na UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES / Cassell's Series of Copyright Novels. The Squire. By Mrs. Parr. The Snare of the Fowler. By Mrs. Alexander. A Modern Dick Whittington. By James Payn. The Wrecker. By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. Illustrated. The Little Minister. By J. M. Barrie. Leona. By Mrs. Molesvvorth. The New Ohio. A Story of East and West. By Edward Everett Hale. Sybil Knox, or Home Again : A Story of To-day. By Edward E. Hale. The Story of Francis Cludde. By Stanley J. Weyman. The Faith Doctor. By Dr. Edward Eggleston. Dr. Dumanv's Wife. By Maurus Jokai. Translated from the Hungarian by F. Steinitz. CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited, London ; Paris & Melbourne. 35-293 dA Modern Did* C/StyittirKgtori. <*A Modern DicR 09^ittin<5toi\ A Patron of Letters. JAMES PAYN, Author oj "Lost Sir Massiu^berd," "By Fruxy t CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited: London., Paris &* Melbourne. 1893. (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 1 • • • • - • ■ • , * * • • : • •• * • \* • ••• •• • •• i » » Ml^ v r\OE COXT ENTS, . CHAPTER I. Over the Wall ...... 1 illUTKR U. ^ The Frankness of Youth 13 CHAPTER III. Father \m> Sun ....... 24 £ CHAPTER IV. Mow tiii: Dinner Party was Arranged . . 33 CHAPTER V. Lawrence and ins Relatives .... 43 - CHAPTER VI. Introductions ....... 55 CHAPTER VII. At tiii: 1 'inner Table ... 64 CHAPTER VIII. When the Ladies had Withdrawn . . . 73 CE \iti:k ix. Is Tin. Drawino-Rooai ...... i5;j 7 (i'.> vi CONTEXTS. CHAPTER X. FAO>> It might have been Poetry .... 96 CHAPTER XL The Courage op his Opinions . . . .109 CHAPTER XII. The Honoured Guest 120 CHAPTER XIII. The "Stretcher" 128 CHAPTER XIV. At the Corner . . . . . . .139 CHAPTER XV. The Judiciousness op Fifty . . . 150 CHAPTER XVI. An Error in a Telegram . . . . .163 CHAPTER XVII. A Narrow Escape ...... 174 CHAPTER XVIII. The Honorarium ....... 184 CHAPTER XIX. The Indian Summer 191 CHAPTER XX. Aunt Jerry ........ 200 CHAPTER XXI. Hooking their Fish ....... 211 00NTENT8. vii OHAPTEB nxii. IAOK K ' i n is not Sanguine ...... 222 I HAPTER Will. An < )i.d Friend 233 chapter xxiv. In Church . . . • . .242 CHAPTER XXV. Squire \m> Parson ...... 25u CHAPTER XXVI. A Favoi r Refi skd .... . 263 CHAPTEE XXVIF. A Little Favour . ... . . . 272 CHAPTEE XXVIII. Fareweli .280 CHAPTEE XXIX. At Hi im.hv 290 OHAPTEB XXX. Nelson Crescent ....... 301 OHAPTEB XXXI Letters from Some . . . .313 CHAPTER XXXII. Hi in am> Kate .... 324 viii CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXXI 11 TAQE What Ruth Overheard ..... 337 CHAPTER XX XIV. Bv the Sick Bed ..... • 350 CHAPTER XXXV. More Trouble .361 CHAPTER XXXVI. A Friend in Need . . . . . .371 CHAPTER XXXVII. The Patron's Emissary 384 CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Last Resort 395 CHAPTER XXXIX. News Indeed ........ 105 CHAPTER XL. Wise at Last 416 CHAPTER XLI. All's Well 132 i: i; R a 'i' r m. Page 116, fifth line of verse, for tin u read war. Mod. Dii k wmn ikg ros. A MODERN DICK WIIITTINdTOX. CHAPTER I. OVKtt THE WALL. "So Sir Charles is coining to Hillsland, I hoar, Lorry ? " " Yes, for a day or two." The question and answer were both as in- different as the human voice could make them. The speakers, in fact, had been talking of some- thing else, of far more importance to both of them, but unhappily the}' were not agreed upon it. Kate Salesby and Lawrence Merridew were as old friends as their united ages — which were but one-and-forty — permitted them to he, but of late they had differed — though they had never " fallen out " — upon one subject. The young- woman was the elder, and she looked it. Her tall figure, thorn; h far from plump, was fully developed; her face, which but B 2 A MODERN DICK WRIT TING TON. for the kiss of the sun, from which she had taken little pains to protect herself, would have borne comparison with that of any fashionable beauty, had a sedate expression which, while it became her admirably, suggested discretion. It was well for her, one would say, that under the present circumstances she possessed it. The young fellow who was her companion, though by no means so handsome for a man as she for a woman, had great personal attractions. His appearance was peculiar ; lie had fair curling hair, a delicately chiselled face of bronze, and very dark eyes. Such a contrast might not itself have suited every taste, but the expression of the face was charming ; full of intelligence, sympathising, demonstrative, and but a moment ago fervent with passionate appeal. Under the spell of such eloquence of feature, it would have been difficult for any woman, not unsexed, to have resisted him, and it had cost even Kate Salesby a struggle. As she cast down her beautiful eyes under his passionate glance, they had, however, fallen upon his boots, which, being patched and old, reminded her of certain obstacles to his prayer, absolutely insurmountable, but which for the moment she had almost forgotten. To strengthen her resolve, though it gave her pain, she compelled herself as he went on to take an inventory of his apparel. It had never been of OVER THE WAL1 good material, and it was mended very neatly, hut still mended— in half-a-dozen places; even his "wideawake" was frayed at the edges; and it was wonderful (she though! to herself) how well, aevertheless, he looked. Pew, few indeed are the human countenances that can overcome the effecl of a had hat, and yei Lawrence Merridew overcame it. II'- Looked a gentleman and some- thing more, and much more, as the girl vaguely recognised, for all the shortcomings of his clothes. She was hut poorl) dressed herself, as one of her own sex would have pronounced at once; there were no patches, however, and if she had stood "in silk attire," instead of that simple print, she could not have looked more distin- guished. It is strange how often we hear of Nature's noblemen, when Nature's noblewomen, who are much more often met with, are alto- gether ignored. So far as birth was concerned, however, Kate was much the superior of her companion, for she belonged to one of the oldest families in Cornwall — so old, indeed, that it had worn itself out; whereas the Mer- ridews were nouveaux riches, only Lawrence was nouveau and not riche, as will he presently made plain. " What you suggest, my dear Lorry," she had been saying, after that review of ids raime " Lor 1 will not call it by so serious a name as a 4 A MODERN DICK WH1TTTNGT0N. proposal, is out of the question ; it is a dream — delightful, I confess, to me as to you — but from which, as matters stand, were we to indulge in it, we should have indeed a rude awakening. Of your truth and honour I have no doubt ; I believe every word you say to me ; na}^, since you press me, I do not deny that I love you ; but love does not blind me as it blinds you. I look — it may seem cruel to you, but I am cruel only to be kind — beyond to-dajr and even to- morrow. It is my nature, perhaps, to do so, but I have had also a bitter home experience of what comes of not looking forward — of trust- ing to that something good to happen to us which never does happen. How beautiful is this orchard in which we are now standing; how bright and beautiful are these apple blossoms ; how cool the long grasses on which we tread ; how laden with the coming summer is the air we breathe ! But before the year is out these trees will be bare, and their fruit fallen; the ground will be a swamp ; it will be difficult to recognise the spot which the spring and the sun- light make so charming to us. So it would be, almost as soon, with your love story if I were weak enough to listen to it ; its passion would have passed away, its glory would have faded, through no fault of yours or mine. Poverty — abject poverty — would have blighted it. It is true you only ask fur a promise; but when that OVER THE WALL is given, how hard it will l>e to deny you more! " I will ask do more, Kitty," he broke in earnestly. "1 will be content with your promise." " You think so now, but you would not think so thru ; moreover, I should nol be con- tent to wait for you indefinitely. I know there arc women who, when once they have confessed their love, would be content to wait ; hut I do not possess their nobility of soul. There is, moreover, another thing, Lorry, you would do well \i> consider; you rate me too high, you credii me with virtues I do uoi possess." "You are good enough for me. Kitty, ai all events," he answered gently, "and much better than I deserve." " I do not say that, though I have no mean opinion of myself. You will he a husband of whom — one day — any woman should he proud; but under present circumstances you are not, as my father would say, 'good enough.' The very thought of him, and the pass to which poveit;. has brought him and me, hardens my heart against you, Lorry." She did not look " hard " ; her face was lull of tenderness, though her voice was linn and even cold. lie put his arm out — lor he was close by her — to clasp her waist, hut she drew back. 6 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " No, Lorry," she said, "not again, nor per- haps ever again. This has gone far enough. I will not be fooled by my own fancy." " Fancy ! ' he exclaimed reproachfully. " Do you call your love for me b}^ such a name as that? ' : "What other name can better suit it? What is it, as I have said, but a pleasant dream ? We are penniless, you and I ; and only not beggars because there is no one in the whole wide world to whom we can sue for help. In a little time you will have left Eng- land, with what hope of coming back again a prosperous man I need not ask you. Your calling has been chosen for you, and is a dis- tasteful one ; and fortunes are not made that way. Yet you wish me to promise to wait here for years and years until you have made one. There is one chance, to be sure, beside. Perhaps your grandfather may provide for you ; perhaps, as my father says when he is merry — that is when lie is not sober — the heavens may fall, and we may have lark pie for supper. Is your grandfather so fond of you? Is your Uncle Robert, who rides him, likely to advocate your claims upon him ? You do not, I know, hope that your mother will die, that you may inherit her scanty income. What is your hope, then ? What is the lot in life — at its best, at its brightest — you ask me to share?" OVER THE WALL. 7 She spoke without contempt, l>ut like one who is conscious that his arguments are irre- sistible. The young man bowed his head before them, as though before some physical force. "You forget that I have my pen," he mur- mured plaintively. " Indeed, I do not forget it. Your fine brain, and the fancies that inhabit it, are not the least among the many tilings for which I love and admire you. I am no judge of such matters, it is true, but I believe you have great talents; nay, since among such surroundings and discouragements you exercise them as you do, it may be even genius that you possess ; I nit even if you do, what then ? 1 1 cuius, as my father says of a goose, is too much for one but not enough for two. It turns a man's head, but not the kitchen spit. Geniuses, even the be>t of them, are poor, dear Lorry, and setting aside other considerations, better without wives." "But although I may never be rich, Kitty, I may yet make money, hy writing, sufficient For our simple needs." The girl's lips curled at this; she was not enamoured of such simplicity; "the root and the spring ' were too familiar to her to be at- tractive ; but her companion thought that she was expressing incredulity of his literary powers, and it cut him to the heart. 8 A MODE UN DICK WH1TTINGT0N. "I believe I have a better chance with my pen than you think, Kitty," he answered gently. " I did not mean t/iat," she replied earnestly, and with a quick flush. "You do not think, you surely do not think, that I was making — well, making light of your talents, Lorry dar- ling ; you may think me hard and mercenary, but T am not like that." She stepped forward, with tears in her eyes, and kissed his cheek. It was a dangerous im- pulse ; the young fellow had been gradually quieting down under his companion's judicious treatment, and it brought about a relapse. "You do love me a little, then, after all?' he exclaimed triumphantly. " I love you so much, Lorry, that I will not permit you to ruin yourself for my sake." " Yes, yes," he answered impatiently. " I understand all that, though I do not agree with it ; but what I mean is, if I have a little luck in literature, if I make enough before I go abroad to be an earnest of better fortune She shook her head. "That will not do, Lorry," she put in resolutely. " That would be promise and not performance, which is the very thing you propose to exact from me. " 13 ut if I made enough by my pen in OVER THE WALL. f» England within bhe year — such an income .1 would do away with the necessity of my going to Singapore at all —would you give me vour promise then ? ' '• What ' [fyou made an income belbiv v<»u were twenty-one years of age? Well, there can be no harm in saying ' Yea ' to that, because if would be a miracle, and miracles do not happen. You no more expect such a thing than I do." "Still, I have your promise," he answered — it must be confessed, in no very hopeful tone. ' My poor Lorry, it can be but the promise of a promise, the shadow of a shadow; but such as it is you are welcome to it. Now let us give over this unprofitable talk and discourse of some- thin-- else." And then it was that she had put the ques- tion about Sir Charles Walden's coming to HilK- land ; and he had answered that his stay would be for a day or two. She continued, in an amused tone — " And what is supposed to be Sir Charles's attract ion ? ' Lawrence shrugged his shoulders. He had really given little thought to the matter, but the indifference born of his present condition — disappointed, denied, almost rejected as he felt himself to be would have prevented him giving an\ subject his attention. 10 A MODERN DICK WUITTINQTON. " I understand he wishes to make the ac- quaintance of my grandfather." At this the young girl burst out laughing ; bright and merry as a bugle horn the music of her merriment clove the air ; it was no guffaw, such as man, coarse man, indulges in when his sense of humour is inordinately tickled, but yet " so clear and far " it sped that it set the echo that lived in the old lichened wall on the other side of the orchard replying to it. " You really think that, do you ? " she ex- claimed, when she got her breath. " Then it will be a sin and a shame indeed, Lorry, if the old fellow leaves you no legacy. Such a com- pliment deserves a codicil all to itself. Is it likely that his High Mightiness Sir Charles Walden, as learned as the Bishop, though he says his prayers backwards, as fastidious as Lord Chesterfield, and a dandy " She suddenly stopped. ' Pray go on," said Lawrence, with his eyes on the ground, and as though all talk was now alike to him; "why don't you complete your description of the gentleman's character?" As she remained dumb, he looked up and saw the reason. Kitty had taken to her heels, and was running down to the gate at the bottom of the orchard like a hare ; but over the wall, within three feet of him, were the head and bust of Sir Charles Walden himself — a phenomenon OVER THE WALL 1! caused by his being on horseback. He had been riding od the turf by the side of the road, which had dulled the noise of Ins approach, and how Long he had been in his presenl position — with his lial off, in courtesy doubtless to the Pair speaker it was impossible to guess. CHAPTER II. THE FRANKNESS OF YOUTH. " Forgive me for my intrusion, Mr. Lawrence, for I fear I have intruded/' said the horseman, with a smile and a bow, but in taking a short cut to your esteemed grandfather's house, I have, as often happens with short cuts, gone a little astray ; perhaps you will kindly put me in the right way." The graciousness of the tone, the polish of the speech, could not have been exceeded ; the face of the speaker, too, beamed with politeness, but there was a twinkle in his eye which to Law- rence was terrible, for it said, " All is known to me, my amorous youth." To young people of the middle-class, every- body with a title, especially in the country, has a certain importance; but upon Lawrence Merri- dew (who was unusually exempt from such weaknesses) the lord lieutenant of the county himself would have made little impression as an involuntary confidante compared with Sir Charles THE /'/; INKNE88 OF YOUTH. 13 Walden, quite aparl from the Fact that he had jusi heard himself called "a dandy' and other injurious epithets. The baronei was a very remarkable persoo indeed, and one whose rani* and wealth formed but a small portion of his eminence. Lawrence, though ii seemed the other knew even his Christian name, had mei him but once on a public occasion —a village flower show — but he knew all about him (or, rather, thought he knew), like everyone else in West Cornwall. As learned, as Kitty had said (only with that unfortunate addition about his prayers), as the Bishop of the diocese, more polite than anyone who had ever been heard of except in books, and fitted equally to shine at a meeting of the Royal Society or in a ball-room, Sir Charles Walden was a recluse, though far, far indeed, from being an ascetic. Il«' was said in one sense — the county sense — to "live alone" at Hurlby Castle, because he discouraged all visitors ; but scandal painted him as by no means without society of a certain kind, and as having more than one reason — indeed, a whole seraglio of them — for seclusion. Nobody knew whether it was true or not, because nobody ever got the chance of knowing. He had been a threat traveller, but lor years had never left his splendid home, though he was understood to still maintain relations with the great world without, including the highest in 14 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. the land ; in what was, comparatively speaking, his youth, he had formed one of her Majesty's Ministers, in a subordinate post, it is true, but filled with such success and completeness as promised the highest honours in the future. At the same time he had been one of the most prominent figures (though not, perhaps, the most popular, for his cynicism forbade it) in society ; the idol of that courtly circle where wit shines the brighter for the atmosphere of dulness in which it shines, and where what is not conventional seems almost to resemble genius ; a patron of the turf ; as audacious at the gaming table (it was said of him) as though he had the Bank of England at his back ; a man of gallantry ; a lover of the muse ; a pamphleteer, and something more, in letters; in short, within limits, an Admirable Crichton. Then suddenly — none knew for certain why, except, of course, that a woman was at the bottom of it— the gay world knew its persona yrata no more. Sir Charles fled the town, and after years of travel buried himself alive in his distant and secluded castle. For the moment his departure made him more talked about than ever, but in a few days his story paled and faded as in a dissolving view, before some other Lon- don scandal, and save in a few discreet boudoirs, or snug smoking-rooms, was discussed no more. Tin: FRANKNESS OF YOUTH. L5 Tn the country, however, it was different. I li- vers Qaughtiness (if he hml been naughty v. an attraction where gossip found so little 1" feed upon. Bluebeard himself, we read, was not un- popular among the county families till the actual revelation of his crimes; and Sir Charles \\ known to be unmarried, which immensely added to his prestige. There were probably very few young ladies in Cornwall who would nol have been prepared to pu1 up with a little eccentricity and to forgive a few vague peccadilloes, in ex- change for thirty thousand a year and a castle, h could not, indeed, be said of Sir Charles, as in the ballad, that he was "over young to man _\ yet," but he was "admirably preserved,'* as if for that very purpose. "A woman," it is said, "is as old as she looks." If that test bad been applied to Sir Charles as he now sat uprighi on bis three-hundred-guinea nag, attired in a perfectly-fitting riding-suit, he was forty-five at most. If be had beeu a labouring man, in smock frock and hobnailed boots, with the usual amount of rbenmat ism about bis bent shoulders, he would have been twenty years older. To Lawrence's eyes this man looked like one who, save for the stroke of death, was above the reach of Fate; he had everything at his com- mand of which be himself had nothing. Power, worship, wealth, accomplishment-, learning, knowledge of mankind ; and he felt nol a little 16 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. complimented that so exalted a personage should have addressed him by his Christian name. The recognition of a face, the recollection of a name, was one of the many gifts of Sir Charles, and one which before now had stood him in good stead. He well understood that the very humblest of human beings has a respect for his own identity, and that a slight is more resented than an insult; for the latter may be given in the heat of passion, whereas the former can only arise from habitual contempt. He had set his foot on many an enemy, but never made one by dis- dain. He was a cynic to his backbone, but he sneered only at principles, not at those who acted on them. His conduct was exactly the reverse of those who "do not speak evil of digni- ties, but of the people who fill them." Such was his attitude to the world at large ; but when he disliked anyone his tongue was a flail. It was never said of him, however, as of many persons, that he was pleasant when pleased, because (which is a very different thing) he was alway pleasant unless displeased ; his charm of manner was inadequately described as capable of "luring the bird from the bough" — it could lure her from her very nest ; he was said to have once extracted five pounds for the poor from the vicar of Hillsland's pocket — a feat which could only be appreciated by those who knew that ecclesi- astic. With the recollection of all these things s III!. FRANKNESS "/• YOUTH. 17 (bill ol tli.it especially) in his mind, Lawrence vaulted lightly over the wall, ami in answer t<> <• put in the way to Hills- land I lull, replied cheerfully, " I am at vour service, Sir Charles." Many a true word is spoken in jest, ami sometimes, as in this case, in mere courtesy. It is curious, considering how lone I have been in this part of the country, that I have never but once been inside your grand- father's bouse," observed the baronet, as they moved on slowly together, his fiery hut well- trained steed at once accommodating itself to the pace of the pedestrian. "But I am as diffi- cult to he drawn from my hermitage as a badger. It struck me as being a very imposing man-ion indeed." : It is big enough," answered the vounsr fellow in a tone the indifference of which bor- dered on contempt. 'And holds a good many people, l under- stand." Oh, yes, it has tenants enough." The tone had now turned absolutely sarcastic, .ind seemed to imply the addition, "and to spare." Why, yon speak of it. ray young friend, as it it was a warren," exclaimed Sir Charles, with .it amusement. ' It is a warren, though it looks like a <: 18 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. a lunatic asylum," returned the other dog- gedly. "Now this is really interesting," said the baronet, as if to himself. " You are the very person of all others, my dear sir, I wanted to meet with ; intelligent, observant, and straight- forward. A little bird has told me all that of you before, and more, but I suspected exaggera- tion." " A little bird ! ' echoed the youth, with a puzzled look. " Well, yes, if an angel, though wingless, may be so termed. It was Miss Ruth Stratton, with whom I had some charming conversation on the same day that I had the pleasure of making your own acquaintance." " It was fortunate for me that it was Cousin Ruth who gave you my character," answered the young fellow. " If it had been any other of my relations (save my dear mother), you would not feel much inclined to be civil to me. " I don't know that ; I am in the habit of judging character for myself," said Sir Charles, smiling. " Moreover, when one man gives an ill report of another, it has to be considered what his opinion is worth. One may say to me, ' So-and-so is an idle young fellow, who will never make sixpence,' for instance, and I may ask myself, 'But bow does he know?' He THE /•/.' INKNES8 OF YOUTH 18 may do1 be very diligeni in his own vocation, and have losl a good many sixpences when he thought bo make t hem himself." "Thai was the parson," observed Lawrence composedly. " Well guessed ; yes? H was the Rev. Arthur Grueby. Why should I nol say so, since so far from the information being given in confidenc it was obviously for distribution. I>nt he is not a relation, I presume; only a candid friend of yours." " Ho is a friend of the family, al all events, a standing; dish at the Hall. 5Tou will be sure to meet him at dinner to-night." " A charming prospecl ! But we were speaking of your relatives, 'a little more than kin and less than kind,' as you tell me, and indeed, thanks to the little bird, I know, of course: I wish to hear no secrets, 1 >u t it' you will give in.' the carte du pays — for th< ood folk are almost entire strangers <<> me, and you and 1 are already friends I feel — I should be infinitely obliged to you. Now, there is your Uncle Robert " "There is, unfortunately, yes," interrupted Lawrence latterly. " So bad as that, is it ? He struck me chiefly (like one better known in society) as being a \i-vy tall man ; 1ml he has doubtless other characteristics." c 2 20 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " I would rather you discovered them for yourself, sir. I cannot trust myself to speak of Robert Stratton as he deserves." The speaker's voice trembled with emotion, the nature of which could be read in his flashing- eyes and knitted brow. Sir Charles leant forward in his saddle and laid his hand gently on his companion's shoulder — " Forgive me, Lawrence, for touching so tender a chord. It is one of the painful riddles of the world that sensitive natures should so often be at the mercy of those of coarser fibre — in other words, of mere brutes. It happens, however, constantly to the female sex, and they give us a noble example of patience and endur- ance. That is a philosophic reflection, you may well observe, that can do no good to anybody ; let us rather hope that a time may come when you may have an opportunity of re- paying this gentleman for his many obliga- tions. Now as to grandpapa, who is nominally, at least, my host ; what am I likely to make of him ? ' "I know nothing about him," replied Law- rence indifferently, " except that he wears a long white beard and a skull-cap, and looks Like a magician. He is much too great a per- sonage to trouble himself about my existence. I have hardly seen him a do/en times in my life." THE FBANKNE88 OF YOUTH. l\ " W'liat ! Not seen pour own grandfather who lives under the same roof? " Not t hree 1 imes for I he last months." "This is really delightful," said Sir Charles, with an air of exceeding relish. " I wouldn'1 have missed it for worlds. By-the-bye, L hope I shall uol miss your grandfather; it was tin- prospect of his societ} with which your uncle lured me to Billsland." "Oh, he'll see you quick enough, no doubt. It is only that it is not worth his while to see people generally, but secludes himself in his own apartments. He was ;i very greal man in the East, it seem . indeed." "Really! Not the Grand Llama, surely? He keeps himself to himself Like that." "He was ;i Commissioner, 1 believe." " A commissionaire ? ' "No, no," answered the young- fellow, laughing in spite of himself; it was difficult to be cheerless and despondent in Sir Charles's company. "He was the Governor el' some Indian province, and he can never forget it. He thinks that all of us ought to salaam and prostrate ourselves before him." " And do yon ? ,: "Those who are admitted to his presence approach it. 1 believe, on all fours; that is 22 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. one of the reasons which makes exile from it tolerable to me." " And has he no favourites ? " "Yes, Ruth enjoys that distinction." " It is not surprising ; she is a charming young woman." "Yes, but what is remarkable, she actually likes hi in. I say to her sometimes, ' You will be liking Uncle Robert next.' " "And what does she say to that?' " Oh, then she only laughs ; because, of course, such a thing is impossible." " But there is a Mrs. Robert Stratton, is there not ? Doesn't she like her husband ? " " Adores him." "Come, that shows there must be some good in your uncle, after all." "Not at all. It only shows my aunt is a fool." " Well, upon my life, young gentleman, for candour " "I beg your pardon, and her. pardon," put in Lawrence impulsively. " I had no right to say anything of the kind. The notion of people liking Uncle Robert puts me out of all patience with them ; but his wife is delicate and tender-hearted, and believes in her hus- band, who I must say takes a great deal of care of her, though doubtless for some wicked end." THE FRANKNESS OF 701 III. 23 "You are a good hater, Master Lawrence," said Sir Charles, wit 1 1 a keen glance al his young companion. " I have good cause to be," replied t In- young fellow curtly. "There is the Hall, upon your left." CHAPTEE III. FATHER AND SON. Whatever might be said against Hillsland Hall, it bad certainly size to recommend it ; no one could call it "a one-horse affair," or even a pair-horse ; it was a four-horse van — a caravan — of the first magnitude. As to its architecture, it bad something to suit almost every taste, and a great deal that suited none. It was com- menced by Mr. Stratton's orders, so that when he arrived in England he should find a mansion suitable to his position and requirements, and the architect who had been entrusted with it had, perhaps in obedience to his patron's injunctions that it should be " light and airy," leant to the Italian style. It was a palace with a verandah running round it, a hall of great splendour in its cen- tre paved with exquisite mosaic, and as many apartments, all more or less draughty, as an American hotel. The Commissioner had so far approved, but requested that something should be FATHER AND SON. imparted 1" it to remind the beholder "I the gorgeous East. Whereupon certain minarets had been erected side by side with the campa- nula, and so much more air introduced that when tlif shivering proprietor came home to it he found it utterly uninhabitable. Thenanother archited was called in, who, if he could have had his will, would not have Lefl one stum- upon another, but who was obliged t.. content him- self with fronting the pile anew, so that it had the resemblance of a gigantic toy, enclosed, for purposes of travel, in a Gothic box. But even that did not keep the draughts from being too much for the Commissioner's delicate frame ; he had forgotten during his gilded exile whal the English climate was, even in Cornwall, and it was brought to his remembrance in a very un- pleasant manner. So that within his castle he had, as it were, built another lor warmth and comfort — which afterwards turned out very use- ful tor seclusion — a suite of rooms, guarded by double doors hung with heavy curtains, and paved with carpets on which a horse soldier could have galloped without making the least noise. At first he had gone about a bit, in fear, hut of late years had been confined almost entirely to these apartments by age, infirmity, or as some said, by sheer ill-temper at finding himself held by his neighbours in such small account. When this Satrap had taken the air in his 26 A MODERN DICK WHIT TING TON. own province, a thousand dusky forms bad pros- trated themselves before him in token of their awe and submission ; whereas at Hillsland, ii some rustic pulled his forelock in acknowledg- ment of bis presence, it was the most he could expect. Often as not, Hodge only wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and remarked to his fellow, " That there's the naybob, Jim ; him as used to ride a helefant." In former days a languid clap of his hands would be re- sponded to " with obedient start ' by a score of servitors ; now it only brought old Hassam, the only native who had followed his fortunes, to his master's side. On the other hand, it must be confessed that the ex-Commissioner was very much " looked up to " (not perhaps in a moral sense, but as from low to higher, not to say highest) by his family, which were numerous and of unusually varied stocks. His word was law to them when he condescended so low as to give them a word, which was very seldom. What he had to say in the way of direction and command was said by deputy, through his only surviving son, Mr. Robert Stratton. This gentleman was his father's right-hand man in every department of life ; even his ad- viser, though he would never have been so foolish as to hint as much ; the ex-Commissioner was the Sultan, with the power of life and death, as it were, over all his belongings, and / M'lir.i; AND SON. 27 Ins s far as his master knew to tin' contrary, absolutely complete j and then those extraordinary ones which seemed to require tact and delicacy he performed too, only without them. For example, he was his lather's almoner ; every relative who had his home at the Hall — or rather, called it home, for the word was certainly a misnomer — -was wholly de- pendent upon its lord and master, and none ever received their doles without Mr. Robert remind- ing them of the fact that it was the bread of dependence. He himself, though it was whis- pered he took good care that his own services were well remunerated, was under no obligation in this respect. He was not indeed rich in his own right, and to say truth had at one time been in very low water indeed ; but before the tide had left him absolutely bare and dry he had had the luck to marry an heiress. This had been the initial factor in the ex-Com- missioner's respect for him ; to find one of his family doing well for himself had tilled him with astonishment and admiration; and having once got his foot in the door that led to the old man's confidence, Robert had pushed liis way ill. The two were closeted together, when their 28 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. expected visitor and Lawrence Merridew came in sight of the Hall, in the ex-Commissioner's sanctum. It was a moderate-sized apartment, bnt furnished with much luxury and even mag- nificence. On the ceiling's lustrous blue were painted Eastern birds of gorgeous hue, which seemed to wing their native skies ; on the tall screens that fenced the occupant from every draught were depicted the sports or pursuits in which he had taken part when engaged in shaking the pagoda tree, a tiger hunt, or a battue of peacocks, the procession of some native prince, or an Indian durbar. The walls were hung with shining spears, matchlocks inlaid with silver, and daggers, their handles rough with gold and bright with jewels. The air of the room was not only oppressively warm to persons in good health, but heavy with the scent of sandal-wood, of which most of the furniture was composed. The habitual tenant of this chamber was as alien-looking and foreign to our idea of what is English as its contents. He was an old man, as his silver hair and long white beard testified, but a still more convincing witness was the network of wrinkles that covered his sunburnt face from brow to chin ; so fine and so numerous were they that they produced the effect of an exquisitely delicate and elaborate tattoo. But under his still black brows his dark eyes sparkled }^et, and spoke /• I /•///•'/,• AND SON. 29 of the vigour and vitality that were Left in him. He was attired in a flowing dressing-gown of richest silk which, as he lay propped up by cushions on an ebony couch, reached to his . scarlel slipper; on his head was a hlack skull- cap, and between his bloodless lips the amber mouthpiece <>(" a hookah which, with coil on coil, like a serpehl shining in the sun, wound itself at last into a glass receptacle at his feet. Only when he spoke was the monotonous '■ hubble- bubble ' of the instrument, to which air and tire and water all contributed, intermitted ; it seemed a pari of its proprietor's breathing appa- ratus, and to go on for " ever." In Front of his skull-cap sparkled a huge diamond; on his Ion--, brown fingers were rings of the same precious stones ; lie was immensely fat, and around his middle was a cord of tassel led silk that looked like a girdle of gold. Upon the whole he looked more like some pagod than a man at all, and the more so from the strong contrast his appearance presented to that of his companion and only son. Robert Stratton was tall and somewhat spare, I, m| vrery powerfully built. As a young man — and he was now hut middle-aged with brown hair still clustering over his forehead untinged with grey — he must have been handsome, and mierht have been so still hut tor a saturnine ami almost sinister expression that marred hi -a- 30 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. tares. Even when he smiled this did not wholly disappear. It is a provision of nature that after the exercise of certain qualities for a long term of years, they are to be read in a man's face, for the warning or encouragement of his fellows ; on the other hand nature, careful of the tiger as of the lamb, helps him, when the im- pression produced is bad, to counteract their effect. Mr. Robert Stratton had, when he chose to use it, a melodious voice, which, coming from one of his stature, seemed itself an affability, and which, with those who had not the ill-fortune to know him, often disarmed suspicion. Indeed, in one case at least, where, if anywhere, one would have thought he was well known — that of his wife — it altogether redeemed him. The soft nothings which he had indulged in before marriage were still whispered into the same ears, and believed by them, as then, to have a genuine significance. This gentleness of speech, how- ever, which when employed in her case was merely a safeguard, became to others a weapon of offence more terrible than the loudest tonmie, and he made use of it habitually, even in anger. He is standing with his back to the fire — for the fire, like the vestal flame, burns perpetually in the old Indian's room — but not, as would have been the case elsewhere, with his coat-tails under his arms ; it would have been an attitude too easy, and savouring of disrespect in the presence FATHER AND SON 81 of one so exalted as the ex-Commissioner. Mr. Roberi never forgot the subject in the son. " He is sure not to disappoint us, I suppose," the old man was saying, with the frown that had ploughed those parallel lines on his wrinkled brow. " I should hope, indeed, sir, he would not venture upon such a proceeding. li is true Sir Charles is said to be the ereature of caprice, hut he would surely think twice — and thrice — before treating a man of your position with such disrespect. Moreover, he expressed to me at tie' flower-show the very great pleasure with which he looked forward to making your acquaintance ; 'A man,' he said, 'of unique attainments and quite exceptional administrative capacity. 1 aever leave my hermitage,' he added, 'as you know, to mingle in ordinary society, but your lather is no ordinary man.' All this was delivered in a mellifluous tone, but so distinct that not a word was lost, though it was clear from the other's putting a hollowed hand up to his ear that his hearing had some- what failed him. At every complimentary observation tin 1 small cap nodded courteous approval, and the hubble-bubble seemed to breathe satisfaction. " Jt is something," tin' old gentleman re- plied, " lo find one's efforts in a distant land, and on behalf of another race, appreciated by 32 A MODERN DICK WH1TTLXGT0N. such a student of mankind as Sir Charles Walden. You think, however, there may have been another attraction for him at Hillsland." "A secondary one, yes; Biith certainly seemed to take his fancy." " It is no wonder ; her mother was very handsome ; and she has also a resemblance to poor Cyril." There was a silence for once, the hubble- bubble ceased, the amber mouthpiece of the nargileh had dropped unnoticed from the smoker's lips. Kobert Stratton's hand went up to the smooth shaven face to hide the sneer which every reference to his dead brother always evoked ; he was jealous of him though he had been so long in his grave ; jealous of the place he still held in his father's memory ; jealous of the orphan daughter whose beauty, gentleness, and courage endeared her to all in that many- peopled house save him. CHAPTER IV. HOW THE DINNEB PARTI WAS ARRANGED. " Who was with you at the flower-show beside Ruth?" inquired the ex-Commissioner, after a Long pause. "-lane." " Uniph ! ' The monosyllable was somehow no! complimentary to Jane. The tone in which it was uttered seemed to imply that if there was another attraction at Mil Island Hall beside its proprietor and his granddaughter it was not likely to be Jane. She was, nevertheless, an important personage there ; next to her father and her brother Robert, the most important, and one who, since she managed and supervised the whole household, it was even more expedient to be on good terms with, if possible ; but this was not ca-v to accomplish. The other daughters of the house, Mrs. Merridew and Mrs. Lock, were both widows; hut th.\ had at one time of course possessed husbands, which had not happened to their elder D 34 A MODERN DlCK WHITT1NGT0N. sister, and that circumstance, some said, had soured her. But this explanation was only given by charitable persons, who had had no experience of Jane before she became of a marriageable age. She had been always sour ; a crab-apple to begin with, of which no amount of skill and culture could have made a sweet apple. There was nothing about her like an apple ; she was more like a pear — a prickly one — which, let it hang as long as it will, never grows mellow. She had been hanging for nearly forty years, and only grew harder and harder. " It would have been better to let Mrs. Merridew chaperon Ruth," continued the old man, with irritation; "the child is never like herself — that is, at her best — with Jane. She should have been accompanied by someone for whom she has a liking." "Lawrence was with her. " I thought you said there was no one but you there," exclaimed the old man angrily. " Why do you attempt to deceive me? ' " I should not be so foolish as to do that, sir, even if I were wicked enough," returned the other, smiling. " When I said nobody, save us three, were present on the occasion to which you refer, 1 had forgotten Lawrence, who, in fact, is nobody." " He is my grandson." " But unworthy, as you yourself have said, EOW THE DINNER PARTY WAS ARRANGER 35 sir," replied the other hastily, "to be remem- bered as such." " Remembered? \\'li\- do you say remem- bered? 1 In his indignation tl Id gentleman turned his slippered Beei off the sofa (as if they, too, had offended him), and sal up. "Yon are t hinking of my will." This was a subject, it was true, thai was very often in Mr. Robert Stratton's thoughts ; hut at thai moment nothing was further from them ; a more groundless accusation was never made r You shock me, sir; you positively shock me," he replied with emotion. " 11' I used an in- appropriate term y<.u should remember that it is not every one who has the gift of expressing themselves in the fittest words as you have. I am surely not fco blame, considering the unduti- lul and thankless manner in which the boy has behaved to you, for forgetting your relationship; whenever I see him, I say to myself (thinking of your goodness and the return it has met with) can that be your grandson? " ' I don't wonder at it, when you let him go about in clothes that would disgrace a s< avenerer ' My grandson ! Why, he looks more like my cow-boy. 'But nobody ever sees him," objected Mr. Robert gently. ' /see him — or. ;i( least, I saw him three or four days ago— from this very window." d 2 36 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. This argument was unanswerable. It would have been very true, but very injudicious, to have observed that Mr. Stratton had seen hist grandson a good many times in very indifferent apparel, without the circumstance attracting his attention. As he ignored his existence, it was only reasonable to conclude that he ignored his clothes ; but opposition was a thing that the ex- Commissioner detested only less than any refer- ence to his own demise. That unhappy word, " remembered " had filled him with indignation, which, curiously enough, was taking the un- expected direction of a fashionable fit-out for Lawrence Merridew. " Has he no other clothes than those dis- reputable rags in which he met my eye_? " in- quired the old gentleman, now almost foaming at the mouth. " Certainly, sir, he has his Sunday suit, which I will take care he wears till others have been provided for him ; I need not say that when he went to the flower-show lie was suitably appareled." " I hope so, indeed. Why, suppose Sir Charles was to see him as I saw him ! ' " That, sir," said Mr. Robert earnestly (it was the very moment in which the expected guest had arrived with Lawrence on the hill- top), "is to the last degree unlikely ; but I will take steps to render it impossible. j) nOW THE DINNER Iwiri'Y WAS ARRANGED. 37 "All the preparations for Sir Charles's re- ceptioii have, I conclude, been made. Robert." "You may resi assured of that, sir; I do not think, so far as his comforts are concerned, that be will find anything to make him regret Ins visit. "Thegreai point is, however, that he may he induced !•> repeat it. Whatever caprice he exhibits -and I am told lie is full of caprices — must of course be indulged. His likes and dis- likes should he very carefully attended to." "I have made his character my study, sir, from the moment that your intelligence sug- gested to me the advantage of his alliance. His aversion to society, for example, has caused me to invite — that is, in your name, of course -no one to meet him to-night except Grrueby." "And why Grrueby? 1 thought Sir Charles disliked parsons ? ' "Well, you see, Grueby is not very much like a parson ; indeed, he is rather, so to speak, on the other side, and he knows about sporting matters, in which Sir Charles takes some inte- rest. They are also already acquainted." " Do you think that an advantage — to Grueby ? " inquired the old gentleman cunningly. Mr. Robert's huge frame shook with ad- miring laughter. " Capital, capital ! " he splut- tered. "How rare is the gifj of humour! What Bagacity, too — what knowledge of human 157369 38 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. life ! ' : Then, with an effort after seriousness, " Grueby, of course, does not recommend him- self to you, sir, but there are natures — and high ones, too — that love to stoop. I think Sir Charles takes pleasure in the man." " Well, well," returned the other, much mollified, " so long as you don't put me next to him. By-the-bye, how have you arranged that matter? I mean the dinner- table. Sir Charles will be on my right hand, of course." " Most certainly — when the ladies have with- drawn." At that pause there was a struggle in the hubble-bubble as though it were choking. " I have the list here," continued Robert, pulling a paper from his pocket, and fixing his eyes on it with great earnestness, to avoid the glare of indignation with which he was well aware he was being regarded. " Our guest, of course, must have a lady on either side of him, lie will take my wife in to dinner." " I thought she was indisposed — too delicate and that sort of thing for dinner parties," growled the old gentleman. " That is so ; but on an occasion of this kind, in which, as she has been told, you feel a par- ticular interest, she will not shrink from a little exertion. It was her own proposal." " I don't believe a word of it," cried the ex- Commissioner. " Man proposes and disposes too HOW THE DINNER PARTY WAS ARRANGED. in your case. H was her husband who pul it into her head, I II warrant ." " It was indeed I who mentioned to her the possible importance of the entertainment," ob- served Mr. Robert softly; " hut she herself at uiicc expressed her willingness to further its intention. "'I am not so ill,' she said, "hut that I can do somel hing.' "Humph! it won't be much, then; parties arc not in her way. She's an invalid." If the ex-Commissioner had said, "She is sure to get drunk," his tone could not have expressed greater dissatisfaction. "Now, Mrs. Merridew has been used to society — the ver\ t." "Let us hope so, since she paid such a price for it," answered the other drily. "My wife, however, has not been unaccustomed to see quite as eminent persons as Sir Charles Walden at her father's table. It he did not represent his borough in Parliament himself, he returned the man that did." "Shoddy, my dear Robert, shoddy; there is something in social position that no money can buy. You may have lakhs and lakhs of rupees, hut it' you arc uncovenanted, where are you? I have not, however, a word to saj against Mrs. Robert, if you can keep her oil' her symptoms and her remedies ; but I will not have her emptying her medicine chest over any guest of 40 A MODEBN LICK WHITTINGTON. mine. Well, on the other side of Sir Charles you will put Buth of course." " Indeed, sir, I think that would be hardly judicious. She is very young, and has no right to any such position." " What, my granddaughter, and the daughter of my eldest son, no right ? Then I should like to see the girl who had rights." " I was merely referring to her tender years, sir. It is not usual — at least in this country, where infant marriages are discouraged — to place the guest of the evening next a young, un- married girl. It would also have an undesirable significance. Mrs. Merridew is, as you were observing, in every way qualified to be Sir Charles's left-hand neighbour." " Well, well, arrange it as you please. We shall be but a small party, and all pretty close together. With Jane I make eight of us at present. Is that right ? ' " Quite right, sir. One less than the Muses is, I believe, the orthodox prescription for a dinner party. With Aunt Jerry we should be one too many, and for other reasons she had better be out of it." " Aunt Jerry is certainly not much like a Muse," admitted the ex-Commissioner. " Unless it is the Muse of Ancient History," smiled Mr. Robert; "she seems to remember nothing that did not happen thirty years ago." ROW THE DINNER PARTY WAS IRRANQED. II " Things were better worth remembering then than tln'v arc now," observed the other aententiously. Mr. Roberl looked up in sur- prise ; it was rarely indeed thai his fatber ever gave way to sentiment. "I can recall Aunt Jerry, as you call her," he wenl on, with a look that seemed to search tbe past, "as pretty as Ruth. Lock, too, was a handsome young fellow, and wben he married her was counted cue of the richesl men in the count v." " He mighl have kept his money, too," ob- served Robert, with a keen glance of significance at his father, "bu1 for his thinking that 'Tom Tiddler's ground was underground instead of above it." "There arc mines and mines," observed the old gentleman coolly, "and even in lead mines there are chances of recovery. The Common \\ heal, for example, was said to be exhausted in Lock's time and now it kids fair to head the market. He was an unfortunate fellow in every- thing excepl his marriage, was Lock." ' And thai was very unfortunate for us," re- marked Mr. Roberi acidly. " I can imagine a man who has little to lose of his own taking greai risks, hut for a man of means to run the chance of beggary in the hopes of getting a little richer is in my opinion the act of a. madman." " Thai sounds very well, and would look 42 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. very nice in a copy-book, Robert ; it is a pity you bave no children to profit by your moral reflections. By-the-bye, there is the boy Law- rence ; wbat is to be done with him to-night? " "He will dine with Aunt Jerry in her own apartments, and so be kept out of the way." CHAPTEE V. LAWRENCE \M» HIS RELATIVES. Y<>\m:!! is the carriage, with my rascal Thorn- ton behind it," exclaimed Sir Charles, as Law- rence and he looked down on the Hall from the hill-top. ■• Your people will be wondering wli\ I have not already made m\ appearance, so with your good leave and many thanks for your guidance we will part company for the present. It is just as well, perhaps, that you and I should not be known as friends. " It was an act of consideration -and some- thing mor< — that his companion thoroughly appreciated, for thereby Sir Charles ool only showed that he understood his young friends position in the household, hut declared himself his ally. Where he was mistaken, as Lawrence bitterly reflected, was in his expectation thai they should soon meet again, as, for instance, at the dinner table. lie knew, as well as though he had been presenl at the interview then going on between his grandfather and his Uncle 44 A MODERN DIOK WHITTINGTON. Robert, that he would not he one of the guests. Though twenty years of age, and much better fitted for companionship than anyone within ten miles of Hillsland, Lawrence generally dined early, like a child, and had supper by himself, or sometimes a " meat tea " with Aunt Jerry ; this was not for economy or convenience, but simply an arrangement of Uncle Robert's designed for the humiliation of the boy ; it failed in its intent, for Lawrence much preferred to take his evening meal, as he would have preferred to take every other, apart from his enemy, and he had so much else and worse to resent in his kinsman's conduct towards him that this slight seemed but a flea-bite. How a hatred between two human beings first begins (on one side) it is sometimes difficult to discover ; there are such layers and layers of it as time goes on that what cast the original shade — though it was at the time distinct enough — has become ^indistinguishable. We talk of death ending such dislikes, and it may be so in the case of the one who is first to go, for " in the grave," we are told, " there is no remem- brance " ; but it is not so in that of the other. In some cases, and subject to religious influence, he may forgive, or think that he forgives, but even ii' he would he cannot forget. It is not in human nature. There had probably never been a time when Robert Stratton had not disliked LA WHENCE AND HIS EELA I l\ I. r. lii- nephew, Lawrence Merridew. His father had been a Guardsman, and Robert's social superior; lor a lew years he had been looked up to as a feather in the cap of the family. They had not grudged him the money lie look out of it as his wife's dower, because they thought they would have receiveni. ill persona] humiliations as excluding him from the late dinner party, had confined himself to striking at Lawrence through his mother, a mode of attack which involved the minimum of danger while inflicting the maximum of pain. Mrs. Merridew, though far from a wise woman, as her marriage had shown, had I d at one time as engaging in manners as sin- was attractive in person. To say that then' had been no one in the Family who could vie with her in high spirits and conversation was no high compliment, for they were a dull lot; hut she had been the light, not only of the Ball, but of the neighbourhood. Now all her gaiety had fled, or rather, what remained of it had done so -for her nature was elastic and could have borne anything hut the dead weighl of contempl and neglect that had been imposed on it — bad died out, spark alter spark. The one joy left her in life was her Lorry; and Lawrence, she was told, was worthless and a ne'er-do-well. II r sister, Miss .lane, had detected this fact even earlier than her brother Robert, and neither of them hesitated to communicate to her the dis- covery [f he was so clever, they said, how was it that he had not distinguished himself at the school to which his grandfal her had so generouslj 48 A MODERN DICK WH1TTINGT0N. sent him? It was not an expensive school, but it was quite true that but for the ex-Com- missioner's aid, Mrs. Merridew would have found a difficulty in giving the lad an education at all. Why had he not got a scholarship and gone to college, and maintained himself like other clever boys, instead of being a burthen on his mother ? She did not feel him to be a burthen, far from it, but the epithet stung her to the quick, as it was meant to do. She had no choice but to leave the lad and his future in their cruel hands. It had finally been decided that in a few months Lawrence was to go out to Singapore, where his grandfather's influence had obtained for him a clerkship in some commercial firm. It was an employment far from suitable to him, but " beggars must not be choosers," as Miss Jane had put it with her usual frankness. In that great house there were several persons who pitied his lot, and the misery which his exile would entail upon his mother, but they were powerless to avert it. All the servants adored Master Lorry, who had a smile and a kind word for everybody ; and they liked him none the less because they knew he was no favourite with Uncle Robert and Aunt .lane Perhaps his most powerful ally was Mrs. Robert, who had actually expressed an opinion that the lad was harshly treated; but her husband had only smiled and patted her cheek, and said that she I. A WEENOE AND HIS RELATIVE \S was too gentle and kind for this world, and did not know what was good for those casl in a rougher mould ; as for fretting about the young fellow going so far away, as she seemed almost inclined to do (lor she was easily moved to tears), lie was obliged to remind her thai the doctors had all warned her againsl fretting. The recollection of this circumstance and the convic- tion of her husband's solicitude about her, had reduced her sympathies for her sister-in-law and her child within very reasonable limits. She was an invalid, as the master of the house had termed her, of a very inoffensive but pronounced kind. The state of her own constitution was the paramount consideration with her, and though she was only "delicate," and seldom actually ill, she would perhaps have hardly welcomed a state of rude health, even had it been within her reach. Sbe was accustomed to a hot- house existence, and preferred the care and petting it procured her, to being let alone ami the open air. Aunt deny, too, had a tenderness lor Law- rence, which was, however, of little use to him, and was set down by her more able-minded relatives as a proof of her imbecility. If he could be said to have a champion it was Ruth, though she had learnt by experience to conceal, for his own sake, the affection with which she regarded hiin. When they were E 50 A MODERN DICK WEITTINGTON. children together she had often flamed up in generous indigation at the harshness with which the boy was treated. Only a year or two ago, indeed, she had spoken some very bitter words to her uncle on the subject, which had done the object of her compassion far more harm than good; but she had now schooled herself to hold her tongue about him, though at times she was near biting it through in keeping that enforced silence. The knowledge of the girl's sympathy, though he knew but the tenth part of it, was very welcome to the young fellow ; and his mother's love, though she never dared to reveal it save when they were alone, compensated him for much ; but what made life at the Hall less intolerable to him, and the thoughts of his approaching exile more hateful than aught else, was the neighbourhood of Kate Salesby. Only one person, save herself, was cognisant of this fact — and it was not Mrs. Merridew. That the lad should think of falling in love was too monstrous a piece of impertinence to be suspected by the higher powers at the Hall ; if he was not well content with having a roof over his head, and a " meat tea" every day, and clothing a Tier a fashion (though a good deal after the fashion), he must have been an instate indeed: the onlv object of his ambition ought by rights to be to relieve his grandfather of the expense he was LAWRENCE \M> EIB RELATIVES 51 putting him to, and to earn his own living as soon as possible, no matter in how remote a portion of the globe. Thai he had objects of Interest of liis own, in literature and the like, was unknown <<> them, and would no1 have been understood il' il had been known. At the besl it would only have excited sonic scornful merri- ment. NCithcr his uncle nor his aunl would have murdered Lorry in cold blood, but a ver\ little extra provocation would have probably inclined (hem to do so, if the crime could have 1 n committed with perfect impunity — a con- dition of affairs that exists in disunited families lnneh oftener than is supposed. Superficial Christianity, the glaze of civilisation, and above all the fear of punishment, keep hate and cruelty among US within certain hounds, but the savage is indigenous here as in Terra del Fuego. It has been cynically observed that the worm will not turn if you tread upon him hard enough, but this depends upon the nature of the worm; in some of that species there is a great deal of \ itality. No one in possession of the facts could accuse Uncle Robert and Aunt .lane of too much tenderness in this respect ; they had not treated their worn!, as I/aak Walton did, "as if they. loved him " ; they had put their heels on him so hard, and with such persistency, that it was a wonder that there was even a wriggle left in him --but there was a wriggle. The cause of E 2 52 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. tins, which they were far indeed from suspecting, was that much as their victim hated them, lie despised them more. It was curious, but though subject to such a persistent persecution as might well have given their victim a conviction of their superiority, Lawrence Merridew knew himself to be a head and shoulders above both of them, and was conscious of a sense of power, which, though ludicrous enough under the circumstances, enabled him to suffer and still be strong-. For one of his years he had what is termed "the literary gift " in a marked degree, and what sometimes, though not always, accompanies it, a confidence in himself, which though often con- founded with conceit, and indeed is called " con- founded conceit," is something quite different from it. However contemptible, indeed, it may seem to others, to the possessor it is priceless. Sensitive as his organisation may be, and gene- rally is, it enables him — while it lasts — to face the whips and scorns of the world in quite a surprising manner, as though it were some patent invention for hardening it, and makes his satin skin almost pachydermatous. The worst disadvantage at which Lawrence Merridew was placed Avas that hitherto he had no one to sympathise with his literary aspira- tions ; the two who loved him were unable to do so, and perceiving this he had shrunk from seeking sympathy. Help was coming to him in LAWRENOE .1 \l> HIS UELA in E8. this matter, though asyel he knew il not, and in other matters also, though bhese, too, wen- beyond his ken. He Felt, indeed, thai Sir Charles Walden was friendly inclined towards him ; bul lie little eruessed how Favourable was the im- pression that his looks and manners, and especially the reckless frankness with which he had spoken of his own position, had mad' upon his new acquaintance. CHAPTER VI. INTRODUCTIONS. Even to the eyes of its present visitor, well accustomed to the dwellings of the great, every- thing at Hillsland Hall was upon a large scale, and astonished him by its unnecessary mag- nitude. " It is like the Pyramids," was the baronet's mental reflection, " much too big for burying people in, even though as in this case they are alive." The mansion, indeed, was any- thing but homelike, and suggested a mausoleum, while its tenants struck him as being possessed of very little vitality. The Hall was enormous, and could have held half the county ; and the drawing-room was of similar dimensions to that of a London club, but very differently furnished. Besides being crowded with every description of arm-chair and ottoman, it was full of Eastern knick-knacks, inlaid tables, screens of marvellous delicacy, and boxes of exquisite workmanship, from which emanated odours that made you faint. There were 1 em pies of ivory, not much / \ CEODX < I WNS. 55 smaller than their originals, and ivory chessmen almost the size of real men. While Sir Charles was regarding bhese things with approving looks, he was saying bo himself — " It looks like a blessed bazaar in which everything is for sal*', and for not one single article would I give sixpence, except for these chessmen." His host, in evening apparel, but still with his black cap on, was explaining how he had won the men from the Rajah of Radenpoor at the game itself. " And whai did you stake on your side?" ' I think it was 10,000 rupees," returned the old gentleman Loftily. "The Rajah was annoyed, of course, but. as he often played at chess with n al ;n. q, on the squares of his audience chamber, and had plenty of them, I felt that I was not depriving him of his amusement." Sir Charles regarded his host with the ad- miration due to a first-class liar. "It must have been a very interesting contest," he murmured. "Life in India is interesting to those who deal with it on a large scale," returned the ex- Commissioner. "Things in England appear dwarfed by comparison." Here Miss .lane entered the room, who was certainly not one of the things. She was almost as tall, though much more spare than her brother Robert; she had a habit of sniffing disapproval 56 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. at everything, and was unable to refrain from doing so now at Sir Charles, but he fortunately set it down to the sandal wood and other scents with which the atmosphere was laden. He had already been introduced to her, but not, of course, in her evening costume, which accen- tuated what was amiss with her, as it always does with scraggy women. She looked like a lay figure such as artists use, very angular and awkward ; but her face, notwithstanding her thin lips, and eyes of pale blue, had plenty of un- pleasant expression in it. " Your father has been showing me his beautiful chessmen," said Sir Charles ; "they fill me with envy." " I suppose they are very fine," she replied ; " considering what they cost they ought to be." The situation was a little embarrassing, till the ex-Commissioner had explained in a low tone and with a significant smile that the true history of the transaction had been unrevealed to his offspring, lest they should imagine their parent had had gambling proclivities. "As a matter of fact," he said, "though it was not worth while to trouble you with it, the whole affair had a diplomatic origin. In dealing with native princes But here is Ruth ; you remember meeting my granddaughter at the bazaar the other day." " Having once seen Miss Ruth Stratton it is I \ VRODl I il"\ 3. 