The Perils of Josephine 
 
 UNIV. OF CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELA
 
 The 
 Perils of Josephine 
 
 BY 
 
 LORD ERNEST HAMILTON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'THE OUTLAWS or THE MAFCHES," "THE MAWKIN OF THE FLOW" 
 
 HERBERT S. STONE & COMPANY 
 
 CHICAGO & NEW YORK 
 
 MDCCCXCIX
 
 COPYRIGHT 1899 BY 
 HERBERT S. STONE & CO.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE DAYS OF AULD LANG SYNE ... I 
 
 II. I ENTER THE GOLDEN GATES . i 
 
 III. INVERSNAID . v . . - ; 
 
 IV. THE OLD MANOR HOUSE . _ ' . \ . . 
 
 V. FATHER BOYLE v, ., . ... 
 
 VI. CONCERNING THE APPOINTMENT OF A STOKER 
 
 VII. MRS. BEDDINGTON GROWS INTERESTING 
 
 VIII. AN EXPLOSION, A JUSTIFICATION, AND A PRAYER . 
 
 IX. A SHOOTING PARTY ..... 
 
 X. STOKER AND HAMADRYAD . . . 
 
 XI. MORE EXPLOSIONS . . . * . 
 
 XII. I HAVE A BIRTHDAY . . . i 
 
 XIII. ANOTHER SHOOTING PARTY, A SURPRISE, AND A 
 
 PUZZLE .., . _.. . ... . . 113 
 
 XIV. A NIGHTMARE . . . . . .121 
 
 XV. A LECTURE FROM AUNT HARRIET '. . .130 
 
 XVI. A CHRISTMAS PRESENT * . . . . 144 
 
 XVII. AN AFTERNOON RIDE .- . '.- . . . 154 
 
 XVIII. MYSTERY AND SUSPICION . . . '. . 172 
 
 XIX. MORE MYSTERY . . .. .. . . 19! 
 
 XX. FLICKERS ON THE RAFTERS .... 2O2 
 
 XXI. AN EXODUS FROM SELWORTH . . . . 2OJ 
 
 XXII. MRS. BEDDINGTON SPEAKS . . . . 22O
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PACK 
 
 XXIII. THE END OF THE OLD MANOR HOUSE . 2J I 
 
 XXIV. FROM ELMHURST TO ASHBY . . . 2 S l 
 XXV. A DEEP LAID PLOT . . . . . 26 1 
 
 XXVI. A DARING BURGLARY ..... 269 
 
 XXVII. MY HEADACHE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT . . 28 1 
 
 xxvni. SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION .... 288 
 
 XXIX. WHAT CAME OF THE CONFESSION . . .316 
 
 XXX. UNCLE GUY MAKES A MOVE . . . .324 
 
 XXXI. THE DEFINITION OF A NAME . . . .328
 
 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE DAYS OF AULD LANG SYNE 
 
 HPHREE dull maids sat in a dull room, in the dull, 
 * dull town of Chelmsford. Two of these maids 
 were old, and one young. For ten long grey years had 
 these three lived together in that same little house, and 
 during all these years there had happened nothing ab- 
 solutely nothing that would in the very least degree 
 repay recording. Twice in every week the coaches to 
 and from London would rattle past the windows with a 
 great to-do, the guard tooting on his long polished horn, 
 and the driver cutting strange patterns in the air with his 
 whip. And twice in every day, with the first clatter of 
 hoofs on the bald cobbles, would the three of us rush to 
 the window and flatten our noses against the glass, and 
 this without fail and with a zest that never waned. Now 
 and again the great coach would race past with double 
 clatter and double speed ; and when that was so, it was as 
 sure as anything could be that it was not the red-faced 
 driver that was on the box, but some dandy buck, with 
 broad-brimmed beaver, and big white buttons staring 
 from his coat like eyes. Very fine and elegant were 
 some of these young men, and one there was one day 
 that, seeing my face pressed against the glass, took off
 
 2 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 his hat and bowed to me very low and gracefully, at 
 which my two dear aunts, as with one accord, must 
 needs lift up their hands and eyes in a very agony of 
 horror. Dear, sweet souls! It was many a year before 
 that young man's bow was wiped from their simple 
 memories. It may be, it was more than a day before it 
 was wiped from mine; he was such a very elegant young 
 man, with long yellow whiskers, as I remember, and a 
 glass screwed into his eye! And then the honour of it! 
 For I was no great beauty in those days, nor, goodness 
 knows, at any other time; but least of all, I think, then. 
 I can see myself as I write a memory brushed up in 
 some part by a mournful old daguerreotype, in red and 
 gold setting a tall, rather big girl, with brown hair 
 held in a net, a very short skirt supported by a hoop, 
 and an ample show of white cotton stocking! And yet 
 he bowed to me! Mercifully the stocking was hidden, 
 or it might have been otherwise, but he <#</bow. 
 
 Later on, alas! after the world had lived down its 
 terror of the snorting, rushing, rattling trains, the run- 
 ning of the coaches dwindled down to once a week only, 
 and half the joy of life was gone. 
 
 Ah! those early days in dear, sleepy, dull, stupid lit- 
 tle Chelmsford! They were wearisome enough at the 
 time, I take it, for all the golden glamour with which 
 time has clothed them. But now, as a set-off to the 
 existing, the ever-abused, but really enjoyable and here- 
 after-very-much-to-be-regretted existing, they seem to 
 me like glimpses of far-off fairyland itself, just as then 
 the old half-forgotten days at Selworth stood out as 
 misty dreams of Paradise. 
 
 But, in honest truth, poor Chelmsford must have 
 been a very sink of dulness. Old Bob Sellar, the milk-
 
 THE DAYS OF AULD LANG SYNE 3 
 
 man, in his embroidered smock, the occasional town- 
 crier, the coaches as long as they lasted, and the winter 
 fox-hunters galloping down to the Roothens on their 
 hacks, or else ambling through soberly on their square- 
 tailed hunters these, with once in a blue moon the 
 bounds themselves trotting meekly through the town, 
 were all that we poor maids, young and old, had to bring 
 us to the window. There was church, it is true, the old 
 Parish Church, with good Mr. Baggally droning peace- 
 fully from the pulpit, and the endless Merridew family 
 staring at us from the pew opposite from under their poke 
 bonnets (there were two without poke bonnets, and these, 
 perhaps, stared hardest of any), and the Hallets, and 
 the Hay-Brownes, and the Calverlies the dull, dull 
 Calverlies whom we knew, and who would walk back 
 with us as far as their stiff, square house, that was so 
 like their dear, dowdy selves. There were others whom 
 I forget (it matters little), and others whom I remember 
 (which matters equally little), they were not of a stimu- 
 lating kind. All the inhabitants of Chelmsford were 
 women, or seemed to be women and girls, girls and 
 women. They swarmed everywhere, in church, in the 
 street, at the archery meetings that all the world was 
 mad about, and at the flower shows down in the tent by 
 the river; everywhere, in short, except on the coaches 
 and in the "Saracen's Head." 
 
 We always passed the "Saracen's Head" in those 
 days with quickened pace and averted eye, and on the 
 far side of the street. Goodness knows what scenes of 
 wild riot and debauchery our simple minds did not pic- 
 ture within those walls! Poor, innocent, reputable hos- 
 telry! furnisher, too, of many a sober, welcome haven to 
 weary wayfarer! The origin of this grim investment is
 
 4 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 
 hard to fix. I think it may have found its birth one 
 
 winter's night, some two years after the date of my com- 
 ing. We were walking home, from tea-taking with Mrs. 
 Baggally, my two aunts and I, and under cover of the 
 dark, on the near pavement! There were brilliant lights 
 in the windows of the first floor, and as we passed we 
 could hear (and in truth without strain) shouts of laugh- 
 ter, and the bawling of a strong, rollicking chorus. A 
 hunting chorus I took it to be, but of that I am not sure; 
 but whatever it was, from that day on, the "Saracen's 
 Head" was a place to be passed hurriedly and with 
 averted eye. 
 
 However, all this is twaddly and inconsequent, and 
 of no interest at all ; nor was it of any interest to me at 
 the time, only afterwards, in the light of retrospective 
 sentiment which means nothing. 
 
 The Great Event, which I meant to start away with 
 at the beginning, came when I had been at Chelmsford 
 ten years, all but two months; and it came as we sat at 
 tea the silent, contemplative tea, with which we sus- 
 tained vitality before bed. We never wasted words at 
 meals; we had worn bare all recognised topics exactly 
 seven years before. Both my aunts were of anecdotal 
 rather than discursive habit; and oh! what dull little 
 anecdotes they were! dull the first time of hearing, but 
 things of misery and dread at the end of ten long years! 
 Heaven forgive me if I turned at times the cold ear of 
 inattention. 
 
 But to the Event. We were at tea, when enter Jane 
 with a letter a letter for me! It was the first and only 
 letter, to the best of my belief, I had ever received in 
 my life. Think of that, ye maidens of busy pen and 
 breakfast-table budgets!
 
 THE DAYS OF AULD LANG SYNE 5 
 
 Aunt Maria gasped; Aunt Emily became amiably sus- 
 picious, her thoughts flying back six weeks to the young 
 beau on the box of the London coach, and his never-to- 
 be-forgotten bow. 
 
 My thoughts, it must be owned, ran mildly in the 
 same direction, and vague visions of titles and coronets, 
 hurled recklessly at my white-stockinged feet, rose pleas- 
 antly before my eyes. But it was nothing of this kind ; 
 it was something far more wonderful so wonderful, 
 indeed, that it deserves to be set down in full: 
 
 SELWORTH, Z2nd September. 
 
 MY DEAR JOSEPHINE, It would give your uncle and myself 
 great pleasure if you could manage to pay us a visit here. If 
 your dear aunts can spare you, we would like you to come at once, 
 and stay with us till the end of April, when we shall be going to 
 town for the season. You will doubtless be as glad to see the old 
 place again as we shall be to see you. Your cousins send their 
 best love. With kindest regards to your dear Aunts Fielding, 
 believe me, dear Josephine, your very affectionate Aunt, 
 
 HARRIET DE METRIER. 
 
 P. S. I would advise you to avoid the railroad, which, though 
 it might bring you somewhat quicker, is terribly unsafe, and, Dr. 
 Watson assures me, highly injurious to the health. 
 
 What are poor words to express the effect of this 
 missive on our little party? For ten years, mind, my 
 grand relations at Selworth Abbey had ignored my very 
 being. During ten years, out of their boundless wealth, 
 they had not been able to spare one penny for the pleas- 
 ure or maintenance of poor, penniless, homeless me. 
 And now this invitation! and for eight months, too! It 
 was bewildering. The magnitude of the event positively 
 stunned us for a time. We felt much as Cinderella must 
 have felt when the pumpkin and the mice swelled into a
 
 6 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 coach and four, or was it a coach and six? Aunt Maria 
 was the first to recover herself. 
 
 "It is a great honour," she said, reflectively. 
 
 "And a great chance," added Aunt Emily, sugges- 
 tively. 
 
 And then they both said, "Ah!" and pursed their lips. 
 
 "How old is Norman now?" Aunt Maria asked after 
 a pause. 
 
 "Twenty-six, I think, and Claud two years younger. 
 Sophie must be about your own age, Josephine. Let me 
 see, how old are you, child?" 
 
 "Eighteen," I said. 
 
 "Well, I think Sophie must be a year older; anyhow, 
 there's no great difference." 
 
 We all drank more tea; we were agitated, one and all. 
 
 "Isn't it extraordinary?" I said for the tenth time. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, most extraordinary, even more ex- 
 traordinary perhaps than you think." This from Aunt 
 Maria. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, you see, Norman is a very great parti, and 
 eight months is a long time, and well, you are attrac- 
 tive, you know, my dear." 
 
 Was I? It was the first I had heard of it. 
 
 "Well?" I said. 
 
 My two aunts coughed simultaneously thin, genteel 
 coughs behind their mittens. I saw them exchange a 
 quick glance. 
 
 "Well, you see, Josephine, it is possible that Norman, 
 or even Claud, might ahem grow attached to you." 
 
 "Do you mean fall in love?" 
 
 My aunt frowned slightly, and puckered up her 
 mouth. I think she considered the expression immoral.
 
 THE DAYS OF AULD LANG SYNE 7 
 
 "Well, yes." 
 
 "What fun! I hope they do." 
 
 "They!" This from both at once. "My dear child!" 
 
 "Oh, well, one would do. Are they handsome?" 
 
 "All the De Metriers, my dear, are handsome. Your 
 poor, dear father was the only one that in any way fell 
 short of the standard. And indeed, there is no doubt 
 he fell very far short." 
 
 "Poor papa! was he so very ugly?" 
 
 "Yes, my dear, he was very ugly. He was misshapen, 
 you know, and then his eyes were not straight. We 
 never could imagine what poor Lucy saw in him." 
 
 I gave a little sigh for my poor dead parents. It was 
 only a little one, for I had never known them. My 
 mother was only a name, and my father a misty mem- 
 ory. 
 
 "But tell me about my cousins," I said. "What are 
 they like? I used to hate them all, if I remember." 
 
 "Norman is very handsome, like all his race; not 
 very tall, and dark as a foreigner. He is said to be 
 rather wild." 
 
 "Wild?" I said. "What's wild? How is a man wild? 
 It sounds like a cat or a bullfinch." 
 
 "I fancy it means," said Aunt Emily, doubtfully, 
 "that they spend most of their time at their club." 
 
 Aunt Maria shook her head mournfully. 
 
 "More than that, Emily more than that." 
 
 "Well," said I, "I like the sound of it. I think it 
 sounds rather fascinating. I think I shall like Norman." 
 
 I half expected an outburst of horror. I think that 
 was half the reason why I said it; it was such fun shock- 
 ing those dear old things. But they were not 
 shocked.
 
 8 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "He will be very wealthy," sighed Maria. 
 
 "Perhaps he will like you, " suggested Emily, 
 roguishly. 
 
 I looked down at my white cotton stockings and 
 clump-soled boots, and doubted it. 
 
 "Well, I don't care if he doesn't," I said. "Who 
 wants him to?" 
 
 The evening meal had been extended half an hour 
 beyond the prescribed time. We always sat down at six 
 and rose at six-forty by the clock. It was now twenty 
 minutes past seven. 
 
 "Maria," said Aunt Emily, with sudden decision, 
 across the table, "Josephine must have clothes.". 
 
 Aunt Maria screwed up her mouth and nodded em- 
 phatic assent. 
 
 "It must be managed," she said. 
 
 Aunt Maria was the treasurer.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 I ENTER THE GOLDEN GATES 
 
 HPHREE weeks later I took the coach to London, the 
 * one weekly coach that still ran, in defiance of the 
 ceaseless rush of trains. Oh! that parting at the "Sara- 
 cen's Head!" How we cried, and laughed, and blub- 
 bered, and kissed! How we see-sawed from one 
 shoulder to the other as though tired of kissing the same 
 cheek! How we 'clawed and clutched at one another's 
 backs! I don't know which cried the most. I think I 
 did. Young tears come the readier. And the driver, 
 and the guard, and the grinning 'ostlers, and the two 
 young men going back to Oxford, and the thin commer- 
 cial traveller, and the apoplectic female on the box-seat, 
 we minded no more than if they had been moles. Emo- 
 tion such as ours is blind to surroundings. Why do we 
 ever say good-bye? It is so much better not, which is 
 bad grammar, but what I mean. 
 
 I tumbled up somehow on to the seat behind the 
 driver. The commercial traveller and the two Oxford 
 men were there already. They were very kind; I don't 
 know what they said, but they were very kind. I turned 
 round and waved my handkerchief wildly. I think I 
 waved long after we were cut of sight, but I was quite 
 blind with tears; I could see nothing. The Oxford men 
 made me change my place and sit between them; they 
 said it was less dusty. Ah! dear old Chelmsford! per- 
 
 9
 
 io THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 haps not really dear, but dear because of associations; if 
 I had known it was good-bye for ever, I might have shed 
 more abundant tears than I did. And dear old aunts! 
 really dear old aunts; if I had known I was never again to 
 sit in the front parlour drinking cheap tea out of the 
 cracked blue "chancy" cups, and listening, or pretend- 
 ing to listen, to those old, old anecdotes that I knew as 
 well as the Lord's Prayer, I would have died, died a 
 dozen deaths, before I would have been dragged off to 
 London and Selworth, and the misty uncertainty that 
 there lay hidden. 
 
 Both are long since dead dead and forgotten two 
 of the many little grey lives that go out quietly and 
 leave no mark behind. But for me they will always 
 stand out as the best thing I have chanced upon in this 
 world always excepting one other. I used to laugh at 
 them, I used to be rude to them, I used to snub them. 
 I thought them ignorant and stupid and prim, and 
 Heaven forgive me! even vulgar and affected. And 
 it may be they were all this. Even now, sober and sen- 
 sible as I am, and full of the grey wisdom of years, I 
 think they were. But what is the weight of such things 
 when pitted against the simple sweetness of true tender 
 hearts? And with it all, I loved them, thank le bon Dieu 
 for that loved them all the time I was turning up my 
 silly young nose at their little old-world tricks and man- 
 nerisms; not, indeed, because of their good-Samaritan- 
 ism towards myself, which, childlike, I took as a matter 
 of course, but because I was not quite the fool in heart 
 that I was in head. Peace be to them and to all such! 
 There is a gospel in their very memory. 
 
 My fellow-travellers were very kind. They pointed 
 out the many points of interest for which I had so little
 
 I ENTER THE GOLDEN GATES n 
 
 present appetite, and saw to my wraps and packages, 
 and to the many needs that I should never have known 
 of but for their showing. They brought me tea and 
 cake at Brentwood, and cake and tea again at Romford, 
 where, indeed, I had no stomach for it, and made the 
 young man that brought it give it to the lady on the 
 box-seat, at which the others all laughed till we were 
 half-way to Stratford. What they saw to laugh at I 
 don't know, for the poor woman was red and hot and 
 puffing, and I am sure in far greater need of refreshment 
 than I was. 
 
 London that night, where I was met and housed and 
 fed and comforted by one Mrs. Jedkins, a kindly soul, 
 and a friend of my aunts. She kept a lodging-house in 
 Moorgate Street. 
 
 The next day on to Selworth by the train, with a high 
 beating heart and expectation on tip-toe. At Greystoke 
 my uncle's carriage met me. Such a carriage! roomy, 
 well-padded in drab-coloured cloth, and ponderous as a 
 waggon; but with all this, sufficiently comfortable, and 
 with a certain musty smell of its own that I liked, and 
 that hangs in my memory still, pleasantly. 
 
 What a fine touch of borrowed glory there is in 
 another man's carriage when one is inside it! I felt 
 quite an inch taller (though there was little need for that) 
 when the dear fat old man on the box touched his hat to 
 me. 
 
 "Miss de Metrier?" he asked, beaming on me with a 
 fatherly air, and a kind of "Welcome-to-Selworth" 
 smile. 
 
 "Yes, " I said, beaming back, "are you from Sel- 
 worth?" A truly idiotic question! but I felt the need 
 for words.
 
 12 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 So my baggage was piled into the rumble, and I my- 
 self, full of dignity, climbed into the cavernous coach, 
 which, after the obsolete manner of its kind, swayed with 
 my weight till the step all but touched the ground. An 
 elderly gentleman, whom I took to be the rector, handed 
 me in, hat in hand. I afterwards learnt he was mine host 
 of the "Red Lion." He stood bowing and smirking as 
 though I had been the Queen herself, while we rumbled 
 away over the stones. The De Metrier carriage brought 
 men's hats off their heads in those days, and pretty 
 quick, too. Mais nous avons changl tout cela. 
 
 Oh, that drive! No one will ever feel again as I did 
 during that drive. It needs a ten-years' training at 
 Chelmsford to produce the sensations I felt. The mem- 
 ory of Selworth was as a far-off dream, seen through a 
 golden haze. I hardly could bring myself to believe 
 that the place really existed except in my imagination. 
 It seemed too glorious, too heavenly a thing to be an 
 actual part of the same world that contained Chelmsford! 
 
 I knew that there had been such a place, for I had 
 been there been there for a whole delirious year, in 
 those misty bygone ages that in childhood lie at the back 
 end of ten years. But I felt somehow that when I left 
 it the place had been turned out like a lamp, or rather 
 put away like a toy to prevent its getting spoilt. It 
 seemed impossible that it should have wasted its sweet- 
 ness all these years without my being there to do it hom- 
 age a selfish idea, I suppose, and a very hard one to put 
 in words, but I have always had it. I have had it, too, 
 about people that I worshipped passionately, an idea 
 that they are not really a living part of the world except 
 when I am with them. But there these things concern 
 no one but myself. One might as well try and make a
 
 I ENTER THE GOLDEN GATES 13 
 
 water-colour drawing of one's soul as put such things on 
 paper. 
 
 We rumbled on past farms and cottages, through 
 deep-cut lanes and open fields, up hill and down hill, 
 and twisting about round bends and corners in the ridic- 
 ulous way country roads have; past woods, and ponds, 
 and windmills, and other landmarks that had been far 
 beyond the radius of my eight-year-old rambles, and 
 that I passed unmoved, except by impatience to be on, 
 and within sight of Selworth the real Selworth of my 
 dreams, my longings, and my imaginings. 
 
 There seemed a kind of magic in the very name. 
 
 "Selworth! Selworth! Selworth!" I kept saying 
 over to myself. "Can this really be Selworth itself? Is 
 it possible that I am actually there? actually within reach 
 of it this very minute?" 
 
 I thought at times I was dreaming. I had so often 
 dreamt of it during the past ten years real, night 
 dreams and never, curiously enough, was the Selworth 
 of my dreams in the slightest degree like the Selworth 
 of my waking recollection. Never, in fact, was it twice 
 the same. Each individual dream had house and park 
 of its own particular fashioning, as different in size, 
 structure, design, shape, and style from those of the last 
 night's dream as each and every one of these dream- 
 palaces was from the original. And yet in my dreams 
 they were all Selworth all absolutely and unmistakably 
 Selworth; and all, in whatever guise they came, the one 
 enchanted spot beside which all the rest of the world 
 was a howling desert. I was happier in those dreams 
 than I have ever been in life; happy with the happiness 
 of Heaven, because imagination labelled a fancy-built 
 park, "Selworth!"
 
 i 4 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 But here in very truth was the real thing at last Sel- 
 worth in the very flesh! I let down the window, and 
 "pushed my eager face out into the cool night air. 
 Things were 'beginning to look familiar, and I knew we 
 must be near the Greystoke Lodge. 
 
 There was a tre'e in the park in which I am sure a full 
 third of my life -had been spent when I was there before. 
 Sophie (pronounced Sophy by all except Aunt Harriet) 
 Sophie and I had made a cave, a fortress, a sanctuary, 
 and a fastness of 'this tree, especially a fastness, what- 
 ever that may be; we were very fond of that word. 
 Claud used at times to come with us, and christened it 
 Inversnaid he had read Rob Roy, which we had not. 
 But we liked the name, and it stuck. It was the biggest 
 tree in the world, by far the biggest, not so much in 
 height, as in rotundity a pollard beech, lopped off 
 somewhere in the days of Adam, about ten feet from 
 the ground. As a result, five main branches shot out 
 from the seat of pollardism, each branch as big as an 
 adult forest oak. The spaces between these main 
 branches were completely choked up (in their lower 
 parts) by a dense mass of brushwood, among which were 
 any number of big spiky knobs, looking for all the world 
 like hedgehogs stuck on the end of rolling-pins. 
 I think these knobs were a specialty of Inversnaid; 
 at least I have never seen them in any other tree, 
 and they gave it an immensity of character. And in the 
 middle of the branches and brushwood was an earthen 
 floor quite five feet square, free from all growth and 
 encumbrance, and on which half a dozen of us could 
 have stood upright and yet been invisible (even in mid- 
 winter) to any below. This was the Banqueting Hall. 
 Then there were little ponds of water dotted here and
 
 I ENTER THE GOLDEN GATES 15 
 
 there about the lower part of the tree, the largest of 
 which was Lake Superior, and other smaller plateaux, 
 where we sowed mustard and cress and potatoes and 
 onions; and what's more, they grew. Each of us had a 
 branch to ourselves, even Norman (we gave him the 
 worst), but the Banqueting Hall was common to all. 
 
 And at the root of the fifth branch, which had no 
 owner, was the fireplace. Without the fireplace all the 
 rest would have been as nothing. We lit vast fires 
 there, summer and winter; not little, sputtering, smoul- 
 dering make-believes, but real red-hot fires, with flames 
 a yard high. And the tree never seemed a ha'porth the 
 worse! Nor is it any the worse to this day, and it is 
 still the biggest tree in the world, and that not merely 
 for old sake's sake. It stands in a big wood, just below 
 a shelving bank, and one long straggling feeler shoots out 
 to within reach of the top of this bank. This was the 
 Drawbridge, and our only means, at that age, of get- 
 ting up. We wriggled up on our middles; it was prob- 
 ably not graceful, and it was a very slow process, and 
 bad for sashes and belts, and at times it hurt a good 
 deal, but it was the only way we could manage, and we 
 liked it. It gave an idea of inaccessibility. Blessed 
 Inversnaid! 
 
 All the way from Greystoke I had been thinking of 
 this tree, and indeed for many a day before that. I made 
 up my mind it was the very first thing I would go and 
 see in the morning. I wondered whether Sophie had 
 grown too old and sober to care for such things, and 
 whether we should still have to wriggle up the draw- 
 bridge on our sashes. 
 
 I was still wondering when we pulled up at the Lodge. 
 After a good deal of shouting and clanging and banging
 
 16 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 of bolts and bars, the great iron gates swung ponder- 
 ously back, and we lumbered on our way. I was just 
 wild with excitement. I had both windows down the 
 whole way, and my neck stretched to its limit out of one 
 or other of the two, searching for old friends. The 
 night was clear and starry, and showed up the park to 
 right and left in a kind of dim, ghostly fashion. Old 
 friends crowded on my memory at every turn. The 
 marsh at the foot of the lake "Marigold Marsh," as 
 we used to call it then the sluice, and the pump, and 
 the big, druidical stones that were planted edgeways 
 between the road and the water stones full of odd little 
 cavities and hollows that caught and held the rain. 
 Then a stretch of open park, with an uncertain glimpse 
 of the clump that hid the boat-house two gates, first a 
 wooden and then an iron one, and, directly after, the 
 winding climb that ends in the House itself. My frame 
 of mind was a curious one. I found it hard to say 
 whether I had really remembered all these things before 
 I saw them, or whether the sight of them had wakened 
 my memory with such a jerk that I felt as though I had 
 never forgotten them. Anyhow, the impression on my 
 mind was that I had never left the place, and that all 
 these half-forgotten landmarks were as familiar and 
 every-dayish as my own face in the glass. It was an odd 
 feeling, and rather disappointing. 
 
 We clattered up under the great portico, the double 
 doors flew open, and the red glow of hospitality flooded 
 the night. 
 
 I passed in the wake of the butler through the little 
 stone entrance-hall into the Great Hall beyond. How 
 well I remembered that Great Hall! and the strange 
 echo of one's footsteps as one crossed it! It was as big
 
 I ENTER THE GOLDEN GATES 17 
 
 as a cathedral, a full two stories higher than the rest of 
 the house, and a hundred and twenty feet long. At one 
 end was an immense stained glass window showing St. 
 George killing a lovely blue and red dragon, and at the 
 other end two galleries, one above the other, correspond- 
 ing with the first and second floors of the house. It 
 was a folly, if you will ! Perfectly useless for anything 
 except music, for which it was glorious, and in cold 
 weather like an ice-house; but I loved it; I had loved 
 it as a child, and I loved it now, even more, I think, 
 as I clattered across the polished wood floor to face the 
 ordeal of welcome. The Great Hall was always three 
 parts dark at night. It was impossible to light it, and 
 the thing was not attempted. There was a lamp in 
 each of the galleries, and two standard lamps on little 
 tables that stood by the fireplace, and beyond this noth- 
 ing but the light of the huge log fire that sent red and 
 black shadows dancing up into the hidden hollows of 
 the rafters. A glorious place for ghosts, and "hide-and- 
 seek," and "bear" ! but always a little terrifying with its 
 vastness and gloom and hollow echoes. 
 
 The drawing-room beyond was a blaze of light 
 almost dazzling to my unaccustomed eyes. They were 
 all there, and they all rose and kissed me, first Aunt 
 Harriet and Sophie, then Uncle Guy, Norman, and 
 Claud Claud a little shyly. 
 
 "Goodness!" I thought, "what a kissing family!" 
 
 Aunt Harriet held me at arm's length with stock- 
 taking eyes. 
 
 "You are not pretty, child," she said by way of wel- 
 come. 
 
 "Pooh!" said uncle, with his back to the fire. "I 
 think she's very well; and, by Gad! a fine upstanding
 
 i8 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 chit! What say you, Norman, my boy? No fault with 
 that build, eh? Good back and shoulders clean and 
 straight of limb?" 
 
 "I was not talking of dear Josephine as a horse," 
 said my aunt, icily. "She would possibly make an excel- 
 lent horse, but she is not pretty, not even distingue-\oo\i- 
 ing. However, when one thinks of what poor dear 
 Gerard was, and her mother a mere bourgeoise, and all, 
 we must make allowances." 
 
 As if any allowances were any good ! I felt humbled 
 and shy and very red. I knew I was not pretty, but it 
 is not nice to be told it before a roomful of strangers. 
 
 "I am very sorry," I said, laughing, I think a little 
 awkwardly. "I hope I am not a disgrace to the family 
 name." 
 
 "Nonsense, child," said my uncle, patting my cheek, 
 "you'll do very nicely, never fear. Egad! some of our 
 stock would be none the worse of a little of your bone 
 and blood." 
 
 He was a splendidly handsome man, this uncle of 
 mine, about fifty, tall and big, with a jolly genial face 
 and big bushy whiskers. I took a liking to him from 
 the first. His wife was very different, thin, small, and 
 sharp-featured, with iron-grey ringlets falling on her 
 shoulders. She looked like an icicle, and she fright- 
 ened me with the chill stare of her faded blue eyes. 
 
 "God bless my soul!" cried my uncle, suddenly, clap- 
 ping his hand on my shoulder. "Here we are, talking 
 and jabbering like a pack of fools, and this poor little 
 girl starving, as like as not. Here, Norman, you young 
 dog, take your cousin to the breakfast room; you'll find 
 supper there. And give her a good glass of port, or 
 half a bottle of burgundy, or some tea, if she likes it;
 
 I ENTER THE GOLDEN GATES 19 
 
 or coffee perhaps, or some negus. Send down for some 
 negus nothing like it after a journey." 
 
 This last was shouted after us, across the darkness 
 of the hall, as we dipped into the long passage beyond. 
 
 Norman was very kind very attentive. He talked a 
 great deal, and made me laugh, chiefly, if I remember, 
 at the expense of my uncle and aunt. He was very hand- 
 some, built on a smaller scale than his father, but very 
 handsome, dark, with a high colour, and altogether 
 rather foreign-looking. 
 
 It was ten o'clock by the time we finished supper and 
 got back to the drawing-room. They were all yawning; 
 my uncle, I think, asleep. 
 
 "God bless my soul!" he cried, jumping up, "back 
 already? That's no kind of a supper no kind of a sup- 
 per." 
 
 "Sophie, my love," chimed in my aunt, taking no 
 manner of notice of poor Uncle Guy, "will you save my 
 old legs, and show dear Josephine her room? You know, 
 the panelled room in the east turret. Good-night, my 
 dear child; sleep well, and be careful of fire." 
 
 She pecked my cheek frigidly, and I smiled and 
 nodded myself hurriedly out of the room, rather dread- 
 ing the embraces of the whole family. 
 
 We passed down a long carpeted corridor, then 
 turned to the right, up a very narrow spiral stone stair- 
 case, then once more to the right along another pas- 
 sage, and we were at the east turret. The whole house 
 was very dimly lit I had a recollection of this from old 
 days; lit by yellow japanned lamps hung from the walls 
 at long intervals, generally at a corner. Some of the 
 offshoots and by-passages had no lamps at all. Oh! 
 the terror of those dark silent passages in the old days!
 
 20 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 They were, as we all knew as children, the chosen haunts 
 of robbers and bears, and of little hunchbacked men, 
 who pounced out and pursued one with noiseless foot- 
 fall. These little hunchbacks had pursued me time 
 without end in my dreams, and often enough, waking, I 
 would hear their quick breathing behind me, and race 
 like a coursed rabbit down the long winding passages 
 and stairs, till I reached the drawing-room, or the library, 
 or the morning-room, or any other place where prosy 
 protective people sat in spectacles, and read or wrote 
 by the light of many lamps. And just before I reached 
 the door I would slow down to a walk, and turn the 
 handle quite quietly, and walk in with the most com- 
 posed manner in the world, as though long, dim, shadowy 
 passages were a thing to be left almost with reluctance. 
 
 All this, of course, was at eight, not at eighteen. At 
 eighteen I would walk past the black mouths of those 
 passages very stiff and brave, humming or whistling (no 
 particular tune), and never once break into a run from 
 start to finish. However, this is by the way. 
 
 My room filled the entire turret that is, a small stair- 
 case ran up to the door of the room, and there ended. 
 Sophie told me Norman slept 5n the room above mine, 
 in case I might be frightened at being so isolated, but 
 that his room was got at from the passage above, and to 
 get to one room from the other you had to go half-way 
 round the house; so, as I told her laughingly, he would 
 not be of much help to me in case of attack by robbers 
 or bears or hunchbacks. For we had been discussing 
 these old bogies on the way up. 
 
 It was a lovely room, all panelled in dark oak, and 
 hung with bright, shiny chintz little pink roses sepa- 
 rated from each other by crinkly blue ribbons. There
 
 I ENTER THE GOLDEN GATES 21 
 
 was a splendid marble chimney-piece, and over it the 
 only picture in the room, the portrait of a singularly 
 handsome young man in the court dress of George the 
 First. It was evidently, even to my eye, a picture of 
 great value and beauty. 
 
 "Who is it?" I asked. 
 
 "My great-grandfather," Sophie said. "Maurice de 
 Metrier, who married .the Flemish heiress, and brought 
 all the money into the family. Isn't he handsome? He 
 built this end of the house, you know; added it on to 
 the old part, and my grandfather Mordaunt, 'the old 
 Squire,' as we call him, built the west wing at the other 
 end. I believe this was Maurice's room." 
 
 "And what was Mordaunt like?" I asked, looking 
 with interest at the splendid features of the man before 
 me. 
 
 "Mordaunt was better looking even than Maurice. 
 You'll see him all over the place one in the drawing- 
 room, another over the fireplace in the dining-room, a 
 Sir Joshua, and two heads by Lawrence in papa's sit- 
 ting-room. He was very wicked, they say." This in a 
 tone of pride. 
 
 "Wicked! Why, what did he do?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know what he did, but he was a desper- 
 ate rake. They were, you know, in those days." 
 
 "Isn't it wonderful you should be such a handsome 
 family? and for so long, too?" 
 
 "Yes," said Sophie, looking at herself with much 
 complacency in the glass. "We have always been 
 famous for our looks. You know our motto, Virtus et 
 venustas. You see the heads of the family have always 
 made it a point of honour to marry beautiful women." 
 
 "But " I said, and then stopped short in confusion.
 
 22 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Yes," she said, laughing, "I know what you are 
 thinking of; you are thinking of mamma. But she was 
 a great beauty when she married ; she has been very ill, 
 which makes her look worn and wizen, but she used to 
 be a famous beauty. I believe she was the image of 
 what I am." 
 
 I made no answer, and shortly afterwards my cousin 
 rose and yawned. 
 
 "Good-night," she said. "I must be getting to my 
 room before they put the lights out." 
 
 I am afraid I made a face at her as she went, behind 
 her back, of course. It was very silly and childish, but 
 I was disgusted at her calm vanity; and also, there is no 
 doubt about it, I was jealous of her looks yes, horridly 
 jealous. I think I felt aggrieved in a fashion that it 
 should be my fate to fall so far short of the family stand- 
 ard in appearance. Sophie had a high forehead and deli- 
 cately arched eyebrows, beautiful big pensive eyes, a 
 slightly aquiline nose, and the regular Cupid's-bow 
 mouth. Her neck was long and swan-like, and she wore 
 long fair ringlets, that fell almost to her shoulders. I 
 went and stood before my glass, and what I saw there 
 was very different, and all wrong, as I knew from the por- 
 traits in Heath's "Book of Beauty" and the "Picturesque 
 Annual." The hair grew much too low on my forehead, 
 my eyebrows were too straight and thick, my nose 
 turned up, and my mouth was much too wide, and gen- 
 erally grinning. I felt that I might as well try and fly as 
 affect the languishing air that sat so naturally on Sophie. 
 "Pooh!" I thought, "who cares? I'll run her a race 
 to-morrow."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 INVERSNAID 
 
 TS there in the whole wide world any more heavenly 
 * and glorious feeling than that of waking up for the 
 first time in the place one has been looking forward to 
 for days and weeks a place, too, that for years one has 
 dreamt of lovingly as a kind of inaccessible heaven? At 
 cock-crow I was out of bed, with my dishevelled head a 
 yard out of the window, drinking in the sweet, damp air, 
 and all the other smells and sights and sounds of early 
 morning. It was a bright sunny morning at the end of 
 September. The grass between the beds was grey with 
 a soaking dew, in which three cock-pheasants, in the 
 full glory of their winter plumage, were wading about 
 seraphically. A couple of robins were warbling pianis- 
 simo among the bushes, and just beyond the end of the 
 garden a long procession of rooks was sailing over the 
 treetops, cawing ecstatically at thought of the early worm. 
 It was a particular little garden of its own that lay 
 under my window, and not a very little one either, only 
 when compared to the others. It stretched away for 
 about a hundred yards to the big trees beyond, and was 
 bounded to the right and to the front by a fine big stone 
 balustrade. On the left side it tumbled down by ter- 
 races to a greater garden below, but with that part I 
 never concerned myself greatly. The part under my win- 
 dow I got to look on as my own particular property. 
 
 23
 
 24 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Selworth! Selworth!" I kept saying to myself. "Is 
 this really you at last, or am I dreaming?" 
 
 A gardener came suddenly round the corner, and 
 nearly had a fit, I think, at seeing me. I took a run 
 and landed in the middle of my big bed with one bound. 
 Presently there came to my ear two of the most sooth- 
 ing sounds in the whole wide world the gentle raking 
 of gravel paths, and the big musical hum of a mowing- 
 machine. Oh! how I got to love that mowing-machine, 
 and the little piebald pony that pulled it, and the pauses 
 at the corners, or where the tin was emptied! It was 
 always going every morning in some part or other of 
 the garden. 
 
 Ten minutes to seven by my clock, and breakfast not 
 till nine! I kicked about restlessly, and wished it was 
 two hours later. Could an able-bodied girl possibly be 
 quiet for so long, and on such a morning? I thought of 
 going to pull Sophie out of bed and getting her to come 
 out, and then I remembered with a groan that I didn't 
 know her room. How maddening! I felt I positively 
 must go out. Inversnaid! Heavenly inspiration, I 
 would go and see Inversnaid! Of course; why had I not 
 thought of it before? 
 
 In one second I was out of bed, and twenty minutes 
 after I was stealing on tip-toe down my circular stair- 
 case. I met a housemaid sweeping the passage, and a 
 girl scrubbing the stairs, and a footman collecting the 
 yellow japanned lamps off the walls, and they all stared 
 at me as if I had no business at all to be about at such 
 hours. I had no idea of how to get out of the house, 
 but thinking to avoid the main thoroughfares, scurried 
 down the little spiral staircase that joined the first and 
 second floors. At the bottom of this, by luck, I found
 
 INVERSNAID 25 
 
 a glass door opening to the garden not my garden, but 
 round the corner. It was locked, but the key was in it, 
 and next minute I was outside, feeling rather guilty. 
 
 I came plump upon three gardeners, who pretended 
 not to see me till I was past, when they straightened 
 their backs and stared at me till I vanished round the 
 corner of the turret. I looked up at my own open win- 
 dow, and at the many other closed ones. "Stuffy old 
 things!" I thought. The three cock-pheasants went 
 skimming away over the balustrade into the trees, and 
 I seeing no better way out, and thinking the shortest 
 way was the quickest followed them with a vault, a 
 long scramble, and a still longer drop. 
 
 Inversnaid was not close. It lay a good mile and a 
 half away across "the Plain." I wondered if they still 
 called it "the Plain," that huge stretch of open park 
 between the house and the Flexham Woods beyond. It 
 was a terrible deceiver, that Plain. One started out 
 full of the expectation of getting across in ten minutes 
 or so; but when the ten minutes were gone, the woods 
 on the hill were as far away as ever, and the house still 
 quite close! It was a shocking place to walk, so dull, 
 and featureless, and monotonous; and the worst of it 
 was, almost all the glories of glades and glens, and woods 
 and water, lay on the far side of it <z//, in fact, except 
 "Marigold Marsh," and the lake, and the old boat- 
 house, and the chalk-pit at the other end by the Well- 
 ham Lodge. But in old days there had been one huge 
 compensation in the fact that the Plain was an insur- 
 mountable hindrance to the "grown-ups" coming and 
 poking about in our own particular haunts; this made 
 up for everything. 
 
 It took me some little hunting to find Inversnaid. It
 
 26 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 was never quite easy to find too many other big trees 
 round it, and no track or anything. But when it was 
 found, it stood out at once unchallenged as the king of 
 all other trees that were and had been or ever would be. 
 It was just as big as ever. Here, at least, there had 
 been no exaggeration of infant fancy; the Plain, per- 
 haps, was not quite so long as it used to be, but the tree 
 was still the biggest tree in the world, mathematically 
 round, vast, impenetrable, and awe-inspiring in its 
 majestic silence. No gales ever swayed the branches 
 or ruffled the serenity of Inversnaid; it was too solid and 
 compact. Well, of course, I got up it, and in the old 
 way, by the same old branch (there was no one looking), 
 and I sat there for half an hour, divinely happy, and 
 full of a mad longing for matches wherewith to light a 
 fire. Then I went home, a little late for breakfast. 
 
 "God bless my soul!" cried uncle. "What a fine 
 colour! Where have you been, little Joe? You look as 
 fresh as a June rose at sunrise." 
 
 "I have been for a walk," I said; "I couldn't stay 
 in bed." 
 
 "What! a walk, and all alone? Norman, you lazy 
 young rascal, what were you about not to escort your 
 cousin? and her first day, too, at Selworth! Gad! sir, 
 in my young days, I wouldn't have needed bidding; but 
 chivalry's dead nowadays, damme! yes, dead as Neb- 
 uchadnezzar. No such thing, little Joe; no such 
 thing." 
 
 "Oh, but I like going alone," I said, laughing at his 
 earnestness. 
 
 "Like going alone!" he cried, "like going alone! 
 Nonsense, nonsense; mustn't be allowed, mustn't be 
 allowed, not so long as these two young boobies are in
 
 INVERSNAID 27 
 
 the house kicking their heels. See to it, Norman, 
 another day, or I'll disinherit you, damme if I 
 don't." 
 
 All this in the jolliest manner possible, so that we all 
 laughed; but for my own part I thought that Norman, 
 with his airs and affectations, and little languid graces, 
 would be a nuisance so insufferable that I would sooner 
 keep my bed. Claud would be better, but best of all, of 
 course, Sophie, for I was not afraid of her. So, after 
 breakfast, I got her alone. 
 
 "Where do you think I was this morning?" I said. 
 
 "I don't know. I know where you ought to have 
 been." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "In chapel, of course." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, " I said; "I am a Protestant. Didn't 
 you know that? No, I was at Inversnaid. " 
 
 "Inversnaid! What on earth do you mean?" 
 
 "Sophie, you don't mean to say you have forgotten?" 
 
 "Forgotten what?" 
 
 "Why, Inversnaid; our tree, of course. Don't you 
 remember?" 
 
 "Oh! that stupid old tree. I had forgotten all about 
 it." 
 
 "O Sophie, how could you? Will you come there with 
 me now, and we'll light a fire?" 
 
 "My dear Josephine! we are grown-up young ladies, 
 and young ladies don't climb up trees. Besides, where's 
 the fun of it?" 
 
 "Well, I climbed up it, and I thought it very good 
 fun, though I was alone, and hadn't any matches. I 
 went right up to the top of my branch, and sat there 
 half an hour. Of course, I didn't go on to any of your
 
 28 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 branches. You know that always was trespassing, unless 
 one had an invitation." 
 
 "You baby!" 
 
 "Well, I like being a baby. So you won't come?" 
 
 "No, my dear girl; of course not. Think of one's 
 clothes!" 
 
 "Well, what do you do?" 
 
 "Oh! we ride, and we drive, and we walk, and go to 
 the archery meetings. But, of course, it is shockingly 
 dull here, except when there are visitors staying in the 
 house." 
 
 I felt a little chilled, and a good deal disappointed. 
 Was life at Selworth going to fall short of my dreams 
 after all? Of course, every one knows things always do 
 fall short of the dreams of anticipation ; but I thought 
 otherwise then, and the first teaching of the lesson hurt 
 me so that for a little more I could have cried. I 
 thought Sophie stiff and stupid and stuck-up. I had 
 learnt enough in that short five minutes' talk to tell me 
 once and for all that we could never be the close bosom 
 friends and confidants that I had pictured. She was a 
 smart young lady, and I well, I suppose she was right 
 I was a baby, a big baby, and with no wish to be any- 
 thing else. But when one is a baby, it is nice to have 
 another baby of about the same age to play with, other- 
 wise one's babyhood falls flat. But here at Selworth it 
 was quite clear to me before luncheon on that first day 
 that there were no babies of any age. They were one 
 and all smart, amiably conceited, and stupid yes, em- 
 phatically stupid ; people who can no longer be babies 
 because they happen to have done growing, must be 
 stupid. Not that I took a dislike to my Selworth rela- 
 tions; on the contrary, I liked them all in their way, but
 
 INVERSNAID 29 
 
 I saw at once that there was no actual kindred spirit 
 among them. They were all kind to me, and even affec- 
 tionate, and Uncle Guy especially was so amazingly 
 generous at times I was quite ashamed of taking the 
 presents he showered upon me. 
 
 "Bless my soul!" he would say, "we must dress little 
 Joe up a bit. Send for Heloise, Harriet." 
 
 "My dear Guy," my aunt remonstrated, "surely you 
 are not serious? The child does very well as she is. 
 What does she want with smart clothes in a place like 
 this, where there is no one to see her?" 
 
 "What does Sophie want with her smart clothes, 
 then?" retorted my uncle, with a chuckle. "No, no, 
 Harriet; give the child a chance. Gad! with a figure 
 like that, old Heloise ought to dress her for nothing; 
 damme but she ought!" 
 
 My aunt was not pleased, I could see, and I thought 
 Sophie cocked her nose and sniffed a little. But Heloise 
 came. 
 
 One of the first things I noticed at Selworth Abbey 
 was that my uncle had his way in everything. At first 
 sight he appeared easy-going and good-natured as 
 indeed he was, when things went right; and on the 
 other hand, Aunt Harriet seemed determined and strong- 
 willed to the verge of obstinacy. But whenever those 
 two wills came into conflict, my aunt's went down like 
 corn before the wind. I noticed it a score of times. I 
 noticed, too, that on occasions Uncle Guy could fly into 
 such passions as shook the whole house. No one would 
 have guessed it to see him; he looked so sleek and jolly 
 and comfortable. 
 
 However, as I say, Heloise came, all the way from 
 Bond Street, and I was fitted for frocks and mantles and
 
 30 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 a riding-habit, and evening dresses cut below the shoul- 
 der, and goodness knows what else besides. And 
 Heloise came all the way a second time to try them on, 
 and lifted up her eyes to heaven, and raved about la belle 
 taille de Mademoiselle all of which I took for what it was 
 worth; and in due course the result of all this came, and 
 the wardrobes in the Panelled Room were packed to 
 overflowing, and a silly little fool spent half the day atti- 
 tudinising and cutting capers before the long cheval- 
 glass, to her own complete satisfaction. 
 
 This, however, was not till I had been two months at 
 Selworth. The first night the things came, I put on one 
 of the evening dresses, a yellow satin one, I think, for 
 dinner; and Norman, I remember, hardly took his eyes 
 off me the whole evening; and as to Uncle Guy, he paid 
 me such compliments, and was in such tearing spirits, 
 and cracked such jokes, and told such stories, and 
 rapped out so many of his funny old obsolete oaths, that 
 the whole table was in a roar, even Aunt Harriet! 
 Goodness! how pleased I was with myself in my new 
 fine feathers! and the thought of what I would wear next 
 day pleased me even more. But that is a different mat- 
 ter, and needs a little explaining. 
 
 I hardly know how to tell it satisfactorily, but the 
 way of it was this. Sophie, as I have said, was no real 
 companion for me. She was too smart and grown-up, 
 though in reality only a year older than me too much 
 of the fashionable young lady, in fact. She rode beau- 
 tifully, but hated walking, and wore very tight high- 
 heeled shoes. When she did walk, she would never go 
 off the paths unless the grass was as dry as cinders, and 
 as to climbing trees, or messing about in "Marigold 
 Marsh," she simply wouldn't do it; so I soon gave up
 
 INVERSNAID 31 
 
 asking her. Besides, nothing would induce her to go out 
 before luncheon ; and at no time, either before or after 
 luncheon, was she ever ready to go out. She always had 
 to go to her room first, where she stayed three-quarters 
 of an hour, changing boots and stockings and skirts and 
 things, till one really forgot what one wanted to go out 
 for. 
 
 Norman and Claud were generally shooting par- 
 tridges, or hunting; besides, I knew it would bore them 
 to come with me, so I never asked them. So the end 
 of it was, I used to slink out quietly after breakfast and 
 prowl about by myself, generally in the Flexham Woods, 
 and stay there till luncheon time, when I would come 
 back with such an appetite as made the rest of them 
 stare, and caused Sophie to cock her pretty nose and 
 sniff rather disdainfully. 
 
 One morning, a little more than a week after my 
 arrival, I had lit a fine fire in Inversnaid (more as a mat- 
 ter of duty and tradition than for any other reason), and 
 I was thinking what a dull matter-of-fact lot my cousins 
 were not to come and help me, when I saw a man walk- 
 ing through the wood straight for my tree. He was saun- 
 tering along, leisurely swinging a stick and whistling, and 
 had evidently seen nothing of me or of my fire as yet. But 
 the fire was a good one, and was smoking magnificently, 
 so there was no possibility that he could pass it without 
 seeing, unless he was blind. I dropped quietly down 
 into the Banqueting Hall, and awaited events with a 
 high-beating heart. I even tried to subdue the fire a 
 little with the long stake that did duty as poker, but it 
 only made the thing smoke the more. I could see the 
 man plainly enough, though I knew that I myself was 
 invisible. He walked right along the top of the bank to
 
 32 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 which "the drawbridge" stretched. I think he was 
 dreaming, or ^making poetry or something, for he never 
 noticed anything till he was almost past the tree. "What 
 an old stupid!" I thought. 
 
 Then suddenly he stopped short and began staring 
 up. I never saw any one look so astonished. The fire 
 wasn't flaming any more, only smoking like forty fac- 
 tories, and he couldn't make it out at all. He walked 
 round and round the tree several times, trying to see 
 into the middle of it (he might as well have tried to see 
 into the ground), and then finally came back to the top 
 of the bank, where he had started. I thought he was 
 going to pass on and leave me in peace, when, to my 
 horror, he swung himself on to the drawbridge and 
 began coming up! I thought for a moment of dropping 
 down on the far side and running it was not a very 
 tremendous drop; but while I was thinking, the chance 
 was lost, for the man, who came up twice as quick as I 
 did, caught hold of some branches overhead and swung 
 himself lightly into the Banqueting Hall, within a yard 
 of where I stood! I shall never forget the poor man's 
 face. He looked so absolutely aghast that I burst out 
 laughing then and there. I couldn't help it. And then 
 he laughed, too, and took off his hat, and said he must 
 apologise for disturbing me in the way he had, but he 
 had no idea the tree was tenanted by a hamadryad. 
 
 "What's that?" I said. 
 
 "A young lady who lights fires in trees," he answered, 
 smiling so nicely that I forgot to be frightened of him 
 any more. 
 
 "You nearly made me put it out," I said. "I tried 
 to smother it when I saw you coming. Please get some 
 sticks, quick."
 
 INVERSNAID 33 
 
 We both scrambled about for fuel, and he began 
 breaking off some of the smaller twigs and branches. 
 
 "No, no," I said severely, "nothing tfaat'ftr00ttflg ; , 
 please. There's any amount of dead stuff lying about, if 
 you only look. Get round behind Sophie's branch; 
 you'll find the woodstack there, with fuel enough for a 
 week." 
 
 He went round. It wasn't quite easy, I knew. One 
 had to tread on one of the hedgehogs, and make a long 
 stretch to catch another with one's left hand. But he 
 did it, and very neatly, too, and came back with a 
 scratched face and an armful of sticks small, big, and 
 medium. And we made the biggest fire that ever was 
 seen, and climbed up my branch which was to wind- 
 ward to be out of the smoke and heat, and sat there 
 very comfortably for half an hour. And then I showed 
 him "the Moat," and "Lake Superior," and the "ten- 
 acre field," and the "look-out station," three parts of 
 the way up Claud's branch; and the "potato patch," 
 and the "secret chamber," which was a sort of cave 
 under two of the branches, just beyond the woodstack. 
 And he seemed to take it all in, and liked it very much, 
 and said it was quite the most wonderful tree he had 
 ever seen, and altogether made a very fair baby, though 
 he was about three inches over six foot, and quite ten 
 years older than me. 
 
 "Do you often come here?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," I said, "almost every day; but it is dull 
 work, as none of the others will come with me." 
 
 At this he raised his eyebrows and laughed, and said 
 something half to himself which I didn't quite catch. 
 We sat in silence for a time, and then he said: 
 
 "If I was to be passing this way again, and you
 
 34 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 happened to be here, would you let me act stoker 
 again?" 
 
 "Of course," I said. "I should be delighted. A 
 stoker's just what I want." 
 
 At which he laughed laughed till the tears came, as 
 though I had said one of the wittiest things in the world. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "I shall remember that." 
 
 "Are you likely to be passing, do you think?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, I think very likely indeed," he answered, with 
 his eyes smiling rather nicely. He seemed very much 
 amused at something. "You know I am the Duke's 
 agent, and I live just outside the Slade Lodge," he 
 added, by way of explanation. 
 
 "Oh!" I said. 
 
 "And you, I suppose, are Miss de Metrier, the 
 Squire's niece?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The wind was blowing stiffly from the southwest, and 
 brought the sound of the servants' dinner-bell, ringing 
 down at the house. 
 
 "Good gracious!" I cried, "I must be off. I shall 
 be late for luncheon." 
 
 "Shall I help you down?" he asked. 
 
 "No!" I said, decidedly; "stay where you are till I 
 am down. Then you can come." 
 
 I dropped down from the two hedgehogs that sprout 
 just beside the moat. I thought it more dignified, and 
 perhaps prettier than the drawbridge. He followed me, 
 and we shook hands and parted. 
 
 After luncheon I asked Sophie: 
 
 "Who is the Duke's agent?" 
 
 "Sydney Grayle," she said; "he is a sort of cousin 
 of his, you know. Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Oh, just curiosity," I said.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 
 
 went back to his regiment very soon, which 
 -* I was sorry for. He was a nice boy. He was a 
 cornet in the i$th Hussars, then quartered at Shorn- 
 cliffe. Norman stayed on, and was very kind and atten- 
 tive. Sometimes I used to feel positively ashamed at 
 letting him fag for me in the way he insisted on doing. 
 I was not used to it. All my life it had been rather the 
 other way. And then, apart from the question of fag- 
 ging, he was so embarrassingly courteous and attentive 
 and deferential. I didn't quite like it. It oppressed 
 me. 
 
 We used to ride every afternoon that is, Sophie and 
 I did; I in a borrowed habit of Sophie's, and most days 
 Norman would come with us. He was very kind about 
 teaching me to ride, for though the little horse I rode 
 was as quiet as any cow, I was as great a John Gilpin as 
 ever was, and knew no more about riding than a guards- 
 man. Sophie used to be rather cross, I thought, when 
 Norman came. I suppose she felt out of it to a certain 
 extent, for of course the poor fellow, in his capacity of 
 riding-master, had to give most of his attention to me; 
 and I don't think she liked it. So silly! 
 
 One day Sophie and I were riding alone, with a 
 groom, of course we were never allowed to move a yard 
 without a stupid, pompous groom behind. We had had 
 
 35
 
 36 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 a splendid gallop across the plain, and were riding slowly 
 up the green ride that runs to the Slade Lodge the 
 most beautiful ride in the world it is up a deep glade, 
 with giant trees on either side, and bracken underneath. 
 The trees were in their most glorious autumn colours, 
 for we had had several sharp frosts, and the bracken 
 was also dying in great splendour, and the little rabbits 
 scurried about in multitudes, and seemed to be enjoying 
 the beauty of it all as much as we were. Suddenly it 
 began to rain, softly at first, but presently in much 
 bigger drops, and heavier. We turned round and started 
 to trot homewards, and as we did so the rain, as though 
 angry at our turning tail, began to come down in perfect 
 sheets. 
 
 "Drat it!" said Sophie, "we shall be wet through 
 before we get home." 
 
 However, we bent our heads, and pushed through it 
 as best we could, the poor horses seeming to hate it as 
 much as we did. 
 
 Presently Sam, the 'groom, came pounding up along- 
 side. 
 
 "Beg pardon, miss," he said, touching his hat; "but 
 hadn't we best take shelter in the old Manor House? 
 The storm'll pass in half an hour or so." 
 
 "Of course," said Sophie. "Come on, Josephine." 
 
 She spurted along for another hundred yards or so, 
 then, turning sharply to the left, galloped up a kind of 
 cart track till we came to a house. The most beautiful 
 little old house it was that ever was seen, though I took 
 little enough note of it at the time, being only too glad 
 to jump off my horse and get inside out of the rain; but 
 later on, I got to know the look of it by heart. It was 
 long and low, built of yellow sandstone, with mullioned
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 37 
 
 diamond-paned windows, and a long sloping, red-tiled 
 roof. There was a lovely little garden round it, with an 
 antediluvian sun-dial, and a fountain, and numberless 
 yew-trees, cut into peacocks and pheasants, and things. 
 However, all this I saw later on. At the time I just 
 jumped off, and followed Sophie in, glad enough for 
 once that fat old Sam was there to look after the horses. 
 An old woman came bustling out of the parlour. 
 
 "Miss Sophie!" she cried, with hands held up in hor- 
 ror; "poor dear! you must be drowned! come in quick 
 and let me dry you a bit. Sure, you'll catch your death 
 of cold. And this is your cousin?" 
 
 "Yes, Susan; this is Josephine." 
 
 We were well rubbed down with many towels, and our 
 wet state groaned over with a world of commiseration, 
 and finally we were put before the fire, like bits of toast, 
 to dry. 
 
 In the meanwhile the storm gathered round blacker 
 than ever, and it rained as though it meant lasting 
 through the night. The interior of the house was no 
 less perfect in its way than the outside not that there 
 was any attempt at smart furnishing; the chairs and 
 tables were of the commonest, but the rooms and the 
 staircase were panelled with old oak up to the very 
 moulded ceilings, and the chimney-piece had clearly 
 been carved by a master hand. A wonderful old house! 
 I thought; and I had never dreamt even of its existence 
 in the park! but then there was room enough in Selworth 
 Park for many hidden things. 
 
 But the most wonderful thing of all was the old 
 woman herself. She was a handsome old lady, almost 
 beautiful, with her snow-white hair and dark soft eyes. 
 I found myself staring at her perpetually, and every time
 
 38 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 I looked up, there were those dark grey eyes fixed upon 
 me so immovably, and with such open enquiry, that I 
 grew quite fidgety and uncomfortable. 
 
 "So you are Miss Josephine?" she said at length. 
 
 "Yes," I said, laughing; "I am Josephine." 
 
 "Do you know, my dear, that I was your father's 
 nurse?" 
 
 " You were!" I cried. "Why, you are not old 
 enough." For father would have been fifty if he had 
 lived. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I am," she said, looking quite pleased. 
 "You see I was only seventeen or so when I took him 
 up." 
 
 "Oh! how exciting!" I cried. "Do tell me about him. 
 What was he like?" 
 
 "Well, poor dear, he never was much to look at, as 
 you know a little, white, spiritless thing, and crippled 
 with that shrunken leg from the day he was born. And 
 then there were his eyes, of course." 
 
 "Yes, I know," I said. Even I could remember his 
 eyes. 
 
 "But a little angel from first to last, and through 
 everything," she said. "God bless him, poor soul, and 
 forgive us all our trespasses." 
 
 I had nothing to say; she seemed deeply moved. 
 
 "And to think of your being his daughter! Well, 
 well, it does seem strange." 
 
 "Why?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, he was so small and shrunken, poor thing; 
 but your mother, of course, was a splendid creature." 
 
 "Tell me about her," I said. 
 
 "I only saw her once a month or so after they were 
 married. She was the most splendid creature I ever
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 39 
 
 saw, taller even than you, and as full of life as a young 
 race-horse. And then to think of her going off the way 
 she did." 
 
 "But she was notpret/y, was she?" I asked. 
 
 "Perhaps not pretty in the way some folks talk of it 
 not one of your rule-of-thumb hair-dresser-shop beauties, 
 you know; but a woman to send men clean off their 
 heads, if /know anything of the' world. " 
 
 I saw Sophie go very red ; I think she thought the 
 old woman was talking at her. 
 
