Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Volume 1, Chapter I.

A PEEP AT TOLCARNE.

"Ed--Ward!"

"Yes, mum."

A stiff, high-shouldered footman turned round as he reached the
breakfast-room door.

"Are you sure Sir Hampton has been called?"

"Yes, mum."

"And did Smith take up her ladyship's hot water?"

"Yes, mum."

"Are the young ladies coming down?"

"They went out for a walk nearly an hour ago, mum."

"Dear me! and such a damp morning, too!  Did they take their
waterproofs?"

"Please, 'm, I didn't see them go."

"Look if they're hanging in the hall, Edward."

"Yes, mum."

Edward walked stiffly out, closed the door, "made a face" at it, and
returned at the end of a minute.

"Waterproofs hanging on the pegs, mum."

"Dear, dear, dear, dear!  Then of course they put on their goloshes!  Go
and see if they're in the lobby, Edward."

"Did see, mum," said Edward, who was wise in his generation, and had
learned the art of making his head save his heels--"goloshes is in the
lobby."

"Goloshes is in the plural, Edward, and should be _are_--mind that:
goloshes are."

"Yes, mum--galoshes are," said Edward; "and the letter-bag _are_ just
come into the kitchen.  Shall I fetch it?"

"_Is_, Edward, _is_.  Now do, pray, be careful.  Nothing is more
annoying to visitors than to hear servants make grammatical mistakes."

"Yes, mum," said Edward.

"Is the heater very hot?"

"Yes, mum--white 'ot."

"White _what_, Edward?"

"'Ot, mum! white 'ot!"

Miss Matilda Rea, a rather compressed, squeezy lady of forty-five,
shuddered, and rearranged her black net mittens.

"Go and fetch the letter-bag, Ed-ward."

The footman made the best of his way out, and Miss Matilda inspected the
well-spread breakfast table through a large, square, gold-rimmed
eyeglass; walked to the sideboard, upon which were sundry cold meats;
and finished with a glance round the handsomely furnished room, ready to
be down upon a speck of dust.  But the place was scrupulously well kept;
even the great bay window, looking out upon sloping green lawn, flower
beds, and clumps of evergreens, backed up by a wall of firs, was
perfectly clean.  So Miss Matilda preened her feathers, frowned, and
waited the return of Edward with a locked wallet of leather, bearing the
Rea crest--a peacock with expanded tail, the motto "_Floreat
majestas_"--and, in large letters on the brass plate, the words, "Sir
Hampton Rea, Tolcarne."

"Place it beside Sir Hampton's chair, Edward," said Miss Matilda.

The wallet was duly deposited in the indicated place.

"Now bring in the urn, Edward."

"Please, 'm, Sir Hampton said it was to come in at nine punctually, and
it wants a quarter."

"Then go and be quite ready to fill it, Edward," said Miss Matilda, not
daring to interfere with the Mede-like laws of the master of the house.

And Edward departed to finish his own breakfast, and confide to the cook
his determination that if that old tabby was to be always worriting him
to death, he would give warning.

Miss Matilda gave another look round, and then going to the end of the
hearthrug, she very delicately lifted up the corner of a thick wool
antimacassar, when a little, sharp, black nose peeped up, and a pair of
full black eyes stared at her.

"A little darling!" said Miss Matilda, soothingly.  "It was very ill, it
was; and it should have some medicine to-day, it should."

The little toy terrier pointed its nose at the ceiling, and uttered a
wretched, attenuated howl, cut short by Miss Matilda, who popped the
antimacassar down; for at that moment there was heard upon the stairs a
sonorous "Er-rum!  Er-rum!"--a reverberating, awe-inspiring sound, as of
a mighty orator clearing his voice before sending verbal thunder through
an opposing crowd.  Then came steps across the marble hall, the door
handle rattled very loudly, the door was thrown open very widely, and
entered Sir Hampton Rea.

The sounds indicated bigness--grandeur; but Sir Hampton Rea was not a
big man--saving his head, which was so large that it had sunk a little
down between his shoulders, where it looked massive and shiny, being
very bald and surrounded by a frizzle of grizzly hair.

Sir Hampton came in stiffly, for his buff vest was as starchy as his
shirt front and sprigged cravat, which acted like a garrote, though its
wearer suffered it, on account of its imposing aspect, and now walked
with long strides to the fire, to which he turned his back, threw up his
chin, and made his bald crown double in the glass.

"Matilda, have the goodness to close the door."

"Yes, dear," and the door was closed.

"Matilda, have the goodness to ring for the urn.  Oh, it is here!"

In effect, hissing and steaming, the urn was brought in by Edward, and
the tea-caddy placed upon the table.

"Edward!"

"Yes, Sir Hampton."

"Tell Miss Smith to inform her ladyship that we are waiting breakfast."

"Yes, Sir Hampton."

The footman hurried out, and Sir Hampton took up yesterday's _Times_,
which arrived so late on the day of issue that it was not perused by the
good knight till breakfast-hour the next morning, his seat, Tolcarne,
being three hundred and twenty miles from town, and some distance off
the West Cornwall Railway.