57 not likely thai one should forge! her," said Sir Charles, with a grave bow; the compliment wi robbed of its artificiality by the earnest and respectful tone in which it was pronounced ; and indeed it was a statement that •» v«>u mean the vicar?" asked the widow, with simplicil v. ' Well, the word, 1 in i isl confess, did not describe him with accuracy ; yes, 1 meant Grueby; he is a clergyman, you know." '" llf is not very ^ood friends with my poor Lawrence," said Mrs. Merridew, whose mind was wnni i,) occupy itself with one subject at a time, and lost itself if led astray from it. " His positioD gives him opportunities " ' Preaches against him from the pulpit, docs he? " interrupted Sir Charles, laughing softly. " Well, he did say something once, at Robert's instigation, about Lawrence's opinions ; it seemed hard that one so young should be held up as it were to the disapproval of a whole congregration. Mr. Percy, of Binstead, thinks quite differently of Lorry." " Well, well, Percy is a Christian and a gen- tleman, and we must make allowances for those who arc neither," returned the baronet with charitable unction. " Perhaps you do not know, Mrs. Merridew, that your boy's father and I were in the same regiment together? " " I knew it very well, Sir Charles, but since you didn't allude to it, it was not for m< " She stopped, then added in broken tones, " All those days are past and gone." u 68 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. It was easy to see that they were. There had been a time, her neighbour remembered, when Colonel Merridew, of the Guards, was a personage in London, and the worn and weary, but still comely woman beside him, a toast. The colonel had soon come to the end of his tether, which, as has been said, had included his wife's money as well as his own, but his down- ward career had been brilliant as that of a comet. " There is something in your boy that reminds me of his father," said Sir Charles musingly, and purposety ignoring his companion's emotion ; " he is frank and high-spirited, and even under very serious difficulties keeps his light heart." " And then Lorry is so clever," murmured the widow earnestly, " he writes such beautiful poetry, and stories, and things." For the moment, in her maternal enthusiasm, she had forgotten she was a domestic nobody talking of a penniless boy. " What is Mrs. Merridew so eloquent about, Sir Charles? " inquired Mrs. Robert in her thin invalid tone, with a squeeze of lemon in it. " One cannot get in a word edgeways." The widow turned pale with terror ; if Sir Charles should reveal the subject of their conver- sation, she was lost indeed. " I am afraid it was my fault, Mrs. Robert," he replied, dropping his voice to a whisper, " I AT TEE DINNER TABLE. 68 was so indiscreet as fco venture on the topic of old times." "And that, no doubt, unsealed the fountain of reminiscence," she answered laughing, "poor .Mrs. Merridew is a little weak on that subject, and those who know her are careful to avoid it." ' She has a son, has she not? " inquired Sir Charles indifferently. "Oh, yes. It is wonderful she has not talked to you about him. lie live- with us, you know, though he is soon going to Seringapatam — no, it is Singapore, by-the-bye — where his grandfather has obtained him a situation." 'Then he is almost grown up, 1 suppose — indeed, I now recollect having seen him at the bazaar the other day." 'It is very good of you to remember him. I really know nothing against him, but I am afraid — at least my husband tells me he has no great hopes of him." "A mauvais sujet? " "I should not like to say that ; but he bias thrown away his opportunities at school and so on. " Perhaps the poor boy is stupid." "No; he is not exactly that; he has even talents of a certain kind, I believe, but — if you are wondering th.it you do not see him here " "Not at all," interrupted Sir Charles, - I led sure there must be some good reason." 70 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " Well, Robert thinks — and he generally knows best, I find — >that Lawrence — his name is Lawrence — is not quite — I dare hardly whisper it, lest Mrs. M , poor thing, should hear me, and we know what a motlier always thinks of her boy " Sir Charles nodded adhesion ; his maternal instincts were at least as strong, he said to him- self, as Mrs. Robert's. "Well, Robert doesn't think the boy quite gentlemanlike." " Dear, dear." Sir Charles clucked regret with his tongue, an operation which, combined with the thought of Robert Stratton being a judge of gentlemanliness, almost suffocated him. "That's bad; because his father was certainly one." " So I have heard," said Mrs. Robert frigidly, " but he was also a gambler." " Does Lawrence gamble ? " " Well, he has nothing to gamble with," returned the lady naively; "but Robert says he is reckless." " I am sorry," said Sir Charles gravely. " I should like to have seen him, for the sake of old times ; but I don't want to be corrupted." " Oh, he won't do that, I'm sure," she answered encouragingly. " The poor lad is nobody's enemy but his own. If you would really like to see something of him, I'll speak to Robert." I /' 77//: DINNER TABLE. 71 "Thanks. Not that it much matters you are noi going, I do hope." "Yes, Roberl has coughed; we have our Little signals. His father wants to smoke. You will not forget the electric belt." " No, ii<>, nor von the mini baths. The subject is at all events worth inquiry. I should think Mr. Gruel >v would know about them — I mean as to the soil of the parish." The two parted on the best of terms. Mrs. Robert, who had intended to go to bed after dinner utterly exhausted by her " effort ' to entertain the guest of the evening, though! she mighi even see him again in the drawing-room. She had " entertained " him exceedingly. She had also afforded him a character study of some interest. lie had come to the conclusion and it was a just on< — that she was much more weak than wicked. Sbe bad certainly exhibited a little jealousy of Mrs. Merridew, hut that lady had a son, whereas she was childless: nm did her account of Lawrence seem the result of any personal malevolence; she had evidently no know- ledge of the young fellow save what was im- parted to her by her husband, of whom she had unwittingly given even a worse impression to her late neighbour than he had formed before. The time, however, bad come, now the ladies had withdrawn, when it was necessary to show himself friendly to that gentleman, as well as fco 72 A MODERN DICK H'HITTINGTUN. his host and fellow-guest. It was not a difficult operation, for Sir Charles Walden could be all things to all men, and would have been equally at home in the House of Convocation or in a thieves' kitchen ; but it was a very disagreeable one, for notwithstanding his many-sidedness, he was one of the most fastidious of men. More* over, if you had asked him why he was about to take any pains in such a matter, he would have been puzzled to answer the question. At his age he could hardly be termed "a creature of impulse," but his character remained as much a riddle to himself as to other people. chapter vrrr. WHEN THE I- \ Dl is HAD WITHDRAWN. "I hope, Sir Charles, yon have found your dinner to your liking," observed his host when the cloth had been removed and revealed the depths of the mahogany table, and the curved line of a little railway on which the decanters ran on silver wheels. " We rather pride our- selves on our curries." "Curries, sir," exclaimed the baronet enthu- siastically, "the banquet was worthy of a Beauvilliers. You pro-consuls of the present day, it seems, rival those of old Rome in the splendour of your entertainments." The ex-Commissioner smiled like one con- scious of merit, but who has no objection to its being recognised. Mr. Robert endeavoured to look like a Prince of the Blood, when the Queen's health is being drunk ; though not immediately concerned in the matter, it reflected credit upon him. Mr. Grueby, perceiving a compliment had been paid to his host, though the allusion to the 74 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. pro-cousul was beyond him, exclaimed " Hear, hear," and emptied his glass of madeira, as though he was doing- honour to a toast, then added, in a loud aside to his fellow-guest, " For in} 7 part I can't think how he does it." It was not a very judicious remark, since it seemed to imply a want of visible means in his entertainer of providing a good dinner, and it met with no outward sympathy from the person addressed, though his very heartstrings were tickled by it. The face of the host as he pulled stertorously at his narghile, which had already been supplied to him, and glared at the little divine, was a study ; nor was Mr. Robert's countenance without the traces of annoyance. He could already hear his father's " What do you think of your vicar how?" a question which was sure to be put to him the next morning. It seemed probable there might be other reasons for the same inquiry ; for Mr. Clrueby, who had paid much attention to the champagne during the repast, now constituted himself a permanent official on the bottle railway, taking good care the line should not be blocked, while at the same time he never failed to stop the train at his own station. The two golden rules for drinking 1 — "Drink slow" and "Don't mix your liquors" — ■ he recklessly ignored, and would probably have paid as little heed to the third, " Never sit with your back to the fire," had not the WHEN I Hi: LADIES HAD WITHDRAWN. 75 horse-shoe table made such an imprudence im- possible. Though the company was small in number, their characters were various. Sir Charles was a man apart, bu< at the same time capable of con- versing on any topic, and with the air of one to whom it was familiar. The parson, naturally garrulous and egotistic, was rendered more so by the generous wines, which, as he observed with justice, and a movement of the eye designed to he intelligent, was " such a tipple as you didn't get every work-a-day, nor even Sundays." Mr. Robert, though chiefly occupied in restraining his friend's loquacity, had a mind full of serious (though far from religious) matters. 'The host, taciturn on all other subjects, was eloquent, between his puffs of tobacco, upon the affairs of British India, in which the baronet courteously affected a keen interest. He did not talk of elephants and tigers, but discussed the more im- portant, if less entertaining topics of the future of our Eastern possessions, not without a delicate suggestion now and then, that it would have given better promise if his own commissionership had been prolonged. What mortal man could effect for the benefit of toiling millions of our fellow-creatures and our fellow-subjects, though with dusky skins, in a quarter of a century, by forethought and assiduity (with, perhaps, some little natural genius for administ rat ion . he might 76 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. say he had done ; but, after all, 'he felt that his work was but a broken column. The ridiculous system of superannuation had cut short his usefulness. In the matter of irrigation, for instance, the irrigated area in his province had been increased. Here Mr. Grueby illustrated the subject under discussion by upsetting a bottle of sherry, and irrigating the horse-shoe table with its contents. " Ring the bell," roared the ex-Commissioner. If the servant had been a native and had answered with Eastern promptitude his master would probably have ordered him to remove the vicar, for, as an administrator of justice on a large scale, his temper was exceedingly short ; but there was, fortunately, some little delay which gave time for reflection, and an opportunity for apology on the part of the vicar. " Very sorry," he was heard to murmur, " points got wrong somehow on the railway." " Fortunately," said Sir Charles, with his ready smile, "it was only a goods train, and there has been no loss of life." The ex-Commissioner, save for muttered ejaculations of wrath which alternated with the hubble-bubble of his pipe, was, however, silenced for the evening ; the great gun from which a good deal more might have been expected, and would, indeed, undoubtedly have come, was, WHEN THE LADIES HAD WITHDRAWN. 77 so to speak, spiked, and the baronet fell Borne gratitude towards the divine in consequence. It now, however, became necessary to talk to the vicar, Mr. Roberl being openly occu- pied, though his efforts were carried on in whispers, in assuaging his father's indigna- tion. The position, which would have been embarrassing to most persons in his place, afforded genuine pleasure to the guest of the evening. It seemed to him that lie had not had such Inn for many a day as he was enjoying at "the Warren," as he called it. Every in- mate of the house had excited in him either interest or amusement, and though lie had taken care to leave the date of his departure open (a precaution he never neglected), he Celt in no hurry to return to the solitude of Hurley. "And what is your tip for the Derby? ' he inquired of Mr. Grueby, with the air of a neophyte addressing the very fountain of in- formation. "Ah, that's tellings, Sir Charles," returned the other, n<>t only with his usual wink of super- human cunning, but even with a slight pro- jection of his tongue. " We know what we know, don't we, Mr. Robert?' 1 " I know nothing at all about it," returned that gentleman curtly ; jusl at that momenl be was Ear from inclined to encourage or even 78 A MODERN DICK WTTITTINGTON. acknowledge the familiarity that existed between himself and his clerical friend. " Quite right, mum's the word," returned the other with a chuckle. Mum had been the word, with Mr. Grueby, while dinner was going on, but port and madeira had also since played their parts with him, and placed him in a position tolerably elevated, from which he was not likely to be moved by satire or snubbing. Though by no means drunk, he had been rendered after a fashion genial, and wholly oblivious of social superiority. He would have called Sir Charles, Walden, only he had forgotten his name. " Well," he said, " not to be unsociable, I will tell you what Salesby thinks of the first favourite, and you must admit he is a good judge. You won't go far wrong if you go by Salesby." " Still, I have heard Mr. Salesby has been unfortunate in his racing speculations," observed the baronet, smiling. " Well, that is so ; I said you would not go far wrong in following his advice, but I did not say you would be right. He is the kind of man that always backs the second horse. He's wonderfully keen upon it still, poor devil ; ' I should like to live to see my son ride the winner of the Derby,' he was only saying the other day." WHEN THE LADIES HAD WITHDRAWN. 79 " But I thought be had no son." " Nor has he ; that's the joke of it. Twenty years ago he might have said ' I hope to live to »>\vn a Derby winner'; but he has gone down several pegs since then." ' It is fortunate, poor fellow, then, that he is childless." Nay, but he isn't. Thai shows you have noi been at Hillsland, Sir Charles, lor a vear or two, or you would have found out, 1 warrant, that Hick's daughter has grown to be the prettiest girl — well, save one who shall be name- less — in the whole parish. A brown girl, with very good eyes, and who knows how to use them ; 'she's backit like a peacock, she's breast it like the swan'; yon know the style; only Kitty has a tongue of her own that flicks vou like a whip. "Then that was Miss Kitty," reflected Sir Charles, " who was using her eyes with such effect on Master Lawrence in the orchard this afternoon. I admire his taste and also hers, for it's clear her tongue has flicked the parson." " But you have suffered this young lady to run away with you, Mr. Grueby," he observed, " which, indeed, is not to be wondered at from what you tell me of her charms, and have not answered my question about the Derby." 80 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " Oh, Salesby thinks that those who have put their money on Grairymede will lose it." " But you, it seems, have better and more private information on that matter." " Well, perhaps we have," and the vicar looked with triumphant sagacity towards Mr. Robert; that gentleman's face, however, might have been carved in stone for any response it gave him. " I'm sorry to seem grumpy, but a secret — and especially a secret of the stable — is worth nothing when it's told." " Do you suppose," inquired Mr. Robert in icy tones, " that the three to one in half-crowns you may have taken upon the event in question is likely to excite the cupidity of Sir Charles Walden ? " " Oh, come, I like that," returned the vicar, stung by his friend's contemptuous tone ; " half- crowns, indeed. And now you've mentioned the odds he has only got to look at the paper and you've told him." " I give you my honour, Mr. Grueby," observed Sir Charles, with great gravity, " that I will take no advantage of the indis- cretion." " Enough said between gentlemen," returned the vicar effusively. " A glass of wine with you, Sir Charles." This operation was effected with great solemnity, while the ex-Commissioner in speech- H7//.W THE LADIES HAL WITHDRAWN. 3] less indignation pushed his velv< I cap up so far on the back of his head that it seemed feo bang there by mere capillary attraction, and Mr. Robert stabbed a pear vvitli his silver knife with murderous vehemence. " Ami how arc the mines going on up Ilillsland way?' inquired Sir Charles, break- ing an embarrassing silence; "in my part of the world they seem to be showing signs of recovery." For the first time the continuity of the speaker's usual success was broken ; he had, hitherto, said nothing which was not acceptable, and as his wont (when it pleased him to be gracious) in his most gracious manner, but to speak of mines at Ilillsland Hall was like talk- ing of a rope in the house of a man whose son has been hanged. In this case, it was only a son-in-law, but the shaft, as it might well be called, went home. Aunt Jerry's husband Mr. Jeremiah Lock — had sunk in shafts about one hundred thousand pounds. The baronet's ques- tion had been addressed to the host, and Mr. Robert, no doubt to save his father from an unpleasant topic, had opened his mouth to reply to it; for some reason, however, best known to himself, he shut it, without permit- ting one word to escape, and with his eyes lixed on his plate waited for the old gentleman's rejoinder. G 82 A MODERN DICK WHITT1NGT0N. " 1 know — er — very little — er — about mines," lie answered, while the hubble-bubble of the narghile made itself very distinctly heard, a sign, as one of the party at least knew, of sup- pressed emotion ; " but, from what I hear — er — there is more activity in that branch of speculation." " Activity is just the word for them," replied the baronet smiling; "they always remind me of volcanoes, not only from the devastation they cause, but from their periods of erup- tion and quiescence. They make such a sen- sation when they are prospering, and are so very quiet when the lode gives out. There is nothing* in nature looks so dead as a worked-out mine." " When they are dead, however, they still make ' calls,' observed the vicar ruefully. It was clear that Mr. Grueby had dropped his half-crowns in other places besides the race- course. "There are exceptions, however," remarked Sir Charles with cheerfulness. " I hear the Common Wheal mine, for example, which we all thought dead, has come to life again, and the old shareholders are getting cent, per cent, for what they thought was lost money." " I read something to that effect in the paper the other day," returned Mr. Robert indifferently. •' If you have finished your cigar, Sir Charles, WHEN THE LADIES HAD WITHDRAWN. 33 we will join the ladies." The In>st himsell did not join them, Imi pleading fatigue and the privilege of old age, retired to his sanctum, muttering execrations on the vicar in the 1 1 i lulustani tongue, and followed bv his body servant with the narghile. c; 2 CHAPTEE IX. IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room, they found the ladies at nearly as great a dis- tance from one another as cattle who are not on good terms upon a common. Mrs. Robert almost prostrate on a sofa, recruiting her exhausted energies ; Miss Jane superhumanly upright on a music stool in front of the piano ; Mrs. Merridew at a tambour frame, at which she was gazing thoughtfully but doing not one stroke of work ; and Ruth with a book in her hand, occupying one-half of a conversation chair. At the gen- tlemen's appearance the whole party became endowed with vitality, as though it were some automatic instrument, in which, when you put a penny in the slot, the instrument begins to work. Mrs. Robert sat up and feebly smiled; Miss .lane struck a few notes on the piano; Mrs. Merridew began to make moss roses with floss silk; and Ruth rose from her chair. " Pray do not let me disturb you," said WHEN III1-: LADIES HAD WITHDRAWN. Sir Charles to her; "what a charming chair! Should I drive jron away, if I were to try it - The girl hesitated for a moment, and then resumed her scat. " No, indeed," she answered gently, I ait with a touch of coldness, <; why should you? " Well, the Fact is we have all been mi behaving ourselves," he replied smiling, "smok- ing cigars. I feel as if I ought to change m\ coat before coming near a lady." " AVe are all used to the smell of smoke in this house." For so young a girl, she struck him as marvellously unembarrassed; there was not a trace of shyness about her, but still less of forwardness or flirtation. When lie had entered the room, he thought she had had some purpose in having chosen the conversation chair. " Vainly," he had said to himself, " is the snare spread in sight of the bird." This was not from vanity, though he had a pretty high opinion of himself, but the result of experience. So many nets had been spread for him in his time by the Eemale fowler; but now he fell he had been mistaken. The chair, if there was any design in its choice, had, lie was convinced, been chosen Tor her. Her manner, it' not absolutely hostile to him, was not encouraging; it was cold and indifferent; and she was surely too young toaffeci indifference with the object of attracting 86 A MODERN DICK WIUTTINGTON. him. Nevertheless it had that effect. It piquet! him. She had undeniable attractions of her own, too, of which the conversation chair gave him excellent opportunities of judging. A more beautiful girl, he was compelled to acknowledge, as they sat at ease opposite to one another, not too close to be embarrassing yet near enough for minute observation, he had never seen. Without the least touch of haughti- ness, she wore an air of singular independence and self-reliance ; it was evident that he had by no means made that impression on her which he was accustomed to make on women far her seniors. She was comparatively alone with him ; Mr. Robert was apparently saying something sympathising to his invalid spouse ; Mr. Grueby was turning over the leaves of Miss Jane's music book, and beating time, as well he might, for it was all wrong and deserved it, with unsteady hands ; and Mrs. Merridew was busy with her moss roses. The pair in the conversation chair were isolated, but Ruth sat perfectly at her ease, witli her finger keeping the place in her book, as though she were at least as ready to resume her reading as for conversation. " May I ask what is the subject of youi studies?" Sir Charles inquired. " I was reading Shelley's ' Revolt of Islam.' " "A beautiful * poem," he observed, "but rather unintelligible. Do you not find it so? ' : IX THE DRAWING-ROOM. 37 " Now and then I require it to be explained t<> inc. ' "Yon are fortunate in finding an expounder." For the firsl time 1 lie colour came inl<» hei face, enhancing what had seemed perfection. "Yes; I am afraid I am no1 very poetical. Shelley puzzles me, where, I am told, li \ oughl not to do so. For instance, Here is his ' ('loud.' 1 feci how beautiful it is, but the meaning is in places obscure to me." " I have found that too, and hitherto it has vexed me; now I shall be pleased because I shall know I have your sympathy." " 1 should think it would be more satis- factory," she replied coldly, "to get the poem explained." He Pelt that she resented his compliment, and, indeed, some men might have considered themselves snubbed, but to Sir Charles Walden such a conviction was impossible ; he drew from his pocket a gold pencil case and a dainty little ivory tablet. "Then you will not refuse," he said, "to kindly oblige me with the name and address of \ our instructor." She could not but smile at his pretence of earnestness, but again a Hush mantled to her forehead, " It is my cousin Lawrence," she said, "who smooths my Shelley difficulties , he isvery loud of pot try." 88 A MODERN DICK WHLTTINGTON. " Indeed ! " the other answered with a pleasant smile. " I dare say now he writes poetry himself ? " " He does, and very well," she answered gravely ; then added hastily, " not that I am any judge of such matters, and besides, I have no right to say a word about it." "I wonder whether she has or not?" thought Sir Charles to himself. " It is almost certain that these two young people have fallen in love with one another. What else have they to do in this house, with such surroundings? Upon my life, Master Lorry, you are not so much to be pitied after all." " You need not be afraid of my telling tales out of school, my dear young lady," he replied in the gentlest tone, " for your cousin is a friend oi mine. It was the one advantage which his supe- riority in years gave him that he could use that phrase, " my dear young lady," without impertinence ; but it was not altogether to his satisfaction that she seemed to take it as a matter of course ; what was quite as probable, she might not, however, have noticed it, her mind being occupied with another subject — and that was not a consoling reflection to him either. " Yes," she said, with the first approach she had shown to animation, " Lawrence told me that you had been kind to him." IN TEE DRAWINQ-ROOM. 89 " I have every desire to be so," returned Sir Charles Boftly, "bul I have had n<> opportunity of showing him kindness. I could n<>t help being pleased with such an engaging young fellow ; who could ? ' " A good many people can," she answered bitterly. " Even if you were but civil to him, it was a new experience; civility is a thing he is not accustomed to." The speaker's eyes flittered, but not with tears ; she clenched her fingers, and pressed her lips together, as if to suppress an outburst of indignation. " And yet your cousin seems to me s.. bright and genial and willing to please," observed Sir Charles, with a surprised air. ''()!' course good looks go some way with one, even with one's own sex, but his manner is as pleasant as his Pace." He had no fault to find with her immobility now ; the L-iiTs cheeks were Bushed with pleasure, her month wore a grateful smile ; her very bosom heaved with sympathetic emotion. " You agree with me, 1 see," he continued, "which shows I have judged him aright. Now what makes peoph — 1 mean the people you speak of- treat him " " Like a dog," she put in suddenly \ "that is bow they treat him. He has his faults, of course, poor fellow; who has not? But if you ask me why they treat him so I cannot tell." "The explanation is easj enough, m\ dear 90 .1 MODERN DICK WHITTJNGTON. young lady," he answered gently. " They feel that he is superior to them in natural endow- ments — spiritual, mental, and physical — and having the whiphand of him in material, though less important, matters, they like to make him feel his inferiority there. It is not generally understood, but it is nevertheless true, that a considerable section of mankind — and, alas ! even of womankind — except that they have' the attribute of envy, in which the quadruped is deficient . But in a young lady's presence I must not express myself too strongly " " You are not doing that," she answered with suppressed agitation ; " you do not know what he has to endure." Sir Charles smiled to himself at this intro- duction of the personal pronoun into an abstract question. " Well, I was about to say, as regards those who tyrannise over helpless and inoffensive per- sons, through jealousy and from the mere love of cruelty, there is in my opinion only one name for them : they are brutes." He saw by her face that he had found a way to her heart at last, though by a strange road. " It seems to me," said Mr. Robert to his wife, " that Ruth is taking advantage of her opportunities. Sir Charles and she have already found some common ground of sympathy." /.V TEE DRAWING-ROOM. '.'1 " It's Shelley, qo doubt," returned the invalid contemptuously; she was by no means pleased thai the guesl of the evening had uo1 sought the neighbourhood of her --fa instead of the conversation chair; she had evidently made a favourable impression <>n him, and Ik- could have flirted with Ruth at any lime, whereas, as he ought to have known, her nerves were not alwavs equal to the mental strain of conversa- tion. To-morrow, after such unusual excite- ment, she would probably be a wreck. " 1 don't care whether it's Shelley or shell- fish, if only the topic helps her on the way to Eurlby Castle," observed Mr. Robert . more bluntly — for Mr. Grueby's conduct was still rankling in his mind — than he was in the habit of speaking to his delicate consort. " Robert, you shock me," returned the lady reproachfully. "How can Shelley — a pagan, 1 believe — ever form the groundwork of a union of hearts? ' "All marriages are not made where T ven- ture to think ours was. Popsy," returned her husband gently " But in this case there is such a disparity of ages," she returned plaintively. " Ruth is SO very young, that really I feel hardly justified in doing what little I have done to-nigh"! to encourage Sir Charles." " Encourage ! You have charmed him, my 92 A MODERN DICK WHITT1NGT0N. dear, which is little to be wondered at ; but you are far from having anything to reproach your- self with on that account. A husband is often all the more devoted for being his wife's senior. Why, you are younger than I am, for in- stance." " Flatterer ! It is only by a few months, you know." "It seems years, to look at you, my precious; and, at all events, it is fortunate for some girls that they do not set their hearts only on those who are their contemporaries." "To be sure, it would be deplorable if Lawrence and Ruth should fall in love with one another, would it not ? ' replied the lady pathetically. " Lawrence ? I should like to catch the fellow at it," returned the other, with scorn- ful vehemence. " He is uncommonly handsome," observed the lady, with feminine persistence. Nobody could have said that of her husband at that moment. Praise of the helpless lad, seldom as lie heard it, was wormwood to him ; and in this case it was the more bitter because it proceeded from one whom it was unadvi sable to contradict. Miss Jane's song now came to a conclusion, and Mr. Robert clapped his hands applaudingly, but with an expression of face such as an Eastern I.\ THE DBA WING ROOM. despot inighi wear when summoning bis Chan- cellor of the Bowstring, and which did noi escape Sir Charles's eye ;i> he applauded like- wise. To have a cigar with that man alone while under the necessity of being civil to him would, lie reflected, be intolerable; and yet a cigar he must presently have. His Little plea- sures had all the force of duties with him. " What does your uncle do with himself after dinner? " he inquired of Ruth abruptly. "He generally goes to grandpapa's room." "A filial duty," lie replied approvingly. "Now since you tell me everyone smokes in this house, I conclude Lawrence smokes; would yon mind asking him to let me be his com- panion for half an hour." "Nothing would give him greater pleasure, I am sure/' said Ruth ; " his sitting-room is at li ;ist clean and airy, if it is not furnished with much splendour. I will tell him to call for you when \ on gentlemen retire." "A good song, and very well sung, was it not, Sir Charles ? ' exclaimed Mr. Grueby. " It was not only well, but charmingly sung," replied the baronet, rising and approaching the piano. "It is so long since I have been in tic musical world, Miss Strattoii, that my opinion is not worth much; but since 1 last heard profes- sional singing of the highest class, there has beejo nothing that has given me so much pleasure." 94 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. Miss Jane's face grew red with pleasure — ■ though not in the proper place ; she was one of those women whose colour rises everywhere but on her cheeks. " You are very good to say so, but I feel I am not in voice to-night." She had really acquitted herself very well,, and was quite aware of it ; singing was the one accomplishment she possessed. " Then I shall look forward to to-morrow night with eagerness," he answered, a reply not only nattering but politic, since it put a stop to further performances for the present. She closed the music book, and rose, and the other ladies followed her example. Sir Charles, as they bade him good-night, gave their hands a tender squeeze, which each translated after her own fashion ; he smiled effusively on all, except Mrs. Merridew, whose hand, however, he pressed with particular significance. He had already learnt enough of the character of the company, to know that any favour shown to that unhappy lady would be turned to her disadvantage. When the last petticoat had left the room, " Now let us enjoy ourselves," exclaimed Mr. Grueby hilariously ; " Stratton has gut the mel- lowest whiskey, Sir Charles, that ever you tasted." "I never touch whiskey," returned the baronet with a cold smile, "and if our host will excuse me, I prefer to retire." IN THE DBA n INQ BOOM. 9 i The vicar's jaw dropped, for he was by do means desirous of a tete-a-tete with his friend, wherein his conduct at tabic was likely to be criticised, hut Sir Charles's tone admitted of no remonstrance. Mr. Robert accompanied his guest to his room — not an unnecessary courtesy in the labyrinth of Eillsland Hall — and left him there with effusive wishes for a good night's resi ; repaid I am sorry to say, when the door had closed on his retreating person, by the muttered ejaculation, " Beast ! ' CHAPTER X. IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN POETRY. Sir Charles had but just exchanged his coat for a smoking jacket, and his evening shoes for slippers, when there was a light tap at his door, and Lawrence Merridew presented himself. He wore the same clothes he had had on when, they had parted from one another on the hill ; their patched and frayed condition were in such strong contrast to the other's gorgeous raiment, that it forced itself upon the visitor's eye, in spite of himself. And } r et this lad was a son of the house, removed only by a generation from the man who had just been playing the host. The best instincts of the baronet's nature revolted against this unnatural discrepancy. On the other hand, the young fellow's face, as compared with his uncle's, was that of a Hyperion to a Satyr; good breeding and intelligence showed themselves in every line of it — though physically he could hardly be termed handsome, it was full of intellectual grace. Sir Charles had that IT MIGHT //.i l'/: BEEN POETRY. 97 weakness Eor youth and good looks, which in men of his stamp does duty Eor pitj and tender- ness, and il intensified his just indignation. ■• [f yon will come to my poor sitting-room," said the lad, "and bring your cigars with you, for 1 regrel to say I have none to offer you, yon will find it at least large and airy, and it will save you bhe discomfort of sleeping in a smoky atmosphere." "Oh, as to that," returned the other smiling, " I am not very particular, and I am afraid that I am sometimes so lost to a sens.' of propriety as to smoke in bed. I iut 1 shall be glad of your companionship over the social weed, and gladly accept your offer of an asylum." Lawrence nodded, and led the way through many a passage and corridor, and up stair after stair. '• Well, upon my life, it is a warren," ex- claimed Sir Charles, as he toiled after his guide. "Hush," returned the other, "there are ferrets about." The seriousness of the young gentleman's tone no less than the appropriateness of the re- mark, upset the gravity of the visitor; he had some humour of his own, and a keen appreciation of it in others, hut amusemeni of any kind was rare luxury with him. lie had passed the Lime when it can be purchased. "Do you mean your uncle? " he inquired. n 98 A MODE UN DICK WTTITTINOTON. "Yes; lie and that foulmart, the parson, have just gone into the smoking-room yonder. I heard the door shut." Sir Charles, shaking with mirth, began to tread lightly as a truant schoolboy passing his master's door. He had enjoyed nothing so much as this clandestine adventure, with its soupgon of impropriety as regarded the laws of hospitality, for years. 11 This is my den, Sir Charles," said the lad presently, ushering his companion into a large bare apartment furnished with three chairs, a deal table, and a bookcase obviously " knocked up " by the village carpenter. There were no curtains, and the moonlight without illumined it quite as much as the two tallow candles that flared and guttered on the table. " There's plenty of room in it, at all events," observed his guest, seizing the sole opportunity for praise that presented itself, " and, by Jove, what a fine view } t ou have from your windows." " Yes, that is a luxury the value of which Aunt Jane does not understand, or she would doubtless have left me with a brick wall to look at," was the bitter reply. " You must not say a word against Aunt Jane please," said Sir Charles with mock gravity. " She has just been delighting me with her fine voice ; she sang like a nightingale." <- I wish she had sung like a swan," was the IT MIGHT HA VE BEEN POE'l UY. 99 grim reply, "for then we should have heard the lu>t of her." Sir Charles, with his nose flattened again I the window-pane, said nothing, but his shoulders shook. '• 1 [ere," he was thinking to himself, "is a rara avis, a satirist of twenty. I was like that my- self once." I Jut he never had been like it. J lis cynicism, artificial from the first, had grown to its present dimensions out of very different materials ; out of wealth and idleness, and ennui ; in this boy it had been born of wrong, and want, ami ill-usage. It was clear that Aunt .lane was not a topic suitable for discussion over the genial weed. " How far can one see from these windows in the daytime? There is a mist on the lake, which suggests immensity." " Well, it is a good size, and also uncommonly deep, but on a clear day, you can catch a glimpse of the sea itself. The view is then really worth looking at. ' The crowded farms and lessening towers that mingle with the bounding main.'" "You are fond of poetry, Master Lawrence. Well, so was I once, though now 1 can no longer enjoy, but only criticise. Life with me is reduced to its lowest terms." "And yet you have even thing in the world that you can want,"' put in the other, with a n 2 100 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. quickness which showed it was not the first time that reflection had occurred to him. " Quite true, but unfortunately I want nothing. My desires are comprehended in the one word Comfort, which, however, includes plenty of tobacco. Take a cigar." Sir Charles produced from his pocket a case of the size of a small portmanteau. " Thank you," returned the other, selecting one of its Gargantuan tenants. " I have never seen such a giant as this, not even as ' the Marchioness ' says, ' in shops. " It has not a giant's strength, it will not hurt you." " Strength? I am not at all afraid of that," smiled the lad ; " this is the sort of thing I smoke." He produced a cake of tobacco, quite hard, and intensely black. The baronet took it up and examined it with unaffected interest. " Dear me, what is it r " It is cheap," returned the young feHow quietly ; " the name of the brand is of secondary importance." " But you have to use tools, a pickaxe, if not blasting powder." " No, I cut it with a knife." " My poor boy ; and yet the Satrap is said to be the richest man in these parts." TT MIGHT HAVE BEEN POETRY. 101 "The Satrap?" "I mean your grandfather. lie is so magni- ficent and mysterious thai I am always searching about for some noble name to lit him." "His grandson, however, has only a shilling a week pocket money," returned the other drily. '" A shilling a we< k ! The vexed question of " What is a Pound ? " seemed to be recurring to Sir Charles's mind in connection with this very inferior coin; what was a shilling? It did not even represent the price of one of his cigars. " If the Commissioner treats y<»u in this way I shall have to find quite another class of names for him. 1 had no idea he was so restricted in his ideas. Let us call him the Commis- sionaire." " Oh, it's not my grandfather ; he is scarcely aware of my existence. It is Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane. 'You must keep him short,' they say to my poor mother, who, indeed, lias no means of keeping me long — I mean otherwise." The mixture of humour and bitterness in the lad was curious. If he had been doing his best to make himself agreeable to his companion, instead of speaking out of the fulness of his heart, he could not have hit upon a better way. Sir Charles was not only amused but something more. With every pull' of his cigar he felt more kindly towards the young fellow, and more antagonistic to his enemies. 102 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " Have you no friends, my lad, beside the one you have made to-day," lie said, gently, " and, of course, your mother ? " A Rush of gratitude came into the boy's face; he beheld a patroD, as he thought, in his com- panion, but without a patron's manners, which would have been intolerable to him ; for though poor as Job he was proud as Lucifer. Sir Charles understood the flush perfectly well, but from a natural delicacy of mind, and also because he wished for information upon another point, he affected to ascribe it to another cause. " Your face, my boy, has already answered my question. You have a friend under this roof beside your mother, and almost as dear to you. She is the young lady to whom 1 owe the pleasure of }'our society to-night, is it not so? " Again the young fellow blushed, but answered without embarrassment, " Yes, Ruth is a true friend ; and as brave as she is true. She dares to be kind to me even in my uncle's presence. Some- times I think," exclaimed the boy, rising from his chair and pacing the room in uncontrollable excitement, " T shall stick a knife into that man. You don't know what a false and cruel brute he is." "I can make a tolerable guess at it; but never, my dear fellow, use a knife. There can be no ' misadventure ' about a knife. Tf you IT MIGHT II. I VE BEEh POETUY. L03 musi needs resort to such strong measures ase a revolver, which is always liable to go off 1»\ accident. Shall I send you one by parcels post ? ' "Well, of course, I was not in earnest," returni 1 Lawrence, with half a smile, "though the man I am speaking of would have no scruple about murder, if his own neck was .sale. I have seen it in his eye a score of times." "Thai is the worst of having an expressive countenance, when one is a scoundrel," observed Sir Charles philosophically. "Our friend Mr. (Jruehv's face is a blank, which has keen of great advantage to him. It is one thing to have a forehead with scoundrel written on it like a birthmark, and quite another to have it merely a clean space for other people to write upon, when they have found you out. Ybu may say he has keen found out, hut it gave him time in which to misbehave himself unsuspected ; and he did not lose the opportunity. A parson is like a woman ; when he's had, he's very bad." " And when he's good, he's very good," re- marked Lawrence, in a tone of conviction. " You have discovered that, have you? " said the other incredulously. Sir Charles had his reasons — explicable enough, if not very good ones, for disliki clergymen of all sorts. It is customary with men of his class and kind to think contemptu* 104 A MODERN DIGK WEITTINGTON. ously of tliem ; they find a reproach to them- selves in their very existence, their sacred calling ; they disbelieve in their faith and fancy that themselves must disbelieve in it; they belittle their works, or even impute to them a dishonest motive. Whatever was good in Sir Charles — and there was good — was, as it were, outside their good, and had no connection with it. " The best man I have ever known, how- ever," observed Lawrence gravely ("present company excepted," interpolated the other) ' was a clergyman. It was my old tutor, Mr. Percy." The frown, that fruit of opposition, which hung upon Sir Charles's brow, grew darker. " Percy was your tutor, was he ? ' he said in an altered tone ; there was marked dis- pleasure in it, which however escaped the other's notice. He was too full of his subject, which was a very interesting one to him, to regard it. " Yes ; though unfortunately only for a few months. Do you know him ? ' : " I did know him at one time," returned Sir Charles indifferently. " Then I am sure you liked him," cried the young fellow enthusiastically. To this there was no response. " I suppose his lessons were thought too dear for you by your good uncle." IT MIG11 1' II. 1 1 E hi:i:\ PUETR 1 . 105 "No, it was not that. Mr. Percy would, I believe, have taught me for nothing, hut In- Pell out with Mr. < jTueby." "I remember j pulled him up before the Bishop. Well, in mustering our forces, we may leave Mr. Percy oul of our calculations, as being too far off to be an ally. Is then' no our else in the house, save those you have mentioned, who wishes you well ? ' " No one, save Aunt Jerry." "Aunt Jerry? One would think she was an uncle." " Yes. Ii was from her husband's* Christian name, indeed, thai she derives her own. h was Jeremiah. "To be sure. He made some figure in these parts at one time as a mine owner, hut was eventually swallowed up by his own property, like the ea^'le transfixed hv the arrow sped from his own wing. Not that he was much like an eagle in other respects, if I remember right." "Still he was thought highly enough of till he died a pauper. You may imagine the posi- n of the widow of such a failure among her relatives at the Hall? She is ill and broken, and they affect to believe she is ' not all there.' " "She is so farto be congratulated," observed Sir Charles drily. " There is on your side then vour mother, Miss Ruth, and Aunt Jerry; and 106 A MODERN DICK WIIITTINGTON. against you the pro-consul, Mr. Robert, and Miss Jane." Lawrence nodded. " Equal in number but very disproportionate in strength," he sighed. " And there is the usual complement of spies and underlings on the stronger side, I conclude." " No. I have no enemy among the servants. I don't say I have deserved their goodwill ; perhaps it is because they hate their master and mistress ; but they are as civil to me as though I had the power of rewarding them." Sir Charles thought to himself that in the case of such a comely and pleasant young fellow there might be a reason for the sympathy of at least all female hearts. " It is a humiliation to us, though they are far from intending it," continued the lad, " that both Aunt Jerry and I see that they pity us." " You two are in Coventry together, then ? ' " Yes, when anyone is at the Hall, and in the evening she and I are always condemned to have our meals in her room. We are not thought good enough for the dining-room society." "Well, upon my life, it seems to me that any change should be welcome to you, my poor boy. I heard something said about Singa- pore." The young fellow's face grew troubled. IT MIGHT II. I \'i: BEEN POETRY. 1"7 [ Yes, I am to be sent there in a year's time, to fill a vacancy thai will occur there in a merchant's office. It doubtless seems to you thai I ought to 'jump at it/ but I don't jump." " Home has still certain attractions for von, I lien," observed the other, looking critically at his cigar. "No, it is not: that, or not entirely that ; hut since you are so kind as to show an interest in my poor affairs, 1 may say thai I have the vanity to believe that if 1 could once o-et the chance, I could make my own Living in England." ■■ Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle oi Cathay, eh ? " "There is something of that in it, no doubt; but at the risk of arousing your ridicul( " "There is no risk of that," put in Sir Charles gently; "it you have the least tear of wearing your heart upon your sleeve lest 1 should peck at it, dismiss it. Though no more like an eagle than was your uncle Jerry, I am no daw." •■ 1 am sure of that," said Lawrence earnestly. • But 1 know what is thoughl of young persons who Batter themselves they have a turn for literature and hope to make a living by their pen." " And what is it you think you ma\ he able to write r " Stories." 103 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " Well, well, it might have been worse," said Sir Charles, with a little sigh of relief. " Might it ? ' returned Lawrence in a voice half humorous, half plaintive. " How could it have been worse ? ' " Well, it might have been poetry, my dear fellow." CHAPTER XT. THE COURAGE OF Ills OPINIONS. There was silence for awhile between the two companions — so dinvivnt in their natures and yet, as it seemed, so well pleased with one another — at thai word " poetry." Lawrence for the first time, Looked a little embarrassed ; his lip- parted as il* about to speak, but nothing came of it; the amused smile which should by right have illumined the baronet's features remained perdu ; he had the cynic's faculty of making a dark lantern of his mirth. It would have been eas^ enough to pursue the subject, for he already had the data, but he wished the confessions of hi< young friend to be voluntary and not extorted. " As to stories, my good lad, you are \\\ in a tone of intense conviction ; with the air, too, of one who has looked long at the subjecl on which he discourses, and from all points of view. It began fco occur to Sir Charles's mind that in his friendly feeling towards this budding genius he had " let himself in " for more than he had in- tended. He still, however, felt kindly disposed to the lad, while the sens.- of responsibility with which the giving advice to the young troubles some people, sat so lightly on his shoulders as not to be perceptible. • I have told yon I have sunk to the condition of a critic, my good fellow," he said cheerfully, " and though my opinion may be of the usual value of ' advice gratis,' it is quite at your ser- vice ; if you will show me some of your produc- tions, of which I am sure you have many, and they are of moderate length — eh ? Why do you laugh?" Lawrence, indeed, was laughing heartily. The apprehensions of his companion had made themselves so manifest under the cloak (though it was no disguise) of friendly interest, that it was too much lor his sense of humour. "Though it might not have been so bad as an epic, you feared that it might he a three- volume novel," he said smiling. " Perhaps it even struct you that I might have offered to read it to vou ? " 112 A MODERN DICK WIUTTINGTON. " No, no, my dear fellow, I didn't think that," said Sir Charles with apologetic haste. " The man who lays his hand upon one of his own manu- scripts, and even in the way of kindness reads it aloud to his friend, deserves — well, deserves to have a Robert Stratton for his uncle." " Quite true, and you can't go further than that," said Lawrence gravely. " But since you are so very kind as to offer me your opinion— which will be invaluable to me, for I know no one to consult on such matters — I will some day put a specimen or two of my poor productions into your hands. Now I will not talk shop any more — good heavens, the coffee ! ' " Is there coffee ? I shall almost think it comes from heaven." "A thousand pardons ; but I am unused to the obligations of hospitality. Your kindness and sociability drove everything else out of my mind, but coffee is the one thing I can give you. My grandfather, in a fit of generosity, or in some sudden recollection of her existence, once gave Aunt Jerry some which is really excellent, and she gave me a share of it." " Long live the Rajah ! " exclaimed Sir Charles enthusiastically. " No one can tell what I have suffered, my good lad, for the last hour. Your conversation is delightful, but I confess I did want my coffee." If Lawrence had entertained a doubt — which THE OOUBAOE 01 HIS OPINIONS. LIS he bad not — of the genuineness of bis friend's sentiments hitherto, there could be no suspicion at I cast of this one. The drink in question was one "1" those "comforts" he had confessed were indispensable to him. The hosl went to a cupboard and brought out a battered coffee-poi and a spirit lain]), while his guest, with a cigar in his mouth and a languid interest in his eye, examined the book- case. " Von have Byron's works here, I see. ' Childe Harold ' seems to have been a recent acquisition, and ' Don Juan ' an earlier; it is more thumbed, at all events." "Well, the tact is, I can't read the 'Childe.' At the risk of falling in your estimation I must admit he wearies me." " Never mind my estimation ; always speak your mind with me. As it happens, I think no worse of yon. I have been at all the places described, which of course adds an interest to the poem, and \ el he wearies me." "Byron seems to me melodramatic; too much given up to egotism and vanity; he sug- gests nothing." The baronet smiled. " Well, it is not m\ mission to defend him 'Other men other minds,' is an aphorism which applies to the poei most of all ; the generation who most esteems him is almost always his own generation, though not perhaps at first." 1 114 A MODERN DICK WHITTINQTON. " That was not the way with Shelley and Keats." " True, nor with Tennvson, thousrh I can re- member wlien Tennyson was pronounced ' girlish ' and even ' unintelligible.' A great scholar, a friend of mine, always shook his head at * Tears, idle Tears ' because he couldn't put it into Latin verse." " That would be my difficulty, too," said Lawrence laughing ; " and yet to me it is the most beautiful and suggestive poem in the language." " If that is your opinion of it at twenty, }^ou may judge what is mine at fifty, when one feels what you only imagine." " And yet you tell me you are no longer appreciative ? ' " Well, I suppose one is human after all," returned the other, " that is, occasionally." He looked annoyed, like a man about town, who is recognised by an acquaintance while piloting a blind beggar across the street. You have ' Don Quixote ' and ' Gil Bias,' I see, which everybody reads — enough to swear by." " Yes. Bury me in what living tomb you please," said Lawrence pathetically, " but give me my ' Dou Quixote,' and a light to read it by, and I am content. Strip me of house and land, but leave me l (\\\ Bias,' and you will never rob me of my mirth." VHE OOUR l'-'/-' OF EIS OPINIONS. LIS The baronel laughed outright. 