 "Mamma always says she was common-looking," she 
 said, with a little toss of her head. 
 
 It was my turn to go red then. I was speechless 
 with rage. But the old woman broke in: 
 
 "No, no, Miss Sophie, anything but common-looking; 
 indeed, it was a most uncommon face; not aristocratic- 
 looking, of course, like the De Metriers who is? but a 
 sweet face, and a lovable, as ever I saw." 
 
 There was an awkward silence for a time. Sophie, I 
 could see, was very angry, and so was I furious. What 
 right had she to say such things about my mother? I 
 could have said things about hers if I had liked finniky 
 old mummy! We both looked out of the window. It 
 was pelting. There was no chance of moving yet. 
 
 It was our hostess who came to the rescue. 
 
 "Is Mr. Norman at the Abbey now?" she asked. 
 They always called it the Abbey the people about. 
 But my cousins themselves called it just Selworth House. 
 
 "Yes, he's there," Sophie answered, sulkily. 
 
 "Ah, he's a true De Metrier, from top to toe; that 
 he is. The handsomest young man I ever clapped eyes 
 on better lookipg even than the 'old Squire,' and he 
 was hard to beat. No wonder half the girls in London
 
 40 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 are mad about him, and such a fortune, too! such an 
 inheritance! The girl that catches him'll be a lucky one." 
 
 She fixed her eyes rigidly on my face. I was star- 
 ing into the red embers of the fire, but I felt the mag- 
 netism of her fixed gaze, and looked up. 
 
 "Yes," she added, reflectively, "the gin that catches 
 Norman de Metrier will be the luckiest girl in all the 
 world; and when Susan Beddington says that, she knows 
 what she is talking about." Then the next moment, and 
 in the same breath, "God forgive us all for our sins!" 
 
 "I suppose you mean that Josephine ought to try and 
 catch him," Sophie cried, with a high-pitched laugh. 
 
 "I mean what I say," said the old woman, "neither 
 more nor less. Whoever gets Mr. Norman will be a 
 lucky girl. He is a gallant young fellow, and would 
 make a good husband." 
 
 "I think we had better be going," Sophie said. "It 
 is not going to stop, and there is no use in waiting any 
 longer." 
 
 I agreed thoroughly. It was not raining heavily, and 
 the situation was uncomfortable. 
 
 As Sam was putting Sophie on to her horse, I felt my 
 arm clutched from behind, and a voice whispered in my 
 ear, "If ever you want a friend, come to Susan Bedding- 
 ton." 
 
 We trotted along briskly home, the rain beating in our 
 faces. Not a word was spoken between us till we were 
 close to the house. Then Sophie pushed up close along- 
 side of me, and said: "I am so sorry, Josephine, for 
 saying what I did. It was horrid of me. " 
 
 I hardly knew what to say. If we had been on foot I 
 should have kissed her; as it was, I laughed rather awk- 
 wardly, and said, "Oh, it was nothing."
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 41 
 
 "But it was," she said, "and I was a pig and a beast 
 to say it." 
 
 I said nothing, but when we were in the house, and 
 in the long passage at the top of the stairs, I flung my 
 sopping arms round her, and laid my dripping, draggled 
 head against hers, and mumbled forgiveness and ever- 
 lasting affection in her ear. And whether there was any 
 crying or not, it is hard to say, for both our faces were 
 already wet and glistening with the rain. However, in 
 any case, everything was all right.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 FATHER BOYLE 
 
 T^HE De Metriers had always been Catholics. I my- 
 * self had been brought up a strict Catholic as long 
 as my father was alive. When, however, his sudden 
 death left me an eight-year-old orphan, absolutely desti- 
 tute, there had been much debate in the family as to 
 what was to be done with my poor little lanky body. 
 One wanted one thing, and one another, after the man- 
 ner of mankind, and while they were disputing, and I 
 was starving, my mother's two maiden sisters stepped 
 in and very quietly carried me off to Chelmsford. At 
 first this had caused a good deal of correspondence, and, 
 I believe, some unpleasantness, but in the end it was 
 accepted by all parties as the most comfortable solution, 
 and I was left in peace where I was. But the objec- 
 tions of the Selworth faction were very quickly justified, 
 for within one short twelve months I had left the Church 
 of Rome, and was a regular attendant at Mr. Baggally's 
 mournful ministrations in the parish church. I think it 
 was partly this that made my uncle and aunt wipe me 
 out of their lives for ten long years. Apostasy is a thing 
 beyond the pale. 
 
 Shortly after my conversion, I remember a fat gentle- 
 man, in a black coat, arriving one day to see me. He 
 asked for a private interview, but this my aunts sternly 
 declined. They were both trembling with agitation, I 
 
 42
 
 FATHER BOYLE 43 
 
 remember, very pale, but with tight mouths, and battle 
 blazing in their eyes. So we all gathered in the little 
 front parlour, and my two aunts sat bolt upright on stiff- 
 backed chairs, and I sat on the very edge of mine, with 
 my long white stockings tucked under me, and my feet 
 twisted round the front legs. The fat gentleman stared 
 hard at me for some minutes, and then said in an odd, 
 rolling kind of voice: 
 
 "Child, is it true that you have been seduced from 
 the arm's of the Church?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," I said, frankly. 
 
 "Am I to understand," he went on, with his voice 
 swelling like distant thunder, "that you have renounced 
 the faith of your father, and your father's father the 
 sweet, pure faith in which you yourself were brought up 
 from infancy?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." This very low. 
 
 "Josephine de Metrier, " he said, and now his voice 
 sank to a great round whisper, "have you realised that 
 this step means ruin for you in this world and eternal 
 damnation in the next?" 
 
 "Mr. Boyle," said Aunt Maria, in a high, shaky voice, 
 and deathly pale, "if you talk in that strain I shall have 
 to take the child away, and request you to leave the 
 house." 
 
 "Very well, madam," said the priest. "I am in your 
 hands, and may God forgive you for the wreck of this 
 child's soul. I have but one more question to ask her. 
 How old are you, Josephine?" 
 
 "Ten, sir." 
 
 "Then you are old enough to understand. You have 
 sinned greatly, but the Church is merciful, and is always 
 ready to receive the penitent with open arms. If you
 
 44 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 will repent of your sins, and come back to the faith of 
 your fathers, I am authorised by your dear uncle to offer 
 you a permanent home at Selworth, and all the unlim- 
 ited pleasures that go with such a home ponies and car- 
 riages and dogs, smart little frocks and beautiful rooms, 
 and such food and wines such food I should say [this 
 with a hasty cough], such exquisite food, as seldom falls 
 to the lot of man or woman in this poor sinful world." 
 
 He spoke with great feeling, especially towards the 
 end of his speech. Then suddenly, quick as [thought, 
 his brow lowered, and his voice grew very stern. 
 
 "And if you refuse, if you persist in your evil, wicked 
 courses, you shall live and die a beggar, and among beg- 
 garly surroundings." 
 
 He shut his mouth with a snap, and glared at me 
 across the table. I saw Aunt Maria's mouth open and 
 shut three or four times, as though she were struggling 
 to speak, but no sound came. Aunt Emily just sat and 
 mopped her brow feebly. There was a dead silence for 
 some minutes. I sat fidgeting my feet on the floor, and 
 twisting the corner of my frock. 
 
 "Well, child?" he said, "think well before you answer; 
 think of the ponies and the clothes and the food." 
 
 I felt very much inclined to cry. The priest never 
 took his eyes from my face, but my aunts looked straight 
 and fixedly before them. 
 
 "Please, sir," I said, "I don't want anything but to 
 be left here with Aunt Maria and Aunt Emily." 
 
 "You are sure, child?" The voice once more was 
 growing thunderous. 
 
 "Quite sure, sir." I felt braver now I had said it. 
 
 "You hear, sir?" said Aunt Maria, pushing back her 
 chair.
 
 FATHER BOYLE 45 
 
 "Yes, I hear," thundered the priest, rising to his 
 feet. "You have indeed thrown the meshes of Satan 
 tight around this poor castaway. Her perdition be on 
 your heads. I shake the dust of this house from my feet. " 
 
 He stalked out of the room with great dignity, and 
 next moment we saw him pass slowly up the street. 
 
 "Thank God! thank God!" cried Aunt Maria, and 
 then these two dear, kind souls must needs break at one 
 and the same moment into floods of tears, and fall upon 
 my neck and hug me, and half smother me with kisses, 
 till, from sheer sympathy, and without in the least know- 
 ing why, I, too, cried as I had never cried before. So 
 we were all very happy that evening. 
 
 But for eight years there came from Selworth Abbey 
 neither letter nor message nor any more acknowledg- 
 ment than if I had been dead. Then in a flash came the 
 invitation to stay for the greater part of a year! No 
 wonder we gasped when we read it. 
 
 "Be strong, my darling child, and faithful," were 
 Aunt Maria's last words. "They will try hard to per- 
 vert you." 
 
 But they did not. Never, directly or indirectly, was 
 the slightest pressure brought to bear on me. They 
 even offered me a carriage on wet days to take me to 
 Benton Church. Father Boyle, or Father Terence as 
 they called him my old friend of Chelmsford memory 
 was still chaplain at Selworth; and every morning at 
 half-past eight, and three times every Sunday, would he 
 hold service in the private chapel beyond the Long Gal- 
 lery. He was fatter than ever, and had little pig-eyes, 
 and an endless fund of humourous anecdote. I never 
 quite liked him. Perhaps the memory of that terrible 
 interview in the front parlour still haunted me a little
 
 46 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 I don't know; but whatever it was, I always felt uneasy 
 in the man's presence. And then he used to call me 
 Miss Joe from the very first day which I hated. My 
 uncle always called me Joe, and from him it was all 
 right; and after a time the others, too, got into the way 
 of it, finding my full patronymic rather cumbersome, 
 but Father Terence started it the first day such imper- 
 tinence! Aunt Harriet, by the way, could never bring 
 herself to call me anything but Josephine, pronounced 
 French fashion, and at first would even wrinkle her 
 brows and pretend to look the picture of perplexity when 
 my uncle referred in any way to "Joe." 
 
 Well, to go back to Father Terence. He had one 
 good point, for which I almost forgave him everything 
 even the damnation to which he had assigned me eight 
 years before. He could make the most heavenly music. 
 Whether with hands or voice, it was the same, but the 
 voice it was, of course, that moved one. He had what 
 Aunt Harriet called les larmes dans la voix. Where he 
 got it from was the strangest thing in the world, for 
 there was no more music in his face than in a soup-plate. 
 But his voice in that Great Hall was like a thing from 
 heaven! I liked to crouch down behind the balustrade 
 of the Upper Gallery and listen to him from there. It 
 spoilt the illusion so if one saw him. He could sing 
 anything Handel's oratorios, scraps from operas, or the 
 simplest ballads. That was the time of Mrs. Popham's 
 lovely little unpublished songs. He was very fond of 
 these women's songs though they were. 
 
 " For though the wild fir-trees were creaking, 
 
 And ghosts were in every part, 
 I found what I long had been seeking 
 A heart I could take to my heart."
 
 FATHER BOYLE 47 
 
 The pathos of his voice would pierce my very soul, 
 and I would shiver like a leaf behind the gallery rails, 
 brimful of the emotion that turns all of us to fools, and 
 then by chance I would catch sight of the singer's puffy 
 white face through the rails, and simply shake with 
 laughter for pity of the poor heart that he had found. 
 
 Such was Father Terence when I first knew him a 
 man of about forty, I suppose, and a king in Selworth 
 Abbey if [ever there was one. He was the only one in 
 the house that could make Uncle Guy do as he chose. 
 How he did it nobody knew. The methods were not 
 flaunted in public, but whatever he decreed came to 
 pass; there was no doubt of that. 
 
 He had all his meals with us, and was excellent com- 
 pany, and ate and drank as much as any other two; and 
 indeed there were times when the effect of this was very 
 plain in his manner. But none of the others saw it; or, 
 if they did, saw in it nothing beyond the prescriptive 
 droit de pretre. For at Selworth Abbey Father Boyle, 
 like the king, could do no wrong. My uncle would 
 growl at my aunt, and my aunt would snap back acid 
 rejoinders, and Sophie, Norman, and Claud would spar 
 with all the frank vocabulary of youth; but no one ever 
 questioned Father Boyle's doings, either to his face or 
 behind his back. The king could do no wrong! 
 
 Even the glaring vulgarity of the man never seemed 
 to grate on them, not even on the starched gentility of 
 Aunt Harriet, who would shut her eyes and shiver every 
 time my uncle swore, which was pretty often. But for 
 my own part, I am afraid I never did like the man, only 
 when he was sitting at the organ in the chapel, or at the 
 piano in the Great Hall.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 CONCERNING THE APPOINTMENT OF A STOKER 
 
 ''"HE day after our ducking, Sophie had a slight cold 
 * and stayed in bed. She was "delicate," and had 
 to be taken great care of, at least so I was always told. 
 Aunt Harriet even seemed quite put out with me because 
 it had rained while we were out riding; as if I could have 
 helped it! 
 
 "Of course, it matters nothing to you, Josephine," 
 she said, fretfully. "I should imagine you had never 
 had a cold in your life, but you should bear in mind that 
 your cousin is not so strong." 
 
 I believe she thought health a sign of low breeding 
 and vulgarity; she always talked as if she did. 
 
 So the doctor came, and stayed half an hour, and 
 spoke comforting words, and went away, leaving an 
 atmosphere of hope behind him, and a promise to come 
 next day, and to send up a bottle of medicine in the 
 course of the afternoon. And then, as a sop to his con- 
 science, he drove round three miles to Sillingham and 
 saw Mrs. Black's consumptive daughter, and left a 
 blanket and a bottle of port behind him. I heard of this 
 afterwards from Tom Beddington. 
 
 So, all that morning I stayed in Sophie's room, read- 
 ing and talking. She looked very well, and remarkably 
 pretty, with pink ribbons in her hair, and in the sleeves 
 and throat of her night-dress. When Doctor Watson 
 
 4 8
 
 APPOINTMENT OF A STOKER 49 
 
 arrived, I left her and went to the schoolroom, where I 
 amused myself strumming on the piano. Sophie and 
 I had this room to ourselves. It was a huge, bare room 
 on the first floor, over the billiard-room, and so far away 
 from everything that we could make as much noise as 
 we liked or rather I could ; Sophie never made a noise. 
 
 Well, as I say, I was trying to play a waltz, with the 
 pedal down, and was producing horrible sounds, when 
 Norman came in. 
 
 "I thought it must be you," he said. "I was down 
 in the billiard-room knocking the balls about." 
 
 "I suppose you recognised my delicate touch?" I 
 said, laughing. 
 
 "I like to hear people play with confidence," he 
 said. 
 
 "False confidence," I suggested. 
 
 "Nonsense, you play very well. Are you going to 
 ride this afternoon, Josephine?" 
 
 "I don't suppose so," I said. "Sophie's in bed with 
 a cold." 
 
 "But you and I could go." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 "Well, then, I'll order the horses for three o'clock, 
 shall I?" 
 
 "All right." 
 
 I was still sitting on the music-stool, half slewed 
 round towards the door. Norman came forward a few 
 steps, and produced something from behind his back a 
 long thing done up in tissue paper, or silver paper, as 
 we used to call it then. 
 
 "What's that?" I said. 
 
 "A little present I've got for you." 
 
 "Oh, how nice! Let me look at it!"
 
 50 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 It was a tortoise shell whip such a beauty ! with a 
 gold mounting, on which he had engraved, "Josephine 
 from Norman." 
 
 "How lovely!" I said. "It is good of you, Norman." 
 
 "Do you like it?" he said. 
 
 "Of course I do. Why, it's lovely!" 
 
 "I'm so glad," he said, coming nearer, and smiling. 
 "I think you might give me a kiss for it, Joe." 
 
 He had never called me Joe before. I made a men- 
 tal note of the fact. 
 
 "Of course I will," I said, "naturally." 
 
 So he took it freely. It was a new experience, as I 
 had long since knocked off the family embrace that had 
 taken me so by surprise on my first arrival. Such things 
 are easily done, when one has to do with gentlemen 
 and the De Metriers, whatever else they may have been, 
 were all gentlemen. But it is not so easily done without 
 comment, especially from a man like Uncle Guy. He 
 noticed the omission from the moment I introduced it, 
 and commented on it loudly and frankly, after his man- 
 ner. 
 
 "Damme! little Joe," he would say, "you may shy 
 and back and rear from the boys as much as you will, 
 but you mustn't try such tricks with your old uncle. I'm 
 the irreducible minimum, you know." 
 
 "What does that mean?" I said. 
 
 "Well, in this case it means an old fool, "he answered, 
 chuckling, "a doddering old fool!" 
 
 However, this is all by the way. 
 
 Norman took his embrace, liberally, as I say, and 
 then we both stood apart and felt, and I am sure looked, 
 rather idiotic. 
 
 I took refuge in the whip.
 
 APPOINTMENT OF A STOKER 51 
 
 "It h a beauty!" I said. 
 
 "Yes, it is pretty," he said, "but not nearly pretty 
 enough for you, little Joe." 
 
 Little Joe, indeed ! I am sure I was as tall as he was. 
 
 "What do you mean?" I asked, trying to look imbe- 
 cile, and, I expect, succeeding. 
 
 "I mean," he said, "that nothing is pretty enough 
 for you." 
 
 "My goodness!" I cried, "there goes the luncheon 
 bell. I had no idea it was so late. I must go and wash 
 my hands." 
 
 "Then I'll order the horses for three?" he said. 
 
 "Yes!" I shouted from half-way down the passage. 
 
 We had a delightful ride. Norman was charming. 
 Coming home, we rode almost under the very branches 
 of Inversnaid, and I was so grateful to him for giving 
 me the whip, that I all but told him all about it, and was 
 on the point of asking him to come there with me next 
 day. However, I did not. I think I was half afraid to; 
 I thought he might laugh at me. In fact, I had kept 
 Inversnaid a deep, dark secret from every one at Sel- 
 worth ever since I found that Sophie was inclined to 
 turn up her little nose at it. There was another reason, 
 too, why I didn't ask Norman. 
 
 The truth is the honest, plain, downright, rather- 
 to-be-ashamed-of truth that Mr. Grayle had already 
 been five times to Inversnaid. He said the Duke's estate 
 business was always taking him that way. I suppose 
 there must have been some outlying bit of the Duke's 
 property lying the other side of Selworth, for Ashby lay, 
 of course, quite the other way. However, that was his 
 business. He had come five times, as I say, and offered 
 himself as stoker; and a splendid stoker he made, flying
 
 53 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 about all over the tree like a lamplighter, and I honestly 
 confess I was always a little bit disappointed when he 
 did not come; it was so dull all alone. So I used to 
 look rather anxiously for the tall figure striding through 
 the beech trees. And when he did come, the talk, and 
 the whole talk, would be of the fire and the "Moat" and- 
 the other treasures of the tree, including our own respec- 
 tive branches (for I had given him a temporary lease of 
 Claud's, who was away); and if the wood happened to 
 be wet, and the fire showed symptoms of collapse, we 
 would scurry about all over the tree looking for dry 
 twigs as though the keeping alight of that fire was the 
 only thing worth considering in the whole world. And, 
 wet or dry, whether the fire burned willingly or not, our 
 talk was never other than the talk of five-year-old chil- 
 dren, honestly. 
 
 So, all these things considered, I saw no reason to 
 say anything about my stoker at Selworth. Even before 
 he had found me that first day, I had kept my own coun- 
 sel about the old tree and my ridiculous leaning towards 
 it. It is such a bore being laughed at. And now, of 
 course, if they learnt about Mr. Grayle, they would be 
 perfectly certain to laugh at both of us as two of the 
 biggest babies that had ever left school. So I said 
 nothing. I couldn't give the poor man away; it would 
 have been too mean. And I did not invite Norman to 
 accompany me next morning. I came to the conclusion 
 the duties of stoker would not sit comfortably upon him. 
 
 All the same, we had a splendid ride, and came back 
 in a fine glow, having raced home for a mile across "the 
 Plain." 
 
 "Well, young people," said Uncle Guy at dinner, 
 "what sort of a ride did you have, eh?"
 
 APPOINTMENT OF A STOKER 53 
 
 "Glorious!" I said. "We went pretty near to the 
 far end of the park at Ashby. " 
 
 "And how did the old Pasha behave?' 
 
 "Like an angel! He only shied six times the whole 
 while." 
 
 ' "We must find you something better to ride soon. 
 He's too heavy and slow for you." 
 
 "Oh, no! he's an old dear! I love him!" 
 
 "By the way," said Uncle Guy, across the table to 
 my aunt, "talking of Ashby, I have had a letter from 
 young Grayle about the Mill Hanger Farm. The Duke 
 wants to buy it." 
 
 "Well, I should let nim want," she said. "Why 
 should we sell land?" 
 
 "No reason at all, my dear, of course no reason at 
 all, except to oblige the Duke. It's about the shoot- 
 ing, you know cuts into one of their beats in an awk- 
 ward way. Grayle says he would either buy or exchange 
 for one of his farms on the Benton side." 
 
 "Well, I should tell Mr. Grayle it is impossible. Why 
 should you lose a good farm, and a good tenant, and 
 get goodness knows what in its place? What do you 
 say, Father?" 
 
 "Faith, I entirely agree with your ladyship," said 
 his Reverence, draining a glass of port, and smacking 
 his lips loudly. "If it's only a shooting question, the 
 matter could surely be arranged some other way." 
 
 "Of course it could," said uncle, "of course it could. 
 I don't want to sell anything. Gad! no not come to 
 that yet, thank God! I'll write and tell Grayle." 
 
 "Who is Mr. Grayle?" I asked, with great innocence. 
 (Sophie was not there.) 
 
 "Grayle?" said uncle. "Why, he's the agent at
 
 54 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 Ashby. Capital chap, too good shot good man to 
 hounds no better in the country." 
 
 "Oh!" I said. 
 
 "He is Lord Delamaine's youngest son," Aunt Har- 
 riet explained. She had the whole peerage at her fingers' 
 ends, and was fond of the subject. "They are absolutely 
 ruined, you know, and the Duke took on young Grayle 
 as a kind of charity. They are connected, you know 
 distantly; the Duchess was first cousin to Lady Dela- 
 maine. He has not a farthing in the world, poor fellow, 
 beyond what the Duke gives him; but, I believe, he does 
 very well." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said uncle, "first-rate agent wish I'd 
 got as good a one damme, yes old Quayle's as slow as 
 a church too long in the tooth, poor chap!"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON GROWS INTERESTING 
 
 T 1 7"HAT times those were in the autumn of that year! 
 ^ * The days were always too short, and the nights 
 too long, and as to bed, it was a sheer waste of life. 
 The moment the grey dawn began to glimmer round the 
 edges of my blinds, I would be out of bed, and in my 
 blue flannel dressing-gown would sit at the open window, 
 and form plans for the day. Not that any great plans 
 were needed. The mere joy of existing at Selworth was 
 enough. But I liked to sit in my window and drink in 
 the cool, damp air, and watch my old friends, the cock- 
 pheasants, strutting about among the beds, and listen to 
 the blackbirds and the robins piping their autumn songs. 
 I always wondered if they could sing before their first 
 worm. Father Terence couldn't sing a note before 
 breakfast; he would tell you so frankly. 
 
 I got to love my little panelled room not that it was 
 particularly little, rather the reverse and everything in 
 it; the old-fashioned rosebud chintz, and the jugs and 
 basins with the blue crinkly ribbon round the edge, and 
 Maurice over the chimney-piece wicked Maurice, with 
 his haughty clear-cut features, and cold, supercilious 
 smile, and the dark eyes that followed one about the 
 room. I never saw a more living picture than that; it 
 was really quite embarrassing at times; it was so appall- 
 ingly human. I could never believe Maurice was so bad 
 
 55
 
 56 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 as they made out. There was nothing bad about the 
 face ; it was rather a kind face, in fact. Then there was 
 a big armchair, and a sofa at the foot of the bed, both 
 covered with chintz, and an oak screen, with a pleated 
 chintz centre, and a funny little shelf at the top of it 
 that one could hook up, I suppose to put one's candle on. 
 
 My room faced east, and when the mornings were 
 clear as they so often are, whatever happens after- 
 wards the first straight rays of the sun would come 
 shooting in, lighting up Maurice's legs, below the knee, 
 and bringing the rosebuds on the chintz to life. And 
 outside, the same sun would paint the red dropping 
 leaves of the beeches and the chestnuts behind the bal- 
 ustrade such gorgeous colours, and would make the dew 
 glisten so enchantingly upon the grass, that there was 
 nothing for it but to have my bath cold, and to get into 
 my clothes as quick as could be, and down the little 
 turret stair into the garden. This happened most morn- 
 ings, except when it rained. 
 
 Then, after breakfast, as often as not, I would go to 
 Inversnaid beloved Inversnaid! They used often to 
 ask me where I went, and I would say: "Oh, I go as a 
 rule to the Flexham Woods; I like the trees there." 
 
 Then, after a time, Norman used to offer to come 
 with me, which was tiresome, but I couldn't well refuse. 
 However, I always took him the other way, down towards 
 the Greystoke Lodge, or round the lake, and sometimes 
 I made him row me about on the lake while I trolled for 
 pike, which, I am thankful to say, I never caught. And 
 once I even initiated him into the mysteries of Marigold 
 Marsh, with its sluices, and hydraulic pump, and en- 
 trancing little water cuts, and, chiefest of all, the 
 entrance to Dante's Inferno, which, as every well-
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON GROWS INTERESTING 57 
 
 informed person knows, is to be found in Marigold Marsh 
 and nowhere else, under a brick and mortar arch that 
 burrows into the embankment that keeps the lake in its 
 place. 
 
 " In the midway of this our mortal life 
 I found me in a lonely wood astray." 
 
 That wood was in Selworth Park. Norman had never 
 heard of it never heard that this was the place, I 
 mean but he quite understood when I told him. I was 
 surprised. He even "abandoned hope" and went in, 
 and got very wet feet. 
 
 Norman, however, just about that time was nearly 
 always shooting, either on their own ground or with the 
 Duke, so I was left pretty well to myself. 
 
 There is one incident I cannot help mentioning. It 
 happened a few days after Norman had given me the 
 whip. It was a wet day, and Father Terence was sing- 
 ing in the Great Hall singing "Puritani," and singing 
 it divinely and I was listening in the upper gallery, as 
 I generally did, sitting on the floor, and leaning my 
 back against the door of the state bedroom, as it was 
 called, which opened from the end of the gallery. Well, 
 Uncle Guy happened to come in from the entrance 
 hall. I heard the clack of his shooting boots as he 
 walked across the polished floor, and guessed it was him, 
 but didn't trouble to look. Father Terence stopped 
 singing, and began playing soft, aimless sort of chords. 
 
 "Well," he said, still playing, "how does it work?" 
 
 "Splendidly couldn't be better." 
 
 "Nothing definite been done yet, I suppose?" 
 
 "No; we mustn't be precipitate. There's no hurry." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 They were hardly talking above a whisper, and the
 
 58 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 piano never stopped for a moment, but I heard every 
 word. It was a marvellous place for sound that big 
 hall. 
 
 "The extraordinary thing is," my uncle went on, 
 "the boy's perfectly infatuated." 
 
 "Devil blame him!" said the priest. 
 
 "But whether it's the same the other way, I don't 
 know. I have my doubts. " 
 
 "Pshaw! Squire, never bother yourself 
 
 " 'There's never a maid from pole to pole 
 
 In valley or hill or town, 
 But would drop in the mud her lily-white soul 
 To pick up a diamond crown.' " 
 
 sang Father Terence Boyle. 
 
 "Mud!" said my uncle, angrily. "Nonsense, man; 
 where's the mud, I should like to know? There's no 
 mud in the question." 
 
 "Well, well, Squire, put it as you will, so long as the 
 end's the same." 
 
 "And if not?" 
 
 "If not! There'll be no 'if not'; but if there is, well, 
 then, God's will be done." 
 
 My uncle passed on into the drawing-room, and the 
 priest started singing again. 
 
 "Se il mio nome saper voi bramate 
 Dal mio labbro il mio nome ascoltate." 
 
 But I had heard enough. I was more than exercised 
 over the conversation I had heard. What in the world 
 could they have been talking about? Three or four 
 wild explanations came tumbling into my head, one on 
 the top of the other, but I dismissed them one and all as 
 too extravagantly impossible to be thought of for a
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON GROWS INTERESTING 59 
 
 moment. The most likely thing seemed to be that they 
 were talking about Sophie and Lord Barham, the Duke's 
 eldest son. I had gathered from one or two little things 
 I had heard that more than one person at Selworth 
 would have found no fault with fate if the heir of Ashby 
 had laid his coronet at Sophie's feet. However, it was 
 not my business, and I can't say I troubled my head 
 very long over it. Good luck to Sophie! was all I 
 thought. What a good duchess she would make! 
 
 It was about this time that I began to have a series of 
 what Uncle Guy would have called blank days at Inver- 
 snaid that is to say, that for five days Mr. Grayle did 
 not come. Of course, he might have passed during the 
 days when I was out with Norman down by the lake; or, 
 again, the Duke might have settled the business that 
 took him across Selworth Park, so that he would not 
 have to come any more that way. That was probably it, 
 I thought. The business had no doubt had something 
 to do with that farm that the Duke wanted to buy from 
 Uncle Guy, and that was all settled now. 
 
 So I should have to stoke for myself for the future. 
 It was rather a bore; one got so hot and dirty scram- 
 bling about all over the tree, and for the last week I had 
 had on my new frocks from Heloise. I began to wish 
 I hadn't put them on. I began to think that sitting up 
 in a tree all the morning was rather an idiotic occupation 
 after all. Sophie was right; it was only fit for children. 
 And though it was all very well to light a fire now and 
 again, it palled dreadfully after a bit; there was such a 
 sameness about it. "It is a dreadful thing to be old 
 and blasee," I thought, "but there is no doubt I am. I 
 am sick of this stupid old tree! I don't think I shall 
 come any more."
 
 60 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 Poor, dear Inversnaid! There was never a more 
 brutal, ungrateful speech; but I don't think I was quite 
 well at the time. I was cross and irritable every one 
 noticed it, even Norman. 
 
 One day when my fire had gone out entirely from 
 neglect, poor thing! it suddenly flashed across me that 
 I would go and see old Mrs. Beddington. I wanted to 
 hear lots more about father and mother, and it would be 
 something to do till luncheon. So I dropped down with 
 a "flump" into the thick carpet of copper-coloured 
 leaves, and turned down the hill to the right. It was 
 only about half a mile off, the old Manor House, down 
 the hill, and across the broad open valley, and then a 
 couple of hundred yards up a cart track through the 
 dead red bracken. The old lady was delighted ; she 
 saw me walking up the gravel path, and came to the 
 door herself. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you'd come, Miss Josephine." 
 
 "Yes, I want so to hear more about father, if you 
 don't mind." 
 
 "My dear, of course I don't mind. Come in and sit 
 down, and warm yourself by the fire. Winter's begin- 
 ning early this year, I think." 
 
 "Yes, it is pretty cold to-day." 
 
 "So they've dressed you up, I see." She was look- 
 ing at my new clothes. 
 
 "Yes," I said, laughing, "lots of new clothes." 
 
 "And how do you like Selworth?" 
 
 "Oh, I love it!" I said; "there never was such a heav- 
 enly place since the beginning of the world!" 
 
 The old lady smiled one of her inscrutable smiles. 
 
 "It is a beautiful old place!" she said; "and have 
 they given you a nice room?"
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON GROWS INTERESTING 61 
 
 "Oh, yes, a lovely room in the east wing; what they 
 call the panelled room." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "You know it, do you?" 
 
 "My dear, I know every room in the Abbey. You 
 forget I was housekeeper there for several years." 
 
 "Oh! I didn't know. Well, isn't it a lovely room, 
 Mrs. Beddington?" 
 
 "Yes, a very pretty room, but noisy sometimes if 
 there's any one in the room overhead." 
 
 "Noisy!" I cried. "Why, I never hear a sound!" 
 
 "Perhaps there's no one above you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, there is; Norman sleeps in the room 
 above." 
 
 She got up and put some fresh logs on the fire. 
 
 "And how do you like Mr. Norman?" 
 
 "Oh, I like him tremendously, of course. He's 
 awfully nice!" 
 
 "And how does he like you?" 
 
 "I don't know, I'm sure," I said, laughing; "I think 
 he likes me pretty well." 
 
 She was staring hard into my face, as though [she 
 would read my very soul. 
 
 "He's a splendid young fellow!" she said, turning 
 away, "a splendid young fellow!" 
 
 "But, Mrs. Beddington, " I cried, "you are not tell- 
 ing me anything about my father. It seems to me that 
 I am telling you all the news." 
 
 "Well, well," she said, sitting down, "where shall 
 we begin?" 
 
 "At the beginning," I said. "Tell me everything." 
 
 "Everything is a good deal," she said, wagging her 
 head at me.
 
 62 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Never mind," I said, "there's lots of time." 
 
 "Well, then, I was a mere child, you must know, 
 when I first took up your father seventeen only, and 
 as ignorant and silly and vain Lord forgive me! as a 
 magpie. I shall never forget when the groom came 
 riding down with a note asking would I go as nurse to 
 the new baby up at the Abbey. 
 
 "Father had Croft's Farm, you know, this side of 
 Benton. Well, it took us clean off our feet such an 
 honour as that, and me a mere chit of a girl and all! 
 But I did know something about children, of course, 
 having looked after the two boys. Well, I put on my 
 Sunday clothes a lilac print dress, I remember, with a 
 waist under the arms, and a long flat straw bonnet with 
 big ribbons and walked up to the Abbey, and they sent 
 down a farm cart to fetch up my traps. The 'old 
 Squire' Mordaunt that is, you know was sitting in 
 his room, and I was shown straight in. He wasn't old, 
 then about thirty, I suppose. 
 
 " 'Miss Crossly,' he says, as polite as though I was a 
 duchess, 'do you think you can undertake the care of 
 this baby?' 
 
 " 'I'll do my best, sir,' says I, dropping a courtesy, 
 and I am sure simpering like the silly I was. 
 
 " 'Very well, then, you can enter upon your duties at 
 once; and whatever happens, remember, I shall always 
 feel quite sure that you have done your best.' 
 
 " 'I hadn't an idea what he meant at the time, but I 
 dropped another courtesy, and followed the housekeeper 
 upstairs. The baby was in the west wing, or the new 
 wing, as it was called then, and right at the top of the 
 house. You never did see such a poor little misery of a 
 thing! It looked three parts dead; and then that left
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON GROWS INTERESTING 63 
 
 leg was all shrunken and short even then, and the cast 
 in the eyes was something awful. You can remember 
 that cast, I suppose, Miss Josephine, though it got bet- 
 ter, poor fellow, as he grew up. Well, I all but 
 screamed when I saw the little mite. You see, I remem- 
 bered what George and Harry, our babies at home, had 
 been like, and the sight of your poor dear father gave 
 me quite a turn. How it came to be so, I can't say. 
 Folks did say something about bad blood on the mother's 
 side she was one of the O'Donnells, you know but 
 whether that was so or not, I don't know. To be sure, 
 the Squire, your uncle, never had a little finger to his 
 left hand, though perfect in every other way. But there 
 it was; the child was hardly human. However, thank 
 God for this, that whatever my other sins may have 
 been, I nursed that little thing as though it had been 
 my own, and the bonniest child on earth. And it grew, 
 and fattened, and flourished, and I got to love it better 
 than anything in the world." 
 
 "But, Mrs. Beddington, " I said, "I don't understand. 
 Where was Uncle Guy all this time, and why didn't his 
 nurse take charge of father as well?" 
 
 "Guy?" she said, "Guy? oh, yes. Well, you see 
 the old Squire had a fancy for keeping them apart. 
 Your uncle was always in what we called the old 
 nursery the room over yours that Mr. Norman sleeps 
 in and your father and I were right at the opposite end 
 of the house. And the two babies never met. I had 
 orders always to take mine out down the long walk, 
 and round about the shrubbery there ; and your uncle 
 and his nurse used always to go through the Italian gar- 
 den towards the old abbey. We never met, either in the 
 house or out."
 
 64 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Do you mean to say you never met?" I asked. 
 
 "Well, my dear, we were never supposed to meet, 
 and it was very, very difficult, and if your grandfather 
 had heard of it, we should both have been bundled out 
 of the door that very day. He was a bad man to cross, 
 was the old Squire. But as a matter of fact, we did 
 meet once or twice not more." 
 
 "Then, I suppose, you took the baby to see my grand- 
 mother sometimes?" 
 
 "Never. It was not allowed. Mordaunt wouldn't 
 have the children seen about the house. But she, poor 
 dear, used to come up to the nursery three or four times 
 a day. She just worshipped the little thing." 
 
 "But, Mrs. Beddington, I thought she died?" 
 
 "Died! Lord bless you, no; not till after ah! well 
 she did die, poor thing, of course ; I was forgetting, but 
 not so quick as all that. She had time to see the baby 
 many times." 
 
 "I always understood she never left her bed." 
 
 "Oh, no, my dear. She did die, of course, but not so 
 quick as all that." 
 
 "Then, did my grandfather ever see the child? I sup- 
 pose not." 
 
 "Oh, yes, he used to come pretty often; but he never 
 could bear the sight of your poor father. You see, 
 Mordaunt was a splendidly handsome man, as his father 
 Maurice had been before him the De Metriers always 
 had been famed for their beauty, even then and I think 
 it was a kind of point of honour with him that his chil- 
 dren should be fine and large and straight and hand- 
 some, as the race always had been; and it drove him 
 wild, I think, to see this little crooked, wizened misery 
 that he had brought into the world. The other child,
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON GROWS INTERESTING 65 
 
 your uncle, he always worshipped. He was a splendid 
 boy from the first, barring the finger, of course; but 
 that was nothing." 
 
 "But why did he come so often to see my father if he 
 hated the sight of him so?" 
 
 "Well, I suppose he wanted to see that things were 
 as they should be, and clean, and kept in proper order. 
 He was wonderfully particular about little things, was 
 Mordaunt hated dirty clothes, or soiled linen, or speck 
 or spot on anything." 
 
 "Did you like him?" 
 
 "Who? Mordaunt? Oh, yes; I was bound to like 
 him. You see he was my master, and a very kind mas- 
 ter, too, as long as things went straight." 
 
 "Well, tell me some more." 
 
 "More? Let me see, my dear, what more is there to 
 tell? Oh, I forgot to tell you about the veils. That 
 was another crank of the old Squire's. He would never 
 have the children leave the nurseries to go out without 
 veils white veils and so thick that their own mother 
 couldn't have told one from t'other, or either of them 
 from cats or monkeys. A curious craze you may well 
 say, but so it was." 
 
 "But what on earth was the object of it?" I said. "I 
 think my grandfather must have been mad!" 
 
 "No more mad than you or me, my dear; he had 
 some good reason, you may be pretty sure. Well, this 
 went on the veil business, I mean till your father was 
 two and a half or so, and then I married Beddington, 
 and both the children were put under Mrs. Grace, in the 
 new nurseries in the west wing." 
 
 "But you and father were in the west wing nurseries, 
 you told me, Mrs. Beddington."
 
 66 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Did I, my dear? Well, and so we were; but you 
 see your uncle's first nurse, Mrs. Graham, died was 
 found dead in her bed in the old nursery." 
 
 "That's where Norman is?" 
 
 "Yes; failure of the heart they said it was. Well, 
 after this, your father and I were moved into the old 
 nursery, and your uncle and Mrs. Grace his new nurse 
 that is went to the new nurseries. It's rather confus- 
 ing, isn't it?" 
 
 "Very," I said, laughing. "And then you went and 
 married Beddington. Why did you do that? Were you 
 very fond of him?" 
 
 "Well, no, my dear, I wasn't fond of him, and that's 
 the truth never cared a snap of my fingers for him. 
 He was a poor little slip of a fellow as ever you saw, and 
 consumptive, and fit for nothing much except making 
 stools and tables and such like. And I don't think any 
 girl could have cared for him, least of all a giddy, silly 
 thing such as I was." 
 
 "Then, why did you marry him?" I cried aghast. "I 
 think it was horrible of you!" 
 
 "Well, you see, my dear, poor folks can't always 
 pick and choose; they have most ways to take what they 
 can get, and be thankful for that. And then Mordaunt 
 gave us this house, and pretty well everything we could 
 want besides, so that it would have been flying in the 
 face of Providence, so to speak, to have refused." 
 
 "And you have been here ever since?" 
 
 "Ever since, except during the four years I was 
 housekeeper at the Abbey. That was the last four years 
 of the old Squire's life. When he died your uncle sent 
 me back here, and I was pretty glad to come, I can tell 
 you; housekeeping isn't in my line. And here I hope
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON GROWS INTERESTING 67 
 
 to be till I die, which will not be very long now, my 
 dear, for my heart is mighty bad at times, and that's the 
 truth. Beddington, poor fellow, he went off sudden 
 when we had been married four years. He was always 
 weakly." 
 
 "And how many children have you got?" 
 
 "Four all boys. George, the eldest, is head keeper 
 to Squire, as you know. Bill and John are out in India; 
 the old Squire gave them a good start in life, and they're 
 doing well. And Henry, the youngest, lives here with 
 me. You have never seen him? No, likely not. You 
 see he's house-carpenter up at the Abbey brought up 
 to his father's trade and he's there in his shop all day, 
 and just comes home of nights." 
 
 "I must be going now or I shall be late," I said, get- 
 ting up. "You can't think how interesting it has t been 
 to me to hear all this, Mrs. Beddington." 
 
 "Why does it interest you?" 
 
 "Well, of course, it interests me to hear all about my 
 father when he was a baby. It seems so wonderful to 
 think that you should have been his nurse. You look 
 so young somehow, in spite of your white hair. Were 
 you very pretty when you were young? I suppose you 
 were." 
 
 "I believe I was, my dear," she said, "and I know 
 very well I thought I was. May the Lord forgive me 
 for all my vanity and wickedness, and guide me aright 
 now at the last!" 
 
 "Well, there's nothing very dreadful in thinking 
 you're pretty," I said, laughing, for her manner was 
 quite tragic. "I wish I could think / was. I should 
 be vain enough, I know." 
 
 She looked at me hard for a minute, but said nothing.
 
 68 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 Then suddenly she rose, and putting her two hands on 
 my shoulders, said: "Miss Josephine, my dear, remem- 
 ber 4 that whatever may happen, you have always got a 
 friend in Susan Beddington. " 
 
 "But you said that to me the last time I was here," I 
 exclaimed. "Why should I want a friend? Nobody's 
 going to attack me; I'm not worth it." 
 
 "My dear," she said, "we're none of us the worse 
 for having a friend who will stick through good and ill, 
 even though it's only a poor old rickety woman. And 
 now you must run away quick, or you'll be late, and I 
 know her ladyship doesn't like that." 
 
 I shook her hand, and then stood for a moment in 
 doubt. I was wondering whether she would mind very 
 much if I kissed her. I felt rather shy about it, but 
 longed to, all the same she looked such an old dear. 
 
 Suddenly I made a plunge, and feeling rather hot, 
 kissed her on the cheek. To my amazement, her eyes 
 filled with tears, and for a moment she could say noth- 
 ing, but just stood there, holding my hand. Then very 
 low she said, "God bless you, my dear!" and turned 
 quickly away.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 AN EXPLOSION, A JUSTIFICATION, AND A PRAYER 
 
 T WAS late. And Aunt Harriet did raise her eye- 
 A brows, and pucker up her mouth, and say, "Wher- 
 ever have you been, my dear Josephine?" 
 
 I was always being late for luncheon, and she hated 
 it, I knew. Sophie was never late; but then, of course, 
 it is easy to be in time for things if you never go out. 
 
 And I used often to come in, hot and panting, and 
 with a scarlet face, having run most of the way back 
 across "the Plain," and with my hair all untidy and 
 dropping right down over my eyes, in the way it would 
 do unless I did it up afresh every two hours. And there 
 would be Sophie, opposite, as fresh and cool and spick- 
 and-span as a newly-clipped hedge. And Aunt Harriet 
 would stare at me with that calm look of hers that always 
 frightened me so, and say: "My dear child, you do 
 look hot! I declare you are quite in a transpiration. 
 What have you been doing digging potatoes?" And 
 once, with a little genteel laugh, she said: "Goodness, 
 Josephine, you look just like a Skye terrier! You really 
 should brush your hair a little more carefully. I am 
 afraid you are not very soignee." 
 
 "I can't help it, Aunt Harriet," I said, hopelessly. 
 ' ' My hair will not keep up. I think I shall cut it all off. ' ' 
 
 But my uncle was delighted when he heard this 
 speech of Aunt Harriet's. 
 
 69
 
 yo THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Ho! ho! ho!" he laughed, "a Skye terrier! That's 
 just what the little minx is a long-haired Skye terrier 
 (he called it tarrier). Damme! if I don't call her that!" 
 
 And he did for a time. 
 
 "But you mustn't cut your hair, Joe, you Know, or 
 you'll go blind. Tarriers always go blind if you cut the 
 hair that falls over their eyes. Gad! I wish I'd a lit- 
 tle more to fall over my eyes." 
 
 All this, however, was not on the day that I went to 
 see Mrs. Beddington. On that day something rather 
 dreadful happened at luncheon. I was late, as I have 
 said only about ten minutes or so and when I went 
 into the dining-room I was very hot, and, I suppose, a 
 little dishevelled. 
 
 It was a great big room, and looked all the bigger 
 when there was only a small party and a small table to 
 fit them. Norman was shooting with the Duke, but the 
 other four were there. Father Terence, as usual, was 
 telling one of his anecdotes, but he stopped short when 
 I made my rather shamefaced appearance. 
 
 And my aunt as usual said : 
 
 "Wherever have you been, Josephine?" as if one was 
 bound to have been to the North Pole, or somewhere, 
 because one happened to be a few minutes late. 
 
 There were no servants in the room. My uncle 
 couldn't stand them at luncheon, "prowling about," as 
 he called it, "and handing you everything you don't 
 want, and nothing you do." 
 
 Well, my aunt said, "Wherever have you been?" 
 
 And I quite innocently said: "Oh, I have been hav- 
 ing a long talk with that dear old Mrs. Beddington.' 
 
 "With who?" said Uncle Guy, looking up. 
 
 "With Mrs. Beddington."
 
 AN EXPLOSION 71 
 
 "Oh, yes, the keeper's wife?" 
 
 "No, I don't think so. I mean the old lady who 
 lives at the Manor House." 
 "Oh, you have been talking to her, have you?" 
 
 I looked at my uncle in amazement. His face was 
 twitching all over, and great veins stood out on his fore- 
 head. 
 
 "Yes," I said. 
 
 "Well, let me tell you that you had no business to. 
 It was a liberty a damned liberty!" 
 
 "I am very sorry," I said, humbly; "I didn't know. 
 I only wanted to ask her about father; she was his nurse, 
 you know." 
 
 I was not in the least afraid of my uncle, in the same 
 way that I was of my aunt; I looked upon him as a sort 
 of easy-going, overgrown boy. He had never been any- 
 thing but kindness itself to me till this moment; and 
 even now I was not in the least appalled, only aston- 
 ished. 
 
 But after my speech I was more astonished still, and 
 appalled as well. I have never seen such a change in a 
 man; I should scarcely have known him. The whole 
 expression of his face was changed. His skin grew pur- 
 ple, and the eyes seemed to contract and disappear under 
 his thick, bushy brows. 
 
 "And what business have you, pray," he said, in a 
 thick, choky voice, "what business have you to go sneak- 
 ing about in this underhand fashion among the people 
 living on my property? I won't have it, Josephine 
 won't have it, d'you hear? You're never again under 
 any pretext to speak to that woman. If you do, out of 
 my house you go the very same day out of my house, 
 and back to your beggarly lodgings at Chelmsford."
 
 72 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 His voice rose almost to a shout. There was a dead 
 silence when he had finished. Every one looked hard at 
 his plate. For my own part, I thought my poor uncle 
 had gone clean mad. I don't know what the others 
 thought. 
 
 Uncle Guy himself was the first to break the silence. 
 
 "Jabbering old witch!" he said. "She never had the 
 brains of a goat, and now what little wits she ever had 
 are gone gone along with her memory. Nothing those 
 old harridans love so much as tittling and tattling about 
 things they know nothing about. Well, you understand 
 me, Josephine? I forbid you absolutely to speak to her 
 again, or you either, Sophie." 
 
 "Yes," I said, very low, and feeling hot all over. 
 
 "Very well, then, don't forget." 
 
 We sat for another five minutes in one of the most 
 awkward silences I have ever felt. Aunt Harriet and 
 Father Terence tried to get up a conversation about the 
 Christmas festivities, but it all sounded dreadfully forced 
 and sham. 
 
 Then at last there was a move. Sophie and I flew 
 out of the room the back way, by the serving-door, and 
 scuttled like rabbits down the long passage, till we came 
 to the little staircase that led to our schoolroom. Never 
 once did we pause or draw breath till the door was closed 
 behind us, and we had flung ourselves, panting and 
 breathless, into two of the many big chairs that littered 
 the room. Even then it was some time before we could 
 find our voices. Sophie giggled feebly, but I was far too 
 staggered. 
 
 "What on earth does it mean?" I gasped at length. 
 
 "Goodness knows!" she said. "I haven't the very 
 faintest idea. I expect it's the gout."
 
 AN EXPLOSION 73 
 
 "But have you ever seen him like it before?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; he's got an awful temper, but it isn't often 
 it shows itself. And all about such a silly thing, too." 
 
 "I wish I knew what it was made him so angry. I 
 think I'll go and ask Father Terence. He's sure to be 
 in the chapel." 
 
 "All right. Only don't ask me to go, too. Wild 
 horses wouldn't drag me from this room for the next half 
 hour. It isn't safe." 
 
 "Oh, I'll sneak down by the stone turret. There's 
 not a ghost of a chance of meeting him there. But I 
 simply must find out." 
 
 So I fluttered out of tne room, with my heart in my 
 mouth I am bound to own, and ran down the passage to 
 the left, to the stone turret. From the foot of this to 
 the chapel there was practically no danger, for my uncle's 
 room lay miles away. However, I ran on tip-toe with a 
 slight feeling of being hunted, and was glad enough to 
 hear the organ booming dully through the closed doors. 
 I entered the chapel, still on tip-toe, and shut the doors 
 behind me. This chapel was one of the most beautiful 
 things I have ever seen; rather in a florid style, per- 
 haps, with a great deal of marble and gilding, but won- 
 derfully beautiful. 
 
 The ceiling was flat, and in square panels, separated 
 by little gold beams, each panel painted in some Scrip- 
 tural subject. The windows, too, were very fine, but so 
 small that in mere daylight the place was almost dark. 
 
 Father Terence was sitting with his back to me, play- 
 ing softly to himself. When I was quite close to him he 
 turned round with a start. 
 
 "Ah! Miss Joe," he said, "what can I do for you 
 now? Will I sing to you?"
 
 74 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "No," I said, "not now, thanks. I want to ask you 
 a question." 
 
 "You're not come to confess, surely?" he said, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 "No; I want to ask you something. What was it 
 made Uncle Guy so furious at luncheon?" 
 
 The priest was still playing softly, looking round and 
 talking over his shoulder. It was a way he had if one 
 caught him at the organ or piano. Now, however, he 
 dropped his hands from the keys, and faced bodily round. 
 His face, too, assumed a solemn, fatherly look. 
 
 "My dear Miss Joe," he said, pawing my shoulder 
 heavily, "my dear Miss Joe, your uncle was very natur- 
 ally annoyed. This Mrs. Beddington was a legacy of the 
 old Squire's, and not a very respectable legacy, either. 
 He would naturally not wish you to associate with her." 
 
 "But you can't know her, Father Terence," I cried. 
 "There never was a more respectable old lady. She is 
 beautifully neat and clean, and talks like a lady, and, 
 altogether, she's the greatest old duck I've ever seen." 
 
 "Mrs. Beddington in her old age no doubt presents a 
 decent exterior," said the priest, gravely, "but Mrs. 
 Beddington was once Susan Crossly." 
 
 "Yes, I know she was," I said; "she told me. But 
 what has that got to do with it?" 
 
 "It has this to do with it, Miss Joe, that any one who 
 was once Susan Crossly is no fit companion for you." 
 
 "What do you mean?" I said; "I don't understand." 
 
 "Well, how shall I put it? This Mrs. Beddington, 
 whom you admire so much, in the days when she was 
 Susan Crossly was a very wicked woman." 
 
 "I don't believe a word of it!" I said. "What did 
 she do wicked?"
 
 AN EXPLOSION 75 
 
 "Faith! as much as she could, from all accounts," 
 said the priest, with a chuckle. 
 
 "I think it's perfectly horrid of you to say such 
 things!" I said, furiously. "I don't believe she was 
 wicked a bit. Is it likely my uncle would let her live in 
 the park, and in that lovely old house, if she was 
 wicked? Of course not." 
 
 "My dear young lady," he said, in his most solemn 
 voice, blinking his little eyes at me, "there are some 
 things in this world that men are bound to respect, and 
 one of them is the wishes of their dead parents. It was 
 the dying wish of the old Squire that Mrs. Beddington 
 should be left in undisturbed possession of the old 
 Manor House in the park, and that her children should 
 be carefully provided for. A solemn charge like this is 
 a thing that cannot be put aside and your uncle has 
 respected it, all honour to him! But it is not to be 
 wondered at that he objects strongly to you or Miss 
 Sophie associating with the woman." 
 
 He shut his mouth tight, and glared at me from 
 under his brows. 
 
 Suddenly a thought struck me a brilliant thought. 
 
 "Then, why, if she was so wicked, did the old Squire 
 leave such a charge to my uncle?" I said, triumphantly. 
 "Is it likely he would want to provide for such a dread- 
 fully wicked woman? I never heard a more improbable 
 story in my life, and I don't believe a word of it." 
 
 I saw this was a staggerer for the priest. He hadn't 
 a word to say. He just looked at me fixedly for a minute 
 or so, and then burst out laughing. 
 
 "Well, upon my word, Miss Joe, you have me there," 
 he said. "And we will allow, if you like, that Mrs. 
 Beddington has always been a model of every virtue
 
 76 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 under the sun; but, you see, the fact remains, that this 
 good woman and her numerous family have been left a 
 legacy to the estate; and it is not surprising that your 
 uncle is a little sore about it. There are half a dozen 
 Beddingtons living in the park this day, and two more 
 out in India, and all this is a serious tax on an estate 
 well, perhaps not a serious tax exactly to so wealthy a 
 man as your uncle, but a distinct annoyance." 
 
 He paused, as though to mark the effect of his words. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it would be," 1 admitted. 
 
 "And you'll respect his wishes in the matter, I am 
 sure," he said, laying his hand on my head. He was 
 standing at the top of the altar steps, and I at the bot- 
 tom. On the level we were about the same height. 
 
 "Well, it seems rather absurd, doesn't it?" I said, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "It may seem absurd from your point of view, but 
 you must remember this: you are a guest in your uncle's 
 house; he has loaded you with kindnesses; and the least 
 you can do in return is to fall in with his wishes, even 
 though they may seem absurd to you. Besides, you are 
 little more than a child in years, and an absolute child 
 in understanding, and he must know best." 
 
 One of the most remarkable things about this man 
 was the extraordinary way in which his manner would 
 chop and change about. One minute he would be acting 
 a kind of buffoon, and the next he would put on a man- 
 ner so sublime and impassioned that it awed one in spite 
 of the sudden change. Just now his voice was low, but 
 rolling so solemnly and portentously that I was more 
 impressed than I can describe. I felt that this must be 
 a good man and a wise, and that I was a poor, silly fool. 
 And strangely enough, the whole time my memory was
 
 AN EXPLOSION 77 
 
 jumping back eight years to the day when he had talked 
 to me in the same deep, musical voice in the little front 
 parlour at Chelmsford. I remembered well the end of 
 that interview the everlasting perdition to which he had 
 consigned me but the present effect on my senses was 
 stronger even than memory. I suppose the dimly- 
 lighted chapel, with all its impressive surroundings, was 
 not without its effect on me. Anyhow, for the time, my 
 will was subject to the man's. 
 
 "You will do this, I am sure?" he said, in a voice 
 little above a whisper. 
 
 "Yes," I murmured. 
 
 I think he must have seen the effect he had produced, 
 and determined to improve upon it. 
 
 "That is right," he said, with his hand still on my 
 head; "be strong and brave, and put your trust There." 
 
 He half turned round, and with the hand that was 
 free pointed to the beautiful ivory crucifix that hung 
 over the altar. 
 
 "Kneel, my child," he said. He pressed me down 
 with his hand, and I did kneel on the steps. Why I did 
 it I can't think to this day. It seems an extraordinary 
 thing to have done; but at the time it seemed quite 
 natural and proper. I bowed my head, and clasped my 
 hands in front of me, waiting. After a slight pause, the 
 priest's voice swelled slowly through the chapel 
 
 " O Mater Sanctissima Christi, protege hanc filiam ab 
 omnibus periclis, et servo, fortem impavidamque ad finem, te 
 precatmtr in nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." 
 
 I rose slowly to my feet and made my way out, leav- 
 ing Father Terence standing on the steps.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A SHOOTING PARTY 
 
 T T was towards the end of November, and there was a 
 * shooting party at Selworth. Such a gathering of 
 antediluvians! I never saw anything like it. Old gen- 
 erals, and still older baronets, and Members of Parlia- 
 ment older than either. The Duke was there, and was 
 very nice and cheery, but the rest were dreadful! They 
 talked nothing but politics and taxation and turnips from 
 morning to night. 
 
 "Do they never have a man in the house under fifty?" 
 I asked Sophie. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said; "as a rule they're quite differ- 
 ent. Papa likes young men, you know. I suppose it's 
 just an accident having all these old fogies." 
 
 General Borrodaile had a wife who must have been at 
 least forty years younger than he was. She was very 
 pretty, with masses of golden hair, but rather stupid and 
 silent, I thought. None of the women in the house 
 cared for her, but she seemed to get on very well with 
 the men, especially with Norman and the Duke. Sophie 
 swore she painted her face, but I don't think so. She 
 had an immense mouth, armed with immense white 
 teeth, which ought to have spoilt her looks, but some- 
 how did not; it seemed to suit her style of face. The 
 reason I remember her so well is this: One day, when 
 they were out shooting, we were all sitting at luncheon 
 
 78
 
 A SHOOTING PARTY 79 
 
 a dull party of women, kept going by Father Terence. 
 Mrs. Borrodaile was out with the shooters, and the occa- 
 sion was seized upon by the rest of the party to run her 
 down. They had been discussing her for some time, 
 when Father Terence suddenly turned to me Sophie 
 and I had naturally left the rending of her to the elder 
 women. "Well, Miss Joe," he said, "and what's your 
 opinion of the lady?" 
 
 "She's wonderfully pretty," I said, "but I think she 
 looks carnivorous." 
 
 I was thinking of her mouth and teeth. I thought 
 Father Terence would have fallen from his chair. I 
 never saw a man laugh so. He rolled from side to side, 
 and smacked his legs, and got so purple in the face I 
 thought he would have a fit. 
 
 "Carnivorous!" he cried, in a high, shrill voice, with 
 the tears streaming down his cheeks, "carnivorous! Oh, 
 dear! oh, dear! I shall die!" 
 
 The rest of the women laughed, too roared, in 
 fact all except Aunt Harriet, who tightened her mouth, 
 and looked acid. 
 
 "My dear Josephine," she said, "you must really be 
 more careful what you say. I cannot say I consider 
 your remark at all bon ton." 
 
 "Ah, now, Lady Harriet, let the child be. She has 
 tied the right label on this time, and without her we 
 might never have found it." 
 
 They all laughed again for about five minutes. 
 
 "Well," I said, "I'm glad I'm so amusing. Some- 
 body else make a joke now." 
 
 "Faith! there'll be none to beat that," said the 
 priest. "The Squire'll have a fit when he hears it." 
 
 As a matter of fact, I don't believe the Squire did; I
 
 8o THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 believe he was more or less angry. However, as to that 
 I never asked, nor indeed troubled myself any more one 
 way or the other about my extraordinary good joke. 
 
 Mrs. Borrodaile used to sing after dinner, and sing 
 wonderfully well, too. She had not much voice, but 
 knew how to use it, and sang with immense feeling. 
 She quite took the wind out of poor Father Terence. 
 The funny thing is, too, she sang Mrs. Popham's songs, 
 and a great deal better than he did. Of course, they 
 were meant for a woman, and she looked very pretty and 
 pathetic as she sang them, which, of course, he, poor 
 man, couldn't. I shall never forget his face that first 
 night when she told us, "Why she looked so pale." I 
 think it was a revelation even to him. The songs were 
 just made for a voice like her's, and she made us all 
 cry at least most of us I know I did. 
 
 " In the winter years ago, 
 
 Long before you can remember, 
 All the world was white with snow 
 In the month of cold December." 
 
 The hall was very dimly lighted, as it always was; the 
 light of the huge log fire flickered up into the black 
 shadows of the rafters, and the effect was immense. In 
 the drawing-room we could hear the General and Sir 
 Henry Huthbert talking at the top of their voices about 
 divisions in the House of Commons on the army esti- 
 mates. 
 
 " Never since that winter's day 
 Has my heart been free from sorrow." 
 
 sang pretty Mrs. Borrodaile, and with such feeling that 
 we all felt choky. I wondered if she was thinking of the 
 General.
 
