THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES WEAVERS AND WEFT l^ntr oi^tx Caks BY THE AUTHOR OF o on to tlic house, if you'll unlock tlie gate again, IMrs. j\Iead.' ' Shall I send one of my boys to the house with a message, sir, about dinner, or anything ? ' ' You are very good. Yes, you can send the lad to tell old Mrs. Pomfret to "et me something to e:it O O at six o'clock, if you please. I must get back U) London by the 7.30 train.' * Deary me, sir, going back so soon as that ? ' 26 WEAVEES AND WEFT. The gates of Marcbbrook were about half a mile distant from the keeper's lodge. Lord Clanyarde's house was a dreary red brick habitation, of the Georgian era, with long lines of narrow windows looking out upon a blank expanse of pasture land, by courtesy a park. An avenue of elms led from the lodge gate to the southern front of the house, and on the western side there was a prim Dutch garden, divided from the park by a ha-ha. The place was in perfect order, but there was a cold, bare look about everything that was eminently suggestive of narrow means. A woman at the lodge informed Sir Cyprian that there was no one at home. Lord Clanyarde had driven to Maidstone. Miss Clanyarde was in the village; she had gone to see the children at the National School, She would be home at two, to lunch, no doubt, according to her usual habit. She was very fond of the school, and sometimes spent her morning in teaching the children. 'But they leave school at twelve, don't they?' demanded Sir Cyprian. ' Yes, sir ; but I dare say Miss Constance has 'WHEN WE TWO PARTED.' 27 stopped to talk to INIiss Evans, the schoolmistress. She is a very genteel young person, and quite a favourite with our ladies.' Cyprian Davenant knew the little school-house, and the road by which Constance Clanyarde must return from her mission. Nothing could be more pleasant to him than the idea of meeting her in her solitary walk. He turned away from the lodge- keeper, muttering something vague about calling again later, and walked at a rapid pace to the neigh- bouring village, which consisted of two straggling rows of old-fashioned cottages fringing the skirts of a common. Close to the old ivy-covered church, with its massive square tower and grass-grown grave- yard, there was a modern Gothic building in which the village children strup^gled through the difficulties of an educational course, and from the open windows whereof their youthful voices rang loudly out upon the summer air every morning in a choral version of the multiplication table. Miss Clanyarde was standing in the little stone porch talking to the schoolmistress when Sir Cyprian opened the low wooden gate. Slie looked 28 WEAVERS AND WEFT. up at the sound of his footstep with a sudden blush. ' I did not know you v/ere at Davenant, Sir Cyprian,' he said, with some little embarrassment, as they shook hands. ' I have not been at Davenant, Miss Clanyarde. I only left town this morning. I have come down here to say good-bye to Davenant and all old friends.' The blush faded, and left the lovely face very pale. ' Is it true that you are going to Africa ? I heard from some friends in town that you were to join Captain Harcourt's expedition.' ' It is quite true. I promised Harcourt some years ago that if he ever went 'again I would go with him.' ' And you are pleased to go, I suppose ? ' ' No, Miss Clanyarde, not pleased to go. But I think that sort of thing is about the best employ- ment for the energies of a waif and stray, such as I am. I have lived my life, you see, and have not a single card left to play in the game of civilized 'WIIKX WE TWO PARTED.' 29 existence. There is some hope of adventure out yonder. Are you going home ? ' 'Yes, I was just saying good-bye to Miss Evans as you came in.' ' Then I'll walk back to JNlarchbrook with you, if you'll allow me. I told the lodge-keeper I would return by and by in the hope of seeing Lord Clanyarde.' * Yoii have been to Marchbrook already, then? ' ' Yes, and they told me at the lodge that I should find you here.' After this there came rather au awkward silence. They walked away from the school-house side by side, Sir Cyprian furtively watchful of his com- panion's face, in v/hich there were signs of a sorrow that seemed something deeper than the conventional regret which a fashionable beauty might express for the departure of a favourite waltzer. The silence was not broken until they had arrived at a point where two roads met, the turnpike road to jNIarchbrook, and a shady lane, a cross country road, above which the overarching branches of the elms made a roof of foliage in this midsummer 80 WEAVEES AND WEFT. season. There was a wav of reachino; Marchbrook by this laue, a tempting walk compared to the high road. * Let us go back by the lane/ said Cyprian. ' It is a little longer, but I am sure you are not in a hurry. You would have dawdled away half the morning talking to that young woman at the school if I hadn't come to fetch you, and it will be our last walk together, Constance. I may call you Constance, may I not, as I used when you were in the nursery ? I am entitled to a few dismal privileges, like a dying man, you know. Oh, Constance, what happy hours we have spent together in these Kentish lanes ! I shall see them in my dreams out yonder, and your face will shine down upon me from a background of green leaves and blue sky ; and then I shall awake to find myself camping out upon some stretch of barren sand, with jackals howling in the distance.' 'What a dreadful picture !' said Constance, with a faint forced laugh. ' But if you are so reluctant to leave England, why do you persist in this African expedition ? ' 'It is a point of honour with me to keep my 'WHEN WE TWO PARTED.' 31 promise ; and it is better for me to be away from England.' * You are the best judge of that question.' Sir Cyprian was slow to reply to this remark. He had come down to Kent upon a sudden impulse, determined in no manner to betray his own folly, and bent only upon snatching the vain delight of a farewell interview with the girl he loved. But to be with her, and not to tell her the truth was more difficult than he had imagined. He could see that she was sorry for his departure, he believed that she loved him, but he knew enough of Viscount Clanyarde's principles and his daughter's education to know there Avould be something worse than cruelty in asking this girl to share his broken fortunes. ' Yes, Constance,' he went on, ' it is better for me to be away. So long as I am here it is the old story of the insect and the flame. I cannot keep out of temptation. I cannot keep myself from haunting the places where I am likely to meet the girl I love, fondly, foolishly, hopelessly. Don't look at me with those astonished eyes, my darling. You must have known my secret ever so long. I meant to keep silence till ,32 AVEAVEKS AND WEFT. the end ; but you see' the words are spoken in spite of me. My love, I dare not ask you to be my wife. I dare only tell you that no other woman will ever bear that name. You are not angry with me, Constance, for having spoken ? ' ' Angry with you ' she began, and then broke down utterly, and burst into tears. He drew his arm round her with a tender protecting gesture, and soothed her gently, as if she had been a child. ' Dear love, I am not worth your tears. If I had been a better man I might have redeemed Davenant by this time, and might have hoped to make you my wife. There would have been some hope for me, would there not, dear, if I could have offered you a home that your father could approve. ? ' ' I am not so mercenary as you think me,' an- swered Constance, drying her tears, and disengaging herself from Sir Cyprian's encircling arm. 'I am not afraid of poverty. But I know that my father would never forgive ' •'And I know it too, my dearest girl, and you shall not be asked to break with your father for ' win::; wi: two PxVkted.' 33 such a man as I. I never meant to speak of this, dear, bi\t perhaps it is better that I should have spoken. You will soon forget me, Constance, and I shall hear of you making some brilliant marriage before I have been away very long. God grant the man may be worthy of you. God grant you may marry a good man.' ' I am not very likely to marry,' replied Miss Clanyarde. ' ]My dearest, it is not possible you can escape. Heaven forbid that my shadow should come be- tween you and a happy future. It is enough for one of us to carry the burden of a life-long regret.' There was much more talk between them before they arrived at a little gate opening into the March- brook kitchen-garden ; fond regretful talk of the days that were gone, in which> they had been so much together down in Kent, with all the freedom per- mitted between friends and neicrhbours of long standing, the days before Constance had made her d^lut in the great world. Sir Cyprian did not persevere in his talked-of visit to Lord Clanyarde. He had, in truth, very little VOL. I, D 34 WEAVEES AND WEFT. desire to see that gentleman. At the little garden gate he took Miss Clanyarde's two hands in his own with one fond fervent clasp. ' You know thfe old song,' he said, ' " it may Le for years, and it may be for ever." It is an eternal parting for me, darling, for I can never hope to call yon by that sweet name again. You have been very good to me in letting me speak so freely to-day, and it is a kind of consolation to have told you my sorrow. God bless you, and good-bye.' This was their parting. Sir Cyprian went back to Davenant, and spent a dreary hour in walking up and down the corridor, and looking into the empty rooms. He remembered them tenanted by the loved and lost. How dismal they were now in their blank and unoccupied state ! and how little likelihood there was that he should ever see them again! His dinner was served for him in a pretty breakfast-room, with a bow -window overlook iug a garden that had been his mother's delight, and where the roses she had loved still blossomed in all their glory. The memory of the dead was with him as he eat his solitary meal, and he was glad vv'hen it was time for "WHEN WE TWO PARTED,' 35 liiui to leave the great desolate house, in which every door closed with a dismal reverberation, as if it had been shutting upon a vault. He left Davenant immediately after dinner, and walked back to the little station, thinking mournfully enough of his day's work, and of the life that lay before him. Before noon next day he and his com- panions were on the first stage of their journey, speeding towards Marseilles. CHAPTER III. 'IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' Nearly a year liad gone since Cyprian Davenant turned his back upon British soil. It was the end of May, high season in London, and unusually bril- liant weather, the West End streets and squares thronged with carriages, and everywhere throughout that aristocratic western world a delightful flutter and buzz of life and gaiety ; as if the children of that pleasant region had indeed in some manner secured an exemption from the cares and sorrows of meaner mortals, and were bent on making the most of thei^" privileged existence. A neatly appointed brougham waited before the door of a house in Half-moon Street, and had been waiting there for some time. It was Mrs. Walsing- ham's brougham, and the lady herself was slowly pacing up and down her little drawing-room, pausing every now and then to look out of the window and 'IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIKST DID FAIL.' 37 in a very unpleasant state of mind. She was dressed for walking, in one of those airy combinations of India muslin and fine old lace which she so much afiected, her warm brown hair crowned with a bonnet that seemed to be made of pansies, and she was looking very handsome, in spite of the cloud upon her brow, and a certain angry sparkle in her eyes' 'I suppose he is not coming,' she muttered at last, tossing her white silk umbrella upon the table with a petulant gesture. ' This will be the second disappointment in a week. But I shall not go to the concert without him. What do I care for their tiresome classical music, Hummel, and Chopin, and all the rest of them, or to be stared at by a crowd of great ladies who don't choose to know me ? ' She rang the bell violently, but before it could be answered there came a thundering double knock at the door below, and a minute afterwards Gilbei't Sinclair dashed into the room. ' Late again, Grdbert,' cried j\lrs. AValsin^ham reproachfully, her face brightening nevertheless at his coming, and kindling witli a pleased welcoming smile as they shook hands . 38 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 'Yes, I know, it's late for that confounded concert. But I want you to let me off that infliction, Clara. That sort of thing is such a consummate bore to a man who doesn't know the difference between Balfe and Beethoven, and you know I have a heap of engagements on my hands.' ' You have only come to cry off, then ? ' said Mrs. "Walsingham, with a sudden contraction of her firmly moulded lips. ' My dear Clara, how demoniac you can look when you like ! But I wouldn't cultivate that kind of expression if I were you. Of course I'll go to the concert with you if you are bent upon it, rather than run the risk of anything in the way of a scene. But you know very well that I don't care for music, and you ought to know ' He stopped, hesitating, with a furtive look in his red-brown eyes, and a nervous action of one big hand about his thick brown moustache. ' I ought to know what, IMr. Sinclair ? ' asked Clara Walsingham, with a sudden hardness of voice and manner. ' That it is good neither for your reputation nor ' IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 39 mine that we slioukl be seen so often tocrether at such pLices as this Portman Sq^uare concert. It is almost a private affair, you know, and everybody present will know all about us.' ' Indeed ! and since when has Mr, Gilbert Sinclair become so careful of his reputation — or of mine ? ' 'Since you set your friends talking about our being engaged to be married, Mrs. Walsingham. You have rather too many feminine acquaintances with long tongues. I don't like being congratulated — or chaffed — it comes to pretty much the same thing — upon an event which you and I know can never happen.' 'Never is a long word, Gilbert. My husband may die, and leave me free to become your wife ; if you should do me the honour to repeat the pro- posal which you made to me six years ago.' ' I don't like waiting for dead men's shoes, Clara,' answered Sinclair, in rather a sulky tone. ' I made you that offer in all good faith, when I believed you to be a widow, and when I was madly in love with you; but six years is a long time, and ' 40 wi':avki;s and aveft. He broke down again, and stood before her with his eyes fixed on the ground. 'And mea are fickle,' she said, taking up his unfinished sentence. ' What is that Alfred de Musset says ? ' — " C'est riiistoiie du ecear.— Tout va, si vite en lui ! Tout y meurt, comme un son, tout, excepte Tennui ! " That is what a man says of himself, you know. The woman in the story is constant — constant in her love and constant in her revenge. You have grown tired of me, Gilbert, is that what you mean ? ' 'Not exactly that, Clara, but rather tired of a position that keeps me a single man witliout a single man's liberty. You are quite as exacting as a wife, more jealous than a mistress; and I am getting to an age now at which a man begins to feel a kind of yearning for something more like a home than chambers in the Albau}^, some one more like a wife than a lady who requires one to be perpetually playing the cavaliere servente.^ ' Have I been exacting, Gilbert ? I did not know that. I have tried my uttermost to make my house agreeable to you. Believe me, I care less ' IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 41 for gaiety than yoii imagine. I should be satisfied with a very dull life if I saw you often. Oh, Gilbert, I think you ought to know how well I love you.' ' I could better have believed that six years ago, if you had consented to leave England with me, as I proposed, when I found out the secret of Colonel Walsingham's existence, and that the Yankee divorce was all bosh.' ' I loved you too well to sink as low as that, Gilbert.' ' I thought the strength of a woman's love was best shown by her sacrifice of self You preferred your reputation to my happiness, and have kept me dangling on ever since, for the gratification of your vanity, I suppose. It M'ould have been more generous to have dismissed me, and made an end of the farce at once.' ' You were not so uilliuu to be dismissed until very lately, Gilbert. You were quite willing that we should continue friends, with the hope that the future might make us something nearer and dearer. AVliy have you grown so tired of me all of a sudden ? ' 42 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' I tell you again, it is tlie position I am tired of, not you. If you were free to marry me it would be a different thinir, of course. As it is we are botli wasting our lives, and getting ourselves talked about into the bargain.' Clara Walsingham laughed scornfully at this. ' I care very little what people say of me,' she said. ' English society has not chosen to receive me very graciously, and I feel myself at liberty to despise its petty by-laws. Nor did I think you would consider yourself injured by having your name linked with mine.' ' But you see, Clara, it does a man harm to have it said he is engaged to a woman he never can marry. It does him some kind of harm in certain circles.' ' How vague you are, Gilbert, and how mys- terious! Some kind of harm in certain circles. What does that mean ? ' She stood for a minute looking at him, with a sudden intensity in her face. He kept his eyes on the ground during that sharp scrutiny, but he was fully conscious of it nevertheless. IT WAS THIXE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 43 ' Gilbert Sinclair,' she cried, after a long pause, ' 3'ou are iu love with some other woman. You are going to jilt me.' There was a suppressed agony in her tone which both surprised and alarmed the man to whom she spoke. Of late he had doubted the sincerity of her attachment to him, and had fostered that doubt, telling himself that it was his wealth she cared for. ' Would it grieve you very much if I were to marry, Clara ? ' he asked. ' Grieve me if you were to marry ! It would be the end of my life. I would never forgive you. But you are playing with me. You are only trying to frighten me.' 'You are frightening yourself,' he answered. ' I only put the question in a speculative way. Let us drop tlie subject. If you want to go to the concert ' ' I don't want to go ; I am not fit to go any- where. Will you ring that bell, please ? I shall send the brougham back to the stable.' ' Won't you drive in the park this fine after- noon ? ' •i4 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' No ; I am fit for nothing now.' A maid-servant came in answer to the bell. * You can take my bonnet, Filby,' said Mrs. Walsinfjham, removino; that floral structure, ' and tell Johnson I shall not want the brougham to-day You'll stop to dinner, won't you, Gilbert ? ' she went on when the maid had retired. 'Mr. Wyatt is to be here, and Sophy Morton.' ' How fond you are of those actor people ! So Jim Wyatt is coming, is lie ? I rather want to see him. But I have other engagements this afternoon, and I really don't think I can stay.' ' Oh, yes, you can, Gilbert. I shall think I had just grounds for my suspicion if you are so eager to run away.' * Very well, Clara, if you make a point of it I will stop.' Mr. Sinclair threw himself into one of the low luxurious chairs, with an air of resignation scarcely complimentary to his hostess. Time was when this woman had exercised a profound power over him, when he had been indeed eager to make her his wife ; but that time was past and gone. He was tired of 'IT AVAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 4n an alliance which demanded from him more than it was in his selfish nature to give ; and he was inclined to be angry with himself for having wasted so much of his life upon an infatuation which he now accounted the one supreme mistake of his career. Before his charmed eyes there had appeared a vision of womanly loveliness compared with which Clara Walsingharn's beauty seemed of the earth, earthy. He could not deny that she was beautiful, but in that other girlish face there was a magic which he had never before encountered, a glamour that enthralled his narrow soul. The interval before dinner dragged wearily, in spite of Mrs. Walsingharn's efforts to sustain a pleasant conversation about trifles. Gilbert was not to be beguiled into animated discussion upon any subject whatever. It seemed as if the two were treading cautiously upon the verge of some conver- sational abyss, some dangerous chasm, into whose depths tliey might at any moment descend with a sudden plunge. jMrs. Walsingham questioned her companion about his plans for the end of the season. 46 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Shall you go to Norway for the salmon fishing ? ' she asked. ' I think not. I am tired of that part of the world.' ' Then I suppose you will amuse yourself with the grouse in Scotland ? ' 'No, I have just declined a share in a moor. I am heartily sick of grouse shooting. I have really no settled plans as yet. I shall contrive to get rid of the autumn somehow, no doubt.' The conversation dawdled on in this languid manner for a couple of hours, and then Mr. Sinclair went away to change his loose gray suit for the regulation evening dress. The smile which Mrs.Walsingham's face had worn while she talked to him faded the moment he had left her, and she began to pace the room with rapid steps and a clouded brow. ' Yes, there is no doubt of it,' she muttered to herself, with suppressed passion. ' I have seen the change in him for the last t^\'elve months. There is some one else. How should I lose him if it were not so ? Heaven knows what pains I have taken to ' IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL,' 47 retain my hold upon liim ! There is some one else. He is afraid to tell me the truth. He is wise in that respect. Who can the woman be for whom I am to be forsaken ? He knows so many people, and visits so much, and is everywhere courted and flattered on account of his mone}\ Oh, Gilbert, fool, fool ! Will any woman ever love you as I have loved you, for your own sake, without a thought of your for- tune, with a blind idolatry which has made me indifferent to your faults ? What is it that I love in him, I wonder ? I know that lie is not a good man. I have seen his heartlessness too often of late not to know that he is hard and cruel and remorseless towards those who come between him and his iron will. But I, too, could be hard and remorseless if a great wrong were done me. Yes, even to him. Let him take care how he pro- vokes a passionate, reckless nature like mine. Let him beware of playing with fire.' This was the gist of her thoughts during a gloomy reverie that lasted more than an hour. At the end of that time Miss Morton was anuounced, and came 11 uttering into the room, resplendent in 48 WEAVERS AND WEFT. rose-coloured silk and black lace, followed shortly by James Wyatt, the lawyer, courteous and debon- nair, full of small tnlk and the latest fashionable scandal. Gilbert Sinclair was the last to enter. The dinner was elegantly served in a pretty litt]e dining-room, hung with pale green draperies, and adorned with a few clever water-colour pictures, a room in which there was a delightful air of cool- ness and repose. The folding-doors between the two rooms on the ground-floor had been removed, and the back room was covered with a cool Indian matting, and converted into a kind of conservatory for large ferns and orange trees, the dark foliage whereof made an agreeable background to the pollard oak furniture in the dining-room. There was no profuse display of plate upon the round table, but the wine flasks and tall-hemmed glasses were old Venetian, and the dessert service was old Wedge- wood. ]Mr. "Wyatt was invaluable in the task of sustain- ing the conversation, and Clara Walsingham seconded- him admirably, though there was a sharp anguish at her heart that was now almost an habitual pain, an IT WAS THIXE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 49 agony prophetic of a coming blow. Gilbert Sinclair was a little brighter than he had been in the after- noon, and contributed his share to the talk with a decent grace, only once or twice betraying absence of mind by a careless answer and a wandering look in his big brown eyes. James Wyatt and jNIrs. Walsingham had been running through a catalogue of the changes of fortune, for good or evil, that had befallen their common acquaintances, when Gilbert broke in upon their talk suddenly with the question, — ' What has become of that fellow who dined with us at Kichmond last year ? Sir Cyprian something.' ' Sir Cyprian Davenant,' said James Wyatt. ' He is still in Africa.' ' In Africa ; ah, yes, to be sure, I remember hearing that he was going to join Harcourt's expe- dition, I was not much impressed by him, though I had heard him talked about as something out of the common way. He had precious little to say for himself.' ' You saw him at a disadvantage that day. He was out of spirits at leaving England.' VOT. T. -R 50 WEAVERS AKD ^VEFT. ' Very likely ; but I had met him in society very often before. He's rather a well-looking fellow, no doubt; but I certainly couldn't discover any special merit in him beyond his good looks. He's a near neighbour of the Clanyardes, by the way, when he's at home, is he not ? ' ' When he's at home, yes,' answered the solicitor. ' But I doubt if ever he'll go home again.' ' You mean that he'll come by his death in Africa, I suppose ? ' 'I sincerely hope not, for Cyprian Davenant is one of my oldest friends. No, I mean that he's not very likely to see the inside of his ancestral halls any more. The place is to be sold this year.' ' The baronet is quite cleaned out, then ? ' ' He has about four hundred a year which he inherited from his mother, so tightly tied up that he has not been able to make away with it.' * What Clanyardes are those ? ' asked Mrs. Wal- singham. * Viscount Clanyarde and his family. They have a place called Marchbrook, and a very poor place it *IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 51 is, the adjoining estate to Davenant. The old Viscount is as poor as Job.' ' Indeed. But his youngest daughter will make a great match, no doubt, and redeem the fortunes of the house. I saw her at the opera the other night. She was pointed out to me as the loveliest girl in London, and I really tliiiik she has a right to be called so. What do you think of her, Gilbert ? ' She fixed her eyes upon Sinclair with a sudden scrutiny that took him off his guard. A dusky flush came over his face, and he hesitated awkwardly before replying to her very simple question. Clara Walsinirham's heart rave a OTeat throb. 'That is the woman,' she said to herself. ' Miss Clanyarde is very handsome,' stammered Gilbert, ' at least, I believe that is the general opinion about her. She has been intimate with your friend Davenant ever since she was a child, hasn't she, Wyatt?' he asked, with an indiflerenceof tone which one listener knew to be assumed. * Yes, I have heard him say as much,' the other answered, with an air of reserve which implied the 52 WEAVERS AND WEFT, possession of more knowledge upon this point than he cared to impart. , ' Those acquaintances of the nursery are apt to end in something more than friendship,' said Mrs. Walsiugham. ' Is there any engagement between Sir Cyprian and Miss Clanyarde ? ' ' Decidedly not.' Gilbert Sinclair burst into a harsh laugh. ' Not very likely,' he exclaimed. ' I should like to see old Clanyarde's face if his daughter talked of marrying a gentlemanly pauper.' ' That is the woman he loves,' Mrs. Walsinszham repeated to herself. No more was said about Sir Cyprian or the Clanyardes. The conversation drifted into other channels, and the evening wore itself away more or less pleasantly, with the assistance of music by and by in the drawing-room, where there were a few agreeable droppers in. Mrs. Walsingham played brilliantly, and possessed a fine mezzo-soprano, which had been cultivated to an extreme degree. There were those who said she had been an opera singer before her marriage with that notorious rou^ and IT WAS THINE OATH THAT FIRST DID FAIL.' 53 reprobate, Veruon Walsingham, fiut this was not true. Clara "Walsingliam's musical powers had never been exercised professionally. She had a real love of music, for its own sake, and found consolation during many desolate hours in the companionship of her piano. CHAPTER IV. 'OFFEND HEE AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' Three days after the little dinner in Half-moon Street, Mrs. Walsingliam sat at her solitary breakfast- table rather later than usual, dawdling over the morning papers, and wondering drearily what she should do with the summer day before her. She had seen nothing of Gilbert Sinclair since the dinner, and had endured an agony of self-torment in the interval. His name appeared in one of the morning journals among the guests at a distinguished countess's ball on the previous evening, and in the list of names above Mr. Sinclair's she found those of Lord Clanyarde and his daughter. There had been a time when Gilbert set his face against all fashion- able entertainments, voting them the abomination of desolation. He had changed of late, and went every- where, raising fond hopes in the breasts of anxious mothers with large broods of marriageable daughters, waiting for their promotion. OFFEXD HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FOUGIVE.' 55 Mrs. Walsincfliam sat for some time looking vacantly at the long list of names, and thinking of the man she loved. Yes, she loved him. She knew liis character by heart, knew how nearly that ob- stinate selfish nature verged upon brutality, and loved him nevertheless. Something in the force of his character exercised a charm over her own ill- reo-ulated mind. She had believed in the streno-th of his affection for herself, which had been shown in a passionate undisciplined kind of manner, that blinded her to the shallowness of the sentiment. She had been intensely proud of her power over tliis rough Hercules, all the more proud of his subjugation because of that half-hidden brutishness which she had long ago divined in him. She liked him for what he was, and scarcely wished him to be better than he Avas. She only wanted him to be true to her. When he had asked her, years ago, to be his wife, she had frankly told him the story of her youth and marriage. Her husband was five-and-twenty years her senior, a man with a constitution broken by nearly half a century of hard living, and she looked forward hopefully to a speedy release from a 56 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. union that had long been hateful to her. She had believed that it would be possible to retain Gilbert's affection until the time when that release should come without sacrifice of honour or reputation. Had she not believed and hoped this, it is impossible to say what guilty sacrifice she might not have been willing to make rather than lose the man she loved. She had hoped to keep him dangling on, governed by her womanly tact, a faithful slave, until the Colonel — who led a stormy kind of existence, wandering about the Continent, haunting German gaming-tables, and plucking English pigeons — should be good enough to depart this life. But the Colonel was a long time exhausting his battered constitution, and the flowery chain in which Mrs. Walsingham held her captive had faded considerably with the passage of years. A loud double knock startled the lady from her reverie. Who could such an early visitor be ? Gilbert himself, perhaps. He had one of those exceptional constitutions to which fatigue is a stranger, and would be no later astir to-day because of last night's ball. Her heart fluttered hopefully, but sank again with the familiar anguish of dis- ' OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 57 appointment as the door \vas opened and a low deferential voice made itself heard in the hall. Those courteous tones did not belong to Gilbert Sinclair. A card was brought to her presently, with James Wyatt's name upon it, and ' On special business, with many apologies,' written in pencil below the name in the solicitor's neat hand. 'Shall I show the gentleman to the drawing- room, ma'am, or will yon see him here ? ' asked the servant. ' Ask him to come in here. What special busi- ness can Mr. Wyatt have with me ? ' she wondered. The solicitor came into the room as she asked herself this t^uestion, looking very fresh and bright in his careful morning costume. He Avas more careful ot his toilet than many handsomer men, and knew how far the elegance of his figure and the perfection of his dress went to atone for his plain face. ' My dear Mrs. Walsingham,' he began, ' I owe you a thousand apologies for this unseasonable intrusion. If I did not think the nature of my busi- ness would excuse ' 58 WKAVEKS AND "WEFT. ' There is nothing to be excused. You find me guilty of a very late breakfast, that is all. Why should you not call at half-past ten as well as at half-past three ? It is very kind of you to come at all.' There was a tone of indifference in all this politeness, a half weary tone, which did not fail to strike James Wyatt. He had made this woman a study during the last year, and he knew every note of her voice, every expression of her face. ' I hold it one of my dearest privileges to be received by you,' he replied, with a certain grave tenderness. * There are some men who do not know when they are happy, Mrs. Walsingham. I am not one of those.' She looked at him with a surprise that was half scornful. ' Pray spare me the pretty speeches which make you so popular with other women,' she said. ' You spoke of business just now. Did you really mean business ? ' ' Not in a legal sense. My errand this morning is of rather a delicate nature. I would not for the OFFEND IIEK AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 59 world distress or offend you by any unwarranted allusion to your domestic relations, but I believe I am the bearer of news which can scarcely have reached you yet by any other channel, and which may not be altogether unwelcome.' ' What news can you possibly bring me ? ' she asked, with a startled look. ' Would it distress you to hear that Colonel Walsingham is ill — dangerously ill, even ? ' Her breath came quicker as he spoke. ' I am not hypocrite enough to pretend that,' she answered. ' My heart has long been dead to any feeling but anger — I will not say hatred, though he has deserved as much — where that man is con- cerned. I have suffered too much by my union with him/ ' Then let me be the first to congratulate you upon your release from bondage. Your husband is dead.' Clara Walsingham's cheek blanched, and she was silent for some moments ; and then she asked in a steady voice, ' How did you come by the news of his death ? ' 60 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' In the simplest and most natural manner. My business requires me to be au courant as to Conti- nental affairs, and I get several French and German newspapers. In one of the last I found the account of a duel, succeeding upon a quarrel at the gaming- table, in which your husband fell, shot through the lungs. He only survived a few hours. His oppo- nent was a Frenchman, and is now under arrest. Shall I read you the paragraph ? ' * If you please,' answered Mrs. Walsingham, with perfect calmness of manner. Her heart was beating tumultuously nevertheless. She had a dismal con- viction that no advantage— that is to say, not that one advantage for which she longed— would come to her from her husband's death. How eagerly she had desired his death once ! To-day the news gave her little satisfaction. Mr. Wyatt took a slip of newspaper from his card-case, and read her the brief account of the Colonel's exit from this mortal strife. Duels were common enough at Hombourg in those days, and the journal made very little of the sanguinary business. 'As many of my friends believe me to have ' OFFEND HEU AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FOEGIVE. 61 been left a widow long ago I shall make no fuss about this event ; and I shall be very grateful if you will be good enough not to talk of it anywhere, Mrs. Walsingham said, by and by, after a thought- ful pause. 'I shall be careful to obey you,' answered the lawyer. ' I wonder how you came to guess that I was not a widow, and that Colonel Walsiugham was my husband ? He took me abroad directly after our marriacre, and we were never in England to- gether.' ' It is a solicitor's business to know a great many things, and in this case there was a strong personal interest. You accused me just now of flattering women; and it is quite true that I have now and then amused myself a little with the weaker of your sex. Until about a year ago I believed myself incapable of any real feeling, of any strong attach- ment, and had made up my mind to a life of soli- tude, relieved by the frivolities of society. But at that time a marked change came over me, and I found that I too was doomed to suffer life's great fever. 62 WEAVERS AND WEFT. In a word, I fell desperately in love. I think you can guess the rest.' * I am not very good at guessing, but I suppose the lady is some friend of mine, or you would scarcely choose me for a confidante. Is it Sophy Morton ? I know you admire her.' 'As I admire wax dolls, or the Haydees and Zuleikas of an illustrated Byron,' answered Mr. Wyatt, with a wry face. ' Sophy Morton would have about as much power to touch my heart or influence my mind as the wax dolls or the Byronic beauties. There is only one woman I have ever loved, or ever can love, and her name is Clara Walsingham.' Mrs. Walsingham looked at him with unaffected surprise. ' Of course I ought to feel very much flattered by such a declaration on }'our part, Mr. Wyatt, if I could quite bring myself to believe in your sincerity.' ' Put me to the proof.' * I cannot do that. I can only thank you for the honour you have done me, and regret that you should endanger the smooth course of our friendship 'OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 60 b}' tluit kind of declaration. I have learnt to rely upon you as a friend and an adviser, a thoroiigli man of the world, and the last of mankind to lapse into sentimentality.' 'There is no sentimentality in the business, Mrs. Walsingham. I offer you a real and devoted affection, such an affection as a man feels but once in his life, and which a woman should scarcel}' reject without a thought of its value. I know I must seem at a disadvantage amongst the men who surround you, but they are men of the butterfly species, and I believe the best of them to be in- capable of feeling as I feel for you. Yes, you are right when you call me a man of the world. It is to such men that love comes with its fullest force when it comes at all. I have not yielded weakly to the great master of mankind. I have counted the cost, and I know the devotion which I offer you to-day is as unalterable as it is profound.' 'I am sorry that I should have inspired any such sentiment, Mr. Wyatt. I can never return it,' ' Is that your irrevocable reply ? ' ' It is,' she answered, decisively. 64 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 'You reject the substance, an honest man's devoted love ; and yet you are content to waste the best years of your life upon a shadow.' ' I don't understand you.' ' Oh, yes, I think you do. I think you know as well as I do how frail a reed you have to lean on when you put your trust in Gilbert Sinclair.' * You have no right to speak about Mr. Sinclair,' answered Clara Walsinoham, with an indi<];nant flush. 'What do you know of him, or of my feelings in relation to him ? ' ' I know that you love him. Yes, Clara, it is the business of a friend to speak plainly, and even at the hazard of incurring your anger I will do so. Gilbert Sinclair is not worthy of your affection. You will know that I am right before long, if you do not know it now. It is not in that man's nature to be constant under difficulties, as I would be constant to you. Your hold upon him has been growing weaker every year.' ' If that is true I shall discover the fact quite soon enough from the gentleman himself,' replied Mrs. Walsingham, in a hard voice, and with an ' OFFEND HER AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 65 angry cloud upon her face. ' Your friendship, as you call it, is not required to enlighten me upon a subject which scarcely comes within the province of a confidential solicitor. Yes, Mr. Wyatt, since plain speaking is to be the order of the day, I am weak enouoh and blind enoudi to care for Gilbert Sinclair, better than for any one else upon this earth, and if I do not marry him I shall never marry at all. He may intend to jilt me. Yes, I have seen the chanfje in him. It would be a vain falsehood if I denied that. I have seen the change, and I am waiting for the inevitable day in which the man I once believed to be the soul of truth shall declare himself a traitor.' '^Vould it not be wise to take the initiative, and give him his dismissal ? ' 'No. The wrono; shall come from him. If he can be base enough to forget all the promises of the past, and to ignore tlie sacrifices I have made for him, his infamy shall have no excuse from any folly of mine.' ' And if you find that he is false to you — that he has transferred his affection to another VOL, I. K 66 WEAVERS AND WEFT. woman — you will banish liim from your heart and mind, I trust, and begin life afresh.' Mrs. Walsingham laughed aloud. ' Yes, I shall begin a new life, for from that hour I shall only live upon one hope,' 'And that will be ?' 'The hope of revenge.' ' My dear j\Irs. WalsiDgham ! ' remonstrated the lawyer. ' That sounds melodramatic, does it not ? But you see there is a strong mixture of the melo- dramatic element in real life. Gilbert Sinclair should know that I am not a woman to be jilted with impunity. Of course I don't mean that I should poison him, or stab him. That sort of thing is un-English and obsolete ; except among the labouring classes, who have a rapid way of taking payment for the wrongs that are done them. ISTo ; I should not kill him, but rely upon it I should make his life miserable.' Mr. Wyatt watched her face with a thoughtful expression in his own. Yes, she looked the kind of woman whose anger would take some tangible, ' OFFKXD HER .VXD SHK KNOWS NOT TO FORGIVE.' 67 and perhaps fatal form. She was not a woman to carry the burden of a broken heart in silent patience to the grave. ' Upon my life I should be afraid to offend her,' thought James Wyatt. ' Revenge is a bad word, ' he said, after an- other long pause. * Redress is much better. If Mr. Sinclair should marry, as I have some reason to tliink he will ' ' What reason ? ' ' Public rumour. His attentions to a certain young lady have been remarked by people I know.' ' The lady is the beautiful Miss Clanyarde.' ' How did you discover that ? ' 'From his face, the other night.' 'You are quick at reading his face. Yes, I believe he is over head and ears in love with Constance Clanyarde, as a much better man, Cyprian Davenant, was before him ; and I have no doubt Lord Clanyarde will do his utmost to bring the match about.' ' How long has this been going on ? ' ' Since the beginning of this spason. He may 68 WEAVERS AND WEFT. have lost his heart to the lady last year, but his attentions last year were not so obvious.' ' Do you know if Miss Clanyarde cares for him ? ' ' I have no means of knowing the lady's feeling on the subject, but I have a considerable knowledge of her father, in the way of business ; and I am convinced she will be made — induced is, I suppose, a more appropriate word — to accept Sinclair as a husband. Lord Clanyarde is as poor as Job, and as proud as Lucifer. Yes, I think we may look upon the marriage as a certainty. And now, Mrs. Walsingham, remember that by whatever means you seek redress I am your friend, and shall hold myself ready to aid and abet you in the exaction of your just right. You have rejected me as a husband. You shall discover how faithful I can be as an ally.' 'I don't quite understand the nature of the alliance you propose. Do you mean you will help me to come between that man and all hope of domestic happiness ? You do not know how merciless I could be if chance gave me the power to punish Gilbert Sinclair's infidelity' ' OFFEND HEE AND SHE KNOWS NOT TO FOBGIVE.' 69 T know that he will deserve little compassion from you.' ' But from you ? He has never injured you,' 'Do not be so sure of that. There are petty insults and trivial injuries that make up the sum of a great wrong. Gilbert Sinclair has not treated me well. I will not trouble you with the dry details of our business relations, but I have sufficient reasons for resentment, without reference to you. And now I will intrude upon you no longer. I see you are a little tired of this con- versation. I only entreat you, once more, to remember that I am your friend.' Mrs. Walsingham looked at him with a doubtful expression. He had subjugated her pride com- pletely by tlie boldness of his attack. At another time she might have been angry with him, but the weariness of her spirit and the dull sense of impending sorrow were more powerful than anger. She only felt humiliated and perplexed by James Wyatt's proffers of love and friendship, uncertain how far lie had been sincere in either offer, I have no doubt I ought to be grateful to 70 WEAVERS AND WEFT. you, Mr. Wyatt,' she said, in a slow weary way, 'but I do not think your friendship can ever be of much service to me in the future business of my life, and I trust that you will forget all that has been said this morning. Good-bye.' She gave him her hand. He held it with a gentle pressure as he answered her, — ' It is impossible for me to forget anything that vou have said, but vou shall find me as secret as the grave. Good-bye.' He bent his head, and touched her hand lightly witli his lips before releasing it. In the next instant he was gone. ' How she loves that snob ! ' he said to him- self as he walked away from Half-moon Street ' And how charming she is ! Eich, too. I could scarcely make a better match. It is a case in which inclination and prudence go together. And how easily I might have won her, but for that man ! Well, well, I don't despair of ultimate victory, in spite of Gilbert Sinclair. "Time and I against any two," as Philip of Spain used to say when things went badly ia the Netherlands.' CHAPTEK V. 'TIME IS, TIME WAS.' Mks. Walsingham wrote to Gilbert Sinclair, immediately after ]\Ir. Wyatt's departure, a few hasty lines begging him to come to her without delay. ' Something has occurred,' she wrote, ' an event of supreme importance to me. I will tell you nothing more till we meet.' She despatched her groom to the Albany with this note, and then waited with intense impatience for Gilbert Sinclair's comin[r. If he Were at home it M-as scarcely possible he could refuse to come to her. ' I shall know the worst very soon,' she said to herself, as she sat behind the liowers that shaded her window. 'After to-day tliere shall be no uncertainty between us — no further resei'- vation on my part — no more acting on his. He 72 WEAVERS AND WEFT. shall find that I am not his dupe, to be fooled to the top of my bent, and to be taken by surprise some fine morning by the announcement of his marriage in the Times' Mr. Sinclair was not at home when the note was delivered, but between two and three o'clock in the afternoon his thundering knock assailed the door, and he came into the room unannounced. In spite of the previous night's bail he had ridden fifteen miles into the country that morning to attend a sale of hunters, and was looking flushed after his long ride. • What on earth is the matter, Clara ? ' he asked. ' I have been out since eight o'clock. Poor Townley's stud was sold off this morning at a pretty little place he had beyond Barnet, and I rode down there to see if there was anything worth bidding for. I might have saved myself the trouble, for I never saw such a pack of screws. The ride was pleasant enough, however.' ' I wonder you were out so early after last night's dance.' 'Oh, you've seen my name down among the ' TIME IS, TIME WAS.' 73 swells,' he answered, with a forced laugh. 'Yes, I was hard at it last night, no end of waltzes and galops. But you know late hours never make much difterence to me.' ' Was it a very pleasant party ? ' 'The usual thing — too many people for the rooms.' ' Your favourite, Miss Clanyarde, was there, I see.' * Yes, the Clanyardes were there. But I suppose you haven't sent for me to ask me questions about Lady Deptford's ball ? I thought l)y your letter something serious had happened.' ' Something serious has happened. My husband is dead.' She said the words very slowly, with her eyes fixed on Gilbert Sinclair's face. The florid colour faded suddenly out of his cheeks, and left him ghastly pale. Of all the events within the range of probability this was the last he had expected .to hear of, and the most unwelcome. * Indeed,' lie stammered, after an awkward pause. ' I suppose I ought to congratulate you on the recovery of your freedom ? ' 74 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 'I am very glad to be free.' ' What did he die of — Colonel Walsinghaui ? And how did you get the news ? ' ' From a foreign paper. He was killed in a duel.' And then she repeated the contents of the para- graph James Wyatt had read to her. ' Is the news correct, do you think ? No mis- take about the identity of the person in question ? ' 'None whatever, I am convinced. However, I shall drive into the City presently, and see the solicitor who arranged our separation. I know the Colonel was in the habit of corresponding with him, and no doubt he will be able to give me official intelligence of the event.' After this there came another pause, more awk- ward than the first. Gilbert sat with his eyes fixed upon the carpet, tracing out the figures of it meditatively with the ferrule of his cane, with an air of study as profound as if he had been an art designer bent upon achieving some novel combi- nation of form and colour. Clara Walsingham sat opposite to him, waiting for him to speak, with a 'TIME IS, TIME WAS.' 75 pale, rigid face, that grew more stony as the silence continued. That silence became at last quite un- endurable, and Gilbert felt himself obliged to say something, no matter what. ' Does this business make any alteration in your circumstances ? ' he asked, with a faint show of interest. ' Only for the better. I surrendered to the Colonel the income of one of the estates my father left me, in order to bribe him into consenting to a separation. Henceforward that income will be mine. My poor father took pains to secure me from the possibility of being ruined by a husband. My fortune was wholly at my own disposal, but I was willing to make the surrender in question in exchange for my liberty.' ' I am glad to find you will be so well ofi',' said ]\[r. .Sinclair, still engrossed by the pattern of the carpet. ' Is that all you have to say ? ' 'What more can 1 say upon the subject?' * There was a time when you would have said a great deal more.' 76 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Very likely,' answered Gilbert, bluntly ; ' but then you see that time is past and gone. What is it Friar Bacon's brazen head said — " Time is, time was, time's past." Come, Clara, it is very little use for you and me to play at cross pur- poses. Why did you send for me in such hot haste to tell me of your husband's death?' ' Because I had reason to consider the news would be as welcome to you as it was to me.' 'That might have been so if the event had happened a year or two ago ; unhappily your release comes too late for my welfare. You accused me tlie other day of intending to jilt you. I think that accusation scarcely fair, when it is remembered how long I was contented to remain your devoted slave, patiently waiting for something better than slavery. There is a limit to all things, however, and I con- fess the bondage became a little irksome at last, and I began to look in other directions for the happiness of my future life.' ' Does that mean that you are going to be married ? ' ' It does.' TIME IS, TIME WAS. 77 ' The lady is jNIiss Clanyarcle, I conclude,' said Mrs. Walsinoham. Her breathing; was a little hurried, but there was no other sign of the storm that rasied within. ' Yes, the lady is Constance Clanyarde. And now, my dear Clara, let me entreat you to be reasonable, and to consider how long I waited for the chance that has come at last too late to be of any avail, so far as I am concerneil. I am not coxcomb enough to fear that you will regret me very much, and I am sure you know that I shall always regard you with the warmest friendship and admiration. With your sj)lendid attractions you will have plenty of opportunities in the matri- mouial line, and will have, I dare say, little reason to lament my secession.' Clara Walsingham looked at him with unutter- able scorn. 'And I once gave you credit for a heart, Gilbert Sinclair,' she said. 'Well, the dream is ended.' 'Don't let us part ill friends, Clara. Say you wish me well in my new life.' ' I cannot say anything so false. No, Gilbert, 78 WEAVERS AND WEFT. I will not take your hand. There can be no such thing as friendship between you and me.' ' That seems rather hard,' answered Sinclair, in a sulky tone. ' But let it be as you please. Good- bye.' ' Good morning, INIr. Sinclair.' Mrs. Walsingham rang the bell, but before her summons could be answered, Gilbert Sinclair had gone out of the house. He walked back to the Albany in a very gloomy frame of mind, thinking it a hard thing that Colonel "Walsingham should have chosen this particular time for his death. He was glad that the interview was over, and that Clara knew what she had to expect ; but he felt an imeasy sense that he had not altogether extri- cated himself from an awkward entanglement. * She took it pretty quietly upon the whole,' he said to himself, ' but there was a look in her eyes that I didn't like.' Mrs. Walsingham called on her late husband's lawyer in the course of the afternoon, and received a confirmation of James Wyatt's news. Her hus- band's death increased her income from two to 'TIME IS, TIME WAS.' 79 three thousand a year, arising chiefly from lauded property wliich had been purchased by her father, a city tradesman, who had late in life conceived the idea of becoming a country squire, and had died of the dulness incident upon an unrecognised position in the depths of an agricultural district. His only daughter's marriage with Colonel Wal- singham had been a severe affliction to him, but he had taken care to settle his money upon her in such a manner as to secure it from any serious depredations on the part of the husband. CHAPTER VI. 'ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' The summer had melted into autumn, the London season was over, and the Clanyardes had left then- furnished house in Eaton Place, which the Viscount had taken for the season, to return to Marchbrook, where Gilbert Sinclair was to follow them as a visitor. He had proposed for Constance, and had been accepted, with much inward rejoicing on the part of the lady's father; with a strange conflict of feeling in the mind of the lady herself. Did she love the man she had promised to marry ? Well, no, there was no such feeling as love for Gilbert Sinclair in her mind. She thoudit him tolerably good-looking, and not exactly dis- agreeable, and it had been impressed upon her that he was one of the richest men in England, a man who could bestow upon her everything which a well-bred young lady must, by nature and edu- ' ARISE, BLACK VE-NGliA^■CK, FIJOM THY HOLLOW CELL." 81 cation, desire. The bitter pincli of poverty had been severely felt at Marchbrook, and the Clanyarde girls had been taught, in an indirect kind of way that they were bonnd to contribute to the restora- tion of the family fortunes by judicious marriages. Tlie two elder girls, Adela and Margaret, had married well, — one Sir Henry Elrington, a Sussex baronet, with a very nice place, and a comfortable income, the other a rich East Indian merchant, considerably past middle age. Bat the fortunes of Sir Henry Elrington and Mr. Campion, the merchant, were as nothing compared with the wealth of Gilbert Sinclair; and Lord Clanyarde told his daughter Constance that she would put her sisters to shame by the brilliancy of her mar- riage. He flew into a terrible passion when she expressed herself disinclined to accept Mr. Sinclair's offer, and asked her how she dared to fly in the face of Providence by refusing such a splendid destiny. What in heaven's name did she expect ? A girl without a sixpence of her own, and with nothing but her pretty face and aristocratic lineage to recommend her. Then caxue the two married VOL. I. C 82 WEAVERS AND WEFT. sisters with more lecturing and persuasion, and at last the girl gave way, fairly wearied out, and suffered herself to be scolded into a kind of des- ponding submission. So Gilbert Sinclair came one morning to Eaton Place, and finding Miss Clanyarde alone in the drawing-room, made her a solemn offer of his heart and hand. He had asked her to be his wife before this, and she had put him off with an answer that was almost a refusal. Then had come the scolding and lecturing, and she had been schooled into resicrnation to a fate that seemed to her irresistible. She told her suitor that she accepted him in deference to her father's wishes, and that she could give him nothing better than duty and gratitude in return for the affection he was so good as to entertain for her. This was enough for Gilbert, who was bent on winning her for his wife, in a headstrong, reckless spirit, that made no count of the cost. He put down this speech of Constance's to girlish modesty. She couldn't help being fond of him, he tliought, when he was so fond of her, c'Ud such a good-looking fellow into the bargain. ' ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 83 He was not at all inclined to undervalue liis own merits, or to suppose that any woman could feel indifferent to him. Had not Clara Walsing- ham loved him with an inconvenient devotedness ? But as j\Iiss Clanj^arde sat by and by with her hand in her lover's, and listened to his protesta- tions of affection, there rose before her the vision of a face that was not Gilbert Sinclair's — a darkly splendid face, that had looked upon her with such unutterable love one summer day in the shadowy Kentish lane ; and she wished that Cyprian Davenant had carried her off to some strange, desolate land, in which they might have lived and died together. 'What will he think of me when he hears that I have sold myself to this man for the sake of his fortune ? ' she asked herself; and then she looked up at Gilbert's face and wondered whether she could ever teach herself to love him, or to be gi-ateful to liim for his love. All this had happened within a week of (iilbevt's final interview with Mrs. Walsinghara, and in a very short time the fact of Mr. Sinclair's 84 AVEAVEES AND WEFT. engagement to Miss Clanyarde was pretty well known to all that gentleman's friends and acquaint- ance. He was very proud of carrying off a girl whose beauty had made a considerable sensation in the two past seasons, and he talked of his matrimonial projects in a swaggering, boastful way, that was eminently distasteful to some of his acquaintance. Men who were familiar with Mr. Sinclair's antecedents shrugged their shoulders ominously when his marriage was discussed, and augured ill for the future happiness of Miss Clanyarde. James Wyatt was one of the first to congratu- late him upon his betrothal. ' Yes,' answered Gilbert, 'she's a lovely girl, isn't she ? and of coiirse I'm very proud of her affection. It's to be a regular love match, you know. I wouldn't marry the handsomest woman in the world if I thought she were marrying me for my money. I don't say the father hasn't an eye to the main chance. He's a thorough man of the world, and of course fully alive to that kind of thing. But Constance is superior to any such * ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 85 consideration. If 1 didn't believe that, 1 wouldn't be sach a fool as to stake my happiness on the venture.' ' I scarcely fancied you wo aid look at matters from such a sentimental point of view,' said Mr. Wyatt, thoughtfully, 'especially as this is by no means your first love.' ' It is the first love worth speaking of,' answer- ed the other. 'I never knew what it was to be passionately in love till I met Constance Clan- yarde.' 'Not with Mrs. Walsingham ?' *Xo, Jim. I did care for her, a good deal, once upon a time, but never as I care for Constance. I think if that girl were to play me false I should kill myself. B}^ the way, I'm sure you know more about Sir Cyprian Davenant than you were inclined to confess the other night. I fancy there was some kind of love affair — some youthful flirtation between him and Constance. You might as well tell me everything you know about it.' ' I know nothing about Miss Clanyarde, and I can tell you nothing about Davenant. He and I 86 WEAVERS AND WEFT. are old friends, and I am too fully in his confidence to talk of his sentiments, or his affairs.' ' What a confounded prig you are, Wyatt ! But you can't deny that Davenant was in love with Constance. I don't believe she has ever cared a straw for him, however, and if he should live to come back to England I shall take good care he never darkens my doors. How about that place of his, by-the-bye ? Is it in the market ? ' 'Yes, I have received Sir Cyprian's instructions to sell whenever I see a favourable opportunity. He won't profit much by the sale, poor fellow, for the Davenant estate is mortgaged up to the hilt.' ' I'll look at the place while I'm at Marchbrook, and if I like it I may make you an offer. We shall want something nearer town than the barrack my fatlier built in the north, but I shall not give up that either.' ' You can afford a couple of country seats. You will have a house in town, of course ? ' ' Yes, I have been thinking of Park Lane ; but it is so difficult to get anything there. I've told ' Ai;iSE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 87 the agents what I want, however, and I dare say they'll find something before long.' ' When are you to be married ? ' ' Not later than October, I hope. There is not the shadow of a reason for delay.' At Marchbrook everything ^7ent pleasantly enough with the plighted lovers. Lord Clanyarde had filled the house with company, and his youngest daughter had very little time for reflection or regret upon the subject of her approaching marriage. Everybody congratulated her upon her conquest, and praised Gilbert Sinclair with such a show of enthusiasm that she began to think he must be worthy of a warmer regard than she was yet able to feel for him. She told herself that in common gratitude she was bound to return his affection, and she tried her utmost to please him by a ready submission to all his wishes ; but the long drives and rides, in which they were always side by side, were very wearisome to her, nor could his gayest talk of the future, the houses, the yacht, the carriages and horses that were to be hers, inspired her with any expectation of happiness. 88 WEAVERS AND WEFT. They rode over to Davenant with Lord Clanyarde one morning, and explored the old house, Gilbert looking at everything in a business-like spirit, which jarred a little upon Constance. She could not but remember that luckless exile who had loved the place so well. Her lover consulted her about the disposition of the rooms, the colours of the new draperies, and the style of the furniture. 'We'll get rid of the gloomy old tapestry, and have everything modern and bright,' he said ; but Lord Clanyarde pleaded hard for the preservation of the tapestry, which was very fine and in excellent condition. 'Oh, very well,' answered Gilbert, carelessly. ' In that case we'll keep the tapestry. I suppose the best plan will be to get some first-class London man to furnish the house. Those fellows always have good taste. But of course he must defer to you in all matters, Constance.* . 'You are very good,' she returned, listlessly. ' But I don't think there will be any necessity for my interference.' * AEISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 89 ' Don't say that, Constance. That looks as if you M-ere not interested in the subject,' Gilbert said, with rather a discontented air. The listlessness of manner which his betrothed so often displayed was by no means pleasing to him. There was a disagreeable suspicion growing in his mind that ]\Iiss Clanyarde's heart had not quite gone with her acceptance of his offer, that family influences had something to do with her consent to become his wife. He was not the less resolved on this account to hold her to her promise ; but his selfish tyrannical nature resented her cold- ness, and he was determined that the balance should be adjusted between them in the future. ' Perhaps you don't like this place, Constance,' he said presently, after watching her thoughtful face for some minutes in silence. 'Oh, yes, Gilbert, I am very fond of Davenanl. I have known it all my life, you know.' ' Then I wish you'd look a little more cheerful about my intended purchase. I thought it would please you to have a country house so near your own familv.' 90 AVEA.VRRS AND WHFT. 'And it does please lier very mucli, I am sure, Sinclair/ said Lord Clanyarde, with a stealthy frown at his daughter. ' She cannot fail to appreciate the kindness and delicacy of your choice.' ' Papa is quite right, Gilbert,' added Constance. ' I should be very ungrateful if I were not pleased with your kindness.' After this she tried her utmost to sustain an appearance of interest in the discussion of furniture and decorations ; but every now and then she found her mind wandering away to the banished owner of those rooms, and she wished that Gilbert Sinclair had chosen any otlier habitation upon this earth for her future home. October came, and with it the inevitable day which was to witness one more perjury from the lips of a bride. The wedding took place at the little village church near Marchbrook, and was altogether a very brilliant affair, attended by all the relatives of the Clanyarde family, who were numerous, and by a great many acquaintances of bride and bride- groom. Notable among the friends of the latter was James Wyatt, the solicitor who had been employed ' ARISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 9 1 in the drawing up of the marriage settlement, which was a most liberal one, and higidy satisfactory to Viscount Clanyarde. j\Ir. Wyatt made himself excessively agreeable at the breakfast, and was amazingly popular among the bridesmaids. He did not long avail himself of the Marchbrook hospitali- ties, but went quietly back to town by rail almost immediately after the departure of the newly married couple on their honeymoon trip to the Italian lakes. He had an engagement in Half- moon Street that evening at eight o'clock. The neighbouring clocks were striking the hour as he knocked at the door. Mrs. Walsindiam was quite alone in the drawing-room, and looked unusually pale in the light of the lamps. The solicitor shook his head reproachfully as he pressed her hand. ' This is very sad,' he murmured, in a semi- paternal manner. ' You have been worrying yourself all day long, I know. You are as pale as a ghost.' ' I am a little tired, that is all.' ' You have been out to-day ? You told mc you should not stir from the house.' 92 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' I clianged my mind at the last moment. Any- thing was better than staying at home keeping the day like a black fast. Besides, I wanted to see how Gilbert and his bride would look at the altar.' ' You have been down to Kent ? ' ' Yes, I was behind the curtains of the organ loft. The business was easily managed by means of a sovereign to the clerk. I wore my plainest dress and a thick veil, so there was very little risk of detection.' ' What folly ! ' exclaimed Wyatt. ' Yes, it was great folly, no doubt, but it is the nature of women to be foolish. And now tell me all about the wedding. Did Gilbert look very happy ? ' ' He looked like a man who has got his own way, and who cares very little what price he has paid, or may have to pay, for the getting it.' ' And do you think he will be happy ? ' ' Not if his happiness depends upon the love of his wife.' 