his way in
every respect clear before him, he ran down,
at last, on the Thursday of that eventful week
to HiUborough. Everything depended now
on the success of his visit. If he could succeed
in what he wanted, all would be well ; if not,
he would have the mortification and chagrin
on fiaturday of confessing to the Ceriolo a
complete fiasco.

Cn the way down, the Sc>uth-Eastern Rail-
way Company's suburban train, making its
wonted pace, gave Mr. Lionel in his comfort-
able smoking compartment ample time for
meditation and reflection. And Mr. Lionel,
turning all things quietly over with himself,
came to the conclusion, in cold blood, that
after all he was doing the very best thing for
himself in thus anticipating his imcle's testa-
mentary dispositions. Mr. Solomons the elder
had frequently explained to him that all the
money he had ground out of the Gascoynes
and all his other clients by slow process was
intended in the end, wholly and solely, for Mr.
Lionel's own personal use and benefit.

"It's all for your sake I do it, Leo," Mr.
Solomons had said to him deprecatingly more
than once. "It's all for you that I slave
and hoard and wear myself out without
getting any reasonable return in life for it."

And in a certain sense Mr. Lionel knew that
was true. His uncle made and hoarded money,
to be sure, because to ms^e and hoard money
was the instinct of his kind : but Mr. Lionel
was the conscious end in view for which as
immediate object he made and hoarded it.

prooeed<'
>ald suit
oming in

married,
ordinff to
she often
ther had
respected
fr. Lionel
sre might
id of him

Madame
Dce tidem.
even to a
9ert when

scandal.

is now-
ainly not

Grundy,
beggared
e Ceriolo
inciple of
'. Lionel
those re-
t sure she
herself at

unwonted
)eforehand

procuring
irths, and
lis way in
ran down,
ntful week
nded now
lid succeed
jU; if not,
id chagrin

Ceriolo a

stem Bail-
uaking its
s comfort-
time for
Ir. Lionel,
h himself,
ilood, that
; thing for
ole's testa-
s the elder
lat all the
Gaecoynes
rocess was
ly, for Mr.
it.

Leo," Mr.
ingly more
it I slave
t without
1 for it."
knew that
led money,
ird money
llr. LioncA
which OS
loarded it.

C3
u

o
u

a
g

THE PLAN OF ACTION.

1X3

Still, Mr. Lionel reflected to Iiimself in his
unprejudiced way, what wai the good of money
to a man of fifty ? And if Uncle Judah went
on living for ever, as one might expect, in
spite of his heart (for creaking doors last long),
he, Lionel, would be certainly fifty or there-
ab?>ut8 before he had the slightest chance of
touching one penny of it. It was absurd of a
man to toil and slave for his nephew's sake
and then keep that nephew out of his own
indefinitely. Mr. Lionel was prepared to
relieve Uncle Judah from the onus of that
illogical and untenable situation : he was pre-
pared to carry out his uncle's implied desire in
a manner more intelligent and more directly
sensible than his uncle contemplated.

At any time of his life, indeed, he would
have thought the same ; he had often thought
it before, though he had never dared to act
•upon it. But the great use of a woman in this
world is that she supplies an efficient stimulus
to action. Madame Geriolo's clever and well-
directed hints had rendered actual these
potential impulses of Lionel's. She had
urged him forward to do as he thought ; to
take Time by the forelock, and realise at once
his uncle's sayings. He was prepared now to
discount his future fortune — at a modest per-
centage ; to take at once what would in any
case be his on his uncle's death for an im-
mediate inheritance.

At fifty, of what use would it be to himself
and his Countess ? And what worlds of fun
they could get out of it nowadays.

Madame Ceriolo, indeed, had for many
weeks been carefully instilling that simple
moral by wide generalizations and harmless
copybook maxims into his receptive soul ; and
the seed she sowed had fallen on strictly
appropriate soil, and, springing up well, was
now to bring forth fruit in vigorous action. A
man, Madame had assured him more than
once, should wisely plan and boldly execute ;
and having attained his end, should sit down
in peace unuer his own vine and fig-tree to
rest and enjoy himself. None but the brave
deserve the fair; and when the brave had
risked much for the sake of a Countess in
distress, she must be cruel indeed if, after that,
she found it in her heart to blame or upbraid
him.

So Mr. Lionel sped slowly on his way south-
ward, well satisfied in soul that he was doing
the best in the end for himself and his
charmer, and little trembling for the success of
his vigorous plan of action.

When he reached HiUborough and his
uncle's office, he found Mr. Solomons very red
in the face with suppressed excitement from a
recent passage- at-arms with the local attorney.

" That fellow WilMe wanted to cheat me out
of two and fonrpence costs, Leo," Mr.
Solomons exclaimed indignantly, in explana-
tion of his ruffled temper and suffused cheeks ;
" but I wouldn't stand that, you know ; I've
had it out with him fairly, and I don't think

he'll try it on with me a second time, the low
pettifogging creature."

"It's made you precious pink about the
gills, anyway," Mr. Lionel retorted with
cheerful sympathy, seating himself lazily in
the easy-chair and gazing up at his uncle's red
face and rotund figure.

And, indeed, Mr. Solomons was very flushed
—flushed, his nephew observed, with a certain
deep blue lividness around the lips and eyes
which often indicates the later stages of heart-
disease. Certain qualms of conscience rose
that moment in Mr. Lionel's soul. Was he
going to render himself liable to criminal
proceedings, then, all for nothing? If he
waited a few weeks, or months, or seasons,
would the pear drop ripe from the branch of
its own accord ? Was he anticipating Nature
dangerously when, if he held on in quiet a
little longer. Nature herself would bring him
his inheritance ? These were practical
questions that Mr. Lionel's conscience coiild
readily understand, while on more abstract
planes, perhaps, it would have been deaf as
an adder. Uncle Judah's heart was clearly
getting very much the worse for wear. He
might pop off any day. Why seek to get by
fovd means what would be his in time by fair,
if only he cared to watch and wait for it.

Pshaw 1 It was too late for such squeamish-
nesB now. With the Archbishop of Canter-
bury's blessing in his desk, and the Boyal
Mail Steam Company's receipt for berths per
steamship Dom Pedro to Buenos Ayres direct
in his trousers-pocket, he couldn't turn back at
the eleventh hour and await contingencies.
Threatened men live long. It's no good
coimting upon heart-disease ; the very worst
hearts go beating on for years and years with
most annoying regularity. Besides, what
would Marie say if he returned to town and
told her lamely that his plans had fallen
through, and that he must decline to marry
her, as per agreement arranged on Saturday
morning ? When you've made up your mind
to wed the charmer who has enslaved your
heart, at the week's end, you can't put her off
on Thursday afternoon at two days* notice.
Come what might now, he must pull this thing
through. He must carry out his plan as
settled upon at all hazard.

" I'm glad you've come, though, Leo," Mr.
Solomons replied, putting his necktie straight
and endeavouring to compose his ruffled tem-
per. "I've a great many things I want to
talk over with you. I'd like your advice about
sundry securities I hold in my bands. Espe-
cially as to selling those Central Southern
BAilway Debentiures."

Mr. Lionel's eyes glistened as his uncle rose
ten minutes later, after some further parley
on business matters, and went over to the safe
where the papers which represented his wealth
were duly pigeon-holed. How pat ! How
opportune ! He had fallen on his feet indeed :
this was precisely the exact chance he needed.

THE flCALLYWAO.

Mff. SolomoDs drew out the varioua seouritieB
one by one, and diaoasaed with loving cadenoea
their different valuea.

"All youra, all voura, Leo, my dear," he
murmured more than once, aa he fingered
them gingerly. " You'll be a rich man, Leo,
when you come into your own. Gaa and
Coke Company'a A's yield 12 per cent, to
original inveatora, of which I was one.
Twelve per cent, is very good interest as
timen go nowadays on that olasa of security ;
excellent interest. No ribk ; no difficulty ;
nothing to do but to ait in your eaay-chair,
with your lege in the air, and draw your
dividends. Not my style of busineas, you
know, Leo ; too slow fur me. I like aome-
thing that givea me good returna and oloae
pickings, and some fun for one'a money ; but
for yoxa aake, my dear boy, I like to have a
little reaerve-fund put away safely. It's
better than all these speculative investments
•ter all, Leo."

" Certainly," Mr. Lionel assented with
promptitude. " Something that can be called
in and realized at any moment. Something
one can turn into ready cash on the open
Stock Exchange whenever it's needed. Where-
as, with most of your money-lending tranaac-
tiona, you aee, you never know where you are
— ^like that beastly Gascoyne business, for ex-
ample. Money sunk in a hole, that's what I
call it."

" What's that ? " Mr. Solomons interposed
sharply, looking round over hia shoulder,
alarmed at the sound of those ominous words,
" realised at any moment." " Money sunk in
a hole ! Nothing of the sort, I give you my
word, Leo. Here's the papera all as straight
and baaineaa-like aa poasible ; and he's paymg
intereet monthly ; he'a paying intereat at the
rate of twenty per cent, per annum with the
greatest regularity. Sir Paul Oascoyne, Bart.,
is an honourable party."

Mr. Lionel continued to turn oyer the bonds,
and noted oarefolly where each was pigeon-
holed. " You Likven't had these out," he said
with a casual air, obaerving the dust upon
them, "since I WM down hwe last. I see
they're juat as I pat them back myself last
time."

" Well, I don't go to the safe, not twice in a
twelvemonth, exoept when coupons fall due,"
his uncle answered unconcerned, as he fingered
once more the Gascoyne notes of hand with
that loving, lingering touch of his. " It's best
not to meddle with these things too often, Leo.
They might get lying about loose, and be mis-
laid or stolen."

"Quite so," Mr. Lionel answered dryly,
retreating to a seat, and running his fat hand
easily through his oily locks while he regarded
the safe from afar on his chair in the comer
with profound interost. It suited his g^e, in
fact, that Mr. Solomons should vint it as
seldom as possible. Suppose by any chance
certain securities should happen to be mislaid.

in the course of the next week or so — ^now, for
example — it might be Christmas or thereabouts
before Mr. Solomons so much as even missed
them.

As they loitered about and talked over the
question of the Central Southern Debentures,
Mr. Solomons' boy from the office below poked
his head into the room and announced briefly :

" Mr. Barr to see you, sir."

" I must run down, Leo," Mr. Solomons said,
glancing about him with a hasty eye at the
bonds and debentures. "Barr and Wilkie
again I If ever there was a troublesome set
of men on earth, it's country attorneys. Just
put these things back into the safe, there's a
good fellow, and turn the key on them. The
combination's ' Lionel.' It's all yours, you
see ; all yours, my boy ; so I open and shut the
lock Mtiih your name for a key, Leo."

And he gave an affectionate glance at the.
oleaginous young man (who sat tilting his
chair) as he retreated hurriedly towards the
door and the staircase.

Thus providentially left to himself in full
possession, Mr. Lionel Solomons could hardly
refrain from bursting out at once into a hearty
laugh. It was too funny I Did there ever live
on earth such a precious old fool as his uncle
Judah ? " It's all yours, you see I " Ha, ha,
the humour of it I He should just think it
was, more literally now than Uncle Judah
intended. And he opened the aaf e to the word
" Lionel 1 " Such iimocence deserved to be
severely fleeced. It positively deserved. A
man who had reached his uncle Judah's years
ought surely to know better than leave any-
body whatsoever — friend or foe — face to face
alone with those convertible securities.

When Mr. Lionel Solomons came down to
Eillborough, it had been his intention to spend
the whole of that night under the avuncular
roof ; to possess himself of the avuncular keys
and combination ; and to rifle that safe in fear
and trembling in the small hours of the morn-
ing, when he meant to rise on the plea of
catching the first train to London. But fate
and that old fool had combined to put things
far more easily into his power for a moment.
All he had to do was to place such bonds and
securities as were most easily negotiable in
his own pocket-book, to stick the worthless
Gascoyne notes of hand, as too cheap for
robbing, in their accustomed pigeon-hole, to
lock the safe to a different combination (whi(^
would render immediate detection somewhat
less probable), and return the keys with the
smiling face of innocence to his respected
relation. And as Mr. Lionel was not witiiout
a touch of grim humour in his composition,
he chose for the combination by which idone
the safe could next be opened the one signifi-
cant word, " Idiot."

"If he finds that out," the dutiful nephew
chuckled to himself, merrily, " why. all I can
say is, he'll be a great deal leas ot one t^ n
ever I take him to be." r ,j,,,.; ,;;. , .,, , . ,.,

|ow, for
tbouts
Imissed

V6T the

itures,

' poked

kiefly :

ON THE TRACK OP THB ROBBER.

t the.
g his
the

When Mr. Solomona onoe more reappeared
iip<Ki the scene, flashed again with eontention
with his natural enemies, the attorneys, Mr.
Lionel hemded him back his bunch of keys
with perfect sangfroid, and merely observed
with a gentle smile of superior compassion:

" I wouldn't get rid of those Central
Southerns yet awhile, if I were you. The
tightness won't last. I don't believe in these
' bearing ' operations. Thev're bound to rise
later, with the half-yearly dividend."

And as Mr. Lionel went back to town that
same afternoon in high good-humour, cigarette
in mouth and flower in buttonhole, he curled
with him a considerable sum in stocks and
shares of the most marketable character, every
one of which could be readily turned into gold
or notes before the sailing of the Dom Pedro on
Tuesday morning.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ON TH8 TOAOK OF THB SOBBBB.

FiVB days late^ "^aul Gascoyne was sitting at
his desk in i lodgings off Qower Street,
working away with all his might at a clever
middle for an evening newspaper. Paul was
distinctly successful in what the trade
technically knows as middles ; he had con-
quered the peculiarities of style and matter
that go to make up that singular literary pro-
duct, and he had now invented a genre of his
own which was greatly appreciated by novelty-
loving editors. He had just finished an
amusing little diatribe against the ladylike
gentlemen who go in for fads in the House of
Commons, and wus polishing up his manu-
script by strengthening his verbs and crisping
his adjectives, when a loud knock at the door
disturbed the even flow of his rounded periods ;
and before he had even time to say " Gome
in," the door opened of itself, and Mr. Solomons
in person stood looming large before him,
utterly breathless.

At first sight Paul was fairly taken aback
by Mr. Solomon's deep and peculiar colour,
/to be sure, the young man was accustomed to
seeing his old friend and creditor red enough
in the face, or even blue ; but he had never
before seen him of such a bright cerulean tint
as at that moment; and the bluenes? and
breathlessness both equally frightened ?iim.

"Take a chair, Mr. Solomons," ho broke
out, starting up in surprise ; but almost before
the words were well fut of his mouth Mr.
Solomons had sunk exhausted of his own
accord on the sofa. He tried to speak, but
'Words clearly failed him. Only an inarticulate
gurgle gave vent to his emotion. It was plain
some terrible event had disturbed his equa-
nimity. Paul bustled about, hardly knowing
what to do, but with a vague idea that brandy-
and-water administered cold might, perhaps,
best meet the exigencies of the situation.

After a minute or two a very strong dose of

brandy seemed to restore Mr. Solomoni to^
comparative tranquillity, though he was stiU
undeniably very much agitated. As soon as
he could gasp out a few broken words, how* ,
ever, he seized his young friend's hand in his
own, and ejaculated in an almost inaudible
voice :

" It's not for myself. Sir Paul, it's not for
myself I mind so much — though even that's
terrible — but how can I ever have the courage
to break it to Leo ? "

"To break what, Mr. Solomons?" Paul
asked, bewildered. "What's the matter?
What's happened? Sit quiet awhile, and
then tell me shortly."

" I can't sit quiet," Mr. Solomons answered,
rising and pacing the room with a wavering
step and panting lungs ; " I can't sit quiet
when, perhaps, the thief s this very minute
getting rid of my valuable securities. Leo
always told me I should be robbed ; he always
told me BO, but I never listened to him. And
now^poor boy, he's beggared— beggared ! "

" Has something been stolen, then ? " Paul
ventured to suggest tentatively.

"Something I" Mr. Solomons echoed,
laying stress with profound emotion on that
most inadequate dissyllable, " something :
everything! Every penny on earth I've got
to bless myself almost — except what's out;
and Leo, poor Leo, he's left without
anvthfaig."

"You don't mean to say sol" Paul
exclaimed, surprised, and not knowing exactly
how else to express his sympathy.

" Yes," Mr. Solomons continued, seizing the
young man's hand once more, and wringine it
in his despair ; " Paul, Paul — I beg pardon.
Sir Paul, I mean, but this loss has taken me
back at once to old times— my poor boy's
ruined, irretrievably ruined. Unless we can
catch the thief, that is to say. And I ought to
be after him this minute ; I ought to he at
Scotland Yard, giving notice to the police, and
down in Gapel Court to warn the brokers.
But I couldn't, I couldn't. I hadn't strength
or breath left to do it. I had to come here
first to tell ^ou the truth, and to get yon to go
with me to interview these people. If Leo d
been in town, I'd have gone straight off, of
course, to Leo. But he started for Ms holiday
to Switzerland on Saturday, and I don't know
where to telegraph to him, even, for he hadn't
decided what route he would itjf when I last
saw him."

•• How did it happen ? " Paul asked, tiding
to press Mr. Solomons into a chair onoe more.
" And how much has been stolen ? "

"My safe's hem rifled I" Mr. Solomons
went on with exceeding vehemence, going a
livid hue in the face once more. " It s been
gutted down, every bond that was in it— all
negotiable— botids payable to bearer — every-
thmg but yoTiT own notes of hand, Sir Paul,
and those the thief left only because he
couldn't easily get rid of them in London."

'•ky

ti6

THB'SCALLYWAa;-

'•And when did all thii happen?," Paul
Inqaired, affhast.

" It couldn't have been earlier than Thurs-
day last," Mr. Solomons replied, still gasping
for breath. "On Thursday Leo came down
to see me and tell me about his plans for his
holiday, and I wanted to consult him about
the Central Southern Debentures, which
they've been trying to 'bear 'so persistently of
late ; so I went to my safe — I don't often go
to that safe except on special business — and
took out all my bonds and securities, and they
were all right then. Leo and I both saw
them and went over them ; and I said to Leo,
'This is all yours, my boy— all yours in the
end, you know,' and now he'a beggared ! Ob,
however shall I have the faje to tell him ? "

"But when did you f.nd it out?" Paul
asked, still as wholly unsuspicious of the true
state of affairs as Mr. So.omons himself, and
feeling profoundly for the old man's distress.
For it isn't a small matter, whoever you may
be, to lose at one blow the whole savings of a
lifetime.

"This morning," Mr. Solomons answered,
wiping his beaded brow with his big silk
pocket-handkerchief — " this very morning.
Do ^ou think I'd have let a night pass. Sir
Paul, without getting on his track? "When
once I'd discovered it, do you think I'd have
let him get all that start for nothing? Oh
no, the rascal — the mean, thieving villain I
If I oatoh him, he shall have the worst the
law can give. He shall have fourteen years —
I wish it was life. I wish we had the good
old hanging days back again, I do ; he should
swing for it then I I should like to see him
swinging 1 To think he shotdd try to beggar
my poor dear Leo 1 "

And then, by various jerky and inarticulate
stages, Mr. Solomons slowly explamed to Paul
the manner of the discovery: how he had
decided, after all, in view of suspicious
rumours afloat about the safety of a tunnel,
to sell the Central Southern Debentures at
87 8-8ths, in spite of Leo ; how he had gone
to the safe and tried his familiar combination,
" Lionel " ; how the key had refused to answer
to the word ; how, in his perplexity, he had
called in a smith to force the lock open by fire
and arms, which, apparently, was Mr. Solo-
mons' own perversion of vi et armia, and how
at last, when he succeeded, he foimd the
pigeon-holes bare, r.nd nothing left but Paul's
own notes of han^ for money lent and interest.
" So, unless I find him, Sir Paul," the old man
cried piteously, wringing his hands in despair,
and growing bluer and bluer in the face than
ever, "I ^all have nothing left but what
little's out and what you can pay mo off; and
I don't want to be a burden to you — I don't
want to be a burden."

" We naust go down to Scotland Yard at
once and hunt up the thief," Paul replied
resolutely; "and we must go and stop the
bonds before another hour's over."

"But be may have sold them already,"
Mr. Solomons cried with a despondent face.
" They were there on Thursday, I know, but
how soon after that he carried them off I
haven't the very slightest notion. They were
all negotiable — every one negotiable ; and he
may have cleared off with the money or the
bonds by this time to Berlin or Vienna."

" You suspect nobody ? " Paul asked, draw-
ing on his boots to go down to Scotland Yard.

"I've nobody to suspect," Mr. Solomons
answered with a profound sigh. " Except Leo
and myself, nobody ever had access to or went
near that safe. Nobody knew the combina-
tion to open it. But whoever did it," and
here Mr. Solomons' lips grew positively black,
and his cheek darkened, "he had the impu-
dence to set the combination wrong, and the
word he set it to was ' Idiot,' if you'll believe
it. He not only robbed me, but he insulted
me as well. He took the trouble to lock the
door of the safe to the deliberately insolent
word • Idiot.'"

"That's very curious," Paul said. "He
must have had time to waste if he could think
of doing that. A midnight thief would have
snatched the bonds and left the safe open."

"No," Mr. Solomons answered with deci-
sion and with prompt business insight, "he
wouldn't have done that; for then I'd have
known I'd been robbed at once, and I'd have
come up to town by the very next train and
prevented his negotiating. Tne man that took
them would want to sell them. It all depends
upon whether he's had time for managing
that. They're securities to bearer that can
pass from hand to hand like a fi'pun note. If
he took them Friday, he'd Satr~day and
Monday. If he took them Saturday, he'd
Monday and that's all. But, then, we can't
tell where he's been likely to sell then. Some
of 'em he could sell in Paris or m Liverpool as
easy as in London ; and from Liverpool he
covud clear out at once to America."

They went down the stairs even as he spoke
to Mr. Solomons' hansom, which was waiting
at the door.

" It's strange you can't think of any likely
person to have done it," Paul said as they got
into it.

" Ah, if Leo were in town," Mr. Solomons
exclaimed, with much dejection, " ho'd soon
hunt 'em up 1 Leo's so smart. He'd spot the
thief like one o'clock. But he's gone on hia
hoUday, and I can't tell where to find him.
Sbr Paul, I wouldn't mhid so much if it was
only for myself, but how can I ever tell Leo ?
How can I break it to Leo ? "

And Paul, reflecting silently to hunself, was
forced to admit that the revelation would
doubtlcwj put a severe strain upon Mr. Lionel
Solomons' family affection.

At Scotland Yard they met with inmiediate
and respectful attention — an attention due in
part, perhaps, to the magnitude of the loss,
for bonds to a very considerable amount wero

HUNTED DOWN.

feody,"

It face.

(w, but
off I
were
id he

|or the

draw-
lYard.
mons
t Leo
weat
hina-
and
black,
impu-
d the
elieve
suited
ik the
aolent

in qinestion, but largely also, no doubt, to that
unobtrusive visiting-card, which announced
the younger and more retiring of the two
complainants as "Sir Paul Gascoyne, Bart."
The law, to be sure, as we all Imow, ii no
respecter of persons ; but hardly anyone would
ever find that out in modem England from the
way it is administered.

Before the end of the afternoon they had
gone with a detective round Capel Court and
the stockbroking quarter generally, and had
succeeded in discovering in a single unimportant
case what disposition had been made of cne
of the missing securities. By a miracle of
skill, the detective had slowly tracked down a
small bond for £200 to a dark young man,
close-shaven and muffled, with long lank i^air
too light for his complexion, who seemed
thoroughly well up in the ways of the City,
and who gave hia name as John Howard
Lewis. Mr. Lewis had so evidently understood
his business, and Lad offered his bond for sale
with such thorough frankness and openness,
that nobod^r At the broker's had for a moment
dreamt of suspecting or questioning him. He
had preferred to be paid by o-eque to bearer —
wanting, as be said, the money for an im-
mediate purpose; and this cheque was duly
returned aa oariied the same day at the
London Joint Stock Bank in Prince's Street
by Mr. Lewis in person. It hadn't passed
through anybody's account, and payment had
been taken in Bank of JBngland tens and
twenties.the uumbors of which were of course
duly noted. As a matter of fact, however,
this latter precaution was of very little use, for
every one of the notes had been changed later
in the day (though Mr. Solomons didn't find
that fact out till somewhat after) into Bank of
France note < and American greenbacks, which
were converted back still more recently into
English currency, so that almost all trace of
the thief was lost. Mr. Solomons had no due
by which he could find him.

" The oddest part of it all," Mr. Solomons
remarked to the detective as they travelled
back by Metropolitan together to Scotland
Yard, " is that thi^ bond was offered for sale
on Friday morning."

"It was," the detective answered with
cautious reserve. *' Well, then, what of that,
,«ir."

"Why, then," Mr. Solomons went on,
profoundly puzzled, " the lot must have been
stolen on Thursday night, for my nephew and
I saw them all quite safe in their place on
Thursday."

"They must," the detective answered with
dry acquiescence. He was forming his
conclusions.

Mr. Solomons moaned and clasped his
hands hard between his knees.

"If we catch the rogue," he murmured,
" he'll have fourteen years for it."