 A SHOOTING PARTY 81 
 
 She followed this with the song of Littlecote and its 
 ghost of wild Dayrell, and then, when we pressed her, 
 she sang "The Old House by the Lindens," and we all 
 cried again. 
 
 Father Terence fidgeted on his chair, and kept cough- 
 ing the whole time. He was as vain as a gander, and 
 hated any one except himself being at the piano. After- 
 wards he sang himself, at the top of his big voice, to 
 show, I think, by contrast, what a small thing Mrs. 
 Borrodaile's was. But it didn't do. We had to look at 
 him, you see, which spoilt it all. In the chapel he had 
 his back to one when he sang, and when he sang in the 
 hall, one could get into one of the galleries which 
 answered the same purpose; but to sit within a dozen 
 yards and watch his great mouth twisting round under 
 his left ear was enough to take the music out of any- 
 thing. Still, he sang very well he always did but 
 somehow, it grated after Mrs. Borrodaile. 
 
 Oh, that shooting party! It was a deadly affair. 
 Sophie and I had to try and entertain the wives and 
 daughters. We pretended to play croquet every morn- 
 ing, but it was not exciting. Nobody ever knew when it 
 was their turn to play, or what ball they were playing 
 with. Of course, we should have liked to have gone out 
 with the shooters, but the ladies were afraid of getting 
 their feet wet, so we had to stay with them. Mrs. 
 Borrodaile always went. 
 
 On Saturday morning the generals and the Members 
 of Parliament and the baronets went off with their dull, 
 dull wives and daughters. 
 
 Sophie and I danced a jig in the schoolroom, after 
 which we lay back in two big chairs, and said "Thank 
 goodness!" for ten minutes.
 
 82 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 That day at luncheon we heard that Tom Bedding- 
 ton had had his head broken by poachers the night be- 
 fore. Selworth was always a bad place for poachers. 
 There was a family called Morris that were the worst of 
 any-r-a lame father and two villainous-looking sons. 
 I had met them all at different times in the park. That 
 was the worst of Selworth at least I used to think so 
 there were so many rights-of- way through it; one met 
 all sorts of people, which was a bore. 
 
 It appears that the last night of a shooting week was 
 a favourite time for poachers. The idea was that the 
 keepers would be too tired to be on the qui vive. How- 
 ever, as a matter of fact, they had learned that it was a 
 good thing to be very much on the qui vive that night; 
 so poor Tom had been out watching in Barnard's Copse, 
 and had fallen in with half a dozen poachers, and got his 
 head broken. This was not where they had been shoot- 
 ing, but on the other side of the park, on the head-keep- 
 er's beat. George Beddington, the head-keeper, lived 
 within a quarter of a mile of the house, on the way to 
 the Welham Lodge. The second keeper, a man named 
 Challen, lived the other side of the lake, just inside the 
 park wall. 
 
 Well, there was a great talk about this at luncheon ; 
 and in the end I got leave to take some jelly and some 
 port down to the wounded man. Sophie couldn't come, 
 as she was wanted to drive with Aunt Harriet. They 
 had some things at Selworth, like big jam-pots, covered 
 with basket-work, in which we used to take jelly and 
 soup and things to the poor people. So I armed myself 
 with one of these, full of strong jelly, and a bottle of 
 port, and started off. In those days port was looked 
 upon as a universal remedy for all ailments, especially
 
 A SHOOTING PARTY 83 
 
 the ailments of the lower order. As a matter of fact, it 
 was probably rank poison to poor Tom, and the wonder 
 is it didn't kill him. 
 
 I found the whole family in -father, mother, Jack, 
 the second son, a boy of seventeen, and Minnie, the 
 daughter. Tom was in bed, but fairly cheerful, and 
 immensely grateful for my remedies; I asked him about 
 the affair, but there was not much to tell. He had 
 come upon a party of six poachers, and tried to take 
 their guns and the game they had. Whereupon they had 
 clubbed him with the butt end of their guns, and made 
 off. They were all masked, so he could swear to none 
 of them, but he was pretty sure he had recognised old 
 Ned Morris's limp. 
 
 After this I used to go down every day, and never 
 empty-handed. I took a great liking to this family, they 
 were all so honest-looking and so grateful, and so Eng- 
 lish. Tom was a fine-looking young fellow about one- 
 and-twenty and picked up again wonderfully quick, 
 though I suspect he made the worst of his head when- 
 ever I came. I suppose he was afraid the port and jelly 
 would stop if he got well too quick. I liked the girl, 
 too. Jack was rather shy and awkward, and seemed 
 frightened of me, but he had a good open face. 
 
 It struck me as odd that Uncle Guy never raised any 
 objections to my going to see these people, even though 
 they were a part of the objectionable legacy. 
 
 Sophie thought it must be because George Bedding- 
 ton was such a good keeper. He was not a mere charity 
 pensioner, she said, like his mother in the Manor House. 
 That may have been it; but, whatever the reason was, 
 he actually encouraged my going, and used to ask me 
 every evening for news of my patient, as he called Tom.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 STOKER AND HAMADRYAD 
 
 A BOUT a week after that awful shooting-party, I 
 ** suddenly took it into my head one morning to go 
 and have a look at Inversnaid. It was more than a 
 month since I had been there, and I felt rather ashamed 
 of myself. The morning was splendid one of those 
 still, sunny, crisp December days that for beauty and 
 enjoyment beat any summer day that ever was made. 
 The old tree hadn't a leaf left on it, and looked all the 
 more huge and majestic for its nakedness. I felt so 
 glad I had come. It was like meeting an old friend 
 again. I pulled off my jacket and hat, and threw them 
 on the ground, and wriggled up "the drawbridge" in 
 the old graceful fashion new clothes and all! and 
 lighted a fire, and enjoyed myself thoroughly. From 
 the very tip-top of my branch, now that the leaves were 
 off, I could just get a glimpse of the lake, two miles 
 away, and far away beyond that again I could see the 
 steeple of Greystoke church sticking up into the haze of 
 the horizon. I was in great spirits that morning; no- 
 body could have helped it on such a day as that. I got 
 my head entangled among a thick bunch of twigs, and 
 they pulled all my hairpins out, but I only laughed. 
 I could hear them tinkling down from one branch to 
 another till they buried themselves at last in the soft 
 carpet of leaves below. I laughed again, but made a 
 
 8 4
 
 STOKER AND HAMADRYAD 85 
 
 mental note that I must get into the house by way of 
 the garden, and by my own little turret door, for fear of 
 meeting Aunt Harriet. For the rest, I didn't care a 
 rap; I rather liked having my hair down. 
 
 From my perch at the top of the tree one couldn't 
 see the fireplace; it was hidden by the thick growth of 
 stuff below. I began to think it might want looking to, 
 so scrambled down leisurely towards the lower regions. 
 My branch did not form one of the actual walls of the 
 banqueting hall; there was a smaller branch between, 
 round the base of which one had to dodge in order to 
 get in or out. I ducked my head, and swung myself 
 round this branch, and then stood still, and gasped; for 
 there, sitting on Arthur's Seat, and quietly smoking a 
 cigarette, was Mr. Grayle! 
 
 I grabbed at my hair, in a feeble, spasmodic attempt 
 to fasten it up, but of course it was utterly futile no 
 pins. I am sure I got very red, and looked generally 
 idiotic; I know I felt it. 
 
 "How on earth did you get here?" I asked at length, 
 for he did nothing but sit there grinning. 
 
 "I came up by a new way," he said. "I will show 
 you afterwards; it's not very difficult. You see it was 
 on the other side of the tree to where you were, so you 
 never noticed me." 
 
 "Did you see me up there?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, I saw you; but I saw your hat and jacket first; 
 it was that that attracted me." 
 
 "Well, I don't think you have any business to come 
 without being asked; this is my tree." 
 
 I was rather angry at being caught with my hair 
 down. 
 
 "You forget," he said, laughing he was always
 
 86 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 laughing, and generally at me, I think "you forget, 
 you gave me a branch all to myself." 
 
 "Did I?" I said. "Well, you had better go there, 
 then." 
 
 "But," he said, "I remember you carefully explaining 
 to me that all tenants of branches had a common right 
 to the use of the banqueting hall." 
 
 "Very well, then, you can stay here, and I'll go to 
 my branch again." 
 
 "And who's going to keep up the fire?" 
 
 "You can, if you like; I shan't!" 
 
 "I shall be delighted," he said; "you see, I am stoker 
 by appointment to the Queen Dryad." 
 
 "All right," I said, "good-bye." 
 
 I went right up my branch again, and sat there. 
 I could see Mr. Grayle climbing about, getting sticks. 
 He worked very hard, and I began to feel slightly 
 ashamed of myself for being so cross. I also wanted 
 rather to come down and help. 
 
 "I say, stoker!" I shouted. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Just get down and see if you can find my hairpins; 
 they're somewhere among the leaves under the tree." 
 
 "Oh," he said, "in that case they're as good as 
 found. The leaves are only two feet deep, and a hair- 
 pin's a thing one can't possibly miss." 
 
 However, he went down and poked about, and actu- 
 ally did find one. 
 
 "Well done!" I cried, "now for the others." 
 
 "Oh, the others are gone," he said, lazily; "you will 
 have to do with this one." 
 
 He swung himself up into the tree, and began coming 
 up my branch.
 
 STOKER AND HAMADRYAD 87 
 
 "What are you doing?" I cried. "How dare you 
 come into a lady's branch like this? Go away!" 
 
 "I was bringing you your hairpin," he said, coolly. 
 
 "Oh, bother the hairpin! What's the use of one?" 
 
 "I don't know, I'm sure," he said. "Better than 
 nothing, I suppose." 
 
 "No, that's just what it isn't. You can keep it! 
 I don't want it." 
 
 "Thanks," he said, "I will." 
 
 He put it very slowly into his waistcoat pocket, and 
 began climbing up the branch. 
 
 "Where are you coming?" I cried. "Do you know 
 you're trespassing? Go away! It's most ungentlemanly!" 
 
 "I want to have a talk with you, Miss Dryad," he 
 said, laughing in the most irritating manner. 
 
 "Do you? Well, you can go to your own branch and 
 talk." 
 
 "Oh, no; that would make us hoarse. This is much 
 more comfortable." 
 
 "I think you are perfectly odious!" I said. "I don't 
 think I ever met any one quite so horrid!" 
 
 He laughed again, and came up a branch or two 
 higher. I was like a rat in a trap; there was no escape. 
 I was already as high as I could get. 
 
 "Well?" he said, looking up at me. 
 
 I took no notice whatever. I turned my back as 
 much as I could without falling off, and stared across in 
 the direction of Greystoke. We must have sat like this 
 in dead silence for about ten minutes. Then, for no 
 reason at all, I suddenly burst out laughing. It was 
 perfectly idiotic, of course, and goodness knows why I 
 did it, except that it was so silly sitting there like a 
 couple of owls. He laughed, too, of course, and after
 
 88 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 that it was no use pretending to be angry, so I gave it 
 up. 
 
 "Where have you been all this time, Miss Dryad?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Where have I been! Where have you been, you 
 mean. I haven't been anywhere." 
 
 "Five times have I had occasion to pass this tree 
 during the last month, but never once has there been 
 any sign of a hamadryad sporting about among the 
 branches." 
 
 "Oh, I haven't been here much for the last month or 
 so. I have had other things to do; but before that I 
 was here pretty often." 
 
 "That must have been when I was in Norfolk. I went 
 there for a fortnight's shooting about then." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "And during the rest of this month, are you likely to 
 have other things to do, do you suppose?" 
 
 "Oh, /don't know; how can I tell?" 
 
 "Because I have every reason to believe that the 
 Duke's business will necessitate my coming this way 
 pretty near every day." 
 
 "Stoker, the fire's going out; I can tell by the 
 smoke." 
 
 "Bother the fire!" said the stoker. 
 
 "If you abuse my fire, I shall have to discharge you." 
 
 "Oh, I am sure you wouldn't do that," he said. "If 
 you did, it would make me very, very unhappy." 
 
 "Well, then, go down and stoke. I think you are 
 rather dull to-day." 
 
 He went like a lamb. 
 
 "I am coming down, too," I called out after him. 
 "It's time for me to go home."
 
 STOKER AND HAMADRYAD 89 
 
 Now, I have already explained that in order to get 
 from the base of my branch to the central platform, 
 known as the banqueting hall, it was necessary to swing 
 round a smaller branch that stood in the way a miser- 
 able thing, no bigger than a full-grown birch-tree, and 
 not considered worthy of either a name or a tenant it 
 was merely a supplier of fuel. There was nothing the 
 least difficult in this performance; the only thing was, 
 one had to hold on with the left hand and swing round 
 with a jerk. Whether what now took place was entirely 
 accidental or not, I don't know; I have my suspicions 
 that it was not; but however that may be, what hap- 
 pened was that I swung myself with a tremendous bang 
 right round into Mr. Grayle's very arms. He was stand- 
 ing, of course, on the platform, out of sight of me, till I 
 came with a bump up against him. The worst of it was, 
 that instead of getting out of the way and apologising, 
 and hoping I was not hurt, and all the rest of it, he held 
 me tight in his arms, and kissed me half a dozen times 
 before I could get away. I was furious. 
 
 "You brute!" I cried, "you pig! I shall never speak 
 to you again!" 
 
 He fell back, and looked perfectly miserable. I have 
 never seen any one look quite so ashamed ; I shouldn't 
 have thought Mr. Grayle could have looked so ashamed. 
 
 "Miss de Metrier," he said, slowly, "I deserve all the 
 names you have called me, and more; but it was an acci- 
 dent. I give you my word it was a pure accident. I am 
 very sorry; I can say nothing more." 
 
 As if any one could kiss one half a dozen times by 
 accident! 
 
 "Mr. Grayle," I said, "you have behaved perfectly 
 disgracefully, and I shall never speak to you again."
 
 90 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "I don't deserve that you should," he said, humbly. 
 "Still, if you knew all that it would mean to me if you 
 didn't, you might not be quite so hard on me." 
 
 Poor fellow! he did look so wretched. I felt sorry I 
 had called him a pig. 
 
 "Do you really mean that my offence has been so 
 great that you can never speak to me again?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I do," I said, hotly, and holding myself very 
 stiff; I didn't mean it, of course, but I felt I must keep 
 up my dignity. 
 
 "Then I will go," he said, meekly. "But before I 
 go, I must tell you this." He paused as though he had 
 a difficulty in finding words. "What I did, unpardon- 
 able though it was, I only did because what I mean is, 
 I would sooner have died than deliberately do anything 
 to hurt or annoy you. Will you believe this?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, very low, and looking away. 
 
 I felt pretty wretched myself. I longed to tell him 
 that I hadn't really minded very much, but of course I 
 couldn't do that. So I stiffened my back, and frowned 
 hard at the red embers in the fireplace. 
 
 "I would sooner die than hurt you," he went on, in 
 an odd sort of voice, "because, you know, you are 
 dearer to me than any one else in the world. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 He dropped down into the thick leaves below, and 
 strode away without once looking back. The look on 
 his face made me feel perfectly miserable. I stood 
 thinking for a minute or two, and then I dropped down 
 after him, and followed yes, actually followed him! 
 I could not let him go like that. He had gone a good 
 way, and I had to run to catch him up. He never 
 turned till I was close upon him, hot, and red, and pant-
 
 STOKER AND HAMADRYAD 91 
 
 ing. I felt myself going scarlet, and wished I had 
 stayed in the tree, but it was too late now. 
 
 "Mr. Grayle," I said, looking at his boots, "I am 
 sorry I called you a pig." 
 
 There was a dead silence for what seemed an age. 
 I knew his eyes were on my face, but I kept on looking 
 at his boots as long as I could. At last almost in spite 
 of myself I looked up, and there he was smiling at me 
 with the old look I knew so well. I was so glad to see 
 it again that I suppose I smiled, too. Anyhow, he 
 caught me by the two hands, and looking straight into 
 my eyes, said: "Little Dryad, if you are sorry, you must 
 care a little; do you?" 
 
 "I don't know," I said, "perhaps I do; I have never 
 thought about it." 
 
 Which, I am sorry to say, was not quite true, for I 
 had thought about it a good deal, and I knew that I did 
 care very much. 
 
 "Little Dryad," he said, still holding my hands, "do 
 you think you could ever care enough to marry a poor, 
 penniless land-agent?" 
 
 "I don't know," I said; "please let me go." 
 
 I tugged at my hands, but he held them fast, and 
 drew me closer. 
 
 "Say yes," he whispered, "and I will let you go." 
 
 I don't think I did say yes, but he took it for granted, 
 and he certainly did not let me go at least not for 
 another ten minutes. 
 
 "Wherever have you been, Josephine," said my aunt, 
 when I arrived half an hour late for luncheon. 
 
 "I have been in Flexham Wood, Aunt Harriet," I 
 said, "and I am afraid I quite forgot all about luncheon. ' ' 
 Which was strictly true.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MORE EXPLOSIONS 
 
 X 1 fHAT words can describe the glory of the days that 
 * followed? If Selworth was Paradise before, what 
 was it now? If Inversnaid before had been a thing to 
 dream of, what was to be said of it now? The joy of it 
 all was so immense that it positively hurt. I hardly knew 
 what to do to prevent going mad from sheer happiness. 
 That I should have gained the love of such a man as 
 Sydney Grayle seemed a thing so utterly incredible that 
 I had to go to Inversnaid every morning to make sure if 
 it was true. While I was there, there was no further 
 room for doubt about it; but no sooner had I got home 
 again than the thing seemed too impossibly good to be 
 true. It was the doubt about my own attractions that 
 made me so unbelieving. What in the world could he 
 see in a girl like me? It must be the new clothes, I 
 thought. I felt positive he would never have proposed 
 to me in my old white stockings. I asked him about 
 this once, about a week afterwards, and he laughed so 
 that he nearly fell off the tree. I saw nothing to laugh 
 at; I was perfectly serious. I didn't believe he would 
 have, and I told him so. No man would propose to a 
 girl in white cotton stockings. Sydney said when he 
 had done laughing 'for five minutes that it would have 
 made no difference if I had been in striped stockings and 
 buff clothes, marked with a broad arrow. I asked him 
 
 93
 
 MORE EXPLOSIONS 93 
 
 what it was he liked in me, and he smiled in the old 
 mocking way, and said it was the way my hair fell over 
 my eyes. I told him Uncle Guy called me a Skye ter- 
 rier, and he seemed rather to like the idea, and said he 
 would tie a blue ribbon round my neck and lead me 
 about! Such drivel! 
 
 I used to go to the tree every morning now, but we 
 lit no more fires, the smoke showed too much. Norman 
 was away somewhere shooting; he was always in great 
 request, and was asked about all over the place. So no 
 one troubled himself about what I did in the morn- 
 ing, which was a blessing. We agreed to say nothing 
 about our engagement engagement! how grand it 
 sounded! at least not for the present. We thought 
 people might try and stop our meeting in the tree, or 
 come with us and watch us, or drag us about to places, 
 and make a sort of show of us, and spoil everything. 
 
 "We'll tell them all about it presently," Sydney said, 
 "there's no hurry." 
 
 I was in no hurry. There was an enormous sweet- 
 ness in our secret being a secret; and to tell the truth, 
 I was just the least bit afraid of what the others might 
 say, especially Aunt Harriet. I had a sort of idea it was 
 not usual to get engaged to men you had only met at 
 the top of a tree; a man, too, that you had never been 
 introduced to, or anything. 
 
 Sydney said we could get married in the spring. He 
 asked who my guardians were, and I said I didn't think 
 I had any, but that my aunts at Chelmsford were the 
 only people whose opinion I should bother about. I 
 should have loved to have taken him off straight away, 
 and shown him to them, but not the Selworth people. 
 
 Then I told him very seriously that I was absolutely
 
 94 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 without a penny in the world and, what was more, that 
 I never could by any possibility have one. And then, 
 for about two minutes, he too was very serious, and told 
 me that he, too, had absolutely nothing but what he got 
 from his agency; and that any day he might be turned 
 off, or the Duke might die, and Lord Barham not care 
 about keeping him on, in which case he would be little 
 better than a beggar. And then he said, almost 
 solemnly, that he thought it was almost a sin to ask any 
 girl to marry a man in such a position, and that if I 
 were not quite sure of myself he would set me free, and 
 go away and never see me again. And I got very angry 
 and offended, and told him he was at perfect liberty to 
 back out of it if he wanted to, and that I should not care 
 tuppence if he did; and we very near had a bad quar- 
 rel, but in the end things came right again, as they have 
 a way of doing at the beginning. 
 
 I suppose no one since the beginning of the world 
 has ever been quite so happy as we were. They couldn't 
 have been. As to me, my spirits were so ridiculous 
 so idiotic, I might almost say that every one noticed it. 
 I am not surprised. I should have been very much sur- 
 prised if they had not noticed it. I was never given to 
 doleful dumps not even in Chelmsford Church but now 
 it was with the greatest difficulty I could sit still in a 
 chair. Whenever I walked I ran which sounds Irish, 
 but is quite true -and whenever I rode I galloped; and 
 when I was doing neither I sang songs without words 
 (or tune). 
 
 " Ton my soul, Joe," said Uncle Guy, "we shall 
 have to do something to you soon if you go on like this 
 put you on bread and water, or make you smoke opium 
 or something. What right have you, or any one else, to
 
 MORE EXPLOSIONS 95 
 
 look so ridiculously well, and have such ridiculously high 
 spirits? How do you manage it?" 
 
 "I don't know," I said, laughing. "I can't help it. 
 I suppose it's being at Selworth. " 
 
 "You like Selworth, then, eh?" 
 
 "Like it! I love it!" 
 
 I saw my uncle shoot a quick glance at Father 
 Terence, and I also saw Father Terence smile back an 
 answering glance at my uncle. I wondered what their 
 private joke was. 
 
 "Well, I hardly call it decent 'pon my word, I 
 don't with poor gouty old crocks like me about. You 
 ought to have some consideration for our feelings." 
 
 "Yes, Josephine, and for our poor nerves," chimed 
 in Aunt Harriet, taking him au pied de la lettre, as she 
 would have called it; "there are times when I really feel 
 quite accablee by your excessive vigour." 
 
 She spoke almost contemptuously. I really believe 
 she thought nerves were as necessary to a well-bred per- 
 son as a hair-brush. 
 
 "I am very sorry," I said; "I shall take to strong tea 
 and strong cigars. Perhaps that will do me good." 
 
 "I believe you are quite capable of it, my dear," said 
 my aunt, icily. 
 
 If we had only known, there was no need of any of 
 these things to blot out my spirits, and bring me down 
 to a proper state of nervous gentility. Mercifully, how- 
 ever, we are not prophets. There was not a single cloud 
 in my sky just then. How could I tell of the black 
 storm gathering below the horizon? The first rumble 
 of it came the very next day. 
 
 Sydney and I had been for our usual two hours in the 
 tree, and we were standing at the top of the bank, close
 
 96 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 to the end of the drawbridge, saying good-bye, when a 
 man on horseback came suddenly into sight, trotting 
 briskly up the hill from the direction of the Plain. It 
 was Uncle Guy. Sydney and I stood like statues. I 
 don't think at first my uncle saw who it was. He came 
 trotting up with his broad red face smiling good-humour- 
 edly, and I thought what a perfect type he looked of an 
 English country gentleman. He was short-sighted with- 
 out his glasses, and he was close on to us before he real- 
 ised who we were. Then he pulled up with a jerk, and 
 sat there staring with his mouth wide open. I was pre- 
 pared for a lecture, but I was not in the least ashamed; 
 in fact, I was rather proud, to tell the truth, that he 
 should see me with the man whose love I had gained. 
 So I waited, with the smile on my face of a person who 
 has been caught out in an innocent fraud. But the 
 smile did not last long. Uncle Guy looked as if he had 
 seen a ghost; his jolly face went as white as a cloth, and 
 he clutched with one hand at the pommel of his saddle. 
 
 "What's all this?" he said. 
 
 The words came out very quick and faint, as though 
 he were short of breath. 
 
 "This is .Mr. Grayle, uncle," I said, smiling as well 
 as I could. 
 
 "Yes, I know Mr. Grayle," he said. His voice was 
 stronger, and the colour was slowly coming back to his 
 face. "And may I ask to what I owe the pleasure of 
 Mr. Grayle's presence in my park?" 
 
 I gave a start, and looked up in horror. It was not 
 so much the words, as the tone of voice. He was speak- 
 ing through his teeth, and in a slow and strained voice 
 that sounded dreadful. His eyes seemed to have got 
 quite close together and very small, and on his forehead
 
 MORE EXPLOSIONS 97 
 
 there stood out the great V-shaped vein that I remem- 
 bered noticing that terrible luncheon after I had been 
 to Mrs. Beddington's. 
 
 "I was not aware that you excluded people from 
 your park, Mr. de Metrier," Sydney said, quietly. 
 
 "No, sir; but I exclude poachers!" His voice was 
 raised now, almost to a shout, and the look on his face 
 was appalling. , 
 
 "Certainly," said Sydney, laughing; "that is cus- 
 tomary in most parks." 
 
 His self-control was beautiful. He looked so splen- 
 didly calm beside the other. Uncle Guy pulled out a 
 bandanna and mopped his face. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" he laughed. "Very good, very good 
 customary in most parks so it is so it is! No doubt 
 you are bothered at Ashby just the same as we are 
 here; damnable country for poachers worst in Eng- 
 land." 
 
 He went on holding his handkerchief to his head till 
 I thought he must be ill; then suddenly he said: 
 
 "By the way, let me introduce my niece to you." 
 
 "Thank you," said Sydney, pleasantly, "I have made 
 Miss de Metrier's acquaintance." 
 
 "Quite so quite so almost old friends, no doubt 
 sorry I must carry her off luncheon time, you know 
 mustn't be late, mustn't be late pitched into hot by 
 her ladyship if one is, you know. Ha! ha!" 
 
 His face was quite white again, and looked so ghastly 
 that I was frightened. 
 
 "Come along, Josephine ; we must trot off now. Good 
 day, Mr. Grayle. " 
 
 I walked by the side of his horse, and we moved 
 slowly away towards the house. We went in dead silence
 
 98 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 till we reached the foot of the hill, some quarter of a mile 
 away. Then he stopped his horse and faced me. 
 
 "So," he said, speaking through his teeth again, "you 
 dear little unsophisticated thing, you sweet innocent 
 babe, you artless child of nature, you shameless aban- 
 doned jade, this is the way you spend your mornings, is 
 it? running about after men in the woods?" 
 
 "I hope I haven't done anything wrong, uncle," I 
 said. I was perfectly terrified by his manner. He 
 looked like a madman. * 
 
 "Oh, dear, no, sweet Miss Innocence! nothing the 
 least wrong lying to your aunt and me day after day 
 telling us you were exploring the woods and what not 
 and all the while you were carrying on with this man. 
 You worthless little baggage, you you want whipping, 
 that's what you want! How long have you known this 
 fellow?" 
 
 "Oh, several weeks." 
 
 "Several weeks! Several weeks! v Lord of mercy! 
 Several weeks! And this is your return for all our kind- 
 ness to you, is it? This is the sort of girl I have brought 
 here as a companion to my daughter, is it? Oh! you 
 you damned little viper!" 
 
 I thought he was going to hit me. He flourished the 
 cane in his hand over my head and back, and once I 
 actually shut my eyes and crouched, expecting the blow. 
 But it never came. I was spared that. The man was 
 clearly out of his mind, and he had to hit something, so 
 he hit the poor horse. It was a beautiful thorough- 
 bred one that had come from his racing-stables and 
 at this strange treatment it bounded forward, with its 
 head in the air, and broke into a gallop. Again and 
 again he hit it till the cane broke in his hand, and he
 
 MORE EXPLOSIONS 99 
 
 was carried out of my sight. The next minute I saw 
 him again, galloping like a mad thing across the Plain. 
 
 Uncle Guy did not appear at luncheon that day; he 
 had some taken to his own room. As for me, I was still 
 so frightened, and shaken, and miserable, that I could 
 neither eat nor talk. What had I done that was so 
 dreadful? I would have given anything to know. For 
 that I had done something which was very bad indeed I 
 had not the slightest doubt. Uncle Guy would never 
 have gone on the way he did about nothing. 
 
 So I sat and puzzled over it, with a white, miserable 
 face, and got not an inch nearer the truth for all my 
 puzzling. I felt perfectly wretched at having so annoyed 
 my uncle. It was quite true what he had said that they 
 had given me nothing but kindness ever since I had been 
 at Selworth, and the only return I had made for all this 
 was to do something which had displeased him so dread- 
 fully that he was unable to come to luncheon. What 
 could it be? As to the names he had called me, I trou- 
 bled myself not a rap. I felt certain I deserved them all, 
 and more. If I had not done something very bad he 
 would certainly not have been so angry. None of the 
 others at luncheon knew anything about it. I told them 
 I had a headache and felt sick, which was perfectly true. 
 Aunt Harriet wanted to send for the doctor, and when I 
 wouldn't have that, insisted on my going to bed at once, 
 which I was very glad to do. So in bed I stayed all that 
 day and the next. The doctor came, of course, and 
 looked very wise, and said I had got a chill from getting 
 wet feet; and that afternoon sent up three bottles of 
 medicine, which I emptied out of the window. 
 
 On the afternoon of the second day, to my amaze- 
 ment, Uncle Guy came to see me. Poor man! he looked
 
 ioo THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 quite sheepish and ashamed. I longed to tell him how 
 sorry I was for being so ungrateful and annoying him 
 so, but he never gave me the chance. He talked inces- 
 santly from the moment he came in, and seemed so 
 anxious to make it up, and make friends, and forget all 
 about what had happened the day before, that after the 
 first five minutes I couldn't have said anything about it 
 to save my life. 
 
 "Not much amiss, little Joe?" he said. "That's right, 
 that's right. Couldn't do without you downstairs, you 
 know couldn't do without you, damme no miss that 
 bonnie face of yours terribly. We'll send you up some 
 champagne to-night nothing like champagne to put any 
 one on their feet again. Can't take it myself gout, you 
 know plays the very dickens with me so does port, 
 worse luck! so does port temper goes wrong, you 
 know damnably wrong always had the worst temper 
 in Europe means nothing, you know soon over and all 
 that, but the very devil while it lasts got me into many 
 a tight place ha! ha! ha! many a tight place Gad! 
 yes. Nobody minds it, though, who knows me not a 
 rap! 'Poor, peppery old devil!' they say. 'All bark, no 
 bite; not a bad-hearted old chap at bottom always sorry 
 after he has broken out.' Well, well, little niece, I must 
 be trotting off glad to see you looking so well does 
 one good to see you does us all good to see you, Gad! 
 yes don't know what we should do without you 
 brighten up the whole place. As to Norman, blest if I 
 don't believe the boy would stand on his head for a week 
 to please you; never saw any one so gone never; quite 
 comical it is. Norman, too, of all people! Ha! ha! ha! 
 Norman, that all the girls in London have been setting 
 their caps at these last five years! Never would look at
 
 MORE EXPLOSIONS 101 
 
 them never cared a snap of his fingers for any girl that 
 lived and now to be bowled over neck and heels by a 
 little minx of a cousin. Ha! ha! ha! Gad! though, I 
 don't blame him not I. Well, good-bye, little girl; 
 pitch into that champagne well, and come down as soon 
 as ever you can place don't seem the same without 
 you all the brightness gone dull as ditch-water now 
 dull as ditch-water!" 
 
 He waved his hand, and went shuffling out with a nod 
 and a smile. Poor old uncle! he was like a big child 
 with his roundabout apology. I felt so touched I almost 
 cried; but I didn't. I did something far more sensible, 
 for I rang the bell, and told Griffiths I was quite well, 
 and going to get up at once. Griffiths looked relieved. 
 She was not fond of waiting on me, and, goodness 
 knows, I didn't trouble her much when I was well. Of 
 course, when I was in bed it was different; she had to be 
 there more or less. 
 
 "When will you have your hot water, miss?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, now, please," I said; 'I shall get up at once." 
 
 "Very good, miss," she said, looking more like an 
 old vinegar pot than usual. I forgot till afterwards that 
 it was just the servants' tea-time. However, I needn't 
 have worried. She took pretty good care to have her 
 tea comfortably, and without hurrying, before she 
 thought of bringing me my things. I wished to good- 
 ness Aunt Harriet would have let one of the housemaids 
 look after me, or even Sophie's maid; I couldn't stand 
 old Griffiths. I had tried hard to like her at first, but it 
 was no good. She seemed to be thinking the whole time 
 she was with me what a hardship it was, and how unin- 
 teresting a person I was to look after, with my few poor
 
 102 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 dresses, and my one crystal locket as my entire stock of 
 jewellery. I suppose she thought I was too poor to tip 
 her well at the end, which, of course, I was. 
 
 So Griffiths and I didn't quite hit it off. I am sure she 
 thought me a heathen, too, for not going to chapel in 
 the mornings; she told me as much a dozen times. 
 Well, if she was a type of Christian, I would sooner be a 
 heathen any day. However, enough of old Griffiths. 
 
 They were all so pleased to see me down, and so kind 
 and nice, and Uncle Guy gave us all champagne at din- 
 ner which, by the way, he was not over fond of doing 
 unless there were visitors and Father Terence got 
 extremely convivial, and Aunt Harriet made at least two 
 jokes, and altogether it was one of the pleasantest even- 
 ings we had had since I came.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 I HAVE A BIRTHDAY 
 
 twelfth of December was my birthday. I had 
 said nothing about it myself, and had no idea the 
 others knew. So when I came down to breakfast, and 
 was greeted with a chorus of "Many happy returns!" 
 and with much kissing, and many little packets done up 
 in silver paper and tied round with blue ribbon, it quite 
 took my breath away. Norman gave me nothing, but 
 was not behind with the rest, I remember. 
 
 It was a glorious day, still and bright and frosty. 
 From the dining-room windows one could see a thin mist 
 still hanging over the Plain, and the deer moving about 
 in it like ghosts. Over the top of the mist, and stand- 
 ing out clear and crisp in the sunshine were the Flex- 
 ham Woods on the hill, a mile away; and higher still, a 
 huge procession of rooks were slowly plodding across the 
 sky, filling the still, silent air with their cries. A grand 
 day for a birthday, I thought; a grand day to be alive 
 at all, at any age, but a particularly grand day at nine- 
 teen. 
 
 There were two long letters with the Chelmsford post- 
 mark two dear, sweet letters, telling of two little pres- 
 ents laboriously worked by four loving old hands, which 
 presents, alas! had not come. And there was a large 
 white cake in the middle of the table, with nineteen can- 
 dles round it (not to be lighted till tea-time), and "Joe"
 
 104 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 on top, in twisted pink letters. I knew as soon as I saw 
 it who had given orders about that cake; no one but 
 Uncle Guy would have had "Joe" put on it. 
 
 I wondered what Norman was going to give me, and 
 why he was keeping his present back. Of course, I 
 knew he was going to give me something; he was won- 
 derfully generous at all times, and had already given me 
 more that one present; so that on a birthday it was a 
 certainty; but why keep it back? 
 
 "Will you come for a walk, Joe?" he asked after 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Of course, I will," I said. "Where shall we go 
 the 'Marsh'?" 
 
 "No; I want to take you my way to-day; you have 
 done leader often enough. I believe there's at least half 
 of the park that you know nothing about." 
 
 "All right," I said. "I don't care where we go, as 
 long as we go somewhere. It's a sin to stay indoors on 
 a day like this. I'll go and put on my hat." 
 
 "All right," he said; "no hurry." 
 
 He took me across the Plain, but bearing away to the 
 left. Flexham Wood and Inversnaid and the old Manor 
 House all lay away to the right. He was quite right; I 
 hardly ever came that way why, I don't know. I sup- 
 pose I preferred sticking to old friends. He took me 
 round the shoulder of the hill, and up the glen beyond 
 the narrow glen that cuts the wood in two. After we 
 had gone for a quarter of a mile up this, we turned to 
 the left up the hill into the wood. I had never been 
 near this part of the park before ; it was too far away 
 for comfort. I remember thinking, as we walked, that 
 the entrance to Dante's Inferno ought certainly to have 
 been here, instead of in prosy little Marigold Marsh. It
 
 I HAVE A BIRTHDAY 105 
 
 was a huge, gloomy, silent beech wood, the trunks of the 
 trees white and shiny with age, and towering up into the 
 very sky; underneath, of course, bare of anything but 
 the red carpet of leaves. Here and there among the 
 trees were strange little ponds of black rain-water, 
 choked up with leaves. 
 
 We climbed and climbed, and then quite suddenly 
 came upon a place the existence of which I had never 
 even dreamt of. This was a kind of knob or mound 
 bulging up in the middle of the wood; the trees formed 
 a clean circle round it, and seven avenues starred out- 
 wards, showing far-off glimpses of the park. It simply 
 took my breath away, it was so beautiful! One looked 
 through long dark lanes of trees down on to the sunlit 
 plains beyond. One of them pointed straight to the 
 house itself, two miles away; another showed the whole 
 length of the lake shimmering in the sun, and beyond, 
 again, the double towers of the Greystoke Lodge; and 
 another pointed to the chalk pit up by the Welham 
 Lodge; and another to the ups and downs of woodland 
 that rose beyond the old Manor House. 
 
 It was a glorious scene, only to be seen in its full 
 beauty in midwinter, when the trees were naked. The 
 mound itself was covered with long, coarse yellow grass 
 partridge grass, I think, they call it and on this we 
 flung ourselves down in the warm sunshine, and revelled 
 in the beauty of the scene before us. There was not a 
 sound of any sort to break the silence and stillness of 
 the day except the distant cawing of some rooks down 
 towards the lake. We neither of us spoke for some time ; 
 then Norman said: 
 
 "It's a fine view, isn't it?" 
 
 "Heavenly!" I said.
 
 io6 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 After another long pause, he said : 
 
 "It's nice to think that all this will be mine as long 
 as I live." 
 
 "I should think so, indeed," I said; "you lucky fel- 
 low! I don't believe you half appreciate it." 
 
 "You think you'd appreciate it better, do you?" 
 
 "I know I should," I said, laughing, "infinitely. I'm 
 quite certain I'm a thousand times fonder of the place 
 than any of you are. People never half value the things 
 they've got." 
 
 "Would you like to live here, Joe, for the rest of your 
 life?" 
 
 "Well, naturally, I should. What a question!" 
 
 "You can if you like," he said, looking at me. 
 
 "What on earth do you mean, Norman?" said I, know- 
 ing perfectly well, of course. 
 
 "Little Joe," he said, taking no notice of my ques- 
 tion, "I have got a present for you here; I do hope you 
 will like it." 
 
 He pulled a small round parcel from his pocket, and 
 put it in my hand. 
 
 "O Norman," I said, "it is good of you to think of 
 my birthday. I really didn't want anything. Oh! how 
 lovely! !!" 
 
 It was a diamond and ruby half-loop bracelet, with a 
 true lover's knot in the middle. I gasped, and looked 
 at Norman, who was smiling up at me from the 
 grass. 
 
 "It is not "for me, Norman?" 
 
 "Yes, for you, my sweet little cousin, and not nearly 
 good enough, either." 
 
 "O Norman, I can't take it." 
 
 "Why not?"
 
 I HAVE A BIRTHDAY 107 
 
 "Oh, it's too much far too much for me! It must 
 have cost a fortune." 
 
 "Nonsense!" he said; "it's nothing to what I should 
 like to give you. I should like to see half a jeweller's 
 shop on your arms and neck, and glittering on the top of 
 that sweet little head of yours. Will you let me get 
 them, Joe?" 
 
 He had hold of my hand, and was drawing me to- 
 wards him. 
 
 "Joe," he said, "dear little Joe, let me do this. I will 
 make a queen of you, and crown you with diamonds, and 
 you shall reign over Selworth the Selworth you are so 
 fond of for ever and ever, as long as we live. Say you 
 will, Joe; I will be so good to you, and make you hap- 
 pier than anybody ever was before." 
 
 I felt perfectly miserable. It would be nonsense, of 
 course, to pretend that I didn't know Norman liked me, 
 but that he should want to marry me had never for one 
 moment entered into my head; the idea was too prepos- 
 terous why should he? 
 
 "Norman," I said, "you can't mean this; you are 
 not serious." 
 
 I knew, of course, he was, poor fellow! One had 
 only to look at his face; it was all white and drawn. 
 
 "Not serious!" he laughed. "Not serious! Heavens 
 above! I wish I was not. I'm sick with love of you, 
 Joe positively sick with love." 
 
 "No, no," I cried, "you can't be; it's impossible! 
 What is there in me to be in love with?" 
 
 "Joe, Joe!" he said, clutching at my hand, "say it's 
 all right! For God's sake, say it's all right!" 
 
 ' ' But it's all wrong, Norman dreadfully wrong ! Oh ! 
 what in the world has put this madness into your head?"
 
 io8 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Madness!" he cried, "there's no madness about it. 
 Nobody but a stone could live in the same house with 
 you, and not fall head over ears in love. Joe, you will 
 marry me, won't you?" 
 
 "I can't, Norman," I said. "I'm dreadfully sorry, 
 but I can't." 
 
 He let go my hand, and sat bolt 'upright, looking 
 straight before him. I stared away over at the lake, 
 feeling more miserable than I can say; it all seemed so 
 brutal and ungrateful ; but what could I do? 
 
 "Joe," he said, after a little, speaking very slowly 
 and looking the other way, "if you only knew all that 
 this meant to me, and others, I think you would give a 
 different answer I am sure you would. You don't dis- 
 like me, do you?" 
 
 "Of course I don't," I said; "you must know that, 
 Norman. I like you ever so much. " 
 
 "Then, why won't you marry me?" 
 
 I was silent. What could I say? 
 
 "Is it that fellow Grayle?" 
 
 "Yes, it is Mr. Grayle." 
 
 There was a long pause. Then he said: 
 
 "Do you know, Joe, that Grayle is practically a beg- 
 gar that he has no right to ask any girl to marry him? 
 I call it a selfish, cowardly thing for a man to drag a girl 
 he pretends to like into a life of starvation and drudgery 
 infernally selfish! He ought to be ashamed of himself!" 
 
 At this I am afraid I forgot to be sorry for Norman 
 any more. I think I got very red, and I know my voice 
 shook. 
 
 "I don't care a bit," I said, "if he hasn't a penny in 
 the world. I would sooner black his boots than wear 
 every diamond you could buy in London."
 
 I HAVE A BIRTHDAY 109 
 
 "You think yourself in love with him, then?" he 
 asked, quietly. 
 
 "I would die for him," I said, "willingly. I would 
 wash for him, and cook for him, and scrub the steps, 
 and think myself the happiest girl on earth." 
 
 "Pooh!" he said; "it's easy talking like that before- 
 hand. Wait till you try a week of it." 
 
 "I am not afraid," I said, a little defiantly. 
 
 "Joe," he said, turning to me once more, and catch- 
 ing my hand, "you are very young, and a mere child in 
 experience; for Heaven's sake, think well over what you 
 are doing! What I am going to say sounds vulgar and 
 snobbish and horrible, but there is no help for it. One 
 must speak plainly. Look here! I can give you every- 
 thing in the world you can wish for horses, carriages, 
 jewels, one of the finest places in England, a house in 
 London, balls, operas, everything, in short, that you can 
 imagine, and the passionate, devoted love of a man that 
 almost any girl in England would be glad to marry. 
 I know it's a horrible thing to say, but I must put things 
 plainly there's too much at stake to mince matters. 
 And what can this other fellow give you? A miserable 
 pittance derived from an agency which may come to an 
 end any day, and leave him and you absolute beggars. 
 Will your love stand such a test as that? Think of the 
 years to come! Think of your children! Will his love 
 stand such a test, do you think? Love soon languishes 
 when the fight for existence begins. O Joe, darling lit- 
 tle Joe! my love for you is just as strong as his. Don't 
 you believe in my love for you, Joe?" 
 
 "Yes, Norman, I do. You would never have asked 
 me to marry you unless you loved me, of course. Why 
 should you? I can't tell you how dreadfully sorry I am
 
 no THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 about the whole thing. You must think me such a brute, 
 and so ungrateful, and all. But, you see, I love him, 
 and I can't help myself." 
 
 "No, I suppose not," he said. 
 
 I should never have thought Norman could have felt 
 anything so deeply. I always looked on him as one of 
 those light-hearted, easy-going sort of fellows who take 
 nothing particularly serious. But here he was, look- 
 ing haggard and ghastly as a ghost, and with a deep line 
 between his eyes; it was terrible! 
 
 "Dear Norman," I said, taking his hand, "I am so 
 sorry. You have all been so good to me ; it makes me 
 wretched to see you like this." 
 
 "Don't touch me!" he snapped, shaking me off 
 roughly. "If you won't marry me, leave me alone. 
 None of your cursed wheedling tricks!" 
 
 "I'm sorry," I said, miserably. 
 
 "No, no, Joe; I beg your pardon; I didn't mean 
 that honestly I didn't; but I'm pretty near off my 
 head, and really don't know what I'm saying, and that's 
 the truth." 
 
 I felt like a murderess. 
 
 "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" I said. "Why in the world 
 should you go and fall in love with me, of all people, 
 when there are such hundreds of infinitely nicer and 
 prettier girls all over the place?' ' It seemed such a pity. 
 
 "O Joe, Joe!" he wailed, "you don't know you 
 don't know what utter nonsense you're talking. There's 
 not a girl I've ever seen can hold a candle to you." 
 
 "Oh, that's absurd!" I said; "think of all the beau- 
 tiful girls you must have seen in London!" 
 
 "You are more beautiful than any of them, Joe a 
 hundred times more beautiful!"
 
 I HAVE A BIRTHDAY in 
 
 "But I'm not!" I cried, half angrily. "It's ridiculous 
 talking like that. Everybody knows I am not pretty. 
 Aunt Harriet has told me so a dozen times." 
 
 "Pooh!" he said, laughing scornfully; "mother, 
 indeed! Ask a man, Joe ask any man. What does 
 Grayle say, for instance?" 
 
 "Oh, he's prejudiced, you see. A man in love doesn't 
 count." 
 
 "Joe," he said, rising on to his knees, and looking 
 me straight in the face, "are you absolutely sure of your 
 own mind, do you think?" 
 
 "Yes, Norman, quite sure; I shall never change." 
 
 "Very well, then, there's nothing more to be said. 
 Shall we make a move?" 
 
 We walked for a long way in silence; what was there 
 to talk about? I kept thinking what a wretched thing 
 this was to have happened on my birthday, and how nice 
 it would be if one could wipe out the last hour, and go 
 on just as we had done before. But, of course, that was 
 hopeless; things could never be the same again now. 
 
 Suddenly Norman said: 
 
 "You will keep this little bracelet and wear it, Joe, 
 won't you? It's the least you can do for me." 
 
 "I don't think I ought," I said; "it's too much. 
 And, besides there's that thing in the middle." 
 
 "Oh, bother the thing in the middle; why, even 
 bridesmaids get that on their lockets and things. It 
 won't hurt you." 
 
 "I think it would look odd, don't you?" 
 
 "No, not a bit. I think it's the least you can do for 
 me under the circumstances." 
 
 "Well, if you put it that way, I suppose I must," I 
 said, trying to get up a laugh.
 
 ii2 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "That's right." 
 
 There seemed a kind of gloom over us all that day at 
 luncheon; only Sophie and Aunt Harriet were in the 
 usual spirits. Norman was very silent, and ate next to 
 nothing, and I was not hilarious. I caught Uncle Guy 
 once or twice looking at us curiously; he, too, I thought, 
 seemed ill at ease and fidgety. He got up before lunch- 
 eon was over and went to his room, to write letters, as 
 he said. Later on I saw him go out for a ride with Nor- 
 man. Sophie and I rode, too, but we saw nothing of 
 the other two. However, we had a good gallop, which 
 did us a world of good.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ANOTHER SHOOTING PARTY, A SURPRISE AND A 
 PUZZLE 
 
 HTHE week before Christmas there was a second shoot- 
 * ing party. They were to shoot the other side of 
 the park. I was not excited at the thoughts of it, 
 remembering the last one. I only wondered mildly 
 whether the United Kingdom could produce a second 
 batch of antediluvians as prehistoric as the last. I sup- 
 pose, as a matter of fact, it could not, for the present 
 party turned out to be babes in arms by comparison. 
 They were also, for the most part, delightfully frivolous 
 and unpolitical! The bulk of the visitors only arrived 
 just before dinner, and went straight up to their rooms 
 to dress. For my own part, I dressed with considerable 
 care that night, putting on my very best dress the yel- 
 low satin and finished up by clasping Norman's brace- 
 let on my left arm. I flattered myself I really looked 
 quite presentable. As a rule, I was the last down, being 
 one of those people who are never in time for anything; 
 but to-night, for a wonder, I was early, and the drawing- 
 room was almost empty when I got there. There was a 
 man bending down over the papers on the table; I sup- 
 pose he heard the rustle of my dress it did make an 
 appalling noise! for he straightened himself and looked 
 round. It was Sydney! 
 
 I don't suppose I have ever been so surprised in my 
 "3
 
 Ii4 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 life. Sydney Grayle an invited guest to Selworth, of all 
 places! I could hardly believe my eyes. 
 
 "Good evening, Miss de Metrier, " he said, with the 
 old mocking smile; "you don't appear overjoyed to see 
 me." 
 
 "Sydney!" I gasped, "you here! Did they ask you?" 
 
 "Oh, no," he said, "of course not. But I managed 
 to get in, after a bit of a fight with the butler and three 
 footmen." 
 
 "No; but isn't it an extraordinary thing?" 
 
 "I don't see anything extraordinary about it. Am I 
 too great a yahoo for any one to have inside their house?" 
 
 "Sydney, they know all about it!" 
 
 "Well, let them. I don't care do you?" 
 
 "No, but you know they all hate the idea of my mar- 
 rying you." 
 
 "Do they? Who particularly?" 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Guy and Norman, I think. But I don't 
 know. I never talk about it, nor do they." 
 
 "And who gave you that pretty bracelet, little Miss 
 Dryad?" 
 
 "Norman gave it me on my birthday." 
 
 "Oh, Norman gave it you, did he? true-lovers' knot 
 and all?" 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing!" 
 
 Across the polished floor of the hall we could hear 
 the sweep of many skirts. A whole army of people 
 began trooping in, with the slow, uncertain march of new 
 arrivals and strangers. We pecked and bobbed at one 
 another for a couple of minutes, and smirked amiably, 
 and made inane little remarks; and then Aunt Harriet 
 arrived, and we were all introduced and told one anpther's 
 names, which we forgot next moment. A certain Lord
 
 ANOTHER SHOOTING PARTY 115 
 
 Grannet took me in to dinner. He was very nice, and 
 quite young, and had a very pretty wife, who was simply 
 blazing with jewels. I never got a word with Sydney 
 the whole night. Father Terence, of course, sang after 
 dinner, and Sophie played, and every one seemed 
 pleased. There were no songsters among the visitors. 
 
 When the time came for the lighting of bedroom can- 
 dles, the men, as usual, gathered round in force at the 
 foot of the stairs. When I said good-night to Norman, 
 to my very intense surprise, he stepped forward and 
 kissed me before them all. He had never done this, 
 or attempted to, since the first night of my arrival. 
 I held out my hand to Sydney, but he barely touched 
 it, and turned away. I could see he was very angry. 
 
 Sophie came to my room, and sat there some time, 
 discussing the various people, and then she went to bed, 
 and I lay awake for hours puzzling over the mystery of 
 Sydney being there. The more I thought it over, the 
 more inexplicable it seemed so inexplicable, in fact, 
 that after a time I gave up bothering about it; there was 
 no possible explanation that I could see. However, it 
 was very nice having him there, I thought, only I wished 
 Norman hadn't kissed me. It was very tiresome of him 
 and stupid, too, before all those people. And then I 
 turned over and went to sleep, and dreamt that Sydney 
 and I were wandering about looking for Inversnaid, 
 which we couldn't find. As we were looking in the pas- 
 sages of Selworth, this was perhaps not surprising. 
 
 I was down very early next morning. I wanted, if 
 possible, to have a word with Sydney, and explain about 
 Norman the night before. But the lazy fellow never 
 came down till breakfast was half over, and then, of 
 course, we wretched females were dragged off to the
 
 ii6 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 morning-room to do polite conversation, and he went 
 off shooting with the others; so the chance never came. 
 I should have loved, of course, to have gone out with 
 the shooters, but this was not allowed. 
 
 However, my early rise was not absolutely barren of 
 results. I overheard a conversation, or part of a con- 
 versation, between Norman and Father Terence that set 
 me thinking for some time. It happened this way. 
 Selworth is a house that has probably more staircases 
 than any other house in Europe. I suppose it comes from 
 having been built at so many different periods. Not one 
 of them run from top to bottom of the house ; they all 
 stop short half-way, and then begin again somewhere 
 else! Some of them are not more than a dozen steps 
 high ridiculous little things springing out of places like 
 cupboards, where no one would ever dream of looking 
 for a staircase. Others are double or treble this height, 
 according to what is required of them ; for the floors are 
 just as irregular in their way as the staircases, and 
 equally unconventional rising and falling and twisting 
 about from right to left for no possible reason that one 
 can see except to puzzle people, and give them exercise. 
 It took me more than a month to find my way about. 
 After that I used to amuse myself by trying to get from 
 my room to the drawing-room by as many different ways 
 as possible. Sophie had a different form of amusement. 
 Whenever Aunt Harriet asked her to take a visitor to 
 her room, instead of going the plain, straightforward 
 way, she used to drag the wretched woman upstairs and 
 downstairs, round corners, and down twisting dark pas- 
 sages, then up another stair, and down another, with 
 more passages and more corners, till finally, after walk- 
 ing half a mile, she landed her, breathless and bewil-
 
 ANOTHER SHOOTING PARTY 117 
 
 dered, at the door of her room. There she would leave 
 her, hoping, with a sweet smile, that she would find her 
 way down again all right. 
 
 Well, this particular morning it happened that I 
 went down from the first floor to the long passage below, 
 by a little dark staircase known to Sophie and me as the 
 "red stairs." This staircase really connects the rob- 
 bers' passage above with the little corridor that leads to 
 the chapel. The robbers' passage, by the way, was in 
 reality the place where the men-servants slept; but it 
 was not on this account that we gave it the name, but 
 because, as children, we were firmly convinced that it 
 was the chosen home of several bands of robbers. No 
 power on earth would have taken us down it after dark. 
 At the bottom of the red stairs there is a sort of lobby, 
 apparently devised by the architect for the purpose of 
 wasting space. As I went down, I heard voices below, 
 and looking over the banisters, saw Norman and Father 
 Terence in earnest conversation. I thought nothing of 
 this at the time, and stood there for a minute watching 
 them, and wishing I had something to drop on their 
 heads. 
 
 "Me dear boy," the priest was saying, "it often hap- 
 pens in this world that we have to do certain things 
 which are repugnant to our natures, especially to the 
 emotional side of our natures. But when such actions 
 are the only means of averting a very grave calamity, 
 they become not only justifiable, but a positive duty. 
 There can be no question of that." 
 
 "You think so?" Norman said, doubtfully. 
 
 "Me dear boy, I'm sure of it. Don't have any fear." 
 
 At this moment I suddenly appeared on the bottom 
 flight of steps.
 
 ii8 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Ah! Miss Joe," he said, "now don't you agree with 
 me? I have been telling Norman that in all questions 
 of obvious duty personal feeling should be put on one 
 side. What do you say, now?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, I'm sure," I said; "I think 
 duty's always a bore." 
 
 Father Terence went off towards the chapel, and 
 Norman and I strolled along towards the morning-room 
 to wait for breakfast. 
 
 "What is this very disagreeable duty you have to per- 
 form?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, nothing in particular," he said; "he was gener- 
 alising, you know preaching a sermon, in fact; he's 
 rather fond of it." 
 
 I felt pretty certain this was not true. People don't 
 talk in the earnest, decisive tones that Father Terence 
 was using if they are only generalising, nor do they look 
 so particularly disconcerted at being overheard. There 
 was something behind; I felt sure of that. 
 
 Norman was absent and dejected, and I didn't press 
 him. He had been in terribly low spirits ever since my 
 refusal of him the week before quite a different man, 
 in fact haggard, silent, and cross. I had no idea he 
 could have taken anything so to heart especially the 
 mere loss of so valueless an article as myself. Whether 
 he had told the others I had no idea I thought not. 
 Why should he? Of course, / had said nothing about it, 
 even to Sophie ; I was much too sorry for Norman, and 
 besides, it seemed so conceited. 
 
 So I and my love affairs were left alone by the rest of 
 the family. Everybody was the same to me as before 
 cheerful and kind and thoughtful. Father Terence went 
 on telling his anecdotes, and laughing at them louder
 
 ANOTHER SHOOTING PARTY 119 
 
 than any one else, and Uncle Guy went on swearing his 
 mild, amiable oaths, and patting me on the head, and 
 paying me his funny, old-fashioned compliments, just 
 exactly the same as before. Still, for all this, there was 
 a change. It was nothing that one can describe, or put 
 into words; it was far too slight and indefinite for that; 
 but there it was quite unmistakable and it made me 
 very unhappy. It had started from the day that Uncle 
 Guy had found me with Sydney, and it had not become 
 less after Norman had asked me to marry him. Sophie, 
 of course, was just the same as ever; there was no 
 change in her, or in Aunt Harriet, either, for that mat- 
 ter; but, then, I don't think Aunt Harriet ever really 
 liked me, so that, even if she was angry with me, it was 
 not likely to make any great difference in her manner. 
 
 I put it all down to their pride. The De Metriers 
 were immensely proud, and always had been proud of 
 their long descent, of their name, of their place, and a 
 little, I think of their wealth. I had no pride. Ten 
 years of Chelmsford, and white cotton stockings, and tea 
 and shrimps, had made away with any original pride I 
 might have inherited; I don't suppose I ever had any. 
 I was not the least distinguee as Aunt Harriet was so 
 fond of impressing upon me either in appearance or 
 manners. 
 
 Still, I did bear the family name, and I thought they 
 were annoyed at the idea of a De Metrier wishing to 
 marry a penniless land-agent, even though he was a 
 peer's son; and still more annoyed at the idea of a 
 homeless charity-girl presuming to refuse the heir and 
 hope of the family. 
 
 During this, to me, intensely memorable shooting 
 party, there occurred one little incident which, in view
 
 120 
 
 of after events, I must mention. I was coming down- 
 stairs from my room just before dressing-time when I 
 met Norman's valet coming up the turret stairs carry- 
 ing clothes and hot water. He was a man named Fre- 
 netzi, a flashy-looking Italian, that I rather disliked, but 
 that Norman swore by. I stopped and stared at him. 
 
 "Why, where are you going?" I said, "you can't get 
 to Mr. Norman's room that way." 
 
 "These are Meestare Grayle's clothes," he said, 
 with a bow and a flourish. "Meestare Grayle he bring 
 no valet-de-chambre, and Meestare Norman say I wait on 
 him; he has what they call the Blue Room." 
 
 "Oh, I see," I said, and passed on. I thought noth- 
 ing of this at the time, but a great deal a little later on.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A NIGHTMARE 
 
 TT was the 22nd of December a day that I shudder at 
 * even now. The shooting finished that day, and the 
 guests were all going off next morning. The party had 
 been an immense success from every point of view 
 social, sporting, climatic. Every one seemed to enjoy 
 themselves, even poor, dejected Norman. There was a 
 certain Miss Fortescue among the guests, an heiress, 
 and a bit of a beauty, to whom he made desperate love; 
 and she, for her part, I must confess, seemed more than 
 content that he should in fact, all the women flocked 
 round Norman, morning and evening, making a regular 
 hero of him. They stood behind him out shooting; they 
 talked across the table to him at dinner, and left their 
 proper partners sulky and neglected; they sat in a circle 
 round him after dinner, or disappeared with him to the 
 billiard-room; there was no end to it. And from time 
 to time I would catch him shooting a quick glance at 
 me, to see if I was taking it all in, and noticing what a 
 fine fellow all these smart ladies thought him. Of course, 
 I noticed it, but it made no difference to me; he was 
 welcome to them all, as far as I was concerned. 
 
 For Sydney and I had made it up made it up, I 
 mean, about Norman and his bracelet, and that first 
 good-night. The bracelet I had put away out of sight, 
 with many a sore pang of regret, it must be owned; and 
 
 121
 
 122 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 as to the other thing, I had explained to him that it was 
 not my fault, that Norman had taken me by surprise, 
 and that what had happened was by no means a prac- 
 tice very much the opposite, in fact. I told him that 
 he was a real old stupid not to see that the whole thing 
 was an open and transparent attempt on Norman's part 
 to stir up bad blood between us. And Sydney, being 
 just as anxious, I think, as I was to see things in a rea- 
 sonable and satisfactory light, admitted that this was 
 more than probable. 
 
 So that little cloud passed away in sunshine; and the 
 sunshine shone out brightly and merrily though at very 
 long intervals, alas! till the end of thelastday'sshooting. 
 
 After that there was no more sun for many a day. 
 
 The shooting was finished, and they were all going off 
 next morning after breakfast. The great ceremony of 
 candle-lighting and separating for the night was over, 
 and Sophie and I were sitting in my room discussing 
 people in general, and Sydney in particular. Sophie 
 went so far as to allow that she was quite in love with 
 Sydney herself, but qualified this admission by saying 
 that girls that let their feelings get away with them, so 
 far as to wish to marry penniless younger sons, ought to 
 be shut up as a danger to the state. 
 
 "Pooh!" said I, "don't be priggish! Really, Sophie, 
 you are getting to talk exactly like old General Bor- 
 rodaile. " 
 
 "I don't care; you ought to be shut up! He's very 
 nice, but you ought to be shut up; you both ought to be 
 shut up silly young nooks!" 
 