'Upon ray life, niv young friend, you have the courage of your opinions ; but you will find it jus! as well to keep them to yourself, if you mean to be on erood terms with the critics. Here is Tristram Shandy,' that, too, is not dropping to pieces from over use, I n» .1 ice." " How is it possible to like a book in which the author rarely finishes a chapter, or even a sentence, and ' gets no forrarder' in a hundred pages ; it is like driving a gig from John O'Grroat's house to the Land's End with a jib- bing horse. There are occasional indecencies, 1 admit, hut not nearly so many as he is credited wit h. " And that is the way you speak of one of our British classics ! cried the baronet, holding up his delicate hands. " Well, the tact is, I suppose, that being cut oH' from all occupation and amusement, I have been compelled to read the immortal Sterne, which is not the case with the majority of his admirers — Here's your coffee, Sir Charles, at last." Hut the baronet, capricious even in his desires, had already fixed his attention elsewhere. "Why here is an unpublished volume; a trea- sure in MS. ; by Jingo, and in verse too. \\ hy you're a rhymester alter all ! " 1 never said 1 wasn't," replied the young i 2 116 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. fellow doggedly ; " no one is bound to criminate himself; besides, j^ou only said in speaking of my literary ambition you were ' glad it was not poetry ' ; and so far you may be glad still." " Your modesty does you credit, my lad, but these verses begin well. u ' Cherry cheeked, merry eyed, Lip apart, head aside, Crowned with thy golden hair; Maiden, this youth of thine, Far more than men or wine, Breedeth joy, slayeth care/ " They are addressed ' To ,' I see, quite on the old fashion.'' " Yes, they are," observed Lawrence drily. " A very proper reproof to my curiosity," returned the other, closing the little book. "It is a private volume, and I ought not to have opened it." "Why should you not have done so, since it was in the bookcase with the rest ? I had no intention of inflicting any of its contents upon you, but since you have them there they are quite at your service." Sir Charles resumed his seat, and sipped his coffee, book in hand ; he turned over its pages with languid interest. ■ Melancholy, of course," lie murmured, as if to himself ; " when we are young and vigorous we are melancholy out of ' pure cussedness,' when Till' COURAGE OF HIS OPINIONS. 117 we grow dKI we arc so by compulsion. ' Linen (»n dejection ! ' ' Farewell,' it's like saying 'good- bye' instead of 'good morning.' ' Poverty well you do know something about that, my lad What's this? ' Tin- Home Spirit.' "'Like a sunbeam gliding over common places. About this dreary home of ours she moves, Whatfer her hands are set unto she graces, Her duties not beneath the things she lo. " A good line that. " ' Serene, unconscious of her perfect sweetness, As one of those moss-roses she hath lied In clustered beauty, with some art past neatness As born high-heartedness excelleth pride.' "Pretty, very. What follows too is good and the last verse charming, " ' Ah ! bliss to him to whom she shall hi' idven ! Fond heart, clear head, pure soul and form so fair, Her spirit well might cleave to it in Heaven, And meet him changeless and unangeled there.' " Has the angel ever seen this ? " " What angel ? ' inquired Lawrence, looking into his coffee cup, as if to tell his fortune by the dregs. " The young lady to whom these lines are addressed. She walks the earth. I suppose, at present? " 118 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " Yes ; she has seen them/' " And the other 9 " "What other?" " Come, come, yon might credit me with some small degree of intelligence. ' Lip apart, head aside, crowned with golden hair.' Has she seen that? " " Yes, ' the other,' as you call her, has seen that." " Then I will ask no more questions, though one more was on the tip of my tongue." " Pray ask it, if you have a mind." " I was going to inquire whether the angel had seen the other verses, or the lady with the golden hair those addressed to the angel ; but it is unnecessary, for I am quite sure they have not — there now, I have annoyed you; I cannot say how I regret it. I told you I was a cynic, but I did not mean to be rude ; pray forgive >> me. " I have done that already," said the young fellow, but the cloud still sat on his mobile face. " I can't afford to quarrel with you." " Ah, that is cruel, a weapon forbidden by the comity of nations. Put yourself in my place." " True," said Lawrence penitently, "I should not have said it, but what you have just said about melancholy applies to us in a reverse sense as regards bitterness. You are bitter ////' GOUM !'.'/' OF HIS OPINIO I L« because it is your fancy to 1"' so; I am bitter from circumstances over which I have no con- trol." " You are quite right, and I have been quite wronsr," continued the baronet, holding out his hand. "And in token of forgiveness I must ask vou to pilol me back to my own room. ! shall know my way here before ! Leave Hillsland Hall, for we shall, I hope, have many another dial together." CHAPTER XII. THE HONOURED GUEST. Sir Charles had been no hypocrite in his show of interest in the affairs of his young friend. He even felt a sort of gratitude to him for having evoked it. Sentiment of almost all kinds was well-nigh dead within him, and he was not displeased to have it resuscitated. It has been well observed that we do not leave our vices, our vices leave us, and the same thing is true of our nobler emotions ; as we grow old, and especially if we have passed our lives in idleness and pleasure, not only our illusions, but our sympathies, gradually die out. In some cases, avarice, the desire of useless gain, swallows up, like Aaron's rod, all other feelings, but from that curse, at least, Sir Charles was free. He was by no means too much of a gentleman to do things that were base, but he shrank from anything sordid ; his nature, if not delicate, was fastidious. But he only spoke the simple truth when he had said that he cared only for comfort; Till' HONOURED QUEST. 121 as regarded all other matters his character had become a stagnant pool. There still, however, lay within it in process of dissolution some elements of good, and they had been brought to the Bur- face by Lawrence Merridew. He was genuinely interested in the young fellow ; the contempt and negleci with which he was treated l>\ his relatives aroused his indignation, while at the same time it flattered the baronet's self-esteem. The hehaviour of Mr. Robert and Miss Jane were, he persuaded himself, exactly what was to be expected, and corroborated his cynical and pessimistic views of life. There was something else, too, which quick- ened his decaying interests. Mr. Robert was a far cleverer knave than he gave him credit for, and had shown his cleverness in baiting his hook for the blase baronet. He had gathered that Sir Charles had been struck with Ruth, when he met her at the bazaar, and had rightly concluded that his admiration of her would be increased by a nearer acquaintance. Certain Eastern jewels in the ex-Commissioner's pos- session- he had quite a collection of such trea- sures—about which Sir Charles had expressed some curiosity, had favoured the pretexl for inviting him to Billsland Hall, hut the uncon- scious Ruth was the Kohinoor on whose beauty he relied to dazzle his father's guesl ; and this object had been so far accomplished. 122 A MODERN DICK WHITTIN6T0N. To say that Sir Charles had fallen in love with her, would indeed have been a monstrous exaggeration ; but he was greatly struck with her. Fn his youth he had been a victim to the fair sex ; later on these relations had been reversed ; and in his maturity he had still a weakness for them, though tempered by ex- perience. At fifty years of age, however, he was still vain enough to imagine that, if he chose to take trouble enough, he could inspire even a girl with the tender passion ; he possessed very great and rare advantages for such a conquest, and did not underrate them. On the other hand, it was necessary that the young person in question should be somewhat isolated, ignorant of the world, and (especially) without other suitors more eligible as regarded age. He could have won her perhaps away even from them, unwillingly ; but with that be would not have been content. He was exacting in that respect. Much as he had admired Ruth in the drawing-room, he had a suspicion that his admiration was thrown away, from the manner in which she spoke of Lawrence ; if her affections were already fixed on her cousin, he felt it was hopeless to attempt to win them, though he might win her. If he had been charmed with the young fellow on so short an acquaintance, he could easily understand how attractive he must be to one of the other sex, living under the same roof with him, and deeply THE HONOURED GUEST L23 sympathising with the anmerited cruelty with which lie was treated. His poverty, his wTong his lack of friends, would be SO many claim- upon her generosii \ and tenderness. In the face of such rivalship the baronel would have withdrawn from the struggle, though hacked by all the grandfathers, aunts, and uncles in Christendom. With Lawrence Merridew in liis minds eye, it was impossible to regard his own maturer charms with complacency, and though he could give him man\ points in the art of pleasing, the natural attraction of the lad — his enthusiasm, his literary ambition, his touching, though doubtless misplaced, confidence in himself, and his youthful brightness —would outweigh his efforts even in that direction. But his conversation with Lawrence that evening, so Car at least as that young gentleman was con- cerned, had relieved his mind with respect to .Ruth ; he felt convinced that the lad's affections were engaged elsewhere, no doubt to the 3'oun_' lady in whose company he had seen him in the orchard that day. The verses, the discovery of which had caused Lawrence such embarrassment described her personal appearance, so far as Sir Charles remembered it, and he had still a sharp eye for a pretty face, accurately enough ; whereas the reading those other verses evidently' depict- ing someone else, and presumably Ruth, had awakened in their composerno embarrassment al 124 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTOK all. The} r were not like the former, a picture drawn by passionate admiration, but merely, at most, by tender esteem. In eliciting this in- formation Sir Charles had been obliged to ran the risk of giving offence to his young friend, but it had been worth the risk, and no offence, save for the passing moment, had been taken. Without confessing as much to himself, he felt more pleased with Lawrence, as regarded this matter, than with all else. His impulse to be- friend him and assist his simple plans was greatly strengthened by it. To do good to one's enemies is an injunction which a good many people find it difficult to obey, and it is possible that Sir Charles's generous intentions towards Lawrence would have dwindled away had he found in him a rival. As matters stood, he felt all the vehemence of goodwill which is enter- tained by those who only very seldom propose to themselves a scheme of benevolence ; more- over, it was aided by a cordial dislike for Lawrence's persecutors. Mr. Robert had made a very bad impression on him; nor, curiously enough, did he thank him for the opportunity he had afforded him of approaching Ruth herself, the motives for which, while entirely exculpating her from all collusion with them, he thoroughly understood. Miss Jane, he thought almost equally objectionable : a hard woman, even with the mitigations of THE HONOURED 0UE81 L25 youth and good Looks, w;is hateful to him ; and cruelty and oppression for though he had been very cruel in his time, and taken advantage of the weakness of others, his conduct had never appeared to him in that light were revolting t<> Ins nature. The question thai uow presented itself to Sir Charles was not so much how to help Ids young friend, about which he felt tolerably sanguine, but how 1" show friendship to him without arousing the anger or increasing the bitterness of his enemies. He might, indeed, have ignored him, and only sought his companionship, as he had already done, surreptitiously ; but there were limits to his self-denial. His capacity for boredom was exceedingly small ; he could not even, for Lawrence's sake, endure any period of imprison- ment at the Hall, combined with the hard labour of making himself agreeable to Mr. Robert, or listening to the ex-Commissioner's lectures upon irrigation. lie must have some intelligent person to converse with. He was not a man that could stand being shown over the stables every morning, by anybody; or talked to about the crops, which at Billsland were mostly underground. It would be a little difficult to get out of all this without compromising his protege, but it must be done somehow or other, and though not till alter, what he was disinclined to give to any matter, a little 126 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. serious consideration, he thought he saw his way. At breakfast time next morning, Lawrence appeared with the rest, but not in his usual rags. Attire was not a matter that, even in his salad days, had had much attraction for Sir Charles. " If a man is a trump," he had been wont to say, " it signifies nothing about his suit " ; but the spruceness of the lad's costume was a revelation to his new friend. He gathered from it, at once, that their companionship of the previous evening had become known, and that since the honoured guest had taken an inexplicable fancy to this insignificant member of the household, his relatives had thought it worth while that the lad should be attired like a gentleman. And so indeed it was. It had been Mr. Robert's inten- tion to keep him out of sight during Sir Charles's stay, since he shrewdly suspected that whatever the lad might have to say to him would not be to the credit of his rulers and betters ; but now that the mischief had been done, it was clearly injudicious to corroborate by an open show ot ill-treatment any slanders he may have uttered. The fact was that Mr. Robert, ferreting about in " the Warren," had actually come upon his nephew on his way to his own room after leaving that of Sir Charles, lie had been in hopes of having caught him out in some delinquency, but the lad's manner, always bold enough, at once THE HONOURED Ql EST. 127 convinced him by its "infernal impertinence as he afterwards described it to Aunt Jane thai lie had been mistaken. "If you want to know wli;ii I have been about ' ■ I do," put in M r. Robert furiously. " I have been smoking a cigar with Sir ( lharles Walden." It was an unpleasant piece of information as it stood, hut if he had known how large a share Sir Charles's dislike of himself had had to do with it, Mr. Robert Stratton would have been still more disgusted; as it was he set it down to the baronet's disinclination to the company of );r. Ghrueby, for which he was compelled to admit there was some excuse. The parson and he had had that matter out together, not entirely to his own advantage, and the Master of the I Louse had at a later hour, dwelt upon his clerical friend's behaviour with much distinctness of con- demnation. " For the future, sir, at all events," the old gentleman had fumed out, 'since your plan of introducing a drunken helol for his enter- tainment has broken down, sec that Sir Charles has his own way while he remains with US in every particular." CHAPTER XIII. THE "STRETCHER.'' " See that Sir Charles has his own way." That fiat of the ex-Commissioner's, delivered with all the vehemence of which he was capable (and this was still considerable), was of great service to the baronet's plan. On the previous day, Mr. Eobert had endeavoured to impress him with the extent and pressing nature of his occu- pations, " The cares of a vast estate which my father is no longer in a condition to superintend, etc. etc.,'' and this his guest now opportunely called to mind. " You must not treat me, Mr. Hubert, as a stranger within your gates," he said. " There is no greater nuisance in a house where the host has his duties to perform than a mere idler ; if I am not to be looked upon as one of the family, 1 shall take myself off." It was quite touching to see how Miss Jane was affected by this threat, at once so terrible and so friendly. " If you can only be content with //// • //,/. WHEW L29 our goodwill, Sir Charles — for I am afraid we have few attractions indeed to offer you " Here she stopped, doubtless from emotion, and placed her hand upon her niece's shoulder, who happened to be her neighbour, either for support or in illustration of the attraction-, of which she spoke. "Content?" he said. "If only L can feel assured that I am putting no one to incon- venience I shall enjoy myseli thoroughly. I always think that in large country houses. Mich as this, i\\r guesl is happiest who is left to his own devices, unless, indeed, he is one of those miserable men who require to he amused." " J3ut some of us ladies who have nothing to do," observed Miss Jane, " will be very happy to entertain you, or, at all events, to do their best to do so," and again she suffered her fingers to stray caressingly on Ruth's shoulder. "I shall be troublesome enough to them, no doubt," he answered smiling, "but for this morning I have promised myself a long- walk with Master Lawrence, yonder, for my cicerone." His tone was as indifferent as he could make it. and he did not even so much as look at the lad .! h( -poke; but it was plain Qeverthelei that hi proposal was not a welcome one fco tin lady ol the house. " Lawrence is at your service, of course," she said, with such marked coldness that Mi'. J 130 A MODERN DICK WHITTISGTON. Robert felt it his duty to tender an explanation of it. " It seems to me, Sir Charles," he observed slily, " that you have made the ladies rather jealous." " If any of them is equal to a ten-mile stretch," exclaimed the guest, " I need not say how glad I shall be of her company ; but I am under a vow, imposed by my medical adviser, to do that amount of walking whenever possible." It was known that the baronet was a great pedestrian, though it was not so generally under- stood that he was under the doctor's hands, so that his transparent little fib passed muster ; and for the rest of the meal he did his best to curry favour with Miss Jane (and at the same time to please himself) by paying attention to Kuth. That, he felt, was his best way out of his diffi- culty as regarded Lawrence, and it was a very pleasant way. His proposal of companionship with her cousin had evidently gratified her ; it was plain she admired his courage in exploding what was little less than a bombshell to her aunt and uncle in thus taking by the hand the object of their contempt and ill-treatment, and perhaps (he thought) she envied that social position which had enabled him to do it with impunity. The subject that most interested Ruth, when he had the opportunity of speaking with her out of ear- shot of the rest, he soon found to be Lawrence, Till. "STRETCHER." LSI which, though from one point of view unwelcome was in another at leasi convenient. It was one which Dot only gave him an opportunity for eloquence, bui also for presenting to her the most attractive side of his character, his sympathy with the weak, his contempt for the oppressor, and the interest he felt in the lad's literary ambition. In public he prudently took as little notice of him as possible. He displayed the same caution as respected Mrs. Merridew, and even Aunt Jerry, so careful was he not to offend the higher powers more than could be helped. Why he troubled himself <<> undertake a part so alto- gether strange to his nature and habits was a question he would have found some difficulty in answering; but though it could not be said, at present, at all events, that he played it for love. he certainly threw himself into it con amove. Mrs. .Jeremiah Lock, by the way, had been presented to him for the first time thai morning; a spiritless and almost speechless lady, prema- turely old, and who evidently shrank from all observation. Ruth had saluted her with great tenderness, which had power to revive her a little as water re-animates some Fading (lower, bound to wither, but her air and manner was with others painful in its humility ; she appeared to be making a perpetual apology for her own existence, though it was pretty plain that she i 2 132 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. would not long give offence by it. The obvious delicacy of her state of health, indeed, gave a pathos to features which would have been other- wise uninteresting and commonplace enough. Sir Charles, who was not without imagina- tion, pictured her to himself as a once light- hearted and perhaps even comely woman, whose spirits had been crushed out of her by years of dependence and oppression ; but Aunt Jerry had been always dull and plain, though she had taken Mr. Lock's fancy, or whatever had been the substitute for it. She was thought at the time to have made the best match of the family, but the fortune her Jeremiah had made for himself was even then a little "dipped," aud had gone on dipping (underground) until nothing re- mained of it but shares in unproductive mines, or what was worse, liabilities. Even those who had regarded her most charitably thought her u a poor creature,' 1 as indeed she was, and it had even been said of her that she was "a little touched in the upper decks " ; in this, however, they were mistaken, though it would have been better for her, perhaps, had it been so; but — " To know the change and feel it, When there was none to heed it, No] numbed sense I" feel it," was poor Aunt Jerry's lot. From the circumstance of their being both THE "STRETCHER." I « in tin* same condemnation 1>\ the authorities — though in her case this came from oo particular antagonism, thej » > 1 1 1 \ pronounced her "nol presentable Lawrence and she were thrown ;i iod deal together; bui the young fellow did not pretend to have much regard for her. Fie pitied and wa; kind to her, as he would have been to an\ creature in distress, hut he had no more sympathy with her, individually, than she with him, and he would rather, perhaps, have been left to himself alto<_>vther, than to her commonplace company, except for certain mate- rial advantages— such as the coffe< — which it brought him. But with Ruth it was different ; when Aunt Jerry would sometimes complain, ■ I am not clever enough for Lorry ; he doesn't care for a stupid, tedious old woman like me," it sent a pangthrough her tender heart. She would never blame her cousin. '' Lorry is ven pecu- liar, Aunt Jerry," she would reply, " he is rapt in quite other -.natters than those which concern you and me, but he is very fond of you, I'm sure," yet in secret she wished Lorry had been more genial with his relative. To her it sierni- Red little that Aunt Jerry eared nothing for music, poetry, painting-, and the fine arts, and was in fact xevy dull and unattractive; the adversity into which she had fallen was claim enough upon her goodwill, and the poor old woman (though she was nol really old, though 134 A MODERN DICK WRITTINGTON. she seemed to be so both to herself and others) repaid her kindnesses with all the affection of which she was capable. Something of this Sir Charles soon gathered from Euth herself, for his frankness was con- tagions ; and, indeed, when a man is really frank, and at the same time understands how to make his confidences agreeable, he possesses the very best equipment for the conquest of all hearts. That is, all tender ones ; in dealing with others — the harsh ones — he is apt to be at a disadvantage. There is nothing, it is justly said, so attractive as naturalness, but that pre- supposes the same attribute in the person attracted. Sir Charles, for example, would certainly not have recommended himself to his host, or to his host's son, by a display of frank- ness ; indeed, if he had carried that virtue to extremity his stay at Hillsland Hall would have come to an end at once ; his very invitation, we may say, would have been incontinently can- celled. But his air of candour was, in his com- munications with them, most useful to him. He had not only the ars ccJare artem, but the art of appearing most open when he was concealing his own sentiments, and even speaking in direct contradiction to them. "What gives me the greatest pleasure," he once said, " is to hoodwink scoundrels," but gratifying as that social amuse- ment undoubtedly is, it is apt to encourage a THE " -/://. VCHER." L3o lial)it of duplicity with reference even to honesl members of the community ; and as — "The playing the games whose moves are Death Makes :i man draw too proud ;i breath/' so the making fools or puppets of our I'ellow- creatures is apt to deteriorate the moral cha- racter. No apprehension of that kind, however, ever entered Sir ( 'harles's mind, or would perhaps have disturbed it, had it done so. Whatever were his faults, self -COn sciousness — thai microscopical inspection of our feelings and their consequences which is so fashionable nowadays, hut so deadly dull to read about in books — was not among them. If he had been a beggar living from hand to mouth, he could not have taken "shorter views " about everything. Sufficient for the day, with him, was the pleasure thereof; and this cynical, brilliant, blase man of the world was in his pleasures as impulsive as a schoolboy. That this idiosyncrasy had wrecked his life — though to the common eye there seemed so much of salvage about it as to make the disaster count for little— he was well aware ; but that didjiol alter matters nor him. A natural disposition, strengthened and encouraged bv circumstances, is not like the backbone of a fish, that can be eliminated with a silver fork by a skilled hand; it remains with us till we drop into our graves. 136 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. Strange, therefore, as it might seem, and especially to those who thought they knew him best, Sir Charles started for his "stretcher" with his young friend that morning with almost the same sense of thoughtless enioyment as his eom- panion ; the boy, in fact, was much the more thoughtful of the two, having as he imagined (as the other, indeed, would have readily acknow- ledged) much more to think about. The idea had not unnaturally taken root in his mind that it was possible he had found in his new friend a helper, nay — such had been the sympathy evinced in his literary aspirations — almost a helpmate, small as seemed the opportunity. It was the first chink, as it were, through which the lad had seen daylight. Youth and hope are better castle builders (in the air) than can be found in the Society of Architects ; somehow he ven- tured to believe that Sir Charles could smooth the way for him, if not to the dizzy heights of the Temple of Fame, at all events to some moderate elevation above the waters of want ; and in the meantime he was immensely pleased at having been chosen for his cicerone in their moyuin^'s ramble. Lawrence Merridew was a true lover of nature, and the task of pointing out the beauties of Hillsland was very congenial to him, for they were well worth attention. The village, a very picturesque one, was itself highly placed, but THE ■■ STRETCHER." 137 above it towered a great table-land, crested with forests of firs, from which there was a 1 nils magnificenl view. In 1 li«* fresh and vigorous air that always blew there the odour of the pine trees was mingled with the 'scent of the sea," borne inland for many a mile. Between the village and the ocean la\ quite another district . thai of the mines, hut the disfigurement tlnw caused mi the surface were from this altitude hardly noticeable, and merely gave variety to the landscape. Sir Charles listened to his jroung friend with less of* interest than amusement, as he descanted enthusiastically upon this and that object ft' admiration ; for he did not much care for "nature." The primrose by the river's brim was a primrose to him and nothing more, nor did the daffodil haunt his dreams ; and he took ;i similar prosaic view of landscape. What it all suggested to the elder man, when it suggested anything, was of a wholly different kind to the thoughts it awakened in the younger. At the topmost clump of firs Lawrence halted — " This is the finest view we have," he said. ■' I lall' the county lies beneath us." " Yes; i was here once before," returned the other indifferently, but with a certain air of unpleasant reminiscence too, " when I was standing for it." " When you were standing for what ?" asked Lawrence puzzled. 138 A MODERN DICK WHITTIXGTON. " The county. You know nothing about it, of course," added the other, in reply to his look of astonishment, " and besides, I didn't get in." "How was that ? " said Lawrence, not quite knowing what he said ; he felt that he had stumbled upon a disagreeable topic. " Well — not that it signifies— but it was the tongue of slander." He murmured to himself contemptuously the well-known motto of a northern college, "They say; what say they? Let them say," and resumed his walk with rapid steps in silence. CHAPTER XTV. AT THE CORNER. That long-continued silence was the first sign of egotism Sir Charles had manifested to his young companion. Considering their relative ages and positions lie had hitherto shown an unlooked for abnegation of self; he had thrown himself, if not heart and soul, at all events with the appearance of so doing, into the other's affairs, with a complete abnegation of his own. But now, it seemed, he had begun to think of them. His smooth brow was furrowed, lii^ " Cupidon ' lips twitched with strange excite- ment, or closed together tightly. The impassive, gracious man was troubled with some remini- scence of his past. There were still living many men who would have said, "And no wonder," but they were not those who had known him best. His nature was not one given to retro- spection, far less to cry over spilt milk. Hut that recollection of having been rejected for the county was bitter to him, for it had been one of 140 A MODERN PICK WHlTTINGTON. the few occasions when his amour propre had been wounded. So it often happens in the long catalogue of our sins against God and man, that the consequence oi* one of them, though it may have been a very inadequate punishment for it, stands out in our memory, and makes us appear to ourselves aggrieved. It had been almost the only time, and was certainly the last, in which Sir Charles Walden had ever appealed to the opinion of his fellow-creatures, and it had been recorded against him. It had been a small matter — a very small one in comparison with other subjects of regret in his career, but none had made so great an impression upon him. There are some of us who have no remorse for serious offences, but it takes very little to em- hitter their lives. Hitherto Sir Charles had seemed to give himself up to the mood of his young companion, and even to take pains to saj r nothing of discouragement ; but for the remainder of the walk he was at first distrait, and when he grad- ually recovered his self-possession, c} r nical. " Tt is amazing to me,' 1 he presently said, "that with all this love of yours for nature, you should have such an ambition for thing's outside it; } r ou ought to be* a philosopher, or rather a philosophic poet, content with ' the root and the spring,' and never wish to stray from these charming surroundings." " Well, I don't wish to exchange them for IT /'///■; OOR VER. 1 M Singapore, it is very true," said Lawrence, his sense of gratitude to bis companion (no1 perhap unmixed with that of favours to i Le) struggling with a Peeling of indignation at what seemed very like a sneer; "but though you may not see tin necessity of it, Sir Charles, I must live, and even * the root ' you speak of would in my case not be forthcomingr." Thougrh the lad's tone was quiet, bis face showed what he felt. " Forgive me, my dear boy," said the other impulsively, " I spoke like a brute to whom roots are the proper nutriment. I wanted— or rather the devil within me wanted — to say some- thing spiteful, and I said it to the wrong person. Why, that is Hurlby, is it not, out yonder: ' "Yes; your round tower just peeps above the trees ; when the flag is flying, which 1 suppose betokens your presence, it looks still more picturesque." " You will see it nearer, soon, I hope, when the flag is flying," returned the other graciously. "Then' are some things in the eastle that will please you." Lawrence murmured a few words of thanks for the invitation, which indeed grave him great pleasure; and the more, since it was wholly unexpected; fo] he km-v. bhal Sir CharL • lived the life ol a recluse. " 1 hope you won't find it so dull as I do," continued the baronet. "It is my experience, 142 A MODERN DICK WHLTTINGTON. however, that one can stand a visit to almost everywhere once, always supposing one can get away when one likes." " I trust that that tribute to the delights of hospitality," said Lawrence laughing, " does not imply that we shall not see you again at Hills- land ? " " If so, it will not be because the Hall wants attractions, I do assure you," said the other earnestly ; then, more lightly, " perhaps the Rajah may not ask me again. I have a sus- picion that I have not made a favourable im- pression on him, and still less on your Uncle Robert." " If it be so, that comes of befriending me" observed Lawrence gratefully. " That is sad, for so far as I can I shall continue to earn his ill-will in that respect," answered the other smiling. " Now we are getting home again. Whose is that melan- choly-looking house yonder, with the ' garden of the sluggard ' attached to it ? " " That is Mr. Salesby's," said Lawrence with a slight flush. ' ' Then let us drop in and pay him a call : I owe him one, for he voted for me at the election. If Mr. Gruebv is to be trusted — which, however, is doubtful — we shall get the latest Derby tip from him." Lawrence cared nothing for Derby tips, AT THE ri,i;.\ /■;/>. H.; though perhaps as much as Sir Charles did. The latter, indeed, was simply curious to see the young lady on whom, as he had reason to suspecl . his young friend had set his affections, and of whom he had already caught a fleeting glance in the orchard on the previous day. He might also have wished to renew his acquaintance, if the verv little he knew of him could be so called, with Mr. Salesby, who was a "character" in his way, though not a good one. He belonged to one of the oldest families in the county, who, though they had never occupied a prominent position, had been in a fairly elevated one — till horse and hound had ruined their present representative. Dick Salesby had still a " bit of blood " on which he limited twice a week in the season, but it was the last link with his palmy days that was left to him. His neighbours of the gentry still nodded to him in familiar fashion, but not even the humblest labourer touched his cap ; the agricultural mind is dull, but it is keen to recog- nise superiority of position, and the want of it. His friends were only found in the pot-house, mostly hangers-on of the turf. Lawrence was ashamed of the man whom (in his brightest dream- he pictured as his father-in-law, and of the ram- shackly dwelling he called his home ; but since his companion was bent on visiting it, there was no escape, lie only hoped that Kitty would be away somewhere, lor it would be dreadful if Sir 144 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. Charles should see her — like a jewel set in pewter - — amid such sordid surroundings. " Why the place is to let ! ' exclaimed Sir Charles, pointing to a notice board that leant like a drunken Hag over the broken paling which fringed the neglected garden. " No ; it is Mr. Salesby's peculiar way of in- forming strangers of the name of his house ; he calls it ' The Corner.' Some allusion to the Derby course, I believe." " Oh, I see : Tattenham Corner. Our friend is an original." At that moment, as if to illustrate the fact, Mr. Salesby appeared at his own front door. He was a spare little man, who, if he had been younger, might well have been taken for a jockey out of place ; he looked as if he had been " sweated down," and had suffered in health in consequence. His appearance was " horsey," from the straw in his mouth to the spurs on his old ill-kept top boots. He had just come in from his morning ride through the back door of his residence, which opened conveniently on the stable yard. " Well, Master Lorry, how goes it ? ' he shouted, almost as loud as a view holloa. " Come in, and bring your friend with you." As they obeyed the invitation, and walked up the well- worn gravel walk, the visitor took note of the desolate aspect of the house — the stains of AT THE CORNER. 1 15 weather it showed, the patched windows, and the blank spaces where others had Long ago been built over to avoid the tax, and left so when it had been done away wit h. " What ! Sir Charles Walden is ii P " ex- claimed the host with pleased surprise as they drew nearer. " WVleome to • 'The Corner.' Von must be dry after a walk in this weather; have a glass of claret." lie pronounced the word — perhaps to mod- estly intimate the mildness of the vintage — as though it were monosyllabic. " I would rather have a glass of ale," replied the other smiling. "I remember how good your tap used to be, though it is many years ago since 1 tasted it last. " "Aye; that was at the great election time, fifteen years ago. It was not my fault that yon did not gei in. What 1 said was, when people said things agen you, 'Let byegones he bye- gones.' Take a seat, Sir Charles." He led them into a barely-furnished room. the walls hung round with pictures of Derby winners, looking very much alike, and a portrait of the host on horseback, very unlike him, or at all events what he had since become. It was a spick and span model of mounted propriety, and susrsrested a M.F.IL considering whether he should accept the office of churchwarden. The handles of the bell-ropes were Eoxes' 'pads"; K 140 A MODE UN DICK WHITTINGTON. upon the mantelpiece, stuck in cheap vases, as though they had been flowers, were foxes' brushes : above them, as though it had just bitten its way through the wall, was a fox's head. There was a litter of clay pipes, fragments of tobacco, and bills headed "accounts rendered" upon the table, which Mr. Salesby cleared away by the simple process of sweeping them on to the floor with his " crop," which he still held in his hand. "They may just as well lie there as anywhere else," he grinned, " so far as any chance of their being paid is concerned." " Yes, the times are bad indeed for us who live by the land," observed Sir Charles sym- pathetically. " They're deuced bad with me, at all events," replied the host, not without a touch of satire and a use of the figure termed ellipsis, though he was unconscious of his obligation to it. He disliked the other's pretence of being in the same boat — " Impecuniosity " — with himself, but his sense of the duties of hospitality forbad his re- senting it. He rang the bell, and on its being answered by a slatternly girl, exclaimed, " Yell, and glasses round ; ' then added, as she was leaving the room, " and tell your young missis to come down." Lawrence sighed and looked out of the window, while Sir Charles fixed his attention on the portrait of their host. AT THE CORNER. 1 17 "Aye, that's Stickaback," cried Mr. Salesby, — it was nut from modesty thai he attributed the interesi of bhe picture to the horse, rather than to its rider, l>ut simply that in his eyes the equine race was superior to the human— "the best timber jumper of his day, bar none. He'd ha' won the ' Liverpool ' bul for a cussed storm, which made the ground slippery." 1 What great events hang on small causes," observed the baronet demurely. " You may say that, for I lost four hun- dred pounds by his not keeping his legs — hut here's the yell; where's Miss Kitty, lass?" "She's coming up the walk now," returned the handmaid. Lawrence was already acquainted with the fact, and indeed had been making appealing but unmistakable signs to her to go back again. Sir Charles turned to the window and beheld, as it struck him at least, one flower in the garden, which, lor grace and beauty, it would have been difficult to match. Kitty Salesby was "tall and most divinely fair," but she looked her best when she moved. It has been said that only a few women know how to walk, and she had this art, which in her case was nature, to perfection. Even limb in her body was Cull of grace, every line a line of beauty. Her father went to the window ami beckoned her in impatiently, and she replied h 148 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTOX. with a nod of assent ; but such a nod ! The two gestures might have been taken as examples of the coarseness and refinement of which the same sign-language is capable. Yet, strange to say, the girl was not very refined except in a physical sense. Her manner indeed was never awkward — she had no mauvaise lionte — but there was an absence of that delicate reserve about it which, when it is not affected, is the crown of maidenly grace. She was far from bold or forward ; quite free from anything that could be called vul- garity ; but her bringing up and surroundings, and above all the necessity for self-assertion in domestic matters, which circumstances had im- posed upon her, had given to her for so young a girl an unusual air of independence. When her father introduced his guest to her with some touch of ostentation as Sir Charles Walden, of Hurlby Castle, she took his outstretched hand without the least sign of perturbation, and when Mr. Salesby added with a dry chuckle, " Master Lawrence, I think you know," she nodded to him familiarly without embarrass- ment. Naturalness, so wholly unlooked for, was not likely to escape the baronet's observation, but so far from taking advantage of it, he continued his conversation with his host, leaving the two young people to themselves. His attention, however, seemed inclined to wander j and when the ale AT I UE CORNER. I L9 was being poured out by Kitty, very defblj and with a fine froth upon it, "you are nol listening to what L am telling you about Ganymede," said .Mr. Salesby querulously. " 1 beg your pardon," said Sir ( lharles, " but for the moment," here he bowed his thanks to the young lad}-, " I was rather thinking about Eebe." The classical allusion was lost upon both lather and daughter, but Kitty would have rightly understood that a compliment had been paid her, even had not Laurence Laughed and gently clapped his hands. It pleased the young fellow exceedingly that the beauty of his inamorata had awakened the admiration of his fastidious friend. CHAPTER XV. THE JUDICIOUSNESS OF FIFTY. Though Lawrence knew so little of the world, he felt grateful to Sir Charles, inasmuch as not- withstanding- the favourable impression Kitty had evidently made upon him, he scarcely addressed her throughout the visit, which lasted for some time, but left him the pleasing task of entertaining her. It was the kinder of his friend because he had felt that Mr. Salesby was boring his guest to extremity with his talk of the stable, though the other showed no more sign of his sufferings than an Indian at the stake. A few words, indeed, Sir Charles did say to Kitty to show that she was not neglected; he spoke of the beauty of the neighbourhood, and joined with her in her praise of the fir groves, which he drew from her were her favourite haunts, and inquired into her occupations, the simplicity of which amused him ; but on the whole he might be truly said to have sacrificed himself on the altar of friendship, and that too with such THE JUDI0I0UBNE88 OF FIFTY. 15] apparent willingness thai liis host wrung bis hand, as he took his leave, informed him that he was "the best of company," and swore that if he ever stood for the county again he would work for him " like a navvy a1 a harrow." "So I have found one source at leasi of your poetic inspiration, Master Lorry," observed Sir Charles, as t!n\ pa sed through the garden gate, uot without difficulty, for it hung on a single hinge. " Lip apart, head aside, crowned with thy -olden hair. Eh Well, her hair is golden, and there is a wry fine crop would express it, but I am well aware there is not the remotest chance of it. My Uncle UohiTt will stand between me and all benefits from that quarter. I have nothing to hope for save from my pen." " A sorry instrument, even though it be a steel one, to open thai oyster, the world, with," replied the baronet. " Well, well, we musl noi be discouraged. You must pick out your chefs- d'oeuvre — 'prose and worse,' as Jcrrold called them and 1 will send them to an editor I know, who will at least give me his opinion about them." " You are most kind," exclaimed Lawrence with effusion; then suddenly, "but I hope the opinion will be an honesl one. I mean not merely to please me, <>r rather, to please you That would be a cruel kindness." 'The colour came into Sir Charles's lace, and he was silent for a moment. Perhaps he had 154 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. had some idea of bespeaking an encouraging verdict. " Well, my good fellow," he answered with a cheery smile, " it will signifj^ nothing to you what the editor says if his opinion is un- favourable, for }'ou will not believe one word of it. No young genius ever does. On the other hand, if he accepts your contributions he will pay you for them, which is better than all the criticism in the world." " You do not really think that," said Lawrence doubtfully. " I am putting myself in your place. I should think that if 1 were you. Indeed, I am not sure whether it is not so in the abstract absolutely. Of course, any critic worthy of the name recognises rubbish as worthless ; but when there is merit how can he recognise that in a work in a single reading, as the man does who has spent weeks and months over it ? It is true I am no guide to letters ; but in a parallel case, that of our own nature, I am well convinced — notwithstanding all saws to the contrary — that we know ourselves far better than those who call themselves judges of character can know us. We have ten times as much interest in tin 5 matter, and a hundred times the data to begin with." " That is a new view to me," said Lawrence. Indeed, very many of his companion's sentiments were new to him. The man himself was a study, THE JUDIOIOUS VE OF FIFTY. L55 and surprised him in tuanj waj His grace of manner and tHe kindness he exhibited towards himself were no doum* factors in his admiration, nor (though t lii> counted far less with him did his great social position go for nothing ; but what most attracted him was the ori- ginality and naturalness of the other's talk. He had only known one man — of a very dif- fered kind, however — whose individuality had similarly impressed him, his old tutor. Mr. IVre\ . They goi home in time for Luncheon, at which <»nly .Miss .lane. Mrs. Meiridew, and Uuth were present. The master of the house never put in an appearance at that time, and Mrs. Robert, overcome no doubi by her extra- ordinary exertions of the previous evening, was indisposed, and required the attentions of her devoted husband. Miss .Jane herself at the con- clusion of the meal went off, as she expressed it, to " look alter her sister-in-law, declining to accept Ruth's services which were offered forthat purpose. She even gave Sir Charles to under- stand that when anyone was ill in the house, it was her hand that was al\\a\s ready to smooth the pillow; this, as Lawrence informed him with some hluntness ("she would be much more likely," he said, "to smother them with the pillow"), was not, however, the case. It was Ruth who was always the sicfe nurse ; hut on 156 .4 MODERN DICK WHLTTINGTON. this occasion Miss Jane had her reasons for leaving her niece at leisure ; and the opportunity thus given to Sir Charles he was not slow to take advantage of. " I trust your aunt is not seriously indis- posed," he said to her, in a tone that was capable of being translated in earnest or in jest ; he knew the character of Mrs. Robert's invalidism, but wanted to discover whether Ruth was inclined to be plain with him or not. "There is not much amiss with Mrs. Robert," answered the girl frankly ; " I wish I could say as much for my other aunt." " You mean your Aunt Jerry — that is, Mrs. Lock," added the baronet hastily, " I owe both you and her an apology, but the fact is Lawrence and I have become such friends that I have fallen into his way of speaking." " He would be pleased to know it," she answered graciously, "and I am sure Aunt Jerry would not be displeased at your calling her by her familiar name ; she is one of the kindest creatures on earth, as well as one' of the most harmless, and she is in very delicate health, I regret to say." " I am sorry for that. Lawrence, too, spoke of her to me with equal warmth." " I am glad of that ; it was good of him ; that is, I mean," she continued, with THE JUDICIOUSNESS OF FIFTY. 157 a blush, "young men do not always take the trouble to perceive the merits of an "1<1 woman." " Xot so much as of a young one, at all events," observed Sir Charles, smiling. To this Until made no reply. Was it possible, he wondered, that the girl was piqued at Lawrence's indifference to her, or was even aware of liis affections being otherwise engaged? It was worth his while to discover this. " We have been a long walk over jrour beautiful country," he resumed. " I had no idea t hat 1 1 illsland had such at t ract ions." "The whole table-land above the village i-> glorious," she assented. '• And the village itself is so picturesque," he added. " Indeed, one house, at which we called, seemed a little too picturesque ; not, indeed, from an artist's point of view, but a landlord's. It was my old friend, Mr. Salesby's, 'The Corner,' as he calls it ." " Ah, that is a sad business. The poor man, they say, is on the road to ruin, though, I fear, by his own fault. What makes the thing SO pitiable is that he has a daughter." "Yes, I saw her to-day : a very pretty girl." "To my mind she is much more than that : a most graceful and charming girl." " Do you really think her charming?' "So far as looks go. yes ; 1 have never seen 158 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. her equal ; but I scarcely know anything of her besides her looks. She feels her father's position — and indeed her own — I fancy very keenly, and that makes her disinclined for acquaintanceship. None of us see anything of her, poor thing ! " Sir Charles thought of Lawrence's infatuation for the girl (for so it seemed to him) and could not restrain a smile. " You are thinking, perhaps," added lluth, with a little blush, " that we have made no effort to be friendly ; but, indeed, I have done what I could. She seems to resent any sympathy." " I am sure you have done your best," said Sir Charles earnestly. " I was very far from thinking otherwise." " She reminds me of Hillsland Beck, which you crossed on the moor to-day — " ' With each cross and fall the prouder, Like a proud man growing poor.' " " A pretty metaphor and a true one," observed Sir Charles, " but the lines are un- familiar to me." "This is not surprising," she answered, smiling, " they were written by Lawrence." " And on Miss Kate ? " he inquired. " Not that I am aware of," she answered, laughing this time outright. " He writes on most things, but I don't think he has yet immortalised either me or Miss Salesby." THE JUD1CI0U8NESS OF FIFTY. LS9 "So far as my judgmeni goes returned Sir Charles, without betraying his secret amusement at this proof of ignorance, " he writes ver\ well. He is to give me sonic specimens of his genius to-day, and I have promised to do what I can to gel t hem into print . 'That is kind of you indeed," she murmured earnestly. "If he could only get a little encouragement, poor fellow, he might do some- thing for himself. I feel, though, alas, I know nothing about sucli matters, thai he lias a great deal of talent ." That is just my feeling, and also my state of ignorance," said the other gravely. " Bui you arc not ignorant ; and you have power and influence. (Mi, if you could help him to help himself! He is not happy here, at all." " He ought to be," returned Sir Charles, with a Little bow. She waved her hand as if to put awa\ a compliment out of place; her look was serious and even sad. "If you only knew his position here, you would think he had good cause to be unhappy. And then the alternative — that dreadful clerk- ship at Singapore, for which he is so unfitted, and the thought of which is hateful to him. If he could only maintain himself in England, how thankful I should be!" "If I had not keen interested in Lawrence 160 A MODERN DICK WHLTTINGTON. before," said Sir Charles earnestly, "the know- ledge that you feel so warmly for him would enlist my best endeavours." The colour rushed to the girl's cheeks. A less intelligent or a vainer man would have set her emotion down to his own account, but the baronet translated it aright. Ruth had blushed, not at his willing- ness to serve her, but at the affection he had imputed to her for her cousin. " She is in love with him," was his quick conclusion, " and he is not in love with her." It would have been easy to disenchant her by letting her understand that he was in love with some- body else ; then her affection would be free to settle elsewhere. It would not be necessary for him to use any of those stratagems which we are told are fair in love and war ; he had only to tell the simple truth. But this he hesitated to do, for the very reason that would have caused some men to take that course — because he himself regarded her with such tenderness. It could not, as yet at all events, be said that he was in love with Euth ; but it was not only her beauty that attracted him; her unselfishness, her frank- ness, her defiance of the domestic tyrants before whom poor Mrs. Merridew and Aunt Jerry crouched in fear, filled him with admiration. She might find out for herself — as indeed she would surely do — the true state of affairs, but he would not be the one to awaken her from " Love's ////■; JUDIOIOl 3 OF FIFTY. I 1 young dream." A chivalrous resolve enough, but ;ii the same time he did nol forget thai the messenger of such ill-tidings would therein be far from recommending himself to her. 'I he lover of lil'tv is said to be more vehement of pur- pose than I"' of twenty-five, but he is also more judicious in II"' manner of his wooing. CHAPTER XVI. AN ERROR IN A TELEGRAM. The noblest study of mankind may be man, but it is certainly the most difficult. The general character of his fellow-creatures may indeed be diagnosed by the observant student pretty accu- rately. He is but a tyro in the art if he cannot, on comparatively slight acquaintance, distinguish the honest man from the rogue. " Man," says a modern poet, "is not wicked and is not good ; by no means as white as snow, but by no means as black as coal; he is black and white; pie- bald." This is the case, of course, with the majority, though some of us — and not a few — are blacker than any nigger ; absolutely without conscience, or tenderness, or any white spot what- ever — blackguards ; but, as regards the piebald ones, though their general disposition may be understood, their particular weaknesses — or worse — often remain unknown even to those who live under the same roof with them. The ex- Conimissioner's character, lor example, was read .I.V ERROR l.\ .1 TE1 EGRAM. 1 I pretty accurately by his Bon, who bad given great pains to the study of it ; but there were schemes going on in thai bald pate under the skull cap of which be knew nothing. And on tl ther hand, though the old gentleman knew his son to 1)*' no1 only self-seeking and un- scrupulous, but (whal was far more deplorable) somewhat risky in his method of gaining his ends, he had hardly a suspicion of the desperate recklessness of which he was capable ; and though both suspected the other's weakness (because it was common to them), neither had any concep- tion of its extent. They transacted business to- gether — the old man's business — almost daily, but now and then it crossed Robert's mind that he did not possess his lather's confidence; that something of importance was kept back from him. He himself professed to have no busin his wife's money sufficed for him until in fulm of time lie should receive the inheritance due to him by birth, and earned by filial duty of late days; but even when in conference with his father, Robert had of late shown himself distrait and soiiiewh.il neglectful of the matter in hand. " You are thinking of something else," com- plained the old gentleman, with irritation, as they sat in the study together, talking of lea and repairs; "what maggot have you got in your head now ? ' " My wife is ill. sir." L 2 1G4 A MODERN DICK WEITTIXGTON. " I never knew her otherwise," was the un- sympathetic reply. " It is a great nuisance it should be so while Sir Charles is with us, since it leaves no one to do the honours." This was rather an unreasonable complaint, for, as we know, the speaker had no high opinion of the lady in question as a hostess, but the last thing the ex-Commissioner gave himself any concern about was consistency. " Sir Charles gets on well enough," returned Mr. Robert with a sneer. "He seems to find an interest in Lawrence's society, which to me is inexplicable. The boy was conceited enough before, and this will turn his head." " His head will be turned towards Singa- pore before the year's out," replied the other indiiiVrentty, "so that matters nothing. The question of more consequence is, is Sir Charles interested in Ruth ? ' " Yes : Jane is distinctly of opinion that he is. They talk together, she tells me, upon poetry and such like, which it seems is a good sign. If the girl had the right sort of wits, she could easily lure him, or at all events put him in a position where I could bring him to book." " I don't understand yon, Robert," exclaimed the old gentleman hotly. " That is not the way to speak of my son Cyril's — your eldest brother's — daughter. Do you suppose that I AN ERROR IN .1 TE1 EGRAM. L65 wish Kuth to figure in an action for breach of promise r " Well, it would nc\ er come to that, of course j but if Sir Charles inclines to play I. and loose with her, I think be should he made to |>;i\ for it; it would be only right— and al most part icularly convenienl ." The hist words had probably some reference to what they had been talking of before, for the other answered irascibly enough indeed, but o t content lously " Al all e\ciits, see that our guesl has his Own w;iv iii this house. Though it may not chime in with pour aotions if he has taken a fancy to Lawrence, don't put a spoke in the lad's wheel by giving Sir Charles a had opinion of 1 1 i in ; and don't let Mr. Arthur Grrueby show his nose here again while Sir Charles is with us. He has not been here since, has he?" added the ..hi gentleman sharply. " Xo, sir ; he has gone to the Derby, which, ;is \ on know, is run to-d,i\ .' " I know nothing about the Derby. Horse- racing is a low and demoralising pursuit. In [ndia our Cherooi Sweepstakes — ,: Here their was a knock at the door. "A telegram for you, sir," said the servant, handing the yellow envelope to his master. The ex- Commissioner knitted his brows at the superscription — " Stratton, ffillsland;' h< did 166 A MODERN DICK WH1TTINGT0N. not like his name and address to be thus abbre- viated for the sake of three half-pence. " This is a cursed piece of impertinence," he exclaimed, when he had possessed himself of the contents: '" Ganymede for ever — Grueby.' What the deuce does the blackguard mean ? ' " I think the message must have been meant for me, sir," suggested Mr. Robert ; but notwith- standing the mistake, and the wrath that it had aroused in his father's mind, "the squire's" tone was cheerful, and even buoj'ant. " But what does it mean ? I say," ex- claimed the old man savagely. " Who is Gany- mede ? ' " Well, I suppose it's the winner of the Derby. Grueby is a foolish fellow, who thinks everybocty has the same tastes as himself, and so he telegraphs what he considers will be interest- in a* information." " I don't believe it. Grueby would not spend sixpence to please anybody. You told him to do it, sir. "I may have done so," said Robert indif- ferently, " but if so it has escaped my recollec- tion. It was very idiotic of him not to have addressed the thing more distinctly." " Idiotic ? He must have been drunk ! ' cried the old gentleman. " It is rather early in the afternoon for ///af," said Mr. Robert smiling, but in his heart he .l.v ERROR IX .1 TELEQR IV. 167 thouerhl it nut Impossible thai the excitemenl of having "pulled off a good thing " might have been supplemented in his friend - case by a bottle of champagne ;if some other winner's expense. " I don't like it," exclaimed the ex-Commis- sioner, in that judicial and condemnatory tone before which many a dark-lined native had trembled! "it looks to me as though there was some discreditable transaction in which you and he were both interested— gambling, 1 1 sir. " You display your usual acumen," observed Mr. Robert frankly, "though in a matter scarcely worth its exercise. If you will carry your mind back to the night when Mr. Grueby dined with us, von may remember that he talked of having a few crowns on Ganymede, of which he otl'ered me a share. He seems to be almost out of his mind at the success of our little speculation. I believe 1 am the richer for it by Jli-c pounds." " If that is all, and you have won," put in the old gentleman naively, "there is not much to he said ; hut you know how I abhor gambling of all kinds." Mr. Robert nodded; he would like to have 1 n able to say with confidence, "'I know it.' hut he was not so sure about that matter as he wished to he. He had an uneasy suspicion that 168 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. the governor "dabbled" in things that did not always turn out Ganymedes. The rest^of their interview was much more agreeable than at one time it had promised to be. Mr. Robert was more dutiful in his manner even than usual, and found more frequent occasions to admire his father's sagacity. He spoke of the pleasure Sir Charles had derived from his inspection of the ex-Commissioner's Indian treasures ; ' I can hardly get him to talk of anything else." " Really now, indeed," said the old gentle- man, emitting little purrs of satisfaction, that alternated with the hubble-bubble of his pipe. " Which do you think took his fancy most ? ' " I think the tulwar of the Rajah of Bundle- cumbad ; the scabbard he described as a triumph of Eastern decoration." " If I have a favourite relic of the gorgeous East it is that tulwar," murmured the old gentle- man. Still, when their talk was over, Mr. Robert was more glad than usual to get away ; he did not look so cast down about his wife as he had done, and instead of going straight to her sick room, as might have been expected, he took up his hat and walked into the village. " Of course it's all right," he muttered gaily to himself, " but I'll just look in at Salesby's and get the news confirmed." It was not a small matter that could bring a J.V ERItOR IN .1 TELEGRAM. smile thai was nol :i sneering one into Roberl Stratton's Pace, bul it wore one now ; it was not, it. is true, of a verj sunny nature, far less of tli.it pleasant kind that evokes its fellow from whomsoever we foregather with, but it evinced ;i t least a comfortable self-satisfaction, such as any man mighl wear who lias enriched himself at somebody else's expense. It was not likely that lie would find Mi-. Richard Salesby in such high spirits, because lie had always said that Ganymede was "not the horse for his money," but lie was sure to have hail a " wire ' from Epsom, whether the news was had or good. As the squire drew near "The Comer." he perceived its proprietor leaning over the garden -ate in talk witli Lawrence. 