Sir Hampton--tell it not in the far West--had made his money by tea; had
been made alderman by his fellow-citizens, and made a knight by his
sovereign, upon the occasion of a visit to the City, when the turtle
provided was extra good, and pleased the royal palate.

While waiting the coming of her ladyship, Sir Hampton, a staunch
Conservative, skimmed the cream of a tremendously Liberal leader, grew
redder in the face, punched the paper in its Liberal wind to double it
up, and then went on with it, shaking his head fiercely, as his sister
smoothed her mittens and watched him furtively, till the door opened
with a snatch, and a little round, plump body, very badly dressed, and,
so to speak, walking beneath a ribbon and lace structure, which she bore
upon her head as if it were something to sell, bobbed into the room.

Description of people is absolutely necessary on the first introduction,
so a few words must be said about Lady Frances Rea.  She was what vulgar
people would have termed "crumby;" but, literally, she was a plump
little body of forty, who, born a baby, seemed to have remained
unaltered save as to size.  She was pink, and fair, and creamy, and
soft, and had dimples in every place where a dimple was possible; her
eyes were bright, teeth good, her hair a nice brown, and in short she
seemed as if she had always lived on milk, and was brimming with the
milk of human kindness still.

"Ten minutes past nine, Fanny," said Sir Hampton, pompously, after a
struggle with a watch that did not want to be consulted.

"Never mind, dear," said her ladyship, going at him like a soft ball,
and giving him a loud kiss.  "Matty, where's my keys?"

"In your basket, dear," said Miss Matilda, pecking her sister-in-law
softly on the forehead.

"So they are, dear," said her ladyship, rattling open the tea-caddy, and
shovelling the tea into the silver pot.

"Er-rum, er-rum!" coughed Sir Hampton, clearing his throat.

His sister fell into an attitude of attention, with one thin finger
pressed into her yellow cheek.

"Er-rum," said Sir Hampton.  "Punctuality, Lady Rea, is a necessity in
an establishment like ours, and--"

"Now don't be so particular, Hampy," said her ladyship, watching the
boiling water run into the teapot.  "It's like having crumbs in bed with
you.  Ring the bell, Matty."

"But, my dear," began Sir Hampton, pompously, "with people in our
position--"

The door opened and Edward appeared.

"Tell cook to poach the eggs and grill the cold turkey, Edward."

"Yes, my lady."

"And where are the young--oh, dear me! bring a cloth; there's that
stupid teapot running over again."

"Turn off the water, dear," said Miss Matilda, with the suffering look
of one who had been longing to make the tea herself.

"Oh yes, of course!" said her ladyship.  "Quick, Edward, bring a cloth
and sop up this mess."

"Yes, m' lady."

Sir Hampton rustled his paper very loudly, rolled his head in his cravat
till it crackled again, and looked cross.  Then he strode to the table,
took his seat, and began methodically to open the letter-bag and sort
the letters; and then, in the midst of the sopping process and the
exclamations of her ladyship, a door was heard to open, steps pattered
over the hall floor, there was a babble of pleasant voices, a scuffling
as of hats and baskets being thrown on to a table, and then the
breakfast-room door opened, and two young girls hurried into the room.

"Nearly twenty minutes past nine, my dears," said Sir Hampton,
consulting his watch.

"Ah! so late, papa?" said one, hurrying up to kiss Lady Rea, and receive
a hearty hug in return.

"Oh, never mind," said the other, following her sister's suit, and
vigorously returning the maternal hug.  "We've had such a jolly walk.
Oh, ma, how well you look this morning!"

"Do I, my love?  There, Edward--that will do.  Now, the poached eggs and
the turkey, quick!"

"Yes, m' lady," said Edward.

And he disappeared, as Sir Hampton was forgetting to be stiff for a few
minutes, as he returned the salute of his eldest girl, Valentina.

"I'm sorry we're late, papa; but we went farther than we meant."

"But you know, Tiny," said Sir Hampton, "I like punctuality."

And he glanced with pride at the graceful undulating form, in its pretty
morning dress; and then gazed in the soft grey eyes, looking lovingly
out of a sweet oval face, framed in rich brown hair.

"Oh, bother punctuality, daddy!" said the younger girl, a merry,
mischievous-looking blonde, with freckled face, bright eyes, and a
charming petite form that was most attractive.  "Don't be cross," she
cried, getting behind his chair, throwing her arms round his neck, and
laying a soft downy cheek upon his bald head.  "Don't be cross; we've
had such a jolly walk, and got a basketful of ferns.  There! that'll
make you good tempered."

And she leaned over, dragging his head back, and kissed him half a dozen
times on the forehead.

"Fin!  Finetta!" exclaimed Sir Hampton.  "Now, suppose one of the
servants saw you!"

"Oh, they wouldn't mind, daddy," laughed the girl.  "Oh, I say, how your
head shines this morning!"