 "Well," I said, laughing, "it's high time we were 
 both shut up for this night, anyhow. Do you know it's 
 past twelve o'clock?"
 
 A NIGHTMARE 123 
 
 "Goodness!" she said, "I had no idea it was so late. 
 I hope I shan't meet any of the men. Good-night." 
 
 I watched her scuttling down the stairs, candle in 
 hand, till she was out of sight, and then locked the 
 door, tore off my dressing-gown, and hopped into bed. 
 I was just comfortably tired, and at peace with all men, 
 and all women, too, and I expect I was asleep before 
 Sophie got to her room. 
 
 In the middle of the night I woke quite suddenly, and 
 without warning, and lay still, listening. I had not the 
 faintest idea of what had wakened me, but in a second I 
 was awake, and fearfully conscious of some vague terror in 
 the atmosphere. My heart thumped madly against my 
 ribs, and my mouth felt dry and parched. What was it? 
 Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. The fire 
 was out, and the darkness was intense. With every 
 nerve at full stretch, I lay still, waiting for the sound 
 of that which I felt was near. After what seemed an age 
 it came, a faint, insignificant noise, but one that literally 
 stopped my heart with a jerk, for it told me as plain as 
 words that there was some one in the room. I would 
 have screamed, only that I was too frightened. My feel- 
 ing was that if I made the slightest sound, the unknown 
 presence would hurl itself at my throat. I remember 
 now wondering vaguely even in the middle of the 
 cold agony I was in how any one or any thing could 
 have got into the room. I always locked my door, and 
 the windows were little diamond-paned slits that nobody 
 could have squeezed through. Then there came another 
 noise a sort of stealthy creak and the sound of breath- 
 ing; I could hear the breathing now quite plainly. Why 
 my hair was not snow-white next morning is a marvel to 
 me! I put my head under the clothes, and lay there in
 
 I2 4 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 a shaking ague beside which death must be a mere joke. 
 Like a flash, all the murders I had ever read of Shot 
 through my mind, vivid, horrible, appalling! I longed 
 for death for anything to put an end to it. I brought 
 my head out very slowly from under the clothes. There 
 was that ghastly breathing as plain as ever sounding 
 closer if anything than before. A strange kind of reck- 
 less courage came over me the sort of courage that peo- 
 ple must have who commit suicide. I put out my hand 
 very, very softly, and felt for my matches. They stood 
 by the side of my candle, and my hand found them after 
 a short moment's groping. Very carefully I brought out 
 my left hand, too, and felt for the place to strike on. 
 My great terror now was that the match might not light 
 at the first strike. If it was damp, after the manner of 
 matches, and simply gave out a tell-tale scratch while 
 refusing to light, I felt that my brain would crack, and 
 I should go stark, staring mad that very moment. 
 Holding my breath, I dragged the match madly across 
 the rough, and it lit blazed up at the very first attempt. 
 I think that was the most terrible moment of all. God 
 knows what I expected to see! I held the match up 
 high, and glared across the foot of the bed with my teeth 
 chattering like castanets. The next moment I sank 
 back on the pillows with a sigh of such relief that I think 
 I nearly fainted. I had just strength and presence of 
 mind enough to light the candle, and no more. 
 
 Norman was standing with his back to the fireplace. 
 He had on a gorgeous red and gold dressing-gown, and 
 his hands were in his pockets. 
 
 The relief I felt at first was so immense so inde- 
 scribably immense that I quite forgot to wonder what 
 he was doing there or how he got in. I felt like a per-
 
 A NIGHTMARE 125 
 
 son who has just been snatched from the jaws of some 
 awful death. I felt almost as if Norman was the person 
 who had rescued me. For a minute or two I lay back 
 with closed eyes and gasped. 
 
 Then I began slowly to recover my senses. It was 
 Norman who helped me principally to do this. He 
 began walking towards me, and I opened my eyes, and 
 looked at him. He looked very odd. His face was red 
 and flushed, his eyes were very bright, and he wore a 
 foolish sort of smile. He looked to me like a man who 
 had been drinking. 
 
 "Norman," I said, "what are you doing here?" 
 
 "Oh, I just came to have a little talk," he said with 
 a foolish leer. 
 
 "Talk!" I cried. "What do you mean? What do 
 you want to talk about? Do you know what time it is? 
 Go away! How did you get in?" 
 
 "Oh, love can always find a way," he said, grin- 
 ning. 
 
 "Go away this very minute," I said; "I believe 
 you're drunk." 
 
 "No, Joe, only desperately in love," he said. 
 
 I sat up in bed and faced him. I was not in the least 
 afraid now. If it hadn't been for the terror before I 
 might have been, but after that it seemed nothing. 
 
 "What do you want?" I said, very slowly and 
 distinctly. 
 
 He gave a silly little laugh. His manner was half- 
 sheepish and half-defiant, and quite unlike himself. 
 
 "What do I want?" he said. "Well, Joe, in the first 
 place, I want a kiss." 
 
 He began coming my way, and in one second I was 
 out of bed. On the right of my bed was a washing-
 
 iz6 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 stand, and between that and the bed was the bell. 
 I seized the rope with my .right hand, and faced him. 
 
 "Norman," I said, "this bell rings in Griffiths' room. 
 If you come one step nearer, I'll ring." 
 
 "Oh, no, little Joe," he said; "you wouldn't do that, 
 I know." 
 
 He came shuffling on in his slippers, and I pulled 
 the bell three times, with all my strength. At the third 
 pull the rope came down with a clatter. I was really 
 frightened now, terrified; but to my amazement, Nor- 
 man spun on his heel, and went into peals of laughter. 
 He took a match-box off the table at the foot of the bed, 
 and lighting a cigarette, threw himself into the armchair 
 by the fireplace. I stood perfectly still and watched him. 
 
 "Are you quite mad?" I said. 
 
 "No," he answered, "method, you know a certain 
 amount of method." 
 
 "Will you have the goodness to GO," I said; "Grif- 
 fiths will be here in a minute." 
 
 "Oh, bother old Griffiths! Who cares for her?" 
 
 "Do you mean to say you are not going?" 
 
 "No, Joe, dear; it's so beastly lonely in my room, 
 and this chair is awfully comfortable." 
 
 "And you call yourself a gentleman?" I said. 
 
 "Sometimes I do. Not just now." 
 
 He looked at me again over his shoulder, and laughed 
 loud and inanely. 
 
 "Well, for goodness' sake, don't make such a noise," 
 I cried. 
 
 "All right, Joe," he said, and lit another cigarette. 
 
 For five minutes by the clock we stayed so, in dead 
 silence I standing shivering by the broken bell-rope, 
 Norman lazily smoking in the armchair. I was try-
 
 A NIGHTMARE 127 
 
 ing all the time to think of the best thing to do, 
 and couldn't. My brain refused to work everything 
 was in a kind of haze. All I knew was that the situa- 
 tion was becoming intolerable. In the distance, through 
 the silence of the night, I heard the sound of a door 
 shutting. I turned to Norman and ground my teeth. 
 
 " Will you go?" I cried, stamping my bare foot. 
 
 "Not just yet," he said, carelessly; "all in good time, 
 you know." 
 
 "But she's coming!" 
 
 "What? Old Griffiths? Oh, never mind the old girl; 
 let her come." 
 
 I could hear her footsteps on the stairs now. All 
 sounds seemed plain to me that night; every sense was 
 at high pressure Higher and higher they came on the 
 stone, uncarpeted steps the dragging steps of a tired 
 elderly woman. There was a knock at the door; I never 
 moved; to tell the truth, I didn't know what to do. 
 I heard her try the handle, but the door was locked; 
 then, quite distinctly, I heard her sniffing outside, 
 exactly like a dog who thinks he has found a suspicious 
 smell. I was not surprised; the room was full of smoke. 
 
 She tried the handle again, shaking the door this 
 time. 
 
 "Miss Josephine." 
 
 "Yes," I answered, trying to put on a sleepy voice. 
 
 "Did you ring? Your bell rang in my room as 
 though the house was on fire." 
 
 "Yes, Griffiths, I did ring. I thought I heard bur- 
 glars, and was frightened; but I think it was nothing. 
 I am so sorry for disturbing you. Good-night." 
 
 "You had better let me come in, miss, and look 
 about; there might be something."
 
 128 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 There was half a minute's silence while I racked my 
 brains for the best thing to do. Then, to my unspeak- 
 able horror, Norman's voice came across the room to 
 me in an extremely clear stage-whisper: 
 
 "Get rid of the old girl somehow, Joe, for goodness' 
 sake! We don't want her in here." 
 
 I heard a regular gasp from outside the door the 
 catch of the breath a person might give if they saw a ghost. 
 
 "It was really nothing, thank you, Griffiths," I said; 
 "please go to bed. I am very sorry about it." 
 
 "Oh, certainly, miss," she said, in a tight, acrid voice. 
 
 We heard her clicking down the stairs, and Norman 
 burst into a loud peal of laughter. 
 
 "Well done, Joe!" he cried out; "you managed that 
 splendidly!" 
 
 "You devil!" I said. "Hold your tongue." 
 
 He laughed again, quietly this time. 
 
 "By Jove!" he said, "how splendid you look when 
 you are angry; and what splendid hair you've got! You 
 ought always to have it down like that!" 
 
 "Get out of my room!" I said. 
 
 "Yes, I'll go now, Joe, but I must have that kiss first. 
 You've no bell to ring now, you know." 
 
 He got up quite slowly from the chair, and began 
 coming my way. I think all fear had vanished now be- 
 fore the overpowering rage that boiled within me. I 
 took a step towards the washing-stand, and seized the 
 water-bottle by the neck. 
 
 "I swear I'll break this over your head if you do," I 
 said. 
 
 "All right, Joe, don't get so excited. No one's going 
 to eat you." 
 
 I stood eyeing him, and balancing the bottle in my
 
 A NIGHTMARE 129 
 
 right hand; I even emptied half the water into the jug 
 to prevent wetting myself. I felt I should have loved 
 to have had one clear sweep at his head. He evidently 
 didn't like the look of the bottle. 
 
 "I'm going," he said, shortly. "I think you are 
 very disagreeable; give me a light." 
 
 He held out a bedroom candle, one of those with a 
 long glass on them. I had not noticed it before. 
 
 "No," I said. "You've got matches." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and began to whistle 
 softly; but he lit the candle with a match, and placed 
 it on the far edge of the chimney-piece. I watched him 
 with intense curiosity. He pulled a chair opposite the 
 fireplace and climbed from this on to the chimney- 
 piece. Then he ran his hand quickly up the inside of the 
 picture frame above, paused for a second at a particular 
 spot, and fumbled about with his fingers. The next 
 moment great grandfather Maurice swung noiselessly out 
 of the wall, leaving a black, cave-like space where he had 
 been. Norman took his candle and stepped in. By the 
 light I got a glimpse of stone steps. Then Norman 
 turned round to me, nodded and kissed his hand, and 
 slowly pulled the picture after him. 
 
 "Good-night, little cousin," he said. "Sorry I had to 
 bother you beastly sorry, 'pon my word! but needs 
 must, you know, when the devil drives. See you at 
 breakfast." 
 
 The picture closed with a snap, and he was gone. By 
 the faint light of my one candle I could see Maurice 
 looking down at me with his old, supercilious smile, and 
 to my excited fancy, the smile seemed more of a sneer 
 than ever. I shook my fist at him frantically for a 
 minute, and then I fell on my knees and burst into tears, 
 with my head buried in the pillows.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A LECTURE FROM AUNT HARRIET 
 
 T BELIEVE I did sleep for about two hours towards 
 morning. When I got up, and looked at my face 
 in the glass, I almost laughed, it was so ghastly. All 
 my colour was gone, and my face looked quite drawn. 
 However, there was no use making a fuss over things, so 
 I dressed quietly and went down in good time for break- 
 fast. I wanted to see Sydney before he went. Norman 
 was not down; he often had breakfast in bed, like a 
 woman. I was thankful for that much. 
 
 It appeared to me, before I had been down long, that 
 I must look worse even than I had thought, people stared 
 at me so. Several times I caught both Uncle Guy and 
 Father Terence looking at me slyly, out of the "tail of 
 their eye." Aunt Harriet stared at me openly, with a 
 cold, unsympathetic stare; but the worst of all was 
 Sydney. When I first came into the room, he looked at 
 me as if I had been a ghost looked at me with the eyes 
 with which I should fancy people watch a bull-fight. I 
 smiled across at him, but he looked away, pretending 
 not to see. He, too, looked old and haggard, I 
 thought. 
 
 The guests chattered away gaily, but over the house- 
 party there seemed to hang a settled gloom. Even 
 Father Terence, the irrepressible, looked anxious and 
 uneasy; I saw him watching the door as each fresh per- 
 
 130
 
 A LECTURE FROM AUNT HARRIET 131 
 
 son came into the room, as though expecting some one. 
 I never was more glad when a meal was over. 
 
 Sydney's dog-cart came to the door about ten, and I 
 stood about outside under the portico, patting the horse, 
 and waiting to say good-bye. It was a dull, grey morn- 
 ing, and there was a slight drizzle falling. The deer, 
 browsing on the Plain, looked blurred and misty. He 
 came out at last, very quickly, in a long overcoat, and 
 began climbing in, without looking to the right or left. 
 Frenetzi followed close at his heels, carrying a dressing- 
 bag, which he handed in after him. I ran forward, and 
 with my hand on the horse's quarters, looked up at him 
 and smiled. I wished Frenetzi was not there; the groom 
 on the back seat didn't matter he was looking the 
 other way. But as it turned out, neither the groom nor 
 Frenetzi, nor any one else, would have been the least 
 in the way. Sydney just stared down at me with a hard 
 glassy stare, and raised his hat. 
 
 "I think we are going to have rain," he remarked. 
 
 "Oh, I hope not," I said, "at least not before you 
 get home. But, anyhow, you have not far to go." 
 
 "No, only four miles or so. Good-morning!" 
 
 He tightened the reins, and drove off. I jumped back 
 quickly to avoid the wheel, and stood watching him till 
 he swept out of sight round the corner. He never once 
 looked back. A load like lead settled round my heart, 
 and I felt that the end of life had come to me. It was 
 not so much what he had said or rather left unsaid it 
 was his manner, and the look in his eyes. Slowly and 
 miserably I turned to go into the house. Frenetzi still 
 stood at the door, and, as I passed, he bowed low, with 
 hands outspread, and smiled at me sardonically at least 
 so it seemed to me.
 
 132 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 I passed down the little passage that runs by the side 
 of the great hall, and gaining the long corridor, made 
 my way by unfrequented routes to the schoolroom. I 
 heard them all gabbling like geese as I passed the morn- 
 ing-room, and I felt I hated the whole pack of them. 
 What right had they to froth and bubble when I was so 
 abjectly miserable? 
 
 There was a big fire blazing in the schoolroom, and 
 I felt glad of it, for misery is the chilliest thing on earth. 
 I threw myself into a big chair and sobbed unrestrainedly 
 for ten minutes. No one has ever felt quite so utterly 
 wretched as I did then. I felt that every soul at Sel- 
 worth was my enemy excepting, of course, Sophie; not 
 dear, gentle Sophie but every one else even the ser- 
 vants. 
 
 There was a conspiracy against me, I felt a vile, 
 mean, cowardly conspiracy! It was a shame a cruel 
 shame ! 
 
 What had I done to deserve it? Why should they all 
 set on a miserable, defenceless girl! I could have borne 
 it all except for Sydney. If he had remained friendly 
 and loving and loyal, I would cheerfully have snapped 
 my fingers at the rest ; but there it was some brutes had 
 been poisoning his mind with villainous lies, and he 
 wouldn't look at me never would look at me again, 
 never, never, never! 
 
 I buried my face in the back of the chair, and shook 
 the room with my sobs. I was not by any means a 
 "crying girl," but all my nerves were unstrung, and it 
 did me good. 
 
 Sophie came in after a little, and kissed me, and 
 stroked my hair, and asked me what it was all about, 
 and was altogether very nice and sweet and kind. But,
 
 133 
 
 of course, I couldn't tell her how could I? I said 
 Sydney and I had had a quarrel, and she was very sym- 
 pathetic, and said it would come all right in the end, and 
 I must not fret, and that Sydney had told her in confi- 
 dence one night at dinner that he was so madly in love 
 with me he could hardly sleep at night. I laughed hys- 
 terically at this, and said he would sleep soundly enough 
 now. 
 
 Poor Sophie! I am afraid I was cross to her. I 
 always was cross when things upset me. But she didn't 
 mind; she had an angelic temper not the least like 
 mine and the crosser I was, the more she tried to com- 
 fort me. 
 
 Then, about twelve, there came a knock at the door, 
 and Mercer, the groom of the chambers, carne in. 
 
 "Her ladyship," he said, "would like to see Miss 
 Josephine in her sitting-room." 
 
 "That's Griffiths," I thought; "the old cat! I should 
 like to shake her." 
 
 I ran to my room, and with the help of a sponge and 
 brush, made myself look as respectable as I could, and 
 then marched defiantly downstairs, past the long gallery, 
 to Aunt Harriet's sitting-room. After all, what had I 
 got to be ashamed of? 
 
 I knocked boldly. 
 
 "Come in," said the stiff, prim voice I knew so well. 
 
 Aunt Harriet was sitting at her writing-table, facing 
 the window. Why do people always sit at a writing-table 
 when they mean to lecture one? 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Josephine, is it?" she said, looking up. 
 "Sit down for a minute; I want to speak to you." 
 
 She went on writing for some time, while I drummed 
 with my fingers on the arm of the chair, and stared dis-
 
 134 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 mally into the fire. Then, very deliberately, she half 
 turned her chair round and faced me. 
 
 "Josephine, this is a very extraordinary story I hear 
 from Griffiths." 
 
 I found no need to make any comment. 
 
 "She assures me that Norman was in your room, with 
 the door locked, between three and four in the morning. " 
 
 "Yes," I said, calmly; "it's perfectly true." 
 
 She looked at me hard over her spectacles, and 
 coughed nervously. 
 
 "You take it very quietly," she said; "but do you 
 realise what it means?" 
 
 "I realise nothing," I answered, sullenly. "It was 
 not my fault. I couldn't help it. " 
 
 "Hush, Josephine; no one has yet said it was; qui 
 s 1 excuse s 'accuse, remember ; but this is not exactly the 
 point. The point is What are you going to do?" 
 
 "What am I going to do?" I cried. "What is there to 
 be done?" 
 
 She coughed again. She seemed far more nervous 
 than I was, I thought. 
 
 "My dear child, there is no need to take up that defi- 
 ant tone. I am not blaming you, understand ; I merely 
 desire to discuss with you what had best be done in your 
 own interest, having due regard to les convenances." 
 
 "Nothing can undo it," I said. 
 
 "No, nothing can undo it true; but the sting may 
 be taken out of the esclandre. I am afraid the story is 
 not only all over the house by now, but has been carried 
 away by the majority of the visitors." 
 
 "That's dear old Griffiths!" I said. 
 
 "Griffiths is an excellent woman, and a first-rate 
 maid, but her tongue unfortunately is apt to run away
 
 A LECTURE FROM AUNT HARRIET 135 
 
 with her. It is her only fault; she is a little inclined to 
 be babillarde. ' ' 
 
 "Which means, I suppose, that she has told every 
 one in the house?" 
 
 "Well, in this case it's possible she may have been a 
 little indiscreet; but I imagine the person that really 
 did the mischief was not Griffiths, but that dreadful ser- 
 vant of Norman's." 
 
 "Frenetzi?" 
 
 "Yes, Frenetzi. I understand he is a confirmed 
 mauvaise langue, and makes a practice of retailing all the 
 scandal and gossip he can pick up downstairs to Norman, 
 and any one else he happens to be waiting on. ' ' 
 
 There was a silence; both of us stared hard into the 
 fire. I could see Aunt Harriet's fingers twitching as 
 though she had an ague. 
 
 "Well," I said, desperately, "I think the best thing I 
 can do is to go away back to Chelmsford; nobody 
 wants me here. I am only in the way, and now I have 
 become a disgrace and a scandal to everybody as 
 well." 
 
 "My dear child, you can't go back; have you not 
 heard? Your Aunts Fielding have gone to Cannes. Maria 
 Fielding's cough was worse, and your uncle sent them a 
 cheque for ^100 to help expenses, if they cared to go 
 abroad while you were here. They started last week." 
 
 A few days earlier I should have received this news 
 with the greatest joy glad that my dear old aunts had 
 at last fulfilled the dream of their lives; but now it filled 
 me with nothing but dread and foreboding. 
 
 Why should Uncle Guy have sent them ;ioo? He 
 was not particularly fond of them, and to my certain 
 knowledge had never sent them a penny before. Why
 
 136 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 now, of all times? The surface reason was, of course, 
 that they could move more easily and cheaply, now that 
 they were relieved of my burden, but somehow this failed 
 to satisfy me. It was so unlike Uncle Guy to send them 
 that ;ioo. It was so unlike him to bother himself at 
 all about the welfare of two poor threadbare old maids 
 vegetating at Chelmsford. 
 
 The effect of Aunt Harriet's announcement on me was 
 indescribable. I felt that the only two people in the 
 world who loved me, and whom I could really trust, were 
 a thousand miles away, with a cruel stretch of sea 
 between. 
 
 "In that case," I said, "I think I shall drown myself. 
 I am only a nuisance and a trouble to every one." 
 
 "My dear Josephine," said my aunt, "you must not 
 allow yourself to be so easily depressed and dispirited. 
 You must understand that none of us attach the slightest 
 blame to you for last night's ahem! contretemps. 
 I have seen Norman, and he takes the whole blame upon 
 himself." 
 
 "Does he?" I said, laughing miserably; "that is gen- 
 erous of him." 
 
 "Hush, my dear; pray control yourself. No, we are 
 not blaming you, but we are very much concerned about 
 your future. You see, unhappily, a story like this sticks 
 to a girl for life. However much a man may be attracted 
 to a girl, he naturally fights shy of her when she has 
 once tontbee en discredit. Of course, Norman is very 
 greatly to blame inexcusably, in fact but he is a gen- 
 tleman at heart, and he is prepared to make the only 
 reparation in his power." 
 
 "Yes?" I said, dully. "What reparation?" 
 
 "Norman is prepared, and indeed even anxious, to
 
 A LECTURE FROM AUNT HARRIET 137 
 
 marry you as soon as possible. He is, as you perhaps 
 know, extremely attached to you, and though I had 
 other hopes for him, and though I cannot say I person- 
 ally approve of first cousins marrying, still, on the whole, 
 I think it is the only thing possible for either of you 
 certainly the only thing for you." 
 
 "Why the only thing for me?" 
 
 "My dear child, you must surely see that you are to 
 a certain extent souillee by what has happened. These 
 things are not easily forgotten, and they make it very 
 difficult sometimes for a girl to marry." 
 
 "Why should I want to marry?" I cried. "I should 
 make a splendid old maid; I'm so methodical." 
 
 "Hush, Josephine; you are excited and overwrought, 
 and I hardly wonder at it; but try and look at things 
 sensibly. For a girl like you, penniless, and practically 
 homeless, it is of paramount importance that you should 
 marry. If anything were to happen to your aunts, you 
 would be thrown on the world." 
 
 "Oh, I suppose I could go out as a governess or some- 
 thing," I said. 
 
 "No, my dear, indeed you could not! You are so 
 lamentably ignorant! You cannot even play the piano 
 decently." 
 
 "Well, then, I will drown myself!" I said; "nobody 
 would care." 
 
 "But there is not the slightest need for anything so 
 tragic and senseless. You can marry Norman, and have 
 everything in the world that a girl can want." 
 
 "I can't marry Norman, Aunt Harriet!" 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 "Oh, a hundred reasons!" 
 
 "I suppose it's that Mr. Grayle, is it?"
 
 138 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Mr. Grayle doesn't care about me, Aunt Harriet; 
 so he can make no possible difference." 
 
 "Mr. Grayle undoubtedly heard the whole story from 
 Frenetzi. There can be no possible question about 
 that; and having heard it, it is extremely improbable 
 that he would care to marry you. What can you expect?" 
 
 "Oh, I expect nothing," I said, "and I wish I was 
 dead!" 
 
 For the second time that morning I burst into tears, 
 and sobbed madly, with my face buried in the silk cush- 
 ions. Aunt Harriet knelt by me and kissed me gently. 
 
 "Poor child!" she said, "you must not take this so 
 much to heart. It will all come right in the end, I hope. " 
 
 I looked up in amazement, tear-stained eyes and all. 
 Aunt Harriet, the austere and unapproachable, was actu- 
 ally crying, too! 
 
 "Could you never care for Norman?" she asked, 
 plaintively. "He is so handsome, and so attractive, 
 and and the advantages to you would be so great." 
 
 I rose, and flung my arms round her neck, kissing her 
 passionately, and blubbering freely on her grey silk dress. 
 
 "Dear, dear Aunt Harriet," I sobbed, "I love you 
 very much, and Uncle Guy, too and you have all been 
 so kind to me so kind and good but I can't marry 
 Norman I really can't!" 
 
 "There, there, my dear," she said; "don't fret don't 
 fret. If you can't, you can't, and there's an end of it; 
 but it was for your own sake. Norman, of course, can 
 marry any one he likes ; he has only to pick and choose. ' ' 
 
 She drew herself up, as though ashamed of the glimpse 
 of human kindness she had shown; I suppose, too, she 
 was offended at my not jumping at Norman naturally 
 she would be.
 
 A LECTURE FROM AUNT HARRIET 139 
 
 "I know it's all for my sake, Aunt Harriet," I said, 
 "and I know that I'm not worth it, but the truth is, I 
 don't want to marry any one I only want to be left in 
 peace." 
 
 "Very well, then, my dear, you shall be left in peace; 
 but if you think that Mr. Grayle will marry you, you are 
 making a very serious mistake. He knows the whole 
 story, and he will never look at you again, you may be 
 sure of that no man would. And now I think you had 
 better go and get ready for luncheon; the gong will ring 
 in a minute." 
 
 I went off with the uncomfortable feeling that I had 
 added Aunt Harriet to the list of those who were against 
 me. I felt, too, that there had been one moment when 
 I might easily have turned the scale the other way; but 
 my presumption in not jumping at Norman was a thing 
 she clearly could not forgive. 
 
 Outside the library door I came suddenly upon Uncle 
 Guy, Norman, and Father Terence. They were stand- 
 ing in a cluster, and talking earnestly pitching into 
 poor Norman, it seemed to me. 
 
 "You fool!" I heard Father Terence say, in a hissing 
 kind of voice between his teeth. "You poor, faint- 
 hearted fool!" 
 
 His back was to me, but Uncle Guy saw me coming 
 along the passage, and called out, hurriedly: "Hullo! 
 little Joe, where do you spring from? Been exploring 
 the old gallery, eh? Come along to luncheon." 
 
 He passed his arm into mine, and led me along, 
 speaking volubly. Norman slipped sheepishly into the 
 library, and the priest bustled off in the direction of the 
 chapel. I caught a glimpse of his face as he brushed 
 past me; it was black with fury.
 
 140 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 Luncheon that day was a miserable meal. I sat be- 
 tween Aunt Harriet and Sophie, and tried to talk about 
 the people who had left that morning. I was afraid of 
 the men afraid of them all, even Uncle Guy. He 
 talked as cheerily as ever, but his face looked pale and 
 drawn, and his eye was shifty. Norman never spoke 
 at all, nor did the priest. I had never seen Father Ter- 
 ence look as he did that day. His face was black as 
 thunder, and by no means pleasant to look upon. His 
 eyes never left his plate or his glass, which latter he 
 filled repeatedly from the port decanter. 
 
 "Coming for a ride, Joe?" my uncle asked. "No? 
 Well, one can hardly blame you damme, no old 
 Pasha is a bit of a bone-shaker, there's no doubt about 
 it not a lady's hack not a lady's hack! We must try 
 and find you something better now something with a 
 little more quality, eh? You'll come, Norman?" he went 
 on; "I want to ride over and see old Fothergill about 
 those dogs." 
 
 "All right," Norman said, shortly. 
 
 "Shall I come, too, papa?" Sophie asked. 
 
 "No, no, my dear, best not bore you to death 
 what does a girl know about dogs? sporting dogs, that 
 is. No, no, you stay at home." 
 
 "All right, Joe," she said, laughing; "you and I will 
 go for a walk." 
 
 I saw them start off about three, and then I did some- 
 thing that I had been longing to do all day. I ran up 
 to my room, and carefully wrapped up Norman's brace- 
 let in paper, sealing both ends, and addressed it to him 
 in my big, sprawling hand. Then I locked the door, 
 and getting a chair, scrambled on to the broad marble 
 mantelpiece. The inside of Maurice's frame was elab-
 
 A LECTURE FROM AUNT HARRIET 141 
 
 orately carved, and I struck a match, and ran it up and 
 down the left side of the frame, where I had seen Nor- 
 man press. 
 
 There was nothing much to be seen except a succes- 
 sion of little circular festoons. I remembered distinctly 
 whereabouts it was that Norman's hand had rested when 
 he pressed the spring; so I lighted a candle and poked 
 about with my fingers till I felt something give. I 
 pressed harder, and the frame swung slowly and noise- 
 lessly outwards. It struck me as an extraordinary thing 
 that a secret entrance of this kind should open so 
 smoothly after all these years of disuse. As a matter of 
 curiosity, I held the candle to the hinges, and saw that 
 they had been freshly oiled. No words can describe the 
 horror with which this discovery filled me. I think it 
 appalled me more than anything that had gone before. 
 I felt suddenly faint and dizzy, and almost fell upon the 
 narrow stone steps within. So there was a deliberate 
 conspiracy! 
 
 The horrible business of the night before had been 
 coolly and calmly planned. Who could tell what hide- 
 ous schemes might not be brewing for the future? I 
 shuddered and shook, and for some minutes closed my 
 eyes, and leant limply against the cold, dust-shrouded 
 stone. 
 
 Then, remembering Sophie, I pulled myself together, 
 and took up my candle. The place where I was was 
 extraordinarily narrow. It was simply a miniature stone 
 spiral staircase, with very steep steps, not more than 
 eighteen inches long. I am certain no fat person could 
 possibly have got up or down. It was inches deep in 
 dust. 
 
 I picked up my skirts as high as I could, and began
 
 142 
 
 climbing. Every now and then there were irregular sort 
 of openings to the left of me that is, to the outside of 
 the stairs. They appeared to have no particular object, 
 but to be just blank spaces in the thickness of the wall. 
 Some of them were as much as six or eight feet deep. 
 After mounting about twenty steps, I came to a door. It 
 was a very palpable door, with no attempt at disguise, 
 and with an ordinary handle. I turned the handle and 
 pushed, and the door opened slowly and heavily, as 
 though there was a weight against it. I found I was 
 pushing a bookcase [into the room a regular tall book- 
 case filled with books. The room was empty, and I 
 slipped in through the narrow opening, and laid my 
 packet on the table. It was a big room as big as mine, 
 only not nearly so high, and not directly above mine, as 
 I had imagined for my room looked over the east gar- 
 den but the windows of this gave one a splendid view 
 across the Plain. For the rest, it was bare and old-fash- 
 ioned-looking, with no attempt at smartness; there were 
 two oak bookcases reaching nearly to the ceiling, one of 
 which I had pushed into the room, a worn, faded carpet, 
 white dimity curtains, fringed with pink, and a white 
 wall-paper with a skeleton diamond pattern in pale green. 
 However, for all this, it was a cheerful, comfortable- 
 looking room, fresh and airy, and as I have said, with 
 a splendid view. 
 
 Sophie, I knew, would be waiting for me to go out, 
 so, without stopping to make further observations, I 
 crept down my little stairs and through the open frame 
 of wicked, supercilious Maurice. I was beginning to 
 believe in his wickedness now. 
 
 For all my care I was \>ne mass of dust, so I changed
 
 A LECTURE FROM AUNT HARRIET 143 
 
 my skirt, and took the old one out on to the stairs to 
 brush it (this for fear of Griffiths). 
 
 Then I called for Sophie, and we went out. 
 
 That evening I borrowed a screw-driver from Mercer, 
 and took off the handle that opened Maurice's frame 
 from the staircase.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 
 
 T I 7HAT a Christmas! We all gave and took our little 
 * * presents, and kissed one another, and said, "How 
 pretty!" but there was no life in it at all. I honestly 
 tried to enjoy myself, and forget all about everything, 
 but it was more than I could manage; gloom was in the 
 atmosphere. It was a mild Christmas no snow, or any- 
 thing of that sort but for all that, huge fires blazed in 
 every room, and mistletoe hung from the ceilings and 
 banisters, and forests of holly were stuck about the 
 place, trying to cheer us up. 
 
 We ate mince-pies and plum-pudding, and we went and 
 stared at the sideboard, on which every conceivable form 
 of cold meat that a cook's mind could devise was mar- 
 shalled in long rows, and we drank the loving-cup, though 
 that was not till dinner, and in fact, did everything that 
 people ought to do on Christmas Day, except being 
 merry, and that we could not manage. Father Terence 
 tried hard, with the help of port and champagne, but his 
 merriness was not amusing, and fell flat. 
 
 Two things happened that day two noteworthy 
 things, I mean. 
 
 After breakfast Uncle Guy called me up. 
 
 "Joe, little lady," he said, "I've got a present for 
 you a Christmas present, in return for that delightful 
 paper-weight you gave me. Will you come and see 'it? 
 It's outside." 
 
 '44
 
 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 145 
 
 "Outside!" I said. "Why, what is it?" 
 
 "Come and see, come and see, and don't ask so 
 many questions." 
 
 We passed through the great hall to the entrance 
 door, and out under the portico. Away to the left, 
 along the broad, straight, gravel drive, a stable-boy was 
 leading a chestnut horse such a beauty! 
 
 "Hi!" shouted uncle. "Bring her here! Come 
 along, boy; run her up smartly!" 
 
 The boy ran as fast as his tight breeches and gaiters 
 would let him, round the broad sweep of gravel before 
 the door; and the horse trotted behind, snorting, with 
 ears flicking backwards and forwards, and head raised 
 and staring from side to side. It was a lovely creature, 
 bright chestnut, and with the most perfect little head 
 and neck ever seen. It could hardly be said to step high 
 when it trotted, but shot its legs out straight to the front, 
 and hardly seemed to touch the ground with its feet. 
 I couldn't believe my senses; was this glorious beast 
 really for me? For my very own? I looked up doubtfully 
 at my uncle's face; he couldn't mean it it was a joke! 
 
 Uncle Guy was smiling at me sideways, as though to 
 see how I took it. 
 
 "Well," he said, "do you think she'll do?" 
 
 "What is it?" I said; "I don't remember seeing it in 
 the stables." 
 
 "No, I daresay not, I daresay not," he said, with a 
 chuckle; "odd if you had, considering she only arrived 
 from Newmarket last night. What is she, do you say? 
 Well, we call her Maid Marion, and she is the present 
 property of Miss Josephine de Metrier. " 
 
 I laughed loudly, as if he had made an excellent joke; 
 I thought it the best thing to do.
 
 146 
 
 "Gad!" he said, "I mean it. She's yours to do as 
 you like with." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that I can ride her as often as 
 I like, as long as I am here?" 
 
 "No, Miss Joe," he said, "I do not; never do things 
 by halves, you know never do things by halves. What 
 I mean is, that she's yours neck, body, and heels 
 now and for ever." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you give her to me abso- 
 lutely?" 
 
 "I mean to say that I give her to you absolutely 
 and unconditionally." 
 
 "Oh!" I said, "it is good of you! I really don't 
 know how to thank you!" 
 
 "No thanks, little girl, no thanks. Thanks enough 
 for me if you like her." 
 
 "Like her!" I said; "I shall love her. Is she a racer?" 
 
 "Well, she was a racer, but she is not quite fast 
 enough; and she's such a splendid hack that I thought 
 I'd have her.here." 
 
 "But all racers pull so dreadfully, don't they?" 
 
 "Pull! not a bit mouth like velvet. Here, Bob, 
 jump on her back, and give her a spin down the approach. 
 Never mind the grass. Come here, and I'll put you up." 
 
 The boy had been leading her by a snaffle, but now he 
 threw the reins over her neck, and led her up, snorting 
 and sidling, to where we stood. She had no saddle on. 
 
 "Now, up with you!" said my uncle, hoisting him on 
 to her back by the leg, "and let's see what sort of hands 
 you've got. Canter her up to the iron gate, and then 
 let her extend herself coming back, d'you understand? 
 Off you go now!" 
 
 Bob grinned from ear to ear, and kicking his heels
 
 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 147 
 
 most irreverently into the mare's satin sides, went lollop- 
 ping away up the gravel. As he neared the iron gate he 
 swung round on to the grass, and shaking her up a bit, 
 came back at a good smart gallop. The mare went like 
 an angel. She arched her neck and played with the bit 
 like a kitten, swinging along so smoothly that the boy 
 never moved on her shiny bare back. 
 
 "You darling!" I said, trying to kiss her soft muzzle, 
 and getting a bump on the nose, and a shower of foam 
 on my dress in return.' "Can I ride her to-day, Uncle 
 Guy?" 
 
 "Better not to-day, little Joe, better not to-day; 
 she's only just come, you see, and wants to settle down 
 a bit. Better wait till Monday." 
 
 This was Saturday, and Monday seemed a long way 
 off, but there was no help for it. When Uncle Guy said 
 a thing, he meant it, as all of us had learnt by this 
 time. 
 
 "I think I shall go and sleep in the stable with her," 
 I said. 
 
 "Yes, and get that pretty little head of yours kicked 
 open. No, no, Joe, even the panelled room's better 
 than that, I think even the panelled room's better than 
 that." 
 
 I stared at him, wondering what he meant, but I 
 found nothing in his face; it was the picture of good- 
 nature and kindliness. 
 
 This was the first event of the day; the second was 
 not so cheerful. 
 
 We were sitting at luncheon, eating mince-pies, cov- 
 ered with blazing brandy, and trying to be merry, when 
 we saw a groom riding at full gallop across the Plain. 
 
 "Looks like some one from Ashby, " said Uncle Guy.
 
 148 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 The man galloped straight up to the road, and then 
 slanted off in the direction of the stables. 
 
 "H'm! don't mean to honour us, anyway." 
 
 We thought no more about the matter till Mercer 
 presently entered the room with an air of more than 
 usual pomp and melancholy, and whispered in my uncle's 
 ear. 
 
 "Good God!" he exclaimed, pushing back his chair; 
 "Good God! you don't say so! The Duke is dead!" 
 
 We all stared at Mercer rather than at Uncle Guy, 
 and he, responding readily to the appeal, said: 
 
 "Yes, a groom has just left word that His Grace died 
 this morning at eleven o'clock. Hangela pectoris, they 
 think it was." 
 
 "How truly shocking!" moaned Aunt Harriet, with 
 uplifted hands. "Poor dear man! And on such a day, 
 too! It's too dreadful!" 
 
 "I thought him a bit shaky the other day when he 
 was here," Uncle Guy said. "Shot badly, too devilish 
 bad!" 
 
 The rest of us stared at one another helplessly; it was 
 not easy to volunteer appropriate remarks. 
 
 "Well, this will be a finisher for young Grayle," 
 Father Terence remarked. "Lord Barham can't stand 
 him always away hunting, he says, or shooting, or 
 something." 
 
 "Yes," agreed my uncle; "he'll bundle him out pretty 
 quick now hates a gentleman agent always did 
 always did!" 
 
 I had little doubt that this was all for my benefit all 
 this about Sydney, I mean but I finished my mince-gie 
 with an unmoved face at least I think so. 
 
 This bit of news gave an immense stimulus to the
 
 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 149 
 
 conversation. Every one cheered up at once every 
 one, that is, except poor me for Father Terence's shot 
 had told heavily. Not that I saw with any great clear- 
 ness all that this possible dismissal of Sydney's might 
 mean for me; I don't think I troubled myself to look 
 close into the details of the thing at all; I was too 
 dazed, what with one thing and another, and too callous 
 perhaps. Everything was combining so against me that 
 there seemed no use in worrying over anything, or in 
 fighting any more against fate. All I knew was that it 
 was another blow, and I bent my head to it meekly and 
 sullenly. 
 
 That evening Norman tried to make it up with me. 
 I was sitting at the far end of the library, reading, when 
 he came in. He walked straight up to the fire, and stood 
 with his back to it. 
 
 "Joe," he said, "will you forgive me, and make 
 friends?" 
 
 "Why, of course I will, Norman only too thankfully; 
 I'm sure I don't want to play cat and dog." 
 
 "It was only a joke, you know a practical joke." 
 
 "A poor sort of joke for me," I said. "Jokes that 
 ruin girls' lives are not very gentlemanly, are they?" 
 
 "Joe," he said, dropping on his knees by the side of 
 my chair, "it was a brutal, caddish thing to do, I know; 
 but, on my honour, it was only done for love of you." 
 
 "Well, Heaven save me from such love as that!" I 
 said, earnestly. 
 
 "No, no, you don't understand. I thought it might 
 force you to marry me, that's the real truth; and to get 
 you to marry me I think I'd do anything in the world." 
 
 "However low and base?"
 
 150 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 I looked at him with a kind of wonder. There was 
 no doubt about his earnestness; his face was all drawn 
 and pale, and I think he was trembling. He held my 
 hand, and nubbled it between his own two. 
 
 "O Joe, you can't understand such love as mine how 
 could one expect you to? I would walk barefoot to 
 London to win you, and will, too, for a word from you." 
 
 "And yet, with all this great love, you could do what 
 you did the other night!" 
 
 "Yes. I thought, you see, you would have to marry me 
 after that. And, then, Joe, there are other things 
 behind that you know nothing about. I am not my own 
 master. I am being driven and bullied and sworn at. 
 Oh, you don't know you don't know all that's going 
 on." 
 
 "What is it, Norman?" I whispered, bending forward; 
 "I have felt all along that there is something." 
 
 "Oh, I can't tell you, Joe; it's an old, old story 
 fifty years old and more a sort of family ghost, you 
 know," he said with a laugh. 
 
 "And you won't tell me what it is?" 
 
 "No, I can't. I'm sworn to secrecy. You wouldn't 
 have me break my word?" 
 
 "Oh, no," I said, shrugging my shoulders; "no one 
 wants you to do that. After all, it doesn't matter to 
 me." 
 
 "Then you'll make friends, Joe?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you'll forget all about the other night?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But you won't marry me? O Joe, don't say 'you 
 won't, for God's sake, don't say you won't!"
 
 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 151 
 
 He clutched my hand, and covered it with kisses. 
 
 "Don't!" I cried, angrily; "what's the use of that? 
 How can we possibly be friends if you do that sort of 
 thing? It's stupid." 
 
 "All right," he said, jumping to his feet; "I won't 
 bother you any more, if that's the way of it. Let's be 
 friends, and friends only. But whatever we are, Sydney 
 Grayle's no go now, I can tell you that much." 
 
 "Thanks to you." 
 
 "Yes, thanks to me. Why should I help another fel- 
 low to get you?" 
 
 "I like that," I said, scornfully. "Much help he 
 wanted from you, indeed! He has got me, thank you, 
 and always will have, what's more." 
 
 "Joe," he said, seriously, "if you only knew what a 
 lot of trouble it would save if you would only marry 
 me." 
 
 "Now, look here, Norman," I said, jumping up, "if 
 we're going to be friends, there must be an end to this 
 sort of thing. You may just as well understand, once 
 and for all, that I shall never marry you never, never, 
 NEVER not if Mr. Grayle were to marry half a dozen 
 other people." 
 
 "Thank you," said Norman. "I quite understand. 
 It is by no means necessary to emphasise it so; besides, 
 from what I know of him, Grayle is the very last person 
 to put himself within reach of the law by marrying six 
 people at once." 
 
 "Oh, well, if he married only one it would be just the 
 same," I said, idiotically. 
 
 "Yes," said Norman, and stared up at the fire- 
 flecked ceiling. After a minute or so he came up to me, 
 and held out his hand.
 
 152 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Well, little Joe," he said, smiling, "we're to be 
 friends, then, in spite of everything that's gone." 
 
 "Yes," I said with emphasis, "friends." 
 
 "Oh, I quite understand," he said. "Well, being 
 friends, I shall now perform my first act of friendship." 
 
 "What's that?" I asked, staring up at him. 
 
 He walked to the far end of the room, and tried the 
 door. Then, coming back, he leant over me and whis- 
 pered, "Don't you ride that chestnut mare, Joe." 
 
 "What do you mean?" I cried. "Not ride it!" 
 
 "No, don't ride it. Take my advice." 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; but these thoroughbred mares 
 are shifty, unreliable brutes, especially when they are 
 chestnuts; and you have not had very much practice in 
 riding, you know." 
 
 "But she's as quiet as a lamb, Norman," I said. "I 
 saw Bob cantering her about, bare-backed, in front of 
 the house; a child could ride her." 
 
 "Don't you get on her," said Norman, doggedly. 
 
 "Why? Is she vicious? Do you know anything about 
 her?" I asked. 
 
 "No, I know absolutely nothing about her; but I am 
 afraid horribly afraid." 
 
 He looked straight before him, and avoided meeting 
 my eye. 
 
 "You are very mysterious," I said. 
 
 "Yes, possibly I am. But I know what I am talking 
 about. Don't you get on her, at any price." 
 
 "It seems to me you have either said too much or too 
 little." 
 
 "Perhaps I have ; but that's all I'm going to say. It's 
 quite enough for your purpose."
 
 A CHRISTMAS PRESENT 153 
 
 "Do you mean to say that Uncle Guy would let me 
 ride a horse that was dangerous?" 
 
 "I mean nothing," he said, looking dreadfully fright- 
 ened; "you have had my advice, take it or leave it." 
 
 "In that case," I said, "I am very much obliged to 
 you, but I shall certainly leave it. I never heard such a 
 preposterous idea." 
 
 "All right," he said, shrugging his shoulders; "please 
 yourself, only don't say I didn't warn you. Well, good- 
 bye, Joe, I must be off now; I'm glad we're friends, 
 anyhow." 
 
 He strolled slowly away, and I sat alone and brooded.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 
 
 Monday morning I got a letter. 
 I found Father Terence examining the envelope 
 as it lay on the marble table outside the breakfast 
 room. 
 
 "Ah! Miss Joe," he exclaimed, cheerily, "how are you 
 this morning? But, indeed, I needn't ask; you're look- 
 ing grand fresh as a summer rose, be Gad!" 
 
 "Thank you," I said; "I'm very well." 
 
 "I think I saw a letter for you somehere here. Ah, 
 yes, here it is." 
 
 He handed it me, with a smirk and a bow, and I 
 rammed it hastily into my pocket, to be read, at leisure, 
 after breakfast. I had recognised the writing. 
 
 The moment breakfast was over, I rushed off to the 
 schoolroom, and tore my letter open. How much de- 
 pended on the contents none but myself could ever 
 dream. The first line was enough for me. I sank back 
 limply in my chair, and closed my eyes. So it was all 
 over; all over for ever and ever and ever! 
 
 "DEAR Miss DE METRIER," I read, "owing to the Duke's 
 death, I have lost my position here as agent, and am now, to all 
 intents and purposes, a beggar. Under these circumstances, I 
 hasten to set you free from an engagement which I have every 
 reason to believe was not a necessary condition of your happiness. 
 As soon as I can get things in order, I shall first visit my mother 
 in Scotland, and then sail for America, where I hope to succeed in 
 
 154
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 155 
 
 making a living for myself. Thanking you for the share of your 
 favour with which you have honoured me in the past. I am, yours 
 very truly, SYDNEY GRAYLE." 
 
 I wasted no time in thought when I had once read 
 this. I dashed at the writing-table, and seized the near- 
 est pen. 
 
 " DEAR MR. GRAYLE," I wrote, " I am truly sorry to hear that 
 you have lost the agency at Ashby, and that it will be necessary 
 for you to go to America. However, it will be a great blessing for 
 you having no one to look after except yourself. Perhaps you 
 will marry some one out there a negress, perhaps, or a millionair- 
 ess; a penniless wife is a terrible drag around anybody's neck; 
 remember, please, that they are always things to be avoided, and 
 shunted, and thrown over. Wishing you all prosperity and good 
 luck with the negress. I am, yours very truly, 
 
 "JOSEPHINE DE METRIER." 
 
 I sealed and posted it then and there, dropping it into 
 the letter-box outside the dining-room. How any self- 
 respecting girl out of Hanwell could have written such a 
 letter, I don't know; it was neither logical, witty, nor 
 grammatical. But I never stopped to think; I just 
 dashed at it, and dropped it into the box, and half an 
 hour later the box was cleared, and repentance was 
 useless. 
 
 So I whistled loudly down the passage, and ran up to 
 the stable to see Maid Marion and give her a carrot ; 
 and I gave one, too, to old Pasha, and told him I was 
 sorry not to ride him any more (which was not strictly 
 true), and that he was an old dear, and I loved him 
 (which was quite true), and that I was not going to ride 
 Maid Marion because she was younger and faster, but 
 because I was afraid Uncle Guy would be offended if I 
 didn't. To all of which the Pasha listened sedately, 
 with pricked ears and open nostril. Then I ran down
 
 156 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 to the house again, whistling and singing, and feeling 
 quite sure I didn't care tuppence if Sydney Grayle went 
 to the North Pole or to Timbuctoo. 
 
 Every one remarked what good spirits I was in that 
 day at luncheon. I said it was because I was going to 
 ride the mare. I came down in my habit, and we were 
 to start directly after luncheon, so as to get a good long 
 ride before dark. Sophie was coming, and Uncle Guy, 
 too; he was anxious to see how the mare went the first 
 day. 
 
 "I do hope," said Aunt Harriet, "she won't kick or 
 pull or run away, or anything. I can't bear new horses 
 myself, they are so horribly uncertain." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, nonsense!" said my uncle, gruffly. 
 "Don't get frightening the child with your silly notions. 
 Nothing makes any horse run away except the rider him- 
 self." 
 
 Aunt Harriet shook her head doubtfully. She was 
 always nervous, and saw foolhardiness in any venture 
 outside the glass case that surrounded her own life. 
 
 Uncle Guy talked incessantly during luncheon, but I 
 thought he looked pale and worried. I had an idea 
 money matters had been bothering .him lately. Father 
 Terence, on the other hand was, for him, extraordinarily 
 silent. 
 
 They all came out to see us start. Maid Marion 
 looked lovely as the groom led her up and down the 
 gravel sweep. I gave her a piece of sugar, and then 
 Uncle Guy put me up, and as Sophie was not down yet, 
 I trotted her to the iron gate, and then cantered her 
 back along the grass. She went like an angel ! I had 
 never been on a thoroughbred before, and the difference 
 from dear old Pasha was something perfectly astonish-
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 157 
 
 ing. She arched her neck, and swept over the ground 
 like oil, without pulling or fussing or jolting one about 
 in the way Pasha used to do if one ever took him out of 
 a slow canter. They all praised her, and patted her, 
 and even Aunt Harriet allowed that she seemed "a nice, 
 gentle creature." 
 
 "Indeed, you just seem made for one another," 
 Father Terence said. 
 
 Sophie came running down, full of apologies, and we 
 started. 
 
 Uncle Guy proposed riding out at the Slade Lodge, 
 and on to Ashby Park. This, of course, took us across 
 the Plain, and when one went across the Plain the obvi- 
 ous thing to do was to gallop. However, uncle wouldn't 
 have this. 
 
 "No, no," he said. "Too soon after luncheon 
 play the deuce with me if I were to start galloping for 
 another ten minutes yet. Must take your pace from the 
 old 'un, you know." 
 
 So we walked across the Plain, Maid Marion dancing 
 a little, and flicking her ears backwards and forwards as 
 though she saw as well as we did that the place was 
 literally made for a gallop. 
 
 When we were about half-way across I turned to 
 Uncle Guy. 
 
 "Now," I said, "surely we can go now? We shall be 
 at the other side before we start if we don't take 
 care." 
 
 Uncle Guy was a little behind, and I had to turn half 
 round to see him. When I caught sight of his face I was 
 perfectly horrified. He was as white as death, and had 
 the look on his face of a man in terrible pain. 
 
 "Good gracious!" I cried, "are you ill?"
 
 158 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "No, no," he said; "nothing at all, nothing at all 
 that's to say; slight pain in the side; be all right 
 directly. Yes, may as well have a gallop now; do me 
 good, do me good." 
 
 So we started off, Sophie and I side by side, and my 
 uncle just behind, pounding along on his big brown horse. 
 The mare pulled more than I liked, but not more than I 
 could manage with a little attention. I was an inexperi- 
 enced rider, and I have little doubt a bad one, but I was 
 not nervous. In fact, I preferred an animal that occu- 
 pied one's attention to one that moved along like a cow. 
 It was so much more interesting. So at first I exulted 
 wildly in the tosses of Maid Marion's head, and her wild 
 snatches at the bridle, but not for long. For suddenly, 
 when we had gone a couple of hundred yards or so, with- 
 out the slightest vestige of warning, she bolted. There 
 was no intermediate stage; the whole thing was done in 
 a second. One moment she was cantering along con- 
 tentedly and sanely, the next she was dashing wildly 
 through the air with all the mad clatter of a runaway. 
 
 No one who has never been run away with can have 
 an idea of the utter misery of the feeling. You are at 
 the absolute mercy of a mad, irresponsible beast of 
 twenty times your own strength. It is horrible! The 
 part of the Plain where we first started galloping was 
 slightly up hill, and remained so for nearly half a mile. 
 Here, if ever, was my only chance of stopping the mare, 
 and I tugged and hauled till my arms were numb, but I 
 might as well have hauled at a steam engine. Like a 
 whirlwind we raced up the incline, with the wind blind- 
 ing my eyes and whistling madly past my ears. It was all 
 plain sailing, and there was nothing to fear as far as the 
 crest. But afterwards! The very thought of afterwards
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 159 
 
 turned me sick. I knew the ground so well the slope 
 downwards, covered with dead bracken, and simply rid- 
 dled with rabbit holes, and beyond again a stretch of park 
 forest still sloping downwards for a quarter of a mile, till 
 it reached the glen running up to the Slade Lodge. 
 Quicker than it takes to tell, we were over the crest, 
 and plunging headlong down the slope beyond. I had 
 no idea a horse could go so fast. I gave up trying to 
 stop her now; I should have been pulled over her head if 
 I had tried; I just sat still and tried to steer. 
 
 Straight ahead of us lay a huge rabbit burrow a per- 
 fect honeycomb in sand. There was no thought of 
 steering here. I leant back and waited numbly for the 
 crash. But there was no crash then nothing but a 
 frightful stumble that shot me with a crash right on to 
 the mare's neck, and a lightning recovery that shot me 
 back again with a big bump over my left eye, and we 
 were racing down the hill again as madly as ever. 
 Through the long, dead bracken we crashed, tearing it 
 out by the roots in bushels as though it had been ground- 
 sel; the stuff clung round the mare's legs like long stock- 
 ings, but she kept her feet. Beyond I could see another 
 burrow, and beyond that again the trees! I remember 
 craning forward and wondering vaguely which of them 
 would be the one to dash my brains out. But I was not 
 frightened, not even excited, though I hadn't the faint- 
 est hope in my own mind of ever coming through alive. 
 The thing seemed a sheer impossibility, and I think, 
 perhaps, it was this utter absence of hope that made me 
 so callous and unmoved. My chief feeling, I remember, 
 was one of dull curiosity as to what this sort of death 
 would feel like; also, I wondered, like a flash, if Sydney 
 would be a little sorry when he heard of it, and whether
 
 160 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 he would come to the funeral, and wear mourning after- 
 wards. 
 
 I hoped rather he would. 
 
 Then we came to the second burrow. There was 
 another appalling stumble a stumble that would have 
 sent old Pasha head over heels like a shot hare and 
 another amazing scramble and recovery, and we were 
 among the trees great antediluvian giants stretching 
 out their long, twisted limbs to tear me from the saddle. 
 I bent level with the mare's neck, and let her go her own 
 way. Where she could go, I could go, I thought, but 
 the question, of course, was, could she go? Was there 
 room between or under the spread of those branches for 
 any horse, tearing along at that breakneck pace, to pass? 
 Thought is quick, but scarcely quicker than the beat 
 of the mare's legs as she plunged into that wilderness of 
 trees. The answer would soon come now. I shut my 
 eyes, and clasped my arms round the mare's neck, press- 
 ing my head close down against her shoulder. A fearful 
 blow across my legs made me think the end had come at 
 the beginning; it sent the little mare reeling to the right, 
 but our pace was not checked. Other blows followed, 
 quick as a shower of hail. My hat was torn off, my hair 
 dragged down and pulled out in handfuls. I was 
 bruised, battered, and bleeding, faint and sick, but the 
 blow that was to dash me broken-backed and senseless 
 to the ground had not yet come. I wondered why not. 
 
 A long wooden arm clutched me round the waist, and 
 with hard, spiky fingers tried to drag me from the sad- 
 dle. I tightened my grip round the mare's neck till I 
 thought I should be torn in two. I think I screamed out 
 with the pain. And then there was a crack of splintering 
 wood, the clutch of the wooden arm gave way, and we
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 161 
 
 burst out into the open. Three hundred yards of 
 bracken stretched before us, and beyond again trees--- 
 cruel, death-dealing trees! but in the centre of the 
 bracken lay the smooth green ride that led up to the 
 Slade Lodge. If I could get into that I might be safe! 
 I clenched my teeth, and leant back, and with both 
 hands hauled with all my strength at the left rein. I 
 knew the danger of it the awful danger! the all but 
 certainty of a crushing, murderous fall. But then be- 
 yond were the trees, and my strength was nearly gone, 
 and there was no other way. 
 
 The mare's head came round to my knees, but she 
 still went boring on, crashing at the same breakneck 
 pace through the long fern. I thought she must fall. 
 
 I still believe any horse in the world except Maid 
 Marion must have fallen. But she she just went on 
 galloping like a crab, with her head round at my knees, 
 and her legs the other way, pecking and stumbling fear- 
 fully, but never falling. 
 
 And all the while, slowly but surely, she was little by 
 little edging to the left. 
 
 We were within five yards of the ride, and I threw 
 back the whole of my weight, and gave one final desper- 
 ate tug. There was no question about it now; she must 
 either come round or go over like a rabbit. And she 
 came round only about a quarter of a point, but it 
 was enough. We were in the ride, and I was practically 
 safe. 
 
 And now that the great and glaring danger was past, 
 there came upon me for the first time fear, real, genu- 
 ine fear, and an overwhelming wish to live. It was still 
 nearly a mile to the Slade Lodge, and the ride ran the 
 whole way, and the whole way it was uphill. Surely, I
 
 162 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 thought, this should stop her! My own strength was 
 gone it had gone with a snap in that last desperate 
 pull and I was as weak as a child. But still, a mile 
 uphill, after tearing through all that long, clinging 
 bracken, surely that must be enough! 
 
 I knew nothing, you see, of the endurance of thor- 
 oughbreds, especially of thoroughbreds that had been in 
 training. And so, when I found the mare galloping on, 
 strong as ever, and breasting the hill without an effort, 
 I thought I was on a steed possessed of the devil. Pasha 
 would have been dead long ago if he had come the pace 
 we had. And yet on we went, a little slower, perhaps, 
 as the incline got steeper, but still full of go. I gath- 
 ered myself together, and hauled upon the reins, and 
 the mare slowed down a bit, there was no doubt of it, 
 she did slow down, distinctly; but the moment I let go 
 to take a fresh pull she bounded forward again as fast 
 as ever. 
 
 And so we went on, I getting weaker and weaker, and 
 the mare going on as if she meant to gallop for a week ; 
 and then we came to the final steep pitch that leads to 
 the lodge. I looked ahead, and saw the great iron gates 
 were shut. Of course they were they always were 
 kept shut. I wondered whether Maid Marion would 
 charge them, or swerve to the left and fling me off 
 against the wall. Any swerve would have shot me off 
 now; I was regularly reeling in the saddle. 
 
 She was going ever so much slower up the pitch, and 
 with my ordinary strength I think I could have stopped 
 her, but not now. I was done. 
 
 I vaguely remember sending up a wild prayer for one 
 second of the strength I had had five minutes before; I 
 remember the quick, short breathing of the mare, and
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 163 
 
 my own feeling of utter, hopeless misery; I remember 
 the sudden apparition of Sydney's stalwart form stand- 
 ing in the ride, and waving his arms like a couple of 
 windmills; I remember, in a very feeble voice crying 
 out, "Stop her, Sydney, stop her!" I remember what 
 the old books call a "mortal sickness" coming over me, 
 and my falling in a limp, helpless mass, into something 
 that held me very tight, and then, for about a minute, I 
 remembered no more. 
 
 When at the end of it I recovered consciousness, 
 I found that Sydney was kissing me with immense 
 vigour. 
 
 "What do you mean by kissing me, Mr. Grayle?" I 
 exclaimed, faintly; "you have absolutely no right to, 
 and I call it mean and cowardly." 
 
 I tried hard to summon up a certain show of dignity, 
 but it is not easy when you are lying on your back on the 
 grass, panting like a dog. 
 
 "Quite true!" he said, "it is!" And did it again. 
 "Are you hurt, Joe?" he added. 
 
 I smiled inwardly at the name. He had picked that 
 up at Selworth. 
 
 "No," I said, "I think not a bit bruised and bat- 
 tered. No, you really must not kiss me, Mr. Grayle!" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you know "perfectly well why not." 
 
 "No. Tell me." 
 
 "Well, for one thing, you believed horrid stories 
 about me." 
 
 In a moment his manner changed; the mocking mood 
 passed away like a flash. 
 