1 1 is brow gifevt dark in a moment ; he hated to see grown men talking to the hoy as if he were their equal, and e\-eii, as in this ease, treating him with a cer- tain consideration. Aware of this, and reci- procating the other's dislike of his society, Lawrence began to move away as the squire drew near. "AYhat are yon flitting for, lad?' inquired Mr. Salesby. "Oh, we don't want him," exclaimed Mr. Robert, who had just come within earshot, " let him go." "Speak lor yourself, squire, not for me," returned the other roughly. 'Somebody else 170 A MODE LIN DICK WHITTLNGTON. wants him here, if I don't. You speak to Master Lorry as if, instead of being your own kith and kin, he was your dog- ; he ain't your pet dog, that's certain." And the speaker laughed with that full appreciation of his bon mot that is felt by a man who very seldom makes one. Lorry was not yet out of hearing, which did not tend to smooth the squire's temper ; but it was obviously injudicious to quarrel with his sporting friend till he had furnished him with the information of which he was in search. " I am glad to see you in a joking mood, Mr. Salesby, this afternoon. I was afraid, perhaps, that the news from Epsom might have cast you down a bit." " Thank you, squire ; I strive to stand up against it," returned the other with a wave of his hand, but even as he spoke he slipped and almost belied his words by coming to the ground. Loosing his hold upon the gate to indulge in gesticulation had been an imprudence ; for the fact was that Mr. Salesby was drunk. Mr. Robert perceived it without the regret that should have been aroused by such discovery ; indeed, he was rather glad of it, because it corroborated his telegram. Mr. Salesb} r , as he knew, had never been a believer in Ganymede, and the tidings of that animal's victory must have been bad news to him. To " keep his AN ERROR IN -l TELEGRAM. 171 spirits up' In' bad qo donbl been "pouring spirits down." " When did you gel tlic wire ? ' inquired Mr. Robert, ignoring with a fine sense of deli- cacy the other's condition; he was not from a moral point of view exacting, and quite willing, if it had only left Mr. Salesby with sense enough to answer his questions, to forgive bis peccadillo. " Nol half an hour ago," answered the other with some indistinctness. " Where's Sir Charles, where's Kitty, where's everybody? 1 want to tell 'elil about it." " Well, tell me," said the squire cheerfully. Mr. Salesby fumbled in his breast pocket, and after a considerably longer time than it had taken in transmission, produced his telegram. "Let me read it!" cried Mr. Robert, with outstretched hand. " No you don't," answ ered the other, drawing it back with a lurch that made the gate swing and him with it; "every gentleman gives a public reading of his own telegram, all others are - what's the word ? ' " Imitation^/' suggested Mr. Robert. "Not at all, sir. Much worse than that. All others are t'rau — Iran — -fraudulent. [f read it, for instance," said Mr. Salesby with a gleam of humour, " it would sure to be fraudu- lent. Now listen: silence in the pit, silence 172 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. in the gal By-the-bye, where the deuce is the °:al? Lawrence can't find her, /can't find her. Kit, Kit, Kit ! ' and here Mr. Salesby gave a really admirable imitation of one whose favourite cat has in youth strayed from his hearth, and who seeks to recover it by blandish- ments. "Will } r ou be kind enough to read the telegram ? ' observed the squire, with that unnatural calmness of tone which is the im- mediate herald of an outbreak of temper. " Suttingly, sir. Tip, Tip, Tippitiwitchit. Devilish good horse, Tip, though with much too long a mane — I mean name. Tippity first ; that's my horse. Salt Fish second, Parsnips next, which is just as it should be ; and then that very overrated animal, as I always told you. Gany- mede. The rest not placed." " That's all lies, the whole of it," exclaimed the squire furiously. " Ganymede has won the race, I have a telegram from Grueby to say so." " Let me look at it," cried Salesby, roused to consciousness and even intelligence by this amazing statement. "There you see, it's clear enough," insisted Mr. Robert, ' Ganymede for ever.' That must mean that he has won. What else can it mean.' 1 Mr. Salesby burst out laughing. " Well, it means that the passon's (parson's) drunk. .1 \ ERROR IX .1 TELEGRAM. 173 Dreadful thing, drink, in a passon. What be meant to write was, 'Ganymede lour,' for fourth he is, and no mistake aboul it, only liis scrawl was so shakj that the telegraph clerk thought it was ■ for ever.' There, conic ill and take a sup of whiskey,' be added, with a touch of sympathy. " You look down in the mouth, squire." CHAPTER XVII. A NARROW ESCAPE. The poet tells us that " A sorrow's crown of sorrows is remembering happier things," but even a bard's experience is limited ; if he had been connected with the turf he would probably have placed the losing of a huge sum of money, when he thought he had " pulled off" : a still larger one, at the summit of human woes. This was precisely what had happened to Mr. Robert Stratton. He had stood to win £20,000 on Ganymede (for, unlike his confederate, Mr. Grueby, he didn't bet in half-crowns), and fondly imagined he had done it ; whereas Ganymede had in fact lost him £5,000. Only one person in the world had the least suspicion of the magnitude of his "transactions' in horse-flesh, but when he refused Mr. Salesby's offer of liquid refreshment, and strode away with something very like a curse, that gentleman's suspicions were excited. A man must be very hard hit, indeed, he thought, to turn his back upon old .1 NARROW /. ' ;/ /.. I. • whiskey; ;t thing he had never done himself under the most untoward circumstances. 1 1 »■ mighl have invoked his bottle in (almost) the same words as the lover of music addressed to his pianoforte • — "Dear Brii ad, whom grave or gay we seek, 1 1> aven-holding shrine ; 1 pull thy cork and hear it squeak, And peace is mine. No fairy casket full of bliss Outvalues tin si , Love only wakened with a kiss More sweet ma\ Ashe leant over his garden gate and watched the squire's retreating form, this rustic moralisi shook his head ; he had won a good .-take on Tippitiwitchit, and could afford to pity a fellow- creature. Besides his winnings, Mr. Salesb} had another subject for satisfaction that morn- ing ; not, indeed, a very solid one, but which had been at all events "an excuse for a glass." He dwelt upon it now in a dreamy, not to say a boozy way, and winked and winked again over it with extraordinary sagacity ; and this too led his cheerful mind to pity. " Poor Lorry, whai a dog's life the squire leads him! Hell bt harder upon him than ever, now that he baa to fork out this pol of money. It is nor two-and- sixpence thai he has losl this time, I'll bet a penny. The lad's chance of getting anything 176 A MODEliX DICK WR1TT1NGT0N. out of that oriental old scarecrow (thus he spoke of the ex-High Commissioner) will be next to nothing. And I don't envy the passon neither when he comes back and the squire has a word to say to him about that telegram, ' Ganymede for ever ; ' Grueby will never beat that if he lives to be a hundred." And Mr. Salesby gave himself up to such uncontrollable merriment as threatened to tear the garden gate from its solitary hinge. The circumstance in question affected Mr. Robert Stratton in a very different manner. He shook, but certainly not with mirth, and, though Mr. Grueby was more particularly in his thoughts, he swore at large. His loss, great as it was, bad come upon the back of other losses, which he bad fondly hoped his venture upon Ganymede would have recouped, nor had they been half-crown losses, as Mr. Salesb}^ had called them. He could not settle this debt of honour without appealing for help to his father or to his wife, who were equally ignorant of his specula- tions. The ex-Commissioner was not one who parted with his money very readily, even for the best of objects ; if his purse was long his temper was short. As lor Mrs. Robert, her money had been settled on her and her children by ;i prudent father, though if would revert to her husband in ease of her dying childless. The squire, as .Mr. Salesby would have expressed it, .1 VTABIIOW ESCAPE. 177 was " in a bole," and he could sec but one \v;iv out of it. such as only desperation could suggest. It was a wicked way, and also exceedingly dangerous. As he walked on with rapid hut aimless steps, slashing the weeds and ferns with his walking-stick, as if he were cutting off men's heads, lie came upon Lawrence, sitting on a stile with a pipe in his month, and Looking wr\ glum. " What are you doing there, you idle young devil ? ' he inquired stormfully. " Smoking ! ' " It you give me any of your infernal impu- dence I'll cut your liver out," cried the squire, raising his stick. Lawrence thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out an enormous clasp-knife, and opened il with a click. It was plain that he was pre- pared tor "reciprocity ' in livers, and that Uncle Bobert would come under the "most-favoured nation " clause. "What is that tor?' inquired the squire; not that he cared, hut because, notwithstanding his fury, he shrank from precipitating matters. "Whittling," replied Lawrence, and he pro- duced a hunch of bread and cheese. The witticism was thrown away upon the other, but not the coolness with which it was uttered. He was no coward, hnt it had suddenly struck him that the present was a very ill-chosen M 178 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. time for a row with his younger relative, how- ever successful might be the issue. Such violence should not go unpunished, but ven- geance is a dish that can be eaten cold. " Where is Sir Charles ? " he inquired curtly. " I don't know." " But it is your business to know, sir ; as I have already told you, you are placed at his dis- posal to make his stay agreeable to him.". " I am not in his service, nor in yours," returned Lawrence coldly ; "asa matter of fact, however, when I went to look for him, as usual, this afternoon, I found he had gone out. I suppose over the hill." The squire nodded, by no means affably, but to his nephew he seldom condescended to nod, and took the direction indicated. He had only a vague purpose in so doing ; but in the despera- tion of his loss it had occurred to him that the baronet might lend him money ; at all events lie had the power to do so, which was something; £5,000 to him was like five thousand pence to another man ; nevertheless he had a suspicion that the other did not like him, and things were hardly so advanced between Ruth and their visitor to incline him to do him so great a favour on the ground of future relationship. He walked for miles upon the moorland without meeting with anyone ; face to face only with his dark and dismal thoughts. The song of the .1 NARROW /. ?< APE. L79 lark, the coo of the dove, the wave-like murmur of the pines wooed his ear in vain; in rain the odorous air swepl his frowning brow ; in vain the Landscape in its fresh summer garb stretched before his heated eyes. At last, when after a long circuit he had turned towards home, his far-sweeping glance fell on the man he sough.1 ; he was a great way off, close, indeed, to Hillsland, but lie knew it was Sir Charles by his light summer sail, and Ruth was with him. Even while he gazed the pair had entered the lasi pine-grove beneath which lay the village. He could bardlj have come up with them before they reached home, even it he had tried; but he had now no desire to do so; he had indeed lost the opportunity lor which he sought, but his chance in the tut are was greatly bettered. Since Ruth and Sir Charles were walking alone together it was plain that their courtship had go1 on apace. He was glad that he had not thrashed Lawrence, for since the baronet had taken that inexplicable liking to the hoy it would probably have proved an obstacle to the loan he had in view. What convinced him that the love affair was ripening was that when he next caught sight ot" Sir Charles he was walking alone towards the hall; Ruth, without doubt, had parted from him on the way to avoid any comment that might have been made upon their coming home together. Such delicacy of feeling M t^ 180 A MODEBN DICK WH1TTINGTOX. was hardly in Mr. Robert's way, but lie knew how to appreciate it in others. If the happiness of his fellow-creatures could not be said to be his aim in life, he was not one to " spoil sport ' when the game was being driven into his own net. Before Sir Charles reached home he over- took his young friend strolling in the same direction. "Hullo, my lad," he exclaimed, cheerily, " you look as if the rhymes didn't come luckily this morning. What's the matter? ' " Nothing ; if I am dull it was because I missed your companionship. I found you had left the house when I looked into your sitting- room this afternoon as usual." " Yes, I had a headache, and knowing you were hard at work with your writing, I thought I would take a walk over the hill. Where have you been ? But there, I need not ask." " If you mean with Kitty, you are mistaken," answered Lawrence with a blush. " I did call at ' The Corner,' but as it happened she was out ; gone into the vale, her father said, about some poultry. He is in high feather this morning because he had won on the Derby." " So Miss Kate may be an heiress after all, eh?" Lawrence shook his head, the subject was too tender for a jest. I NARROW ESCAPE. L81 " [had nn ant to tell her how kind and helpful you had been to me," he said. "You had better wail for thai until some- thing has come of my endeavours ' observed Sn Charles. " 1 ought to have heard from our editor before this ; he has had plenty of time to read the MBS. I sent him." " Perhaps they have cast him into a deep sleep/' murmured Lawrence ruefully. "One good turn deserves another, in thai case he ought to send you 'a refresher;' come, I should like to know what are your expec tations." "Expectations? End I, I have none, only hopes. A five-pound note would satisfy my highest aspirations." They 1 Lad entered the garden, and Sir Charles was making for a summer-house, which after his long walk seemed a convenient spot to pursue their conversation. "That is a very modest figure," he said, ' ; at which to appraise such a mass of MS. If it comes to no more than that 1 should recommend your giving up literature as a bad job, and appealing to the old Mummy " As he said the words Sir Charles found him- self opposite Miss .lane, who, sitting in the arbour with an improving book on her lap, had most certainly overheard them. "] must really ask your pardon," he 182 A MODERN DICK WR1TTINGT0N. continued with his sweetest smile, " for apply- ing such an epithet as I have just used to any relative of yours; but my young friend here so often calls Mrs. Merridew 'the Mummy' (meaning his mamma), or even ' the old Mummy,' that when talking with him I have — quite inex- cusably — fallen into the way of it." It was " magnificent," and if not exactly the truth, and indeed splendide mendax would have been a fit quotation for it— it had some soupcon of truth about it. Lawrence did sometimes call his mother " the Mummy " for love and euphony, but as an example of presence of mind, on the very verge of a catastrophe, Sir Charles's coup was perfection, and in that light alone it struck Lawrence. He not only recognised the fact that Miss Jane would never have forgiven his friend for speaking of her father so disrespectfully, but that it would have opened her eyes to the alliance established between himself and the baronet against the Hall authorities. His gratitude and sense of relief, therefore, when he saw his aunt's grim face relax — for the familiarity taken, as she supposed, with her sister, by no means displeased her — and the puckers of her mouth form them- selves into its ordinary wintry smile, were over- whelming. It did not occur to him at the time that such exceeding readiness of defence must have owed something to a habit of duplicity. A NARROW VSG LPE 183 [f Mr. Roberl had been by and heard ths baronel ero on 1<> ask after Miss IJutli, as if he knew nothing of what had been thai young lad} - movements for the afternoon, he would have formed a differenl impression of him. It was qo doubl a praiseworthy satisfaction thai Sir CharL took to hoodwinking Aunl Jane, but he certainly accomplished it with admirable skill. Even the severe Calvinistic volume which had formed tin' subject of her outdoor studies, and of which she frankly expn »sed her conviction that it was not much in Sir Charles's way, came in for its Bhare of eulogy. \ theological discussion, in which he t..».k earc not to be the victor, broughl down the curtain, save for a tag, spoken by the van- quished to his companion, after he had left the lady's presence, "Thai woman, my dear Lawrence, lias made a religion for herself out of the worsl parts of Christianity." CHAPTER XVIII. THE HONORARIUM. "I have got something for you which came by post this evening," said Sir Charles to Lawrence, as he took his seat and a cigar in the latter's room that night. " Something from Mr. Latham ? ' inquired the boy eagerly ; his face was flushed with ex- citement, his hand trembled as he poured out his friend's coffee for him ; Mr. Latham was the London editor with whom the other had been in correspondence on his behalf. " Yes, he sent you this," and he tossed a sealed envelope across to him. " A letter ; that is most kind of him." " No; I wish it was, and that he had sent me the other thing. He has written me a letter as long as my arm." " Oh, Sir Charles, this is too much ! " Lawrence was holding in his hand what had cer- tainly never been there before, a ten-pound note. His eyes were full of wonder and gratitude and THE EONOE LRIUM. I ! joy. It was the firsl money he had ever earned, which of itself is bliss ; but he also beheld in it tin' promise of future fortune; the means of livelihood assured; and with it happiness and hope and Kilty. Thai almost transparenl piece of paper with its delicate water-mark and cabalistic arcs, was like the gift of some trusl of the good .nil-; To which all (rials, God-sent, tends. By the voice that seems as though Musicless it could not How, By tin' grace that doth appear Still about her silvering hair, By tin 1 fingers delicate, Wealth or Base was once her Mate, By tin.' weeds so worn and coarse Theirs has been i long divorce/ " "That's good; I remember the description of the boy," interposed Sir Charles, a little hastily, lie was afraid of being bored, and still more afraid of showing it. "He was a good plucked one, just what a middy should he. Now let's hear the conclusion." 188 A MODERN DICK WHITT1NGT0N. " ' Boy and mother of that race Meeting peril face to face, Firm to friends aud firm to foes, On whose cheek nor comes nor goes For shame nor fear, the blood-red rose, Calm of eye and clear of head, English born and English bred/ " " 'Pon my life tluit ought to bring down the house, Lawrence, or at all events the gallery. You deserve a pension for patriotic song, like Dibdin." As a general rule young poets (and also old ones) do not like being chaffed about their Muse, but there are different ways of doing it, and that of Sir Charles was a very pleasant way. Law- . rence well understood, that it was solely for his own sake, and not at all for any pleasure derived from his verses, that Sir Charles was so patient a listener, and yet he was grateful to him, which showed him to be, if not a poet, something more. " ' What I like next best,' says Latham, ' is your young friend's description of the choice of a profession. The "Merchant' is good, and the " Yeoman '''' is good, but the " Soldier " is best of all.' How does it run, my lad ? " " ' Merrily clash the cymbals twain With an exultant note, Stirring sounds doth the trumpet rain Ado w n its brazen throat ; THE EONORAEIUM. Freshlj flieth the pennant fair Prom t he good lance's head, The stirrup's clank' is U\ the to hear, \\\\ t he is t he charger's t read ; Fierce and clear doth the scabbard ring*, \\ ii h the sharp sword for guest, Hui the whir! of the downward swing Of thai blue blade is liest ; And the tramp of a thousand sf Is 111 thunder and in cloud, When the earth is shaken and bleed Maketli a man's heart proud ; More proud than words ever said, A\ e, than songs ever sung, And proudest the hearts fever led. Of the brave and the young.' " "Now, that has o-,» in it,' exclaimed Sir Charles. " What ;i Grange thing it is that one fellow whose heart is in Grub Street should write like that, and another should feel it. Set old Latham oil a charger and he would fall off; lie has never had a more deadly weapon in his hand than an umbrella ; yet lie writes of that poem justly enough : ' It stirs one's blood. 1/ /kis something of the old hull ml ring about // {those //■////on/ nit e), a ml is very refreshing after the triolets and artificialities of lln- modern Muse. It gives me great hopes of him.' Luckily for you, ni\ dear fellow, Latham is old-fashioned. 'A Pagan suckled on a creed outworn ; ' he believes in Nature. Your ' Spring Time ' has 190 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTOX. 'fetched ' him. It has even fetched me, so that T remember the opening lines of it. t(t Summer's coming*, Winter's going, Sun lias set the stream a-flowing, Through our windows ere we're waking Out from nests of this month's making, Come the rooks' caws without number, Preaching Work's more sweet than Slumber. From the bare branch just set swinging By the weight of his up-springing, Trills the song bird, " I'm in Clover ! Spring's begun and Winter's over, No more blowing, no more snowing, Fruit's a budding, Wheat's a growing.' " It is curious how spring revives the oldest of us, gives a spring to even the most worn-out machine. When Cicero tells us that there is no man so old but thinks that he will live a year, it is the spring that makes him think so. I dare- say you conclude that my old bones are dry." ' Indeed," continued Lawrence confusedly, :c such an idea never entered into my mind." ' That's because you never thought about it ; compared with you, no doubt I seem a cen- tenarian. Well, they're not dry." CHAPTEE XIX. THE I N li I A N 8 U M E EL At the time Lawrence saw no reason for those last observations of Sir Charles. They em- barrassed him, and moreover he wanted to hear more of what Mr. Latham had written. He knew that Sir Charles was not fishing for compli- ments ; that was not at all his wa\ . There was a cynical smile upon his lip that puzzled him. What did he mean? A sudden thought flashed upon his mind. Sir Charles was alluding to a tenderness, which, not withstanding the difference in their years, he entertained lor Kuth. Perhaps he wished to break this news to him. This idea did not please Lawrence. The young always object to any amativeness in the old; such resuscitations are displeasing- to them. They believe in the spring and the summer, but not in the Indian summer. Paterfamilias should be content to "go a-wooing in his boys," and not attempt those adventures in his own person. It is not decorous in him, and it is greedy. 'He 192 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. has had his whack," as it is vulgarly termed, and should he satisfied with retrospection. These were merely general considerations, and would not perhaps have much affected Lawrence, in Sir Charles's case ; the baronet, though certainly advanced in years, was not at all like an old fogey ; it would have been per- missible to him, or at all events excusable, in his young friend's view, to have contemplated matri- mony with some unknown damsel, however young, but he did not like the notion of his aspiring to the hand of Ruth. No suspicion of the kind had ever entered into the lad's head ; he had not, of course, been made a confidante of the hopes entertained by the authorities of the Hall in that direction, and it sfruck him now with a sense of sacrilege. Of course, he might be mistaken about the matter altogether ; it was the baronet's look and manner rather than his words that had awakened his apprehensions, but they were awakened. He seemed, somehow, to say to him, " However surprised you may be, my young friend, at such tender sentiments in a centenarian, still I entertain them." He Avas not a centenarian, of course, but he was old enough to be Ruth's grandfather, and the idea was not only offensive to him but repulsive, and even personally repulsive. It had surely no right to be so. What had he got to do with it, whose love was pledged — though the pledge had been ////: IXI'I.W SUMMER. L93 unratified 1>\ theothersid< — to another? linn dreds of young girls married their elders even year, in preference to their contemporaries, for rank, or al all events for sufficient rea ons. Age, it is said, is grasping and selfish ; 1 >u t o is youth. In Lawrence's case, his feelings could only be compared with those of the dog in the manger. He did not want Ruth for him- self. How could he, when he had fixed his alhrtioiis elsewhere ? Vet he resented the possi- bility of this man's wanting her lor himself. It was from no thought of her being changed towards him in case she became Lady Walden : no thought of his losing her affection, her solici- tude, such as a man feels when his friend marries. It was something far deeper and stronger than that. It is understood, or at all events taken lor granted, that a man cannot he in love with two women at the same time a theory, how- ever, that does not obtain among Eastern uations — and, therefore, a lover lias no right to he jealous about more than one object. Yet what Lawrence experienced as regarded Ruth and this possible suitor of hers was, it' nut jealousy, some feeling ext remely like it . '■Well," continued Sir Charles, "after praisingyourpoems in this liberal manner, Latham. of course, go< •• on t<. say (as I forewarned you) that from a commercial point of view they are not worth twopence." N 194 A MODERN DICK WRITTINGTON, " Not tup-pence," ejaculated Lawrence sadly, with stress on the first syllable. " Well, he writes it twopence, but that's what he means. i If your protege' (forgive me, that is Latham's unpleasant way of putting it) ' wants to get salt for his porridge he must give up verse- niaking, which fakes up valuable time {even if one has a rhyming dictionary), and stick to prose. There are only three men in England at this moment who earn enough money by poetry to live on it, and Mr. Merridew is not at all likely to make the fourth. His sketch of Hills- land, with its mixed population of agriculturists and miners, is very good, and I shall be glad to print it in the magazine! Latham always speaks of his periodical as if there was but one in the world ; it is nev.er ' my magazine ' which would mply that there were others, but ' the. magazine.' Keep that in your mind in all your communica- tions with him, or your connection will be but short-lived. ' The story you send me is also good, but not good enough. This is only to be expected in so young an author, without ex- perience of life, for which no imagination can be a substitute; yet front, this very MS. I gather great hopes of him. It is flippant and shallow enough^ but hi- has wit and a very good style of his own. I should not mind seeing the little story again — i.e., an improved edition of it. It is a pity he lives in the country ; an old literary i m: mm IV SUMMER. Iniiiil may do so, and write from recollection, but if does not do for a young writer. You conf< yourself, ,111/ dear Walden, l Imi you are becoming a vegetable, and you were animal enough ' ''Oh, that's all rubbish," interjected Sir Charles hastily \ "old Latham is aCockney born and bred." " Still, how I should like to live in London," sighed Lawrence, " it it was hut in a garr< t." "Dick Whittington, eh, with your cat? Perhaps your ambition goes a little further, hut that would come more expensive/' " I know" said Lawrence pathetically. " 1 envy you even your dreams, 5 replied the other gently ; " Mv poor boy, niv poor boy!' 3 lie rose and walked to the window, and gazed out on the glorious landscape bathed in moon- light. A good impulse, or at all events .1 generous one, was stirring within him. He had half a mind to play the part of a " little I'rovi- dence " with bis interesting young friend. But would it, alter all. be for his advantage? There was at least one very good reason known to himself only) why it should not be so ; and there was also an objection to such a cours< — a strong it' not a good objection -upon his own account. The mere outlay that would he necessary, to do Sir Charles justice, Qever entered his mind; he was always liberal, nay lavish, in matters of expenditure, it' they consorted with his own N 2 196 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. humour ; if otherwise he could be granite. The impulse passed away. " Well," he said, " there is little more in our friend's letter that would interest you, except the enclosure ; that is the price of the village sketch." " A magnificent honorarium for such a trifle, indeed," observed Lawrence. " I am glad it pleases you, though, as I have said before, any sense of obligation you may be feeling on that score will soon wear off. The literary mind — notwithstanding the reams of balderdash that have been written about it — is as practical as any other ; Shakespeare was no more indifferent to remuneration than Bacon, though he was a much more honest fellow. The labourer is worthy of his hire, and even in the field of letters is aware of it. The gate of that field is now open to you." " Yes, and I shall never forget who opened it," said Lawrence gently. " It is kind of you to sa} r so; perhaps a day may come when you may have need to recall the fact to excuse something amiss, or that seems amiss, on my part. It is only for that reason that I would bid you remember it." He is certainly referring to Ruth, thought Lawrence, but this time without resentment; he could not just now mix up resentful feelings with the gratitude and joy that filled his heart. Still, as Sir Charles had said, the literary mind THE INDIAN SUMMER, is practical. Lawrence had no doubts of bis friend, was without the leasl suspicion of the impulsiveness of his character, bul fortunately for himself, had the instincl to strike while the ir<>n was hoi . "There would be qo harm, I suppose, in my putting myself in direct communication witb Mr. Latham, now thai you have broken the for me." "Thai is ;i better metaphor than you have any idea of," returned the other laughing, "for Latham is not a gushing editor. You musl not expect lii in to write to you so encouragingly as he writes of you to me. He looks upon the con- tributor, thougb necessary to him, as a necessary evil, jusl as the barrister regards the solicitor; and though he can be civil enough, no doubt, to the well-known author, he is frigid to the volunteer." "I can now understand how much your friendship weighed with him," said Lawrence, "since what 1ms happened so far exceeds my own expectations; but if it was only to save you further trouble, 1 should like to be in personal communication with him. May 1 say that you have read to me what he has been good as to say about my " " Works," exclaimed Sir Charles, filling up the hiatus of modesl hesitation; "'the works of Mr. Lawrence Merridew, the well-known 198 A MODERN DICK W1LITTINGT0N. novelist, will appear in monthly volumes at five shillings ; a few large paper copies will be issued at one guinea ; ' I hope I shall live to see it. " I am afraid you will have passed the ordinary limits of human life before that hap- pens," said Lawrence with a sigh. " That observation is not complimentary to either of us," returned the baronet drily. It really seemed as if the subject of age was an unwelcome one to him. Of course, Lawrence knew that it was so even with otherwise sensible men ; but Sir Charles had seemed to him so superior to all such weaknesses. There was a long pause. " I am sorry to hear that you have a second invalid in the house," said Sir Charles, after a time. " Miss Ruth tells me that Mrs. Lock is seriously indisposed." ' ' Yes ; poor Aunt Jerry, I fear, is a great deal worse than Mrs. Robert," said Lawrence, " though not half so much fuss is made about her. Except my mother and Ruth, everybody takes her illness very coolly. It is one of the disadvantages of not being an heiress." " And yet Mrs. Lock was very well off at one time," observed Sir Charles. " So I have heard ; but she has nothing now. If Uncle Robert thinks of her at all, he is pro- bably calculating how cheaply she can be buried." THE IM>IA\ 81 MMER. L99 " It seems to me yon arc what an emotional philosopher has described as 'a good hater,' Master Lawrence." " So would you be, if yon were in m\ place," answered Lawrence. " I suppose so," returned the other smiling. Ft was difficult, perhaps impossible, for him to picture himself in his companion's position ; though in some respects equals, they were almost at the extreme ends of the social chain. Though Lawrence resented the indifference of his relatives to Aunt Jerry's indisposition, he himself regarded it with philosophy. There was not only no sympathy between them, hut he had a suspicion that he was not a favourite with the old lady. As regarded the feelings of his fellow- creatures, he was as sensitive to heat and cold as a thermometer; and if he could have been present at a little scene that was going on at that very moment only a few doors Prom his own room he would have had his views on the matter in question corroborated. CHAPTER XK. AUNT JERRY. In a bedroom of ample proportions, but poorly furnished, lay an old woman on what, to judge by the white and weary face, the pinched features, the attenuated frame, and the voice that hardly rose to whisper pitch, should have been her deathbed ; but her cavernous eyes had lustre in them still, and though her speech was low, it was sustained, and had none of those gasps and blanks in it that herald the eternal silence. Aunt Jerry was ill, no doubt, but, as her brother had cheerfully remarked to her when speaking of the fact, she was "worth a couple of dead 'uns yet." The observation, no doubt intended as a tonic, had effected no improvement in her condition, but there was some truth in it. Why, being so worn and weak, and having no solid reason so far as any enjoyment of it was concerned to cling to lii'e, she should have still continued to do so, was a, question that might have been asked years ago; AUNT JERRY. 201 but now so very ill had Aunt Jerry gol to look that it li;ul become importunate. Ii even occurred to her tender-hearted niece, Ruth Stratton, as she leant over her patient's grey head and smoothed her pillow, and rubbed her fevered forehead with eau de Cologne. How can this Damocles' sword, which almosl visibly hangs over this unhappy woman, have for her anything of menace? Perhaps it has not; but on the other hand she lias no desire to die. She lias just told the doctor s<>, who has replied "quite right ' : in a very encouraging manner, and has since informed Miss Jane of tie- cir- cumstance as reflecting credit upon the family; "that inherent determination of the Strattons which she shares with the rest of you," In' had said, " will keep her alive, madam well — for some da\ - " I hope so, indeed," replied Miss .lane, with genuine feeling and regret that the report had not been even more favourable, since "if anything happened' 5 to Aunt Jerry — such influences have the slightest causes upon affairs of real moment — it would he necessary for their guest to leave the Hall, just ;is everything between himself and Ruth seemed ^oine; on SO nicely. But this consideration did not so much as enter into the mind of Ruth herself, which was entirely taken up with the care and comfort of her patient. 'These two presented a striking 202 A 2LODERN DICK WHITT1NGTON. contrast : the one, prematurely old, the bitter cup of life drained almost to the dregs, waiting but by no means wishing for death ; the other glorious in health and youth and beauty, and attired in some diaphanous garb (for she had come straight from the drawing-room) that to the more masculine eye made her resemble a ministering angel. "Buth," said the old lady, "this must not be." " What must not be, Aunt Jerry ? " " Your coming here in your beautiful clothes every night to nurse a poor old woman like me. Your uncle doesn't like it, your Aunt Jane doesn't like it. It's a waste." " A waste ? " " Well, of course, it's a waste ' : (this with some irritation). "There is nothing to be gained by it. I wish there was, oh, deary me (her favourite expression), how I wish there was. I wish I could make you rich ; rich as you deserve, then you would have millions. And, what is worse, you are losing your opportunities. This is the third night you have left the drawing- room before the proper time to come and look after me. This has been remarked upon. It is not hospitable." " Hospitable ? 1 don't understand you, Aunt Jeny." "That is what the} r complain of. You do AUNT JERRY. not, Jane fcells me, appreciate your position. Ruth, dear Ruth, my darling, there is now a chance for you to escape Erom this dreadful place. Look at me. Do you wish your Life to be like mine? To be a dependent all your life upon bounty grudged. Your grandfather will leave yon nothing, Roberl will take care oi that. At present you have your beauty ; when that is gone all will be gone. To be old and ugly, poor and friendless (for you will have no Until to love you), is a terrible fate. Se does not like your running away every night, Jane tells me, before he lias done talking with vou. There is no sorl of excuse for it, she says, which is very true. It is not hospitable." ■• Are you speaking of Sir Charles Walden," exclaimed Ruth, with a sudden Hush. ,- What is it to him whether I go Or stay ? ' " Much, my darling, much ; hut oh, so very much more to you," answered the old woman. "It is vou that I am thinking of. I care nothing about him at all." " Nor I," answered the girl coldly. " No, I will not say that, because he has been kind to Lawrence," she added hastily; 'but he is nothing to me, nor can ever he in the way you mean." "Ah, that is what I feared; that is worse than all ; vou only like him because he has been kind to Lawrence." 201 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " Why should I like him for ;my otlier reason ? " " Because love begets love, and he loves you. Yes he does, Huth, in his own fashion, though you shake your head. I am old and stupid, but T can see that. There is a light in his face when you are present that is not there at other times. He is not young, it is true, not a boy like Lawrence, but neither will he change like a boy. There is the way out of all your dif- ficulties. Your love will come when you are married to him : it does come so sometimes ; it does, indeed ! " " My dear Aunt Jerry, this is idle talk," answered Ruth gravely ; "if you were Aunt Jane I should say it was wicked talk. I will not listen to it. So far from it making me like the person you have in your mind, it will set me against him ; I shall not even be grateful to him for what he has done for Lawrence." " I wish you would not think of Lawrence so much, my darling." " Why not? " answered the girl vehemently; " who else is there to think of him, except indeed his poor mother. I know no one — not even yourself — who has been so systematically ill-treated ; so insulted, so wronged. Why should T not pity him ? " Aunt Jerry was silent; not for want of .1/ NT JEEEY. 205 something bo say, l)u( from fclie reflection, would it be wise 1" say it ? She was not an intelligent person, bul she bad instincts delicate thoughts even thai are often wanting to much cleverer people. Her view of buman nature bad been extremely limited, but she understood those she loved. Her feelings a thing which is getting rare with sonic of her sex) were essentially womanly; she shrank from inflicting pain, even though (as with the surgeon's knife) it was for the good of the sutlerer. At last she said, "All you say is \.t\ true, my darling, hut Lawrence is not worthy of yon."' The girl rose from ber chair, with a white lace. "You are ill, Aunt Jerry; you do uot know what yon are saying; or you arc jealous of poor Lawrence." "I? Jealous ?" answered the other j»at he- lically. " Well, perhaps I am, hut it is uot on my own account." "Lawrence not worthy?' continued Ruth. " Who under this roof can be a judge of that? He is a head and shoulders above everybody. That will be acknowledged some day, when the creatures who persecute him have gone to their unhonoured graves. You do not understand bis nature; you must forgive my saying yon are incapable of it." " I know I am a stupid, ignorant old woman," answered Aunt Jerry humbly; '"I know that 206 A MODERN DICK WHIT TING TON. your cousin has thoughts too high for me ; but the cleverest are not always the best, nor even the wisest ; they make great mistakes, my dear, fatal mistakes, sometimes." " They are human, if you mean that, of course." " Yes, that is it ; poor humanity ; I am not blaming poor Lawrence, mind ; and besides, he is but a boy. How should a boy know copper from gold. It shines, it sparkles, and that is enough for him." " I don't know to what you are alluding, Aunt Jerry — not that it matters, however." It might not matter, but the speaker was white to the lips. Her hands went up to her bosom, and stayed there, as if to suppress some inward passion. " If you have anything to say against my cousin — if you, too, wish to add your voice to those which cry out against the innocent — say it. Not worthy ? Why is he not worthy ? " " I said he was not worthy of you, my dar- ling," answered the old ladv in a frightened voice. " Nor is he ? Nobody is." Euth threw out her disengaged arm with a contemptuous gesture, as though she would wave away this empty compliment. " You said more, Aunt Jerry. Something about gold and copper. What did you mean ? " " I mean — it may not be true, of course, but AUNT JERRY. 207 you ought to know if it is true. Tt has come to ni\ ears thai Lawrence is paying courl to Slate Salesby." - ft is false," exclaimed Ruth. "The talk of the servants' ball. You ought to be ashamed to repeat it." Then with sudden calmness, "And it' it is true, what right have you, what right has anyone to make it a charge against him? You are not his keeper. He is his own master. "Why should not Law- renc< " She dropped into the arm-chair and clung 1 to it with both her hands. " Have you any- thing more to say, she added as though with a last effort of speech, " againsl my — my cousin ? ' " No, darling, no; oh, deary me, how sorry I am. I dare say it is not true." "And] say, that whether it is true or not, it is infamous to blame him." "Don't be angry with me, darling," cried Aunt Jerry pathetically. "I thought — I was afraid — I did it for the best, indeed I did, because I love yon so. It is only for a few days —a week at most -that 1 shall be with you. Oh, pray forgive me. II 1 weir in Heaven itself and felt that my darling was bitter againsl me I could not be happy." •■ I am not bitter against yon, Aunt Jerry; but I hate backbiters and slanderers." 208 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " Deary me ! " moaned the sick woman ; never did ludicrous ejaculation sound so piteously. " I am not classing you in that category," the girl hastened to add, " and though I think you were wrong to have repeated what they said, I am not angry with you ; I am only hurt." " Hurt ? Oh, deary me, to think that I should have hurt my own heart's darling," cried the old lady; "give me your little hand to kiss and say you forgive poor Aunt Jerry." Ruth stooped down and kissed her, tenderly enough ; but she was not the radiant being that she had looked but a few minutes ago. The glory of youth and hope in her eyes was quenched ; the colour of life had faded from her face, and in its place was a marble whiteness as though a picture should have become a statue. " I have done mischief," moaned the old lady; "harm where I had meant to help, my dear, forgive me." " I have forgiven you, Aunt Jerry." " You say so with your pretty lips, but do you feel it in your heart, Ruth ? " The girl nodded assent, and smiled an icy smile ; not a glowing one such as she was wont to use, and one that vanished as (prickly as it came. AUNT JERRY. 209 "Then tli.it is over, darling/' put in the other eagerly ; " lei us talk of other thing There is something 1 wanted to >a\ t i you; something I wanted you to do forme In my desk yonder are some papers. I want you to keep them forme; the^ must no! fall into other hands \\ hen 1 am gone." " What are they?" " I don't quite know myself; 1 >u t Jerry poor fellow — told me never to pari with them: so when he died, a ruined man, and Robert took everything else away from me as he did, I hid them from him." " But it* they are valuable I cannot keep them," answered Ruth. ' And yel 1 thought you said you had for- given poor Aunt Jerry ? " " It is not a question of forgiveness," was the firm reply. "1 see," said the old lady quietly; "you are quite right. As I have lefl them- no! thai they are worth leaving, Jerry himself said th were worth nothing in my will, it will be necessary for you to produce them. Please t<> keep them till t he t im<- comes." In any other house it would have been a strange request to make; hut even to Ruth her aunt's solicitude for the safety of her documents did not seem superfluous. She opened the desk and took out a moderately sized parcel can fullv o 210 A MODE UN DICK WHLTTINGTON. sealed. " It lias my name upon it already," she observed. " Yes, that was a precaution against accident; I have always intended you to take charge of it ; and now it will be safe, 5 '' CHAPTEE XXI. H O o K I N (J T H E 1 II FISH. Whkn Ruth retired to her own room that night with her aunt's parcel in her hand she though! hut little of what she carried. She put it mechanically into a drawer of her desk, and, having locked it, i^ave no more attention to the matter. Aunt Jerry had given her s ething else to think about, which could not be put in a drawer or forgotten. Was it possible that what had come to the ears of the old lady (as she had herself expressed itj about Lawrence and Kate Salesby was truer That it had not come to the ears of others was natural enough, tor the maids, through whom it must have come, would have been naturally loth to speak of it to Lawrence's mother, and certainly disinclined to do so to their own master and mistress; they hated them too much, and would also be un- willing to "make mischief between them and Master Lawrence, who was a great favourite wit h them. o 2 212 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. It was with no thought of doing harm, how- ever, but probably the contrary, that they had told Aunt Jerry, with whom, to say truth, they were somewhat too familiar. She had never* been encumbered with dignity, and in these latter days had become, in position, little superior to a servant herself. It was clear enough, in short, from whence the report had arisen ; but the question which was so unfortunately pressing on Ruth's attention was, was it true ? As she had said, even if it was true, it was no business of hers, nor of anybody's ; so far as his affections at least were concerned, Lawrence was his own master ; and he had not — no, he had not engaged them elsewhere. Ruth did not confess, even to herself, that she was in love with her cousin. A girl has not the freedom of a man in such a matter ; she must not acknowledge that he whom she loves has won her affections till he has declared his love; and it had excessively annoyed Ruth that Aunt Jerry had taken it for granted that she did love Lawrence. Rut so it was for all that. What she had heard, therefore, had gone to her very heart. It gave her exquisite pain, but it did not rankle there, as it would have done had Lawrence been en« , a« , ed to her and proved unfaithful ; she had been spared that wretchedness ; and, moreover, there was a mitigation of her misery in the reflection that Kate was not quite her equal ; as regards family, HOOKINQ THEIR FISH. 213 indeed, the Salesbys were among the oldesl in the county, bu1 in position, education, feeling, Kate was ob\ iously her inferior. It was amazing to Ruth that one like Lawrence should have stooped to such a girl. She wondered (in her woman's way, which is so differenl from ours) how he could have been conquered by such feeble weapons as a pretty lace, a graceful figure; if, indeed, he had been conquered. On the whole, though the idea dis- tressed her, she did not believe it, and she was far less angry with Aunt Jerry for believing it than for the depreciatory terms in which she had spoken of Lawrence. "Not worthy of her!' The compliment to herself that that phrase implied did not one whit diminish her dislike of it. Lawrence was worthy of an angel, and she felt herself far enough removed from an\ such heavenly body, whatever Aunt Jerry mighi think to the contrary. Even the old lady's affection Tor her was no excuse in Ruth's eyes. Such flattery, indeed, at her cousin's expense was hateful to her. Nor did she forget, or rather she now began for the first time to remember, that the old lady had dropped depreciatory remarks aboul him before; had hinted at his vanity, his selfishness. Vanity: Selfishness? How could he help being conscious of his supe- rior intelligencer How could he help, situated as he was, a feeling of isolation, conveyed 214 A MODERN DICK WHLTTLNGTON. to others and by them misconstrued ? The first person who, qualified by intelligence to judge of his character, had made his acquaint- ance, had appreciated him at once. Sir Charles Walden had said, " If your cousin is not a genius, Miss Ruth, he is a near relation to one." The baronet's praise of the lad was so welcome to her that she forgot to be angry with him for having had Aunt Jerry for his advocate. The old lady's notion of his being in love with her, though very distasteful, gave her little annoy- ance, for she did not believe it. She attributed the idea to her relative's match-making in- stincts. There had indeed been a time on the baronet's first coming to Hillsland when there had been that in his manner — she hardly knew what, but a something — which gave her some embarrass- ment. He had sometimes, even while he talked of Lawrence, looked at her, smiled at her, as if it were upon his own account that he was talking ; his voice had sunk lower than it need have done, even when they were not conversing upon " the common enemy," as he called her uncle ; he had paid her little compliments very gracefully, but which it had been nevertheless difficult to ignore. It was possible — though it had never struck her in that light till Aunt Jerry had given it such decisive shape — that Sir Charles had at one time been making love to her. But that it had not HOOKING THEIR FISH. -'!•'. been so ol late days she fell convinced There had been a difference in his way with her, though it was l.\ no means a Less friendly way. [ndeed, they had grown more familiar — more confi- dential even — with one another. His manner was no less tender, but had become more paternal. She had never been the leasl afraid ol him, and certainly not of herself as regarded him, but what little embarrassment he at one time had caused her, no longer existed in their relations with one another. There was a tacil understanding between them, hui not at all of the nature to which Aunt Jerry had alluded. Had it been otherwise- had matters even been on their former footing —what had just been said to her would have made all future intercourse between the baronet and herself strained and uncomfortable ; but fortunately this was not the ease. She could still like him as Lawrence s friend without tear of misunderstanding. She could not now, of course, he unaware of thi significance which, in the eyes of Uncle Roberl and Aunt Jane, attached to such a "friendship;' bid that troubled her very little. She did not bate those relatives as Lawrence hated them, nor. indeed, had she the same reason to do so, but she despised them even more. When one of those opportunities of being alone together, which were constantly being afforded to herself and Sir Charles, took place on ■2hi A MODERN DICK WH1TTINGT0N. the ensuing morning, the latter at once began to speak of their common topic, Lawrence. : You have heard, I suppose, of your cousin's capture of Mr. Latham, the editor? " ' Indeed, I have not," she said, with easrer interest. " What, has he not told you ? I should not have given him credit for such modest, reticence. I saw him speaking to his mother this morning with such sparkling eyes, that though I did not hear a word, I am sure he was telling her all about it." ' He has not told me one word." Though there was no complaint in her tone, there was dejection in it. Sir Charles saw that she was pained, and pitied her : he was angry too with him who had caused her pain. " What a fool the boy is ! ' he said to himself. " What an idiot not to see where true sympathy is waiting for him, and to neglect this angel for a girl that — well, is not nearly so well suited for him. I'll warrant he has taken his news to ' The Corner,' where it will not even be understood." Not a sign of this indignation, however, was to be seen in Sir Charles's face. " Well," he said, "I am sincerely obliged to my young friend for having permitted me to be the first hearer of his good tidings to you. Mr. Latham is as much struck by the specimens of Lawrence's talent [ sent him as an editor of thirty years' HOOKING THEIR I />//. 217 standing can be reasonably expected t<> be. li' 1 thinks quite as highly of it as I , and his opinion is, of course, of much more consequence. He lias accepted one of his stories— and even paid for it — and Lawrence is in the seventh vrii of happiness." " I am so glad," cried Ruth ; but her lips quivered and her voice faltered. "Oh, why," shi .ied to be saying, '' did he not let me share his happiness by telling me this news himself." " Yes, Latham evidently thinks well of his prospects in literatim — gives him great en- couragemeirl and even suggests that he should come up to town." The colour left the girl's l'aee. " And will he go ? " "lie certainly seemed to be pleased at the idea. You must not blame him for that. It is only natural that " " I do not blame him," she interrupted hastily. " What right has any one to blame him? If 1 seemed to be sorry it was but a passing selfishness. We shall miss him so — his mother and I, I mean — and it will make his time so short with us, for he is to go to Sin- gapore, you know, at the end of the year." " Lilt his hope is that it he i^'oes to London he will not go to Singapore at all." " Oh, that would indeed please him. and be 2 IS A MODERN DICK WHITTINQTON. good for him, would it not ? ' she added hastily, as though conscious of having been too eager that he should be pleased. "Yes, I think upon the whole it would be good for him ; it will be well to remove him for the present from Hillsland, where in some respects — though not in all," put in the speaker with a smile, which Ruth would have fain ignored, " he is so unhappily situated ; and better still, if it resulted in his permanently supporting himself without being indebted to his relatives." " You do not say, ' or to his friends,' Sir Charles," observed Ruth gravely. " Of course, it is not for me to interfere in any plan for his benefit ; but I fear you are taking some re- sponsibility upon your shoulders, and that in his natural desire to escape from thraldom, he may not consider — the — the " " The obligation," interposed the other with an amused look. " Well, no, I did not quite mean that : I am sure Lawrence would be always grateful, and that in your case bounty would be as little grudged as Eelt ; but tli ere are some favours which, though offered in the most unselfish kindness by the giver, and though they may never be repented of by the recipient, one ought not to receive." She hesitated, and the more so since the colour had risen in the other's usually impassive HOOKING THEIR FISH. -19 Pace. " I hope I have nol angered you, Sir CharL " Angered me? Thai would be a difficult thing for you to do, m\ dear youn^ lady, what- ever you might please to say to me. It is verj natural, and does you infinite credit, thai you should look beyond the present e^rat ilieation of your cousin and consider the loss of independence of character that might ensue from it." " Yes. thai is what I meant, it I could only have expressed myself, and also that Lawrence is so young, and has no friends in London, and we — that is, his mother and I — are so ignorant of tie- world, that we have not even advice to otter him." "Just so; all you say is most sensible and just. Bui as to the obligation there will be none at all. Lawrence has no extravagant notions. It will be easy for him to support him- self in a humble way by his pen without assist- ance from anyone ; and Latham's people are very nice and will look after him — so Car you must allow me to be of service — just at first. I have thought that over." " You are kind indeed : but his mother will have her fears; and there is another thing : if Lawrence leaves us, even temporarily, his ancle will make it the excuse for quarrel, will set his grandfather against him, cause him perhaps even to he renounced and cut off altogether." 220 A MODERN DICK WHITTINQTON. " I have thought of that, too ; my plau is to invite Lawrence to my own house. Against his being my visitor your people will not have a word to say. It is not likely that they will trouble themselves to inquire what he is doing ; and while supposed to be under my roof, he may be trying his luck in London — feeling his wings as it were — so that even if they fail him, there will no harm be done ; he can but return, and go to Singapore after all." " That is not very frank, is it ? " said Ruth hesitatingly, " not quite straightforward? ' Affain the colour came into Sir Charles's face. " You know the people he has to deal with better than I do," he answered coldly. " If you think a bolder course more advisable, for Lawrence to lay before your uncle his little plan of es- cape " "Forgive me," she put in quickly. "No; that would be out of the question. It is easy to be conscientious when somebody else is taking all the responsibility off one's shoulders. I mast seem to you ungrateful indeed." She put out her hand to him with a sudden impulse, and he pressed it tenderly. They both forgot for the moment that they were talking in the verandah within eye-shot of the breakfast-room windows. Uncle Robert and Aunt Jane were both standing there, and motives HOOKING THEIR FISH. _'J1 of delicacy had noi restrained them Prom making use of I li«' opporl unity. "Did you sec that?