And bubbling over, as it were, with fun, she breathed sharply twice on
her astonished parent's crown, gave her hand a circular movement over it
a few times, and, before he could recover from his surprise, she
finished it off with a polish from her pocket-handkerchief, and then
stepped back, looking mischievously at the irate knight, as he forced
his chair back from the table and stared at her.

"Is the girl mad?" he exclaimed.  "Finetta, you make me exceedingly
angry."

"Not with me, daddy," said the girl placing herself on his knee.  "Kiss
me, and say good morning, sir."

The head of the family hesitated for a moment, and then could not resist
the upturned face, which he kissed and then pushed the girl away.

"Now go to your place; and I insist Fin, upon your dropping--"

Miss Matilda started.

"I mean leaving off--using that absurdly childish appellation.  I desire
you always to address me as papa."

"All right, daddy," said the girl, laughing--"as soon as I can teach
myself."

Sir Hampton snatched himself back into his place, and began to open
letters; while Finetta went and kissed her aunt.

"Well, aunty, how's Pip this morning?"

"Pepine is very unwell, my dear," said Miss Matilda, coldly.

"You stuff him too much, aunty, and don't give him exercise enough."

"My dear you should not deliver opinions upon what you do not
understand.  Your papa's cup."

"Don't understand, aunty!" said the girl, passing the cup; "why, I know
all about dogs and horses.  You give Pip over to me for a week; I'll
soon put the little wretch right."

Lady Rea saw the horror upon her sister-in-law's countenance, and
catching her daughter's eye, shook her head at her, as she went on
dispensing the tea.

"Have some poached eggs, daddy--pa?" said Fin, correcting herself with
much gravity, and revelling in the look of suffering upon her aunt's
face.  "No?  Tiny, give papa some of the turkey."

Sir Hampton fed himself mechanically, passed some letters to his wife
and eldest daughter, and read his own.

"Is there no letter for me, Hampton?" said Miss Matilda, plaintively.

There was a grunt, indicative of "No," from the knight; and Miss Matilda
sighed, and went on sipping her sugarless tea, and nibbling some very
dry, butterless toast.

"I say, Aunt Matty," said Fin, merrily, "I mean to take you in hand."

"Take me in hand, child?" said the spinster.

"Yes, aunty.  Now, look here; if, instead of stopping grumping here at
home, you had had a jolly good run with us--"

Miss Matilda took a sip of her tea, which might have been vinegar from
the aspect of her countenance.

"You could have gathered ferns, sipped the bright morning dew, come back
with a colour, and eaten a breakfast like I do.  Tiny, give me some more
of that turkey."

"Your appetite is really ravenous, child," said Miss Matilda, with a
shudder.

"Not it, aunty; I'm growing--ain't I, ma, dear?"

"Well, my love, I think you are filling out--not growing."

"Oh, but, ma," laughed Fin, with her mouth full, "I'm not going to be
round and plump like you are, am I?"

"Fin!" exclaimed her sister, from the other side of the table.

"Oh, ma knows I don't mean any harm; don't you, dear?  It's only my fun,
isn't it?  I shouldn't mind--I should like to be such a soft, loving old
dear; shouldn't I?"

"Hush, hush, hush!" exclaimed Lady Rea.  "I do think, though, aunty, a
walk would do you good before breakfast."

"Perhaps it might do you good, too," said Miss Matilda, with some
asperity.

"Er-rum, er-rum!" ejaculated Sir Hampton, laying down a big blue
official envelope.  "Lady Rea--my dears, I have something to
communicate."

He sat back in his chair, and brushed a few crumbs from his buff
waistcoat.

"Well, pa, dear, what is it?" said Lady Rea, out of her tea-cup.

"Er-rum, I have at last," said Sir Hampton, pompously, "received public
recognition of my position.  My dears, I have been placed upon the
bench, and am now one of the county magistracy."

He looked round for the applause which should follow.

"Well, my dear, I'm sure I'm very glad if it pleases you," said Lady
Rea.  "Matty, give me another poached egg."

"It was quite time they did, Hampton," said Miss Matilda.

"I congratulate you, papa, dear," said Valentina, going up to him and
kissing him; "and I'm sure the poor will be glad to have so kind a
magistrate to deal with them."

"Thank you, Tiny--thank you," said Sir Hampton, smiling, and trying to
look every inch a magistrate, before turning to his second daughter, who
was intent upon a turkey drumstick.

"But I say, pa, what fun it will be!" she said at last; "you'll have to
sit on the poachers."

"Yes, the scoundrels!" said Sir Hampton, and his cravat crackled.

"And send all the poor old women to quod for picking sticks."

"To where?" exclaimed Miss Matilda, in horrified tones.

"Quod," said Finetta, quite unmoved; "it's Latin, I think, for prison,
or else it's stable slang--I'm not sure.  But oh, my," she continued,
seeing her father's frown, "we've got some news, too."

"Have you, dear?" said mamma, "what is it?"

"We saw Humphrey Lloyd this morning."

"Who is Humphrey Lloyd?" said Lady Rea.

"The keeper at Penreife."