 "I did, God forgive me!" he said. "But not now, 
 Joe, not now."
 
 164 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Why," I exclaimed, "has anything happened? Has 
 any one told you?" 
 
 "Nothing has happened, and no one has told me any- 
 thing; but it is impossible for any one to hold you in his 
 arms, as I am doing, and look into your eyes, and not 
 know that you are as true as gold." 
 
 "Thank you!" I said, with rather a derisive laugh. 
 
 "Joe," he said, very earnestly, "I see the others are 
 coming up. Tell me before they come, for God's sake, 
 that you are true, and that you still love me." 
 
 "Both!" I said, with a nod. 
 
 "Thank God!" he said. "And will you come with 
 me to America?" 
 
 "I will go with you to the end of the world, and be- 
 yond, if you like." 
 
 "Really and truly?" 
 
 "Yes, really and truly." 
 
 "I have no money, you know not a penny." 
 
 "Oh, bother the money! We shall get along some- 
 how. I will dig potatoes, or make shirts, or something. 
 I am as strong as a horse." 
 
 "Come to the tree to-morrow," he whispered, "and 
 we will talk it over." 
 
 I heard the close thud of hoofs on the grass ride, and 
 the next moment my uncle's voice calling out wildly, 
 "Is she hurt, Grayle, is she hurt?" 
 
 "No," Sydney answered, "I think not. Only shaken 
 and rather exhausted." 
 
 "Thank God!" he cried; "thank God! thank God!" 
 
 He flung himself off his horse and came and knelt at 
 my side. His face was white and drawn, and he seemed 
 quite unnerved. He took up my hand, and began strok- 
 ing it feverishly. "Thank God!" he kept saying over
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 165 
 
 and over again. "Poor little girl! Poor little Joe! 
 Quite sure you're not hurt?" 
 
 I had never seen him so moved; there were tears in 
 his eyes, and he was trembling like a leaf much more 
 upset, in fact, than I was. Sophie stood on the other 
 side, white and terrified, and Sydney held the two 
 horses. 
 
 "I'll gallop back and send the carriage up for you," 
 he said; "and the doctor, too best have the doctor. 
 O good Lord! good Lord! if you had been killed!" 
 
 "Oh, I'm all right," I said; "I can ride back per- 
 fectly well." 
 
 I rose to my feet rather shakily, and began looking 
 about for Maid Marion. There she was, wicked thing! 
 with the reins dangling about her feet, munching the 
 coarse grass as peacefully as a Jersey calf. 
 
 "You are surely not going to ride that mare again?" 
 Sydney said, starting forward. 
 
 "Yes; why not?" 
 
 "Mr. de Metrier," he said, turning to my uncle, 
 "you positively cannot allow your niece to get on that 
 dangerous brute again. She ought never to have ridden 
 it in the first instance." 
 
 "You must allow me to be the best judge of that," 
 said my uncle, getting rather red. "The mare is as 
 quiet as a lamb." 
 
 "Mares that are as quiet as lambs are not in the habit 
 of running away," Sydney answered, quietly. "She is 
 evidently quite unsafe for any lady to ride." 
 
 "Damme, sir!" cried uncle, fuming and puffing a 
 good deal, "will you have the goodness to mind your 
 own business? What the devil has it got to do with 
 you?"
 
 166 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Nothing, I suppose," said Sydney; "but every. one 
 has a right to express an opinion, and I say emphatic- 
 ally that that mare is not safe for a lady to ride." 
 
 "And I say she is, sir, as safe as any horse in my 
 stables." 
 
 Sydney shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "And you are actually going to make your niece ride 
 her home?" 
 
 "My niece shall do exactly as she likes, Mr. Grayle; 
 and that without consulting you in the matter." 
 
 "Oh, I'm quite ready to ride her, Uncle Guy," I said. 
 "I am sure she wouldn't do it again." 
 
 "Don't you get on her, Joe," Sydney said, decisively; 
 "she's a vicious brute!" 
 
 Whether it was the name, or whether it was the remark 
 or what, I don't know, but Uncle Guy's face turned pos- 
 itively purple with rage, and I saw the same look come 
 over it as on that terrible day when I had first told him 
 of my visit to Mrs. Beddington. He seemed to find it 
 hard to speak; his hands opened and shut, and his mouth 
 worked like a man's in a fit. 
 
 "What the devil do you mean, sir? What are you 
 insinuating?" 
 
 "I am insinuating nothing, Mr. de Metrier. Why 
 should I? I simply state a fact, and that is, that the 
 mare is vicious, and dangerous for a lady to ride." 
 
 I thought for a moment Uncle Guy would have hit 
 him with his hunting-crop; there is not much doubt he 
 would have liked to; his face was distorted with passion. 
 Suddenly he spun round to where Sophie stood looking 
 very scared. 
 
 "Sophie," he said, "get on the chestnut; Josephine 
 shall ride Norah home."
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 167 
 
 Poor Sophie turned as white as a sheet, looking help- 
 lessly from one to the other of us. 
 
 "Do you hear me, girl?" he shouted, stamping his 
 foot; "don't stand there staring like an idiot." 
 
 She picked up the skirt of her habit; and in her long, 
 polished boots began tramping through the dead bracken 
 to where Maid Marion stood peacefully cropping the 
 grass. She looked scared to death, poor Sophie! No 
 wonder; courage was not her strong point. 
 
 "Do let me ride her, Uncle Guy," I pleaded; "I'm 
 quite right again now." 
 
 "Nonsense!" he said; "you're shaken and tired. 
 You get on Norah here ; I will put you up if you are 
 ready." 
 
 To tell the truth, I was pretty glad of a quiet mount 
 home. When I got on my feet I found that I could 
 hardly stand. My uncle put me up on Norah, and then 
 strode away to where Sophie was fumbling with Maid 
 Marion's reins. 
 
 "Up you get!" he said; "the sooner we're off the 
 better." 
 
 "Mr. de Metrier, " Sydney said, coming forward, 
 "will you let me lead the mare home for you? I shall be 
 delighted to do it." 
 
 "No, sir, I will not, and I shall be obliged if you will 
 mind your own business. I tell you the mare is perfectly 
 quiet; my daughter could ride her with a thread. The 
 Lord only knows what it was made her bolt before." 
 
 So poor Sophie was put up, trembling, Uncle Guy 
 climbed on to old Admiral, and we started slowly down 
 the ride. Sydney stood watching us for a minute, and 
 then turned away in the direction of the Lodge. 
 
 Never shall I forget that ride home. It was a grizzly
 
 168 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 performance! None of us spoke no one ever spoke to 
 Uncle Guy when he was in one of his rages it was not 
 safe. We rode in dead silence, and at a foot's pace, 
 towards the Plain, through the dead bracken, and be- 
 tween the great spreading oaks that had clutched at me 
 as I raced through. I followed the track of my mad 
 career with interest; the ragged furrow torn through the 
 fern, the uprooted plants flung to right and left, and the 
 long slides ploughing up the sand of the rabbit-burrows. 
 I saw the broken end of that last wicked branch that 
 had gripped me so murderously round the waist, and 
 wondered how in the world my backbone had managed 
 to prove the stronger of the two. 
 
 Maid Marion apparently troubled herself with none 
 of these things. She stepped lightly and delicately over 
 the pits and trenches her hoofs had scored in the ground 
 twenty minutes before, with no signs about her of any 
 such breakneck madness beyond the dried lather on her 
 smooth arched neck. Sophie was still nervous, I could 
 see, but gaining a little confidence, I thought, from the 
 mare's quiet, unexcited behaviour. Poor Sophie! her 
 nerves were to be tried before we got home in a way that 
 neither of us expected. 
 
 What the idea was I don't know, but I think it was 
 simple obstinacy. Uncle Guy was still brooding, I 
 think, over Sydney and his remarks I could tell that 
 from his silence; and I suppose he wanted to prove to 
 all of us, including himself, that the mare was perfectly 
 quiet to ride. However, whether that was so or not, 
 what happened was this. When we were down on the 
 level of the Plain he turned suddenly to my cousin and 
 said: 
 
 "Just canter home, Sophie, and tell your mother that
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 169 
 
 Josephine has been run away with. Tell her she is not 
 hurt, you know, but a little bit shaken, and ask her to 
 have a hot bath ready, and some brandy nothing like 
 brandy for shaken nerves." 
 
 Sophie looked as though she had been ordered to sud- 
 den execution. Her jaw dropped an inch, and her poor 
 eyes got at least twice their common size. I think at 
 first she thought her father was joking. 
 
 "Now, off you go," he said, roughly. "What are you 
 gaping at?" 
 
 I saw her look hopelessly to right and left, as though 
 for some means of escape. All the colour slowly left 
 her face, and I could see her hands shaking. She never 
 said a word, but her face begged for mercy as plainly as 
 though she were on her knees. It was pathetic. 
 
 "Now then, don't you hear?" Uncle Guy said once 
 more. 
 
 "I really don't want any bath or brandy, either," I 
 said; "I'm perfectly well, and brandy always makes me 
 sick." 
 
 "Nonsense, nonsense!" he said; "can't have you laid 
 up, you know; little girls must do as they are told. 
 Hurry up now, Sophie; we'll follow slowly." 
 
 He lifted his crop and rode at the mare as though to 
 hit her on the quarters. 
 
 "All right, papa; don't touch her!" Sophie cried, in 
 a voice that was almost a shriek. She shook the reins 
 and pressed the mare into a canter. I saw her lean for- 
 ward, and I knew she was whispering soothing sounds in 
 the mare's long, flicking ears those soothing sounds 
 that were in this case almost a prayer for mercy. As for 
 me, I was simply boiling over with indignation. I 
 thought what Uncle Guy had done was one of the most
 
 170 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 brutal things I had ever seen. I was also in mortal terror 
 for my poor Sophie. If the mare had bolted going away 
 from home, what was she likely to do now? 
 
 I was so angry, and so frightened, that I think I was 
 on the point of saying something to Uncle Guy; anyhow, 
 I turned towards him with anger against him raging 
 within me. But when I saw his face I thought better of 
 it. He looked twice as frightened as I did ! His eyes 
 were following Sophie's retreating form with such a look 
 of anxious agony in them as I have never seen before or 
 since. She Sophie, that is was lolloping away like 
 a hare or rather the mare was going as easily and 
 quietly as though running away was a thing that had 
 never entered her head since the day she was foaled. 
 To say that I was surprised is to put my feelings in very 
 mild terms; but, of course, my prevailing feeling at the 
 moment was one of immense relief relief with a faint 
 background of humiliation. It was clearly a case of my 
 bad hands, and Uncle Guy was right after all; the mare 
 was quiet quiet as a sheep, with proper riding. 
 
 Aunt Harriet met us at the front door with an anx- 
 ious, scared face, and loud exclamations of thanksgiving 
 for my escape. She had sent off for the doctor, she 
 said, and in the mean while I must have a warm bath 
 and some sal volatile, and go straight to bed. Dear, 
 kind soul! In vain I told her I wanted none of these 
 things especially the first. What earthly good could 
 the poor man do? There was nothing in the world the 
 matter with me beyond a few bruises and scratches. 
 However, short of open rebellion there was no escape 
 from her persistency, so, rather sulkily, I am afraid, I 
 yielded to the whole programme bed, brandy, sal vola- 
 tile, doctor, and all, and even drank the inoffensive mix-
 
 AN AFTERNOON RIDE 171 
 
 ture which the poor man thought it necessary to send up. 
 To tell the truth, I was rather glad to be alone and think. 
 I wanted to think over my hardly-to-be-believed recon- 
 ciliation with Sydney, and his plan about going to Amer- 
 ica, and our scheme for meeting at Inversnaid next day; 
 all these things had to be thought over and hugged and 
 gloated over as altogether too good on the face of them 
 to be true, and yet things that absolutely and literally 
 were.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 
 
 T WOKE next morning as stiff as a board. Unsus- 
 * pected bruises discovered themselves in various 
 colours all over my body. My head smarted and tingled 
 where stray wisps of hair had been torn out by the 
 roots; there was a long scratch on my left cheek, and 
 another over my eye. And yet, for all these things, I 
 doubt if on any day at any time in my life I have jumped 
 out of bed with such pure joy of soul as I did that morn- 
 ing. I threw open the little latticed windows as wide as 
 they would go, and craned out my rumpled head into 
 the morning air. It was a still, dull day, with little 
 patches of blue showing here and there among the grey 
 clouds. Not the faintest breath of air stirred the naked 
 limbs of the mighty trees beyond the balustrade. From 
 the ground rose up the fresh, damp smell of dead leaves 
 very pleasant to my nostrils a real homy English smell. 
 My friend, the robin, was piping plaintively among the 
 holly bushes, and my other friends, the cock-pheasants, 
 were swaggering gallantly about, picking up whatever 
 pheasants do pick up worms, I suppose. I was glad 
 they had not been shot. 
 
 Eighty yards away, by the steps to the lower terrace, 
 a gardener was tickling the path with a broom. He took 
 no notice whatever of me; why should he? He was used 
 by this time to such unkempt apparitions. I expect he 
 had long ago put me down as a harmless lunatic. 
 
 172
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 173 
 
 I looked up at the dull sky with satisfaction. The 
 clouds were not heavy, only the grey Shetland-shawl 
 sort of clouds that one expects at the end of the year. 
 "No rain to-day," I thought; "Sydney will come all 
 right." I wished I hadn't got that long scratch down 
 the left cheek; it made me look such an object. Then 
 I thought of Inversnaid and the "drawbridge." The 
 very thought of wriggling my poor, battered body up 
 that long, spiky branch was positive agony to me. How 
 in the world was I to do it, and not fill the very welkin 
 with my shrieks? 
 
 I dressed at my leisure that day, beguiling the weary 
 hour, by way of a change, with singing. It was not 
 often I did this, and when I did, I always did it out of 
 tune. Whistling was more in my line; nobody expects 
 one to whistle in tune. But that morning somehow I 
 felt full of song. The gardener left off tickling the 
 path, and stared up with open mouth. This was a form 
 of lunacy he was not used to. But what did it matter? 
 The musical ear of my uncle's gardener is not over-crit- 
 ical, as Ollendorf would have said. So I went on: 
 
 "And though the wild fir trees were creaking, 
 
 And ghosts were in every part, 
 I found what I long had been seeking, 
 A heart I could take to my heart." 
 
 The clang of the chapel bell put a stop at last to my 
 singing, and told me that there was half an hour still to 
 breakfast; so I went out and prowled about the garden, 
 and found nothing particular to do, and wished with all 
 my heart it was two hours later. 
 
 "Well, Joe, what are your plans for this morning?" 
 Uncle Guy enquired at breakfast, with a broad, cheery 
 smile.
 
 174 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Oh, I don't know poke about, I suppose," I 
 answered, carelessly. After I had said it, it suddenly 
 dawned upon me that I was growing into an appalling 
 liar. The idea horrified me; I had always been rather 
 the other way, and hated liars as I hated the Evil One. 
 
 "May I come and poke about, too?" Norman asked. 
 
 "Of course," I said, wishing him at the other end of 
 the world, "if it won't bore you." 
 
 It was really too maddening, just this one morning of 
 all others, when I so particularly wanted to be left free! 
 I could have thrown something at him; however, I knew 
 that several pairs of eyes were watching me; so I did my 
 best to look happy (more lying! but there was no help 
 for it). 
 
 So Norman and I went and rowed about on the lake, 
 and fished for pike, and caught nothing but one small 
 but gluttonous perch. And I was rather sulky, I am 
 afraid, and snubbed Norman, and made rather a fool 
 of myself generally. 
 
 Then we came home to luncheon, and Aunt Harriet 
 said she would take me out for a drive, as I was on no 
 account to be allowed to ride Maid Marion again. She 
 had scolded poor Uncle Guy most desperately for letting 
 me ride her at all, and still more for letting Sophie ride 
 her home. 
 
 This was all madly annoying, of course, but still I 
 consoled myself with the thought that Sydney would 
 understand, and would in all probability come to Inver- 
 snaid next day on the chance. But when the next day 
 came, and exactly the same thing happened, and the 
 next, and the next after that, it became pretty clear to 
 me that I was not meant to do as I pleased. It was 
 impossible it could be accident. I was being watched,
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 175 
 
 guarded, escorted, sometimes by one member of the 
 family, sometimes by another. Even Sophie was made 
 use of to watch and report upon my movements quite 
 innocently and unconsciously, of course, poor thing! but 
 that only made it all the worse. I felt, in fact, that I 
 was a prisoner, never allowed to move without a warder 
 at my side. I was afraid even to confide in Sophie 
 dear, gentle Sophie! I knew, of course, that she was 
 absolutely devoted to me. and that she would sooner die 
 than do anything that would knowingly injure me, but 
 then there was Father Terence, and he had a way of 
 worming things out of people that I had already experi- 
 enced, to my cost. 
 
 So I kept my own counsel, and grew sullen and suspi- 
 cious, and as a consequence, cunning and deceitful; it 
 was really dreadful, but what was I to do? Every one's 
 hand was against me, even down to the servants. 
 
 Griffiths was a spy, and Frenetzi as far as his oppor- 
 tunities went was worse. The family were, of course, 
 friendly and polite on the surface, but even from them 
 the mask would at times fall off. Not that I mean to 
 imply that I ever caught them off their guard, scowling 
 demoniacal glances at me; but they were different from 
 what they had been ; they were different from what they 
 were when I came. Uncle Guy, when I first came, had 
 been as cheery and jolly a specimen of a country gentle- 
 man as one may meet in a lifetime. With his round, 
 red face, clear grey eye, and short aquiline nose, it 
 would have been hard to conceive a more perfect type 
 of the jovial squire of the sporting school. Norman, 
 for his part, had been frivolous, light-hearted, and irre- 
 sponsible what the books call debonnaire. Both of 
 them had been the picture of health. Now, however,
 
 176 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 all this was changed. Uncle Guy looked white, haggard, 
 and pinched, while Norman stalked about like a ghost, 
 with drooping head and hands in pockets. What was 
 the meaning of it all? What was this horrible mystery, 
 this gloomy spectre, that had worked so astonishing a 
 change? Why, too, was I watched and guarded as 
 though I were a felon? 
 
 For my own part, I connected the whole thing in some 
 way with Father Terence. Not that I had the slightest 
 ground for this, beyond the fact that I was perpetually 
 coming upon him in the byways and passages of the 
 house, whispering with Norman or my uncle. There 
 never was such a place as Selworth for tumbling on peo- 
 ple unawares! And every time, whenever I did find 
 them, it always seemed to be Father Terence who was 
 laying down the law, and the others who were listening. 
 Of course, all this might well have been pure imagination 
 on my part, for I never overheard a word they were say- 
 ing, and for all I knew to the contrary, they might have 
 been talking of food or weather or the chants for the 
 following Sunday. But Father Terence frightened me; 
 I never had cared for him, and now he positively fright- 
 ened me. I used to catch him sometimes staring at me 
 with the oddest look you ever saw in a man's face a 
 look in which horror and curiosity seemed struggling for 
 the mastery. What did the man mean by looking at me 
 in that way? I felt instinctively that, for some extraor- 
 dinary, un-get-at-able reason, he was my enemy. He 
 was always civil far too civil, in fact full of silly, 
 idiotic compliments that made me sick; but for all that, 
 I knew, as surely as a pigeon knows a hawk, that the 
 whole being of the man was hostile to me, and danger- 
 ous.
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 177 
 
 And I began to get very frightened. 
 
 The thing got on my nerves, and kept me awake at 
 night kept me awake for hours, while I stared into the 
 darkness and tried to find some clue to the mystery. 
 My face like Norman's and Uncle Guy's began to get 
 white and pinched, and I noticed a scared, strained look 
 in the eyes that faced me from the looking-glass. The 
 worst of it all was there was no single, solitary soul in 
 the whole place, except Sydney, that I could confide in, 
 and ask advice from. And Sydney was out of reach 
 kept out of reach, I knew, by intention. 
 
 One night, about a week after the Maid Marion busi- 
 ness, I lay awake, feeling utterly miserable, and wishing 
 I was dead, when a thought flashed across my brain in 
 the sudden, unaccountable way that things do come 
 across one in the small hours of the morning. I thought 
 of old Mrs. Beddington, and of the words she had twice 
 used at parting, "Come to me if you are ever in need of 
 a friend." Surely, if ever I was in need of a friend, it 
 was now! I would go. I made up my mind on the 
 instant. The moment it was daylight I would slip out 
 of the glass door, and take her at her word. The 
 thought was an immense comfort to me the thought of 
 doing something, instead of sitting still day after day 
 among all these mysteries and whisperings and white, 
 gloomy faces. 
 
 The moment the first streak of grey began to show 
 through my blinds I jumped out of bed and began to 
 dress, and long before it was light enough to read, and 
 long before the housemaids had started prowling about 
 the passages, I had slipped out of the little turret door, 
 and over the stone balustrade, into the shelter of the 
 trees. I went boldly across the Plain; I knew no one
 
 178 
 
 would be up at that hour. And besides, I could see 
 that every blind in the great house was down ; only in 
 some of the little dormer windows at the top the glow 
 of candles told me that the housemaids were beginning 
 to stir. 
 
 I almost ran across the thick, sopping grass, for I 
 knew that on this day of all others I must be punctual 
 for breakfast. The deer were still lying down, dotted 
 about like huge toad-stools, but they got up and shook 
 themselves as I came near, leaving bright green marks 
 in the white wetness of the grass. They stared at me 
 haughtily for a minute or two, as though asking what I 
 meant by disturbing them at such an hour, and then 
 trotted lightly away with head and tail in air. 
 
 I went first to Inversnaid, for I had something to do 
 there. 
 
 I climbed up, and just over the fireplace, where it 
 would be shielded from the rain, I pinned a bit of paper 
 I had brought with me. On it was written : 
 
 "Cannot get away except before breakfast; try and come some 
 morning about half past eight. I want to see you badly. J." 
 
 He might find it, or he might not. Anyhow, no one 
 else would find it, for, thank Heaven, no living soul, 
 except us two, knew of Inversnaid and all its hidden 
 glories. I looked round at all the old nooks and corners 
 with a feeling of such immense love as it is quite 
 beyond me to describe. I felt that this old tree had 
 remained faithful and true when all else had failed me. 
 Selworth House, from being the dream of my childhood, 
 had grown to be a nightmare; the park the glorious 
 and peerless park had all but proved my death, and my 
 lovely panelled room had turned out to be nothing more
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 179 
 
 or less than a treacherous trap. But Inversnaid was 
 still true to me ; Inversnaid was on my side my only 
 ally against all the forces that were assailing me, a 
 very tower of strength and secrecy, with its mighty 
 limbs and unknown hiding-places; and over and above 
 all, Inversnaid it was that had brought me Sydney. This 
 was enough in itself. 
 
 I would have loved to have stayed there, and lit some 
 sticks in the charred, blackened fireplace, but I remem- 
 bered what time meant to me that morning. So I slipped 
 down and ran across the valley to the Manor House. 
 Henry Beddington was just leaving for the Abbey as I 
 came to the door. He stared at me open-mouthed. 
 
 "Is your mother up yet?" I asked. "I want particu- 
 larly to see her." 
 
 "Oh, yes, miss," he said; "she be up, right enough. 
 I reckon you'll find her in the kitchen." 
 
 I hammered at the door, and Mrs. Beddington herself 
 opened it. 
 
 "So you've come," she said instantly, looking me full 
 in the face with her dark, piercing eyes. 
 
 "Yes, I've come." 
 
 "Well, step in, child, and sit down. You look as 
 white as a ghost, to be sure. What have they been 
 doing to you?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing!" I said, sinking into a chair. I felt 
 half-dead, I was so tired. 
 
 "Nothing! and you to look like that! Well, well, 
 sit quiet a minute while I make you a cup of tea." 
 
 "Then you won't marry Norman! I suppose that's 
 where the trouble lies?" she added, suddenly and 
 sharply, as she bustled about with the kettle. 
 
 "No, I can't marry Norman," I said.
 
 i8o THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "And why not, pray? Isn't he good enough for you?" 
 
 She spoke so sharply that I looked up at her in sur- 
 prise, She was positively scowling at me from under 
 her thick eyebrows. Was this the friend, I thought, 
 that I had taken such trouble to come and see? My 
 heart sank with a feeling of utter hopelessness. Here, 
 then, was another one against me! 
 
 "I don't care for him enough to marry him," I said, 
 weakly. 
 
 "And whom do you care for well enough to marry?" 
 
 I made no answer, but sat and stared into the crack- 
 ling fire. 
 
 "Is it that young Sydney Grayle?" 
 
 "Yes; I would marry Mr. Grayle." 
 
 "Well, well, to think of any girl preferring a beggarly 
 young fortune-hunter like that to a man like Norman de 
 Metrier!" 
 
 "Norman isn't fit to black his boots!" I cried, rising 
 to my feet, "and I don't think I want your tea, thanks, 
 Mrs. Beddington; I must be getting home." 
 
 I was very angry, and on the verge of tears. It was 
 so hard to find this old woman against me after all. 
 
 "So that's the way of it, is it?" she said. "Well, 
 well, I've nothing more to say, then. The Lord's will 
 be done." 
 
 I had my hand already on the door-latch, but at her 
 last words I turned round and faced her What did she 
 mean by the Lord's will being done? I remembered Father 
 Terence using those very words some time back when I 
 had overheard him talking to Uncle Guy in the great 
 hall. 
 
 "What do you mean?" I said. 
 
 "Come here, my dear," she said, "and sit down, and
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 181 
 
 drink your tea. You've come to me, as I told you to, 
 because you want a friend?" 
 
 "I did come because I wanted a friend, but I'm afraid 
 I've wasted my time," I said, bitterly. 
 
 "Nonsense!" she said, sharply; "sit down, like a 
 sensible girl. I am your friend, and a good one, as 
 you'll find." 
 
 "So you love this young Grayle?" she asked, after a 
 pause. 
 
 "Yes, I do," I said, defiantly. 
 
 "And you would marry him, beggar as he is, and beg- 
 gar as you are?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I would, and I wish for nothing bet- 
 ter." 
 
 She took my two hands in hers, and stared into my 
 face as though she would read my very soul. 
 
 "Then," she said, "I will help you, though it prove 
 my death." 
 
 "Prove your death!" I exclaimed. "What do you 
 mean? Why should it prove any one's death? Surely 
 I can marry any one I choose." 
 
 She took no notice of my questions. 
 
 "I would have given everything I have in the world 
 for you to have married Norman," she said, solemnly; 
 "but as it is, I bow my head to the will of God. It is a 
 just punishment for my sins." 
 
 "I don't know the least what you mean," I said. "I 
 came to you because I am in terrible need of a friend, 
 and you told me to come if I wanted one. I thought 
 you might advise me." 
 
 "And so I will, my dear, so I will, and more than 
 that. There are very few things I would not do for 
 Guy de Metrier's daughter."
 
 182 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Guy de Metrier's daughter! Do you mean Sophie?" 
 
 "No, my dear, not Sophie. However, never mind 
 that now. Tell me what they are doing to you up at the 
 Abbey." 
 
 "Oh! what are they not doing?" I cried, wringing my 
 hands in a way I should have been ashamed of two 
 months before. "What are they not doing? They are 
 watching me, and spying on me, and guarding me as 
 though I were a prisoner. Even the servants are leagued 
 against me. There is not a soul in the place I can trust. 
 I am frightened, Mrs. Beddington horribly fright- 
 ened! what of I don't know. I couldn't tell you to 
 save my life but there is something, I am sure of 
 that." 
 
 "Poor lamb!" the old lady said, "is it as bad as that? 
 Well, well, they are bad to cross, these De Metriers, 
 and always have been gentlemen all, and smooth as 
 milk as long as things go straight, but any that crosses 
 them must bend and break unless they are the stronger, 
 as I myself should know as well as most, God help me!" 
 
 "What is it all about?" I said piteously. "What have 
 I done to offend them? Is it about Norman?" 
 
 "There, you have said it," she replied, "and in three 
 words; it is about Norman, and nothing else. If you 
 married him there would be no more trouble for any 
 of us." 
 
 "I can't do it," I cried, "I can't really. I would 
 sooner die!" 
 
 "Hush! my dear," she said; "don't talk like that, 
 for Heaven's sake!" 
 
 She raised her hands, as though to shut out some evil 
 sight, and shuffled across to the far end of the room. 
 I rose to my feet.
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 183 
 
 "I must be going now," I said; "it is getting late, 
 and I must be in time for breakfast." 
 
 I was miserably disappointed. She had told me noth- 
 ing, advised me nothing; and she was my one last hope 
 of friendship. 
 
 "Must you really?" she said. "Well, well, I am sorry; 
 but come again, my dear, come again soon, for I want 
 to have a long talk with you." 
 
 "How in the world can I come again soon?" I cried, 
 irritably. "Haven't I told you that I am watched and 
 spied on and guarded from morning till night? What 
 nonsense you do talk. I don't suppose I shall ever get 
 another chance. Ten to one they will find out that I 
 have been here this morning, and there will be a fine 
 to-do. Uncle Guy has expressly forbidden me to see 
 you." 
 
 "Yes," she said, thoughtfully; "he would naturally 
 do that." Then, quite suddenly, she cried out: "'In 
 the midst of life we are in death,' and I may as well do 
 it now. Wait here one minute, my dear, and I will give 
 you something to take home." 
 
 She climbed toilfully up the little wooden staircase, 
 and I stood at the open door, with curiosity slightly 
 aroused. What was she going to give me? a talisman? 
 a love-philtre? or what? 
 
 She was barely gone a minute, and came down with a 
 scarlet leather box in her hand. She carried it by a 
 handle attached to the top, and from the handle, on 
 a piece of white tape, hung the key. 
 
 "Miss Josephine," she said, very seriously, "take 
 this box, and guard it as you would your own life. Let 
 no one see it, and hide it where no single soul within the 
 four walls of Selworth will be able to find it. The
 
 184 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 moment I am dead, open it, and read what is inside. 
 While I am alive you are on no account to open it till I 
 give you leave. Do you promise me this solemnly?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, feeling rather awed. 
 
 "That is good. You are to be trusted, or I would 
 not give it you. But the moment you hear of my death, 
 open it if possible in company with Mr. Grayle." 
 
 "Why do you talk of dying?" I asked. "You look 
 quite well; is anything the matter?" 
 
 " 'In the midst of life we are in death,' " she repeated, 
 shaking her head. "I have grievous sins that must be 
 expiated here or hereafter; God grant it may be here." 
 
 I took the box, and held it limply in my hand, waiting 
 for her to say more. I was far too impressed myself to 
 speak. The old woman stood shaking her head and 
 muttering to herself. Then suddenly she turned to me, 
 and seized my hand. 
 
 "In the meanwhile," she said, "I will give you advice. 
 Trust no one at Selworth, least of all the priest. What- 
 ever he advises you to do, do the opposite. Be secret 
 and watchful, and keep your own counsel. Write no 
 letters, and, above all things, show no signs of distrust 
 remember that." 
 
 I nodded silently. 
 
 "There is one thing more," she went on, "but it may 
 be difficult. Get Lady Harriet, if possible, to change 
 your room." 
 
 "Why?" I said. "Do you mean the picture?" 
 
 I have never seen anyone look so astonished. It 
 almost made me laugh, miserable as I was. 
 
 "What do you know of the picture?" she asked, 
 sharply. 
 
 "I know all about it," I said, with some triumph,
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 185 
 
 "and especially this, that nobody will open it from the 
 staircase side again in a hurry." 
 
 "They have tried, then?" she asked in a horrified 
 whisper. 
 
 "Never you mind," I said, laughing; "it's all right 
 now, anyhow. And now I must really be off. Good- 
 bye, Mrs. Beddington, and a thousand thanks." 
 
 "Mind the box well," she said, shaking a finger at 
 me, "and let no one see it on any account, except Mr. 
 Grayle. And since you're set on him young Grayle, I 
 mean I'll give you both an old woman's blessing, and 
 that with all my heart. He's a fine young fellow, and 
 worth a dozen ramshackle De Metriers when all's said 
 and done. God bless you both!" 
 
 She turned into the house, and I went dancing off 
 down the track. 
 
 It was wonderful how my spirits had risen during the 
 last ten minutes. I think it was the box or perhaps the 
 tea, or the discovery that there was one person at any 
 rate in the world who would turn a smiling eye upon my 
 marriage with Sydney Grayle. Anyhow, whatever it 
 was, the result was astonishing. I had not been in such 
 spirits for days, almost weeks. A pale sun was up now, 
 slanting through the bare branches of the trees opposite, 
 and flecking the bracken with streaks and stars of light. 
 I had just three-quarters of an hour to get home, and I 
 knew it was none too much. 
 
 I was just rounding the bend in the track that shows 
 one the bottom of the broader valley below, with the 
 green ride running up its centre, when my heart gave one 
 immense bound, and then stood stock still. I darted 
 like a rabbit behind the roots of a big fir-tree that had 
 been blown down, and flung myself full length on the
 
 186 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 wet, stony earth on which it had once stood. And there 
 I lay, hardly daring so much as to breathe; for what I 
 had caught sight of in that one wild moment was noth- 
 ing less than Uncle Guy himself riding slowly up the 
 track towards the Manor House. He had not seen me 
 yet; I was sure of that; and the upturned root, though 
 only three yards from the track, shielded me well enough 
 so long as nothing prompted him to look back when he 
 had once passed. If he did that, I was lost absolutely 
 and irretrievably lost for on that side there was no 
 shelter at all. Oh, those awful moments! Did ever 
 mortal man ride so slow before? I heard the slow, regu- 
 lar beat of the horse's hoofs drawing nearer and nearer 
 as they climbed the hill. I heard the old horse softly 
 blowing his nose, and the smack of Uncle Guy's cane 
 against his gaiters. Would they never pass? 
 
 Uncle Guy gave a loud sneeze, and it sounded so 
 appallingly close that I almost jumped out of my skin. 
 A horrible dread came over me that from the top of his 
 horse he might be able to see my feet sticking out behind 
 the root. However, movement of any sort would be 
 absolutely fatal, so I lay still, and trusted vaguely to 
 Providence. Next moment horse and rider burst out 
 into full view. He was kicking his heels loosely, and 
 smacking his leg with his cane, and his head turned 
 quickly from side to side as though taking stock of his 
 property. Once he rested his hand on the horse's quar- 
 ters, and turned squarely round to the right, looking 
 straight over my head towards the Abbey. An insane 
 inclination came into my head to kick both my legs 
 straight up into the air, and give a wild view-halloa; it 
 would have made him jump so. However, thank
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 187 
 
 Heaven! I resisted it. The next moment his head 
 turned to the front again, and I was safe. 
 
 He rode round into the yard, whistling and calling 
 for some one to take his horse, and I picked myself up, 
 and scurried madly down the track. 
 
 I had to go a long round home to keep out of sight of 
 the bedroom windows along the edge of Flexham 
 Wood, then down under the dip in which the Home 
 Farm lay, through the straggling oak-trees between the 
 house and the lake, and then for two or three hundred 
 yards across the open, till I reached the shelter of the 
 trees outside the garden balustrade. After that it was 
 all plain sailing. 
 
 I got in five minutes before the bell rang, and hid my 
 box in the drawer at the bottom of my wardrobe, and 
 spent the rest of the time in washing my face in cold 
 water, and brushing my clothes and my hair, and gen- 
 erally making myself look as though I had not been out 
 of the house for weeks. 
 
 Uncle Guy was down as soon as I was; he looked very 
 much as though he had been out of the house hot and 
 pale and dishevelled, and very cross. He clattered the 
 dishes about in an awful fashion, and broke two plates, 
 and swore a good deal under his breath. No one dared 
 speak to him. I wondered what Mrs. Beddington had 
 been saying to him. 
 
 No one asked me any questions, and I took it for 
 granted that my walk would pass down as one of the 
 unrecorded incidents of history; but before twenty-four 
 hours had passed I had reason to change my mind. And 
 for this reason. 
 
 I got up early next morning to go to Inversnaid; I
 
 i88 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 thought it just possible that Sydney might have found 
 my paper. Anyhow, it was worth going on the off 
 chance. But to my utter amazement, when I got to the 
 glass door, I found it locked, and the key nowhere to be 
 seen. 
 
 "Officious housemaids," I thought. "However, it 
 doesn't much matter, luckily." I passed on to the door 
 into the garden by Aunt Harriet's room, but here again 
 I found the same thing door locked, key gone! This 
 time I did not say "officious housemaids." I said noth- 
 ing, but I thought a good deal, like the parrot. I have 
 never seen a house where there are so many outlets as 
 there are at Selworth. I tried them all, including the 
 front door. They were all the same locked and barred. 
 There were, of course, windows out of which I could 
 have climbed, but it was not worth while. In the first 
 place, I should probably have been seen by a housemaid, 
 and in the second place the locked doors told a story 
 with a very plain moral so plain a moral, in fact, that 
 I went straight back to my room, and threw myself 
 sulkily on the sofa at the foot of the bed. 
 
 I had lain for twenty minutes brooding rather miser- 
 ably, when a sudden, startling thought flashed across 
 me. My box! My precious red box! What an idiot I 
 was! I had clean forgotten all about it. 
 
 I flew to the drawer where I had hidden it, full of 
 terror and self-reproaches. What if it were gone? What 
 if old Griffiths had found it, and studied its contents? 
 
 It was hidden under one of the poor old sadly despised 
 Chelmsford frocks that I had worn when I came. That 
 was why I had put it there, because I knew full well that 
 Griffiths would have died sooner than soil her fingers with 
 such trash. I had, however, in a sudden impulse of
 
 MYSTERY AND SUSPICION 189 
 
 extraordinary caution, arranged the key and the string 
 that it hung from in a particular pattern, so that I should 
 know in a moment if any one had tampered with it. 
 
 It was all right. I need not have worried myself. 
 I ought to have known that I might have left the thing 
 there for a year in perfect safety. The key and the 
 string and the pattern were just as I had left them, and 
 with a sigh of immense relief, I took the box and sat 
 down to consider. 
 
 I had long ago made up my mind where I would hide 
 it; the only question was whether the moment was not 
 a little dangerous. However, something must be risked, 
 I thought. Over-caution is as bad as none; and after 
 all, the risk was not much greater than that of leaving 
 the box where it might be found. 
 
 I made up my mind to chance it. 
 
 I locked the door, and lit a candle, and put the can- 
 dle and the box in the middle of the chimney-piece. 
 Then I took off my shoes, and getting a chair, climbed 
 on to the left end of the chimney-piece, and ran my 
 fingers up the left side of the frame till I came to the 
 tenth knob from the bottom. I knew exactly where to 
 look for it by now. I pressed the spring, and with one 
 last supercilious smile at me, Maurice swung back out of 
 sight. 
 
 Now came the nervous part. For all I knew the stair- 
 case might act as a kind of speaking-tube into Nor- 
 man's room. I knew, of course, that he was there 
 probably still in bed. Fancy if he pounced upon me, 
 box in hand ! 
 
 I took the box in one hand and the candle in the 
 other, and crept softly up. Half-way to the top there 
 was a kind of deep niche in the wall a kind of place
 
 190 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 that looked as if it had been meant for one of those nar- 
 row slits of windows one sees in old castles. It was an 
 irregular wedge in shape, and ended in a sort of point. 
 So far this was of no great use for my purpose, but just 
 short of the end, and about four feet from the staircase, 
 there was a deep hole as though some big stone had 
 fallen from its place. This was the place I had my eye 
 on. I crawled on my knees along the dust-covered 
 stones, and stretching out my left arm, pushed the box 
 as far as it would go into the hole. It was magnificent! 
 My hand followed the box as far as the wrist, leaving it 
 absolutely invisible to any evil-minded person prowling 
 up and down the stairs. Nothing, in short, could have 
 been better. The place seemed positively to have been 
 made for my purpose. 
 
 I crept down again, closed Maurice with great cau- 
 tion, and brushed my knees, and put on my boots, with 
 the satisfactory feeling of having done a good morning's 
 work in spite of all the machinations of evilly disposed 
 people.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MORE MYSTERY 
 
 'T^HAT week Uncle Guy went to London, and stayed 
 -* there till Saturday night. Sophie said he had gone 
 to see his lawyers about money matters. I don't know 
 how she knew, but she was generally right. She told me 
 she thought he was very hard up for money, as he had 
 given orders to have all his race-horses sold at New- 
 market, which was really an extraordinary thing to do, 
 as the De Metriers had owned race-horses for over half 
 a century. 
 
 "That's what has been making him look so worried 
 and ill lately, I expect," she said; "he was immensely 
 proud of his horses." 
 
 To me all this was a revelation, and a cause of much 
 wonder. I had always looked upon my uncle as a man 
 into whose pocket money poured in such boundless quan- 
 tities that he found it difficult to know what to do with 
 it all. The horses, the carriages, the servants in their 
 powder and their liveries, the masses of gold and silver 
 plate, everything, in fact, about the place gave one the 
 idea of unlimited money. And that the owner of all this 
 should actually have to sell his horses and borrow 
 money as Sophie said he was doing seemed a thing 
 almost beyond the bounds of possibility. 
 
 Of course, if this was true, it accounted for a great 
 deal that had puzzled me before. It accounted for the 
 
 191
 
 192 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 whisperings and the consultations, and the pale, harassed 
 faces, and for a great deal of the mystery that had 
 seemed to hang about the place lately. But it accounted 
 in no way that I could see for my being locked into the 
 house, and sent out every day under escort. Unless it 
 was that Sydney, as the Duke's agent, knew all about 
 Uncle Guy's money difficulties, and they were afraid he 
 would tell me. That might possibly be it. I wondered. 
 
 Sophie and I talked over all these things by the hour. 
 We came to the conclusion that he had been speculating, 
 or betting on horse-races, and had lost more money than 
 he could pay. 
 
 One day Sophie and I were walking about down by 
 the lake when we met a long string of horses ten or 
 twelve of them in hoods and rugs and knee-caps, going 
 in the direction of the Greystoke Lodge. We ran up in 
 great excitement, and Sophie asked one of the grooms 
 where they were going. 
 
 "Going to Lunnon, miss," he said, touching his cap. 
 
 "London!' she said. "Why, what for?" 
 
 "Don't know, miss, I'm sure Mr. Clarke's orders." 
 
 We thought this the most extraordinary thing of all, 
 but there was more to come. Next day there were three 
 huge vans in the yard outside the back door, and Mercer 
 and Gedge, and half a dozen men, were hoisting in any 
 number of great wooden cases. 
 
 "What's all this, Mercer?" Sophie asked. She was 
 just as inquisitive about it all as I was. 
 
 "Some things we are sending up to London, miss," 
 he answered. "Plate mostly, and china, and one or two 
 pictures and pieces of furniture." 
 
 "But why on earth are they going to London?" she 
 asked.
 
 MORE MYSTERY 193 
 
 "Well, I fancy, from what I hear, the family will be 
 going up to town next week, and I suppose these things 
 will be wanted there dinner-parties and receptions, per- 
 haps. " 
 
 "Oh, what fun!" cried Sophie; "I do hope we are! 
 But why have we heard nothing about it?" 
 
 "Can't say, I'm sure, miss. Likely as not the 
 Squire's only settled it lately." 
 
 My uncle was always "the Squire" with the servants. 
 It was a fancy of his. Mordaunt had been "the Squire" 
 before him, and Maurice again before that, and possibly 
 Roger before Maurice. It always sounded funny to me, 
 for he was not my idea of a squire somehow. He seemed 
 too big a swell to fit the name. 
 
 Sophie and I went in, and made all sorts of discoveries 
 about the house. Four of the best pictures in the long 
 gallery were gone, and the Vandyck in the passage out- 
 side Aunt Harriet's room, and almost every picture out 
 of the drawing-room. The drawing-room, in fact, was 
 swept bare. There were three large cabinets that had 
 been full of Sevres china quite priceless, I believe; 
 these were empty now. And three marble statues that 
 stood between the windows were gone, too. We had 
 not been using the drawing-room since the last shooting 
 party, so we had not the slightest idea of what had been 
 going on. We were speechless with amazement. How 
 had they managed to do it so quietly and without any 
 noise? and why? In the name of all that was reason- 
 able, why? 
 
 "Is the London house very empty?" I asked Sophie. 
 
 "No, I don't think it is. I have never thought much 
 about it, but it has always seemed to me much the same 
 as this. The pictures, I believe, are better."
 
 i 9 4 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Then, why take all these things up?" 
 
 "Goodness knows!" 
 
 "Perhaps he's going to sell them," I whispered, "like 
 the horses." 
 
 "Oh, not likely," she said; "in the first place, he is 
 not allowed to by law without Norman's consent; and, 
 besides, it's ridiculous, of course, to suppose that he's as 
 hard up as all that. He can always raise any amount on 
 mortgage." 
 
 At luncheon we propounded the question to Aunt 
 Harriet at least Sophie did I don't think I should have 
 had the courage. 
 
 "I really don't know, child," she answered, plain- 
 tively. "Your father does not think it necessary to 
 consult me every time he moves a picture or a plate. 
 Ce ne vaut pas la print." 
 
 "No, but he is sending up such huge quantities of 
 things. The poor old drawing-room looks like a barn." 
 
 "I fancy, Sophie," Father Terence put in sonorously, 
 "that your father contemplates some changes. Some of 
 the London things are coming here, and some from here 
 going to London. The idea is, I should say, to get 
 things more suitably grouped than they are at present. 
 But really I know very little about the matter." 
 
 "And are the horses going to be more suitably 
 grouped, too?" 
 
 "My dear child," said Aunt Harriet, "don't ask such 
 very foolish questions. Je ne nfoccupe pas des tcuries. 
 Why don't you ask Clarke?" 
 
 Poor Sophie collapsed. I never knew any one so 
 easily put down. From the end of the table Norman 
 looked up, and said, carelessly: 
 
 "I expect the Squire will sell some of the horses, and
 
 MORE MYSTERY 195 
 
 a good thing, too. They're more or less of a three- 
 cornered lot, what with one thing and another. " 
 
 "Not Norah, I hope?" said Sophie. 
 
 "Oh, no, not Norah, of course, but some of the other 
 old crocks; and Maid Marion, of course, he'll sell 
 nobody would care to ride her again after her bolting 
 with Joe." 
 
 It occurred to me casually that Maid Marion had been 
 given me for my own, and that if any one had the right 
 to sell her it would be myself, but naturally I kept these 
 thoughts to myself. 
 
 "Is is true we are going to London next week?" I 
 asked, rather nervously, looking at Aunt Harriet. 
 
 "I really don't know, my dear; there was some talk 
 of it, but it depends a good deal on your uncle's arrange- 
 ments. If he can get through his business by Saturday 
 we shall probably stay here. I can tell you nothing defi- 
 nite till he comes back." 
 
 "I hope to goodness we do go up!" said Sophie, with 
 emphasis. "What fun it will be! Won't it, Joe?" 
 
 "Won't it?" I echoed, with as much spirit as I could 
 summon up. To tell the truth, I was not sure that it 
 would be fun at all for me. 
 
 Uncle Guy came back late on Saturday night. We 
 had all gone to bed Sophie, that is, and Aunt Harriet, 
 and myself but I could hear his loud, cheery voice 
 talking and laughing downstairs, and I jumped to the 
 conclusion that his business, as far as it had gone, was 
 satisfactory. I hoped it would cheer things up a bit at 
 Selworth. There was need of it. 
 
 The next day, Sunday, Norman proposed to me 
 again. He positively frightened me, he was so wild and 
 odd. He rolled on the floor, and grovelled, and seized
 
 196 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 my hand, and kissed it, and slobbered over it, till I 
 honestly thought the boy must be mad. To tell the 
 truth, it had entered into my head more than once that 
 both Norman and Uncle Guy were a little mad; they 
 were so strange at times, and unexpected, and unac- 
 countable. They both, too, had an odd look in the eye 
 at times a kind of excited glitter. As to Norman, on 
 this particular day he was beyond anything. 
 
 "For God's sake, Joe!" he cried, gripping my hand 
 till he hurt me; "for all our sakes, for your own sake, 
 don't say no!" 
 
 "But, Norman," I said, "how can" you talk like that? 
 You know I am engaged to Mr. Grayle. " 
 
 "Would you marry me if it was not for him?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "How can I tell? How can any one tell what they 
 would do if everything was different?" 
 
 "No; but what I mean is, if you had never seen him, 
 do you like me well enough to marry me?" 
 
 "What is the use of asking riddles?" I said. "I really 
 don't know. I have seen him, and that settles it." 
 
 We were in the morning-room, and every moment I 
 expected some one would come in, and find him on the 
 floor. We should have looked such awful fools. I 
 wished he would get up. 
 
 "Joe!" he whispered, glancing nervously round the 
 room over his shoulder, "if you knew that by marrying 
 me you would avert some great family misfortune a ter- 
 rible danger that threatens all of us, including yourself 
 yourself more than any, in fact wouldn't you do this 
 for the sake of all we have done for you? Joe, darling 
 little Joe, for God's sake, think it all over! Is it such a 
 very dreadful thing that I am asking you to do? Do
 
 MORE MYSTERY 197 
 
 you hate me so much that you cannot even marry me to 
 save the whole family from from a horrible, hideous 
 curse? O my God! My God! if you only knew!" 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and walked wildly up and down 
 the room, his brows knit, his hands clenched tightly 
 behind his back. 
 
 "What is this terrible thing that I could avert?" I 
 asked. "You are all so dreadfully mysterious." 
 
 I felt quite ashamed of myself for being so calm; it 
 seemed so unfeeling. 
 
 "Don't ask me what it is, Joe, for I can't possibly 
 tell you; but I give you my word of honour that there is 
 such a thing, and that it is very real and very dreadful 
 far more dreadful than you can ever dream of. And you 
 can save us all Sophie and my mother and all if you 
 will only marry me. I would be so good to you, Joe." 
 
 Why was I not more moved by his pleading, agonised 
 face? The plain passion in his eyes ought to have melted 
 a stone; but I remained icily calm and indifferent. I 
 can't say why. I don't think, for one thing, I quite 
 believed what he was telling me. All the time he was 
 talking, Mrs. Beddington's warning words kept running 
 in my head, "Trust no one at Selworth; keep your own 
 counsel, and be watchful and secret." What right had 
 they and their mystery to come between me and my 
 love? The thing was a plot from the beginning a 
 mean plot of the whole family to get me to marry Nor- 
 man just to suit their own convenience. I had felt hon- 
 estly sorry for Norman before, because I thought he 
 really did care for me; but now I saw the whole thing 
 was just put on in order to help their nasty, underhand 
 plans. Another thought, too, flashed across my mind, 
 and helped to keep me calm the thought of that ghastly
 
 198 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 night when soft footsteps had creaked about my room in 
 the marrow-curdling darkness. I tightened my lips and 
 steeled my heart. 
 
 "So all your love-making and pretence of affection 
 has just been a sham?" I said. "You just wanted to 
 marry me for business reasons?" 
 
 "Before God, Joe," he said, kneeling down beside my 
 chair, "there was no sham about it. I love you as I 
 never thought I could love any one in the world. I am 
 a selfish, easy-going sort of chap, as you know, and it 
 never entered into my head that I could fall very much 
 in love with any one. But you you simply knocked me 
 head over heels from the first moment I saw you. Look 
 at me, Joe look at me! Can you look at me and not 
 see that I am almost out of my mind for love of you?" 
 
 "I see that you are very much excited about this ter- 
 rible disaster which will overtake you if I don't marry 
 you," I said, slowly. 
 
 "No, no, no!" he cried, "it is not that, Joe before 
 God, it is not that! I only said that because I thought 
 it might help!" 
 
 "Help what?" 
 
 "Help to persuade you to marry me. But it is you 
 that I want, Joe you and only you, my sweet, beauti- 
 ful darling! It is the others that are thinking so much 
 about the expediency of the thing." 
 
 "What others?" 
 
 "Oh, all the others," he said, vaguely. 
 
 I could see that he already regretted what he had said. 
 
 "But I don't understand," I said. "Five minutes 
 ago you asked me to marry you to avert some mysterious 
 curse; now you ask me to marry you because you love 
 me? Which do you mean? You contradict yourself so. "
 
 MORE MYSTERY 199 
 
 "No, I don't, Joe; can't you understand? There is 
 this mysterious curse, as you call it, and if you married 
 me you would put an absolute end to it, and it was in 
 reality for this that you were asked here; and I made up 
 my mind to sacrifice myself and marry this dowdy little 
 Chelmsford cousin that no one had ever seen, for the 
 sake of the family. But before you had been here a 
 week I knew that this dowdy little Chelmsford cousin 
 was the one and only girl in the whole world that I could 
 ever care to marry absolutely the only one. So there 
 you have the whole history of it in a nutshell. And now 
 what do you say, Joe?" 
 
 "Nothing that I have not said before," I answered, 
 rather miserably. "I am dreadfully sorry about it all, 
 Norman, but no one can force their own heart, and 
 there's nothing to be said that I can see." 
 
 "You won't marry me? Not even now that you know 
 all?" 
 
 "No, Norman; I really can't." 
 
 He stood still, looking at me with such a miserable 
 face that I felt like a murderess. I felt, too, that it 
 was dreadfully mean and selfish and ungrateful of me 
 not to do what they all wanted so badly. I hated myself 
 for it, but there it was there was no help for it. 
 
 Norman came quite close to me, and said: "Very 
 well, Joe, I will accept that as final, and I will not 
 bother you any more; but there is one thing more I must 
 say to you now; I know it will make no difference to 
 your decision, but all the same I must say it." 
 
 "Well?" I said. 
 
 "You are in danger, Joe in awful danger! Get 
 Sydney Grayle to take you away from here at once 
 instantly this very day, if you can. Run away across
 
 200 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 the park to his house, and tell him to keep you there, 
 and hide you and lock you up." 
 
 He nodded at me fiercely. 
 
 "My dear Norman," I said, laughing, "you must be 
 mad. How on earth can I do a thing of that sort?" 
 
 "Never mind how you can do it, but do it. What do 
 custom and convention and propriety matter in a case of 
 life and death? I tell you, you are in mortal danger 
 here." 
 
 "Who is this talking about danger?" said a loud, 
 musical voice at the door. "Faith! there's danger 
 enough for all poor men with your bright eyes going 
 about the house, Miss Joe. What has Norman been say- 
 ing to you? Making love, the rascal, I'll be bound, and 
 small blame to him, either!" 
 
 We were both silent. Norman seemed to shrink into 
 nothing, and with a white face and trembling hands, took 
 up a book. I was too horrified by his last words to 
 make any pretence of seeming otherwise than in the 
 depths of gloom. Father Terence seemed to notice 
 nothing. 
 
 "I came to look for that copy of 'Giraldus Cam- 
 brensis, ' " he said, "lying thief of the world that he 
 was! I hope you've not been studying him, Miss Joe." 
 
 "No, I've not seen it," I answered, quite seriously. 
 To tell the truth, I had hardly heard his question. 
 
 "No, indeed, I suppose not," he said, with a fat laugh. 
 "Why would you? Love sonnets are more in your line, 
 just as musty old Latin tomes, written by court liars, are 
 in mine." 
 
 "I hate love sonnets!" I said, rather crossly; "silly, 
 mawkish things!" 
 
 "Ah, well!" he said, "the mere reflection may well
 
 MORE MYSTERY 201 
 
 seem silly in presence of the reality. We only cherish 
 portraits when the original is absent. Well, well, that 
 villain Giraldus must be in the library, and poor, fat 
 Terence Boyle must go puffing and blowing after him. 
 Gad! these passages grow longer every year. They'll 
 be the death of me some day. Norman, me dear boy, 
 be a good Christian, and give an old man an arm as far 
 as the library. Miss Joe'll give you leave of absence 
 for five minutes, I make no doubt." 
 
 Norman went up without a word and offered his arm; 
 he looked exactly as if he was going to be hung. They 
 passed out together, Father Terence doing all the talk- 
 ing, and I was left alone with my thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 FLICKERS ON THE RAFTERS 
 
 T T turned out that I was not to go to London with 
 * them, after all. 
 
 "You see, my dear," Aunt Harriet explained, "you 
 have no suitable dresses, and, I think, altogether you 
 would be rather miserable. And we shall be very quiet 
 no balls, no entertainments, nothing in the least amusing. " 
 
 She peered at me over her glasses rather nervously, I 
 thought, as though expecting me to fly into a wild pas- 
 sion. 
 
 "Then, what am I to do?" I asked. "Am I to stay 
 here all alone?" 
 
 "No, my dear, we could hardly ask you to do that," 
 she said, with a little awkward laugh. "You see, for 
 one thing, we are going to have a regular cleaning in 
 the house here it is needing it terribly and so, if the 
 housemaids are to have a fair chance, we cannot well 
 have any one living in the house. And so your uncle 
 thought that perhaps you would not mind staying for 
 ten days or so at the old Manor House with Mrs. Bed- 
 dington. There is a very charming room there that you 
 could have, and the old woman is really an excellent 
 cook. Do you think you would be terribly embttte? 
 Sophie, I know, would die of ennui in six hours, but you 
 are so different, so fond of roaming about the woods by 
 yourself, so independent and strong, that we thought 
 
 202
 
 FLICKERS ON THE RAFTERS 203 
 
 perhaps you would not dislike it very much. What do 
 you say, child? Of course, if you object, we could try 
 and make some other arrangements." 
 
 Aunt Harriet blinked at me, and I stared back at her 
 in such utter amazement of mind that I could find no 
 words. Stay at the Manor House with Mrs. Bedding- 
 ton, the forbidden! And at Uncle Guy's suggestion, 
 too! It was too bewildering! 
 
 I shall remember that scene to my dying day the 
 last evening I was ever to spend under Uncle Guy's 
 roof. We were sitting in the great hall, after dinner on 
 Sunday night. Both the huge fireplaces were piled up 
 with blazing logs, for it was a cold, frosty night, and the 
 red flicker of them went fitfully up into the darkness 
 above. Father Terence sat at the piano singing "He 
 Shall Feed His Flock Like a Shepherd," in the soft voice 
 that I liked so much better than the bellowing that he 
 sometimes was inclined to. Sophie and Norman were 
 playing chess on the far side of the fireplace, and Aunt 
 Harriet and I sat facing each other on the huge bed- 
 like sofa that faced the drawing-room door. My uncle 
 had disappeared to his room he often did after dinner 
 went there to write letters, I suppose, or to go to sleep 
 in a chair perhaps. 
 
 I remember as though it were yesterday the reflection 
 of the dancing firelight on Aunt Harriet's spectacles, 
 and the quick, nervous jerking of her crochet-needles. 
 I can see the expression of Father Terence's face now, 
 as, with upturned eyes and rolling head, he sang the 
 glorious words of "The Messiah." I remember thinking 
 how like a pig he looked, and how I wished he would not 
 keep turning his eyes on me, when they were not search- 
 ing the gloom of the vaulted roof.
 
 204 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 Ah well! such is the perverseness of human nature, 
 that the recollection of that scene brings with it still the 
 faint shadow of a regret in spite of all that happened 
 afterwards, and in spite of the knowledge of what was 
 then below the surface simply because of the ridicu- 
 lous fact that I was then nineteen, and am now well, 
 rather more. 
 
 And all the actors in the tragedy that was then brew- 
 ing Father Terence, bloated and effusive; Aunt Har- 
 riet with her tight, silky, iron-grey curls, and thin, 
 anxious face; Norman, handsome, dashing, and debon- 
 naire: and Sophie, beautiful, gentle Sophie, all these 
 come back to me now as pleasant ghosts, in spite of all 
 their mean, wicked plottings, and forgiven even their 
 one crimson crime for the sake of Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 But of this crime and these plottings Aunt Harriet 
 knew nothing, absolutely nothing, nor of course did 
 my own sweet Sophie; let itie hasten to make this clear 
 while I may. They were both puppets, utterly uncon- 
 scious puppets, in the hands of well, the Instigator. 
 Facts I must record, but God save me from judging any 
 man, or from dwelling more than is necessary on sins 
 that have been read out before this at the steps of the 
 Judgment Throne! God have mercy on that man's soul, 
 I say with all my heart, Protestant as I am. So now no 
 more of this, and back to plain facts. 
 
 It is the simple truth that I was so overjoyed at what 
 my aunt had just told me that, for decency's sake, I had 
 to bite my lips and frown furiously into the fire to pre- 
 vent breaking out into open smiles of unseemly joy. To 
 be alone with Mrs. Beddington, and have unlimited time 
 to ask her the thousand and one questions I was dying 
 to have answered, to get away from the gloom and mys-
 
 FLICKERS ON THE RAFTERS 205 
 
 tery of Selworth, and above all, to be within a mile 
 and a half of Sydney Grayle's house, with no one to 
 interfere with our walking together, or sitting in Inver- 
 snaid all day long, seemed such an impossible combina- 
 tion of delights that the prospect fairly dazzled me. 
 
 Aunt Harriet looked at me hard, with a sort of fright- 
 ened, apologetic look. 
 
 "Of course, if you dislike the idea, Josephine, we 
 could perhaps arrange things some other way." 
 
 "But, dear Aunt Harriet, I don't dislike it at all," I 
 said, truthfully, and yet with only half the truth. 
 "I should love to sleep in that dear old Manor House; 
 and then, as you say, I am always quite happy climbing 
 trees and poking about in the woods alone." 
 
 O deceitful Josephine! was that last word quite 
 honest? 
 
 My aunt's face brightened in a wonderful way. 
 
 "You are a dear, good, adaptable child!" she said, 
 patting my hand. "To tell the honest truth, I was a 
 little ashamed of asking you. It seemed almost shabby. 
 You are quite sure you don't mind?" 
 