* murmured Oncle Roberi significantly. "Well, of course I did; it's what ['ve been expecting to see for a good many days.'' replied liis sisti-r. " It would have been hard indeed if all the trouble and expense the man has caused us all this time had gone for nothing." " Oh the expense," said Robert gener- ously. " You can't hook your fish without gear." CHAPTER XXJL KITTY IS NOT SANGUINE. What had seemed so strange and even painful to Ruth — that her cousin had not been the first to tell her of the good fortune that had befallen him — had been to Lawrence the most natural thing in the world. He had wanted to tell her and to tell his mother also — he had hardly slept for thinking of it, and yearned to communicate it to all who took an interest in his affairs — but the very importance it had in his eyes made him feel that it was due to Kitty that she should be the first to know it. For did it not concern her more than anyone else ? Was it not the very tidings, unexpected and beyond all hope, that would make the course of true love to run smooth ? She loved him — though he admitted to himself less passionately than he loved her — and the sole obstacle to her acceptance of him had been a material one. She knew nothing — and indeed cared nothing — of literary affairs, and his idea of gaining a livelihood by his pen had seemed to KITTY is NOT SANGUINE. 223 her little better than a dream. It was a disap- pointment to him, of course, that it was so j thai slic had DO sympathy with his ambition, and valued fame al a much Lower rate than the phil- osophers pretend to estimate it; bui now thai he had something tangible to show her — his ten pound note— and the editor's encoura^emenl to tell her about, his pretensions surely stood on entirely different and tar firmer ground. Directly after breakfast he Hew on the wings of love to Kitty's abode. Mr. Salesby, who had been drinking his own health — though with little benefil to it — pretty constantly from the hour at which he had learnt the s^ood news from Epsom Down.-, had not yet come down, and the young lady was alone at the breakfast table waiting for him. She was not impatient, but sat with her pretty face resting on her hands, in thoughi ; it was their pressure against her velvet cheeks, perhaps, that gave them unaccustomed colour, but they were certainly more roseate than usual ; her eyes, on the other hand, were less bright than ordinary; they were fixed upon the not over white cloth beneath them in dreamy abstraction. It was not her habit to be so self-involved. As a rule she seldom gave way to reflection of any kind, as she had little that was pleasant to think about ; and the result on the present occasion had appar- ently been tar from satisfactory. She had been weeping. So lost was she in t houghi t Lai - he had i224. A MODE UN DICK WHITTINGTON. not heard Lawrence's step on the garden walk, and only by his opening the front door without knocking guessed who was the visitor. In a single instant she had dried her eyes, and as he entered the room was pouring herself out a cup of tea. "What, alone?' cried the young fellow joyously; "this is luck, indeed; kiss me, my darling Kitty — why, what's the matter ? ' He had passed his arm round her waist in the most natural way in the world, and was leaning over her shoulder to kiss her, when she shook herself free from him. " Only that you've scalded me, and spoilt the tablecloth," she answered pettishly, but with a certain gravity of manner too. " I told you that you were not to do that any more." " Did you ? ' he said with a pleasant smile. " Well, if you did it was under a mistake, my dear, and } r ou will have to pay me back my kiss with interest. I have brought you news that will absolve me for fifty kisses." "News? What news?' Her curiosity was excited in spite of herself. She had fixed upon a certain course of conduct in her own mind as regarded Lawrence, but there were possibilities which might alter that. It was foolish of her to have imagined anything of the kind, and she re- pented of it immediately, but for the instant his evident happiness and enthusiasm had misled her. KITTY 18 NOT S INOUINK 225 Slic bad scarcely known what to think had hap- pened. But, as sitting close beside her, with his eager ryes Looking into her own, he poured into her ear his glorious news, sbe showed no corre- sponding emotion. She gave him her attention, and that was all. Even when be produced the ten-pound note, which, as the first money he had ever earned, as well as the earnest of future for- tune, seemed to him wealth and fame in one, it awoke scarcely a ray of interest. Butthough his story tailed in its intent, the manner of his telling it, and above all the contiguity of his bright face, and the touch of his hand as he placed it lightly on her arm by way of emphasis, were not without their influence. Though his arguments failed, their appeal was not unanswered; she could not prevent stealing a tender look at him from time to time, and this blinded him to the indifference with which she regarded his tidings. "So you see, darling, that what you thought so impossible has actually come to pass," he said, when all had been told, ''and nothing now pre- vents you from giving me your first kiss, as my promised bride, in exchange forthis one." and he kissed her. She jumped up from her chair with scarlet face, and a look in her eyes that was half anger and half shame. " You have no right to do that, Lawrence, and I won't have it." she exclaimed with vehemence, p 226 .1 MODE UN DICK WHITTIXQTON. " No right? Why, that is just what I have got, and had not before," said Lawrence naively, for in fact it was not his first salute by many. " You have got nothing of the kind," she answered, keeping him at a distance with one hand, while she pressed the other to her bosom, where indeed wild work was going on, and such as needed a pacificator. " There is nothing in what you have said, though, of course, I am glad to hear it for your sake, to alter our relations to one another. Do you suppose that we can marry upon ten pounds ? ' The last sentence was much more confidently stated than the first ; of the profits of literature she knew nothing, but as regarded the expenses of housekeeping she was at home. " But that is only the first dip in the lucky bag, Kitty ; there is plenty more where that came from, and Sir Charles has a plan in his head which will put the whole thing to proof in. a very little while." "What has Sir Charles to do with it?" she answered curtly. " I mean what can he do for you more than he has done ? ' " Well, he suggested that I should leave Hillsland and go up to London at once." " Indeed ! ' : She resumed' her seat, but farther away from her impassioned swain than before, and began smoothing away the folds on the tablecloth. KITTY 18 NOT SANGUINE. " Yes. 1 ana to go borne with him for the present." "To Eurlby Castle," she interrupted hastily. '■ You? " "It is not such u very great honour," he answered; in a tone of wounded pride. " I assure you Sir Charles himself would be the las! to look upon it in thai light, lie has no other design, of course, than to do me a .service; bul lie is so good as to say it will please him to have me as his guest; it is not a piece of mere patronage as you are thinking. As a man of letters I may hold up my head some day as high as he does. I wish 1 could get you to under- stand that, Kitty, dear." "And how Long are you to stay at Surlby ? " she inquired ; she seemed interested enough in that question, though she ignored his remark about the social stains of literary persons alto- gether. " Well, not more than a day or two, I sup- pose. The fact is Sir Charles's invitation is only a blind; for I shall be up in town while my grandfather and the rest believe me to be at the Castle. I shall be trying my win.:- a it were, and it [ find thai they will hear one, they will ver_\ soon he able to bear two."' " Did Sir Charles say that ? " inquired Kitty coldly. " Why, of course not. Sow should he know r 2 228 A WW BE UN DICK WHITTINGTON. how dearly I love you, and what is my chief aim and object in becoming- independent ? In a few months — even in a few weeks perhaps — I may give you such proofs of my fitness for the calling I have chosen that you will be running scarcely any risk at all in letting me call you mine. I had hoped that the news I brought this morning would have been sufficient to at least make you reconsider the answer you gave me the other day." " I don't like risks, Lawrence ; and I have had quite enough of poverty," she replied drily. ' : If my father happens to gain a little money such as your ten-pound note — it goes as lightly as it comes. I hate what are called ' narrow means ; ' I am not made for them ; I don't wish to study economy all my life ; to look after the shillings and sixpences ; I like you very well, Lawrence, dear " " Like me ! ' he cried aghast. " You have said you loved me ! And you do love me, Kitty? Come, confess you do love me just a little bit." He hitched his chair closer to her, and laid his hand upon her arm beseechingly. She trembled and turned pale ; and in hollow broken tones replied — "I don't know what I have said. You think too much of it, whatever it was, and of me also. T tell you I am not fit to be the wife of a poor man." KITTY 18 NOT SANGUINE. 229 " But, my dear Kitty, where are you to find a rich one? ^ < » 1 1 used f<> reprove me for Laving dreams, and yet, I am surelj nearer to their realisation, than you arc to what you have in your mind. If it were a matter of alternative i should not have a word 1<> say, but to throw me o\ er 'I have not tin-own you over," she put in quickly. Well, to deny me hope, with even less than hope in the scale againsl me, to say you prefer a possible chance of marrying some wealthy stranger to risking poverty with tic man you lov< — that is monstrous Besides, it is ii. »i so certain — and that is the very point — that I shall always he a poor man. Why, when I came up hen — to tell you of it first of all, before my mother even and Ruth — I said to myself. Kitty will have no excuse now; for that she loves me dearly — though not so much as I love her, because that's impossibli — 1 know. And now — why, what's the matter, Kitty?' The tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she dashed them away with both hands. " Nothing," she cried. " Eere's father coming." And a little pink as to the eyes, and a little white as to the gills, and with a general air of difficulty as to the tie of his neckcloth. Mr. Salesby entered the room. "You here, young gentleman," he exclaimed 230 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. coolly enough, but not ungraciously ; " } r ou're an early bird — after the worm, I suppose ? ' and he nodded with much gravity towards his daughter. " I brought some news for Kitty. There is some little, probability of my having a start in life, you will be glad to hear." " Aye, aye ; drop the Hag and all together, there's nothing like a fair start. But it is a long cruise to Singapore." " But I hope I'm going to London ; though it's quite a private matter." " Oh, oh, so you are taken into confidence are you. Then matters must be even worse than I thought they were. Daren't show ourselves at Tattersall's, but send over nevvy and representa- tive to arrange matters, eh ? Well, mind you look sharp after your commission, my lad, or the squire will bilk you. There's Dick Salesby's tip for ///at event. The eggs are cold, and the bacon's hard, Ivitty." " I am sorry, father, but you are very late." " The man of means — that is with ready money — gets up when he likes, Kit. T only wish it would last. Yes, my boy ; here is no doubt your chance ; the squire will not dare to stand in your way with grandpapa, if you know his little secrets. I suppose ' Mum's ' the word, or I should like to know how much he is in for." KITTY T8 NOT S INGl WE. " [ndeed, Mr. Salesby, I know nothing aboul my uncle's affairs." "Close as wax, eh? Quite right." Then Mr. Salesby began talking about the A o\ Cup, which to Lawrence was Greek, and even Hebrew. It was evidently no use to prolong his visit, and afti r an ineffectual attempt to persuade Kitty to come out for a walk, he took his leave. It had been a most unsatisfactory and disap- pointing business. lie had still no doubt of Kitty's affection; but it was clear she yet doubted of bis ability to make his way in the world. He felt that unless he could procure some definite and permanent means of livelihood, she would hesitate to pledge herself to him. As to her father, he was not inimical to his \ic but it was impossible to explain to him lb.' ground of his literary expectations and useless to persuade him of the mistake he was under a- to his relations with Uncle Robert. Indeed, it was better to leave him in it, since, for the time at least, it rendered .Mr. Salesby more favourable to his hopes. In a very different frame of mind from that with which he had started from home that morning, Lawrence sought the moorland with languid step.-,. Upon its breezy top perhaps some more cheerful reflections would present themselves, 232 A MODERN DICK W1IITTINGT0X. and at all events he was in no humour for society ; the news that had been so good to him an hour before, seemed no longer worth com- municating to anybody. As he reached the brow of the hill he saw a horseman coming towards him. If there had been time to have avoided him he would have done so — though he recognised him at once as his best and oldest friend — but there was no time, the recognition indeed had been mutual. Mr. Percy, for it was no other than his old tutor, was already waving his riding whip, and uttering; some cheerful salutation which the wind carried away. CHAPTER XXIII. As OLD FRIEND. The Rev. Gerald Percy, rector of Westerham, the neighbouring parish, formed a strong con- trast I" bis brother divine of Killsland. Ee was one of the handsomest men in the Church of England — tall and well formed, with grey hair that curled over his ample brows like a middle- aged A urinous. He was one of the survivors of the school of muscular Christianity, and as good in the cricket held and on the quoiting green as in the pulpit. The only fault he had found with Lawrence, when he was his pupil, was that the young fellow's tastes had not been sufficiently athletic. He believed that wholesomeness of life had a close connection with the exercise of the muscles, and even instanced St. Paul's metaphors from pedestrianism as a proof of it. Our professional athlete scarcely hears oui his theory, but it did not enter into his mind that a time should come when hardly a match of any 234 A MODERN DICK WHITTLNGTON. sort could be engaged in without there being " money upon it." Though little versed in modern literature, he was a fair scholar, and a gentleman down to his linger tips. The Church was his wife, and his flock was his family, and a more unselfish being it would have been hard to find. His interest in Lawrence was a proof of it, for indeed they had little in common ; but he had perceived the youth to be cast in an uncommon mould, and liked him none the less because of their points of difference. In one matter he had taken great pains with him, where difference, in persons of Mr. Percy's calling, is often fatal to influence, namely, in religious faith. Lawrence, though affectionate by nature, had the scepticism common to men of his peculiar temperament, and his tutor had treated it very tenderly ; he even understood that it arose out of good ground, though the root might be unsubstantial and the trunk awry. Many a talk they had together over " Fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute," con- ducted on the one side with the most admirable gentleness and forbearance, and on the other with lire and freedom. There was nothing which Lawrence would not have told his tutor of his innermost thoughts on these matters, so certain he felt of his sympathy, yet strangely enough there were other secrets of his heart which he would rather have disclosed .I.V OLD FRIEND. to almosl any other man than he. He had been confidential enough about them with Sir Charles — to whom hf would have been diary indeed of conversing upon spiritual matters bui to Mr. Percy he would not have dream! of saying one word about Miss Kitty Salesby. Noi that he was ashamed of her, of course, or of his love for her, but because the whole affair was surrepti- tious and underhand, and must remain so, no in. titer what arguments the reverend gentleman might (and certainly would) advance to the con- trary. The same reason he felt must prevent him from hinting at what stood almosl as near to his mind, namely, that expedition under false pretences into the world of letters in London. Unfortunately, it was with something akin to that xevy subject that Mr. Percy commenced the conversation. " Well, Lawrence, my lad. have yon taken the heights of Parnassus by storm yet?' "Not exactly," returned the lad smiling, " //on omnino sedpene." "Come, I'm glad you remember your Latin; but how near have you got to Parnassus? Are you writing lor the Sunday papers?" '1 wish I were," returned Lawrence naively, " but 1 am happj to say there is a chance of my doing 1 so." ' Eh, what? come tell me," said the parson, dropping his reins on the neck of his discreel 236 A MODERN DICK WIIITTINGTON. nag, and regarding his young friend very kindly. " You know that if I have not always approved of your aspirations I have always sympathised with them." " I know that indeed, sir, quite well," said Lawrence gratefully. The slender barriers of reticence had been broken down at once by this appeal to his feelings ; and he forthwith told the rector (what he had not intended to tell him) of his sending his MSS. to the London editor, and how the}' had fared. " But how came you to know of this Mr. Latham, who seems to have given you encourage- ment, though you must not count too much upon it. It is Walter Scott, I think, who tells us that literature is a good walking-stick, but a very indifferent crutch." " Well, Sir Charles Walden was so good as to give me a recommendation to him ; he is staying at the Hall just now." "So I have heard," returned the rector drily ; " and he takes an interest in you, does he, for his own sake, of course ? ' " I venture to think he does, sir, since literary matters, he tells me, though he has an excellent taste in them, are not much in his line. The rector smiled, not by any means in his usual genial way. ' You have found a strange doorkeeper to the Temple of Fame, my lad." AN OLD FRIEND. i 17 " Al nil events a very kind one," put in Law- rence quickly. " lint for him tin- door might never have been opened." ".Inst so, and lie lias taken all this trouble — and lie is a man who does not like troubh — solel} upon your own account." " It seems so. fndeed he has been bo good as to invite ine to return home with him oexl week. "To EEurlby? 1 cannot say 1 am pleased to hear it." " Why not, sir?" " Well, it is rather difficult to say, but for one thing it suggests a family connection which I cannot but think far from desirable." "A family connection?" exclaimed Lawrence with amazement. " Well, you surely cannot be ignorant of the common report that links Sir Charles's name with that of your cousin." "With Ruth?" replied the young man with indignation. " It is the silliest of all silly talk." But even while he said the words the con- versation of the previous evening recurred to him ; the sensitiveness which Sir Charles had shown upon the subject of age, and the suspicion it had at the time excited in his own breast. Still, even now — though less perhaps from the unlikelihood of such a thing, than from its dis- agreeableness — he did not seriously think " there 238 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON, was anything in it." " Why, Sir Charles is old enough to be her grandfather." He had said that before to himself, and conviction had followed upon it ; but now that he said it aloud, it did not appear so convincing. The rector nodded an acquiescence, but so very gravely that the nod seemed to say : " And the inequality of age is not the worst of it." Lawrence did not wish to enter upon that subject, his loyalty to his patron forbad it ; but it was impossible to shake off the suspicion that the other had excited. " Then you think that all the kindness Sir Charles has shown me has been caused by self- interest ; that he wishes to ingratiate himself with me in order that I may say a good word for him to my cousin." " I don't say that ; I will not assert that I never heard of Sir Charles Walden doing any- thing creditable without a quid pro quo, because I never heard of his doing it at all ; but I cer- tainly think it unlikely." The force and severity of the censure, coming from such a quarter, fell upon Lawrence's ear almost like a blow, but he instantly remembered the coldness with which Sir Charles had received the mention of Mr. Percy's name when he had spoken of him as having been his tutor, and it struck him — with some sense of relief — that AN OLD FRIEND. the two men musl have had some persona] quarrel. " I am ->n-\ you think so ill, sir, of one who has been so g I to me," he answered sorrow- fully. " I am ander greai obligations to him." 'He has not lent you money, I do hope," said the rector earnestly. " Mv purse is a slender one, as you know, Lawrence, but it is at your service, and it will be much better for you, believe me, to be indebted to me than to him." "Indeed, sir, there has been nothing of the kind between us. The suggestion convinces me of your misjudgment of him ; he is a man of the greatest delicacy of mind." " Really? ' There was a folio of sarcasm in that single word, but the speaker did not con- tinue the subject. "And how long do you propose to stay at 1 1 urlhy ?" It was an unfortunate question. Lawrence had not the slightest scruple about deceiving his Uncle Robert or Aunt Jane, but with Mr. Percy it cost him a struggle not to be frank. "Thai is not settled, sir, but probably only a few days," he replied hesitat ingly. " Well, well, you will at least remember, if this new friend of yours should fall short of your expectations, that you have an older one. who. Par as he is able to help you, can be depended upon. It is possible that outside the regions of periodical literature — with which it seems this 240 .1 MODERN DICK WIIITTINGTOX. gentleman has so unexpected an acquaintance — • my advice may be useful to you. I hope you will apply to me, my dear lad, in any trouble, as readily as you would have done in the old times." The speaker's tone was earnest as well as tender ; it had also a certain warning note in it, as though he foresaw the trouble at which he hinted. If he had not succeeded in setting Lawrence on his guard against the baronet, he had certainly shaken his faith in him ; the young fellow's amour propre was wounded by the sug- gestion that Sir Charles's interest in him, if not actually feigned, was mainly owing to a selfish motive. Another shadow had fallen upon the prospects which had dawned upon him that morning so brightly. He had the artistic tem- perament at least, however he might fall short in other attributes, and was as easily depressed as elevated. He was grateful, of course, to his old tutor for his offers of assistance and advice, and expressed himself to that effect, but it was evident enough that he wished they — or rather the suggestion that they might be needed — had never been made. "You are coming on to the Hall, I hope," said Lawrence, it must be owned with no great enthusiasm of welcome. "No, my lad, no; not while you have .i.v OLD /■•/; //•: _n company there. Besides, I have business ai the mines. Remember whai I have said, and what- ever yon do, or wherever you go, G-od bl< ss you, my lad." And the rector laid his hand upoo Ins old pupil's head as though to accentuate the bene- dicl ion. It was certainly very unfortunate, reflect* d Lawrence, as he turned towards home, thai the onl}' two men in the world whom he could call liis friends were on such had terms with one another. Q CHAPTER XXIV. IN CHURCH. That Saturday evening was the first one since Sir Charles's arrival at the Hall that he failed to come to Lawrence's room with his little port- manteau full of cigarsin the evening. Perhaps he had got a little tired of conversing upon a young man's literaiy prospects in London, and at all events there was excuse enough in the fact that Lawrence and he w r ere both bound for Hurlby Castle on the Monday, and would have plenty of time there for conversation. Far from any objection to the baronet's invitation haviug been raised by Uncle Robert, he had received the news with effusion ; as for setting it down to any regard entertained by Sir Charles for the lad himself, he had even less belief in it than Mr. Percy, and attributed it to the sell-same cause. The man, he thought, must be pretty far gone with Miss J »,uth, since merely to please her he had shown such civilit}^ to her young cub of a cousin. The news, indeed, pleased him OHURGH. immensely, since it gave him ground for believ- ing thai the same tender motive would induce his guesl fco accommodate him with that little loan which his ill-luck on the turf had rendered so absolutely necessary. What was £5,000 to a man of Sir Charles's wealth? Let alone the pleasure it must give him to have the opportunity of obliging a gentleman about to be so nearly connected with him by family ties. The conviction, however, that this little matter would be happily settled did not prevent the squire from bemoaning his ill-fortune, and cursing his friend the parson for having caused him by his slipshod telegram to believe for the moment that he had won instead of lost. None of ns are thankful for the brief hour of happiness caused by a mistake of that nature, but are rather prone to dwell upon the disappointment that follows. But for the vicar, the squire would never have made a fool of himself in visiting Mr. Salesby and involuntarily making him the confidant of his trouble; of the magnitude of this mistake, indeed, he had probably no con- ception, but he felt the importance of keeping the matter from getting abroad. From the few passionate words he had dashed off in haste to Mr. (Jrueby, that gentleman would probably gather the squire's feelings towards him, and that he had not replied to them, or been in any hurry to return to II ill-land Q 2 2U A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. till the week was up, was not surprising. More- over, when Mr. Grueby found himself in "the village," which was his playful term for London, he always stopped there as long as he could, though, owing to the loss of his own " half- crowns " upon the Derby favourite, he was not in a position on the present occasion to embroider his holiday with the usual amusements. Thus it happened that the first time Mr. Robert Stratton beheld his clerical friend after their common misfortune was in his own pulpit at Hillslaud. The squire always went to church, as a dut}' owing to his position, though on this particular Sunday he was more actuated by the thought of what he owed to Mr. Grueby. Mr. Salesby, which was by no means so usual, was also there ; he, too, was eager for discourse with the vicar as an eye-witness of those proceedings at Epsom which had terminated so satisfactorily in his own case ; and Lawrence was there because Kitty would be there ; so various are the motives that actuate people in their attendance at public worship. Before service Mr. Grueby was not to be approached; he had avoided all temptations of secular conversation by shutting himself up in the vestry. " I suppose," said Mr. Salesby, with a most impudent smile, to the squire when they met in IX OHUBGH. 245 the churchyard, "thai the vicar will take for his text to-day, ILuw the race is noi always to tin' Bwifl ; he must have Ganymede a good deal upon his mind." The squire, who bad Ganymede still more upon his mind, grinned a ghastly smile, which Miss Jane rebuked with a frown, under the mistaken impression that lie was indulging in ill- timed levity. None of the Hall party who trooped into the family pew that morning could be reasonably accused of that crime, though their thoughts might not have been occupied as they should have been. Mrs. Merridew was thinking of her son, and whether or no he would ever again stand beside her in that sacred place. Be had told her of Ins plans for the future, in which she had but little hope. It was true ili.ii she understood nothing of the chances of a literary career, but she foresaw that if lie failed in it even that wretched offer of a post at Singapore might be withdrawn by "the family," and his attempt to better himself be made the excuse for their washing their hands of him altogether. She knew by "harsh evidence'' that it would give pleasure to both his uncle and aunt to see the young fellow cast olf by his grandfather, who, for his part, cared nothing about him one way or the other. To his mother, on the other hand such different values do we set upon one another in this world ! — the lad was the last strand thai 246 A MODERN DICK WUITTINGTON. bound her to the shore of life. Of his tender- ness for Kitty she had heard from Aunt Jerry, but that matter did not disturb her as it had dis- turbed her informant. Aunt Jerry was jealous of Lawrence upon Ruth's account, which Mrs. Merridew was not. She loved her niece, and would gladly indeed have had her for a daughter- in-law ; but she was less ignorant of the world than Mrs. Lock, and knew that such a union was entirely out of the question. Ruth was penniless as Kitty was, but her family would infinitely more resent the young fellow's engagement with her than with Kitty, inasmuch as a good match, from which moreover they themselves would profit, was expected of her. Ruth, who sat behind Mrs. Merridew. had her mind fixed upon the same subject, but re- garded it from a very different standpoint. The most interesting object in the church for her that morning, one regrets to say, was by no means the officiating minister ; she strove in vain to fix her wandering thoughts upon the service : to keep her wandering gaze upon the Prayer Book. They would stray in spite of herself to Mr. Salesby's pew, where Kitty sat, calm and serene, to all appearance the model of a church-goer. Up to the present time she had awakened but little interest in Ruth ; her ways were not Ruth's ways, and she had received her good- natured advances towards acquaintanceship with IN OHUBCH. something like rudeness. She knew that Kuth felt Qothing but kindness for her, pity For her position — -the life she led with ;i gambling and drunken father, and without one female friend in the world, was so certainly "on the down- grade" — and she resented it. She was not going to 1"' "patronised" by any memberof the family at the Hall, however harmless and well-meaning. There had even been a time when she had regarded Ruth with dislike and jealousy; she suspected her, quite justly as it happened, though upon the slightest -rounds, of being in love with Lawrence ; and though she herself had never had any serious intention of encouraging the young fellow, she was quite willing to be the objeel of his adoration, and preferred it fco be undivided. It was a dog-in-the-manger like sentiment, but young ladies in much higher circles than those in which Miss Kate Salesby moved have been known to entertain it. Her feeling's, however, had since under-one a change ; she would still rather have married Lawrence Merridew than any other man, young or old, she had ever seen ; but her mind, as she had disclosed to him, was practical ; she was still, after a fashion, in love with him, hut she was not in love with poverty, and she did not believe in literature as the way out of it; his devotion, in short, if not absolutely unwelcome. had become extremely embarrassing to her 248 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. In his presence she found it difficult to resist him ; but in his absence tolerably easy to forget him. In her heart of hearts — if Miss Kitty could be said to possess such a sanctuary — she was glad that he was going away. Of these sentiments, of course, Ruth knew nothing ; what she was saying to herself instead of the responses, was " Is it possible dear Law- rence loves that girl ? She is pretty, she has a beautiful figure ; I dare say that a man, who knows no better, will think she is well dressed, but can a fine mind like his be seriously attracted by her ? ' Upon the whole she came to the agreeable conclusion that it couldn't. And then unfortunately she caught a glance of Lawrence's halfway on its road to Kitty, and with a twinge at her heart that seemed to paralyse her very being, came to the contrary opinion. Aunt Jerry was right then after all, Lawrence would be content it seemed with " A lower range of feeling, A narrower heart than hers.'" It was a terrible reflection for her, and little mitigated by the fact, which had, how- ever, by no means escaped her observation, that Kitty did not return his glances. She was fully occupied, as any young woman in church was bound to be, with her Prayer Book. She was not looking furtively about her to see IN <'li rue Jl. 249 whither young men were glancing; l>ut that, thoughl poor Ruth, might be only too easily explained by the fact that she felt quite secure of the object of her affections, and knew where he v. as looking — as one feels the sunbeam without turning one's i-yi's. Unconscious of the surveillance that was being exercised over him, it was only too true that Lawrence strove and strove again to win an answering glance from Kitty, as an angler throws his line again and again for a shy trout. Not thai Kitty could foe said to be shy, hut onl\ resolute to take no notice of his attentions. Even when given to understand that they were purposely ignored, his glances circled round her pew like doves about a dove-cote, taking in all that the old-fashioned house of prayer afforded to the eye. They lit upon the Ten Command- ments printed in old-fashioned style upon the whitewashed wall; on the row of leathern fire- buckets which hung from the cross-beams ; on the tablets to the memory of long-forgotten magnates; on the sounding-board of the pulpit even, with its fringe of cobwebs ; nothing i caped him; for even in spite of himself Lawrence Merridew was an observer. In after years, when everything had altered with him, and his whole life was turning on an undreamt-of pivot, that last visit of his to the old church often returned to him with greai 250 A MODERN BICE WHITTINGTON. distinctness. For resent it though we may, it is the material scenes of our lives that remain to us, and survive to the last, while our hopes and fears, our heliefs and aspirations (which seem each in their turn of such monopolising impor- tance), change or die and are forgotten. There is a well-known saw : "It will be all the same a hundred years hence,'' and though in fact it will not be the same but entirely different, the saying in its intended sense is a true one ; only instead of a hundred years one may write ten, a space of time quite sufficient in most human lives for a complete revolution. The onl) r person apparently quite untroubled in mind in the Hall pew — for Miss Jane, though extremely devout herself, was very solicitous about the shortcoming of her fellow-creatures in that matter, and kept a sharp eye on the gallery where the servants sat — was Sir Charles Walden. He was very much "at his ease in Zion;' not in the least impressed by the circumstance of his being in a house of worship, but nevertheless interested in it, as a novelt}'. The bassoon — or rather the man that played it and seemed part and portion of this instrument — attracted his attention ; and also the man that slept the sleep of the Justin its immediate vicinity, and rivalled its performances with his nose. A smile flitted across the baronet's features at every whack of the cane administered by the sexton to the IX OHUBOK 251 Bchoolboys, who, seated on open forms in the aisle — dangerously subject to observation, yei could not resist cracking the furtive nut, and polishing the favourite marble. WTien subse- quently asked by M i>s .Jane how he had liked "the service/ 1 Sir Charles had been within an hair's breadth of replying that he had been very much amused, but with his usual tact and readiness he had pulled up on the edge of the precipice and expressed his admiration of the choir, which he knew to be under her especial patronage. This happened as they were walking bark from church, for no carriage ever left the Hall on the Sabbath da} r ; Sir Charles and Miss Jane — the most un- sympathetic couple that could probably be found within the lour seas — leading the van, and Mrs. Merridew, Ruth, and Lawrence, bringing up the rear. These three, though sympathetic enough, hardly exchanged a word with one another. "It is like a funeral procession," moaned the unhappy baronet to himself; " the chief mourners are behind, but I am the undertaker himself in charge of the body." OHAPTEK XXV. SQUIRE AND PARSON. The squire had not accompanied the rest of the party home from church, and if he had done so it is probable that he would not have raised its standard of cheerfulness. His thoughts, while his friend in the pulpit had discoursed upon heavenly matters — as well as could be exjDected from a sermon that cost him but ninepence ; for he bought them by the dozen — had been grave enough, though of the world worldly. Had he been a penitent, moved by the eloquence of the preacher to confess his sins, he could not have been in greater haste to see him : and when the sermon was concluded his pastor found him waiting in the vestry. " 'Pon my life ! ' exclaimed the astonished divine, not yet divested of his gown (for the surplice was not agreeable to Miss Jane) — " This really won't do, Pob, it's not decent." " Decent or not, it's necessary," was the cool rejoinder. " There's Salesby waiting for you in QUIRE AND PARSON. tlic churchyard, and what I have bo say to you is qoI for his oars. Let us out by the back way." The back way was the chancel door, which, as a rule, Mr. Grueby did not use for egress, bul though by a longer path it offered a private way to the vicarage, and the two men now took ad- vantage of it. Mr. Grueby's dwelling, though small, was of good exterior, and in other hands nn'n'ht have been made as pleasant as it was picturesque; Imt both inside and out it had an appearance of neglect almost as greai as that of Mr. Salesby. Thanks to a former incumbent, there were still some flowers in its garden, and creepers hung over it^ porch and casements, hiding with their lavish growth the evidences of decay. They darkened the low-ceilinged parlour into which the vicar led the way, and until the eyes goi accustomed to the gloom, concealed there loo the signs of poverty and neglect. The room was barely furnished, and the closed windows preserved an atmosphere of stale tobacco from any contamination with the outer air. " Your room stinks like a pot-house,"' ex- claimed the squire, though he had been there man\ a time before without complaining of it; " wh\ don't you let some air into it ? " '" The window sticks a hit," replied (he other — " There, now you've done it." The visitor had seized the offending frame, 254 A MODERN DICK WRITTINGTON. and pushing it vehemently, had opened the window, but by the unusual method of putting his hand through it. For the moment it seemed that the vicar and the squire had exchanged callings, and that it was the latter's duty to read the Commination Service. " I'll ring for a sponge and some water," ob- served the host apologetically. " your sponge," replied the guest, winding his handkerchief about his hand, which was bleeding freely ; "let us hear your news and be hanged to } r ou." " It's no use your putting yourself in a pas- sion," answered Mr. Grraeby doggedly. " I'm not to blame that you lost }^our money, and I've done the best for you I could, though bad's the best." " I suppose so ; it is not likely that a fellow that could send me such a fool's telegram as vou did could make a bargain with a baby. AVell, what is the bargain? ' Neither the words nor the tones of the speaker could be called conciliatory ; but they produced no increase of irritation in his com- panion. The recollection of what was incumbent upon him as a divine, and upon a Sunday, too, perhaps caused him to exercise a. moral restraint, or perhaps he was secretly well content that that unfortunate affair of the telegram had been got over, not indeed quite smoothly, but with com- parative ease. WIRE AND I'M!. s<>\. 255 " Well," he said, " Burnes and Jessop will give VOU till Monday week to settle all in full." "Will they indeed?" was the grim rejoinder. "They will he so -•«„•(! as to take l . 5,000 of mine a week after dale, and charge me n«> interest for Lt.neither. Why, its quixotic." "I don't know about that," continued Mr. Grrueby indifferently, like a man who is no judge of the sentimental emotions; "but that, they said, was their last word, and if tin 1 money was not paid by 10 o'clock they'd post yon." The squire brought his hand down apon the table with an oath, and unfortunately it was the wounded hand " Yon had better hi me send for a sponge," murmured the vicar, when the storm had died a\va_\ . "And Lazarus, what has Lazarus to say?' ! "oh, Lazarus I always .all him Dives, you know, which makes him wild — Lazarus will see you through it, upon good security, of eourse, if the money is paid him in six months, at 20 per cent." "Why, that's £500 ! The cormorant! ' "Begad, it's a thousand! I've got the terms down in my pocket-book. He say^ he knows nothing about per cent, per annum." In a single sentence, and that a \ « -r\ short one, the squire consigned the whole Hebrew race to everlasting perdil ion. 256 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " By all means," said the vicar approvingly, " but that won't pay the money, you know." Considering his intimate personal relations with the squire, Mr. Grueby's manner was scarcely sympathetic. The fact is, " he was in a hole," as he expressed it, himself, and under. these circumstances it is not unpleasant to some people to have a companion, or, what is better, to see a friend in a still deeper hole. The satisfaction, however, such as it was, was short-lived. "As to the money," observed Mr. Robert in- differently, " it so happens that there will be no trouble about it. It will probably be sent off by to-night's post ; but I shall not forget the manner in which Burnes and Jessop have be- haved to me. They shall have a bit of my mind with the cheque." It was perhaps because that very respectable firm of bookmakers was known to Mr. Grueby that this menace produced but little effect upon him : he justly concluded that the cheque would make up to them for any expression of irritation that might accompany it; his mind was monopo- lised by the information that there was to be a cheque. " So the governor will come down with it, will he? Well, upon my life its very handsome of him, and a thing I should never have expected. So the storm's over, is it ? Well, 1 should never have guessed it to look at you." \UIRE ! N D /' [R80N. 267 •• l( will be over to-night, I hope." "Oh, I see ; matters are noi quite settled yet . Now look here, Bob, in my little way ['ve be< liit as hard as you with Ganymede. -lust make it guineas instead "I" pounds— il cannol mal any difference to the old gentleman— and help me out of my difficulty with the odd shillings. ['ve always been your Friend, you know, and kepi a dose tongue ; and if you will, upon my life, there's nothing— nothing — that I won't do for you." The squire took Ins chin in his unwounded hand and stroked it, as his manner was when engaged in thought. It would indeed be as easy for him— or as difficult — to raise the guineas as the pounds, and the additional sense of obliga lion did not weigh with him a Feather. Circum- stances might arise — though he hoped ill -\ would not do so — that would make the vicar's help of consequence to him. " I'll do it." he said, after a pause. " If the governor does not shell out, Lazarus shall make it guinea " Upon ni) T life you're a deuced good fellow!' : exclaimed the vicar, in a. tone in which surprise, it musi he admitted, mingled with satisfaction; "and, by-the-bye, how's your wife! I hope she has ceased to give you cause for anxiei " Never you mind my wife, ' was the unex- pected rejoinder, delivered with such vehemence R 258 A MODERN DICK WHlTTINGTON. as to be almost ferocity ; " and don't you go meddling- with the governor, as you call him, or mixing yourself up with any of my family affairs; mind that." The vicar looked aghast, as well he might, for never, surely, had amiable inquiry been re- ceived in such a hostile spirit. However, he had the promise of a loan, which made amends for much amiss in the way of tone or manner. "I am the last person to meddle," he said humbly, " and only wish to be of service to you. And — why. squire, you're dripping with blood!" Mr. Robert, who had been standing up throughout the interview, here dropped into a chair, as though the last word had been a bullet. "Blood! Whose blood?' he asked in tremulous tones. " Why, your own, of course ; your hand is bleeding like a pig. Do let me send for a sponge." " Brand}', brandy, you fool ; I'm faint," murmured the squire. This restorative was fortunately at hand ; indeed, the vicar kept a bottle of it in the cupboard of the bookcase which contained his theological library. And the sponge and water were sent for atlast, and Mr. Grneby showed not a little intrepidity as well as skill in removing the broken glass from the squire's hand under a QUIRE AND r IRSON. very heavy fire of imprecations. ETe had noi expected liim to be a good patient, bul it did amaze this good Samaritan thai the other should have been so aft'ected by the sighi of blood. "One would have thought," he said to himself, when the operation had been successfully per- formed and the squire had left him, " that he had been a better plucked one." In this the vicar did not do the squire justice. Robert Stratton had plenty of brute courage; if it be true that a bully is always a coward — which at least one great student of human nature has taken leave to doubt he was an exception to that rule. Hut though far from humane, he was human ; and a certain though! whi(d) he had of late harboured in his mind. ;i • :i hall-hearted host harbours a thief, " you may stay if you will, but mind, I know nothing of you," had suddenly presented itself before him in its very ugliesi form and unmanned him. Even the "Fighting Fifth 5 was subject to panic. When Mr. Robert had said that that little matte]- of lending him £5,000) between himself and his father was " noi settled," he had, to a certain extent, spoken the truth ; lor a thing can scarcely he said to be quite settled concerning which not one word has yet been spoken. Nor, indeed, so far as the ex-Commissioner was con- cerned, was it likely to be. The squire knew his H 2 260 A MODERN DICK WSITTINQTON. father's character very well, but the knowledge was not reciprocated. It would have astonished the old man exceedingly to learn that his only son — whose advice, if it did not lean to virtue's side, was always for prudence — was at heart a gambler. The gentleman of " the City ' who risks his tens of thousands upon the Exchange, but holds up his hands with pious horror at the man who bets " a fiver" on a rubber of whist, is known to all of us ; but Eobert Stratton was of the opposite, and much rarer type ; stocks and shares had no charms for him ; he especially dis- trusted those " underground swindles," as he called them, mines ; but he was devoted to the racecourse. Thanks to the progress of science and civili- sation, the turf is a profession that anyone can now follow without attending a horse race ; you have only to " touch the wires," as the classic poet expresses it, and the bookmaker thrills responsive to the magic call. With the firm of Burnes and Jessop the squire had done an exten- sive business for years, but never on so large a scale as on the present occasion. Their threat of "posting' 1 him did not of itself disturb him \ he could have borne a good deal of moral obloquy without wincing; but such a step would involve disclosure ; he would stand before his father in his true colours — his racing colours — and that would spell ruin. If he could not raise the SQUIRE l.Y/' PARSON. !6J required sum within the week, he would have to apply lo Lazarus. And, here again it was noi the monstrous percentage that gentleman charged which Frightened him j though mean and grasp- ing, he was noi a miser like liis sister Jane ; it' he had to pay £5,000 it mighl jusi as well be six thousand; bui where was he to gei the securities to satisfy s<> exacting a creditor? There was only one quarter where lie could look for it, and that at u terrible sacrifice; it was possible that his wile might help him, hut at the utter loss of her respect, < >bed ience, and confidence in him. She knew far less of his " goings on " than even his father did ; from him he had concealed hi • character, or partly concealed it, but with her he had played the hypocrite from first to last. The humiliation that confession would entail upon him was hateful to contemplate, and what was worse than all, he fell that he might humili- ate himself in vain. In spite of her weak and affected ways, he knew that a vein of obstinacy ran through his wife's nature ; so long as she thought herself to be the object of his devo- tion, and he retained her respect, all would go smoothly enough, hut he feared, with reason, the effect which the revelation of his position — which involved thai of his character — might have upon her. Mow would his " Popsy ' like a demand from him for 5,000 guineas lost upon a horse- race? Her money was her own so long as she 262 A MODERN DICK WH1TT1NGT0N. lived, though after her death, in default of issue, it reverted to him, and she inherited along- with her father's wealth, his love of it. If she did not understand its value as he had done, she knew what it had done for her, and had the modesty to perceive that she owed to her possession of it much of the court and respect that was paid to her. Her delicate fingers would probably hold their own with a tenacity not inferior to those of Mr. Lazarus. However, the hopes of Mr. Robert Stratton were centred for the present neither in his father nor his wife, but in that honoured guest whom he believed to be panting for the distinction of becomiug his nephew by marriage. Oil A PTEB \ X V 1 A FAVOUR REFUSED. Thougb it is the fashion to speak of a person who has a greal reputation For sociability and agree- ableness with admiration, it is realh only a few who appreciate him ; and it is their testimonial, and not his talents, which win the general applause; to folks in general one man as a companion is as good as another. This was strikingly exemplified in the case <>!' Sir Charles Walden, and his entertainers al Billsland Hall. They had derived 1'roni his society not one whit more pleasure than he had derived from theirs, and supposing (as they did) that the purpose for which they invited him had been accom- plished, they were on the whole very glad to gel rid of him. The last evening of his stay was passed, though neither to their satisfaction nor his own, in the company of his host and his son, in the old gentleman's private room, to he ad- mitted to which was an exceptional honour. Sir Charles felt that it would be had manners indeed 264 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. to decline the invitation, and especially in favour of the society of " that slip of a boy," as his grand- father in a moment of condescending recogni- tion had called Lawrence. Moreover, it was his object to benefit the young fellow as much as he could, and if this could be accomplished at the expense of his grudging and unnatural relative, it had an additional attraction for him. As he had a shrewd suspicion that the boy would never return home again, to sutler from his adversary, he altered his role, which had been hitherto to ignore him, and spoke with praise of his character and literary promise. The two men listened in silence : Mr. Robert with marked attention, and the ex-Commissioner with incredulous astonishment. " I am glad you have discovered something in the lad, Sir Charles, which has escaped the notice of his pastors and masters," he replied, with a wave of his hookah. " I have had some little experience in literature myself. In my youth I distinguished myself as a precis writer, and as an administrator, upon a rather extensive scale. My reports were considered (if I may be allowed to repeat the opinion entertained of them by the Government) models. Perhaps some of the talent may have descended." "Perhaps," said Sir Charles thoughtfully; "though Lawrence's gift is not precisely of the same character." A FAVOUR REFUSED. The ex-Commissioner blew through his tube (as an elephani trumpets) in his cordial approval of this view, which hardly, however, went far enousrh. h was as though a friend had observed to Mr. William Wordsworth with reference 1" some work as to drainage, thai it did uol run on the same lines as the " Excursion." " I was wondering," pursued the baronel with gentle suavity, "if the lad should really show anv practical talenl with his pen, whether you could be persuaded to let him follow thai line of life. Wlial is proposed for him at Singapore seems uoi \ ery well suited to him." At these words a yellow tooth, like a tiger's fang in miniature, emerged from the ex-Com- missioner's lips and fastened upon the lower one. It was a storm signal that Mr. Roberi well understood, and the warning glance be threw at his father did not escape Sir Charles's notice. The host was not unmoved by it, and exchanged at once what would certainly have been a de- nunciatory tone for a didactic one. "When we are young, my dear Sir (diaries, we seldom know what is good for us. There is no reason why this foolish hoy should not culti- vate his gifi for letters, if he really has any. as well at Singapore as anywhere else. There are mails, 1 believe, at least once a fortnight. Bui as for his giving up the excellent appointment which my influence has procured him there, and 266 A MODERN DICK WHITT1NGT0X. taking to a precarious and not very respectable calling, in which too he would be an expense to his family," and here he turned to his son, like one who is certain of having found an argument which would ensure an advocate, " I don't think that either Robert, who has hitherto had the management of the boy, or myself could consent to that." " Let us rather say," said Mr. Robert quietly, " that the subject will at least require a little consideration. Your suggestion has come upon us, Sir Charles, as a surprise ; had it originated in any other quarter, I should certainly have met it with a negative; but considering your great knowledge of the world, and also the compliment you pay us, in the interest thus manifested in our young relation, it would be dis- courteous to so dispose of the matter." The baronet smiled and bowed. He quite understood that Mr. Robert had said " no " as distinctly as his father had, though in a more roundabout fashion. What puzzled him was why he should have taken the trouble to go round. He had expected to find the more direct as well as the stronger opposition from the squire, and not from his host, with whose obstinacy of character he was less acquainted. " It is quite true, Sir Charles," resumed the old gentleman blandly, "that you can, as my son suggests, lay claim to a far greater knowledge .1 FAVOUIt UEFl SED. of the world than mosl men ; bill ii Is the world of England rather than that of her dependencies. Now, of those I have, perhaps, ;i larger know- Ledge. Its opportunities fora young fellowsuch as " (here he hesitated, and Mr. Robert had to prompt him) — "to be sure, Lawrence \ my memory is net, alas, what it used, to he — its opportunities, I say, arc great and numerous, and let us hope he will take advantage of them. You see here, in my humble person* (the pride that swell..! him, as he so described himself, was marvellous to witness), " an exampb of what can be effected in those regions by one who went thither without wealth or interest to assist him. I was always ready to lay my hand to anything ; nothing came amiss to me; as the poet says, the lyre, the pen, the sword." If Sir Charles's reflections could have been coin eyed in speech, he would have said: "You remind me most of the liar: as to the sword, I believe you have never drawn one, but only the lony; how (and perhaps a bill), and your pension: " but none of these sentiments could he gathered from his face, which expressed nothing but admiration and credulity. "No, Sir Charles," concluded the ex-Com- missioner, "1 am afraid we must ^till say Singa- pore lor my grandson." It was clear enough from his manner that there was nothing more to be said on that point 2fiS A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. by anyone else. The baronet was not dis- appointed, for he had expected no other result, but he was exceedingly displeased. He was not accustomed to ask a favour (for that was what he had done in this case, as the others well under- stood), and be refused ; it did not at all disturb him that he had asked it upon false pretences, trusting to the view they entertained of his inten- tions towards Ruth. He had had such intentions, as we know ; it was not his fault but hers that they had come to nothing ; and he had felt no scruple in taking advantage of the error for Lawrence's benefit. But for its existence indeed, his interfering in such a matter as the young fellow's future would have been little short of an impertinence ; a personal interest in the lad, however strong, would hardly have been a justi- fication for it, but a personal connection with him in the future excused it. And now, though this pompous old egotist imagined that he had secured him for his granddaughter, he had de- clined to oblige him in what, by comparison, was so small a matter. SirCharles's pride (of which he had a good deal, and much more than he would have confessed to) was hurt ; and his dislike of those by whom the wound had been inflicted was intensified by it. Though the ex-Commissioner had no idea of retracing his steps, he perceived, by his guest's silence, that he had gone too far ; and the i FAVOUIl REFUSED. glances of disapprobation bis son cast at him heightened his discomfort. Thai he entirely agreed with the determination he had expressed he was, of conrse, aware; but thai afforded him no satisfaction. Robert evidently feared thai he had given the baronet serious offence, and wlmt was worse, he himself fell that it was so. It was a monstrous thing, of course, thai a man in his position could not do what he pleased with his own, without being taken to task for it by an impudent fellow ; but when the fellow is a baronet with thirty bhousanda year, and one wants him for a grandson, his impudence is rather to he regretted than resented. The ex-Commissioner, indeed, was pale with rage and fear, and wore such a haggard look under his skull cap that Sir Charles afterwards described himself — to one who appreciated his humour — as never having felt " so near to Death " in his life. Conversation among the three gentlemen languished, and it was felt to be a great relief by at least two of them when the guest rose to depart upon the transparent plea that his de- parture the next morning had to be an early one Mr. Robert insisted on accompanying him to his room in spite of protest, and indeed his offer was by no means one of compliment or dictated h\ the duties of hospitality ; nor did it surprise the object "I that courtesy, who thought it likely 270 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. enough tbe other wanted just to smooth matters, and rather enjoyed the reflection that he would utterly fail in doing so. " I feel, my dear Sir Charles," said Mr. Kobert, so soon as they were alone together, " that I owe you an apology for my father's somewhat curt behaviour to you this evening." " Not at all," returned the other. " On the contrary, I feel justly reproved for meddling in a domestic matter with which I have no sort of concern." "Pray do not say that," replied the squire, with genuine earnestness (" I do believe that obstinate old fool has driven him off the hook," was his private reflection). " It is a most de- plorable circumstance, but the fact is that your young friend Lawrence " (and it was a proof of hate, indeed, that even at such a moment he could not bring himself to say " my nephew ") " is rather a sore subject with my father." " Then don't let's talk about it," said Sir Charles, smiling coldly, and holding out a very stiff hand of farewell. " One moment," said Mr. Kobert, closing the open door at which they stood, and putting him- self inside instead of outside of it; "I should like to have a few words with you, if you will allow me." " By all means ; sit down and take a cigar," said Sir Charles. His tone was studiously .1 FAVOUR REFUSED. J71 indifferent; but he was curious to know what the man had to sa} to him. That he wanted some- thing was pretty certain, though not so certain as thai he wouldn't get it: though he hated his society, the chance of an opportunity of playing this tyrannical bull}', as an angler plays a trout, was gratify ing to him. The knowledge that he was trading upon his niece's chances greatly increased his disgust for him. An appeal ad misericordiam was not indeed what he antici- pated, but if such a thing was contemplated, the petitioner, could he have looked into the other's heart, mighl have saved his breath. On the other hand, could Sir Charles have looked into the squire's heart, and beheld the grim work that was going on in it, it is probabL — though not lor the squire's sake — that he would have been of a more pliant mind. CHAPTER XXVII. A LITTLE FAVOUR. " With regard to the lad in whom you have heen so goocf as to interest yourself," said Mr. Robert, with his shifty eyes upon the carpet, and a certain doggedness of manner, as of one com- pelled to speak upon a subject disagreeable to him, " I must, notwithstanding your protest, just say one word, in justice to my father. He has had some cause for displeasure— or, rather, let me say for disappointment — in the boy, which may excuse an apparent harshness of manner when speaking of Lawrence. He has done his best — or Avhat seemed to be so — for him, with not very satisfactory results ; and he lias exerted his influence for him abroad, in hopes that lie may succeed better than in England. This will entail a considerable expense in out- lit " "Not if lie has the same sort of outfit that he lias at home," interposed Sir Charles drily. " Well, really if yon mean clothes, and so .1 LITTLE I' I I 0\ l: 273 on, these little matters have been hitherto lefl to hia A mil Jane." "Who naturally knows nothing aboul them," put in bhe other Bharply. "That is so far an excuse for her. Bui Lawrence is no longer a boy to be left in leading strings. You, Mr. Strati on. who have been a young man yourself, should have understood how humiliating musi be such a position. Even a less sensitive nature than that of your nephew would have resented it. Take your own, for instance. How- would you have liked at his age 1" find yourself without pocket money or a suit of decenl clothes? Of course, I have no right " "Nay, you have every right," murmured the squire, in a voice thai he vainly endeavoured to render conciliatory. It was like the growl of a dog who retreats under the table because the time for biting is not opportune. " Well, at all evenl . since you have forced the subject upon me, 1 will speak plainly. The lad is starved, as it were, in a land oi* plenty. There is money at llillsland for every body but himself, and there is no opportunity mis ed of making him feel that he is a de- pendent." ' I will see lli.it he has pocket money, and a proper wardrobe. Indeed, 1 have made such arrangements as were possible as regards the latter already. I had represented to my sister s 274 A MODEh'iV DICK WHITTINGTON. that since you had honoured him by an invita- tion to Hurl by it would be only fitting " " Oh, pray do not bring me into the matter, Mr. Stratton," exclaimed the baronet warmly; " it does not mend matters to tell me that if your nephew were not coming to Hurlby he would remain in rags. The state of his wardrobe is nothing to me ; but to be so treated must be a bitter mortification to any young man, and you know it." There was cause for quarrel, and plenty of it, in the baronet's tone as well as in his words ; he could not resist the opportunity of hinting, not very obscurely, to the squire, the opinion he had formed of him ; but curiously enough Mr. liobert, never much influenced by " opinion," was not altogether displeased at the course matters had taken. He had persuaded himself that Sir Charles was not angry upon Lawrence's account, but on his own ; and that he resented the lad's "rags " because they reflected upon the connection that he himself was about to make with him through marriage with his cousin. Indeed, it was the fact that the squire had spoken to Aunt Jane of the propriety of Lawrence's being a little better dressed with a view to his proposed visit to " the castle," only Aunt Jane had replied "No: if the marriage came off, of course the boy must have a wedding garment, but if it didn't, it would in the meantime be an .1 LITTLE /' I FOUR. unnecessary expenditure." Mr. Robert made a mem. in his mind thai an ample provision should now be made in this matter; a resolve thai cosl liim the less struggle inasmuch as the money would not come <>nt of his own pockel ; 1 >u i he was also prepared to pay something, and indeed a good deal, to put his guest in good humour. The big fish, it seemed, was landed after all. Still, the present conversation was ueitheragood omen, nor a favourable introduction to the matter the squire had in liis mind. "I hope,'" he said," Lawrence will show him- self grateful for your kindness to him, Sir Char " The obligation, so far as his visit to Hurl by is concerned, I consider to be quite on the other side," returned the other. "He is a most agree- able companion." "And 1 dare say you find living all alone at 1 he cast le a little trisfe." This was in Mr. Robert's opinion quite a Machiavellian remark ; he thought it might even i I O "draw " his companion to admit as much, and hint that that drawback of loneliness was aboul to be remedied in a very gratifying manner, lint it did nothing of the kind. The other moked on in silence. "There is a private matter [wish to speak to you about. Sir Charles," .