"Undoubtedly," the detective answered,
and nuuinated to himself ; a clue was working

in his professional brain. The bonds had
been abstracted between Mr. Lionel's visit on
Thursday afternoon and Friday morning.
That narrowed the inquiry to very restricted
limits indeed ; so Sherraid, the detective,
observed to himself inwardly.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

HUNTED DOWN.

That night Mr. Solomons slept at Paul's
lodgings.

About seven in the morning, before either of
them was up, the detective came once more,
all radiant in the face, with important tidings.
He asked to see Sir Paul Oasooyne. As soon
as Sir Paul came out into the little study and
sitting-room to meet him, Mr. Sherrard jerked
his head mysteriously towards the door of Mr.
Solomons' bedroom, and observed in a voice
full of confidential reserve :

" I didn't want too much to upset the old
gentleman."

" Have you got a clue ? " Paul asked, with
profound intercut.

Aiid the detective answered with the same
mytjDerious au: :

" Ye::^ -:'ve got a clue — a clue that I think
will surpiwO him a little. But we'll have to
travel down to Cornwall, him and me, as
quick as we can travel, before we can be sure
of it."

" To Cornwall I " Paul repeated, astonished.
" You don't mean to say the thief's gone down
to Cornwall, of all places in England."

For Nca lived in Cornwall, and hallowed it
by her presence. To think that a man who
stole bonds and scrip should have the face to
take them to the cotmty thus sanctified by
Neal

"Well, no," the detective answered, pointing
with his thumb and his head once more in a
most -'x^nificant fashion towards the room
where .ir. Solomons was still in unconscious
enjoyment of his first slumber for the night ;
for ne had lain awake, tossing and turning,
full of his loss, till five in the morning. " He
ain't exactly gone there ; but we've got to go
there ourselves to follow him. The fact of it
is, I've come upon a trace. We were working
all evening at it — our men from the yard — for
we thought, from his taking it all in a cheque
to bearer, he was likely to clear out as fast as
he could clear: and we've tried to find
where he was likely to clear out for."

"And what have you discovered?" Paul
asked breathless.

"Well, we tracked our man from the
broker's, you see, to a money-changer's in the
Strand," the detective responded, still very
confidentially. " It was lucky the old gentle-
man got wind of it all so soon, or we mightn't
have oeen able to track him so easily. After
a month or two, of course, the scent mightn't
lie. But being as it was only last Friday it

xi8

TtfB SCALLYWAG.

happened, the tr*ck wm pretty freah. And
we found out, at the changer's, he'd offered
two hundred pounds in Bank of England
twenties for French notes of a thousand francs.
That wa<i all right and straightforward, to be
sure. But here s where the funny part of the
thing comes in. From the changer's in the
Btrand, he went straight down to Charing
Cross Station, and at the little office thereby,
where the cabs drive out, he changed back the
French thousands, d'ye see, for Bank of
England tens again."

Ajid the detective closed his left dye slowly
and reflectively.

"Just to confuse the track, I suppose,"
Paul put in, by way of eliciting further
communication.

" That's it, sir," the detective went on.
" You're on it like a bii d. He wanted to get a
hold of notes that couldn't be tracked. But
all the same, we've tracked 'em. It was sharp
work to do it, all in one night, but still we
tracked 'em. W'i'd got to do it at onoe, for
fear the fellow should get clean away ; so it
put us on our mettle. Well, we've tracked
em at last. We find eight of them notes,
balance of passage-money, was paid in on
Monday at the Boyal Steam Company's offices
in ths City."

"You don't mean to say sol" Paul ex-
claimed, much interested. " By whom, and to
where, then t "

" By a dark young gentleman, same height
and bqilC as Mr. John Howard Lewis, and
about the same description as to face and
features, but blacker in the hair, and curlier,
by what they tell us. And this gentleman
had a moustache when he took the tickets first
on Tuesday week; but the moustache was
shaved off when he paid the balance of the
passage-money on Monday. It was twelve at
night when we hunted up the dezk who
arranged the passage, at his lodgings at
Clapham ; but he remembered it distinctly,
because at first he didn't reco^ise the gentle-
naan owing to the change in his personal
appearance ; and then, later, he recollected it
was the same face, but close-shaven since he
called first time about tixe berth; so that
pret^ well fixes it."

"But he paid eighty pounds," Paul said,
unsuspecting even so, " if he got rid of eight
of them, where on earth was he going to
with a passage-money like that, then ?^'

"Well, it wasn't all for himself," the
detective answered dryly, still eyeing him
closely. " It generally ain't. We count upon
that, almost. There's mostly a woman at the
bottom of all these 'ere embezzlement or
robbery cases, the gentleman gave the name
of Burton, mstead of Lewis, at the Boyal
Mail Company's offices, ard he took two
berths for himself and Mrs. Percy Maybank
Burton. When a gentleman's got two names
at once there's usually something or other to
inquire u^to about huii. Often enough he's

;ot a third, too. Anyhow, the eighty pounds
e paid was for balance of passage-money for
himself and lady."

" Where to ? " Paul asked onoe more.

" To Buenos Ayres," the detective answered
with pardonable pride. " And I thought I'd
better tell you first, so as not to make it too
great a shock, don't you see, for the poor old
gentleman."

"Too great a shock I" Paul repeated,
DAwildorfiQ

"Well, yes. He mightn't like it, you
know. It might sort of upset him."

"To know you've got a clue?" Paul
exclaimed, much puzzled.

"Well, not exa(>^,l^ that," the detective
answered, gazing at him with a sort of gentle
and pitving wonder. " But to hear — that the
person has gone off with a lady."

"I don't quite see why," Paul replied
vaguely.

The detective seemed amused.

" Oh, well, if you don't see it, perhaps he
won't see it either," he went on, smiling.
" Of course it ain't no business of mine to
object. I'm a public officer, and I've only got
to do my duty. I'm going down to Co iwall
to try and arrest my man, but I thought,
perhaps, you or the old gentleman might l|k9
to come down and help me to identify him." i

" To identify hun ? " Paul echoed. *

"Well, to secure him, luiyhow," the
detective answered cautiously. "You see,
I've got out a warrant for his apprehension, of
course — i i different aliases ; and wo may as
well have all the information we can, so an
to make quite sure beforehand of our capture.
But we must go by the 9.40 from Paddington,
anyhow."

" Where to?" Paul inquired, more mystified
than ever.

"To Bedruth and Helston," the detective
replied, coming down to business. " From
there we'll have to post to the Lizard, and try
to intercept him."

" Oh, I see," Paul said, " you want to stop
the steamer ? "

The detective nodded.

"That's it," he assented. "He's aboard
the Dom Pedro, from Southampton for Brazil
and Argentine ports. She don't call for mails,
imfortunately, at Falmouth ; but she may be
caught off the Lizard still, if we make haste to
stop her. If uot, ws shall telegraph on to Bio
and Buenos Ayres, and an offioerll ^o out by
Lisbon, on the offchanoe to catch him under
Extradition Treaty."

"You settled aU that to-night?" Paul
asked, amazed at this promptitude.

"Yes; we settled all that in the small
hours of the morning. It's a big afiaur, you
see, and that put us on our metUe, and I've
come to know if either of yon want to go
down to the Lizard along of me."

" For whom is the warrant ? "

The detective looked hard at him.

with

only

thou(

alias

Com

the

foUo
" (
knov
for '
direi
had,
of

pouodi
ney for

awerej
ght I'd
it too
K>or old

"CORNWALL TO WIT."

•if

*' For Percy Maybank Barton," he aniwered
with one rye oloied. "You mo, that's the
only certain name we've got to go npon,
though there's an alias to the warrant-
alias John Howard Lewis, and others.
He gave his name as Burton to the
Company, of course, and he's Burton aboard.
We didn't get none for the apprehension of
the woman. She ain't identified yet ; but if
the young chap comes off, of course she'll
foUow him."

" Of course," Paul answered, without much
knowing why. For he had no reason on earth
for connecting Madame Geriolo directly or in-
directly with the unknown criminal. If he
had, perhaps he might have spoken with less
of certainty.

"What's up?" Mr. Solomons called out
from the passage, putting his head out of
the door at the sound of the detective's voice.

The officer, in carefully guarded terms,
explained to him in full the existing state of
affairs.

Mr. Solomons didn't take long in making
up his mind.

" I'll go ! " he said briefly. " I'll catch the
scoundrel if it's the last thing in this world I
ever do. The rasctd, to try to rob Leo and
me like that I He shall have fourteen years for
it, if there's law in England. Hard labour,
penal servitude. Only I ain't fit to go down
there alone. If I catoh him it'll make me so
angry to see him, I shall have a bad turn with
my heart ; I know I shall, to a certainty. But
no matter, I'll ^o. I only wish Leo was in
England to go with me."

" Well, he ain't," Mr. Sherrard answered in
the same short, sharp tone in which he had
answered before ; " so, if you mean to come,
you must make up your mind to come as you
are and get ready instanter."

But if Mr. Solomons had "come as he
was" the authorities of the Great Western
Railway would have been somewhat surprised
at the apparition of a gentleman at Padding-
ton Station in slippers and nightshirt.

Paul considered a moment and looked at
the old man. Mr. Solomons was undoubtedly
a hale and hearty person in most respects ; but
his heart was distmctly unfit for Uie sort of
•train that was now being put upon it. Paul
had noticed the day before how the arteries in
his forehead had bounded with excitement, and
then how the vemshad swelled with congested
blood, as the fit passed over. If he went down
to the Lizard alone with the detective and put
himself into a fume trying to catch the robber
of his bonds, Paul hardly liked to answer for
the possible consequences. And, strange as it
ma^ sound to say so, the young man had a
ounous half -filial sentiment lurking somewhere
in his heart^towards the old Hillborough money-
lender. He had never ceased to feel that it was
Mr. Solomons who had made him what he was.
If it hadn't been for Mr. Solomons, he might
■till have been lounging about a stable in

Hillborough, Insteaa of writina ra«y and
allusive middles for the Monaay liemtm-
brancer. He hesitated for an instant to press
himself upon his old friend — the third-class
fare to Cornwall and back mounts up, I can
tell you — but in the end his good nature and
gratitude conquered.

" If you care for my company, I'll gladly go
with you, Mr. Solomons," he suggested
timidly.

Mr. Solomons wrung his young friend's hand
with affectionate regard.

"That's very kind of yon, Sir Paul," ue
said; "that's very, very kind of you. I
appreciate it, that a gentleman in your position
— yes, yes, I know my place," for Paul had
made a little deprecatory gesture, " should be
so good as to desert his own work and go with
me. But if you go, you must let me pay all
expenses, for this is my business ; and if Leo
had been in England, Leo'd have run down
with me."

" Well make haste," the detective said dryly.
He had a singulwly reticent manner, that
detective. " You've no time to lose, gentlemen.
Get your things together, and put 'em into a
hansom, bnd we'U drive off at onot to Pad-
dington together."

CHAPTER XL.

' COBNWALL TO WIT.

KvL the way down to Redruth and Helston,
Paul noticed va^ely that both his fellow-
travellers were silent and preoccupied. Mr.
Solomons, when he spoke at all, spoke for the
most part of Lionel, and of this wicked attempt
to deprive him of his patrimony. More than
once he took a large folded paper out of his
pocket, of very legal aspect, bearing on its
face, in most lawyer-like writing, the en-
grossed legend — " Will of Judah P. Solomons,
Gentleman." This interesting document he
opened, and showed in part to Paul. It was
a cheerful and rather lengthy performance of
its own kind, marked by the usual legal
contempt for literary style, and the common
legal love for most pleonastic redundancy;
everything was described in it under at least
three alternative nouns, as "all that house,
messuage, or tenement" ; and everybody was
mentioned by every one of his names, titles,
and places of residence, whenever he waa
referred to, with no stops to speak of, but with
a graceful sprinkling of that precious word
" aforesaid " as a substitute in full for all
punctuation. Nevertheless, it set forth in
sufficiently succinct terms that the testator,
being then of soimd state of mind and in
possession of all his intellectual faculties as
fully as at any period of life, did give and
devise to his nephew, Lionel Solomons, gentle-
man, the whole of his estate, real or personal,
in certain specified ways and manners and for
his own sole use and benefit. The will farther

ISO

T?fS «CALLYWAO;^

provided that, in cm* the Mid Lionel So.o-
mom, gentleman, tliould predeoeaie the
tesrator, then and in that oaae testator gave
and deviiod all hiii estate aforesaid, real or
personal, in trust to the .Towish Board of
Guardians of London, to be by tiiem applied
to such ends and purposes, in connection with
the vvelfare of the Hebrew population of the
Metropolitan Postal District, as might to thera
seem good in the exercise of their wise and
sole discretion.

" It was every penny Leo's, you see," Mr.
Solomons repeated many times over with
profound emotion — "every penny Leo's. All
mv life's savings were made for Leo. And to
think that rascal should have tried to deprive
him of it I Fourteen years he shall have, if
there's law in England, Sir Paul. Fourteen
years, with hard labour too, if there's law in
England."

As for Sherrard the detective — that moody
man — he smiled grimly to himself every time
Mr. Solomons made these testamentary con-
fidences to his young friend; and once he
ventured to remark, with a faintly significant
air, that that would be a confounded nne haul
of its tort for the Jewish Board of Guardians,
if ever they came in for it.

" But they won't," Mr. Solomons answered
warmly. "They'll never come in for it. I've
only pat it there out of a constitutional habit
of providing beforehand for any contingency.
My heart ain't what it used to be. Any
sudden shook now'd bring it u-' short, like a
horse against a hedge he can't take. I just
added that reminder to the Board of Onardians
to show I never turned my back upon my own
people. I'm not one of those Jews afraid and
ashamed to be known for Jews. A Christian
I may be ; a man oan't be blamed for chang-
ing his religious convictions — on sufficient
grounds— but a Hebrew I was bom and a
Hebrew I'll remain to the end of the chapter.
I won't ever turn my back upon my own kith
and kindred."

"There's some as does," the detective
remarked enigmatically, and relapsed once
more hito the corner cushion.

It's a long way from Faddington to Helston :
but the weariest day comes to an end at last ;
and in time they reached the distant Cornish
borough. It was late at night when they
disembarked on the platform, but no time was
to be lost; if they wanted to stop the Dom
Pedro as she passed the Lizard Light, they
must drive across at once to the end of the pro-
montory, to arrange signals. So they chartered a
carriage without delay at Helston Station, and
set out forthwith on their journey across the
long, dark moor in solemn silence. They
were in no mood for talking, indeed. The
day in the train had tired them all, and now
they must snatch what sleep they might,
against to-morrow's work, in the jolting
carriage.

The drive across ihe tableland of the Lizard

is always, even by day, a wild and lonely one ;
but on this particular night it was wilder,
lonelier and darker than ever. More than
once the driver pulled up his horses in the
middle of the rood, to consider his way, and
more than once he got down and walked some
vards ahead to see whether by any chance he
had missed some familiar landmark. On each
such occasion Mr. Solomons' fretfulness and
anxiety visibly increased. At last he could
stand these frequent interruptions to the con-
tinuity of the journey no longer. He put his
head out of the window and expostulated
warmly.

"What are you waiting like this for, man ? "
he cried in an angry tone. " Don't you know
your way? I declare it's too bad. If you
couldn't find the road from Helston to the
Lizard you oughtn't to have taken us.
There's thousands at stake— thousands of
pounds' worth of bonds that rogue has stolen ;
and if we're not at the Lizard hi time to catch
him, he may get clean off with them to South
America."

The man looked back at his fare with a
half-contemptuous glance.

" That's the way of all you London people,"
he answered gruffly with the stolid Cornish
moroseness. " Always a-fault-finding. And
yet there's fog enough, they tells me, too, in
London I" *

" Fog I " Mr. Solomons ejaculated, catching
hastily at his meaning with the quickened per-
ception that comes at any great critical moment
of life.

"Av, fog," the man answered. "Lizard
fog, they calls it. Fog that thick you oan't
hardly see your hand before you. It's bad
enough driving over Helston Moor dark nights
any ume ; but with fog like this it's a toss up
if ever we get at all to Lizard Town."

Mr. Solomons gazed out blankly into the
black night. He saw it at a glance. It was
all too true. A finger-post stood by the road-
side opposite, but even with the li^ht from the
carriage lamp falling full upon it, he could
hardly make out its shape, far less its lettering,
through the dim, misty shjroud that intervened
between him and the roadside. He flung
himself back on the cushions with a groan of
despair.

. " It we go on at this snail's pace," he cried
in the bitterness of his heart, " we shall never
reach there in time to stop her. Tiiat thief 'U
get off dear witih the bonds to Soi'th America,
and Leo '11 be ruhied."

The driver laughed again in the eld man's
face — the hard, d^, sardonic Cornish laugh.

" That's the way of you London pect-le," he
repeated once more, with the critioid frankness
and openness of his race. " Thinks you knows
everything, and ain't got no common gumption
about anything anyhow I Why, who supposes
the steamer can get past the Lizard in a fog
like this, when we can't so much as find our
way on the open road across the moor by dry

"CORNWALL TO WIT."

xax

|yon*;

than
|in the
(y. and

aome

|noe he

each

I and

oould

I* con-

}u( his

lulated

land from Heltton. What delays u» '11 delay
lier. She'll anchor till morninu, and wait for
it to clear, that's what iho'U do, unleu ihe
boars away out to hca southward. She
couldn't gut past the lighthouse in this sort
of weather, could she ? "

" No — couldn't she, though ? " Mr. Solomons
cried, appnaned and relieved. ** You think
she'll wail/ till the fog liftn in the morning? "

" She'fe bound to," the driver answered con-
fidently, " if nhe don't want to go to pieces on
Cadgwith Clitfii, or on the rooki over yonder
by the church at St. Kuan's. There's many
of 'em as has gone to pieces in a fog nign
Cadgwith, I tell you. Ay, and many a ship
as has drownded them by the dozen, bo as the
Cadgwith men liave made fortunes time and
again out of tlie salvage. ' Ood's providence
is uiy inheritance ' — that's the motto of the
Cadgwith men ever since the davs when their
fathers was wreckers." And the driver laughed
to himself a sullen, hard laugh, indicative of
thorough appreciation of the grimly humorous
view of Providence embodied in the local
coastwise proverb.

A strange shudder passed through Mr. Solo-
mons' massive frame.

" Gone to pieces in a fog t " he repeated.
"You don't mean that I And drowned there,
tool That'd be worse than all. He might go
down with the bonds in his case I And, any-
how, he'd do us out of the fourteen years'
imprisonment."

The detective glanced over at Paul with a
curious look, whose exact meaning Paul was
at a loss to determine.

" If he drowns I "

"If he drowns," the officer said, in that
restrained tone he had so often adopted, " that's
the hand of God. The hand of God, yon see,
cancels and overrides any magistrate's war-
rant."

Mr. Solomons clenched his fist hard, and
looked blankly in front of him.

" All the same," he said fiercely, with long-
smouldering indignation, "I don't want to
lose all my precious bonds, and I don't want
the fellow to get off his foiurteen years' im-
prisonment."

" Whoever he may be ? " the detective mur-
mured tentatively.

"Whoever he may be," Mr. Solomons
assented, with angry vehemence. "I'm an
honest man. I've worked hard for my money.
Why should I and my nephew be beggared by
anyone ? "

They drove on still through the gloom and
mist, and gradually felt their way by stumbling
steps across the great open moor towards the
point of the Lizard. As they drew nearer and
nearer they could hear the fog-horn at the
lighthouse blowing loudly now and at frequent
intervals, and bells were ringing, and strange
noises along the coast resounded hoarsely.
But all around was black as midnight; and
when at last they reached the Lizard Light-

honse, eyen th« great eleetrio light itself
hardly traversed the gloom or shod a faint ray
at the base of its own tall and dripping
pedestal.

Mr. Solomons bustled out, and hurriedly
informed the coastguardsraan at the preven-
tive station of the nature of their errand. The
coastguardsman shook his head gravely.

"Not to-night," he said. "This ain't no
time for going to signal a ship to stop, no
matter for what. You can put out a boat and
try to meet her if yovi like ; but it ain't likely
in such weather you'd find her. More chance
to be run down yourself unbeknown by her
and drowndod without her even so much as
sighting you."

" She hasn't gone by yet ? " Mr. Solomons
asked, eagerly.

"No, she ain't gone by yet," the coast-
guardsman replied. " But she's expected every
minute. She'd signal by gun or fog-horn, I
take it. Though we ain't heard nothing of
her so far, to be sure. Most likely she's
sounded and found herself in shoal water,
and so she's dropped anchor and laid by till
morning."

"Then the best thing for ns to do," Paul
suggested, " is to turn .ki quietly at the hotel
for the night, and see whether we can find her
early to-morrow."

To this plan of action, however, neither Mr.
Solomons nor the detective would at all con-
sent. They insisted upon remaining abent
within call of the lighthouse, on the off chance
of the Dom Pedro appearing from minute to
minute. One of them felt constrained by
duty, the other by animosity and love of
money, and neither would yield one jot or tittle
of his just pretensions. So Paul was fain to
give way to their oombhied authority at last,
and walk up and down in that damp night-fog
by the edge of the cliffs that line round the \
great promontory. *-^

So weird or impressive a sheet of fog Paul
had never seen before in his life. It was
partly the place, partly the time, but partly,
also, the intense thickness of that dense
Channel sea-mist that enthralled his fancy.
He descended by himself slowly, with sham-
bling steps, tJong the steep path that leads
down to the water's edge at the very point of
the Lizard. To render it more visible on dark
nights, the ooostguardsmen have whitewashed
the dark patches of rock by the side, and piled
up along the jagged pinnacles little heaps, or
cairns, of white pebbles. Bnt even so aided,
it was with difficulty that Paul could pick his
way along the uncertain path, especially as in
parts it was wet with bpray and slimy with
the evaporations of salt sea-water.

There was little wind, as is usually the case
in foggy weather, but the long Atlantic ground-
swell nevertheless made big breakers on the
abrupt rocks ; and the thunder of the waves,
as they surged and burst below among the
unseen oaves and dark cliffs of the promontory,

IS9

THB 5CALLVWAd.

had a peculiarly wild and wlemn mond on
that black night, now just merging towards
the first cold gray of morning.

Paul was afraid to trust himself within sight
of the waves, not knowing how near it mi^ht
be safe to approach ; but he sat for awhile,
alone in the damp dn^rlrnesB, on the n&nuw
ledge that seemed to Overhang the hoarse
chorus of breakers beneath, and listened with
a certain strange poetic thrill to the thunderous
music of the Atlantic below him.

And ever and anon, above the noise of the
waves, the dull, dironing voice of the gigantic
fog-horn broke in upon the current of his
solemn reverie.

It was a night to pity men at sea.

All at once a sudden flash to eastward,
hardly descried through the fog, seemed to
illumine for a second, in a haze of light, the
mist sround him. Next instant a boom
sounded loud in his ears — the boom of a great
gim, as if fired point-blank towards him.

How near it mifi[ht be, Paul could hardly
guess ; but he was conscious at the same time
of the odour of gunpowder strong in his nos-
trils, while the choking sensation that aocom-
panies great closeness to a big explosion tJmost
unnerved him, and rendered him giddy for a
moment. He rose in alarm at the shook, but
his feet failed him. He had hardly the power
left to scale the rocks once more by the white-
washed path. The concussion and the foul
air had well-nigh stupefied him.

Nevertheless, as he moimted to the light-
house again he was intuitively aware of what
was happening dose by. Vague noises and
feelings seemed to (.ress the truth on him as
if by Instinct.

A great ship was in danger — in pressing
danger — on the rocks of the Lizard.

She had come across the breakers unawares
in a dense fog, and had fired her gun for a
signal almost pomt-blank in Paul's very face.
Had he not oy good-luck been turned Uie
other way, and with his e-es half shut
dreamily, as he listened to ti.^e thunder of
those long Atlantic waves and the moaning of
the fog-horn, it would certainly have blinded
him.

And now, for all Paul knew to the contrary,
the big ship was going to pieces on the jagged
rocks Beneath him there.

Then, with a n;)oo&d flash of intuition it
came home to him more fully, as he recovered
his senses free: r.io snddon shock, that this
was in all probability the \/atohed-f6r Dom
Pedro— with the thief on board her.

CHAPTER XLI.

▲ BBSOUB.

Climbimo back hurriedly, but cautiously, to
the top, Paul groped hio way through the thick
mist to the li(jhuiouBO, where all was cJready
bustle and confusion. The fint gray light of

dawn was begmpiug to struggle famtly
through the dense fog, and swirling wreaths of
vapour grew vaguely visible in the direction of
the cliff, whither people were feeling their
way with outstretched arms, and much noise
of preparation, towards the cove and the
lifeboat.

"What's the matter?" Paul asked one
rough sailor-looking man, whom he followed
towards the house where the lifeboat was
harbonred.

" Matter ? " the man answered. " Why
salvage, that's what it is. Vessel gone ashore
on Long Men Books. Steamer, most likely.
Brazil packet from Southampton, I take it.
Very good salvage."

It's an ill wmd that blows nobody good.
The descendant of the wreckers was tninking
only of his own inheritance.

Paul hurried on in the man's footsteps till
he rc.ched the shore. There, through the
vague gloom, he saw Mr. Solomons and the
detective already before him. The sailors
were pushing out the lifeboat over the short
shingle beach, and fishermen about were '
putting off small rowing-cral't to take their
share m the expected harvest of salvage.