"Penreife," said Sir Hampton, waking up out of a day-dream of judicial
honours.  "Yes, a beautiful estate.  I would have bought it instead of
this if it had been for sale."

"Well," said Finetta, "we met Humphrey, and talked to him."

"I think, if I may be allowed to say so, Finetta, that you are too fond
of talking to grooms and keepers, and people of that class," said Miss
Matilda, glancing at her brother, who, however, was once more immersed
in judicial dreams--J.P., _custos rotulorum_, commission of the peace,
etcetera.

"Tennyson used to hang with grooms and porters on bridges, and he's poet
laureate; so why shouldn't I?" said Finetta, rebelliously.

"I don't think it's nice, though," said mamma.  "Aunt Matty is quite
right; you are not a child now, my dear."

"Oh, mamma, dear, it's only Fin's nonsense," said Tiny.  "Humphrey is a
very respectful, worthy young fellow, and he climbed up the big rocks
down by Penreife for us, and got us some of those beautiful little
aspleniums we couldn't reach."

"Yes, ma, dear," said Finetta; "and he says that the next time he writes
to his old aunt in Wales, he'll tell her to send some of the beautiful
little rare ferns that grow up on one of the mountains, in a place that
nearly broke my teeth when I tried to say it."

Lady Rea shook her head at her daughter, who rattled on.

"Well, you know about Penreife belonging to Lieutenant Trevor?"

Lady Rea nodded.

"Well, Humphrey's got orders to go to town to meet his master, who has
been on a cruise round the world, and his ship's paid off, and now he's
going to settle at home."

"Who's going to settle at home?" inquired Sir Hampton.

"Lieutenant Trevor."

"Ah! a sailor person, and rough, I suppose--sailors always are," said
Sir Hampton.

"Yes," cried Finetta, "they haul in slack, and cry `Avast!' at you, and
`shiver my timbers!'  But, I say--I like sailors; I shall set my cap at
him."

"Finetta!" gasped Miss Matilda.

"Don't talk nonsense, child," said Lady Rea.  "Don't you hear what papa
says about sailors being so rough?  I daresay he isn't a bit of a
gentleman."

"But he's an officer, ma, dear," said Finetta; "and if Tiny hasn't made
up her mind to have him, I shall.  They are doing all sorts of things up
at the house; and it's to be full of company, Mrs Lloyd says; and she
looked as proud as a peacock, as she stood smoothing her white apron.
We're sure to be invited; and won't it be a good job! for this place is
so jolly dull."

"Ah, my child," said Aunt Matilda, "if you would only properly employ
your time, you would not find it dull."

"What! knit mittens, bother the poor people, and read Saint Thomas a
Kempis, aunty?" replied Finetta.  "No, thank you.  But Mr Trevor's
coming--I say, ought we to call him lieutenant?--it's so absurd--ought
to brighten up the place a bit; and of course, ma, you'll ask him here?"

"Er-rum!" ejaculated Sir Hampton, rousing himself from his day-dreams.
"It is my wish that there should always be shown in my establishment the
hospitality of--er--er--a country gentleman."

"And a knight," said Miss Matilda, softly.

"Thank you, Matilda--and a knight," said Sir Hampton.  "But, my dears, I
have great pleasure in announcing to you that I have made up my mind
that we shall now pay a short visit to the great metropolis."

"How jolly!" said Finetta.  "But what are we going for, pa, dear?"

"My dear, I have several things to see about," said Sir Hampton.  "To
engage a groom for one thing, to buy horses for another, and a gun or
two for my friends.  I intend to have, too, the west room fitted up for
billiards."

"For what, Hampton?" said his sister.

"Er-rum!--billiards," said Sir Hampton.

"It is not often that I venture upon a word, Hampton, respecting your
household management; but when I hear of propositions which must
interfere with your fixture welfare, I feel bound to speak."

"And, pray, what do you mean?" said Sir Hampton, angrily.

"I mean that I gave way when you insisted on having cards in the house,
because you said your visitors liked whist--"

"And you were always rattling the dice box and playing backgammon,"
retorted Sir Hampton.

"That is different," said Miss Matilda; "backgammon is a very old and a
very innocent game."

"Oh!" said Sir Hampton.

"I have known great divines play at backgammon."

"And I've known a bishop play a good rubber at whist," said Sir Hampton.

"I am sorry for it," said Miss Matilda; "but I draw the line at
billiards.  It is a detestable game, played on a green cloth which is
the flag of gambling, and--"

"If you will take my advice, Matty, you will hold your tongue," said Sir
Hampton.  "My guests will like a game at billiards, and I'll be bound to
say, before we've had the table in the house a month, you'll be playing
a game yourself."

"Hampton!"

"Same as you do at whist."

"I oblige your guests, and make up your horrid rubbers."

"But I say, aunty, you do like winning, you know," chimed in Fin.

"Oh, my dear, I--"

"You pocketed fifteen shillings--I won't say `bob,' because it's
slangy," said Fin, laughing mischievously.