--aid the squi desperately, and taking his courage in both hands. s 2 276 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " A private matter ! " Sir Charles raised his eyebrows. " Keally ! ' His tone was incurious, even indifferent. " Yes ; I have got a little favour to ask of you. With most people it would be a great favour, but in }^our case, I venture to think that, though of some magnitude, it will cause you no serious inconvenience. I want you, for a few months only, to be so good as to lend me £5,000." " Really ! " said the baronet again, in exactly the same tone. " That is a large sum." " It would of course, as I have said, seem a large sum to most people." " It seems a large sum to me" said the baronet. " Well, of course, in a way it does ; and if the loan was not merely a temporary one, I should hesitate to apply for it even to you. It would, however, just now, be of immense service, and I have immediate need of it." " The Derby ? " suggested Sir Charles. " Why, yes ; I had the best information about Ganymede — it seemed a moral, but some- how it did not come off." "Things do go that way on the turf occa- sionally ; let us hope you will have bettor luck nexl time." 11 Will, no; I have done with it. What has happened will be a lesson to me. Never will I bet again." A LITTLE /-'.I VOUB. "In thai case the misfortune may prove a blessing in disguise," said tin' baronei philoso- phically, and flicking at his cigar-ash which was ;i very long one. " Perhaps — but in the meantime — the dis- guise is so perfect thai the blessing lias the appearance of a disaster. I must raise the money somehow, and at once." " And from what I gathered the other nighl of your father's sentiments, he would not, I suppose, be inclined to assist you ? ' "He would see mi — well, at all events he would not do it. That's certain. Nothing hut the urgency of the ease would have compelled me to apply to you for assistance. It disti me to do so very much. To borrow mon. \ one's friend, one's guest, is deplorable, still yon will make allowance for my painful position." "This sum is a debt of honour, I conclude, which you have incurred without the means of discharging it. If you had won you would have pulled off a very large stake." "That's just it. I felt I was dealing with a man of the world, who would understand thines. " I I Sir Charles's satire had flown over his head; he imagined that an excuse had been made for him. " May 1 hope that yon will lend me the mom \ . "You may hope, of course," said the other smiling; "'hope springs eternal in the human breast,' ;i- Lawrence would say -the lad is full 278 A MODERN DICE WHITTINGTON. of quotation ; but at present I can promise you nothing. When I get home I will ask my secretary, who keeps my banking book for me, I have generally a pretty good balance, I believe. If I can oblige you, you will hear from me by to-morrow's post. And now I am afraid I must say an revoir, as my night will be a short one. 5 ' He held out his hand, which the other seized and squeezed with effusion. It was like wringing a dry towel. Still the squire had some hope. He had not at least received that point- blank refusal which had been quite on the cards. Sir Charles had the reputation of keeping a very large balance at his bankers. He had asked for no security, which indeed was fortunate, since insistence on that point would have been fatal. And yet Mr. Kobert was far from comfortable in his mind about the money. He had certainly not found his friend so " accommodating " as he had expected. If he could have looked into the other's heart, or even into his room now that the door was between them, he would have felt still less satisfied at the result of their inter- view. Directly he was alone, Sir Charles had thrown himself upon the sola and burst out laughing. He was not in such a very great hurry to go to bed after all, it seemed, for he sat up smoking cigar after cigar, sometimes with a face grave enough, but every now and then the recollection of Mr. llobert's conciliatory .1 LITTLE FAVOUR. 279 manners — when applying for a loan — orrunvd to him, and it always evoked his iniH li. "lie is Like a snob in evening dress," he muttered t<> himself; "ten times worse than in his ordinary stripes and checks." And he made up his mind thai the squire might have as many stripes as fortune or Justice — might please to send him, hut not one cheque from him. CHAPTER XXVIII. FAREWELL. In the morning neither the ex-Commissioner nor his son hade farewell to their guest. The former, indeed, rarely left his couch till midday, and the latter sent word that close attendance on his wife, whose malady had assumed a serious form, would, he regretted to say, prevent him leaving her apartment. Perhaps he wisely thought that the less he and his hoped-for creditor saw of one another, the better chance he had of obtaining his loan ; or perhaps he felt that the spectacle of his nephew sitting in the baronet's carriage as his invited guest, and full of reminiscences of his uncle, would be too much for his temper. If he did not get the money, he was fully resolved that Master Lawrence, when he returned to Hillsland, should smart for it. He hated the lad for his little puff of prosperity more than he had ever done while he had him under his heel, and to say truth he hated, though in a less degree, his benefactor also, FAREWELL. 2 I notwithstanding thai bis Lopes were centred in linn. Aunt Jerry, of course, was in her bed, much more seriously amiss than Mrs. Robert, though no such fuss was made about it; so thai the breakfast party was limited to the three other ladies, the baronet, and Lawrence. Miss Jane was very gracious; it was im- portanl to leave a good impression upon their departing guest, and her luce was wreathed in genuine smiles, for she was exceedingly glad to get rid of him. His presence had been a restraint upon her in man\ ways; it had obliged her to curl) her temper, and especially to extend a certain tolerance towards Lawrence, the necessity for which she resented. Neverthe- less, even on this occasion she could not help taking a parting shot at him. " I hope," she said, "you boy, that you will behave yourself properly at Hurlby,and notgive cause to Sir Charles to repent of his good- nal iii-e. This was said at the breakfast table in the presence of them all. including Mrs. Merridew, who Hushed, poor woman, to her forehead, hut said nothing. Lawrence, too, went on with his egg in contempt nous silence. " I don't think Lawrence and I are likely to quarrel, Miss Stratton," observed Sir Charles drily. "One can hardly call him a spoilt boy." 282 A MODERN DICK WHITT1NGT0N. The adjective was equal to a folio of satire, and knocked Miss Jane " out of time." She glanced at the baronet in what was, to say the least of it, a very inhospitable manner, and re- mained speechless for the rest of the meal. But " when that boy comes back," she said to herself, just as her brother had done, " I will let him know what spoiling means," by which she meant (metaphorically) to imply that she would spoil the rod and not spare the child. It was the first time that any observation had been made in that house upon the young fellow's treatment, and Mrs. Merridew snatched from it a fearful joy, which she did not dare exhibit. Euth, however, thanked the baronet with her beautiful eyes, and when the two women found themselves alone with him after- wards they both expressed their gratitude. " It will do no good," sighed Mrs. Merridew, " but it was very noble of you to say what you did about my poor boy." "It did me good, at all events," said Ruth, with flashing eyes, " to hear you. Oh, would that I were a man, that I could toll them all what I think of them." " You are much better as you are, believe me," answered Sir Charles gently. "Moreover," he added gaily, " it seems, from your aunt's example, that one does not require to be of the sterner sex to sa} r exactly what one thinks of FAREWELL. other people." Then he weirl on to Bay thai lie would take great rare of Lawrence (which they didn't doubt), and a number of other friendly things, which to those who have no friends arc better than rubies. To Mrs. Merridew, in whom the design in progress for Lawrence's future was looked upon with natural apprehension, he confined himself to these generalities, hut in his leave-taking with I'ulli he was confidential enough. He had indeed 'as has keen said) ken within a very little of falling in love with her, knt that was over now; and though his amour propre had been slightly wounded in the matter, he felt not a spark of indignation againsi her. lie not only admired, but, what was much more unusual with him, respected the girl. Strange to say, even her love lor her cousin was a factor in his own regard lor him, and in a vague sort of way he wished it a successful issue. That it was the best thing that could happen to Law- rence he well perceived, though, thanks to the young fellow's blindness, no less than to the material obstacles in the way of their union, it was not at all likely to happen. ■• Lawrence of course will write to you, my dear Miss Ruth, and tell you how our plot goes on. it is a good plot." "He will write to his mother, at all events," said Ruth, with a little sigh. "We shall be interested about it, of course." 284 A MODERN DICK WlilTTINGTON. " No doubt," said Sir Charles, perhaps with more significance than he intended, for the words brought a quick flush to her face. "And now and then I hope you will deign to think ot me. "T shall always think of } r ou, Sir Charles, with gratitude and respect." " In that case your kindness will be entirely undeserved," was the unexpected reply. " If I have won respect from one like you, it must have been under false pretences. No, dear Miss Ruth, the most I hope for is that when you hear me spoken ill of, as must needs happen, you will say to yourself : ' There were some grains of good — or, at all events, of tenderness — in the man nevertheless.' ' " I shall say that and more to your detractors, and not only to myself," she answered, with spirit. "I am not always a coward as I was this morning." " No, you arc not a coward. You have a noble nature*," he answered, with her hand in his. " I trust you may find someone some day who can not only appreciate it, which even / can do, hut who may be more worthy of it. To Mrs. Merridew just now, for a reason that you will understand, I said an revoir, but to you I say good-b}^e." In a moment he was gone like one who fears to stay; but Ruth never forgot his last word or FAREWELL. his lasi look There are moments when, for the most jaundiced eye, there is a glimpse of Heaven ; and while the man of the world was bidding the girl adieu, all sorts of possibilities of good Hashed Upon his mind with the speed and, alas, the brevil \ of lightning. In the hall, where Mrs. Merridew was giving a tearful farewell to her hoy, he was himself again. " Yon are taking from me, though I trust for his good," said the lady, "my only treasure."' "That is the one SCl'Uple I feel," answered the baronet, in significant allusion to their little conspiracy. " But he was not happy here, and you would rather be made unhappy by his absence than by seeing him unhappy. "That is what 1 am trying to think," she answered, smiling through her tears. ''Upon my life," said Sir Charles to Law- rence, as the carriage rolled away. ''1 should like to have taken your mother and cousin with us to BLurlby, and left the rest of your belong- ings to stew in their own juice." " I beg you will not abuse my belongings, Sir Charles," returned the young fellow, gravely, " it', at least, they include my excellent uncle. '<)h. Uncle Robert has been giving you the smooth side of his tongue lor once, has her" returned tin- baronet, with twinkling 286 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. '' Yes ; it is nothing less than a miracle. He came into my room just now as I was packing up — I thought to murder me ; he looked like it — and gave me this. It is a cheque from my grandfather for £50 to buy what he called a wardrobe ; he meant, I suppose, the clothes to jmt in it. I could scarcely believe my eyes or my ears." " Very good — and disinterested — of your uncle," observed Sir Charles drily. " So he said. He also bade me remember the fact when speaking of him to you. He said he should surely know how I spoke of him, so that it behoved me to be very careful. One has heard of gilding the pill, but to accompany the gift with a menace, is the converse proceeding." " That is very true, my lad, but you have got his £50. I said they had not spoilt yon, but, by Jove, you have spoilt the Egyptians, which, as Mr. Pecksniff says, is very soothing." " On the other hand, when I am gone," sighed Lawrence, " and don't come back again, I fear my ' ingratitude ' will be visited upon my poor mother. Oh, how I wish I could make a home for her — and for dear lluth too — where we could all live together in peace." " Vour ambition is growing, Lorry. First you wanted to make your own Jiving; then 'to make a home ' for the young lady at ' The Corner,' and now you desire a quartette." FAREWELL. 287 " Pray don't laugh ai me, Sir Charles." " I am far from laughing, my dear boy; the matter is serious because \ ou are so unreasonable. • The very besl you can hope for from your pen for a Long time to come is to keep the wolf from your own door. As to your mother, that is different j it is possible that with what little she may have of her own, you may at m> very distant date be able to keep house together. But to hamper yourself with an engage- ment " "I have not done that," put in the young fellow bitterly. " I am glad to hear you say so," pursu< d the other drily ; "it would have been madm " F should, nevertheless, have been a mad- man if 1 could," answered Lawrence gravely. " .Miss Kitty then, I gather, was san< ." "She shrank, not from me, for I know she loves me dearly, but from my poor prospects. 1 do nut blame her. She has had too cruel an experience of poverty herseli ; but it' I ever make my way in the world — oh, sir, if I could win that woman. 1 would love her as wife was never loved ! Thai resolvi i in ' Loi k. 1<_\ 1 [all, 5 my lad; you remember hovs tie affair came ofF." "Yes j bui even if Kitty behaved as 'Cousin Amy ' did, I should not be bitter against her." "Quite right j moreover, the bard, when his 288 A MODERN DICK WHITTWQTON. judgment was matured, wrote a poem on the same subject, you know, approving of the young person's behaviour to him." It was hardly a question on which a young man was likely to agree with an old one ; but Lawrence was far from feeling annoyed with his patron for thus pursuing it. It was only another proof of the personal interest his com- panion took in him that he should lay such stress on a matter in which he could have no sort of concern. It was almost the only topic, however, on which they had hitherto conversed in which they were not in accord, and the discussion, which here closed, left an unwonted silence behind it. Sir Charles was wrapped in his own thoughts and his eternal, or rather eternally renewed cigar. Lawrence had probably even more subjects of reflection, though more easy to guess. Kitty, his mother, Until, the home — hateful but for their presence — which, as he devoutly hoped, lie had left for ever, and the palace of which he had often heard, in which he was about to find himself so unexpected a guest; London, that "promised land" to which all men — and boys — of letters look forward with such delightful expectation, and the future which literature might have to offer him. Sunk in these dreams he noticed neither the flight of time nor the smooth passage of the wheels FAREWELL. 289 through space till his companion gently said, "There's Burlby! " li was still far away, but its vast proportions had begun to dominate the landscape. "A castle, sei on a hill," or, rather, on the side of one, backed by great woods, and belted by a river, [n size even Qillsland Hall was a cottage compared with it, while in beauty of architecture il was as far superior to it as it was in age. It seemed to Lawrence, as he looked at it, as though he had been only awakened from one dream to fall into another. II was not so much a view as a picture, drawn by some imaginative artist to illustrate a poem. Tower on tower rose like "cloud on cloud," and from the top- most, whence unseen eyes were doubtless watch- their approach, there presently shot out a banner like a tongue of flame. "The castle's welcome to its master," ex- claimed the young fellow. " Let us say rather to its guest," replied the other smiling. It was perhaps an exaggeration of courtesy, but it became the speaker. Even Sir Charles Walden's detractors — and he had many — were compelled to admit that " he had a very pretty way with him." CHAPTER XXTX. AT HURLBY. There were a good many things in Hurlby Castle which excited, as well they might, the admiration of the county, but what most evoked its astonishment was its wealth of books. A library, of course (like its contents), was some- thing that no gentleman's mansion should be without, but there is a medium in all things, and his neighbours rather resented this excessive profusion of literature. They even attributed to it, to some extent (though it must be allowed there were other reasons), his unneighbourly seclusion. It rendered him independent of their society. They could not understand that it gave him no pleasure. " I dare say," he said to Lawrence, " that while you are here I can get some people who are not very particular (I mean as regards myself) to come and meet you, but I really think we shall be more comfortable alone. The day before I went to Hillsland I met our squire, who AT HURLDY. 291 (when away from his wife) is perfectly affable to me. ' Well, Sir Charles, ' he said, with much cheerful energy, 'so you arc lowering your fences.' It was not an interesting observation, was it? Of course I knew thai 1 was lowering in)' fences. II" he had told me that lie was lowering my truces, he would at least (though I should uoi have cared for it) have conveyed some information to me. You shall meel the squire, if you like" Bui Lawrence did not care to meel the squire, and Sir Charles and his guest passed the time alone together. With the latter it went very quickly. The castle was lull of everything in which the Hall was deficient: of pictures, and statues, and books. The whole Life was new to him, the hushed and stately attendants, and the manner in which they seemed to anticipate his wants; the splendour of the plate, the richness of the banquets, the perfection of the wines; above all the feeling that he was the centre of attention who was wont to be utterly neglected and ignored. It is no wonder that he felt at times like Christopher Sly in the play. That there were chambers in this Bluebeards castle into which he was not invited, by no means decreased his sense of satisfaction; the semi- seclusion of his host seemed not only natural enough, but was welcome to him. While it left him leisure to do exactly what he liked, it t 2 292 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. never trenched upon the duties of hospitality. He saw a great deal of his host, and the more he saw — though he was conscious that he only saw what he was meant to see, that most of his character was a blank to him — the more he liked him. In his conversation the baronet was always frank ; nor did his guest speculate as to whether he might not have been designedly so, in order to encourage frankness ; in this respect Lawrence certainly did not require encouragement. He said exactly what he thought, not because it chanced, as it generally did, to coincide with the ideas of the other, but because, notwithstanding his years of slavery, it was natural to him to be free spoken. It was this, no doubt, no less than the fact that what he said was almost always worth hearing, that made his talk attractive to his companion. It is only a few people that dare to be natural, and what seems paradoxical, but is nevertheless true, the most daring conver- sationalists are often the least natural of all. There is an affectation of originality that is no more like it than prudery is like modesty. But Lawrence Merridew, though by no means modest, was original. His mouth spoke literally out of the abundance of the heart. His simplicity — though it was only skin deep and was certain to be shortlived — was very refreshing to the man of the world who had bidden adieu to it himself .i /' HURLBY. long before his young friend was born. The} talked of "fate, freewill, foreknowledge abso- lute," as though they had been contemporari Sir Charles's views upon these subjects were very different from those of Mr. Percy; bu< carried even less conviction with them to his auditor. They were cynical rather than sceptical, and youth, when natural and wholesome, revolts againsl cvnicism. < mi the other hand, Sir Charles made in. attempt to make a proselyte of tie- lad, and though satirical, was never contemptuous. I 'poll the whole Lawrence enjoyed his com- panion's talk when in the semi-serious vein, more than in any other; no doubt it flattered his self- love to meet the otlea- (.11 such grounds, on equal terms; and imagined, reasonably enough, that the being permitted to do so was a proof .,1 familiarity and friendship. Years afterwards this visit to Hurlby became, even more than it now seemed, a thing apart in his life; it was still a splendid dream, bul not with- out a certain touch of nightmare. Even while it held him in thrall he felt thai there was some thing unreal about it. and did not desire its long continuance. Considering his age, Lawrence was b} no means devoted to pleasure, or careless of the future while pleasure lasted. His experience of life had been too hitter for such forgetfulness. He longed to feel his feet, and fighi his way, at all events, out of Elillsland. The idea of 294 A MODERN DICK WHLTTINGTON. returning tliitlier was abhorrent to him. It would have been even more so if he could have looked over Sir Charles's shoulder and read the note, which a few days after that gentleman reached home, he indited to Mr. Robert Stratton. " Dear Sir, — Upon consulting my secretary I mid that the balance at my banker's will not permit of my obliging you in the manner you suggested; nor do I feel inclined to change my investments for that pur- pose." Whether the secretary was ever consulted in the matter is doubtful, though there was a secre- tary, one Mr. Harbord, a very discreet person of middle age, who lived in much seclusion in his own apartments, and even when he came out of them appeared to be under a vow of silence. He moved without noise, and dressed so " quietly ' : that the term " my mute," by which his em- ployer spoke of him, might have had a mere professional application. He was closeted for an hour or so with the baronet every morning, and emerged from those interviews with the face of a sphinx. To smile seemed actually painful to him, as though his unelastic lips had no margin for the operation. He was perfectly polite to Lawrence, and showed not a spark of jealousy (as he well might have done) at the intimacy that young man enjoyed with his patron, and which he himself was far from sharing. lie AT EUBLBY 295 seemed fco be always engaged in correspondence. A few years later lie mighl have been Likened fco one of those automatic machines which, when you put a penny into the slot, return you a manuseripi of some kind. " What do you think of mv private secre- tary ? inquired Sir Charles of Lorry, with one of his queer smiles. "Well, it is hard to miv ; he is siieh a rcn/ private secretary," replied the youn^ fellow, an answer thai delighted his host immensely. Not even the praise of his epigrams, however (i hough it was dear to him ), oor the being Lapped in Luxury and the unwonted experience of being made much of for his own sake, could close the young man's eyes to the necessity for exertion. He Longed to feci his feet on the step of the Ladder that should lead, if not to lame or fort une, at least to independence of some kind, ruder no circumstances, perhaps, as has been said, would he have returned to llillsland, but a letter presently came to him from Ruth that convinced him that return was well-nigh impossible, thai he had hurnt his boats. ' For some reason or another," she wrote, ' Uncle Robert is more set against you than ever." lie read this out to his host, who alter a burs! of Laughter grew suddenly serious. "The fact is, mv dear Lorry," he said. " it is / who am the reason. You musl not speak of it, 296 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. because a certain silence should always be ob- served in such matters. I should have respected your uncle's confidence (though nothing was said between us about confidence) but for this new proof of his swinish nature : he has tried to borrow money of me and failed." ' Borrow money of yon ? Impossible ! " ex- claimed Lawrence in astonishment. "Oh, quite impossible," assented the other drily. " But I am afraid I led him to believe that there was just an off chance of my becom- ing his creditor. Hence these latest execrations against his nephew. I got that £50 for you by it ; the sprat he threw out to catch a salmon. It was good interest for the money, how- ever, considering that it was never lent. You may think it was not quite a nice business " I think it was an excellent business," put in Lorry delightedly. Sir Charles began pacing up and down the room, a common practice with him when not on good terms with himself. " Yes, with a wild beast of that kind, delicate scruples are out of the question. The sum was £5,000, I may tell you, no less. When the crash comes with this relative of yours, as it is bound to do, this may be a good card to play with grandpapa. : Your son, who has told you such lies of me,' you might say, ' has concealed /• UVRLUY. 297 one or t wo things aboul him elf : thai he 1" I E5 en" on i he las! I terby, for instance.' This was great news t'> Lawrence, oi course, Imt it in no way altered his determination 1m gel to work; indeed, ii quickened it. Willi his knowledge of (hide Robert it was easy to gu< that his ill-humour would not wait to vent itself upon him on his return, hut would he felt by others. His poor mother, from whom he had also a letter, lull of love and tears, would feel it. To do him justice, the desire of doing something for himself was even less urgent with him than thai of placing her out of reach of contempt and ill-treatment. A home, however humble, with her son would, he well knew, he to her far pre- ferable to her present state of gilded misery. "1 am deeply sensible of your kindness to me," he said to his host, " and of the seeming ingratitude that prevents my being perfectly happy under your hospitable root', but I feel that I oughl to he up and doing. You were good enough to say, ' Why not work here- -where I have "a. golden pen and heaped up flowei against which to lean"' — as well as in London? ' hut 1 find 1 cannot do it." Il he had expected opposition he had been mistaken. "This is Liberty Hall, my lad," returned the haronet smiling. " When I wasyourage, and a guest at a country house, none ot its attractions 298 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. equalled the sense that I could leave it without being pressed to stay. If you are half as much bored with Hurlby as I am " " But, indeed, that is not the cause," put in Lawrence plaintively. " I know it is not. You have what seems to you a much better reason, though a less one would have sufficed for me, and left no sting behind it. You shall go to-morrow, if you please. Well, that's settled. Now I have something to say to you. It is partly through me that Hills- land has been made intolerable to you. It is I who have burnt your boats for you by declining to be your uncle's banker, so the least I can do in reparation is to become your banker. Let me lend you ' : " Pray, pray, do not go on," said Lawrence with Hushed face. " Well, if it distresses you, I will say no more, but I must say you have less good sense than I had credited you with." " It is not that, Sir Charles, nor that your generosity fails to reach my very heart," replied the young fellow, deeply moved. " But a loan to anyone in my position might be — very pro- bably would be — a gift. I will take — as indeed I have taken — all other kindnesses from your hand, but not this one." Sir Charles regarded him with raised eye- brows and an amused smile. AT EUBLBY. 299 " Curious I ' he soliloquised aloud, with an amused smile. "These delicate scruples, my dear Lorry, do honour to your heart, ol" course, hut upon my lif e they are no compliment to your head. However, I musl needs respecl them. Let us say no more about it: only it' you do want money, don't go for it where your uncle v,ill probably go— to the .lews : come to me." " I have, thanks to you, £60 in hand/ said Lawrence quietly. "Even after paying for my modest outfit, 1 shall have plenty to live upon till 1 earn something by my pen." • You would not have a shilling at the end of a week in London if you were Left to your own devices," returned the other confidently. "That catastrophe at least I can, however, guard against. I have written to Latham all about you, and he will not be surprised to see Dick Whittington (as he has facetiously termed you) at any moment. He has two maiden sisters, who will provide you with respectable lodgings in their own vicinity — Nelson Crescent, Blooms- bury — and look after your purse and your morals. It will not be a brilliant beginning of a literary career, hut it will be a safe one. as I promised your mother it should be." This touched the young fellow profoundly : he knew how little such forethought and atten- tion to details were in accord. nice with the other's character, and he was Idled with gratitude 300 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTUN. for the solicitude lie had thus exhibited on his behalf. On the morrow, therefore, Lawrence left for London, not unregretted by the household. He had the art (as it is called, though it is a gift of nature) of attracting his fellow- creatures to him. The housemaids wept ; the valet who had been put in charge of him pronounced him (as he pocketed his half-sovereign) to be " a good sort " of young gentleman, though he could never understand what had become of his clothes. Even Mr. Harbord stretched his lips into a smile as he said " good-bye " to him. Sir Charles saw him to the carriage door. " I shall never forget your kindness," said the lad in a broken voice. " You will indeed," returned the other gaily but confidently. " Think of me at my best and expect my worst. That is all I ask of you, my dear Lorry." It was a strange farewell, but not an un- characteristic one, though the time had not yet arrived for the other to comprehend its full significance. G 11 A PTEE XXX. NELSON CRESCENT. Nelson Cresci nt, Bloomsbury, is not a fashion- able Locality; smart people, who live in the little streets off Park Lane, and put their six feet of footman into a cupboard they call a servant's bedroom, turn up their noses at the mention of such an address j but though not fashionable, the houses in Nelson Crescenl are roomy. The dinner guesl who passes between the fire and the table runs no risk there of being burnt to a cinder; air and space are not at a premium; and the garden on which the front windows look is quite an extensive piece of ground, with real trees in it. It is said, of course, that nobody who is anybody would dream of livingin Nelson Crescent, but thai was not Mr. Leopold Latham's view, who did live there, and thought a good de;d of himself. He had a magazine of his own, The Areopagus^ and also an income, which does not always follow in such cases. Indeed, it was whispered in Paternoster Row thai if he had 302 A MODERN DICK WH1TTINGTON. not had the magazine his income would have been larger. His two sisters, Margaret and Mary, ladies respectively of fifty and forty years of age, lived with him and helped to diminish it, a misfortune lie bore with much equanimity. They were not ornamental, though Miss Margaret thought Miss Mary to be so, " not in her first youth," she admitted; but what is comeliness dependent upon that circumstance? The mere beauty of the Devil (as the French happily term it). There was a majestic grandeur about Miss Mary, who was five feet eleven in her — well, without her shoes — which she pronounced to be queenlike. Miss Margaret herself was even taller, but had not her sister's grace of movement, and was also rather severely marked with the smallpox, which detracts from feminine comeliness. Her brother Leopold had suffered from the same malady ; but in a man that matters nothing. He had a good deal of humour — of the sort called " very dry " — and spoke of his countenance as being "beautifully carved." He was less than of medium height, and had that stoop of the shoulders which belongs to the student, and also to those who in their youth have "lived every day of their lives;" and it was whispered that Mr. Latham had earned it both ways. He had distinguished him- self at the University not only in the schools, but had combined the roles of " last ' and NEL80N ORESCENT. "reading man," and it was at college thai he had fallen in with Sir I Iharles Walden. They had then had many things in common, and though now it would have been difficull to find two college contemporaries more utterly differenl in pursuits and position, their friendship remained unbroken. Mr. Latham understood the baronel thoroughly j he was the only link with his old life that remained to him ; and with all his faults he had a sincere regard for him. Moreover, he was under obligations to him, which though in a material sense had been repaid, his nature was too generous to forgei . He received Lawrence with an old-fashioned hospitality that set him ;it mice at his case. The young fellow had had no expectations of so kindl\ a welcome, nor of finding his new friend so handsomely housed. He knew nothing of fashion or its effects on locality, and was surprised at the size of Mr. Latham's residence, and the air of comfort which surrounded him. When at the little Cornish station he had exchanged Sir Charles's barouche for a third-class railway carriage, he had imagined he was bidding good- bye for years, and very likely for ever, to luxury of all kinds. After Hurl by Castle almost every London house would have seemed "cabined, cribbed, confined," hut he had taken it for granted that a man like Mr. Latham, living as he understood) by literature, would have had a 301 A MODERN DICK WHITTTNGTON. dwelling of far more modest dimensions than lie found it to be. The back room on the ground floor, into which he was ushered by the neatest of maid-servants, was by no means a mere study, but well deserved, both from its size and contents, the name of library. " And how is my friend Walden ? " inquired his host, who, with all his geniality of manner, was regarding him, he did not fail to note, with a certain curiosity ; "or rather I should say 'our friend,' for he seems to have a strong liking for you." "He has, at all events, treated me with the greatest kindness," said Lawrence modestly. "That's well; nor am I at all surprised at it," added the other graciously. "It is rather late for talking over matters just now ; indeed, close on dinner-time." " I am sorry to have intruded upon you at such an hour ; but Sir Charles led me to hope that you would be so good as to recommend me a lodging." " Things must be new and strange enough to you, without the addition, the first evening, of a London landlady. You must dine and sleep here to-night." " Indeed, Mr. Latham/' hesitated the young fellow, " I had not dreamed of inconveniencing you to that extent." ' It is no inconvenience to me, and my NELSON GEE OENT. sisters will like it. It will be a great pleasure to them ; they do no! have a young gentleman from the country to take care of ever} day. II' you don't mind being a little unwell so as to wani brown paper and vinegar, or a mustard poultice, if will be a great treat to my sister Margaret. In the meantime I will show you your room, The restrictions as to evening dress are, as the advertisements say, 'suspended 5 in tins house; we can only give you five minutes, after which vou will find us in the drawing room." These details were dwelt upon with some in sistence, and Lawrence subsequently discovered they were important in Mr. Latham's eyes. After embracing several religions and pursuing various objects of study and pleasure with much eagerness, he had become content with the ob- servance of punctuality at meals and the dis- regard of the custom of dressing for them. Similar rules of life await the termination of a good many enthusiasms. In the drawing-room Miss Latham received her guest with an almost maternal cordiality, introduced him to her sister as to some angelic being of whose acquaintance she was not without hope he might be worthy and watcln d the em i t with imiling confidence. Nor did it appear to be misplaced, For, won hy so much unexpected kindness, Lawrence's o 806 .1 MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. gratitude shone in every feature, and was set down at once to respectful admiration. He thought Miss Mary very nice and very tall. While he made himself agreeable to the ladies, Mr. Latham looked on amused, with his hands in his pockets. There was a curious likeness in his manner of taking things (though with it all similitude ceased) to that of Sir Charles — a certain philosophical manner that is cousin german to cjmicism. At dinner-time Miss Margaret asked many questions about Hurlb}^ Castle ; her brother had been a guest there, but had not sufficiently dwelt upon its magnificence, or its owner's mode of life. In her heart of hearts, though she had never seen him, she felt that the baronet was just the man for Mary ; past the heyday of youth, but not the less fitted on that account to appreciate the charms of maturity and a well- balanced mind. Though it seemed he had with- drawn from his position in the giddy world of fashion, was he really resolved never to come to town? ^Yas it true that he had utterly abjured female society ? The pleasure Mr. Latham ex- hibited while his young friend wis thus under the harrow was really discreditable ; if he did not know much about Sir Charles in his later days, he knew Lawrence knew still less, and his efforts to satisfy Miss Margaret's curiosity tickled him excessively. When, however, she NELSON i i W. asked to whal accomplishment the owner oi lln)li)\ was most inclined, he took pity on the hid, and replied for him, "Cigar smoking; 5 a1 which Miss Margaret bridled up and closed her cross- examinat ion. When the ladies had withdrawn, Mr. Latham, to Lawrence's great delight, began to talk of business — that is to say, of Lawrence himself. " I can't do v< vy much for \ ou 013 sell, he said ; "my periodical is not a channel of publi- cation very suited to your style of writing; hut you may give me the refusal of your contri- butions, and what is not good enough for T/ie Areopagus — I mean, of course, not suitable for it," he added hastily — "1 will endeavour to pla< elsewhere. You must understand, however, thai everything will eventually depend upon yourself ; Literature is one of the lew callings in which that is absolutely the case. I don't say thai it depend'; upon merit, because there arc many examples to (lie contrary, hut it owes nothing to favouritism after the first start. 5Tou will have a good 'send-off,' a strong push from the shore, alter which you must trust to the wave and the wind. I ,im fortunate indeed in having - kind a frii nl to help me aid Law rence warmly. ' fes, Walden is a vei \ powerful ally." ' I was thinking just then ofyo#, sir." Of me ? Oh, I merely assist the impulse u 2 308 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. that is given by the master-hand. That we shall be good friends I have no doubt, but in this matter T am but the echo of your friend. I have not known him interest himself in any one for years as he has done in your case. It is most important to one situated as you are to have a banker behind one — an ally with the sinews of war." "But indeed, sir, I am not proposing to be under pecuniary obligations to Sir Charles Walden," said Lawrence earnestly. " He was so good as to offer something of the kind, but I declined it." Mr. Latham elevated his eyebrows and re- garded his young friend with whimsical curiosity. " Really ! And yet, as I understand, you con- template increasing your responsibilities." " Not, of course, for the present," returned the young fellow deprecatingly. " " I look for- ward in time to be in a position to ask my mother to live with me." " And there is a cousin also, is there not ? ' "I have a Cousin Ruth, to whom she is very much attached," said Lawrence, with a flush, "if " "I see," said Mr. Latham smiling, "you arr of a, sanguine nature, Mr. Merridew ; and I am afraid that in cultivating Literature you will iind it a stiilish soil. However, what can be NELSON 0RE80ENT. done shall be done. Your poems have ureal merit, birl unhappily it is only a very few of our Bongsters thai live by song. The} gel plenty of sugar, but very little seed. I have looked owr what vou sent me from Elurlby." Here he rose and produced some MSS. from a drawer. "The poems will all want revision, and some of them are sad stuff; bui one or two of the things may be made, I think, between us, marketable. No, no, you must thank Sir Charles, not me. V(»u ar«> much too young to run alone, my lad, and that's the truth, though you are as clever ai paint. There is a poem here called 'Silence* t hat struck my fancy ; — '• ( rone art thou, Beautiful, but whither gone? A.s ye are human men. answer give none/ it begins; don't yon think there is a little re- dundancy? Arc not most men ' human men ' p 1 [owever, that's a trifle. ' Never one drank those eyes but who grew faint, Never one touched those lips but suffered taint ; Better far deaf were the doomed ears that hung On thy words, thou charmer, with serpent tongue/ You were speaking of a man. of course, and not a woman, so I thought . 1 Godless thyself, thou mad'st us think of Him Who, dowered with grace and glory, face and liml>, 310 A MODERN DICK WKITTINGTON. Bade the heart's lightness in that soul uprise, And the tine brain make eloquent those eyes ; And mercifully ordained that wheresoever Prayerless thou wanderest, thou invokedst the prayer. All have forgiven thee, fresh flowerets bloom, Plueked by some injured hand, over thy tomb/ and so on; that is distinctly good ; and all, I suppose, like the German professor's camel, evoked out of your own imagination, eh? ' Mr. Latham, with a playful smile, waited for the reply. " Well, yes, I suppose so," said Lawrence, smiling too. " So I thought. Well, to-morrow we will go over all this together and winnow it a bit." Upstairs they had a little music. Miss Mary sang some of Moore's Irish ballads with a charm- ing simplicity, while Lawrence turned over the leaves; after which she retired earlier than the rest, like a tired child. " Beautiful, is she not ? ' : whispered Miss Margaret to Lawrence confidentially, while her hrother read the Quarterly in his own chair. "Very much so," he replied, scarcely know- ing what she said from the extreme unexpected- ness of the inquiry. He felt that be bad fallen i horl of expectation. ' Your cousin, I conclude," she continued, NELSON CRESCENT. 311 " though I hear she too is very lovely, is of another si yie." ■' Ruth is darker than your sister," he answered, "but there are many points of resemblance between them." So there were; they both had eyes, nose, mouth, and a chin. "Thai is very interesting, and will he .1 bond between you," observed Miss Margaret; "it will make our house more like home to you. It did not seem worth while to pul Miss Margaret right upon a matter on which she had apparently made up her mind; her exceeding kindness made any sort of contradiction dillirp.lt to her palest, and after all, uliat did it matter P Nevertheless, he was rather takm aback when after a long motherly talk concerning the lodging she had fixed for him and the arrangements for his comfort, Mi<> Margaret declared that it was an immense relief to her, as regarded Ins moral well-being, to learn from dear Leopold that he hail " a virtuous ai tachmenl ." Well, he had — though it was only to,, likely in the case in question that virtue would 1»«' its own reward and if Miss Margaret had made a mistake in tin' particular object of it, there was no Deed to undeceive her. It might he a humili- ating confession, but he did not attempt to con- ceal from himself that what was pres ing upon him at present, ami was likeh to do so tor y< ara 312 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. to come, was not the providing himself with a wife, but with the means of subsistence. Even the poet who sings of " bread and cheese and kisses ' puts the bread and cheese first, pre- sumably because he thought them of the first importance. CHAPTER XXXI. LETTERS FROM HOM K. The next morning Miss Margarel introduced her young friend to the apartments she had selected for him. They were clean and neat and reason- able in price, and the landlady,an honesl widow, whom she had known for years, ;it one.' took a fancy to her new lodger. Lawrence did not know a1 the time what obligations he was under in this matter In Miss Margaret. The "long unlovely street " looked melancholy enough ; light and air and space, those blessings lie had hitherto enjoyed without knowing it. seemed altogether wanting. The spectacle of the poor slavey, with her shoes down at heel, and her expression of hopelessness and exhaustion, depressed him. it was a wet morn- ing, and Bloomsbury in tears is not an exhilarat- ing object. However, when his hooks were unpacked, Ids little room would look more habit- able, he re I lee ted. and at all events t here Would he nothing to distract him from his literarj labours. 314 31 MODERN DICK WTIITTINGTON. There were thousands of young men in town far worse provided for the struggle for existence than Lawrence Merridew, but most of them had regular work to occupy them, however humble ; it was the enforced idleness, when lie should have done all that he could do — for our writing powers are limited — in which lay his danger. This is one of the strongest objections — though it is kept out of sight — to a young man's exercising a literary life ; he has of necessity too much leisure, which generally means getting into mischief. From this Lawrence was preserved, not so much, I venture to think, by that "virtuous attachment" of which Miss Margaret thought so highly, as by the hospitality of Nelson Crescent. "When you have nothing better to do, you can drop in here," Mr. Latham had kindly said to him, and this proved a boon indeed. Though the editor was so careful to impress upon him that his benefactions were extended to him only at second-hand, that he was, as it were, but the almoner of Sir Charles, the fact was that Lawrence had made a very favourable impression on him. After all is said of literary jealousies, there is no calling in which men are so ready to help one another as that of letters; though Mr. Latham smiled at Lawrence and his aspirations, he also smiled upon him. Like his friend Sir Charles, he particularly disliked trouble of any kind, }^et he took a great deal of pains with the young fellow. LETTER FROM HOME, !1S Withoul it indeed hiscase would have been hope- less: he was too young a writer to be conscious of his own faults ; like all clever lads he was often flippanl where he had imagined he was witty, and though he uever flattered himself he was sublime, was unaware thai in In high flights he generally <>nl\ succeeded in makii himself ridiculous. Even when Mr. Latham had done his besl for him in pointing oul these errors, thej would have been sufficiently numerous to have ensured the rejection of his contributions from mucli humbler periodicals than The Areopagus but for its editor's personal recommendation. Though Mr. Latham had made no greal mark in the world of letters him elf, he was known to have a shrewd <-yr for literary ability of all kinds, and he recognised in Lawrence Merridew a young man of remarkable talent. The young fellow's observation in par- ticular was \vr\ keen, and his very ignorance ol life in London presented to him those salient points of which the more experienced eye soon loses sight. He did some sketches <>t' Mi- series and people that found considerable favour; hut they appeared in comparatively obscure periodicals, and were poorly remunerated. By comparison with wdiat he received from them the honoraria from The Areopagus, For occasional article- which Mr. Latham had nevertheli almost re-written, were gigantic. With his 316 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. simple tastes, aud desire for economy, and es- pecially from the absence of temptation to spend money in pleasure, from which the open door in Nelson Crescent relieved him, Lawrence had no difficulty even from the first in making" " both ends meet," and even in having a margin. His experience of the cultivation of literature upon a little oatmeal will doubtless, however, be one day narrated hy himself — at all events, it is not with that matter that we have here to deal. On the fourth day of his arrival in town he received two letters from Hillsland with that deep black edging which tells of " the shadow feared of man ; " as the superscriptions were in the hands of his mother and Ruth, this, however, moved him but little. A man that has few friends, and knows those he has are safe, is no more affected by such tidings than a bachelor in lodgings is disturbed by the reports of house- breaking 1 in his neighbourhood. " It is poor Aunt Jerry," Lawrence said to himself, before he broke the seal, and he was right. " It must be a happy release to her." That the occurrence could have any effect upon his own interests never entered his mind ; and there he was wrong. We can never say for certain of the conduct of any of our fellow- creatures that it matters nothing to us, a con- sideration which, if upon no higher ground, should influence our conduct towards them. II l' ill: ■ FROM HOME. \V) The demise of the lady in question, though he himself took it so philosophically, affected h correspondents exceedingly. " Your poor Auni Jerry has lefi us," wrote his mother, " fora better and a happier world. I grieve for her on my own account, though uot, dear soul, on hers. I remember the time when we were young children together, and looked forward to quite another lot in this life than thai which has befallen u . It is almost as difficult to read our future hen- as hereafter." "How different all this is," thought Lawrence, " from what I should have expected of nay dear mother ! s He could mil understand the effect "I" an experi- ence which had never occurred to himself. " Her parting from dear Ruth was most touching. 'I think I must needs meet von again, my darling/ she said, 'if it is only to say how much I owe you.' And this again struck Lawrence a> very strange and very unlike Aunt Jerry. "There are only two lefi here to mourn her, as you know. She is to be buried on Thursday; you will think of US, and of her. on that day, I know, dear Lorry." lie said to himself that he would try to think ; but the matter really affected him very little. On the other hand he read again and again the loving word in which his mother replied to the letter he had written her from town ; her con- gratulations upon the friends he had found in 318 A MODERN DICK WBITTINGTON. Nelson Crescent ; her simple hopes for his success in literature ; her prayer for his well-being. "Be a good man, my dear," she wrote, little knowing who had said those pathetic words before her ; " it is the only thing to comfort you when you come to lie on your death- bed." Last of all she wrote, " There is another trouble here, which (save with Ruth and me) overshadows the present calamity ; Mrs. Robert is ill — really very ill, I fear — and your uncle is greatly disturbed about it." Lawrence's keen eye noticed that ex- pressive term " disturbed," where "distressed'' would have seemed so much more appropriate. It was indeed impossible to conceive of Mr. Robert Stratton as distressed. " Dear Ruth's attentions to poor Aunt Jerry were rather grudged, I fear, at last, but of course her duty lay there first. Mrs. Robert has taken a great fancy to have your cousin with her, so that you must not expect a long letter from her, but she tells me she is writing. Ruth never neglects anyone to whom she can give any comfort. She feels her aunt's death very much, I know, but hides her sorrow so as not to add to mine; and that warns me not to make you sad, my darling, with the story of our trouble Only it is well tor all of us, even tin 1 young and the strong, to !