'Then you don't think she loves him ?' ' I am sure she does not. I made a study of her face during the ceremony and afterwards ; and if 'AEISE, BLACK VENGEANCE, FROM THY HOLLOW CELL.' 9o ever a woman sold herself, or was sold by her people, this woman is guilty of such a bargain.' ' Perhaps you say this to please me,' said Clara doubtfully. ' I do not, Mrs. Walsingham. I am convinced that this aftair has been brought about by Lord Clan- yard e's necessities, and not the young lady's choice. But I doubt whether this will make much difference to Gilbert in the long run. He is not a man of fine feelings, you know, and I think he will be satisfied with the fact of having won the woman he wanted to marry. I should fancy matters would go smoothly enough with him, so long as he sees no cause for jealousy. He would be rather an ugly customer if he took it into his head to be jealous.' ' And you think his life will go smoothly,' said Clara, ' and that he will go on to the end unpunished for his perfidy to me ? ' ' What good would his punishment be to you ? ' ' It would be all the world to me.' ' And if I could bring about the retribution you desire — if it were in my power to avenge your wrongs — what reward would you give me ? ' 94 WEAVERS AND WEFT. She hesitated for a moment, knowing there was only one reward he was likely to claim from her. ' If you were a poor man I would offer you two- thirds of my fortune/ she said. ' But you know that I am not a poor man. If I can come to you some day, and tell you that Gilbert Sinclair and his wife are parted for ever, will you accept me for your husband ? ' ' Yes,' she answered, suddenly. ' Break the knot between those two — let me be assured that he has lost the woman for whose sake he jilted me, and I will refuse you nothing.' ' Consider it done. There is nothing in the world I would not achieve to win you for my wife.' CHAPTER VII. ' GREEN-EYED JEA.LOUSY ! ' It was not till the early spring that Mr. and Mrs Sinclair returned to England. They had spent the winter in Eome, where Gilbert had found some con- genial friends, and where their time had been occupied in one perpetual round of gaiety and dissipation. Constance had shown a great taste for pleasure since her marriage. She seemed to know no weariness of visiting and being visited ; and people who re- membered her in her girlish days were surprised to find what a thorough woman of the world she had become. Nor was Gilbert displeased that it should be so. He liked to see his wife occupy a prominent position in society, and having no taste himself for the pleasures of the domestic hearth, he was neither surprised nor vexed by Constance's indifference to her Injiiic. Of course it would all be different at Davenant Park. There would be plenty of home 96 WEAVERS AND WEFT. life the-re — a little too much, perhaps, Gilbert thought with a yawn. They had been married nearly four months, and there had not been the shadow of disagreement between them. Constance's manner to her husband was amiability itself. She treated him a little de haitt en has it is true, made her own plans for the most part without reference to him, and graciously informed him of her arrangements after they were completed. But then, on the other hand, she never objected to his disposal of his time, was never exacting, or jealous, or capricious, as Clara Wal- singham had been. She was always agreeable to his friends, and was eminently popular with all of them. So Gilbert Sinclair was, upon the whole, per- fectly satisfied with the result of his marriage, and had no fear of evil days in the future. What James Wyatt had said of him was perfectly true. He was not gifted with very fine feelings, and that sense of something wanting in such a union, which would have disturbed the mind of a nobler man, did not trouble him. They returned to England early in February, ' GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 97 and went at once to Davenant, which had been furnished in the modern medieval style by a West End upholsterer. The staff of servants had been provided by Lady Elrington, who had come up to London on purpose, and had bestowed much pains and labour upon the task of selection, bitterly bewailing the degeneracy of the race she had to deal with during the performance of this difftcult service. All was ready when Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair arrived. A pompous housekeeper simpered and curtseyed in the hall ; an accomplished cook hovered tenderly over the roasts and the stew-pans in the great kitchen; housemaids in smart caps flitted about the passages and poked the fires in bedroom and dressing-rooms, bath-rooms and morning-room, eager to get an early look at their new lady ; a butler of the usual clerical appearance ushered the way to the lamp-lit drawing-room, while two ponderous footmen conveyed the rugs and news- papers and morocco bags from the carriage, leaving all the heavier luggage to the care of unknown underlings attached to the stable department. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair dined alone upon this first evening VOL. I. H 98 WEAVERS AND WEFT. of their return, under the inspection of the clerical butler and the two ponderous footmen. They talked chiefly about the house, which rooms were most successful in their new arrangement, and so on ; a little about what they had been doing in Rome ; and a little about their plans for the next month ; what guests were to be invited, and what rooms they were to occupy. It was all the most conventional talk, but the three serving-men retired with the impression that Gilbert Sinclair and his wife were a very happy couple, and reported to that effect in the housekeeper's room and the servants' hall. Before the week had ended the great house was full of company. That feverish desire for gaiety and change, which had seemed a part of Constance's nature since her marriage, in no way subsided on her arrival at Davenant. She appeared to exist for pleasure, and pleasure only, and her guests declared her the most charming hostess that ever reigned over a country house. Lavish as he was, Mr. Sinclair opened his eyes to their widest extent when he per- ceived his wife's capacity for spending money. ' It's rather lucky for you that you didn't marry 'GREEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 99 a poor man, Constance/ he said, with a boastful laugh. She looked at him for a moment with a strange expression, and then turned very pale. ' I should not have been afraid to face poverty,' she said, ' if it had been my fate to do so.' ' If you could have faced it with the man you liked, eh, Constance ? That's about what you mean, isn't it ? ' ' Is this intended for a complaint, Gilbert ? ' his wife asked, in her coldest tones. ' Have I been spending too much money ? ' 'No, no, I didn't mean that. I was only con- gratulating you upon your fitness for the position of a rich man's wife.' This was the first little outbreak of jealousy of which Gilbert Sinclair had been guilty. He knew now that his wife did not love him, that his conquest had been achieved throuuli the influence of hei family, and he was almost angry with himself for being so fond of her. He could not forget those vague hints that had been dropped about Sir Cyprian Davenant, and was tormented by tlie idea 100 WEAVERS AND WEFT. that James Wyatt knew a great deal more than he had revealed upon this point. This hidden jealousy had been at the bottom of his purchase of the Davenant estate. He took a savage pride in reigning over the little kingdom from which his rival had been deposed. Among the visitors from London appeared Mv. Wyatt, always unobtrusive, and always useful. He contrived to ingratiate himself very rapidly in Mrs. Sinclair's favour, and established himself as a kind of adjutant in her household corps, always ready with advice upon every social subject, from the costumes in a tableau vivant to the composition of the menu for a dinner party. Constance did not particluarly like him ; but she lived in a world in which it is not necessary to have a very sincere regard for one's acquaintance ; and she considered him an agreeable person, much to be preferred to the generality of her husband's chosen companions, who were men without a thought beyond the hunting- field and the racecourse. Mr. Wyatt, on his part, was a little surprised to see the manner in which Lord Clanyarde's daughter 'GREEX-EYED JEALOUSY.' 101 filled her new position, the unfailing vivacity which she displayed in the performance of her duties as hostess, and the excellent terms upon which she appeared to live with her husband. He was accustomed, however, to look below the surface of things, and by the time he had been a fortnight at ' Davenant he had discovered that all this brightness and gaiety on the part of the wife indicated an artificial state of being, which was very far from real happiness, and that there was a growing sense of disappointment on the part of the husband. He was not in the habit of standing upon much ceremony in his intercourse with Gilbert Sinclair, and on the first convenient occasion questioned him with blunt directness upon the subject of his marriage. ' I hope the alliance has brought you all the happiness you anticipated,' he said. ' Oh, yes, Jim,' Mr. Sinclair answered, rather moodily, ' my wife suits me pretty well. We get on very well together. She's a little too fond of playing the woman of fashion ; but she'll get tired of that in time, I dare say. I'm fund of society myself, you 102 WEAVERS AND WEFT. know, couldn't lead a solitary life for any woman in Christendom ; but I should like a wife who seemed to care a little more for my company, and was not always occupied with other people. I don't think we have dined alone a dozen times since we were married.' It was within a few days of this conversation that Mr. Wyatt gratified himself by the performance of a little experiment which he had devised in the comfortable retirement of his bachelor room at Davenant. He had come into Mrs. Sinclair's morning-room after breakfast to consult her upon the details of an amateur dramatic performance that was to take place shortly, and had, for a wonder, found the husband and wife alone together. ' Perhaps"we'd better discuss the business at some other time,' he said. ' I know Sinclair doesn't care much about this sort of thing.' ' Is that your theatrical rubbish ? ' asked Gilbert. * You'd better say what you've got to say about it. You needn't mind me. I can absorb myself in the study of Bell's Life for a quarter of an hour or so.' He withdrew to one of the windows, and read his ' GEEEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 103 newspaper, while James Wyatt showed Constance the books of some farces that had just come to him by post, and discussed the fitness of each for drawing-room representation. ' Every amateur in polite society believes himself able to play Charles Mathews's business,' he said, laushins;. ' It is a fixed delusion of the human mind. Of course we shall set thera all by the ears, do what we may. Perhaps it would be better to let them draw lots for the characters, or we might put the light comedy parts up to auction, and send the proceeds to the poor box.' He ran on in this strain gaily enough, w^riting lists of the characters and pieces, and putting down the names of the guests with a rapid pen as he talked, until Gilbert Sinclair threw down his newspaper and came over to the fireplace, politely requesting his friend to ' stop that row.' It was a hopelessly wet morning, and the master of Davenant was sorely at a loss for amusement and occupation. He had come to his wife's room in rather a defiant spirit, determined that she should favour him with a little more of her society than it 104 WEAVERS AND WEFT. was her habit to give him, and he had found her writing letters, which she declared were imperative, and had sat by the fire waiting for her correspondence to be finished, in a very sulky mood. ' What's the last news, Wyatt ? ' he asked, poking the fire savagely. ' Anything stirring in London?' 'Nothins— in London. There is some news of an old friend of mine who's far away from London — news I don't altogether like." ' Some client who has bolted, in order to swindle you out of a long bill of costs, I suppose,' answered Gilbert, indifferently. ' No, the friend I am talking of is a gentleman we all know — the late owner of this place.' ' Sir Cyprian Davenant ?' cried Gilbert. Constance looked up from her writing. ' Sir Cyprian Davenant,' repeated James Wyatt. ' Has anything happened to him ? ' ' About the last and worst thing that can happen to any man, I fear/ answered the lawyer. ' For some time since there have been no reports of Captain Harcourt's expedition ; and that, in a negative way^ was about as bad as it could be. But in a letter I 'GREEX-EYED JEALOUSY.' 105 received this morning, from a member of the Geographical Society, there is worse news. My friend tells me there is a very general belief that , Harcourt and his party have been made away with by the natives. Of course this is only club gossip as yet, and I trust that it may turn out a false alarm.' Constance had dropped her pen, making a great blot upon th"fe page. She was very pale, and her hands were clasped nervously upon the table before her. Gilbert watched her with eager angry eyes. It was just sucli an opportunity as he had wished for. He wanted above all things to satisfy his doubts about that man. ' I don't see that it much matters whether the report is true or false,' he said, ' as far as Davenaut is concerned. The fellow was a scamp, and only left England because he had spent his last sixpence in dissipation." ' I beg your pardon, Sinclair,' remonstrated Mr. Wyatt, ' the Davenant property was impoverished by Cyprian's father and grandfather. I don't say that he was not extravagant himself at one period of his life, but he had reformed long before he left Etigland.' 106 WEAVERS AND WE¥T. ' Keformed, yes, when he had no more money to spend. That's a common kind of reform. However^ I suppose you've profited so much by his ruin that you can afford to praise him.' ' Hadn't you better ring the bell ? ' asked James Wyatt, quietly, ' I think Mrs. Sinclair has fainted.' He was right, Constance Sinclair's head had fallen back upon the cushion of her Chair, and her eyes were closed. Gilbert ran across to her, and seized her hand. It was deadly cold. ' Yes,' he said, ' she has fainted. Sir Cyprian was an old friend of hers. You know that better than I do, though you have never chosen to tell me the truth. And now, I suppose, you have trumped up this story in order to let me see what a fool I have been.' ' It is not a trumped-up story,' returned the other. • It is the common talk amongst men who know the travellers and their line of country.' ' Then for your friend's sake it is to be hoped it's true.' ' Why so ? ' ' Because if he has escaped those black fellows to * GEEEN-EYED JEALOUSY.' 107 come my way it will be so much the worse for both of us ; for as sure as there is a sky above us, if he and I meet I shall kill him/ 'Ball!' muttered Mr. Wyatt, contemptuously^ 'we don't live in the a^fe for that sort of thine;'. Here comes your wife's maid ; I'll get out of the way. Pray apologize to JNIrs. Sinclair for my indiscretion in forgetting that Sir Cyprian was a friend of her family. It was only natural that she should be affected by the news.' The lawyer went away as the maid came into the room. His face was brightened by a satisfied smile as he walked slowly along the corridor leading to the billiard-room. ' I think this fellow is made of the right kind of stuff for an Othello/ he said to himself. ' I've fired the train. If the news I heard is true, and Davenant is on his way home, there'll be nice work by and by/ CHAPTER VIIT. * HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED I ' GiLBEKT Sinclair said very little to his wife about tlie fainting fit. She was herself perfectly candid upon the subject. Sir Cyprian was an old friend — a friend whom she had known and liked ever since her childhood — and Mr. Wyatt's news had quite over- come her. She did not seem to consider it necessary to apologize for her emotion. ' I have been over-exerting myself a little lately, or I should scarcely have fainted, however sorry I felt,' she said quietly, and Gilbert wondered at her self-possession, but was not the less convinced that she had loved — that she did still love— Cyprian Davenant. He watched her closely after this to see if he could detect any signs of hidden grief, but her man- ner in society had lost none of its brightness ; and when the Harcourt expedition was next spoken of she bore her part in the conversation with perfect ease. 'HAD YOU LOYED ME ONCE AS YOU HAYE NOT LOYED ! ' 109 Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair left Davenant early in May for a charming house in Park Lane, furnished through- out with delicate tints of white and green, like a daisy- sprinkled meadow in early spring, a style in which the upholsterer had allowed full scope to the poetry of his own nature, bearing in mind that the house was to be occupied by a newly married couple. Mrs. Sinclair declared herself perfectly satisfied with the house, and ]\Irs. Sinclair's friends were in raptures with it. She instituted a Thursday evening supper after the opera, which was an immense success, and enjoyed a popularity in her new position of matron that excited some envy on the part of unmarried beauties. Mrs. Walsingham heard of the Thursday evening parties, and saw her beautiful rival very often at the opera ; but she heard from James Wyatt that Gilbert Sinclair spent a great deal of time at his club, and made n point of attending all the race meetings, habits that did not augur very well for his domestic happiness. 'He will grow tired of her, as he did of me,' thought Clara Walsingham. But Gilbert was in no way weary of his wife. He 110 WEAVERS AND WEFT. loved lier as passionately as he had loved her at the first ; with an exacting and selfish passion, it is true, but with all the intensity of which his nature was capable. If he had lived in the good old feudal days, when a man could do what he liked with his wife, he would have shut her up in some lonely turret, where •no one but himself could approach her. He knew that she did not love him; and with his own affection for her there was always mingled an angry sense of her coldness and ingratitude. The London season came to an end once more, and Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair went back to Davenant. Nothing had been heard of Sir Cyprian or his com- panions throughout the summer, and Gilbert had ceased to trouble himself about his absent rival. The man was dead, in all probability, and it was some- thing more than folly to waste a thought upon him. So things went on quietly enough, until the early spring gave a baby daughter to the master of Dave- nant, much to his disappointment, as he ardently desired a son and heir. The birth of this infant brought a new sense of joy to the mind of Constance Sinclair. Slie had not 'had you loved me once as you have not loved ! ' 1 1 1 thought it possible that the child could give her so much happiness. She devoted herself to her baby with a teuderness which was at first very pleasing to her husband, but which became by and by distasteful to him. He grew jealous of the child's power to evoke so much affection from one who had never given him the love he longed for. The exist- ence of his daughter seemed to bring him no nearer to his wife. The time and attention which she had given to society she now gave to her child ; but her husband was no more to her than he had ever been, — a little less perhaps, as he told himself angrily, in the course of his gloomy meditations. Mrs. Walsinrdiam read the announcement of the infant's birth, in extreme bitterness* of spirit, and when James Wyatt next called upon her she asked him what had become of his promise that those two should be parted by his agency. The lawyer shrugged his shoulders tleprecatingly. ' 1 did not tell you that the parting should take place within any given time,' he said, ' but it shall go hard with me if I do not keep my promise sooner or later. He had not been idle. The wicked work which 112 WEAVERS AND WEFT. he had set himself to do had progressed considerably. It was he who always contrived, in a subtle manner, to remind Gilbert Sinclair of his wife's coldness towards her husband, and to hint at her affection for another, while seeming to praise and defend her. Throughout their acquaintance his wealthy client had treated him with a selfish indifference and a cool unconscious insolence that had galled him to the quick, and he took a malicious pleasure in the discom- fiture which Sinclair had brought upon himself by his marriage. When the Sinclairs returned to London, some months after the birth of the child, James Wyatt contrived to make himself more than ever necessary to Gilbert, who had taken to play higher than of old, and who now spent four evenings out of the six lawful days at a notorious whist club, sitting at the card-table till the morning sun shone through the chinks in the shutters. Mr. Wyatt was a member of the same club, but too cautious a player for the set which Gilbert now affected. ' That fellow is going to the bad in every way,' the lawyer said to himself. ' If Clara Walsingham 'HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED ! ' 113 wants to see liim ruined she is likely to have her wish without any direct interference of mine.' The state of affairs in Park Lane was indeed far from satisfactory. Gilbert had grown tired of playing the indulgent husband, and the inherent brutality of his nature had on more than one occasion displayed itself in angry disputes with his wife, whose will he now seemed to take a pleasure in thwarting, even in trifles. He complained of her present extravagance, with insolent reference to the poverty of her girlhood, and asked savagely if she thought his fortune could stand for ever against her expensive follies. ' I don't think my follies are so likely to exhaust your income as your increasing taste for horse-racing, Gilbert,' she answered, coolly. ' What is to be the cost of these racing stables you are building near Newmarket ? I heard yon, and that dreadful man your trainer, talking of the tan gallop the other da y and it seemed to me altogether rather an expensive affair, especially as your horses have such a knack of getting beaten. It is most gentlemanlike of you to remind me of my poverty. Yes, I was very poor in my girlhood, — and very happy.' VOL. I. T 114 WEAVERS AND WEFT. * And since you've married me you've been miser- able. Pleasant, upon my soul ! You'd have married that fellow Cyprian Davenant'and lived inaten-roomed house in the suburbs, with a maid of all work to wait upon you, and called that happiness, I suppose ? ' ' If I had married Sir Cyprian Davenant I should at least have been the wife of a gentlemai),' replied Constance. This was not the first time thaf Gilbert had men- tioned Cyprian Davenant of late. A report of the missing travellers had appeared in one of the news- papers, and their friends began to hope for their safe return. Gilbert Sinclair brooded over this probable return in a savage frame of mind, but did not com- municate his thoughts on the subject to his usual confidant, Mr. Wyatt, who thereupon opined that those thoughts were more than ordinarily bitter. Before the London season was over Mr. Sinclair had occasion to attend a rather insifrnificant meetins; in Yorkshire where a two-year-old liUy, from which he expected great things in the future, was to try her strength in a handicap race. He came home by way of Newmarket, where he spent a few days pleasantly ' HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOD HAVE NOT LOVED! ' 115 enough in the supervision of his new buildings, and he had been absent altogether a week when he returned to Park Lane. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when he drove up to his own house in a hansom. He found his wife in the drawing-room, occupied with several visitors, amongst whom appeared a tall figure which he remembered only too well. It was Sir Cyprian Davenant, bronzed with travel, and looking handsomer than when he left London. G-ilbert stood at gaze for a moment^ confounded by the surprise, and then went through the ceremony of handshaking with his wife's guests in a somewhat embarrassed manner. Constance received him with her usual cool politeness, and he felt himself altogether at a disad- vantage in the presence of the man he feared and hated. He seated himself, however, determined to see the end of this obnoxious visit, and remained moodily silent until the callers had dropped off one by one, Sir Cyprian among the earliest departures. Gilbert turned savagely upon his wife directly the room was clear. 116 WEAVERS AND WEFT. * So your old favourite has lost no time in re- newing his intimacy with you,' he said. 'I came home at rather an awkward moment, I fancy.' ' I did not perceive any particular awkwardness in your return/ his wife answered, coolly, 'unless it was your own manner to my friends, which was a little calculated to give them the idea that you scarcely felt at home in your own house.' ' There was some one here who seemed a little too much at home, Mrs. Sinclair ; some one who will find my presence a good deal more awkward if I should happen to find him here again. In plain words, I forbid you to receive Sir Cyprian Davenant in my house.' ' I can no more close my doors upon Sir Cyprian Davenant than on any other visitor,' replied Con- stance, ' and I do not choose to insult an old friend of my family for the gratification of your senseless jealousy.' * Then you mean to defy me ? ' ' There is no question of defiance. I shall do what I consider right, without reference to this absurd fancy of yours. Sir Cyprian is not very likely HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED ! ' 117 to call upon me again, unless you cultivate his acquaintance.' ' I am not very likely to do that,' Gilbert answered, savagely. His wife's tranquillity baffled him, and he could find nothing more to say for himself. But this jealousy of Sir Cyprian was in no manner abated by Constance's self-possession. He remem- bered the faintincf fit in the mornino;-room at Da- venant, and he was determined to find some means of punishing her for her secret preference for this man. An ugly notion flashed across his mind by and by as he saw her with her child lying in her lap, bending over the infant with a look of supreme affection. ' She can find love for everything in the world except me,' he said to himself, bitterly. He had ceased to care for the child after the first month or so of its existence, being inclined to resent its sex as a personal injury, and feeling aggrieved by his wife's devotion to the infant, which seemed to make her indifference to himself all the more obvious. He left the house when Constance went out for her daily drive in the park, and strolled in the same direction, caring very little where he went upon this 118 WEAVERS AND WEFT. particular afternoon. The Ladies' Mile was thronged with carriages, and there was a block at the Corner when Gilbert took his place listlessly among the loun- gers who were lolling over the rails. He nodded to the men he knew, and answered briefly enough to some friendly inquiries about his luck in Yorkshire. ' The filly ran well enough,' he said, ' but I doubt if she's got stay enough for the Chester,' ' Oh, of course you want to keep her dark, Sin- clair. I heard she was a flyer, though.' Mr. Sinclair did not pursue the conversation. The carriages moved on for a few paces, at the insti- gation of a mounted policeman, and then stopped again, leaving a perfectly appointed miniature brougham exactly in front of Gilbert Sinclair. The occupant of the brougham was Mrs. Walsingham. The stoppage brought her so close to Gilbert that it was impossible to avoid some kind of greeting. The widow's face paled as she recognised Gilbert* and then with a sudden impulse she held out her hand. It was the first time they had met since that unpleasant interview in Half-moon Street. The opportunity was very gratifying to Mrs. Walsingham. ' HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED ! ' 119 She had most ardently desired to see how Gilbert supported his new position, to see for herself how far Mr. Wyatt's account of him might be credited. She put on the propitiatory manner of a woman who has forgiven all past wrongs. ' Why do you never come to see me ? ' she asked. ' I scarcely thought you would care to receive me, after what you said when we last met,' he re- plied, rather embarrassed by her easy way of treating the situation. ' Let that be forgotten. It is not fair to re- member what a woman says when she is in a passion. I think you expressed a wish that we might be friends after your marriage, and I was too angry to accept that proof of your regard as I should have done. I have grown wiser with the passage of time ; and, believe me, I am still your friend.' There was a softness in her tone which flattered and touched Gilbert Sinclair. It contrasted so sharply with the cool contempt he had of late suf- fered at the hands of his wife. He remembered how this woman had loved him ; and he asked himself what good he had gained by his marriage with 120 WEAVERS AND WEFT, Constance Clanyarde; except the empty triumph of an alliance with a family of superior rank to his own, and the vain delight of marrying an acknow- ledged beauty. Before Mrs. Walsingham's brougham had moved on he had promised to look in upon her that even- ing, and at ten o'clock he was seated in the familiar drawing-room, telling her his domestic wrongs, and freely confessing that his marriage had been a failure. Little by little she beguiled him into telling her these things, and played her part of adviser and consoler with exquisite tact, not once allowing him to perceive the pleasure his confession afforded her. He spoke of his child without the faintest expression of affection, and laughed bitterly as he described his wife's devotion to her infant. ' I thought as a woman of fashion she would have given herself very little trouble about the baby,' he said, ' but she contrives to find time for maternal raptures in spite of her fashionable friends. I have told her that she is killing her- self, and the doctors tell her pretty much the same ; but she will have her own way.' * HAD YOU LOVED ME ONCE AS YOU HAVE NOT LOVED !' 121 ' She ^A'Ol^ld suffer frightfully if the child were to die/ said Mrs. Walsiugham. ' Suffer ! Yes, I was thinking of that this afternoon when she was engaged in her baby- worship. She would take my death coolly enough, I have no doubt, but I believe the loss of that child would kill her.' Long after Gilbert Sinclair had left her that night Clara "Walsinfrham sat broodincj over all that he had told her upon the subject of his domestic life. ' And so he has found out what it is to have a wife who does not care for him,' she said to herself. ' He has gratified his fancy for a lovely face, and is paying a heavy price for his conquest. And I am to leave all my hopes of revenge to James Wyatt, and am to reward his services by marrying him ? No, no, J\Ir. Wyatt ! It was all very well to promise that in the day of my despair. I see my way to something better than that now. The loss of her child would kill her, would it? And her death would bring Gilbert back to me, I think. His loveless marriage has taught him the value of a woman's affection.' CHArTER IX. THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. Sir Cyprian did not again call at the house in Park Lane. He had heard of Constance Clan- yarde's marriage during his African travels, and had come back to England resolved to avoid her as far as it was possible for him to do so. Time and absence had done little to lessen his love, but he resigned himself to her marriage with another as an inevitable fact, only regret- ting she had married a man of whom he had by no means an exalted opinion. James Wyatt was one of the first persons he visited on his arrival in London, and from him he heard a very unsatisfactory account of the marriage. It was this that had induced him to break through his resolution and call in Park Lane. He wanted to see for himself whether Constance was un- happy. He saw little, however, to enlighten him THE BEGINNING OF SOREOW. 12o on this point. He found the girl he had so fondly loved transformed into a perfect woman of the world ; and he conld draw no inference from her sareless gaiety of manner, except that James Wyatt had said more than was justified by the circumstances of the case. Instead of returninfr to Davenant for the autumn months, j\Ir. Sinclair chose this year to go to Germany ; an • extraordinary sacrifice of inclination one might suppose, as his chief delight was to be found at Eoglish race meetings, and in the supervision of his stable at ISTewmarket. Mrs. Sinclair's doctor had recommended change of some kind as a cure for a certain lowness of tone, and general derangement of the nervous system under which his patient laboured. The medical man suggested Harrogate or Buxton — or some Welsh water-drinking place, — but when Gilbert proposed Schonesthal, in the Black Forest, he caught at the idea. 'Nothing could be better for INIrs. Sinclair and the baby,' he said, ' and you'll be near Baden- Baden if you want gaiety.' 124 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' I don't care about brass bands and a lot of people,' answered Gilbert. ' I can shoot caper- cailzies. I shall get on well enough for a month or so.' Constance had no objection to offer to this plan. She cared very little where her life was spent, so long as she had her child with her. A charming villa had been found, half hidden among pine trees, and here Mr. Sinclair estab- lished his wife, with a mixed household of English and foreign servants. Slie was very- glad to be so completely withdrawn from the obligations of society, and to be able to devote herself almost entirely to the little girl, who was of course a paragon of infantine grace and intel- ligence in the eyes of mother and nurse. The nurse was a young woman belonging to the village near Marchbrook, one of tlie pupils of the Sunday school, whom Constance had known from girlhood. The nursemaid who shared her duties n London had not been broufrht to Schonesthal, but in her place Mrs. Sinclair engaged a French girl, with sharp dark eyes, and a very intelli- THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 125 gent manner. Martha Briggs, the nurse, was rather more renowned for honesty and good temper than for intellectual qualifications, and she seemed unusually slow and stolid in com- parison with the vivacious French girl. This girl had come to Baden with a Parisian family, and had been dismissed with an excellent cha- racter upon the family's departure for Vienna with a reduced staff. Her name was Melanie Duport, and she contrived very rapidly to ingra- tiate herself with her mistress, as she had done with the good priest of the little church she had attended during her residence at Baden, who was delighted with her artless fervour and un- varying piety. Poor Martha Briggs was rather inclined to be jealous of this new rival in her mistress's favour, and derived considerable comfort from the fact that the baby did not take kindly to Melanie. If the baby preferred her English nurse to Melanie, the little French girl, for her part, seemed passionately devoted to the baby. She was always eager to cany the child when the two nurses were 126 WEAVERS AND WEFT. out together, and resented Martha's determination to deprive her of this pleasure. One day when the two were disputing together upon this subject, Martha bawling, at the French girl, under the popular delusion that she would make herself understood if she only talked loud enough, Melanie repeating her few words of broken English with many emphatic shrugs and frowns and nods, a lady who was strolling along the forest path, while her carriage waited for her at a little distance, stopped to listen to them, and to admire the baby. She spoke in French to Melanie, and did not address Martha at all, much to that young person's indignation. She asked Melanie to whom the child belonged, and how long she had been with it, and whether she was accustomed to nursing children, adding, with a smile» that she looked rather too ladylike for a nurse- maid. Melanie was quite subdued by this compliment. She told the lady that this was the first time she had been nursemaid. She had been lady's-maid in her last situation, and had preferred the place very much to her present position. She told this strange lady THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 127 nothing about that rapturous affection for the baby which she was in the habit of expressing in Mrs. Sinclair's presence. She only told her how un- comfortable she had been made by the English nurse's jealousy. * I am staying at the Hotel du Eoi,' said the lady, after talking to Melanie for some little time, 'and should like to see you if you can find time to call upon me some evening. I might be able to be of some use to you in finding a new situation when your present mistress leaves the neighbourhood.' Melanie curtseyed, and replied that she would make a point of waiting upon the lady, and then the two nurses moved on with their little charge. jMartha asked Melanie what the foreign lady had been saying, and the French girl replied carelessly that she had only been praising the baby. ' And well she may,' answered Miss Briggs, rather snappishly, 'for she's the sweetest child that ever lived ; but for my own part I don't like foreigners, or any of their nasty deceitful ways.' This rather invidious remark was lost upon Mademoiselle Duport, who only understood a few 128 WEAVERS AND WEFT. words of English, and who cared very little for her fellow- servant's opinion upon any subject. In spite of Gilbert Sinclair's protestation of indifference to the attractions of brass bands and crowded assemblies, he contrived to spend the greater part of his time at Baden, where the Goddess of Chance was still being worshipped in the brilliant Kursaal, while his wife was left to drink her fill of forest beauty, and that distant glory of inaccessible hills which the sun dyed rosy-red in the quiet even- tide. In these tranquil days, while her husband was waiting for the turn of Fortune's wheel in the golden salon, or yawning over " Galignani " in the reading-room, Constance's life came far nearer happiness than she had ever dared to hope it could come, after her perjury at God's altar two years ago. Many a time, while she was leading her butterfly life in the flower-garden of fashion, making dissipa- tion stand for pleasure, she had told herself, in some gloomy hour of reaction, that no good ever could come of her marriage ; that there was a curse upon TIIK BEGINXING OF SORROW. 129 it, a rigliteoiis God's anathema against falsehood. And then her baby had come, and she had shed her first happy tears over the sweet small face, the bine eyes looking np at her full of vagne wonder, and she had thanked Heaven for this new bliss, and believed her sin forgiven. After that time Gilbert had changed for the worse, and there had been many a polite passage-at-arms between husband and wife, and these encounters, however courteously performed, are apt to leave ugly scars. But now, far away from all her frivolous acquaintance, free from the all-engrossing duties of a fine lady's existence, she put all evil thoughts out of her mind, Gilbert amongst them, and abandoned herself wholly to the delight of the pine forest and baby. She was very gracious to Gilbert, when' he chose to spend an hour or two at home, or to drive with her in the pretty little pony-carriage in which she made most of her explorations, but she made no complaint about his long absences, she expressed no curiosity as to the manner in which he amused himself, or the company he kept at Baden- Baden ; and though that centre of gaiety was only VOL. I. K 130 WEAVERS AND WEFT. four miles off, she never expressed a wish to share in its amusements. Gilbert was not an agreeable companion at this time. That deep and suppressed resentment against his wife, like rancorous lago's jealousy, did ' gnaw him inwards ; ' and although his old passionate love still remained, it was curiously interwoven with hatred. Once when husband and wife were seated opposite each other in the September twilight after one of their rare tete-a-tetc dinners, Constance looked up sud- denly andcaught Gilbert's brooding eyes fixed upon her face with an expression which made her shiver, ' If you look at me like that, Gilbert,' she said, with a nervous laugh, ' I shall be afraid to drink this glass of Chambertin you've just poured out for me. There might be poison in it. I hope I have done nothing to deserve such an angry look. Othello must have looked something like that, I ■should think, when he asked Desdemona for the strawberry-spotted handkerchief ' ' Why did you marry me, Constance ? ' asked Sinclair, ignoring his wife's speech. THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 131 There was something almost piteous iu this question, wrung from a man who loved honestly, according to his lights, and whose love was turned to rancour by the knowledge that it had won no return. 'What a question after two years of married life ! Why did I marry you ? Because you wished me to marry you, and because I believed you would make me a good husband, Gilbert, and because I had firmly resolved to make you a good wife.' She said this earnestly, looking at him through her tears. Since her own life had become so much happier, since her baby's caresses had awakened all the dormant tenderness of her nature, she had felt more anxious to be on crood terms with her husband. She would have taken much trouble — made some sacrifice of womanly pride — to win him back to that amiable state of mind she remembered iu their honeymoon. 'I've promised to meet Wyatt at the Kursaal this evening,' said Sinclair, looking at his watch as he rose from the table, and without the slightest notice of his wife's reply. l:'2 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 'Is Mr. Wyatt at Baden?' ' Yes, he has come over for a little amusement at the tables — denced lucky dog — always contrives to leave off a winner. One of those cool-headed fellows who know the turn of the tide. You've no objec- tion to his being there, I suppose ? ' ' I wish you and he were not such fast friends, Gilbert. j\Ir. Wyatt is no favourite of mine.' 'Isn't he? Too much of the watch-dog about him, I suppose. As for fast friends, there's not much friendship between Wyatt and me. He's a useful fellow to have about one, that's all. He has served me faithfully, and has got well paid for his services. It's a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence on his side, and a matter of convenience on mine. No doubt Wyatt knows that as well as I do.' * Don't you think friendship on such a basis may be rather an insecure bond ? ' said Constance, gravely, ' and that a man who can consent to pro- fess friendship upon such degrading terms is likely to be half an enemy.' ' Oh, I don't go in for such high-flown ethics. THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 183 Jim Wyatt knows that it's his interest to servo me well, and that it's as much as his life is worth to play me false. Jim and I understand one another perfectly, Constance, you may be sure.' ' I am sure that he understands you,' answered Constance. But Gilbert was gone before she had finished her sentence. Baby, christened Christabel after the late Lady Clanyarde, was nearly a twelvemonth old, a.nd had arrived, in the opinion of mother and nurse, at the most interesting epoch of babyhood. Her tender cooings, her joyous chucklings, her pretty cluck- clucking noises, as of anxious maternal hens calling their offspring, her inarticulate language of broken syllables, wliich only maternal love could interpret, made an inexhaustible fountain of delight. She was the blithest and happiest of babies, and every object in creation with which she became newly acquainted was a source of rapture to her. The flowers, the birds, the insect life of that balmy pine forest filled her with delight. The soft blue eyes sparkled with pleasure, the rosebud lips babbled 134 WEAVERS AND WEFT. her wordless wonder, the little feet danced with ecstasy. ' Oh,' cried the delighted mother, ' if she could always be just like this, my plaything and my darling ! Of course I shall love her just as dearly when she is older — a long-armed lanky girl, in a brown hoUand pinafore, always inking her fingers and getting into trouble about her lessons — like my sisters and me when we were in the schoolroom ; but she can never be so pretty or so sweet again, can she, Martha ? ' 'Lor, 'mum, she'll always be a love,' replied the devoted nurse ; * and as for her arms being long and her fingers inky, you won't love her a bit less — and I'm sure I hope she won't be worried with too many lessons, for I do think great folks' children are to be pitied, half their time cooped up in school-rooms, or stretched out on back-boards, or strumming on the piano, while poor children are running wild in the fields.' ' Oh, Martha, how shocking !' cried Mrs. Sinclair, pre- tending to be horrified, 'to think that one of my favour- ite pupils should underrate the value of education! ' THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 135 ' Oh , no, indeed, ma'am, I have no such thought. I have often felt what a blessing it is to be able to read a good book and write a decent letter. But I never can think that life was meant to be all education.' ' Life is all education, Martha,' answered her mistress, with a sigh, 'but not the education of grammars and dictionaries. The World is our school, and Time our schoolmaster. No, Martha, my Christabel shall not be harassed with too much learning. We won't try to make her a paragon. Her life shall be all happiness and freedom, and she shall grow up without the knowledge of care or evil, except the sorrows of others, and those she shall heal ; and she shall marry the man she loves, whether he is rich or poor, for I am sure my sweet one would never love a bad man.' 'I don't say that, ma'am,' remarked Martha, 'looks are so deceiving. I'm sure, there was my own cousin, on the father's side, Susan Tadgers, married the handsomest young man in Marchbrook village, and before they'd been two years married he took to drinking, and was so neglectful of him- 136 WEAVERS AND WEFT. self, you wouldn't have known liiui; and now slie's gone back to her friends, and his whiskers, that he used to take such a pride in, are rusty-brown and sliaggy, like a stray Scotch terrier.' Three days after that somewhat unpleasant tetc- d-tete between husband and wife Gilbert Sinclair announced his intention of going back to England for the Leger. 'I never have missed a Leger,' he said, as if attendance at that race were a pious duty, like the Commination service on Ash Wednesday, ' and I shouldn't like to miss this race.' 'Hadn't we better go home at once then, Gilbert ? I am quite ready to return.' 'Nonsense! I've taken this place till the 20th of October, and shall have to pay pretty stiffly for it. I shall come back directly after the Doncaster.' ' But it will be a fatiguing journey for you.' 'I'd just as soon be sitting in a railway train as anywhere else.' 'Does Mr. Wyatt go back with you?' 'Xo, Wyatt stays at Baden for the next week or CO. He pretends to be here for the sake of THE BEGINNING OF SORROW. 137 the waters, goes very little to the Kursaal, and lives quietl}', like a careM old bachelor who wishes to mend a damaged constitution : but I should rather think he had some deeper game than water- drinking.' Gilbert departed, and Constance was alone with her child. The weather was delightful, cloudless skies, balmy days : blissful weather for the grape- gatherers on the vine-clad slopes that sheltered one side of this quaint old village of Schones- thal. A river wound through the valley, a deep and rapid stream narrowing in this cleft of the liills, and utilized by some saw-mills in the out- skirts of the village, whence at certain seasons rafts of timber were floated down the Ehine. A romantic road foUowincf the course of this O river was one of Mrs. Sinclair's favourite drives. There were picturesque old villages and mediasval ruins to be explored, and many lovely spots to be shown to baby, who, although inarticulate, was supposed to be appreciative. Upon the first day of Gilbert's absence Martha Biiggs came home from her afternoon promenade 138 WEAVERS AND WEFT, looking flushed and tired, and complaining of sore throat. Constance was quick to take alarm. The poor girl was going to have a fever, perhaps, and must instantly be separated from baby. There was no medical man nearer than Baden, so ]\Irs. Sin- clair sent the groom off at once to that town. She told him to inquire for the best English doctor in the place, or if there were no English practitioner at Baden, for the best German doctor. The moment she had given these directions, how- ever, it struck her that the man, who was not remarkable for intelligence out of his stable, was likely to lose time in making his inquiries, and perhaps get misdirected at last. ' Mr. Wyatt is at Baden,' she thought. ' I dare say he would act kindly in such an extremity as this, though I have no opinion of his sincerity in a general way. Stop, Dawson,' she said to the groom, 'I'll give you a note for Mr. Wyatt, who is staying at the Badenscher Hof. He will direct you to the doctor. You'll drive to Baden in the pony carriage, and if possible bring the doctor back with you. THE BEGINNING OF SOllROW. 139 Baby was transferred to the care of Melanie Duport, who seemed full of sympathy and kindli- ness for her fellow-servant, a sympathy which Martha Briggs' surly British temper disdained. Mrs. Sinclair had Martha's bed moved from the nursery into her own dressing-room, where she would be able herself to take care of the invalid. Melanie was ordered to keep strictly to her nurseries, and on no account to enter Martha's room. ' But if Martha has a fever, and Madame nurses her, this little angel may catch the fever from- Madame,' suggested Melanie. *If Martha's illness is contagious I shall not nurse her,' answered Constance. * I can get a nursing sister from one of the convents. But I like to have the poor girl near me, that, at the worst, she may know she is not deserted.' ' Ah, but Madame is too good ! What happi- ness to serve so kind a mistress ! ' Mr. Wyatt showed himself most benevolently anxious to be useful on receipt of Mrs. Sinclair's note. He made all necessary inquiries at the office of the hotel, and having found out the name of 140 WEAVERS AND WEFT. the best doctor in Baden, took the trouble to accompany the groom to the medical man's house, and waited until Mr. Paulton, the English sur- geon, was seated in the pony carriage. 'I shall be anxious to know if Mrs. Sinclair's nurse is seriously ill,' said Mr. Wyatt while the groom was taking his seat. 'I shall take the liberty to call at your surgery and inquire in the course of the evening.' * Delighted to give you any information,' replied Mr. Paulton, graciously ; ' I'll send you a line if you like. Where are you staying ? ' 'At the Badenscher.' ' You shall know how the young woman is directly I get back.' 'A thousand thanks.' CHAPTEE X. THE CRUEL EIVER. Mrs. Sinclair's precautions had been in no wise futile. Mr. Paulton pronounced that J\Iartha's symptoms pointed only too plainly to scarlet fever. There could not be too much care taken to guard against contagion. The villa was airy and spacious, and Mrs. Sinclair's dressing-room at some distance from the nursery. There would be no necessity, therefore, Mr. Paulton said, for the removal of the child to another house. He would send a nursing sister from Baden — an experienced woman — to whose care the sick room might be safely confided. Tlie sister came — a middle-aged woman — in the sombre garb of her order, but with a pleasant, cheerful face, that well became her snow-white head-gear. She showed herself kind and dexterous in nursing the sick girl, but before she had been three days in the house Martha, who was now in a 142 WEAVERS AND WEFT. raging fever, took a dislike to the nurse, and raved wildly about this black-robed figure at her bedside. In vain did the sister endeavour to reassure her. To the girl's wandering wits that foreign tongue seemed like the gibberish of some unholy goblin. She shrieked for help, and Mrs. Sinclair ran in Irom the adjoining room to see what was amiss. Martha was calmed and comforted immediately by the sight of her mistress ; and from that time Constance devoted herself to the sick room, and shared the nurse's watch. This meant separation from Christabel, and that was a hard trial for the mother who had never yet lived a day apart from her child ; but Constance bore this bravely for the sake of the faithful girl — too thankful that her darling had escaped the fever which had so strangely stricken the nurse. Tlie weather continued glorious, and baby seemed quite happy with Melanie, who roamed about with her charge all day, or went for long drives in the pony carriage under the care of the faithful Dawson, who was a pattern of sobriety and steadiness, and incapable of liii tation. THE CRUEL PJVER. 143 ]Mr. Wyatt rode over from Baden every other day to inquire about the nurse's progress — an inquiry Avhich he might just as easily have made of the doctor in Baden, — and this exhibition of good feeling on his part induced Constance to think that she had been mistaken in her estimate of his character. ' The Gospel says " judge not," ' she thought, ' and yet we are always sitting in judgment upon one another. Perhaps, after all, Mr. Wyatt is as kind- hearted as his admirers think him, and I have done wrong in being prejudiced against him. He was Cyprian's friend, too, and always speaks of him with particular affection.' Constance remembered that scene in the morniniir- room at Davenant. It was one of those unpleasant memories which do not grow fainter with the passage of years. She had been inclined to suspect James Wyatt of a malicious intention in his sudden announcement of Sir Cyprian's death — the wish to let her husband see how strong a hold her first love still had upon her heart. He, who had been Cyprian Davenant's friend and confidant, was likely to have 14-1 WEAVERS AND WEFT. known something of that early attachment, or at least to have formed a shrewd guess at the truth, ' Perhaps I have suspected him wrongly in that affair,' Constance thought, now that she was disposed to think more kindly of INIr. Wyatt. ' His mention of Sir Cyprian might have been purely accidental.' Four or five times in every day Melanie Duport brought the baby Christabel to the grass-plat under the window of Mrs. Sinclair's bedroom, and there were tender greetings between mother and child, baby struggling in nurse's grasp, and holding up her chubby arms as if she would fain have embraced her mother, even at that distance. These interviews were a sorry substitute for the long happy hours of closest companionship which mother and child had enjoyed at Schonesthal, but Constance bore the trial bravely. The patient was going on wonderfully well, Mr. Paulton said; the violence of the fever was considerably abated. It had proved a lighter attack than he had apprehended. In a week the patient would most likely be on the high road to recovery, and then Mrs. Sinclair could leave her entirely to the Sister's care, since poor INIartha was THE CRUEL RIVEH. 145 now restored to her riglit mind-, and was quite reconciled to that trustworthy attendant. ' And then/ said Mr. Paulton, ' I shall send you to Baden for a few days, before you go back to baby, and you must put aside^the clothes that you have worn in the sick room, and I think we shall escape all risk of infection.' This was a good hearing. Constance languished for the happy hour when she should be able to clasp that rosy babbling child to her breast once more. IMelanie Duport had been a marvel of goodness throufdiout this anxious time. ' I shall never forget how kind and thoughtful you have been, Melanie,' said Constance from her mndow, as the French girl stood in the garden below, holding baby up to be adored before setting out for her morning ramble. ' Bat it is a pleasure to serve Madame,' shrieked Melanie, in her shrill treble. * Monsieur returns this evening,' said Constance, who had just received a hurried scrawl from Gilbert, naming the hour of his arrival, ' you must take care that Christabel looks her prettiest.' VOL. I. I- 146 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Ah, but she is always ravishingly pretty. If she were only a boy Monsieur would idolize her.' ' Where are you going this morning, Melanie ? * ' To the ruined castle on the hill.' ' Do you think that is a safe place for baby ? ' ' What could there be safer ? What peril can Madame foresee ? ' ' No,' said Constance, with a sigh. ' I suppose she is as safe there as anywhere else, but I am always uneasy when she is away from me.' ' But the love of Madame for this little one is a passion ! ' Melanie departed with her charge, and Constance went back to the sick room to attend to her patient, while the Sister enjoyed a few hours' sleep. One o'clock was Christabel's dinner-time, and Christabel's dinner was a business of no small importance in her mother's mind. One o'clock come, and there was no sign of Melanie and her charge, a curious thing, as Melanie was methodical and punctual to a praiseworthy degree, and was provided with a neat little silver watch to keep her acquainted with the time. THE CRUEL RIVER. 147 Two o'clock struck, and still no Melanie. Constance began to grow uneasy, and sent scouts to look for the nurse and child. But when three o'clock came and baby had not yet appeared, Constance became seriously alarmed, and put on her hat hastily, and went out to search for the missing nurse. She would not listen to the servants, who had just returned from their fruitless quest, and who begged her to let them go in fresh direc- tions while she waited the result at home. ' No,' she said, ' I could not rest. I must go myself. Send to the police, any one, the proper authorities. Tell them my child is lost. Let them send in every direction. You have been to the ruins ? ' 'Yes, ma'am.' ' And there was no one there ? You could hear nothing ? ' 'No, ma'am,' answered Dawson the groom, 'the place was quite lonesome. There was nothing but grasshoppers chirruping.' ' The river ! ' thought Constance, white with horror. 'The ruins are only a little way from the river.' 148 WEAVERS AND WEFT. She ran along the romantic pathway which followed the river bank for about half a mile, and then ascended the steep hill on the slope of which stood the battered old shell which had once been a feudal castle, with dungeons beneath its stately halls, and a deep and secret well for the safe putting away of troublesome enemies. Very peace- ful looked the old ruins on this balmy September day, in the mellow afternoon sunshine, solitary, silent, deserted. There was no trace of nurse or child in the grassy court, or on the crumbling old rampart. Yes, just where the rampart looked down upon the river, just at that point where the short sunburnt grass sloped steepest, Constance Sinclair found a token of her child's presence, a toy dog, white, fleecy, and deliciously untrue to nature — an animal whose shapeless beauty and discordant yap had been the baby Christabel's delight. Constance gave a little cry of joy. ' They have been here, they are somewhere near,' she thought, and then, suddenly, in the sweet summer stillness, the peril of this particular spot struck her — that steep descent — the sunburnt sward, THE CRUEL RIVER. 149 slippery as glass — the deep, swift current below; the utter loneliness of the scene — no help at hand. ' Oh, God ! ' she cried. ' The river, the river ! ' She looked round her with wild beseeching eyes, as if she would have asked all nature to help her in this great agony. There was no one within sight. The nearest house was a cottage on the bank of the river, about a hundred yards from the bottom of the slope. A narrow footpath at the other end of the rampart led to the bank, and by this path Constance hurried down to make inquiries at the cottage. The door was standing open, and there was a noise of several voices within. Some one was lying on a bed in a corner, and a group of peasant women were round her ejaculating compassionately, ' Das armes Madchen. Ach, Himmel ! Das ist schreck- lich I Was gibt es ? ' and a good deal more of a spasmodic and sympathetic nature. A woman's garments, dripping wet, were hanging in front of the stove, beside which sat an elderly vinedresser with stolid countenance, smoking his pipe. Constance Sinclair put the women aside and 150 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. made her way to the bed. It was Melanie who la}' there, wrapped in a blanket, sobbing hysterically. ' Melanie, where is my child ? ' The girl shrieked and turned her face to the wall. ' She risked her life to save it,' said the man in German. ' The current is very rapid under the old Schloss. She plunged in after the baby. I found her in the water, clinging to the branch of a willow. If I had been a little later she would have been drowned.' ' And the child — my child ? ' 'Ach, mein Gott,' exclaimed the man, with a shrug, 'no one has seen the poor child. No one knows.' ' My child is drowned ! ' * Liebe Frau,' said one of the women, * the current is strong. The little one was at play on the rampart. Its foot slipped, and it rolled down the hill into the water. This good girl ran down after it, and jumped into the water. My husband found her there. She tried to save the child, she could do no more. But the current was too strong- THE CKUEL RIVER. 151 Dear lady, be comforted. The good God will help you.' ' No, God is cruel,' cried Constance, ' I will never serve Him or believe in Him any more.' And with this blasphemy, wrung from her tortured heart by the intolerable agony of that moment, a great wave of blood seemed to rush over Constance Sinclair's brain, and she fell senseless on the stone floor. CHAPTEE XL GETTING OVER IT. Baby Christabel was drowned. Of that fact there could be no shadow of doubt in the minds of those who had loved her, although the sullen stream which had swallowed her lovely form refused to give it back. Perchance the Lurleys had taken her for their playfellow, and transformed her mortal beauty into something rich and strange. The search for the dead was continued longer than such searches generally are ; but the nets which dragged the river bed did not bring up the gold hair, or the sad drowned eyes that had once danced with joyous life. And if anything could add to Constance Sinclair's grief it was this last drop of bitter, the knowledge that her child would never rest in hallowed ground, that there was no quiet grave on which she might lay her aching head and fee^ nearer her darling, no spot of earth to which she GETTING OYER IT. 153 could press her lips and fancy she could be heard by the little one lying in her pure shroud below, asleep on Mother Earth's calm breast. No, her little one was driven by winds and waves, and had no resting-place under the weary stars. Melanie Duport, when she recovered from the horror of that one dreadful day, told her story clearly enough. It was the same story she had told the peasant woman whose husband rescued her. Baby Christabel was playing on the rampart, Melanie holding her securely, as she believed, when the little one, attracted by the flight of a butterfly, made a sudden spring — alas ! Madame knew how strong and active the dear angel was, and how diffi- cult it was to hold her sometimes — and slipped out of Melanie's arms on to the rampart, and from the rampart — which was very low just there — as Madame might have observed — on to the grass, and rolled and rolled down to the river. It was all quick as tliought, — one moment, and that angel's white frock was floating on the stream. Melanie tore down, she knew not how ; it was as if Heaven had given her wings in that moment. The white frock was 154 WEAVERS AND WEFT. still floating. Melanie plunged into the river ! Ah, but what was her life at such a time ? a nothing ! Alas, she tried to grasp the frock, but the stream swept it from her; an instant, and one saw it no more. She felt herself sinking, and then her senses left her. She knew nothing till she woke in the cottage where Madame found her. Melanie was a heroine in a small way after this sad event. The villagers thought her a wonderful young person. Her master rewarded her hand- somely, and promised to retain her in his house- hold till she should choose to marry. Her mistress was as grateful as despair can be for any benefit. The light of Constance Sinclair's life had gone. Her one source of joy was turned to a fountain of bitterness. A dull and blank despair took possession of her. She did not succumb utterly to her grief. She struggled against it bravely, and she would accept no one's compassion or sympathy. One of her married sisters, a comfortable matron, with half a dozen healthy children in her nursery offered to come and stay with Mrs. Sinclair, but this kindly offer was refused almost uncivilly. GETTING OVER IT. 155 ' AVhat o'ood could you do me ? ' asked Con- stance. ' If you spoke to me of my darling I should hate you, yet I should always be thinking of her. Do you suppose you could comfort me by telling me about your herd of children, or by re- peating little bits of Scripture, such as people quote in letters of condolence ? No, there is no such thing as comfort for my grief. I like to sit alone and think of my pet, and be wretched in my own way. Don't be angry with me, dear, for writing so savagely. I sometimes feel as if I hated every one in the world, but liappy mothers most of aU.' Gilbert Sinclair endured the loss of his little girl with a certain amount of philosophy. In the first place she was not a boy, and had offended him db initio by that demerit. She had been a pretty little darling, no doubt, and he had had his moments of fondnesii for her; but his wife's idolatry of the child was an offence that had rankled deep. He had been jealous of his infant daughter. He put on mourning, and expressed himself deeply afflicted, but his burden did not press heavily, A 156 WEAVERS AND WEFT. boy would come, perhaps, by and by, and make amends for this present loss, and Constance would begin her baby- worship again. Mr. Sinclair did not know that for some hearts there is no such thinsj as becrinnincf acjain. Martha Briggs recovered health and strength, but her grief for the lost baby was very genuine and unmistakable. Constance offered to keep her in her service, but this favour Martha declined with tears. 'No, ma'am, its best for both that we should part. I should remind you of ' (here a burst of sobs supplied the missing name), ' and you'd remind me. I'll go home. I'm more grateful than words can say for all your goodness ; but oh ! I hate myself so for being ill, and leaving my precious one to anybody else's care. I never, never shall forgiA^e myself — never ! ' So Martha went back to Davenant in her mis- tress's train, and there parted with her to return to the paternal roof, which was not very far off. It was not so with Melanie. She only clung to her mistress more devotedly after the loss of the baby. GETTING OVEK IT. 157 If lier dear lady Nvoiild but let her remain with her as her own maid, she would be beyond measure happy. Was not hair-dressing the art in which she most delighted, and millinery the natural bent of her mind ? Gilbert said the girl had acted nobly, and ought to be retained in his wife's service ; so Constance, whose Abigail had lately left her to better herself by marriage with an aspiring butler, consented to keep Melanie as her personal attend- ant. She did this, believing with Gilbert that the girl deserved recompence; but Melanie's presence was full of painful associations, and kept the bitter memory of her lost child, continually before her. Constance went back to Davenant, and life flowed on in its slow and sullen course, somehow, without Baby Christabel. The two rooms that had been nurseries — two of the prettiest rooms in the big old house, one of them having French windows and a wide balcony, with a flight of steps leading down to a quaint old Dutch garden, shut in from the rest of the grounds by a holly hedge, now became temples dedicated to the lost. In these rooms Con- 158 WEAVEES AND WEFT. stance spent all the time she could call her own. But the business of life still went on, and there was a great deal of time she could not call her own. Gilbert, having dismissed the memory of his lost child to the limbo of unpleasant recollections, re- sented his wife's brooding grief as a personal injury, and was determined to give that sullen sorrow no in- dulgence. When the hunting season was at its best, and pheasant-shooting made one of the attractions of Davenant, Mr. Sinclair determined to fill his house with his own particular set — horsey men — men who gave their minds to guns and dogs, and rarely opened their mouths for speech except to relate some anec- dote about an accomplished setter, or ' that liver- coloured pointer of mine, you know ; ' or to dilate upon the noble behaviour of ' that central fire Lan- caster of mine,' in yesterday's battue ; men who devoted their nights to billiards, and whose conversa- tion was of breaks and flukes, pockets and cannons. ' You'd better ask some women, Constance,' said Gilbert, one Sunday morning in November, as they sat at their teic-a-titc breakfast, the wife reading her budget of letters, the husband with the Field GETTING OVER IT, 159 propped up in front of liis coffee cup, and tlie Sport- ing Gazette usiness-like, and unpretendingly 26 WEAVERS AND WEFT. inexpressive. One narrow little envelope, tliiii, green, and shiny. This was the lirst he opened. The letter it contained was written in a small scratching hand, unmistakably foreign, little curly tails to all the d's, a general scragginess in the y's, a paucity of capitals. * Why do you not let me see you, or write to me ? Is it not that it is cruel, after so much of promises? You leave me to languish, without the hope. Dream you that I shall content to be servant for always, after what you have promised ? But do not believe it. I have too much spirit. It must that I talk to you of all that at leisure, tlie eyes in the eyes, that I may see if you are true, if you have of good intentions to my regard. Write me, and very quickly, my friend, it must that I have of your newH. — Always your ' Melanie.' ' This comes of an innocent flirtation — pour passer le temps — in a stupid country house,' said Mr. Wyatt, crumpling the letter savagely. 