 "Quite, dear aunt," I said, kissing her. "I shall 
 really like it much better than stuffy old London." 
 
 Father Terence's voice rose and swelled in a paean of 
 thanksgiving, and Aunt Harriet, rising and shaking her 
 stiff skirts, called out: 
 
 "Well, you young people, have you finished your 
 game? It's half-past ten, and quite time for bed; 
 remember we have an early breakfast to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh, I'm ready," Sophie cried, jumping up. "I'll 
 give you the game, Norman; you're quite sure to win, 
 you know; you always do." 
 
 Sophie's cheeks were rather redder than usual.
 
 206 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Temper, temper!" Norman said, playfully. "Little 
 girls ought to learn to have more self-control." 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Sophie, sweeping past disdainfully. 
 "Good-night, mamma" (kiss). 
 "Good-night, Aunt Harriet" (kiss). 
 "Good-night, Sophie dear" (kiss, kiss). 
 "Good-night, Norman." 
 "Good-night, Father Terence."
 
 T TOW am I to set about recording all the events that 
 A A crowded themselves into the following day Mon- 
 day, the seventeenth day of January? It would take a 
 book to contain all that happened during that long, end- 
 less day all the joys, surprises, fears, horrors horrors, 
 fears, surprises, and joys. My day began very early, 
 for I had something to do. I got up at daybreak and 
 slipped out at my little glass door. To my astonishment, 
 it was not locked. I supposed they no longer thought it 
 worth while. I ran down, through the garden, to the 
 keeper's house, and found there what I wanted, which 
 was Tom Beddington. 
 
 "Tom," I panted, "do you think you could manage 
 to take this note to [Mr. Grayle's house this morning? 
 It is important!" 
 
 "Of course I can, miss," he said, with a grin of 
 intelligence. I suppose they all knew about me and 
 Sydney. "I'll take it this very minute." 
 
 "Thank you, Tom," I said, "so much; it would be 
 good of you." 
 
 I had nothing to give him, and I felt terribly ashamed. 
 I had a sort of idea keepers always expected something. 
 But I had literally not a penny in the world. It was a 
 curious thing that though] my uncle and aunt gave me 
 everything in the world I wanted in the way of clothes, 
 
 207
 
 208 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 besides countless other presents, they had never given 
 me any money at all. So I had none literally none. 
 
 Tom, however, looked quite content, and I ran home, 
 and got back to my room without meeting any one, and 
 felt glad that at any rate I should see Sydney some time 
 that day. 
 
 At ten o'clock the clarence and the omnibus stood 
 under the portico, and I kissed and hugged them all, 
 even poor Norman, he looked so utterly wretched, and 
 I cried a little, and waved my hand as they disappeared 
 round the bend towards the Greystoke Lodge. Every 
 soul was gone, even Father Terence no one left in the 
 house except the housekeeper and the housemaids. 
 Already they were busy taking down curtains and rolling 
 up carpets in the front rooms. 
 
 I felt horribly depressed. 
 
 It was a lovely day, still, cloudless, and sunny, with a 
 faint breeze from the east. 
 
 A stableman appeared from round the corner of the 
 portico, and touched his cap. 
 
 "What time would you like the dog-cart round, miss?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Oh, soon, please!" I said. "In about half an hour." 
 
 So in half an hour my modest box was hoisted on to 
 the back of the dog-cart, and off we went. Our way lay 
 at first along the road to the Welham Lodge, but at the 
 bottom of the hill we turned off to the left over the grass, 
 and followed the green ride that eventually finds itself at 
 the Slade Lodge. My spirits rose like magic as we 
 bumped and jolted along the grass ride that ran so 
 smoothly under a horse but so roughly under heels. The 
 day was glorious, with sun and calm and clearness; and 
 the rabbits, who knew this as well as we did, were sit-
 
 AN EXODUS FROM SELWORTH 209 
 
 ting out in hundreds along the edge of the bracken, 
 hardly deigning to move as we lumbered by, up the 
 incline. 
 
 Sam and I were not talkative. On such a day it is a 
 sin to waste time and energy on mere words; thoughts 
 are so infinitely quicker and so much more beautiful. 
 My thoughts that morning were very beautiful, and very 
 happy, too, but I might as well attempt to put them into 
 words as to paint the landscape that smiled on me from 
 either side. Both the one and the other would be a 
 desecration, and even in the hands of a master a mere 
 flimsy shadow of the reality. 
 
 What Sam's thoughts were I don't know probably 
 beer. The only view that calls up emotions in the breast 
 of his class is the view of homely buildings with square 
 boards hanging over the door. However, away with 
 satire! If we had all spent our lives hitting horses with 
 linen rubbers, and polishing stirrups, we should perhaps 
 be less given to the unpractical reflections which are the 
 privilege of leisure, and which in reality do good to no 
 one. 
 
 When we turned off the ride up the track to the 
 Manor House, I got out and walked, the jolting was too 
 awful. Mrs. Beddington had her best cap and gown on, 
 and looked such an old sweet, standing in the porch, that 
 I couldn't help kissing her, then and there, at which 
 Sam in the dog-cart stared his eyes out. 
 
 My room upstairs was so utterly delightful that when 
 we got there I had to kiss her again. The panelled 
 room at Selworth was not to be compared to it. It was 
 very low, with a moulded ceiling and dark oak panelling 
 right up to it. The bed was small and white, and all the 
 furniture of white painted wood with a green line running
 
 210 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 round the manufacture, I take it, of Henry Bedding- 
 ton, the carpenter. There was a wood fire blazing in 
 the old-fashioned grate, and the window was wide open 
 to the sun ; altogether a most heavenly little room. And 
 the view from it was a thing beyond words! My window 
 looked out from the end of the house that faced the 
 park the only window on that side, as I afterwards 
 found and from it I could see up and down the valley 
 that crossed below, and beyond it again to where the 
 edge of Flexham Wood stretched down to the Plain. 
 
 "Isn't it glorious!" I murmured, with my head thrust 
 out to take stock of what lay close at hand. The gar- 
 den ran round below the window, bleak now and bare of 
 flowers, but marvellously neat and old-fashioned alid 
 delightful. There was an old yew arbour just opposite, 
 cut out of a single tree, I think, and a high box hedge, 
 trimmed perfectly square, dividing the garden from the 
 park beyond. On the right, between the garden and 
 the road track, was a low, green-painted, wooden fence, 
 and a little gate, with an iron latch, stood in the corner, 
 just where the hedge and the fence met. I wondered 
 why there was a second gate there, so very near the prin- 
 cipal one. 
 
 "Yes," said Susan Beddington the practical, "it's 
 nice and airy." 
 
 We went down to the old parlour, and sat in the two 
 tall-backed elbow chairs, with wings for the head, that 
 stood one on each side of the fire. A kind of awkward- 
 ness came over us, I can't exactly say why. I noticed 
 for the first time, so taken up had I been with the house 
 and my room and everything, that the old woman looked 
 ill and worn. She seemed very nervous, poor old thing! 
 Her hands and her lips were never still, and on her face
 
 AN EXODUS FROM SELWORTH 211 
 
 was a look that I had never seen there before the look, 
 it seemed to me, of a person in physical fear. I noticed 
 that there was an open Bible on the table by her side. 
 
 Was this just nervousness on account of the arrival of 
 a guest, I wondered? It seemed hardly possible, and 
 such a guest, too! And yet, what else could it be? 
 
 "I have hidden the box all right," I said, nodding 
 across at her. 
 
 "Yes," she said, smiling a feeble, twisted little smile. 
 
 "What is it, Susan?" I said, dropping on my knees 
 beside her chair. "Are you feeling ill?" 
 
 I felt horribly familiar calling her Susan, but the other 
 was such a mouthful. 
 
 '''No, I am quite well, my dear," she said; "please 
 get up off the floor." 
 
 "Then what is it?" I said; "there is something I 
 am sure there is!" 
 
 For a minute or two she sat silent, staring hard into 
 the red, dancing flames. Then she said, turning her 
 spectacles full on to me: 
 
 "Has it never struck you that it was a very extraor- 
 dinary thing of the Squire to send you here?" 
 
 ''Well, yes," I said, "perhaps, but there was nothing 
 else they could do with me, you see." 
 
 She shook her head mournfully. 
 
 "Everything that they do is carefully thought out," 
 she said; "nothing is left to chance." 
 
 "But what possible object could they have in sending 
 me here?" 
 
 "We shall find out before long, I make little doubt. 
 In the meanwhile, we must just watch and pray, my 
 dear; what more can two weak, helpless women do?" 
 
 She frightened me dreadfully by her manner. Like a
 
 212 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 flash, Norman's warning words came back to me, "You 
 are in mortal danger!" What did it all mean? I had 
 tried all Sunday evening and the following morning to 
 get a word with Norman, and make him explain himself, 
 but he had avoided me; there was not a doubt about it, 
 he had avoided me purposely, so in the end I gave it up. 
 
 "Tell me what you mean?" I said, gripping the arms 
 of the chair and leaning forward. "Do you think they 
 would hurt us?" 
 
 She nodded at me gloomily. 
 
 "But why? What have we done? What have / done 
 that they should hurt me?" 
 
 "My dear, we are both standing dangers to them, and 
 we should be well out of the way; and I am afraid." 
 
 "Tell me all about it," I said; "you must! I am sick 
 of all this mystery. Why can"t you speak out plainly?" 
 
 "Because, till Wednesday night my lips are sealed. 
 I have given my word, and I will not break it not even 
 to save my poor, worthless life. On Thursday I will tell 
 you everything, and till then we must just trust in God 
 and be patient." 
 
 "And you think we are in danger?" 
 
 "I do, my dear. In very great danger." 
 
 "But do you mean to say," I cried, in horror, "that 
 Uncle Guy would lend himself to any scheme that 
 would be dangerous to me his own niece?" 
 
 "I have known three generations of De Metriers, " 
 she said, quietly, "and I heard plenty about Maurice 
 when I was a girl, and from all accounts they change 
 little from one generation to another. Any that stand 
 in their way they crush with as little compunction as a 
 horse crushes a worm. And you, my dear, stand in their 
 way."
 
 AN EXODUS FROM SELWORTH 213 
 
 "How?" I asked. 
 
 "That is what you will learn on Thursday, but not 
 before." 
 
 "But," I argued, "have I always stood in their way 
 all these nineteen years, or has it only just begun?" 
 
 "That, my dear, I cannot tell you, and I should take 
 it kindly if you would not press me with questions which 
 I am not allowed to answer." 
 
 I felt rebuked, and fell back in my chair thinking. 
 Strange as it may appear, I was not particularly fright- 
 ened. I could not bring myself to believe all that she 
 said. I thought that she was probably ill and nervous, 
 and that her mind was full of fancies and imaginations, 
 as old people's often are. But when I looked out at the 
 peaceful, silent woods, smiling in the clear, bright sun- 
 shine, I felt that the idea of danger real danger, that 
 is was ludicrous. Of course there must be something 
 I knew that something that would be affected by my 
 marrying Sydney; and I did thoroughly believe that 
 they would plot and scheme day and night to prevent my 
 doing that in fact, they had done so already but any- 
 thing beyond that I put down as a mere fairy-tale. 
 However, that was bad enough, and would have been 
 quite sufficient to make me share old Susan's low spirits, 
 if it had not been for the fact that I was going to see 
 Sydney that very afternoon, and would be able to tell 
 him everything, and ask his advice. With him so near 
 only a mile and a half off and with no one to prevent 
 our seeing each other as often as we liked, and for as 
 long as we liked, it was really impossible to feel afraid; 
 I couldn't manage it. 
 
 At half-past twelve Mrs. Beddington and I had our 
 luncheon together, or dinner, as she called it. It was
 
 214 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 the funniest meal! She had got in a girl from the vil- 
 lage who waited on us in the most comical fashion ever 
 seen. I suppose the girl had cooked it, too; certainly 
 Mrs. Beddington had not, for she had been with me. It 
 was not an immense success from a cooking point of 
 view. However, as was usually the case, I was hungry 
 enough to overlook defects that would have made Aunt 
 Harriet turn faint. Mrs. Beddington ate nothing, and I 
 think she looked at me with astonishment. That any 
 one could eat so much with such a load of mysterious 
 danger hanging over her head must, I suppose, have 
 seemed to her a thing beyond all understanding. 
 
 We talked no more about the mystery; that was 
 dropped by common consent. Besides, there was no 
 sense in it; she wouldn't answer questions, and the 
 subject was not a lively one. So we talked of Sydney 
 instead, which was much better in every way and of 
 what a splendid fellow he was, and what a shame it was 
 that the Duke the present one, that was had turned 
 him off. 
 
 And then, about half-past one, I went out down the 
 track and across the valley to Inversnaid. Sydney, as I 
 had foreseen, was not there, but it was early yet, and 
 there was no hurry no tiresome luncheon to be back 
 for, or anything of that sort. So I climbed up to the 
 top of "my branch," and sat there watching the wood 
 away to the north, till I saw him coming through the 
 trees. I knew he would come, of course, and I shouted 
 out from the top of my branch with all the voice I had. 
 Who was afraid of a little noise now? now that he and 
 I had the whole park to ourselves? I came tumbling 
 down hand over hand, with more speed than elegance, I
 
 AN EXODUS FROM SELWORTH 215 
 
 am afraid, and plumped with a splash into the leaves at 
 his feet. I had no idea of spending the afternoon in a 
 tree. I wanted to take him across, and show him all my 
 favourite corners in the gardens, and the window of my 
 room, and my "bolt-hole," as I called the little glass 
 door at the foot of the stairs, and a host of other things. 
 It was too fine to potter about the wood all day. 
 
 Sydney said he didn't care a brass farthing what we 
 did, so long as we did it together, which was nice of him. 
 As we went I told him about Norman's strange speech, 
 and about the red box, and Mrs. Beddington's warning, 
 and also about her having called me Guy de Metrier's 
 daughter. He looked extraordinarily grave when I had 
 done. 
 
 "What do you think it all means?" I asked. 
 
 "It means very clearly," he said, "that they either 
 want you married to Norman, or else out of the way. 
 Which again probably means that in some way you stand 
 between them and some money." 
 
 "How can I possibly stand between them and any 
 money?" 
 
 "There maybe some legacy that we have never heard 
 of, or there may be a condition attached to some will 
 that unless Norman marries you he loses something 
 property or money which would revert to you. There 
 are often mad conditions of that sort in a will." 
 
 "But whose will?" 
 
 "I don't know; how can one tell? But there must 
 be something of that sort; it is the only possible expla- 
 nation." 
 
 "And then, what did she mean by calling me Guy de 
 Metrier's daughter Mrs. Beddington, I mean?"
 
 216 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Are you quite sure she did? As far as I can make 
 out, she only said she would like to help Guy de Metrier's 
 daughter; she didn't say it was you." 
 
 "No, but who else could she mean?" 
 
 "And, then, if you were Guy de Metrier's daughter, 
 they could not possibly want you to marry Norman." 
 
 "Perhaps Norman isn't his son!" 
 
 Sydney shook his head. 
 
 "There's not the slightest use in bothering about that 
 part of it," he said; "apparently we shall know all about 
 it on Thursday, whatever it is. What does trouble me 
 is the other part." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Why all these warnings, or threats, or whatever they 
 are, and this vague suggestion of danger that is hang- 
 ing about? I don't like it. I wish I could come and 
 stay at the Manor House, too, and keep guard over 
 you!" 
 
 "Oh, do!" I said; "that would be splendid. I 
 shouldn't be afraid of anything with you near." 
 
 "I'm afraid it wouldn't do," he said, shaking his 
 head. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Well, what Lady Harriet would call les convenances, 
 you know." 
 
 "Oh, bother les convenances! What nonsense it is! 
 Do come, Sydney!" 
 
 "I'll tell you what I will do," he said. "I've got a 
 sister in London I could get to come and stay with me, 
 and then you could come to my house. You would be 
 safe enough there, I'll undertake." 
 
 "That would be nice!" I said, feeling a little doubt- 
 ful about the sister.
 
 AN EXODUS FROM SELWORTH 217 
 
 We were almost across the Plain by now, and straight 
 opposite the front of the house. It seemed too extraor- 
 dinary that Sydney and I should be walking together right 
 in front of the windows, and in broad daylight so 
 extraordinary, in fact, that I felt almost distrustful of 
 the many windows, blinded and shuttered as they were. 
 Those windows were so associated in my mind with dan- 
 ger. It had become such a second nature with me to 
 dodge them, and hide away along the hollows towards 
 the lake, that this open flaunting about with the forbid- 
 den Sydney, in full sight of them, made me feel horribly 
 guilty and wicked. I think I half expected them to 
 burst open, like the ports of a ship, and wither us with 
 hidden lightnings. 
 
 We were across the road now, and opposite the belt 
 of chestnuts and beeches that run between the house and 
 the stables the same belt of trees that fringed the 
 balustrade outside my window. I wanted to show Sydney 
 my window, and the place where I dropped down out of 
 the garden, and the other place, near the corner, where 
 the gutter-pipe helped me to climb up again. The 
 ground under the trees was six feet below the level of 
 the garden, so that one couldn't see in without first 
 climbing up. 
 
 I scrambled up first, and then turned round to watch 
 Sydney and see how he did it; and then we both sidled 
 along the balustrade towards the place behind the holly 
 bush where I generally got over. I was just putting up 
 my foot to vault over, when I felt Sydney tug me by the 
 sleeve. 
 
 "Keep down!" he whispered. 
 
 I was all too used to hiding and dodging, and dropped 
 down like a hare. We crouched side by side, with our
 
 218 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 eyes just above the parapet, and then I saw a sight that 
 for the first time during all these days sent a thrill of 
 genuine terror creeping down my spine. 
 
 Father Terence and Norman were talking just outside 
 my little glass door! Father Terence and Norman! 
 both of whom I had seen start for London that very 
 morning! What did it mean? I could hardly believe 
 my eyes. 
 
 I turned round and looked at Sydney. His face had 
 a look on it I had never seen there before. As a rule, 
 his face wore a careless, laughing expression, as that of 
 a man who finds it hard to take things seriously. But 
 now it looked grim and stern, even to fierceness; his 
 brows were bent and his teeth forced tightly together. 
 
 "Hush!" he said; "listen!" 
 
 Father Terence was talking earnestly almost angrily, 
 in fact. He stood in the doorway, and was emphasizing 
 his words by banging one hand into the other. His man- 
 ner was that of a masterful man issuing orders. Norman 
 stood about six feet off on the path, with his hands deep 
 in his pockets; he was kicking the gravel with his toe, 
 and now and then I saw him shrug his shoulders. He 
 was looking down sulkily, and his whole figure was limp. 
 
 It was quite clear they were having a disagreement, 
 but what it was about, and what they were saying, we 
 could not hear; the leaves rustled so in our ears. Father 
 Terence seemed to be using his powers of persuasion 
 without effect, for Norman kept shaking his head with 
 an appearance of some decision. Suddenly he lifted his 
 head, and spoke rapidly for some minutes, while the 
 priest stood and glowered at him heavily. In the end, 
 with a sharp nod of the head, he spun on his heel and 
 strode away. Then at last we heard Father Terence's
 
 AN EXODUS FROM SELWORTH 219 
 
 words, for he lifted his great voice, and bellowed after 
 him: 
 
 "So, you poor calf-headed dolt, you would sacrifice 
 your faith and your family, your Church and your kin, 
 for the sake of a smooth, silly baby-face! Bah! you 
 fairly sicken me!" 
 
 He stood for an instant scowling after Norman's 
 retreating figure, and then turned into the house, and 
 slammed the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON SPEAKS 
 
 YDNEY and I, without a word, dropped down again 
 among the leaves, and crept out into the open. 
 Sydney was very white, and I was trembling like a leaf. 
 In dead, unbroken silence we strode best pace across the 
 Plain thinking. They were not pleasant thoughts; at 
 least I can answer for my own, and judging from Syd- 
 ney's face, his were little better. I think it was the 
 uncertainty the underhand secrecy of the whole thing, 
 that frightened me so. A man and even a woman 
 can face an open danger bravely enough so long as they 
 can see it, but a terror that creeps in the dark is a hor- 
 rible thing for any one. I know this sight of Father 
 Terence frightened me more than all the vague warnings 
 I had had from Norman and Mrs. Beddington far more. 
 I felt completely stunned and bewildered. 
 
 We must have walked half-way across the Plain before 
 either of us spoke. Then I said: 
 
 "What on earth does it mean, Sydney? I saw them 
 drive off to the station this morning." 
 
 "I don't know," he said; "some infernal scheming 
 and plotting, you may bet your life. But what does it 
 matter? I don't know why we should bother ourselves 
 about them after all. To-morrow I'll telegraph to my 
 sister to come down, and we'll have you out of this, and 
 into my house; and then they may plot away till they're 
 black in the face for all we shall care. Eh, Joe?" 
 
 220
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON SPEAKS 221 
 
 He spoke brightly and cheerfully, but I was not in the 
 least taken in. 'I saw perfectly well that he was just as 
 frightened as I was myself. His hand kept gripping his 
 stick till the knuckles stood out quite white and hard, 
 and he slashed viciously at the bents and ferns. 
 
 "Are you coming back to have some tea?" I said. 
 "Do! Mrs. Beddington wants to see you, I know." 
 
 "Yes, I'll come," he said, shortly. 
 
 Down in the bottom we saw Henry Beddington in 
 front of us limping up to the Manor House, with a car- 
 penter's bag over his shoulder. He must have gone 
 round by the green ride, along the hollow, or we should 
 have seen him before. I think Uncle Guy objected to 
 any one walking across the Plain except, of course, the 
 family and visitors they could be seen so plainly from 
 the windows. 
 
 "Is he all right?" Sydney asked, nodding at him. 
 
 "What, Henry Beddington? Good gracious, Sydney, 
 of course he is; all the Beddingtons are all right. What 
 a question to ask!" 
 
 "And you are quite sure of your friend, the old lady?" 
 
 "Absolutely sure as sure as I am of myself." 
 
 "H'm! She has not got a very clean record, you 
 know." 
 
 "Why, what is there against her?" 
 
 "Oh, there are plenty of stories about her; but, of 
 course, they are all very old ones, and I daresay not 
 true." 
 
 "Tell me what they are ; I have never heard of them. " 
 
 "Well, if you have never heard of them, don't ask. 
 Take her as she is, and never mind about what she was. " 
 
 "Now you are getting mysterious," I said. "Good- 
 ness gracious! there's no end to it!"
 
 222 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "I don't think there's much mystery about me," he 
 said, laughing. "I am a very plain, commonplace sort 
 of person." 
 
 "But why don't you tell me?" I cried, almost angrily. 
 "Why be so secret?" 
 
 "Because there's no good in raking up old scandals. 
 I am sorry I said anything about it. Come, little girl, 
 let's go in and have some tea, and not bother about what 
 happened a thousand years ago." 
 
 It was quite dusk when we got in, and the sitting- 
 room looked wonderfully bright and cheerful. Mrs. 
 Beddington was sitting by the fire with her back towards 
 the door. 
 
 "Susan,"! said, "I have brought you a visitor." 
 *Ah!" she said, without turning round, "you've 
 brought him, have you? Well, I'm glad." 
 
 She dragged herself up out of the chair, and stood 
 facing us. 
 
 "Mr. Grayle," she said, "you have got a great treas- 
 ure here. Mind you take care of her." 
 
 "I have not got her yet," he said, laughing, "and 
 as far as I can make out, people don't mean that I 
 shall." 
 
 "Bah!" she said, contemptuously, "I don't know what 
 you young men are made of nowadays. Fifty years ago 
 if a lad was in love with a winsome maid, and she with 
 him, he married her first, and thought about the trouble 
 afterwards and that in spite of father, mother, uncle, 
 or priest." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he said, doubtfully. 
 
 "What do I mean? Why, that you should take and 
 marry her to-morrow. What's to hinder you?" 
 
 There was a long silence. Old Susan fixed her pier-
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON SPEAKS 223 
 
 cing eyes on Sydney, Sydney looked at me, and I looked 
 at the hearthrug. 
 
 "It is very unusual," he said at length. 
 
 "Unusual!" she echoed; "you will find more unusual 
 things than that happen if you are not quick. Goodness 
 me! in my day lovers didn't bother about trifles of that 
 kind." 
 
 "Possibly not," he said, a little coldly. "It might 
 have been better if they had, sometimes. You see, Mrs. 
 Beddington, I am not the only person to be considered; 
 and I tell you plainly that I would sooner not marry 
 this young lady at all than marry her in a way that would 
 get her talked about." 
 
 "Ah, well!" said Mrs. Beddington, "every one to 
 their own fashion of wooing. But, for my own part, give 
 me the man who marries first and thinks about it after- 
 wards. " 
 
 "Or who doesn't marry at all?" suggested Sydney. 
 
 The old woman laughed shrilly. 
 
 "Sydney Grayle," she said, "I am an old woman, 
 and I am not going to quarrel with you; besides, I am 
 your friend in this business, not so much for your sake, 
 of course, as for Miss Josephine's, but still your friend 
 because of her." 
 
 Sydney bowed. 
 
 "And a very valuable friend, too, I am sure," he said. 
 
 "You may well say that, Sydney Grayle," the old 
 woman said, nodding; "and if you think what you say, 
 you will act upon my advice, like a sensible lad, and 
 marry the girl while you can. I know what I'm talking 
 about, mind you." 
 
 "Why is there such a great hurry?" Sydney asked, 
 smiling. I think Mrs. Beddington amused him.
 
 224 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 'O good lack! Good lack!" she cried. "Was there 
 ever such a poor, wishy-washy lover as this? It was the 
 girls used to ask that question, not the men. Sydney 
 Grayle, I think nothing of you ; and with a bride fit for a 
 prince waiting for you, too! Well, well, the girls 
 always are a world too good for the men they throw 
 themselves away upon." 
 
 She turned away with uplifted hands and a shrug of 
 her thin shoulders, and Sydney and I both laughed out- 
 right. She was so serious over it. 
 
 "What do you think we saw at Selworth this after- 
 noon?" I said, wishing to change the conversation. 
 
 She looked at me enquiringly. 
 
 "How should I know?" she said, sharply. "I know 
 what / should have seen if I had been there a poor 
 noodle of a young man mooning about with his lass." 
 
 "Well, what we saw," I said, "was Father Terence 
 and Norman in the garden." 
 
 Her hand went up and caught the edge of the chim- 
 ney-piece, and her face turned quite slowly to a dead 
 white. She staggered along the front of the fire, and 
 with a sigh sank back into her chair, staring fixedly 
 before her at the wall. 
 
 "Norman and Father Boyle?" she said. "No 
 others?" 
 
 "No, we saw no one else." 
 
 "Ah!" she said, dully. Then, after a little: "You 
 or me, my dear, you or me one or the other, and very 
 soon now." 
 
 Sydney and I glanced at each other. 
 
 "What do you mean, Mrs. Beddington?" he asked, 
 in a clear, loud voice. "Do you attach any particular 
 importance to these two having come back?"
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON SPEAKS 225 
 
 She seemed not to hear him. In a dazed kind of way 
 she went on muttering to herself: 
 
 "God help us all! God have mercy on me, a miser- 
 able sinner! I thought the Lord might have turned the 
 Squire's heart not the priest's, of course, but the 
 Squire's but it was not to be." 
 
 It was ghastly to hear her; she spoke like a woman 
 walking in her sleep, in a dull monotone, and with glazed 
 eyes. 
 
 "So the end has come," she went on, "the end has 
 come at last!" 
 
 "What do you mean, Susan?" I cried, roughly, for I 
 was dreadfully frightened. "What are you talking 
 about? What end? The end of what?" 
 
 I caught her by the shoulder, and shook her, but she 
 took no notice. She just kept rocking backwards and 
 forwards, muttering vague prayers and lamentations. 
 
 "Stay here a minute," I said to Sydney. "I will be 
 back directly." 
 
 I ran into the dining-room, where I knew there was a 
 bottle of brandy standing in the cupboard. Pouring out 
 half a tumbler, I hurried back and placed it in her hand. 
 
 "Drink it," I said; "it will do you good." 
 
 She held it for a minute or two, staring at it vacantly; 
 then she put it to her lips and drained it to the last drop. 
 The effect was magical. A faint colour sprang to her 
 cheeks, her eye became human once more, and she 
 glanced round at us nervously. 
 
 "What have I been saying?" she asked. 
 
 "Nothing, Mrs. Beddington, " Sydney answered. "I 
 wish you had." 
 
 "Well, I will say something now," she said. "Come 
 here, both of you."
 
 226 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 We went forward and stood before her, and I slipped 
 my hand into Sydney's. She stared at us for an age 
 through her spectacles before she spoke. Then she said, 
 slowly: 
 
 "Sydney Grayle, the air is full of danger for this little 
 maid who has given you her heart. Take her away and 
 marry her at once to-morrow this very evening, if 
 you can. Do you hear me? This is no time for fooling 
 about over fashions and customs, and what people will 
 say, and what people will not say. It is life or death, I 
 tell you life or death. Marry her to-morrow, I say, and 
 let all the world know you have married her, and you 
 may save her yet. But leave her here, and she is lost!" 
 
 "Lost!" he said. "What do you mean by Most'? " 
 
 "I mean what I say," she cried. "And unless you 
 are a fool, you will do what I tell you, and waste no time 
 asking foolish questions." 
 
 "What do you say, Joe?" Sydney asked, turning to 
 me. I said nothing, but pressed his hand. 
 
 "Very well," he said, stoutly; "I will do it. I will 
 be round here by eleven o'clock to-morrow morning, 
 and we will drive straight off to Ashby Church and be 
 married. And in the meanwhile, what of to-night?" 
 
 "To-night we are in the Lord's hands," Mrs. Bed- 
 dington answered, resignedly. 
 
 "What is it you are afraid of?" Sydney asked with 
 some impatience. "Can't you tell us right out?" 
 
 "No, I cannot, Mr. Grayle, and what is more I will 
 not. I have warned you, and I can do no more. Get 
 her away, and marry her, and she will be safe enough." 
 
 "Yes, she will be safe enough with me," Sydney 
 answered. "But what about yourself, Mrs. Bedding- 
 ton?"
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON SPEAKS 227 
 
 "I am an old woman," she said, "and my time is 
 short in any case. They will kill me." 
 
 "Kill you!" we exclaimed together. 
 
 "Yes," she said, calmly, "they will kill me kill me 
 to silence my tongue. If I spoke out I could save my 
 life, but I will not, and the Squire knows that not at 
 least before Thursday. He knows that I will die before 
 I will break my word, and die I will. I am a great sin- 
 ner God knows! an awful sinner but I will not go 
 before the Judgment Throne with perjury on my lips to 
 spin out a year or two more of my useless old life. So 
 never mind about me," she added, flourishing her hands 
 excitedly in the air; "see to yourselves, and remember 
 the red box, for whatever does come will come between 
 this and Thursday." 
 
 "Does your son sleep here?" Sydney asked. 
 
 "Yes, Henry sleeps here." 
 
 "Has he a gun?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, he has a gun. But what is the use of 
 that?" 
 
 "It may be of every use. Make him sleep here on the 
 sofa, with the gun loaded by his side." 
 
 "Well, for Miss Josephine's sake, I will, just for 
 to-night. But you may be sure that one poor man and 
 a gun are not much use against the wiles of the Devil." 
 
 "Never mind; you make him do it. And now I must 
 be off. I must go and make arrangements for our mar- 
 riage to-morrow; I hardly like to call it a wedding. Will 
 you come to the gate with me, Joe?" 
 
 He shook hands cordially, and with a great show of 
 cheerfulness, with Mrs. Beddington, and then we went 
 out together into the still, frosty evening. It was quite 
 dark now, with a clear starlit sky, and a faint light away
 
 228 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 to the East that told that the moon would be up before 
 many hours. 
 
 "Joe," he said, "which is your room?" 
 
 I took him round, and pointed up to my window star- 
 ing with its single eye out of the blank wall. 
 
 "Do you sleep with it shut?" 
 
 "No, open always." 
 
 "Well, shut it to-night, and bolt it, and lock your 
 door. Do you promise?" 
 
 "It will be so stuffy, Sydney," I said. 
 
 "Never mind that for one night; do it." 
 
 "All right," I said, "but I think it's nonsense." 
 
 "Little girl," he said, taking me by the shoulders, 
 "it is horrible having to leave you like this. I would 
 give the world to be able to stay with you, and guard 
 you. But it is only for one night, and I shall not be far 
 off, you may be sure of that. If I sleep at all, it will be 
 with one eye open." 
 
 "Like a dear old watch-dog," I said. 
 
 "Yes, like a watch-dog. And now, good-bye, little 
 Joe, and God bless and guard you!" 
 
 He hugged me so tight that I almost screamed; then, 
 without another word, he turned away and strode 
 down the track. In about a minute he came running 
 back. 
 
 "Joe," he whispered, "before you go to bed put your 
 hand on the ledge outside the sitting-room window. 
 You will find a present for you there. Good-bye!" 
 
 I stood as still as stone till the last sound of his foot- 
 steps had died away, and then slowly went back into the 
 house. Mrs. Beddington was sitting by the fire staring at 
 an open Bible on her knee, and without a word I 
 dropped into the chair opposite, and sat there thinking.
 
 MRS. BEDDINGTON SPEAKS 229 
 
 Strange, mixed thoughts they were that came crowding 
 into my brain thoughts principally of Sydney, and of 
 his dear, strong face and cheery voice; but also 
 thoughts of Chelmsford, and of the kind old aunts that 
 the name brought back to me, and of what they would 
 think of this helter-skelter marriage; and lastly, thoughts 
 of Selworth, and of the silent, creeping danger that 
 seemed to be hanging over our heads. 
 
 Our supper that night was not a cheerful one. We 
 spoke little and ate less. Not a word passed our lips on 
 the subject that must have been in both our minds. 
 What was the good of it? There was nothing to be 
 gained, and it only depressed one. Only, when we rose 
 to go to bed, old Susan took me by the hand and said, 
 gravely: 
 
 "Miss Josephine, I wonder whether you will ever for- 
 give me for all the trouble I have brought upon you. 
 I have done you a terrible wrong, as you will find out 
 some day, and I am suffering for it now suffering as I 
 deserve to suffer. But remember this, my dear, that the 
 greatest happiness sometimes springs out of troubles of 
 this kind ; and when you have found that happiness as 
 God willing! you will find it perhaps you will think 
 less hardly of old Susan and her many sins." 
 
 There were tears in her poor old eyes, and I took and 
 kissed her as I might my own mother. 
 
 "Whatever happens," I said, "I will always think of 
 you as the dearest, kindest old thing that ever lived." 
 
 She went labouring up the narrow wooden stairs, and 
 I slipped out of the door into the night, to see if Sydney 
 had been back and left his present for me. I found 
 it on the window-ledge where he said he would put it. 
 It was a revolver, very small and brightly polished, and
 
 230 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 I took it in my hand, and crept back into the house. 
 What a wedding present, I thought! 
 
 I dragged myself miserably upstairs, and laid the 
 thing on the table. I had no notion of how to use it, 
 but had an idea that if I touched the trigger it would go 
 off. Down on the ground floor I heard Henry Bedding- 
 ton bolting and barring the doors and shutters, and 
 stumping about in the room below. I knew he was mak- 
 ing preparations for his night upon the sofa. I remem- 
 ber hoping that his gun wouldn't go off and shoot me 
 through the ceiling; and then I laughed actually 
 laughed! It seemed so absurd a carpenter and a girl in 
 her teens sleeping with loaded guns and revolvers by 
 their sides. If they shot anything, it would probably be 
 each other. 
 
 I sat down by the window and looked out. Good- 
 ness! what a long day it had been! The twinkling stars 
 blinked peacefully down from a cloudless sky, and away 
 to the left the rising moon threw a faint silver light over 
 the tops of the dense, silent woods. In an hour, I 
 thought, the place would be as light as day. I wished 
 they had a dog; a dog would have made me feel quite 
 safe; it was ridiculous not to have a dog in a house like 
 this. The grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs 
 struck eleven; time I was in bed and asleep, I thought. 
 I bolted the window, and locked the door as I had prom- 
 ised Sydney, and threw myself on my bed, clothes and 
 all. Next moment I jumped up and blew out the can- 
 dle; it was impossible to sleep with a candle blazing in 
 one's eyes. There was a red patchwork eider-down 
 quilt on the bed, and I drew this up to my chin, and 
 kicking off my shoes, curled myself up like a whiting. 
 I think I fell asleep at once.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE END OF THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 
 
 T 1 THEN I woke up, the moon was showing plainly 
 * * through the blind and the white dimity curtains 
 that covered the blind. I wondered what o'clock it 
 was, and why I was suddenly so wide awake. And then, 
 next moment, while I was in the very act of wondering, 
 I knew. For outside my window 1 heard quite plainly a 
 scraping, grating noise, like the noise of stones rubbing 
 together. My heart gave one huge thump, and then 
 stood stock still. So it had come, I thought, this creep- 
 ing horror it had come at last! I thought of the sen- 
 sation it would make in the papers: "Horrible murder 
 at the old Manor House, Selworth! Young lady found 
 with her throat cut! Supposed clue! Activity of the 
 police!" 
 
 I wondered if they would give any description of me, 
 and how they would describe me if they did. I thought 
 of Sydney, in deep black, with a sad, white face, putting 
 flowers on my grave. That was rather a nice thought, 
 and I dwelt on it. I wondered where they would bury 
 me Ashby, perhaps I hoped it would be Ashby it 
 would be so near Sydney. But then Sydney was leav- 
 ing; he was going to America. He would probably 
 marry some one else, and forget all about me. And 
 perhaps in twenty or thirty or forty years he would come 
 back, very grey and tired, and would go and stand over 
 
 231
 
 232 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 my grave, and remember all about the old days at Sel- 
 worth, and perhaps put a few primroses or violets on the 
 green mound with the plain headstone. It would be 
 quite green then, and grown over, and the stone would 
 be stained grey and brown and yellow, and the letters 
 on it would be quite indistinct. He would have to stoop 
 down to read them, and perhaps to wipe his glasses. 
 
 JOSEPHINE DE METRIER 
 AGED 19 YEARS 
 
 MURDERED ON THE I7TH JANUARY 1858 AT 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE, SELWORTH 
 
 Did they put it on the tombstone when people were 
 murdered? I was not quite sure. 
 
 What had happened to that noise outside? It had 
 stopped. Perhaps it was nothing Henry Beddington 
 going round to see that all was clear, perhaps. His 
 mother must have told him to be on the look-out. What 
 a fool I was! Frightened of everything and nothing, and 
 imagining all these idiotic things! 
 
 How cold it was! My feet were like ice; that was 
 why I couldn't sleep, of course. I drew my feet up, and 
 got inside the bed, pulling up the clothes to my chin. I 
 might just as well be warm, even if they were going to 
 murder me. 
 
 Ah! that was better. 
 
 My eyes grew heavy, and I felt very comfortable, and 
 forgot all about the noises of the night. At last I even 
 began to think that I had not heard them that I had 
 dreamt them or imagined them, and that in any case it 
 was no use bothering about it. I had so often been 
 frightened by noises before in the night, and they had 
 always turned out to be nothing. How I should laugh
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 233 
 
 over the whole thing in the morning! And how Sydney 
 would laugh when I told him! Dear old Sydney! 
 
 I have no idea how long I slept it may have been 
 one hour, or two, or three I had no means of judging. 
 I woke quite suddenly, after a host of horrid dreams, 
 and for a time the sounds of life and the thoughts of 
 sleep were still mixed up in a hopeless jumble. I heard 
 sounds, and distinct sounds, but attached no particular 
 meaning to them. Then, at last, in an instant as it 
 were, I was wide awake, and sitting up in bed with every 
 sense at its full stretch. What had happened? The 
 room was full of smoke, and below me was a dull, cease- 
 less roar. The heat, too, was intense. Fire! fire! 
 fire! 
 
 I leapt out of bed, and made a dash at my shoes. 
 Thank goodness! I had my clothes on! I laced them up 
 with feverish, clumsy fingers. There was plenty of 
 light the light of a full moon shining through the win- 
 dow, and mingling with it, a red, lurid glow that 
 seemed to fill the whole atmosphere. Heavens! what a 
 horrid crackling 1 and what a sickening heat! The floor 
 seemed to be curling up under my feet. Susan! I 
 thought poor old Susan! Where was she? Was she 
 awake? Had she escaped? Or was she in her room, 
 prisoned and helpless? At any cost she must be 
 saved ! 
 
 I rushed to the door, unlocked it, and flung it open. 
 Next instant I stumbled back appalled. A huge fountain 
 of flame was spouting up the staircase, filling it from 
 side to side as water fills a pipe red, angry, murderous 
 flame that licked and lapped and darted with long, 
 fierce tongues down the short little passage that ran to
 
 234 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 my room. I was doomed, imprisoned hopelessly, 
 horribly imprisoned. To have advanced six feet would 
 have been certain and instant death. 
 
 "Susan!" I screamed, "Susan! Fire! fire! fire!" 
 
 Was it possible she was still sleeping? Or had Henry 
 Beddington rescued her at the beginning? A long, 
 vicious flame shot out of the red, glowing mass to within 
 a foot of my face. I staggered back into my room, 
 shrieking, with my hands over my eyes; I thought I was 
 blinded. 
 
 The window! I thought; I must throw myself out; 
 better any number of broken limbs than this ghastly, 
 grilling death. I coughed and choked and spluttered 
 as I plunged with outstretched hands at the curtains, 
 and tore them apart. Merciful heavens! how the smoke 
 had thickened in the last minute! The soles of my shoes 
 were hot, too burning my feet. I dived under the blind 
 and flung open the window. It opened on a hinge, like 
 my window at Selworth, and the thing was done in a 
 second. 
 
 The smoke dashed out in a thick black column that 
 absolutely blinded me for a time. I stretched out my 
 hands, and groped blindly before me in the dark groped 
 for air and breath and coolness and as I groped, my 
 hands struck against something that projected above the 
 window-ledge. I opened my agonised eyes, and peered 
 down through the murk. It was a ladder! Thank God! 
 a ladder! 
 
 In one instant I was on the window-ledge, and astride 
 it. I had learnt the trick years before in Tom Jeffery's 
 yard at Chelmsford. I hooked my legs round the 
 uprights, and slid slid without any attempt at check 
 just letting myself go. At the bottom I came with tre-
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 235 
 
 mendous force against something heavy and soft. 
 I heard a hideous oath in a gruff man's voice, and the 
 next moment found myself standing on my feet. It was 
 in the little yew-clipped arbour that faced my window; 
 the end of the ladder had been run right into it, and now 
 partly filled the entrance. On the ground I saw as 
 well as my smarting, blinded eyes could see the strug- 
 gling figure of a man. I thought it must be Henry Bed- 
 dington, and as I stooped down to make sure, a hand 
 came up and clutched me roughly by the skirt. 
 
 "Curse you! you cat-witted trull!" said the same 
 voice, "you've 'most bruk my back with your sliding 
 tricks! Damned if I wouldn't have let you burn, for my 
 part. Here, none of that! You've got to come along of 
 me, and come quietly, too. Ah, would you? you little 
 she-devil ! Hi ! Pete, hurry up here and collar this bag- 
 gage of yours, if you don't want her knived. I ain't 
 a-goin' to be clawed and scratched for no one." 
 
 As may be gathered from this speech, I was engaged 
 in a fierce struggle with the man I had overturned in my 
 descent. He had clutched my skirt as he lay on the 
 ground, and gradually struggling to his feet, was trying 
 to increase his hold, while I dragged myself away from 
 him with all my might. I was very strong for a girl, and 
 mercifully the foot of the ladder stretched between us, 
 right to the back of the arbour, and he had to lean across 
 this to keep his hold of me. The man was on his feet 
 now, and in the red glow from the burning house I recog- 
 nised, with a shudder, the elder of the Morrises the 
 father, in fact, of the two others. He was lame, I 
 thought thank Heaven! he was lame! If I could once 
 get away he would never catch me. The man knew that 
 well enough, I fancy; his evil face scowled darkly at me
 
 236 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 across the ladder. I was tugging at my dress in a 
 frenzy, and hammering at his hand with my own. 
 
 "Softly, my lamb, softly!" he said, with a vicious 
 grin; "that's fine thanks to give a cove for savin' you 
 from frizzling, blessed if it ain't!" 
 
 He made an effort to skip across the ladder and get 
 my side, but by the mercy of Providence his foot caught, 
 and he fell full length on the gravel. With one tremen- 
 dous tug I wrenched myself free, and dashed at the lit- 
 tle gate in the corner. I heard a torrent of horrible 
 oaths from the arbour, and next moment the man yelling 
 for Pete to come and catch me; then more oaths in 
 Pete's voice this time and then the clang of the little 
 gate that told me he was on my track ; and then for a 
 time I heard nothing more but my own panting and the 
 thud of my feet as I flew down the incline. 
 
 I was a good runner, and had little doubt that for a 
 short distance I could hold my own with Pete or any other 
 heavy-booted clod; but that I should not last very long 
 I knew well. I was three parts exhausted by my strug- 
 gle with the elder Morris, and I think the smoke and 
 heat in the house had got into my lungs, and sapped my 
 strength perhaps it was the fright, or one thing on the 
 top of the other, but anyhow, whatever it was, I felt 
 faint and weak and exhausted before I had reached the 
 foot of the hill. My breath came in short, quick sobs, 
 and my legs seemed to bend under me. The bottom of 
 the hollow was in darkness, for the moon was very low 
 by now, and I felt infinitely thankful that it was so, for 
 there was no shelter there except from knee-deep bracken. 
 And I had a long way to go yet! Merciful God, give me 
 strength to get as far as Inversnaid! If I once got there, 
 with sufficient start to let me get up, I knew I should be
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 237 
 
 safe. I pressed up the hill, with elbows squared and head 
 thrown back, and a pain like a knife in my tired heart 
 up and up, tripping and stumbling over the bracken, and 
 dragging my feet along at a pace that was hardly better 
 than a walk, but still always getting nearer and 
 nearer. 
 
 I ^was among the beech-trees now, and knew I must 
 be out of sight of any one pursuing. Had he seen the 
 way I went, this horrible Pete? What were they going 
 to do to me? Kill me? Torture me? 
 
 Through the naked branches ahead I could see the 
 moonbeams glancing on a huge, dark, symmetrical mass 
 that loomed up into the sky. It was Inversnaid! Ah, 
 if only I had not been seen! If only my heart would 
 hold out till I was up! 
 
 I grabbed at the drawbridge and dragged myself up. 
 Tired as I was, exhausted, dead with terror and fatigue, 
 I believe I did the ascent quicker than I had ever done 
 it before. I tore my hands, I scratched my face, I lost 
 a shoe that flopped down into the leaves below, but I got 
 up, over the base of Sydney's branch, and down into 
 the sheltering hollow beyond. 
 
 I dropped on the soft earthen floor, and lay back 
 against a branch with my head on Arthur's^ Seat. I closed 
 my eyes and offered up silent thanksgiving to Heaven. 
 Was I safe, though? Was it not possible that they might 
 have seen me? My own panting had been so loud that 
 it would have drowned any footsteps pursuing me, how- 
 ever close they might have been. I raised my head and 
 listened. There was not a sound. An owl hooted 
 somewhere away towards Flexham Wood, and from the 
 east there came a dull, roaring sound that I knew must 
 be the fire at the poor old Manor House; but close at
 
 238 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 hand there was nothing but intense stillness the still- 
 ness of a frosty winter's night. 
 
 Oh, for Sydney! I thought. If only I could get my 
 strength again, I would crawl as far as Elmhurst and 
 hammer at the door until he let me in. It was dreadful 
 out here in the wood, so lonely and silent, and so cold, 
 too! A minute before I had been burning hot, but now 
 I was cold cold as ice. I wished I had some matches 
 with me ; I would have lit a fire. There was a host of 
 fuel at hand, collected by Sydney and me some time back, 
 and piled beside the fireplace for future use. 
 
 Hark! what was that? A stick cracked in the dis- 
 tance no such very great distance, either, and again, 
 closer at hand this time. O Heaven above! if it were 
 they those awful Morrises ! I could hear footsteps now, 
 and voices cautious, whispering voices, and the crunch- 
 ing of dead leaves under heavy feet. 
 
 They were coming nearer, there was no question 
 about it now coming straight for where I lay. It must 
 be the Morrises who else could it be? They must 
 have seen me, after all. 
 
 I sat up and listened. My breathing was quieter 
 now, and I was not so faint. 
 
 "I tell you, I seed her legging it straight for the 
 wood 'ere," said a voice. "I'll bet she ain't a mile 
 away now." 
 
 "Amileaway! yer blasted fool!" said another. "'Ow 
 in 'ell are we to find her fifty yards away on a night like 
 this?" 
 
 It was old Morris. I recognised his horrible, growl- 
 ing, brutal voice. And the other must be Pete. I leant 
 my head against the tree and prayed. 
 
 "A blooming fine runner you are, to be beat by a
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 239 
 
 girl! Gar! I'd as soon 'ave a couple of women with me 
 on a job as you and the old 'un, blessed if I wouldn't!" 
 
 "You shut your jaw, Mike; I'll run you for a pot any 
 bloody when!" 
 
 Mike! so there were three of them! Good Lord 
 deliver me! 
 
 "It's all along of Pete, and this blasted job of 'is and 
 Norman's," said the old man. "If it 'adn't been for 
 that, the pair of 'em would have been dead as herrings 
 by now, and fifty blooming pound in our pockets." 
 
 "Well, and ain't we a-going to make fifty more over 
 my job, yer silly old beggar? What are yer growling at?" 
 
 "A darned sight more likely lose the 'ole lot. You 
 bet the governor won't pay if the gal gets loose, not he. 
 'Both of 'em snug in kingdom come, and there's fifty 
 blooming sovereigns in your pocket, Joe Morris,' says 
 he." 
 
 " 'And you bring the gal safe to Selworth, and there's 
 another cool fifty from me,' says Norman." 
 
 "And now we ain't done either the one or the other, 
 thanks to you! You been and jolly well botched the 
 'ole show, that's what you 'ave." 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Pete, "she ain't far off. Hiding in 
 one of these 'ere trees as like as not maybe in this very 
 blooming tree what we're standing under." 
 
 I saw the rays of a lantern shoot here and there 
 among the branches. 
 
 "Thick as 'ell up there. Might be twenty of 'em up 
 there for all we could see. I've a blamed good mind to 
 get up and 'ave a squint round." 
 
 "Rot!" said old Morris. "You've botched the job 
 for us, and we may as well go 'ome before we're nabbed. 
 There'll be plenty about the place before long."
 
 240 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "And what's to hinder us from coming with the 
 others to see what the fire's about, eh, you old silly? 
 Nobody'll nab us for 'elping to put the bloody flames 
 out, will they?" 
 
 "'Ere, what's this?" said the third voice, that I took 
 to be Mike's. "Gor blimme! if it ain't a shoe and a 
 gal's shoe, too, by God! Well, if so be as this is your 
 gal's shoe, Pete, she bain't far away, you may bet your 
 life on that." 
 
 "'Ere, I'm a-going up," said Pete, with the ring of a 
 sudden energy in his voice. "It's worth a bit of climb- 
 ing to nab this bird. Fifty pound don't tumble down 
 from the sky every day of the week." 
 
 I heard the cracking and creaking of the branches as 
 he began hauling himself up, and with a sickening fear 
 in my heart, I jumped up and rushed past the fireplace 
 to the foot of "my branch." At the same moment, the 
 light of the dark lantern shot right across me, and I knew 
 that I was discovered. 
 
 "By God! we've got her!" cried the old man in wild 
 excitement. "Hurry up, Pete, the sooner we finish with 
 this job the better. Lord! what a bit of luck!" 
 
 I heard no more at the time, for faster than I had 
 ever climbed in my life, I clambered up the branch my 
 own particular branch of days gone by. I knew every 
 turn and twist and off-shoot of that branch. I knew 
 where to put each foot and hand so as to make the best 
 use of the shape Nature had given it. Scores of times I 
 had gone up that branch for no other reason in the world 
 than a pure love of climbing; but never, in all the efforts 
 of imagination that had been brought to bear on that par- 
 ticular tree, had it entered into my head that a day would 
 come when I should actually fly up it for my very life.
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 241 
 
 The rays of the lantern followed me at every step, 
 and foul, coarse jokes were bandied about from one to 
 the other. They were in great good spirits now, these 
 horrible wretches ! I shut my ears to them, and strug- 
 gled on, with teeth clenched, and the terror of despera- 
 tion hammering at my heart. Pete was on my branch 
 now; I could hear the creaking of the twigs plainly. 
 But I never looked down. I fixed my eyes on the high- 
 est point that experience had taught me could be 
 reached, and made for it desperately. I had no partic- 
 ular plan in my head, only a fixed determination that I 
 would fling myself off the tree sooner than be taken. 
 But, then, there were two more of them below! Oh! it 
 was awful! 
 
 I reached the end of the branch, where it was no 
 bigger than a man's arm, and sat astride it, facing the 
 way I had come. Pete was coming up like a monkey, 
 twenty feet below. I looked round desperately for some 
 loophole of escape. There was none. The other 
 branches ended far away to right and left. Below me 
 was nothing but black, impenetrable darkness. The ter- 
 ror was awful, and before I knew what I was doing, I 
 had sent three piercing shrieks out on the still night air. 
 A chorus of the vilest oaths came up from below. 
 
 "By God! missy," said Pete, between his quick short 
 gasps for breath, "if you squeak like that again, I'll stick 
 you like a pig, by God, I will!" 
 
 He pulled out a long clasp-knife, and opening it, held 
 it between his teeth, and crept up nearer and nearer. 
 I could see his horrid eyes fixed on me like a cat's. 
 From below muttered cheers of encouragement came 
 hoarsely through the branches. 
 
 "Chuck her down, Pete, if she won't come quietly.
 
 242 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 We'll get the governor's fifty that way, anyhow; and 
 Norman's can go to the devil. Besides, she knows too 
 much now, damned if she don't." 
 
 "Now, missy, are you coming quietly?" said Pete, 
 with the knife still between his teeth. He was astride 
 the branch now, and was dragging himself forward inch 
 by inch. The branch swayed and bent fearfully under 
 the double weight, for we were near the extreme end of 
 it, and I had to tuck my heels close under me to keep my 
 balance. There was nothing to hold on to. I looked 
 round wildly for some weapon of defence, but there was 
 none nothing but thin twigs and darkness. Then a 
 thought came into my head a mad, desperate thought. 
 I slipped down my hand, and pulled off my remaining 
 shoe, holding it by the toe. Pete came nearer and 
 nearer, with a devilish grin upon his evil face. We were 
 facing each other now, each astride the branch, and not 
 more than three feet apart. 
 
 Suddenly he drew the knife from his teeth and flour- 
 ished it within an inch of my face. 
 
 "Gurrr!" he yelled, mouthing at me hideously, like a 
 maniac. 
 
 And then a very dreadful thing happened. I think I 
 was half mad with terror. No words that ever were 
 written could give an idea of the awfulness of the posi- 
 tion up there, perched as I was on a dancing, swaying 
 little branch, with black darkness below, and facing me 
 as villainous a looking ruffian as the world could produce, 
 with under jaw thrust out, murder gleaming from his 
 eyes, and a long, glistening knife in his hand. The 
 wonder is I didn't turn into a driveling idiot on the spot. 
 
 Well, what happened was this. It was when he flour- 
 ished the knife at me that I did it and only from sheer,
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 243 
 
 stupefying terror. I hit at him with all my might with 
 the shoe, and the heel struck him fair and square to 
 the side of the eye, and toppled him over like a ninepin. 
 
 It was all done in a second, and long before I could 
 realise what had happened I heard him go crash, crash, 
 crashing through the branches, and then hit the ground 
 with a sickening thud right below me. I all but fell 
 myself. The effort of reaching out overbalanced me, 
 and the leap of the branch as he fell from it all but shot 
 me after him, but I managed to hold on somehow, with 
 feet and hands, and chin and elbows; and I lay along 
 it trembling in every limb, and peering down into the 
 darkness to catch the whispers of the men below. God 
 grant I hadn't killed him. What an awful thought! 
 
 I could see the light of the lantern playing on to a 
 white, upturned face, and the other two crouching over 
 the fallen man and whispering excitedly. 
 
 "Is he hurt?" I called out, craning my head forward. 
 
 "Hurt! yer ! Not so hurt as you'll be before 
 
 we've done with you! You wait a minute!" 
 
 I began slowly coming down the branch. I felt I 
 simply must see how the poor fellow was, even if the 
 others killed me. Perhaps I could help him in some 
 way bandage him up, or set a bone perhaps, if one was 
 broken. I suppose they saw or heard me, for old Mor- 
 ris called out: 
 
 "You keep your eye on her, Mike; she'll slip us if we 
 don't mind. What's that? Listen!" 
 
 I saw them both raise their heads and stare into the 
 trees, and the next moment the lantern was turned off, 
 and everything was in darkness. What was it? I 
 listened, too, and heard distinctly the sound of feet run- 
 ning, as it seemed, over the crackling leaves. The men
 
 244 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 below lay in perfect silence; not a sound broke the still- 
 ness except the footsteps coming nearer and nearer. 
 
 Suddenly they too stopped. For at least a minute 
 the whole wood was still as death. Then a loud, clear 
 voice called out: 
 
 "Joe, Joe!" 
 
 It was Sydney. 
 
 "Here!" I cried; "Sydney, help, help!" 
 
 I heard muttered oaths below, and the lantern once 
 more flashed searchingly among the tree trunks. 
 
 "Take care! they have knives!" I called out; "they 
 will kill you!" 
 
 "Sooner me than you," he answered. "Never mind 
 their dirty knives; I have something better than that 
 here." 
 
 I saw him striding towards us through the trees, with 
 the lantern turned full upon his face. He looked very 
 stern and very splendid, I thought, and he had a thick 
 stick in his right hand. I knew how the light must blind 
 him, and I called out again. 
 
 "Take care, Sydney; there are two of them." 
 
 He made no answer, but I saw him grip his stick, and 
 give a sort of loose hitch to his shoulders. 
 
 And then, when he was about six yards off, they 
 rushed at him, both at once. The lantern rested on the 
 ground and lit up the whole scene plainly enough. Syd- 
 ney jumped back a yard or two, and then I saw the stick 
 come round like lightning, and Mike went head over 
 heels into the leaves. At the same moment I screamed 
 out aloud, for old Morris's knife rose in the air, and 
 seemed to bury itself in Sydney's side. Down the 
 branch I went, scrambling, slithering, sliding, till I 
 reached the platform, and from there swung myself down
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 245 
 
 into the leaves by the first branch that came to hand. 
 I fell all in a heap on my face, but I was up in a moment, 
 and running forward to where I had last seen Sydney. 
 
 When I got there he was kneeling on old Morris's 
 chest, with a dripping knife in his hand. Mike lay 
 upon his face a few yards off, groaning. 
 
 "Are you hurt, Sydney?" I gasped. 
 
 "No, no, little girl; I'm all right. Are you?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, but I saw him stab you." 
 
 "Oh, that was nothing. He didn't quite bring it off. 
 Now, Joe, do you think you could run down to the 
 Manor House and bring two or three of the Bedding- 
 tons? or anybody else would do quite as well. You see 
 that rogue on his face there might come round any mo- 
 ment, and make it a bit awkward." 
 
 "Of course I can," I said; "wait till I find my 
 shoes." 
 
 The shoes were lying close together by the side of 
 poor Pete. I had only time to give him one glance as I 
 ran off through the trees. He looked horribly still, poor 
 fellow! 
 
 I ran like a hare this time. The thought of Sydney 
 alone with those three men gave me strength, and I cov- 
 ered the whole distance without stopping once; and it 
 must be quite half a mile. 
 
 George Beddington and his two boys were the first 
 people I ran against. 
 
 "Quick, quick!" I panted. "Mr. Grayle is alone 
 with the three Morrises, and if you are not quick they 
 will murder him!" 
 
 "Where, miss?" they all asked in- the same breath. 
 
 "At Inversnaid," I said. 
 
 "Inversnaid! Where is that, miss?"
 
 246 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Oh, don't be so stupid! The big pollard beech, of 
 course, towards Flexham Wood. Run, run!" 
 
 We were walking fast down the incline. I had no 
 more run left in me, and it maddened me not to be able 
 to make them understand. 
 
 "Now, straight forward in that direction," I said, 
 "about half a mile on. Holloa, and he'll be sure to 
 hear you; but for goodness' sake, be quick!" 
 
 The men went off in a trot, and I followed as well as 
 I could. I heard them holloaing among the trees beyond, 
 and I thought I heard Sydney's answering shout, but I 
 was not sure. 
 
 I struggled on, and in ten minutes or so came to the 
 tree. Old Morris and Mike were sitting on the ground 
 with their hands bound behind their backs, and the three 
 Beddingtons and Sydney were bending over Pete's pros- 
 trate form. 
 
 "Is he dead?" I asked in a horrified whisper. 
 
 "Lor* bless you no, miss," the keeper said with a 
 laugh; "vermin such as him ain't so easy killed. Leg 
 broke, I think, and knocked out of time by the fall, but 
 nothing else. You see these 'ere leaves are 'most like a 
 feather-bed to fall on a, foot thick if they're an inch." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" I said, looking with horrible remorse 
 at a swelling on the left side of his head, just to the side 
 of the eye. "What are you going to do with him?" 
 
 "Well, we must just leave him here and go back for a 
 hurdle to carry him on. There ain't nothing else to be 
 done." 
 
 "Yes," I said, eagerly; "I'll stay with him while you 
 are away." 
 