>;■ reminded of what sooner or Liter awaits us all. You have described your position so graphically that J have no difficulty in picturing it; you think yourself alone, but you are not so: LETTERS I ROM HOME. 819 iiiv thoughts and prayers are ever with you, 003 own boy." The simplicity of his mother's words touched the lad even more than their tenderness. Here was nature indeed, the core of life, compared with which its externals, with which alone, as his conscience told him, he concerned himself, were insignificant. " Whal a sellish beast one feels," he murmured penitently. Then he opened Ruth's lei ter. "My dear Lorry, — Your mother will have told you of oin- lo It is a sad blow to her, I fear, and has reduced her little world to very narrow limits. The state of .Mrs. Robert's health is also giving us no little anxiety." Lawrence ran his eye mechanically down the letter to see it' there was really no other allusion to Aunt Jerry's death, hut there was nom The writer, he felt, understood him thoroughly. It was not from fear of making him sad that she was thus reticent, but from tie' knowledge that he had so little interest in the subject; he was ashamed "I' himself that so it was. hut it was so. And vet he knew that this tacit reproach was not intended to be Mich: Ruth loved the dead woman, and was naturally disinclined to write of lcr to one who had qo share in that affection; hut her chief motive, he knew, was to tell him what would interesi him. and that only. This was evident in every line. "You would be 820 A MODERN PICK WHITTIXQTON. amused (but for the sadness of the occasion) to see what an important personage I have become — as a sick nurse. Uncle Eobert says he will give me a handsome certificate if I ever take up that line of business. It will be difficult for you to imagine this affability ; but, indeed, he is much changed. We did him wrong, perhaps, in supposing him not to be genuinely attached to his ' Popsy,' though sometimes I cannot help thinking that he has also some other cause of trouble. He looks haggard and much older than when you left. You must not, however, flatter yourself that he is pining for you. He has never mentioned your name nor, what is more surprising, that of Sir Charles, with whom, no doubt, he concludes you are still residing. Grandpapa shuts himself up closer than ever ; Aunt Jane roams everywhere, save into one room. It is curious, though to do her justice she tendered her services, that .Mrs. Robert does not at all encourage her visits ; this seems to me a bad sign : she must be really ill to manifest so much genuineness of sentiment in opposition to so strong a will ; her husband, however, insists on her wishes being carried out in every par- ticular. Aunt Jane is by no means pleased at the preference thus unexpectedly shown me by the invalid, and the consideration it win,, lor me from Robert j but, as yon may imagine, I have not sought this greatness and cannot help its LETTERS FROM HOME. 32] being thrusl upon me. I have nol been in the village For many days, so have no new- of any kind For you." Lawrence's eyes lingered over thai passage. W'ns it possible thai Ruth suspected he was olicitous about local news? Of course he had nol heard from Etitty, nor lia what a palace to his eyes would those dingy V 322 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. lodgings become if beautified by her presence. (What dreams ! yet who of us have not had them ?) "Uncle Robert, as I have said," continued Ruth's letter, " has not opened his lips about you, but Aunt Jane has just expressed her apprehensions to me that any prolonged expe- rience of the luxuries of Hurlby Castle is likely to be ' deleterious to a young man who for many years will probably not have two sixpences to rub against one another.' The slight want of gracefulness in the remark must be forgiven her in consideration of the affectionate solicitude which prompted it. No, Lorry, you must not come back here. I am thankful beyond expres- sion for the little gleam of prosperity which, as you tell us, is shining upon you : that the clouds are breaking ever so little is a good sign. I kiss my hand to Fortune Avho has so far been pro- pitious to you. I bless, with my whole heart, the kind friends you have found in London . All these things seem to promise a better future for you ; you know how we miss you, but 1 am not so selfish as to wish you back at Hil Island Hall. However spare may be your fare, it must needs be better than the grudged bread of dependence. You may say, perhaps, ' but that is your bread, my cousin ; ' well, it is so, but it is not quite so black as yours was ; and then you are a man, Lorry, which makes a difference. LETTERS FROM HOME. 23 T admire you for refusing even Sir Charle help. No one should accepl such aid save, always, from those he loves and of bis own i ■ Kill Mucli of tliis was characteristic enough of the writer; it was also characteristic, he felt, thai from a hearl full of sorrow and sadness, she had thus spoken lor his sake. lie pitied Ruth's position, but was very ready to agree with her that to a woman a state <>!' dependence was li intolerable than to a man. [f he had known what she was suffering, and was about to sutler, he would have regarded the matter with less complacency. CHAPTER XXXII. RUTH AND KATE. Toung gentlemen like Lawrence Merridew often 3ome up to town as being the only place in which they can see "life." But life is on view elsewhere, and always, just as death is ; and it was Ruth Stratton's lot to have a much more remarkable experience of it than her cousin, not- withstanding that he was in search of that very thing, as all young writers are, for " copy." We go to the play to see tragedy and melodrama, but when, as often happens, they come to us, their effect is much greater ; happy for us when we are spectators only, and are not included in the dramatis persona. A few days after Aunt Jerry's burial Ruth took a walk by herself, which could with reason be called a constitutional ; for weeks she had played the role of nurse, having without an interval transferred her services from the death- bed of one relative to the sick-room of another. Mrs. Merridew had taken her place by the bed- BUTE AND KA side of Mrs. Robert; for that lady was -till resolute in declining .Mis-; Jane's services, and for the present her will was law; her husband upheld her every wish, and would have been pro- Qounced, by anyone who was unacquainted with his character, a pattern of domestic life ; indeed, lu- had always been a good husband, so far as behaviour went, though everyone hut his wife 1" lieved his attentions were devoted to his " Popsy's" jointure, rather than to the treasures of her mind or her personal charms. There are many husbands to whom the money settled on their wives is a more lasting source of respi than beauty or even accomplishments ; it di not deteriorate with I [me or use ; and often blossoms in their very dust. But it really seemed that in this matter Mr. Robert's de- tractors (and they were many) had done him wrong. He was most assiduous in his tendance of his w ife, and anticipated her every wish, even though itmighi not he convenient with his own. Under these circumstances it was not likely that h< would spare other | pie whose services she required, and poor Ruth's energies already weakened by her long attendance on Aunt Jerry — had been tried to the uttermost. A little air and exercise, and also the opportunity foi rell tion, she felt, were absolutely necessarj to her further usefulness. Within doors, strange to 326 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. say, she could not think ; the atmosphere of the Hall, heavy with death and sickness, had no doubt something to do with this, hut there was also a sense of oppression in it, independent of that, for which she could not account, which seemed to paralyse her mental faculties. Law- rence's absence from home was also a factor in it, and a much more important one than she would have acknowledged. His wit and brightness had illumined its dulness; bis gentle- ness and affection had compensated for their absence in others where she had looked for them in vain, and had long ceased to look ; it affected the spirits of the one relative remaining to her whom she loved, and made her a more depress- ing companion than ever. Lawrence might be "sorry for himself' alone in London, but at least he had work to do which braced and stimulated him ; Euth had no Such work, for though she nursed Mrs. Robert with perfect willingness, it could hardly be called a labour of love. This comparison in his favour, however, never entered Ruth's mind; she thought only of his loneliness, and the reflection added another weight to her depression. It was no wonder, therefore, that she soughs that tonic prescription of Dr. Nature's — the fresh air of the hill-top. That breezy moorland had been her favourite roaming place of old. She had raced upon it with Lawrence when they RUTH AND KATE. were children. She had sal with him on the fragrant heather for hours, and listened 1" his scraps of poems and imaginative talk, in later irs, when the lark sang high above them not more joyously. All thai was over now and for ever. Sin- had lost him, and her inmost heart told her how much she had lost. lie had enclosi d a short letter to her in a longer one to his mother; that of itself was a Fatal sign. A lov identify her neighbour (who indeed had little likeness to the proud and self-conscious girl she had hitherto known). Kate recognised her ai once. "Who told you 1 was here':' she inquired passionately. " What right have you. you of all the women in the world, to dog my foot- steps? Is it not enough ' Here she paused, recalled to herself less by reflection than by the other's distressful looks, and. with her hand upon her heaving breast, awaited Ruth's reply. "Indeed, Kate, 1 had no intention of in- truding upon you," she answered sweetly; " though if I had known you were in trouble I should have offered, as I do now, what help I could. I am not so happy myself that I can afford to despise the sympathy of others, or as 1 would rather say, it' you will let me, of a friend." "You not happy? Why should you nol be happy?' returned Kate scornfully. "To be sure you have lost a relative" pointing to her 330 A MODERN DICK WHITT1NGTON. mourning dress — " but what is death? It can- not be so vile and sordid, or else so shameful, as life itself. If I had not been a coward I should have been dead by now, myself." She spoke with a vehemence of passion that fell little short of the anguish of despair. "What a hypocrite you are, and how ignorant of what life is, to speak of your unhappiness in the same breath with mine. Look at me and then at yourself." It was characteristic that the speaker should have made personal appearance the test of such a matter, but indeed there were materials for contrast in it. Although perfectly simple, Ruth's mourning attire was neat to f aultlessness ; her face, though pale and worn, was calm and composed in its expression, and showed no evidences of violent grief. Kate, on the other hand, might have stood for " Niobe, all tears," save for the resentment which, in spite of them, glared in her ej^es ; her dress was disordered where she had plucked at it in some access of passion, and covered with sand, though none of this interfered with her beauty, which indeed was heightened rather than otherwise by her intense excitement. " It is a poor comfort to decide, Kate, as to which of us is the more miserable," said Ruth gently. " J5ut I do assure you, if you think me happy and prosperous, or without the most RUTH AND A I / ■/ . 33] serious anxieties both for bhe present and the future, you are mistaken. 1 have lost — well, no matter what I have lost, bui just now [\ seems almost everything worth having. Vour own cas< can scarcely be harder than that, and yet I pity \on from the bottom of my heart, and it' I can comfort you " she put out her hand to place it on the girl's shoulder caressingly, hut i he other drew back. "Don't touch m<\" she said in quick, hoarse tones, "or von will repent it. I am not lit to touch. ' * For the moment liuth thought the speaker referred to her soiled garments, bul her lace revealed a deeper meaning. It expressed shame, doomed an( | resentful, but still shame, as well as wretchedness and rage. '"'There is no woman who should say that to another." said Ruth gravely. "If you think that such a one as I, at all events, fear to touch you., however ill you ma\ think of yourself, you are mistaken," and with a sudden impulse she stepped forward, and before the other could pre- vent it , kissed her on the cheek. " You would not have (lone that if you had known," cried the other; "hut you have a good heart "And so, 1 believe, have you, Kate. "No; there is nothing good about mej there was at one time, perhaps, but that is over. 332 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. All is over. Let us talk of something else. Do you ever write to Lawrence — I need not have asked ; I read it in your face ; you blush, but yours is not the blush of shame. You do well to love him, for he is .worthy of your love." ' Indeed, Kate, you are mistaken," stammered Ruth ; " he is my cousin, you know, and we have been brought up together " '' Just so. It could not therefore have been otherwise. When you write to him, wish him good-bye for me. There is nothing between us, as he knows, for I have told him so ; nothing at all ; but there is a reason why I cannot say farewell to him ; yes, indeed there is a reason. He will never speak of me, and I trust he will never think of me again. I am dead to him, as I shall be dead to you, after to-day." " Dead, Kate ? What do you mean ? " ' Do not ask. You will know to-morrow. Everybody will know then. I am not going to kill myself as you imagine ; I have not the courage ; I am a coward as well as everything else that one should be ashamed to be. Yet, I am grateful to you, Ruth Stratton, for your kind words and your sweet looks. I am glad to think —yes, I am trying to be glad to think that they will comfort him and make him happy. I could have done it myself, perhaps, if lie had been rich and prosperous ; though I am not sure even ol that ; he took interest in so many things of BUTE ash KATE. which I understand nothing, I was beneath him in so many ways ; but to lighten his bur- dens, to share his poverty, thai would have been impossible for me to do. I have seen too much of poverty . I wanl weall h ; carriaj horses, dresses j never to have 1" think of what they cost, Thai is \vh;il makes one happy. You may say thai you did nol find me so just now; hut there tire some thing's — even poor things -that one regrets to part with, jusl at first. To-morrow I shall be in Paradise." " I have not the least idea, Kate, what you are talking about." "I suppose not," she answered scornfullj , "you are such a highly respectable family at the Hall ; your stony-hearted old grandfather, and that hypocritical tyrant your uncle — " then with a sudden passionate wail — "Oh, forgive me, forgive me; I don't know what L am saying." 'lam sure you do not, dear Kate," answered Ruth earnestly : " I trust also you are not really thinking of taking any desperate step — T know not what, hut one you will repent of — either to-morrow or any clay, but if so eon tide in me, and though my advice may he valueless, it is something, you will find, to have a sym- pathiser." " A sympathiser ! You ' ' exclaimed the 334 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. other, with a ghastly smile. " No, Ruth. All I ask of you — and I never thought to ask as much — is when hearing of what I am, to re- member what I was, and not in pity (I want no one's pity), but in charity to judge me. Fare- well." She was ten yards away before Ruth could put out her hand : she ran at speed through the fringe of wood, and then like a bird along the moor without casting one look behind her. To have pursued her would have been useless, for no srirl in Hillsland had so fleet a foot. What project Kate had in her head Ruth could not guess ; but she was convinced that she was on the brink of some desperate act, which would have far-reaching consequences. Nothing, however, Ruth could say or do could hinder it ; it struck her, indeed, that she ought to put Mr. Salesby on his guard, but his influence over his daughter was very small, and, moreover, for that day at least interference was out of the question, for the hour was past up to which she could reasonably expect to find that gentleman sober; he was " muzzy ' : in the morning; he was " elevated ' : in the afternoon ; but at six o'clock — punctually — he was drunk. Under no circumstances would Ruth have refused her assistance to one in such evidently unhappy case as Kate Salesby, but it might have been impossible to give her sympathy; RUTH AND K [TE. wit 1 1 no willing heart could Bhe have helped on ;in\ engagemenl between Kate and her cousin ; hut it was now clear that no such engagement existed. This was news which could no1 be otherwise than welcome to her. A wife lesf suited to Lawrence than Kate could hardly be imagined; indeed she seemed herself I" be con- scious of her unfitness for thai position; it had been a danger of the most serious kind, and one which had threatened his future more than all other opposing causes; and it was now removed. However toilsome might be his path, his steps would not be hampered b\ a life-Ion^ companion who had no sympathy with his efforts, and re- sented the poverty with which it was only too likely they would he attended This was indeed a source of satisfaction. It was not of course flattering to Ruth's self-love that Kate had given up Lawrence, as it were, in her favour; in Pact, the one thing that, she could not forgive her was the imputation, which she was conscious of having combated hut feebly, that she was in love with Lawrence herself. But in Kate's state of excitement and despair it was likeh enough she should have exaggerated everything, including her own relations with Lawrence; ami from this idea it is not too much to say that Ruth derived the greatest satisfaction of all. In spite of the genuine pity she felt tor the girl, the information that had been imparted to her 336 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. made Ruth a happier woman ; and though she would have befriended her in any case, the task seemed much more easy, since in doing so she would not be furthering any matrimonial scheme which had Lawrence Merridew for its object. OHAPTEB XXXIII. Wll AT R IT II OV V, R II I A B I). Kveri student of humanity, who is an honesl fellow, confesses (to himself) that he sometimes makes mistakes; it is no wonder, therefore, thai those who are not students are still more often mistaken in their superficial diagnosis of their fellow-creatures. Ruth had always taken what would have been railed a charitable view of Mrs. Robert Stratton's character ; that she was some- thing of a hypochondriac was too obvious to be denied by anybody, given to magnify her ail- ments, and to arrogate to herself considerable privileges on the strength of them, but Ruth had never assented to the general verdict that she was selfish, affected, and spoilt. Uut in these days the girl felt no little remorse in having judged "the professional invalid "' (as Lawrence used to call her) with even a moderate severity. In real sickness, such as she was without doubt suffering from, she was a model of patience; perhaps it was a bad sign, for it not seldom w 338 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. happens that persons who exhibit great irrita- bility when "indisposed" become amenable — and even amiable — when seriously ill. The only symptoms of her former character she had re- tained were those "likes and dislikes" in which she had always indulged herself ; and even these were now limited to a very decided objection to Miss Jane. Considering their former familiarity this was curious, unless, indeed, it was a proof of the grave character of her disorder, since when we are very ill our instincts, warning us that we have now no time to spare in being deceived, seldom fail to draw us to the good and turn us from the worthless. This theory, however, would to some minds have broken down in face of the fact that Mrs. Robert still clung to her husband. She had done so, however, when she had been well — or by comparison well — and no one could question his devotion under the present circumstances. As Ruth had written to Lawrence, Mr. Robert was a changed man, but in nothing so much as in the way that he discharged the duties of a sick nurse. He had always petted his " Popsy," but that had cost him little trouble ; he was now her slave. The doctor, who, though living some miles away, was in daily attendance, recom- mended " constant support," but the poor lady had no appetite and " turned against " the most excellent dainties. The only food she seemed to WEAT RJJTE OVERHEARD. 339 relish was what she had been used to as a child in Scotland, from whence she came, oatmeal porridge, and tliis only when prepared by her husband's hands. We know what 1 * utli thoughl of her ancle, ye1 it now touched her to mark the care with which he ministered to the sick woman's wants, the cheerful wisdom with which lit 1 combated the apprehensions she expressed about herself. There was an anxiety nol only in liis voice, but in his eye (which, as a channel of hypocrisy, is much less under our control), that could hardly be spurious; and whenever he parted from her — which was seldom, and only to .take the air for health's sake — the promise thai his absence would he cut short was given with the same tenderness with which it was received. Ruth had read of persons who, cold and even cruel to the rest of their fellow-creatures, mani- fest ereai affection to their immediate belonfiriners. In her uncle's case this was as limited as the love of a lioness for her cubs, but it certainlj seemed to exist. He was realty what his il l\>psy ' called him, " the best of husbands." Ruth was thrown much more into his society, of course, than she had ever been before, and he puzzled her. It was not possible for her to- for- get what manner of man he really was, and the presentation of this smooth side of his character — the existence of which she had never suspected — to her observation awoke a certain interest in w 2 340 A MODERN DICK WITITTIXGTON. her. There were long days passed in the sleep of exhaustion by the patient, in which Ruth had little else to do than to take note of Uncle Robert. They were "Popsy's" only nurses, for such was her wish, and it was law. " Whom do I need but you, dear Ruth, and dearest Robert?' she would say pitifully. "Could anyone make my porridge for me like him ? " He certainly took a good deal of pains with it, making it soft and palatable with Cornish cream, which the doctor had recommended. If it was not very supporting it was better than nothing, which unhappily was the alternative; but it seemed to do her no good. Some days she was a little better than others, but on the whole she was gradually wasting away. Atrophy the country doctor called it, and very pleased he seemed to be to have found the right name for it. But what weakened her most of all was sickness. Even that native porridge created nausea. But, as has been said, there were: intervals. Curiously' enough, when Mr. Robert was summoned away for two days from Hillsland, on business of his father's, and not a pleasant busi- ness in connection with a certain mining com- pany, in which the old gentleman had got entangled, his " Popsy " rallied a little, and took her porridge with some approach to appetite ; but after his return she grew more rapidly and M//.I /' />'/ ill OVERHEARD. 341 distinctly worse. To h'uth it seemed a ven mysterious ailment, and more than once she besought hei uncle to call in another opinion ; hut he shook his head. " Popsy is opposed to it," he said; which was final. He could not or would not recognise her danger. One lovely August evening, when the invalid had had an unusually had day, Until left her asleep in charge of Mrs. Merridew, and stole out in the garden for a little fresh air. It was no longer possible lor her to leave her charge for even so long as would have permitted a walk into the village; the sick woman would he sure to inquire lor her when she woke up, and to fret it' she could not be summoned. Since her walk upon the moorland, Ruth had twice called at "The Corner," but on both occasions Kate had been too unwell to see her. She did not believe she was physically ill, but only indisposed for an interview. It was indeed quite probable that she regretted the impulse that had caused her to be so frank at their last meeting, and was even ashamed perhaps of the emotion she had exhibited. It was, at all events, satisfactory that the catastrophe at which she had hinted as being imminent had not taken place, ami whatever rash step Kitty may have contem- plated was postponed, or it might be hoped abandoned. Ruth's anxiety upon Mrs. Robert's account 342 A MUDEIiN DICK WHITTINGTON. had by no means caused her to lose sight of the difficulties, or even dangers, in which the girl was placed, but it prevented her mind from dwelling upon them as it would otherwise have done. What with her invalid evidently on the road that led away from amendment, and Kitty in her grievous but unknown trouble, and Aunt Jerry in the churchyard, and Lorry absent and alone in London, Ruth had only too many things — and all of a depressing nature — to think about. And being a sensible girl, and feeling how necessary it was for the patient's sake not to " give way," she had taken a book with her in her evening walk. It was the first she happened to lay her hand on in her little bookshelf, or if she had given herself time for choice, it would hardly have been " Uncle Silas ; " a work of genius indeed, if ever there was one, but certainly not a story fitted to raise the spirits, or to prevent the imagination dwelling upon gloomy themes. Having once opened it, however, at random, the charm of the novel, notwithstanding that she was well acquainted with it, laid hold of her, and filled her with its " fearful joy." It was the chapter where Uncle Silas's unhappy niece discovers that the wicked French governess whom, as a child, she has had such cause to hate and fear, is under the same roof with her. Philosophy may be studied as we walk, but WHAT lti'Tii <'Vi:um:.\i;i> 343 the drama — and especially fche melodrama — of life, demands a certain amount of repose for its enjoymeni ; we musl take a seal to witness it. Ruth stepped into the same pine-clad arbour in which Sir Charles and Lawrence bad found Miss Jane immersed in theology, and the nexi minute \\a> in another world. It is curious indeed how often the constant but judicious novel reader abolishes time and space in this way, and is trans- ported, as on an enchanted carpet, among scenes and persons be will otherwise never know, but which, while the glamour lasts, are as familiar to him as those of his everyday life, from which he is thus far more separated than in tie' land of dreams. for in dreams our friends and rela- tives appear to us, though under grotesque circumstances. In dreams too, it may be noticed, by the way, that the personages of fiction never appear, not even to him who creates them. Intent on her novel, Kuth suddenly bears Uncle Silas talking with his more dissipated but less cold-blooded son, and what he says is quite unlooked for. " I tell you that the guarantee is all right, and how 1 have obtained it is no business of yours."' " Bui when the six months come to an end, Str.ittoii, how will you settle with the • lew ? 3U A 210 BERN DICK WRITTINGTON. Then she knows that it is not Uncle Silas and his son she is listening to, but Uncle Robert and his friend and boon companion, the Reverend Arthur Grueby. The horror of the fact is some- how worse than the horror of the fiction. Ruth is paralysed with terror, not so much at her situa- tion, which is that of an involuntary eaves- dropper, nor even at what she overhears, but at the tone of the speakers. It is confidential, of course, but there is also a certain reticence in it, as though both men had much more on their minds than the}^ contrived to express. How she comes to hear them is simple enough, though not to her. Her mind is far too disturbed and affrighted to suggest to her that they are merely standing 1 under the shelter of the arbour out of the wind, because one has let his cigar go out, and is relighting it with a wax vesta. Finding themselves so comfortable they stop for a minute, as smokers often do, before resuming their walk. What Ruth is saying to herself is that they will come to sit down in the arbour, and find her there spying upon them. Why she should have sp}nng imputed to her, she does not know, but that it will be so, she is well convinced; indeed, since they continue their conversation, and she continues to listen to it — for she is speech- bound — they will have a reasonable cause of complaint. " Five thousand pounds, with the interest, WHAT Id ill OVEBUEABD. 45 is ;i big sum? ' continues the vicar interroga- t ivel\ " Unfortunately it will be only too easy to pay it, or five times as much long before the time you mention." "Good heavens! Is your poor lady so ill as that?" "I fear so; that at least is the doctor's opinion. I have been hoping against hope; hut I can do so no longer." "Tut, tut; what a sad business ! Still it is the common fate." There was an uncomfortable silence, then, " I don't think these cigars are so good as the last you got me, Grrueby." "They are the same brand," and with that the speakers moved away. Freed from one terror, Ruth was now over- whelmed by another; she felt sick and shocked. Only that very day had the doctor informed her that though Mrs. Robert was ill, there was no reason to apprehend a fatal issue ; if the constant sickness should be cured, Or even intermitted, strength would return to her; only that very day Uncle Robert had expressed to her the most sanguine views of their patient ; so far from " hoping against hope,'' he had never hinted at any serious danger from first to last. Yet all along, or certainly for some time, it now appeared that he had foreseen that she would die; and he 346 A MODERN DICK WHITTING10K. could speak of that catastrophe in the same breath with a criticism on a cigar. Moreover, and worse than all, his wife's death it seemed would release him from some grave pecuniary trouble. These things, not in logical sequence, or one after another, but in one appalling aggregate, presented themselves in a moment to Ruth Stratton's mind. The little edifice of good opinion which had been in course of erection within her during these latter days respecting her uncle fell to pieces like a house of cards. He was proved at once to be heartless and hypo- critical. He might well, indeed, be so devoted to his " Popsy," since he knew that the incon- venience of so being would last for so short a time, and that he would be so well rewarded for his trouble ; that he should have that contingency in his thoughts filled Ruth with a shadowy but possible fear which she felt it her duty to expel ; we must be just and charitable even with the lowest of our fellow-creatures ; the ties of blood, the law of nature herself, protested against the dark suspicion that had found entrance into her soul. And yet there it was ; the dew on her brow, the trembling in her limbs, the sickness at her heart, announced it to be there. When she strove to analyse the reasons for its shameful presence, she came to the con- clusion that it was mainly caused by the condi- tion of mind in which it found her. She WHAT KITH OVERHEARD. 3-W had been deep id " Uncle Silas," and bis crime had transposed itself to ber living ancle; such things only occurred in fiction ; indeed, Uncle Silas himself had shrunk from lifting his own hand against his helpless guest and kins- woman ; whereas in this ease — though the temptation, alas, was the same, and the hypo- crisy, and the coldness of heart ; " these cigars are not so good as those you got me last? " — the victim was the man's own wife, the woman he had sworn to cherish in sickness and in health — do, she would cast out the shocking thought, and pray to Heaven that her beating heart mighl uever again entertain such a visitant. What were poverty and isolation and dependence compared with the misery of such a suspicion as this? So groundless, too; the monstrous off- spring of a prejudice. She would have had reason indeed to be ashamed of herself, to ask pardon of high Heaven for having imputed such a crime in the case of any fellow-creature ; hut of so near a kinsman, it was worse — detestable. Thus she reasoned with herself, with contemptuous indignation at her own imaginings, and not in vain. Charity and common-sense presently overcame them. It was time that she should return to her patient, and in the performance of her duties to forget tins,' morbid fancies. On the threshold of the sick chamber she met Uncle Robert, with a cup in 348 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. his hand ; he looked anxious and troubled. " It is so unfortunate," he said, "that dearest Popsy has taken a distaste for porridge : she used to be so fond of it, and Sbepstone (the doctor) so strongly recommends it ? I do hope, Ruth, you will try to reason with her ; see, she has not drunk half of it." " I will do my best to persuade her to take it," said Ruth, and she held out her hand for the cup. Uncle Robert hesitated. " It does not signify for to-night," he said ; " I was speaking of the matter generally." " Still, if it is good for her, why should she miss a meal ? " said Ruth, taking the cup from his hand. There is nothing wrong with the porridge, I suppose ? " " Wrong ? ' he replied angrily. " Well, of course not. I have made it myself with cream and sugar as usual." " She must have it while it's hot," returned Ruth quietly, and entered the room, closing the door behind her. Another minute in her uncle's company was more than she could just then have borne. She had indeed been perfectly calm in her manner. It was his hand, and not hers, that had trembled as she took the cup from him ; but the strain upon her nerves had been almost beyond endur- ance. WHAT RUTH OVERHEARD. 349 There was an ante-room, separated from the sick-room by a portiere, and here she re- mained for a few seconds to recover herself. When she made her appearance by the bedside of tin- invalid she do Longer held the cup in her hand. CHAPTER XXX LV. BY THE SICK BED. As Ruth approached the bed, Mrs. Merridew withdrew to make room for her, and pointing to the patient, who was apparently asleep, said softly — "She is not so well to-night, I am sorry to say." " I am dying," murmured Mrs. Robert faintly. " Nay, I trust not that," answered Ruth, bending over her. " Why should you wish me to live ? ' was the querulous reply. " I turn against everything, even against life itself." It was characteristic enough that disinclina- tion for her food should loom so largely in the sick woman's mind, and an hour ago Ruth would have thought little of it, but it had now a far greater significance for her. " You could not take the porridge, my dear," she said, as though she was addressing a child, i:Y THE SICK BED. 35] for thai was the manner thai suited 'Popsy' best. " Perhaps it was badly made " Oh, no ; dear Roberl made it himself, and, of course, beautifully; hut even thai now mai me ill. I have been so sick." h'utli herself Felt sick, though from quite anot her cause. She would have given much to have been free to go to her own room and have a "good cry before sitting down to think what was to be done ; but For the present it behoved her, above all things, to be mistress of herself. She had a presentiment that ere she reached that sanctuary she would need all her strength for yet another ordeal, nor was she mistaken. While " Popsy ' was still detailing her symptoms, which apparently had been of the same kind as usual, though somewhat more serious, Uncle Robert entered the room. " Come, come, that's well," he said gently. " T see you have been persuaded by Ruth to take your porridge, though you would not listen to me. " She has not taken it," interposed Ruth quietly. " She thinks that it was that which made her ill." " But it's gone," exclaimed Uncle Robert, in a tone in which, to her ear, astonishment seemed not unmixed with alarm; "the cup is in the ante-room, empty. Where is the porridge ? ' "I threw it away," said Ruth indifferently. 352 A MODERN DICK II' BITTING TON " It was hopeless to induce her to take it Dr. Shepstone must recommend her something else." " The doctor kuows better than you do," he answered harshly. " We must consider the health of our dear patient, and not her fancies." He took uo pains to lower his voice, though he was standing close to the bed. It was the first time he had shown himself in opposition to his wife, and she resented it by silence. Her head was turned away from him, and she had closed her eyes. " I had been in hopes to find you better, my darling," he returned softly. " I had just been telling Grueby before I came in to give you your porridge that I thought you had turned the corner. I had felt so much more cheerful about you, that I joined him in having a swim in the lake, the first I have had since you were ill. It is late, and the water was cold." " How this man lies ! " was Ruth's reflection. Why did he talk like this? Was he speaking at random because his mind was occupied by quite another matter that might well monopolise it. At all events, he spoke in vain. His " Popsy ' : answered nothing. " I think our dear one is asleep," he murmured ; " that is more likely to do her good than anything. Be sure you call me," he added, turning to the two ladies, " when she wakes." BY THE SICK BED. 358 He turned away, but, as Ruth thought, he delayed in the ante-room. Sin- could hardly breathe for terror; it paralysed her even worse than il had (lone in the summer-house; her blood seemed to leave her heart and rush to her head. If he had returned, she fell thai she must shriek out "Murderer!' But in a moment or two, which seemed hours, the outer door closed. He was gone. " Be so good as to stay for five minutes longer, Aunt Fanny," said Ruth; " I have for- gotten to take off my outdoor shoes." Fortunately she had forgotten to do so ; for to invent an excuse for leaving the patient wrndd have been impossible. Her mind was too L'n 1 J of terrible thoughts, too occupied with the imme- diate purpose she had in view, !*<>r any effort of imagination. In the ante-room upon the table stood the empty cup; was it fancy that caused her to conclude from its appearance that it had been wiped round as with a handkerchief, so that no vestige of the porridge remained in it. At all events, it now struck her for the first time that what remained of the patient's meal had always been thus cleared away ; unless her uncle took the cup away with him. On a chair lay Ruth's hand-bag, in which she was accustomed to keep such work as she could employ herself upon, while watching by the sick bed. There x 354 A MODERN PICK WHITT1NGT0N. was something in the bag now beside the work. When she reached her room and had locked the door, she took it out. It was an empty marmalade pot that had been in the room, into which she had poured the remains of the porridge from the cup, and this she proceeded to carefully tie down with paper, as a housekeeper ties her jam. When this was done, she placed it in a drawer and locked it, and then threw herself into a chair with a deep sigh. If she had expected tears to come to her relief she was mistaken, nor, indeed, did she seem to need them. There was no time for lamentation now ; she must think, and when she had taken thought must act upon it. If she was doing her uncle a wrong in suspecting him of this most heinous crime, it was a grievous wrong ; but that had been already committed. She did suspect him. And what were scruples on that account com- pared with the necessit}^ of preventing the accomplishment of his crime, if her suspicion was well founded. What had unconsciously hardened her heart against him and given her the courage to do what she had done, was his request that she should persuade his wife to take the porridge. He had not hesitated — supposing he was the wretch she believed him to be — to make her his instrument and confederate, and had placed in her own hands the cup, the BY THE 8I0K BED. 355 contents of which were intended to shorten his wife's days. There was not an hour to I"- Losl in putting a stop to this most treacherous and unnatural design, but if there had been time to spare she would not have spared kirn. His punishment (should he be Pound bo deserve it) would have been equally swift. Bui how should the proof be brought about? The doctor would, of Gourse, have been the proper person in whom to confide her suspicions ; but she had Little con- fidence in the doctor. He would probabl} pro- Dounce her suspicions incredible. He had a great respect for the county families, among whom lie reckoned the tenants of the Hall, because he attended them, and Uncle K'ohert had gone out of his way to conciliate him. In his incredulity and weakness he might even reveal her accusation to her uncle himself. And to whom could she make it except to the doctor? Certainly not to Mr. (Jruchy, who, though be might be shocked and horrified at it, would, even if he believed it, decline to prosecute his friend. His advice would be to hush it up, which would probably only cause her uncle to put off the execution of his design to a more convenient season. For an instant K'utli even thought of Sir Charles, hut apart from the extreme dis- agreeahleness of consulting him on such a matter, he was t he last man \^ trouble himself with investigat ions. x 2 356 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. Mrs. Robert had relations alive, a brother and a married sister. They ought, of course, to have been written to long- ago, but her uncle had forbidden it, it would make dear ' Popsy ' nervous about herself. How could Ruth write to them, when he had declined to do so ? And what help could they be, at present, even if she did. Then there flashed upon her mind, as though she had seen it written by some spirit hand upon the sky, " There is Mr. Percy." She knew him well, though of late she had seen little of him ; he now seldom came to the Hall ; but at one time, when Lawrence was his pupil, he had been a more frequent visitor, and had im- pressed her very favourably. Her cousin had always spoken of him in the highest terms. He was a man she could trust, and whose advice would be valuable. But he lived ten miles away, and what excuse could she frame for visiting him? Moreover, she was very unwilling to leave her patient alone and unprotected for so many hours. The post had gone, and upon the whole she decided to telegraph to Mr. Percy the next morning. It would be impossible to state the reason of her summons, or make any allusion to her uncle, for the postmaster, like most other folk in Hillsland, was under the squire's thumb. It was a case in which some duplicity was per- missible. " Pray come at once," was the form which, after some consideration, her message BT / //.'. SICK BED. took. "1 wish 1" consull you in connection with Lawrence. Urgent." The matter had certainly some connection with Lawrence, as with herself ; if her ancle should gel to know of the telegram, she would have to tell him of her cousin's having gone to (own : l>ut under present circumstances she rightly judged that do communication regarding his nephew would have much effecl upon the squire. He had other things to think about. So, indeed, had she. For the time, Lawrence and his affairs were banished from her thoughts. It was heiier — notwithstanding the need in which she stood of sympathy — that he was not a1 home. His indignation against his uncle, whose guilt lie would have taken for granted would have been overwhelming, and impossible to restrain. It was difficult, indeed, for herself to conceal the horror with which she regarded him. And it was so necessary to conceal it. In the case of one so subtle, to be forewarned was in be forearmed; and with so deadly a design in his mind the least thin-- was likely to arouse his su^iicions. She fancied, in fact, that he already had them ; that he glanced at her askance; and watched her as she waited on the invalid, with unusual attention. How she kept her wits about her was a wonder to herself, hut she did so. She even promised him to do her best the next day to reason " his precious 358 A MODERN DICK WEITTINGTON. Popsy ' out of her prejudice against the nourishment that had been specially recom- mended for her. " If she continues to be so fixed against it," he said, " I must devise some other form of food." He was going to make the doctor his cat's-paw, as before, Ruth felt, with a shudder. Before the invalid had settled down for the night, the ex-Commissioner paid her a visit. Notwithstanding she had been ill so long, it was his first ; but there was nothing surprising in that. He kept himself almost as secluded from his own family as from the outside world. What struck Kuth was her grandfather's manner, which was for a wonder interested, and at the same time distrait. His tone, when he addressed his daughter-in-law, was unusuall}- kind, for he had never liked her, and she knew it. He thought her full of fads and fancies, which he objected to because it prevented the undivided attention which was his due being paid to himself. He had probably not hitherto believed that her illness was a serious one ; but it was plain that he did so now. Indeed, his very tenderness alarmed the poor woman, who afterwards in- quired of Euth whether her grandfather thought she was about to die, he was so civil. Euth met the inquiry with a smile, though it made her sick at heart, for she felt that the invalid had rightly interpreted his manner. i:Y THE 8I0K BED Robert must have told him what he bad told Mr. Grueby. It was only to be expected — if her suspicions of him were correct, and they grew stronger every hour — thai he should thus prepare those about him for thai termination of her illness which he had only too good grounds for foreseeing. But there was something else unusual in her grandfather's manner, though not so significant. When not actually conversing with his daughter-in-law, In 1 appeared as self- involved as herself and oblivious to what was going on. Was it possible that lie was calculat- ing the future? Forecasting the benefits that would he derived from her decease? Thai such an idea should enter into Ruth's mind was a proof how saturated it was with the thought of her uncle's delinquencies ; for her grandfather was one of the most egotistic of men. If Mrs. Robert's fortune had been coming to him. he would doubtless have been interested enough in the matter; hut his son's affairs were by no means his. lie was independent of him. The idea of getting him oil' his hands, which would Q0 doubt ha\e occurred to him in the case of any other member of his family, could not exist as regarded Robert. What then made him o preoccupied ? Surely the son could never have confided to the lather the wickedness he had in contemplation? Yet even this suggestion obtruded itself on the 360 A MODERN DICK WlllTTIXGTON. unhappy Ruth. The burthen of responsibility that had been laid upon her shoulders was, in fact, too great for them to bear. Another twentj^-four hours with this continued strain upon her mind, and with no one in whom to confide, would, she felt, overthrow its balance. Like a sick man, she longed for the morning, for if Mr. Percy was at home she felt he would not fail her. OHAPTEB XXXV. MORE I ROUBLE. Befqre breakfast next morning Ruth toot her telegram to the village post-office. It was a Lovely day, but the glories of the summer morning had no charms for her. On the contrary, the contrast of the bright and beautiful landscape and pure sweet air, with bhe thoughts within her — which dwelt perforce on cruelty and crime and wrong— depressed her. That the earth should look so fair while such deeds were in contem- plation, seemed to prove how little nature was in sympathy with man. As she passed "The Corner' she was astonished to see Mr. Richard Salesby in li is garden at so early an hour. He was one of those gentlemen who Like to have the world well warmed For them — as though it were their bath - before they step into it ; if they ever "meet the sun upon bhe upland lawn," it is because they have sat up all night. And indeed, t<> look at him, yon would have said that this was exactly what Mr. Salesby had done. His 362 A MODERN DIGK WHITTINGTON. appearance was unkempt, his beard unshorn, his scanty crop of iron-grey hair uncombed ; the ex- pression of his face was so wild and angry, as he stood at his garden gate, with his short black pipe in his mouth, that Euth would have avoided him altogether if she could, but the footpath skirted his domain, and to have crossed the narrow road to the other side would have been self-evident in its purpose. ' Good morning, Mr. Salesby," she murmured as she drew near him. ' I see nothing good in the morning," was the un conciliatory reply, " nor for that matter in the afternoon neither; there's nothing good in the world, everything's bad, but especially women." ' That is not polite to myself, nor fair to your daughter," said Ruth, forcing a smile. 'As for yourself, then, I apologise," he answered, looking at her, not very steadily, be- cause his whole body was swaying from side to side, but with a scrutinising glance that had no disfavour in it ; " drunk or sober, I know a lady when I see her. And you could not speak like that about my girl, if you wasn't straight. I don't think you know anything about her. Not that / want to know either. I've done with her." " Done with her ? Done with your daughter, Kitty ? What do you mean ? " ' Just what I say ; neither more nor less ; she's made her own bed and may lie on it. It's .1/"/;/; VBOl BLE. noi your fault ; no, nor his fault, though, mind you, if I catch him at Qillsland, I'll wring bis neckforhim — she'sa downright bad'un. A girl as 'ud deceive her own fal her, and such a Father as I've been to her, too, as never denied her anything, and let her take her own way just as she pleased. Well, she'll deceive him, that's one comfort." " Deceive whom?' was on Ruth's lips, hut the words never passed fchem. A terrible fear toot possession of her: quite as great, though of a differenl kind from that which had fallen upon her iu the summer-house yesterday, [f Kitty had deceived her lather, perhaps she had deceived her, and in the same matter. Even in that moment of horror and despair she thought no ill of Lawrence. As this poor drunken creature had himself admitted, Lorry (if, indeed, it was her cousin of whom he spoke) was nol to blame. i',ut if Kitty had tied to him? One little hand mechanically soughi the gate, and clung to it, just as Mr. Salesby was clinging to it, and lor the same reason, to prevent herself from falling. 11 All, you know now," he said, with hideous sagacity. "She used to say as you were sweel upon him yourself. I was thinking aboul that this morning, but concluded it was only one of her lies to put me off the scenl ; hut it -rem- she was telling the truth for once. Well, you had an escape; for though, as I just said. I don t blame him, as I blame her; he's a scoundrel and a liar 364 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. too. She would never have gone to him without an invitation ; and as sure as the sun is in heaven, if I ever again catch sight of him I'll wring his neck. A pretty thing, indeed ; the oldest family in the county to end this way ; ' came in with the Conqueror,' as the saying is, and gone out like a farthing; candle. If he'd married her it would have been bad enough, but, of course, he won't marry her. My Kitty a light-o'-love, a trol- lop " and the wretched father burst into tears. " You are wrong, and are doing Kitty wrong," cried liuth, for though what she meant was "you are doing Lawrence wrong," the spectacle of the unhappy man in his grief was infinitely more touching than it had been in his tipsy wrath, and made her very heart ache. " It is not possible that she could so disgrace herself." "Possible!" he echoed contemptuously; "she has confessed as much. I've got it under her own hand. That is I had, but I've torn up the letter. I want to see nothing more of her, or hers ; never again, never again ! " "You have not torn up her letter, Mr. Salesby," said Ruth gently; "let me see it." It was a bold stroke, the result of instinct rather than of reason, but it succeeded. " I don't know whether I have or haven't," said the man doggedly ; and as he spoke he drew it out of his pocket with his disengaged hand, which had been clasping it there all the time. MORE TROUBLE. " Yes, here it is. She wrote it lasi night, and I < • f t it on the table for me to see —a pretty sighl for a father and then went off by the morning mail. Sin- must have walked ten miles with her little bag to meet it. She took nothing with her hut her Little bag. Mv poor Kitty! Butthere, I've done with her." It was shocking to see his maudlin misery, to hear his vehement resolve to wash his hands of his daughter, but worse of all to listen to one of those touches of true pathos that bespoke him human still " under the mud." What gave Ruth some little comfort was the evident satisfaction of the wretched man in having found someone in whom he could confide, and even look for sym- pathy. She was no longer afraid of him, indeed he seemed to be afraid of her, as. having placed the Liter m her hand, he waited with anxious look for the deduction she should draw from its con- tents, which were brief and curl enough. " Father, I am going awa\ to London, where it would be useless for you to look for me. I have found someone to care for me, which has not been, I must say, the case at home. In say- ing good-bye, however, I do not wish to blame you; the less inquiry you make about me, the better it will be for both of us. You need not fret about my future, which is provided for. Ki i [TT1 . "Well, well, what do you think of it?' 366 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. inquired Mr. Salesby impatiently. " Better than I do, to judge by your face." This was not at all the case, so far as the writer of that epistle was concerned. There was in fact but one inference to be drawn from it, which shocked and distressed Ruth exceedingly ; but unless it was composed with great duplicity and the intention of throwing the reader off the scent, it seemed plain to her that the person, whoever he was, who had been found to " care for " the unhappy girl could not be Lawrence Merridew. That was not the language she would have used in his case, nor was it possible that "her future could have been provided for" by such a course of conduct. It was not to be expected, however, that the satisfaction Ruth derived from this conviction should be shared by Mr. Salesby, and indeed she felt no little remorse for having entertained it in the presence of such shame and sorrow. It was impossible to tell Kitty's father what she thought of the girl's in- tentions, so she took refuge in interrogation. "Was your daughter acquainted with anyone in town to whom her expression 'caring for her' could possibl v apply, so far as you know, Mr. Salesby ? ' " Only one person, and you know him as well as I do, and better," he answered doggedly. " If you mean my cousin, you are certainly mistaken," she answered quickly. " I say nothing of his being a man of honour and incapable of a MORE TROUBLE. 367 baseness ; hut lie has hardly < * 1 1 < > 1 1 1_^- 1 * money to supporl himself, much less to insure fche future i 'I anol her person, "Then you think no one has promised her marriage ? ' Ruth was silenl ; she could not give the answer that was needed, and Mr. Salesby's Eace, like fche Gordon's, seemed to turn her into stone. She understood now that which he had hoped for, while pretending to denounce it, was thai Kitty had found shelter with her cousin, who might at least " have made an honest woman of her," and that this hope had fled. "Give nn 1 hark her note," he said hoarsely. He took it and tore it along and across, and threw tlic pieces to the wind. " That is the last of her," he said. " 1 have done with her. Never speak to me aboui her again, Miss Ruth." With that he staggered along the garden path, and passed into his house, slamming the door behind him. Ruth's hear! bled forthepoor drunken wretch. Under any other circumstances she w< ml have thought of nothing else save Kitty and her father. It was a tragedy sufficient to monopolise any mind. Bui unhappily there was another, darker still, and that had not yet reached its denouement, which pressed upon her attention. For the moment, in this terrible domestic revelation, she had almos Lost sight of it; hut now the errand on which she had come 368 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. out that morning' recurred to her. On the one hand was ruin, which no action of hers could mitigate or deter ; on the other was death, which it was possible for her to avert ; in the one the blow had fallen, in the other the victim was only menaced. It behoved her to be up and doing, and to leave lamentation for a fitter time. The post-office at Hillsland was a very small affair ; it was a little shop where candles and string were sold in tiny quantities, and where nothing was kept in stock but lollipops. Bottles of them of different hues stood in the window, looking like a parody of a chemist's shop ; it was not so long ago since Euth herself had bought "bull's-eyes" and "peppermints" there; the old post-mistress had known her from a child, and could hardly picture her to herself as having grown up. " Lawk-a-daisy ! Miss Ruth, you are early this morning. And how's Mrs. Robert ? I have heard as how she's very sadly." " She is certainty very unwell. I want to send this telegram, please." " Yes, sure. Elizabeth ! ' : The old woman raised her voice to summon her niece, who was the telegraphist, from upstairs. " Well, I am glad as you are sending for another doctor. They think it so strange in Hillsland." " But I am not sending for another doctor ; J am telegraphing for Mr. Percy." MORE VtbOTJBl " Mercy me, the parson ! She's so bad as that, be she ? " " Ruth answered nothing, bul gave the girl her telegram, who read it mil aloud: "I wish to consult you in connection with Lawrence. Urgent." "Deary me, then," said the older woman, "the news musl be true aboul Miss Kitty." "What news?" inquired Ruth, with such un- wonted sharpness and anger thai it even struck the old gossip thai she had pul two and two — or rather, one and one— together a little hastily . " Well, Miss Ruth, it was only my idea," >he murmured apologetically, "but Jim Bell, the maltster, he did say as how he saw Miss Kitty step into the mail train this morning; and who could she be alter, says I to myself, except Master Lawrence? She's been ver\ pretence of nursing her. been com- passing her death tor weeks? Do think of her as well as of him ' ' " T am not sure X am right, Ruth ; it' I asked a lawyer he would say I am wrong. But I will trusl \ m." "Heaven bless you, Mr. Percy, for those words. \\>u will never have cause to repent of them; you will be thankful for having uttered them." ller face was pale ami wet with dew; her hands trembled as sin- wrapped the jar up in brown paper for her visitor to take with him. " You will riil' last, you will not lose a moment she cried impatiently. "My dear Ruth," he answered very gravely, '■ you must listen to reason. You are over* wrought, as it is, and to dwell upon the matter, while it is yet unsettled, will drive you crazy. ii is absolutely necessary that you should divorce \oiir mind from it. It is no use my riding last to Coleborough. Maitland's office closes at two. and no speed could gel me there in time to see him. Bui he shall have the jar to-night, with a letter from me to bespeak urgency, though of course saying nothing of the circumstances, and }'ou shall hear from me to-morrow morning. In 378 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. the meantime, if I am to retain my confidence in you, you must promise me to do your best to ignore the matter. You have now other things to think of." She nodded and faintly smiled. Though the subject of her uncle's crime was monopolising her mind, as well it might be, she had certainly other topics — only less important than it, to engage her attention. " They are not very cheerful things," she sighed ; " but they are better than this thing, and I will try to think of them." " Then why not talk of them while my horse is getting his corn, of which indeed he will stand in need before the da}^ is out ? Have you heard lately from Lawrence ? ' " Mrs. Merridew has heard. He seems to be getting on fairly well, and he has found good friends in London." " In London ? I thought he was with Sir Charles Walden." "No, he has left Hurlby for some time; it was meant to be a secret, but I am sure you deserve his fullest confidence. And after all, what does it matter, what does anything matter, when such things are going on under this very roof." Mr. Percy looked distressed and disappointed. This outbreak was only too significant of the fever of anxiety and impatience that was con- I Fl!l KM i l\ NEED. suming the poor girl under thai thin crusl of dismissal she had pul on to please him. Such thoughts could not be dismissed; all thai could be hoped for was mitigation and postponement. " We <1<. not know these things are going on, Ruth/ 5 he answered mildly. We hope they are not going on, and if they are, we are taking what means lie in our power to pui a stop to them. What you tell me of Lawrence is very surprising. Is it decided thai he is not going- to Singapore, which he seemed to dread so? ' "Nothing is decided; though he has made up his mind, I think, at all hazards, to remain in England. No one here knows anything of his intentions or his movements, save his mother and myself; hut he has gone to London in the hope of making a living by his pen." " And who are these friends of whom you spoke? ' " They are a Mr. Latham and his two sisters. Lawrence was recommended to them Ivy Sir Charles Walden. They seem to have been very kind to him." "It is a great risk," he murmured; " Lorn is very vouul;', and knows nothing of the world. I mistrust Sir Charles's friends." "Why?" " Because I mistrust Sir Charles. You have seen or heard nothing of him, [ suppose, of late ? ' 380 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. ''Nothing at all." Mr. Percy had looked at her very searchingly as he put that question ; hut it had evoked no spark of interest, no flush of colour. However monopolising was the leading topic in her mind, if there had been anything serious between her and the baronet, the mention of his name would surely have moved her a little. He was glad that it had not done so. It also left him free to speak his mind about the man. " I hope Lawrence has not placed himself under obligations to Sir Charles." " I cannot say that ; it would indeed be most ungrateful not to feel them, for he has done him good service ; has taken a great deal of trouble — which, as you know, is not his way — in launching him in literature ; he has been a true friend to Lawrence." " But not a patron, I hope. He has not lent him money ? " " No, certainly not. Lorry would not have liked anything of that kind." (There was interest and spirit in her tone for the first time as she said that.) " He put him in the way of earning something just to start with, that is all." " I had hopes that jowy aunt, Mrs. Lock, might have left the lad something." "She had nothing, (lood Heavens! until ibis moment I had clean forgotten, by-the-bye, .1 //;//. \l> IX NEED. 88] thai she made me the custodian of some papi rs. They arc of qo value, for the poor -'>ul had do property of any kind; bul she seemed anxious (lie)- should not fall into — into strange hands." she had been aboul l<» say " my ancle's hands," but repugnance, or the recollection that the topic was Eorbidden, restrained her. Mr. Percy attri- buted it to the latter cans.', which gave him pleasure. "That looks as if the papers were valuable," he answered smiling, " or why should she have been so careful ? Let me look at them. She left no will, I suppose ? " She had nothing to leave." Ruth took the packet Aunt Jerry had given her from her desk, and gave it into Mr. Percy's hands. In the whirl of events which had taken place of late the possession of it had entirely slipped her recollection. If there was anything in il that required action, or even attention, -he lilt herself utterly unequal to cope with it now. " Be SO good as to take it," she said wearily, "and advise me il' anything requires t" he done. I feel like a child," then she added with a sweel smile, "and look to you as though you were m\ I'athn " Then 1 have your permission to open it ? ' "Of course. It is only adding a further weight to the peck <>i troubles which you are undertaking lor my sake." 382 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. That she should thus express herself was some little proof of improvement of her mind running in a bye stream, away from the main channel. Mr. Percy opened the packet, and examined its contents, which consisted only of a few docu- ments. They seemed to interest him, however, for he did not speak for some minutes. "Did your aunt say nothing to you of these papers, besides the injunction to take care of them ? ' Ruth started at his voice ; the silence had been fatal to her resolution ; her thoughts had reverted to the old topic. " I beg your pardon. I did not hear you/' He repeated his question. " Aunt Jerry told me it was something about some shares in a mine ; her husband had said, ' Stick to them.' I do not think she quite knew what she was talking about. She seemed to attach a value to them because of her husband's words, though they were in fact worth nothing. That was the impression she produced on me." " Just so ; and most likely the correct one. I will, however, make inquiries into the matter. Now I must go." He put the papers in the pocket of his coat, but Ruth's eyes were fixed on the other pocket, which held the marmalade jar. That was the only matter in which she felt an interest. If A FRIEND IX NEED. she had been told that her whole future would turn on the other it would have made qo difference. So it is, indeed, with every life lighl that goes oui amongst as, with which life-long love is not associated. For the mo- ment, for the week, for even the month, the catastrophe is overwhelming. Nothing else is to be compared with it, or seems of any import- ance. Y< t day by clay ami week by week its impression grows weaker and weaker, and other things take its place; for life is a palimpsest. CHAPTER XXXVII. t ii e pat ron's e miss a k v. Callers were rare in Nelson Crescent. Mr. Latham mixed with society at his club and found it quite enough for him. His sisters would have liked more of it, but the kind of people they would have welcomed would not have been very acceptable to their brother. It was in this matter only that his liberality to them was deficient. " Our dear brother will never ask anybody to the house." This was an advantage to Lawrence in one way, because being almost their only male visitor, the ladies made even more of him than the}?" were naturally inclined to do ; but on the other hand it pre- vented the circle of his own acquaintance from expanding. It was very well for Mr. Latham to be content witli meeting friends of his own sex, mostly <»!' liis own age, and addicted to the same studious pursuits as himself, but a young fellow who wishes to study life and know the world should have wider opportunities, THE /M FRON'S EMI • IRY. Moreover, Lawrence did noi belong to a club, and had to make or scrape acquaintances for himself. Some of them, thus casually picked up, he was only too glad to drop again ; for Bohemia, prolific in scamps, has, alas ! in its picturesque but some- wli;it barren territories not a few scoundrels. Mr. Latham did, indeed, introduce ltiiii to one or two literary men of a high class, but they were mostly bachelors like himself. Mr. Martyn, however, "in 1 of the chief contributors to The Areopagus, was a married man, and had a charming wife. Lawrence soon became a greal favourite of hers (he had the gift of getting on with nice women), and through her he began to know people worth knowing and to be regarded favourably. lie was undoubtedly an interesting young fellow, and. unless in that section of society called ''smart people," poverty and in- experience are no bars to social success in London. This led him into no extravagances, while at the same time it did not interfere with his literary work. He read a great deal, and wrote most perseveringly. Ahout nine-tenths of what he wrote came hack to him like a boomerang. At first it hurl him, because it struck the hump of self-esteem, which iii tiie young is a tender place ; hut presently he began to he inured i<> it, ami though tar indeed From coinciding with the opinion of his editors, that his contributions were sad rubbish, acknowledged ■ 386 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON to himself that there were reasons, if insufficient ones, for their rejection. Sometimes he re-wrote them (when they usually became worse than before ; you can't mend blotting-paper), but generally he sent them to lower and lower periodicals (as the Cambridge racket player im- mortalised by Davey used to make his ball dap on the wall) till at last they found acceptance with The Penny Trumpet. " I see your name, Mr. Merridew, every- where," observed Mrs. Martyn, in her good- nature d way. " But in very queer places," he answered modestly, and, indeed, not without a blush, for The Trumpet was a good advertiser. " Oh, but you shine in the Zenith as well as the Nadir." " If you mean The Areopagus \>y the zenith,'' he replied (which she did because her husband wrote in it), "my appearances are very rare there.'