"I protest, I--"

"Er-rum!--I will not hear another word.  We start for town to-morrow;
and, my dears, you asked me once for horses--you shall have them.  Fin,
my child, don't strangle me!  There, now, see how you've rumpled my
cravat!"

"Oh, thank you, daddy!"

"Now, if you say _daddy_ again, I'll alter my mind," said the old
gentleman, angrily.

"There, then, I won't," said Fin.  "But I say, pa, we must have a
groom."

"Of course, my dear."

"And riding-habits."

"To be sure."

"And we can get them in town.  Oh, Tiny, do say `Hooray' for once in
your life."

"Er-rum!  It's my intention," said Sir Hampton, "to patronise the sports
of our country, and foster hunting, game-keeping, and the like.  By the
way, that man Lloyd might do some commissions for me.  Matty, you will
keep house till we return.  My dears, we start to-morrow morning."

"Then all I've got to say," said Miss Matilda, sharply, "is this--"

"Yelp! yelp! yelp!"--a succession of wild shrieks from beneath the
antimacassar, out of one side of which lay a thin black tail, in very
close proximity to Fin's pretty little foot, and in an instant Aunt
Matty was down upon her knees, talking to and caressing the dog.

"Er-rum!" went Sir Hampton, slowly crossing the hall to his library,
followed by Lady Rea; and directly after Miss Matilda hurried away, with
her pet in her arms.

"Now, Fin, that was cruel.  I saw you tread on Pip's tail," said Tiny.

"Doing evil that good might come," said Fin, defiantly.  "Look here,
Tiny--pets were anciently offered up to save a row.  If I hadn't made
him squeal, there would have been pa storming, Aunt Matty going into
hysterics, and ma worried to death; so that it was like the old nursery
rhyme--"

  "I trod sharp on the little dog's tail;
  The dog began to shriek and wail,
  And poor Aunty Matty turned mighty pale:
  It stopped papa from blowing a gale;
  And that's the end of my little tale."

"Er-rum!" was heard from across the hall.

"There's daddy going to lecture me; and look here, Tiny, Edward will
come in directly to clear the cloth.  Now, then, here's a penny; let's
toss.  Heads or tails, who wins."

"Wins what?"

"Mr Richard Trevor, and Penreife.  Now then, cry!"

"No," said Tiny, "I'll laugh instead."

And she kissed her sister on the cheek.

Volume 1, Chapter II.

IN PALL MALL.

"Voila!--the pilot-fish and the shark!"

The words were spoken by an individual idly smoking a cigar on the steps
of that gloomy-looking pile in Pall Mall known as the Peripatetics.  He
was the being that, go where he would, uneducated people would set down
as belonging to the division Swell; for there was _ton_ and aristocrat
in the fit of his clothes and every curve of his body.  Women would have
called his black moustache and beard handsome, and spoken of his
piercing eyes, high white forehead, and wonderful complexion; but Podger
Pratt--that is to say, Frank Pratt--said more than once he had never
seen a barber's dummy that was his equal.  He said it in a very solemn
way; and when it came to the ears of the gentleman in question, he
denounced Podger Pratt as a disgusting little cad, and the next time
they met at the club Captain Vanleigh asked Pratt what he meant by it.

"What did I mean?" said Pratt, in a serious, puzzled tone of voice.
"What did I mean?--oh, just what I said.  It's a fact."

Captain Vanleigh stood glaring at him as if trying to pierce the
imperturbable crust of solemnity on the speaker's face; but Pratt
remained as solemn as a judge, and amidst an ill-suppressed tittering,
the Captain stalked from the room, saying to his companion--

"The fellow's a fool--an ass--little better than an idiot!"

As for Podger Pratt, he looked innocently round the room as if asking
the meaning of the laugh, and then went on with his paper.

But that was months before the present day, when Captain Vanleigh,
gracefully removing his cigar from between his white teeth, said--

"Voila! the pilot-fish and the shark!"

"The sucking-fish and the porpoise, I should say," remarked his
companion, a fair young fellow, dressed evidently upon the other's
model.  "What big fellow Dick Trevor has grown!"

"You're right, Flick; sucking-fish it is.  That fat, little, briefless
barrister will fatten still more on Dick Trevor's chequebook.  Ah, well,
Flicky, it is a wise ordination of Providence that those men who have
the largest properties are the biggest fools."

"Ya-as, exactly," said Flick, otherwise Sir Felix Landells.  "I daresay
you're right, Van; but don't quite see your argument.  I s'pose may call
'self a wealthy man?"

"No rule without an exception, my dear boy; you are one of the
exceptions.  Odd, though, isn't it, how we have all been thrown together
after four years?"

"Yes, 'tis odd; but think it's dooced nice of Dick to look us up as he
has.  You'll make one of the party, of course?"

"Well, I don't know.  Certainly, town is empty.  These sailor fellows
are rather rough, though."

"Oh, come down.  Besides, it's in the country."

"Such an infernal distance!--but there, perhaps I will."