'This girl will worry my life out. I was a fool to amuse myself with such a dangerous little viper. And •EXCELLENT BASILISK ! TURN UPON THE VULTURE.' 27 if I were to be frank with her, and tell lier to go about her business, she might make matters un- pleasant for me. The law comes down rather heavily on anything in the shape of conspiracy ; and our little affair at Schonesthal might be made to assume that complexion. And the law never comes down so heavily as when it gets its hoof on a victim with plenty to lose. Your British jury, too, has no liking for a man who turns his superfluous capital to good account by lending it to fools. No, I must keep that Schonesthal business out of the law courts at any cost. Me- lanie must be pensioned, and sent back to her native valley, or her native slum— for I should think such an artful young person must have been born in some festering city alley rather than among vineyards or orchards.' ^h\ Wyatt went to his writing table and an- .swered Mademoiselle Duport's letter without delay — briefly and cautiously. CHAPTER II. GILBERT ASKS A QUESTION. If Lord Clanyarde had been within easy reach, Gilbert Sinclair would have gone straightway to upbraid him with his treachery in bringing Sir Cyprian to Davenant disguised and in a false name ; but Lord Clanyarde, finding himself at fifty years. of age entirely unfettered by domestic encumbrances, was indulging his natural frivolity among a more agreeable people than his serious and business- like fellow-countrymen. Lord Clanyarde was eating ices and playing dominoes under the colonnades of Venice, with thoughts of moving to Tyrolean moun- tains when the weather grew too warm in the sea- girt city. So Gilbert, not being able to get at Lord Clan- yarde, nursed his wrath to keep it warm, and went straight home to Davenant Park, where Constance was leading her calm and happy life, seeing hardly GILBERT ASKS A QUESTION. 29 anything of what the world calls "society," but surrounded by the people she had known since her childhood — the good old rector, who had chris- tened her ; the devoted little doctor, who had watched her so patiently when her dull eyes had hardly recognized his familiar face ; the school- mistress, the old pupils, the gray old gardeners, and sunburnt gamekeepers ; the gaffers and goodies who had been old when she was a baby, and seemed hardly any older for the twenty years that had passed over their heads since then. Cheeks a little more shrivelled perhaps ; brows more deeply wrin- kled ; shoulders a tritle more bent ; but exactly the same appreciation of tea and tobacco, half- crowns and new neckerchiefs, the Psalms and the Eector's sermons. Never had spring seemed to her so beautiful as it seemed this year, when she led her little girl through the woods and showed her the newly- awakened flowers, and told her the names of the birds that poured out such gushing songs of glad- ness in the warm bright noon. The child's lips began to shape isolated words, — mam — mam, and 30 WEAVERS AND WEFT. birdie, fowers, for flowers — Divine language, to the mother's ear. Never was child happier or more fondly loved. Martha Briggs, nothing doubting, hugged this little waif to her honest heart ; and even Melanie, who had a curious inward revul- sion from the child, felt herself constrained to pre- tend the deepest gratitude to Providence for the little one's restoration. Once, inspired by some familiar spirit of evil, she could not resist dropping a little poison into her mistress's cup of joy- 'Do you feel quite sure there has been no mis- take, ma'am ? ' she asked. ' I sometimes fancy our cLrling could not have been saved. I saw her carried away by the current, carried past me like a straw, and it has never been quite explained how she was rescued.' Constance looked at the girl with eyes on fire with indignation. 'Am I sure that this is my child?' she cried, clasping the baby to her breast. 'Am I sure of my own name, of my life? If all the rest of the world were a dream or a shadow, I should know gilbp:rt asks a question. 31 that Cliri^>tabel was real and true. Who cau deceive a mother ? ' ' You were so ill when the little girl was brought home,' suggested Melanie, with an air of consci- entious doubt. 'Not too ill to remember my Christabel. We knew each other, did we not, darling? Our lips ' clung together as if we had never been parted. Not know my own child, indeed ! Never dare to make such a suggestion again, Melanie.' After this Mademoiselle Duport was discreetly silent on the subject of this present Christabel's identity with the Christabel of the past ; but the time was to come when Constance Sinclair's faith was to receive a ruder shock. Gilbert went home that evening after the Two Thousand, with his mind full of scorpions. Goblin's success was as nothing to him. He hardly remem- bered that one of his horses had won a ixvent race, for the first time since he had kept horses. He had counted on James Wyatts fidelity just as he had (u anted on his horse or his dog, a creature bought with his money, fed and housed by him. 32 WEAVEUS AND WEFT, Wyatt had profited by him; Wyatt was bound to stand by him; and as to those various slights which he had put upon his confidential adviser at divers times, almost unconsciously, it had never occurred to him that there could be any galling wound left by such small stings, the venom whereof was to react upon himself. If he had heaped favours upon the man, if he had been the most unselfish and devoted of friends, he could not have felt James Wyatt's treachery more keenly. He was angry with himself for having been so easy a dupe, for having given any man power to get the better of him. 'The whole thing is a planned revenge,' he thought, * Wyatt knew how it would gall me to see Sir Cyprian back at Davenant ? ' And Wyatt had flung a firebrand in that reve- lation about the pretended German doctor. Could it be, Gilbert asked himself, or was it a malicious invention of Wyatt's ? Would Lord Clanyarde have lent himself to such a deception ? Surely not. But even Lord Clanyarde might have been hood- winked by his daughter's lover. GILBERT ASKS A QUESTION. 33 *I won't accuse her — not yet awhile," he said to himself. 'It will be better to keep quiet and watch. I have been too often away. I have given her too much license. That innocent face of her's would deceive Satan himself. And I have allowed myself to think that there was no guile in her ; that although she has never loved me, she has never wronfred me. Hard to find after all that I have judged her too leniently.' It was after midnio;ht when Mr. Sinclair arrived at Davenant, and he had to ring up one of the servants to let him in, his return being altogether unlocked for. He did not see Constance until the next day, and by this time he had regained the mastery of himself. The position of affairs between husband and wife since Mrs. Sinclair's recovery had been a kind of armed neutrality. Gilbert had never alluded to that awful day on which he had raised his hand against his wife, nor had Constance. Doubtful whether she remembered that unhappy occurrence, and deeply ashamed of the brutality into which passion had betrayed him, Mr. Sinclair wisely kept his own counsel. To apologise might be to VOL II. D 34 WEAVERS AND WEFT. make a revelation. His remorse showed itself by increased civility to his wife, and a new deference to her feelings, for which she was duly grateful. Gentle, submissive always, she gave her husband no cause of offence, save that one rankling sore which had begun to gall him directly the triumphant sense of possession had lost its power to satisfy — the consciousness that he had never won her heart. This smouldering fire needed but a spark of jealousy to raise a fatal flame. Constance expressed herself much pleased at Goblin's success, when Gilbert announced the fact with very little elation, on the day after the race. They were dining together tete-a-tete, in the spacious panelled room, which seemed so much too big for them. These ceremonious late dinners were Con- stance's aversion. In her husband's absence she dined early, with Christabel, and spent the long after- noons walking or driving, and came home at twilight to a social tea party with Martha Briggs and Baby. 'I didn't think you cared about race-horses,' said Gilbert, as if doubting the sincerity of his wife's congratulations. GILBERT .VSKS A QUESTION. 35 ' Xot in the abstract, they are such far-ofi' crea- tures. One never gets on intimate terms with them. They are like the strange animals which the Em- peror Commoclus brought to Kome, mere articles of luxury. But I am very glad your horse has won, Gilbert, on your account.' 'Yes, it's a great triumph for me. If I can win the Derby I shall be satistied. Kaciug is con- foundedly expensive, and I've had quite enough of it. I think I shall sell Goblin and the whole stud after Epsom, and the new stables into the bargain, and then I shall improve that great barrack of a place in the north, and settle down. I'm sick of this part of the world. It's too d d civilized,' added jMr. Sinclair forcibly. 3 ' Do you mean that you would leave Davenant ( ' asked Constance, with astonishment. 'Yes. I ought to have told you, by the way. Davenant ceases to be mine after Midsummer Day. I've sold it,' ' Sold Davenant ! ' ' Yes. I have never really cared for the place, and I had a good offer for it while you were ill. 36 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Things were not looking very lively in the north just then, and I was in want of money. I dare say you'll be pleased, when you hear who is the pur- chaser,' added Gilbert, with an uncomfortable smile. Constance seemed hardly to hear the latter part of his speech. ' To think that 3'ou should have sold Davenant — the dear old place.' ' I thought you did not care for it.' * Not just at first, perhaps. It seemed too big for me. I liked shabby old Marchbrook better. But I have been so happy here, lately, and it is so nice to live amongst people one has known all one's life.' ' Yes, old associations are sweet,' sneered Gil- bert, the demon Jealousy getting the upper hand. 'But, after all, the place itself matters very little," said Constance, anxious to avoid anything that might seem like upbraiding. No wife so con- scientious in the discharge of her duty as a good woman who does not love her husband. ' I should be just as happy in any cottage in the neighbour- hood.' GILBERT ASKS A QUESTION. 37 'Especially if you had an old friend settled here,' said Gilbert. ' You haven't asked me the name of my successor. But perhaps you know.' ' How should I know ? ' 'You might have means of obtaining infor- mation.' ' Who is the person, Gilbert ? ' 'Sir Cyprian Davenant.' He watched her closely. Was the announce- ment a surprise, or did she know all about it, and was that look of grave astonishment a touch of social comedy? She looked at him earnestly for a minute, and grew somewhat paler, he thought, as if the very sound of his rival's name were a shock to her. ' Indeed ! He has bought the old place again,' she said, quietly. ' That seems only right. But I thought he had gone back to Africa.' * Did you really ? ' said Gilbert, with a somewhat ironical elevation of his eyebrows. 'Well, I thought so too. But it seems lie is still in England. Oli, by-the-by, do you remember that German doctor who came to see you when you were ill ? ' 38 ^VEAVEES AND WEFT. There was a purpose in the abruptness of this question. He wanted to take her off her guard ; — if possible, to startle her into betraying herself. If there were any truth in Wyatt's assertion this question must be a startling one. Her calm look told him nothinsr. She was either innocent of all guile or the most consummate hypocrite. ' Yes, I can faintly remember. I can just recall that night, like a dream. I remember papa and you coming into my room, and a curious-looking old man, with a kind voice — a voice that went to my heart, somehow,' Gilbert started, and frowned. ' Yes, I remember,' pursued Constance, * It seems like a picture as I look back ; your anxious looks ; the firelight shining on your faces. He asked me to sing, did he not ? Yes, and the song made me cry. Oh, such blessed tears — they took a load off my mind. It was like the loosening of a band of iron round my head. And he spoke to me about Christabel, and told me to hope. Dear old man, I have reason to remember him.' GILBERT ASKS A QUESTION, 39 ' Has he never been since ? ' * Never, How should he come unless you or papa brought him ? ' "No, to be sure. And you have no curiosity about liim — no desire to see him again ? ' ' Why should I be curious or anxious ? He did not deceive me with false hope. My darling was restored to me.' ' And you thank him for that ? ' ' I thank God for having saved my child. I thank that good old doctor for being the first to tell me to hope.' This much and no more could Gilbert's closest questioning extort from his wife. What was he to think — that Wyatt was fooling him, or that Constance was past-mistress in dissimulation ? He did not know what to think, and was miserable accordingly. CHAPTER ITT. READY FOR THE WORST. June roses were opening in the flower garden at Davenant, and Gilbert Sinclair had been leading a life of the purest domesticity for the last three weeks. It hung rather heavily upon him, that domestic life, for though he loved his wife after his own fashion, he was not fond of home-joys or exclusively feminine society. But what will not a jealous man endure when once his suspicions are aroused ? Patient as the spider watching his prey, he waits for the unguarded moment which shall betray the horrid secret he fears yet longs to discover. 'La faiblesse humaiue est d' avoir Des curiosites d'apprendre Ce qu'on ne voudrait pas savoir.' Except to see Goblin win the Derby — a feat which that estimable animal performed with honour to himself and satisfaction to every one save the READY FOR THE WORST. 41 bookmen— Gilbert had not been away from Davenant since the Two Thousand. He had been told to look for treachery at home, and he was on the spot, ready to seize the traitor. No moucJiard in the secret service of the Parisian police was ever a closer spy than the husband who doubts, yet doats, suspects, yet fondly loves. That he had seen nothing in all this time to confirm his doubts was not enough to convince Mr. Sinclair that those doubts were baseless. He was willmg to imagine profoundest hypocrisy in the wife of his bosom, a brazen front under the sem- blance of a pure and innocent brow. Even her devotion to her child might be a cover for a guiltier love. Her happiness, her tranquillity, gave him new ground for suspicion. Was there not some secret well-spring of contentment, some hidden source of delight masked behind this fair show of maternal affection ? These were the questions which Gilbert Sinclair was pjerpetually revolving in his mind during the period of domestic bliss, and this was the aspect of affairs up to the sixteenth of June. Ascot races were 42 WEAVERS AND WEFT. to begin on the sixteenth, and on the seventeenth Goblin was to Mfil his third great engagement. This was an occasion before which even a husband's jealous fears must give way ; and Gilbert had made up his mind to see the horse run. He had not carried out his idea of selling Goblin after the Derby. Jackson, the trainer, had protested vehe- mently against such a breach of faith with him, who had made the horse. ' That there 'oss is to win the Ledger,' said the indignant Jackson. ' If he don't, I'll eat him, pigskin and all.' Gilbert felt that to part with such a horse, for ever so high a price, would be to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs. ' A horse can't go on winning great races for ever, though. There must come a turn in the tide,' suggested Gilbert, sagely. ' We should get a pot of money for him now.' ' A gentleman couldn't sell a 'oss that had just won him the blue ribbon of the turf,' replied Jackson, with a burst of chivalrous feeling. ' It would be too mean.' READY FOR THE WORST. 43 Gilbert submitted to be governed by the finer feeling of his trainer, and toffk no step towards cutting short his career on the turf. Things were looking livelier in the coalpit district, he told himself, and a few thousand a year more or less could not hurt him. He would carry out his original idea, take a place somewhere near New- market, and establish his wife and — the child there. Under ordinary circumstances he would have taken a house at Ascot during the race week, for the accommodation of himself and a selection of choice spirits with sporting tastes — where the nights might have been enlivened by blind hookey, or poker, or some equally enlightening recreation. But on this occasion Mr. Sinclair made no such com- fortable arrangement, and determined to sleep at his hotel in town on the night after the great race. He was smoking his after-dinner cigar on the evening of the sixteenth, pacing slowly up and down the terrace in front of the open drawing-room win- dows, when a servant brought him his letters. 44 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. The first he opened was from his trainer, who was in high spirits about Goblin. The next two or three were business letters of no importance. The last was in a strange hand, a niggling, scratchy- little hand, which, if there be any expression in penmanship, was suggestive of a mean and crafty nature in the writer. Gilbert tore open the envelope, expecting to find some insinuating ' tip ' from a gentleman of the genus ' tout.' But the letter was not even so honest as a tip. It was that snake in the grass, an anony- mous warning. 'If Mr. Sinclaire is away to-moro nite he will mis an oportunitie to learn sumthing he ouht to kno. If he wants to kno a secret let im wattch the balcone of is wif's room betwin tenn and leven to- moro nite, — a frend.' Such a letter falling into the hands of a generous- minded man would have aroused only contempt — but coming to a man who had given himself up as a prey to suspicion and jealousy, who had long been on the watch for domestic treachery, even this venomous scrawl became significant as the READY FOR THE WORST. 45 voice of Fate — an oracle to be obeyed at any cost. 'She has taken advantage of my intended ab- sence ah'eady, and has made an appointment with her lover,' thought Gilbert Sinclair. ' This warning comes from one of my servants, I dare say — some scullery -maid, who has found out my wife's infamy, and pities the deluded husband. Kather hard to swallow pity from such a quarter.' Then came the natural reaction. ' Is it a hoax, I wonder ? A trick played upon me by some dismissed underling ? Yet, how should any one know how to put his finger on the spot that galls ? Unless it were that scoundrel Wyatt, who hates me like poison. Well, at the least, I can take the hint, and be on the watcli. God help Cyprian Davenant if he crosses my threshold with evil intent ! He may have deceived me once. He shan't deceive me again.' Mr. Sinclair went to Ascot next day as he had intended. Any change in his plans would have put his wife upon her guard. He went to the races, looking uncommonly glum, as his friends politely 46 WEAVERS AND WEFT. informed him. So gloomy, indeed, were his looks that some of his intimates made haste to hedge their bets about Goblin, making very sure that the Derby winner had been seized by some sudden indis- position. The event rev/arded their caution, for Goblin, although brought up to the starting post in magnificent condition, failed to get a place. Gilbert bore his disappointment with supreme stoicism. Goblin's victory would not have made him smile, his failure hardly touched him. It was provoking, of course; but Destiny and Mr. Sinclair had long been at odds. This was another item added to an old account. He ckove to the station directly Goblin's race was over, and as there was another race to come he got a place in the train easily. It started immediately, and he was in London before seven o'clock, and on his way to Daveuant at eight. He had not stopped to dine. A biscuit and a glass of brandy and soda were all he cared to take in his present frame of mind. It was striking nine as he left the quiet little Kentish station, not quite clear as to what his next READY FOR THE WORST. 47 step ought to be. He had been told to watch his wife's room between ten and eleven. To do this with any effect he must get into the house un- observed, or find a safe post of observation in the garden. To announce his return home would be, of course, to destroy his chance of making any dis- covery ; and by tliis time he had made up his mind that there was domestic treachery to be discovered. As to the means he cared little, or nothing. To meet treachery with treachery could be no dishonour. It was dusk, the sweet summer dusk, when he entered the park, through a gate seldom used by any one but gamekeepers or 'servants. The nightin- gales were breaking out into sudden gushes of melody, calling and answering one another from distant clumps of chesnut or Ijeech, but Mr. Sinclair took no heed of the nightingales. In his happiest frame of mind that melodious jug-jugging would have made no particular impression upon his unsensitive ear — to-night all senses were more or less in abeyance. He found his way along the narrow footpath me- chanicallv, looking neither to the right nor the left. 48 WEAVERS AND WEFT. and only roused himself when he came within sight of the house. How to get in unobserved and reach liis room without meeting any of the servants was the question. A moment's reflection showed him that this ought to be easy enough. Half-past nine o'clock was the servants' supper hour at Davenant ; and meals in the servants' hall are an institution which even domestic convulsions leave unshaken. A funeral makes no difference in the divine right of servants to dine and sup at a certain hour : a wedding may cause some supererogatory feasting, but can hardly overthrow the regular order of the daily meals. Mr, Sinclair had no fear therefore of any alteration in the routine of the household ; and he knew by experience that his servants liked to take their time at the social evening meal. It was twenty minutes to ten when he stopped for a minute or so in the shrubbery to consider his plans. Between ten and eleven, said the anonymous letter. He had no time to lose. He skirted the lawn in front of the drawing-room windows, keeping in the shadow of the trees. The READY FOR THE WORST. 49 windows were all open. Lamps were burning on the tables, candles on the open piano, but his wife was not there. He went in at one of the windows. The child's toys were lying on the floor by Constance's favourite chair. An open work basket, and a little pile of 'books on a gipsy table, showed that the room had been lately occupied. ' She has gone to the balcony room, to keep her appointment,' he thought, savagely ; for by this time lie had accepted the anonymous warning as a truth. The hall was as empty as the drawing-room. The lamps burned dimly, being the last invention in lamps that do not illuminate. Gilbert went softly up the shallow old staircase to the corridor which ran the length of the house, and ended at the door of his own snuggery. He reached this door without meeting any one, went quietly into the room, and locked the door. The oriel window of this room commanded the balcony room, which was recessed in the southern front, between two projecting wings. There could be no better post of observation for the man who had been told to watch the garden approacli to his wife's rooms. Vol. II. K 50 WEAVERS AND WEFT. There were matches and candles on the mantel- piece, but to strike a light would be to make his presence known to any one in the balcony room, so Gilbert waited quietly in the half darkness of a summer night, and found what he wanted easily enough by the sense of touch. There was no moon yet, but a few stars were shining faintly in the calm grey sky. The windows of the balcony room were dark, and one stood open — the one nearest the iron stair. Gilbert observed this. ' She is sitting there in the dark,' he thought, ' waiting for him. That dark room, that open window look like guilt. Why has she not her lamp lighted, and her music or her books ? No, she has something else to think of ' His guns were arranged in artistic order above the chimney-piece — a costly collection, with all the latest improvements in sporting guns. His hands wandered here and there among the stocks till they came to a favourite rifle, the lightest in his collection, and one of the surest. He had shot many a royal stag with it beyond the Tweed. He took down this gun, went to a drawer where he kept ammunitiun, and selected HEADY FOR THE WORST. 51 his cartridge, and loaded liis gnu in a steady, business- like manner. There was no faltering of the hand tliat dropped the cartridge into its place, though that hand meant murder. ' He refused to light me,' Gilbert Sinclair said to himself ' He lied to me until I was fool enough to believe his lies. I gave him fair warning. He has tricked and insulted me in the face of that warning. He has entered my house once as an impostor and a liar. If he tries to enter it a second time as a thief and a seducer, his blood be upon his own head.' CHAPTEE IV. CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. Ten o'clock struck with sweet and solemn chime from the square tower of the parish church as Gilbert Sinclair opened the lattice, and stood by the window of his dressing-room, waiting. There was not a leaf stirring in the garden, not a shadow save the motionless shadows of the trees. No light in the windows of the balcony room. The stars brightened in the clear grey, and in the soft twilight all things were dimly defined — not dark, but shadowy. The quarter chimed from the church tower behind the trees yonder, and still there was no movement in the garden. Gilbert stood motionless, his attention divided between the old Dutch garden with its geometrical flower-beds and stone sun-dial, and the windows of the balcony room. As the sound of the church clock dwindled slowly into silence, a light appeared in the centre window, a candle held in a CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 53 woman's hand, and raised above her head. Gilbert could but faintly distinguish the dark figure in the feeble glimmer of that single candle before figure and light vanished. A signal, evidently, for a minute later a man appeared from the angle of the hedge, where he had been hidden in shadow. A man — tall, strongly built — yes, just the figure that patient watcher expected — stepped lightly across the garden, carefully keeping to the narrow gravel paths, leaving no tell-tale footprint on flower-bed or box-border. He reached the iron stair, mounted it swiftly, and had his foot on the balcony, when Gilbert Sinclair fired, with tlie unerring aim of u practised sportsman, and the firm hand of a man who has made up his mind for the worst. The figure reeled, swayed for a moment on the topmost step, and then rolled backwards down the light iron stair, shaking it with the force of the fall, and sank in a heap on the gravel path below. Gilbert waited, expecting to be thrilled by a woman's piercing shriek, the despairing cry of a guilty soul ; but no such cry came. All was darlcness 54 WEAVERS AND WEFT. in the balcony room. He fancied he saw a figure approach the window and look oiit, but whatever that shape was it vanished before he could verify his doubts. He went over to the chimney-piece and put away his gun, as coolly as if the purpose for which he had just used it were the most ordinary business of daily life ; but this mechanical tranquillity had very little significance. It was rather the automatic precision of a sleep-walker than the calmness of a mind that realises the weight and measure of its acts. He went back to the window. There lay the figure, huddled in a formless heap, as it had fallen, hideously foreshortened from Gilbert's point of sight. The outspread hands clutched the loose gravel. No sound, no light yet in the balcony room. ' She does not know what has happened,, said Gilbert, grimly. ' I had better go and tell her.' He unlocked his door and went out in the corridor. His wife's bedroom opened out of the balcony room. The child slept in a smaller room adjoining that. He went into the balcony room, and CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 55 found it empty, then opened the bedroom door and paused on the threshold, looking in. Impossible to imagine a more peaceful picture than that which met the husband's eyes ! A night- lamp shed a faint light over the curtained bed, an open book and an extinguished candle on a little table by the bedside showed that Constance had read herself to sleep. The door of the inner room stood half open, and Gilbert could see the little white crib, and the sleeping child. The mother's face was hardly less placid in its repose than the child's. Gilbert Sinclair felt as if this world and this life were one inextricable confusion. The anonymous letter had told him where and when to watch — and the writer of that letter had kept faith with him so far — since he had not watched in vain. But this spectacle of innocent repose, the mother sleeping near the child, was hardly in keeping. Gilbert paused irresolute — and then went to his wife's bed- side and roused her roughly with his strong hand upon her arm. The gentle eyes opened suddenly and looked at him full of bewilderment. 56 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Gilbert ! Back to-night ? I didn't expect you. Why do you look at me like that? What has happened ? ' ' Can't you guess ? You didn't expect me. You had made your plans accordingly. You had made an appointment with your lover.' * Gilbert, are you mad ? ' ' He has not disappointed you — he is here. Get up and come and see him. Quick. He is waiting.' * Gilbert, what have you been doing — where have you been ? Calm yourself, for heaven's sake.' She had risen and put on her slippers and dressing-gown, scared by her husband's looks and words, not knowing whether to think him mad or drunk — recalling with a shudder that other scene in the summer house, and expecting some new violence. He would kill her perhaps. She trembled a little, believing herself in the power of a madman, but tried to be calm. ' Come,' he said, grasping her wrist, ' I am too much a gentleman to let your lover wait yonder — on the threshold of his own house, too. Strange, that CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 57 lie should try to sneak in like a burglar, when he will be master here in a few days/ He dragged her into the next room, and to the balcony. * Pray, don't be so violent, Gilbert. I will come anywhere you please,' she said, quietly. From the balcony she saw that prostrate figure at the foot of the stairs, and gave a faint cry of horror. ' Gilbert, what have you done ? ' ' My duty as a man. I should loathe myself if I had done less.' She followed him down the steps, trembling in every limb, and clung to him as he knelt by the motionless figure, and turned the face upward to the faint light of a new risen moon. A very familiar face, but not the one Gilbert Sinclair expected to see. The face of his ally, James Wyatt, grey with the cluU gre}' of death, but not distorted. A mean, false face in life or death ; but death brought out the dominant expression a little more forcibly than life had done. ' Gilbert, what have you done ? ' repeated Con- stance, sobbing hysterically. 58 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Murder,' answered her husband, with a stolid despair. ' I hated this fellow badly enough, but I didn't mean to kill him. I meant to kill Sir Cyprian Davenant, with whom you had made an appointment to-night, counting on my absence.' ' Gilbert, what have I ever done that you should think me the vilest of women ? I have never wronged you by one thought about (Jyprian Davenant, which you might not know ; I have never spoken a word to him which you might not hear — you and all the world. Your jealousy of him has been madness from first to last, and now it has ended in murder.' ' I have been trapped somehow. Some enemy has set a snare for me.' ' What are you to do ? Oh, Gilbert, is he dead ? ' ' Yes, my bullet finished him. I aimed under his shoulder, where I knew it would be fatal. What am I to do ? Cut and run, I suppose ? ' ' Yes ; go, go — it is your only chance. No one knows yet. Go, for God's sake, this moment,' ' And leave you with a corpse on the premises ? — rather cowardly that.' ' Don't think of me — it is life or death for you. CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 59 You must go, Gilbert. There is no help. Go, or you will be taken, tried, and hanged,' cried Constance, clinging to the iron rail, trembling, icy cold, the ground reeling under her feet, * Yes, that's the natural sequence. Fool, fool, fool ! An anonymous slanderer. What can have brought him here, and to the windows of your room ? Constance, what does it mean ? Do you know why this man came ? ' But Constance could not answer him. She had fallen, fainting, on tlie iron stair. Gilbert carried her back to her room, and laid her on her bed. She would come to her senses soon enough, no doubt, poor wretch, he thought, hopelessly. He hurried back to his victim, intent upon finding some clue to Wyatt's presence in that place to-night. He ransacked the dead man's jDOckets, took out a bundle of letters, put them in his breast pocket, and left the garden by the little gate in the holly hedge. The church clock chimed the half-liour as he entered the park. It seemed to him as if that last quarter of an hour had been half a lifetime. Now for the first time he drew breatli, and began to think what he 60 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ought to do. Cut and run, — yes, as his wife said, that was about his only chance. He stopped for a minute among the shadows of the tall old elms, gaunt rugged old trunks from which wintry blasts and summer storms had swept many a limb, stopped to ' pull himself together,' in his own phraseology, and settle what he should do. There was an up train — the last — due at the little station yonder at five minutes before eleven. If he could catch that and sleep at his hotel — the place where he was known — and his rooms taken for to- night ? He would have to run for it, but it might be done ; and then he would be able to prove an alibi, provided no one saw him at the station. He reached the rough little bye-road leading to the station, breathless, as the bell rang. He did not go into the ticket-office, where the porters might have recognized him, but scrambled up the embank- ment upon which the station-master grew his potatoes and strawberry plants, and was on the platform, at the end furthest from the station, as the train came in. It was full of market people, soldiers or militia noisy excursionists. He opened a crowded third CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 61 class carriage with his key and got in among the rabble. A sergeant in an advanced state of beer was inclined to resent the intrusion, a woman with a baby seconded the sergeant. The atmosphere was cloudy with the reek of bad tobacco. Not much chance of recognition here. He had his season-ticket, but did not care to show it. The fact might be remembered by some quick- witted collector. The train had only come from Maidstone. He thought it safer to pay his fare throudi, at the station where tickets were examined. It was a little after midnight when Mr. Sinclair drove up to his hotel — a small house in St. James's, chiefly affected by men about town. ' Eoom ready, James ? Yes, of course it is. You got my telegram yesterday. Been dining with some fellows — kept me deuced late. You can bring me a brandy and soda upstairs. That's aU.' 'Sorry the 'orse lost, sir/ said the man, with respectful sympathy. ' What horse ? ' asked Gilbert, with a vacant look. ' Beg your pardon, sir — Goblin, sir — thought he was safe to win the Cup. Took the liberty to put 62 WEAVERS AND WEFT. 'arf a sufferin on him. You bein' a old customer, you see, sir, and all of us feelin' interested in the 'oss ou that account.' ' That was a good fellow. The ground was too hard for him — goes better in the dirt ? ' He went up to his bedroom after this brief collo- quy, leaving the head waiter under the impression that ]Mr. Sinclair had been dining rather more freely than usual. ' Didn't seem to understand me when I spoke to him about his own 'oss,' said the waiter to his friends in council ; ' stared at me reg'lar mazed.' ' Ah, pore feller, he's 'it pretty 'ard to-day, you may depend.' Mr. Sinclair's last order to the waiter, who carried the brandy and soda to his bedroom, was to be called at half-past six next morning. ' You'll have a cab at the door at a quarter-past seven,' he said ; ' I want to catch the seven-thirty train into Kent. I ought to have got home to-night if I could have done it,' * Yes, sir ; half-past six, sir. Anything par- ticklar you would like for breakfast ? ' CAUGHT IX THE TOILS. 63 ' Oil, anytliing ! ' ' A bit of tish, sir, and a spatcli-cock, or a devil ? ' suggested the waiter, pertinaciously. Nothing can subdue that solicitude to obtain an order which is the waiter's ruling passion. Tish — tlesh — anything,' cried Gilbert, kicking oft' his boots. ' A salmon cutlet, sir, with Dutch soss ? ' * An elephant, if you like. Get me the cab at a quarter-past seven. A hansom, with a good horse.' 'Yes, sir, an 'ansom and a fast 'oss. Yes, sir. Tea or coffee, sir ? ' Mr. Sinclair banged his door in the waiter's face. ' The Baron Osy starts at eight to-morrow,' said Gilbert, referring to his Bradshaw, the only literature he carried about him constantly. ' I shall be in Antwerp on Saturday.' Then, after a pause, he asked himself, — ' Might it not be wiser to hold my ground and trust to the chapter of accidents ? Wlio is to bring- that traitor's death home to me ? I sleep here to- night. No one saw me at Davenant.' Again, after another interval of thought, — 64 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' How can I be sure that no one saw me yonder ? These things are always brought home to a man somehow. A child — a dog — an idiot — the halt — dumb — blind — some unexpected witness rises up against him and puts the rope round his neck. My best chance is to put the seas between me and a coroner's jury. First, Antwerp, and then a steamer for South America — Carthagena, or some lawless place where a man might laugh at extradition treaties. Besides, I'm sick of it all at home — too sick to stand to my guns and outface suspicion, and live in this country with that dead man's face staring at me. No, I'll try some strange, wild land, a new life that will be fiery enough to burn out the memory of the old one.' He went to the mantelpiece, where a pair of wax candles were burning, with that air of elegant luxury by which your skilled hotel keeper seeks to reconcile his customers to the extravagance of his charges, and took James Wyatt's letters out of his breast-pockets. The first three or four he looked at were business letters, chiefly entreaties to ' renew ' or carry over, or provide for some little bill just falling due, 'like CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 05 the best of good fellows.' These Gilbert laid aside, after a glance, but there was one at which he started as if he had touched a snake. It was in the same hand as the anonymous letter that had made him a murderer. This, in plain words, was the gist of the letter — badly spelled, with a foreigner's uncouth orthography — curiously worded, with a mixture of foreign idioms and illiterate English. ' You tell me that all your promises amount to nothing, that you never meant to marry me. Eather hard to discover this after having nursed my delusion so long. I was to be a lady. I was to take my place in the world. Bah ! all lies ! Lies, like your pretended love — your pretended admiration. You ask me to go back to my country, and promise if I consent to this I shall be provided for — handsomely — with fifty pounds a year for life, whether I remain single or marry — an independence for a girl like me, you say. Soil. But who is to secure to me this independence ? It may be paid me for a year — two years, perhaps — and then cease. It must tliat I see you, Mr. Wyatt. It must that I hear of your proper VOL. n. F 66 WEAVERS AND WEFT. mouth what you mean. Your soft tongue is too strong for me. You could persuade me to do any- thing — to go anywhere — to serve and obey you as your slave ; but I cannot obey to your letters. I do not understand. I want to see things clearly — to have your views explained to me. ' You say that I am passionate — vindictive — and that when last we met — and, ah ! how kind it was of you to come here at my request — my violence almost frightened you. Believe me, I will not so offend again. Come but once more — only come and assure me with your own lips that this miserable pittance shall be paid to me honourably year by year — give me but your word for that and I will go back to my friends in the South of France — ah — conune ce sera loin de toi, mon ami — and you shall hear of me never again. 'You tell me that you are no longer friends With Mr. Sinclair, and that you cannot come to his house, and that if I want to see you it must that I come to you. That cannot without throwing up my place altogether, for the housekeeper here is of the most tyrannical, and gives no servant leave to absent her- CKOAVNERS QUEST. 67 self, and I will not give up this service until I am assured of my future. Give me then a proof of your good faith by coming here. Give me my pit- tance a year in advance, and show me how it is to be afterwards paid me, and I will trouble you no more. ' It will be very easy for you to come on the evening of tlie 17th. Mr. and INIrs. Sinclair are going to Ascot on the 15th ; they will be absent some days. You know your way to the balcony room. I shall be waiting for you there between ten and eleven on Thursday evening, and I will show a light in the centre window as a signal that the coast is clear. 'Come if you wish me to trust you. Come if you do not wish me to betray you. ' Yours, as you treat me, 'Melanie Duport.' This letter showed Gilbert Sinclair the trap that had been set for James Wyatt and for himself. He had been made the instrument of the Frenchwoman's revenge. In the face uf this revelation what was he to do ? Carry oat his iuLeiilion ; go to fcioiith America, and 68 WEAVERS AND WEFT. leave his wife in tlie power of this fiend ? Gilbert Sinclair was not bad enough for that. ' I'll risk it, and go back to Davenant,' he said. ' How do I know what this wretch might do ? She might lay her lover's death at my wife's door. Drag my wife's name in the gutter. No, at any hazard to myself I must be there, and, if necessary, this letter must be shown at the inquest.' CHAPTEE V. C R W N E R'S quest. It was between six and seven o'clock in the morning, when one of the gardeners at Davenant, going with a barrowful of bedding- out plants to the old Dutch garden, found James Wyatt lying dead at the bottom of the iron staircase. He rushed into the house for aid, and brought out the newly-risen men-servants, who had not yet fortified exhausted nature with an Elizabethan breakfast of beef and beer. All was hubbub and confusion; one messenger ran for the doctor, another for the police. The dead man was carried into a great disused brewhouse at the back of the stables, as a place where he would not hurt any one's feelings, as the butler remarked, considerately. ' What a horful thing I ' said one housemaid, and ' Who could have done it ? ' ejaculated another, as the news of the catastrophe spread through the house. Who was to toll ^trs. Sinclair ? 70 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Martha Briggs took that office upon herself. She had just filled Miss Christabel's bath, but the darling was not awake yet, and Mrs. Sinclair was most likely still asleep. ' 111 tell her when I take her her cup of tea at half- past seven,' said Martha, looking pale and scared. ' Where's Melanie ? ' asked the upper house- maid. * She asked leave to go to London early this morning, to get herself some things. As if Maidstone wasn't good enough for her ! She wanted to go by the first train to have a long day of it, she said. The first train goes at six. She must have left this house at half-past five.' ' That's queer,' said the housemaid. ' But I never had much opinion of foreigners.' * What could have brought Mr. Wyatt here last night, and to the bottom of those steps ?' speculated Martha Briggs. ' Why didn't he go to the hall door, as usual ? It seems so strange ! ' ' It seems stranger that there should be any one there to shoot him,' remarked the housemaid. CROWNEII'S QUEST. • 71 ]\Irs. Sinclair heard of the morning's discovery with a calmness which astonished her handmaiden. ' I must telegraph to my husband,' she said ; and a telegram was despatched without delay, addressed to Gilbert at his hotel in St. James's. The police were on the alert by this time, examin- ing the scene of the murder. The coroner appointed three o'clock in the afternoon for his inquiry, which was to be held in the hall at Davenant. This would give time for summoning the jury. Constance was sitting at breakfast, very pale but quite self-possessed, when Gilbert Sinclair walked in from the lawn. ' Gilbert/ she cried, ' what folly ! I thought you were across the Channel by this time.' ' No, Constance, I am not such a poltroon. We have not been a very happy couple, you and I; and God knows I am heartily tired of my life in this country ; but I am not base enough to leave you in the lurch. Who can tell what scandal might arise against you ? No, my dear, I shall stop, even if the end is to be a rope.' ' Gilbert, for mercy's sake ! Oh, Gilbert ! ' she 72 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. cried, wriuging her bauds, 'how could you do this dreadful thing ? ' ' How could I ? I thought I was doing my duty as a man. I was told that a man was to be here — your secret visitor. The man was here, at the very hour I had been told to expect him. I saw him entering your room by stealth. What could I think but the worst ? And thinking as I did I had a right to kill him,' ' No, Gilbert, no ; God has given no man the right to shed his brother's blood.' ' Except Jack Ketch, I suppose ? God has given men the instinct of honour and honour teaches every honest man to kill the educer of his wife or daughter.' * * * * The inquest was held at three. Gilbert and several of his household, notably the gardener who found the body, were examined. Dr. Webb gave his evidence as to the nature of the wound, and the hour at which death must, in all probability, have occurred. ' Did you sleep at Davenant last night, JNIr. Sinclair ? ' asked the coroner. crownek's quest. 73 'No. I only came up from Ascot yesterday evening, and spent the night in London,' 'Where? ' ' At Hildred's Hotel, Jermyn-street.' ' Did you dine at the hotel ? ' ' No, I dined at Francatelli's.' This was a venture. Francatelli's would doubt- less have been crowded on the night after Ascot, and it would be difficult for the waiters to assert that Mr. Sinclair had not dined there. ' You dined at Francatelli's. Where is that ? ' asked one of the jury, with rural innocence. ' It is an hotel and restaurant, in Piccadilly.' ' How long were you at Francatelli's ? ' asked the coroner. ' I really cannot tell. ]\[y horse had been running at Ascot, and losing. I was somewhat excited. I may have gone into Francatelli's at eight, and gone out again between nine and ten.' ' And from Francatelli's you went to your hotel ?' ' No,' said (xilbert, feeling that there was a hiatus of a couple of hours here. ' I went into the Hay- market Theatre for an hour or two.' 74 WEAVEES AND WEFT. ' If tills fellow asks me what I saw there I'm done for,' he thought ; hut happily the coroner was not so much on the alert as to put that question. ' Have you any idea what brought the deceased to your house last night, when you were known to be absent ? ' ' I have a very clear idea.' ' Be kind enough to tell us all you can.' * Coming from the station this morning by a footpath through the park, the way by which the deceased always came to my house when he did not drive from the station, I found a letter, which it seems to me that he must have dropped there last night.' ' You found a letter dropped by the deceased in Davenant Park ? ' ' I found this letter addressed to Mr. Wyatt, which I conclude must have been dropped by him last night.' Gilbert handed the coroner Melanie's letter, which had now assumed a crumpled and dilapidated ap- pearance, as of a letter that had lain all night in the dew and dirt of the footpath under the trees. The coroner puzzled through the letter, reading crowner's quest. 75 it aloud, with various mistakes a*i(l puUiugs up and tryings back, the jury listening open mouthed. ' This clearly indicates that ]\Ir. "Wyatt came here by appointment, remarked the coroner sagely. ' Who is this Melanie Duport V ' My wife's maid.' ' Why has she not been called ? ' It was explained to the coroner that Melanie Duport was missing. After this, the jury having duly viewed the body, or, at any rate, made believe to view it, the inquest was adjourned, to give the local police time to make their investigations, though what they were to investigate seemed a somewhat puzzling question. ' They'll bring some London detectives, who will look into my room, see those guns, and then put two and two together,' thought Gilbert. ' I don't suppose my idili would hold water at the assizes. A jury would want some independent evidence to sustain my account of my time between seven o'clock and midnight yesterday.' * * * # * The inquest was adjourned from Friday — the 76 WEAVERS AND WEFT. day after the murder — until the following Monday When that day came Gilbert Sinclair was missing. London detectives had come to the aid of the local constabulary, but too late to keep an eye upon the movements of Mr. Sinclair. Tliat gentleman con- trived to leave Liverpool on Saturday morning, in a steamer bound for Eio. His disappearance gave a new aspect to the case, and aroused suspicions of his guilt. His household knev/ nothing of his whereabouts. He had told Mrs. Sinclair and his body-servant that he was going to iSTewmarket, and would be back in time for the inquiry on Monday : but on an inquiry being telegraphed to his New- market establishment the reply was to the effect that Mr. Sinclair had not been seen there. The police had occupied the interval between Friday and Monday in the endeavour to find Mademoiselle Duport, but up to noon on Monday that young lady had not been heard of, nor was any new fact disclosed at the inquest. Enlightened by Gilbert Sinclair's disappearance, the police took a bolder flight. They discovered that the oriel window in Mr. Sinclair's study afibrded croavner's quest. 77 au excellent point of aim for the iron staircase, at tlie foot of which the murdered man had been found. The)' also opined that the handsome col- lection of guns in that apartment suggested a ready way of accounting for the mode and manner of the act. Subsequent investigation showed that the deer stalker's rifle in that collection carried a bullet exactly corresponding in size and shape to the bullet extracted from James Wyatt's death- wound. Professional acumen led the investigators further to perceive that Mr. Sinclair's own account of his time on the evening of the murder was not supported by any other evidence, and that it was possible for him to have come back to Davenant and to have entered and left his house unseen by any of the household. These suspicions were in some measure con- firmed by the statement of the waiter at Hildred's Hotel, who described 'My. Sinclair's arrival at that house after midnight, and a certain strangeness in his look and manner which had struck him at tlje time, and which he had spoken about to his fellow- servants afterwards. 78 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Suspicion thus aroused, the next step was to pursue the suspected man ; but Gilbert Sinclair had been lucky enough to get away from England without leaving any trail behind him. It had been a particularly busy time on the Liverpool quay that June morning, half a dozen big steamers starting for different parts of the globe — commerce at her best on the Mersey, and the trade with South America thriving. The business-like looking man with a single portmanteau, had taken his berth, and slipped on board the Chimborazo without attracting special notice from any one ; and for once in a way Scotland Yard was at fault. The coroner's inquest dragged its slow length aloncc. No new evidence was elicited to make the case stronger against Gilbert Sinclair. Tlie fact of his departure remained the one damning fact against him. There was also the fact of jMelanie Duport's disappearance on the morning of the murder, and ©pinions were divided as to which of these two was guilty, or whether both had not been con- cerned in the act. crowner's quest. 79 The iiGM'spapers made much capital out of an event which soon became known as the Davenant Mystery, and Constance Sinclair had the horror of knowing that she was the object of a morbid interest in the minds of the nation at large. She left Dave- nant almost immediately after her husband, and took up her abode at Marchbrook, with Martha Briggs and the little girl for her only companions, until the arrival of Lord Clanyarde from the Continent. The inquiry before the coroner ended at last in an open verdict. The deceased had been shot by some person or persons unknown. Davenant was formally taken possession of upon Midsummer Day, not by Sir Cyprian Davenant, but by his lawyer, who installed some of the old family servants as care-takers. Sir Cyprian had left Eng- land a few days before James Wyatt's death for the north of Europe, his long talked of African expedition being postponed till the autumn. The year wore round, and the horror of James Wyatt's unexplained death faded out of the national mind, as all such horrors' do fade when the news- papers leave off writing about them. Constance lived 80 WEAVERS AND WEFT. lier quiet life at Marclibrook, as she had lived at Davenant, happy with her child, yet mindful, with a shuddering pity, of that friendless wanderer doomed to bear the brand of Cain. Christmas came and passed, and for nearly a year she had remained in ignorance of her husband's fate. Then came a letter in a strange hand, but signed by Gilbert Sinclair. — ' Dear Constance, ' I am down with a malignant fever common to this part of the world, and generally fatal. Before I die I should like to ask you to forgive me for all the pain my jealousy gave you in days gone by, and to tell you that I now believe that jealousy to have been causeless. It was what the thieves call a " put up " business, and Wyatt was the lago. He set a trap for me, and got snared himself in the end. ' I want to tell you something else which may perhaps distress you, but which is no fault of mine. The child you are so fond of is not your own. Poor little Christabel was really drowned, and the little girl brought to Davenant while you were ill is a child adopted for the purpose of bringing about your crownee's quest. ^l recovery. This plan was suggested to me by your father. He knows all about it, ' I have made my will, and sent it to my London lawyers. I leave you everything. So, if matters continue prosperous in the north, you will be a very rich woman. I wasted a good deal of money on the Newmarket stable; but, with your quiet life, you will soon recover lost ground. Of course you will marry C. D. Well, I can't help that. I ought never to have thrust myself between you and your first love. Nothing but misery has come of our marriage, * God bless you, and give you a happier life than you would ever have spent with me. * Your dying husband, ' Gilbert Sinclair. ' P.S. — If I go, the man who writes this, Thomas Grace, tobacco grower, will send you the certificate of my death, and all necessary evidence. If I live, you shall hear from me again.' VOL. II. G CHAPTEK VI. CRUEL KINDNESS. That letter from her dying husband was a crushing blow to Constance Sinclair. There was the keen sense of loss, the knowledge that her lovely child had verily sunk beneath the German river, never to rise again, save as a spirit amidst the choir of angels. There was the deep humiliation of knowing that she had been duped. They had taken advantage of her affliction, and consoled her with a lie. She had been fooled, deceived, and deluded, as a child is deluded, for her good. Her soul rose up against this mockery of consolation in bitterest anger. Her very thanks- givings to Heaven — those outpourings of a mother's grateful heart overflowing with its wealth of joy — had been offered up in vain. She had no reason to be thankful. Heaven and earth had conspired in ill- treating her. God had taken away her reason, and man had imposed upon her folly. Whom upon earth CKUEL KINDNESS. 83 could she ever trust again, when even her father had so deceived her ? With her husband's letter came the certificate of his death. The same post brought her a letter from Gilbert's lawyers to inform her of their receipt of his will, executed on his death-bed. She was sorry for the wasted life, the lonely death in a strange laud, and Gilbert Sinclair was mourned with more honest tears than are always shed for a husband's loss, even when the journey of wedded life has begun in the rosy light of a romantic love. After those tears given to the untimely dead the widow's thoughts were full of anger. She could not forgive the deception that had been practised, even though it had been done to save her life, ' Better a thousand times to have died in that dim dream than to awake to such a disappointment as this,' .she said. And then she thought of the river in the fair German valley, and that agonizing day which she had learned to look back upon as no more than a painful and prolonged dream. She knew now that it had been no dreum, but a hideous reality. S4 ^YEAYERS AND WEFT. While she sat with Gilbert's letter open before her, abandoned to a tearless despair, the little one's voice sounded in the corridor, and she heard the light, swift footstep which always made her heart thrill. To-day the familiar sound struck her with an actual pain. She rose involuntarily and ran to the door, as she had been accustomed to run to meet her pet, rejoicing at the child's approach ; but with her hand upon the door she stopped suddenly. ' No, I won't see her — little impostor ! — living lie ! — to have stolen my love ! and my dead child look- ing down upon me from heaven all the while — looking down to see her place filled by a stranger — lonely in heaven, perhaps, for want of a mother's love, and seeing her mother's heart given to an- other ! ' The light tripping steps came nearer. ' Mamma ! mamma ! ' called the glad young voice. Constance locked the door. ' Go away,' she cried, hoarsely ; ' I don't want you!' There was a pause — complete silence — and then CRUEL KINDNESS. ^5 a burst of sobbinfj. The strangeness of that tone had chilled the child's heart. Lips that had hitherto breathed only love, to-day spoke with the accents of loathiniT. Instinct told the child the greatness of the chanc;e. The little feet retreated slowly down the corridor — not so light of step this time — the sobs died away in the distance. 'I will never see her face again!' cried Con- stance. ' Some wretched child ! — perhaps the offspring of sin — base at heart as she is fair of face — and so like my lost one— so like — so like ! No, I will send her aw^ay — settle a sum of money — provide hand- somely for her. Poor child I it is not her crime. But I will never see her again ! Yet, God, I love her ! And she is crying now, perhaps. The loving little heart will break.' She had been pacing the room distractedly. This last thought was too much to bear. She ran to the O door, unlocked it, and went out into the corridor, calling, ' Belle, darling, come back ! ' She went to the little one's nursery, and found her lying with her face buried in the sofa pillow, 86 , WEAVERS AND WEFT. sobbing piteously. To-day's harsh tones werejaer first experience of unkinclness. Constance threw herself on the sofa, and caught the child in her arms, drew the little trembling form to her breast, and kissed and cried over it. ' My pet, I love you. I shall love you to my dying day,' she cried, passionately. ' Hearts cannot be played with like this. Love cannot be given and taken away,' The child hugged her, and was comforted, under- standing the love though not the words that told it, ' Belle hasn't been naughty, has she, mamma ? ' she asked, with innocent wonder. 'No, pet, but mamma has been very unhappy. Mamma has had a sad letter. Oh, here comes ]Vrartha,' as that devoted nurse entered from the night nursery, ' Do you know, Martha, I think Christabel wants change of air. You must take her to Hastings for a little while.' ' Lor, mum, that would be nice. But you'll come, too, of course ? You wouldn't like to be parted from her,' ' I don't know that I could come quite at first, I > CRUEL KINDNESS. 87 might come afterwards, perhaps. I have some very sad business to attend to.' Constance told Martha of Mr. Sinclair's death, but not a word of that imposture which had just been revealed to her. IMartha had been as completely deceived as she had, no doubt, Constance argued, for she knew it was not in the girl's hone&t nature to assist in a deception. The changeling's likeness to the lost child had deluded them both, * I suppose all children of the same age and com- plexion are alike ? ' thought Constance. ' And yet I fancied my baby was different from all other children.' She wished to send the child away, in order, if it ■were possible, to cure herself of the habit of loving a child that had no claim on her — to love whom was a kind of treason against the beloved dead. The preparations for the journey were hurried over. Martha was delighted to pack and be off. The child was pleased to go, but cried at parting from * mamma.' At two o'clock in the afternoon the carriage drove Martha and her charge to the station, with the steady old jMarchbrook butler for their escort. He was to take lodgings for them, and make aU things easy for 88 WEAVERS AND AVEFT. them, and s,ee tliem comfortably settled before he came back to Marchbrook, Constance breathed more freely when the child was out of the house, and there was no chance of hearing that light footstep, that clear, sweet, childish voice. Yet how dreary the big old house seemed in its solitude, how gloomy the rooms, without that fluttering changeful soul and all the busy life she made around her. The family of dolls, the menagerie of woolly animals, all afflicted with the same unna- tural squeak, an internal noise never heard to issue from any animal that ever existed in the zoolo- gical kingdom. 'It would have broken my ^eart to keep her near me,' thought Constance, 'and I feel as if it must break my heart to lose her.' By way of solace, or to sustain her in the indig- nant pride which revolted against this spurious child, she tried to think of Christabel in heaven. But her thoughts wandered back to the living child, and she found herself wondering whether INIartha and her charge were at the end of their journey, and longing for the telecrram to announce their safe arrival. CRUEL KINDNESS. 89 ' What folly I ' she thought, angrily. ' A stranger's child, a creature that is no more to me than any of the children at the infant school, and yet I cannot tear her from my heart.' She sent for Dr. Webb. He was in the plot, doubtless. It was at his advice, perhaps, that this heartless deception had been practised upon her. If it were so, she felt that she must hate him all her Ufe. The little village surgeon came briskly enough, expecting to find a mild case of measles, or some other infantile ailment, in the Marchbrook nursery. What was his astonishment when he found Constance pacing the long dreary drawing-room, pale, with two burning spots on her cheeks, her eyes bright with fever. ' My dear Mrs. Sinclair, what is the matter ? ' 'Everything,' cried Constance. 'My poor hus- band is dead, and on his death-bed wrote me a letter telling me the cruel truth. Your wicked plot has been discovered. Yes, wicked, for all lies are wicked. You cannot do evil that good may come of it. You saved my life, perhaps, but what a life ! To find that 90 "WEAVERS AND WEFT. I have lavished my love upon an impostor ; that when I thanked God, on my knees, for His bounteous mercies, I had received no gracious gift ! He had shown no pity for my sorrows ; but you — you and my father — had played at Providence, and had pre- tended to perform a miracle for my sake. It was an infamous deception.' ' It was designed to save your life, and, what is even more precious than life, your reason,' replied Dr. Webb, wounded by the harshness of this attack. ' But whatever blame may attach to the stratagem you may spare me your censure. I had nothing to do with it. The German physician, whom your father brought here, was the adviser from whom the suggestion came. He and your father carried it out between them. I had nothing to do but look on, and watch the effect of the shock upon you. That was most happy.' 'The German doctor!' said Constance, wonder- ingly. 'Yes, I remember him faintly, as if it were a dream — that winter night. He made me sing, did he not ? His voice had a mesmerical effect upon me. I obeyed him involuntarily. His pre- CRUEL KINDNESS. 91 secce seemed to oive me comfort, straiiQ-er thouoh he was. It was very curious. And then he bent over me and whispered hope, and from that instant I felt happier. And it was all a mockery after all 5 it was a trick ! Tell me who and what that child is, Dr. Webb.' ' I know nothing of her origin. Lord Clanyarde brought her to Davenant, That is all I can tell you.' ' Fool ! fool : fool I ' cried Constance, with pas- sionate self-reproach, ' to take an impostor to my heart so blindly, to ask no questions, to believe without proof or M'itness that Heaven had performed a miracle for my happiness ! What right had I to suppose that Providence would care so much for me?' ' You have great cause to be thankful for the restoration of life and reason, Mrs. Sinclair,' said the doctor, reproachfully. ' Not if life is barren and hopeless ; not if reason tells me that I am childless.' ' You have learnt to love this strange child. Cannot you take consolation from that affection ? ' 92 -WEAVERS AND WEFT. *No. I loved her because I believed she was iny own. It would be treason against my dead child to love this impostor.' ' And you will turn her out of doors, I suppose — send her to the workhouse ? ' ' I am not so heartless as that. Her future shall be provided for. But I shall never see her again. I have sent her to Hastings with her nurse, who adores her.' ' That's fortunate, since she is to be deprived of everybody else's affection.' There was some acidity in the doctor's tone. He had attended the child in various small illnesses, had met her almost daily, riding her Shetland pony in the lanes, and entertained a warm regard for the pretty little winning creature, who used to purse up her lips into a rosebud for him to kiss, and had evidently not the least idea that he was old and ugly. ' Since you can tell me nothing, I shall send for my father,' said Constance. ' He must know to whom the child belongs.' 'I should imagine so,' replied the doctor, glad to feel himself absolved of all blame. CEUEL KINDNESS. 93 It was a painful position, certainly, lie thought. He had anticipated this difficulty from the beginning of things. He was very glad to take his leave of his patient, after hazarding a platitude or two by way of consolation. Lord Clanyarde was in Paris, enjoying the gaieties of the cheerful season before Lent, and making him- self extremely comfortable in his bachelor room at the Hotel Bristol. He had married all his daughters advantageously, and buried his wife, and felt that his mission had been accomplished, and that he was free to make his pathway to the grave as pleasant as he could. From January to March he found his aged steps travelled easiest over the asphalte of Paris, and as poor Constance was happy with her adopted child he felt no scruples about leaving her to enjoy life in her own way. Mrs. Sinclair's telegram, informing him of her husband's death, and entreating him to go to March- brook, disturbed the placidity of his temper. ' Poor Sinclair !' he muttered, with more fretful- ness than regret. 'Pity he couldn't have died at a more convenient time. I hate crossing the Channel 94 WEAVERS AND WEFT. in au equinoctial gale. And what good can I do at Marchbrook ? However, I suppose I must go. Women are so helpless. She never cared much for him, poor child; and there's Davenant still unmarried and devoted to her. Au excellent match, too, since he came into old Gryffin's money. Providence orders all things for the best. I hope I shall have a fine night for crossing.' He was with Constance early on the following day, having lost no time in obeying her summons ; but he was unprepared for the accusation she brought against him. ' Upon my life, Constance, I was only a passive instrument in the whole affair, just like little Webb. It was put to me that this thing must be done to save your life, and I consented.' * You let a stranger take my destiny into his hands,' cried Constance, indignantly. ' He was not a stranger. He loved you dearly — was as anxious for your welfare as even I, your father.' 