Before he knew exactly how it was all
happening, he found himseu seated in one of
the small boats, with Mr. Solomons and the
detective, while two sturdy fishermen were
pushing them ceaward, through that tre-
mendous surf that seemed certain to swamp
them with its huge curling breakers.

For a minute or two the waves broke in
upon them, drenciiing them through and
through with showers of spray, and half fill-
ing the boat. Then the fishermen, finding
at last the long-looked-for opportunity, pushed
her successfully off on a retiring wave, and gou
her safe out to sea beyond the reach of the
great curving billows. Once well afloat, they
fotmd the sea itself comparatively smooth,
though heaving and tossing with a long glassy
swell, whose ups and downs were far deeper in
their way than anything that Paul had ever
before experienced. The boatmen rowed on
in the wake of the lifeboat, through the fog
and darkness, towards the sound of a bell that
rang with a long, irregular, rocking movement
some hundred yards or so southward of them.
Paul knew instinctively, somehow, that no
one was ringing the bell. It was the rise and
fall of the vessel as she dashed helplessly upon
the rooks that made that unearthly rhythm ;
she was tolling her own knell as the breakers
broke her upon the jagged and water-worn
pinnacles of the Lizard.

As they approaohed nearer, little more was
visible. It added to the weird horror and awe
of the tragedy, indeed, that nothing could be
seen of it. They only knew by inference that
a great ship was being foundered and ground
to pieces by some invisible force within a few
yards of them.

Bat the breaken themselves and (he tooka

ma<

A R6SCUB.

123

to faintiy
wreaths of
ireotion of
ling their
uoh noise
and the

>Bked one
followed
>oat was

were iaSnUy ia •vidence. Paul could make
cut through the gloom some sunken stacks of
serpentine, round whose crest the big waves
made vast curling swoops, and boiled and
roared in hideous, whirling eddies. The ship
had struck from the opposite side, and the
boatmen refused to row any nearer ; indeed,
even where they now held her off, pressing
with all their might on the bending oars, the
danger of grounding was very considerable.
No ooat could possibly live in that wild surf
upon those broken granite points. If once a
wave should catch them on its summit acd
carry them on to the rocks, all would be up ;
no human aid could ever avail to save them.

And then, as they held off there, keeping
carefully to the trough of the waves, and
listening to the cries and shouts ^t came
over to them through the fog, and hearing the
dull grating of the hull as it scraped along the
rock with each Ufting billow, a louder voice
than any rose distinct across the waves — the
voice of a ship's officer calling out in wild
tones of horror, " She's parting amidships."

And so she wasl Ne.it moment they saw
upon the breakers close by great fragments of
wreck and bits of floating board. There could
be no doubt the voice had cried out what was
true. A loud snap rent the air; a crash of
breaking, the shrieks and screams redoubled
in intensity, and the boatmen holding the boat
away, out of reach of the wash, called out
aloud, "She's gone to pieces that time. I
heuxd her crack. Bow round the other way,
Jim, and help pick up the passengers."

" Are they drowning ? " Mr. Smomons cried,
with a face of terrible relentlessness.

"They're drowning, no doubt," the man
answered, with the stolid matter-of-fact air of
the hardened seaman. " They can't many of
'em live in such a sea as that is. Anywhere
else they wouldn't come to much hurt this
calm weather— leastways, if they could swim ;
but the breakers on the Long Men Bocks is
always terrible. Why, that's where the East
Indiaman went to pieces twelve years ago
come Christmas, don't you minci, Jimmy ? "

"I hope he won't drown," Mr. Solomons
cried savagely, " and balk me of justice ! I
hope he won't d.'e till I've had my fourteen
years out of him!'

The men were rowing their hardest now,
and, as Paul could judge by the sounds
growing gradually fainter, away from the
wreck and the reef of rocks, so as to turn their
flank sideways and come in upon them from
the open. For nearly ten minutes they rowed
on in silence as hard W arms and legs <)ould
row, Mr. Solomons sitting grim and unmoved
in the stern, while the dett^otive eyed him ever
with a strange suspicious iiide-glance. At the
end of that tuuej the fog lifted a little, a very
little, and Paul saw they were skirting the
long ridge of rocks, marked some twenty yards
off by their white Une of breakers.

Preiej^tly they saw other boats about— boats

whose occupants were engaged in peering into
the water in search of black objects bohbine
up and down in it, which tiiey lunged at with
boat-hooks. And then, with sudden realization
of the whole horrbr of the thing, Paul recog-
nised with a start that these were hmnan
bodies.

In another minute there loomed dimlv
ahead some dozen yards or so off a great dark
mass, moving wildly about among the white
sheets of foam; and Paul saw with another
terrible shock of awe that it was half the
broken hull of a huge ocean-going steamer.
She had parted amidships, and one half had
sunk already in the deeper water. The other
half, yet dashing wildly on the rocks, hung
togeiiher still upon the reefs in front of them.

At the same moment a small black body
went floating past, like the others they had
seen the neighbouring boatmen lunge at. As
it passed them it rose spaemodicaJly to the
surface, and two arms were flung up wildly
into the air. Through the gray haze of
morning Paul could recognise them at once as
a woman's arms — a woman's arms plump and
smooth and white skinned.

He jumped up, and seizing a loose car in his
hands, held it hastily out towards the despair-
ing creature. But even as he did ao, tbo long
swell carried her away from his sight into the
deep mist beyond, where she disappeared,
shrieking. They rowed with all speed
towards the spot where she had disai^eared,
and once moro came in sight of the woman.
By this time another boat had found her, and
was pulling her in. With frantic struggles for
life she clutched the gunwale, and climbed
over, with the aid of the men's arms, on to
the boat's seat. Then she turned round, with
her wet dressing-gown dripping around her,
and in a shrill voice of horror she cried out to
the sailors, " Go ashore, go ashore 1 I shall
perish of cold here I "

For a second the voice rang with curious
familiarity in Paul's ear, but he failed at first
to recognise the pale and draggled creature
round whose shoulders one of the fishermen
was wrapping, with much care, his own rough
pilot-coat. Next instar.t, with a sudden burst
of recollection, the voice came back to him in
all its well-know sharpness.

"Why, it's Madame Geriolo!" he cried,
unable to restrain his surprise and wonder.

Madame turned round quick as lightning
at the sound of her own name and the un-
expected recognition. She remembered at
once both voice and faoe> She gave a little
start.

" What I Mr. Gascoyne I " she cried, forget-
ting for the moment Paul's new-made dignity.
Then suddenly her eyes fell on Mr. 8oka>cns'
stem and inflexible figure sitting bolt ap.*ight
on the seat behind. She knew that faco at
once, though she had never seen it before. It
answered exactly to the photograph Mr. Lionel
had shown Iter sA 1i|b nnaoni^fonablp uncle.

124

THE SCALLYWAG.

She read the whole history of the pursuit at
a glance. It was old Cento-Cento, come after
his dollars.

In the twinkling of an eye she had made up
her mind how to behave under the circum-
stances. Dupe, not accomplice, was now her
winning card. Still shivering with cold and
half iead with terror, she yet stretched out her
arms towards the grim old man, who sat there
immovable, taking hardly any notice of the
drowning people, and called out in a voice full
of earnest gratitude :

"Why, it's him, to be sure! It's Leo's
uncle I He's come out with a boat to save me
and Leo."

Like a flash of lightning Paul read the
whole truth. It was Lionel, then, who had
stolen the bonds from the safe I It was Lionel
who was running away on board the Dom
Pedro f

He glanced at the detective, and caught his
eye inquiringly. The detective nodded, with
that strange smile once more. Instinctively
the full horror of the situation dawned at once
upon his mind. ^Mr. Solomons was hunting
down to the very death his own cherished
nephew. And the detective was there to arrest
Mr. Lionel.

He looked at the old usurer in a perfect
paroxysm of pity. How on earth would he
bear up against this blinding and staggering
disillusionmoni ? But a moment's glance
showed him that Mr. Solomons hadn't even
yet grasped the real situation. He had
merely leaned forward eagerly at the sound
of his nephew's name, and repeated in a
startled and puzzled, but by no means horrified
tone:

*• Yes, I'm Leo's uncle. Tell me, what do
you know or mean about Leo ? "

Madame Ceriolo hardly felt sure on the spur
of the moment what to answer. It would suit
her book better now, all things considered,
that Mr. Lionel should go down, with his
possibly incriminating evidence on his soul,
and that she should be able to pose as one
more victim of his selfish criminality. But
the position was too strong for her. She felt
she must at all risks keep up appearances. So
she wrapped the pilot-coat around her tightly
with a . shudder of alarm (it was immensely
easy to get up a shudder in that cold morn-
ing air, and with her thin clothes dripping),
and cried out in wild tones of impassioned
agony :

"Yes, Leo's on" board. Leo, my Leo 1 On
the rocks there ahead. Oh, save him, save
him!"

" Leo on board ! " Mr. Solomons answered,
clapping his hand to his forehead, and letting
his jaw drop slowly with a stare of astonish-
ment. His look was dazed and bewildered
now. "Leo on board !" ho repeated, with a
terrible wave of doubt passing over his face.
Then h';; mouth dosed up again.* " No, no ! "
he went on, fixedly, "L«o ooaldn't b« on

board. It's a lie ! It's a lie I He's gone to
Switzerland."

Madame Ceriolo gazed at him — a childlike
and trustful woman.

" Not to Switzerland," she said, for she felt
certain now that all must come out ; " he'd
taken his ticket at the last moment for Buenos
Ayres."

At the word, Mr. Solomons jumped up in
the boat with such energy that be ahuost sent
it off its balance.

" For Buenos Ayi'es 1 " ha cried. ",You don't
say that! Well done, well done — well done,
indeed, Leo ! He's the very smartest chap in
all London, that boy! Don't you see it. Sir
Paul? Don't you see his game ? He'd tracked
the bonds before uc, and wp", on the trail of
the robber ! "

" At any rate," Paul cried, looking towards
the detective for support, " our first business
now must be to go out and save him."

Mr. Solomons stood still in the boat and
waved vnldly forward with his outstretched
hand.

" To the wreck ! To the wreck ! " he shouted
aloud, above the noise of the breakers. " I see
him ! I see him ! "

And, in truth, Paul turning round towards
the hull that still crashed and ground upon the
great granite millstones, saw a frantic figure
clasping the shattered taffirail with one clenched
hand, and waving wildly toward the boats for
assistance with we oth..r. The white swirh
of fog were growing thinner now, and through
the gap they made he could plainVy p?rceivo
that the figure was beckoning ih '. vith a
japanned tin despatch-boz of the so:) m v^bich
bankers keep their clients' documcntb.

"He would go down to fetch tiui. i''
Madsme Ceriolo cried apologetically from tlie
neighbouring boat. "We were all on deck
and might have been saved together, but
he would go down to his cabin to fetch them."

Mr. Solomons gazed back at her with con-
temptuous pity.

CHAPTER XLII.

THE THIEF IS ABBESTED.

They were rowing ahead now with all then:
thews and muscles, and the breakers — those
treacherous, terrible, faithless breakers — were
carrying them forward with huge lunges to-
wards the broken hull as fast as they could
carry them. The great danger lay in the
chance of being dashed against the broadside,
and crushed to pieces between the waves and
the wreck. The one hope of safety lay in
being able to bring the boat within leaping
distance or rope-ci' ch for the man on the hull
without going quite so near as to be actually
hurled against her side in the effort.

Lionel Solomons stood on the broken deck,
frantic with fear, but stiU clutching the taffrail.
▲ craven terror hftd whitened his pasty faoe (0

[gone to

bhildlike

(she felt

; "he'd

t Buenos

up in
}st sent

lou don't
Id ione,
fchap in
it, Sir
I tracked
trail of

THE THIEF IS ARRESTED.

125

I 800

,-roeivo
vith a
t^'i/ich

deathly whiteness. He clung with one hand
to his doubtful support, as the waves washed
over and over the shattered hull, and ground
its spars to pieces on the stacks of rook behind
him. Each moment he disappeared from
sight beneath a cataract of spray, then re-
appeared once more as the wave sank back
ineffectual. The whole hull swayed and
pounded upon the clattering rocks. But
Lionel Solomons stl^I clung on, with the wild
tenacious grip of his race, to that last chance
of safety. He held the despatch-box as firmly
in one hand as he held the taffrail with the
other. He was clutching to the last at his
life and his money.

Mr. Solomons, who had been the first to see
him, was also the one to keep him clearest in
view, and he urged the fishermen forward
through those boisterous waves with his out-
stretched forefinger turned ever towards the
wretched fugitive.

" My nephew 1 " he cried out to them.
"There he ist That's he I My nephew I
My nephew 1 A hundred pounds apiece to
you, men, if you save my nephew I "
, Paul could make him out through the mist
quite distinctly now, and he half unconsciously
observed, even in that moment of peril and
intense excitement, that the reason why he
had failed to recognise Lionel earlier was
because the miserable man had shaved his
upper lip, and otherwise superficially disguised
his hair and features.

" Yes, it's Leo, it's Leo I " Mr. Solomons
cried, convulsively clasping his hands. " He
tracked the fellow down and followed him out
to sea — at his own peril 1 iFourteen years I
Why, the man ought to be hanged, drawn, and
quartered I "

"We'll never make this arrest," the de-
tective murmured, half aside to Paul. " Hold
her off there, you fishermen ; we shall all be
dashed to pieces. We shall drown ourselves
if we go near enough to save him."

" Now then, nearer, nearer ! " Mr. Solomons
cried, mad with suspense and agony, and blue
in the face with the horror of the orisis. " Let
her go with the wave 1 Let him jump, let him
jump there I Hold her off with your oars, men ;
don't be afraid I A hundred pounds apiece, I
tell you, if you save my nephew I "

As he spoke, the boatmen, taking advantage
of the undertow as it rolled off the hull and
the reef, put the boat as close in as safety
would permit to the riddled broadside, and
held up a coil of rope in act to fling it to the
terrified fugitive. Lionel still gripped ihe ill-
omened despatch-box. " Fling it away, man ;
fling it away!" the sailor called out, im-

rttiently. " Catch at the rope for dear life as
throw the coil at 'ee ! "
Lionel Solomons gazed one instant at the
box — the precious box for whose contents he
had risked, and was losing, everything. It
went against the grain with him, white and
palsied coward that he was at that moment.

to relip'^k'ish his hold of it even for one pass-
ing interval. But life was at stake, dear life
itself, to which he clung in his craven dread,
even more, if possible, than to his ill-gotten
money. Lunging forward as the wave brought
the great hull back again nearest to the boat,
he flung the case with desperate aim into the
stern, where it fell clattering at Mr. Solomons'
fee». But the golden opportunity was now
past and gone. Before the fishermen could
fling the coil, the hull had rocked back again
with the advancing wave, and it was only by
backing water with all their mierht on a re-
fluent side-current that the other men could
hold off their boat from being hurled, a help-
less walnut-shell, against the great retreating
broadside. The wreck bore upon the rocks,
and Lionel Solomons went with it, now cling-
ing desperately with both hands to that
shattered taffrall.

" Try once more," Mr. Solomons shoufcd,
almost beside himself with excitement and
anguish, and livid blue from chin to forehead.
"A hundred pounds — two hundred pounds
each man, if you save him I Leo, Leo, bold
on to it still — wait for *ihe next wave I We
can come alongside again for you."

The billow rolled back and the hull heeled
over, careening in theu: direction. Once more
the boatmen rowed hard against the recoiling
undertow. For a moment, with incredible
struggles, they held her within distance for
throwing the coil.

" Catch it ! catch it and jump ! " Paul cried
at the top of his voice.

Lionel Solomons, coming forward a third
time with the careening hull, held out one
despairing hand with a vmd, clutching motion
for the rope they flung him.

At that instant, while they looked for him to
catch it and leap, a sudden and terrible change
came over the miserable being's distorted
features. For the very first time he seemed
to focus his sight deUberately on the people in
the boat. His gaze fell full on his uncle's fase.
Thehr eyes met. Then Lionel's moved hastily
to Paul's and the detective's. There was a
brief interval of doubt. He seemed to hesitate.
Next instant the coil fell, unwinding itself,
into the water by his side, not six inches short,
and Lionel Solomons' last chance was gone for
ever.

Instead of leaning forward and catching it,
he had flung up his arms wildly in the air as
the coil approached him, and, shrieking out in
a voice that could be heard above the crash of
the breakers and the grinding jar of the hull
upon the rooks, " 0, God ! my uncle I " had let
go his hold altogether upon the unsteady
taffrail.

His sin had found him out. He dared not
face the man he had so cruelly robbed of a
life's savings.

Then, all of a sudden, as they held back the
boat with the full force of six stalwart arms,
they saw a great billow burst over the vtrhole

136

Ao'^

THB SCALLYWAQ.

wreck tamQltaondj. As the foam clewed
away and the water came pouring in wild
oataraote over her aidei they looked once more
for their man a^ -n the clean-swept deck. Bat
they looked in vain. The taffirail was gone,
and the skylights above the cabin.

And Lionel Solomons was no longer visible.

The great wave had swept him off, and was
tossing and poundhig him now upon the jagged
peaks of gruiite.

Mr. Solomons fell back in his place at the
stem. His colour was no longer blue, but
deadly white, like Lionel's. Some awful
revulsion had taken place within him. He
bowed down his face between his hands like a
broken-hearted man, and rooked himself to
and fro above his knees convulsively.

"And I drove him to his death I '' he cried,
rocking himself still in unspeakable remorse,
and horror, and anguish. " I drove him to his
death when I meant to save him ! "

Seething inwardly in soul, Paul knew the
old man had found out everything now. In
that last awful moment, when the drowning
nephew shrank, at the final gasp, from the
uncle he had so cruelly and ungratefully
robbed, it came in with a burst upon Mr.
Solomons' mind that it was Leo himself who
had stolen the securities. It was Leo he had
hounded and himted down in the wreck. It
was Leo he had confronted, like an evil con-
science, in that last drowing agony. It was
Leo for whom he had demands with threats
and eurses fourteen years' imprisonment!
The horror of it struck Mr. Solomons mute
and dazed. He rocked himself up and down

a speechless conflict of emotion. He could

|ther cry nor groan nor call out now; he
'^ only gaze, blankly and awfully, at the
white mist in front of him.

Leo had robbed him — Leo, for whom he hod
toiled and slaved so long I And he had tracked
him down, unconsciously, unwittingly, till he
made himiself, against his will, Leo s execu-
tioner !

" Wo can do no more good here," the detec-
tive murmured in low tones to Paul. " I felt
sure it was him, but I didn't like to say so.
We may go ashore now. This 'ere arrest
ain't going to be effected."

"Bow back I" Paul said. "There's no-
body else on the wreck. If we row ashore at
once we can find out who's saved and how
many are missing."

They rowed ashore by the same long detour
to avoid the reef, and saw the little cove now
looming distinctly through the cold morning
mist to the left befwe them. Qu the strip of
shingle a crowd was drawn up, gathered
together in knots around some dark unseen
objeota. They landed and approached, ^r.
Solomons still white and almost rigid in the
face, but walking blindly forward, as in a
dream, or like some dazed and tenrified dumb
creature at bay in the market-plaoe. Four or
five corpses lay huddled upon the beach;

some others the bystanders were trying rudely
to revive, or were carrying between them, like
logs, to the shelter of their cottages.

A ffroup of dripping creatures sat apart,
wringmg their hands, or looking on with the
stolid indifferenoe of acute hopelessness.
Among them was one in a pilot-coat whom
some of the bystanders were regarding with
supreme pity.

" Poor thmg ! " one woman said to Paul as
they approached. " She was married a-Satur< ,
day — and her husband's missing 1 "

Paul looked at her with an indefinable sense
of profoimd distaste and loathing. The detec-
tive, who followed with the despatch-box still
held tight in his hand, cast his eye upon her
hard.

" I've got no warrant for arresting her," he
observed grimly, " but she'd ought to be one of
them."

Mr. Solomons sat down upon the beach,
quite motionless. He gazed away vaguely in
the direction of the wreck. Presently a dark
body appeared upon the crest of a long wave
to seaward. One of the sailors, plunging
boldly through the breakers upon a recouing
wave, with a rope round his waist, struck out
with brave arms in the direction of the body.
Mr. Solomons watched with strangely passive
interest. The sailor made straight for it, and
grasped it by the hair — short, curly hair, black
and clotted with the waves — and brought it
back in tow as his companions pulled him by
the rope over the orest of a big breaker. Mr.
Solomons sat still and viewed it from afar.
The face was battered out of all recognition
and covered with blood, but the hands and the
dress were beyond mistake. Three or four of
the passengers gathered round it with awe-
struck glances.

" Hush, hush," they murmiured. " Keep it
from her for awhile. It's poor Mr. Burton.
His uncle's here, they say — on the beach
somewhere about. And there's Mrs. Burton,
sitting crying by the coastguard on the shingle
over yonder."

As the words fell on his ears and crusht.!
the last grain of hope — that fatal alias telling
him all we terrible story in full at once— Mr.
Sobmons rose and staggered blindly forward.
Paul held his hand, for he thought he would
f^; but Mr. Solomons walked erect and
straight, though with reeling footsteps like one
crushed and paralyzed. He knelt beside tlie
body, and bent over it tenderly, The tears
were in his eyes, but they didn't drop.

" Oh, IjCQ, my boy I " be cried ; " oh, Leo,
Leo, Leot why didn't you ask me for it?
Why didn't you ask me ? You had but to
ask, and you knew it was yours 1 Oh, Leo,
Leo, Lee I why need yea do it like this ?
You've killed yooneli, my boy, and you've
broken my heart for me I "

At the words, Madame Geriolo roshed for-
ward with a magnificent barst of theatrical
anguish. She fiung herself upon the bodjf

RELICT OF THE LATE LIONEL SOLOMONS.

137

pg rudely
lem, Uke

»t apart,
I with the
lessness.
ftt whom
with

Paul aa
la-Satur< ,

pie sense

le deteo-

}boz still

|>pon her

passionately, like a skilled actress that she
was, and took the dead hand in hers and
kissed it twice over. But Mr. Solomons
pushed her aside with unconscious dignity.

"Not now," he said calmly; "not now, if
you please. He's mine, not yours. I would
never have left him. I wUl care for him stiU.
Go back to your seat, woman t "

And he bent once more, heart-broken, over
the prostrate body.

Madame Geriolo slunk back aghast, into the
circle of spectators. She buried her face in
her hands, and cried aloud in her misery.

Bat the old man knelt there, long and
motionless, just gazing blankly at that bat-
tered corpse, and murmuring to himself in
half-inarticulate tones:

" Leo, Leo, Leo I To think I should have
killed you I You had but to ask, and you
knew it was yours, my boy. Why didn't you
ask ? Ob, why didn't you ask me ? "

CHAPTER XLIII.

BXLIOT OF THB LATK LIONEL SOLOMONS.

Thet waited on at Lizard Town till after the
funeral. Mr. Solomons, in a certain da^ed
and dogged fashion, went through with it all,
making his arrangements for a costly Cornish
serpentine monument with a short inscription
in memory of Leo, to the outward eye almost
as if nothing very much out of the way had
happened. But Paul, looking below the sur-
face, could easily see that in his heart of hearts
the poor broken old money-lender was utterly
crushed and shattered by this terrible dis-
illusionment. It wasn't merely the loss of his
nephew that weighed down his grey hairs —
though that in itself would have gone far to
break him — it was the shame and disgrtuse of
his crime and his ingratitude, the awful
awakening that overtook him so suddenly in
the boat that morning. He could hardly even
wish bis nephew alive again, knowing him
now exactly for what he was ; yet the way he
leant over the coffin where that bruised and
battered face lay white and still in its still
white ffraveclothes, muttering, " Leo, Leo," to
himself as he gazed on it, was painfully
pathetic for anyone to look upon. Paul knew
that the old man's life was clean cut away
from under him. The end for which he had
laboured so hard and so sternly for so manv
yewrs was removed at one swoop from his path
in life; and the very remembrance of it now
was a pang and a humiliation to him.

Paul observed, however, that in the midst
of this unspeakable domestic tragedy, Mr.
Solomons seemed to recline upon his shouldur
for aid, and to trust and confide in him with
singular unreserve, even more fully than here-
tofore. On the very evening of Leo's funeriJ,
indeed, as he sat alone in his own room at the
Lizard Hotel, Mr. Solomons came to him with
that white and impassive face he had pre-

served ever since the looming of the wreck,
and, beckoning to him with his hand, said, in
an ominous tone of too collected calmness :

" Come into my room. Sir Paul ; that woman
is coming to speak with me to-night, and I
want you to be by to hear whatever she may
have to tell me."

Paul rose in silence, much exercised in soul.
He had fears of his own as to how Madame
Ceriolo's story might further lacerate the poor
old man's torn heart ; but he went reluctantly.
Madame Ceriolo had stopped on at the Lizard,
meanwhile, partly because she felt herself
compelled in common decency to wait where
she was till Leo was buried, but partly also
because she wanted to know how much, if
anything, Leo's widow ruight still hope to
extract out of old Cento-Cento's well-filled
pockets. She had stood ostentatiously that
day beside Lionel Solomons' open grave with
much display of that kind of grief betokened
by copious use of a neat cambric pocket-hand-
kerchief with a coronet in the corner ; and she
was very well satisfied when, in the evening,
Mr. Solomons sent a curiously worded card to
her in her own room :

" If yon Will step into my parlour for half
an honr's tddk, about eight o'clock, I wish to
speak with you."