As they stood talking, there came slowly sauntering along the pave a
well-built young fellow, broad of shoulder and chest, and fining rapidly
down to the loins.  He seemed to convey the idea that he was rolling up
to you on the deck of a ship with a sea on, and he carried his hands as
if it might be necessary at any moment to throw them out to seize
belaying pin or handrail.  He was well dressed; but there was a certain
easy freedom in the fit of his garments, and a loose swing pervading
all, much in contrast with the natty, fashionable attire of the friends,
whom he saluted with a pleasant smile lighting up his bronzed face and
clear grey eyes.  His hair was crisp, curly, and brown, seeming rather
at war with the glossy new hat he wore, and settled more than once upon
his head as he listened to the remarks of the little dapper-looking man
at his side--Podger, otherwise Frank, Pratt, of the Temple.

Pratt was a solemn, neutral-looking fellow; but none the less he was
keen and peculiar, even though, to use his own words, he had been born
without any looks at all.

"There's the wolf, Dick," said Pratt, as they approached the club.
"Who's that with him?  Ah, might have known--the lamb."

"You seem to have kept up the old school tricks, Frank," said Trevor,
"and I suppose it gets you into hot water sometimes.  Bad habit giving
nicknames.  We shouldn't stand it at sea."

"It breaks no bones," said the other, quietly, "and seems to do me
good--safety-valve for my spleen.  How odd it is, though, that we four
should be thrown together again in this way!"

"I was thinking the same; but I don't see why we should call things odd
when we have shaped them ourselves.  I was cruising about for days to
find you all out."

"Well, it's very kind of you, Dick," said Pratt.  "And let me see--I've
won four pounds ten and six of you during the last week at pool and
whist.  Dick, you're quite a godsend to a poor fellow.  Look here, new
gloves--ain't had such a pair for a month."

"By the way," said Trevor, "is Vanleigh well off?"

"He was," said Pratt--"came in for a nice property.  How he stands now I
can't say."

"And Landells?"

"Landells has a clear nine thousand a year; but I've seen hardly
anything of them lately.  Poole dresses them; and how could you expect
such exquisites to seek the society of a man who wears sixteen-shilling
pantaloons, dines on chops, reads hard, and, when he does go to a
theatre, sits in the pit?  By Jove, Dick, you would have laughed one
night!  I did--inside, for there wasn't a crease in my phiz.  They cut
me dead.  I was sitting in the front row in the pit, and as luck or some
mischievous imp would have it, they were placed in two stalls in the
back row, exactly in front of me, so that I could inhale the ambrosial
odours from Flick Landells' fair curls the whole evening."

"Snobbish--wasn't it?" said Dick.

"Just half," said Pratt.  "Landells is a good chap at heart; but society
is spoiling him.  He came to my chambers the very next day, with a face
like a turkey-cock, to ask me if it was I that he saw at the theatre.  I
looked at him out of the corner of one eye, and he broke down, and asked
my pardon like a man.  Swore he wouldn't have minded a bit, if Van
hadn't been with him.  It's all right, Dick; I can read Felix the
Unhappy like a book."

"Well, gentlemen," said Trevor, as they reached the steps, "it is
settled for Wednesday, of course?"

"Well," said Landells, hesitating, "I--er--I--er--"

"Oh, you must come, Flick," said Trevor; "we've got all our old days to
go over, and I've ordered the yacht round.  Vanleigh, help me to
persuade him."

"You might come," said Vanleigh, in a half-injured tone.

"Oh, I'll go if you are going," said Sir Felix, hastily; and then,
correcting himself--"if you both really wish it."

"That's right," said Trevor; "take pity on my seafaring ignorance.  I
shall want some company down at the old place.  Pratt has promised."

"Indeed!" said Vanleigh, fixing his glass in one eye.  "I thought last
night he couldn't leave his reading?"

"Obliged to yield, like you, to the force of circumstances," said Pratt,
"and give way to our old friend's overwhelming hospitality.  But you
needn't mind, Van, old fellow, I won't disgrace you.  Look here," he
said, taking off his hat and speaking loudly, "new tile, fourteen bob--
couldn't afford a Lincoln and Bennett; brand-new gloves, two-and-three;
and I've ordered one of Samuel Brothers' tourist suits for the
occasion."

"My dear fellow," said the Captain, after a look of disgust at Sir
Felix, "I really do not want to know the extent of your wardrobe.  In
fact, mine is at your service--my valet--er--I beg your pardon, Trevor."

"I say, don't take any notice of that solemn little humbug," said
Trevor, laughing; "you know what he always was.  I--oh, my God!"

The exclamation was involuntary, for just at that moment a hansom cab
was driven sharply out of the turning leading to Saint James's Square,
the horse shied--Pratt afterwards swore it was at Vanleigh's eyes--and
in another instant would have stricken down a faded-looking woman, who
seemed to be crossing towards the club steps, but for the act of a
passer-by.

The act was as quick as thought.  With a bound he caught the woman,
swung her round, and was struck by the horse full on the shoulder, to
reel for a few yards with his burden, and then roll over and over in the
muddy road.