'The German physician, the white-haired old man who told me to hope ? Why, he had never seen me before in his life ! ' ' CKUEL KINDNESS. 95 • The man who told you to hope, who persuaded me to agree to the introduction of a spurious child, was no German doctor. He was neither old nor white-haired, and he had loved you devotedly for years. He heard you were dying of a broken heart, and came to you in disguise in order to see if love could devise some means of saving you. The Ger- man doctor was Cyprian Davenant.' This was another blow for Constance. The man whom she had reverenced as the soul of honour was the originator of the scheme she had denounced as wicked and cruel ; and yet she could find no words of blame for him. She remembered the gentle voice which had penetrated her ear and mind through the thick mists of madness, remem- bered the tones that had touched her with a won- deriug sense of something familiar and dear. He had come to her in her apathy and despair, and from the moment of his coming her life had brightened and grown happy. It was but a delusive happiness, a false peace ; and now she must go back to the old agony of desolation and incurable regret. 96 ' WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' You can at least tell me who and what that child is, papa/ she said after a long pause. ' Indeed, my love, I know nothing, except that Davenant told me she belonged to decently born people, and would never be claimed by any one. And the poor little thing looked so thoroughly clean and respectable. Of course at that age one can hardly tell — the features are so undeveloped — the nose more like a morsel of putty than anything human — but I really did think that the child had a thorough-bred look ; and I am sure when I saw her last Christmas she looked as complete a lady as ever came out of our Marchbrook nursery.' ' She is a lovely child,' said Constance, ' and I have loved her passionately.' * Then, my dearest girl, why not go on loving her ? ' pleaded Lord Clanyarde. ' Call her your adopted child, if you like, and keep her about you as your pet and companion till you are married again, and have children of your own. You can then relegate her to her natural position, and by and by get her respectably married, or portion her off in some way.' CRUKL KINDNESS. 97 ' No,' said Constance, resolutely, ' I will never see her again.' And all tlie while she was longing to take the afternoon train to Hastings and rejoin her darling. After this there was no more for Constance Sinclair to do but to submit to fate, and consider herself once more a childless mother. Sir Cyprian was away, no one knew where, and even had he been in England Constance felt that there would be little use in knowing more than she knew already. The knowledge of the strange child's parentage could be but of the smallest importance to her, since she meant to banish the little one from her heart and home. Lord Clanyarde and the lawyers did all that was necessary to secure Mrs, Sinclair's position as in- heritor of her husband's estates. The Newmarket stables and stud were sold, and realized a consider- able sum, as the training stable was supposed to be the most perfect establishment of its kind — built on hygienic principles, with all modern improvements — and was warmly competed for by numerous foolish young noblemen and gentlemen who were just setting VOL. II. H 98 WEAVERS AND WEFT. out on that broad road along which Gilbert Sinclair had travelled at so swift a rate. Things in the north had been steadily improving — the men were grow- ing wiser, and arbitration between master and men was taking the place of trade-union tyranny. Constance Sinclair found herself in a fair way to become a very rich woman ; but she cared about as much for the money her husband had left her as for the withered leaves that fell from the Marchbrook elms in the dull, hopeless autumn days. What was the use of wealth to a childless widow, who could have been content to live in a lodging of three rooms, with one faithful servant ? CHAPTER VII. AFTER MANY DAYS. A COM.MON specific for a broken heart, when the patient happens to be a person of handsome fortune — for your pauper hard work is your only cure — is foreign travel. Lord Clanyarde, who hated March- brook, now suggested this remedy to his daughter. He felt that it was his duty to afford her the benefit of his protection and society during the first period of her widowhood ; and it struck him that it would be more agreeable for both of them to lead a nomadic life than to sit opposite each other by the family hearth and brood upon the sorrows of this mortal life, or read the family Bible. * ' It would be quite the right season for Rome, love, if we were to start at once,' said Lord Clan- yarde, soothingly. He knew several pretty women in Rome — mostly Americans, — and it was just possible the hunting in 100 WEAVERS AND WEFT. the Campagna might not be over. And there were those Bohemian artists — French and German — with their long hair and velvet coats, and free and easy painting-rooms, and wild amusing talk. Lord Clan- yarde had just sufficient love of art to enjoy that kind of society. Altogether he felt that Kome was the place for Constance. She would see St. Peter's at Easter, and the Colosseum by moonlight, and so on, and the aching void in her heart would be filled. Constance yielded to her father's suggestion with a graceful submission that charmed him. She cared very little whither she went. The little girl was still at Hastings with honest Martha ; she cried some- times for mamma, but was happy, upon the whole, Martha wrote, wondering very much why she and her charge remained so long away. Martha knew nothing of the change that had taken place in her darling's position. 'Very well, dear,' said Lord Clanyarde. 'You have only to get your boxes packed ; and, by the way, you had better write to your banker for circular notes. Five hundred will do to start with.' Father and daughter went to Italy, and Constance AFTER MANY DAYS. 101 tried to find comfort in those classic scenes which are peopled with august shadows ; but her heart was tortured by separation from the child, and it was only a resolute pride which withheld her from own- ing the truth — that the little one slip had believed her own was as dear to her as the baby she had lost. Easter came with all its religious splendours, its pomps and processions, and the Eternal City was crowded with strangers. Lord Clanyarde insisted that his daughter should see everything worth seeing, so the pale fair face in widow's weeds was an object of interest and admiration for many among the spectators at the great ceremonials of the church. Lord Clanyarde and his daughter were driving on the Corso one sunny afternoon in the Easter week, when the gentleman's attention was attracted by a lady who drove a phaeton and a pair of cobs caparisoned in a fantastical fashion, with silver bells on their harness. The lady was past her first youth, but was still remarkably handsome, and was dressed with an artistic sense of colour and a daring disre- gard of the fashion of the day ; dressed, in a word, to 102 WEAVERS AND WEFT. look like an old picture, and not like a modern fashion-plate. ' 'Who can she be?' exclaimed Lord Clanyarde. ' Her face seems familar to me, yet I haven't the faintest idea where I've seen her.' A few yards further on he encountered an ac- quaintance of the London clubs, and pulled up his horses on purpose to interrogate him about the un- known in the Spanish hat. ' Don't you know her ? ' asked Captain Flitter, with a surprised air. * Yes, she's handsome, but 2Jassee ; sur le retour.' ' Who is she ? ' repeated Lord Clanyarde. Captain Flitter looked curiously at Mrs. Sinclair before he answered. ' Her name is Walsingham — widow of a Colonel Walsingham, colonel in the Spanish contingent — rather a bad egg ; of course, I mean the gentleman.' A light dawned on Lord Clanyarde's memory. Yes, this was the Mrs. Walsingham whom people had talked about years ago, before Sinclair's mar- riage, and it was Sinclair's money she was spending now, in all probability, on that fantastical turn-out AFTER MANY DAYS. 103 with its jingliug bells. Lord Clanyarde felt himself personally aggrieved by the lady, and yet he thought he would like to see more of her. ' Does she stay long in Eome ? ' he asked the club lounger. ' She never stays long anywhere, I believe ; very erratic, likes artists and musical people, and that sort of thing. She has a reception every Saturday evening. I always go. One meets people one doesn't see elsewliere — not the regulation tread-mill, you know." Lord Clanyarde asked no more. He would be sure to meet Flitter at one of the artist's rooms, and could ask him as many questions about Mrs.Walsing ham as he liked. The two men met tliat very evening, and the result of their conversation was Lord Clanyarde's presenta- tion to Mrs. Walsingham at her Saturday reception. She was very gracious to him, and made room for him on the ottoman where she was seated, the centre of a circle of enthusiastic Americans, who thought her the nicest Englishwoman they had ever met. Under the gentle light of the wax candles Lord 104 WEAVEES AND WEFT. Clanyarde saw the face that had so charmed him in the Spanish hat. Seeing Mrs. Walsingham closer, he discovered that her beauty was a tradition rather than a fact ; but she could at lea st command respect in that she had not invoked the aid of art to disguise the ravages of time and care. There was somethinfj noble in the faded beauty of her face. The finely-cut features were as lovely as in the freshness of youth, but the wan cheeks and sunken eyes, the dull and joyless look when the face was in repose, told of a desolate home and a dreary life. ' Who was that lady in deep mourning you were driving with yesterday?' Mrs. Walsingham asked presently. /My youngest daughter, Mrs. Sinclair. You knew her husband, I think, some years ago. He is lately dead? ' Yes, I saw his death in the Times, in that dismal columji where we shall all appear in due course, 1 suppose.' Lord Clanyarde looked at the speaker thought- fully. It occurred to him that it might not be long before she too passed into that shadowy procession AFTER MANY DAYS. 105 which is always travelling through the columns of our favourite newspaper, the subject of a few care- less exclamations. * Dear me ! who would have thought it ? It was only the other day we saw her- I wonder who gets her money ? ' 'Yes, he died in South America. You heard the story, I suppose ? A most unfortunate business. His confidential solicitor was shot in Sinclair's own garden, by a French girl he had been foolish enough to get entangled with. The jealous little viper con- trived to give the police the slip, and Sinclair saw himself in danger of being brought unpleasantly into the business, so. he wisely left the country.' ' You believe that it was Melanie Duport who shot Mr. Wyatt?' Mrs. Walsingham exclaimed, eagerly. ' What ! you remember the girl's name ? Yes, there can hardly be a doubt as to her guilt. Who else had any motive for killing him ? The creature's letter, luring him to the spot, was found in the park, and she disappeared on the morning of the murder. Those two facts are convincing, I should think,' con- cluded Lord Clanyarde, somewhat warmly. 106 WEAVERS AND WEFT. He wanted to assoilzie his own race from the contamination of having intermarried with a mur- derer. For the manes of Sinclair, innocent or guilty, he cared very little ; but a man whose grandchildren were growing big enough for Eton and Harrow had reason to be careful of the family repute. ' Yes, she was a wicked creature,' said Mrs. Wal- singham, thoughtfully, 'she had a natural bent towards evil.' ' You speak as if you had known her.' Mrs. Walsinoham looked confused. ' I read the account of that dreadful business in the newspapers,' she said. ' I hope Mrs. Sinclair has quite recovered from the shock such an awful event must have caused her.' ' Well, yes, I think she has recovered from that. Her husband's death following so quickly was of course a blow, and since then she has had another trouble to bear.' ' Indeed ! I am sorry,' said Mrs. Walsingham, with a thoughtful look. ' Yes. We did all for the best. She was danger- ously ill, you know, about a year and a half ago, and AFTER MANY DAYS. 107 we — well, it was foolish, perhaps, though the plan succeeded for the moment, — we made her believe that her little girl had been saved from drowning, at Schonesthal, in the Black Forest. You may have heard of the circumstance.' ' Yes, yes.' 'It was quite wonderful. She received the strange child we introduced to her with deliuht — never doubted its identity with her own baby — and all went on well till poor Sinclair's death ; but on his death-bed he wrote her a letter telling her ' ' That the child was not her own ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Walsingham. 'That must have hit her hard.' ' It did, poor girl. She has not yet recovered the blow, and I fear never will. What I most dread is her sinking back into the state in which she was the winter before last,' ' ^^^le^e is Sir Cyprian Davenant ? ' asked Mrs. Walsingham, somewhat irrelevantly, ' At the other end of the world, I suppose. I believe he started for Africa some time last autumn,' ' Was there not some kind of early attachment 108 WEAVERS AND WEFT. between him and Mrs. Sinclair ? Pardon me for asking such a question.' ' Yes, I believe Davenant would have proposed for Constance if his circumstances had permitted him to hope for my consent ? ' ' Poor fellow ! And he carried his broken heart to Africa ; and came back to find fortune waiting for him, and your daughter married. Do you not think if he were to return now Mrs. Sinclair mitj-ht be consoled for the loss of her child by reunion with the lover of her girlhood ? ' ' I doubt if anything would reconcile her to the loss of the little girl. Her affection for that child was an infatuation. A pair of picturesque Italians began a duet by Verdi, and the conversation between Mrs. Walsina- ham and liOrd Clanyarde went no further. He did not make any offer of bringing Constance to the lady's receptions ; for the memory for that old alliance between Gilbert Sinclair and Mrs. Walsingham huni^ like a cloud over her reputation. No one had any specific charge to bring against her; but it was remembered that Sinclair had been her devoted AFTER MANY DAYS. 109 slave for a long time, and had ended his slavery by marrying somebody else. ' She's a charming woman, you know,' said Lord Clanyarde to the friend who had presented him to Mrs. Walsinu'ham, ' but I feel a kind of awkwardness about asking her to call upon my daughter. You see I don't exactly understand her relations with poor Sinclair.' Fortunately Mrs, Walsinghani made no suggestion about calling on Mrs. Sinclair. Slie welcomed Lord Clanyarde graciously whenever he chose to go to her Saturday evenings. He heard the best music, met the nicest people, eat Neapolitan ices in cool, dimly- lighted rooms, and admired the fading beauties of the hostess. She reminded him of an autumn afternoon. The same rich glow of colour, the same prophecy of coming decay. As the weeks went round Constance showed no improvement in health or spirits. Pride was making a sorry struggle in that broken heart. She would not go back to England and the spurious Christabel, though her heart yearned towards that guiltless impostor. She woidd not suffer another woman's 110 WEAVERS AND WEFT. child to hold the place of her lost darling, no, not even though that strange child had made itself dearer to her than life. Mrs. Sinclair's doctor informed Lord Clanyarde that Rome was getting too warm for his patient, whereupon that anxious parent was fain to tear him- self away from the pleasures of the seven-hilled city and those delightful evenings at Mrs. Walsingham's. ' Our medical man threatens me with typhoid fever and all manner of horrors if I keep my daughter here any longer, ' he said ; * so we start for the Upper Engadine almost immediately. You will not stay much longer in Rome, I suppose. ' 'I don't know,' answered Mrs. Walsiugham, carelessly ; ' the place suits me better than any other. I am tired to death of London and Paris. There is some pleasure in life here : and I should like to be buried in the cemetery where Keats lies.' 'Yes, it's a nice place to be buried in, if one must be buried at all ; but that's rather a gloomy consideration. I should strongly advise you to spend the summer in a healthier climate, and leave the burial question to chance.' AFTER MANY DAYS. Ill ' Oil, I dare say I shall soon get tired of Rome. I always get tired of places before I have been very long in them ; and if the artists go away I shall go too.' Lord Clanvarde and his daughter left at the end of the week. There were fever cases talked of already, and all the American tourists had tied. Lord Clanyarde felt he was not getting away an hour too soon. They dawdled about among Swiss moun- tains, living a life of rustic simplicity that was probably beneficial to Constance, but somewhat painful to Lord Clanyarde. At the beginning of July they had established themselves at a lonely little village in the shadow of white solemn moun- tains, and here Constance felt as if she had passed beyond the region of actual life into a state of repose, a kind of painless purgatory. She had done with the world, and worldly interests and affections. Even the little stranger's heart must have been weaned from her by this time. Lord Clanyarde saw the gradual decay of his daughter's strength, and trembled for the issue. She had grown dearer to him in this time of close com- 112 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. paiiionship than she had ever been since the far off days when she was little Connie, the youngest and loveliest of his dauuhters. He told himself that unless something occurred to rouse her from this dull apathy, this placid calm which looked like the forerunner of death's frozen stillness, there was every reason for fear, and but little ground for hope. Lord Clanyarde prayed more earnestly than he had ever done before in his self-indulgent life, and it seemed to him by-and-by, that Providence had heard his cry for help. One morning there came a letter from Eome which startled father and daughter alike. It was from Mrs. Walsingham, written in a tremulous hand, and addressed to Lord Clanyarde. ' They tell me I am dying, and the near approach of death has melted the ice about my heart. I have been a very wicked woman, and now conscience urges me to make you what poor reparation I can for a most cruel and treacherous revenge — not upon the man who wronged me, but upon the innocent girl for whose sake I was abandoned. ' I have deeply injured your daughter, Lord Clan- AFTER MANY DAYS. 113 yarde, and I meant to carry the secret of that wrong- to the grave — to leave her desolate and childless to the end. But the long lonely nights — the pain and weariness of decay — the dreary seclusion from the busy outer world — these have done their work- Conscience, which had been deadened by anger and revenge, slowly awakened, and there came a longing for atonement. I can never undo what I have done. I can never give your daughter back the years that have been darkened by sorrow — her wasted tears — her vain regrets. But I may do something. Let her come to me — let her stand beside my death-bed, and I will whisper the story of my crime into her ear. I will not write it. She must come quickly if she wishes to hear what T have to tell, for death stares me in the face, and this letter may be long reaching you. Every day drifts me further down the dark river. How swiftly it rushes in the dreary night- watches. I sometimes fancy I hear the ripple of the tide, and the hollow moan of the great ocean that lies before me — the unknown sea of death and eternity.' Here came a broken sentence, which Lord Clan- yarde could not decipher; and it seemed to him that VOL II. I 114 WEAVERS AND WEFT. the writer's mind had wandered, towards the close of the letter. There was no signature, but he knew the handwriting, and Mrs. Walsinghani's address was stamped on the paper. The letter had been more than a week on the road, and was re-addressed from the hotel where Lord Clanyarde and his daughter had stayed at the beginning of their tour. 'It's a curious business,' said Lord Clanyarde, doubtfully, after he had given Constance the letter. ' I believe her mind is affected, poor soul ; and I really don't think you ought to go. Who can tell what she may say in her ravings ? and not a vestige of truth in it, perhaps.' He thought Mrs. Walsingham's death-bed con- fession might concern her relations with Gilbert Sinclair, and that it would be better for Constance to hear nothing the unhappy lady could tell. * This letter bears the stamp of truth/ said Con- stance, firmly. 'I shall go, papa. Pray get a carriage, and let us start as quickly as possible. ' 'But, my love, consider the unhealthiness of Rome at this time of year. We might as well go AFTER MANY DAYS. 115 and live in a fever hospital. Tlie Pontine Marshes, you know, steaming with malaria. We should be digging our own graves.' ' You need not go there unless you like, papa, but I shall not lose an hour. She has something to confess — some wrong done me — something about Christabel, perhaps,' cried Constance, tremulous with excitement ' My dear girl, be calm ; what can this lady know about Christabel ? ' * I don't know, but I must hear what she has to tell. Wasted tears — vain regrets. That must mean that 1 have grieved needlessly. 0, God, does it mean that my darling is still alive ? ' ' If you go on like this, Constance, you'll be in a burning fever before you get to Eome, ' remonstrated Lord Clanyarde. He saw that the only wise course was to yield to his daughter's wishes, and lost no time in making arrangements for the journey back to liome. The apathy which had made him so anxious about Con- stance was quite gone. She was full of eagerness and excitement, and insisted on travelling as quickly as possible, foregoing all rest upon the journey. 116 WEAVERS AND "WEFT. They entered Eome in the summer sunset, the city looking beautiful as a dream. The atmosphere was cool and balmy, but Lord Clanyarde looked with a shudder at the silvery mists floating over the valleys, and fancied he saw the malaria fiend grinning at him behind that diaphanous veil. Con- stance thought of nothing but the purpose for which she had come. 'Tell the man to drive straight to Mrs. Wal- singham's, papa, ' she said, eagerly. 'But, my love, hadn't he better take us to the hotel ? We had nothing but an omelette for breakfast, and a basket of peaches and a cup of chocolate on the road. I'm thoroughly exhausted. We won't stop for an elaborate dinner. A cutlet and a bottle of Bordeaux will be enoudi.' ' You can leave me at Mrs. Walsingham's and co on to the hotel to dine.' 'Never mind me, my love,' said Lord Clan- yarde, resignedly. ' Since you're so anxious, we'll go and see this poor lady first; but a death-bed confes- sion, you know, that must be a long business. ' He gave the direction to the driver, and the man AFTEK MANY DAYS. 117 pulled up his tired horses before one of the stately palaces of the past. Constance and her father ascended to the first floor. The house was full of shadows at this tranquil evening hour, and the staircase was dimly lighted by a lamp burning before a statue of the Virgin. An Italian man-servant admitted them to an anteroom, lavishly decorated with pictures and bric- a-brac — a room in which Lord Clanyarde had eaten Xeapolitan ices, or sipped coffee on those Saturday evenings which Mrs. Walsingham had made so agree- able to him. He had never seen the room empty before to-night, and it had a singularly desolate look to his fancy in the flickering light of a pair of wax candles that had burned down to the sockets of the Pompeian bronze candlesticks on the velvet-draped mantelpiece. 'How is your mistress ?' Lord Clanyarde asked. The Italian shrugged his shoulders. ' Alas, Excellency I it goes always the same. She still exists, that is all.' ' Tell her Mrs. Sinclair has come from Switzer- land in the hope of seeing her.' 118 WEAVERS AND WEFT. The Italian summoned Mrs. Walsingliam's maid, wlio requested Constance to come at once to the sick room. She was expected, the woman said. But she must prepare herself to be shocked by Mrs. Wal- singham's appearance. Her end seemed near. * You had better go to your hotel, papa,' said Constance. ' I may have to stay here a long time. You can come back for me by-and-by.' On reflection Lord Clanyarde considered this the best arrangement. He really wanted his dinner. Indeed, he had never yet found any crisis in life so solemn as to obliterate that want. The servant led the way through a suite of recep- tion-rooms to a tall door at the end of a spacious saloon. This opened into Mrs. Walsingham's bed- room, which was the last room on this side of the house ; a noble chamber, with windows looking two ways — one towards the distant hills, the other over the stately roofs and temples of the city. Both windows were wide open, and there was no light in the room save the rosv glow of sunset. The bed was in an alcove, voluminously draped with amber damask and Eoman lace. Mrs. Walsingham was in a sitting ■ AFTER MANY DAYS. 119 position, propped up with pillows, facing the sun- glow beyond the purple hills. There was a second door opening on to the stair- case, and as Constance entered some one — a man — left the room by this door. She supposed that this person must be one of INErs. Walsingham's medical attendants. The doctors were hovering about her no doubt in these last hours. ' You have come,' gasped the dying woman; 'thank God. You can go, Morris,' to the maid ; ' I will ring if I want you. Come here, Mrs. Sinclair. Sit down by my side. There is no time to lose. My breath fails me very often. You must excuse — be patient.' ' Pray do not distress yourself,' said Constance, seating herself in the chair beside the bed, ' I can stay as long as you like/ ' How gently you speak to me ! But you don't know ! You will look at me differently presently — not with those compassionate eyes. I am an awful spectacle, am I not ? — living death ! Would you believe that I was once a beauty? Sant painted my portrait, when we were both at our best ' with a bitter little laugh. 120 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' I have not lost an hour in coming to you,' said Constance. 'If you have done me a wrong that you can by any means repair, pray do not lose time.' 'Death is waiting at my door. Yes, I must be quick. But it is so horrible to talk of. It was such mean, low treachery. Not a great revenge ; — a piti- ful, paltry act of spitefulness. Oh, if you knew how I loved Gilbert Sinclair, how firmly I believed in his love* Yes, and he was fond of me, until the luckless day you crossed his path and stole his heart from me.' ' I never knew ' faltered Constance. ' No, you wronged me ignorantly, but that did not make my loss lighter to l)oar. I hated you for it. Yes, I measured my hatred for you by my love for him. Life was intolerable to me without him, and one day I vowed that I would make your life intolerable to you, I was told that you were making an idol of your child, that your happiness was bound up in that baby's existence, and I resolved that the child should be taken from you ' ' Wretch ! ' cried Constance, starting up in sudden horror. ' You were there — at Schonesthal — you pushed her down the slope — it was not accident ' AFTEK MANY DAYS, 121 ' No, uo. I was iKjt quite so bad as that — not capable of taking that sweet young life. To take her from you, that was enough. To make your days miserable — to make you drink the cup of tears, as I had done — because of you. That was my end and aim. I found a willing tool in your French nurse- maid, a skilful coadjutor in James Wyatt. Every- thing was well planned. The girl had learned to swim the year before at Ostend, and was not afraid to plunge into the river when she saw some one coming. This gave a look of reality to the business. I met Melanie Duport at the ruins that September morning, and took your baby from her. I carried her away in my own arms to the place where a carriage was waiting for me, and drove straight to Baden, and from Baden travelled as fast as I could to Brussels, keeping the baby in my own charge all the while.' ' She was not drowned, then. Thank God — thank God ! ' cried Constance, sinking on her knees beside the bed, and lifting up her heart in praise and thanksgiving. Of Mrs. Walsingham's guilt — of the sorrow she had endured — she hardly thought in this moment of delight. 122 WEAVERS AND AVEFT. ' Where is she — my darling, my angel ? What have you done with her ? Where have you hidden her all this time ? ' A wan smile crept over the ashen face of the dying sinner. 'We are strange creatures, we women — myste- ries even to ourselves,' she said. ' I took your child away from you ; and, hearing you were dying broken-hearted, gave her back to you. Your old lover pleaded strongly. I gave the little one into Sir Cyprian Davenant's keeping. T know no more.' ' Then I was not deceived. My Christabel ! It was my Christabel they brought back to me ! The instinct of a mother's heart was not a delusion and a snare.' * Can you pity — pardon ? ' faltered Mrs. Wal- singhara. ' Yes, I forgive you for all — for months of blank, hopeless grief — all — because of what you have told me to-night. If you had taken this secret to the grave — if T had never known — 1 should have gone on steeling my heart against my darling — I should have thrust her from me — left her motherless in AFTER MANY DAYS. 123 this cruel world, and thouglit tliat I was doing my duty. Yes, I forgive. You have wronged me cruelly. And it was heartless — treacherous — abomi- nable — what you did at Schonesthal. But I forgive you all for the sake of this blessed moment. May God pardon and pity you, as I do ! ' ' You are an angel,' sighed j\Irs. Walsingham, stretching out a feeble hand, which Constance pressed tenderly in both her own. Death is a great healer of bygone wrongs. ' And will you forgive the friend who brought you your own child, believing that he was bringing you a stranger, and who experimentalized with your maternal love, in the hope of winning you from the grave ? ' ' Youmean Sir CyprianDavenant?' said Constance. 'Yes.' ' I felt very angry with him when my father told me what he had done, but I have felt since that all he did was done out of affection for an old friend. I have nothing to forgive.' ' I am glad to hear you say that. Sir Cyprian has returned from Africa, after a successful expedition. He is in Rome.' 124 WEAVERS AXD AVEFT. Coustauce's pale cheek grew a shade paler. ' He is in Eome, and has paid me many visits in this sick room. He has talked to me of your gentle- ness — your divine compassion. But for that I do not think I should ever have had the courage to send for you ' ' I thank him with all my heart,' exclaimed Constance. ' Let your lips thank him too,' said Mrs. Walsing- ham, touching the spring bell on the little table by her side. She struck the bell three times, and at the third chime the door opened and Cyprian Davenant came in. It was he who had withdrawn quietly at Mrs. Sinclair's entrance, and whom she had mistaken for the doctor. ' She has forgiven all,' said Mrs. Walsingham. ' You were right when you called her an angel. And now let me do one good thing on my death-bed. Let me be sure that the rest of her life will be bright and happy, that there will be a strong arm and a true heart between her and sorrow. It will help to lift the burden from my conscience if T can be sure of tliat.' AFTER MANY DAYS. 125 Constance spoko not a ^vo^d. She stood before her first lover blushing like a schoolgirl. She dared not lift her eyes to his face. Happily there was little need of words. Cyprian put his arm round the slender figure, in its dismal black dress, and drew the love of years to his breast. ' God has been very good to us, my darling,' he said. ' May He never part us any more ! I think He meant us to live and die together.' Constance did not question this assertion. Her heart mutely echoed her lover's words. ****** In the early spring of the following year Davenant Park awoke like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty, and the comfortable old servants, wdio had grown fat and sleek during their period of comparative idleness rejoiced and made merry at the coming home of their master. They had known him from his boyhood, and to them this raising up of the old family to more than its former prosperity was like a personal eleva- tion. Even the neighl)Ouring villages had their share in the gladness, and there were more bonfires and 126 WEAVERS AND WEFT. triumphal arches between the railway station and the park gates on the evening of Sir Cyprian's return with his beautiful wife, Lord Clanyarde's daughter, than had ever been seen before by the oldest inhabitant. Baby Christabel was waiting to welcome them on the threshold of the old oak-panelled hall; and Martha Briggs, resplendent in a new silk gown, declared that this was the happiest day of her life, an assertion which Luke Gibson, the head gamekeeper, resented as a personal affront. ' Bar one, Patty,' he remonstrated. ' I should think your own wedding-day ought to be still happier when it comes.' 'No, it won't,' cried Martha, decidedly ; 'and I think you ought to know, Jim, that I never would have given my consent to get married if my mis- tress hadn't ' 'Set you the example,' cried Luke, with a guffaw. ' And a very good example it is, too. Sir Cyprian has promised me the new lodge at the south gate — five rooms and a scullery. That's the missus's doing, I'll be bound ! ' THE END. IN GREAT WATERS. IN GREAT WATERS. There were two of them — Jeanne and Marie, sisters, — both pretty girls, but the beauty of the younger had a tender spiritual grace that went straight to the heart, and charmed more deeply than the richer bloom of the elder. This sweeter, more bewitching of the two was JNIarie. They were mere peasants, the daughters of Jean Holbert, a storm-beaten old fisherman, who lived on the outskirts of Nercy, a small sea-coast town in Normandy. Jeanne was a slim, dark-eyed girl of two-and-twenty. Marie was pale, with soft hazel eyes and chestnut hair, and only just eighteen. They were very fond of each other, and worked together at lace-making, which they had been taught by the kind sisters of a convent, whose sugar-loaf towers rose in the back ground of the VuL. II. K loO ■WEAVERS AND WEFT. little town. The house had been a nobleman's chdteau once, had been a good deal knocked about during the first Kevolution, and had rather a dilapi- dated air, but was a pleasant feature of the homely- scene for all that. The sisters had taught these girls a good deal besides lace- making. They could read and write well, and were altogether in advance of the peasant class. It would have been strange if between two pretty- girls there had not been at least one lover. There was : a neighbour's son, one Henri Latouche, the eldest of a numerous hard-working family, a tall broad-shouldered fellow of eight-and-twenty, with frank blue eyes and a pleasant smile ; a man who lived by the same perilous trade as that of Jean Holbert, reaping the uncertain harvest of the sea. The sisters had many a mournful day and evening when those two were out upon the wide waters, and the driving rain and wind beat against the narrow panes of their window. A hard life, and a ha- zardous one, and a trade that brought in so little — just enough to sustain existence in the simple housp- hold. IN GREAT WATERS. 131 Poor as tliey were, however, there was nothing sordid or miserable in their poverty. The two girls were capital managers. The poor mother, a good hard-working soul, who now slept the sleep of the righteous in the quiet little cemetery just outside the town, had taught them all the useful domestic arts. They were bright, industrious young creatures ; and the poor little weather-beaten cottage was the very pink of cleanliness. The low- ceiled room, half kitchen, half parlour, with a great wooden bedstead like a family tomb in a dark corner, shone and sparkled with its few brasses and coppers, its modest show of crockery, neatly arranged on the numerous shelves of the cupboard, its gay-looking chintz window-curtain, and comfortable arm-chair, where the dear old father sat on those happy nights when he was not out at sea. On such evenings as these Henri Latouche was apt to drop in, and was always made welcome by the old man. The girls would go on with their work — the little household could scarcely have held together so comfortably without the profit from that lace- work — while Henri read a two-days-old newspaper 132 WEAVERS AND WEFT. to them in his fresh young voice, or told them any small fragments of news he had picked up in the town : how the widow Bonnechose was going to marry again, though her last husband had been dead only fifteen months ; how Louis Delraont's pretty fair-haired child had strayed away and been lost that afternoon, and only recovered at sunset, when the mother had grown well-nigh distracted with fear. Such homely scraps of gossip interested the old fisherman and his daughters ; and the news in the Eouen paper was something to be heard with open eyes and eager curiosity. One bright, calm evening, late in April, Jeanne sat alone in the little cottage. Marie had gone out for a walk, to carry some lace to the chateau on the side of the hill, where the girls had a liberal patroness in Mademoiselle Renee, only daughter and heiress of the Comte de Marsac, the great man of the neighbour- hood. There was no fishing to-night ; Jean Holbert had strolled into the town, tempted by the fine weather, to have a chat with some of his old com- rades ; and Henri — well, Jeanne did not know where Henri was — in the town also perhaps, with her IN GREAT WATERS. 133 father. He must needs have been occupied, or he would most likely have looked in at the cottage, Jeanne thouoht. They had been brought up together, those two, almost like brother and sister. When Henri was a great hulking boy of sixteen, and Jeanne a smart little damsel of ten, she had taught him to write ; and it was a pleasant sight to see the big awkward boy submitting himself to the teaching of the little eager dark-eyed girl, and laughing heartily at his own stupidity. It was a difficult business, but pupil and teacher had persevered gallantly. Henri owed it to Jeanne that he was a tolerable penman, owed it to her also that he read as well as he did ; for it was she who had made him improve his rudi- mentary knowledge of his own language in its printed form. She was thinking of him this evening as she sat by the open window, working busily in the fading light, considering the waste of her eyesight a lesser evil than the consumption of candles. Slie was thinking how brave and good Henri was, how kind to her father, how frank and truthful, how infinitely 134 WEAVERS AND WEFT. superior to any other young man in the place ; she was thinking of him with a toucli of sadness, for it seemed to her that there had been a sort of distant feeling between them of late, though he came so often, and was so friendly. She could scarcely tell what the change was. But the old affectionate familiarity, the loving confidence of those unforgotteu days when she had guided the clumsy fingers along the lines of the copy book, had gone for ever. It was not that Henri and she had quarrelled ; no angry word had ever passed between them ; but there was a change, and Jeanne Holbert felt it. He would scarcely come to-night, she said to her- self as she laid aside her work. It was "rowinir late. She went to the open door, and looked down the road. No, there was no sign of Henri. There was a faint yellow light still linoerinef low in the west, and high up in the clear blue sky a few stars were glimmering — a lovely night, with a perfect calm that had a saddening influence on the heart. Jeanne felt this as she stood at the cottau'e door watchino-. She was not watching for the chance of Henri's coming, but for her sister, who was sure to return IN GREAT WATEKS. 135 presently. Marie came round the bend in the road in a few minutes — not alone. How well Jeanne knew the tall broad-shouldered figure by her side ! Her heart beat a little faster — she was scarcely conscious of it herself; but of late, since that widen- ing of the distance between them, Henri's coming had always moved her thus. They were quite silent as they came towards the cottage door. There Avas none of the accustomed talk or laughter; and Alarie was very pale. Henri would not come in ; he could not wait to see Jean Holbert ; he only stopped to shake hands with Jeanne, and then wished the two girls good night, and walked quickly away. Marie sat down upon a chair near the door, and took off her little shawl, and began to fold it with extreme precision. The evening light shone full upon her delicate face. There was something the matter — Jeanne could see that. ' ^Mademoiselle Renee was so kind — so kind,' the girl, said in a quick nervous way; 'and she likes the lace very much. We are to make some more of tlie same pattern — half a dozen yards. And I saw the 186 WEAVEES AND WEFT. gentleman Mademoiselle is to marry — such a hand- some man ! They will be a fine couple, won't they, Jeanne ?•' ' Yes, I suppose so,' Jeanne answered, absently. * I thought you were going to the chateau alone, Marie. How came Henri to be with you V Marie bent over the shawl, which she had been folding and smoothing out all this time. It was only a little bit of a shawl to require so much folding. ' Well, you see, Jeanne, I was talking of going to the chateau when Henri was here last night; and as he had nothing to do this evening, there he was on the road, just beyond here, waiting to walk with me. He said it was rather a lonely walk for me, and I oughtn't to go by myself.' ' He was very kind,' Jeanne answered, in a voice that sounded cold and strange to her sister; ' but I don't think that I am very careless about your safety, or that I would let you go if there was any danger in the road. It isn't such a new thing for you to go alone either, Marie.' The girl blushed, and a shy smile came into her face as she looked up at her sister. IN GREAT WATERS. 137 ' Well, Jeanne, I suppose the real truth was, Henri wanted to walk with me.' ' I suppose so,' the other answered, in the same constrained tone. She was standing by the open window, with her elbow resting on the broad wooden ledge, looking out at the darkening sky. The two girls could scarcely see each other's faces in the dusky room, where there was only the faint glow of the tiny wood fire. ' Jeanne, would you be very much surprised if I were to tell you something ? ' Marie asked, still very shyly. ' That depends upon what it is.' ' You like Henri Latouche, don't you ? ' ' Like him ! I have known him all my life.' 'That's no answer, Jeanne. Tell me if you like him.' ' Yes.' ' Because — because he wants me to marry him, dear ; and 1 shouldn't care to marry any one you didn't like.' There was a brief silence before Jeanne spoke. 'I don't know about that,' she said at last; 'I 138 WEAVERS AND WEFT. don't think my liking can matter to you muchj if you love him yourself * Oh, of course / like him/ Marie answered, rather carelessly, as if it were not a matter of very much importance. ' He's such a good fellow.' * He is a good fellow.' ' So good-natured and good-tempered, and would let one do what one liked. It's rather funny to think of him as my husband though, isn't it, Jeanne ? I have always felt as if he were my big brother.' ' Then you have promised to marry him, Marie ? ' ' "Well, yes. He teased me so, I was obliged to promise at last ; and he really is such a good fellow.' Jeanne took a candle from the mantelpiece, and knelt down on the hearth to linht it. Then she crossed the little room with the candle in her hand, and held it before her sister's face, looking at her very earnestly. ' I want to see if you are serious, Marie,' she said gently. ' Marriage is such a solemn thing, and you speak of it so lightly.' * My dearest Jeanne, but really I don't see why I should be so very serious. Of course I like him very IN GKEAT WATERS. 139 luucli — he is such a dear good fellow : and I am to be his wife instead of his little sister, that's all. It won't make so much difference. Do you know, Jeanne, that he has actually saved money ? and he says he will take that cottage looking towards the sea, with a fig tree against the wall, and a wooden balcony to the upper window, the cottage old Dame Margot lived in so long — quite a chateau in its way.' Jeanne put the candle on the table, and took up her work ^ith that grave preoccupied air which she had at times — a manner that always puzzled her sister. ' You might wish me joy, Jeanne. You're so silent. It seems almost unkind,' Marie said, re- proachfully. Jeanne bent low over her work as she an- swered, — ' I think you ought to know that 1 wish for your happiness, Marie,' she said quietly; 'but you've taken me by surprise. I didn't think you cared for Henri.' ' Why, of course, I didn't care for him — except as a brother — until to-night. But he pleaded so. 140 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Jeanne. If I'd been a lady, he couldn't have been more humble — and he is such a dear good fellow.' She always came back to this point, as if it were an unanswerable argument. ' If you love him, Marie — if you are sure you love him — that's enoucrh. What could I wish more than that — what can I wish for in this world so much as your happiness ? You remember what I promised our mother when she was dying : that, come what might, I would always make your happi- ness my first care.' ' And I'm sure you've kept your word, you dear unselfish Jeanne. You've been a second mother to me, though there's only four years' difference between us.' The younger girl came and knelt at her sister's feet, resting her folded arms upon Jeanne's knees, and looking up at her with that bewitching smile of hers. 'Tell me that you are pleased, dear,' she said ; ' I cannot be happy without that.' ' I am pleased with anything that can secure your happiness, Marie ; but I want to be quite IN GREAT WATERS. 141 sure of that, aud it seems so suddeu — tliis eimaue- iiient between you and Henri.' ' Suddeu ? Bless you, Jeanne, lie's been in love with me ever since I was as high as that ! ' answered Marie, putting her hand about two feet from the floor, and with a triumphant look in her bright face. It was her first victory over the vassal man, and she was proud of her power. The time came when it seemed to her a very poor conquest, scarcely worth thinking of; but just now she felt a pleasant sense of her own imjiortance, a childish delight in the notion that this stalwart young fisherman was her slave. So it was all settled. Jean Holbert came in from the town presently, and was told the great news — in a pretty, faltering, broken way by Marie, in a few straightforward sentences by Jeanne. He was pleased at the tidings, and quite ready to give his consent. ' I felt pretty sure that he was in love with one of you,' he said cheerily, ' but I didn't trouble my poor old head to find out which. It would all come 142 WEAVEES AND WEFT. out in time, I knew. And so it's Marie, is it ? — my little Marie ! Why, you're scarcely more than a child, little one. The marriage mustn't be yet awhile.' ' I'm sure I'm in no hurry, father. But there's old widow Margot's cottage to let — you know, father; the pretty one facing the sea, with a wooden balcony, — and perhaps some one else will take it if we're not married soon.' ' There are plenty of cottages besides that, pretty one, and Henri could build you a balcony. You needn't be in a hurry to leave your poor old father. — The place would seem dull without her wouldn't it, Jeanne ? ' ' Very dull.' ' Of course it would. There mustn't be an}' talk of this marriage for a year at least. Not for two years if I had my way.' ' You must settle that' with Henri, father,' the girl answered, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. ' / don't want to leave you.' They v.-crc engaged, therefore ; but the marriage was not to be yet awhile. Everything went on IN GREAT WATERS. 143 iust the same as usual. In all their little world there seemed no change, except to one person, and that person was Jeanne. For her the change was a tireat and bitter one. She knew now that she had loved Henri Latouche all her life. However heavy her burden might be, she bore it, and made no sign. From her earliest child- hood hers had been a life of care and toil and thought for others. It did not seem to her a settled thing that she was to he happy and win the prize she longed for, as it is apt to seem to the impetuous heart of youth. She had loved the companion of her childhood, and there had been a time when she fancied her love returned. He had chosen otherwise, and she was able to resign him to her sister without one rebellious murmur against Provi- dence. But there was one thing she could not do : she could not feel sure that Marie loved him. The girl was very young and light-hearted. It wa^ only natural, perhaps, that she should take life carelessly, that she should not feel very seriously even upon the subject of her betrothal ; but Jeanne found this indifference a hard thing to understand. 1'44 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Sometimes, when Henri Latouche was out fishing on stormy days, the elder sister would sit and watch the face of the younger wonderingly. He who should have been all the world to her was in peril, and she sat singing at her work. If Jeanne spoke of him, or called her attention to the cruel wind rattling the little casement, a faint cloud of trouble would pass over her face, but that was all. The work and the song went on again after- wards, or perhaps some idle gossip about Made- moiselle de Marsac, who wore the loveliest white muslin dresses trimmed with lace and ribbon, or silks that were rich enough to stand alone. ' She ought to be very happy, oughtn't she, Jeanne ? ' Marie said sometimes, with a sigh. ' She has an Arab horse that the Count bought her. One of the grooms showed him to me the other day, when I had been to the kitchen to see Justine and came out by the stables. A beautiful gray, with a coat that shines like satin. And she has such jewels ! — more than you could reckon, Justine told nie. And this Monsieur de Lutrin whom she is going to marry is always bringing her something beauti- IN GREAT WATERS. 145 fill from Paris. What a fine thino; it is to be an lieiress ! ' The chateau was Marie Holbert's one glimpse of the great world. It seemed to her that in all France, in all the universe, there could be no habi- tation more splendid than that old white-walled Norman mansion, with its tall sugar-loaf towers, the broad terraces, where roses and geraniums bloomed in perennial beauty, and where moss- grown statues of Apollo and Diana, Ceres and Pan, slowly mouldered to decay ; the spacious rooms, with their faded tapestries, and tarnished gilding, and rococo furniture, and polished floors, with a square of rich Persian carpet here and there, like some tropical flowery islet in a shining brown sea. It was the only great house the fisherman's daughter had ever seen, and there was something in the aspect of the place that took her breath away. It was all so different from her own surroundings. To enter it was to find oneself in quite another world. Mademoi- selle Renee's tall, stately figure, witli that background of lofty saloon, seemed to her like the picture of a fairy princess in an enchanted palace. VOL. II. , L 146 WEAVERS AND WEFT. This young lady was very kind to her, paying her promptly for her work, and giving her little presents now and then ; sometimes detaining her at the chateau for an hour or so, sometimes inviting her to share a pleasant afternoon meal of coffee and fruit and cakes with her own maid Justine, in a pretty circular room in one of the towers \Yhere the maid sat and worked. Marie thought it was a happy thing to be Justine, and live always in that splendid cliateau. It made her own life seem ruder and commoner to her when she went home after these little festivals. Her evenino; walk with Henri Latouche wearied her. Sometimes, as they came home between the orchard hedgerows in the twilight, they saw the lights shining in the windows of the chateau on the hill, and Marie used to wonder what Mademoiselle was doins: in the great saloon, with her weak, indulgent old father, and the fragile invalid mother, who seldom left her sofa, and the noble, handsome young lover. Per- haps IMademoiselle was quite as dull as Marie with //(,/• lover, could the peasant girl have only known the truth. Faded tapestry and dim yellow satin IN GREAT WATERS. 147 haugiags — nay, even tarnished ormolu and rare old cabinets of buhl and marqueterie — do not create happiness ; and, sooth to say, life at the chateau was somewhat monotonous. Mamma had her chronic maladies, of which slie thought more than of her daughter; papa his perpetual Journal des Debats and snuft-box. There were very few visitors. It was a life that went on repeating itself from year to year — calm, eventless, and stupid. Unfortunately, ]\Iarie had no power to see this side of the picture. Mademoiselle de Marsac's surroundings dazzled her ; and Mademoiselle de Marsac's lover — oh, how different he was from Henri Latouche, with his big clumsy hands, his honest weather-beaten face, and his rough peasant clothes^ which always smelt of the sea ! One sultry afternoon in the middle of July, when Marie Holbert and Henri Latouche had been betrothed just three months, the girl went upon one of her accustomed visits to tlie chateau. It was rather an oppressive day, with a i'everish heat in the atmosphere and a hint of a coming thunder- storm. Tliu roses on the terrace seemed to loll 14R WEAVERS AND WEFT. their heads heavily. The cliatmv itself had a drowsy look— the Venetian shutters closed, a muslin curtain here and there flapping faintly with every feeble sigh of the south-west wind. IMademoiselle de jSIarsac was not visible ; she had a headache, and was lying down in her own room, Justine told Marie Holbert. The two girls loitered a little in the shady hall to gossip, and then Marie walked slowly away from the cool dark chateau into the shadowless gardens. There was little sunshine this afternoon — a lurid glow rather, which seemed like the sweltering heat of a furnace. There was a way across the gardens to a small wooden door opening into the high road, which saved some distance, and Justine had told Marie she could go by this way. It was a day upon which any one would be glad to shorten a journey, if by ever so little. IMarie Holbert had never seen so much of the gardens before, often as she had been to the chateau, but she knew the door in the thick white wall very well. She had looked at it often from the outside as she mounted the hill, and had wondered IN GKEAT WATERS. 149 idly whether it was ever used. She was quite over- powered by the idea of exploring so much of this earthly paradise alone. There was not very much to see in the chateau gardens, after all, beautiful as they appeared to ]Marie. It was only a repetition of geometrical Hower-beds and sunburnt grass, and here and there a dilapidated statue. There were few trees ; none of the cool shadowy beauties, the verdant mysteries of an English garden. With a few headstones and monuments scattered about, the sunny slope would have made an excellent cemetery. Halfway between the chdieaio and the point to which she was going, ]\Iarie came to a circle of scarlet geraniums and a great marble basin which had once been a fountain. There was no sparkling jet of water now leaping gaily upward in the sun- shine ; only the chipped old basin, discoloured with damp and moss. But Marie gave a little start on approaching it ; for on the edge of tlie basin there sat a gentleman smoking, in the laziest attitude possible, with one leg stretched along the broad marble border, and the other knee raised to make 150 WEAVERS AND WEFT. a support for his elbow. It was Monsieur de Lutrin — Hector de Lutrin, the affianced of Mademoiselle. He, too, gave a little start as Marie came near, and seemed to come to life all at once, as it were, changing his lazy attitude for one of attention. ' Great Heaven ! ' he muttered to himself, ' it is the little lace-girl ! She comes expressly to amuse me.' He rose and came forward to meet the little lace-girl, with his half-consumed cigar held daintily between his slim fingers. He was a fragile-looking young man, whose strong points were his hands and feet and a languid patrician air. He was not really handsome. His pale face and light grey eyes had a faded look ; but his dark-brown moustache, and a certain grace of costume and manner, relieved his insipidity of feature and complexion. He was the first gentleman, except the old Comte de Marsac, who had ever spoken to Marie Holbert, and he seemed to her a demigod. ' You have had a useless journey to the clidtecm this intolerable day, I fear, Mademoiselle,' he said. ' Mademoiselle Een^e is ill.' IN GREAT "WATERS. 151 ' I am so sorry ! ' Marie faltered, blushing and confused. To be spoken to by any stranger was a bewilder- ing thing ; but by the betrothed of Mademoiselle — this adorable young man ! ' It is not a matter of moment, happily,' he replied, lightly, giving the half-smoked cigar a little wave in the air. ' She has the migraine — this abominable weather, no doubt. Look what a leaden hue the sky has yonder. We are going to have a thunder- storm. Had you not better go back to the house ? ' ' Oh, no, Monsieur. You are very good, but I shall be wanted at home.' ' Foolish child ! If you attempt to go home, you will be caught in the storm. Are you not afraid of thunder and lightning?' ' No, Monsieur, not afraid. I don't like to be out in the lightning ; but — but I think there will be time for me to get home before it begins.' ' You are wrong, my little one. See, there is no mistaking that leaden cloud.' ' Indeed, Monsieur, I must go straight home at any hazard.' 152 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. ' Very well. If you are obstinate, you must go ; but remember I have warned you. However, I'll open the gate for you, and then you had better run home as fast as you can.' He turned and walked with her towards the gate, — she shy and troubled by so much politeness, he with that easy air which was his chief grace ; but before they reached the gate great raindrops came splashing down, and then a blinding shower, a perfect sheet of water. ' We're in for it !' exclaimed Monsieur de Lutrin. ' It's no use trying to go back to the chateau — we should be drowned before we could get there ; but there's a tool house a low paces from here, where we can take shelter. Come, Mademoiselle.' He led the half-bewildered girl along a narrow sandy path, past the door in the wall, to a rustic building sacred to the gardeners. The door was luckily open, and they went in, out of a very deluge. It was a roomy but darksome shed, con- taining gardening implements of all kinds, and a good deal of litter in the way of seeds and herbs, laid aside to dry. There was only one little window IN GKEAT WATERS. 153 looking upon the broad treeless garden, where flowers and shrubs were being beaten to the ground under the furious rain. ' It served me right,' Marie said, remorsefully. ' My sister begged me not to come to-day.' ' Very sensible advice of your sister's,' said Hector de Lutrin ; ' but I am glad you did not take it.' The girl was going to ask him why, but a look in his eyes checked her — a look that she had never met in the eyes of her lover, an expression that brought a vivid blush to her cheeks, and yet was not alto- gether displeasing, it was a look of such unalloyed admiration. Her heart beat a little faster than before, and the long dark lashes drooped over the pretty eyes. ' Because if you had taken your admirable sister's advice, I should have lost a most exquisite pleasure,' he went on, in his slow, languid way. A blinding flash of lightning gave Marie an excuse for turning her head aside suddenly just at this moment ; but the searching gaze of Monsieur de Lutrin's gray eyes was more embarrassing than tlie li<:htnin & IN GREAT WATERS. 155 ' Silly child ! it is raining just as fast as ever. Hark at the thnnder. There's an awful crackling noise, just as if it came from the road behind us ! And what lightning ! You cannot leave this refuge till the storm is over. I am sorry it is not a better place, and I am still more sorry you find it so dismal. For me it is a paradise in little.' And so he went on, smoking his cigar in that slow, desultory way of his, and paying elaborate compli- ments to the poor little peasant girl. He had no iniquitous design, no treasonable intentions against the peace of the little lace-girl or his betrothed ; he only wanted to amuse himself this dull summer afternoon by a harmless flirtation. The thought of any mischief that might arise from his caprice gave him no trouble. He was not in the habit of per plexing himself upon the subject of other people's feelings. If the little lace-girl permitted herself to be too much impressed by liim, that was her look- out. His o^vn conscience found perfect repose in the fitct that he meant nothing. Marie Holbert listened to him. Wliat could she do but listen, with the rain still pouring down, and 156 WEAVEKS AND WEFT, the thunderstorm at its worst ? She had no excuse for running away ; so she stayed and listened to talk which was commonplace enough, but dangerously delightful to her. He asked her questions about her life, praised the colour of her eyes, told her how much too pretty she was for a life of hard work — as if it were only the ill-favoured of this earth to whom the heri- tage of toil was given. He said enough to make her thoroughl}^ discontented and unhappy, presently, when the storm was over, and he had escorted her through the garden door and as far as a bend in the hilly road, just above the town, where he left her. When he was gone, it seemed as if the whole aspect of her life was changed. The thought of the smoky little cottage, to which she was returning, made her shudder ; the thought of her lover's evening visit was still more distasteful to her. The poison was subtle, and gave its flavour to everything. How handsome, how charming he was, this elegant Parisian gentleman, who had praised her beauty ! "Was she really so pretty ? Henri Latouche had said very little about her good looks. He had talked of his IN GREAT WATERS. 157 love for her, but not of the colour of her eyes. At best he was rather a stupid lover. She was absent-minded, and had a somewhat melanchuly air, that evening when Henri came, and told them the news, and read the paper to the old father in his usual way. She gave him a random answer more than once. Her thoughts were in the rustic shed, with its one little wdndow, against which the rain had beaten so furiously. Henri was puzzled by her manner. Marie Holbert had occasion to go to the chdtmu again two days afterwards. It was always she who went to and fro with the lace or any message about it. Jeanne knew that her sister was Made- moiselle de Marsac's favourite, and Jeanne had always so much to do at home. The two girls did all Mademoiselle's plain work, as well as the lace- making; and just now there was a great deal of work on hand for the trousseau. The marriage was to take place in October ; and after her marriage, Mademoiselle was to go and live in Paris, for jMonsieur de Lutrin could not exist away from Paris. He was rich and idle —an only son, who 158 WEAVERS AND WEFT. had inherited a handsome fortune lately, — and the marriage had been arranged ever so long ago between the two fathers. There was uo fear of a thunderstorm this time. The chateau gardens were all ablaze with sunshine. To-day Mademoiselle liende was visible. Justine took Marie to her boudoir, where they had a long discussion about the needlework. Marie had half expected to see Monsieur de Lutrin here, turning over loose sheets of music, or teasing Mademoiselle's favourite poodle, after his wont ; but he was not in the boudoir to-day. The talk about the work lasted more than an hour. Itene'e de Marsac %vas especially gracious, and insisted that Marie should have a glass of sugared water and a biscuit after her walk ; and at parting she said, — ' Be sure you go across the gardens, child, and out by the little door— it is always unlocked,— and that way will save you a quarter of a mile.' Marie blushed crimson. Could she ever forget that short cut across the garden, and the wonderful adventure that had befallen her ? She left the house IN GEEAT WATERS, 159 ill a strauge dreamy state. Should she see him again ? As she came near the dilapidated fountain, it seemed to her that the earth beneath her feet grew impalpable all at once, as if she had been walking on air. Yes, there he was, in precisely the same attitude, smoking and gazing listlessly at the horizon, across t-he blue hill-tops. He looked as if he had never moved since she had first seen him sitting there two days before. He heard her steps upon the loose gravel, and rose to meet her, thi'owing the end of his cigar into the empty marble basin. It was only a repetition of their last meeting. His compliments were very much the same — ^just a little more fervid, perhaps ; but that was all. To a woman of the world it would all have seemed insipid and commonplace enough ; but it was the first tribute that had ever been paid by a gentleman to Marie Holbert's beauty, and the poor little feeble soul had no power to resist the fascination. He was a gentleman — that was the beginning and end of the charm. He walked with her to the bend of the road 60 \veavp:ks and weft. again, but did not care to go beyond that point, for a few yards farther would have brought them into the town ; and, harmless as Monsieur de Lutrin meant his flirtation to be, he did not want to adver- tise it to all the world of Nercy. Just as they came to this bend of the road, a slight girlish figiu-e advanced towards them with a firm steady walk that Marie knew very well. She gave a great start, and in lier sudden confusion clung to Hector de Lutrin's arm. Not till this moment had she any positive sense of guilt; but the sight of that familiar figure, coming along the road, was like a revelation. What would Jeanne say? ' Why, what ails thee, little one ? ' asked Monsieur de Lutrin, looking down at the frightened face with an expression of mingled wonder and annoyance in his own. That spasmodic clutch of jMarie's had startled him unpleasantly, for he was of a nervous temperament. ' It is my sister Jeanne ! ' Marie said, with a gasp. ' What then ? Thy sister Jeanne will not eat us.' IN GREAT WATERS. 161 ' Great Heaven ! what will she think ? She will be so angry ! What shall I say ? ' Jeanne was quite near them by this time. Monsieur de Lutrin came to a full stop, raised his hat to the highest ceremonial elevation, and made a bow which included the two sisters. ' I have the honour to wish you good day, Mademoiselle,' he said to Marie; and then he strolled slowly back up the hill towards the chdteau. Marie had grown pale to the lips. Never in all her life had she feared any one as she feared her sister Jeanne to-day. For some minutes the two girls walked on in silence ; and then Jeanne spoke, in a voice that was very grave — nay, almost stern, but whicn trembled a little nevertheless. ' How came IMonsieur de Lutrin to be with you just now, Marie ? ' she asked. ' I don't know. It was quite an accident, of course. Mademoiselle told me to come through the garden — to the little door, you know, Jeanne, that opens on the hill ; and I happened to meet Mon- sieur, and he walked with me.' ' VOL. II. M 162 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Do you think it right, Marie, that a gentleman like that should walk by your side, just as if you were equals ? ' ' I don't see anything wrong in it.' 'Then why were you so frightened when you saw me coming ? I saw you grasp Monsieur's arm as if you had seen a ghost.' 'It was very foolish of me,' Marie answered, in rather a defiant manner. ' There was no reason that I should be frightened.' ' Except that people seldom like to be found out doing wrong. What do you think Henri would say if he had seen you two together ? ' ' I do not think anything about it, or care any- thing about it. And I hope that is the end of your lecture, Jeanne.' She had never defied her sister before ; the sister who, for the last six years of her life, had watched and guarded her with a mother's care. Jeanne said no more. It was not such a great crime, after all, that Marie had been guilty of ; but there had been something* in the manner of those two that alarmed Jeanne. They had been talking IN GREAT WATEKS. 