The little adventuress came in to the minute,
with very red eyes, and with such an attempt
at improhipta mourning a* her hasty researches
among the Helston shops bad already allowed
her to improvise for the occasion. Her get up,
under the oirctimstances, was strictly irre-
proachable. She looked the very picture of
inconsolable grief, not wholly unmixed with a
sad state of pecuniary destitution. It dis-
concerted her a Uttle when she saw Paul, too*
was to be included in the family party — he
knew too much to be quite agreeable to her —
but she quickly recovered her equanimity on
that score, and appealed to " Sir Paul " with
simple womanly eloquence as an old Mentone
friend, the very person who had been the
means of first introducing her to her own dear
Lionel. Mr. Solomons listened with grimly
imperious face.

" What I want to hear," he said at last,
fairly confronting the little woman with his
sternly critical eye, " is, What do you know
about this dreadful buedness ? "

" What business ? " Madame Ceriolo asked,
with a little tearful astonishment.

Mr. Solomons eyed her again even more
sternly than before.

"You know very well what business," he
retorted With some scorn. " Don't make an
old man go over his isdianle asain, woman. By
ih\B time all Cornwall has ueard it from the
detective, no doubt. If you pretend not to
know you'll only exasperate me. Let's be
plain with one Miother. Your best obanee in
this matter is to be perfectly straightforward."

His tone took Madame Ceriolo completely
by surprise. She had never before in her life

138

THE SCALLYWAG.

been placed in a position where her little
feminine wiles and pretences proved utterly
useless. She gasped for breath for a second,
and stared blankly at the stem old man, out
of whom this terrible episode seemed to have
driven for ever all the genuine kernel of
geniality and kindness. Paul was truly sorry
for her mute embarrassment.

"I — I— don't know what you mean," she ,
answered at last, leaning back in her chair
and bursting into real, irrepressible womanly
teus. " I thought ^rou wanted to speak to me
as Lionel's widow."

Mr. Solomons let her lean back and cry till
she was tired. Meanwhile he stood and eyed
hor with undisguised grimness.

" As soon as you're capable of reasonable
talk," he said at last, in a cold, clear tone, " I
have some questions to ask you. Answer
them plainly if ^ou want attention."

Madame Ceriolo stifled her sobs with an
effort, and dried her eyes. She was really and
truly frightened now. She saw she had made
a false step — perhaps an irretrievable one— or,
rather, she saw that the wreck and discovery
and Lionel's death had so completely upset all
her well-laid plans for her future in life that
retreat in any direction was well-nigh im-
possible. She was the victim of contingencies,
sacrificed by fate on the altar of the unfore-
seen. She composed herself, however, with
what grace she could, and answered bravely,
through the ghost of a sob, but in a creditable
firm voice, that she was quite prepared now to
consider any questions Mr. Solomons might
put to her.

Mr. Solomons, sitting there, Mnreoked and
unmatmed himself, began once more in a
mood of hollow calmness :

" You say you come as Lionel's widow. Is
that true, in the first place ? Were you ever
married to him? If so, when, where, and
what evidence have you ? "

With the conscious pride of the virtuous
British matron at last achieved, Madame
Ceriolo drew from her pocket an official-
looking paper, which she handed across at
once for Mr. Solomons' inspection.

" There's my marriage-certificate," she said
simply, " saved from the wreck."

Ihe felt she was scoring. The old man
bad miscalculated and misunderstood her
character.

Mr. Solomons scanned it close and hard.

"This seemj perfectly correct," he said at
last, in his cold, stern tone. "I can find no
mistake in it. My poor boy's signature, firm
and clear as ever. And on Saturday last, too !
Oh, God I the shame of it 1 "

Madame Ceriolo bowed and answered
nothing.

Mr. Solomons gazed at it and sighed three
times. Then he looked up once more with a
fiercely soratinizing look at the strange
woman.

"Lionel SoImuoiui" he monnnred half to

himself, perusing the marriage-lines through
his slowly-rolling tears — " Lionel Solomons.
My poor boy's own signature — Lionel
Solomons. No deception there. All plain
and aboveboard."

Then he raised his face, and uet Madame
Ceriolo's eyes with sudden vehement in-
quiry.

"But you called yourselves Burton on
board," he continued fiercely. "You were
Mrs. Burton, you know, to your fellow
passengers. Why did you do that, if you
were all so innocent ? "

The unexpectedness of the question took
Madame's breath away once more. A second
time she broke down and began to cry. Paul
looked across at her with genuine sympathy.
No young vm\v at least, can bear to see tears
in a prett;y i> ^aian's eyes, rightly or wrong-
fully. But Mr. Solomons felt no such human
weakness. He paused as before, rhadaman-
thine in his severity, and awaited her
restoration to a rational and collected frame of
mind for undergoing further cross-examination.
Madame cried on silently for a moment or so,
and then dried her tears.

"You're very cruel," she murmured,
sobbing, "so soon after poor dear Lionel's
death, too ! Ytu're very, very cruel 1 "

Mr. Solomons waved his hand impatiently
ou one side.

" You lured him to his death," he answered
with grim, retributive sternness. "No talk
like that, if you please. It only aggravates
me. I mean to do what I think is just, if
you'll answer my questions truly and simply.
I ask you again : Why, if you please, did you
call yourself Burton ? "

"Poor Leo told me to," Madame sobbed,
quite nonplussed.

" Did he explain his reasons ? " Mr.
' Solomons persisted.

" N — not exactly. ... He said he must
go incognito to South America. ... I
thought he might have business reasons of
his own. ... I come of a noble Tyrolese
family myself. I don't imderstand business."
" Nonsense I " Mr. Solomons answered with
crushing promptitude. " Don't talk like that.
Sherrard, my detective, has got up the case
against you. Here are his telegrams from
town, and, if I chose, I could prosecute ; but
for Leo's sake — for Leo's memory's sake — I
prefer to leave it." He faltered for a moment.
" I couldn't have Leo's name dragged through
the mud in the Courts," he went on, with a
melting inflection in his stem voice ; " and for
his sake — for dead Leo's sake — I've induced
Sherrard and the Scotland Yard people not to
proceed for the present against you. But
that's all lies. You know it's lies. You're the
daughter of an Italian organ-grinder, born in
a court off Saffron Lane, and your mother was
a ballet-girl at Drury Lane Theatre."

Madame bowed her head and wept silently
once more.

^-^y

Mr.

RELICT OP THE LATE LIONEL SOLOMONS.

129

"You — you're a cruel, hard man," she
murmured half inaudibly.

But Mr. Solomons had screwed his rightoous
indign&tion up to sticking-point now, and was
not to be put down by such feminine blandish-
ments.

" You're a grown woman, too," he went on,
staring hard in her face and flinging out his
words at her with angry precision. " You're a
woman of the world, and you're forty, if
you're a day — though you've falsely put your-
self down in the marriage-lines as twenty-eight
— and you know as well as I do that you're
not so innocent and trustful and confiding as
all that comes to ; you perfectly well under-
stood why . . . my poor boy wanted to give
a false name on board the Dom Pedro. You
perfectly well understood why he wanted to
rob me ; and you egged him on, you egged
him on to it. If you hadn't egged him on
he'd never have done it. My poor Leo was
far too clever a lad to do such a foolish thing
as that — except with a woman driving him.
There's nothing on earth a man won't do
when a woman like you once fairly gets hold
of him. It's you that have done it all ; it's
you that are guiltiest; it's you that have
robbed me of my money — and of Leo."

Madame Geriolo cowered with her face in
her hands, but answered nothing. Clever
woman as she was, and swift to do evil, she
was still no match for au old man's fiery in-
dignation.

"But you did worm than that," Mr.
Solomons went on, after a brief pause, like an
accusing angel — "you did worse than that.
For all that, I might, perhaps, in tLa ciii
forgive you. But what else you did I can
never forgive. In the last hour of all you
basely deserted him ! "

Mftdame Geriolo raised her head and stared
him wildly back.

" No, I didn't," she cried, in anger. " I didn't,
I didn't I "

Mr. Solomons rose and looked down upon
her with scorn.

" More lies," he answered, contemptuously.
" More lies still, woman. Those who were
with you on the steamer that night have told
me all. Don't try to deceive me. When you
saw all hope was gone, you left him to his fate,
and thought only of saving your own wretched
life — ^you miserable creature t You left him
to drown. You know you left him."

" He would go back to his cabin to fetch his
valuables!" Madame Geriolo moaned. "It
wasn't my fault. I tried to dissuade him."

" Lies 1 " Mr. Solomons answered once more
with astonishing vehemence. "You let him
go willingly. You abetted him in his errand.
You wanted to be rid of him. And as soon
as he was gone, you tried to save yourself by
jumping into a boat. I have found out every-
thing. You missed your jump, and were
earned off by the wave. But you never
waited or oared to know what had become of

Leo. Your one thought was for your own
miserable neck, you Delilah ! "

Madame Geriolo plunged her face in her
hands afresh, and still answered nothing. She
must hold her tongue for prudence sake, lest
speech should undo her. The old man had
spoken of doing what was just. Thore were-
still hopes ho might relent to some practical
purpose. It was best not to reply and need-
lessly irritate him. So she sobbed mutely on,
and waited for a turn in the tide of his emo-
tions.

For many minutes Mr. Solomons went on
talking, explaining, partly to her and partly to
Paul, who looked on somewhat horrified, the
nature of the whole conspiracy, as he imder-
stood it, and Madame still cowered and shook
with sobbing.

.it last Mr. Solomons paused, and allowed
her to recover her equanimity a little. Then
he began once more, eyeing her sternly as
ever.

" And now, woman," he said, " if I'd only
wanted to tell you all this I wouldn't have
sent for you at all tlis evening. But I wished
also to give you a banco of explaining, if
explanation were possible, before I decided.
You take refuge in lies, and will explain
nothing. So I know the worst I believe is
true. You concocted this plan, and when you
found it was failing, you basely tried to desert
my poor Lionel. . . . Very well ; on that
score I owe you nothing but fourteen years'
imprisonment with hard labour. Still, I loved
Lionel ; and I can never forget that you are
Lionel's widow. This paper you give me
shows me you were his wife — a pitiful wife for
such a man as my Lionel. But he made you
his wife, and I respect his decision. As long
as you live I shall pay you an allowance of
two hundred a year. I will give a lump sum
that will bring in that much to the Jewish
Board of Guardians of London ; they shall
hold it in trust for you during your life, and on
your death it will revert to the poor 01 my
own people. ... If ever you'd told me
you'd wanted to marry Leo you'd have been
richer far — a great deal richer than even Leo
suspected — for I've done well for myself in
life: for Leo— for Leo. But you chose to go
to work the underhand way, and that shall be
your penalty. You may know what you've
lost. Never come near my sight again. Never
write to me or communicate with me in any
way hereafter. Never dare to obtrude your-
self on my eyes for a moment. But take
your two hundred. . . . Take them and
go away. ... Do you accept my condi-
tion ? "

Madame felt there was no use in further
pretences now. " I do," she answered, calmly,
drying her reddened eyes with surprising ease.
"Two hundred a year for l&e, payable
quarterly ? "

Mr. Solomons nodded. " Just so," he said.
" Now go, woman."

ijo

THE SCALLYWAa

Madame Geriolo hesitated. " This has been
s curious interview," sho Raid, staritig round
and mincing a little, " and tiir Paul Qasooyne
and you will go away, perhaps, and take
advantage of my silence to say to other
people "

Mr. Solomons out her short with a terrible
look. " I would never soil my lips with men-
tioning your name again," he cried out, angrily.
"You are dead to me for ever. I've done
with you now. And as for Sir Paul Oasooyne
— why, miserable creature that you are— don't
you even know when you have a gentleman to
deal with ? "

Madame Geriolo bowed, and retreated
hastily. It was an awkward interview, to be
sure ; but, after all, two hundred a year for
life la always something. And she thought
(hat she could really and truly trust to the
BoaHywag's innocence : he was one of those
simple-minded, foohsh young men, don't you
know, who have queer ideas of their own
about the saoredneas of honour 1

CHAPTER XLIV.

•'▲ MOOIBN MlftAOLB."

Onb Other curious thing happened before they
left Cornwall. At breakfast next morning, as
they sat moody and taciturn — for Mr.
Solomons didn't greatly care to talk, nor Paul
to break in upon his companion's blank
misery — the elder man suddenly interrupted
the even flow of their silence b^ saying with
• bant, "I think Miss Blair hves in Corn-
wall."

"She does," Paul answered, starting, and
completely taken aback, for he had no idea
Mr. Solomons even knew of his Nea's exist-
ence. Then, after a slight pause, he added,
■hyly, " She lives near Fowey."

"We passed the junction station on our
way down, I noticed," Mr. Solomons went on
in a measured voice.

"Yes," Paul replied, surprised once more
that the old man had observed it. Young
people always imagine their little love-affairs
entirely escape the eyes of their elders. Which
is absurd. As a matter of fact, everybody dis-
oovers them.

" We shall pass it again on our way back,"
Mr. Solomons went on, in that weary, dreary,
dead-alive tone in which he had said every-
thing since Idoners death and his terrible

^ou
tier.

shouldn't drop in M you pass and see

fit

awattemng.

. " Naturally," Paul answered, looking up in
amaze, and much wondering whither this
enigmatic conversation tended.

Mr. Solomons paused, and looked over
towai^ds him kindly. " laul, m^ boy," he
said, with a little tremor in his throat —
" you'U excuse my calling you Paul now, as I
used to do in the old days, you know — Paiil,
my boy, it seems a pity, now you're bo near,

Paul let his fork drop in blank astonishment,
To be sure, he had thought as much a dozen
times himself, but he had never dared to
envisage it as practically possible.

" How good of you to tnink of it—and now
especiallyl " he exclaimed, with genuine
gratitude.

Mr. Solomons drew hhnself up stiffly, and
froze at once. " I -vas thinking," he said,
" that, as a matter of business, it might be
well if you got that question about marryina
settled some day, one way or the otLer. I
regarded it only <-a the light of my own
interests— the interests of the Jewish widows
and orphans. They're all I have left to work
for now ; but you don't get rid of the habits of
a lifetime in a day; and I shall look after
their money as I looked after— Lionel's. It's
become an instinct with me. Now, you see.
Sir Paul, I've got a vested interest, so to
speak, in your future — itV mortgaged to me,
in fact, as you know ; and I must do my best
by it. If you won't marry the sort of lady I
expected you to marry, and had a claim to
believe you'd try to marry, in my interest -at
least don't let me be a loser by your remaining
single. I've always considered that being in
love's a very bad thmg indeed for a man's
business prospects. It upsets his mind, and
prevents him from concentrating himself body
and soul on the work he has in nand. A num
who has to make his own way in the world,
therefore, ought to do one of two things.
Either he should avoid falling in love at ul,
which is much the safest plan — I followed it
myself —or else, if he can't do that, he should
marry out of hand, and be able to devote
himself thenceforward unreservedly to
business."

Paul could hardly help smiling at hie In*
tensely practical view of we situauon, in spite
of the cold air of utter despondency with
which Mr. Solomons delivered it; but he
answered with as grave a face as he could, " I
think myself it may act the other way — as a
spur and incentive to further action."

" No," Mr. Solomons retorted firmly. " In
your case, no. If you waited to marry till
you'd cleared off the debt, you'd lose heart at
once. As a security for myself, I advise you
to marry as soon as ever the lady'll take
you."

" And yet," Paul answered, " it waa eon-
sideration for your claims that made na both
feel that it was utterly hopeless."

" Exactly so," Mr. Solomons replied in the
same cold, hard voiee. " That's jaat where it
is. What chance have I got of ever seehig my
money back again — my hard-saved money,'
that I advanc^ for your education and to
make a gentleman of you — ^if you begin by
falling in love with a pennilsBS girl, and feeling,
both of you, that it's utterly hoselesa ? Is
that the kind of mood that makoB a man

"A MODERN MIRACLE."

131

Bee

lahment.
la dozen
pared to

id now
I genuine

>y> wad
le said,
light be
larrying
Ither. I
ly own
widowe
to work
labits of
•k after
'■• Ifi
on see,
I ao to
to me,
ny best
lady I
laim to
est -at
naining
leing in

6« for earning $ai Mving money, I ask
you?"

" I'm afraid not," Paul answered penitently.

" And I'm afraid not, eitlier," Mr. Solomons
went on. with ioy sternness. " You've paid up
regularly so far— that I admit in justice ; and,
mmd, i shall expect you to pay up just as
regularly in fufure. Don't suppose fer a
moment I won't look after the Jewish widows'
and orphanr' interests as carefully as ever I
looked after poor Leo's. You've got into debt
with your eyes open, and you've got to got
out of it now as best you can." (faul, listen-
ing aghast, felt that his disillusionment had
hardened Mr. Solomons terribly.) " And the
only thing I can see for you to do is to put the
boldest face upon it at once, and marry this
young lady."

" You think so ? " Pciul answered timidly,
half wishing he could see things in the same
Ught.

"Yes, I do," Mr. Solomons replied, with
snappish promptitude. " I look at it this way :
You can Keep your wife for very little more
than it costs you to keep yourself ; and your
talents will be set free for your work alone.
You could teach her to help you oopv your
manuscripts or work a typewriter. I oeuove
you'd earn twice as much in the e I if you
married her for a typewriter, and y^u'u pay me
off a great deal faster."

" Well, I'll thmk about it," Paul answered.

"Don't thbk about it," Mr. Solomoni
replied with curt incisiveness. " In business,
thinking's the thief of opportimity. It's
prompt decision that wins the prize. Stop at
Fowey this very afternoon and talk it over off-
hand with the lady and her father."

And so, to his own immense surprise, almost
before he hod time to realize tne situation,
Paul found himself, by three o'clock that day,
knocking at the door of Mr. Blair's rectory.

He knocked with a good deal of timorous
hesitation; for though, to be sure, he hod
sent on a telegram to announce his coming to
Nea, he was naturally so modest and diffident
a young man that he greatly feared his recep-
tion by Nea's father. Fathers are always such
hard nuts to tackle. Indeed, to say the truth,
Paul was even now, in spite of experience, slow
to perceive the difference in his position made
by his accession to the dignity of a baronetcy.
No doubt, overy day would serve to open his
eyes more to the real state of the case in this
important particular ; but ear.h such discovery
•toiod alobe, as it were, on its own ground, and
left him almost as nervous as ever before
each new situation, and almost as much
surprised when that social "Open sesame!"
onee more succeeded in working its familiar
wonders.

Any doubt he mig^^' hzve felt, however, dis-
appeared almost at once when Nea in person,
more visibly agitated than be htA. ever yet
beheld her, opened the door for him, and when
f^ Uahw, ynth j^ofose |buMipit|dity, iQStM4 of

regarding him as a dangerous intruder, ex-
preNBcd with much warmtn his profound regret
tliat Hlr I'aul couldn't stop the night at the
rectory. Nay, more, that prudent father took
special care they should all go out into the
garden for the brief interview, and that be
himself should keep at a safe distance with a
convenient sister-in-law, pacing the lawn while
Paul and Nea walked on in front and discoursed
—presumably about the flowers in the border.

Thus brought face to face with the future,
Paul briefly explained to Nea Mr. Solomons'
now point of view, and the question which it
left open so clearly before them.

Now, Nea was young, but Nea was a rock
of practical common-sense, as your good and
impulsive West Country girl is often apt to be.
Instead of jumping foolishly at Mr. Solomons'
proposal because it offered a loophole for im-
mediate marriage, as you or I would have
done, she answered at once, with judicious
wisdom, that, much as she loved Paul, and
much as she longed for that impossible day to
arrive when they two might be one, she
couldn't bear, even with Mr. Solomons' con-
sent, so far to burden Paul's already too-
heavily mortgaged future.

" Paul," she said, trembling, for it was a
hard wrench, " if I loved you less, I might

ferhaps say yes ; but I love you so much that
must still say no to you. Perhaps some day
you may make a great hit, and then you
could wipe off all your burdens at once — and
then, dear, we two could be happv together.
But, till then, I love you too well to add to
your anxieties. I know there's some truth in
what Mr. Solomons says ; but it's only half a
truth if you examine it closely. When I look
forward and think of tho long struggle it would
bring you, and the weary days of working at

Jour desk, and the fears and anxieties, I can't
ear to face it. We must wait and hope still,
Paul: after all, it looks a little nearer new
than when you said good-bye to me that day
at Oxford,"

Paul looked down at the gravel-path with a
certain shook of momentary disappointment.
He had expected all this; indeed, if Nea
hadn't said it, he would have thought the less
of her; and yet, for all that, he was disap-
pointed.

"It seems such an interminable time to
wait," he said, with a rising lump in his throat.
" I know you're right — I felt sure you'd say
BO — but, still, it's hard to put it off again, Nea.
When Mr. Solomons spoke to me I half felt it
was best to do as he said. But now you've
put it as you put it just now, I feel I ve no
right to impose the strain upon you, d arest."

"Some day something will turn u,)," Nea
answered honefully— for Paul's sake— lest she
should wholly crush him. "I can wait for
you for ever, Paul. If you love me, that's
enough. Apd it's a great thing that I can
write to you, and that my letters cheer you."
. NevertheleBs, it was with a somewhat heavy

132

THE SCALLYWAQ.

heart that Panl rejoined Mr. Solomoni at Par
Junction that evening, foeling that he must
■till wait, aa before, for some indefinite
future.

" Well, what have you arranged ? " Mr.
Solomons asked, with a certain shadow of
interest rare with him these last days, as he
advanced to greet him.

'* Oh, nothing t " Paul answered blankly.
" Miss Dlair says we oughtn't to got married
while I'm so much burdened ; and I didn't
think it would be right on her account to urge
her to share my burdens under such peculiar
circumstances. You see, I've her interests as
well as yours to think about."

Mr. Solomons glanced hard at him with a
suspicious look. For a second his lips
parted, irresolute, as if he half intended to
say something important. Tlien they
shut again close, like an iron trap, with
that cold, hard look now fixed sternly upon
them.

" I shall lose my money," he said curtly.
" I shall never be .paid as long as I live.
You'll do no proper work with that girl on

Jour brain. But no matter— no matter. The
ewish widows and orphans won't lose in the
end. I can trust you to work your fingers to
the bone rather than leave a penny unpaid,
however long it may take you. And mark
yon, Sir Paul, as you and the young lady won't
follow my advice, I expect you to do it, too — I
expect you to do it."

Paul bowed his head to his taskmaster.

"I will pay you every penny, Mr. Solo-
mons," he said, " if I work myself to death
with it."

The old man's face grew harder and colder
still.

" Well, mind you do it quick," he said
testily. " I haven't got long left to live now,
and 1 don't want to be kept out of my money
for ever."

But at the rectory near Fowey, if Paul could
onlv have seen the profoundly affectionate air
with which, the moment his back was turned,
Mr. Blair threw his arm round his daughter's
neok, and inquired eagerly, " Well, what did
Sir Paul say to you, Nea? " — even he would
have laughed at his own timid fears anent the
bearding of that alarming animal, the British
father, in his own rectorial lair in Cornwall.
And had he further observed the dejected sur-
prise with which Mr. Blair received Nea's
guarded report of their brief interview, he
would have wondered to himself how he could
ever have overlooked the mollifying influence
on the paternal heart of that magical sound,
" S\i Paul Gascoyne, Baronet."

For Mr. Blair heaved a deep sigh as he
heard it, and murmured softly to him-'
self:

" He seems a most worthy, high-minded,
well-prinoipled young man. I wish we
could help him oat of his difficulties, any-
how."

CHAPTER XLV.

PRBS8URB AND TBNBION.

A TRAR passed away— a long, long year of
twelve whole weary months — during which
many small but important incidents happened
to Paul and to Nea also.

For one thing, a few days after Paul's return
to town, Mr. Solomons dropped in one after-
noon at the young man's chambers in the
httle lane otT Oower Street. Ttie week had
aged him qauch. A settled gloom brooded
over his face, and that stern look about the
corners of his mouth seemed more deeply
ingrained in its very lines than ever. His
hair was grayer and his eyes less keen. But,
strange to say, the blue tint had faded wholly
from his lips, and his c) <^ks bore less marked! v
tho signs of that wea^ of the heart which

some short time bef \ been so painfully

apparent. He sat u~..^i moodily in Paul's
easy chair, and drew forth a folded sheet of
official-looking paper from his inner breast-
pocket.

" Sir Paul," he said, bending forward, with
of familiarity and more coldness than
usual, "I've brought up this paper here for
you to take care of. I've brought it to you
rather than to anybody else because I believe
I can really trust you. After the blow I've
received — and how terrible a blow it was no
man living will ever know, for I'm of the sort
that these things affect internally — after the
blow I've received, perhaps I'm a fool to trust
any man. But I think not. I think I know
you. As I said to that miserable woman the
other evening, one ought at least to know
when one has a gentleman to deal with."

Paul bowed his head with a faint bltlsh of
modesty at so much commendation from Mr.
Solomons.

" It's very good of you," he said, " to think
so ^ell of me. I hope, Mr. Solomons, I shall
always be able to deserve your confidence."

Mr. Solomons glanced up suspioioasly onoe
more.