The cabman pulled sharp up, and leapt off his perch with a face white as
ashes, in an instant, while Trevor and Pratt ran to the fallen pair--the
former to raise the woman, and carry her scared and trembling to the
club steps, where Vanleigh stood looking as scared as the sufferer,
while Pratt helped the gentleman to rise.

"Take me away, please; let me go--away," said the woman, shivering with
fear.

"Are you hurt?" said Trevor, with his arm still round her.

"No, no; not hurt--only let me go."

"I couldn't help it, gen'lemen," began the cabman.

"No, confound you!--it was an accident, worse luck!" said the
principal sufferer, "or you should have caught it sharply, Mr
Nine-hundred-and-seventy-six.  Here's a pretty mess I'm in!"

"Very sorry, sir," said the cabman,--"but--"

"There, that'll do.  Is the lady hurt?"

"No, no," said the woman, hastily, and she glanced timidly at Vanleigh,
and then at Pratt, who was watching her keenly.

Just then a four-wheeler, which Trevor had hailed, came up, and he
handed her in.

"Where shall he drive you?" said Trevor, as he slipped half-a-crown in
the driver's hand.

"Twenty-seven, Whaley's Place, Upper Holloway," said the woman, in an
unnecessarily loud voice; and the cab was driven off.

"Thank you," said the muddy stranger, holding out a very dirty hand to
Trevor, who grasped it heartily.

"Worse disasters at sea," he said, smiling.

"Yes," said the other, looking hard in his face, "so I suppose; but then
you do get an action for damages, or insurance money.  I don't insure my
clothes," he said, looking ruefully at his muddy garments, and then at
those of the man who had served him.  "I say, that was very kind of you,
though."

"Nonsense!" said Trevor, laughing in the bright, earnest, middle-aged
face before him.  "Come into the club, and send for some fresh things."

"Thanks, no," said the stranger, "I'll get back to my rooms.  I must
have something out of somebody, so I'll make cabby suffer."

The cabman rubbed his ear, and looked blue.

"You'll drive me home, cabby?" said the stranger.

"That I will, sir, for a week," said the man, eagerly.

"We may as well exchange cards," said the stranger, pulling out a case,
and putting a muddy thumb upon the top card.  "There you are--John
Barnard, his mark," he said, laughing.  "Thanks once more.  I'll stick
your card in here with mine; and now good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Trevor, frankly; and they shook hands.

"I shall know your face again."

Saying which, after a curious stare in Trevor's face, the stranger
climbed into the cab, the driver touched up his horse, and the two
street boys and the crossing-sweeper, who had been attracted to the
scene, were about to separate, when the latter pounced upon something
white and held it up to Pratt.

"Did yer drop this 'ere, sir?"

"No," said Pratt, looking at the muddy note; "but here is sixpence--it
is for one of my friends."

Directly after, to the disgust of the two exquisites, Trevor, soiled
from head to foot, was laughing heartily at the rueful aspect of Frank
Pratt as he entered the hall.

"Look here," he said, dolefully, as he held out his muddy gloves.
"Two-and-three; and brand-new to-day.  Van," he added, with a peculiar
cock of one eye, "have you a clean pair in your pocket?"

"No," said Vanleigh, coldly.  "You can get good gloves in the Arcade;
but not," he added, with a sneer, "at two-and-three."

"Thanks," said Pratt; "but I am not a simple Arcadian in my ideas.  Oh,
by the way, Van, here's a note for you which somebody seems to have
dropped."

Vanleigh almost snatched the muddy note, which was directed in a fine,
lady's hand; and there was a curious pinched expression about his lips
as he took in the address.

"Ah, yes; thanks, much," he drawled.  "Very kind of you, I'm shaw.  By
the way, Trevor, dear boy," he continued, turning to his friend, "hadn't
you better send one of the fellows for some things, and then we might
walk on to the Corner if you had nothing better to do?  Try a suit of
mine; those don't fit you well."

"No, I'll keep to my own style," said Trevor, laughing.  "I don't think
I could quite manage your cut."

Then nodding merrily in answer to the other's rather disgusted look, he
sent a messenger to his hotel, and strolled off to one of the
dormitories, while Frank Pratt went into the reading-room, where the
others had walked to the window, took up a newspaper, furtively watching
Captain Vanleigh and his friend, in the expectation that they would go;
but, to his great annoyance, they stayed on till Trevor reappeared, when
Vanleigh, with his slow dawdle, crossed to him.

"What are you going to do this afternoon, dear boy?"

"Well, I was thinking of what you said--running down to the Corner to
look at a horse or two.  Things I don't much understand."

"I'll go with you," said Vanleigh.  "You'll come, won't you, Flick?"

"Delighted, quite!" was the reply, very much to Pratt's disgust--the
feeling of disgust being equally shared by Vanleigh, when he saw "that
gloveless little humbug" get up to accompany them.