163 SO coufidentially until Marie saw her. It could scarcely be the first time they had talked together. And then Marie's unmistakable terror was such a strange thing. ' Was to-day the first time that Monsieur de Lutrin walked with you ? ' Jeanne asked by-and-by ; but Marie evaded the question, declaring that she would not submit to be lectured. Her heart was beating very fast, half with fear, half with anger, and she felt herself very wicked — almost as if she had given herself over to iniquity. After this Jeanne took care that Marie should pay no more visits to the chateau. Henceforward it was Jeanne herself who went to carry home work, or to take Mademoiselle de jMarsac's orders. But a fine gentleman who had lived the life of Paris was, of course, more than a match for a simple peasant girl ; and it generally happened that while Jeanne was up the hill at the chateau, INIonsieur de Lutrin dropped in at the cottage, to ask for a cup of cider, and to talk for half an hour or so with Marie. Opposition gave a zest to the flirtation. If the girl had been thrown constantly in his way he niiglit 164 WEAVERS AND WEFT. have wearied of her before this ; but the sister's pre- cautions gave the business the flavour of an intrigue, and Monsieur de Lutrin had found life very monoto- nous at the chateau. Jean Holbert's cottage stood on the extreme edge of the town, and a little aloof from the other habita- tions that were thinly sprinkled along the broad white road ; had there been nearer neighbours, those visits of the fine gentleman from the chateau might liave created a scandal. They would ultimately have done so as it was, perhaps, had not the course of events taken another turn. Monsieur de Lutrin had suffered himself to be drifted away from that idea of meaning nothing serious, with which he had begun his flirtation. Marie was so much in earnest. The sweet young face expressed so much more than the poor child was conscious of. Those sweet eyes betrayed so many mysteries of the tender fluttering heart. She was very wicked, she told herself, with secret ao'onies of remorse. Hector de Lutrin was Made- moiselle de Marsac's affianced husband, and she loved him ; loved him as she had never loved Henri m GREAT WATERS. 165 Latouche. Indeed, she knew but too well now, made sadly wise by this real passion, that she had never loved Henri Latouche at all. There was a change in her, and a marked one, which Henri perceived and wondered about. She scarcely seemed to live except in those brief half- hours in which Monsieur de Lutrin was with her. The bewildering delight of his presence seemed to absorb all her capacity for emotion. Wlien he was gone, existence became a blank, and she co*ild do nothing but calculate the probabilities as to his next visit. Would he come on Tuesday, on Wednesday, on Thursday ? How many hours, how many minutes before she should hear the gracious caressing tones of his voice once more ? It was only a common form of the universal fever, a foolish girl's passion for a gentleman lover. Who can tell what fatal end might have come to the story ? A sudden and a calamitous end did come to it, but not that which commonly concludes such a record. Mademoiselle de Marsac's fete, day was in September, and upon this particular occasion she had a fancy for keeping it after a fashion of her own' 166 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Some ten miles from Nercy there was a famous grotto called the Giant's Cave, one of the objects of interest to which all visitors were taken. The place lay quite away from any high road, and was, indeed, almost inaccessible by land; but the trip was pleasant enough by water, and Henri Latouche had done many a profitable day's work in taking people to the Giant's Cave. The coast was wild and rugged between Nercy and the cavern, and the little voyage was n«t without peril in foul weather ; but of course visitors rarely went except in settled weather, and there had been few accidents. One evening Jeanne came home from the clidteau in better spirits than usual. It was the eve of Mademoiselle's fete day. ' I have got you a job, Henri,' she said, cheerily ; ' ]\Iademoiselle has a friend with her — a lady from Eouen — and she wants to show her the Giant's Cave. She will give you a napoleon if you wiir take them there to-morrow in your sailing-boat. There will be only the two young ladies and Monsieur de Lutriii.' This was about twice the payment the young man ordinarily asked for the voyage. IN GREAT VVATEES. 167 'That's just like yon, Jeanne,' he said, 'always thinking of other people. I don't suppose Made- moiselle would have made such a handsome offer if 5'ou hadn't put it into her head. I'll take them with pleasure, and I'll make the Marie Antoinette as smart as I can for the occasion.' ' Do, Henri. She spoke so kindly. She has often noticed you at church, she says, when you've been there with Marie and me, and she knows you very well by sight. She knows that you and Marie are to be married some day.' Marie was silent all this time, bending over her work. She had seemed quite absorbed by her needlework lately ; indeed, Henri told himself that the change in her manner, that listlessness and abstraction whicli had so perplexed him, only arose from her being so busy about Mademoiselle de Marsac's trousseau. But Jeanne could have told how little work Marie had really done, in spite of this appearance of industry. The next day was the loth of September; a bright morning with a blue sky and a fresh west wind. Marie began the day in very low spirits. 168 WEAVERS AND WEFT. She had not seen Monsieur de Lutrin for more than a week. Happy Mademoiselle Eenee, who saw him continually, who would have him by her side all that long autumnal day ! She thought of the white- sailed boat dancing gaily over the blue waters, and the affianced lovers sitting side by side. Would he think of her, whose beauty he had praised so often, whom he had pretended even to love ? Was 'it likely that he would think of her ? Oh, no ! The utter folly of her guilty passion came home to her to-day as it had never done before ; but oh, the bitter jealous pangs that rent the weak, erring heart ! Henri looked in at the cottage before he started. Perhaps he wanted to show himself to his betrothed, looking his best in his Sunday clothes, with a new ribbon round his sailor's hat, and his hair brushed to desperation. ' Will you come and look at the boat, Marie ? ' he said, anxious to get half an hour with his betrothed before the day's work began. ' She's a picture. I've borrowed some cushions, and made all com- fortable for Mademoiselle.' IN GREAT WATERS. 169 No, ]Marie did not care to see tlie boat ; and yet, stay ; yes, she would come to look at her, if Henri pleased. She hated the boat, she hated Henri ; she hated everything and everybody that had a part in this day's festivity. ' What do I care about the boat ? ' she said, captiously, when they were down at the quay, and she surveyed her lover's preparations; 'I'm not going in her.' ' But you know that I'd take you to the Giant's Cave any day you cared to go, Marie,' said Henri. ' I've seen the Giant's Cave,' she answered, with a little impatient shrug. While she was standing on the quay, IMonsieur de Lutrin and the two ladies came down to the boat. Marie dropped a low curtsey, and stood aside as they passed her. How far away from them she seemed ! jMademoiselle Eenee gave her a gracious smile, but Monsieur de Lutrin appeared scarcely to see lier. It was very hard to bear. That distant look of his cut her to the heart. In after years she always remembered his face as she had seen it then, with its listless indifferent expres- 170 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. sion. She watched them get into the boat, and waited for all the pleasant noise and bustle of the start. The last glimpse she had of them showed her the lovers sitting side by side, Mademoiselle talking, and Hector de Lutrin bending down to listen, the boat tossing gaily over the waves. Her own life, and all her own surroundings, seemed odious to her as she went home. The two girls kept close at their needlework all the morning. The time for the marriage was draw- ing near, and there was still a good deal to be done. They did not talk much. Marie had grown strangely silent of late, and Jeanne was too busy for conversa- tion. They worked on steadily till noon, and after they had eaten their frugal dinner they began again. It was nearly four o'clock, when the wind rose sud- denly and shook the cottage window with sharp gusts that made the two girls look up from their work. Jeanne's face was very grave. ' Do you know what quarter the wind is in to- day, Marie ? ' she asked, anxiously. ' No, indeed ; yes, I remember Henri spoke of it this morning. It is in the south-west,' IN GKEAT WATERS. 171 ' Great Heaven ! I have heai-d my father say that it is a dangerous quarter for sailing from the grotto. The south-west wind blows full upon shore. I have heard him say that he has stood upon the hill yonder on a stormy day, and seen the boats driven in upon the shingle.' Marie grew very pale ; but it was not of Henri Latouche she was thinking. It was of that other one who was in the same peril. ' How pale thou art, all in a moment ! ' said her sister, tenderly. ' There may be no cause for fear, little one. It is not every wind that brings a wreck ; and thou knowest thy lover is a good sailor and a strong swimmer. There is little fear for him.' ' Perhaps not,' thought Marie, despairingly, ' but for the other — for the other ! ' The work dropped from her lap, and she opened the little window and looked out. Jeanne stooped to pick up the delicate linen and cambric: Jeanne could always think of everything. The dust was blowing in great clouds along the road, the ])oplars were swaying to-and-fro. A man passed whom Marie 172 WEAVERS AND WEFT. knew, and she asked him what he thought of the weather. ' An ugly afternoon,' he said. ' Is the old father out?' ' Yes, he has gone fishing.' ' I can't say I like the look of the weather ; but God is good, Mademoiselle, and your father has been out in many a storm.' Marie turned to her sister. ' Let us go down to the quay, Jeanne. The Marie Antoiiidte may have come back, and the good father too. Come, Jeanne ; we shall hear something at least.' Jeanne put away the work as neatly as if her mind had been quite at ease. Marie stood at the window watching those swaying poplars, and think- ing — not of her father, though she loved him dearly ; not of the man she had promised to marry ; but of Hector de Lutrin, who for the amusement of an idle hour had perverted her heart. They went down to the quay. The boat might be in by this time, though Jeanne remembered how Mademoiselle de Marsac had said she meant to spend a long day in the cavern, and among the rocks on IN GKEAT WATERS. 173 that wild shore, and to return only at dusk. It would not be dusk till seven o'clock. There was no sign of the Marie Antoinette, and the wind was still rising. It was as much as the two girls could do to keep their feet on the rough stone path. The sea, which had been so bright and blue in the morning, was now a murky brown, the waves rolling heavily in with white crests. The roar of the waters was almost deafening. Marie clung helplessly to her sister. Slie had seen many a storm before to-day, but this seemed to her worse than any she could remember. There were a good many men and boys upon the quay, looking seaward, and one woman, watching for her husband's return with sad eyes. Jeanne and l\Iarie had been waiting half an hour, when Jean Holbert's boat came in. He at least was safe. The two girls embraced him, — Jeanne with fervour, Marie in a half-absent way. She was thankful to Provi- dence for his safe return, but she could not withdraw her thoughts from that other one. ' Is the Marie Antoinette in ? ' asked the old man, directly he had kissed his children. 174 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Not yet, father,' Jeaune answered, quietly. ' I don't like that. It's a bad nifjht for comintr round by the peak.' ' Henri is such a good sailor,' Jeanne said. ' Ay, ay, child, he's a good sailor, but he's alone with those three ; and if the boat capsized, and he tried to save the others, it would be hazardous. It will be hard work sailing in the teeth of this wind.' Marie shuddered. They had turned and left the quay, and were walking homewards ; but the girl clutched her sister's arm and whispered, — ' Don't go home, Jeanne ; I can't go home.' ' Father, thy supper is all ready for thee. Marie is too anxious to go home just yet, if thou wilt excuse us.' * Poor little Marie, thou wert best at home. But as you will, children ; only don't stay long. You can do no good by watching the sea.' The old man went slowly home, the girls returned to the quay. They waited and watched for another half-hour under the dark threatening sky, in which there was only one livid line of light on tlie edge of the horizon. IN GREAT WATERS. 175 ' Come, Marie,' Jeanne said at last ; ' let us go to the church and pray.' The church was always open. It was a grand old building, almost large enough for a cathedral, with curious models of ships hanging in the nave and aisles, presented by pious seamen who had escaped great perils ; with little chapels here and there, where the shrines were of a somewhat faded splendour ; here and there a noble old monument sorely defaced by time and the revolutionary rabble, like the carved oaken doors, upon Avhich maimed and noseless saints and angels testified to the malice of insensate de- stroyers. Jean Holbert's daughters went into the church. ]Marie following her sister almost mechanically. It was growmg dark in those shadowy aisles, where a lamp before an altar twinkled faintly here and there, or a little gi'oup of lighted candles cast feeble rays upon the pavement. They went into one of tliu aisles, and knelt down to pray in the shadow of a gi'eat granite pillar, — one sister with a calm and holy earnestness, the other with a half-despairing intensitv. 176 , WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Lord, save liim, spare his life, though I may never see his face again,' she prayed. She made the same supplication over and over again, and then repeated the Litany of our Lady in a mechanical way, her mind always with the boat and that one who was in peril. The image of Henri Latouche never arose before her. She had no power to think of anything but that one person. They remained in the church for more than an hour, and then went back to the quay. It was now seven o'clock, and almost dark, but there were no tidings of the Marie Antoinette. They waited and waited, listening to the talk of the seafaring men who still loitered about the landing stairs. It was not by any means hopeful talk for them to hear. One man, who knew the sisters very well, tried to give them a little hope, but it was evident that his own ideas about the Marie Anioinette were not sanguine. The girls lingered until the church clock struck eight, and then Jeanne insisted upon going home. Marie had been shivering all the time. It was worse than useless waiting there. She submitted to her IN GREAT WATERS. 177 sister's will, too helpless in her misery for resistance, and they walked slowly homeward. Halfway towards the house Jeanne gave a loud scream. ' Look, Marie ! ' she cried, hysterically. ' Thank God, thank God ! he is safe ! ' She pointed to a figure advancing towards them — the stalwart broad-shouldered figure of the young fisherman. It was indeed Henri Latouche. He was close to them by this time ; he stretched out his arras to clasp Marie to his breast. 'My darling!' he cried, tenderly, 'I never thought to see thy face again.' She held him off with extended hands, and an awful look in her eyes. ' Don't touch me,' she said. ' Where is Monsieur de Lutrin ? ' Henri stared at her with a bewildered air, and then turned to Jeanne. ' Bring her home,' he said. — ' Come, Marie.' ' I will not stir a step. Where is Monsieur de Lutrin ? ' ' Jeanne, bring her homo. There has been an VuL. II. N 178 WEAVERS AND WEFT. accident — the boat capsized off the peak ; the two young ladies are safe, I swam on shore with them — they are at a farmhouse yonder ; and I walked across the fields here. My boat is lost. It has been a sad day's work.' ' Where is Monsieur de Lutrin ? ' ' He is drowned, Marie. I did ray best to save liim, but he could not swim. And there were the other two. It was no use. I could not save them all.' Marie gave a great cry, and fell on the ground at his feet. He lifted her up, and carried her in his arms as easily as if she had been a little child. She was quite unconscious, her head lying on his shoulder. ' Jeanne,' he said, in a husky voice, ' what does this mean ? ' ' I don't know.' ' What was Monsieur de Lutrin to her, that she should take his death like this ? ' ' He was nothing to her. He had spoken to her once or twice, that was all.' They learned more a few days later ; for Marie Holbert's swoon was followed by a brain fever, in IN GKEAT WATEKS. 179 which the gM raved about her drowned lover. Henri Latouche discovered how completely her heart had been stolen from him, if it had ever been his. He bore the blow manfully, though it was a crush- ing one. He helped to nurse the sick girl through that dismal time, and on her recovery treated her with brotherly tenderness. But he told her gently one day that the bond between them was broken, and that he released her from her promise. She only bowed her head, and said in a low voice, ' You are right, Henri ; I could never have loved you as you deserved.' A few days after this she went to the convent, and told the nuns that she wanted to join their sister- hood. There were no difficulties ; her skill in lace- making would render her a self-supporting member of the community. She said nothing to Jeanne or to her father until all was settled, and she was about to enter upon her novitiate. The old fisherman was too good a Catholic to offer much opposition to her wishes. It was hard to part with her ; but she would not be far away, and she would come to see him often, slie told him. 180 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Five vears after the wreck of the Marie Antoi- nctte, Henri Latouche asked Jeanne Holbert to be his wife. The old wound had healed, and he had found out the value of the brave unselfish woman who had loved him from her childhood. SEBASTIAN. CHAPTER I. A FINE GENTLEMAN. When Sir Jasper Lydford came home from the grand tour, he brought with him, besides a large and various collection of cameos, intaglios, mosaics, and other trumpery palmed upon him by astute foreign traders, two living treasures, of which he was justly proud. The first was Florio Benoni, his Italian valet ; the second was Sebastian, his favourite dog — an animal of the true St. Bernard breed, pur- chased by Sir Jasper at the hospital in the moun- tains, where he had spent a night with much satis- faction to himself and the monks, whose courtesies he had acknowledged with becoming liberality. Sir Jasper was fourth baronet of a good old Somersetshire family, and the owner of a fine estate between Porlock and Wiveliscombe. It is just a 182 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. century ago since he finished his stately peram- bulation of Europe in his own coach, and crossed from Antwerp in a clumsy old tub of a vessel, after four years of slow and industrious travel. He was five-and-twenty, and had been his own master ever since he attained his majority; until which happy event he had been under the tutelage of two guar- dians and the Court of Chancery; his father and mother having been swept off by a malignant fever at their house in Brook Street, when Jasper was still in petticoats. Fever used to walk in high places in those days, as any one may discover who reads Horace Walpole's letters, and marks how often he records the sudden desolation wrought in noble families by this fell destroyer. Sir Jasper Lydford was essentially a fine gentle- man, and belonged to a period when fine gentlemen were of a somewhat loftier mould than they pretend to now-a-days. The macaroni of Walpole's time aspired to' be thought a wit; he cultivated belles- lettres, dabbled a little with art, professed no weari- ness of earth, sun, and moon, but rather affected a kindly interest in that creation which lay, like the SEBASTIAN. 183 brutes round Orpheus, at his feet, charmed into submission by his splendid graces. He was liberal to lavishuess ; devoted a good deal of his leisure to play, and lost his money with a superb tranquillity ; swore a good deal, drank deeply, but was never seen intoxicated ; turned night into day, yet contrived to exhibit himself in the sunshine when fashion de- manded the sacrifice ; flattered women with the homage of a devotee, and broke their hearts with a gentlemanlike placidity. ' After me the deluge,' was his motto ; and when he saw the deluge coming, he generally shot himself, or cut his throat, to the surprise of his friends and his valet, and the despair of his creditors. He had neither religion nor prin- ciples ; but he danced exquisitely, was a perfect swordsman, contributed dainty versicles to ' The "Wreath ' or ' The Casket,' and now and then wrote an essay for 'The World.' Sir Jasper Lydford had not yet developed into this splendid creature. He was still in the bud ; but he promised well, and Florio, his valet, was training him. Florio was a grave person of middle age, who had trained more than one fine gentleman 184 WEAVERS AND WEFT. of the British nation. He was with Lord Minehead when that unfortunate nobleman blew out his brains at Florence, in consequence of some gambling trans- action ; and he had gone straight from his master's grave to the service of Sir Jasper Lydford, who thought himself fortunate to obtain such a treasure, riorio had travelled all over the world — the polite world, that is to say, — from the quaint old palaces of the Hague to the new-built quays and bridges of Petersburg. He was a most accomplished person, spoke four languages, quoted Horace and Catullus, and read Machiavelli for his own delectation. He possessed an imperturbable temper, and could be sworn at with impunity, although so superior a person. Insult or contumely seemed hardly to touch him — as if he belonged to a loftier region than the fopling who spurned him. He was serious and silent ; performing all his duties with a wondrous ease and precision, and seeming to take as much delight in arraying his master in the gorgeous and graceful fashion of the day as a painter feels in the picture that grows and glows into life and beauty on his canvas. SEBASTIAN. 18;) To Florio Benoni Sir Jasper attached himself with as near an approach to friendship as a fine gentleman could possibly feel for his paid attendant. When he was laid up with ague in Venice, Florio nursed him, and read to him, and played piquet with him : when he was near death with a tertian fever at Vienna, Florio brought him round. Florio could write his letters — in a small, cramped Italian hand, certainly, but with perfect propriety of language. Florio paid his bills, and would not allow him to be cheated by those Continental harpies who deem a young Englishman travelling in his own coach their especial prey. Yes, Sir Jasper was really attached to Florio Benoni ; but he did not love him so well as that four-footed friend, Sebastian. There was a nearer approach to equality between the fine gentleman and his dog than between the fine gentleman and his valet. Sebastian was Sir Jasper's playfellow and companion. At night he lay on the threshold of the door between his master's bedchamber and dressing- room. He was a brute of marvellous intelligence — a huge and powerful animal, black as Erebus, save for 186 WEAVERS AND WEFT. a little fringe of white about his eyes, and one white spot at the end of his massive tail. Sir Jasper had a suspicion that the dog understood the human tongue. He was a watchful beast, and his slumbers were of the lightest. There was no den of thieves, howsoever vile, that Sir Jasper would have feared to enter with Sebastian at his heels. Not a dog to be cajoled by the enemy, or to be bribed by poisoned meats. A dog to make burglars shake in their list slippers. Sir Jasper spent a season in London, mixed in the most polite society, fought a duel, entangled himself in two or three flirtations, but kept tolerably heart-whole ; played high, and was unlucky in his cards. So adverse was fortune, that when the London season was over, Sir Jasper had overdrawai his banking account, and was fain to post down to Lydford Manor to see what could be got in the way of rents. His estate was managed by a land- steward — a solicitor in a small way at Wiveliscombe, who lived upon this stewardship, like his father before him. ' Florio,' said the baronet, ' we must go down to SEBxVSTIAN. 187 my place in Somersetshire. It's a dismal old dun- geon, I know, though I don't remember much about it. I've not been there since I was a youngster.' Florio shrugged his shoulders and smiled, with that gravely courteous aiT of his which implied that aU places were alike to him, provided they were but pleasing or convenient to his master. But in plain truth it was somewhat inconvenient to Benoni to be carried away thus suddenly from the metropolis. He, too, had lived his life, and courted the blind goddess, and had his schemes, and speculations, and entanglements. It was awk- ward in the extreme to have his career in London thus brought to a close — snapped short off like a thread cut by the fatal shears. Sir Jasper Lydford was a gentleman of warm temper and great energy — prone to sudden impulses and unconsidered actions. No sooner had he made up his mind to go down to Somersetshire than he was eager to start. ' Tell them to get post-horses for my travelling chariot,* he said, while Benoni was curling and powdering liini. 'I luirn to see the old place .188 WEAVERS AND WEFT. again, dreary as it must be by this time ; and London is as dull as a graveyard — all the pretty women gone to Bath or Tunbridge.' 'Weather very warm for travelling/ insinuated Benoni. 'Weather insufferable for London,' yawned Sir Jasper, looking at the last number of 'The World' through his eye-glass. ' Horry Walpole says this week's paper is by Chesterfield ; but it's vastly stupid, whoever wrote it.' ' They say the small-pox is raging in the west of England ; but of course, if my lord wishes to revisit his chateau — ' murmured Benoni, with an air of resignation, as if life or death were imma- terial to him personally. He always called Sir Jasper 'my lord'; and, although he could speak four languages, had never yet mastered the differ- ence between a baronetcy and a peerage. ' If it is written in the book of fate that we are to die of the small-pox, we shall get it, wherever we may be. Did it not reach the French king upon his throne, t'other day ? You may order the carriage for noon, Florio. And yon need take but SEBASTIAN. 189 little trouble about my things, — half-a-dozen waist- coats, and a dozen or so of cravats — the coquelicot suit, and the myrtle-green — the grey tiffany, per- haps. I may not stay above a week. The place will be deadly dull, no doubt. I am only going to get some money. That cursed faro has exhausted my funds, and the midsummer rents ought to be got in by this time.' It was only the second week in July ; but Sir Jasper's necessities made him eager. Benoni's looks expressed a grave interest. ' My lord is going to get money from his lands ? he inquired. ' What else dost thou suppose the earth was made for? We do not keep corn-fields or farm- yards for playthings. Land bestows a certain kind of distinction upon an Englishman, Benoni ; but 'tis a deuced bad investment of his fortune. If my father had employed his capital in commerce, and been lucky in his ventures, I should have thousands where I have hundreds. But heaven made me a country gentleman, and I must e'en be content.' Eleven o'clock struck before Sir Jasper left his 190 - WEAVERS AND WEFT. dressing-room ; but Benoni had his master's port- manteaux packed and the travelling chariot at the door upon the stroke of twelve. When Sir Jasper came out of the dining-room, where he had been sipping his chocolate and trifling with [an epicurean breakfast, Sebastian followed close upon his master's heels, fawning upon him, and whining as if he suspected mischief. ' The faithful brute thinks I am going to leave him,' said Sir Jasper, patting the big blunt black head which had thrust itself affectionately against his breast. 'My lord will not take the dog to Somerset- shire ? ' exclaimed Benoni, astonished. ' Not take him ! Dost thou think I'd leave a beast that loves me to the tender mercies of a St. James's lodging-house ? He'd be starved, or poi- soned, or stole, perchance, before I came back. No ; Sebastian goes with his master.' CHAPTER II. AT HIS GATES. The journey into Somersetshire was long and fa- tiguing, though the road lay through a land full of summer beauty. It was the great Bath road, famous for its danger from gentlemen of the Dick Turpin breed. Sir Jasper lolled in his chariot, and tossed over the papers, and yawned a little over the last volume of fashionable poetry — the mildest dilution of Pope and Gay — and slept a good deal, and caressed Sebastian. It was fine dry weather, which promised well for the harvest, but was some- what exhausting for hvimanity. Sir Jasper's tiffany suit was in no wise too cool. ' If I'd worn the damask I should have been suffocated,' he said. Sebastian endured the heat and fatigue of the journey with an admirable patience. He stared out of the window, with his big tongue hanging Ian- 192 WEAVEltS AND AVEFr. guidly out of one side of his mouth, and his great brown eyes contemplative of the landscape. He slept even more than his master. He prowled about the yards of the fine old inns where they stopped to eat or to sleep, and, so long as he was not banished from his master, seemed supremely happy. The longest journey must end at last; and after lying at inns three nights, and travelling for four long summer days — stopping to see an old church or a noted mansion now and then — Sir Jasper's chariot drove through the gates of his own domain. The gates were opened by the lodge-keeper's daughter — a tall girl, with bright chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a milk-white complexion, powdered with freckles. The sight of this damsel recalled a little bit of family history to Sir Jasper's mind. Thirty years ago his father, Sir Everard, had given the lodge and an acre of garden adjoining it to a poor relation of his own — a bookish man, who had done well at Oxford, but nowhere else in the world, and who was at very low water when his distant kins- man, Sir Everard Lydford, offered him a temporary shelter. SEBASTIAN. 193 'There's the lodge,' said Sir Everard. 'It was once a Dower-house, hut part was pulled down in Queen Anne's time. There's a good garden, and 'tis a roomy cottage even now. You can keep a lad to open the gates, and you may have as much fruit and vegetables, and milk and butter and eggs, as you like from the farm. This may serve while you look about you for a fresh start in life.' This humble shelter the poor scholar accepted gladly and gratefully. He brought a big chest of books and a very small trunk of clothes to the cottage at the gates of Lydford Manor. These were all his earthly goods. Sir Everard's housekeeper put in some old furniture which had been decaying in lofts and lumber-rooms, and the scholar, who had taste and handiness as well as book learning, soon dressed up and adorned his modest dwelling. He made it so pretty that the lodge was the admiration of most visitors who came to the Manor. But that fresh start in life which Sir Everard had talked of never came. His poor kinsman was too happy at Lydford with his books and his roses to care for doing battle with adverse fate. Fortune had never VOL. II. o 194 WEAVEES AND WEFT. meant him to be rich or successful ; but Heaven had meant him to be happy. Sitting in the sun on his well-mown grass-plot, poring over a Dutch variorum edition of his favourite Horace, he envied neither king nor kaiser. He asked Sir Everard for permission to live and die there, and Sir Everard granted the boon with all his heart. His kinsman was modest, and asked for nothins more than had been offered in the first instance. All the servants on the estate adored him. They had never known so perfect a gentle- man. So life went on, without a ripple, for about ten years ; and then the poor scholar fell in love, and asked his kinsman's permission to marry — or, rather, to remain at the lodge after his marriage, having quite made up his mind to take a wife. Sir Everard said yes, and wanted to make him a present of a hundred-pound bank-bill. But this the scholar refused with gentle dignity. 'You have given me a home,' he said, 'and a pleasant one. I will never impose upon your gene- rosity. I earn a little money by translations and SEBASTIAN. 195 revisions for the London booksellers — quite enough for my wants.' ' But a wife will be different,' suggested Sir Everard ; ' she will have different notions of life.' 'My wife will be my second self, and will be happy in the simple life that pleases me,' answered Mr. Dorillon with confidence. The young lady he married was the curate's dauahter, who had been reared on the narrowest means, and had one of those sweet natures to which worldly wealth seems but dross when weighed against affection. She came to the scholar's cottage with as much deliuht as if she had been led home to a palace, and beautified and glorified his life for two short years ere envious death snatched her from his side. Dark was the gloom of the years that followed that bitter parting. Tor a little while the scholar's mind went astray ; then came a time of dull despair a sense of aching misery — days that brought no comfort — nights that knew not rest. The pretty cottage was neglected ; the bright parasites that mantled its walls grew wild and overran the thatched 10(3 WEAVERS AND WEFT. roof; the roses were uncared for. But God is mer- ciful, and Time is a mighty healer. One day Stephen Dorillon awakened to the knowledge that he had a lovely and loving child yearning for his affection. He opened his heart to this motherless girl, and she became dear as her mother had been to him. He took comfort, and his days resumed their placid course ; the old flavour came back to the books he loved; and the grey-haired student, aged more by sorrow than by time, was able to lift up his voice with Job in his affliction and say, ' The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord.' The memory of this friendly story flashed upon Sir Jasper as he drove past the old half-timbered cottage, covered with roses and myrtle, honey-suckle and jessamine. The roses were cared for now, and made a blaze of bloom on the rouoh-cast wall. There were birdcages in the open casements — birds singing — butterflies skimming about in the flowery fore- court. Sebastian put his head out of the window and gave a joyous bark, as if he saluted the pretty picture. SEBASTIAN. 197 ' Can that fine girl be old Dorillon's daughter ? ' wondered Sir Jasper, putting up his glass and lo#k- ing back at the fair vision. He could catch but a glimpse of the tall slim figure, the glowing chestnut hair, quilted petticoat, and flowered chintz f^own. This was about all tliat was fair or beautiful at Lydford Manor. The old house itself had been sorely neglected, both by the guardians of Sir Jasper's minority and by Sir Jasper himself. It was a solid old mansion of tlie first Charles's time — a house in the shape of a capital E. There was a garden in front, and a fountain, and a dry moat dividing the garden from the park ; but the garden was grim and weedy ; the gravel walks were gangrened and moss- grown ; the fountain had never played since Sir Everard's time. The inside of the house smelt as chill and damp as a family vault. Shutters had l)een kept shut ; doors opened with an iiwful clanking like the portals of a gaol. Sir Jasper shuddered as he walked througli tlie desolate rooms. Benoni's sallow complexion assumed a ijreenisli liuc. Sebastian sni fled in cor- 198 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ners, and gave forth low growls, as if he smelt brigands and assassins behind the panelling ; but perhaps he only scented miee. The housekeeper was ancient and deaf, and as much astonished by her lord's arrival as if Jupiter had dropped from the clouds. She and a brace of country girls were the sole inhabitants of the de- serted old house ; but even with this scanty estab- lishment Benoni contrived to make things comfortable before nightfall. He had three of the lightest and pleasantest rooms got ready for his master — as bed- chamber, dressing-closet, and study ; a suite of apart- ments on the first floor, fronting southwards, and overlooking garden and park. The house lay in a valley, and to the left, yonder, above the trees, Sir Jasper could just see the white walls and rose-wreathed chimney-stack of ]\Ir. Dorillon's cottage. It was a small thing, but it pleased him. He dined and slept comfortably, thanks to the all-accomplished Benoni, who was a cook by innate genius as he was a valet by profession. It was Benoni who fried the cvitlets, and tossed the omelet SEBASTIAN. 199 for his master's table, aud who took care that the linen for his master's bed was duly aired. ' What should I do without thee, my Benoni, in a savage place like this ? ' cried the sybarite, as he stretched himself on the best feather-bed in the old manor-house. * Thou art a treasure of ingenuity and excellence. And now read me Goldoni's play of " Pamela," which is much shorter and more amusing than Eichardson's novel, while I sink into a placid slumber. Has Sebastian made himself comfortable ? ' ' Yes, my lord.' A rug had been spread for the St. Bernard at the foot of his master's four-poster. CHAPTER III. THE MIDSUMMER RENTS. SiK Jasper sent for his land-steward early next morning, and frankly told him he was a pauper. ' You must get me the Midsummer rents with- out an hour's delay,' he said. ' Impossible ! ' cried Mr, Dibber. ' The tenants never pay their Midsummer rents till pretty close upon Michaelmas !' And then he gave a dozen good agricultural reasons why the farmers should be accorded this much grace. ' I don't care a rush for their cattle, or their pigs, or their cider, or their corn,' replied Sir Jasper. ' I've lost all my money at faro, and I must have some more to go on with. I am going to Paris next week, to see the new king and queen.' Benoni was present at this conversation, and lent an attentive ear. Mr. Dibber, the steward, promised SEBASTIAN. 201 to do his best with the tenants, early as it was in the quarter. There were some wealthy farmers among them, who would not mind paying promptly to oblige their landlord. He ventured to promise his employer six or seven hundred pounds in the course of the following day, in hard cash. ' That will do, I think, Benoni,' said Sir Jasper, appealing to his valet. ' 'Twill last us for a month or six weeks in Paris ! ' When Mr. Dibber had retired, the young baronet took up his hat and cane and strolled out, dressed and powdered as for the ]\Iall, and breathing delicate odours of Marechale and attar of roses, to survey his domain. He had not seen it since he was a school- boy, with a strong inclination to steal his own apples. Sebastian accompanied his master, full of life and gaiety: rushing off to pursue imaginary game, roll- ing on the dewy grass, revelling in the freshness and beauty of the country, the A\idth and liberty whereof must have been a great relief to his canine mind after the elegant restraint of St. James's. Everything about the manor-house w^orc the same grim, deserted look: empty stables, empty dog-kennels, coach-houses 202 AYEAVEES AND WEFT. in which ancient vehicles were slowly rotting, a prey to time and moths — everywhere the gloom of the grave. No wonder that Sir Jasper turned his hack upon the stately old hulk, and walked down the avenue to find a little more brightness and domes- ticity at Mr. Dorillon's cottage. Sebastian frisked before his master all the Avay, tearing about the park like a demented dog, chasing the silvery-tailed rab- bits, and sending the red-brown squirrels flying up the beech trees. Sir Jasper introduced himself to the old scholar, who received him graciously, but without a shade of subservience or sycophancy. ' You are like my generous friend, your father/ he said.- And then it dawned slowly upon his dreamy mind that this arrival of the master of Lydford might be his own notice to quit. It would be like tearing up an old tree to root him from the soil; but who could tell what ideas a young gentleman of fashion might have ? ' You are, perchance, contemplating alterations and improvements at the Manor ? ' he said, in his gentle voice; 'and you may require this cottage for some other purpose than the shelter of old age ? ' SEBASTIAN. 203 Wliereupon Sir Jasper protested with eagerness that the cottage was entirely at Mr. Dorillon's service, and should always remain so. Nay, he in amanner laid the whole domain at his old friend's feet, de- claring that he was proud and happy to have so accomplished a gentleman resident on his estate. ' But I am afraid you are without proper service in this Boeotian district,' said Sir Jasper. ' I was inexpressibly shocked to see Miss Dorillon open the gate yesterday evening!' • 'The lad who ordinarily attends to that duty — which, in sooth, rarely calls for his attention — had gone home to his supper,' explained the scholar ; ' but my daughter is not proud. She has received the education of a gentlewoman ; but she knows that when I am gone she may have to accept a dependent position.' Miss Dorillon entered suddenly at this moment, and drew back, blushing rosy red at sight of the town gentleman, whom her father made haste to present to her as the son of his benefactor. Sir Jasper's kindly air soon set her at ease, and she was ready to talk to him about her garden, and the 204 WEAVERS AND WEFT. church, and the village, which, with the neglected old park, comprised the only world she knew outside her father's library. Never had Sir Jasper seen so lovely a creature ; or so, at any rate, did he think as he talked with her. All his St. James's beauties— with their satin sacques, and Gains- borough hats, and powder and perfumery, and stately curtseys, and flippant smartness of speech — faded before this country girl, with her innate dis- tinction and her unconscious rustic grace. In a word. Sir Jasper, after half losing his heart three times over during the London season last past, lost it altouether to Phillis Dorillon in an hour. He walked back to the manor-house slowly, in a waking dream, wondering how he should live till it would be decent to call at Mr. Dorillon's cottage again. The rest of the day hung heavy on his hands. He played with Sebastian, and explored the stables, and examined the dusty old library, where the wisdom of the ages had suffered considerably from damp and mildew. Shakespeare was as spotty as if he had had the small-pox ; Milton's pages were tarnished and green ; Bacon smelt of decay. SF.BASTIAX. 205 After (liniier, Sir Jasper contrived to pass Mr. Dorillou's cottage, on pretence of going into the village — with Sebastian at his heels as usual, — ■ and finding the old gentleman trimming his roses went no further, but spent an hour in conversation, during the latter half of which Phillis was present. He went home in another dream, and sat late reading ' Eomeo and Juliet,' and thinking how true to nature was the poet's picture of sweet, sudden love. 'Next day he spent another hour at the cottage, where Sebastian had already made himself a favourite. The dog had taken it into his head to adore ISIiss Dorillon from the bes^inuino' of their acquaintance, and she was delighted with him. He filled up all awkward gaps in the conversation, and was altogether tlie pleasantest company, even when he only sat staring amiably, with his tongue out, and wagged Ids approbation of the company with his big tail, which went flip-flop on the beeswaxed floor of Mr. Dorillou's book-lined parlour. Sir Jasper now began to have doubts as to the wisdom of that intended departure for the Con- 206 WEAVERS AND WEFT. tineiit which he had talked about. The weather would be insufferably warm in Paris ; and he could manage to live a little longer without standing amongst a perspiring crowd to see the French king and queen dine in public on a Sunday afternoon. Better delay his visit till the early winter, perhaps, when there would be masquerades and festivities such as the king's gay young brothers affected. In the meanwhile Sir Jasper felt inclined to patch up his neglected old house, and enjoy the pleasures of country life. A few hundreds judi- ciously spent would brighten the aspect of things wonderfully. A couple of saddle-horses in the stable, a pointer or two, and a brace of setters in the kennels, a modest bachelor household in the servants' offices — Benoni would soon put matters in train. The young baronet communicated these new ideas to his valet while he was dining. The Italian listened in respectful silence ; and as he was standing behind his master, Sir Jasper did not see the gloom which darkened his countenance as he received this communication. Life in a Somerset- SEBASTIAN. 207 shire manor-house, were it even for the briefest span, was not at all to Benoni's mind. After dinner came Mr. Dibber, the steward, with six hundred and fifty-seven pounds, partly in dirty provincial bank notes, and partly in gold ; the whole amount tied in a soiled canvas bacj. There was a good deal of gold, and the sum made a tolerable heap as Mr. Dibber put down the bag on the polished mahogany table among the old- •fashioned dessert dishes. Sir Jasper was grateful for his agent's promptitude. * You can put the bag in yonder cabinet, Florio,' he said to his valet, giving him the key of a Dutch cabinet in marqueterie work, which had taken his fancy. It was a most elaborate piece of joinery, containing innumerable hiding-places for small treasures — drawers within drawers, cupboards inside cupboards, false bottoms, and simulations of all kinds. Florio put the bag in one of the innermost com- partments, and stood for a minute or so contem plating this lavish waste of mechanical ingenuity. ' Lock the cabinet and give me the key,' sai Sir Jasper ; whereupon Florio Benoni closed tlic 208 WEAVERS AND WEFT. folding-doors, wliicli were decorated with a Scrip- tural subject ill inlaid work, and brought his master the queer little brass key. The lock was about as weak and common as a lock could be. After dinner the fine evening tempted Sir Jasper to another ramble. He whistled to Sebastian as he left his room, and, being somewhat absent-minded just now, had no idea but that the dog was following, till he had got halfway down the avenue ; when he looked about him, and was surprised to see no sign of the St. Bernard. He called and whistled, but Sebastian did not appear, ' The old fellow has grown lazy from high feeding,' Sir Jasper said to himself ; and strolled gaily on, twirling his clouded cane, and looking up at the rooks holding hoarse council in the waving elm-tops. This evening good manners withheld him from visiting the cottage ; but finding Llr. Dorillon at the gate, he invited that learned gentleman to accompany him to the parish church, where the scholar held forth upon Early English and Perpendicular styles, panelling and horseshoe arches, stringings and mould- ings. They wasted some time, pleasantly enough, in SEBASTIAN. 209 the whitewashed temple which had once been bright with rainbow hues, and then strolled homeward together. Sir Jasper left his friend at the gates without having seen Phillis. His first inquiry, when Florio Benoni admitted him to the house, was for Sebastian. Florio looked astonished. ' But was not the dog with my lord ? ' he asked ; ' I have seen of him nothing since dinner.' Hereupon followed much inquiry, and a prolonged investigation of the premises inside and out; but Sebastian was not to be found. ' He must have gone away with Dibber,' said Sir Jasper, much disturbed by the disappearance of his favourite. But on second thoughts he felt sure that Sebastian would not follow a stranger. Could Dibber have stolen him ? Had a respectable country solicitor turned dog-stealer, tempted to crime by Sebastian's exceptional beauty ? Hardly credible this ; nor was Sebastian a dog to be stolen with facility. It would have been almost as easy to steal an elephant. Sir Jasper was at his wits' end. Benoni looked thoughtful. VOL. II. P 210 WEAVERS AND WEFT. * It might be,' he suggested gravely, ' that some vagabond in the neighbourhood has got wind of the sum of money that my lord was to receive this evening, and that the dog has been tempted away — or even made away with.' ' Heaven forbid ! ' cried Sir Jasper ; ' I would as lief lose my best human friend as Sebastian. I know not that I have one so faithful.' This suggestion of Florio's seemed the only pro- bable explanation of the dog's evanishment. ' As for your burglars,' said Sir Jasper, ' I snaj) my fingers at them. I havea pair of horse-pistols on yonder shelf that would make a speedy finish of the ruffians ; but I am inexpressibly concerned that any villain should have stolen my dog — to ill-use him, perhaps.' The young man could almost have shed tears in his vexation and distress. Even Phillis Dorillon was forgotten in this trouble at the loss of Sebastian. Sir Jasper went to bed late, and although he dismissed his valet without the usual evening lecture from Goldoni or Metastasio, he was more wakeful than usual, and tossed and tumbled from side to side till long after midnight. SEBASTIAN. 'ill What was that which awaked him suddenly, just as he was dropping into a light slumber — something scratching at his door ; a faint and plaintive whine ? He sprang out of bed, opened the door, and Sebastian crawled into the room, and laid himself at his master's feet exhausted. Whence had the faithful creature come, and who had thus ill-used him ? His side was torn ; his head scratched and wounded, as if he had dragged himself with extreme difficulty through some narrow outlet ; he was tightly muzzled ; and a remnant of rope still hanging from his neck showed that he had been tied up somewhere. But where, and by whom ? Shreds of mouldy straw were entangled with his hairy coat ; his feet were wet and dirty. He was altogether a pitiable object. Sir Jasper cut away the muzzle, which was most ingeniously constructed from old straps sewn together. He washed the dog's wounds, and brought him the remains of his own light supper from the table in the sitting-room. The creature's joy and gratitude were boundless, but he M'as too exhausted to be noisy in his demonstrations. He licked his masters' hands fondly, and fawned upon him, and tlien l.iy 212 WEAVERS AND WEFT. down with a long sigli of contentment at the foot of Sir Jasper's bed. After this, Sir Jasper went to bed with a light heart, and slept profoundly. ' Burglars, I defy you ! ' he exclaimed, as his head sank upon the pillow. He knew that Sebastian was a better defence than the finest pistols that were over made. He woke once in the gray morning, fancying he had heard a noise in the next room ; and lookiug at the open door between the two apartments, saw Sebastian walk slowly across the threshold as if returning from a morning scrutiny of the premises. Sir Jasper was curious enough to rise and open his cabinet, the dog watching him intently all the while. There was the money-bag, safe enough in the compartment where Benoni had placed it. * Lie down, Sebastian,' said Sir Jasper, still very sleepy ; and the St. Bernard laid himself down, like a lamb under the semblance of a lion. But when Sir Jasper rose in the broad daylight, at seven o'clock, he was surprised to see that Sebas- tian's jowl was bloody ; and the blood came from no wound of the doo's own. Tt was the blood of a foe. CHAPTER IV. BENONI'S DOOM. Sir Jaspeh rang for his valet ; but for the first time within his memory the summons remaincid unanswered. A man accustomed to very perfect service is prone to become exacting ; and Sir Jasper felt this present inattention a positive injury. He rang half a dozen sharp successive peals, which made a clamour in the empty echoing gallery ; and presently came the housekeeper's scrub — a buxom girl, with a broad grin, and a strong Somersetshire dialect — and stood on the threshold, far too frightened at the fine gentleman to think of entering the room. • Where is Florio ? ' asked Sir Jasper, impatiently, disgusted at this barbarous apparition. ' I want my servant.' The girl explained, in a tongue that was almost an unknown language to Sir Jasper, that ' iNluster Benonny ' was ill in bed, and deeply regretted his inability to attend his master that morning. 214 WEAVERS AND WEFT, ' 111 ! ' cried Sir Jasper, as if it were an outrage ; • what's the matter with him ? ' ' Zoar vrout/ answered the damsel. ' Is that a complaint peculiar to these parts ? ' asked the baronet, not in the least enlightened. But after further explanation, it dawned upon him that Benoni was laid up with a sore throat, which ailment being often a precursor of fever, appealed to the baronet's humanity as something serious. 'Send for a doctor,' he said, 'and let the poor fellow have every attention. I can dress myself, tell him ; he need not be uneasy about me. And I will come and see him presently.' The girl departed, and in about ten minutes returned, and informed her master that Mr. Benonny had begged hard that no English doctor should be sent for. He quite understood his own ailment, and knew how to cure himself It was a complaint to which he had been always subject. ' He has never had it since he has been in my service,' said Sir Jasper. ' I doubt the poor wretch is sickening of a putrid fever.' SEBASTIAN. 215 Notwithstanding which suspicion, Sir Jasper went to see his servant as soon as he was dressed. He found Benoni with his sallow complexion changed to a greenish pallor, liis eyes bloodshot, his throat wrapped in linen. He seemed quite prostrate ; and his voice was so weak as to be hardly audible ; but his mind was as clear as ever. ' My poor fellow,' said Sir Jasper, gently ; ' this is very sudden.' Benoni explained, in his faint voice, that these attacks of his always came on suddenly. He had been accustomed to this kind of illness from boy- hood. He needed no medical aid. ' Nay, Florio, but be reasonable/ urged his master. ' You are in a foreign country. Who knows how the climate may have affected you ? It is just the season for ague and fever ; and in England a sore throat is too often the forerunner of a fever. Let me send for a doctor — believe me, 'tis safest.' But Benoni protested that no English medical man should come near him. They were all ignorant as dirt — they were butchers ! ' Did you not tell me yourself how a conclave 216 WEAVERS AND WEFT. of physicians gave up the Duke of Gloucester for dead — declared his case hopeless, and from that hour his grace mended ? I will not have an English doctor to assassinate me. I will leave your house sooner, and die in the nearest ditch.' ' I did not think thou wert such an obstinate fool,' exclaimed Sir Jasper, angrily ; upon which the sick Italian, with a quickness of temper for which his master was unprepared, retorted that he would be called fool by no man, and that he had the honour to discharoe himself from his master's service, and would, with his lordship's permission, leave the manor-house so soon as he should be well enough to crawl to a coach. Sir Jasper made haste to apologize, and declared he had called Benoni a fool in his own interest, being so anxious that he should have the benefit of medical advice. On this Benoni kissed his patron's hand, and in his turn apologized ; but added that he felt himself growing old and weak, and that he must retire from service without delay. With his lordship's leave, he would travel back to London as soon as he could bear the journe}'. SEBASTIAN. 217 ' Old : ' cried Sir Jasper ; ' you are scarcely fifty.' ' I feel myself worn out,' replied the Italian. The suddenness of all this was incomprehensible to Sii' Jasper. He had counted upon keeping his servant for the next twenty years. Never before had Benoni complained of age or feebleness. * I dare say the truth of the matter is that the rascal detests a country life,' thought the baronet, * or he has heard of a better situation. These Italians are profound dissimulators. There never was his equal for dressing hair, and he has a hundred ways of being useful to me. It will be like the loss of my right hand to be without him. Yet I had rather lose him than Sebastian.' He had left the dog locked in his rooms. He would liai'dly trust the brute out of his sight after the adventure of yesterday. The morning hung heavy un the fine gentleman's hands. A little country life goes a long way with a man accustomed to cities. Entertaining the ideas he did about lienoni's sore throat. Sir Jasper was too conscientious to approach 2dv. Dorillon's ^cottage. He roamed about the park with Sebastian, explored 218 WF.AVEES AND WEFT. a neighbouring wood, and went home hot and dusty, wishing that he had a horse to ride, or a friend to take a hand at cards with him. Benoni had played piquet with him many a time, when he, the master, was ill ; and now he felt tempted to take a pack of cards to his valet's bedside and there beguile a summer afternoon. But this would have been unbecoming, perhaps, and not without danger, if Benoni's sore throat betokened the incubation of an infectious fever. He went to see his valet, and found him still faint and weak, indisposed to speak much of his illness, and totally averse from receiving medical advice of any kind. He had put on a cold water poultice, he told his master, and this was the simple and effectual remedy for his complamt. Sir Jasper roamed about the old house till dinner- time, looking at the pictures, which were for the most part trumpery, — bad copies of old Dutch and Flemish masters, spurious Holbeins as hard as tea-boards, and portraits of departed Lydfords, life size, and as works of art not worth the canvas they were painted upon. SEBASTIAN. 219 Before sunset Sir Jasper was quite worn out. He Imd yawned until his jaws ached ; he had even begun a sonnet after the Italian, but his rhymes did not flow freely. He cast himself prostrate on a sofa, and began to be aweary of the sun. In this state he was discovered by Mr. Dorillon, who came to the manor-house full of alarm, having heard from the lad who worked in his garden that Sir Jasper's valet had fallen ill of a putrid fever, that his master had taken the infection from him, and that neither was likely to live through the night. Sir Jasper was delighted to see his friend, yet was anxious to keep him at arm's length. 'I know not if you are justified in sitting in the same room with me,' he said ; and then he told ]\Ir. Dorillon about Benoni's ;Sore throat, and his own suspicion that it was a case of fever. * The poor creature's eyes had a glassy look, and his pulse was quick and feeble when I last saw him,' he added. ' I fear he is much worse than he will confess himself ' I have some slight knowledge of medicine,' said the scholar, who had Lord Bacon's recipes at his 220 WEAVERS AND WEFT. fingers' ends, and believed in that experimental philosopher as a master of medical science. 'I should be glad to see your servant. I might, perhaps, suggest something. There are numerous astringents which might be useful in such a case — ''Red rose, blackberry, myrtle, plantain, flower of pomegranate, mint, aloes well washed, myrobalanes, sloes, agrestia fragra, mastich, myrrh " ' 'I would not have you see him for worlds,' cried Sir Jasper, cutting short the catalogue; 'you might carry the contagion home to IMiss Dorillon.' ' Poor child/ said the scholar, innocently, ' she was nigh swooning when she heard you were dying. She has a tender heart. I must hasten back to relieve her fears.' ' Ay, do,' cried Sir Jasper ; ' I cannot bear you to stay in this fever-tainted house. But before you go I must tell you of something which happened last night, and which has puzzled me sorely.' Sir Jasper proceeded to relate the disappearance of Sebastian, and his reappearance under such strange circumstances ; the noise faintly heard in the SEBASTIAN. 221 night ; and his discovery of the dog's blood-stained jowl in the morning. ' This looked like the evidence of a struggle,' concluded Sir Jasper ; ' yet I found my money safe in the cabinet.' ' Do you sleep with your door unlocked ? ' inquired Mr. Dorillon. ' I should have thought in this big lonely house you would have turned the key before retiring to rest.' ' I dare say I might have done so had there been any key to turn. But in this patrimonial mansion of mine everything is more or less out of repair, and the key of my sitting-room is missing,' i\Ir. Dorillon threw out a surmise or two ; but his theories were of a strictly mediaeval character, and he was inclined to smell magic, or at least witch- craft, in this mysterious business. Sir Jasper walked to the end of the avenue with his elderly friend, and parted from him within a stone's throw of the cot- tage. He went slowly home in the moonlight with Sebastian ; and that tender silvery light melted him as it had seldom done before, even amidst Italia's poetic scenery. 222 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' In sooth, I fear I am in love,' he said to himself, smiling gently at his own sweet folly. ' Yesterday it was Eosaline ; to-day it is Juliet — and Juliet means a real and fatal passion. But, thank God, we have no Capulets and Montagues to make a brawl out of our loves. It rests but with ourselves to marry and be happy all the days of our lives.' He had so good an opinion of own his merits as to feel very sure of Miss Dorillon's favour. She had well-nigh swooned when she thought he was in danger ! Did not that imply that she loved him ? The household drudge met him on the threshold of the manor-house with a scared countenance. ' Oh, sir, Mr. Benonny is dying,' she gasped, ' and he wants to see you sorely.' The news smote Sir Jasper to the heart. He had almost forgotten his faithful servant in his own happy love-dream. And Benoni had nursed him and watched beside him in his hour of peril ! He hurried to his valet's room, and found Florio Benoni sitting up in bed, a ghastly figure, his face livid, the linen bandage round his throat crimson with blood. The old housekeeper was holding him SEBASTUN. 223 Up. His eyes were turned to the door, as it' watch- iufT for his master's comiiif;-. ' My poor Benoui ! ' said Sir Jasper gently, ap - proaching the bed. ' But, great heaven ! what is this ? Your throat is bleeding ! Eash man, hast thou attempted self-destruction ? ' No,' answered Benoni, hoarsely ; ' bu.t my own crime has destroyed me. I sent for you, Sir Jasper, first to acquit my soul by confession of my guilt — if there be a priest of my church within call, I entreat you to have him summoned — and, next, that my awful fate should prove a warning to yourself.' ' Go,' cried Sir Jasper, taking the housekeeper's place beside Benoni ; ' go — send a messenger to Taunton. There may, perchance, be a Catholic priest in the town. Let inquiry be made withou delay.' The old woman went, shaking her head doubtfully. ' And now, my poor Benoni, we are alone,' said Sir Jasper. ' Tell me, what means this sad business ?' ' It Jiieans that I tried to rob the most generous of masters,' answered the Italian. ' It means that I have been so base a slave of my own passions that 224 WEAVERS AND WEFT. having ruined myself at the gaming-table — ay, having played many a time with money pilfered from your lordship — I was possessed with the belief that I could redeem all I had lost, and make my fortune, could I but furnish myself with a round sum of money, and play till the dice favoured me — and my run of luck came. Every man has his fortunate hour, I thought ; empty pockets have balked me just at the turn of luck. We came here, and I was angry at leaving London. I was present when you received that bag of money, and the devil at my elbow whis- pered, " Such a sum as that would bring you certain fortune." I wrestled with the tempter. Indeed, my lord, I did not yield easily ; but the whisper was always in my ear — " You may get" the money so easily. You need not harm him. He will never suspect you. He can afford to lose as much, and be no worse off at the end of the year. It will but stint him of a few foolish pleasures." I listened to the fiend's suggestion, and made my plans. I might have taken the money-bag out of the cabinet in the day time while you were out walking ; but had I done so, suspicion would have fallen on me. I must SPJBASTIAX. 225 make the robbery appear the work of a burglar. It must be done in the night.' There was a pause, during which the Italian fell back upon his pillow, struggling for breath. Throughout his confession speech had been painful to him. His sentences had come in gasps. ' Tell me no more, Benoni,' cried his master. ' I can guess the rest. You shut my faithful dog in some wretched hole — ' ' In a cellar under the kitclien. There was a grating; but I tliought it too small for him to pass through, even had he got loose ; and he was muzzled and tied up with strong rope. I meant to do him no harm. I should have contrived some means of getting him released after I had secured the money, thovigh I might have feared to go near him myself after having once betrayed him. 'You would have been right in that,' said Sir Jasper. 'A creature so faithful would have been quick to resent treachery.' ' I came to your room in the dead of night, know- ing you were a sound sleeper, and believing the dog secure in the cellar. T was a desperate man, VOL II. Q 226 WEAVERS AND WEFT. my lord. The fiend had me altogether in his grip by this time. Had you awakened and discovered me, I know not of what crime I might have been guilty. I had a dagger in my waistcoat. I had scarce crossed the threshold when the dog flew at me like a demon, had me on the ground, tearing my throat. Vainly did I strive to clutch my dagger ; I was pinioned, mauled, and helpless. When he re- leased me I could scarce crawl from the room. The wound and the shock together have been my death. Yes, I feel that this is death which is creeping upon me. I thought this morning that I had stanched the wound in my throat, but it burst out bleeding afresh an hour ago, and I feel that I cannot recover.' It was death. Florio Benoni's brow was damp with humanity's last agony. He lingered till next morning, conscious to the last, and, assured of his master's forgiveness, strove hard to make his peace with God. No priest of the old faith came to smooth the dying sinner's passage to eternity. The mes- senger had failed in his errand. But Beuoni died with a crucifix that had been his mother's clasped in liis feeble hands, believing his sins forgiven. SEBASTIAN. 227 A year later, and the neglected manor-house was as pleasant and cheerful a mansion as could be found in homely old England : horses in the stalls, dogs in the kennels, well-fed servants indoors and out, and all the noise and bustle of busy life from sunrise to sundown. Sir Jasper was cured of card-playing and all other London vices, and at five-and-twenty found himself, much to his own satisfaction, a sober married man and a country squire, beloved by his tenants and household, popular among his neighbours, living the life which, perhaps, of all human existences, is capable of the most pleasure and subject to the least care. And in all his household there was no member more highly honoured than his faithful dog Sebastian. L E V I S N ' S VICTIM. ' Have you seen Horace Wymvard ? ' ' No. You don't mean to say that he is here ? ' ' He is indeed. I saw him last night ; and I think I never saw a man so much changed in so short a time.' ' For the worse ? ' ' Infinitely for the worse. I should scarcely have recognized him but- for that peculiar look in his eyes, which I dare say you remember.' ' Yes ; deep-set gray eyes, with an earnest pene- tratinfT look that seems to read one's most hidden thoughts. I'm very sorry to hear of this change in him. We were at Oxford together, you know ; and his place is near my father's in Buckinghamshire. We have been fast friends for a long time ; but I lost sight of him about two years ago, before I went on my Spanish rambles, and I've heard nothing of him levison's victim. 229 since. Do you think he has been leading a dissipated life — going the pace a little too violently ? ' ' I don't know what he has been doing ; but I iancy he must have been travelling during the last year or two, for I've never come across him in London.' ' Did you speak to him last night ? ' ' No ; I wanted very much to get hold of him for a few minutes' chat, but couldn't manage it. It was in one of the gambhng-rooms I saw him, on the opposite side of the table. The room was crowded. He was standing looking on at the game over the heads of the players. You know how tall he is, and what a conspicuous figure anywhere. 