 "Indeed, you'll do nothing of the sort," Sydney said 
 with a short laugh. "You'll just come straight home
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 247 
 
 with me to Elmhurst. You've done quite enough for 
 one night, and I don't mean letting you out of my sight 
 again." 
 
 "But you can't leave him here all alone?" I said. 
 
 "Oh, never fear, miss; he can't get away leg's broke 
 right enough," put in Tom Beddington, gravely. 
 
 Sydney and I both laughed; it was impossible to 
 help it. 
 
 "Yes, I wasn't thinking of that," I said. "I was 
 thinking how horrible it was leaving him all alone in the 
 wood here with a broken leg." 
 
 "Oh, he'll be all right, miss," Tom said, cheerily, 
 "we shan't be long gone. Here, you two beauties, 
 march!" 
 
 Old Morris and Mike rose sulkily to their feet, and 
 the five men disappeared in the direction of the keeper's 
 house. 
 
 "Send for the doctor at once!" I shouted after them. 
 
 "All right, miss; we'll look after him, never fear!" 
 
 Sydney and I were left alone with the fallen man. 
 
 "We can't leave him like this," I said, "can we, Syd- 
 ney?" 
 
 "We must, little girl," he said. "We can't do the 
 poor chap any good, and the Beddingtons '11 be back in 
 half an hour. Besides, I must get home soon, or I 
 shan't get there at all." 
 
 "What do you mean?" I said. 
 
 "Well, I think I've lost a good deal of blood, and 
 I'm beginning to feel rather weak." 
 
 "Blood!" I cried. "Then he did stab you?" 
 
 "Yes, he struck me in the left arm. It's nothing to 
 hurt, but it bled a good deal, and is getting very 
 stiff."
 
 248 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "You poor darling!" I said. "Let me bandage it up 
 for you." 
 
 "No, no, I daren't touch it till I get to the house. 
 I've stopped the bleeding to a certain extent with a 
 handkerchief tied round, and we had best leave it like 
 that for the present." 
 
 "Come on, then!" I said; "let's get to your house, 
 quick! Take my arm." 
 
 He laughed, and said that was no use, but that if he 
 put his arm round my neck it might help him a bit. So, 
 of course, I had to agree, poor fellow! and we went the 
 rest of the way like that. He didn't seem so very bad 
 after all, I thought at least as far as spirits went. He 
 really seemed to enjoy having a bad arm. 
 
 As for me, considering what I had gone through, I 
 was extraordinarily calm. I couldn't understand it my- 
 self. I had a host of questions to ask as we went along 
 questions about the fire, and old Mrs. Beddington, and 
 as to how he had found me, and any number of other 
 things. And of course he had plenty to ask me. 
 
 Mrs. Beddington, he said, was dead not burnt, or 
 even so much as hurt, but dead dead of fright and fail- 
 ure of the heart. Henry Beddington had been the first 
 to take the alarm about the fire, and he was in time to 
 rush upstairs and carry out his mother in his arms. 
 Then he thought of me, and had tried to get in again, 
 but it was an utter impossibility. The house was mostly 
 of wood, and very old, and the fire had spread with 
 extraordinary quickness. He had run round to the shed 
 where the ladder was kept, but to his amazement it was 
 gone. After hunting about for a minute or two, he 
 dashed round to my window, and there found the missing
 
 THE OLD MANOR HOUSE 249 
 
 ladder, my window wide open, and sheets of flame dart- 
 ing out. 
 
 That was all, as far as the Beddingtons were con- 
 cerned. Martha, the girl, had got out easily enough. 
 She slept beyond the kitchen, on the ground floor, where 
 the fire had scarcely reached. 
 
 Sydney's own story was this: He had been on the 
 look-out all night, fearing he scarcely knew what but 
 still fearing something. He had slept for a time in a 
 chair, and then feeling uneasy, had wandered out in the 
 direction of the Manor House. Before he had been 
 walking five minutes he noticed the red glow in the sky, 
 and fearing the truth, ran the whole distance at top 
 speed, and arrived just as the roof crashed in. It was 
 the quickest fire, every one said, that had ever been 
 seen; the wonder was that any one escaped at all. 
 
 Well, Sydney found Henry Beddington bending over 
 the body of his mother, and from him learnt that I had 
 probably escaped by the ladder, but that no one knew 
 where I had disappeared to. He had rushed blindly 
 down the track, full of every conceivable terror, but 
 never for a moment thinking of Inversnaid; why should 
 he have? And then suddenly he heard my screams, and 
 in an instant knew where he must look for me. The rest, 
 of course, I knew. 
 
 "Poor old Susan!" I said. "What a horrible thing!" 
 
 "Yes, but it might have been worse, of course." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Well, she might have been burnt, poor old lady! 'As 
 it was, let us hope her end was painless. And then, you 
 know, it might have been you, Joe." 
 
 "Would you have minded so very much?" I asked.
 
 250 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Minded!" he said. "My God! my God! don't talk 
 of it! You don't know what you are to me, Joe. I 
 wouldn't give a brass farthing for life without you!" 
 
 I felt a great shudder run through him, and I was 
 glad to feel it. 
 
 "You old darling!" I said. 
 
 And then he said several things not nearly so true, 
 but I was very glad to hear them all the same. And I 
 told him all about the terrible night I had had, and asked 
 him if my hair was white. 
 
 We had so much to say to each other that I almost 
 forgot all about his arm till we got to Elmhurst, and he 
 had turned the lights up and taken his coat off, and 
 then I think I nearly fainted, for his sleeve was drenched 
 in blood from shoulder to wrist. I never saw anything 
 like it. He rang all the servants up, and made them 
 heat some water, and bring up some food, and get ready 
 a bed for me. And then I cut off his sleeve with a pair 
 of scissors and washed away the part that was sticking 
 to the wound, and then washed the wound itself. It was 
 a horrid-looking place, with black, bulging lips, and I 
 am afraid I must have hurt him dreadfully, but he didn't 
 seem to mind. He said I was a splendid hospital nurse, 
 and he wouldn't mind being stabbed every day if I would 
 only be his doctor. 
 
 I don't know what the servants thought. I saw his 
 man staring the eyes out of his head, and the old house- 
 maid looked as sour as vinegar. I suppose she thought 
 it all dreadfully improper.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 FROM ELMHURST TO ASHBY 
 
 T BELIEVE I slept till nearly twelve next morning. 
 Anyhow it was half-past twelve by the time I got 
 down. Sydney was out; his man who still looked at 
 me with suspicion said he had started about ten o'clock 
 in the dog-cart, but had left no message as to when he 
 would be back. So I sat in his room, and looked over 
 all his things regular man's things pipes and sticks 
 and choppers, fishing-rods and photographs and I 
 thought what a particularly ugly, dreary room it was, 
 and of how I should have altered it if I was going to 
 live there. And that made me think, of course, of our 
 marriage, and of what Sydney had settled about it. We 
 were to have been married, of course, this very morning. 
 Perhaps that was what he had gone out about. I won- 
 dered. 
 
 There seemed something rather horrible, to my mind, 
 in getting married the very day after poor old Susan 
 Beddington's death; still, of course, if Sydney wished it, 
 I would do it. And then I began to think over, one 
 after another, all the events of the night before that 
 awful, never-to-be-forgotten night! I had had no time 
 to think till then. Events had chased one another so 
 quickly that thought of what had gone before had been 
 impossible. But now I sat in the worn, shabby leather 
 chair by the fire and tried to think it all out. What did 
 
 251
 
 252 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 it all mean? Had the fire been accidental, or had it 
 anything to do with those Morrises? And then, what 
 were the Morrises doing there at all? What did they 
 want with me? And who was "the governor"? 
 
 The whole thing seemed to me now like a nightmare; 
 I could hardly realise that it had all actually happened 
 that I, Josephine de Metrier, had gone through all these 
 things only a few hours before. I got up and looked at 
 myself in the glass over the chimney-piece. There 
 ought to have been some extraordinary change in my 
 face; it ought to have looked old and drawn and hag- 
 gard, but it did not. It was exactly the same as ever. 
 I felt almost ashamed of myself; it seemed so indecent 
 and unfeeling. 
 
 And then I thought of Pete poor Pete ! I wondered 
 how he was getting on down at the keeper's, and what 
 they had done with the other two. I had a good mind 
 to walk down and see; I should be back in time for 
 luncheon. The only thing was I had no hat; I had 
 come away, of course, without one, and my others were 
 all at Selworth. However, there were plenty of Syd- 
 ney's shooting-caps of all sizes and shapes and I took 
 one of these, doubled it up behind, and pinned it on. 
 
 It did splendidly. 
 
 I had just got as far as the gate when I met Sydney 
 himself, driving full tilt up the road. 
 
 "My dear child," he called out, "where on earth are 
 you off to?" 
 
 "I was going down to the Beddingtons to see after 
 that poor man with the broken leg." 
 
 "Good Lord!" he said, "are you mad? Haven't you 
 had enough yet of Selworth and its people? Thank good- 
 ness, I caught you in time!"
 
 FROM ELMHURST TO ASHBY 253 
 
 "Why?" I said; "what's the objection to going?" 
 
 "Well, if you don't see, it's no use telling you," he 
 said. "But I want you to come with me this morning." 
 
 "What? to get married?" 
 
 "Well, no," he said, looking rather shamefaced. 
 "The fact is, Joe, I don't think we had better get mar- 
 ried to-day, if you don't mind." 
 
 "Mind!" I cried. "Good gracious! don't think / 
 mind. I had much rather not. " 
 
 He was leaning forward in the dog-cart, playing with 
 the lash of the whip. He didn't look at me, but 
 answered quite quietly: 
 
 "Of course. I didn't suppose you were in a hurry; 
 that's why I thought we had better not. I am in a 
 hurry, but there are several reasons why I think it had 
 better be put off for a week or two." 
 
 "A month or two, if you like," I said. 
 
 He gave me one quick, enquiring glance. 
 
 "Joe, dear," he said, gently, "I don't like it at all, 
 but I think perhaps it is best." 
 
 "Why?" I asked, simply for curiosity. "Last even- 
 ing you wanted to get married to-day. I thought it was 
 all settled. Not that / care. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," he said; "yesterday I thought that would be 
 best for you ; now I think the other will be best for you. " 
 
 "All right," I said; "then perhaps you will drive me 
 back to Selworth. " 
 
 "God forbid!" he answered. "I want you to come 
 with me to Ashby. I have just been there, and they 
 will be delighted to have you. I have got a note for you 
 from the Duchess." 
 
 "But I have got no clothes." 
 
 "Oh, that will be all right. The girls will lend you
 
 254 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 any amount of clothes. Lady Beatrice is just about 
 your size, I should think." 
 
 I stood for a minute in doubt. Of course it was 
 obviously the best thing to be done, and the idea of a 
 cheerful, healthy household where there was no mystery 
 appealed to me strongly. But, on the other hand, I was 
 not at all happy about clothes. I read the Duchess's 
 note; it was very kind and pressing. "You positively 
 must come, " she wrote, underlined several times. 
 
 "All right," I said. 
 
 "Then jump in! You have left nothing behind, have 
 you?" 
 
 "No; but the cap, Sydney!" 
 
 "Oh, the cap's all right. You look ripping in it. 
 Jump up!" 
 
 I did jump up, and Sydney made me drive, as he said 
 he was not very safe with only one arm. The other he had 
 in a sling. It seemed he had already been to the doctor 
 and had it properly looked to. 
 
 "You have been energetic," I said. "And I am only 
 just out of bed." 
 
 "Did they give you breakfast all right?" he asked. 
 "I told them not to disturb you." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I had it in bed. Sydney, are they very 
 terrible, these Ashby people? I don't know any of 
 them, you see." 
 
 "Not a bit; they are as jolly as possible. You will 
 get on splendidly with them; Lady Beatrice is a ripper!" 
 
 "Is she?" I said. "You seem pretty full of Lady 
 Beatrice." 
 
 "And so will you be in a couple of days, see if you're 
 not," he said, laughing. 
 
 "Sydney," I said, "I've been thinking of something."
 
 FROM ELMHURST TO ASHBY 255 
 
 "Of me, I hope." 
 
 "Of you! No, not likely," I said. "No; I have 
 been thinking about that red box. Do you remember 
 what Mrs. Beddington said?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "She said that the moment she was dead we were to 
 open it." 
 
 "I remember. I have been thinking about it, too. 
 That is one reason why I thought our marriage had bet- 
 ter be put off." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, I thought you had perhaps better see what 
 was inside first." 
 
 "But how can we get it? You know it is in the secret 
 staircase out of my room." 
 
 "I think I could get it, if I only knew the way to your 
 room, and the way to open the picture." 
 
 "I could tell you how to open the picture, but you 
 would never find your way to my room. It is rather 
 complicated." 
 
 "Then you will have to come and show me," he said. 
 
 "But, good gracious! they will see us. You know 
 Norman and Father Terence are in the house. And 
 besides, all the doors are sure to be locked." 
 
 "Then, we must break in," he said. 
 
 "What, at night?" 
 
 "Yes, at night." 
 
 "Oh, how glorious! But do you think we can do it?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so. I am rather an expert burglar 
 not professionally, you know, but in an amateur kind of 
 way. ' ' 
 
 "Shall we try to-night, Sydney?" 
 
 "No, certainly not, you little adventuress; you must
 
 256 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 have at least one good night's rest first, and so must I, 
 for that matter. It'll be no child's play when we do try 
 it." 
 
 As he spoke we drove through the Ashby Lodge. The 
 park was not nearly so big as Selworth, but very pretty. 
 The house was big and modern, ugly and comfortable. 
 I had often seen it, of course, from the outside, as one of 
 Uncle Guy's favourite rides had been through the park, 
 but the inside was unknown to me. The Duke never 
 came there except for the winter months; his principal 
 place was in the North. 
 
 I confess to feeling very uncomfortable as we drove 
 up to the door. I was unhappy about my cap, and still 
 more unhappy about my clothes for the evening and for 
 dinner. I had absolutely nothing except what I carried 
 on my back. However, before I had been five minutes 
 in the house I felt as much at home as though I had 
 lived there all my life. Sydney was right; Lady Beatrice 
 took me by storm. I fell in love with her from the first 
 moment that she caught me round the neck and gave 
 me a loud, smacking kiss. The other girls, Mary and 
 Alice, were very nice, too, and the Duchess was far 
 from formidable. Poor woman! she was still in the 
 deepest mourning for her husband, of course. 
 
 I need not have worried myself about dresses. The 
 girls simply piled up my room with things. They kept 
 coming in, one after the other, panting under enormous 
 armfuls of clothes, which they flung in heaps on the bed 
 and sofa. Each one wanted me, of course, to wear her 
 own particular things, and I got perfectly bewildered in 
 trying to divide my choice equally. After tea they all 
 came up to my room, and made me try on things till din- 
 ner time, dancing round me and clapping their hands,
 
 FROM ELMHURST TO ASHBY 257 
 
 and pulling me about, and all talking at once and at the 
 top of their voices. They were extraordinarily gushing 
 kind of girls, never out of temper or spirits, and what 
 Sydney called always working in triplets that is to say, 
 what one did the other two did as well. If one came to 
 my room, they all three came. One hardly ever saw 
 them singly. 
 
 I was half dead by dinner time, but they all said I 
 looked all right in a white dress of Beatrice's. I think 
 it did suit me pretty well. The Duke took me in to din- 
 ner, as I was the only stranger. I had never seen him 
 before, but had always hated him ever since I had heard 
 he had turned Sydney off. However, he was pleasant 
 enough to talk to rather a good-looking man. I talked 
 to him a great deal about Sophie, to try and find out if 
 he was in love with her, but he was distinctly disappoint- 
 ing. I don't believe he was. 
 
 "Isn't she lovely?' I said. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he answered, lightly; "very nice looking, 
 perhaps a little too like a Paris fashion-plate." 
 
 "I think it's horrid of you to say that," I said. "I 
 think she's the prettiest girl I've ever seen." 
 
 "Yes, but then you haven't the advantage that 1 
 have," he said, laughing. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Well, I've seen some one that you never have 
 except perhaps inverted." 
 
 "I don't know the least what you mean, but I'm quite 
 sure you've never seen any one prettier than Sophie." 
 
 "And I'm quite sure I have." 
 
 "All right," I said, "we won't fight over it; but I 
 think you've very bad taste." 
 
 I was bitterly disappointed. Here was a plain end of
 
 258 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 poor Sophie's chance of being a Duchess. I wondered 
 who the other girl was. I felt sure she was a pig, who- 
 ever she was. 
 
 After dinner I asked Beatrice if the Duke was in love 
 with any one. They were all three in my pocket, of 
 course, and they all three went into fits of laughter. 
 
 "Not that we know of," they cried in chorus. 
 "There's a chance for you, if you like to try. I think 
 he seemed rather taken with you at dinner." 
 
 "Thank you," I said, coldly, "but I'm engaged 
 already." 
 
 "Engaged!" they shouted out. "Who to? Tell us 
 all about it." 
 
 I was sorry I had spoken, then, but there was no 
 help for it. 
 
 "I am engaged to Sydney Grayle, " I said. 
 
 "To Sydney!" they cried. "Goodness gracious! 
 Think of that!" 
 
 And then they all must needs kiss me, and wish me 
 all manner of joy, and descant for twenty minutes on 
 Sydney's innumerable virtues and graces. 
 
 At the end of that time Sydney and the Duke came 
 into the room, whereupon they all three set up a howl of 
 congratulation, and charged him in line. 
 
 "Sydney!" they cried, "why didn't you tell us of your 
 engagement?" 
 
 "Engagement!" he said. "What engagement?" 
 
 "Good gracious!" Beatrice said, "the man talks as if 
 he had a dozen. Why, your engagement to Miss de 
 Metrier, of course." 
 
 I saw his face contract with a quick little frown. 
 
 "Because," he said, "I have not the privilege of 
 being engaged to Miss de Metrier."
 
 FROM ELMHURST TO ASHBY 259 
 
 "Oh, yes, you have! she has told us all about it," 
 said the chorus. 
 
 Sydney turned away, and began talking to the 
 Duchess about something. The girls, seeing that some- 
 thing was wrong, stopped short with blank faces; and as 
 for me, I felt ready to sink into the floor with shame and 
 anger. What did he mean? 
 
 Beatrice, with ready tact, changed the conversation, 
 and began asking me about the fire, and my adventures 
 of the night before. I was quite a heroine in a small 
 way, but of course nothing was known by the world in 
 general of the real facts. All they knew was that a fire 
 had broken out in the middle of the night, and that I 
 had escaped by a ladder providentially found under my 
 window. Sydney was very reticent about his part of 
 the business, and the wound in his arm. His story was 
 that he had seen the fire, and was hurrying through the 
 woods to see if he could be of any help, when he fell in 
 with some poachers, who wounded him in the arm. One 
 of the poachers seemed to have fallen from a tree and 
 broken his leg presumably in attempting to noose 
 roosting pheasants and the others he was able to 
 defend himself against, till the keepers came up and 
 captured the whole three. 
 
 "Then where did you find Miss de Metrier?" the 
 Duchess had asked. 
 
 "Oh, I found her wandering about, homeless and 
 houseless, in the woods," Sydney said, laughing. 
 
 "But I don't understand what Miss de Metrier was 
 doing in the woods; was she poaching, too?" 
 
 The Duchess looked at me with puzzled eyes. 
 
 "No, not poaching. I suppose she was scared by the
 
 260 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 fire, and her own narrow escape and had run away from 
 the very sight of the blazing house." 
 
 I said nothing. I was a bad hand at lying; and it 
 struck me Sydney was not much better. The Duchess 
 did not look completely satisfied with Sydney's explana- 
 tion; it would have been odd if she had been. But I 
 imagine she thought the mystery was connected in some 
 way or other with our love affairs, and discreetly forbore 
 to press us further.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A DEEP LAID PLOT 
 
 T SLEPT that night as I had never slept before 
 * nine hours or so straight on end. They all wanted 
 me to have breakfast in bed, but that was a thing I 
 hated beyond anything, and, besides it was absurd after 
 sleeping all that while. So I came down to half-past 
 nine breakfast, and found two letters waiting for me on 
 the big marble table in the hall one from Uncle Guy 
 and the other from Aunt Harriet. I also noticed a let- 
 ter in Uncle Guy's writing addressed to "The Honour- 
 able Sydney Grayle." What did he want with him, I 
 wondered? I opened my uncle's letter first, and read 
 it standing by the window. 
 
 "Mv DEAREST LITTLE JOE," it began, "I cannot say how 
 thankful I am to have heard of your merciful escape from that 
 dreadful fire at the old Manor House. What a horrible thing it 
 was! It has upset us all here dreadfully, especially poor old Mrs. 
 Beddington's death. However, one must be thankful after all that 
 the poor old lady was not burnt. That old house was such a regu- 
 lar tinder-box, it is a wonder any one had time to get out. We are 
 all so delighted to hear you have found an asylum at Ashby. 
 They are very nice people, and I think you will like them. They 
 will, of course, let you stay there till we come back, which will 
 probably be in about a fortnight, but our plans are still a little un- 
 certain. Of course, we should have been delighted for you to have 
 gone to Selworth, only, as Norman is the only person in the house, 
 of course it is impossible at present. He was determined to go 
 back to see after some alterations to his rooms. However, it will 
 
 261
 
 262 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 be much livelier and nicer for you at Ashby just now. When we 
 get back to Selworth, of course we shall claim you at once, and 
 you will have to stay with us until we go up to town for the season. 
 "Write me a line to say you are none the worse for your terri- 
 ble experience. We are all so anxious to hear from you. Ever 
 your affectionate old uncle, 
 
 " Guv DE METRIER." 
 
 Aunt Harriet's letter was much in the same strain, 
 only longer. She hoped I was not terribly effarouchle 
 by the shocking catastrophe of the Manor House ; and I 
 must remember that Selworth would always be my home 
 for as long as I liked to stay. Sophie sent her best 
 love. It was a nice, kind letter. 
 
 Just as I finished reading it, the Duke came down. 
 
 "Good-morning," he said. "I see you are first 
 down, after all. Those sisters of mine are the laziest 
 girls in the world; they never can get out of bed. Come 
 in and have some breakfast." 
 
 We had finished our breakfast before they came 
 down. They came in, all three together, of course, and 
 talking loudly. There was five minutes' kissing, and a 
 host of enquiries after my health, which really was not 
 in need of any enquiries, before they finally settled down 
 to their breakfast. The Duke walked out with his hands 
 in his pockets. He said all this cackling was bad for his 
 digestion. Beatrice hit him on the back of the head 
 with a roll as he was disappearing through the door, but 
 he took no notice, and stalked out with dignity. 
 
 "What shall we do to-day?" they all said at once, 
 bouncing up in their chairs. 
 
 I didn't want to do anything. I wanted to wait 
 about till Sydney came, as I knew he would do some 
 time in the course of the morning. I had told him the 
 day before he positively must go down and make
 
 A DEEP LAID PLOT 263 
 
 enquiries about that poor Morris boy with the broken 
 leg, and I knew he would come up to report. 
 
 I told them I was tired, and would like to keep quiet, 
 and sit about and read. 
 
 "Of course," they said. "How stupid of us! You 
 must be dead! We'll all sit and read." 
 
 And then came a chorus of questions. Had I read 
 this? And had I read that? And did I care for Anthony 
 Trollope's books? They did not. And had I read 
 "Misunderstood," by Florence Montgomery? Such a 
 love of a book! It would be sure to make me cry. 
 
 I said I had read hardly anything, and was a miserably 
 ignorant person in every way, but thought I liked Ernest 
 Grizet's books better than any others, which they 
 thought an extraordinary good joke. They laughed 
 for about five minutes. 
 
 "What? the 'Hatchet Throwers'?" they said, "and 
 'Bear Island'? and those other ridiculous books? You 
 don't mean to say you like them? We like sentimental 
 books." 
 
 I said I was afraid I did not, which they seemed to 
 think extraordinary. 
 
 ' 'We love them ! ' ' they said ; "Italian stories especially, 
 about Venice and Naples." 
 
 "Oh, I know," I said. "Silly things out of Forget- 
 me-not, where people are called Beppo and Giacomo and 
 Guiseppina, and other ridiculous names." 
 
 They laughed loudly. 
 
 "We will give you 'The Settlers at Home'," they 
 said. "You will like that." 
 
 Then, flying off at a tangent, "Did I sing?" 
 
 "No," I said, "I did not sing, or play, either. I had 
 no accomplishments, and was very uneducated."
 
 264 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 They all sang a little. Would I like to hear them? 
 Yes? Come along, then, we would go to their own sit- 
 ting-room, where there was no one to hear. John hated 
 music. 
 
 I don't think any of them sang very well, but they 
 seemed to enjoy it. They sang a number of Italian 
 songs, which I neither understood nor cared for. 
 Didn't I like Italian songs? Oh, well, they knew plenty 
 of English ones. They sang "Clochette" and "A 
 Bridge of Fancies," and then Alice and Beatrice sang a 
 duet called "Wilt Thou Tempt the Waves with Me?" 
 a thing that began like a funeral march, and ended like 
 a jig. And lastly Mary sang "The Bridge," which I 
 liked better than any of them, and made her sing again. 
 
 They were really very nice girls, but there was no 
 getting rid of them. They stuck to me like leeches. I 
 think they had taken a fancy to me, for they never left 
 me alone for a minute, and never stopped talking to me, 
 even when I was reading. 
 
 I said I thought I would go outside and stroll about, 
 and of course they said they would come too. I went 
 straight out of the door without a hat, and in my thin 
 house-shoes; I thought they might go and change theirs, 
 but not a bit of it. They pursued me just the same 
 hatless and shoeless. 
 
 I must really come to the stables, they said, and see 
 the horses such darlings! We must have a ride in the 
 afternoon. Molly would carry me splendidly. So we 
 went and used up at least a bushel of carrots, which a 
 helper, walking behind us, carried in a basket. And 
 then, when we had patted the last smooth, glossy neck, 
 we strolled back again towards the front. 
 
 I saw Sydney walking up and down with the Duke; I
 
 A DEEP LAID PLOT 265 
 
 supposed they were talking business. Beatrice and the 
 other two waved good-morning to him as we passed, and 
 I looked the other way, and pretended to be examining 
 the front of the house. I had no idea of making him 
 too happy after the way he had talked the night before. 
 If he wanted to see me, he could come in and find me in 
 the drawing-room. If he did not come, I never wanted 
 to speak to him again. 
 
 He did come, after we had been there about five 
 minutes, and shook hands with the other girls. I pre- 
 tended to be very much interested in my book. Pres- 
 ently he walked straight up to me, and said, "Can I 
 speak to you for a minute?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly," I said, looking up, and laying the 
 book face downwards on my knee. 
 
 "I should like to speak to you outside, if possible." 
 
 "Is that necessary? Surely we can say what we have 
 to say here. I have only thin shoes on." 
 
 "We can walk on the gravel," he said. "I should 
 be very glad if you could manage to come." 
 
 "Oh, very well," I said, jumping up. "Come on, 
 and let's get it over." 
 
 He followed me out in silence. We walked down the 
 gravel road for about a hundred yards, and then he said, 
 "I wanted to talk to you about that red box." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I think we ought to get possession of it without delay. ' ' 
 
 "Why do you think so?" I asked, contradictiously. 
 Of course I knew quite well. 
 
 "Because Mrs. Beddington's strict injunctions were 
 to open the box and read the contents the moment she 
 was dead. She was not the kind of woman to say that 
 without a very good reason."
 
 266 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "It can't possibly affect her now." 
 
 "How do we know? It may very easily affect her 
 family." 
 
 "Well, how are we to get hold of it?" I asked, sulk- 
 ily. His manner annoyed me; he talked to me as if I 
 were a stranger, and I noticed he never once called me 
 by my name. 
 
 "I thought if you were not too tired, we might go 
 to-night and get it." 
 
 "What! before dinner?" 
 
 "No, in the middle of the night do a little midnight 
 house-breaking, in fact." 
 
 "Do you think we could get in?" I asked, forgetting 
 for the moment my wounded pride in the excitement of 
 the idea. 
 
 "I have very little doubt of it," he said. "I am 
 rather good at that sort of thing." 
 
 "I must say I should like to see what's inside that 
 mysterious box," I said, doubtfully. As a matter of 
 fact, I was mad with curiosity to open it. 
 
 "Well, look here," he said, "I'll come up here at one 
 o'clock to-night. There's a little room on the ground 
 floor, at the end of the house, that you could get out of 
 easily enough. I'll show it you now. It will take us 
 about an hour and a half to walk to Selworth; then I 
 calculate about an hour to get into the house and get 
 the box, and another hour and a half back. That will 
 get you here by five o'clock. It will be very hard work, 
 I am afraid." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind that," I said. "I'll come of 
 course I will." 
 
 "Here's the window," he said, pointing it out to me. 
 "You see, there's no difficulty about getting out or in
 
 A DEEP LAID PLOT 267 
 
 again. I only wish we had as easy a job before us at 
 Selworth." 
 
 "Yes, this part of it will be simple enough," I agreed. 
 
 "They will all be in bed by one o'clock, and you can 
 slip downstairs, with your shoes in your hand, and let 
 yourself out. I will be waiting just outside." 
 
 "Oh! won't it be splendid?" I cried; "a real, genu- 
 ine burglary!" 
 
 "Yes," he said, with a faint smile, "it will be very 
 splendid." 
 
 I thought he was looking ill and rather miserable. 
 I suspected it must be at the idea of leaving Ashby and 
 going out to America. Perhaps the Duke had been 
 disagreeable to him that morning, or perhaps it was his 
 poor arm. I felt a great wave of pity, and perhaps 
 something more came over me, and without thinking, I 
 forgot all my pride, and just blurted out what was in my 
 mind. 
 
 "Why did you say we were not engaged last night?" 
 
 "Because," he said, "I was not sure that you knew 
 your own mind. What right has a penniless beggar like 
 me to be engaged to any girl?" 
 
 "So you want to be off with it?" I said, coldly. 
 "Enough for one, but not enough for two; I suppose 
 that's the idea. " 
 
 "I know very well there's not half enough for one," 
 he said, laughing rather bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, I see! So I should only be in the way?" 
 
 "What nonsense!" he said, angrily. "Can't you 
 understand that I'm thinking of you, and not of myself?" 
 
 "Some people are altogether too considerate," I sug- 
 gested. 
 
 Sydney got very red, and I thought for a moment he
 
 268 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 was going to lose his temper, but he recovered himself 
 and said, quietly: 
 
 "I want you to make me a promise." 
 
 "Yes?" I said. 
 
 "Will you think the whole thing well over, and write 
 to me after luncheon to-morrow, and say whether you 
 really wish our engagement to hold good or not?" 
 
 "I could tell you that much now," I said. 
 
 "Yes, but I want you to think it well over in the 
 meanwhile. It is only a fad of mine, of course, but I 
 should like you to do it if you would." 
 
 "All right," I said, laughing, "if it amuses you, I'll 
 do it, of course." 
 
 "Thanks," he said, gravely; "then that's settled. 
 And so is the other matter about the box, I think. You 
 quite understand? One o'clock outside this window." 
 
 "Yes, I quite understand." 
 
 "Good-bye, then, I must be off." 
 
 He turned and walked quickly away without once 
 looking back. I stared after him in amazement. What 
 was the matter with him? Why was he so different? 
 so grave and solemn and generally disagreeable? Was 
 it possible that he was jealous of the Duke? If so, I 
 would have some fun with him when he next came to 
 luncheon or dinner; that I would. I would pay him out 
 for being so high and mighty.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A DARING BURGLARY 
 
 T THOUGHT that day would never pass. I was half 
 * wild with excitement and expectation. But in the 
 end dinner was over, and the dreary talkee-talkee that 
 followed, and the girls had at last consented to leave 
 my bedroom, and I was alone. 
 
 I sat in a pink wrapper of Mary's, with my feet be- 
 fore the fire, and thought. It was just twelve, and in 
 an hour the time would have come. I got up, and 
 shook myself, and began to dress. I had worn Alice's 
 house-shoes all day, so that my own thick ones shouldn't 
 be taken down to be cleaned. Of course, I had about 
 ten pairs belonging to the other girls, but they didn't fit 
 the same as my own, and I hardly fancied a ten-mile 
 walk in any of them. 
 
 At ten minutes to one I took my shoes in one hand 
 and a bedroom candle in the other, and began creeping 
 down the passage. It would be an awful thing, I 
 thought, if any one popped out and caught me, for I was 
 dressed in my own day frock, and the shoes in the hand 
 had a distinctly criminal look. However, nothing so 
 appalling happened. I got safely down to the little 
 unused room, unfastened the shutters, threw up the 
 window, and looked out. 
 
 It was a fine night, still and dry, but darkish. The 
 moon had shrunk away to nothing, and was hidden for 
 
 269
 
 270 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 the most part behind thick clouds. I heard the stable 
 clock strike one, and sat down to put on my shoes. At 
 the same moment there came a low whistle from the 
 bushes opposite. I blew out the candle, and swung my- 
 self lightly down. 
 
 "You are wonderfully punctual," Sydney said, emerg- 
 ing from the darkness. 
 
 "Yes," I answered, laughing, "and so are you. I 
 wasn't quite sure that you would come at all. Men 
 don't, you know, sometimes." 
 
 "Well, now we are here, we had better get on," he 
 said, prosaically. "We shall have to step out, you 
 know, if you are to be back by five. You had better 
 follow me. I know all the short cuts." 
 
 He turned and strode away down the walk. I felt 
 more chilled and mortified than I can say. What kind 
 of a lover was this, who could not even take the trouble 
 to shake hands? What about all our vows of everlasting 
 love and constancy? and all his protestations of passion- 
 ate affection? Here was a mere practical business man 
 on a practical business undertaking a man who, under 
 conditions that tended in quite an opposite direction, 
 talked to me as a lawyer might to a judge! 
 
 However, there was no use in worrying one's self over 
 causes, so I resigned myself sulkily to the effect, and 
 followed dumbly at his heels. We walked at a good 
 four miles an hour, and in absolute silence. Under the 
 park wall Sydney stopped to pick up a bag and a 
 lantern. 
 
 "Can you manage the lantern?" he asked. "You see 
 I have only one arm." 
 
 "Of course I can," I said; after which silence reigned 
 once more.
 
 A DARING BURGLARY 271 
 
 He had a key that let us through a little wooden gate 
 in the wall, and we found ourselves in the high road. 
 
 The way into Selworth was not quite so simple, but 
 there was no great difficulty even about that. The park 
 wall ends, for some reason, at the Slade Lodge; I sup- 
 pose because the high road turns off at right angles there 
 and ceases skirting the wall. The whole way from the 
 Greystoke Lodge to the Slade Lodge the road runs just 
 outside the wall, but at the Slade Lodge it turns sharp 
 off towards Hexham, and beyond is nothing but a big 
 cover bounded by a hedge. We scrambled through this 
 hedge, and at the end of a narrow ride, over another, 
 and we were in the park. Then came a three-mile tramp 
 through the Flexham Woods and across the Plain. It 
 was dreary work. Sydney's extraordinary surliness took 
 all the life and excitement out of what we were doing; 
 otherwise, I should have wished for nothing better. We 
 just tramped along side by side in silence, I swinging my 
 lantern and he his bag. 
 
 When we got to the road, we bore away a little to 
 the right. Sydney, of course, with his wounded arm, 
 was not up to climbing the balustrade, so we had to go 
 round by the gate. There is a little path running 
 through the belt, that lets one into the garden by a small 
 iron gate. It is a gate that squeaks cheerfully on its 
 hinges, and swings to with a prolonged rattle of the 
 latch. However, on this occasion we suppressed the 
 rattle, though the hinge squeaked bravely, giving out 
 the little tune I had heard such scores of times from my 
 window. I loved that little tune; it made me feel at 
 home at once, and does still. 
 
 We marched up the gravel path straight for the little 
 glass door at the foot of the turret stairs. The house
 
 272 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 loomed up huge and black before us. Not a glimmer of 
 light showed anywhere; not a sound broke the stillness 
 of the night. For some extraordinary reason the mo- 
 ment we were in the garden Sydney became more like 
 his old self. I suppose the excitement of housebreaking 
 made him forget the part he was playing for of course 
 he was playing a part, I knew that. Anyhow, he be- 
 came a different being, brisk, animated, and strange to 
 say, cheerful. I even heard him whistling softly to him- 
 self. 
 
 "You are sure nobody sleeps this side?" he said. 
 
 "Certain; these are all visitors' rooms." 
 
 "That old priest doesn't sleep here?" 
 
 "Oh, no; he sleeps miles away, at the other end of 
 the house. Of course Norman's room is not far off, but 
 then his window looks out to the front." 
 
 "That's all right," he said; "he won't bother us." 
 
 At the door we stopped. Sydney lit the lantern and 
 began rummaging about in his bag. I looked on with 
 interest, and an insane desire to help. He produced a 
 thing like an ordinary pencil, with which he cut quickly 
 round one of the middle panes of glass. It made a 
 harsh, grating sound, and I guessed there was a dia- 
 mond in it. Twice he followed the same lines, and 
 then with his one hand in a thick hedger's glove smeared 
 with putty, pushed in the bottom of the pane and brought 
 the whole thing out on the palm of his hand. It was 
 the neatest thing ever seen. 
 
 "I believe you are a professional burglar," I whis- 
 pered. 
 
 "I should like to be," he said, laughing. "Don't I 
 do it well' 1 " 
 
 He put in his hand, unbolted the window, and told
 
 A DARING BURGLARY 273 
 
 me to open it quietly. When the window was up, the 
 little wooden door at the bottom, of course, opened easily 
 enough. We were now face to face with the shutters. 
 
 Sydney produced a hand-drill, and told me to bore 
 little holes in a circle as high up in the middle of the 
 shutter as I could reach. Of course he couldn't manage 
 it with his one hand. It was horribly tiring work the 
 stretching up made it so bad and I had to stop and 
 rest half a dozen times. But at last the circle was made, 
 and he pulled out a very thin little saw, and began saw- 
 ing from one hole to the other. After the first start off, 
 this was easy enough, and in five minutes he had a neat 
 little hole in the middle of the shutter. His first care 
 was to put his hand through and bring out the bell, 
 held firmly by the tongue. 
 
 ' 'That's a good job over," he said with a sigh; "now 
 for the bar. We must cut another hole in the left-hand 
 bottom corner." 
 
 So I knelt down and set to work again. This was 
 ever so much easier than the first hole, as it was far 
 more get-at-able; besides, I was getting more used to 
 the instrument. We had another hole cut in no time. 
 
 "Now," said Sydney, "you put your left hand through 
 the middle hole, and keep the bar from swinging, while 
 I undo the fastening." 
 
 I had to stand on tip-toe to do this, and held the bar 
 till I felt the weight of it fall upon my hand. Then I 
 stretched my wrist through, and kept my hold of it till it 
 got beyond my reach, when I let it go, and it dropped 
 against the wall with a sullen clang. The shutters 
 swung open, and we were inside the house! 
 
 "Not bad for an amateur burglar?" Sydney whis- 
 pered.
 
 274 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "I should think not," I said. "Shall I take the lan- 
 tern?" 
 
 "Yes, take the lantern. We will leave the bag till we 
 come back." 
 
 My heart was thumping like a steam-engine, and I 
 felt an insane desire to laugh, but fortunately suppressed 
 it. Sydney was very serious. 
 
 I led the way the way I had travelled such scores of 
 times before up the turret stairs, through the swing 
 door at the top, and along the stone passage till we came 
 to my own special staircase, the staircase that leads to 
 nowhere except the panelled room. 
 
 The door was locked, but the key was on the outside. 
 This we soon altered, changing it to the inside, and lock- 
 ing the door again. 
 
 "It is just as well to be prepared for a siege, if neces- 
 sary," Sydney remarked. "We should, anyhow, have 
 time to master the contents of the box before they could 
 force the door." 
 
 My poor old room looked most dejected and bare, 
 with its dust-sheet coverings and recumbent jugs. It 
 smelt stuffy and airless, too, with the airlessness of days. 
 
 I turned the lantern on to Maurice, to see what he 
 thought of our enterprise, but there was no reading those 
 features. The curled lip and supercilious eye might 
 mean either pity, scorn, or defiance. 
 
 "Hadn't you better get the box?" Sydney suggested, 
 mildly. "We are behind time as it is." 
 
 "I must take the lantern," I said. "Have you got a 
 candle?" 
 
 "No, but it doesn't matter; you can leave me in the 
 dark; I am not nervous." 
 
 I climbed on to the chimney-piece in the old way, with
 
 A DARING BURGLARY 275 
 
 the chair, and swung Maurice back into the room. 
 Then, picking up the lantern, I crept quietly up. 
 
 The place where I had put the box was nearer the top 
 than the bottom of the stairs. It was, as may be 
 remembered, a deep, wedge-shaped recess in the wall. 
 I put the lantern on the floor of this recess, and wriggled 
 myself forward on my hands and knees. 
 
 It was a good stretch tp where I had hidden the box 
 very near to the point of the wedge, in fact and just as 
 I had got my fingers on the end of the box a very dread- 
 ful thing happened. 
 
 I had jammed the box in so tight that it was not easy 
 to get it out. My fingers could just stretch sufficiently 
 to grip the end of it, but I could get no purchase, and 
 the box refused obstinately to move. I suppose in my 
 efforts I forgot to look after my feet as I should have 
 done. Anyhow, the long and short of it is, that I kicked 
 the lantern over, right down the stairs. 
 
 I shall never to my dying day forget the appalling 
 clatter that lantern made as it went dribbling down the 
 stone steps. I made up my mind on the spot that it 
 must wake every soul sleeping in the house. As to Nor- 
 man, the noise must have given him a perfect fit. Of 
 course, the stupid thing, not content with making enough 
 noise to wake the dead, had gone out as well, and I was 
 in absolute darkness. However, I suppose I am obsti- 
 nate by nature, not to say pig-headed, for instead of 
 groping my way downstairs into safety, I ground my 
 teeth and held on to my red box like grim death. I 
 knew Norman would wake, and I knew the chances were 
 he would come down to see what was going on, but for 
 all that I was not going without my box. I had come to 
 get it, and get it I would.
 
 276 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 So I tugged and tugged till my fingers all but cracked, 
 but the box refused to budge. I changed my grip, and 
 pulled in a rather different manner, and to my unspeak- 
 able joy I felt the box yielding. But at the very same 
 moment I heard the door at the top open, and a ray of light 
 shot across the dusty stones. Norman was coming down ! 
 
 The box was half-way out by now, and I was wrig- 
 gling it up and down, and drawing it out inch by inch. 
 I could see the reflection of the candle coming nearer 
 and nearer with every second. I remember quite dis- 
 tinctly thinking how brave it was of Norman facing the 
 unknown dangers that clattering lantern might have 
 meant for him. 
 
 With one frantic final effort I wrenched the box clear, 
 and grabbing it by the handle, backed myself on to the 
 stairs. I thought to slip quietly down into the panelled 
 room, while Norman was still standing undecided ; but 
 he was too quick for me. As my feet touched the steps 
 I felt myself seized by the wrist. 
 
 "No, no, my sweet little cousin," he said; "since you 
 have done me this great and unexpected honour, I really 
 cannot allow you to make off in this unceremonious man- 
 ner. It would be too great a slur on the hospitality of 
 Sel worth." 
 
 I said nothing, but made desperate efforts to get clear. 
 If he had had both hands free, I should of course have 
 had no ghost of a chance with him; but as it was the 
 candle in his left hand prevented him from holding on to 
 anything, and I was at a distinct advantage. I pulled 
 him down step by step, and for my own part I wanted 
 nothing better. My one idea, of course, was to get to 
 Sydney. With his bad arm it was a sheer impossibility 
 for him to come to me, poor fellow! I knew that.
 
 A DARING BURGLARY 277 
 
 I think Norman must have tried to put down the can- 
 dle on the ledge where I had been kneeling. Anyhow, 
 he half turned his back on me for a moment, and I, see- 
 ing my opportunity, gave one desperate tug, and brought 
 him tumbling down a-top of me, candle and all. The 
 candle, of course, went out, and we both rolled to the 
 bottom of the stairs in pitch darkness. I could hear 
 Norman's quick, short breathing as he grabbed wildly at 
 me in the dark. 
 
 "Let me go!" I gasped, "or we shall both break our 
 necks. I'll talk to you in the room below." 
 
 "You must let me get down first, then," he said. "I 
 wouldn't trust you else." 
 
 "All right," I agreed. "You get down first." I 
 chuckled to myself to think of the surprise waiting for 
 him below. 
 
 He let me go, and we both struggled to our feet pant- 
 ing. Then, slowly and cautiously, I heard him let him- 
 self down into the room. Next moment there was a 
 scuffle below, followed by a loud oath, and the sound of 
 a volley of blows given in quick succession. 
 
 "Damn you, whoever you are!" I heard Norman say. 
 "Why the devil can't you show yourself?" There was 
 no answer, but the sound of a couple of smacking blows, 
 and then Norman's voice again, "Take that anyhow, 
 you damned, sneaking burglar!" 
 
 There was no doubt the De Metriers had pluck, what- 
 ever faults they might have on the other side. 
 
 I was sitting on the chimney-piece ready to drop down, 
 but afraid of tumbling on the top of the two below; but 
 suddenly Sydney's voice called out, "Come here, Joe, 
 and strike a match ; you will find the box in my pocket." 
 
 His voice told me where he was, and I dropped down
 
 278 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 behind him and got my hand into his pocket. It was 
 not easy, for he was swaying about the room like a tree 
 in the wind, but I managed it in the end, and lighting a 
 match, held it high above my head in my left hand. 
 The light flickered feebly round the room, casting weird, 
 ghostly shadows upon the walls. Between the fireplace 
 and the dressing-table Sydney and Norman were fighting 
 like wild beasts. Sydney had his left shoulder turned 
 away from the other, to protect his bad arm I supposed, 
 and with his right was driving Norman backwards, 
 towards the window. The first thing I saw with any 
 clearness was Sydney's fist strike Norman full under the 
 chin with a soft, pulpy noise. Norman spun half round, 
 and next moment Sydney had seized him by the back of 
 the neck, and held him at arm's length, kicking frantic- 
 ally. How splendidly strong he was, I thought! 
 
 "Joe," he called out, "unlock the door, take out the 
 key, and put it on the outside of the door. Have you 
 done that?" 
 
 "Yes," I said. His back was turned to me. 
 
 "Now, light a fresh match, and get outside into the 
 passage." 
 
 "All right!" I cried. 
 
 I saw him hurl Norman with all his force towards the 
 window, and next second he was outside with me, and 
 we had the door locked. Norman rushed at the door 
 and rattled it furiously, using the while words that were 
 not pleasant to hear. Then we heard him stumble to 
 the bedside and tear at the bell. We could hear the 
 strained wires creaking in the woodwork over our heads. 
 
 "Ring away, my friend," Sydney laughed. "You 
 won't hurt us." 
 
 We tumbled post haste down the stairs by the light of
 
 A DARING BURGLARY 279 
 
 the matches. The third one was just burning down to 
 my fingers as we dashed out into the garden. 
 
 "Come along!" said Sydney. "He's capable of 
 shooting us from the window if he gets the chance." 
 
 We ran till we were clear of the trees, and across the 
 road on to the open Plain. The big clock behind us 
 chimed a quarter past four; we were at least half an 
 hour later than we should have been, but what did we 
 care? We had the box, and that was the great thing. 
 They were not likely to hang me, even if I was caught 
 making a burglarious entrance into Ashby. I laughed 
 aloud at the thought of breaking into two distinct houses 
 in one night! Jack Sheppard was not in it with me! 
 It would seem quite tame after this, going into houses by 
 the ordinary, matter-of-fact methods! 
 
 Sydney thawed considerably on the way back, espe- 
 cially at first. He was excited, I expect, by his struggle 
 with Norman, and quite forgot for a time to be stiff and 
 stand-offish. Later on, however, when we were near 
 home, he dropped back into the old way again, and was 
 perfectly odious. At first we talked a good deal. Nor- 
 man, he said, had hit him in the face three or four times. 
 He quite expected to have a couple of black eyes in the 
 morning. 
 
 "I shall certainly be too unpresentable to appear at 
 Ashby," he said. "You will have to send for me if you 
 want me." 
 
 I laughed, and said I was not likely to do that; it 
 would simply be giving myself away. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," he said, shortly; and after that 
 came the old dreary silence, and tramp, tramp, tramp 
 across the wet, spongy grass. 
 
 He came with me as far as my open window; he
 
 280 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 insisted on doing that. It had a terribly criminal effect, 
 that black, gaping window. 
 
 "Fancy, if a real genuine burglar has been getting 
 through it in the meanwhile!" I suggested. 
 
 "Not likely," he said; "burglars don't grow in the 
 garden, that I know of." 
 
 I turned to him and held out my hand. 
 
 "Good-night!" 
 
 "Good-night!" he said, shook hands limply, and 
 walked away. 
 
 It must certainly be the Duke, I thought.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 MY HEADACHE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 
 
 T SUPPOSE it was twelve o'clock before I awoke next 
 morning. I was getting quite into the habit of 
 sleeping on into the middle of the day. I had pinned a 
 paper on to my door telling the world that I had a head- 
 ache, and wished not to be disturbed, and consequently 
 I had been allowed to sleep the sleep of the just burglar. 
 I had been so utterly dog-tired the night before that I 
 had not even had the curiosity to open my box, or rather 
 my exhaustion had been greater even than my curiosity, 
 and I had tumbled straight into bed, leaving the box 
 unopened on the sofa. Thank Heaven, there was no 
 need to hide things away in this house! 
 
 When I awoke it was some time before I could col- 
 lect my thoughts. I rubbed my eyes, and yawned, and 
 wondered why the girls' maid hadn't called me, and then 
 suddenly, like a flash, the whole thing came back to me. 
 
 Good gracious! What time was it? I wondered. 
 I jumped out of bed and opened the curtains and shut- 
 ters. It was very broad daylight, indeed. The winter 
 sun was well up in the sky, and there was an indescrib- 
 able feel in the air that told me as plain as a clock 
 that it was nearer luncheon time than breakfast. So I 
 jumped into bed again and rang the bell. My watch 
 one of Uncle Guy's many presents I had of course for- 
 gotten to wind up; and the ancient French clock on the 
 
 281
 
 282 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 chimney-piece was equally, of course, not going, so 
 that I had nothing but my own senses to trust to. In 
 five minutes the maid arrived. 
 
 "What time is it, Ce"cile?" I asked. 
 
 "Half-past twelve, miss," she said. 
 
 "Oh! my hot water, please, then, Ce*cile. " 
 
 "Yes, miss. And will you have anything before 
 luncheon?" 
 
 "No," I said, laughing, "I think not. I can't come 
 down to a one-o'clock breakfast at my age." 
 
 I was ravenously hungry, it is true, but then I had the 
 box, which would feed my curiosity if not my material 
 frame, and the hunger of the first was if anything greater 
 than the second. So I dashed into my bath, and dashed 
 out of it, and into my clothes in a feverish state of hurry 
 and excitement. By a quarter past one I was clothed 
 and in my right mind, and flung myself on the sofa in a 
 state of such eagerness as has never been equalled by the 
 most ravenous devourers of new and stimulating novels. 
 What hidden mystery of a past generation was I not 
 about to unravel? What unrevealed tragedies and crimes 
 might not be hidden inside that little red box? I turned 
 the key, and the box opened with a readiness that was 
 almost disappointing in its simplicity. I should have 
 preferred a refractory lock, and key rusted and crusted 
 with age, and hinges that creaked and groaned with the 
 lifting of the lid. It would have been more exciting, 
 more suggestive of some ancient, jealously guarded 
 secret. But of all this there was nothing; the box 
 opened easily and simply at the first time of asking. 
 Within lay several papers, some tied together with tape, 
 others separate. The topmost paper was the bulkiest, a 
 long, thickly folded document, written in big, bold man-
 
 MY HEADACHE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 283 
 
 uscript. On the outside I read, "The confession of 
 Susan Beddington, a great sinner before God and 
 man." 
 
 The other papers were without description. Poor old 
 Susan's, I thought, was the one to start on; hers was 
 probably a resume of the rest the gist and kernel of the 
 whole thing. 
 
 I opened it with the slow deliberation which is often 
 the outward and visible sign of a feverish impatience 
 within; and the next moment I had folded it again, flung 
 it into the box, slammed down the lid, locked it, and 
 rammed the whole thing under the chintz valance of the 
 sofa. 
 
 For coming along the passage was the sound of 
 voices happy, healthy, laughing, tiresome, irritating, 
 maddening voices. There was a knock at the door, and 
 the next moment, without waiting for an answer, they 
 trooped in, the three inseparable sisters. 
 
 "You poor darling!" said Alice, falling on my neck, 
 "how are you now?" 
 
 "Oh! she does look pale, doesn't she, Beatrice?"cried 
 Mary, with face and voice agonised with sympathy. 
 
 "It was those truffles, you know, Josephine," said 
 Beatrice, shaking her head in mournful reproof. "I was 
 afraid when I saw you eating them ; they always disagree 
 with me." 
 
 Their hands were packed with bottles and phials and 
 boxes. 
 
 "I have brought you my ether spray," Beatrice said; 
 "it is the most marvellous thing in the world for a head- 
 ache." 
 
 "Splendid!" assented Alice, hurriedly; "and if you 
 will take one of these powders before luncheon, you will
 
 284 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 be as right as a trivet before three o'clock. Dr. Watson 
 gave them to me last year. They ace wonderful!" 
 
 "Well, I will back hot sal volatile and water against 
 anything in the world," put in Mary from the back- 
 ground. "And you can put a lump of sugar in it if you 
 like. Do try it!" 
 
 "And mother wants to know if you would like the 
 doctor sent for." 
 
 "And she hopes you will not on any account leave 
 your room unless you feel quite up to it." 
 
 "And she is having some white-wine-whey made, and 
 some barley-water. It will be up here directly. She 
 says there is nothing like it." 
 
 "And what would you like sent up for your luncheon?" 
 
 "And Cecile will bring you a hot-water bottle in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 "And mother has given orders that no one is on any 
 account to come down this passage except Cecile." 
 
 "And you have got no fire!" 
 
 "And your window is open!" 
 
 "And you are sitting in a thorough draught!" 
 
 "But I am all right," I cried, laughing in spite of 
 myself. "There is nothing in the world the matter with 
 me now. I was just going out." 
 
 "Your headache is gone?" they cried in chorus, and in 
 open disappointment. 
 
 "Yes, quite gone. I slept it off." 
 
 "Well, take some sal volatile anyhow," pleaded 
 Alice, not to be baulked. "It will do you a lot of 
 good." 
 
 "Thanks," I said, laughing. "I don't want any 
 good doing to me. Let's go out." 
 
 I knew I should never get rid of them otherwise.
 
 MY HEADACHE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 285 
 
 N 
 
 There was no help for it. Susan's confessions must 
 wait. 
 
 "Yes, let's go out. " They all assented with one voice. 
 They were always ready for anything one proposed. 
 
 "Put on your shoes," said Beatrice. "Why, good 
 gracious! they're all wet!" 
 
 "Oh, I'll put on another pair," I said, hurriedly. 
 "A pair of yours, Beatrice, I think; they seem to fit me 
 best." 
 
 "But how disgraceful of Cecile not taking them 
 down! I'll ring the bell and pitch into her." 
 
 "Oh, please don't!" I said, in a whirl of terror. 
 "What does it matter after all? Let's go out while we 
 can. There's not much time." 
 
 So the episode of the shoes was overlooked, and in 
 five minutes clean forgotten, and we went out and strolled 
 about the garden till the outside bell went for luncheon. 
 
 "We were quite alarmed about you, Miss de Metrier, " 
 said the Duke. "You narrowly escaped having Gull sent 
 for to see you." 
 
 "I think she still looks a little pale," said Alice, con- 
 cernedly. "Make her have some port, mother!" 
 
 "I found some property of yours in the garden this 
 morning," the Duke said, suddenly. 
 
 "Of mine?" I cried, feeling I was growing scarlet. 
 
 "Yes, in the bushes under the octagon room." 
 
 "Oh, yes," I said, inanely, diving under the table to 
 hunt for my napkin. I was bound to provide some 
 explanation for my apoplectic colour. 
 
 "From the place in which I found it, and from the 
 signs, I should say you had been making burglarious 
 entrances into the house," he went on, smiling.
 
 286 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Ha! ha!" I said. 
 
 "I hope you girls have not been climbing in at that 
 window," the Duchess put in plaintively. "You know I 
 have begged you not to, repeatedly. It simply ruins 
 the woodwork and paint." 
 
 "Oh, no, mother!" cried the chorus. 
 
 "Some one has," said the Duke, "and has dropped 
 that in doing so. Perhaps it was the housekeeper." 
 
 The housekeeper weighed nineteen stone. 
 
 He laid a handkerchief on the table, very clearly 
 marked in red cotton, J. de Metrier. 
 
 "Why, you weren't in the garden yesterday," Mary 
 said. 
 
 "The footprints are very fresh," said the Duke, look- 
 ing at me with much amusement in his eye, "and not 
 very large." 
 
 Every one looked at me, and I suppose my face was 
 like a frosty sunset, for the Duchess called out suddenly: 
 
 "Good gracious! I had almost forgotten about driv- 
 ing into Greystoke this afternoon. Which of you girls is 
 coming with me?" 
 
 I felt I could have hugged her, dear old thing ! I sup- 
 pose the others saw her intention, and followed her 
 lead, for no one said any more about my handkerchief, 
 or the footprints under the octagon room. Only after- 
 wards, when we were alone, Beatrice whispered: 
 
 "Did you really climb in at the octagon window?" 
 
 "Yes, I really did." 
 
 "Oh, what fun! It drives mother wild, but of course 
 it saves a lot of trouble if one is that side of the house. 
 They ought to make a door there if they don't want one 
 to climb in at the window." 
 
 "When did you do it?" Alice asked.
 
 MY HEADACHE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 287 
 
 "Oh, some time yesterday; I forget the exact time." 
 "Fancy your thinking of it! I suppose it was a 
 
 natural inspiration." 
 
 "It proves conclusively to my mind," said Beatrice, 
 
 "that the window was made expressly to climb in at. 
 
 What else could possibly have put it into Josephine's 
 
 head?" 
 
 Alice drove into Greystoke with the Duchess, and I 
 went out riding with the other two in Alice's habit. We 
 had a long ride, and when we got in there was tea, and 
 it was very difficult to get away, for their mother not yet 
 being back made the two girls cling to me more than ever. 
 
 "I am going up to my room," I said presently. 
 
 "Oh, all right. May we come, too?" 
 
 "Well, I have got some papers to read, and I don't 
 think I should understand them very well if you were 
 there talking." 
 
 "We won't talk. We will read, too, if you like." 
 
 "There are not enough comfortable chairs." 
 
 "Oh, yes; we'll manage somehow. Come along. " 
 
 So, with their arms encircling me, they dragged me 
 off; and seeing no way out of it, I made the best of a 
 bad job, and consented with as good a grace as I could. 
 After all, there was no reason I should not read the 
 things with them in the room. 
 
 "You must be very quiet," I said, when we had lit all 
 the candles, and I had got the red box on my knee. 
 "These are family documents, and require deep 
 thought." 
 
 "They look splendidly mysterious," Mary said, "the 
 box alone is worthy of a Prime Minister." 
 
 "Hush!" I said. "I'm going to read."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 
 
 T TOOK out the thickest paper, the Confession of 
 * Susan Beddington, and spread it open on my knee. 
 On the inner sheet was written, "To Miss Josephine de 
 Metrier," and below it: 
 
 "If ever this writing should come to your eyes, it will 
 in all probability be when the poor sinner who writes it 
 has passed away. I have never seen you since you were 
 eight years old. In those days you promised to be the 
 dead picture of your glorious mother, the grandest crea- 
 ture I ever saw, and the best, from all accounts; and if 
 you are like her in mind as well as in body, you will per- 
 haps forgive me the immense injury I have done you, as 
 I hope the great God above will forgive me the greater 
 sins I have sinned against Him. This poor attempt at 
 atonement, this miserably late endeavour to undo in 
 some part the wrong I have done, comes, I know, only 
 from the fear of death and of the Great Judgment. As 
 long as I was strong and young, and death seemed a 
 faint, far-off thing in the distance, I cared for nothing 
 but the vanities and pleasures of this world, and beyond 
 these never looked. But now that a cold hand grips my 
 heart, and the grave gapes close before me, I do look 
 beyond, as well as back, and I see the red horror of my 
 sins, and trusting in the infinite mercy of God, I write 
 
 288
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 289 
 
 this confession in the hope of undoing the wrong I have 
 done, and of making, if may be, my peace with Heaven." 
 
 I turned over a fresh sheet and read : 
 
 "The Confession of Susan Beddington of the sins of 
 Susan Crossley. 
 
 "It was in April, 1806, that the evil began. I was 
 standing outside the door of Croft's Farm when a groom 
 rode up the lane, and waved to me over the gate of the 
 garden. I took no manner of notice at first, thinking 
 the man was merely bent on fooling, but after a little he 
 called out from his horse, 'Mistress Susan, Mistress 
 Susan, I have a letter for you from the Squire. ' 
 
 "He waved a white square in the air, and the sun fell 
 on it, and painted it whiter still, and thinking he was 
 lying, but still full of idle curiosity, I strolled slowly 
 towards the gate, swinging my sun-bonnet in one hand 
 by the ribbons. 
 