" I hope so," he said, in a very dry voice.
" I hope you won't forget that a debt's a debt,
whether it's owed to poor Leo and me or to
the Metropolitan Jewish Widows and Orphans.
Well, that's neither here nor there. What I
want you to do to-day is to look at this will —
circumstances i^ave compelled me to make a
new one — and to see whether it meets with
your approbation."

Paul took the paper, with a faint smile, and
read it carefully through. It resembled the
former one in most particulars, except, of
course, for the entire omission of Lionel's
name in the list of bequests ; but it differed in
two or three minor points. The bulk of Mr.
Solomons' fortune was now left, in trast, to
the Jewish Board of Guardians; and the
notes and acceptances of Sir Patd Gascoyne,
Baronet, were specially mentioned by name
among tiie effects bequeathed to those wbrtiij

PRESSURE AND TENSION.

• 133

year of
|ng which
I happened

M's return
mo after.
cs in the
feek had
brooded
tbout the
f« deeply
Nr- H/a
>n. But,
pa wholly
Tiarkedly
-ft whicli
[painfully
to Paul's
aheet of
■r breast-

'fd, with
3M than
here for
ft to you
.f believe
[low I've
' waano
the sort
''tor the
to trust
I know
3)an the

know
I."

>ldsh of
>m Mr.

3 think

1 shall
je."

7 onoe

voice,
debt,
OP to
'hans.
hat I
nil—
iJte a
with

and

the
I, of
lel's
din
Mr.

i.tO

the
ne,
me
thy

Sentlemen, to be employed for the good of the
[etropolitan Hebrew oommunity. Mention
was also made of a certain huui already paid
over in trust to the Board for the benefit of
Maria Agnese Uulomons, widow of Lionel
Solomons, deceased, wiiiuh was to revert on
the death of the said Maria Agneie to the
Oeoeral Trust, and be employed by the
Guardians for the same purpose. There was
a special bequest of ten pounds to Sir Paul
Oasoo^ne, Baronet, for a mourning ring ; and
a similar bequest to Faith, wife of Ctiarlos
Thistleton, Esquire, and ono of the testator's
most esteemed friends. But beyond that
small testimony of regard there was little to
interest Paul in the document. He handed it
back with a smile to Mr. Solomons, and said
shortly :

*' I think there's nothing to object to in any
part of it. It was kind of you to reuitjmbor
myself and my sister."

Mr. Solomons' eyes looked him through and
through.

" I want you to take care of it," he said
abruptly.

" I will," Paul answered. '• But I would
like first to ask you just one favour."

"What's that?" Mr. Solomons asked
sharply.

" If I can succeed in paying you o£F during
—well, during your own lifetime, will you
kindly remove the mention of my notes and
acceptances? I wouldn't like them to be
noticed in the papers, if possible."

" I will," Mr. Solomons answered, looking
at him harder than ever. " Sir Paul, you're a
very honourable young man."

"Thank you," Paul replied. "You are
always very good to me."

" They don't all talk like that I " Mr. Solo-
mons retorted, with temper. "They mostly
call me a ' damned old Jew.' That's generally
all the praise a man gets for helping people
out of their worst difficulties."

And he left the will with Paul, with many
strict injunctions to keep it safe, and to take
oare nobody ever bad "^ chance of meddling
with it.

In the course of the year, too, Paul was very
successful in his literary ventures. Work
flowed in faster than he could possibly do it.
That's the luck of the trade : sometimes the
deserving man plods on unrecognised till he's
nearly fifty before anybody hears of him;
sometimes editors seem to hunt out with a
rush the merest beginner who shows promise
or performance. It's all a lottery, and Paul
happened to be one of the lucky few who draw
winning numbers. Perhaps that magical
suffix of "Bart." stood here, too, in good
stead; perhaps his own merits secured him
custom ; but, at any rate, he wrote hopefully
to Nea, if health and strength kept up, he
oould get aa many engagements now as ever
he wanted.
Health and strength, however, were severely

tried in the efTort to fulfil Mr. Solomons'
exacting requirements. Paul worked early
and late, at the hardest of all tra<les (for if
you think literature is mere play, dear sir or
madam, you're profoundly misuken) ; and he
saved too much out of food and lodging in
order to meet as many as possible of those
hateful notes from quarter to quarter. Mr.
Solomons himself remonstrated at times; he
complained that Paul, by starving himself and
worlting too hard, was running the risk in the
long run of defrauding his creditor.

"For all that, you know," he said demon-
stratively, " your health and strength's my
only security. Of course there's the insur-
ance ; that's all right if you die outright ; but
literary men who break down don't generally
die ; they linger on for over, a burden to their
friends or the parish, with nervous diseases.
As a duty to me, Sir Paul, and to the Metro-
politan Widows and Orphans, you ought to
feed yourself better and take more rest. I
don't mean to say I don't like to see a young
man working hard and paying up regular ;
that's only honest; but what I say is this:
there's moderation in all things. It isn't fair
to me, you see, to run the risk of laying your-
self up Defore you've paid it all off to the last
farthing."

Nevertheless, it must be admitted that Mr.
Solomons received Paul's hard-earned money
with a certain close-fisted joy which sometimes
shocked, and even surpriseid, his simple-hearted
^oung debtor. To say the truth, the miserly
mptinct in Mr. Solomons, kept somewhat in
check by many better feelings during Mr.
Lionel's lifetime, seemed now completely to
have gamed the upper hand in his cramped
and narrowed later nature. They say the
ruling passions grow fiercer in old age ; doubt-
less they are wrong; but in Mr. Golomons'
case the proverbial paradox had M. least a
certain external semblance of justiScation.
Quarter after quarter, as Paul paid in his
instalments of principal and interest, the old
man gnmibled over and over again at the in-
sufficiency of the amount and the slowness of
the repayment. Yet what seemed to Paul
strangest of all was the apparent contradiction
that while Mr. Solomons thus perpetually
urged him by implication to work harder and
harder, he was at the same tune for everurging
him in so many words to take more holiday
and spend more money and time on food and
pleasure. Not that Mr. Solomons ever put
these requests upon sympathetic grounds ; he
always based them solely and whoUy on con-
siderations of his own interest.

" If you don't take more care of yourself,"
he womd often say, with that cold, stem face
unchanged for one moment, "you'll make
yourself ill, and go off into a nervous wreek,
and come upon the parish — and then what'll
become of all the money I've advanced you ? "

" I can't help it," Paul would anawer. " I
feel I must, somehow ; I oan nevor rest till

134

THE SCALLYWAG.

off,

an£ am my own

I've cleared iu all
master."

" I know wh:.\t that means," Mr. Solomons
said once, near the end of the year, when
autumn was coming round again. "Tou're
in a hurry to marry this young lady down in
CornwiJl. Ah, that's just the way of all yon
borrowing people. You enter into contracts
with one man first, for money down, his own
hard-saved money, that he's made and
hoarded; and tiien, when you've eaten and
drunk it all up, you go and fall in love with
some girl you've never seen in your lives
before, and for her pake, a stranger's sake, you
forget all about your vested obligations. I
wish you'd wke my advice and marrv the
young woman out of himd. I'd be all the
safer in the end to ge*' my money."

Paul shook his head.

" I can't bear to," he said, " and even if I
would, Miss Blair wouldn't. She said herself
she'd never burden my life any further. I
must work on now to the bitter end, and in
the course of years, perhaps, I may be able to
marry her."

" In the course of year^i ! " Mr Solomons
echoed, fretfully. "Ii- the oouri<a of years
indeed ! And do you think, then, I'm going
to live on for ever? No, no; I want to see
some pleasure and satisfaction out of my money
in my own lifetime. I'm not going to stand
this sort of thing mueU longer. You ought to
marry her, and settle down in life to do better
V oik. If you'd get a house of your own now,
wivH Lady Gasooyne at the head of your table,
and could give dinners, and invite the world,
and take your proper part in London Society,
vou'd soon be coining money — a man of your
brains, with no home to entertain in t You're
keeping me out of my own — that's just what
I caU it."

" I'mi sorry I disappoint you, Mr. Solomons,"
Paul answered, sadly ; " but I'm afraid I can't
help it. I can never marry till I'm indepen-
dent."

Mr. Solomons rose and moved to the door.

"I must put a stop to this nonsense," he
murmured, resolutely. " I ran't let this sort
of thing go on much longer. If I have to put
the Courts in action to get what I want, I
must put a stop before another week to this
confounded nonsense."

"Put the Courts in action!" Paul cried,
aghast at thd ugly phrase. " Oh, no, Mr.
Solomons, you can never mean that! You
won't expose an old Mend, who has always
tried bis oest to repay you I'or all yonr kind-
ness, to so much unpleasantness. I'll do any-
thing—in reason— to prevent auch a con-
tingency."

But MX. Sdomons only gazed back at him
with that Inctniring glance. Then be drew
himself ttp and said with a stony face :

" Sir Paul Oaacoynei I've always said you
were agontleman. I hope you won't compel
me to D6 too hardi upon you. I hope yott'U

think it over, and sae yoor way to marry the
ladv."

f am £!nng himself back in his easy-chair as
Mr. Solomons closed the door behind him, and
felt for once in bib life very bitterly against his
old benefactor, as he had always considered
him. He was half-inclined, in that moment of
pique, to take him at his word, and to beg and
implore Nea to marry him immediately.

As for Mr. Solomons, in his Imely room at
HiUborough that night, he sat down by him-
self, with a resolute air, to write two letters
which he hoped might influence his recal-
citrant debtor. He wrote them in a firm,
clear hand, little shaky with age, and read
them over more than once to himself, admir-
ing his own persuasive eloquence. Then he
put them into two envelopes, and duly durected
them. The superscription of one was to the
Bev. Walter Blair, The Beotory, Lanhydran,
near Fowey, Cornwall. That of the other was
to Mrs. Charles Thictleton, Wardlaw House,
The Parks, Sheffield. And what specially
impelled him to write this last was the fact
that Miss Nea Bldr was at that moment in
the North, on a long-promised visit to Sir
Paul's sister.

CHAPTER XLVI.

A TBAMSA^ION IN DIAMONDS.

Thbeb days later Mr. Solomons happened to
have business in town which took him up into
Cheapside on a very unwonted shopping
expedition. Mr. Solomons, in fact, was bent
on the purchase of jewellery.

He had been more particularly driven to
this novel pursuit by the simultaneous receipt
of two letters from Iwo opposite ends of
England on that self-same morning. One of
them bore the Fowey postmark ; the other,
addressed in a feminine hand, was dated
" Sheffield." Mr. Solomons smiled somewhat
grimlv to himself as he read this last.
"Eighteen months of wealth and prosperity
have strangely developed our old friend
Faith," he wought in his own soul. " How
glibly she talks about money now, as if it was
water ! She doesn't seem to think much about
Sir Paul's difficulties. They vanish far more
easily in her mind to-day than in the hard old
days down at Plowden's Court in Hill-
borough."

But Mr. Solomons was too much of a
philosopher in his way to let this natural
evolution of the female mind disturb for a
moment his sombre equanimity. Men, he
knew, rise sometimes to the occasion ; women,
always. So he went on his way to London
with that settled solid calm of a lif u that has now
no hope left in it, and that Roes on its dull
routine bv pure mechanioiVI haoit.

Nevertheless, that habit was the habit of a
lifetinie devoted to maHng and saving tnoney.
In dealing with a debtor 8^ in haggnng witn

ftMUei

as ever

Jewish

in bap

and Ii

seemei

over;

the

piut b

excitei

fore,

■hop

Oheai

barga

To(

have

mone

Boloi

enter

sever

youn

eeea
ii '

■mu
M

thro

' "de

qua!
ii

ehoT
yotu
befc
of
.■eU

asli
dia
yoi

o\
fe

A TRANSACTION IN DIAMONDS.

[niarrythe

, -ohair as
him, and

iBxnat his
sonsidered
^oment of

> beg and
tely.

ly room at
by him.

[0 letters

lis reoal-

a firm,

and read

\lt, ada.lr>

. Then he

F directed

as to the

■nhydran,

>ther was

1^ House,

specially

the fact

)raent in

' to Sir

peaed to
> op into
ihopping
^M bent

■iren to

ivoeipt

mds of

One of
other,
dated

lewhat
last.

'perity

friend

;How

it was

about

dold

Hill-

of a
^al
9r a
he
len,
don
low
lull

a asller, Mr. Solomons' son! was still as keen
as ever. He watched over the interests of the
Jewish Widows and Orphans as closely as ever
in happier times he had watched over bis own
and Leo's. A gahi or loss of sixpence still
seemed to him a matter well worth struggling
over ; a rise or fall of one-eighth per cent, on
the market-price ol Portuguese Threes still
put his overworked heart into a flutter of
excitement. It was with judicious care, there-
fore, that hejMleoted ^or his patronage the
■hop of a fJOow-tribeboian in a street off
Oheapside, and proceeded to effect a suitable
bargaiii in jewellery.

Toe utter downfall of a life's dream would
have made mOst men wholly careless as to
money matters. It had only made Mr.
Solomons oloser-fisted than ever.

" I should tike," Mr. Solomons said, as he
entered the shop, and addressed himself with
severity to the smug-faced and black- whiskered
young man at the oounter->-" I should like to
see a diamond necklet."

" Tes, sir. About what price, sir ? " the
■mug-faced young man replied briskly.

Mr. Solomons lookeJ him through and
through with a contemptuous air.

"The price," he answered sententiously,
" depends as a rule to some extent upon the
quality."

" Merely as a guide to the class of goods I
■hoold mti submit to you," the smug-face^
Toung man went on, still more briskly than
before. *' Our immense stock 1 The variety
of oar ^ttemsl The difficulty of a
. selection 1 "

' " Do you take me for a fool, young man ? "
Mr. Solomons retorted severely, :!yoing him
askance. " Nobody has an immense stock of
diamond necklets, teady-made. Show me
your goods first, and I'll make my choice.
After that, we'll arrive at an arrangement aa
to value."

i "I tUnk, Mr. Nathan," the proprietor
observed to the smug- faced young man, who
fell back crestfallen, " I'd better att md to Jus
gentleman myself." For he plainly foresaw
hard bargaining. " I've met yon before, dr^ I
believe," he went oil "lur. Solomons of
Hillborough."
I Mr. Solomons nodded,
f "My name, sir," he answered. "I was
reeonamended here by our mutual friend,
Mocatta. And I want to see some diamond
necklets."

The proprietor did not fall into the smug-
faoed young man's juvenile error. H6 knew
his trade too weU. The two fellow-tribesmen
had measured one another at a glance. He
brought down a couple of oases and opened
them temptingly before Mr. Solomons' face.
Mr. Solomons turned them over with a critical
hand and eye.

"Not good enough," he said laconically,
and the proprietor nodded.

"How art «iM*r" iha j«wdi«

striking a higher note, three ootaves np on
the gamut of price.

Mr. Solomons regarded them ^rlth a
shadow on his face. He know exactly how
much he meant to give (which was just why
he refrained from mentioning a fignre), and he
thought these were probably far above hia inten-
tion. La fact, in order to clarify his conceptions
and bring his rusty knowledge well up to date, he
had -Jready priood several small lots of gems
that very morning at several Christian
jewellers.

" How much ? " he asked, suspiciously.
For he had cOme to a shop of his own race
for the express reason that here only could
he mdnlge in the luxury of bargaining.

"Four hundred pounds," the proprietor
said, loking haird at him without moving a
muscle.

Mr. Solomons shook his head resolutely.

" More than I want to give," he replied, in
that tone of conviction which precludrs tiebate.
" It won't ho. Sh«^w me another."

The proprietor gauged the just mean at
once.

" Try these, then," he said, persuatdvely.

Mr. Solomons' eye picked out its ehoice at
a glance.

"Thatll do," he answered, selecting one
that preicl83i> mited as to quality. " Lowest
fignre for ir.is ? "

The proprietor Janced at him with inqair<
Ingeyes.

" What do yon want it for? " he asked.

"It's for a lady of title," Mr. Solomons
answered, swUing with just pride. " What'll
you take for it ? "

The proprietor put his head on one side,
reflectively.

"We have a fixed price, of course," he
said.

"Of— course," Mr. Solomons echoed, slowly.

" But to you, Mr. Solomons, aa a friend of
our friend Mocatta's, and as it's for a present,
apparently, we'll consent to make it — three
hundred guineas."

" Why we t " Mr. Solomons inquired, ab-
straQteaiy. "I came here believing I dealt
between man and man. I object to we. I deal
with principals."

" ni mske it three hundred, then," the pro-
prietor corrected, gravely.

"Why guineas?" Mr. Solomons went on
once more, with chilly predsion. " No, don't
swjr pounds, please. That's why I ask yoo.
Vfhy make it guineas ? Yon put it in guineas
for people with whom you mean to strike off
the odd shillings only. Uliat won't do for me,
I'm too old for that. As a basis for negotia-
tions, if you please, we'll beran with pounds.
Begin with pounds, I say, Mr. Zacharias :
mind, begin, you understand — ^not end with
them."

"Begin with three hundred and fifteen
pounds ?" the proprietor queried, with his small
eyei blinking.

ll-W'AiAll^l-'.ii.t,.

136

THE 5CALLYWAa.

"Certainly,' if you wish it,' Mr. Solomons
went on. " I've no objection to your pntting
on the extra fifteen pounds — three hundred
shillings to cover the guineas— if it gives you
any pleasure: as, of course, we shall only
have to knock them off at once again. Well,
we go on, then, to three hundred pounds for
this necklet. . . . Now, Mr. Zacharias,
what do you take me for ? "

And then began that sharp contest of wits
that Mr. Solomons delighted in, and in which
Mr. Zacharias, to do him justice, was no un-
worthy antagonist.

The two men's eyes gleamed with the joy
of the conflict as they joined in the fray. It
was to them what a game of chess or a debate
in the House is to keen, intellectual com-
batants of another order. They understood
one another perfectly — too perfectly to have
recourse to the petty blandishments and trans-
parent deceptions wherewith Mr. Zacharias
might have attempted to cajole an accidental
purchaser. It was Greek meet Greek, diamond
cut diamond. The price was to bia settled,
not in current coin of the realm, but in doubt-
ful paper. And it was to be arrived at by a
curious process of double bargaining, greatly
to the taste of either diplomatist.

Mr. Solomons was first to bate down Mr
Zacharias to a given price, say a hundred and
fifty, and Mr. Zacharias was then to bate down
the doubtful bills till he had arrived at last at
a proximate equation between the two exana
agreeable to both parties. And to this con-
genial contest they both addressed their wits
in high good-humour, entering into it with
the zest that every man displays when pitted
against a foeman ]ust worthy of his steel, in
a sport at which i/oiii are acknowledged
masters.

The debate was long, exciting, and varied.
But in the end the game was drawn, each side
coming off with honourable scars and insigni-
ficant trophies. Mr. Solomons calculated that
he had got the necklet for two hundred and
forty-five pounds' worth of doubtful paper,
and that it might fairly be valued at two
hundred and fifty. Mr. Zacharias calculated
that a knowing customer might have had the
necklet for two hundred and forty -two pounds,
and that the doubtful bills would probably
realise, when discounted, two hund^d and
sixty.

So each left off well satisfied with his
morning's work, besides having had a 'long
hour's good inteUectual exercise ror lus mone>.

And Mr. Solomons went away with the
pleasing conviction that if Sir Paul Gascoyne,
for example, had bought the necklet in tixe
regular way at a West End jeweller's, he
would no doubt have paid that enterprising
tradesman the original three hundred guineas
demanded for it. Of so great avail is it to a
wise man to know the City.

By an odd coincidence, that very same
day Paul, for his part, received three letters.

all tending greatly to disconcert his cettled
policy. The first two came by the morning
post, the third followed by the eleven o'clock
delivery. Was this design or accident ? Who
shall say? Fortune, that usually plays us
such scurvy tricks, now and again indulges, by
way of change, in a lucky coincidence.

The first of his letters Paul opened was from
Fowey, where Nea was not. It was brief and
paternal — the British father in his favourite
character of practical common-sense, enforcing
upon giddy and sentimental youUi the business
aspect of life as a commercial speculation.
Much as the Beverend Walter Blair, Clerk in
Holy Orders, esteemed the prospective honour
of counting Sir Paul Gasooyne, Baronet, as his
son-in-law, he must point out to Sir Paul at
last that iiiis engagement was running to a
truly preposterous length, and that some sort
of effort ought to be made to terminate it.
" Does that mean break it off? " Paul queried
internally, with a horrible sort of alarm. But
no; the next sentence reassured his startled
soul as to that doubtful verb. The Beverend
Walter Blair had the fuUest confidence in his
^oung friend's ability to support his daughter
m a way suitable to her position in life, and
yrruld urge, on the contrary, that the marriage
should be entered iiito — great heavens I '«rhat
was this? — on the earliest opportunity! If
not — the Beverend Walter Blair was "on-
veniently vague as to what might follow npob
his non-compliance: but Paul's heart went
down with a very violent mnking indeed as he
thought how much that paternal reticence
might possibly cover. Vague vifl'ons of Nea
wedded against her will (oh, boundless
imagination of youth !) to a mutt tn • faced
Cornish squire of restricted intelligence op-
pressed his soul. As thovgh anybody— even a
Society mother— could marry off an English
girl of Nea Blair's type where she didn't wish
to be married! Why, Mrs. Partington with
the ocean at bcr doors had a comparatively
wide and correct conception of character and
conduct.

He broke open the second letter, posted at
Sheffield, and skimmed it trough hurriedlv.
To his immense surprise it pointed in precisely
the same direction as Mr. Blair's.

Since Nea had been with her. Faith said, in
simple sisterly fashion, she had noticed more
than once that that dear girl was growing
positively thin and ill with the harassing care
of a long engagement. Nea was a dear, and
would never complain ; not for worlds would
she add a jot to Paul's heavy burden while he
had still that debt of Mr. Solomons' on his
hands ; but still. Faith thought, it was hard
she should be wasting her golden youth when
she ought to be happy and enjoy her ladjrship
while it would be of most satisfaction and
service to her. And since Mr. Solomons him-
self approved of the union, as Nea told her,
why. Faith, for her part, could hardly imagine
what reasons could mduoe Fiml to shuly.shAUy

any
went
Ai
littl<
dent

the

tive

desi

froi

ver

ani

mg
eas
tall
do-

eei

■9
e
I
t

,■#■

PUTTINQ ON THE SCREW/'

137

cettled
lorniug
o'clock
Who

rays Qg

pges, by

any longer. '* And Charlie says," the letter
went on, " he follv agrees with me."

At eleven o'clock, to clinch it all, came a brief
little note from Nea herself, design or acci-
dent:

" Dear Faith has been dec!jiring to me for
the last^ two days, Paul darling, that it's posi-
tively wicked of me to keep you waiting and
despairing any longer ; and this morning, by
an odd coincidence, the enclosed note came
from papa. You wiU see from it that he is
very much in earnest indeed about the matter,
and that he objects to our engagement remain-
ing so ii)ng indefinite. So, Paul, they've
easily i^jcceeded between them at last in
talking me over; and if you think as they

" Yours always,

"Nea."

•Paul laid down the note, and reflected
seriously

CHAPTER XLVn.

"PUTTIMO ON THB SCBEW."

The combination was too strong in the end for
Paul. Faith and Nea, backed up by Mr. Solo-
mons' advice and Mr. Blair's protest, were
more than the sternest virtue could resist —
especially when inclination itself lay disturbing
the balance in the self-^ame scale. Paul
wavered — and was lost. Before he knew
exactly how it was aU happening, he found
himseu the central, though secondary, figure of
a domestic event. He was given to under-
stand bv all parties concerned that he had
been duly selected by external destiny for the
post of bridegroom in a forthcoming wedding.
And, indeed, if he continued to harbour any
passing doubts upon the subject himself, the

Eeriodical literature of his country must shortly
ave undeceived him. For, happening to drop
in at his club the next Saturday afternoon — as
a journalist, Paul had regarded the luxury of
membership at the Cheyne Bow as a trade
expense — he lighted by chance upon a para-
raaph of gossip in that well-known second-rate
Society paper, the Whitperer :

"A marriage has just been arranged, and
will take place early next month, between Sir
Paul Gascoyne, !3art., of Hillborough, and
Nea Mary, only daughter of the Bev. Walter
Blair, Bector of Lanhydran, near Fuwey,
Cornwall. Sir Paul, though he rejoices in the
dignity of a fourteenth baronet, and boasts
some of the bluest blood in Glamorganshire, is
by no means overwhelmed with this world's
wealth ; but his career at Christ Church was
sufficiently distinguished, and he has since
made his mark more generally as a journalist
and essayist in the London Press. Unless he
throws away his opportunities and wastes his
talents, the new proprietor ought to do much

in time to restore the lost glories of Gascoyne
Manor."

A fiery red spot burnt in Paul's cheek as he
laid down the indiscreet sheet with its annoys
blunders, and picked up, for a change, its rival,
the Blab of a week latei' date. There, almost
the first words Uiat met his eyes were those
that composed his own name, staring him in
the face in that rudely obtrusive way that one's
own name always does stare at one from a
printed paper.