1 saw him one minute, and in the next he had disappeared. I left the rooms in search of him, but he was not to be seen anywhere. ' ' 1 shall try and hunt him up to-morrow. He must be stopping at one of the hotels. There can't be iimch difficulty in finding lum.' The speakers were two f oung Englishmen ; the scene a lamplit grove ol" trees outside the Kursaal apologetically, ' but we haven't any rabbits in the house.' ' Lor' bless you, ma'am, I means toasted cheese. If that good-tempered young woman of yours would get me the mustard-pot and a small saucepan, and then kneel down before the fire and toast a round or two of bread, I'd soon show you what I means by a rabbit.' Hannah ran off to procure these articles, and she was presently employed in toasting cheese under the old man's direction. ' A teaspoonful of mustard, and a good lump o t fresh butter, and a tablespoonful of ale, and let it simmer by the side of the lire while you toastes the bread, my dear,' said Mr, Jiffins, who nursed the baby, and looked on approvingly while the hand maid obeyed him. To poor Clara Hawthornden it seemed like some distempered dream. ' If anybody should call ! ' she thought; and she had to tell herself over and over 298 WEAVERS AND WEFT. again that ten o'clock on Christmas night was not a likely hour for callers. She thought of the joyous party in her old home — the girls in white muslin and scarlet sashes, the matrons in their rustling silks : and then of that more stately festival at Strathnairn Castle, and the black oak buffets loaded with gold plate, which her husband had so often described to her ; but from these bright pictures her fancy always came back to the old man superintending the sim- mering cheese. Both he and Hannah persuaded her presently to taste this delicacy. She had eaten nothing at dinner, for the sense of the old man's presence in the Captain's study had weighed upon her like an actual burden. He was not nearly so dreadful seated oppo- site to her with her baby on his knee. Our skeletons are never so hideous when confronted boldly as when hidden away in some dark cupboard. Mrs. Hawthornden tasted the Welsh rarebit. It was really excellent. She remembered having heard Augustus talk of eating such things at Evans's. And presently she found herself eating this toasted cheese with more appetite than anything she had tasted CHRISTMAS IN POSSESSION. 299 since her husband's departure. Though familiar, ;Mr. .Tiffins was not utterly wanting in reverence. He resigned the baby to Hannah, and insisted on taking his supper at the remotest corner of the table, where there was no tablecloth. The edge of the tablecloth he seemed to consider the line of demarcation ; no persuasion could induce him to infringe upon it by the breadth of a hair. But at this uncomfortable corner he ate his supper with a relish that was almost contagious, and talked a good deal in a pleasant chirping manner, as he quaffed his ale. After supper he ventured upon a conundrum, and that being approved, upon another ; and Mrs. Hawthornden found herself laugh- ing quite merrily, but still with the sense that it was all a distempered dream. Dreadful as it was to be cheerful in the company of a nursemaid and of a broker's man, it was perhaps better for this lonely little wife than brooding over her woes. She slept quite soundly after the toasted cheese and the conun- drums, and awoke next morning to lind the cheerful Hannah at her bedside with a neatly-arranged little breakfast-tray. 300 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' It was Mr. Jiffins as told me to briug you up your breakfast, ma'am. " Let her sleep a little late, poor pretty ! " he said, " and take her a cup of tea and a new-laid egg when she wakes ; " and — would you believe it, mum ? — the old dear goes and fetches the egg hisself, while I biles the kettle, though he told me it was as much as his employment was worth to step outside our door ! And if he hasn't been and hearthstoned the steps before I was up, mum, and swep' the kitchen beautiful — for a handier old man I never did see ; and he says, if you could pick a bit of Irish stew for your dinner, he's a rare hand at one.' Mrs. Hawthornden did not care to pick a bit of Irish stew, nor did she affect any dish in the pre- paration of which the broker's man could be manipu- lativQly engaged ; but she fully appreciated his kind wish to help her and her faithful handmaiden, and thanked him prettily for his kindness when she encountered him downstairs. Before long she had still greater reason to thank him ; for Toodleums suffered severely in the cutting of an upper tooth, and both nursemaid and mother profited by grand- CHRISTMAS IN POSSESSION. 301 father Jiffius' experience. The days went by slowly, but no longer made hideous to Clara Haw thornden by her horror of Jiffins, who, instead of an incubus, had proved himself an elderly angel in the house. Her chief trouble now arose from her husband's silence. The fifth day must soon elapse, and then there would be a sale, and she and her child would be turned out of doors, homeless, shelterless. No, not quite. Here Providence interposed in the humble guise of Jiffins. 'My married daughter's got a room as she lets, and as is now empty ; and if they've the heart to turn you out of here, you can go there and welcome,' said this dingy benefactor. 'There ain't no spring sofys, nor shiny steel grates ; but it's that clean you might eat your victuals off the floor; and, if you don't mind a mews, it's respectable.' A mews ! where would not the desolate mother have gone to obtain shelter for her baby ? ' Oh, Mr. Jiffins ! ' she cried, clasping one of those grimy hands, which had once inspired her with such aversion, ' what should we do without you?' 302 WEAVERS AND WEFT. What, indeed ! The last shilliug of that last half sovereign had been spent two days ago, and since then the little household had been sustained by money advanced by Jiffins. 'You'll pay me fast enough one of these odd days, I dessay,' said Jiffins, when Clara deprecated this last obligation. For the first time since she had left her home she wrote to ask a favour from her mother. The boon she demanded was a five-pound note, wherewith to pay and reward Jiffins. Never before had she allowed the home-friends to kno w that her Augu stus left her with one wish ungratified. The fifth day expired. The hour of doom was near. Strange men in paper caps came to take up the carpets. The dear little china closet, in which Clara had so delighted, when the housemaid would allow her to enter it, was rifled of its contents, and dinner services, tea services, and glass were spread on the dining-room table. Bills were stuck on the outside of the house ; within, nasty little bits of paper, with numbers on them, were pasted upon every article, even — oh, bitterest drop in this cup of bitter- CHRISTMAS IN POSSESSION. 303 ness ! — on the sacred bassinet of Toodleiinis, still a martyr to his teeth. Ignominy could go no further ; and there were still no tidings of the Captain. But for Jiftins and Hannah, Clara Hawthornden must surely have died of this agony. It was the very morning of the sale. Mr. Absalom was there in all his glory. The auctioneer had arrived. Dingy men with greasy little memo- randum-books pervaded the house. Clara sat with Hannah and the baby in the little study, where strange faces peered in upon them every now and then ; and intending buyers made heartless remarks about the curtains, and informed the dingy commis- sion agents how high they were disposed to bid for the Captain's pet chair. There was no corner of the house sacred to the homeless woman's despair. Clara felt that it would have been almost better to sit in the street. The most unfriendly doorstep would have been a more peaceful resting-place than this. Alas ■ in this bitter crisis even the faithful Jiffins could no longer protect her. He was sent hither and thither by the higher powers, and could not yet snatcli half an hour's respite in which to conduct 301 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Mrs. Hawthornclen to the humble lodging he had secured for her. ' Oh, Hannah, I wish Mr. Jiffins would take us away from all these dreadful people ! ' Clara cried, piteously. She had ceased to hope for rescue from Augustus. That ship had foundered, and Jiffins was the lifeboat of benevolence that must carry her to the shore of safety. ' Oh, Hannah, if he would only ^take us to his daughter's house in the mews ! * she cried ; and in the next moment a hansom tore up to the door, a stentorian voice broke out into exclamations of surprise and indignation, interspersed with execra- tions. A shrill scream burst from the young wife's pale lips. * Gus ! ' she cried, while Toodleums set up a sym- pathetic shriek ; ' Oh, thank God, thank God ! ' and she must have fallen but for Hannah's supporting arms. Yes, it was the Captain, dressed in black, and with a crape hatband. He distributed his anathemas freely as he strode into the villa. What the dash is the meaning of this dashed business ? Take down . CHRISTMAS IN POSSESSION, 305 those dashed bills, and turn these dashed people out of the house; and so on. Mr. Absalom advanced politely, and suggested that if the Captain would be so kind as to settle that little matter of 326/. 17s. 6d. the sale need not proceed. The Captain pulled out a brand-new cheque book and signed his first cheque upon a brand new banking account, which document he handed to ]\[r. Absalom with an injured air. ' You ought to have known better, Absalom,' lie said, ' after all our past dealing.' ' To tell you the truth, Captain, it was my expe- rience of the past that made me rather sharp in the present,' replied the other, politely, ' Come, Clara, don't cry,' exclaimed Captain Haw- thornden to the poor little woman, who was sobbing on his shoulder. ' I didn't get your letter till yester- day afternoon, and have been travelling ever since. I was away with a party in the mountains. And there's been a dreadful piece of work at Strathnairn — my cousin Douglas, Sir John's only son, killed by the explosion of his rifle. No one to blame but him- self, poor beg — poor dear fellow ! Sir John's awfully cut up, as well he may be ; and I'm next heir to the VOL II. X 306 WEAVERS AND WEFT. title and estates. Yes, little woman, you'll be Lady Strathnairn before you die ; for my uncle will never many, poor old boy ! Very dreadful, ain't it, poor Douglas's death ? but, of course, uncommonly jolly for us.' ' Oh, Gus, how awful for Sir John ! But, thank Heaven, you have come back ! You can never understand what I've suffered ; and if it hadn't been for Mr. Jiffins ' ' JifEins ! who the deuce is Jiffins ?' ' The man in possession. He has been so good to us — has lent us money even ; and but for him we must have starved.' ' Good Heavens, Clara !' cried the Captain, aghast, you don't mean to say you've degraded yourself by borrowing money from a broker's man ?' ' What could I do, dear ? You left me without any money, you know,' replied the wife, innocently. ' You really ought to have known better, Clara,' said the Captain, sternly. 'But where is this Jiffins ? Let me pay the fellow his confounded loan.' 'I think you'd better let me pay it, dear. If you'll give me a ten-poun d note, I can make it all right.' CHRISTMAS IN POSSESSION. oU7 So Mr. Jiffins received about a thousand per cent- for his loan, which had been little more than a sove- reign, and he spent New Year's Day very pleasantly in the bosom of his married daughter's household, No. 7^, Stamford Mews, Blackfriars. But perhaps at some future audit, when many such small accounts are balanced before the Great Auditor, Mr. Jiffins may receive even more than a thousand per cent, for that little loan. JOHN GRANGE E. A GHOST STORY. CHATTEE I. ' Then there is no hope for me, Susy ? ' The speaker was a stalwart young fellow of the yeoman class, with a grave, earnest face, and a frank, fearless manner. He was standing by the open win- dow of a pleasant farmhouse parlour, by the side of a bright-eyed girl, who was leaning with folded arms upon the broad window-sill, looking shyly down- wards as he talked to her. * Is there no chance, Susy ! none ? Is it aU over between us ? ' ' If you mean that I shall ever cease to think of you as one of the best friends I have in this world, John, no,' she answered ; ' or that I shall ever cease JOHN GK.VNGER. oO'J to look up to you as the noblest and truest of men, no, John — a hundred times no.' ' But I mean something more than that, Susy, and you know it as well as I do. I want you to be my wife by-and-by. I'm not in a hurry, you know, my dear. I can bide my time. You're very young yet, and may be you scarcely know your own mind. I can wait, Susy. My love will stand wear and tear. Let me have the hope of winning you by-and-by. I'm not a poor man at this present time, you know, Susy. There are three thousand pounds of old uncle Tidman's on deposit in my name in Hillborough Bank. I've been a lucky fellow in having an indus- trious father and a rich bachelor uncle, and with the chance of you for my wife, a few years would make me a rich man,' ' That can never be, John. I know how proud I ought to be that you should think of me like this. I'm not worthy of so much love. It isn't that I don't appreciate your merits, John; but ' ' There's some one else, eh, Susy ? ' ' Yes, John,* she faltered, in a very low voice, and with a vivid blush on her drooping face. 310 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Some one who has asked you to be his wife ? ' ' No, John ; but I think he likes me a little, and ' Here she stopped suddenly, finding the sentence difficult to continue. " John Granger gave a long, heavy sigh, and stood for some minutes looking at the ground in dead silence. ' I think I can guess who it is,' he said at last ; ' Kobert Ashley, — eh, Susy V The blush grew deeper, and the girl's silence was a sufficient answer. 'Well, he's a fine handsome young fellow, and more likely to take a pretty girl's fancy than such a blunt, plain-spoken chap as I am ; and he's a good fellow enough, as far as I know ; I've nothing to say against him, Susy. But there's one man in the world I should have liked to warn you against, Susan, if I'd thought there was a shadow of a chance you'd ever listen to any love-making of his.' 'Who is that, John ? ' ' Your cousin, Stephen Price.' 'You needn't fear that I should ever listen to JOHN GRANGER. 311 him, John. There's little love lost between Stephen and me.' ' Isn't there ? I've heard him swear that he'd have you for his wife some day, Susan. I don't like him, my dear, and I don't trust him either. It isn't only that he bears a bad character up town, as a dis- sipated, pleasure-loving spendthrift; there's some- thing more than that ; something below the surface that I can't find words for. I know that he's very clever. Folks say that Mr. Vollair the lawyer looks over all his faults on account of his cleverness, and that he never had a clerk to serve him so well as Stephen does. But cleverness and honesty don't always go together, Susy, and I fear that cousin of yours wiU come to a bad end.' Susan Lorton did not attempt to dispute the justice of this opinion. Stephen Price was no favourite of hers, in spite of those good looks and that showy cleverness which had won him a certain amount of popularity elsewhere. John Granger lingered at the sunny window, where the scent of a thousand roses came floatincf in upon the warm summer air. lie lingered as if loth o 12 WEAVERS AND WEFT. to go and make an end of that interview ; though the end must come, and the last words must needs be spoken very soon. 'Well, well, Susy,' he said presently, 'a man must teach himself to bear these things, even when they seem to break his life up somehow, and make an end of every hope and dream he ever had. 1 can't tell you how I've loved you, my dear — how I shall love you to the end of my days. Bob Ashley is a good fellow, and God grant he may make you a good husband ! But I don't believe it's in him to love you as 1 do, Susan. He takes life pleasantly, and has his mind full of getting on in the world, you see, and he has father and mother and sisters to care for. I've got no one but you to love, Susan. I've stood quite alone in the world ever since I was a boy, and you've been all the world to me. It's bitter to bear, my dear ; but it can't be helped. Don't cry, Susy darling. I'm a selfish brute to talk like this, and bring the tears into those pretty eyes. It can't be helped, my dear. Providence orders these things, you see, and we must bear them quietly. Good- bye, dear.' JOHN GRANGER. 313 Hu gave the girl his big, honest hand. She took it in both her own, bent over it, and kissed it tear- fully. ' You'll never know how truly I respect you John,' she said. ' But don't say good-bye like that_ We are to be friends always, aren't we ?' ' Friends always ? Yes, my dear ; but friends at a distance. There's some things I couldn't bear to see. I can wish for your happiness, and pray for it* honestly ; but I couldn't stop at Friarsgate to see you Eobert Ashley's wife. JNIy lease of the old farm is out. I'm to call on Mr. Vollair this afternoon to talk about renewing it. I fancied you'd be mistress of the dear old place, Susy. That's been my dream for the last three years. I couldn't bear the look of the empty rooms now that dream's broken. I shall surrender the farm at once, and go to America, I've got a capital that '11 start me anywhere, and I'm not afraid of work. I've old friends out there too ; my first cousin, Jim Loraax, and his wife. They went out live years ago, and have been doing wonders with a farm in New England. I shan't feel quite strange there.' 314 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' Go to America, John, and never come back ! ' said Susan, despondently. Slie liad a sincere regard for this honest yeoman, and was grieved to the heart at the thought of the sorrow that had come to him through his unfortunate desire to be something more to her than a friend. ' Never's a long word, Susy,' he answered, in his serious straightforward way. ' Perhaps when a good many years have gone over all our heads, and when your children are beginning to grow up, I may come back and take my seat beside your hearth, and smoke my pipe with your husband. Not that I should ever cease to love you, my dear ; but time would take the sting out of the old pain, and it would be only a kind of placid sorrow, like the thought of one that's long been dead. Yes, I shall come back to England after ten or fifteen years, if I live, if it's only for the sake of seeing your children — and I'll wager there '11 be one amongst them that '11 take to me almost as if it was my own, and will come to be like a child to me in my old age. I've seen such things. And now I must say good-bye, Susy ; for I've got to be up town at three o'clock to JOHN GKANGEK. 315 see Mr. VoUair, and I've a deal of work to do before I leave.' ' Shall you go soon, John ? ' ' As soon as ever I can get things settled — the farm off my hands, and so on. But I shall come to say good-bye to you and your father before I go.' * Of course you will, John. It would be un- friendly to go without seeing father. Good-bye ! ' They shook hands once more and parted. The yeoman walked slowly along the little garden path, and across a patch of furze-grown common land, on the other side of which there was a stra^fjlino: wood of some extent, broken up here and there by disused gravel-pits and pools of stagnant water — a wild kind of place to pass at night, yet considered safe enough by the country people about Hillborough, as there was scarcely any part of it that was not within earshot of the high road. The narrow foot- path across this wood was a short cut between Matthew Lorton's farm and Hillborough, and John Granger took it. He walked with a firm step and an upright 316 WEAVERS AND WEPT. bearing, though his heart was heavy, as he went townwards that afternoon. He was a man to bear his trouble in a manly spirit, whatever it might be, and there were no traces of his disappointment in his looks or manner when he presented himself at the lawyer's house. Mr. Vollair had a client with him ; so John Granger was ushered into the clerks' office, where he found Stephen Price hard at work at a desk, in company with a smaller and younger clerk. * Good afternoon. Granger,' he said, in a cool patronizing manner that John Granger hated ; ' come about your lease, of course ? ' ' There is nothing else for me to come about.' ' Ah, you see, you're one of those lucky fellows who never want the help of the law to get you out of a scrape. And you're a devilish lucky fellow, too, in the matter of this lease, if you can get Friarsgate for a new term at the rent you've been paying hitherto, as I dare say you will, if you play your cards cleverly with our governor presently.' ' I am not going to ask for a new le;ist'.." answered John Granger ; ' I am going to leave Fri.nrsgate.' JOHN GRANGER. 317 ' Going to leave Friarssrate ! You astound me. Have you got a better farm in your eye?' * I am going to America.' Stephen Price gave expression to his astonish- ment by a prolonged whistle, and then twisted himself round upon his stool, the better to regard Mr. Granger. 'Why, Granger, how is this?' he asked. 'A fellow like you, with plenty of money, going off to America ! I thought that was the refuge for the destitute.' ' I'm tired of England, and I've a fancy for a change. I hear that a man may do very well in America, with a good knowledge of farming and a tidy bit of capital.' 'Ah, and you've got that,' said Stephen Price, with an envious sigh. ' And so you're thinking of going to America ? That's very strange. I used to fancy you were sweet upon a certain pretty cousin of mine. I've seen you hanging about old Lorton's place a good deal of late years.' John Granger did not reply to this remark. Mr. VoUair's client departed a few minutes later, and 318 WEAVERS AND WEFT. MjL'. Granger was asked to step into the lawyer's office. He found his business very easy to arrange in the maimer he wished. Mr. Vollair had received more than one offer for Friarsgate farm, and there was an applicant who would be glad to get the place as soon as John Granger could relinquish it, without waiting for the expiration of his lease. This incoming tenant would no doubt be willing to take his furniture and live and dead stock at a valuation, Mr. Vollair told John. So the young farmer left the office in tolerable spirits, pleased to find there were no obstacles to his speedy depar- ture from a home that had once been dear to him. END OF VOL II. J. AND W. KIDEB, PBINTEBS, LOIfDOIf. WEAVERS AND WEFT ^nb otfjcr Cales BY THE AUTHOR OF t LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET BTC. ETC. ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. III. LONDON JOHN MAXWELL AND CO. ■1, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET 1877 lAU rightt rettrved.'] CONTENTS TO VOL. III. JOHN GRANGER— II. III. PRINCE RAMJI ROWDEDOW TOO BRIGHT TO LAST . THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE SIR LUKE'S RETURN HER LAST APPEARANCE— I. Hek Temptation . II. Her Avekgeb. 111. Her Farewell Sigh , SIR HANBURY'S BEQUEST- I. In the Hexam Library II. The Hexam Estate III. The Dream Picture . IV. Dorothea . . , . V. How THE Dream came True A VERY NARROW ESCAPE . MY UNLUCKY FRIEND . PAGE I 13 36 61 107 129 210 219 230 237 244 258 263 290 WEAVERS AND WEFT. JOHN GRANGER. CHAPTER ir. John Granger's preparations and arrangements, the disposal of his property, and the getting together of liis simple outfit, occupied little more than three weeks ; and it was still bright midsummer weather when he took his last walk round the pastures of Friarsgate, and, for the first time since he had re- solved to leave those familiar scenes, realized how great a hold they had upon his heart. ' It '11 be dreary work in a strange country,' he thought, as he leaned upon a gate, looking at the lazy cattle which were no longer his, and wondering VOL. III. B 2 WEAVERS AND WEFT. whether they would miss him when he was gone ; ' and what pleasure can I ever take in trying to get rich ! — I who have no one to work for, no one to take pride in my success ? Perhaps it would have been better to stay here, even though I had to hear her wedding bells some fine summer morning, and see her leaning on Eobert Ashley's arm, and looking up in his face as I used to fancy she would look up to me in all the years to come. God, how I wish I was dead ! What an easy end that would make of everything ! ' He thought of the men and women who had died of a fever last autumn round about Hill- borough — people who had wished to live, for whom life was full of duties and household joys ; whose loss left wide gaps among their kindred, not to be filled again upon this earth. If death would come to him, what a glad release ! It w^as not that he suffered from any keen or violent agony ; it was the dull blankness of his existence which he felt — an utter emptiness and hopelessness ; nothing to live for in the present, nothing to look forward to in the future. JOHN GKANGER. o This was the last day. His three great sea chests, containing his clothes, books, and other property M-hich he could not bring himself to part with, had gone on to London by that morning's luggage train. He had arranged to follow himself by the night mail, which left Hillborough Station at ]ialf-past nine, and would be in London at two o'clock next morning. At the last he had been seized with a fancy for prolonging his time to the uttermost, and it was for this reason he had chosen tlie latest train by which he could leave Hillborough. He had a good many people to take leave of, and it was rather trying work. He had always been liked and respected, and on this last day it surprised him to find how fond the people were of him, and how general was the regret caused by his departure. Little children clung about his knees, matronly eyes were dried in lavender cotton aprons, pretty girls offered blushingly to kiss liim at parting ; stalwart young fellows, his companions of old, declared they would never have a friend they could trust and lionour as tliey had trusted and honoured him. It touched the poor fellow to the heart to 4 WEAVERS AND WEFT. find himself so nnicli beloved. And he was o'oing to sacrifice all this, because he could not endure to live in the old home now his dream was broken. He had put off his visit to Matthew Lorton's house to the very last. His latest moments at Hillborough should be given to Susan, he told himself. He would drain to the last drop the cup of that sweet, sad parting. His last memory of English soil should be her bright tender face looking at him compassionately, as she had looked the day she broke his heart. It was half-past seven when he went in at the little garden gate. A warm summer evening, the rustic garden steeped in the low western sunshine ; the birds singing loud in hawthorn and sycamore ; a peaceful vesper calm upon all things. John Granger had been expected. He could see that at a glance. The best tea-things were set out in the best parlour, and Mr. Lorton and his daughter were waiting tea for him. There was a great bunch of roses on the table, and Susan was dressed in light blue muslin, with a rose in her bosom. He thought how often in the dreary time to come she would arise before him JOHN c;kaxgkk. o like a picture, with the sunshine flickering about her "briirht hair, and the red rose at her breast. She was very sweet to him that evening, tender and t^entle and cb'u2,in(T, as she mioht have been with a fondly loved brother who was leaving her for ever. The farmer asked him about his plans, and gave his approval of them heartily. It was well for a sturdy fellow with a bit of money to push his way in a new country, where he might malce fifty per cent, upon his capital, instead of dawdling on in England, where it was quite as much as a man could do to make both ends meet at the close of a year's liaid work. ' ]\Iy little Susy is going to be married to young Bob Ashley,' Mr. Lorton said by-and-by. ' He asked her last Tuesday was a week ; but they've been courting in a kind of way this last twelvemonth. I couldn't well say no, for Bob's father and I have been friends for many a year, and the young man's a decent chap enougli. He's going to rent tliat little dairy farm of Sir Marmaduke Ilalliday's on tlic other side of Tlillborough Boad. Old Ashley has promised to stock it for him, and he hopes to do b WEAVERS AND WEFT. well. It isu't niiicli of a match for my girl, you know, John; but the young people have made up their minds, so it's no use setting my face against it.' They had been sitting at the tea-table nearly half an hour, when the sunny window was suddenly darkened by the apparition of Mr. Stephen Price looking in upon them in an easy familiar manner, with his folded arms upon the sill. ' Good evening, uncle Lorton,' he said. ' Good evening, Susy, How do, Granger? I didn't know there was going to be a tea-party, or I shouldn't have come.' ' It isn't a tea-party,' answered Susan ; ' it is only John Granger, who has come to bid us good-bye, and we are very, very sorry he is going away.' ' Oh, we are, are we ? ' said the lawyer's clerk, with a sneer ; ' what would Bob Ashley say to that, I wonder ? ' ' Come in, Steph, and don't be a fool,' growled the old man. Mr. Price came in, and took his seat at the tea- table. He was flashily dressed, wore his hair long, JOHN GRANGEK. 7 and had a good deal of whisker, which he was perpetually caressing with a hand of doubtful clean- liness, whereon the inky evidence of his day's work was unpleasantly obvious. He did not care much for such womanish refresh- ment as tea, which he denounced in a sweeping manner as ' cat-lap ; ' but he took a cup from his cousin nevertheless, and joined freely in the con- versation while he drank it. He asked John Granger a good many questions about his plans — whether he meant to buy land, and when, and where, and a great deal more in the same way — to all of which John replied as shortly as was consistent with the coldest civility. ' You take all your capital with you, of course ? ' asked Stephen Price. ' No ; I take none of my capital with me.' ' Why, hang it all, man, yon must take some money !' 'I take the money I received for my furniture and stock.' ' Ah, to be sure ; you came to the office yesterday afternoon to receive it ? Over six liundred pounds. 8 WEAVERS AND WEFT. wasn't it ? I drew up the agreement between you and the new man : so I ought to know.' * It was over six hundred pounds.' ' And you take that with you ? Quite enough to start with, of course. And the rest of your money is as safe as houses in old Lawler's bank. No fear of any smash there. I wish I was going with you, Granger. I'm heartily sick of Hillborough. I shall cut old Vollair's office before very long, come what may. I can't stand it much longer. I've got a friend on the look-out for a berth for me up in London, and directly I hear of anything I shall turn my back upon this dismal old hole.' ' You'll have to pay your debts before you do that, I should think, Steph,' his uncle remarked, bluntly. Stephen Price shrugged his shoulders, and pushed his teacup away with a listless air. He got up presently and lounged out of the house, after a brief good evening to all. He made no attempt to take leave of John Granger, and seemed in his careless way to have forgotten that he was parting with him for the last time. No one tried to detain him. Tliey .seemed to breathe more freely when he was gone. JOHN GEANGEK. V John and Susan wandered out into tlie garden after tea, while the farmer smoked his pipe by the open window. The sun was low by this time, and the western sky flooded with rosy light. The garden was all abloom with roses and honeysuckle. John Granger fancied he should never look upon such flowers or such a garden ao-ain. They walked up and down the narrow path once or twice almost in silence, and then Susan began to tell him how much she regretted his departure. ' I don't know how it is, John,' she said, ' but I feel to-night as if I would give all the world to keep you liere. I cannot tell you how sorry I am you are going. Oh, John, I wish with all my heart I could have been what you asked me to be. 1 wish I could have put aside all thouglits of Eobert.' ' Could you have done that, Susan ? ' he cried, with sudden energy. His fate trembled upon a breath in that moment. A word from Susan, and he would have stayed ; a word from lier, and he would never have taken the path across tlie common and tlu-ough the wood to Ilillljorougli on that fair summer evening. He 10 WEAVERS AND WEFT. was her valued friend of many years ; dearer to her than she had known until that moment. It seemed to her all at once that she had thrown away the gold, and had chosen — not dross, but something less precious than that unalloyed gold. It was too late now for any change. ' I have promised Robert to be his wife,' she said; 'but oh, John, I wish you were not going away.' ' My dear love, I could not trust myself to stay here ; I love you too much for that. But I will come back when I am a sober elderly man, and ask for a corner beside your hearth.' ' Promise me that. And you will write to me from America, won't you, John ? I shall be so anxious, and father too, to know that you are safe and well.' * Yes, my dear, I will write.' ' What is the name of the steamer you are to go in ? ' The WasMnfjton, bound for New York.' * I shall not forget that — the Washing tun.' John Granfrer looked at his watch. The sun had JOHN GRANGER. 11 iioue down, and there was a lono- line of crimson yonder in the west above the edge of the brown furze-grown common. Beyond it, the wood dipped down, and the tops of the trees made a black line against that red light. Above, the sky was of one pale tender green, with stars faintly shining here and there. ' What a lovely night ! ' said Susan. John Granger sighed as he looked at that peaceful landscape. ' I did not know how much I loved this place and all belonging to it,' he said. ' Good night, Susy ; good night, and good-bye.' 'Won't you kiss me the last time, John?' she said, shyly. She scarcely knew what she had asked. He took her in his arms, strained her to his breast, and pressed one passionate, despairing kiss upon her brow. It was the first and last in his life. ' Time's up, Susy,' he said, gently releasing her. He went to tlie window, shook hands with the farmer, and took leave of him in that quiet, undemon- strative way \sliicli means a good deal witli ;i hkih of 12 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. John Granger's mould. A roinute more, and he was ^ gone. Susan stood at the garden-gate, watching the tall dark figure crossing the common. Twice he turned and waved his hand to her, — the last time upon the edge of the common, before he took the path down to the wood. After this night the still twilight hour seldom came without bringing the thought of him to Susan Lorton. It seemed to grow dark all at once when he was gone, and the house had a dreary look to Susan when she went indoors. What was it that made her shiver as she crossed the threshold ? Something — some nameless, shapeless fancy shook her with a sudden fear. Her father had strolled out to the garden through the wide open back door. The house seemed quite empty, and the faint sound of the summer wind sighing in the parlour chimney was like the lamentation of a human creature in pain. CHAPTEE III. The summer passed, and in the late autumn came Susan's wedding day. She was very fond of her good-looking generous-hearted young suitor, and yet even on the eve of her marriage her heart had turned a little regretfully towards absent John Granger. She was not a coquette, to glory in the mischief her beauty had done. It seemed to her a terrible thing that a good man should have been driven from his home for love of her. She had thought of him a great deal since that summer night upon which he had looked back at her on the verge of Hawley Wood — alHthe more because no letter had come from him yet, and she was beginning to be a little anxious about his safety. She thought of him still more, by and by, as the winter montlis passed without bringing the promised letter. Her husband made light of her fears, telling her that 14 WEAVERS AND WEFT. John Granger would find plenty to do in a new country, without wasting his time in scribbling letters to old friends. But this did not convince Susan. ' He promised to write, Eobert/ she said ; 'and John Granger is not the man to break his promise.' Susan was very happy in lier nev/ home, and. Itobert Ashley declared he had the handiest, brightest, and most industrious wife in all Woodlandshire, to say nothing of her being the prettiest. She had been used to keeping her father's house since her early girlhood, and her matronly duties came very easy to her. The snug little farmhouse, with its neat furniture and fresh dimity draperies, was the prettiest thing possible in the way of rustic interiors ; the Dutch-tiled dairy was like a temple dedicated to some pastoral divinity, and Susan took a natural womanly pride in this bright home. She had come from as good a house ; but then this was quite her own, and young liobert Ashley was a more romantic figure in the foreground of the picture than her good humdrum old father. Stephen Price did not stay at Hillborough long JOHN GRANGER. 15 enough to see his cousiu's wedding. He left j\[r. Vollair's employment about three weeks after John Granger's departure, and left without giving his employer any notice of his intention. He went away from Hillborough as deeply in debt as it was practicable for a young man in his position to be, and the tradesmen to whom he owed money were loud in iheir complaints about him. He was known to have gone to London, and there were some attempts made to discover his whereabouts. But in that mighty metropolis it was no easy thing to find an obscure lawyer's clerk, and nothing resulted from the endeavours of his angry creditors, except the mortification of defeat, which made them still more angry. No one, except those to whom he owed money, cared what had become of him. He had been considered pleasant company in a tavern parlour, and his manners and dress had been copied by some aspiring clerks and apprentices in Hillborough ; but he had never been known to do any one a kindness, and his disappearance left no empty place in any heart. The new year came, and slill there was no letter fnjiii John Granger. But early in January liobert 16 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Ashley came home from Hillboroiigh market one afternoon, and told his wife she needn't Avorry herself about her old friend any longer. ' John Granger's safe enough, my lass,' he said. ' I was talking to Simmons, the cashier at Lawler's bank, this morning, and he told me that Granger wrote to them for a thousand pounds last November from New York, and he has written for five hundred more since. He is buying land somewhere — I forget the name of the place- -and he's well and hearty, Simmons tells me.' Susan clapped her hands joyfully. ' Oh, Robert, how glad I am !' she cried. ' It isn't kind of John to have forgotten his jjromise ; but I don't care about that as long as he's safe.' ' I don't know why you should ever take it into your head that there was anything amiss with him,' said Eobert Ashley, who did not regard John Granger's exile from a sentimental point of view. ' Well, I'm afraid I'm rather fanciful. Bob ; but I could never explain to you what a strange feeling came over me the night John Granger went away JOHN GRAXGKR. 17 from Hillborongh. It was after I had said good-bye to him, and had gone back into the house, where all was dark and quiet. I sat in the parlour thinking of him, and it seemed as if a voice was saying in my ear that neither I, nor any one that cared for him, would ever see John Granger again. There wasn't any such voice, of course, you know, Eobert, but it seemed like that in my mind ; and whenever I've thought of poor John Granger since that time, it has seemed to me like thinking of the dead. Often and often I've said to myself, " Why, Susan, you foolish thing, you ought to know that he's safe enough out in America. Ill news travels fast ; and if there'd been anything wrong, we should have heard of it somehow." But, reason with myself as I would, I have never been able to feel comfortable about him ; and thank God for your good news, Kobert, and thank you for bring- ing it to me.' She raised herself on tiptoe to kiss her husband, who looked down at her in a fond, protecting way from the height of his own wisdom. 'Why, Susy, what a timid, nervous little puss you are!' he said. 'T should have been Gfettinj? VOL. III. c 18 WEAVERS AND WEFT. jealous of John Granger by this time if I'd known you thought so much of him.' The winter days lengthened, and melted into early spring. It was bright March weather, and Susan had an hour of daylight after tea for her needlework, while Kobert attended to his evenin and his subordinates about John Granger's departure. Neither the station-master nor the porters were able to give Eobert Ashley any satisfactory informa- tion on this point. One or two of the men were not quite clear that they knew John Granger by sight ; another knew him very well indeed, but could not swear to having seen him that night. The station- master was quite clear that he had not seen him. ' I'm generally pretty busy with the mail-bags at tliat time,' he said, ' and a passenger might very well escape my notice. Thit it would only have been civil in Granger to bid me good-bye ; I've known him ever since he was a lad.' 28 WEAVERS AND WEFT. This was not a satisfactory account to carry back to Susan ; nor was the letter that came from London in a day or two much more satisfactory. The laud- lord of the Victoria Hotel be^rired to inform Mr. Ashley that the owner of the trunks from Hillborough had not arrived at his house until the middle of August. He was not quite sure about the date ; but he knew the luggage had been lying in his place for something over three weeks, and he was thinking of advertising it, when the owner appeared. Three weeks ! and John Grander had left Susan Lorton that July night, intendiug to go straight to London. Where could he have been ? What could he have been doingj in the interval ? Robert Ashley tried to make light of the matter- Granger might have changed his mind at the last moment — at the railway station, perhaps — and might have gone off to visit friends in some other part of the country. But Susan told her husband that John Granger had no friends except at Hillborough, and that he was not given to changing his mind upon any occasion. She had now a settled conviction that some untimely fate had befallen her old friend, and that the letters from America were forgeries. JOHN GRANGER. 29 Ashley told bis friend Simmons the story of the ghost rather reluctantly, but it was necessary to tell it in explaining how the letter to the London hotel- keeper came to be written. Of course Mr. Simmons was quite ready to agree with him that the ghostly part of the business was no more than a delusion of Susan's ; but he was a good deal puzzled, not to say disturbed, by the hotel-keeper's letter. He had talked over John Granger's plans with him on that last day, and he remembered that John had been perfectly decided in his intention of going straight to London. The three weeks' interval between his departure from Hillborough and his arrival in that city was a mystery not easily to be explained. jVIr. Simmons referred to the letters from New York, and compared the signatures of them with previous signatures of John Granger's. If they were forgeries, they were very clever forgeries ; but Granger's was a plain commercial hand by no means difficult to imitate. There was one thing noticeable in the signatures to the American letters — they were all exactly alike, line for line and curve for curve. Tliis rather discomposed Mr. Simmons; for it is a noto- 30 WEAVERS AND WEFT, lious fact that a man rarely signs his name twice in exactly the same manner. There is almost always some difference. ' I'm going up to London in a month,' said the cashier ; ' I'll call at the Victoria Hotel when I'm there, and make a few inquiries about John Granger. We can make some excuse for keeping back the money in the mean time, if there should be any more written for.' Before the month was out, John Granger's ghost appeared for the third time to Susan Ashley. She had been to Hillborough alone to make some little purchases in the w^ay of linen-drapery, and came home through Hawley Wood in the tender May twilight. She was thinking of her old friend as she walked along the shadowy winding footpath. It was just such a still, peaceful evening as that upon which he had stood on the edge of the common looking back at her, and waving his hand, upon that last well- remembered night. He was so much in her thoughts, and the con- viction that he had come from among the dead to visit her wag so rooted in her mind, that she was scarcely JOHN GKANGEK, 31 surprised when she looked up presently, and saw a tail familiar figure moving slowly among the trees a little way before her. There seemed to be an awful stillness in the wood all at once, but there was nothing awful in that well-known figure. She tried to overtake it ; but it kept always in advance of her, and at a sudden turn in the path she lost it altogether. The trees grew thicker, and there was a solemn darkness at the spot where the path took this sharp turn, and on one side of the narrow footpath there was a steep declivity and a great hollow, made by a disused gravel-pit. She went home quietly enough, with a subdued sadness upon her, and told her husband what had happened to her. Nor did she rest until there had been a search made in Hawley Wood for the body of John Granger. They searched, and found him lying at the bottom of the gravel-pit, lialf-burietl in loose sand and gravel, and quite hidden by a mass of furze and l)ramble that grew over the spot. There was an inquest, of course. The tailor who had made the clothes found upon tlie body identified them, and 32 WEAVERS AND WEFT. swore to Uiem as those he had made for John Granger. The pockets were all empty. There could be little doubt that John Granger had been waylaid and murdered for the sake of the money he carried upon him that night. His skull had been shattered by a blow irom a jagged stick on the left temple. The stick was found lying at the bottom of the pit a little way from the body, with human hair and stains of blood upon it. John Granger had never left Hillborough ; and the person who had contrived to procure so much of his money, by sending the deposit receipts and forged letters from America, was, in all probability, his murderer. There was a large reward offered for the discovery of the guilty party; the police were hard at work ; and the inquest was adjourned several times, in the hope that new facts might be elicited. Susan Ashley and her father were examined closely as to the events of that fatal evening of July the 24th. Susan told everything : her cousin Stephen Price dropping in while they were at tea, the questions and answers about the money John JOHN GRANGER. 33 Granger carried upon him — to the most minute particular. ' Then Price knew of the money Granger had about him ? ' suggested the coroner. 'He did, sir.' ' And did he know that he had money on deposit in Hillborough Bank ?' 'Yes, sir.' ' Did Price leave your father's house after Gran- ger, or before him ? ' ' Before him, sir : nearly an hour before him.' The inquest was adjourned ; and, within a week of this examination, Matthew Lorton received an application from the police, asking for a photograph of his nephew Stephen Price, if he happened to possess such a thing. He did possess one, and sent it to London by return of post. The landlord of the Victoria Hotel identified iliis portrait as that of the person who represented himself to be John Granger, and who carried away Ji>hn Granger's luggage. After this the work was easy. Little links in VOL. III. 1 1 34 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. the chain were picked up one by one. A labouring man turned up who had seen Stephen Price sitting on a stile hard by Hawley Wood, hacking at a thick jagged-looking stake with his clasp-knife, on the night of the 24th of July. The woman at whose house Price lodged gave evidence that he broke an appoint- ment to play billiards with a friend of his on that night ; the friend had called at his lodgings for him twice, and had been angry about the breaking of the appointment ; and Stephen Price came in about half-past ten o'clock, looking very white and strange. The lad who was his fellow-clerk was ready to swear to his having been disturbed and strange in his manner during the two or three weeks before he left Hillborough ; but the boy had thought very little of this, he said, knowing how deeply Stephen was in debt. The final examination resulted in a verdict of wilful murder; and a police-officer started for New- York by the next steamer, carrying a waiTant for the apprehension of Stephen Price. He was not found very easily, but was ultimate)';." apprehended, with some of Juhn Granger's property still in his possession. He was brought home, tried. JOHN GRANGER. .:>0 found guilty, and hung, much to the satisfaction of Hillborough, Shortly afterwards, Mr. Vollair pro- duced a will, which John Granger had executed a few days before his intended departure, bequeathing all he possessed to Susan Lorton — the interest for her sole use and benefit, the principal to revert to her eldest son after her death, the son to take the name of Granger. The bank had to make good the money drawn from them by Stephen Price. The boy came in due course, and was christened after the dead man, above whose remains a fair white monumerit has been erected in the rustic churchyard near Hawley Wood, at the expense of Eobert and Susan Ashley ; a handsomer tomb than is usually given to a man of John Granger's class, but it was the onl) thing Susan could do to show how much she luid valued him who had loved her so dearly. She often sits beside that quiet resting-place in the spring twilight, with her ciiildren busy making daisy-chains at her knee ; but slie has never seen John Granger's ghost since that evening in the wood, and she knows that slie will never see it again. PRINCE RAMJI ROWDEDOW. I CANNOT say that Slimeford-on-the-Slushy is a likely town in which to make a great theatrical benefit. I cannot say that Slimeford is a good town for thea- tricals in any way or shape, or that the inhabitants of Slimeford patronize either the Thespian art, or any other art, or any science, amusement, or pursuit of any kind whatsoever, with much enthusiasm. I cannot say that Slimeford is a fine town or a pretty town ; unless, indeed, your idea of architectural beauty is confined to one interminable street of undeviatingly ugly houses, intersected by an infinite number of smaller streets, if possible more ugly than the chief thoroughfare, and surrounded on all sides by a rising neighbourhood ; a rising neighbourhood dotted with hideous manufactories, which start up, like grimy PRINCE RAMJI ROWDEDOW. o7 demons, with outstretched wings of brick and mortar, to shut out the country. And, reader, what on the surface of God's earth, as man has marred it, is more frightful than a rising neighbourhood ? A row of newly-finished houses, a row of unfinished ditto, an exhausted brickfield, and a patch of waste land — ring the changes on these as you will, and get beauty out of them if you can ; and only so much beauty can you get out of a rising neighbourhood. I cannot say that the Slushy is a beautiful river, or that the muddy banks thereof are pleasant walking, or that any mortal, not an inhabitant of Slimeford, ever expressed admiration for its dirty waters, on which dismal black barges lie at anchor here and there, and into which various dye-works and other factories discharge their viscid and rainbow-hued liquids. One peculiarity of Slimeford is that its working classes are always on strike at the very period when a dramatic company enters the town. You are greeted with the intelligence that the weavers are out, and not likely to be in for a couple of months ; and that the dyers are resolved to liave an additiouiil o8 WEAVERS AND WEFT. three halfpence an hour, or fold their arms and perish. You should have come last year ; you would have done wonders last year. But unfortunately you are not in the habit of going to places last year. Now I had the honour to be, for three seasons, first low comedian of the Theatre Eoyal, Slimeford ; and for the first two seasons I had the honour to take benefits, whereat my labours to please were rewarded by a limited circle of from three to seven in the boxes, a dreary sprinkling in the pit, and a row-and- a-half or so in the gallery. Now, if you deduct £7 for the expenses of the house, as computed by the manager, thirty shillings for printing, an odd pound or so for properties — not a little money spent in the pursuit of that diplomatic process called benefit- making — you won't get much of a surplus out of £4 10s., two-thirds of which surplus, if there were one, would go to the lessee. Therefore my benefits, during the first two seasons, had the disappointing re- sult of plunging me deeply and hopelessly into debt. The third season was drawing to a close, and Slimeford was, if possible, in a state of greater stagna- tion than usual. The weavers had made a most PRINCE EAMJI EOWDRDOW. 39 obstinate strike of it, and the only thing stirring was a penny subscription to keep the contumacious dyers from starvation. I looked around as I stood pensively on the banks of the Slushy, and meditated on my chances of filling the crazy old Theatre Eoyal on Wednesday, the 19th instant, which night had been set apart for the benefit of me, JNIr. John Miff's- Now I had, in the course of my professional career, behekl one marvel in theatrical statistics — or shall I say playgoing human nature ? — i.(\ that however poor the inhabitants of a town, however high the price of the quartern loaf, however great the demand for blue ruin, with its attendant ills of starvation and crime ; however you may have been assured again and again that the people cannot come to the theatre, because they have actually not the money to pay for admis- sion, let Mr. Sims Eeeves or Mr. Sothern, Mr. Charles Mathews, Mr. Irving, or j\Ir. Buckstone — let, I say, any of these aforesaid artists, or many others I could mention, put out an announcement, in capitals three feet high, of their intention to appear at the Theatre Eoyal Anywhere, and, lo ! that theatre is immediately filled. Now, I don't know whether 40 WEAVERS AND WEFT. it was an inspiration or not, but at the very moment when Venus rose pale in an opal evening sky, her beautiful face feebly mirrored in the grimy waters of the Slushy, I suddenly exclaimed, ' A star ! Yes, I would have a star to play for my benefit, and thus fill the theatre. But then, what star ? I had not the pleasure of Mr. Buckstone's acquaintance, and if I had, was it likely that distinguished comedian would withdraw himself from the part in which he was at that time delighting his friends in the Haymarket, for my pleasure and profit ? I didn't know Mr. Sothern, but I knew enough of that gentleman to think it scarcely probable he would choose the Theatre Eoyal, Slimeford, wherein to commence his great tour of the provinces. I didn't know the talking fish ; I hadn't so much as a pig-faced lady amongst my acquaint- ances. What star ? Ah, Venus, shining with serene radiance above the smoke-cloud that envelopes Slime- ford, could you only help me with a suggestion ! If the Shah of Persia had been in England, he might liave obliged me by taking a private box and exhibiting himself in state apparel to Slimeford. PRINCE KAMJI ROWDEDOW. 41 And if the Shah of Persia, why not an Indian prince ? Yes, above all things an Indian prince ! A most brilliant idea 1 I registered a vow, as I stood on that bridge in the twilidit. I would have an Indian prince to play for my benefit. I am not of a lymphatic temperament. I believe, indeed, that I come rather nnder the head of the san- guine nervous, but I leave that question in physiology to the decision of the intelliG;ent reader, when I inform him that the next morning every patch of paling, every blank wall, every house in Chancery, every stray shutter of every shop to let, was pasted with a staring red-aud-blue announcement of the first and only appearance of His Eoyal Highness Prince Eaniji Powdedow, from the kingdom of Goojeebadanistau, that vast territorv between the Ganges and the Himalayas, for the benefit of Mr. John Tariffs ; while in the principal windows of the town were exhibited lithographed full-length portraits of an imposing individual of the mulatto race, in a gorgeous costume of the character usually worn by that interesting Moor who is familiar 1o all students of the Shake- spearian drama. 42 WEAVERS AND AVEFT. Depressed as was the aspect of trade in Slimeford, my notion took. There was from the first issuing of the bills considerable excitement in the town on the subject of the Indian prince. The very printer who set up the bills offered to do the job at a lower rate, on condition of being one of the favoured few who were to form a little deputation to meet the prince at the railway station. Of course there were many inquiries as to why the royal personage had left his native land ; and his popularity rose tremen- dously, especially among the fairer portion of the conmiunity, when I explained that he had been deposed from the royal musnud by a benighted people, on account of the advancement and enlighten- ment of his opinions, especially with reference to polygamy and widow-barning. He was announced to appear in the character of Obi ; and the fact of a native prince from the distant land of Bramah and Juggernaut coming down to Slimeford to enact that hero of romance, did not appear to the intelligent townsmen at all a strange occurrence. A foreign prince, a talking fish, or Mr. Charles Mathews — what are anv such institutions intended for, but to PKINCE KAMJI EOWDEDOW. 43 minister to the amusement, gratify the admiring gaze, and stimulate the organ of wonder of the in- habitants of Slimeford ? For these good people, I think, had a very limited belief in the actual existence of any world beyond the rising neighbour- hood which bounded their own town. Wednesday the 19th instant arrived, and the whole theatre-going populace was on the qui vive ; while the question as to how and when his highness from the principality of Goojeebadanistan would enter the town was freely discussed. Be it understood, these good people were quite assured that the prince was coming all the way from the shores of the Ganges for their amusement. Had they thought for a moment that his exiled highness might be a lodger in Marylebone, or a ratepayer of St. Pancras, the wliole zest of the thing would have been gone. Even atthe theatre, amongst my companion votaries of Thespis, there was not a little curiosity ; and I was compelled, with that beautiful candour which distinguishes me, to admit to one or two of my intimates that my friend IJcnvdedow was not in sober earnest actually the scion of a royal raeo, Ixnng in ]toinl of 44 WEAVERS AND WEFT. fact the private secretary of a rich indigo planter, who had accompanied his employer to England, and who had been dismissed from that service on account of a suspected leaning towards the worship of the goddess Kali, the tutelary divinity of the Thugs, or stranglers, sometimes called Noosers. The damask cheek of my friend Percy Deloraine, jeune premier, blanched some- what at this revelation ; and he expressed a strong aversion from acting in the same piece with his highness ; but on my assuring him that, if treated with a cold and distant respect, Eamji was the best fellow breathing, he consented to oblige me. The prince, I informed my manager and brother actors, would not arrive until an hour or two before the commencement of tlie performance, as important business — no less, in fact, than an interview with the chief of the English Government concerning his restoration to that vast territory which extends from the western arm of the Ganges to the distant source of the Oxus, as I added, somewhat recklessly, with a view to local colouring — would detain him in London. I therefore read his part at rehearsal, arranged his entrances and exits, and went through all his stage rPJNCE RAMJI ROWDEDOW. 45 business. I also planned the construction and adorn- ment of a temporary dressing-room, to be erected by the property-man for my royal friend's convenience, and made all arrangements necessary for the honour- able reception of the royal personage. As I left the theatre, after that morning's rehearsal, a crowd of dirty little boys and one respectable maid-servant with a baby and a perambulator, did me the honour to accompany me in a little impromptu procession to my residence. Whether they imagined I might keep the prince in my pocket, or in a sealed bottle, like the genie in the Arabian Nights, I know not ; but they evidently thought their best chance of beholding the Oriental potentate lay in not losing sight of me. Now, this persistent attention on the part of the public, honourable as it was to all con- cerned, was also somewhat embarrassing to me, as I had a good deal of work to accomplish (of a kind that must remain a secret to the British public) before His Eoyal Highness Ramji Rowdedow could possibly blaze, like the sun in his Oriental splendour, before the dazzled eyes of Slimeford. For this, I had need of a frir-nd — a friend on wlioni I could rely — iu 46 WEAVERS AND WEFT. whose hand I could lay my own, and say, ' Here is the soul incapable of treachery ; here is the tongue never known to betray ; ' or in the more vigorous language of Seven Dials, ' This 'ere's the cove wot never rounded on his pal.' Such a friend I could boast in the person of Mr. Eichard Wittington, eccentric comedian; and to him I went. What passed between us I do not intend to reveal, but our parting agreement was to the following effect : Wittington pledged himself to superintend the reception of his highness. For this purpose he was to hire the largest and most splendid open vehicle to be procured from the King's Arms livery-yard, and a pair of white horses ; with which equipage he was to proceed, at a quarter- past five o'clock, to the railway station. He was also to hire an inferior vehicle, in which a portion of the band belonging to the theatre — namely, clarionet, cornet, and big drum — should be seated, to give effect to the procession with such soul- stirring melodies as 'See, the conquering Hero,' ' Eule, Britannia,' the March from ' Bluebeard,' &c. This my friend Wittington was to do unaided, while PEINCE KAMJI KOWDEDOW. 47 I departed to a distant village, some ten miles up the line, to arrange a smallmatter of business which it was impossible for me to postpone. The hour came, tlie procession started in the following order from the King's Arms : — fly-and- pair, yellow body, pink-striped chintz lining, choco- late wheels, ]\Ir. liichard Wittington seated solus in the vehicle, looking, strange to say, rather depressed than elated at the prospect of receiving his serene highness ; nextly, the second-best ily, green body. red wheels, and leopard-skin chintz lining, a showy, impressive equipage, in which were seated the clarionet, cornet, flute, and big drum attached to the theatre, the big drum nearly filling the interior of the vehicle, and somewhat obscuring the distin- guished musicians seated therein. This imposing procession of two carriages was followed by an immense crowd, composed of half the population of Slimeford. Of course the worthy citizens, being out of work, had nothing better to do than to pay their res- pects to the royal foreigner, and to show him, in the deliberate and piercing stare of the well-bred English- man, the distinguishing mark of British hospitality. 48 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. Arrived at the station, which, with that regard to public convenience which generally characterizes the station of a provincial town, was about a mile from the high street, Mr. Wittington alone descended from his vehicle, and entered the gates of the build- ing. He expressed a request to his friends and the public that they would not accompany him any farther, as their appearance in too abrupt a manner might disconcert the modest disposition of the great Eamji. This mild request, however, did not prevent Mr. Bulkins of the King's Arms, renowned for possessing great sporting acumen, and being always able to name the outsider that will not win the Derby or the Leger; Mrs. Potash the washer- woman ; her daughter, Miss Potash (in her best bonnet of scarlet velvet and pearl beads, a cheerful and summery headgear) ; Miss Hooxanise, the dress- maker's apprentice; three nursemaids, sixteen babies, and several other enterprizing individuals^ from penetrating to the very door of tlie second- class carriage, from which, with the unaffected humility that distinguishes those who are born in the purple, descended the illustrious Eowdedow. TKINCE EAMJI ROWUEDOW. 49 Now, most of the inhabitants of Slimeford were well acquainted with the private lifa and domestic afflictions of Othello the noble Moor ; and it occurred to all present that the prince bore a very strong resemblance to that individual as he would appear after exchanging his costly robes for a badly- fitting dress-coat from the emporhim of Messrs. Moses and Sons. The noble physiognomy of the prince, it is marvellous to add, recalled to several among the playgoing population of Slimeford a face they had seen somewhere before, though the recollection was so vague as to make very little impression on those not over impressionable citizens. His complexion of a brownish black, was relieved by a crimson glow which illumined his cheeks and threw out the whites of his eyes with Oriental brilliancy. His long sleek hair, of rather a bluish black (in the sun it looked a thought rusty), was worn Mdth the ends rolled under, after the manner of gentlemen of the equestrian profession. lie wore a large beard and moustache, which imparted something of ferocity to his otherwise mild (sooth to say, somewhat timorous) expression of countenance. lie A\orc a VOL. 111. E 50 WEAVERS AND WEFT. magnificent fez cap, surmounted by a rich (though rather tarnished) gold tassel, and decorated with two or three large brooches (somewhat in the style of those which issue from the hands of the thea- trical ornament-makers of Birmingham and Bow street), but which, no doubt, were the royal jewels of his imperial race ; he also displayed on the ample breast of his dress-coat, which was a little white about the seams, various stars and crosses, besides that noble quadruped, the elephant, usually worn by his youthful highness, Hamlet the Dane. A superb crescent of Bristol paste, mounted on red cloth, shimmered in the dim obscurity of his waist- coat, and, seen from a distance, impressed the young mind with the idea of the diamonds of Golconda. His costume was completed by a pair of white duck trousers, patent-leather alberts, a bamboo cane, and an eye-glass, it being only becoming in royalty to be shortsighted. Nothing could exceed the emiyressc- ment with which Mr, Wittington greeted the prince ; he conversed with him apart in a foreign language, with characteristic gesticulation which was emi- nently gratifying to the lookers on ; he preceded him PRINCE KAMJI ROWDEDOW. 51 to the carriage, bat iu hand, walking backwards, yes, actually walking backwards; a teat by which he cruelly punished the corns of the aggrieved populace who pressed close behind him. He also handed the exiled potentate into the pink-striped fly, and seated himself respectfully opposite, with his back to the horses. Then arose such a shout as, perhaps, since the days when the Eeform Bill was passed, had never been heard in Slimeford : a shout of friendly welcome for the dark scion of a princely race, who sat bowing, smiling, and displaying a set of faultlessly white teeth to the admiring citizens. The band began, at a wink from my friend Wittington, to play ' 8ee, the conquering Hero,' &c., which, as within no one's knowledge had the royal person ever been in battle, was of course highly appropriate. The two flies set oft" at a foot pace, the delighted populace on either side. They were charmed with the prince's bow ; they were enraptured with the prince's smile ; and ' Oh, look at his teeth ! ' yes, an audible murmur was heard amongst the throng, ' Look at his teeth ! ' At which, strange to say, the prince abruptly closed his mouth, and declined to exhibit his dental appeu- 52 WEAVERS AND WEFT. dages any more. The prince was evidently of a sensitive and retiring disposition. But, above all things, that which delighted the populace was the evident and demonstrative admiration evinced by his serene highness for the town and public buildings of Slimeford. He expressed, in vehement panto- mime, his opinion that Slimeford in architectural beauty surpassed the proud towers of Delhi, the city of palaces ; that the river Slushy in natural beauty might dispute the palm with his native Ganges, or the classic Indus dear to his childhood. When Mr. Wittington pointed out to him the church of St. Bulgrumblery, the chapel-of-ease, the fish market, the Baptist chapel, the post-office, and that esthetic range of buildings known as the shambles, devoted to the sale of butcher's meat, the prince's shrugs, nods, and gesticulations evinced such admiration as the inhabitants of the town had never beheld before, even in a new candidate for the representation of the borough. The procession was, in short, intensely successful ; and my new star, the illustrious Eamji, was honoured with such an ovation as I think neither Spanish dancers, talking fish, nor Mr. PRINCE KAMJI ROWDEDOW. 