 "It was for me, sure enough addressed to Miss 
 Susan Crossley, and bearing the De Metrier arms. I 
 opened it carelessly, and with a fine show of carelessness 
 read: 
 
 " ' Mr. and Mrs. de Metrier would be very pleased if Miss 
 Crossley would undertake the care of their child at the Abbey. 
 If she is willing to do this, she will be so kind as to come up to 
 the Abbey at once. A cart will be sent to bring up any things 
 Miss Crossley wishes to have with her. Mr. de Metrier is pre- 
 pared to give y> a year if Miss Crossley will act as nurse.' 
 
 " 'Thank you,' I said, as haughty as possible, and 
 trying to look as if I was not ready to jump out of my 
 skin with joy at this extraordinary honour; 'will you say 
 that I will be up in an hour?'
 
 290 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "I had no fear of what father and mother would say. 
 I knew they would be just as proud and honoured as I 
 was, as indeed they were, and even more so. The only 
 thing that puzzled them was why in the world they had 
 hit upon me, a mere slip of a girl with no experience, to 
 undertake such a precious charge. However, there it 
 was, there was no question about that, so I dressed my- 
 self out in all my Sunday finery and pretty good finery 
 it was for a girl in my situation; too good, father always 
 would say and up I tripped to the Abbey, first across 
 the fields, and then through the park, singing and carol- 
 ling like the silly, empty-headed young fool I was. 
 
 "The. Squire saw me first in his study, and then the 
 housekeeper took me up to the nursery. 
 
 " 'Haven't you got a decent black dress or a plain 
 print?' she asked, with a touch of scorn, I thought. 'I 
 never did see such a figure for a gentleman's servant.' 
 
 "I was more than a little surprised at this, for 
 my dress was thought a deal of in the village, but I 
 said nothing, thinking perhaps she was ignorant or 
 jealous. 
 
 "In the nursery we found a housemaid trying to rock 
 the baby to sleep, and making but a poor hand of it, for 
 the child was screaming fit to take the roof off. 
 
 " 'The monthly nurse left to-day,' the housekeeper 
 explained, 'and he misses her, poor mite!' 
 
 "Well, to make a long story short, I stayed with the 
 child from that day on, and got to love it as though it 
 were my very own. It was a poor little misery of a 
 thing, with one leg two inches short of the other, and 
 cross-eyed as a weasel. I often think it was a wonder 
 that it lived at all, for the child was never well, and no 
 one but its mother and myself seemed to care if it lived
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 291 
 
 or died. I begged Mrs. de Metrier time without end to 
 send for the doctor for it, but she said I must ask the 
 Squire, and that if he said no, we must just nurse it as 
 best we could between us. I think that poor woman 
 forgave me everything, and even loved me in spite of 
 everything, just because of the love I had for her child. 
 But when I talked to the Squire of a doctor he just flew 
 into a rage, and told me not to be a fool, and that the 
 child was well enough, and at all events, as well as it 
 ever would be, doctor or no doctor. So, after a bit, I 
 gave up asking. I am as sure now as I am of death, 
 that one of the reasons the Squire chose me as a nurse 
 for the child was because he thought that I was young 
 and careless and ignorant, and would as like as not let 
 the child die of neglect. I was barely eighteen at the 
 time, and had a name for giddiness and folly and vanity 
 for many a mile round. But in this he made a very 
 great mistake indeed, for giddy and foolish though I 
 was, and with my silly head full of my own good looks 
 and what not, I was not downright wicked at that time. 
 That came after. And, thank God ! I can say truthfully, 
 and with a clear conscience, that no mother could 
 have loved and cared for that child more than I did. 
 But as to Mordaunt the Squire, that is he simply 
 loathed the sight of it, though, if he and Mrs. de Metrier 
 chanced to be in the nursery at the same time, he would 
 make a pretence of playing with it, and taking it on his 
 knee, and the rest of it, just to keep her quiet, and 
 hinder her from thinking other things. 
 
 "The boy was christened Guy, and a proper name for 
 him, too, every one said ; for a more woeful little Guy 
 was never held to a font. 
 
 "Well, exactly ten months after Guy was born there
 
 292 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 came another baby, a boy, too, and this time as bonny 
 a babe as man or wife might wish to see, but with no lit- 
 tle finger on the left hand, only a little bit of a stump 
 with no nail on it. They got another nurse for it, a Mrs. 
 Graham from somewhere in Scotland, and it was put in 
 the old nursery at the other end of the house. The day 
 after it was born, Mordaunt came up into my nursery. 
 I have never seen a man so changed; his face was beam- 
 ing from ear to ear, and his spirits were more like a 
 boy's let loose from school than a grown-up man's. 
 
 ' 'Susan,' he said presently, 'I want you to pay par- 
 ticular attention to what I am going to tell you. In the 
 first place, you are never to take this child to the east of 
 the door at the foot of your stairs. When you take him 
 out, you are invariably to turn to the left, and keep in 
 the shrubberies that side. In the second place, you are 
 never, under any pretence, to speak to Mrs. Graham, 
 the new nurse; and in the third place, you are always to 
 take the child out with a thick white veil over its face. 
 Do you see?' 
 
 " 'Yes,' I said, 'but why? The poor child will choke 
 on a hot day!' 
 
 " 'Nonsense!' he said; *show me some of its veils. 
 
 "I brought out a number from a drawer, and he 
 selected one, and held it out to me. 
 
 ' 'Never anything thinner than this,' he said, nodding 
 his head at me, 'remember that. Order as many more 
 as you want. And one thing more, never let any one 
 see this child, in the house or out. You understand?' 
 
 " 'Perfectly,' I said, 'there's no difficulty about it, if 
 you insist upon it, but it all seems to me very extraor- 
 dinary. ' 
 
 " 'Never mind what it seems to you,' he said, laugh-
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 293 
 
 ing. 'I do insist upon it very strongly; so do what I tell 
 you, like a good girl, and don't bother your little head 
 about reasons. ' 
 
 "I did it, of course Mordaunt could make me do 
 what he liked and I saw no particular harm in it, 
 though, of course, it did seem strange and unnatural. 
 Twice I did meet Mrs. Graham. The first time was in 
 the long west passage. I was going to borrow a book 
 from the second housemaid a thrilling book she had 
 promised to lend me and on the way back I met Mrs. 
 Graham. I had never seen her before, nor she me, but 
 of course we both guessed who the other was. She was a 
 tall, handsome woman of about forty, with a strong, kind 
 face. We passed one another without a word. She had 
 clearly had her orders as well as me. 
 
 'The next time was about a month later, and that 
 time we did speak. It was on the back stairs that lead 
 from the first floor to the basement, about ten o'clock at 
 night. I was coming up, and she was going down. I 
 can't say what prompted me to speak. I suppose it was 
 just because I had orders not to. Anyhow I smiled 
 across at her and said: 
 
 " 'Baby quite well?' 
 
 " 'Quite well, thank you, and yours?' 
 ' 'Getting on nicely, thank you.' 
 
 " 'Good-night!' 
 
 " 'Good-night!' 
 
 "That was all; but little as it was, it led to great 
 results, as you will presently see. 
 
 "A month after the new baby was born Mrs. de 
 Metrier died. She had never got over it properly, they 
 said, and in fact, she never really left her bed. Every 
 one was sorry, for she was a sweet, kind lady, and I
 
 294 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 fancy had no easy time of it with Mordaunt; what wife 
 would have had? 
 
 "Mordaunt made a great show of grief, but in his 
 heart I knew he cared nothing. He never had cared for 
 her married her for her money and not for herself and 
 after she had brought poor little Guy into the world, I 
 believe he positively hated her. He put the whole blame 
 of it on her, and perhaps rightly, poor thing! As to the 
 new baby Gerard, as they called him he simply raved 
 about him. He used to come into my nursery and talk 
 by the hour, telling me what a strong, handsome little 
 fellow he was, and how like himself and the old line of 
 De Metriers, till it used to make me sick with anger and 
 disgust. For I used to think of the poor, white, crooked 
 little mite asleep in his cot in the next room, and wonder 
 who would be found to take his part, and say a good 
 word for him, in the days that were to come. 
 
 "Mordaunt, I knew, would always hate him. He was 
 extraordinarily vain and proud of his beauty, and of his 
 father's and grandfather's before him; and his one idea 
 in life was to have an heir who would keep up the tradi- 
 tions of the family, and not disgrace him. 
 
 "However, nothing happened till Guy was two years 
 old, and Gerard ten months less. Then something did 
 happen, though no one thought anything of it at the 
 time. 
 
 "Mrs. Graham was found dead in her bed in the old 
 nursery. The doctor came and gave a certificate, and 
 there was no fuss at all, and the poor woman was buried 
 in Benton Churchyard and forgotten. Mordaunt came 
 to me with Gerard in his arms early in the morning. 
 The child was muffled up in shawls and veils, and he 
 came and laid it gently on my knee.
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 295 
 
 ' 4 'Mrs. Graham is dead,' he said. 'We will have 
 another nurse here to-morrow, and in the meanwhile 
 you must look after both. And I wish no one to come 
 into this room on any account except myself. All the 
 milk and things must be put in the next room and left 
 there. You and the children are to stay here, and let 
 no one come in. Lock the door, do you understand? 
 Lock the door, and open it to no one. ' 
 
 "He was quite excited for him; his eyes were glitter- 
 ing, and he spoke very fast. 
 
 " 'I understand perfectly,' I said, looking at him 
 hard. 'What did Mrs. Graham die of?' 
 
 " 'Oh, nobody knows yet,' he said, carelessly; 'but 
 we have sent for a doctor, and he will soon find out. ' 
 
 "I said nothing, but stared at him with a kind of hor- 
 rid curiosity, for I believed then, truly and honestly, 
 that he had murdered her. Afterwards I changed my 
 mind, but to this day I am not sure about it. God grant 
 he was innocent! He had plenty against him without 
 that. It seemed to me later on that it was absurd to 
 think he would have murdered the woman; it would have 
 been so much simpler to have sent her away. But what 
 put it into my head was this: Two days before I had 
 had a note from Mrs. Graham brought me by one of the 
 housemaids. This note is in the box with the other 
 papers marked A." 
 
 Here my curiosity got so much the better of me that 
 I turned up the letter in question and read it. It was 
 written in a spidery hand, and in very faded ink, but 
 was quite legible. 
 
 " DEAR Miss CROSSLEY, I was horrified and amazed yester- 
 day by a proposal that was made to me by the Squire. He 
 actually suggested changing our two babies, and turning mine
 
 296 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 into the eldest and yours into the youngest. He had the effrontery 
 to offer me ^100 down if I would consent to this, and swear my- 
 self to secrecy. Of course I told him I could never agree to do 
 such a wicked, dishonest thing, and he then flew into a towering 
 rage, and said there was nothing dishonest about it, and it would 
 hurt nobody, and he would give me a day to think it over. Of 
 course he will send me away, for no money will induce me to have 
 part in such a wicked scheme; and I write to you to implore you to 
 have nothing to do with it either, for of course he will make the 
 same proposal to you. Miss Crossley, don't do it. You are very 
 young, and he will try hard to persuade you, but believe me, 
 nothing but harm can come of flying in such a way in the face of 
 the Lord's will. 
 
 "MARGARET GRAHAM." 
 
 I replaced the letter in the box, and turned again vo 
 the Confession. 
 
 "This letter I received on the evening before the 
 poor woman's death. It might, of course, be accident, 
 but I thought it looked odd, and I stared very hard at 
 Mordaunt as he stood swaggering in front of the fire. 
 
 " 'Well,' he said, roughly, 'what are you looking at?' 
 
 "I answered nothing, for I was dumb with the horror 
 of my thoughts. 
 
 " 'Don't you like having the two of them to look 
 after?' he said. 'Is that why you look so glum? Well, 
 it's only for one day, Susan. You needn't make such a 
 to-do over it. ' 
 
 "I was making no to-do at all; I was just silent and 
 thoughtful. But this was clearly what he didn't like, for 
 he shrugged his shoulders, and turned up his eyes, and 
 walked out of the room whistling. 
 
 "In the evening he came again. The doctor had 
 been, and the certificate was made out, and everything 
 was as it should be. Then he told me of his plan.
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 297 
 
 "A new nurse would be coming the next day. She 
 should take my poor little weakling, believing that it 
 was Gerard, the youngest. And I was to take the child 
 that had been with Mrs. Graham, and it was to be called 
 Guy, the first-born. In fact, the two were to be changed, 
 names and all. There was no difficulty about it, for 
 the real Guy was very small for his age, and the other a 
 splendid big child, who might readily have passed for 
 the elder. And no one had seen either of them except 
 at the christenings and then there was not much to be 
 seen beyond the point of a little nose sticking out of a 
 bundle of lace. So that the plan was simplicity itself, 
 if I would only agree. And of course I did agree, God 
 forgive me! Mordaunt could make me do anything. 
 What was I to stand against him? I was only a silly, 
 vain child, and he coaxed me into it in five minutes. I 
 was to go to the old nursery with my new charge, and 
 the new nurse was to stay in the nurseries where I had 
 been before. I say now, honestly, before God, that at 
 the time I consented, I had persuaded myself that it was 
 impossible and absurd and against all reason, that Mor- 
 daunt should have murdered Mrs. Graham. The doctor 
 said it was heart; everybody in the house seemed quite 
 satisfied that it was heart; why shouldn't it be heart? 
 Of course it was. I felt mean and despicable for ever 
 having suspected anything else. Mordaunt had his 
 faults, without doubt; he was far from spotless, but he 
 was not a murderer. 
 
 "So, like many another before me and since, I per- 
 suaded myself easily of that which I wished in my heart 
 to believe. Later on, when I learnt of the staircase in 
 the wall that connected Maurice's room, where Mor- 
 daunt then slept, with the old nursery, I became doubt-
 
 298 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 ful once more, but it was too late then. Murderer or no 
 murderer, it was all the same then. 
 
 "The new nurse came next day in the afternoon. I 
 had begged Mordaunt to let me stay with the two chil- 
 dren till she came. For my heart was very sore at leav- 
 ing the little sickly thing I had learnt to love so; I 
 wanted to tell the new woman all about his food, and what 
 he liked, and what he did not like, and a hundred other 
 little things that no one knew of but myself. I wanted 
 to get a sight of the woman, too, and see what she was 
 like, for though I would have stood on my head at any 
 time for Mordaunt, I had no trust in him. I knew him 
 to be selfish, vain, and headstrong, and a man, too, that 
 would stick at nothing to gain his purpose; and so, you 
 see, I was afraid for the child, afraid of the sort of 
 woman he might have got. For I knew he hated the 
 child, hated the very sight of it, and would have been 
 glad enough if any nurse that had it had starved it to 
 death, or killed it with gin or brandy, or with the neg- 
 lect that in this case would have done equally well. 
 And so I wanted to see the woman and talk to her. 
 
 She came in about five a fat woman with a hard, red 
 face. I took a dislike to her the moment I saw her, and 
 she to me, I think, for she sniffed at me with her nose 
 very high. The housekeeper showed her in, and intro- 
 duced her as Mrs. Grace, and after a little left us 
 together with the children. 
 
 " 'Are we all going to live together here? A kind of 
 happy family?' she asked with a snort, as she laid her 
 bonnet on the chest of drawers. 
 
 "'Oh, no,' I said. 'land little Guy are going to 
 the old nursery at the other end of the house.'
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 299 
 
 'Then, what are you doing here, pray?' she asked, 
 as sharp as vinegar. 
 
 " 'I was looking after Gerard till you came.' 
 ' 'I see,' she said, 'and now that I have come, per- 
 haps you will leave me to put the room to rights. ' 
 
 "'Oh, certainly,' I said, stiffly; 'I have no wish to 
 stay here. ' 
 
 "I caught up the child, and was moving out when she 
 stopped me. 
 
 " 'So you are to be head nurse, and I the underling,' 
 she said. 'H'm! a pretty state of things, indeed!' 
 
 "'There is no head nurse,' I explained; 'we each 
 have our own child to look after. ' 
 
 'Yes,' she snorted, 'you takes the eldest one, while 
 a respectable woman like me has to put up with a half- 
 fledged brat of a thing like this!' 
 
 ' 'I have always had the eldest one,' I said, with per- 
 fect truth. 
 
 " 'Well, off you go, you and your eldest one, and, 
 leave me to mine. Lord! what a little wretch it is!' 
 
 "It made me miserable to hear the woman talk like 
 this, for I feared it boded no good for the poor little 
 thing I was leaving with her; so at the door I stopped, 
 and half turned back. 
 
 " 'Mrs. Grace,' I said, timidly, for the woman's man- 
 ner frightened me. 'I should like to tell you one or two 
 things about little Gerard's food. You see, he is so 
 dreadfully delicate that the least thing upsets him.' 
 
 ' 'Hoity-toity!' she cried, flaring up as red as fire all 
 in a moment; 'so you're beginning the head-nurse busi- 
 ness already! Let me tell you this, my fine miss, I was 
 a nurse before ever you were born, and a better one
 
 300 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 than you will ever be, if you live to be a hundred. The 
 idea, indeed! Teaching your betters their business!' 
 
 ' 'I had no idea of teaching you anything,' I said, 
 'not even manners. But, of course, I know the child 
 better than you can, though you are sixty years old.' 
 
 "She was not more than five-and-forty at the out- 
 side, and she flew into a perfect fury. 
 
 " 'Get out of my nursery, you hussy!' she cried, 'you 
 and your ribbons and frills and furbelows. It's easy 
 seeing there's no mistress in this house, with the likes of 
 you about!' 
 
 "I waited to hear no more, but caught up the new 
 Guy and passed out into the passage. 
 
 "We were not great friends after that, as may be 
 imagined, and kept clear of one another on our own 
 account, for there were no longer any orders to keep 
 apart. We were allowed to] go where we liked, and to 
 talk to whom we liked, without question from any. And 
 there were no more veils. The children went out with 
 their natural faces to the air, and folks came and looked 
 at them, and passed remarks after their kind. And 
 these remarks were always to the same tune: what a 
 splendid, handsome young fellow Master Guy was, and 
 so like his father, and what a poor, miserable-looking 
 wretch the other was; and what a mercy it was that 
 Master Guy was heir to the place and property, and not 
 the little cross-eyed atomy with the white face. And 
 Mordaunt loved to hear them talk so, and would smile 
 and strut and hoist the boy on to his shoulders, and walk 
 about the room with him, while the child crowed with joy. 
 
 " 'A proper De Metrier in face and limb, thank God!' 
 he would say, piously. But at the other he never looked. 
 
 "But as to Mrs. Grace, the new nurse, I am bound to
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 301 
 
 say this, that little Gerard that is the one that had been 
 Guy grew and flourished properly under her; and I felt 
 sorry for the wicked things I had thought about her 
 when she came, and tried to make friends, and wipe out 
 the memory of our first falling out. But she, poor 
 woman ! hated the sight of me from first to last, so that 
 after a time I gave up trying, and just left her alone. 
 
 "Six months after the coming of Mrs. Grace, Mor- 
 daunt came up one day to the nursery, and said quite 
 quick and sudden: 
 
 " 'Susan, I have got a husband for you.' 
 
 "And I, a poor fool, went straight down on the floor, 
 and clutched him by the knees, and prayed him, for the 
 love of God, not to send me away. 
 
 " 'What do I want with a husband?' I moaned. 
 
 " 'Everything,' he said, shortly. 'Come, Susan, 
 don't be a fool. Many a girl in your place would think 
 herself pretty lucky to get one.' 
 
 " 'And am I to go away?' I asked, feeling that I 
 might as well die at once. 
 
 " 'Not a bit of it,' said he; 'at least not far. I am 
 going to let you have the Manor House at the other end 
 of the park. It is well furnished and a good house, and 
 you can have as much firewood as you want, and as much 
 farm produce eggs, butter, and milk as either of you 
 can carry from the Home Farm each day. And besides 
 this, I will go on paying you your present wages as long 
 as I live. What more can any girl want?" 
 
 "I said nothing, but sat looking miserably out of the 
 window, for I knew very well what I wanted more. 
 
 " 'Well,' he said, turning my face round so that I had 
 to look at him, 'haven't you anything to say?'
 
 302 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 " 'No, 1 I answered, dully, 'nothing. When have I 
 got to go?' 
 
 " 'Well, the sooner* the better, I think,' he said; 'but 
 you don't even ask who the man is. Did any one ever 
 see such a girl?' 
 
 "As if it made any difference to me who it was! 
 
 " 'Who is it?' I asked, seeing he expected me to 
 ask it. 
 
 " 'It is Henry Beddington, the house carpenter. He 
 is a capital fellow, steady and respectable, and getting 
 good wages; and I doubt not but he will make you a 
 very excellent husband.' 
 
 " 'And I will make him a very excellent wife, I sup- 
 pose,' I said, bitterly. 
 
 " 'Yes,' he said, 'I see no reason in the world why 
 you should not.' 
 
 " 'No, Mordaunt, no,' I cried, going down all in a 
 heap on the floor once more. 'I can't do it, I really 
 can't! Don't send me away! For God's sake, don't 
 send me away! 
 
 "He had been laughing and very merry up to this, 
 but now, at the sight of my tears, his face hardened, and 
 three straight lines came out between his eyes. 
 
 " 'My dear girl,' he said, slowly, with a pause be- 
 tween each word, 'you are talking like a fool. It has to 
 be done, as you yourself must see, and there's an end 
 of it.' 
 
 "Of course he got his way; he always did. We were 
 married that week, and drove up to our new home in one 
 of the new farm carts a bright blue one, with bright 
 red wheels, I remember amid a deal of cheering and 
 holloaing. But as to myself, I felt like going to my 
 grave.
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 303 
 
 "However, I was strong, and strength and youth will 
 live down most things; and after a time I got used to 
 it, and to Henry Beddington, too, after a fashion. And 
 one of us would fetch the farm stuff every morning in a 
 basket, as much as we could carry in a single journey, 
 and did so till Mordaunt's death, and afterwards, too, in 
 Guy's time. 
 
 "There were four children, and they came as quick as 
 quick; and two months after the last was born, Bedding- 
 ton died. He was never strong a poor little fellow 
 with a weak chest, and always coughing, but a true man 
 and honest, and with a heart of pure gold. He was a 
 world too good for me from first to last, and every one 
 knew it, too, except himself. But I honestly believe the 
 poor fellow loved me so blindly that he thought that in 
 my hands wrong must turn to right, whether it would or 
 no. 
 
 "However, he died, and I was left with the four 
 boys, and there I lived for twenty years. And at the 
 end of twenty years Mordaunt sent for me to be house- 
 keeper at the Abbey. George, the eldest boy, was 
 underkeeper now, and living in the Manor House; and 
 Bill and John, the two next, the Squire had sent out to 
 India, and started them well in life; and the youngest, 
 Henry,, was carpenter now at the house in his father's 
 place. 
 
 "So I went, not very willingly, for I had no knowl- 
 edge of housekeeping, but the Squire wished it, and that 
 was enough. 
 
 "The Squire was failing fast, so all men said. Free 
 living and overmuch claret and port had brought him 
 to a very evil state, and all men foretold a new Squire 
 before the years were many more. He was not an old
 
 304 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 man, either, only fifty-two, and as merry and jolly and 
 handsome in face as ever; but he walked with two sticks, 
 and his back was bent, and for days at a time he would 
 lie in his bed and groan, for the touch of the past was in 
 his joints. 
 
 "Irr those days I had not yet found the Lord, and 
 my mind was still full of wickedness and deceit, and I 
 began to think of the days to come, and of how I should 
 fare under the reign of Master Guy. 
 
 "So, when I had been three years at the Abbey, and 
 the old Squire as we called him afterwards began to 
 be oftener in his bed than out of it, I set myself to think 
 hard how I could make my position firm, and put the 
 seal of truth upon the tale I had to tell. And after a 
 week of thinking I found a way, or at least what I took 
 to be a way. 
 
 "Mrs. de Metrier had had different doctors when Guy 
 and Gerard were born. For Guy she had had Dr. Ben- 
 son, and for the other Dr. McCullum. They were both 
 Greystoke men, and Benson had the name of being the 
 best; but he had a rough kind of knock-me-down man- 
 ner, and the mistress being a bit frail, and quick to feel 
 the harshness of a loud voice, took a feeling against 
 him, and when Gerard came sent for Dr. McCullum. 
 
 "At the time I am talking of we had a doctor of our 
 own at Benton, and the Greystoke men came no more 
 to Selworth. As to Benson and McCullum, they had 
 both long since moved to London, where they were said 
 to have fine practices. I found their addresses out of a 
 Medical Directory in the library, and wrote to each of 
 them the self-same letter, saying that the Squire was ill 
 and fidgety about trifles, and moreover, not in a state to 
 put pen to paper; and that as I had been nurse to both
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 305 
 
 his sons, he had told me to write and find out certain 
 things that were a trouble to his memory. He wanted 
 to know what body marks the boys had when they were 
 born, and nothing else would give him peace; and that 
 if they would write to me their recollections of the child 
 they had helped into the world, it would take a load of 
 worry off his mind. 
 
 "They both wrote back next day, and their letters 
 are in the box with the other papers, marked B and C. 
 I flattered myself that with their letters and Mrs. Gra- 
 ham's I was fairly safe, and so in the end it proved. My 
 first care was to copy all three, and put away the real 
 ones safely; and having done that, I sat down and 
 waited for Mordaunt to die. 
 
 "It was curious to mark how the old pride held him 
 to the end. He sent for me on his death-bed, when his 
 breath was short and quick, and speaking a sheer pain, 
 and he sat up against his pillows and took my hand, and 
 said, 'Susan, swear by all that's holy, to hide the truth 
 about the boys. ' 
 
 "And I said God forgive me for my hard, wicked 
 heart! 'I swear, so long, that is, as I am not disturbed. 
 But if they meddle with me I must see to myself.' 
 
 "He seemed well satisfied with this, and nodded his 
 head and closed his eyes, waving me to go away. And 
 I take it afterwards he put his word upon Guy to leave 
 me in peace for my life. 
 
 "So Mordaunt died, and for a while things went on as 
 before, only that Guy made great changes in the servants, 
 as folks do when they step into the shoes that have been 
 before them. To me he said nothing, but I knew he 
 wished me away, and for my own part I was much of the 
 same mind; so one morning I went to him in his room,
 
 3o6 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 and asked to go back to the Manor House. This was 
 not more than a month after the old Squire's death, and 
 with the dead man's wishes still in his ears, he could but 
 say 'yes* with a fair grace. Besides, he was very young 
 at the time, not more than twenty-five, and he knew I 
 had been his nurse, and 'no' would have been a hard 
 word to say. 
 
 "So back I went to the Manor House, and well 
 enough pleased to be there, too. George and Henry 
 had lived there all along, while I was up at the Abbey. 
 And for a time things went smoothly enough, and the 
 three letters lay harmless and unheeded in my box. But 
 the trouble came before long, as I knew full well it 
 would. During the old Squire's lifetime I had always 
 had ^30 a year paid me quarterly by Mr. Quayle, the 
 agent. When I went as housekeeper, of course, this 
 stopped, and I got regular wages of 50 a year. But 
 now when the first quarter came round, I looked in vain 
 for my money, and so, after waiting a week, wrote to 
 Mr. Quayle to let me have it. I got no answer for two 
 or three days, and then a stiff business letter asking 
 what money I referred to. I wrote back and said it was 
 the $0 I had had every year for the last twenty years, 
 and would he send me the first quarter at once. There 
 was a wait of three more days, and then another letter, 
 saying he had had no instructions from Mr. de Metrier 
 to pay me ^30 a year, but that if I would put the mat- 
 ter right with the young Squire, he would, of course, 
 send me the money at once. Then I saw that the let- 
 ters would have to come out of my box, but for a month 
 or two more I did nothing, not wishing to make trouble 
 before it was due. And the Lord knows it came due 
 quite quickly enough!
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 307 
 
 "It began about the farm stuff. There was a new 
 bailiff since the old Squire's death, and though he 
 allowed George or Henry or myself to take away our 
 basketful every morning, I could see it went sorely 
 against the grain with him. And one morning, when I 
 went as usual with my basket in my hand, he told me 
 straight that I could have no more without direct orders 
 from the Squire. I said never a word, but marched 
 straight away home, and looked up the copies of my 
 three letters. And that afternoon I was up at the house 
 asking for a word with the Squire. 
 
 "I knew well enough how it had all come about. 
 The priest at the Abbey at that time was Father Harris, 
 a decent man enough, I make no doubt, and for all I 
 know a good one. But on me he never looked kindly, 
 partly because I was a Protestant, and partly because 
 of what he thought he knew about my past. With 
 the old Squire, Father Harris had had no more weight 
 than a raindrop has with an oak, but with the young 
 one it was ^very different. He told him as I heard 
 afterwards that I was a standing reproach to the 
 family; and that it was a scandalous thing that I should 
 be allowed to live in ease and comfort inside the park as 
 the price of my past iniquities, when there were plenty 
 of good, respectable Catholics who were far more deserv- 
 ing of the food and house and money that were wasted 
 upon me. And that this was not only the priest's opin- 
 ion, I knew well enough; almost every one about the 
 place thought the same, not knowing the real cause of 
 the old Squire having allowed me all these things, but 
 going off with a wholly wrong idea from the start. 
 
 "So I stood outside the door of Master Guy's study, 
 waiting to put these things right.
 
 3o8 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 " 'Good evening, Mrs. Beddington,' says he, looking 
 not over comfortable, I thought. 'You wished to see 
 me, I believe. ' 
 
 " 'Yes, sir,' says I, coming straight to the point. 'Do 
 I understand that I am to have no more allowance, and 
 no more farm produce?" 
 
 "He fidgeted queerly with the paper-weights on his 
 writing-table, and without looking up, said: 
 
 " 'I can see no real reason why you should continue 
 to have these things, Mrs. Beddington. If you come to 
 think of it, you have only been six years in all in the 
 service of the family, while for twenty years you have 
 been entirely supported by the estate. I think the bal- 
 ance of debt lies with you.' 
 
 "He looked up with a smile, with his handsome head 
 cocked a little on one side. I looked straight into his 
 smiling eyes, and said: 
 
 " 'I have as much right to all the things I've had as 
 you have to be here, sir. ' 
 
 "He laughed outright at this, but with a touch of 
 awkwardness, and said: 
 
 " 'Perhaps it would be just as well for all parties not 
 to go into that question. ' 
 
 " 'Why not, sir?" I asked, coldly. 
 
 " 'Because,' says he, with another little awkward 
 laugh, 'the grounds on which your rights are based are 
 scarcely such as will bear scrutiny. ' 
 
 "The moment for which I had been waiting had come. 
 I looked at him straight, and said : 
 
 " 'No more will yours, sir.' 
 
 " 'What 'do you mean?' he asked, in a puzzled way. 
 I think he thought me mad.
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 309 
 
 " 'I mean,' I said, 'that this place, Selworth Abbey, 
 belongs to Guy de Metrier. ' 
 
 " 'Yes,' he said, pityingly, 'I was aware of that.' 
 
 " 'And you, sir, were christened Gerard St. Clair de 
 Metrier. ' 
 
 "He went quite white, but beyond that not a muscle 
 of his face changed. He smiled up at me the same 
 superior smile as before, and said, calmly: 
 
 " 'Pray explain yourself, Mrs. Beddington. You are 
 rather mysterious.' 
 
 "I said nothing, but pulled out letter No. i Mrs. 
 Graham's, that is and laid it on the table before him. 
 He read it through without a word, and at the end tossed 
 it across the table to me contemptuously. 
 
 " 'Pooh!' he said, is that all?' 
 
 " 'No, sir,' says I, 'not quite,' and gives him No. 
 2 Dr. Benson's. 
 
 " 'Any more?' he said, quietly, when he had finished. 
 I gave him Dr. McCullum's, and he read that, too, as 
 he had read the others, calmly and without a word. 
 
 " 'Well?' he said, looking up. 
 
 " 'Well, sir,' said I, 'those letters are copies. I have 
 the originals in a safe place. As to the change of 
 babies, I did it myself. There is no doubt about that 
 part of it; you are Gerard and your brother is Guy.' 
 
 "For at least five minutes after that there was not a 
 word spoken on either side. He sat fingering the pens 
 and things, and I stood bolt upright before him. From 
 the picture on the wall behind Guy's shoulder, Mor- 
 daunt's clear grey eyes looked straight into mine. In 
 the days that were long past I had learned to read those 
 eyes like an open book, and it seemed to me now that
 
 3io THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 they frowned upon me angrily. Presently Guy cleared 
 his throat and looked up. 
 
 " 'These letters,' he said, 'may be genuine, or they 
 may be forgeries; your statement again may be true, or 
 it may be false. We will not go into that question now. 
 I imagine you have brought these matters forward 
 because of the stoppage of your allowance, and your 
 supply of farm produce?' 
 
 "I bowed. 
 
 " 'And if everything was continued as before, you 
 would be satisfied?' 
 
 " 'Perfectly, sir,' I said; 'that is all I ask.' 
 
 " 'In that case,' he said, rising, 'we will, if you please, 
 consider that this interview has never taken place. I 
 will give orders for everything to be continued as it was 
 in my father's time.' 
 
 "Guy was as good as his word, as indeed he was 
 bound to be. I went back to the Manor House for 
 another twenty-five years, and the world went round as 
 usual. Guy married, and the children were born, and 
 eight years or so afterwards Gerard married. A glori- 
 ous creature was his wife, but she died, poor thing! soon 
 after her little girl was born. And Gerard followed her 
 a few years later. 
 
 "So there was a new rightful owner to the property 
 a little, penniless, orphan girl that no one had ever 
 seen. Gerard had left her all he had to leave, which 
 was in truth nothing, for he had fooled away all that had 
 ever been his, and was to all ends a beggar. When he 
 died, his wife's two maiden sisters took the child, and 
 no one at Selworth bothered their heads any more 
 about her. 
 
 "Then at last, when I was seventy years old, and the
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 311 
 
 grave and judgment in plain sight, the sins of the past 
 began to take hold of me, and I saw all my awful wick- 
 edness in its true light. And sometimes, for hours at a 
 time, I would writhe upon my knees, and cry out to the 
 Lord for forgiveness. And all the while I was doing it, 
 I would feel what a pitiful hypocrite I was, for though 
 many of my sins were past recalling, there was one which 
 could be put right by a word from me. I knew Guy 
 well enough by this time to know that he was as bad to 
 cross as Mordaunt had been; and that I should be 
 turned out of house and home was as sure as death. 
 This is a hard thing for an old woman near the grave, 
 who wishes to end her days in peace, and the struggle 
 with myself and with the old wicked love of ease was 
 not won in a day. I thought, too, in all honesty, that 
 he might kill me. I remembered Mrs. Graham, and my 
 horrid doubts about her end, and here would I be a 
 greater danger and harder to overcome than ever poor 
 Mrs. Graham had been. 
 
 "However, one day the little good that was in me got 
 the upper hand, for my heart had been very bad that 
 day, and I felt that any moment I might find myself face 
 to face with God, bearing the full load of my sins upon 
 my head; so I sent a note by Henry to the Squire, ask- 
 ing him to come up and see me. It was summer time, 
 when the days were long, and he came riding up that 
 very same evening, whistling and humming as gay and 
 chirpy as a linnet. But he neither whistled nor hummed 
 when he rode away; there were three deep lines between 
 his eyes, and he spurred his big horse cruelly down the 
 track. For I told him, as plain as words can speak, 
 that I would hide the truth no longer, not if I died in the 
 workhouse for it. I had nothing put by; all that I
 
 $12 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 might have saved had gone out, bit by bit, to the two 
 boys in India, and to be turned off meant the workhouse, 
 sure enough. For I knew right well that Henry, and 
 George with his wife and children, would go out of Sel- 
 worth by the self-same gate as shut behind me. There 
 would be no mercy shown. Mercy was never a strong 
 point with the De Metriers. And I knew all this, and 
 for all I knew it, faced the Squire bravely, while he 
 stormed and thundered and stamped about the room. 
 
 "There was one chance left for both of us. If Nor- 
 man married this orphan girl, I said, I would be content, 
 and hold my peace; and till the year's end, I said, I 
 would give them to bring this about by hook or crook. 
 
 "I thought at one time Guy would have struck me 
 down, and killed my secret with me then and there, but 
 just when his rage was at its hottest, he spun on his heel 
 and flung out of the house, leaving me sitting by the 
 table, white and trembling. 
 
 "And what will be the end of it, God knows! I am 
 terribly afraid for my life; and for fear of what may 
 overtake me, I have written this confession, which, with 
 the letters, I will lock up in a box and entrust to my son 
 Henry, to be given with his own hands to Miss Josephine 
 de Metrier in the case of my death. The Lord have 
 mercy on my soul and save me from the wrath to come!" 
 
 This was the end of the Confession, which was signed 
 "Susan Beddington," and below this was written: 
 
 "Signed by Susan Beddington, this day, in my pres- 
 ence, September izth, 1857, 
 
 "GEORGE HOLLAIRE, 
 
 "Rector of Benton"
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 313 
 
 There was another short paper with the others in the 
 box, which took up the story, and ended it in a fashion. 
 It began: 
 
 " Miss JOSEPHINE, Now that I have seen and known you, I 
 must add a few lines to pray your forgiveness for the terrible, 
 wrong I have done you. God grant it may yet come right! Time 
 after time I have given the Squire another week to bring about 
 the marriage between you and Norman. He tells me each time it 
 is all but settled, but I have my doubts. 
 
 " Be good to my sons, who have never known anything of this, 
 and do not judge Guy too hardly. The sin was his father's, not 
 his. Lady Harriet knows nothing, nor yet Claud or Sophie. Nor- 
 man did not at first, but I think he has been told. The priest, I 
 know, has been told all. It is of him I am afraid. If you were a 
 Catholic, he could be got over to our side, but, as it is, he will fight 
 to the death before Selworth goes to a Protestant. Beware of him, 
 he is a dangerous man, and can twist Guy round his fingers. God 
 bless you, my dear! and do not think too ungently of a wicked old 
 woman who will be dead before this can ever meet your eyes." 
 
 The only other two papers were the letters marked B 
 and C. 
 
 The first was from Dr. Benson. 
 
 "DEAR MADAM, In response to your enquiries, I can satisfy 
 the Squire's mind on each of the points as to which his memory is 
 doubtful. Guy, the eldest boy, had no distinguishing marks on his 
 body. His left leg was of course, considerably shorter than the 
 other, and even at that early age there was a very pronounced 
 squint in his eyes. Both hands were perfect. 
 
 " I remain, dear madam, yours to command, 
 
 "JOSEPH BENSON." 
 
 The other was very similar. 
 
 " MADAM, My memory is perfectly clear as to the condition 
 of Mrs. de Metrier's second child at the time of birth. He was as 
 fine a baby as I have ever seen, and perfectly formed, with the 
 exception of a little finger missing on the left hand. The finger 
 was not absolutely missing, but was only a stump as far as the first
 
 314 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 joint, and nailless. As to the eldest child, I can say nothing, aa 
 you will remember it was Dr. Benson who attended Mrs. de 
 Metrier in her first confinement. 
 
 " I am, madam, your obedient servant, 
 
 " JAMES MCCULLUM." 
 
 I slipped the papers gently back into the box, turned 
 the key, and put the box upon the chest of drawers. 
 Then I got up, and stared down into the red, glowing 
 embers of the fire. 
 
 "Well?" said Beatrice, with a stretch and a mighty 
 yawn. "Do you know all about it now?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I know all about it now." 
 
 "You look dreadfully solemn over it all; what's it all 
 about?" 
 
 "Mostly about my father when he was young," I 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, that sounds rather interesting. I suppose we 
 must go and dress now. I heard the gong a long time 
 ago." 
 
 They strolled off down the long passage to their 
 rooms, and I was left alone. 
 
 My first feeling, and my strongest at that time, was 
 undoubtedly one of intense pity for my Uncle Guy and 
 all his family. If I had acted on the impulse of the mo- 
 ment, I should have written off to him then and there, 
 saying that the whole thing was wrong and a mistake, 
 and that as far as I was concerned I wanted nothing, and 
 would much rather that everything went on just as it 
 always had gone. I thought of all the numberless kind- 
 nesses I had received from them, of my aunt with her 
 frail, feeble health, and the little old-world airs and 
 affectations she loved so well, of Sophie turned out of 
 her home by one on whom she had showered all the love
 
 SUSAN CROSSLEY'S CONFESSION 315 
 
 and kindness of her nature, and I felt that of all the 
 mean wretches that lived, I should be the meanest if I 
 was the cause of bringing such things upon them. And 
 then I thought of Sydney, and of how nice it would be 
 not to be a drag and a burden to him, but to come to 
 him with something in my hand that might make up in 
 part for my own unworthiness. But then again, did he 
 really want to marry me? He had been so strangely 
 stiff and stand-offish lately, and then there was that 
 extraordinary remark of his about our not being en- 
 gaged! Was it simply that he was tired of me, or liked 
 some one else better, or was it only jealousy about the 
 Duke? I looked into the red-hot coals for an answer, 
 but found none; but I found there the outline of an idea, 
 and as it grew and flourished in my head I smiled to 
 myself, well pleased. 
 
 My watch pointed to eight, but no one minded one 
 being late at Ashby, so I dashed at my writing-table, 
 and scribbled off a line to Sydney: 
 
 "Come up to-morrow: I want to see you particularly." 
 
 Then I dressed, and tore down to dinner, three steps 
 at a time, slipping my note into the letter-box as I 
 passed through the hall. The post went out at eight, 
 but there were usually a few minutes' law given for the 
 sake of late, eccentric people like myself.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 WHAT CAME OF THE CONFESSION 
 
 "\ T EXT morning the whole world was white with 
 snow three inches of it at least the first real 
 winter we had had. Great fires blazed in all the grates, 
 and the robins bound, I suppose, by the laws of custom 
 and of Christmas cards came hopping round outside 
 the dining-room window in search of hospitality, which 
 poor things! they got without stint. 
 
 Sydney came up about twelve, trudging through the 
 snow in thick shooting boots and gaiters. I waylaid 
 him in the hall, and beckoned to him to hold his 
 tongue and follow me into the library, for I knew the 
 others would all rush garrulously out at the sound of his 
 voice, and upset all my deep-laid plot. Sydney, looking 
 rather mystified, and very solemn, shook himself clear 
 of snow like a wet dog, and followed me meekly. In the 
 library we were likely to be left in peace, for the whole 
 family was essentially gregarious, and hated nothing 
 more than solitude, except silence. At the present mo- 
 ment I knew them to be safely collected in the drawing- 
 room, working feverishly for the Greystoke bazaar, and 
 as usual, talking in chorus. I suppose I ought to have 
 been doing the same, and for that very reason, of course, 
 I was not. It was most unusual for me at any time to be 
 doing what I ought. 
 
 "You wanted to see me about something?" Sydney
 
 WHAT CAME OF THE CONFESSION 317 
 
 said, after we had both selected comfortable chairs. 
 There was a certain out-of-the-way look on his face, I 
 thought. Was it anxiety or curiosity, or what? Was it 
 hope, or was it fear? 
 
 "Yes," I said, rubbing my chin, and looking up at 
 the ceiling reflectively. There was a long pause. "I 
 wanted to ask you," I said, slowly, "whether you 
 thought it would be right for me to write to Uncle Guy 
 for some money. You see I must tip the servants here, 
 and I literally have not got a penny." 
 
 He looked very surprised. 
 
 "Oh, is that all!" he said, with an odd little laugh. 
 "No, I should certainly not write. You must let me 
 advance you whatever you want." 
 
 "But you are not a relation," I said. "I certainly 
 can't let you do that. I might as well ask the Duke." 
 
 "Hardly that, " he muttered. "You do know me a 
 little better than you know him." 
 
 "Oh, I don't see much difference." 
 
 "Don't you?" he said, shortly. "No, I daresay not." 
 
 Then, after a moment, he added: 
 
 "Then your message had nothing to do with the con- 
 tents of the red box?" 
 
 "Oh, no," I said, in great surprise. "Why should 
 it?" 
 
 "What was inside it?" There was open curiosity in 
 his voice now. 
 
 "Oh, a long rigmarole, all about Mrs. Beddington's 
 younger days. Nothing that you would care to know." 
 
 "Then there was nothing in it that affects you in any 
 way?" 
 
 "Good gracious, no! What an extraordinary idea! 
 Why should there be?"
 
 3i8 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. But I can't quite see the object 
 of giving you the box if there was nothing in it of inter- 
 est to you." 
 
 "I don't say there wasn't. I say there was nothing 
 that affects me in any way." 
 
 "Nothing that will make any difference to your life?" 
 
 "No, nothing." 
 
 Sydney got up, and for a minute or two stood with his 
 back to the fire, looking straight before him. Then 
 suddenly, before I knew what he was up to, he had 
 slipped into my chair by the side of me, and had his arm 
 round my waist. 
 
 "Joe, my little darling," he said, "I am so glad!" 
 
 "Not so fast," I cried, jumping up; "you take too 
 much for granted, my friend." 
 
 Poor fellow! he looked dreadfully crestfallen. 
 
 "What do I take for granted?" he asked, sheepishly. 
 
 "Why, everything. In the first place, I am not your 
 darling, and in the second place, you have no business 
 to put your arm round my waist. We are not engaged!" 
 
 "Joe," he said, simply, "will you marry me? " 
 
 "I am not at all sure that I will," I said. "You have 
 been extremely disagreeable lately, not to say horrid!" 
 
 "I have been worried," he said, "and anxious about 
 several things. It was not my fault, Joe, honestly it 
 was not." 
 
 "But you told the Duchess we were not engaged." 
 
 "I had a reason for doing that; I will tell you about 
 it some day. But it was not because I didn't want to be. 
 I can tell you that much now." 
 
 "Are you really sure you love me?" I asked, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 For a minute or so he made no answer. When he
 
 WHAT CAME OF THE CONFESSION 319 
 
 did, it was so emphatic a one that it was some moments 
 before I could get my breath again. As soon as I could 
 speak, I put exactly the same question to him again, for 
 no particular reason that I know of, except to prove the 
 perversity of woman. 
 
 "But do you really love me?" 
 
 "Well," he said, laughing, "if you still have any 
 doubts, I can only repeat " 
 
 "No, no," I said. "Sit down quietly, for goodness 
 sake! What I want to know is, would you marry me 
 whatever I had done?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I will marry you whatever 
 ghastly crime you may have committed." 
 
 "Even if I have deceived you?" 
 
 "Even if your hair is a wig, and your complexion put 
 on with a brush, and your figure stuffed with sawdust." 
 
 "Then," I said, solemnly, "I have deceived you." 
 
 He did not look the least alarmed. 
 
 "Really?" he said. "Will you undeceive me now, 
 then?" 
 
 "Yes, I will. There was something in the box that 
 affected me." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Beddington says my father was the eldest 
 son, and the place really belongs to me." 
 
 "Josephine," he said, looking as solemn as twenty- 
 four judges, "you should have told me this before." 
 
 "No, I should not," I said, putting my two hands on 
 his shoulders; "and don't call me Josephine; it's rude. " 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "Marry you," I said, "first. You know you prom- 
 ised you would; you can't back out now. After that, I 
 shall think."
 
 320 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 For at least five minutes Sydney paced up and down 
 the room like a wild beast, then he said, suddenly: 
 
 "Do you think it's true?" 
 
 "Yes," I said; "I don't think there's the slightest 
 doubt about it!" 
 
 "Let me see the papers, will you?" 
 
 "Yes, I will get the box." 
 
 For the rest of the morning he sat poring over all the 
 papers I had read the night before. That brought us on 
 to luncheon time. Just before we went in I whispered 
 to him: "Will you tell them about our engagement? It 
 will look so odd unless you do." 
 
 "All right!" he said, "if you like." 
 
 So, in the middle of luncheon, after the servants had 
 left the room, Sydney, looking remarkably foolish, said: 
 "Duchess, I have an announcement to make to you. 
 Miss de Metrier and I are going to get married. " Upon 
 which the whole family rose from their apple-tart, and 
 kissed me without ceasing for five minutes all except 
 the Duke, and he couldn't very well, poor man. And 
 then such a chorus of questions as arose. Did Mr. de 
 Metrier know of it? And wouldn't he be pleased? And 
 what would poor Mr. Norman think? They were afraid 
 he would not be quite so pleased, from what they had 
 heard. All of which questions I cunningly avoided by 
 means of convenient blushes. And then more questions: 
 When was it to be? And where? And who were to be 
 my bridesmaids? They would positively never speak to 
 me again till the day I died if I didn't ask all three of 
 them to be bridesmaids. 
 
 I was very glad when it was all over. 
 
 And now, knowing the state of things, the girls were 
 just as openly anxious to leave Sydney and me alone as
 
 WHAT CAME OF THE CONFESSION 321 
 
 before they had been to do the opposite. So, instead of 
 asking me what I was going to do, and suggesting half a 
 dozen different plans at once, as generally happened 
 after luncheon, they bustled out of the drawing-room 
 with much meaning, one after the other, leaving us 
 alone in our glory. 
 
 "I will walk back with you, Sydney," I said. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I wish you would. There are sev- 
 eral things we must talk over." 
 
 Out in the park it was better. We could talk openly 
 there and freely, without fear of screens and portieres 
 and soft-footed servants. 
 
 "Have you thought what you are going to do?" Syd- 
 ney asked, when we were clear of the garden. 
 
 "I .have thought what I am not going to do," I 
 answered, "and that is anything which will in the slight- 
 est degree interfere with Uncle Guy's possession of Sel- 
 worth. It has been his home for over fifty years now, 
 and I should be &pig to try and turn him out because of 
 a crack-brained fancy of his father's." 
 
 Sydney laughed. "That is rather woman's logic," 
 he said. "But apart from that, do you really think that 
 he and his deserve much consideration at your hands?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," I answered, stoutly. "He has always 
 been kindness itself to me." 
 
 "H'm!"he said; "how about that chestnut mare, and 
 the burning of the Manor House, and one or two things 
 that Master Norman had a hand in?" 
 
 "I don't believe for a minute that Uncle Guy knew 
 anything at all about the fire at the Manor House; and 
 as to Maid Marion bolting, it was a pure accident, owing 
 to my bad hands. She was as quiet as a lamb, really." 
 
 "I took the trouble," said Sydney, slowly, "to make
 
 322 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 some enquiries through a friend of mine at Newmarket, 
 and I heard from him that the mare invariably bolted if 
 there was anything behind her, and had always to be 
 exercised alone in consequence." 
 
 "I don't believe a word of it," I said. "Anyhow, 
 Uncle Guy knew nothing about it. Why, he let Sophie 
 ride her home." 
 
 "Yes, but alone." 
 
 "Oh, that's all nonsense. The whole thing was 
 entirely my bad riding." 
 
 "Very well, then," he said, laughing; "we won't 
 quarrel about it. But in the meantime, what are you 
 going to do?" 
 
 "Well, I thought that I might ask Uncle Guy to allow 
 me so much a year just enough for us to live on, and 
 in return I would give him the papers." 
 
 "Yes," he said; "that's not a bad idea. It would be 
 a blessing to have enough to let us live in the old coun- 
 try. America is right enough for a man, even though he 
 goes there with an empty pocket, but it is altogether a 
 different matter when he proposes taking a poor little 
 Dryad with him. It is a bit rough on the Dryad." 
 
 "Is that why you have been behaving in this extraor- 
 dinary way lately?" 
 
 "No; I have been behaving in this extraordinary way, 
 as you call it, for quite a different reason." 
 
 "Were you jealous of the Duke?" 
 
 "No, I was not even jealous of the Duke, don't you 
 flatter yourself ," he said, laughing. 
 
 "Then, what was it?" 
 
 "I think you know pretty well without my telling you." 
 
 "Yes, I know, you old stupid! It was because you 
 guessed what was inside that box."
 
 WHAT CAME OF THE CONFESSION 323 
 
 "Yes," he said; "I was afraid my little Dryad might 
 think I was a fortune-hunter instead of being merely a 
 Dryad-hunter. But now that you are going to give it all 
 up, it's all right, and I'm not a bit afraid of you any 
 more." 
 
 We were leaning over a rough-shaped oak rail, bor- 
 dering one of the woods that fringed the park. It was 
 a typical Christmas evening long past Christmas, it is 
 true, but still redolent of peace and good-will to all men. 
 The freshly fallen snow lay white and clean as a new- 
 washed sheet, the sky was pure and cloudless, and not 
 the faintest breath of wind stirred the frosty air. The 
 silence was intense vast and limitless and I think the 
 witchery of the moment took hold of both our souls. 
 We wasted nothing in words words would have been an 
 outrage, a desecration of the glories of those moments. 
 And for my own part, no words that ever were framed 
 by poet could have given shape to the immense happi- 
 ness that was welling up in my heart on that evening. 
 Words are cumbersome, pompous, inadequate; how can 
 they cope with the divinity of thought? What words 
 could draw the shadowiest picture of our feelings that 
 night as we walked home together over the smooth, 
 crunching snow with the "myriad eyes of Heaven" speck- 
 ing the inky sky overhead. And if there were such 
 words, would any one care to write them for the inspec- 
 tion of the world? Such things are sacred sacred to 
 the library of the mind, where, among the dusty volumes 
 of memory, sweetness and melancholy rub shoulders so 
 strangely on every shelf.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 UNCLE GUY MAKES A MOVE 
 
 TT was arranged that Sydney should write to my uncle, 
 * telling him of the papers in my possession, and ask- 
 ing him what he proposed doing in the matter. He was 
 also going to arrange that the Morrises should 'not be 
 brought up before the magistrates for another week, as 
 the fear of what disclosures they might make would be 
 likely to help Uncle Guy towards a reasonable frame of 
 mind. Norman and Father Boyle, we learnt, had left 
 Selworth for London. 
 
 It was nearly a week before he received an answer, 
 and then it was only half an answer. My uncle said 
 that the allegations contained in Sydney's letter were so 
 extraordinary that time must be given him to think the 
 matter over. Would Sydney send him the papers or 
 copies of them? 
 
 Sydney wrote back and said that he feared it was im- 
 possible at present to procure copies of the papers, but 
 that there appeared to be no shadow of doubt that they 
 were in perfect order, and so complete a chain of evi- 
 dence as could scarcely fail to ensure the result of any 
 appeal to law. 
 
 To this there was no reply, and after a few days, 
 Sydney wrote again, begging for a definite proposal of 
 some sort, as Miss de Metrier's position was naturally 
 an uncomfortable one, On the second day Uncle Guy 
 
 324
 
 UNCLE GUY MAKES A MOVE. 325 
 
 replied that at the end of a week he would make a pro- 
 posal which he had little doubt would satisfy all parties 
 concerned. 
 
 In the meanwhile the Morrises were had up before the 
 magistrates, charged with trespassing in Selworth Park 
 in search of game, and with feloniously assaulting and 
 wounding the Honourable Sydney Grayle, and lastly with 
 arson and attempted murder, in that they did, on the 
 seventeenth day of January, wilfully and maliciously set 
 fire to the premises known as the old Manor House, Sel- 
 worth Park. I had the whole thing from Sydney. My 
 name was kept entirely out of the business, but Sydney, 
 of course, had to give evidence. The charge of arson 
 was unsupported by direct evidence, but undeterred by 
 this, the magistrates remanded all three Morrises to take 
 their trial at the Greystoke Quarter-Sessions. 
 
 Still there came no answer from Uncle Guy, and when 
 a second letter was equally ignored, Sydney made up his 
 mind to go up to London and beard my uncle in his very 
 den. What success awaited him there may be best 
 judged from his own letter: 
 
 " My DARLING LITTLE DRYAD I arrived in London yester- 
 day about noon, and at once went to your uncle's house in Curzon 
 Street. Judge of my absolute amazement when I was told by the 
 grimy old caretaker who answered the bell, that Mr. and Mrs. de 
 Metrier and their son and daughter, accompanied by the Rever- 
 end Father Boyle, had sailed from Liverpool for America on the 
 Saturday previous. I asked if there were any servants in the 
 house, and was told that they had all been dismissed. A sudden 
 inspiration dawned upon me, and I bribed the old woman with 
 half a crown to let me go over the house. It was as I suspected. 
 The place was literally gutted. Every single plate, picture, chair, 
 table, and cabinet in the house was gone, as were all the carpets 
 and curtains. The plate-closet and wine-cellar were both empty! 
 I dashed off to Wade & Bonny, the family lawyers, and from them
 
 326 THE PERILS OF JOSEPHINE 
 
 elicited the further information that the property, that for many 
 years had been clear of debt, had lately been mortgaged abso- 
 lutely up to the hilt, and that all the horses, including the racing 
 stable at Newmarket, had been sold by auction. A great many 
 things of value have also, it appears, been brought up from Sel- 
 worth and sold. The whole thing has been carried out with ex- 
 traordinary secrecy and quickness, and the loss on what was sold 
 must be enormous. Old Wade, whom I saw, confessed that he 
 thought the Squire had gone off his head, and thought it his duty 
 to write to Norman. But when Norman wrote back saying that 
 he entirely approved of what his father was doing, of course there 
 was nothing left for him but to carry out the instructions given 
 him. Old Wade estimates that, what with the mortgages and the 
 sales, your uncle must have had at least ,200,000 lodged to his 
 credit. This money could of course be attached if you thought 
 fit; but from what I know of you, you probably would not care to 
 do that. 
 
 "When I told old Wade of the true state of things, I thought 
 his chin would have dropped off, his mouth opened so wide. His 
 glasses dropped from his nose, and he turned quite pale. 
 
 "'God bless my soul!" was all he could say, and this he kept 
 on saying at intervals for ten minutes. 
 
 " When he had recovered his senses a little, his professional 
 instincts revived. He explained that your uncle's action was a 
 plain admission of your rights, as well as a distinct felony, so that 
 he would hardly be likely to fight the case. In fact, his going to 
 America proves clearly that he acknowledges defeat. I expect 
 the Morrises having been put back for trial has had something to 
 say to this American trip; but it appears, from what old Wade 
 tells me, that he has been preparing for it for months past. Wade, 
 of course, was all for pouncing down on the money in the Bank 
 before it is transferred to America, but I told him I knew you 
 would not wish this done. The old brute asked if you were 
 eccentric! 
 
 "So, dear little Dryad, Selworth is yours, with all the trees 
 within it for you to gambol about in. Of course, the estate will be 
 fearfully crippled for many years to come. Wade suggests sell- 
 ing the London house at once. He also suggests that you should
 
 UNCLE GUY MAKES A MOVE 327 
 
 live abroad for ten years or so till you are in a position to open 
 Selworth again. How would that suit you? Not over well, I sus- 
 pect. However, these are all things which must be talked over. 
 I shall be with you soon after this reaches you. You might walk 
 down to the little gate by the fir wood to meet me about one 
 o'clock to-morrow. Ever your loving SYDNEY. 
 
 "P. S. Claud, it appears, is still with his regiment."
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE DEFINITION OF A NAME 
 
 T^HERE remains little more to tell. Once more, after 
 * many years of pinching, Selworth Abbey has 
 opened its doors to the world as in the days of yore; 
 and Sydney and I have emerged from the three little 
 rooms in the west wing that have hidden us all these 
 years. Uncle Guy is said to be prospering mightily in 
 New York City, and Norman and Sophie have both mar- 
 ried on to dollars. Father Boyle became, for a while, 
 a centre of political agitation, but is since said to be dead. 
 
 At Selworth itself there is little change, only the 
 changes of detail that go on continuously from genera- 
 tion to generation, and will to the end of the world 
 changes born of the superiority of youth, and the fidgeti- 
 ness of ownership. 
 
 For Selworth is now mine glorious, beloved Sel- 
 worth! to do as I will with. Only one spot is there in 
 the whole domain that is no longer mine. 
 
 For Inversnaid the centre-piece of my life's 
 romance is mine no longer; it belongs now to Gran- 
 ville, and only by invitation am I allowed to avail myself 
 of its shelter. And when that rare honour is done me, 
 the proprietor kindly provides a sheep-hurdle to facili- 
 tate ascent my ascent only, not his; he and Claire and 
 Stephanie get up by the drawbridge, and would sooner 
 die than make use of any other means. 
 
 328
 
 THE DEFINITION OF A NAME 329 
 
 And the great tree itself, alone of us all, remains 
 unchanged and unchangeable, no larger, no smaller, no 
 younger, no older, but just the same majestic, silent, 
 inscrutable as ever. Sydney has three grey hairs behind 
 each ear, and I have added an inch perhaps to my cir- 
 cumference not more; but in the tree there is no 
 change. There are still the same hedgehogs stuck on 
 rolling-pins, the ten-acre field, the drawbridge, the 
 moat, the secret chamber, the potato patch, Arthur's 
 seat, and Lake Superior, and above all, the fireplace, 
 blackened with the ceaseless fires of years. Only in the 
 naming of the branches is there any change. "My 
 branch" has been taken from me, and annexed by Gran- 
 ville, aged ten. It was voted "too difficult for mother." 
 Shades of past memories! Too difficult for mother! 
 Mother, who only the day before yesterday sat wobbling 
 astride the tipmost end of it, and felled Pete Morris with 
 the heel of her shoe! But of course the children know 
 nothing of this. And Norman's branch has become 
 Claire's, and Claud's has become Stephanie's, and I have 
 been apportioned the spare branch, the one that for a 
 short time had been Sophie's, because, forsooth, it is 
 low and easy! 
 
 Once in a blue moon Sydney comes up with the rest 
 of us, and then it may be that he makes the children 
 open their round eyes very wide, for he tells them that 
 he would still back me, if need be, to climb against any 
 one of them with one arm tied behind my back, for that 
 I am, and ever will be, the one and only Hamadryad. 
 
 And then they all cry in chorus: "But what is a 
 hamadryad?" 
 
 And he says, "A hamadryad is a young lady who 
 lights fires in trees."
 
 PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY 
 AND SONS COMPANY AT THE 
 LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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