" No, no, Arthw" the editor of the Blah
remarked, in his gently colloquial style to his
brother chronicler; " you're out of it this time
about young Gascoyne, of Christ Church. Sir
Paul Emery Howard Gascoyne — to give him
the full benefit of his empty title, for it carries
no money — is the fifteenth — not, as yon say,
the fourteenth — baronet of that ancient family.
He is not of Hillbovough, which was only the
place where his late respected papa carried on
a harmless, though useful, calling, but of a
decent lodging-house in Somers Bow, Gower
Street. He has nothing to do in any way
with Gascoyne Manor, the old seat of his
ancestors, which is the property of a distant
and not over-friendly cousin. And if you
mean to insinuate by certain stray hints about
wasted opportunities and so forth and so forth,
that Miss Blair, his future wife, has money of
her oy\ a, allow us to assure you, on the very
best avthority, that the lady's foce is her
fortune — and a very pretty fortune, too, it
might have been, u she hadn't chosen to
throw it away recklessly on a penniless young
journalist wi^ a useless baronetcy. However,
Sir Paul has undoubtedly youth and brains on
his side, and, if you don't succeed in spoiling
his style, will, no doubt, manage to pull
through in the end by the aid of a pen which
is more smart than gentlemanly. Give him a

Eost on your staff outright, dear Arthutt and
o'll exactly suit the requirements of the
Whisperer."

Paul flung down the paper with a still
angrier face. But, whatever else he felt, one
thing was certain: he couldn't now delay
getting married to Nea.

The opinion of others has a vast effect upon
even the most individualistic amongst us. And
so it came to pass that Paul Gascoyne was
dragged, at last, half against his will, into
marrying Nea within the month, without
having ever got rid of his underlying feeling
that to do so was certainly fool;idi and idmost
wicked.

The wedding was to take place at Lanhy-
dran, of course ; and such a gathering of the
clans from all parts of the world the little
Cornish village had seldom witnessed I Charlie
Thistleton and Ftith were at Paddington to
meet Paul and accompany him down ; while
the master-cutler and his wife, unable to avoid
this further chance of identifying themselves
with the Gascoyne family, were to follow in
their wake half a day later. Fnd ivss

138

THB 5CALLYWAa.

delighted to find that Faith, whom he hadn't
seen for a year, had changed less than he
expected, and far leas than he feared. She
had expanded with the expannon in her posi-
tion, to be sore, aa Mr. Solomons noted, and
was quite at home in her new snTonndings.
Less than that would be to be less a woman ;
bat she retuned all her old girlish simplicity,
for all that, and she was quite as fierody her-
self in sentiment as ever.

"We'll travel first," Charlie Thistleton
said apologetically, " for the sake of getting a
carriage to oursdves. I know jon and Paul
will want to have a little nmily confab
together, after not seeing one anotiier so long;
now, won't you ? "

'* Oh, well, if .you put it on thAt ground,"
Faith answered, mouified, " I doxrt mind
going first just this once, to please yon.
Though up m the North Country, Paul, I
^Iwavs insist upon travelling third still, just to
scandalize Charlie's grand acquaintances.
When they ask me why, I always say,
' Because that's what I'm accustomed to ; I
never could afiford to go second before I was
married.' And you should just see tneir faces
when I addi quietly, ' Sir Paul and I were
never rich enough to get beyond thirds, and X
suppose poor Paul will have to go third ai
long as he lives, lor he doesn't mean, like me,
to marry above him.' "

"But I do," Paul answered, with a gentle
■inile. " I remetnoer, when I first met dear
Nea at *Mentone, what an awful swell I
thought lier, and how dreadfully afraid t was
even of talihig to her."

" WelL run and get the tickets, Charlie,"
If rs. Thistieton said, turning to her obedient
slave ; and if by any chance Mrs. Douglas is
going down by this particular train, tr^ to
keep out of her way ; for I want, if possible,
to have my brother to myselt for the last time
this one long journey."

By the aid of half a crown, judiciously
employed in contravening the (lompany's
regulations as to gntuities to porters, they
succeeded in maintaining the desired privacy ;
and Faith could gossip to her heart's content
with Paul about everything that had happened
smce their last meeting. She was partioularlj
curious to know about Mr. Solomons — ^his
ways and doings.

"I always thought, do yon know, Paul,"
she said, " that, in a ^wrtain sort of queer,
unacknowledged way, Mr. Solomons had an
undercurrent of sneaJdng regard for yon — a

EersoQal Jiking for you, and a pride in what
e's made of you. I don't think it was all
mere derire for your money."

" I don't know, I'm sure," Paul answered.
" I've a great regard for Mr. Solomons myself.
I'm sure it's to him entirely I owe my present
poeition, such as it is. And I believe he
honestly desiredM,in his way, to serve me.
The idea of the baronetcy going to waste, aa a
natkaiabk eovmodij^, nrrt weif^iad ayoo his

mind, of course. Whether it was his own, or
whether it was somebody else's, it vexed his
good commercial soul to see so much intrinsic
value running away, as it were, like beer from
a barrel, all lor nothing. But when once he
got fairly embarked in the scheme, it became
an end in itself to him— his favqnrite idea, his

Et investment; and I was a part of it: he
:ed me because he had made me himself.
It gave him importance in his own eyes to be
mixed up with the family of an English
baronet."

"Oh, I'm sure he likes all your family
personally," Charlie Thistieton put in, in ^te
of a warning look from his wiie. "xon
should hear uie way he writes to Faith about
you!"

"Writes to Faith!" Paul repeated,
surprised.

"Well— yes," Charlie answered, pulling
himself up short with the contrite air of the
husband who knows he has exceeded his wife's
instructions. "He wrote a letter to Faith
about you once — some months ago ; and he
said he was proud of the position you were
making for yourself in literary London. He
also remarked you were paying up arrears
with pleasing promptitude."

" It's curious he makes you go on paying,
and grinding you so hard," Faith mused
meditatively, " when he's got nobody left on
earth now to grind you for."

"It's habi^l" Paul answered-" mere
bgrained habit. He grinds by instintit. And
he likes to feel, too, that I'm able to pay him.
"Ae likes to thhik his money wasn't wasted f^
his confidence misplaced. Though he con-
siders me a ^ool for not marrying .an heiress,
he considers, too, it proves ms own sagacity
that he should have Imown I'd leave no stone
unturned till I'd honestly ^paid him."

" It's a great pity," Charlie Thideton inter-
posed, looking out of the window and
delivering tiimrtoH slowly of an abstract
opinion d propoa of nothing in particular,
"that somepeople are so devilish proud as
they are. They'd rather toil and uave and
worry themselves for a lifetime, than accent
paltry unimportant hundreds from their
friends and a few relations."

"Oh, CharUel he couldn't!" Faith oried,
flusldng up. " He wouldn't be Paul at all if
he did thai. I know we'd all love to help him
if it was poarible. But it ian't poaaible. Any-
body who knowB him knowa iiell never be
aatiafied till he'a worked it all off and paid it
binuelf. Mr. Solomons knows it; and per^
haps that's why he's so hard upon him, even.
He wants to give him a spur and a stimulqa to
work, ao that he m^iy get it tli paid off aa
aoon aa possible, and be free to do better things '•
in the end for himself and Nea."

"My dear ohUd," Charlie put in, "you're .
really too trustfuL" ^

"Well, anyhow, he wants Paul to marry
Nea now," Fdth «aid, relaiaing into her oomar;*^

MR. 5OL0M0N5 COM^S OUT.

135

^ '.'BeoaiiM he ihinka 111 work bettor when
It'a all settled," Paul retorted, half-undeoided
himself which side to take. "There's no
doubt about it. Faith, he's grown harder and
more money-grubbing than ever since Lionel
Solomons died. He reckons every farthing
and grumbles over every delay. I suppose it's
because he's got nothing else left to live for
now. But he certainly grinds me hard indeed,
and wants more every time, as if he was afraid
he'd never live to get back his money."

" Ah, that's it, you see I " Faith answered.
"That's just the explanation. While that
horrid boy was alive, he expected to leave his
money to him ; and if Mr. Solomons himself
didn't get the return, Lionel would have got
it. But now, he must have it all repaid in his
own lifetime, or itil be no use to him. What
does it matter to him whether the Jewish
Widows and Orphans have a himdred or a
thousand more or less ? It's only the pursuit
of money for its own sake that's left him now.
He goes on with that hy mere use and custom."

Ml the way down to Cornwall, in fact, they
discussed this important matter, and others of
more pressing and immediate interest ; and all
the way down Faith noticed that Paul was
going to hb wedding with many grave doubts
and misgivings on his mind as to whether or
not he was right at all in marrying under such
circumstances. It's hard for a ms" ^a start
on his honeymoon with a millstone round hia
neol': and Faith cordially pitied him. Yet,
none the less, she was characteristically proud
of him for that very feeling. Paul would
have been less of a Gascoyne, she felt, if he
could have accepted aid or help in such a strait
from any man. He had made his own maze,
no matter how long since, and now he must
puzzle his own way out of it.

At Fowey Station a strange surprise awaited
them. They got out of their carriage, and saw
on the platform a familiar figure which quite
took Faith's breath away.

" Mr. Solomons I " she exclaimed, in
astonishment. " Tou here I This is indeed "
—she was just going to sav " an unexpected
pleasure," but native truthfulness came to
her aid in time, and she substituted instead
the very non-committing word " wonderful 1 "

Mr. Solomons, somewhat bluer in the face
than was his wont, drew himself up to his full
height of five feet five .is he extended his hand
to her with a cordial welcome. He had never
looked so blooming before since poor Leo's
death. Nor had Faith ever seen him so
olosely resemble a well-to-do solicitor. He had
■pared no pains or expense, indeed, on his
sartorial eet-up. All that the tailor's art and
■kill could do had been duly done for him. He
was faultlessly attured in positively neat and

Snllemanly clothes ; for he had put himself
tplieitly hi the hands of a good West End
house ; and, distrusting his own taste and that
of h^ raoa, had jtdced to be. dressed from head
to fooi in' ft iiiyie raifaUe for a Baroneft

weddbig-party. The result #flis really and
truly surprising. Mr. Solomons, with a flower
in ms button-hole, and a quiet tie round hia
neck, looked positively almost like a Jewish
gentleman.

" Well, yes, Mrs. Thistleton," the old money-
lender said, with a deep-blue blush, "I
fancied you'd h4 rather taken aback when you
saw me. It isn't every day that I get an in-
vitation to a wedding in high Ufe; but Miss
Biau: was kind enough to send me a card;
and I thought, as I was one of Sir Paul's
oldest and earliest friends, I could hardly let
the occasion pass without properly honouring
it. So I've taken rooms by telegraph at the
hotel in the town ; and I hope to see vou all
by-and-bye at the church on Thursday.'

The apparition was hardly a pleasant one
for Paul. If the truth must be confessed, he
would have liked, if possible, on that one day
in his life, U never before or after, to be
free from the very shadow of Mr. Solomons'
presence. But Nea had no doubt good reasons
of her own for asking him — ^Nea was always
right — and so Paul grasped his old visitor's
hand as warmly as ho oould, as he muttered
in c somewhat choky and dubious voioe a half-
inartioulate " Thank you! "

CHAPTER XLYin.

HB. SOLOKONS 00MB8 OtTF.

Thb wedding-day came, and the gathei^i| of
the elans at Lanhydran Church was indeed
conspicuous. Mrs. Douglas was there from
Oxford (with the Arcadhm Professor well in
tow), discoursing amicably to Faith of the
transcendent merits of blue blood, and of how
perfectly certain she was that, sooner or later,
Paul would take Ids proper place in Parlia-
ment, and astonish the world with some mag-
nificent scheme for Imperial Federation, or for
the Total AboUtion of Poverty and Crime in
Oreat Britain and Ireland. The Thisdetons
senior were there, looking bland and impres-
sive, with tlio cousoiousness of having given
the bride ei handsome a present as anybody
else in aU the wedding-party was likely to
bestow uT«on her. Half a dozen of Paul's
undergraduate friends or London acquain-
tances had come down to grace the ceremony
by their august presence, or to make copy for
Society papers out of the two young people's
felicity. The county of Cornwall was there
in full force to see a pretty Cornish girl reomit
thd ranks of metropolitan aristocracy.

And Mr. Solomons was there, with hardly
a trace of that cold, hard manner left upon hui
face, and his fingers finding their way with a
fumbling twitch every now and sfam to his
rifht coat-tall pocket, which evidently eon
tamed some unknown object to whose con-
tinued safety Mr. Solomons attache unmense,
and indeed overwhelming, impbrtanee.

As for Nea, she; looked a« duumins as ever
— ai oharmfng, ]^ant ihonghi, as on Sbal irexy

140

THE SCALLYWAQ.

first day when he had seen her and fallen in
love with her on the promenade at Mentone.
And when at last, in the vestry, after all was
over, he was able to print one kiss on her
smooth white forehead, and to say, " my wife "
in real tamest, he forget all other thoughts in the
joy of that name, and fit as though Mr. Solo-
mons and his hapless claims had never existed.

Mr. Solomons himself, however, was by no
means disposed to let the opportunity pass by
so easily. As soon as everybody had signed
the book and claimed the customary kiss from
* the bride, Mr. Solomons, too, pressed forward
with a certain manifest eagerness on his iir ■
pulsive countenance. He took Nea's two hands
in his own with a fatherly air, and clasped
them for a moment, tremulous with emotior .

Nea held up her blushing cheek timidly.
Mr. Solomons drew back. A maiden fear op-
pressed his soul. This was too much honour.
He had never expected it.

" Dare I, my lady ? " he asked, in a faltering
voice.

He was the first who had called her so. Nea
replied with a smile and a deeper blush. Mr.
Solomons leant forward with instinctive cour-
tesy, and, bending his head, just touched with
pursed-up lips that dainty small hand of hers.
t It was the greatest triumph of his life — a
^'•T' tw raxd for that doubtful and dangerous long
investment. That he should hve to kiss with
his own two lipa the hand of the lady of an
Englidi baronet 1
' As he rose again, blushing4>Iaer in the face
than ever, he drew from ms pocket a large
morooco case, and taking out of it a necklet of
diamonds set in gold, he hung them gracefully
round Nea's neck with an unobtrusive move-
ment. A chorus of admiring "Ohsl" went up all
round from the circling group of women. Mr.
Solomons had loosed his little bolt neatly.
He had chosen the exact right moment for
presenting hie wedding gift. Even old Mr.
Thistleton, complacent and urbane, was taken
' aback by the shimmering glitter of the pretty
baubles, and reflected with some chagrin that
his own sCm of massive silver dessert-dishes was
thrown qoite into the shade now by Mr.
Solomons' diamonds.

Paul was the only person who failed to
appreciate the magnificence of the present.
He saw, indeed, with surprise that Mr.
Solomons had presented Nea with a venr
pretty necklet. But beyond that vague feel-
ing he realised nothing. He was too simply
a man to attach mush importance to those
useless gewgaws.

The breakfast followed, with its usual accom-
paniments of champagne and speeches. The
ordinary extraordinary virtues were discovered
in the bridegroom, and the invariably excep-
tional beauty and sweetness of the bride met
with their due meed of extravagant praise.
Nothing could be more satisfaotory than evi^ /•
one^B opinioii of everyone else. All the world
bad always known tut Sir FaoI would attain

in the end to the highest honours literature
could hold out to her ambitious aspirants^
perhaps even to the ediuyrship of the Times
newspaper. All the world had always con-
sidered that Lady Gascoyne— how Nea sat
there blushing and tingling with delight as
she heard that long-expected title now really
and truly at last bestowed upon her — deserved
exactly such a paragon of virtue, learning, and
talent as the man who had that day led her to
the altar. Everybody said very nice things
about * bridesmaids and their probable fate
in the near future. Everybody was polite,
and appreciative, and eulogistic, so that all the
world seemed converted for the moment into
a sore of private Lanhydraii Mutual Admira-
tion Society, Limited, and believed as siich,
with lublushing confidence.

At last, Mr. Solomons essayed to speak. It
was in answer to some wholly unimportant
toast ; and as he rose he really looked even
more like a gentleman, Faith thought to her-
self, than at the station last evening. He put
bis hand upon the table to steady himself, and
gazed long at Paul. Then he cleared Lis
throat and began nervously, in a low tone that
was strangely unfamiliar to him. He said a
few words, not without a certain simple dignity
of their own, about the immediate subject to
which he was supposed to devote his oratoiioal
powers ; but in ute course of half a minute he
had wandered round to the bridegroom, as is
the oblique fashion with most amateur
speakers on these trying occasions.

"I have known Sir Paul Oascoyne," he
said, and Faith, watching him hard, saw with
surprise that tears stood in his eyes, " ever
since his head wouldn't have shown above
this table. He paused a second and glanced
once more at Paul. "I've always known
him," he continued, in a very shaky voice,
"for what he is — a gentleman. There's no
truer man than Sir Paul Gasooyne in all
England. Once I had a boy of my own — a
nephew — but my own — I loved him dearly."
He paused once more, and struggled with nia
emotion. " Now I've nobody left me but Sir
Paul," he went on, his eyes swimming, " and
I love Sir Paul as I never could have loved
any— any— any "

Faith rose and caught him. Mr. Solomons
was bluer in the face now than ever before.
He gasped for breath, staggered as he spoke,
and accepted Faith's arm with gratitude.

" Dear Mr. Solomons," Faith said, supporting
him, " you'd better sit down now, at once —
hadn't you ? "

"Tes, yes, my dear," Mr. Solomons cried,
bursting tdl of a sudden into hasty tears, more
eloquent than his words, and subsiding dowly.
" I've always said, and I shall always say,
that your brother Paul's the very best young
fellow in all England."

And he sank mto his seat.

Have you ever noticed that, after all's ov^r,
the bride and bridegroom, becoming saddody

MR. S0L0M0N5 COMBS OUT.

141

eonsdoni that they're terribly faint, and have
eaten and dmnk nothing themselTes owing to
the tempest and whirlwind of oongratulations,
invariably retire in the end to the deserted
dinin r-room, with three or four intimate
friends for a biscuit and a glass of claret?
In thit position Paul and Nea found them-
selves half an hour later, with Faith and
Thistleton to keep them company.

"But what does this all mean about Mr.
Solomons ? " Faith inquired in an undertoue.
"Did ^ou ever see anything so queer and
mysterious as his behaviour '/ "

"Why, I don't know about that," Paul
answered. " I saw nothing very odd in it. He
has always Imown me, of course, and he was
naturally pleased to see me so well married."

"Well, but Paul dear," Faith exclaimed
impressively, " just think of the necklet I "

" The necklet I " Paul answered in a care-
less tone. "Oh, yes, the necklet was very
pretty."

"But what did he mean by giving it to
her ? " Faith asked onoe more in an excited
whisper. "I think, myself, it's awfully
symptomatic."

" Symptomatic ? " Paul echoed inquiringly.

"Why, yes," Faith repeated. "Sym-
pathetic, of course. Such a lovely present as
that I What on earth else could he possibly
give it to her for ? "

" Everybody ' rho oomes to a wedding gives
the bride a prest it, don't they ? " Paul asked,
a little mystifie i. " I always thought, after
we IT it hlsa. St ^owey Station, Mr. Solomons
woulJ. gve a pt assent to Nea. He's the sort
of man who likas things done decently and
in order. Ha'd make a point of giving ti&e
of mint, anise, and cummin."

" Mint, anise, and cummin 1 " Faith retorted
contemptuously. " Why, what do you tiiink
that necklet would cost, you stupid ? "

" I'm sure I don't know," Paul answered ;
" about five pounds, I suppose." .,

" Five pounds ! " the two women repeated
in concert, with a burst of amusement.

" Why, Paul, dear," Nea went on, taking it
off and hi nding it to him, " that necklet must
have coat at feast three hundred guineas the
set— at least three hundred 1 "

Paul turned it over dubiously, with an awe-
struck air.

"Are you sure, Nea ? " he asked in-
credulously.

" Quite sure, dear," Nea answered. " And
so's Faith ; aren't you. Faith ? " " - .

Faith nodded acquiescence.

" Well, all I can say," Paul replied, examin-
ing the thing closely with astonished eyes, " is
—It doesn't look worth it."

"Oh, yes! " Faith put in, admiring it, all
enthnaiasm. " Whv, tiiey're just lovely, Paul.
It's the moat beautinil necklet I ever saw any-

" Bat what did he do it for ? " Paul aaked
in amaze. It was his torn now to M«k in vain
for some hidden motiv*.

" Ah, that's theqnestion," Charlie Thistleton
eontmued with a blank stare. " I suppose he
thouffht Lady Oascoyne ought to have jewels
wortny of her position."

" I don't know," ^iul went on, drawing his
hand across his brow with a puzzled air. " If
it's worth what you say, it's one of the strangest
things I ever heard. Three hundred pounds 1
Why, that'd be a lot of money for anybody to
spend upon it."

To say the truth, he looked at the diamonds
a trifle ruefully. In the first flush of surprise
he almost wondered whether, when he next
called round at the High Street, H^ilborough,
Mr. Solomons would want him to sign another
bond for three hundred pounds, with interest
at twenty per cent, per annum, for jewellery
supplied for Lady Gascoyne's wedding.

At that moment a flutter in the coterie dis-
turbed him. He roused himself from his
revere to see Mr. Solomons gazing in at the
open door, evidently pleased, at the attention
bestowed upon his treasured diamonda

Nea looked np at him with that sunny smile
of hers. "We're all admiring your lovely
present, Mr. Solomons," she said, dangling it
once more before him.

Mr. Solomons came in, still very blue in the
face, and took her two hands affectionately in
his, as he had done in the vestry.

" My dear," he said, gazing at her with a
certain paternal pride, " when I first knew Sir
Paul was going to marry you, or was thinking
of marrying you, I won't pretend to deny I
was very much disappointed. I thought
he ought to have looked elsewhere for
money— 'money. I wanted him to marry a
woman of wealth. . . . My dear, I was
wrong — I was quite wrong. Sir Paid was a
great deal vriser in his generation than I
was. He knew something that was better
far than money." He drew a deep sigh. " I
could wish," he went on, holding her handa
tight, " that aU those I loved had been as wise
as he is. Since I saw you, my detur, I've
appreciated his motives. I won't say I'm not
disappointed now — to say merely that would be
poor politeness — ^T'm happy and proud at the
choice he's made— I, who am'-perhaps — ^well
— ^your husband's oldest and nearest friend."

He gazed across at her once more, tenderly,
gently. Paul was surprised to find the old
man had so much chivalry left in him still.
Then he leaned forward yet a second time and
kissed her hand with old-fashioned courtesy.

" Good-bye, my dear," he said, pressing it.
" Good-bye, Sir Paul; I've a train to catch, for
I've business in London — ^important business
in London — and I thought I'd better go up by
the trsdn before the one you and Lady Gasooyne
have chosen. But I wanted to say good-bye
to you both quietly in here before I went. My
ohud, this is the proudest day lever remember.
I've mixed on equal terms with the gentlefolk
of England. I'm not nnmindful of all the
kindness and sympathy you've all ezteodsd

THB SCALLVWAQ.

'. i»

thi» morniiiff to an old Jew money-lender. My
own have never been to me as you and Paiu
have been today." He burst into tears again.
" From my heart I thank you, my dear, ' he
cried out, falteringly ; " from my poor old,
worn-out, broken-down heart, ten thousand
times I thank yon."

And before Paul in his amazement oonld
blurt out a single word in reply he had kissed
her hand again with hot tears falling on it,
and glided nrom the door towards the front
entry. Next minute he was walking down
the garden-path to thr gate, erect and sturdy,
but crying to himself as he had never oried in
\u» U^ woxe since Lionel betrayed him.

CHAPTER XLIX.

TO PABIS AND BACK, SIXTY SHILLINOS.

A joubnaust's holiday is always short. Paul
had arranged for a fortnight away from
London — ^he could afford no more — and to that
brief span he had to cut down his honeymoon.
But he was happy now in his full possession
ot. Nea — ^too nappy, indeed, when all was
mvooably done, even to thixjc of tb^ shadow
ofiihose outlaving claims that still remained
unsatisfied in tne safe at HUIborough.

In a fortnight a m^n ciko't go very far. 80
Paul was content to take his bride across to
Paris. On their way back he meant to stop
for a couple of nights at Hillborough, where
he could do his work as well as in town, so
that Nea might make his mother's acquaint-
ance. For Mrs. Gascoyne had wisely refused
to be present at the wedding. She preferred,
she said, to know Paul's wife more quietly
afterwards, when Kea could take her as she
was, and know her for herself, without feeling
ashamed of her before her fine relations.

It was late autmnn, and the town was
delightful. To both Paul and Nea, Paris was
equally new ground, and they revelled, as

^oung people will, before they know any
etter, in we tawdry delights m that mere-
tricious capital. Don't let us blame Uiem, we
who are older and wiser and have fomid out
Paris. At their age, remember, we, too,
admired its glitter and its din ; we, too, were
taken in by its chei^ impressiveness; and we,
too, had not risen above the common yol-

Srities of the boplevards and the Bois and
e Champs ElysiSes. We found in the
Frangaie that odious form of entectiinment—
" an intellectual treat " ; and we really
believed in the Haussmannesque mxmstrosities
that adorn its streets as constitatriig what we
called, in the gibberish of car heyday, "a
very fine city." If we know better now — ^if
we nnderstand that a Devonshire lane is
worth ten thousand Palais Boyals, and a talk
under the trees with a pretty girl is sweeter
than all the tents of iniquity— let us, at lefwt,
refrain from flaunting our more excellent way
before the eyes of a ipddy Philistine world,
imd let us pardon youth,^ the &i»h of itn bioney •

moon, a too ardent attachment to the Place
de la Concorde and the Magasinsdu Lonvre.