53 Charles Mathews would ever have received in Slimeford. But in spite of the cheers, of the heartiness of that welcome which the true-born Englishman always extends to every foreigner, there was something in the prince's manner, a shiver in the prince's manly form, a chatter about the prince's teeth, and, at the same time, a paleness of complexion, verging on the ghastly, visible in my friend JNIr. Wittington, diflicult to account for. Can you, sagacious reader, solve me this little enigma ? Of course you can. I thought so. You know that it was because the great Kamji Eowdedow, illustrious heir to the principality of Goojeebad- anistan, that vast territory between the Ganges and the Himalayas, was neither more nor less distin- guished an individual than John j\Iift's, comedian — 1, John Mifis, with tlie adornment of a burnt cork, a pennyworth of Armenian bole, a halfpennywurth of vermilion, a great deal of cre'p& hair, and an Othello wig, — 1, John Mifis, who had gone that morning ten miles down the line, and, at the house of a friendly innkeeper in the village of Bigglethor[)(', liad arrayed 54 WEAVERS AND WEFT. myself in the costly attire of the Indian potentate. I leave it to the imagination, then, of the amiable reader whether I was not a little alarmed lest that intelligent pnblic, which loves to be gulled, but hates to find out that it has been gulled, should by any means discover the cheat that I was putting upon it. Thus when, during my triumphal progress from the station to the theatre, the populace admired my teeth — I have a fine set of teeth, I confess — I shut my mouth, in mortal fear lest young Joe INIulkins, Mr. Forcep the dentist's assistant, who was hanging on to the door of my chariot, should see that double tooth near the front which he had stopped three days before, and which still glittered in all the first radiance of the gold filling. Who can describe the horror of that moment, when a gentle and refreshing shower descended from the afternoon sky, and I dreaded to behold my complexion trickling down in brown drops upon my shirt-front, and when my friend Dick's nervous attempts to shut up that mysterious vehicle, the fly, were greeted with the anger of a ferocious crowd ? ' Oh, hang it ! let us see un ; we've come all the PKINCE EAMJI ROWDEDOW. 55 w ay to see vm ; don't go for to shoot up t' coach ! ' cried that unappeasable populace. But the heavens were kmd to the descendant of a royal race, and I shone out again in that beauty whose only blemish was its liability to come off, ' Put out your hand,' whispered Wittington ; ' it looks very natural.' I placed that member, adorned with a property diamond ring, carelessly on the carriage door, and lo ! the admiring crowd exclaimed as with one voice, ' Look at his "and ! ' Indeed, one old man, a deter- mined sightseer, who had never quitted the wheels of our vehicle, laid hold with reverence upon my dexter paAV, perhaps to discover whether that portion of an Indian prince's anatomy was like the flesh and blood of every-day life. The royal cor %c' reached the doors of the theatre, still followed by the delighted crowd. The prince alighted from the stately vehicle, and then gracefully ascended, on the tips of his patent leather alberts, the green baize-covered plank M'hich the property man, enthusiastic in the cause of exiled greatness, hod placed to form an impromptu bridge leading 56 WEAVERS AND WEFT. from the kerbstone to the stage-door, so that his highness's gracious feet should not be defiled by the puddles of Slimeford. At the stage door the Oriental countenance of his serenity broke anew into a radiant smile, and he made a series of grateful bows to the crowd ; which were responded to by three hearty cheers and ever so many little ones in. These culminated in a deafening shout as he disappeared within the building ; while Mr. liichard Wittington closed the door firmly on the persevering populace, which immediately proceeded to the pit and gallery doors, there to await, armed with sterling coin of the realm, the commencement of the performance, and the first appearance on the boards of Slimeford of a prince of the blood royal. Within th(i theatre, Eowdedow was greeted with bows and smiles from the ladies and gentlemen of the company, who had dressed early for their re- spective parts in the drama of " Obi," and assembled in the green-room for the sole purpose of staring at him. There was a little attempt at conversation. The prince was asked his opinion of England, English manners and customs, &c., but the shrugs of his PRINCE RAMJI KOWDEDOW. 57 graceful sliouklers, and elevations of his strongly detined eyebrows, with which he responded, evinced such an utter ignorance of the English language as rendered discourse impossible ; indeed, when j\lr. Spavins, a gentleman who had been in India, actually addressed his royal highness in Hindostanee, he still continued the shrug of non-comprehension, whereat that gentleman was cruelly laughed at by his compeers for having attempted a language he could not speak. ' That's your Hindostanee, is it ? You see, his excellency doesn't understand a syllable.' As indeed his excellency did not. The propert}' man preceded liamji with two composite candles to the before-mentioned temporary dressing-room, and a young man who ran errands lor the company requested to know, both by talking at the highest pitch of his voice (sti'ange that foreigners do not understand our language better when we shout it as througli a ship's trumpet ! ) and by expressive pantomiue, whether he could be of any assistance in the toilet of the star. His aid was declined ; and the illustrious liamji begged, still in pantomime, to be lelt alone. 58 WEAVEKS AND WEET. About this time the manager asked with con- siderable surprise what had become of Miffs ? and the cry of 'Where's Miffs?' was echoed through the theatre. ]\Iy friend Dick Wittington explained that as I did not play in my first piece, I had taken the opportunity of running down to some friends to sell some tickets ; ' or very likely,' continued my friend, * he may be next door ' (next door w^as a tavern much affected by the Thespian corps). Eichard indeed ran into the bar and asked if anybody had seen Miffs. No, nobody had seen Miffs. Miffs was not to be found. He did not even make his appearance when, the last bar of the overture being played, the curtain rose to a delighted audience, and in due course the Eoyal Obi appeared upon the boards. The prince enacted the part entirely in pantomime, applauded to the echo, and great was the wonderment of Slimeford that a denizen of a distant land, the wanderer from another hemisphere, should be so well up in every little bit of Victoria business and claptrap, familiar to them from the performance of the great Hicks. The curtain fell, the theatre rang with loud cries of ' Eowdedow ! ' the prince appeared, his hand upon his breast, his head bent, his jaws PEINCE RAMJI EOWDEDOW. 59 working vigorously, as if employed in chewing betel- nut, or repeating to himself inward pa\ans of thanl^s- givingj. This done, he made a general bow to the company, and in spite of numerous requests that he would take wine, brandy, ale, that he would stay to supper, that he would meet a party at the 'Shakespeare' (aforesaid tavern next door), that he would stop and play for the manager's benefit, and so on, and so forth — he insisted on departing immediately, in company with my friend Mr, Wittington. So unassuming was his disposition, so reserved his nature, that he contrived to elude the crowd wuitinfr at the staire door to behold him emerge. So secret were his movements in the subtlety of his oriental nature, that it was never known how he got to the railway station. Nay, the clerks and porters swore to the fact that no Indian whatsoever, or indeed any individual of a coloured race, left the station either that nidit or subsequently ; and it was never known to any one in Slimeford how this royal and interesting amateur reached India, or the Ganges, or the Himalayas, or whatever his destination might be ; whether his interview with the Secretary of State for India 60 ~ WEAVERS AND WEFT. was successful; whether he ever legained the throne of his forefathers, or any fact whatsoever connected with the illustrious Eamji Eowdedow, A quarter of an hour after his departure, how- ever, I, Mr. John Miffs, made my appearance, ready to play in the last piece, with a black rim round my left eye which my kind friends insinuated I had got in a fight on the previous evening. I can only say, in conclusion, that this was the best benefit I ever had in Slimeford, realizing the handsome sum of twenty-seven pounds fourteen shillings and four- pence ; but that, taking into account the risk I ran of being torn piecemeal by infuriated weavers and dyers had my disguise been penetrated, the money was dearly earned. TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. Lucy Deravent played the walking-ladies, with a share of the juvenile business, at the Theatres Loyal, Slowmington, Comberly, and Drifford, on which circuit it was my humble lot to be engaged for the second old women and general utility. It must not be supposed that I really was old, or even elderly. I played old women because my personal appearance was unattractive, my stage wardrobe somewhat scanty, and my aspirations of the humblest. I came of a theatrical family : my father had been a clown, and had lost his life in consequence of an accident during the run of Harlequin Gulliver and the Fairy Queen of Lillipuf, a very splendid panto- mime, at one of the East-end London theatres, in which Mr. Maltraver's celebrated troup of infant 62 WEAVERS AND WEFT, prodigies appeared. The infant prodigies have grown up now, and are great hulking men and women, hanging on to the theatrical profession in very subor- dinate positions, as I, who was an infant prodigy myself, can testify. My father died in the heyday of his professional career, leaving my poor mother with three helpless children, of whom I was the eldest. She had been a principal dancer at one of the small theatres when my father married her, and a very pretty woman ; but the coming of the children put an end to her dancing, and her beauty faded very quickly with the cares of her married life. I am compelled to admit that my father was not the best husband in the world, though he was the easiest and most good-natured of men, and loved us all dearly. But he was j ust as easy and good-natured with his boon companions as he was with his wife and children, and was always getting into bad company somehow, and coming home in the early dawn — oh, so tipsy and so help- less, with such a white soddened face and such limp arms and legs. My mother went back to the stage when she was TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 63 left a widow ; but, her beauty being quite worn away, she was at a disadvantage with the managers, and was obliged to fall into a very humble position. She danced a little, and sang a little, and played small parts ; sometimes representing a lovely young heiress of seventeen, with her poor faded face and thin wasted figure and shabby dress, sometimes an old woman with wrinkles and a red nose. They used to send her on for anything, poor dear, knowing that it was a stern necessity for her to be employed, and to get bread for her three little ones. She wore herself out at last, and when I was about sixteen I lost her. Heaven knows how bitter that loss was to me, and how all the sunshine and youth seemed to vanish out of my life when she was gone. I was an old woman from that moment, and any little talent which I may have had for the stage — and I had been rather successful in childish characters, and had received a good deal of praise in my time — departed with my happiness and hope. I had hoped for a time in which I might succeed as a lead- ing actress, and earn a salary that would keep my mother in comfort. I had fancied the life we should 64 WEAVERS AND WEFT. lead, and the bright happy home we might have ; but this hope was gone now — I had nothing left but duty. I had my younger sister to work for — the boy had been taken in hand by a brother of my poor mother's, a small tradesman at Brompton, and was doing well ; so I had only Amelia Jane to think of. She was a good girl, and used to travel everywhere with me, and to act occasionally ; but I was very careful that she should not waste her time hanging about the theatre when she wasn't wanted, and I contrived to find a respectable day school for her in each of the three towns on Mr. Ponsonby's circuit. Perhaps I am saying too much about myself, as the story I am going to tell has nothing to do with me or my affairs. I was a very humble individual in Mr. Ponsonby's company. Whatever beauty I had ever had — and up to my fifteenth birthday I had promised to be like my mother in her best days — had all left me after a severe attack of small-pox, which nearly cost me my life as well, and put an end to all my hopes of ever doing much as an actress. I was only two-and-twenty, but I had a grave, old-fashioned way that suited the old women, people said ; and I TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 65 took to that line willingly enough, being glad to earn a living anyhow for Amelia Jane and myself. I used to redden my nose night after night, until I scarcely knew what it was to appear with that feature of its natural colour ; though I really don't know why it is that dramatic old age should always be distinguished by that particular infirmity ; but if at any time I did venture to omit the reddening process, I was sure to be told that I had no real love for my profession, and no appreciation of character. * Character, my dear, is what you've got to think about, if ever you want to advance a step beyond your present position,' the stage manager said to me ; ' and there's nothing like a touch of vermilion at the end of the nose to give character.' I had been jogging on in my quiet way for some years, and had got to be looked upon as a very useful person in the company. Amelia Jane was grown up by this time, and was rather a pretty girl, with a sweet soprano voice and a good deal of dramatic talent. She played all the chambermaids, and her salary was much larger than mine — not that she was VuL. III. F 66 WKAVKK/tr'AND WEFT. ever proud or stuck up about that ; for she was the dearest, simplest little creature in the world, and fancied there was no one like her sister Martha. She had been on the stage three years — in Mr. Ponsonby's company all the time, — and I had passed my twenty- seventh birthday, and was beginning to fancy myself quite an old maid, when Lucy Derweut came to us. I think she was the loveliest girl I ever saw in my life. I don't mean to say that I have not seen women with more perfect features, but Lucy's face had a brightness of colouring and expression that bewitched one at the first glance. I never knew any one fail to admire her. It was such a girlish, lovable beauty. Eyes that were really blue — the bright pure blue of a cloudless summer sky, — and with an inno- cent confiding look in them that was even lovelier than their colour ; the sweetest mouth that ever smiled — and this one was always smiling ; a little dimpled chin ; and a complexion that was all lilies and roses, and upon which the stage paint seemed pollution. She was tall and very slim, with none of those points which are supposed to constitute a fine figure, but with a youthful grace which to my mind TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 07 more than made up for any deficiencies of that kind. Altogether slie was a most charming creature, and when Mr. Ponsonby engaged her he told us he had secured a treasure. She was quite a young lady, we found. She had been educated at a boarding school, played the piano, and spoke French, Italian, and German with more or less proficiency. Her father was a barrister, a dissipated, extravagant man, who had a large family, and was always in embarrassed circumstances. So his children had been compelled to look about them and think of cjettinfr a living for themselves, and Lucy had determined to become an actress, having a passion for the stage. Of course I did not learn these things all at once ; they came out little by little, as Lucy and I got to be intimate. She took to me wonderfully from the first, as I had taken to her, and used to ask my advice about her dresses, and so on, and seemed to think a great deal of my experience. She had only been on the stage twelve months when she came to ]\Ir. Tonsonby, and had made wonderful progress in that short time. I do not say that she was a genius ; but she was very clever, and had a graceful, o 68 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. easy way in everything she did, which won upon her audience, and made her a favourite at once. Our leading lady, Miss Juliet Vavasour, otherwise Mrs. Mole, who was rather a ponderous person of eight- and-thirty, with a husband in the orchestra, and a family of children at home, was not too well pleased with Miss Derwent, and was very angry and jealous when Mr. Ponsonby cast her any important part. There never was a more light-hearted, joyous creature than Lucy when she came to us at Slow- mington. The household at home was carried on in a scrambling, easy-going kind of manner, as I gathered from her talk. There were ever so many brothers and sisters, all very fond of one another, and still fonder of the mother, who was the centre of all things for them ; and they contrived to take life very pleasantly somehow or other, in spite of all shortcomings on the part of the master of the house. Lucy was full of wit and fun, dear girl, and her coming amongst us seemed quite to brighten our lives, as Amelia Jane and I used to tell her often. She lodged in the house we had always lodged in at Slowmington — a queer old-fashioned place in a TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 60 shady court at the obscure end of the town, — and little by little she got to live with us altogether, sharing our meals and dividing our expenses, de- claring that I was a wonder of management and economy, and that I saved her a great deal of money by my careful ways. She was always well dressed, both on and off the stage ; for she had a whole tribe of rich and fashionable cousins, who sent her great boxes of clothes in excellent condition, and she was not at all ashamed to tell us the source from which her handsome wardrobe had been derived. * If it rested with papa to supply me, I suppose I should have to wear the same gown from year's end to year's end, for it never dawns upon him that his daughters can want gowns,' she said, laughing ; ' but luckily for me, my cousins are rich and generous, and I get the reversion of all their ball and dinner dresses — much to the aggravation of their maids, i dare say.' She was such a bright winning creature, that the simplest dress took a grace from her beauty. I was never tired of admiring her, and all her gay fasci- nating ways. She was very much admired by the 70 WEAVERS AND WEFT. gentlemen of the company too, who used to gather round her in the green-room, and make quite a little court of worshippers ; but she received all their com- pliments with a kind of gracious indifference, and seemed in no danger of losing her heart to any one of them. We used to tease her a little about these admirers ; on which she would always tell us that she had never been in love, and never should be in love as long as she lived. ' What, Lucy I ' cried my sister ; ' do you mean to say that you are going to be an old maid ? ' ' I don't know about, that, Amelia ; one may marry without being in love, you know. If any one were to offer me a handsome house, and a carriage and pair, and plenty of servants, and all that kind of thing, I think I should be very much inclined to accept his proposal.' * Why, Lucy, is it possible that you could be mer- cenary ? ' ' Would that be mercenary ? ' she asked, laugh- ing. 'Well, I don't know; if the gentleman was not very nice, and if the carriage was a landau, I might refuse him; but if it was a barouche, and TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 71 he had dark eyes, I think I should say yes. But even then he must have a brougham as well, or how could I go to parties ? ' ' - ' And what is to become of poor j\Ir. Ponsonby ? ' I said. ' I'm afraid there is no hope for him.' Our manager was a single man, not quite forty years of age, and had proved rather fickle and capri- cious in his relations with the fair sex up to this time. But he had shown himself desperately smitten by Lucy Derwent, and we all of us knew that she might be Mrs. Ponsonby whenever she pleased. He was a very good fellow; not handsome by any means, but with a frank, pleasing countenance, and he was a great favourite on the Slowmington circuit, both in his private and public capacity. He was the soul of honour in all his dealings, and very kind and liberal to his company. Amelia Jane and I thought that Lucy Derwent might do worse than marry George Ponsonby. He was a clever light comedian, had acted in London for two or three seasons witli con- siderable Mat, and was reputed to have saved money. ' What 1 ' Lucy cried, with a little scream of horror, marry that old man ? ' 72 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' My dear child, he is not forty.' ' If he isn't, he's awfully close to it — quite double my age, at any rate, and no barouche. Why, Patty> I might as well marry my grandpapa.' ' But if he is devotedly attached to you, as I am sure he is, and would make you a very good husband — ' *I don't want a good husband, you tiresome Patty ; I want a barouche, and it must have Cee springs, and he must have dark eyes. Mr. Ponsouby's are green, or at least they were green when he was young and there was some colour in them ; they are quite washed out now — a pale drab, like Mdiity- brown paper — and his hair is exactly the same shade. And oh, if I were his wife, how tired I should be of seeing him play Charles Surface, and all manner of French marquises in a light-blue cotton velvet court ' suit, trimmed with tarnished silver lace ! Perhaps he would want me to sit in the box office and take tlie money, or to stand at the wing and prompt him when he didn't know his part.' ' I'm sure he would make you the star of his theatre,' I said, ' and that you might have a very happy life.' TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 73 I had been brought up so entirely among theatrical people, that I thought to marry a pros- perous provincial manager was almost the highest fate a young woman could aspire to ; but Lucy Derwent only laughed at me when 1 told her so, and it seemed as if there was very little hope for Mr. Ponsonby. There seemed less hope for him liy and by when Mr. Roderick Macdonald came to Slowmington for a fortnight's starrino- engagement. It was summer-time when this gentleman came to us, the beginning of June, and the country round about was all abloom with wild_ Howers. I don't think I can remember liner M'eather than we had just then, in all my life ; not that it was by any means favourable weather for a country theatre ; but oh, what delicious days, what cloudless blue skies, what a freshness and glory in the mornings, what a tender and pensive beauty in the dewy twilight, when the stars came out one by one in the opal- tinted heaven, and there was a rosy flush over all the west till nine o'clock at night! Slowraington is a fashionable town, a great 74 WEAVEKS AND WEFT, hunting-place in winter, and a kind of inland watering- place in summer. There is a mineral spa, but I don't think many people drink the waters ; and there are botanical gardens, where there are fetes and archery meetings ; yet at its best the town is quiet, and the visitors have rather a faded elderly look. All the country round is exquisite, and there are more walks and drives than one can easily reckon ; and about the town itself, and the villas sprinkled on the green- wooded slope on the western side of the town, there is an all-pervading air of prettiness and elegance not often seen. Rich merchants and manufacturers from the great city of Hammerford have their country houses here, and the place has the drowsy, reposeful air of a town that has never had to work for its own living. Mr. Ptoderick Macdonald had been starring all throug;h England before he came to try his fortunes at Slowmington, and had met with varying success in the course of his wanderings. He was the spend- thrift heir of a good old Scottish family, an ex-captain of dragoons, who had run through a handsome fortune, and had taken to the stage as a last TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 75 resource. Wherever he -svent he excited consider- able curiosity and interest, on account of his ante- cedents; and he was looked upon generally as a distinguished amateur, who acted from pure love of dramatic art, No doubt Mr. Macdonald was very fond of acting ; but it must be confessed that he wanted money very badly, and looked to his dramatic genius as a source of income. We were very curious about him at Slowming- ton, having heard all manner of stories about his desperate goings-on during his military career, and of his habit of knocking down any gentleman of the dramatic profession with whose opinions he happened to disagree. He had been summoned before the magistrates in several towns to answer for this little weakness of his. Having heard this of him, we expected to find him a disagreeable and super- cilious kind of person, and were prepared to hold our own against him, and to demonstrate our indifference to his superior rank by every means in our power. He played light comedy, eccentric comedy, and the broadest low comedy, having chosen his repcrlo ire from a very wide field, :'.iid without reference to any 76 WEAVERS AND WEFT. particular line of business. He had been knocking about in the theatrical profession for something less than three years, when he came to Slowmington, and had acted for a season in London, but with no marked success. How well I remember the Saturday afternoon on which I first saw him ! The company had waited for liim till quite late in the afternoon, in order to rehearse one of the pieces for Monday. AVe had almost given him up, and were talking of going home to tea, the actors grumbling about him angrily, and saying that it was like his impudence to keep us all waiting in this manner. The green-room at Slowmington opened into a little bit of garden, where there were a few goose- berry bushes and a sycamore tree. It was such a garden as one would have thought nothing of in any other situation ; but it was quite a valuable addition to the small stuffy green-room, and in fine weather we used to sit out here when we were not wanted on the stage for rehearsal : and at night the actors used to smoke their pipes here, between whiles, during the performance. TOO BKIGHT TO LAST. 77 Lucy and I were sitting on a little bench under the sycamore, when the star made liis appearance at last, coming down a narrow passage leading from the stage-door, with the manager by his side. He was a very tall mau, tall beyond the common height of men, and had a bright fair face, with blue eyes, and dark-brown hair curling crisply round a high, broad forehead ; it was rather a Byronic head, I thought. Our manager introduced ]\Ir. Macdonald to us. He acknowledged the introduction graciously enough, but glanced at us all very carelessly, I fancied, until he came to Lucy Derwent, when his eyes brightened all at once with a surprised admiring look, as if he had never seen anything prettier than the picture before him. And indeed it might have been so, for Lucy was looking her loveliest that afternoon, as she sat under the sycamore with her hat lying on her lap, and her sunny hair falling loosely about her face, while the shadows of the leaves flickered upon her light muslin dress. She was to act a good deal with the stramjer, and Mr. Ponsonby made this particular introduction M'ith more empressonent than he had shown in making the 78 \vp:avei{s and weft. others. He wanted to insure courteous treatment for his favourite. Perhaps when a few nights had gone by, and those two had acted together in a good many pieces, Mr. Ponsonby may have been inclined to think there was a little too much courtesy in Eoderick Macdonald's manner to Miss Derwent. The engagement did not prove a very successful one. People came for the first night or two out of curiosity, I think, anxious to see the tall ex-dragoon'; but after those first nights the audiences dropped off, and the house was thinly occupied. The Botanical Gardens and the rural walks and drives round Slow- mington were more attractive on these lovely June evenings than the prettiest theatre in England. Mr. Macdonald bore this neglect with supreme good-humour. He had not knocked any one down yet, and had conducted himself altogether in a very agreeable manner. I do not know whether he was really a good actor ; but I know that he made us laugh a great deal on the stage — much more than his audience ever laughed at him, but then provincial audiences are apt to be stolid. He was full of fun and nonsense ; mixed up the most ridiculous sayings TOO BKIGHT TO LAST. 79 of bis own with the language of the author, in the wildest way, made all sorts of absurd reniarlcs about the audience softo voce, and contrived to keep Lucy in a perpetual titter all the time she was on the stage with him. He was pleased by hci" laughing so readily at his jokes, he was pleased with her beauty, pleased with her gay winning manners. So long as he was acting with her he seemed not to care how empty the house was, or how cold the audience. I don't think he knew that it was empty at such times ; I think the boxes were peopled and radiant for him when those two were on the stage together — he her ardent lover, she all smiles and blushes and tenderness, so natural in her girlish confusion and sweet maiden shyness, that it was difficult to believe there was any acting in the business. I told her as much one night ; but she laughed, and said I was the most nonsensical creature in the world. Behind the scenes at night, and in tlie little garden under the sycamore every morning at rehearsal, those two used always to be together. ]\Ir. ]Macdonald had been a great deal abroad, and talked French and German perfectly, T 80 WEAVERS AND WEFT. am told. He used to converse in those languages with Lucy, and was charmed with her own imper- fect schoolgirl talk, for which she was accustomed to make many blushing apologies. It is not to be supposed that such a flirtation as this could escape notice in a theatre, where people are all eyes and ears. That confidential talk in foreign tongues seemed exceedingly offensive to some members of our company. Miss Juliet Vavasour was especially indignant with what she was pleased to call Miss Derwent's carryings-on. If people were not ashamed of what they had to say, they would speak English, this lady said ; and she wondered what result Miss Derwent could expect from such a flirtation with a man like Mr. Macdonald, who, of course, could have no serious or honourable intentions, and was only amusing himself at her expense. I defended my dear*girl indignantly when Miss Vavasour said these bitter things ; but she went on saying them all the same, and was as angry and jealous as if she had been young and single, and had wished to win Mr. Macdonald for herself I must own, however, that the flirtation did seem rather a desperate one, and I TOO BKIGIIT TO LAST. 81 took occasion to lecture Lucy very gravely about her conduct, and to tell her the hard things that her enemies were beginning to say about her. When I had finished my remonstrance, she threw her arms round my neck, and hid her blushing face upon my shoulder. ' Oh, Patty,' she said, ' I love him so dearly. It is not a flirtation ; it is the most serious thing in the world — it is for life or death.' ' Oh, my dear, my dear ! ' I cried, grieved beyond expression to discover the desperate state of the case. ' Have you considered what a wild, dissipated man Mr. Macdonald is, what a bad reputation he has ? ' ' I have considered nothing, Patty, except that he is the only m^an upon earth for me, and that I love him with all my heart. But he is not dissipated. He has been a little wild perhaps, and extravagant in the past — he says as much himself. And what of that ? All generous young men are wild and extra- vagant.' ' What has he said to you, Lucy ? Has he asked you to be his wife ? ' ' Oh, no, Patty. Things have not gone quite so VOL. Ill, G. 82 WEAVERS AND WEFT. far as that. But I know that he loves me ; he has told me so iu a hundred ways. I think you can see as much as that with your own eyes, you ridiculously serious old Patty.' ' Yes, my dear ; I have seen as much as that from the first night you two acted together, I think. But I don't like the business for all that, Lucy, and I am sorry you should get yourself talked about on account of a man of whom you know so little. If you were to marry Mr. Macdonald, I don't think it would be a good match, or that you would ever ride in the barouche you talk of.' ' I resign the barouche for ever,' she answered, laughing. ' I would go on drudging and toiling all my life as an obscure country actress for his sake- Yes, and redden my nose even, and play old women. What is there in this world I would not do for his sake ? Oh, Patty, you don't know how noble he is, and what a charm there is in his voice and manner when he talks to me.' ' I know that he has turned your head, Lucy,' I said, ' and that's about the only sure thing I do know of him.' TOO BPIGHT TO LAST. 80 It was nearly the end of the fortnight by this time, and still those two were always together. j\Ir. Macdonald used to escort Lucy home from rehearsal, and then he would come into our homely old- fashioned parlour, and sit there talking to us for an hour at a time, and making himself so agreeable that 1 could not bring myself to be uncivil to him, how- ever doubtful and anxious I might feel ; and I was very anxious, for I saw what a hold he had upon my poor girl's heart, and dreaded the issue of this affair At night, in the soft summer moonlight — the moon was at the full at the end of that fortnight, I remember — we used to hnd him waiting for us at the stage-door ; and he used to walk by Lucy's side, through the tranquil empty streets, while my sister and 1 went on a little before them. Lucy's beauty seemed to take a new radiance from her happiness just then. I fancied she grew lovelier every day, and I could not wonder that Eoderick ]\Iacdonald loved her. There was one person in tlie theatre who watched Lucy and her lover with a very grave and anxious countenance, and that person was Mr. Ponsonby, the 84 WEAVERS AND WEFT. manager. He grew quite absent-minded and care- less in his acting, and had a preoccupied look at all times. I was very sorry for him ; for I knew what a good fellow he was, and how truly he loved Lucy Derwent. If he had not Mr. Macdonald's brilliant manners and Byronic head, he had other qualities which seemed to me more valuable — steadiness and truth and honesty, a good temper, and a kind heart. How little we knew about the aristocratic Scotchman, except that he spoke French and German exquisitely, and had an intellectual forehead and bright blue eyes ! It came to the last day of his engagement, and I thought Mr. Macdonald looked very gloomy as the time of his departure drew near. He was to begin a week's engagement at Hammerford on Monday, and was to travel there on Sunday morning, after acting with us on Saturday evening. Lucy and I walked to the theatre together on Saturday morning, and I ventured to ask her if Mr. Macdonald had said any- thing serious. There had been ample time and oppor- tunity for him to do so, had he been so minded. I think the question paiued her a little, and the look TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 85 of distress iu the sweet youug face made me feel myself a monster of cruelty. ' No, Patty,' she answered, after a pause, ' he has said nothing yet. I think there are obstacles to his marrying yet awhile ; the embarrassed state of his circumstances, perhaps. You know men are not so com'ageous as women in these things. They cannot face poverty as fearlessly as we can for the sake of any one we love. He speaks of himself in a very gloomy way, but so vaguely that I cannot tell what his troubles are, and I do not like to question him about them.' We went on to the theatre in silence. My dar- ling was very pensive. All the brightness and happi- ness of the last fortnight seemed to have vanished : the time of parting was so near, the sweet brief mid- summer dream was coming to a dreary end. ' I wonder whether I shall ever see him again, Patty, after he leaves this place?' Lucy said to me when we were close to the stage-door. ' Of course you will, dear, if he loves you, as I am sure he does,' I answered, for her plaintive look and tone went to my heart. 86 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' I don't know that. He spoke of our parting last night as if it was to be for ever ; as if it was a good thing for both of us, somehow, that we are going to part.' That Saturday was the warmest day we had had yet — blazing sunshine, and scarcely a breath of air. All the company was crowded into the little garden where the gooseberry-bushes grew. Mr. Macdonald was there too, lounging on the bench under the syca- more tree, with one newspaper in his hand and another on the ground at his feet. The Slowniington press had not been kind to him. His acting was handled very severely in both the newspapers which had come out that bright June morning. He read the critiques aloud, and laughed at them with a bitter strident laugh, and cursed the critics of Slowmington very freely. He was so engrossed by this occupation that he did not look up as Lucy and I came into the garden. Yes, the dream was over ; this Saturday morning was the awaken, ing. We went into the green-room, and Lucy sat down in a corner to study her part. She had a very important character in a comedy to play that night TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 87 and I think her mind was so full of other things that she found it harder than usual to cram the words into her poor little head. We were quite alone in the green-room, but A\'e could hear the voices in the garden outside, and j\Ir. Macdou aid's bitter laughter. He came in by-and-by, and shook hands with Lucy ; but there was no happy talk in foreign languages between those two to-day. Of course the Slowmington critics were utterly insignificant and contemptible in his eyes, as he declared they were ; but I think the adverse criti- cism galled him a little nevertheless. And then his engagement had been altogether an unprofitable one. It was scarcely strange that he should look discon- tented and gloomy this morning. The rehearsal was a long one, and dragged on wearily for several hours. The last thing to be rehearsed was a farce in which there were very few characters — only Mr. ISIacdonald, Mr. Fitz warren the walking gentleman, Lucy Derwent, and myself. We were rehearsing this quite late in the afternoon, and Lucy and I were together in the green-room while the two men were on the stage, when Mr. Ponsonby came in from a little closet-like room 88 WEAVERS AND WEFT. that was called the treasury, where he transacted all the business of the theatre, with the casts of the pieces for the following week, and began to hang them up in the little frame over the chimney-piece. Yes, the world was to go on all the same after Roderick Macdonald was gone, and pieces were to be studied and acted, and all the common round of daily drudgery was to continue, just as if that bright break in Lucy Derwent's life had never come. I knew she was thinking this as she looked up wearily at Mr. Ponsonby, without a spark of interest in the pieces for the coming week, about which she would have been so curious and eager a fortnight ago. The manager loitered a little over his task, whistling softly to himself, dawdling for a purpose, I fancied ; and in that moment a nervous feeling came over me, just as if I had known that there was something painful coming, 'Macdonald seems rather out of sorts to-day,' he said at last, with his back still towards us, as he stood at the mantelpiece. ' They certainly have walked into him awfully in the Mercury and Midland Chronicle ; but it doesn't need much TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 89 of a Clitic to see that the man's no actor. I suppose lie'll go home to his wife, after his Ham- merford engagement, and that shell console him for all his failures.' ' His wife ! ' I cried, turning cold and faint. ' Is Mr. Macdonald married ? ' 'So it seems,' Mr. Ponsonby answered, looking round at us for the first time. ' I didn't know it till this morning, or I should ' — he hesitated for a moment, looking at Lucy — ' I should have let others know it. I had a letter from a friend in London by to-day's post, telling me a good deal about our friend j\Iacdonald. He has been married ever since he was quite a youth to a Frenchwoman ten years his senior. I don't know if they live together ; but she is a very handsome woman, I hear, and was on the stage in Paris when he first saw her. I suppose it was this marriage that gave him a fancy for turning actor.' I don't know whether he meant to be cruel ; jealousy and anger had made him hard, perhaps, even towards Lucy. I know that the blow struck home. The fair young face grew white to the very 90 WEAVERS AND WEFT. lips, but my poor darling betrayed her trouble by no other sign just then. There was a dead silence in the room, and we heard Mr. Macdonald's step on the gravel in the little garden outside as he came out of the theatre. What a leaden gloom there seemed in the place, which was wont to be so noisy and uproarious with the talk and laughter of the actors ! Lucy got up from her seat presently, and went slowly out of the room. I knew that she was going straight to speak to Mr. Macdonald, to ask him whether this thing was true or not. I was sitting by the window, and could see him as he sat on his favourite seat under the sycamore, leaning forward with a very gloomy face, and scratching figures on the gravel with the point of his cane. He looked very interesting, I thought, with that melancholy expression in his pale face ; and there was more pity for him than anger against him in my heart. Mr. Ponsonby thrust his hands in his pockets, and planted himself with his back against the empty fireplace, in a dogged kind of way, 'She ought to know it,' he muttered. 'It is only right for her to know.' TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 91 ' I think you might have broken it to her a little more kindly,' I said to him, rather indignantly. ' Broken it ! stuff and nonsense ! ' he answered, angrily. ' What breaking can there be wanted in such a case ? What can she care about a man whom she has only known a fortnight — a dire bad actor into the bargain ? I'm sure his buffoonery in Charles Surface, and his gagging in Young Marlow, were beneath contempt.' I did not reply to this ; I was looking out at the scene under the sycamore tree. Lucy had gone slowly up to Mr. Macdonald, and had asked him some question. I could see the pale lips move, though the voice was so low and faint that I could not hear so much as a murmur. I saw him look up at her with a start, and with a sudden sharp anguish in his face that made it haggard and old-looking all in a moment. ' Yes,' he said at last, ' the murder's out. It's true. Some kind friend has told you, I suppose. Yes, it's true ; ' and then, as she stood before him silently, he stretched out his hands to her in a pleading, despairing way. 92 WEAVERS XND WEFT. ' Oh, my love, my love, forgive me ! ' he cried, Lucy Derwent gave a little gasping sob, and fell down at his feet in a dead faint. I ran out to the garden directly, the manager after me. Mr. Macdouald had raised her from the ground by that time, and was holding her in his arms, imploring her to forgive him, and calling himself a brute and a villain. ' Yes, you may well say that. You have proved yourself a most consummate villain ! ' Mr. Ponsonby said, savagely. The Scotchman turned on him fiercely, with his fists clenched, and I remembered that propensity for knocking people down for which this gentleman had distinguished himself. He did not attack Mr. Ponsonby, however, and bore the reproof meekly enough. ' YoiL needn't insult me,' he said, in a gloomy tone. ' You needn't hit a fellow that's down. I'm low enough, God knows. I know that I have been s. villain to her, but not a deliberate villain. I love her Avith all my heart and soul. If she would trust herself to me, I would be her slave, would sacrifice every hope I have in the world for her sake. Yet I TOO BRIGHT TO LAST, 9o love her so well, that I would not ask her to do that for my life. She is as innocent and pure as the angels, and I have not said a word to her that I might not say to my sister. But I love her — O my God, how I love her ! ' He held her all this time, supported by one strong arm, and with her fair head lying on his breast, happily unconscious still. He looked down at her — oh, so tenderly I — as the sweet pale face lay there. ' No, my love,' he said, with a smile, ' I will not wrong you by so much as a kiss unawares.' She came back to life presently with a convulsive sigh, and I think the fulness of her trouble flashed upon her with the first moment of returning con- sciousness. ' Let lis go home, Patty,' she said, quietly ; ' the rehearsal is finished, isn't it ? ' It was not quite finished; but Mr. Ponsonby nodded to me, and said, ' Yes, get her home.' Mr. !Macdonald had withdrawn his arm from her the moment she recovered. He stood a little way apa.-t now, watching her with a look that was half 94 WEAVERS AND WEFT. tenderness, half despair, I have no doubt I ought to have been very angry with him for the duplicity that had caused all this mischief ; but I could not for the life of me feel anything but pity for him. We walked slowly home in the afternoon sunshine, Lucy leaning on my arm. I did not speak to her once in all the way. I knew that such a grief as hers would be best suffered in silence, and that any attempt at consolation must be worse than useless. She went straight to her room when we got home, and I promised to take her a cup of tea there presently. We were in the habit of taking tea and dinner together after a late rehearsal, in the homely fashion which women like ; but I felt pretty sure that Lucy would eat little or nothing this afternoon. When I went to her with the tea, I found her sitting with a play-book on her lap, staring absently at the page. She had not even taken off' her walking things. I took off her hat and mantle, and got her to bathe her face in cold water, and sat by her while she drank a cup of tea, and ate a little piece of bread- and-butter, to please me. Then I persuaded her to lie down upon the bed, and rest until it was time to TOO BRICniT TO LAST. 95 go to the theatre. It was no good trying to study — the words would come to her somehow at night, I had no doubt. She obeyed me in her own sweet, gentle way, and I darkened the room for her, and left her lying down with her face turned to the wall. Up to this time she had not shed a tear ; but I think the tears came all at once now ; for when I crept softly to her door a few minutes later I heard her low, suppressed sobbing, and I was not sorry that this relief should come to her. At six o'clock she came to our sitting-room, with a pale fixed face, but no obvious traces of her tears, dressed ready to start for the theatre. We walked there together, she and I, my sister not being wanted till a later hour. How the fashionable life of Slow- mington jarred upon me that evening ! — the gaily- dressed people walking and driving in the serene sunshine, the bright-looking shops, the aspect of happiness that there was in the place. I don't think Lucy Derwent ever acted so well as she acted that night. I had been afraid that she might break down ; and had only hoped at the best that she would get through her parts somehow. But 96 WEAVERS AND WEFT. tlie fever and excitement of her mind gave a new vivacity to her acting. She threw herself into the character she was playing with an utter abandon- ment. Mr. Ponsonby stood at the wing, wondering at her brightness and animation. ' She's not much the worse for my news, you see,' he said to me with rather a triumphant air, ' in spite of her faint this afternoon : girls faint for next to nothing. Of course it was only a flirtation on her side, whatever it may have been on Mac- donald's, and the poor beggar did look awfully cut up, I confess.' * Oh, of course,' I said, not caring to contradict him. I saw Lucy and Mr. Macdonald at the wings in the intervals of their acting, talking together very earnestly. He told her the story of his life that night, a story which she told me afterwards, a com- mon story enough, of a boy's foolish marriage and a man's bitter repentance. The night came to an end only too soon for those two, I think, who found some sweetness amongst the pain of those parting hours. I did not witness their final farewell; they were TOO BRIGHT TO LAST, 97 alone together in the little garden for a few minutes while I finished dressing — Lucy waiting for me to join her. Perhaps I purposely lingered a little over my toilet that night, willing that they should have those last moments together. ]Mr. INIacdonald had gone when I went down- stairs, and Lucy was waiting for me alone in the garden. It was a wet night ; but I doubt if the poor child knew it was raining till I told her so. ' He is gone, Patty,' she said, ' for ever and ever. I shall never see him again. It is better so, of course ; but, oh, how blank and dull the world will seem without him, and what an old, old woman I feel ! ' ' My dear love, all that will pass away. Why, you have only known him two short weeks ! It cannot be a very serious feeling on either side.' ' You don't know, Patty. Tliose two weeks seem half my life to me, and the brightest half of my life. He asked me to let him kiss me ; just once, Patty.' He stood by my side, bare-headed, pleading so earnestly just for one kiss, and I said, " No." But now he is gone, I wish I had let him kiss me ; I wish I had not been so hard and cruel.' VOL. III. H 98 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' IMy dear child, you only did what was right he has had a great deal too much indulgence as it is. He had no right to conceal the fact of his marriage, or to flirt with you as he did.' ' He had not the heart to tell me the truth. Don't be hard upon him, Patty. You don't know how generous and noble he is. I don't think there's a woman in the world who could help loving him. Oh, how I wish I had let him kiss me ! ' She trusted me so thoroughly, poor child, and laid her heart bare before me with such entire candour and simplicity. Many, many times after that night, in our talk of Roderick Macdonald she would return to the old regret : ' Oh, Patty, I wish I had let him kiss me ! ' Our lives went on quietly and peacefully enough after the star had vanished out of our tranquil sky Lucy Derwent did not fall ill of a brain fever, as she ought to have done perhaps under the circumstances, nor did she exhibit any outward tokens of her grief. She took more pains with her acting than usual, I know, and seemed as gay and light-hearted as ever in the green-room, where she knew there were eager TOO BRIGHT TOO LAST. 09 eyes watching for any sign of her trouble. But at home, with us whom she trusted, she was sadly changed. She would sit alone in her room for hours together, with an open book lying unheeded on her lap ; and when we persuaded her to join us she was dull and silent, and we never heard her old joyous laugh, or her pretty voice singing over her work. She suffered all the more at home, I think, on account of the effort which she made to appear her old self at the theatre. We heard of Mr. Macdonald at the different towns, where he was starring with more or less suc- cess ; and then, at the end of about six months, there came the news that he was going to' Australia, to try his dramatic fortunes in that colony. ' I was right, you see, Patty,' Lucy said to me, when she read this announcement in a theatrical journal ; ' I shall never see him again.' ' My dear child, he will come back from Australia in a year or so, I dare say, and there will be just as good a chance of your seeing him as if he had never been there.' ' No, Patty, I shall never see him again. We 100 WEAVERS AND WEFT. both felt that last miserable night that we should never meet again ; and he asked me to let him kiss me, and I wouldn't.' It was midsummer weather again, and we were at Slowmington once more, Lucy still with us, and Mr. Ponsonby more devoted to her than ever. She had brightened a good deal by this time, and I thought she was beginning to forget Mr. Macdonald. She was a great favourite with the audience in all our three towns, and her salary had been raised ; so that she was able to send home a little money to her mother now and then, which helped that anxious housekeeper in some of her minor embar- rassments. ' If it is only enough to pay the milk bill, it is something, you see, Patty/ Lucy said to me in her candid way. And so the time went on, peacefully enough. We had an especially prosperous season at Slowmington that year, and the autumn found us still at the pretty little inland watering-place. Early in October George Ponsonby's fidelity had its reward, and I had the happiness of appearing in the character of bridesmaid- TOO BKIGHT TO LAST. 101 to Lucy Derwent, who signed herself * Lucy Dawson in the register, by the way, in which record Mr. Ponsonby wrote himself down * George Payne.' Yes, she had accepted this faithful lover at last, grateful for his devotion, flattered by his belief in her talents, and preferring the tranquil home he could give her to the worries and confusions of her father's house. That she really loved him, I did not for a moment believe ; but I was pleased that she should marry him, nevertheless, and I had no doubt that the quiet, undemonstrative affection which best insures the happiness of domestic life would grow up m my darUns's heart in good time. I knew that she was faithful and true, and that she would neglect no duty wliich she pledged herself to perform before the altar in the shadowy old parish church. Nor was I mistaken in this. She made the fairest, brightest, most delightful wife that ever a man won for himself, and her husband seemed to grow prouder of her, and fonder of her every day. He was very generous to her too, and she told me she was now able to send frequent help to the poor overtasked mother at home. 102 WEAVERS AND WEFT. They had been married nearly six months, and we were at Drifford, a manufacturing town, very black and smoky, famous for gigantic pigs and savoury pork pies. The inhabitants consumed enormous quantities of pork pie in the pit and gallery during the evening's entertainment ; indeed, if times were bad, and these people could not afford ample supplies of pork pie, they would stay away from the theatre, preferring to abstain from the drama altogether, rather than witness it unfortified by their favourite refreshment. We were at Drifford, and it was the end of March — gloomy, blustrous weather, with a cold gray sky, and frequent showers of wind-driven rain that used to beat into my face and almost blind me during the walk from my lodgings to the theatre — and I think I remember this time especially on account of an event which tried my poor Lucy's fortitude sorely. I was at rehearsal on one of these cold rainy mornings, when the theatre had an unusually dark and dismal appearanc e, and when every member of the company seemed either out of temper or out of spirits. I was standing at one of the wings, trying TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 103 to cram the words of a long unprofitable part into my head, when the manager came up to me. ' Oh, Patty,' he said — he had taken to calling me Patty/ like his wife, — *I wish you would just step round and have a little chat with Lucy ; she's not quite the thing this morning, and I dare say you can cheer her up if you try.' ' I should be very pleased to go to her,' I said, ' but I'm on all through this piece.' 'Never mind that. It'll be rehearsed again to- morrow, you know. Wilcox shall read your part. There, run along, that's a good soul, and look after Lucy.' I could see that he was very pale, and had a troubled look M'hich I had never seen in his face since that Saturday niglit at Slowmington. I hurried out of the theatre, and to Mr. Ponsonby's lodgings, which were very pleasant rooms not far off. I know the drawing-room used to seem to me quite a splendid apartment, which I fancied any lady might have been proud to occupy. But then I had not seen many drawing-rooms, and this may have appeared to me grander than it really was 104 _ WEAVEKS AND WEFT. Lucy made very light of her luxurious sur- roundings. She came to me, a few moments after I had been shown into this room, pale to the lips, and with an unspeakable sadness in her face. She had a newspaper in one hand, and she was still holding this when she threw herself into my arms, and hid her poor white face upon my shoulder. ' I heard that you were ill, dear,' I said, ' and Mr. Ponsonby sent me here to see if I could be of any use to my pet. You know how anxious he always is about you.' ' He is very good to me,' she answered, in a low, tremulous voice ; ' oh, so much better than I deserve. He knows now how unworthy I am of his goodness. I kept my secret from him till to-day, but he knows all now.' ' All what, you foolish child ? ' 'He is dead, Patty,' she answered, with a sob. ' Who is dead ? ' 'Roderick Macdonald. It was in the paper this morning. He died at Melbourne, of rheumatic fever. He was only twenty-nine. Oh, Patty, I TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 105 told you that I should never see him again. And to think that he should have prayed so hard for that one last kiss, and I refused it ! He is dead, Patty. Oh, if I could only have kissed him in his coffin ! ' 'My darling, this talk is so foolish — wicked even. I am very sorry to hear of Mr. Macdon aid's death ; but, if he had lived, no good could have come out of a meeting between you and him. You have no right to grieve for him like this, Lucy.' ' Oh, I know that,' she answered, impatiently. ' No right ! I tell you, Patty, he was the only man I ever loved in all my life.' ' Oh, Lucy ! And your poor good husband ! ' ' 1 told him I had no heart to give him. I only promised to do my duty.' ' And you will keep that promise, darling, and love will come by and by. Yes, it will come, my dear, I am sure of that ; and you will forget thiit you ever cared for Roderick ]\Iacdonald.' She shook her head sadly, and then we sat down side by side, her poor weary head resting on my shoulder. .She showed me the brief paragraph in the 106 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. London paper by and by, and I let her talk as long as she pleased about her dead lover. I knew some- how that things would come right in time ; and so they did. Time drew Lucy's gentle heart nearer to her good and faithful husband, and took the edge off that old regret. Mr. and Mrs. Ponsonby have three pretty children, and seem to me a perfectly happy couple ; but I think even yet there are moments when Lucy's thoughts slip away from the little one on her lap, and there rises before her the vision of a face that shall never be seen again upon this earth. THE SCENE-PAINTER'S WIFE. ' You wouldn't think it to look at her now, sir,' said the old clown, as he shook the ashes out of his black- ened clay, ' but madam was once as handsome a woman as you'd see for many a long day. It was an accident that spoilt her beauty.' The speaker was attached to a little equestrian company with which I had fallen in during a summer day's pedestrianism in Warwickshire. The troupe had halted at a roadside inn, where I was dawdling over my mid-day meal, and by the time I had smoked my cigar in his companionship, the clown and I were upon a footing of perfect friendliness. I had been not a little struck by the woman oi" whom he spoke. She was tall and slim, and had soinetliing ol' a foreign look, as T thought. Her face 108 WEAVERS AND WEFT, was chiefly remarkable for the painful impression which it gave to a stranger. It was the face of a woman who had suffered some great terror. The sickly pallor of the skin was made conspicuous by the hectic brightness of the large black eyes, and on one cheek there was a scar — the mark of some deadly hurt inflicted long ago. My new friend and I had strolled a little way from the inn, where the rest of the company were still occupied with their frugal dinner. A stretch of sunny common lay before us, and seemed to invite a ramble. The clown filled his pipe and walked on meditatively. I took out another cigar. ' Was it a fall from horseback that gave her that scar ? ' I asked. 'A fall from horseback! Madame Delavanti 1 No, sir, that seam on her cheek was made by the claws of a tiger. It's rather a curious sort of story, and I don't mind telling it, if you'd like to hear it, but for goodness' sake don't let her know I've been talking of her, if you should happen to scrape acc[uaintance with her when you go back to the inn. * Has she such a dislike to being talked about ? ' THE scene-faintek's avife. 109 ' I rather think she has. You see she's not quite right in the upper story, poor soul ; but she's a clipper to ride, and doesn't know what fear means. You'd scarcely believe how handsome she looks at night when she's dressed for the ring. Her face lights up almost as well] as it used to do ten years ago, before she had the accident. Ah, she was a beauty in those days, and used to be run after by all the gentlemen like mad. But she never was a bad lot, never — wild and self-willed, but never a wicked woman, as I'll stake my life. I've been her friend through thick and thin when she needed a friend, and I've under- stood her better than others. ' She was only twelve years old when first she came to us with her father, a noted lion-tamer. He was a man who drank hard now and then, and was very severe with her at such times ; but she always had a brave spirit, and I never knew her to quail before him or before the beasts. She used to take her share in all the old man's performances, and when he died and the lions were sold off our pro- prietor kept a tiger for her to perform with. He was the cleverest of all the animals, but a queer 110 WEAVERS AND WEFT. temper, and it needed a spirit like Caroline Dela- vanti's to face him. She used to ride in the circus as well as perform with the tiger, and she was alto- gether the most valuable member of the company^ and was very well paid for her work. She was eighteen when her father died, and within a year of his death she married Joseph Waylie, our scene- painter. *I was rather surprised at this marriage, for I fancied Caroline might have done better. Joe was thirty-five, if he was a day — a pale, sandy-haired fellow, not much to look at, and by no means a genius. But he was awfully fond of Caroline. He had followed her about like a dog ever since she came among us, and I thought she married him more out of pity than love. I told her so one day, but she only laughed and said, — ' " He's too good for me, Mr. Waters, that's the truth. I don't deserve to be loved as he loves me." 'The newly-married couple seemed to be very happy together. It was a treat to see Joe stand at the wing and watch his wife through her per- formances, ready to put a .shawl over her pretty THE scene-painter's WIFE. Ill white shoulders when she had done, or to throw himself between her and the tiger in case of mis- chief. She treated him in a pretty patronizing- sort of way, as if he had been ever so much younger than she, instead of twelve years her senior. She used to stand upon tiptoe and kiss him before all the company sometimes at a rehearsal, much to his delight. He worked like a slave in the hope of improving his position as he improved in his art, and he thou2;ht nothing too good for his beautiful young wife. They had very comfortable lodgings about half a mile from the manufacturing town where we were stationed for the winter months, and lived as well as simple folks need live. ' Our manager was proprietor of a second theatre, at a seaport town fifty miles away ; and when pantomime time was coming on, poor Joseph Waylie was ordered off to paint the scenery for this other theatre, much to his grief, as his work was likely to keep him a month or six weeks away from his wife. It was their tirst parting, and the husband felt it deeply. He left Caroline to the care of an old woman who took the money, and who professed 112 WEAVERS AND WEFT. a very warm attachment for Mrs. Waylie, or Madame Delavauti, as she was called iu the bills. 'Joseph had not been gone much more than a week when I began to take notice of a young officer who was in front every evening, and who watched Caroline's performance with evident admira- tion. I saw him one night in very close conversa- tion with Mrs. IMuggleton, the money-taker, and was not over-pleased to hear Madame Delavanti's name mentioned in the course of their conversation. On the next night I found him loitering about at the stage door. He was a very handsome man, and I could not avoid taking notice of him. On inquiry, I found that his name was Jocelyn, and that he was a cantain in the recfiment then stationed in the town. He was the only son of a wealthy manufacturer, I was told, and had plenty of money to throw about. ' I had finished my performance earlier than usual one night soon after this, and was waiting for a friend at the stage door, when Captain Jocelyn came up the dark by-street, smoking his cigar, and evidently waiting for some one. I fell back into the shadow of the doorway, and waited, feeling pretty sure that THE scene-painter's wife. 113 he was on the watch for Caroline. I was right. She came out presently and joined him, putting her hand under his arm, as if it was quite a usual thing for him to be her escort. I followed them at a little distance as they walked off, and waited till I saw Joe's wife safe within her own door. The captain detained her on the door-step talking for a few minutes, and evidently would have liked to have kept her there longer, but she dismissed him with that pretty imperious way she had with all of us at times. ' Now, as a very old friend of Caroline's, I wasn't going to stand this sort of thing ; so I taxed her with it plainly next day, and told her no good could come of any acquaintance between her and Captain Jocelyn. '"And no harm need come of it either, you silly old fellow," she said. " I've been used to that sort of attention all my life. There's nothing but the most innocent flirtation between us." '"What would Joe think of such an innocent flirtation, Caroline ? " I asked, '"Joe must learn to put niiwith such things," 9]\o VOL. III. I 114 WEA.VE11S AND WEFT. answered, " as long as I do my duty to liira. 1 can't live without excitement, and admiration, and that sort of thincc. Joe ouo;ht to know that as well as I do." ' " I should have thought the tiger and the horses would have given you enough excitement, Caroline," I said, " without running into worse dangers than the risk of your life." ' " But they don't give me half enough excitement," she answered ; and then she took out a little watch in a jewelled case, and looked at it, and then at me in a half-boastful, half-nervous way. ' " Why, what a pretty watch. Carry ! " said I. " Is that a present from Joe ? " ' " As if you didn't know better than that ! " she said. " Country scene-painters can't aftbrd to buy diamond watches for their wives, Mr. Waters." ' I tried to lecture her, but she laughed off my reproaches ; and I saw her that night with a bracelet on her arm which I knew must be another gift from the captain. He was in a stage box, and threw her a bouquet of choice flowers after her scene with tlie tiger. It was the prettiest sight in the world to see THE scene-painter's WIFE. 115 lier pick up the flowers and ofter them to the giiin- looking animal to smell, and then snatch them away with a laugh, and retire, curtseying to the audience and glancing coquettishly towards the box where her admirer sat applauding her. 