* Then he began to tell her, for he was frank as the day (which was one of the reasons of his popularity), and, like all young writers, loved to talk shop, what he did write for, and what he got. " But you don't mean to say that you get twenty times — literally twenty times more from The Areopagus than what you say you get from The Trumpet?" "Yes, I do; literally, exactly." ////: PATRON'S EMISSARY. " Why, that's more than my husband gets," exclaimed the lady, which (her tone seemed to Bay) was outrageous. '• < >h, but," said Lorry hastily, " Mr. Latham alters my articles very much, and, indeed, thi'v arc iis much his as mine." " But that is a reason why he should give you less, not more," she answered. The position was incontrovertible. Lawrence blamed his own want of reticence, and then, as lie thought of the matter afterwards, a more serious consideration even than the mischief he might have done obtruded itsrlf. Though he had a good conceit of himself, he could not but put the question, " Why should I be paid more than Mr. Martyn, who in literature is far my superior?' His wife, as if to make amends for her astonishment, had said in her pleasant way, " Vou come under the most- favoured-nation clause, indeed!' And could it be that he was favoured? Did Mr. Latham pay him more than he was worth because he liked him, or because he was poor? The bare supposi- tion of such a thing wounded him to the quick. Then he remembered that for his first article, a very short one, written from llillsland before Mr. Latham had so much as seen him, that gentleman had sent him ten pounds. It could not, there- fore, be charity that he had been receiving ; and yet it was very strange that he should get more z 2 388 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. than Mr. Martyn. It was a subject that he could hardly broach to Mr. Latham ; the editor of The Areopagus always shrank from pecuniary matters, and it would be odious to him to hear that his rate of payment for contributions had been the subject of discussion. On the very morning that Lawrence was puzzling himself with this riddle, a visitor called in Nelson Crescent who could have answered it for him, and whose mission, indeed, had some relation to that very matter. It was a visitor whom certainly Mr. Latham did not expect, but he was not unknown to him, a most respectable, taciturn-looking person, who might have been a divine, or a Buddhist of the first degree, or an undertaker — in fact Sir Charles Walden's very private secretary, Mr. Harbord . Mr. Latham had no o'reat regard for this gentleman, whom he suspected of knowing more of his friend's concerns than any man ought to know of another's, that is to say of being privy to matters that, like "faith and prayers" (though at the same time exceedingly unlike them), should be "among the privatest of men's affairs ; ' an instrument only too ready to his hand in transactions which are best let alone and in which it behoves no man to be an accessory. Perhaps he did him wrong, for the editor of The Areopagus was peculiar in his views of his fellow- THE PATRON'S EMISSARY. 389 creatures. Very charitable, not 1" say stone blind tu tlif errors of those he liked, lie b; d a great distaste for sinners who had not the advan- tage of hi- acquaintance, or who mixed in pither a higher or ;i lower plane than himself. Friend- ship atoned lor a good deal with him; grati- tude, short-lived in most souls, was in his v.-rv tenacious of existence ; but for human weak- nesses of the lower kind in outside people he had much secret abhorrence. If- had a suspicion that the modes! and retiring Mr. Harbord was a low lot. ' llnllo! you in London." was Ids not very hospitable greeting. "I thought yon were a fixture at llnrlby, like the heirlooms." Mr. Harbord smiled as though his being likened to an heirloom, and at Hurlby, was rather a compliment than otherwise. "It is not often I am in town," he owned, " but just now a little business, if I may call it so, has called me up." Mr. Latham looked at him with such dis- favour that one might have thought the phrase " called up " had reminded him of t he devil. What is it now?" he said; "some mischief, I'll be bound.'' ' Far from it, I assure you. Sir Charles left word that I should sec you as soon as j>os> i 1>1< ■ alter his d< parture." " Departure ! Where's he gone to ? I thought he was at Hurlby." 390 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. " No, he has gone abroad." " Abroad ! Why, I had a letter from him a week ago, without a word of his going abroad m it. " It was rather sudden. Circumstances beyond his control precipitated it." "vSome very agreeable circumstance, no doubt," said Mr. Latham with scornful irri- tation. " I never said — that is, I know nothing about it." " What an infernal fool he is," exclaimed the other, with apparent inconsequence. " There is no fool like an old fool." " That is a matter which you can scarcely expect me to discuss, Mr. Latham," said the secretary mildly. " Quite right. I was a fool myself to make to you, of all men, such an obvious observation. And it was also unbecoming. Well ? ' " Sir Charles asked me to say, as it is probable he may be away for some considerable time and will not be corresponding with him, that he would like, if possible, some provision — some permanent provision — to be made for a young gentleman in whom he feels a great deal of interest, Mr. Lawrence Merridew. If it could be done without his becoming aware of who was his benefactor, through some means connected with literature, he would be particularly obliged." I ill-: PATRON'S EMI - - IRY. 191 " Make liim a boffiu offer of I I 01 II I for on of lii ! etches of London life, I suppose ? ' ' .1 usl •<>. somel bing of I ha1 na1 ure,' Baid Mr. I [arbord imperl arbably. " I will be ;i party to qo such duplicity," said Mr. Latham botly. ,l You may tell Sir Charles since he does not condescend to communicate with me personally upon the subject — thai I re- pent what I have done fur him in this matter already." " One moment," interposed Mr. BCarbord, with unexpected and indeed unexampled promptness. "I should have said at first, but thai I thoughl it impossible for you to have taken umbrage in thf cast' of so old a friend, thai time did no1 admit of Sir Charles seeing y< u; while to write of the thing was— well — letters sometimes fall into other hands than those they arc intended for. The matter is a delicate one." "Then le1 him undertake it himself j he has more tact than 1 have." "There arc reasons which make it impossible that Sir Charles could — just now — enter Into personal relations with Mr. Merridew. Auy overtures from him, however generous, would be misconstrued." "Good Beavens ! Sir Charles has nol run off with Miss What's-her-name, Merridew's cousin, surely "Dear, dear, how could Mich an idea enter 392 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. your mind ! '•' exclaimed Mr. Harbord in a tone of great distress. " Most certainly not." ' I am glad to hear it, for let me tell you, and you may tell your — T mean Sir Charles — that if anything of that nature had taken place, he and I would have had nothing more to say to one another. I have a great regard for Mr. Merridew." " Surely, surely, and so has Sir Charles, as indeed he has demonstrated. His only desire is to benefit him." " Then let him do it in a straightforward fashion. As I was about to say, I already repent, not indeed of having assisted this young man — far from it — but of having done so by underhand means. The giving him larger sums for his contributions than they were worth, however well intended, was an error, and you may tell Walden that it must come to an end. It has put this young man in a fool's paradise. He is working hard and getting on, but he naturally imagines he is doing better than he is. If it was only himself who was concerned, as I thought was the case when Sir Charles proposed the plan, there would have been no great harm in it, but the lad is trying to make a home for his mother and a cousin, to whom, I understand, he is engaged to be married." " Oh, is he ? " exclaimed Mr. Harbord with great interest and in a tone of relief; "then that will simplify matters." '//. /' I FllON'S EMISSARY. " I donM see how. < >n t lie cont ran H eem to me to complicate them. I ay, considering the difficulties and responsibilities with which the mng man is surrounded, it is abominable to keep him in the dart as to his true position. I appose I must tell him thai The Areopagus can't afford to |>:iv so well as it did." "That iseas) enough," observed Mr. Earbord naively . "Easy as lying always is to some people," retorted Mr. Latham, "but it, is also a humilia- tion, though that, too, some people find it easy to stomach." " Very true," assented the other, nodding his head as if in assent to some abstract proposition. " I'll write to Sir Charles what you say." "Upon my life, you are a cool hand," ex- claimed Mr. Latham, not without a touch oC admiration. "I never allow sentiment to interfere with business, that is all," answered the other mod- estly; " I cannot afford it. Sir Charles can." "/know," said Mr. Latham, amused in spite of himself. "His recent departure from our shores is probably not altogether disconnected with it? Cherchez hi femme, eh? ' "I am unacquainted with the French lan- guage," returned Mr. Harbord regretfully. "Then lam to say that you decline to be Sir Charles's almoner altogether, even t<> the extenl 394 A MODERN DIGK WHITTINQTON. that you have hitherto been, It seems hard on Mr. Merridew." ' It seems hard ; but, as I have said, it would, in my opinion, be harder on him to continue any further deception. This is unintelligible to you, no doubt. I am afraid you may not make the case quite clear to Sir Charles. If you will give me his address I will write to him myself." "I do not know Sir Charles's address. I believe he has gone to Naples, but he does not wish any letters to be forwarded." " Then I have nothing more to say," said Mr. Latham — " except," the extreme dryness of his tone seemed to suggest, " that you are the greatest liar in Europe." ' I am sure I was right," said the editor when he found himself alone, "though I believe Walden's regard for our friend to be perfectly genuine. But there is something strange in his employing this fellow as his intermediary. What could he have meant by saying that his master's generosity might be misconstrued by our young friend? that it might be rejected is obvious enough, but why misconstrued ? " CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE LAST RESORT. The day is over at last with its painful service, never grudged before, in the sick-room. Thedoctor lias been, and the matter of the porridge has been once more discussed : lie is still of opinion that it should be persisted in, but if the invalid's dislike of it continues, a strong soup is to be substituted, which "the besl of husbands" undertakes to ad- minister to his Popsy with his own hands. A.S he brings her the porridge again (of which she takes a few spoonfuls with loathing), Ruth mar- vels to see them so white and clean ; so highly wrought and abnormal is her nervous condition that she looks for blood upon them. She notes, however, keenly enough that " dearest Robert never sutlers the cup to leave his hands, and take. it, with what is left, away with him. In other matters he is not so careful to save trouble. It is surely impossible thai she has awakened sus- picion; yet Uncle Robert speaks to her with un- wonted gentleness, remarks on her wearied and 396 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. anxious looks (as well he may), and drops a hint that it may be necessary to send her somewhere for a few days to recruit her health. She finds herself assenting with a smile, that seems to tear her cheek, and he pats it — and she bears even that — with approbation, and wishes his Popsy were as sensible. This nightmare of the clay is worse than that of the night; but the night is hideous. When exhaustion compels her at last to sleep, the story of the day goes on, and she wakes with a cry of " Murder ! ' : The innocent morn breaks with song of bird and scent of flower ; the sun kisses the grey lake and makes it young again ; but fresh- ness and beauty have lost their charms for her. She sits at the open window, and sees nothing but the winding road, along which no messenger can come for hours. Yet if she missed him, if by any chance the note he bears should fall into other hands — his hands ! That idea is terrible. She grudges every glance that is cast elsewhere. The breakfast the maid brings up to her — for to descend and meet the eyes and answer the ques- tions of her relatives is now beyond her power — lies untasted on the table. But she knows all that man can do Mr. Percy has done ; that urgency has been insisted upon, secrecy main- tained ; he is a friend in whom she can trust, oh! fools and blind who assert that man is in- dependent of his fellows, and can dispense with //// LA T RESORT. fcheir sympathy and help; fchey can almosl as easily dispense with Gtod's help. Bui f'<>r thai perfect confidence Ruth must have Losl her wits. lit sr door is Locked, and when Mrs. Merride^ comes to ask after her Bhe replies as if from ber bed. She can see do one, think of no one, excepl thai unknown messenger. It is like waiting for death. Al last lie comes: a man upon the black cob, which is never ridden as she knows by any but his master, but which lias for once been en- trusted to another. It is early in the afternoon, but she runs unbonneted down a little staircase that leads I., a side door, and out into the hi in dine sunshine: this is foolish of her, because i< m;i\ cause comment, but she dare not return for head- gear. As the messenger draws aigh she pretends to be gathering (lowers, and as henears her looks up, as if with curiosity, shading her eves with her trembling hand. He draws rein at once, and with a satisfied air, like one who fulfils a mission with unexpected facility, says, " Miss Stratton, I believe ; master has hidden me give this letter into your own hand." She takes out her scants purse, and though she feels inclined fco empty its whole contents into his band, gives him but half- a-crown. lie;- fear is he will ] > u i aphis borse for a rest, as the custom is with a friend's groom, and have a chat with the servants; but Mr. Percy has thought of that. The man ha-- orders to 398 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. leave another letter at another country house by one o'clock, where ale is also to be got, and better than is brewed at Hillsland Hall. The groom, well pleased, touches his hat, turns round and gallops off, as unconscious of the importance of the message he has brought as any postman. She crumples up the note in her hand and flies back to her room. The meeting she has looked forward to with such anxious impatience for four- and-twenty hours has not taken two minutes. But it is some time before she opens the note. She has fallen on her knees first and prayed to her Heavenly Father that He might see fit to prove her awful suspicions baseless. He does not see fit. The note is but a slip of paper signed by the public analyst : " The porridge contains antimony, a slow poison." There was not one word beside ; but she had made up her mind, as she had told Mr. Percy, what to do in case this very thing should come to pass, and he had had confidence in her judg- ment and left her to do it. Tt was well that there was no need for consideration now, for there was no time to spare for plan-making, nor had she any longer the head for it ; it was clear enough, but — like a weapon apt for striking, but useless for defence— it was fit for action only. She sat down, however, and wrote these few lines in a firm hand : — " It lias been discovered that 3^011 have been THE LAST RESORT. 399 attempting to murder your wife by poison. The porridge made by your own hand and offered by it to her yesterday was not thrown away as Y..ii were told. It lias been scut to the public analyst, and he lias found antimony in it. You will be given twelve hours Prom the momenl thai you have read this exactly. Then the law will take its course." She placed this in an envelope and directed it to her uncle, and then put it in her bosom. It must be given to him with her own hands. Even without that he would have known from whom it came by her handwriting, but she wished him to know. There was personal danger to hersell in such an act, there was no knowing to what extremity rage and despair mighl drive him; but that consideration never crossed her mind. Luncheon was already over, and she found that her ancle had been making inquiries about her, and had been present at it, perhaps he would not have been had she been there. It was her desire to see him alone, but she found this difficult. He remained in his father's room occupied, it was said, with business matters; and then he went out of doors without, as was his wont, first paying a visit to the sick room. It seemed a- though, warned b\ some instinct ol danger such as wild beasts possess, he was pur- posely avoiding her. It was Fortunate for him (as she thought) that the time thai was to be iuo A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. allowed for his escape had been left in her own hands (she had not the least doubt that he would use it as was intended, and not brave the matter out) ; had the twelve hours dated from the moment Mr. Percy had known the worst, the man would have had small chance indeed. Ruth had been with the invalid the whole afternoon, awaiting him, and it was almost evening when she heard his'step in the passage. She passed quickly through the ante-room, and stopped him as he stood on the threshold with the cup in his hand — just as had happened before. But this time there was something in her look that alarmed him, and as though fear- ing she would take the cup, he mechanically withheld it from her. 'Put it. down," she said, pointing to a little table that had stood outside the room since his wife had been taken ill, for convenience' sake, to hold trays and phials ; " here is a letter for you." " A letter ? " he stammered. " Read it." As she spoke the words she did not recognise her own voice. Then she added " Go ; ' the resonant word seemed to echo in the long gallery, and to be taken up again in the great hall on to which it looked. Then she closed the door upon him— in his face — and shut him out for ever. She listened, but though she heard no footsteps, she felt that he was no 77//: LAST RESORT. «»1 longer there — sure, as though she had seen his livid and fear-stricken face, thai he had read the letter and slunk away : that she had done with him. Time went on, but there was do inquiry about him. Only one person was likely to in- quire ; the sick woman had done SO an hour or two ago, finding him later than usual, bul nut altogether sorry perhaps that the loathsome aourishment he brought with him was delayed, she had dropped asleep. She looked worse than she had ever looked, so tar as health was coii- cemed, but otherwise more comely ; exhaustion and want of sustenance had given her a delicate appearance and idealised such attractions as she possessed. In Ruth she awoke an unspeakable compassion when in a taint voice she presently asked, " Where is dear Robert? " The girl was unable to reply. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. Mrs. Merridew, who was in tin' room, exclaimed — ' T can't think, I'm sure," with unwonted irritation, for to do him justice, it was nol Robert's way to thus neglect his wife. "TU go out and inquire where he is." She had not gone long, and came back with a cheerful face. " lie will be here wrv shortly, niv dear." Ruth's heart sank within her. lb- was goini;' to brave it out. then, after all. .Rut as A A 402 A MODERN DICK WEITTINGTON. Popsy, with knitted brow, turned her wan face to the wall with a sigh of impatience, Mrs. Merridew whispered in her niece's ear, " It is very strange, but they tell me that your uncle has gone to bathe in the lake. John saw him going there with a towel in his hand. It is so late for bathing. What is the matter, Ruth ? You look as white as a sheet." " My headache has come on again. I am afraid I must go back to my room." Ruth knew at once what was about to happen — probably, indeed, had happened. It horrified her, of course ; she felt the shock in every fibre of her frame. But if she could have averted the catastrophe she would not have done it. It was better that this sinful wretch should have fallen into God's hands than into man's. If allowance could be made for him, He would make it, as it would be made by no earthly tribunal. Ruth was a woman, and a very broken-hearted one, but from the milk-and-water sentiment that weeps over ruthless ruffians, and ignores their victims, she was free. She had confidence in the All- Wise. She did not assume that a soul is lost because it is " hurried into eternity," whether by a man's own act or another's. It was a terrible alternative, no doubt, but it was better so, not only for the man himself, but • — what was of greatly more consequence — for THE LAST RESORT. 103 the innocent and unsuspecting woman he had plotted to destrovj and for the family on whom his earthly punishment would have brought shame and ruin. It might even be said thai Roberl Stratton's end became him as uothing in Ins life had done; it was a crime, bu1 one thai was calculated to benefit his fellow-creature His leaving the world had been a Legacy of good to it, while his remaining in it would have been the source of widespread and insupportable misery. To the eyes of common sense — though it was not through them that Ruth regarded it — it was the very best thing, though only of very bad things, that could have happened. She had pictured him flying from the hands of justice, residing in this or that Alsatia of scoun- divlism, appearing and disappearing, caught and uncaught, always a menace and terror to his un- happy wife, and all belonging to him. This at least would be spared her. She sat in her room awaiting the discovery of what had happened, like one who has already received a telegram and awaits details. She I. new what had happened as though she had seen it. It was a moonlit night, and when the squire did not return, they sought lor him as though it had been day. They found his clothes upon the lake shore. In some cases this would not have been final ; there have been men who have had sufficient reason for effacing themselves A A 2 404 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. who have made believe to die, and gone away, in hopes to begin life again without encumbrance or with impunity from their transgressions, but Robert Stratton — or so his niece concluded — was not of this class. He was too masterful, too insolent by nature, to endure so humiliating a position — moreover, the lake was not the sea. Indeed, before morning dawned the drag-nets found him. He was a strong swimmer, but the evening was chill, and no doubt, thought all the world (save two persons), the cramp had seized him. CHAPTER XXXIX. NEWS INDEED. On the second morning after the catastrophe at 1 1 illsland Hall, Lawrence received a letter, bui not from home. It was a foreign letter; the handwriting of it was familiar enough, bui its postmark, " Naples," astonished him not a litt'e. What on earth could have taken Kitty Salesby to Naples? It had no address on it, and was without its usual beginning: : no "dear Law- rence," nor even "dear Mr. Merridew." which, indeed, would have been almost as strange as none. It might have been a memorandum. " When you have received this it will he the lasl time that you will hear from me, and. as I would vainly hope, hear of me. I shall he dead to you, and, what is worse, disgraced. It you think of me at all — and it is better not — you need aoi think of me as being as miserable as I deserve to be. If I am not happy, I uever expected to be so, and I am not less so than I should have been had I been vonr wife: my Future is secured. 406 A MODERN DICK 1YIIITTINGTON There are many women who, with the man they love, could patiently endure all the stings and sorrows of poverty. This is not my case. You will say ' Then what can such a woman's love be worth ? ' And you will be quite right. You are loved by a far worthier woman. I pray — no I dare not do that — I hope and believe that you will be happy with her. All that I ask is that you will never speak to her of me wdien she has become your wife. It is strange that one like me should shrink from what is said of me, but I do shrink from that. Spare me for the sake of old times, and also, for the sake of them, forget me." This then was the reason why for days he had not heard from Hillsland. Kitty had tied from her home, under what circumstances it was only too easy to guess, but with whom ? She had always been reticent to him concerning her own affairs. He was not even aware that she had an acquaintance outside her own sphere of life or her immediate neighbourhood. The hints she had dropped to him from time to time of her liking for luxury and wealth had seemed to him to be of the most abstract kind; that she should have had any particular design in her mind with respect to any individual had never entered his head. If she had married a rich man he could have borne it. She had frankly told him — as, indeed, she now repeated — that his love would v/;ii> INDEED. 107 not reconcile her bo the endurance of poverty; hut that she should have preferred a life of gilded shame (for to that his quick intelligence perceived at once her letter pointed) to the humble, but honest, livelihood his love could have provided for her was wormwood to him Eis affections were not so much wounded as his amour propre — he felt not only injured, but insulted. What, if he had been writing of another person, as a professional story-teller, he would have described as very significant of his state of mind, he felt Kitty's reference to his cousin as an insult. What right had a woman who had so disgraced herself to express an opinion even in the way of commendation of a girl like Ruth ? Of course, she was a worthless woman, but the statement from such lips was, to saj the leasl of it, an impertinence. Those lips, however, had not, so far as he was concerned, been forsworn. She had never promised to marry him, though he was sure she had at one time loved him. Was it, the eyes of that love — of jealous love — that had recognised what he had been blind to, that Ruth herself loved him ? And had they seen aright ? That he found himself thinking of that matter was also very significant. It often happens that when a gentleman is thrown over by lady No. 1. thai he is induced by pique to turn an occasional glance in the direction of lady No. :.' or. indeed, 408 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. any number. He is not very particular about the existence of much previous affection. But in this case there was a young lady who had been always No. 2, and only second in his regard to No. 1. If he had not been a fool, Sir Charles had hinted to him more than once, Rutli loould have been his No. 1. The baronet had, as we know, expressed his opinion to him that Ruth was every way, even in beauty, Kitty's superior, while pointiug out to him the folly and impracticability of his passion for Kitty. And Sir Charles was certainly a good judge of his fellow-creatures, especially the female portion of them. How he would smile to himself when he came to hear of this termination of his " love affair," as he had always somewhat con- temptuously termed it. Not that he would not be sorry for the poor girl, for he was a kind- hearted fellow, but it would corroborate the opinion he had always had of her unsuitability for his young friend, and we all like our sagacity proved by demonstration. Lawrence felt that his next interview with that Patron of Letters, as Mr. Latham called him, would be very embarrassing- That he should have thought of Sir Charles at all, under such circumstances, showed that he was not so very hard hit ; that his anger w r as at least as strong as his sense of loss ; but he did think about him and also, and much more, of Ruth. NEWS INDEED. 409 It struck liim for fcbe first time that he had not been so grateful to heras he ought to have Keen, for the countless kindnesses she had done him. He had taken them too much as a matter of course. He had entertained, it is true, the very highest opinion of her, and had been intensely indignant at the idea of Sir Charles paying court to her. That had been rather a dog-in-the- manger feeling, had it not? Well, he was not now quite so sure of that. There was one sentence in Kitty's letter which, while on the one hand it gave him satisfaction, on the other disgusted him more than all the rest; it seemed to have hern interpolated into the epistle, and was out of harmony with the remainder; it misrht have been written for his comfort, and upon the whole he thought it was ; but it might have been the iiai\e and unconscious expression of self-content: "My future is provided for." This did away with much of the apprehension he would otherwise have entertained on her account, but with it much of the bitterness and sorrow. How absolutely impossible was it that under similar circumstances (themselves, how- ever, impossible) bis cousin could have so ex- pressed herself. Thus his reflection continued, flying from Ruth to Kitty, from Kitty to Ruth, but always with a tendency -as a "homing' pigeon can only with difficulty be taught to tly both ways— to remain with the latter. If 410 A MODERN DICK WHlTTINGTON. that result, as no doubt it was, Lad been Kitty's object, she had succeeded. Work for The Areopagus (which always strained his powers) was utterly out of the question that morning, and even The Penny Trumpet went without its usual "copy." He threw down his pen as he seldom did, however indisposed for intellectual exertion, and took his way to Nelson Crescent. He was in a frame of mind — depressed, dissatisfied with him- self, in trouble — when the society of kindly, honest gentlewomen is especially attractive ; he had not the least intention of making confidantes of either Miss Latham, but the knowledge of the existence of sympathy, even if not asked, is comforting ; and Lawrence Merridew in heart, as indeed in years, was still little more than a boy. As he entered the house, the door of Mr. Latham's sanctum, always inviolate to callers in the morning, was opened by that gentleman himself. "Come in, Lawrence," he said, "I want to have a few words with you." The editor was always kindly to the young fellow, but it was the first time Merridew noticed he had called him by his Christian name. In his voice too there was a gentle gravity that did not escape the hitter's ear. If his literary talents were but moderate, Lawrence Merridew had the faculty of observation highly developed. NEWS / v . DEED, 411 •' Sit down and take a cigar ; there is nothing like tobacco For putting a man ai ease both with himself and his friend." "lam always at case with you, Mr. Latham; if too much so, it must be laid to the door oi \ our own kindness. "Thai is nicely said. I don't wonder at Sir Charles liking you. All generous natures exaggerate little services ; and when yon ^ay a gracious thing, you moan it, which is deuced rare. We arc friends, as you say, and I am about to take the liberty of a friend. I want to know how you are getting on in the world — exactly. You make your own living, of course ? ' "Oh, yes; T have even put something by: so small that it is not worth mentioning. But I make more one week almost always than the week before. Some people mighi call it hard work, but it is a labour of love. I am never so happy as when I have my pen in my hand, though what it writes is, I dare say, often very sad stuff." "It does vary," said Mr. Latham comically. "I hope so," returned Lawrence, with an answering smile. "Sometimes my highest aspiration is that in the revolving years I ma} one day write a successful shilling shocker." "That is mode>t, at all events." "Yes; but depressing. On the other hand J sometimes feel as if I had really some good 412 A MODERN DICK WHtTTlNGTON. stuff in me ; but for that But you know all about it." "I know something about it. But go on, you are always frank, and yet I see you have something on your mind. If it is anything about your work let me hear it." Here, it struck Lawrence, was an opportu- nity to make a clean breast of it, as respected The Areopagus. If his conversation with Mrs. Martyn should ever come to Mr. Latham's ears, he felt it would annoy him exceedingly ; but it was such a delicate subject. " It is nothing about my work." " Well then, 1 will say what I have got to say. What would be your reply if somebody was to offer you £1,000 for a one volume novel, the subject to be selected by yourself? ' " I should say he was playing a very poor joke upon me." " But if he was serious in his oiler ? ' " Then I should say that under the trans- parent pretence of buying a book of me, he was giving me £1,000." " Well ? " " In that case, I hope — indeed, I am quite sure — that I would not take it. I should be making a very good bargain, but at the cost of my self-respect. If you are really serious, Mr. Latham, such a proposition can have been made only by one man. It is prompted, no doubt, by NEWS INDEED. U3 tlic nobles! generosity, bul I had hoped from what he knows of me " The colour rose fco the young man's cheek, his eves were lull of tears, thai amour propre of lii>,<>f which he had a greal and, indeed, unusual supply, was wounded for the second time that morning. " Then we will say no more about it," said .Mr. Latham kindly. "But, indeed, sir, I should like to have something said, to Sir Charles I mean; I will write myself to llurlby." " No, no ; let the matter drop. It was only a tentative experiment, and I am glad it has re- sulted as it has done. I felt that it would be so. It will not be repeated, you maybe quite sure. And it is no use you writing to Hurl by, for Waldenhas gone abroad, to Naples, I believe but he has left no address." " To Naples ! repeated Lawrence in alow, hoarse voice. "Great Heavens; then it is he who is the villain." "The villain! Well, really- -of all the names — what the deuce is the matter with you, my poor boy ? "Oh, nothing, sir," replied the lad, with a feeble smile, and speaking with exceeding bitter- ness. " I have only lost a friend ; or found the difference between a friend and a patron. He has seduced a girl in our village for whom he knew 1 had a regard, and gone away with her; 414 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. and now he offers me £1,000 as a solatium. It was well done, indeed, and like a gentle- man." Mr. Latham looked very distressed and em- barrassed. " This is sad news, Lawrence. If it be true, I have nothing to say except that Sir Charles Walden was at one time my friend, and I am quite sure your friend : that he had no other motive, certainly no mean one, for the interest he took in you, save a genuine regard." 41 1 believe that, I feel that," answered Lawrence slowly, " and that is what makes it so much the worse for me. There is nothing, as you say, to be said of this man ; no sort of excuse, no palliation ; I have done with him. All that remains is to rid myself of all that is possible in the way of obligation. You know more about this than I do. I suspect — even as regards The Areopagus " " There is no need to suspect anything," put in Mr. Latham quickly. "I will make a clean breast of it ; Walden wrote to me to help you by whatever means I could. He suggested that I might pay you a little higher for your contri- butions than I should perhaps have done upon their merits. It was wrong of me, I feel that now ; the difference was, after all, but small, and your contributions have been very few. It is not worth thinking about." "I should like to know — exactly, if you NEWS INDEED. US please — what the difference was," said Lawrence. " It must he ivt urned to him." "That shall be d , onlj remember that benceforthj it' you cea^- to offer me any articli - I shall conclude you have not forgiven me. If our business relations close — in which bhere will certainly hi' no favouritism — it will interfere with our friendship." •■ You arc very good to me, Mr. Latham." "If I tun, it is from the angelic character of my disposition, and not because I owe you any compensation ; fix that in your mind, please, and let us have done with this disagreeable subject. Something has occurred of far more importance, and which affects you very nearly. You have not, I suppose, read the newspapers this morning. Well, there is something in them concerning a relative of yours. It is bad news. Four mother writes to me " " Nothing has happened to Ruth ? " exclaimed Lnwreiice, with feverish anxiety . 'No," said Latham smiling; " 1 don'1 think your gentle emotions, from what you have told me, will he severely tried by the occurrence, but your Uncle Robert is dead." CHAPTER XL. WISE AT LAST. There is a general impression in the world that when a man is dead all that was evil in him is, among persons of charitable disposition at least, forgotten as well as forgiven ; that the phrase de mortuis nil nisi bo'num applies not only to the speech of his fellow-creatures, or at least the worthier portion of them, but to their thought. There is nothing more false than this idea, which is moreover ridiculous. Memoiy is not destroyed in us by the death of another, though it may temper our judgment of them with mercy. In the case of Robert Stratton, the Latin proverb would have been difficult indeed to work out in practice, from the complete absence of the bonum in his character ; the nearest approach to it was to keep silence. Lawrence Merridew was of a kindly disposition, certainly not of a revengeful one — but the lines of the French poet with refer- ence to the tomb would have applied to him — WISE IV LAST. 117 " Rien jnsqn'ici pouravtvre tine mimolre i /,'/< ,i excepie la verite ; " and the truth was not to be spoken. "Hubert dead?' lie said, 'how did that happen ? ' For not having heard of his being ill, he naturally ascribed his decease to accident. "He was drowned in the lake while bathing." " Good Heavens ! ' Even this expression of sorrowful amazement was not, it seemed, evoked by the occurrence, for he immediately said : " How dreadful it will be lor my poor mother and liuth to he Left with Aunt .lane." " It is not that reflection, let us hope," said Mr. Latham, "that caused your mother to take the step she has done; though on another ac- count one might almost wish it were. The fact is, your cousin Ruth has been seriously affected — upset, I suppose, as she well might be — by this painful catastrophe." "I will go down to Killsland at once," said Lawrence, rising from his chair. " That is unnecessary, my good fellow, for your mother is bringing your cousin up with her to town. The doctor has insisted on it. They will arrive this very evening." "And they dent write me one word about it," said Lawrence in an injured voice. "We must not think about ourselves," ob- served Mr. Latham gently, ' when one's dear i; u 418 A MODERN DICK WRITTINGTON. ones are in trouble. Your mother bad no doubt her reasons for writing to us — for my sister has also got a letter from her — it was probably to save time, of which there was none to lose., and of course she knew I should communicate with you." " They will come, of course, to my lodgings at once," exclaimed the young fellow excitedly. " There are two rooms there to let. They will live with me. I will work for them as no man has worked before. Poverty will have no terrors for them compared with what they have suffered. Poor as the fare will be that I may give them, it will not be so bitter as the bread of dependence." Mr. Latham smiled, for the young fellow not only looked confidence itself, in his powers to maintain his relations, but also exceedingly happy. " I am afraid your hospitality cannot just at present be accepted. Your cousin will require a good deal of attention and comforts such as she would hardly find at Mrs. Levison's. Your mother has told my sisters the sort of lodging — ■ ' the more permanent or likely to be permanent,' she says, ' the better ' — she will require, and they are gone out to look for them." " That is like their kindness, but — well, I am sure they will understand that it is only the urgency of the case which has caused my mother to encroach upon it." " Encroach ? Why, it's the sort of errand WISE .17' LAST. HD they both delight in. They will increase their information about their neighbours, patronise them, order things from the shops — it's their notion of a liberal education. It's a compliment, too, for it shows you have given her a good account of their judgment." " My only fear is that my dear mother, who has had nothing to do with housekeeping for years, may overrate her resources. For the present, of course, my cousin's health is the one thing to he considered, but as to permanency, I leal' " My clear Lawrence, you are a very clever fellow," interrupted Mr. Latham, smiling, " but I don't think you understand these matters as well as my sisters. They will cut their coal ac- cording to the cloth, of the dimensions of which they have had full instructions. We will let you know where your folk are to be found this evening, they will be met at the station, of course, but not by you ; your cousin's condition precludes the display of emotion in public — and I wish every- body else's condition did. And now my advice to you is to go home and do a s^ood day's work ; it is the best panacea for troubles and anxieties of all kinds, and in your case should be an ear- nest of your future. If you can't use your pen, because you are not happy in your mind, you should not have entered the literarj calling." There was an authority in Mr. Latham's tone, ii 15 2 420 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. such as lie had never used before, and the good sense of his advice was undeniable. Lawrence went back to his lodgings, and after a severe struggle got interested in his theme : a small matter it may be thought, or possibly even a discreditable one, but his success was in fact a matter of great importance. For as the editor had hinted, if a man who means to live by his pen has not the power of putting away sorrow, or joy, nay even anxiety and despair itself from his heart — or at all events from his head — when work demands it, he had better give up his calling at once, for he has proved himself unfitted for it. Lawrence worked with a will, and the thought that he was working for others gave a spur to his exertions. At six o'clock word came to him that his people had arrived in Cheshunt Street, a locality midway between his lodgings and Nelson Cres- cent. Full as his mind was of the coming meeting, he noticed as he stood at the door that the house was a large one, and had flowers in the windows, which is not usual at that end of the town ; and it gave him pleasure, for he felt that to country eyes this would be a welcome. His mother received him with open arms and many tears. " We have been in great trouble, as you know, Lorry. What has happened shocked us all, of course, but it has affected dear Euth in a WISB AT LAST. 421 manner we . and not only planned our departure, but suggested our writing to Miss Latham." "And Mr. Latham," added Lawrence, in a reproachful tone. " Why was il uot I who was w ritten to ? " " Well, we had so little time, dear," said his mother confusedly, '"and there were matters of business, and business is not in your way, you know." On ordinary occasions the young fellow might have taken this for a Compliment ; not to In' a man of business being halt-way, as some suppose, to being a man of letters ; but he was not pleased at his help or advice not being asked. it seemed to be treating him like a boy. Mrs. Merridew was distressed to see him hurt, but not sorry that his sense of wrong prevented him from further inquiry into this matter. She was, in fact, using a certain duplicity, of course for his own good, hut she was not an adept at frauds, even pious frauds. As hens will tight with hawks lor the sake ot their little ones, so will mothers undertake, for their children's sake, roles for which nature has not designed them. She had a little secret con- fided to her, but was not without a well-grounded apprehension that it might be worried out of her, or indeed that she might herself have dis- closed it : and she was therefore glad that her 424 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. Lawrence was too " huffy " about those business matters to be inquisitive. When he came the next afternoon to Ches- hunt Street by appointment he had quite got over that little soreness: was, to do him justice, not thinking of himself at all, but looking for- ward to his meeting with his cousin with no little embarrassment and confusion. He had been thinking of her a good deal, in the interim, and " putting two and two together " — all that he could recollect of her sayings and doings in relation to him — with a very decided inclination to join one and one. How was it possible he could have been such a fool as to have been blind — well, to her merits, but especially to one of them, that steadfast and faithful regard for him, which she had shown in a hundred ways? How ungrateful he had been to her ! How she had pleaded for him in vain with his persecutors as a child ; how she had stood by him against them when he was a boy, and mitigated by her sympathy the evils she could not avert ! How she had for his sake admitted Sir Charles Walden to terms of intimacy, and aided his interest in him by her gracious influence ! This had caused even Mr. Percy, he remembered, to couple her name with that of the baronet in a fashion that had then aroused his indignation, but now tilled him with shame. And then the thought of Kitty — which was the worst thought of all. It WI8M .1 / LAST. !-'• Would only serve liim right, and be the natural result of his idiotic conduct, it' IJutli had learnt to forget hi in. But Ruth seemed to relllellll >er him quite well, she had risen at mid-day, it appeared, though still very weak and tottery, especially to receive him, in the drawing-room ; her with- drawal from the scene, where she had played so prominent though unsought a part, had already benefited her, notwithstanding the physical fatigue of her long journey; her excessive ner- vousness had disappeared, and though her black attire heightened the delicacy of her appearanee, he thought he had never seen her looking so lovely. She held out both her hands to him from the sofa without the slightest trace of embarrassment, and when, moved by an uncon- trolled impulse, he stooped down and kissed her forehead, she took it as the most natural thing in the world, a circumstance that made him very wretched. Of course, she looked upon him as a cousin, or at the best a brother, and had no reason to feel astonishment. Neither of them referred to the cause that had brought them so unex- pectedly together —I 'nth, because the subject wa hateful to her, and he. because it was of very small consequence compared with that which was iu his mind. They spoke of Mr. Percy, a topic on which we may be sure they had but one opinion. Ruth's rapturous praise of him, though 426 A MODERN DICK WHITTINGTON. caused by circumstances of which he was wholly ignorant, excited in him no astonishment — first, because he had the greatest regard for his old tutor ; secondly, because he blessed him for the advice that had sent his cousin up to town ; and, thirdly, because nothing she could have said would have seemed other than exactly just and fitting. She asked him about his literary affairs, and he painted them in rose colour, for everything seemed to take that tint in her sympathising presence. Speaking of his own talents with un- accustomed modesty, he dwelt upon his capacity for work and the delight he took in it. "While admitting," he said, " the immense assistance I have received from Mr. Latham " " That was thanks to Sir Charles ; we must not forget our magnificent friend," she put in with a touch of reproach, because he had not mentioned him. This was a terrible reminder, and chilled poor Lawrence's enthusiasm very much. " I have reason to hope, however, that Mr. Latham now likes me on my own account." " That is clear, my dear Lorry," she an- swered, " but we must not forget old friends. However, you tell me that you now feel confi- dent of being able to make your own way." " I do, though of course it is but a small way. My mother and you will of course come WISE .1 V LAST. 1 27 and live with me, and I shall at leasl be able t<> keep the wolf from our door." " Then you propose to keep as as well as yourself by your pen?' she inquired softly, gazing at the floor lesl be should sec the un- bidden tears that filled her eyes. " Well, of course; that is what I always had in view. How could, it be otherwise? It is only that matters have been precipitated, for which I am truly thankful. Do you think that having you near me, under the same roof, seem-' you every d.iy. hearing the sweet voice that has always been my greatest encouragement, will not be reward enough for a little extra work. Even if one is not idle, to live all alone with none to love one is — is — well, it is uot like tku." No, it was certainly not like that. Her band had somehow fallen into his, and he held it close; his voice was tremulous with passion, and though her own was silent, it was with the silence of assent. " You must not think me selfish, darling," he went on, "though it is selfish, you must not think me mad though others will, if I dare to ask thai some day — a long way off, when I shall have found myself capable of supporting you. not, alas, as I should wish to do, but in some comfort —you will let me .all you my very own. Do you love me jusi a little, little bit?' 428 A MODERN DICK WBITT1NGT0N. "Now, this will not do," said Mrs. Merridew, who, from an unfortunate habit acquired in her attendance on Popsy, had got into the way of entering a room without noise, " I will not have Ruth upset, Lawrence, or made miserable by anybody/' Ruth managed to say, though in a rather low and tearful voice, that so far from being miserable, she was exceedingly content with her lot in life. Mrs. Merridew cast one sharp glance at the young people, and replied veiy unexpectedly, " And so you ought to be ; ' then added, much to her son's relief, " I am sure these lodgings are all we could wish for, and much better than we could have expected. Your friend, Miss Latham, is a dear, and has got us quite what we wanted, don't you think so, Lorry ? " " I think they are very nice rooms, though not a bit nicer than Ruth — and you — deserve," he said. " But they strike you, no doubt, as Mr. Latham (and he is a dear also) thought they would, as a little too expensive." " I never thought anything of the kind," cried Lawrence, with a quick Hush ; " Mr. Latham had no right " " T will not have Lawrence teased or kept in the dark any longer, mother," exclaimed Ruth, WISE \T LAST. i-!' with indignation. It had been usual with her when they were quite alone to call her aunt, who had, indeed, supplied the place of a parent to her, by this endearing title ; but it had now a new significance. "He has been telling" me how he intends to work his fingers to the bone, and rack his brain, that yon and I may be kept in comfort," she went on. "Mr. Latham lias told us the same, but we knew it all before, did we not ? ' "Yes, I knew I had a good son," said Mrs. Merridew, intending to be heroic and philosophic, but crying very much, and looking much more like a British mother than a Roman one. " A very wilful son, I am afraid," said Law- rence. "You're a dear," said Mrs. Merridew, em- bracing him, " a dear. Tell him all about it, Ruth, for I can't, and that's flat." Mrs. Merridew had certainly not the talent for diplomacy, nor even, as it seemed, the art of " breaking " things, which her niece had ex- hibited. "Well, the fact is, Lorry dear," said Ruth, "that our good friend, Mr. Percy, in addition to all the other benefits he has conferred upon your mother and me, has found us a fortune. Poor Aunt Jerry, though neither In- nor she thought she had really anything to leave, left a will 430 A MODERN BIGK WHITTINGTON. behind her. It seems that in obedience to her husband's wishes she had never parted with certain shares in the Common Wheal mine, that has been shut up years, but is now being worked again with the most astonishing results. These shares, Mr. Percy tells me, are worth a great deal of money — more than £10,000." " And has Aunt Jerry left all that money to mother? " exclaimed Lawrence delightedly. "Well, to whom else should she leave it?" replied Euth ; " she was not likely to leave it to Aunt Jane, nor yet to grandfather, who have plenty of their own." " Of course not. Nor yet to me" observed Lawrence smiling. " However, I bless her memory with all my heart." "And I," said Ruth fervently. " And I," said Mrs. Merridew. " She was a dear. So now you understand why your mother has established herself so luxuriously, and will have no need to pinch and screw for the rest of her life." " This is good news, indeed," exclaimed Lawrence rapturously. " Though I still don't see," he added reproachfully, " why I was not made happy by it hours ago. Was it to try me? Was it to find out whether I was easily discouraged, or shrank from the respon- sibilities that love and duty equally imposed upon me ? ' WTBE IV / 1ST. i.:i "No, it was not," cried MErs. Merridew vehemently, almost sharply. " Bath never doubted you for a moment, and I — am I n<»t your own mother ? " u Thanks, darling," replied Lawrence, deeply moved. " I am quite satisfied, and do not seek to know any further." In his heart he thought it was Mr. Percy who had shown a want of con- fidence in him in this matter, but he could have forgiven him more than that, lint it was n.»i Mr. Percy, nor was the young fellow admitted even yet to the lull possession of the family secret. CHAPTER XLL all's well. As there was plenty of room in the Cheshunt Street house, it was only natural that Lawrence Merridew should exchange his quarters for his mother's roof ; after which another occurrence became so much more natural, that it is hardly- necessary to mention it. Since Lawrence could keep himself, with something over, by his pen, and his income, though absurdly small when compared with what we are so often told " it is impossible to marry upon," he did not long- remain a bachelor. The home of the young couple was with his mother, with whom Ruth had lived too long on terms of sympathy and affection to have any of those disagreements which perhaps take place between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, more often in fiction than in fact. At all events, they never had any. It was in some respects an ideal household. Had it been far less luxurious, it would have ALL' 8 WELL. I 13 seemed a seventh heaven to all three of them, compared with their experience of life at 1 1 illsland. What they lia well as those which had been "stuck to ' by Aunt Jerry. He had to leave the Hall, and what was worse, to take Aunt Jane with him, a person hardly fitted to be a cheerful companion in adversity. Hillsland knows them no more. but it has a permanent record of one of the family in a very handsome monument erected in the churchyard by his sorrowing widow to that "best of husbands," Robert Stratton, Esq., J.P., D.L. mi. END. 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