Tet, oh, those Magasins dn Louvre t How
many heartburns they caused poor Paul!
And wi^h what unconscious cruelty did Nea
drag him through the endless corridors of the
Bon MarchA on the other side of the water.

" What a lovely silk ! Oh, what exquisite
gloves t And how charming that chair would
look, Paul, wouldn't it ? in our drawing-room
in London, whenever we get one."

Ah, yes, whenever 1 For Paul now began
to feel, a*" he had never felt in his life before,
the sting of his poverty. How he longed to
give Nea all these beautiful gewgaws : and how
impossible he knew it I If only Nea could
have realised the pang she gave him each time
she admired those pretty frocks and those
delightful bats, and Uiose exquisite things in
Persian or Indian carpets, she would have cut
out her own tongue before she mentioned .hem.
For it was tc be their fate for the present to
live in lodgings in London till that greedy Mr.
Solomons was finally appeased, and even then
they would have to save up for months «cd
mouths before tiiey were in a position to
furnish their humble cottage, not with I'ersian
rugs and carved oak chairs, but with plain
^ddemtinster and a good deal suite from the
extensive showrooms of the Tottenham Court
Boad cabinet-maker. (

Bevolving these tilings in his mind, on the
day before their return to dear foggy old
England, Paul was strolling with Nea down
the Chunps Elys4es, and thinking about
nothing else in particular, when snddenly a
bow and a smile from hi» wife, delivered
towards a fiacre that rolled along in the direc<
tion of the Arc de Tnomphe, distracted his
attention from hie internal cogitations to the
mundane show tiben passing before him. He
turned and looked. A lady in the fiacre,
remarkably well dressed, and pretty enough as
forty-five goes, returned the bow and omile,'
and vainly tried to stop the cabman, who
heeded not her expoatulatory parasol thrust
hastUy tow^ds him.

For a moment Paul failed to recognise thai
perfectly well-bred and glassy smile. The
lady was so charmingly got up as almost ta
defy detection from h^r nearest friend. Then,
next instant, as the tortoiseshell eyeglasses>
tnmsfixed hhn with their dlance, he started
and knew her. That face he had seen last)
the day when Lionel Solomons was ba,ried.
It was none othw than the Ceri(do I

In an agonv of alarm he seized bis wife's
arm. He could never again permit hie spot-
less Nea to be contaminated by th^t hoiriUe.
woman's hateful presence. Why, if she sue--
eeeded ixx turning the cab in time to meet
them, the creature would aetuaUy \ry to kia»
Kea before hif very eyee-~dM( thilkt vile woman
whose vileness he had thoroughly felt on tha
evening ol poor ponel Solomons' funeral.
" N«{a, imrngt" k* m*^ Mv^jring bur •long.

Ul
cJ

7iJ

'K,

TO PARIS AND BACK, SIXTY SHILLkNQS.

«43

with hia hand on her arm, " come ai faat aa
yon can : I don't want that woman there to
■top and ipeak to you 1 "

"Why, it's Madame I" Nea answered, a
little eurpriied. "I don't care for her, of
course ; but it MC^me so unfriendlv— and just
uow Above all — to deliberately out her 1 "

"I can't help it," Paul answered. "My
darlin;;, she's not fit company for you."

And then, taking her aside along the alley
at the back, beyond the avenue and the merry-
go-rounds, he explained to her briefly what she
alreadv knew in outline at least, the part they
all believed Madame Ceriolo to have borne in
luring on Lionel Solomons to his last awful
enterraise.

"What's she doing in Paris, I wonder?"
Nea observed redeotively, as they walked on
down that less-frequented path towards the
Bue de Bivoli.

" I'm sure I don't know," Paul answered.
" She seemed very well dressed. She must
have some sources of income nobody knoWs
of. She couldn't afford to drive about in a
OMTiage like that on the strength of Mr. Solo-
mons' allowance of two hundred."

Nea shook her head emphatically.

" Oh dear no 1 " she answered, " not any-
thing like it. Why, she's dressed in the very
height of fashion. Her mantle alone must have
cost every bit of twenty guineas."

"It's curious," Paul murmured in reply.
" I never can understand these people a
budget. They seem to pick up money
wherever they go. They've no visible means
of subsistence, to speak of, yet they live on the
iat of the land and travel about as much aa
they've a fane to."

" It'a luck,'' Nea tknswered. " And dis-
honestv, too, perhaps. 'One : ght always be
rich if one didn'^i care how one got one's
money."

By the Place de la Concorde, oddly enough,
they atumbled acroba another old Mentone
acquaintance. It was Armitage, looking a
trine less apick-and-span than formerly, to be
sure, but sUll wearing in face, coat, and head-
gear the air of an accomplished boulevardier.

He atmok an attitude the moment he saw
them, and extended a hand of most unwonted
cordiality. One would have said from hit;
manner that the aoallywag had been the
boaom-friend of hia youth, and the best-
beloved companion of his matnrer years — so
affectionate and ao warm was his greeting.

" What, Cbseoyne t " he cried, coming for-
ward and seizing his hand. " You here, my
dear fellow I And Lady Gascoyne, too t Well,
this u delightful ! I saw all about your mar-
riage in the Whisperer, you know, and that
you had started for Paris, and I was so pleased
to think it waa I in great part who had done
you the good turn of flrat bringing you and
Lady O&aooyne together. Well, this ia indeed
ft l^eaaure— a moat fortunate meeting t I've
been hunting up and down for yon at every

hotel in all Paris— the Qrand, the Continental,
the Windsor, the Ambassadr^i's— but I couldn't
find you anywhere. You scMb to have buried
yourself. 1 wanted to take you to this recep-
tion at the Embassy."

"You're very kind," Paul answered in a
reserved tone, for such new-bom affection
somewhat repelled him by its empreisem«nt.
"We've taken rooms in a very amall hotel
behind the Palais de I'lndustrie. We're poor,
you Icnow. We couldn't afford to atop at auch
places aa the Grand or the Continental."

Armitage slipped hia arm irreaiatibly into
Paiil's. " I'll walk with you wherever you're
going," he said. " It's such a pleasure to
meet you both again. And how long. Lady
Gascoyne, do you remain in Paris ? "

Nea told him, and Armitage, drawing down
tho corners of his mouth at the news, regretted
their departure excessively. There were so
many things coming off this next week, don't
you know. And the Lyttons would of cour^
be so delighted to get them ' jx invitation for
that crush at the Elys^es."

" We don't oare for crushes, thanka," Paul
responded frigidly.

" And who do you think we saw just now,
riD near the Bond Pointe, Mr. Armitage?"
^ ea put in, with perfect innocence. " Why,
Madame Ceriolo."

" Got up younger than ever," Paul wont on
with a smile.

It was Armitage'a turn to draw himself up
now. " I beg your pardon," he said stiffly," but!
think — a — ^you labour under a misapprehension.
Her name's not Ceriolo any longer, you know.
Perhaps I ought to have explained before.
The truth is, you see " — he stroked his beard
fondly — "well — to cut it short — in point of
fact, she's married."

" Oh yes, we all know that," Paul answered
wit<h a careless wave of the hand. " She's Mrs.
Lionel Solomons now, by rights, we're well
aware. I was present at her husband's
funeral. But, of course, she won't be guilty'
of such an egregious piece of folly aa calling
herself by her new name. Ceriolo's a bettei
name to trade upon than Solomons, any day."

Armitage dropped his arm — a bauronet'a
arm — wi£ a littie sudden movement, and
bluahed brilliant crimaon.

" Oh, I don't mean that" he aald, looUns
just a little sheepish. " Marie's told me aU
that, I need hwdly say. It waa a haatj
episode — ^mistaken, mistaken! Poor child I
I don't blame her, she waa ao alone in the
world — she needed oompanionahip. I oug^t
to have known it. And the old omte of an
uncle behaved moat ahamefully to her, too,
afterwarda. But no matter about that. It'a a
long atory. Happily, Marie'a a peraon not
eaaUy crushed. . . . What I meant waa thia.
I thought perhapa yon'd have aeen it in the
papera/' And he pulled out ^m hia eard<
case a little printed paragraph which he
handed to Paul. "She waa married at Iho

144

THE SCALLYWAQ.

Embassy, you see," he went on, still more
sheopiahly than before. " Married at the
Embassy, the very same day as you and Lady
Oascoyne. In point of fact, the lady you
were speaking of is at this present moment —
Mrs. Armitage."

"So she's caught you at last," was what
Faul nearly blurted out in his astonishment
on the spur of the moment, but with an etTort
he refrained and restrained himself. " I'm
sorry I should have said anything," he replied
instead, " that might for a moment seem dis-
respectful to the lady you've made your wife.
You may bo sure I wouldn't have done so had
I in the least anticipated it."

" Oh, that's all right," Armitage answered,
a little crestfallen, but with gemal tolerance,
like one well accustomed to such trifling
criticisms. "It doesn't surprise me in the
least that you misjudge Marie. Many people
misjudge her who don't know her well. I
misjudged her once myself, I'm free to con-
fess, as I dare say you remember. But I
know better now. You see, it was difficult at
first to accept her romantic story m full — such
stories are so often a mere tissue of falsehoods
—but it's all quite true in her case. I've
satisfied myself on that point. She's put my
mind quite at easo as to the real position of
her relations in the Tyrol. They're most
distinguished people, I assure you, the Ceriolos
of Ceriolo — most distinguished people. She's
lately inhnrited a very small fortune from one
of iiiem— jusf< a couple of hundred a year or
thereabouts. And with her little income and
my little income, wo mean to get along now
very comfortably on the Continent. Mario's
a great favourite in Society in Paris, you
know. If you and Lady Gascoyne were going
to stop a week longei here, I'd ask you to dine
with us to meet the world at our flat in the
Avenue Victor Hugo."

And when Armitage had dropped them
opposite Oalignani'a, Paul observed with a
quiet smile to Nea :

"Well, she's made the best, anyhow, of
poor Mr. Solomons' unwilling allowance."

CHAPTER L.

A FALL IN CENTRAL SOUTHEBNS.

Thb ahortest honeymoon ends at last (for, of
course, the longest one does), and Paul and Nea
were exj^oted back one Thursday afternoon at
home at Hillborough.

That day Mr. Solomons was all agog with
excitement. He was ashamed to let even his
office-boy see how much he anticipated Sir
Paul and Lady Oasooyne's arrival. He had
talked of Sir Paul, indeed, till he was fairly
angry with himself. It was Sir Paul here.
Sir Paul there. Sir Paul everywhere. He had
looked out Su: Paul's train half a dozen times
over in his dog-eared Bradshaw, and had then
sent out his clerk for another — a new one — for
fear the service Sir Paul had written about

might be taken off the Central Southern ilvat^.
table for September.

At last, by way of calming his jerky nerves,
ho determined to walk over the Knoll and
down upon the station, where he would be the
first to welcome Lady Oascoyne to Hillborough.
And he set out well in time, so as not to have
to mount the steep hill too fast ; for the front
of the hill is very steep indeed, and Mr.
Solomons' heart was by no means so vigorous
as its owner could have wished it to be.

However, by dint of much puffing and pant-
ing, Mr. Solomons reached the top at last, and
sat down awhile on the dry turf, looking par-
ticularly blue about the lips and cheeks, to
gain a littlo breath and admire for the fiftieth
time that beautiful outlook. And well be
might ; for the view from the Knoll is one of
the most famous among the Surrey Hills.

On one side you gaze down upon the vale
of Hillborough, with its tall church spire and
town of red-tiled roofs, having the station in
the foreground, and the long, steep Ime of the
North Downs at their escarpment backing it
up behind with a sheer wall of precipitous
greensward. On the other side you look away
across the Sussex Weald, blue and level as the
sea, or bounded only on its further edge by the
purple summits of the Forest Ridge to south-
ward. Close by, the Central Southern Rail-
way, coming from Hipsley, intersects with its
hard iron line a gorse-clad common, and, pass-
ing by a tunnel under the sandstone hog's
back of the Knoll, emerges at once on Hul-
borough Station, embosomed in the beeches
and elms of Boldwood Manor.

Mr. Solomons paused and gazed at it long.
There was Hipsley, distinct on the common
southwards, with a train at the platform bound
in the opposite direction, and soon Sir Paul's
train would reach there too, bringing Sir Paul
and Lady Oascoyne to Hillborough.

The old money-lender smiled a pitying
smile to himself as he thought how eagerly
and how childishly he expected them. How
angry he had been with Paul at first for throw-
ing himself awav upon that penniless Cornish
girl I and now how much more than pleased
he felt that his protigi had chosen the better
part, and not, like Demas and poor Lionel,
turned aside from the true way to a fallacious
silver-mine.

" He's a good boy, Paul is," the old man
thought to himself, as he got up from the turf
once more, and set out to walk across the crest
of the Knoll and down upon the station.
" He's a good boy, Paul, and it's I who have
made him."

He walked forward awhile, ruminating,
along the top of the ridge, hardly looking
where he went, till he came to the point just
above the tunnel. There he suddenly stumbled.
Something unexpected knocked against his
foot, thougii the greensward on the top was
always so fine and clean and dose-cropped. It
jarred him foramoment,soBuddenwasUie ahookt

ytirt'^^'i:

' It wtis the groati'st triumph of his life."

[Page 140.

wwiiiKiS .

A FALL IN CENTRAL SOUTHERNS.

145

Mr. Solomoni, blue already, grew bluer itill
»■ ha halted and helii hiH Imrid to hia head for
a sooond to steady hin iuipreiiHiona. Then lie
looked down to boo wIhU could have lain in hia
path. OoodlinavonsI lliiawaaqueerl Ho rubbed
hia eyea. " Novor aaw anything like thia on the
top of the Knoll before. Ood bluaa me t"

There waa a hollow or pit into which he had
■tepped inadvertently, aoine six to eight inches
or thereabouts below the general level.

As he looked he saw the land give yet more
suddenly towards the centre. 1 Lardl v realizing
even then what was taking place before hia
very eyes, he had still presence of mind
enough left to jump aside from the dangerous
■pot, and scramble back again to the solid
bank beyond it. Just as he did so, the whole
mass oaved in with a hollow noise, and left a
funnel-shaped hole in the very centre.

Mr. Solomons, dazed and stunned, knew,
nevertheless, what had really happoned. The
tunnel— that auspectod tunnel — had fallen in.
The brick roof, perhaps, had given way, or the
arch had failed somewhere ; but of one thing
he was certain — the tunnel had fallen.

As a matter of fact, the engineora reported
afterwards, rainfall had slowly carried away
the sandstone of the hill, a grain at a time, by
stream and rivulet, till it had left a hollow
.^paoe overhead between rock and vaulting.
Heavv showers had fallen the night before,
and, by water-logging the soil, had added to
the weight of the superincumbent strata.
Cohesion no longer sufficed to support the
mass ; it caved in slowly ; and at the very
moment when Mr. Solomons saved himself on
the firm soil at the aide, it broke down the
brickwork and filled in the tunnel.

But of all this Mr. Solomons for the moment
was ignorant. Any other man in his place would
probably have thought at once of the danger
to life and limb by this sudden catastrophe.
Mr. Solomons, looking at it with the eye of
the speculator and the ingrained habits of ao
many years of money-grubbing, saw in it
instinctively but one prospective fact— a certain
fall in Central Southerns.

Nobody but he was in possession of that
important fact now ; he held it as his own — a
piece of indubitable special information. By
to-morrow morning, all the Stock Exchanges
would know it. Everybody would be aware
that a large tunnel on the main line of the
Central Southern had fallen in ; that traffic
would be entirely auapended for six months at
least I that the next half-yearly dividend would
be nil, or thereabouts : and that a very large
sum must oome out of the reserve-fund for the
task of shoring up so considerable a subaidonce.
Mr. Solomons chuckled to himself with pardon-
able delight. To-day, Central Southerns were
98| for the account; to-morrow, he firmly
believed, they would be down to 00. It was an
enormous fall. Think what he stood to win by
it t Just at first his only idea was to wire up to
town and sell all the stock he actually

posseiaod, buying in again after the fall at the
reduced quotation. But in another moment
his business-like mind saw another and still
grander prospect opening out before him.
Why limit himself to the sum he could gain
over his own shares ? Whv not sell out any
amount for which he could find buyers— for
the account, of course ?— in other words, why
not agree to deliver Central Southerns to any
extent next week for OHg, when he knew that
by that time he could buy as many as ever he
wanted for something like 00 ? To a nian of Mr.
Solomons' type the opening was a glorious one.

In a second of time, in the twinkling of an
eye, vast visions of wealth floated vaguely
before him. With three hours' start of such
information as that, any fellow who chose
could woik the market succeaafully and make
as many thousaids as he wished, without risk
or difficulty. If buyers could be found, there
was no reason, indeed, why he shouldn't sell
out at current prises the entire stock of the
Central Southern on spec. ; it would be easy
onov.gh to-morrow to buy it all back again at
eight or nine discount. So wonderful a chance
soTdum fulls so pat in the way of a man of
business. It would be next door to criminal
not to seize upon sueh a brilliant opportunity
of fortune. In the interests of his heirs and
executors, Mr. Solomons felt called upon to run
for it immediately. He set off running down
the Knoll at once, in the durection of Hill-
borough Station, lying snug in the valley
among the elms and beeches below there.
There was a telegraph office at the station, and
thence Mr. Solomons designed to wire to
London. He would instruct his broker to sell
as many Central Southern A's for the account
as the market would take, and, if necessary, to
sell a point or two below tho current Stock
Exchange quotations.

Blown as he was with mounting the hill,
and pufTed with running, it was hard work
that spurt — but the circumstances demanded
it. Thousands were at stake. For the sake
of his heirs and executors he felt he must run
the risk with that shaky old heart of his.

Panting and blowmg, he reached the
bottom of the hill, and looked into the mouth
of the tunnel, through which, as a rule, you
could see daylight from the side towards
Hipsley. The change from the accustomed
sight gave him a shock of surprise. Thirty or
forty yards from the entrance the tunnel was
entirely blocked by a rough mass of cUbriB.
If a train came through now there would be 'a
terrible smash. And in that case Central
Southerns would fall still lower — what with com-
pensation and so forth — perhaps as low as 86-87.
If a train oame through there would be a
terrible smash. The down-train would have
just got off before the fall. The up-train
would be coming very soon now. . . . And
Sir Paul and Lady Oascoyne would be in it I

With a burnt of horror, Mr. Solomons
realized at last that aspect of the case which to

146

THE SCALLYWAG.

almost anyone elae would have been the Arst
to preaent itself. There was danger to life
and limb in the tunnel 1 Men and women
might be mangled, oruBhrd, and killed. And
among them would, perhaps, be Paul and Nea I

The revuloion wa* terrible, horrible, ghastly.
Mr. Solomons pulled himself together with a
painful pulL The first thing to do was to warn
the station-master, and prevent an accident.
The next thing was to wire to London, and sell
out for the account all his Central Somherns.

Sell out Central Southerns I Pah 1 What
did that matter? Sir Puul and Lady
Gasooyne were in the up-train. Unless he
m^e haste, all, all would be lost. He would
be left in his old age more desolate than ever.
The new bubble would burst as awfully as
the old one.

Fired with this fresh idea, Mr. Solomons
rushed forward once more, bluer, bluer than
ever, and hurried towards the station, in a bee-
line, regardless of the information vouchsafed
by the notice-boards that trespassers would
be prosecuted. He ran as if his life depended
upon his getting there. At all hazards he must
warn them to stop the train at Hipsley Station.

By the gate of a meadow he paused for a
second to catch his breath and mop his fore-
head. A man was at work there, turning
manure with a fork. Mr. Solomons was
blown. He called out loudly to the man,
" Hi, you there I come here, wdl you ? "

The man turned round and touched his hat
respectfully.

•'The Knoll tunnel's fallen ini" Mr.
Solomons blurted out between his convulsive
bursts of breath.

The man stuck his fork in the ground and
■tared stolidly in the direction indicated.

" So it hev," he mui-mured. " Well, naow,
that's cur'ous."

Mr. Solomons reoognised him tofi the stolid
fool of a rustio that he was. Drawing out his
purse he took from it a sovereign, which he
dangled temptingly. ,**Take this," he cried,
" and run as fast as you can to the Hillborough
Station. Tell the station-master t^a Knoll
tunnel has fallen in. Tell him to telegraph
to Hipsley and stop the up-train. For God's
sake go, or we shall have an accident 1 "

In nis dull, remote way, urged on by the
sovereign, the man took it in— slowly, slowly,
slowly; and, as soon as the facts had pene-
trated through his thick b^nill, began to run at
the top of hU speed over hedges and ditches
towards the gate of the station.
• "Tell him to telegraph at once," Mr.
Solomons shouted. "The tunnel's blocked;
there'll be loss of life unless he looks sharp."

And then, having recovered his breath a bit
himself, he Ctossed the gate and proceeded to
follow him. There would still be time to
redise that fortune by selling out close at
existing prices.

Next instant, with another flash of inspira-
tion, it ouno across his mind that ha hod done

the wrong thing. No use at all ,0 give
warning at Hillborough. The wires went
o^er the tunnel, and he r jmembered now that
the pole had fijlen uud snapped them in the
midst at the moment of the subsidence.
There was no communication at all with
Hipsley. It was towards Hipsley itself he
ought to have gone in the first place. He
must go there now, all blown as he was— go
theie at all hazards. He must warn the train,
or Sir Paul and Lady Gascoyne would be
killed in tho tunnel t

It came upon him with all the sudden
clearness of a revelation. There was no time
to wait or think. He must turn and act upon
it. In a second he had clambered over the
gate onoe more, and, blue and hot in the face,
was mounting the Knoll with incredible haste
for his weight and age, urged on by his wild
desire to save Paul and Nea.

He struggled and scrambled up the steep
face of the hill with eager feet. At the top he
paused a moment, and panted for breath.
The line lies straight in view across the long
flat weald. From that panoramic point he
could see clearly beneath him the whole level
stretch of the iron road. A cloud of white
steam sped merrily across the open lowland. It
was the up-train on its way to Hipsley !

No time now to stop it before it left the
station I But by descending at onee on the
line and running along upon the six-foot way,
he might still succeed in attracting the engine-
driver's attention and oheokiug the tnin
before it reached the tunnel.

CHAPTER LL

A GATASTBOPHE.

FiRBD with this thought, and utterly absorbed in
his fears for Paul's and Nea's safety, Mr.
Solomons hurried down the opposite slope of
tiie ridge, and, Bcram^'Mng through the cutting,
gained the side of the railway. It was fenofti
hi by one of those atrocious barbed- wire fences
with which the selfishness of Bquires or
farmers is still permitted to outrage every
sentiment of common humanity ; but Mr.
Solomons was tqp full of his task to mind
those barbarous spikes ; with torn clothes and
bleeding hands he squeezed himself through
somehow, and ran madly along the line in the
direction of Hipsley.

As he did so, the loud snort of a steam-
whistle fell upon his ear, away over in front of
him. His heart sank. He knew it was the
train leaving Hipsley Station.

Still he ran on wildly. He must run and
run till he dropped now. No time to pausa or
draw breath. It was necessary to give the
engine-driver ample warning beforehand, so
that he might put on the break soma time
before reaching the mouth of the tunnel. If not,
the train would dash into it at full spaad, and
not a living soul might survive the collision.

He ran along the six-foot way with all bis

|o give
went
pw that
[in the
Jidenoe.
11 with
\eU he
He
|a8— go
train,
id be

Sudden

Jo time

|t upon

the

|e faoe,

haate

wUd

A CATASTROPHE.

14^

might, waving his hands frantically above his
head towards the approaching train, and doing
his best in one last frenzied effort to catch the
driver's eye before it was too late. His face
was flushed piurple with exertion now, and his
breath oame and went with deadly diificaUy.
But on he ran, nnbeeding the warnings of
that throbbing heart, unheeding the short,
sharp .snorts of the train as it advanced, un-
heeding anything on earth save the internal
consciousness of that one imperative duty laid
on him. The universe summed itself up to his
mind in that moment as a vast and absorbing
absolute necessity to save Paul and Nea.

On, on the wild engine came, puffing and
snorting terribly ; but Mr. Solomons, nothing
daunted, on Are with his exertions, almost
flung himself in its path, and shrieked aloud,
with his hands tossed up and his faoe purple.

"Stop! stop! For God's sake, stop!
Stop I stop ! I tell you 1 " He ran along
backwards now, still fronting the train.
" Stop! stop ! " he cried, gesticulating fiercely
to the adtomshed driver. " For heaven's sake,
stop I You can't go on — there's danger ! "

Tho engine-driver put on the brake an ho
train began to slow. A jar thrilled through
the carriages from end to end. With a sudden
tiffort, the guard, now thoroughlv roused to a
sense of dauger, had succeeded m stopping it
at the very mouth of the tunnel.

Mr. Solomons, almost too spent to utter a
word, shrieked out at the top of his voice, in

?wping syllables: "The tunnel's fallen in.
ou okn't go on. Put back to Hipsley. I've
come to warn you I "

But there was no need for him to explain
any further now. The driver, looking ahead,
oould see for himself a mass of yellow sand
obstructing *he way & hundred yards in front.
Slowjy he got down and examined the road.