'Three weeks went by like this, the captain in front every night. T kept a close watch upon the pair, for I thought that, however she might carry on her flirtation, Joe's wife was true at heart, and would not do him any deliberate wrong. She was very young and very wilful, but I fancied my influence would go a long way with her in any desperate emer- gency. So I kept an eye upon her and her admirer, and there was rarely a night that I did not see the captain's back turned upon the door of Mrs. Waylie's lodgings before I went home to my own supper. ' Joe was not expected home for another week, and the regiment was to leave the town in a couple of days. Caroline told me this one morning with evident pleasure, and I was overjoyed to find she did not really care for Captain Jocelyn. " ' Xot a bit, you silly old man," slie said ; " I like his admiration, and 1 like his presents, but 1 know lin WEAVERS AND WEFT. there's no one in the world worth Joe. I'm very- glad the regiment will be gone when Joe comes back. I shall have had my bit of fun, you know, and I shall tell Joe all about it ; and as Captain Jocelyn will have gone to the other end of the world, he can't object to the presents — tributes offered to my genius, as the captain says in his notes." ' I felt by no means sure that Joseph "NYaylie would consent to his wife's retaining these tributes, and I told her as much. '"Oh, nonsense!" she said; "I can do what I like with Joe. He'll be quite satisfied when he sees Captain Jocelyn's respectful letters. I couldn't part with my darling little watch for the world." ' When I went to the theatre next evening I found the captain standing talking to Caroline just inside the stage door. He seemed very earnest, and was beesins her to do something which she said was impossible. It was his last night in the town, you see, and I have very little doubt that he was asking her to run away with him — for I believe the man was over head and ears in love with her — and that she was putting him off in her laughing, coquettish way. THE SCENE-PAIN TER'S WIFE. 117 ' " I won't take your answer uow," he said, very seriously. " I shall wait for you at the door to-night. You can't mean to break my heart, Caroline; the answer must be, ' Yes.' " ' She broke away from him hurriedly. " Hark ! " she said, " there's the overture ; and in half an hour I must be upon the stage." ' I passed the captain in the dark passage, and a few paces farther on passed some one else whose face I could not see, but whose short, hurried breathing sounded like that of a person who had been running. We brushed against one another as we passed, but the man took no notice of me. ' Half an hour afterwards I was lounging in a corner of the ring while Caroline went throuoh her performances with the tiger. Captain Jocelyn was in his usual place, with a boucj^uet in his hand. It was New Year's night, and the house was very full. I had been looking all round for some time, when I was startled by the sight of a face in the pit. It was Joseph Waylie's face, ashy pale, and fixed as death — a face that meant mischief. "" He has heard soiiictliiuL; ayainst his wife," 1 118 WEAVERS AND WEFT. thought. "I'll run round to him directly I can get out of the ring, and make matters square. Some confounded scandal-monger has got hold of him. and has been poisoning his mind about Caroline and the captain." I knew there had been a good deal of talk in the theatre about those two — talk which I had done my best to put down. ' Captain Jocelyn threw his bouquet, which was received with a coquettish smile and a bright upward glance that seemed to express profound delight. I knew that this was mere stage-play ; but how must it have looked to the jealous man, glaring with fixed eyes from his place at the back of the pit ! I turned to look at him as the curtain fell upon the stage, but he was gone. He was going round to speak to his wife, no doubt. I left the ring immediately, and went to prepare her for the interview, and, if need- ful, to stand between her and her husband's anger. ' I found her at the wing, trifling with her bouquet in an absent way, ' " Have you seen Joe ? " I asked, ' " No," she answered, " He hasn't come back, has he ? I didn't expect him for a week." THE SCENE-PAIXTER'S WIFE. 119 ' " I know, my dear ; but I saw him in the pit just now, looking as pale as a ghost. I'm afraid some one has been talking to him about you." * She looked^rath'er frightened when I said this. ' " They can't say any harm of me if they speak the truth," she said. " I wonder Joe didn't come straight to me though, instead of going to the front of the house." ' We were both wanted in the ring. I helped Caroline through her equestrian performance, and saw that she was a little nervous and anxious about Joe's return. She did not favour the captain with many more smiles that evening, and she told me to be ready for her at the stage door ten minutes before the performance was over. ' " I want to give Captain Jocelyn the slip," she said ; " but I dare say Joe will come to me before I'm ready." ' Joe did not appear, however, and she went home writh me. I met the captain on my way back, and he asked me if I had been seeing Mrs. Waylie home. I told him yes, and that her husband had come home. Joe had not arrived at the lodgings, 120 WEAVERS AND WEFi'. however, when Caroline went in, and I returned to the theatre to look for him. The stage door was shut when I went back ; so I supposed that Joe had gone home by another way, or was out drinking. I went to bed that night very uneasy in my mind about Caroline and her husband. ' There was an early rehearsal of a new interlude next morning, and Caroline came into the theatre five minutes after I got there. She looked pale and ill. Her husband had not been home. ' " I think it must have been a mistake of yours about Joe," she said to me. " I don't think it could have been he you saw in the pit last night." * " I saw him as surely as I see you at this moment, my dear," I answered. " There's no possi- bility of a mistake. Joe came back last night, and Joe was in the pit while you were on with the tiger." ' This time she looked really frightened. She put her hand to her heart suddenly, and began to tremble. ' " Why didn't he come home to me ? " she cried, " and where did he hide himself last night ? THE SCENE-l'AlNTEK'S WIFE. 121 ' " I'm afraid lie must have gone out upon the drink, my dear." ' ' " Joe never drinks," ' she answered. 'AVhile she stood looking at me with that pale scared face, one of our young men came running towards us. * " You're wanted, Waters," he said, shortly. '"Where?" '"Upstairs in the painting-room." ' " Joe's room ! " cried Caroline. " Then he has come back. I'll go with you." ' She was following me as I crossed the stage, but the young man tried to stop her. ' " You'd better not come just yet, Mrs. Waylie," he"said, in a hurried way. " It's only Waters that's wanted on a matter of busiuess." And then, as Caroline followed close behind us, he took hold of my arm and whispered, " Don't let her come." ' I tried to keep her back, but it was no use. ' " I know it's my husband who wants you," she said. " They've been making mischief about me. You shan't keep me away from him." ' We wore on the unrrow stairs leading to the 122 WEAVERS AND WEFT. painting-room by this time. I couldn't keep Caro- line off. She pushed past both of us, and ran into the room before we could stop her. ' " Serve her right," muttered my companion. "It's all her doing." ' I heard her scream as I came to the door. There was a little crowd in the painting-room round a quiet figure lying on a bench, and there was a ghastly pool of blood upon the floor. Joseph "Way lie had cut his throat. ' " He must have done it last night," said the manager. " There's a letter for his wife on the table yonder. Is that you, Mrs. Waylie ? A bad business, isn't it ? Poor Joseph ! " ' Caroline knelt down by the side of the bench, and stopped there on her knees, as still as death, till the room was clear of all but me. ' " They think I deserve this. Waters," she said, lifting her white face from the dead man's shoulder, where she had hidden it ; " but I meant no harm. Give me the letter." ' " You'd better wait a bit, my dear," I said. ' " No, no ; give it me at once, please." "^ THE scene-painter's WIFE. 123 ' I gave her the letter. It was very short. The scene-painter had come back to the theatre in time to hear some portion of that interview between Captain Jocelyn and liis wife. He evidently luid believed her much more guilty than she was. ' " I think you must know how I loved you, Caro- line," he wrote ; " I can't face life with the knowledge that you've been false to me." ' Of course there was an inquest. We worked it so that the jury gave a verdict of temporary insanity, and poor Joe was buried decently in the cemetery outside the town. Caroline sold the watch and the bracelet that Captain Jocelyn had given her, in order to pay for her husband's funeral. She was very quiet, and went on with the performances as usual a week after Joe's death, but I could see a great change in her. The rest of the company were very hard upon her, as I thought, blaming her for her husband's death, and she was under a cloud, as it were ; but she looked as handsome as ever, and went through all her performances in her old daring way. I'm sure, though, that she grieved sincerely for Joe's death, and that she had never meant to do him wrong. 124 WKAVERS AND WEFT. ' We travelled all through the next summer, and late in November went back to Homersleigh. Caro- line had seemed happier while we were away, I thought, and when we were going back she confessed as much to me. *" I've got a kind of dread of seeing that place again," she said ; " I'm always dreaming of the paint- ing-room as it looked that January morning with the cold light streaming in upon that dreadful figure on the bench. That room has scarcely been out of my dreams one night since I've been away from Homersleigh ; and now I dread going back as if — as if he was shut up there." ' The room was not a particularly convenient one, and it had been used for lumber after Joe's death. The man M'ho came after him didn't care to paint there by himself all day long. On the first morning of our return, Caroline went up and looked in at the dusty heap of disused stage furniture and broken properties. I met her coming away from the room. ' " Oh, IMr. Waters," she said to me with real feel- ing, " if he had only waited to hear me speak for myself ! They all think I deserved what happened. i THE scene-painter's AVIIE. 12."> and perhaps I did, as far as it was a punishuient for my vanity and foolishness ; but Joe didn't deserve such a fate. I know it was their malicious talk that did the mischief." ' I fancied after this that her looks changed for the worse, and that she had a kind of nervous way in ooino- throuah her work in the rino;, as if there was a fever upon her. I couldn't judge so well how she went through the tiger abt, as I was never on the stase with her, but the brute seemed as submissive as ever. On the last day of the year she asked ouv manager to let her off for the next night. " It's the anniversary of my husband's death," she said. ' " 1 didn't know you were so precious fond of him," he answered, with a sneer. " No, Mrs. Waylie, we can't afford to dispense with your services to- morrow night. The tiger act is one of our strong features with the gallery, and I expect a full house for New Year's night," ' She begged him very hard to let her off, but it was no use. There was no rehearsal on New Year's morning, and she went to the little cemetery where Joe was buried, a three miles' walk in the 126 WEAVEKS AND WEFT, cold and rain. In the evening, when she came to the wing, her eyes were brighter than usual, and she shivered a good deal, more than I liked to see. ' " I think I must have caught cold in the cemetery to-day," she said to me when I noticed this. " I wish I could have kept this night sacred — this one night — to my husband's memory. He has been in my mind so much to-day." ' She went on, and I stood at the wing watching her. The audience applauded vociferously, but she did not make lier accustomed curtsey ; and she went about her work in a listless way that was very dilierent from her usual spirited style. The animal seemed to know this, and when she had got about half way through her tricks with him he began to respond to her word of command in a sulky, unwilling manner that I didn't like. This made her angry, and she used her light whip more freely than usual. ' One of the tiger's concluding tricks was a leap through a garland of flowers which Caroline held for him. She was kneeling in the centre of the stage with this garland in her liands, ready for the THE scene-painter's WIFE. 127 animars spring, when her eyes wandered to the I'ron"^ of the house, and she rose suddenly, with a shrill scream, and her arms outstretched wildly. Whether the sulky brute thought that she was going to strike him or not, I don't know ; but he sprang savagely at her as she rose, and in the next moment she was lying on the ground helpless, and the audience screaming with terror. I rushed upon the stage with half a dozen others, and we had the brute muzzled and roped in a few breathless moments, but not before he had torn Caroline's cheek and shoulder with his claws. She was insensible when we carried her oh' the stage, and she was confined to her bed three months after the accident with brain fever. When she came among us again she had lost every vestige of colour, and her face had that set look which you must have observed just now. * The fright of her encounter with the tiger gave her that look,' I said ; ' 1 don't much wonder at it.' ' Not a bit of it,' answered the clown. ' That's the curious part of the story. She didn't think anything of her skirmish with the tiger, though it quite spoilt her beauty. What frightened her was 128 WEAVERS AND WEFT. the sight of her husband sitting in the pit, as he had sat there a year before, on the night of his death Of course you'll say it was a delusion, and so say I. But she declares she saw him sitting anionjjst the crowd — amongst them, and yet not one of them, somehow, with a ghastly glare upon his face that marked him out from the rest. It was the sight of him that made her drop her garland and give that scream and start which frightened the tiger. You see she had been brooding upon his death for a long time, and no doubt she conjured up his image out of her own brain, as it were. She's never been quite the same since that fever ; but she has plenty of pluclc, and there's scarcely anything she can't do now with Baber the tiger, and I think she's fonder of him than of any human creature, in spite of the scar on her cheek.' SIR LUKE'S RETUEN. To say that Cadbury Hall had stood untenanted and dismantled within the memory of the oldest inhabitant of Cadbury village would be to say too much, for there were two or three aged men and women in Springfield Union who remembered old Sir Luke Cadbury, and the good old days when the hounds used to meet in front of Cadbury Hall, and old Sir Luke, steeped to the lips in debt, and with every acre of his estate encumbered, used to keep open house, and entertain the county in a liberal and large-hearted fashion, at the expense of the local tradesmen. Having mortgaged his last acre, and plunged as deep in debt as his creditors would allow, old Sir Luke found himself at the end of his tether ; so he took the easiest way out of his difficulties by dying, and leaving the empty shell of his estate to his only son. VOL III. K 130 ^ WEAVEKS AND WEFT. Youi:;g- Sir Luke, not seeing his way to living luxuriously upon an estate whose revenues were swallowed up by the mortgagees, looked about him for some more promising mode of existence. He was nineteen years of age when he came into his property. He had been at an expensive public school, where he had learned to row, swim, and thrash boys of superior weight and size. A little Latin and less Greek had been flogged into him, but, acquired thus unpleasantly, had oozed out of him very quickly. He took a day to learn a verb, with much tribulation of mind and sweat of brow, and he forgot it comfortably in half an hour. At home he learned to ride straight to hounds, and shoot his bird Hying. Happily he was a young man of energetic temperament, an early riser, hardy, active, and simple in his tastes. Feeling himself unfit for any of the learned pro- fessions, he turned his attention to commerce. People were beginning to look towards our antipodes as the source of fortune for adventurous spirits, and to associate Botany Bay with the wool trade, as well as with the exportation i4' our criminal classes. Sir SIR LUKE'S RETURN. lol Luke Cadbury made up his mind that Sydney was the place for him, and wool his way to fortune. He let off every rood of the land, except his mother's flower-garden, for agricultural purposes ; shut up the good old house, with its insignia of death hanging on the wall above the hall door ; put the property into the hands of the family lawyer and land agent, and left Cadbury within three weeks of his father's funeral. ' If I am ever rich enough to pay off the mortgages, I shall do it,' said Sir Luke to his solicitor. ' I think my father reserved power to liquidate by instal- ments ? ' ' In all cases,' replied Mr. Dragmore, the lawyer, with a smile, for it seemed to him that no event in the history of the future could be farther off than the redemption of the Cadbury mortgages. Young Sir Luke went away, and had not been in Australia three years before he began to send home money. Year by year from that time forward the Cadbury mortgages underwent reduction, until in something over twenty years the estate was free. John Dragmore, the family solicitor, went down to his grave wondering. 132 WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' That a son of old Sir Luke should have paid forty thousand pounds to the mortgagees, and twenty shillings in the pound to all his father's creditors ! ' he exclaimed on numerous occasions. ' To be sure, his mother was a Scotchwoman. That's the only way of accounting for it. It isn't in the Cadbury blood.' Mr. Dragmore had been in his grave three-and- twenty years, and it was just forty-five years since young Sir Luke left Cadbur}^ to make his fortune in wool. In all those years he had never returned to England. The fascination of wool, or of making money rapidly by that commodity, had kept him on the other side of the world. He had married early in life, and had lost his wife soon after marriage. That tie had never been renewed by him. He was a childless widower, and was supposed to be worth anything between a plum and a million. He was, therefore, even in the distance, an object of con- siderable interest to the Cadbury people, who passed the old Hall daily when they took their walks abroad, and saw the old mansion day after day in exactly the same condition, shutters closed, grass growing SIR LUKES KETUEN. loo on the threshold of the great iron gates, Farmer Manoie's cattle grazing in front of the Doric door. A tree or two had been blown down in the park, and the house had fallen into decay, but no other change had come over the old Hall; though Cadbury had expanded from a pastoral village into a smart little town, with plate-glass windows to its shops, and side streets of brand-new villas leading to nowhere. Most of all was the "Teat Australian wool mer- chant an object of interest to his next of kin. These were ^Ir. Grynde and his family at the Hollies, one of the neatest, most bandboxical places in the out- skirts of Cadbury; and that reprobate young man, Waller Carlyon, who had very nearly brought his widowed mother's gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, by failing to pass his preliminary examination at the University of Oxford, or, in his own phraseology^ being ploughed for smalls. He was not a brainless young man by any means, but was passionately fond of boating, and had given his attention to the geo- graphy of the Isis instead of the Scamander. Samuel Grynde of the Hollies and Waller Carlyon stood in different degrees of relationship to Sir T.uke 134 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Cadbuiy, Waller's being a very remote kindred of the third or fourth cousin order, while Samuel was first cousin to the reigning baronet, and considered him- self heir-presumptive to the estate. Samuel's father, a person of somewhat plebeian extraction, but distinguished for his success in the legal profession, had married old Sir Luke's sister, and Samuel was the fruit of that union. His father had left him twelve hundred a year, upon which income he had married and brought up a large family, with credit to himself and the neighbourhood he honoured by his residence. He had adopted no pro- fession, except that of vestryman and general busy- body. He had a finger in every pie that was baked in Cadbury. Whatever project for the benefit of Cadbury was set on foot, Samuel Grynde was at the bottom of it. There was not five hundred feet of drain-pipe put in the ground at Cadbury without Mr. Grynde making a speech about it. He was great upon sewage ; he was a terror to the authorities of the Springfield, Bilbury, and Cadbury Union, always wanting to know about that odd half-pound of butter, and who eat those mutton chops, and SIR LUKE'S RETURN. 135 whether the guardians' Worcester sauce and Bass's bitter were charged upon the parish. The luncheons of the guardians were always a stumbling-block to Mr. Grynde, and he would raise a whirlwind in the vestry by alluding to those mutton chops. Mr. Grynde was spare in person, a man who eat very little himself, and objected to large appe- tites in other people. The young Gryndes had rather a hard time of it while they were growing and hungry — their father denouncing a fourth slice of bread-and-butter as an indulgence of the lusts of the flesh. Mr. Grynde had a long nose, sharp as a bird's beak, a long neck, and a habit of lifting up his coat tails as he hovered on the edge of a sewer, or bent over a drain-pipe, which suggested a resemblance to a stork on the edge of a marshy pool. Mr. Grynde's private opinion was that he had made Cadbury ; that it was through his fostering and ]mternal care the village had spread itself out into a town; that the plate-glass windows, the loop line from Springfield Junction, and the new railway hotel, all emanated more or less from him. He had talked about these institutions in the vestry until he believed 136 WEAVEKS AND WEFT. in them as verily his own. Yet he was not a popular man in Cadbury. The blues had nicknamed him Sandy Stork, on account of the reddish tinge of his whiskers, and that propensity for hovering on the edge of open drains. The yellows called him ' Those mutton chops,' in memory of those field-days in the vestry on which he had thumped the table, and pero- rated like a second Chatham — Pitt the younger was too mild for him — on- the malfeasance and misappro- priation involved in the guardians' luncheons. To Waller Caiiyon Mr. Grynde objected on so many grounds that his objections were hydra-headed, and if you had subjugated one, another would have cropped up in its place. He objected to Waller as a ne'er-to-do-well, who had squandered his money at Oxford, as an impudent pretender to Sir Luke's relationship, and above all as an admirer of Mr. Grynde's third daughter, Lucy, a giddy light-hearted damsel, whom all Mr. Grynde's paternal teaching had failed to improve into that pattern of maidenhood for which Mr. Grynde had in a manner taken out a patent. The two ekler girls were perfect specimens of ]Mr. SIR LUKE'S IIETUIIN. 137 Grynde's patent youug woman. They played and sang duets like a pair of automaton performers, and were never out of time by so much as a demi- seraiquaver. They read Eacine, and nothing but Eacine, in the French language. They had ploughed through Schiller's 'Thirty Years' War,' in the original, of course, and found it interesting. They played croquet at proper seasons, which meant on a Wednesday afternoon, which was their At Home day, when they wore their clean muslin frocks, and received the elite of Cadbury. Lucy was a wild weed among these flowers. In her nursery and schoolroom days her pinafores had always been torn, one tail of chestnut hair minus its ril)bon, her French and German verbs all at sea in the subjunctive mood, and her bootlaces broken. She had always been what Mr. Grynde called ' an outrage ' on his sense of decency. Now that she was grown into bright, impulsive, blushing, alternate smiling and weeping girlhood, she was still an out- rage. There was always something wrong — a bit of braid torn off the bottom of her dress, a new hat spoiled untimely by a shower, or she was late for 138 WEAVERS AND WEFT. prayers, or she was out when she ought to be at home, or she liked people whom Mr. Grynde disliked, or squandered her allowance on unworthy objects of charity. And now she had filled the measure of her iniquities by falling in love with her father's natural enemy. Waller Carlyon, whose widowed mother had, possibly with a malice aforethought, taken a pretty Gothic cottage next door to Mr. Grynde's square bay-windowed villa. The villa possessed a large garden of the modern order, sunk croquet lawn, raised banks, geraniums in square, geraniums in single file, like soldiers ; no trees, except plums and peaches skewered against the new walls. The cottage had an old-fashioned garden and orchard, all in one, full of queer crooked old trees, deep soft grass, all hillocks and hollows, a wilderness of hazel and elder for a boundary between cottage garden and villa ' grounds.' There was an old tumble-down fence dividing the wilderness from ]\Ir. Grynde's kitchen-garden, which that gentleman would assuredly have replaced with a ten-foot wall had he not cherished hopes of getting that cottage and garden a bargain some day, SIR LUKE'S RETURN, 139 in which event he would have pulled down the cottage, and added the garden to his own domain. Thus, in a laudable spirit of economy, he left the fence standing, and would not even lay out a sovereign on its repair. 'It's an eyesore, I admit,' he used to say, 'a blemish to "rounds which I venture to think are otherwise perfect, but it would be folly to build a wall when I hope to enlarge in that direction by-and-by.' This fence was at the bottom of all Lucy's troubles. She had torn her pinafores climbing, it in the old nursery days, when the cottage was empty, and she and her brothers used to make raids into the orchard after half-ripened apples. It played the part of wall in the tragic story of Pyramus and Thisbe now. Waller and Lucy were cousins — cousins at any rate, however remote the cousinship — and they had been more or less acquainted all their lives. When Mrs. Carlyon came to live at the cottage that acquaintance expanded considerably. They began by wishing each other good morning across the luoken old fence ; they went on to ex- 1-40 .WEAVEES AND WEFT. change slips and cuttings ; they developed from this into the interesting study of botany, and before they had got very deep into that science, they found their eyes wandering from calyxes and petals to each other's faces, losing themselves in a sweet entangle- ment ; and a little later they confessed that they adored each other. ' Papa would never hear of it,' said Lucy, with a piteous face. ' Why not, love ? ' * Oh, for ever so many reasons. He says you are wild.' ' Because I was weak enough to let myself be ploughed for smalls. That was boating, and not dis- sipation, my pet. I never was gated in my life, and I don't owe sixpence in Oxford. Besides which, I am working like a nigger at this present time.' ' Oh, Waller, when you waste whole afternoons talking to me ! ' ' Only necessary relaxation, dearest. I should very soon be in a lunatic asylum if I stuck to my books all day.' Their fool's paradise had not lasted long before SIR LUKE'S RETURN. 141 Samuel Grynde got to know of those meetings by the broken-down fence, and that his daughter's heart had been handed across that dilapidated boundary, together with the botanical specimens. He was calm in the greatness of his anaer. 'This is an outrage I was not prepared for,' he remarked to his contrite and weeping child, ' although your plebeian manners and slovenly habits have made your life one continued affront to me. I beg that you will consider yourself a prisoner in the house, except when }'our elder sisters are good enough to allow you to accompany them on their constitutional walks.' Lucy gave a shuddering sob. If there was one thing she detested more than another, it was these constitutional walks. Tln^ee miles out and three miles home on the level high road to Springfield, with no landscape save an arable flat, bounded by an occasional stunted hedgerow. Her own rambles were sweet to her — unmeasured wanderings in Cad- bury Park, or in the woods beyond the park, with her small brothers, nutting, blackberrying, spoiling her clothes, and cultivating a complexion that rivalled 142 WEAVERS AND WEFT. the roses and lilies iu the old cottage garden. But these six miles by the milestones were an abomina- tion to her. All this happened during what Waller Carlyon called the long vac. It was the very end of the summer, and a glorious summer, the land overflowing with fertility, and the drainage of Cadbury not quite answering the expectations of its projectors. August was in its prime, and people had almost forgotten the sensation of a wet day. ' It's a very miserable summer,' complained Lucy, as she sat at her plain sewing — plain sewing was one of the accomplishments Samuel Grynde insisted on for his patent young woman — in the square, bare, sunny breakfast parlour at the Hollies. ' I wish it would rain torrents, or thunder, or lighten, or do any- thing instead of this perpetual broil, broil, broil.' Waller Carlyon, cut off from that pleasant idlesse by the old fence, went harder than ever at his books, promising his mother that all should be well at the next examination ; and the widow, who believed in him as a future Lord Chancellor, blessed him for his goodness and industry, and implored him SIR LUKE'S llETUKN. 143 to do justice to his splendid talents, which must have been designed by Providence to raise him to a pinnacle. ' Well, mother, I'll do what I can to swarm up the pinnacle,' answered the youth, in his sangiune style, ' or, at any rate, to get a fellowship before I'm thirty, so that I may be a help and not a burden to you.' 'Ah, Waller,' sighed his mother, ' I'm not think- ing of money. I want you to be distinguished. Who knows whether you mayn't be rich some day, independent of you^ own efforts. Sir Luke Cad- bury ' * Put Sir Luke and his fortune out of your mind, mother. Old Sandy Stork is a nearer relation than you or I ; and, depend upon it, if ever Sir Luke comes back to Cadbury our next-door neighbour Avill wind round him like a serpent, lubricate him with soft sawder, and swallow him bodily, as a cobra swallows a rabbit.' ' Who knows ? ' said Mrs. Carlyon, with smiling significance. She was an easy-tempered lady, and always made the best of the present, and hoped a great deal 144 WEAVERS AND WEFT. from the future. The idea that Sir Luke Cadbury might leave some of his money to her son had been the foundation of many an air-built castle. Waller would never admit that such a thing was likely. ' I dare say Sir Luke is a fiery-tempered old savage, and that if he comes home I shall hate him,' he used to say. It was useless to think of stopping indoors in such an August as this, so, when the garden ceased to be a paradise, Waller took Thucydides and his lexicon under his arm, and went into Cadbury Park, It was the loveliest place for a summer ramble, Neglect had beautified it. Instead of the well-kept orderly fairness of a prosperous gentleman's domain, it had the wild loveliness of untrodden woods. A painter would have revelled in such a wilderness. Oaks and beeches a thousand years old, bramble and fern that had flourished undisturbed for half a century, glimpses of a silvery trout stream that meandered in and out, and twined itself about the place as if it loved those shadowy deeps of foliage. Here, on the margin of this silvern brook, Waller SIR Luke's return. 145 used to sit for hours, trying to grasp the spirit of the great historian as well as the letter; he used to sit and pore over the page, till it seemed to him that all the troubles of the Peloponnesian War were upon his shoulders. He was getting rather sleepy over his book one particularly sultry afternoon, when he was startled from his drowsiness by a strident voice near at hand — a voice that had an overbearing and singularly caddish tone, he thought, sadly out of harmony with those tranquil woods. ' Too much timber,' said the voice ; ' we must lay about with us the axe here, Blagrove.' Another voice, very mild this one, murmured acquiescence. 'And we must have the roof off, Blagrove, and rebuild the stables. I never saw such a ramshackle old barrack. By Jove, sir, I wonder how my father tolerated it. But, to be sure, he hadn't a sixpence of ready money to lay out, poor old beggar. He couldn't write his cheque for lifty thousand, and feel none the poorei' for it, as some people we know could, eh^ Blagrove ? ' VOL. III. L l-iG WEAVERS AND WEFT. ' By the beard of the thunderer,' ejaculated Waller, * this must be Sir Luke.' The voices were coming nearer to him, and the owners thereof now came in full view, on the opposite bank of the narrow stream. The man with the big voice was portly and pompous. He had a rubicund nose, a keen gray eye, a coarse stubble of grey hair, and a fierce gray whisker. He carried his hat in his hand, and puffed and snorted a good deal, as if oppressed with the heat. His companion was a small dark man, with an intelligent eye and a pleasant mouth — a mouth with a touch of good-humoured irony in its expression. He was about the same age as the stout man, his hair and beard iron- gray. He was rather shabbily dressed, and looked like a clerk, humble companion, or toady. Waller thought. ' Hi, you sir ! ' cried the big man. ' Do you know this place ? ' ' Pretty well,' answered W^aller, still seated on the bank. ' Then you ought to know that you're trespassing. What's the use of people going to the expense of SIR Luke's return. 147 putting up boards, telling you that trespassers will be prosecuted, if you go on trespassing all the same ? ' ' I've been in the habit of using this park for the last ten years, and have never been told I was a trespasser till to-day,' said Waller. ' Nonsense ! Don't the boards tell you so as plain as a pikestaff, if you can read ? ' ' Farmer Gibbs never told me so, and, as he rents the land, he has the best right to object to me.' ' Come, I say, young man, don't you be contu- macious. You are trespassing upon my land, sir — my land. Do you understand that ? I come home here after forty years' absence, and the first object I en- counter is a trespasser. Pleasant state of things, sir, that, for a man who has made his fortune by the sweat of his brow on the other side of the world. Pleasant to come home and find his patrimonial acres made free with by a trespasser.' ' ]\Iake your mind easy. Sir Luke. I slian't intrude again.' ' Oh, you know me, do you ? ' ' Only by repute, sir, though I have the honour to be a distant relation of vours.' 148 WEAVERS AND WEFT, ' Distant relation. Yes, I expect I shall have distant relations cropping up at every hand's turn. And pray who may you be ? ' ' My name is Waller Carlyon.' ' Oh,' said Sir Luke. He surveyed Waller deliberately from head to foot, and then turned to his humble friend. 'Blagrove, you've a better memory than I have, and you've heard me talk about my family times and often. What relation is Waller Carlyon to me ? ' ' Third cousin,' answered Blagrove. ' Your father's first cousin, Sybilla Cadbury, married Squire Carlyon of Denzil Place, and this young man is their grandson.' 'Oh,' said Sir Luke, 'that's uncommonly distant. I can hardly be expected to recognise that as a claim, can I, Blagrove? Now look here, Mr. WaUer ' But Waller had gathered up his books and was gone. ' Horrid old cad,' he said to himself as he went across the park. ' I dare say I've made an end of II11J chances in that direction ; but I couldn't cringe SIR LUKE'S EETUEN. 149 to such an old savage as that for the chance of inheriting a million.' Cadbury was convulsed. Sir Luke's return was the grandest event that had happened since the opening of the loop line from Springfield. Cadbury was on the tiptoe of expectancy. Wliat was Sir Luke going; to do ? Would he rebuild the old Hall ? To whom would he leave his money ? Would Mr. Grynde, who had made a boast of his cousinship, be received into the great n^an's favour ? Cadbury awaited the answer to these queries, breathless with curiosity and wonder. Cadbury's doubts upon two points were speedily set at rest. Sir Luke did not rebuild the old Hall ; he only restored it to its original solidity and splendour. And Sir Luke took Samuel Grynde to his bosom. Mr. Grynde, spare of figure, and without an ounce of superfluous flesh about him, seemed bodily to expand after Sir Luke's return. He had always walked the streets of Cadbury as if the place belonged to him ; but he contrived to impart increased arrogance to his walk — a superlative dignity to his figure — after Sir Luke's return. 150 WEAVEKS AND WEiT. He was at Sir Luke's right hand throughout the restoration of the Hall, which occupied all the autumn, and was more than ever stork-like in his motions and attitudes. He dipped his beak into every drain, climbed ladders upon perpetual journeys of inspection, peered into every gutter, and was continually whitening his coat with lime. He knew a good deal about building, and contrived to make the lives of bricklayers and other mechanics a burden to them, and to worry the architect into a low fever. ' I can save you hundreds, Sir Luke, hundreds,' he used to say. ' I know these fellows and the tricks they are up to.— Hi, you sir, what is that timber you are putting in? Let me see. if you please. i)o you call this free from sap ? And those wall posts, are they stop chamfered, sir ? Let there be no shirking here.' This devotion was all the more creditable to Mr. Grynde as Sir Luke was by no means an agieeable ]jerson to serve. He was choleric, and in his choler made no distinction of persons. He would swear at his toady and dependant Jack Blagrove, and at Samuel Grynde, indifferently. He had an unpleasant SIR LUKE'S RETURN. 151 way of telling people that they were fools, idiots, ignoramuses. He sent his dear Samuel on messages. He rounded on his dear Samuel to the architect, and let that gentleman know Mr. Grynde's very low estimate of his professional skill. He was a glutton and a gourmand, and made himself odious at dinner- time by quarrelling with the goods the gods had provided, and swearing at his cook. He was per- petually bragging about his wonderful career, and railing at the worn-out county families, which, he asserted, were lapsing to decay, slipping from stagnant respectability into absolute ruin, for want of the trader's energy and the trader's success. " ' Suppose I had stayed at home, sir, and played the fine gentleman, just because I had a handle to my name, and let the mortgagees foreclose ? where would Cadbury Hall have been now, I should like to know ? ' ' Cadbury itself would be the poorer by one of the noblest examples ever offered to mankind,' exclaimed Mr. Grynde, feeling that his reply was at once appropriate and eloquent. ' Ah,' grunted Sir Luke, ' I wasn't afraid ul" trade 152 WEAVEES AND WEFT. because I was born in the purple. T dropped the handle to my name, and went in for wool, sir, and wool brought me through. Bring up your children to trade, Grynde, if you want 'em to be great men. Where would your Peels and your Gladstones be if they hadn't got trade at the back of 'em ? That's the backbone, sir ! ' Mr. Grynde winced. With the pride of a man whose forefathers had been commercial, he aspired to make his sons professional, to see their names by and by adorned with Q.C. ,or supported by the prefix of Eev- erend. His sons, still in the hobbledehoy stage, were being ground into parsons and barristers, but had not yet got beyond a preliminary course of ^Esop and Ovid. * Trade is a fine thing,' he exclaimed gushingly. ' Trade is the quicksilver in the veins of society, which keeps all things moving. But, alas ! I fear my poor boys lack that mental force needful to the trader. They have not the scope, the width, the breadth, the laroeness of mind ' ^ Here Mr. Grynde waved his arms like a thrashing machine. ' Humph ! ' muttered Sir Luke, ' that means to say SIR LUKE'S RETURN. 153 you're going to make them respectable paupers in the learned professions. I'm sorry for 'em. — Blagrove, my camp-stool ' ' ]\Ir. Blagrove, the camp-stool/ repeated J\Ir. Grynde in a tone just a little more arbitrary than that of the tyrant himself. Poor John Blaorove had rather a bad time of it that autumn. His patron was hard upon him always, but Samuel Grynde was harder. He pointed every joke of Sir Luke's against his toady by the frankness of his hilarity. If INIr. Blagrove had been a butt before, he was twice a butt now. Samuel Grynde never spared him. ' There doesn't seem to be much sympathy between you and me, j\Ir. Grynde,' the humble companion said once in meek remonstrance. 'Candidly, my good friend, there is none,' answered Mr. Grynde ; ' I hate parasites.' ' And yet we both belong to the same family,' said Blagrove. ' You're much the sturdier plant, I admit ; but we hang on the same tree.' 'What, sir, you presume to compare me, Samuel Grvnde of the Hollies, a man of independent property, 154 WEAVERSoAKD WEFT. a man of illimitable influence in this parish, with your beggarly self ? ' ' I don't compare our persons or our social status, sir. I only say that our aims tend in one direction. You intend to be enriched by Sir Luke. I hope to be left a small competence by the same benefactor.' ' Oh, you do, do you, sir ? You have the audacity to own that you anticipate a competence ? A cool five thousand or so in the Three per Cents., I suppose, bringing you in something like two hundred a year ? ' ' I have served Sir Luke faithfully, and served him long.' ' And have been paid for your services, I'll warrant me. I am of Sir Luke's own flesh and blood, Mr. Blagrove ; his first cousin, sir ; couldn't be nearer unless I was his brother. What have you to say against that, sir ? ' 'Nothing,' answered Blagrve, with a touch of that manhood which was not quite extinct in him, ' except that Sir Luke might have had a more generous-minded cousin.' Tlie reparations and restorations at Cadbury Hall were completed just before Christmas, and a noble >■ SIK LUKE'S KETUKN. 155 maiisiou the old house looked in its prosperity. Shiniag oak panelling, rich but sombre Turkey and Persian carpets, good old furniture, renovated, but in no case modernized. Despite his ingrained snob- bishness, Sir Luke had shown excellent taste in all details, most of all in resisting Mr. Grynde's advice, and suffering himself to be guided by his toady Blagrove, who had a wonderful appreciation of the beautiful and the harmonious. Christmas was to be a grand time at the Hall, for Sir Luke had taken it into his head to gather all his relations round him at that festive period. He would have them all in the house, he declared, from Christmas Eve till T\\'elfth- night. ' I want them all about me,' he said ; ' I want to know of what stuff they're made of. They're pretty sure to turn themselves inside out in a fortniuht. Let 'em all come. There are rooms enouC WEAVERS AND WEFT. She introduced Hanbuiy to her own particular fictitious world, read him chapters of the novel, and, in a word, derived so much pleasure from his society herself, that she entirely overlooked the danger there might be in such society for her pupil. Time glided pleasantly on. The two young people read together, sketched together, worshipped nature together, and lived as in a happy dream. Hanbury was awakened awfully from that sweet dream-life by the sudden death of his good old aunt, who expired in a fit of apoplexy, brought on possibly by over-indulgence in chalybeate waters. This was a bitter blow to his affections, and it left him penni- less. Miss Hexam's income died with her. Hanbury had neither trade nor profession. He had lived a careless holiday life, and now, in his two-and- twentieth year, had nothing better to look to than the pen of a ready writer for maintenance in the present and fortune in the future. And how with such prospects as these was he to aspire to the hand of Sir Joshua Hexam's daughter ? He paid Dorothea one farewell visit after his aunt's death ; told her all the truth about himself. SIR haxbury's bequest. 257 and told her that he was going into the busy working world to seek his fortune. ' If I win in the great game of chance, you will hear of me again, Dorothea,' he said. ' If I lose ' ' Whether you win or lose, I hope to see you again,' she said, tenderly. ' But oh, Hanbury, why not accept my father's offer ? He would receive you as an adopted son ; he would make your future so easy. I have often heard him speak of you, and regret his ignorance of you.r fate.' * He is very good, but I had rather depend upon my own right arm than on any patron in the world, answered Hanbury, proudly. He had taken his own way, and had tried what his right arm would do for him in America and in Australia, and had come back a failure ; not for lack of energy, or of industry, or of talent ; but fate had been against him, and he had never found a friend to give him a helping hand. VOL. III. S CHAPTER V. HOW THE DREAM CAME TRUE. Tim cold winter night struggled through the thick winter darkness at last, and found Hanbury Hexam still seated before the wide old hearth, absorbed in thought. Long as the hours had been, they had not been too long for the struggle betwixt pride and fate. When the day dawned, Hanbury had made up his mind to apply to Sir Joshua Hexam for a stool in that commercial magnate's counting-house. Lonff ago common sense had taught him to acquit Sir Joshua of any blame in the matter of the fatal Chancery suit ; yet pride had prevented his accept- ance of the great man's help. At nine o'clock the sub-librarian unlocked the door, and Hanbury was free. He wall^ed straight to Su' Joshua's warehouse, a palatial building in one of SIR hanbury's bequest. 259 the richest streets in the rich city of Loomborough. Very different was Sir Joshua's counting-house from the quiet little room where the dreamer had seen Sir Hanbury poring over his ledger. Sir Joshua's offices were like a bank : such shining mahogany desks ; such glittering brass rails dividing the desks ; such splendid stoves and glowing fires, and wonder- ful contrivances in the way of speaking-tubes ; such well-dressed clerks, with pens behind their ears, and a general appearance of being weighed down by the magnitude of the business. When Hanbury asked to see Sir Joshua, the gentleman to whom he had addressed himself looked as surprised as if he had offered to send up his card to Queen Victoria. ' Have you an appointment ? ' he asked. ' No.' ' Quite impossible, then ; Sir Joshua never sees any one except by appointment.' ' Be so kind as to take him my card, and ask him to favour me with an early appointment,' said Hanbury. The clerk looked at the card, and departed 260 WEAVERS AND WEFT. wondering. Five minutes afterwards Hanbury was closeted with Sir Joshua in a handsome apartment, Turkey carpeted, warmed by a huge fire, provided with all the luxurious appliances that embellish the dull labour of commercial life. On the 27th of December, after a sorely desolate Christmas, spent for the most part in the snowy streets of Loomborough, Hanbury took his seat in his kinsman's office. ' Work honestly, and you shall be honestly re- warded,' the old man had said to him, not unkindly. He looked so like Sir Hanbury of the dream-picture as he made this little speech, Hanbury did work honestly and well. Those three years of hard fighting with ill fortune had sharpened wits that were originally bright. Before Hanbury had been a year in the office he had proved himself worth three ordinary clerks, and Sir Joshua had invited him to dine at Hexham Park every alternate Sunday. In the second year of the young man's clerkship there came a great commercial crisis. House after house went down as with the shock of an earth- SIR HANBURYS BEQUEST. 261 quake ; and for three awful days the great firm of Hexam and Co. tottered with the fall of its allies. In that crisis Hanbury Hexam displayed an energy and a firmness which went far to right the ship. Sir Joshua was ill at the time, and thus the master spirit of the firm was wanting when his presence seemed most needed. From that hour the young man was taken to his employer's heart, and became verily an adopted son. Two years later he was a junior partner in the great house, and Dorothea Hexam's betrothed husband. It was on one of the dark days before Christmas tliat the two lovers went together to the old library at Loomborough. An important pm-chase of books had just been made for the institution, and Hanbury wished Dorothea to see them. Perhaps it was only an excuse for showing his betrothed the quaint old chamber where he had dreamed that curious dream. The scene was almost the same as on his first visit. There was the old man huCTmno- the fire, and there sat the compiler of prophecies, fenced in with 262 WEAVERS AND WEFT. books at his distant table. The local poet was absent. Hanbury led Dorothea to the recess by the painted window, and they seated themselves there side by side. ' What a dear old place it is ! ' said Dorothea. ' It's ages since I've been here.' ' Yes, it's a nice old place,' answered her happy lover, ' I've reason to be fond of it. I owe all ray present happiness to a dream I had here. I had made up my mind to sail for New Zealand in the next emigrant ship, to work as a field labourer perhaps, when I got there ; and I had written you a long letter of farewell, when I fell asleep, and had a curious dream about him,' pointing to Sir Han bury 's portrait. And then he told her his dream. ' Such dreams are sent by our guardian angels, Hanbury,' she said gently, ' to teach us faith in God.' A VERY NARROW ESCAPE. It was not quite a year since Mr. George HartfielJ, the leadhig solicitor in the market town of Norbury, had returned from his honeymoon tour, bringing with him the prettiest little wife that the good old town had boasted for a long time. George was only thirty years of age, but his wife looked a mere girl, and was at least eleven years his junior, much to the disgust of more mature damsels, who would have been very willing to step into the proprietorship of the good-looking young lawyer and his prim respect- able old house, which was one of the most con- spicuous dwellings in the upper and more rural part of the High Street. Mr. Hartfield had inherited an excellent business from his father, and was altogether a person of some importance in the opinion of the 264 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Norbnry world at large, and of himself in par- ticular. The wife was a shy girlish creature, who seemed scarcely fit to be mistress of that big formal house, with its shining wainscoted walls and grim old fur- niture — furniture that had been fashionable in the days of George's grandfather — gloomy old mahogany four-posters and walnut-wood presses, in the polished panels whereof sentimental little Alice Hartfield' whose head was a kind of branch depot of the circulating library, used to fancy she saw ghosts in the gloaming. In honest truth, she did not take much to the house in the High Street, and looked back with fond regretfulness to the bright country home from which George had won her ; but IVIr. Hartfield being of an arbitrary temper, and convinced that the old house was perfection, she had never ventured to hint her dislike. It must be owned that the evenings were long and dull for so girlish a matron. George Hartfield was often out — sometimes at a public dinner at the Crown Hotel, sometimes at a social club held at the ^ame prosperous tavern, sometimes playing billiards with bachelor clients — A VERY NARROW ESCAPE, 265 all ill the way of business, of course, as he told his wife ; but the evenings during which he was absent were not the less lonely on that account. Mr. Hartfield employed three clerks : a gentle- manly young man, who was articled ; a stripling, for copying and out-of-door work ; and a grey-haired old man, with a face upon which there was a look of settled melancholy. Mr. Bestow, the articled clerk, and Thomas Dregger, the stripling, had christened him Old Dismal, and spoke of him commonly by that disrespectful sobriquet. If he ever heard the name, it apparently troubled him very little. He rarely spoke, except so far as his business required him to speak: and, in the two years that he had been with Mr. Hartfield, he had not advanced by so much as one step towards intimacy with his fellow-workers. He lived three miles out of Norbury, walking to and from the office in all weathers, and no one had ever seen the inside of his home. Her first year of married life closed in sorrow ami disappointment for Alice Hartfield. The baby- stranger, from whose coming she had expected so much pleasure, only opened its eyes upon this world 266 WEAVERS AND WEFT. to close them again for ever. She dwelt upon this loss with a grief which seemed to her husband just a little exaggerated, and it is possible that her tears and sad looks drove him to his club at the ' Crown ' rather more often this year than in the previous winter. It was not that he was unkind or indifferent to his pretty young wife. He fancied that she was perfectly happy with her books and work and piano, in the interval between six o'clock and eleven, a.t which hour he punctually returned to his abode, as sober as when he left home, well pleased with himself and with the world at large. The two younger clerks commented very freely upon the solicitor's conduct in his domestic capacity. ' If I had such a pretty wife, I wouldn't leave her alone evening after evening as our governor does,' remarked the stripling, pertly ; ' I wonder he isn't ashamed of himself.' ' He ought to take her more into society certainly,' replied Mr. Bestow, the articled clerk, who was in much request in that brilliant circle which constituted Norbury ' society.' A VERY XAEIJOAY ESCAPE. 267 Mr. ]\Iorgan, the old clerk, looked up from his desk with a sigh. 'What, my funereal friend,' cried Bestow, 'do you mean to say you are interested in the sub- ject?' ' I am very much interested in Mrs. Hartfield,' the old man answered quietly ; ' she is always kind to me. It is a good sign when a woman of her age takes the trouble to be polite to an old man like me — a sign that the heart's in the right place. I wish her husband understood her better. I don't think she wants to be taken to tea parties, Mr. Bestow ; but I do think she wants a little more sympathy.' This was a long speech for Mr. Morgan. The two younger men stared at him superciliously, and then went on with their woik. From the first day of her coming to be mistress of the old house William Morgan had shown himself interested in his master's wife. He was always pleased to perform any little service for her, and seemed needlessly grateful for the smallest kindness at her hands. His way home took him tlie whole length of the town ; and Mrs Hartfield used to entrust him with her books to 268 WEAVERS AND WEFT. change at the circuhating library, an office which he performed with much taste and discretion. * 1 take the liberty to carry a volume home with me for the night, at odd times,' he said to her one day. 'What, Mr. Morgan, do you read novels ?' ' No, madam ; but I have a niece living with me who is glad to skim the volumes of an evening.' ' Indeed ! You never spoke of her before. Is your niece married ?' ' She — she is a widow — to all intents and pur- poses. Her husband deserted her three years ago, and left her and her boy on my hands. But we are very happy together, I thank God.' ' The husband must have been a bad man.' ' He was a most consummate scoundrel !' an- swered the old clerk, with suppressed intensity. 'How hard it must be for you to work for all three !' said Alice. ' It will be harder for the two that are left when I am gone. My niece is able to eani a little money at her needle, but very little. It is a daric look-out for the future.' A VKRY NARROW ESPAPE. 269 One morning, early in the spring, ]\Ir. Hartfield came into the office with a very dashing gentleman, a new client, who had just come into a handsome for- tune by the death of old Squire Comberford, of Com- berford Hall, seven miles from Norbury. Edgar Comberford, the new proprietor, was a nejjhew of the old man, and had been a schoolfellow of George Hartfield's fifteen years before. Since that time he had disappeared from the ken of Norbury, and was supposed to have led a wild life in foreign lands. He was eminently handsome, and in high spirits at his accession to the Comberford Hall estate. ' There are the papers, title-deeds, leases, and so on,' said George Hartfield, pointing to three japanned boxes on a shelf in the office ; ' do you want to see them?' * Not I, George,' answered ]\Ir. Comberford, gaily ; ' it is quite enough for me to know that the lands are free from mortgages, and that the rents come in briskly. The papers couldn't be in better hands. Holloa ! what's that ?' It was Mr. ]\Iorgan, the old clerk, who had put 270 WEAVERS AND WEFT. his head in at the door of the office, and suddenly withdrawn it. * Only one of my clerks,' answered George Hart- field. ' Come in, Morgan ! ' he bawled ; but the clerk did not reply, and the two young men left the office — Mr. Comberford to be introduced to his friend's wife. He was not a little surprised by her grace and beauty ; not a little fascinated by her shy, girl- ish manners. He stayed to dinner, and contrived to make himself agreeable to both his host and hostess, giving an animated account of his adventures in Mexico during the last two years. ' T should never have come from there, George but for my uncle's death,' he said. ' I was thoroughly cleaned out when I left England, and meant to live and die abroad.' After this social dinner Mr. Comberford dropped in very often at his friend's house. He seemed to have some perpetual reason for seeing the solicitor on business, and happened, by a kind of fatality, to call when the master of the house was out. Would he leave a statement of his business with the clerk ? A VEKY NAiniOW ESCAPE. 271 No, lie would wait; and he strolled uiianuouiiced into the little sitting-room at the back of the offices, where Mrs. Hartfield spent her mornings. It was the prettiest room in the house, opening into a small garden, at the end of which there was a narrow creek — an inlet from the river that flowed through Nor- bury. By and by Mr. Comberford took to approach- ing the house by this way. He was an expert water- man, and spent a good deal of his time on the river. So it was an easy and natural thing for him to moor his boat at the bottom of George Hartfield's garden, and step on shore. He always found Alice in her sitting-room, and he found a look in her face which told him his visits were not unwelcome. He was a thorough man of the world, and knew the danger of the game he was playing, nor did he yield without a struggle to the temptation that had overtaken him Such a heart as he had was hit harder than it had been of late years. The outside world of Norbury had not yet been awakened to the scandal of Mr. Comberford's frequent visits to the lawyer's house, nor was the lawyer himself alarmed by them; but the younger clerks were quick to remark upon the 272 WEAVERS AND WEFT. , length and frequency of these morning calls, and on George Hartfield's blindness to the fact. Edgar Comberford had been settled at the Hall for six months, when George Hartfield had occasion to go to Paris on business. He had intended to take his wife with him for the trip, but the weather was sultry and oppressive, and he went alone. Mrs. Hartfield seemed very little disappointed by this change in his plans. Mr. Comberford had assured her that Paris was quite unbearable in July. It was upon his business that George Hartfield was en- gaged. He went to make a settlement with a Parisian money-lender who had advanced money to the young man in the days of his insolvency, and who now put in an exorbitant claim for interest. The first day of Mr. Hartfield's absence went by without any visit from Mr. Comberford, but in the evening, when the clerks were gone and Alice was sitting alone and very low-spirited, the familiar sound of the boat grating against the woodwork at the bottom of the garden struck upon her ear, and brought a sudden blush into her cheeks. She looked up with a movement of surprise as Edgar Comberford A VERY X ARROW ESCAPE. 27*^ came across the garden.' He came in at the open window with the air of a person who had a perfect right to he there, and seated himself opposite to Alice, at the little table where she was drinking tea. ' I thought you would give me a cup of tea after luv row, ]\Irs. Hartfield,' he said, 'and I could not pass the creek witliout begging for one. I dread going home to the desolation of the Hall — empty rooms and a cross old housekeeper. I think I shall go l)ack to ]\Iexico before the year is out.' Alice gave a little start. ' What ! ' she said, ' leave the Hall for ever ? ' ' In all probability for ever. A man seldom comes home a second time from such a place as Mexico.' ' But why should you go back there ? why should you be tired of the Hall so soon ? ' ' WTiy should I be tired of life altogether ? Why should I wish to run away from myself — from you ? ' And then he went on to speak of his love for her, in dark hints rather than in plain words. She tried to reprove him, tried to show him that she was angry, but the attempt was a very feeble one. She could only insist that he should leave her imme- VOL. III. T 274 WEAVERS AND WEFT. diately. He did leave her, but uot immediately, and not till she had changed insistence into piteous entreaty. The boat had scarcely shot away in the twilight when the door between the sitting-room and the office opened, and the old clerk, Morgan, appeared on the threshold. ' You here, Mr. Morgan I ' exclaimed Alice, making a vain attempt to conceal her tears ; ' I thought all the clerks had gone.' ' I had some letters to copy, Mrs. Harttield, Can I do anything for you in the town to-night ? ' ' Nothing, thank you.' He lingered, twisting the brim of his shabbv old hat round and round in his thin wrinkled hands. ' I wish to heaven I might speak to you freely,' he said at last, ' without offending or wounding you.' ' About what ? ' ' About the man who has just left you.' ' Mr. Comberford, my husband's friend ? ' ' Your husband's direst, deadliest foe — and yours,' answered the old man, passionately. A VEUY XAUltOW ESCAPE. 275 ' What right have you to say that ? ' asked Alice, trembling with indignation. ' The right given me by ray knowledge of man- kind, and, above all, by my knowledge of Edgar Comberford.' ' What knowledge can you have of Mr. Comber- ford ? Did you ever see him before he came to this office ? ' ' Never ; but his name is a word of dire meanino- in my life. Ask liini what became of the girl he stole away from an honourable home and left in a wretched London lodging four years ago. Ask him to tell you the fate of Bessie Eaynor.' ' Why should I trouble myself about his affairs ? And who is this Bessie Eaynor ? ' ' Never mind who she is, Mrs. Hartfield. She was a good girl before he met her. She will never Ije a happy woman again. Ask him about her if you doubt what I tell you, and you will see by his coun- tenance whether he is innocent or guilty. Knowing what I do, I am boii ud to wixvn you of his real cha- racter.' ' 1 do not recjuire an}' such warning,' replied Alice, 27fi WEAVERS AND "WEFT. coldl}' ; ' 'Sir. Comberford is no more to me than any other client of my husband's. And I beg that you will not trouble yourself to dictate my conduct to him.' * I see that I have offended you.' ' I do not like spies.' * I am no spy, Mrs. Hartfield. I am an old man, and have had bitter causfe to know the wickedness of the world. Your sweet face has been a kind of light to me ever since your husband brought you home to this house. God forbid that liglit should ever be clouded by the shadow of disgrace ! ' He bowed and left her — left her standing in a reverie, looking absently out upon the dusky fields beyond the little garden and the winding creek. She was angry, unhappy, bewildered. 'I wish George had taken me to Paris,' she thought. ' He ought not to leave me alone in a dreary old house like this, to be insulted by a clerk.' After this evening she passed Mr. IMorgan without speaking to him, much to the old man's concern. The days went by, and not one passed without a visit from Edgar Comberford, although in that first even- A VEKY NARROW ESCAPE. 277 ing Alice had expressly forbidden him to call again during her husband's absence. He was not easily to be put aside. He knew the weakness of the girl's unschooled nature, and knew how to trade upon it. His tender talk of the life that might have been had Alice been free — his glowing descriptions of distant lands which those two might have seen, side by side, of countries where tlie commonest life was a kind of poetry — charmed her in spite of herself. She knew the guilt involved in this dangerous pleasure, and hated herself for her weakness, and yet looked for- ward with a dull sense of dread to her husband's return. Nothing could tempt her to sin against George Hartfield, she told Edgar, however unsuited they might be to each other. She was his wife, and would do her duty to the end of her life. But the tempter was not convinced. One day she ventured to ask him about Bessie liaynor. He looked startled, Alice thought, at the sound of the name, but he declared that it was strange to him ; and Alice was weak enough to believe his assertion. It had been a mere ruse of the old clerk's to frighten her, she thought. The poor 278 WEAVERS AND WEFT. dismal old creature had tried to make her miserable about the only acquaintance that gave her any pleasure. Mr. Hartfield had been away ten days, when Mr. Comberford came in upon Alice siiddenly one morn- ing with a very grave countenance. The neat little parlour-maid was only just clearing away the breakfast-things when he came, and linoered in- quisitively to hear the meaning of this early visit. ' I am sorry to say I have rather bad news of your husband, Mrs. Hartfield,' he said in answer to Alice's expression of surprise. ' He has been taken ill with some kind of low fever, which is a good deal about in Paris just now. Don't be alarmed ; it is nothing very serious ; but he wants you to go across to him. His doctor, a Frenchman, has written to me, but there is an enclosure for you from the patient.' He handed her a slip of foreign paper, on which there were a few lines in her husband's hand : ' Deak Alice, — Please come over to me at once, if you are not afraid of the journey. Corhberford can escort you, as he is wanted over here. — Yours, &c., 'G. H.' A VERY NAKItOW KSCAPK 279 ' You'll not be afraid of the journey ? ' asked Mr. Comberford. ' Not at all ; I should not mind going alone.' ' But, you see, I am due there, so you cannot deny me the pleasure of being your escort.' ' It is not a very pleasurable occasion,' said Alice, with some embarrassment, as she twisted the slip of writing round and round her fingers. She was wondering whether the strict moralists of Norbury would altogether approve of such an escort. Mr. Comberford gave her little time to think. He went into the clerks' office to tell Mr. Bestow of his employer's illness, and to make inquiries about the London trains. William Morgan looked up from his desk and watched his master's client thoughtfully as he lounged against the mantelpiece reading the time-table. There was no possibility of going to Paris earlier than by the night mail. Mrs. Hartfield would have to go first to London — a three hours' journey. There was a train left Norbury at a quarter to four in the afternoon, which would take the travellers in ample time for the Dover mail. Mr, Comberford decided 280 WEAVERS AND WEFT. Upon going by this, and left Alice in order to make his preparations for the journey. He did not, how- ever, go back to the Hall, but fidgeted in and out of the lawyer's house several times in the course of the day on some pretence or other, spending the interval at the ' Crown,' where he drank brandy and soda-water to an extent that astonished the waiters. But in spite of all he had drunk, he looked pale and anxious when he came at three o'clock ready to take Mrs. Harttield to the station. Alice was just stepping into the fly, when William Morgan came out of the house, with a carpet bag in one hand and a morocco office bag in the other. * Why, where the deuce are you going ? ' asked Mr. Comberford. ' I am to be your fellow-traveller, sir ; at least, I am going second class by the same train.' ' To London ? ' ' No, sir, to Paris.. Mr. Bestow sends me across with papers.' * Why, what consummate folly of Bestow's ! Your master is not fit for business. He won't be able to attend to anything for days to come.* A VERY NARllOW ESCAPE. 281 ' I hope he may be better than you think, sir. In any case, I am bound to obey Mr. Bestow's orders.' He spoke in a mechanical kind of tone, nor did his countenance express the faintest interest in his work. Mr. Comberford laughed grimly to himself as they drove away with the old man on the box. ' That old fool's company can make very little difference,' he muttered, and then grew moodier than he was wont to be in Alice Hartfield's company. He brightened considerably by and by, when they v/ere alone in a first-class compartment, flying Londonwards at express rate ; and he succeeded in making Alice believe that her husband's illness was only a trifling matter, and that she had no occasion to be anxious about him. ' ]\ren think so much of the slightest touch of illness,' he said, ' and are always in a hurry to summon their wives. We are such helpless creatures, you see, and so miserable without tlie comfort of a woman's presence.' And then he went on to speak of his own solitary position. 282 WEAYKKS AND WEFT. ' What is to become of me in the hour of sick- ness, Alice,' he asked, ' with no one but a gloomy old housekeeper to care for me ? ' ' You will marry by and by, I dare say, and have a wife to care for you.' ' Never, Alice. There is only one woman on earth I care for; and if she cannot be my wife, I will go down to my grave a bachelor.' 'You must not talk to me like that ; it is taking a mean advantage of my position. You know that I am with you at my husband's wish.' 'Yes, you have his order for the journey. Poor dear George, what a fine bold hand he writes, doesn't he?' Mrs. Hartfiekl did not see the sardonic grin which accompanied this trivial remark, nor did Mr. Comber- ford again offend her by any allusion to his hopeless passion. It was pitch dark when they reached Dover, not a star in the sky, and a high wind blow- ing. There was considerable confusion in "ettintx on board, and Mrs. Hartfiekl scarcely knew where she was till she found herself standing on the deck of a steamer arm-in-arm with Edgar Comberford, wliile A VERY NARROW ESCAPE. 2