" That was a narrow squeak, BiU," he said,
turning to the stoker. " If it hadn't been for
the old gentleman, we'd all 'a be«Q in kingdom
oome by this time I "

" He looks very queer," the stoker observed,
eaEinf close at Mr. Solomons, who had seated
nimsolf now on the bank bv the side, and was
panting heavily with bluer face than ever.

" He's run too 'ard, that's where it is," the
engine-driver went on, holding him up and
supporting him. " Gome along, sir ; coine on
in tne train with us. We've got to go back to
fiipsley now, that's certain."

But Mr. Solomons only gasped, and
struggled hard for breath. A terriole wave
eonvnlaed his features.

"Loosen his collar, Jim," the stoker
■nggested. The engine-driver obeyed, and Mr.
Solomons seemed to breathe more freely.

"Now then, what's the matter? Why
don't we go on ?" a bluff man cried, putting
his bead out of a first-class carriage window.

"Matter enough, sir," the engine-driver an-
swered. " Tunnel's broke ; road's blocked ahead ;
and this gentleman by the side's a-dying."

"Dying!" the blaff personage echoed,
descending quickly from his seat, and joining
the group. " No, no ; not that ! . . . Don't
talk such nonsense! . . . Why, God bless
my soul, so he is, to be sturel Valvular
disease of the heart, that's what I make it.
Have you got any brandy, boys? Leave bim
to me. I'fi attend to him. I'm a doctor."

"Bun along the trahi, Bill, the eng^e-
driver said, "'and ask if any gentleman's got a
flask of brandy."

In a minute the stoker returned, tuilvwed
close by Paul, who brought a little flask, which
he offered for the occasion.

"'Old up the gen'leman's 'ead, 7?m," the
stoker said, " and pour down some brandy."

Paul started with horror and amazement.

" Why," he cried, " it's Mr. Solomons 1 "

Mr. Solomons opened his eyes for an
inatant. His throat gurgled.

"Good-bye, Sir Paul," he said, trymg
feebly to grope for something in his pocket.
"Is Lady Gascoyne safe? Then, thank
heaven, I've saved you I "

Paul knelt bv his side, and held the flAsk to
his lips. " Oh, Mr. Solomons, he cried, bending
over him eagerly, " do try to swallow some."

But the brae lips never moved. Only, with
a convulsive effort, Mr. Solomons drew some-
thing out of his breast pocket — a paper, it
seemed, much Worn and faded — and, clutching
it tight in his grasp, seemed to thrust it
towsfds him with argent anxiety.

Paul took no notice of the gesture, but held
the brandy still to Mr. Solomons' livid mouth.
The bluff passenger waved him aside.

"No good," he said, "no good, my dear
sir. He can't even swallow it. He's un-
conscious now. The valve don't act. It's all
up, I'm afraid. Stand aside there, all of you,
and let him have fresh air. That's his last
chance. Fan him with a paper." fie put his
finser on the pulse, abd shook his head
ommously. " No good at all," he murmured.
" He's run too fast, and the effort's been too
much for him." He examined the lipi
closely, and held his ear to catch the last
sound of breath. "Quite dead ! " he went oh.
" Death from syncope. He died doing his
best to prevent an accident."

A strange, solenm feeling came over Paul
Gascoyne. It was some minutes before
he could even think of Nea, who sat at the
window behind, anxiously awaiting tidings of
this unexpected stoppage. Then he burst intd
tears, as the stoker and engine-driver slowly
lifted the body into an unoccupied carriage,
and called on the passengers to take their seate
while they backed into Hipsley Station.

"What is it?" Nea asked, seehig Paul
return with blanched eheeks and wet eyes to
the door of her carriage.

Paul could hwrdly get out the words to reply.

"A tunnel's fallen in— the tunnel under th^
Knoll that I've often told you about ; and Mr.
Solomons, running to warn the train of danger,

■^x'

I4S

THE SCALLYWAG.

has fallen down dead by the side with heart-
disease."

" Dead, Paul ? "

" Yes, dead, Nea 1 "

" Did he know we were here ? " Nea a^ked.

"I think 80," Paul answered. "I wrote
and told him what train we'd arrive by, and
he must have found out the accident and
rushed to warn us before anybody else was
aware it had tumbled."

" Oh, Paul, was he alive to see you ? "

" Alive ? " Paul answered. " Oh, yes, he
spoke to me. He asked if you were safe, and
said good-bye to me."

They backed into the station by slow
degrees, and the passengers, turning out with
eager wonder and inquiry, began a hubbub of
voices as to the tunnel pjad the accident and
the man who had warned them, and the
catastrophe, and the heart-disease, and the
chance there was of getting on to-night, and
how on earth they could ever get their luggage
carted across to Hillborough Station. But
Paul and Nea stood with hushed voices beside
the corpse of the man they had parted with so
lightly a fortnight before at Lanhydran.

" Do you know, Paul," Nea whispered, as
she gazed awe-stnmk at that livid face, now
half pale in death, " I somehow felt when he
said to me that simoon, ' From my poor,
old, worn-out heart I thank you,' I half felt as
if I was never going to see him again. He
said good-bye to us as one says good-bye to
one's friends for ever. And I am glad, at
least, to think that we made him happy."

" I'm glad to think so, too," Paul answered
with tears in his eyes. "But, Nea, do you
know, till this moment I never realized how
fond I was of him. I feel now as if an element
had been taken out of my life for ever."

" Then I think he died happy," Nea replied.

Slowly and gradually the people at the
station got things ^nto order under these
altered conditions. Cabs and carriages were
brought from Hillborough to carry the through
passengers and their luggage across the gap in the
line caused by the broken tunnel. Telegrams
were sent in every direction to warn coming
trains and to organize a temporary local
service. All was bustle and noise and turmoil
and confusion. But in the midst of the hurly-
burly, a few passengers stUl crowded, whisper-
ing, round the silent corpse of the man who
had met his own death in warning them of
their danger. Little by little the story got
about how this v,iaa Mr. Solomons, an estate
agent at Hillborough, and how those two
young people standing so close to his aide, and
watching over his body, were Sir Paul uaA
Lady Oascoyne, for whose sake he had run all
the way to stop the train, and had fallen down
dead at the last moment of heart-disease. In
his hand he still clutched that worn and folded
paper he had tried to force upon Paul, and his
face yet wore in death that eager expression of
ft dedre to bring out words that his tremolons

lips refused to utter. They stood there long
painfully watchiug his features. At last a
stretcher was brought from the town, and Mr.
Solomons' body, covered with a black cloth,
was carried upon it to his house in the High
Street. Paul insisted on bearing a hand in
it himself; and Nea, walking slowly and
solemnly by his side, thus made her first entry
as Lady Gascoyne into her husband's birthplace.

CHAPTEE LII.

ESTATE OF THE LATE J. P. SOLOMONS.

For the next week all Hillborough was agog
with the fallen tunnel. So great an event had
never yet diversified the history of the parish.
The little town woke up and found itself
famous. The even tenor of local life was
disturbed by a strange incursion of noisy
navvies. Central Southerns went down like
lead to 00, as Mr. Solomons had shrewdly
anticipated. The manager and the chief
engineer of the line paid many visits to the
spot to inspect tlie scene of the averted
catastrophe. Hundreds of hands were en-
gaged at once with feverish haste to begin
excavations, and to clear the line of the
accumulated debris. But six months at least
must elapse, so everybody said, before traffic
was restored to the status quo, and the Central
Southern was once more in working order. A
parallel calamity was unknown in the com-
pany's history : it was only by the greatest
good-luck in the world, the directors remarked
ruefully at their next meeting, that they had
escaped the onus and odium of what the news-
papers called a good first-class, murderous,
selling railway accident.

On one point, indeed, all the London press
was agreed on the Friday morning, that the
highest praise was due to the heroic conduct of
Mr. Solomons, a Jewish gentleman resident at
Hillborough, who was the first to perceive the
subsidence of the ground on the Knoll, and
who, rightly conjecturing the nature of the
disaster, hurried — unhappily, at the cost of his
own life — to warn the station-masters at either
end of the danger that blocked the way in the
buried tunnel. As he reached his goal he
breathed his last, pouring forth his message of
mercy to the startled engine-driver. This
beautiful touch, said the leader-writers, with
conventional pathos, made a fitting termination
to a noble act of self-sacrifice ; and the fact
that Mr. Solomons had friends in the train-
Sir Paul and Lady Gasooyne, who were just
returning froc: their wedding tcnr on the
'''ontinent — ratiier added to than detracted
i r m the dramatic completeness of this moving
ddnoiiment. It was a pleasure to be able to
record that the self sacrificing i messenger,
before he closed his eyes finally, hru. rrasped
in his dying fingers the hands of the friends
he had rescued, and was aware that his
devotion had met with its due reward. While
actions like these continn* to be done in eyery*

ESTATE OF THE LATE J. P. SOLOMONS.

149

!thad

parish.

itself

was

day life, the leader-writers felt we need never
be afraid that tha old English courage and the
•old English ideal of steadfast duty are
beginning to fail ue. The painful episode of
the £uolI tunnel had at leant this consolatory
point, tl at it showed once more to the
journalistic intelligence the readiness of
Englishmen of all creeds or parties to lay
down their lives willingly at the call of a great
public emergency.

So or Mr. Solomons, thus threnodied by
the api. ated latter-day bards of his adoptive
nation, was buried at Hillborough as the hero
of the day, with something approaching public
honours. Paul, to be sure, as the nearest
friend of the dead, took the place of chief
mourner beside the open grave ; but the
neighbouring squires and other great county
magnates, who imder any other circumstances
would have paid little heed to the Jewish
money-lender's funeral, were present in
person, or vicariously through their coachmen,
to pay due respect to a signal act of civic
virtue. Everybody was full of praise for Mr.
Solomons' earnest endeavour to stop the train ;
and many who had never spoken well of him
before, falling in now, after the feeble fashion
of our kind and of the domestic sheep, with
the current of public opinion, found hitherto
imdiscovered and unsuspected good qualities
in all the old man's deedings with bis fellow-
creatures generally.

The day after the funeral, Paul, as Mr.
Solomons' last bailee, attended duly, as in
duty bound, wit he will confided to his care
in hand, at the < omey's office of Barr and
Wilkie, close by in the High Street.

Mr. Wilkie received him with unwonted
courtesy ; but to that, indeed, Paul was now
beginning to grow quite accustomed. He
found everywhere that Sir Paul Gascoyne
made his way in the world in a fashion to
which plain Paul bad been wholly unused in
his earlier larval stages. Still. Mr. Wilkie's
manner was more than usually deferential,
even in these newer days of acknowledged
baronetcy. He bowed his fat little neck, and
smiled with all his oroad and stumpy little
face — why »n country uttomeys invariably
fat, broad, atai stumpy, 1 wonder ? — so that
Paul began vc apeculate within himself what
on earth could be the matter with the amiable
lawyer. But he began conversation with
what seemett a very irrelevant remark.

" This smash in the tunnel '11 have depre-
emted the value of your property Homewhat,
Bir Paul," he said, smiling and rubbing his
hands, as soon as the first intercliange of
etHKomary civilities was over. "Central
Southern A's are down at 89-90."

Paul stared st him in astonishment.

" I'm not a holder of stock, Mr. Wilkie," he
•nswered after a pause of mental wonder.

The attorney gazed back with a comically
ponied look.

"BtA Mr. Solouuuu wm," he answered.

Then after a short paase, " What I yon don'i
know the contents of our poor friend
Solomons' will, then ? " he inquired, beaming.
" Why, that's just what I've come about,"
Paul replied, produoin{; it. ** A day or two
after his nephew Lionel was buried at Lizard
Town Mr. Solomons gave me this to take care
of, and asked me to see it was duly proved
after his death, and so forth. If you look at
it, you'll see he leaves all his property to
the Jewish Board of Guardians in London."

Mr. Wilkie took the paper from his hand
with a smile, and glan jed over it languidly.

" Oh, that's all right," he answered with a
benignant nod — the country attorney is always
benignant— " but you evidently don't under-
stand our poor friend's ways as well as I do.
It was a fad of his, to tell you the truth, that
he always carried his will about with him, duly
signed and attested, in his own breast-pocket,
' in case of accident,' as he used to put it."

"Ohjves," Paul answered; "I know all
that. He carried the predecessor of this about
in his ^jocket just so, and he showed it to me
in thu train when we were going down to
Cornwall, and afterwards, when poor Lionel
was dead, he handed the present will over to
me to take particular care of, because, he said,
he thought he could trust me."

"Ah, yes," the man of law answered dryly,
looking up with a sharp smile. "That's ail
very well as far as it goes. But, as a matter
of habit, I know our mend Solomons would
never have dreamed of handing over one will
to you till he'd executed another to carry in
his own breast-pocket. It would have made
him fidgety to miss the accustomed feel of it.
He couldn't have gone about ten minutes in
comfort without one. And, indeed, in point of
fact, he didn't. Do you know this paper. Sir
Paul ? " and the lawyer held up a stained and
folded document that had seen much wear.
" Do you know this paper ? "

" Why, yes," Paul answered, with a start of
recognition. " I've seen it before somewhere.
Ah, now I remember ! It's the paper Mr.
Solomons was clutching: in his folded fingers
when I saw him last, half alive and half dead,
at Hipsley Station."

" Quite so," the lawyer answered. " That's
exactly what it is. You're perfectly right.
The men who brought him back handed it
over to me as his legal adviser ; and though I
didn't draw it up myself — poor Solomons was
always absurdly secretive about these domestio
matters, and had them done in town by a
strange solicitor — I see it's in reality his last
will and testament."

" Later than the one I propound ? " Paul
inquired, hardly suspecting as yet whither all
this tended.

"Later by two days, sir," Mr. Wilkie re-
joined, beaming. " It's executed, \iix Paul, on
the very same day, I note, as the late you've
endorsed the will he gave you upon. In point
of faot, he must have bad this new '.ill drawn

'•U'

I5P

THE SCALLYWAq.

pp aD4 signed in the moroiQgi mi4 mutt bavs
deposited the dummy one it superseded with
you in the afternoon. Very like his natural
seoretivenesB, that I Qe wished to oonoeal
from you the nature of his arrangements.
For Lionel Solomons' death seems entirely to
pave changed his testamentary intentions, and
^ have diverted his estate, both real and per-
|K>ni|J— well, BO to speak, to tl^e next repre-
tentative."

'*You don't mean to say," Paul cried,
^tonished, "he's left it all to Madame
Ceriplo— to Lionel's widow ? "

'*Np, my dear sir," he answered in the
boneyed voice in which a wise attorney in-
variably addresses a rich and prospective
client; "he revokes all previous wills and
podicils whatsoever, and leaves everything be
dies possessed of absolutely and without
reserve to— his dear friend, Sir Paul Gaa-
coyne, Baronet."

" No ; you don't mean that 1 " Paul cried,
taken aback, ai..? clutching at bis chair for
support, bis very first feel^ at this sudden
aficess of wealth being one of surprise, delight,
and pleasure that Mr. Solomons should have
harboured so kindly a diought about him.

" Yes, he does," the l»wyer answered, warily
making the best of his chance in breaking the
good tidings. " You cam read for yourself if
you like, ' who has been more than a, son to
me,' he says, ' in my forlorn old age, and in
consideration of the uniform gentleness, kind-
ness, sense of justice, and forbearance with
which he has borne all the fads and fancies of
an exacting and often whimsical old money-
Under.' "

The tears rose fast into Paul's eyes as he
jpttA these words.

"I'm afraid," he said after a pause, with
genuine self-reproach, " I've sometimes
thought top hardly of him, Mr. Wilkie."

"Well," the lawyer answered briskly, "be
i|orewed you upwn. Sir Paul, there's no doubt
about that— be screwed you down infernallv.
It was nis pature to screw ; he couldn't help
it. He bad his virtue^, good soul 1 as well as
his faults— I freely adimit them ; but nobody
can deny be was an infernally hard band at a
bargain sometimes."

''Still, I alwavs thought, io a sneaking sprt
of way, half unknown to himself, he had my
interests at heart," Paul answered penitently.

" 'Wpll, there's a note inclosed with tbe will
— a paivate note," the lawyer went on, pro-
ducing it. " I haven't opened it, of course —
it's dureoted to you | but I d»re say i^U clear
up matters on that score somPTVhat."

Paul broke the envelop^ i^i^ read to himself
ip breatbless silence :

" Mt dear, deab Bot,

" When yqu open this, I shall be dead
•nd gone. I want your kind thoughts. Don't
thins too hardly of me. Sinoe Leo died, I've
thought only of you. ^pu are all I have left

on earth to work and toil for. But if I'd told
you so openly, and wiped out your arrears, or
even seemed to relax my old ways at all about
money, you'd have found me out and protested,
and refused to be adopted. I didn't want to
spoil your fine sense of independence. To tell
you tbe truth, for my own sake I couldn't,
what's bred in the bone will out ip tbe blood.
'While I live, I must grasp at moneyi ppt for
myself, but for you: it's become a port of
habit and passjop with me. But fornve me
for all that. I hope I spall suceeed in the
end in making you happy. When you come
into what I've saved, and are a ricb man, as
you ought to be, and admired and re8pecte4
and a credit to your country, think kindly
sometimes of the poor old man who Ipved you
well and left his all to you. Good-bye, my son.
— ^Yours ever affectionately, J. P. Solomons.

" P.S. — If Lady Gascoyne is ever presented
at Court, I hope she will kindly remember \q
wear my diamonds."

When Paul laid the letter down, his eyw
were dinomer with tears than ever.

" 1 so often misjudged him," he said slowly,
" I so often misjudged him."

" But there's a codicil to the will, too," Mr.
Wilkie said cheerfully, after a mopient's pause.
" I forgot to tell you that. There's a codicil
also. Curiously enough, it's dated tbp day
after your marriage. He must have gone up
to town on purpose to add it."

"I remember," Paul said, "when he left
Lanhydran, he mentioned he had important
business next day in London."

" And by it," tbe lawyer continued, " he
leaves evervthing, in case of your deatii before
his own, absolutely to Nea, Lady Gasooyn^,
for her own sole use and benefit."

" That was kind," Paul cried, much touched.
" That was really thoughtful of him."

"Yes," tbe lawyer answered dryly (senti-
ment was not very much in bis way) ; " a^
as regards probate, from what I can bear, tbe
value of the estate must be sworn at something
between fifty and sixty thousand."

When Paul went home and told Nea of this
sudden freak of fortune, she answered quietly :

" I more them half suspected it. You kno\^,
dear Paul, he wrote to papa while I was
stopping at Sheffield, and urged me mo^t
strongly to marry you, saying our future was
fully assured ; and so he did, too, to Faith and
Charlie. But he particularly begged us to say
nothing to you about the matter. He thoMht
it would only prevent your marrying." ^en
she fiung her arms passionately around bfr
husband's neck. "And now, darliqg," ^e
cried, bursting into glad tears, "now that
those dreadful Claims are settled for ever, and
yoa're free to do exaptly as you like, you can
give up that horrid journalism altogemer, and
devote yourself to tbe work you'd really lute
to do — to something worthy of you — ^tp wmiB-
thing truly great and noble for humv4||;{ '^' ^'

AILOB S EXPER IENCE.

AN INCOMPLETE MEDICINE CHEST! '

A MOST INTERESTINB TALE OF THE SEA !

SAVED WHEN EVERHHINB LOOKED DARK!

IT is not often,
even in the
fifty years' history
of St. Jacobs O!!,
I^^^that we are able
to chronicle such
a thrilling ex-
perience at sea
and ultimate
reKue from in-
tense pain and
suiFering, as
hereinaAer graphically and most intelligently de-
picted by Leonard James, residing, when at home,
at 28, Playfair Street, Southsea, Portsmouth.

In many of our announcements we have stated
that no ship sailing under the British flag ever leaves
port without a sumcient supply of St. Jacobs Oil
on board to last officers and crew the voyage, but
here it would appear that the good ship 'Blwlwen,'
of CardiflT, sailed from her home port without being
duly provided with this, one of tne most, important
articles in a ship's outfit. How it was that this
serious omission
occurred will, doubt-
less, later on form a
subject for careful in-
vestigation on the part
of the owners.

Writing from the
above address, under
date of January 19th,
1897, Leonard James
says:—" The ship I was
in and rejoined again on
February loth, was the
S.S. 'Blodwen.'ofand
from Cardiff, trading
constantly between the
home port and the
Black Sea. Arriving at
Constantinople on our
last voyage out, I ex-
perienced a swelling in
the ankles with great
pain. We were bound
from Constantinople
to the Danube (Port
Selina). On arriving at the latter port, the iwelline
bad eatended right up, and included my hips and
back. The pain I suffered was something terrible,
especially in the small of the back. I waa carried
away to a hospital, where I found many others
suffering from rheumatism, and I hear it is very
prevalent thereabouts. I was treated in the hospital
for a period of ten days, at the end of which time,
while I wai able to walk back to my ship, the
journeT was accomplished with a great deal of pain
and stlflhess, but I waa obliged to catch my ship, as
Ik* was about to laava ka London. In laas than

three days after my return from the hospital I wAs
confined to my bunk, where I remained until I
arrived in London. During all this time I was
much worse than when I went to the hospital. It
may be interesting for you and the general public to
know that during the entire voyage home I was as
helpless as a child, and suffering intense agon^ con-
tinually, although we tried all sorts of things in our
medicine chest. On arriving in England, more dead
than alive, I was got home to Portsmouth. Once
here, I was peremptorily ordered to apply St Jacobs
Oil. There seems to be but one opinion in Ports-
mouth about St. Jacobs Oil, and that is, ' Everybody
uses it,' and everybody recommends it, everybody
praises it, and everybody was sure, positive, that it
would cure me, and at once ease that terrible pain
that was killing me by inches. Well, ' Everybodr '
was right, for the very first application relieved the
terrible pains from which I bad been constantly
suffering for weeks.
. i4ow, this may seem to some people a sailor's yam,
next to seeing the sea serpent ; in short, very much

exaggerated.

I would not believe that such instan>
taneous relief from
intense pain could be
brought about by any-
thing made by man, if
I had not experienced
it myself.

The contents of one
bottle almost cured me ;
I procured another
bottle, however, which
I used but twice, when
the cure was completed,
the swelling, stiffness,
soreness, and pain all
left me, and I now, after
weeks of pain, feel my-
self again. The remain-
ing contents of the
second bottle of St.
Jacobs Oil still stands
on the mantel shelf in
my bedroom. I do not
lequire it now, but
shall hereafter always
take a ffew bottles of
the Oil to sea with me, not only for my own use,
but for others suffering from rheumatism, to which
all sailors are more or leu subject."

It is such unsolicited, reliable evidence as this
which comes to us from every part of the dvilised
world that speaks for St. Jacobs Oil. We give facts
borne out by evidence, the proof of which we hold.
St. Jacobs Oil has obtained twelve solid gold
medals at various International Exhibitions, and is
the only advertised remedy for outward use, or to
be taken internally, whicn has ever received a
medal of any sort at an International ExUbitkia.

■ A A A ^ ^ ■*■ ■> .^^ ^ ^ ,

r^41^-1^4ll^'-^-'^l|s-i-§§-:4I454i-^I^-;

-*■*- «»>^** ^" X

V^e J/inefeerifh Qerjiury

Edited by Clement K. Shorter.

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BBBTOB'I ART OF PUBLIO
■PBAKIBO.

9U1DB TO THB PROtBMIOBS.

For Parents and Ouaidlans. By L. W<

Atkinson.

VHBB WAS IT? A British Chron-
ology ; 10,000 Events in English History.
New Edition brought down to 1 891.

■OUBD, LIOHT, AND HBAT. By

DoNMAN. 133 Illustrations.

BLBOTRICITY il MAOBBTIIM.

By DoNMAN. 163 Illustrations.

THB CLBRK'B IHlT|IUCTOR| or.

How to excel in Business.

HOW TO BXOBL IN BTUDY; ef<

The Student's Instructor. By JambS'
Mason.

THB CHAIBMAB'B OUIDH MM9
■BCRBTARY*! ABtltTABS

By H. Frith.

HOW TO DABOa. New BdMloAr
Improved and bronght np to data. By
B. SeoTT.

TO RBAD CHARAOTBl
IB FACBB, FBATURBB. ABD
FORMS. By Hbnrv Frith.

HOW TO RBAD CHARAOTBB VK
HARDWBITINO. By H. Tbitr.

BROLI8H GRAMMAR, for Self-
Learners. By L. Toolmin Smtn:

■ LBMBNTARY oarpbbtry

ABD JOIBBRY. as? lUustrations.

ORBAMBMTAL CARPBlMnY
AMD JOIBBRY. 271 lUtwtAtlons.

THB COMPLBTB SHILLniO
■BLF-IBSTRUOTOR

■PBBOBBt AND TOAUt

to Make and Propose Them.

WARD, LOCK * 00/» 1

How

9f th«

Crown 8vo«'cloth, 300 pp.

AOB.

WBBBTBA** POOKBT BHlLLUia
DIOTIOBARY of tlM BBOLUH
LASROUAOB. Condensed by
CbarLbs RoneoN. Imp. 3amo,*doth.

London : WARD, LOCK ft CO., LTD., Salisbttiy Squart, B.€p

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