No matter what the feelings were that existed, they sent for a couple of
cabs, and a few minutes after were being trundled down Piccadilly
towards what is still known as "The Corner" where that noble animal the
"'oss" is brought up and knocked down day by day, in every form and
shape--horses with characters, and horses whose morals are bad; right up
through park hacks and well-matched high steppers, greys, chestnuts,
roans and bays, well-broken ladies' steeds, good for a canter all day,
to the very perfection of hunters up to any weight--equine princes of
the blood royal, that have in their youth snuffed the keen air of the
Yorkshire wolds; mares with retrousse noses and the saucy look given by
a dash of Irish blood.  Racers, too, are there, whose satin skins,
netted with veins, throb with the blue blood that has come down from
some desert sire, who has been wont in fleet career to tear up the sand
of Araby like a whirlwind, spurn it behind his hoofs, and yet, at the
lightest touch of the bit, check the lithe play of his elastic limbs at
the opening of some camel or goat-hair tent, where half a dozen swarthy
children are ready to play with it, and crawl uninjured about its feet--
the mother busily the while preparing the baken cakes and mares-milk
draught for her Bedouin lord.

Volume 1, Chapter III.

FIRST ENCOUNTERS.

"Clean yer boots?  Brush down, sir?"

"Why can't yer leave the gent alone?  I spoke fust, sir."

"Here y'are, sir--out of the crowd, sir."

Sixpence to be earned, and a scuffle for it, with the result that
Richard Trevor stood a little out of the stream of passengers, stoically
permitting a gentleman in an old red-sleeved waistcoat to "ciss-s-s" at
him, as he brushed him most carefully down with an old brush, even
though he was not in the slightest degree dusty.

"Now, look here, Dick, if I'm to go trotting about at your heels like a
big dog, I shall bite at everybody who tries to rob you.  I shan't stand
by and see you fleeced.  Is there something in salt water that makes you
sailors ready to part with your money to the first comer?"

The speaker was Frank Pratt, as he drew his friend away towards one of
the omnibuses running that day from Broxford Station to where a regular
back and heart-breaking bit of country had been flagged over for a
steeplechase course.

"You shall do precisely as you like, Frank," was the quiet reply.

"Very good, then--I will.  Now, look here, Dick; you have now, I
suppose, a clear income of twelve thousand a year?"

"Yes, somewhere about that."

"And you want to fool it all away?"

"Not I."

"Well, there was a specimen.  You gave that fellow a shilling for
brushing your coat that was not dirty."

"Poor devil, yes!  He tried to earn it honestly, and we don't get such
luxuries at sea."

"As honestly as Van earned forty sovs. of you after we left Tatt's
yesterday."

"Don't understand you, Franky," said Trevor, with a twinkle of the eye,
as he allowed himself to be caught by a shoeblack, and placed a slightly
soiled boot upon his stand.

"Tut!" ejaculated Pratt.  "There you go again.  What a fellow you are,
Dick!  What I meant was that horse of his.  You gave him a cheque for a
hundred for it."

"Yes, I did, Franky."

"He gave sixty for it last week."

Trevor winced slightly, and said quietly--

"Dealer's profit; and he understands horses.  Try another cigar, Frank."

Pratt took another cigar, lit it, and said, quietly--

"Now look here, Dick, old fellow, I'm afraid I'm going to be a great
nuisance to you.  You're so easy-going, that with this money of yours--
to use your sea-going terms--you'll be all amongst the sharks; every one
will be making a set at you.  'Pon my soul, I've been miserable ever
since I won that four pound ten.  The best thing we can do is to see one
another seldom, for if I stay with you I shall always be boring you
about some foolish bit of extravagance, and getting into hot water with
the friends who take a fancy to you."

"My dear Frank," said Trevor, smoking away in the most unruffled
fashion, "you will oblige me very much by letting that be the
clearing-up shower as far as talk of leaving me is concerned.  It is
quite right.  Here have I been to sea, middy and man, for twelve years;
and now I come back to England a great helpless baby of a fellow, game
for everybody.  You think I'm a fool.  Well, I am not over-wise; but my
first act ashore here was the looking-up of a tried old schoolfellow,
whose purse I've often shared, and who never once left me in the lurch--
and," he added, slowly and meaningly, "who never will leave me in the
lurch.  Am I right?"

Frank Pratt turned one sharp, quick flash upon the speaker, and that was
enough.

"Thanky, sir," cried the shoeblack, spinning up the sixpence he had
received.

The friends turned towards one of the omnibuses about to make a start
for the course.

"Beg parding, sir," said a voice, "just a speck left on your coat, sir!"
And the man who had received the shilling for the brushing began to
"ciss" once more.

"That'll do, sir!  That's the next 'bus, sir!  Good luck to you for a
real gent, sir," he added; and then in a whisper, "Back White Lassie!"

Trevor turned sharply round, just time enough to encounter a most
knowing wink, and the man was gone.

"Dick, I'm afraid that's a trap," said Pratt, gazing after the man.
"Better not bet at all; but if you do, I don't think I should go by what
that fellow says.  Well, come along.  Eh? what?"

"Consequential-looking old chap in that barouche, I said;" and Trevor
pointed to where a carriage had drawn up by the railway hotel, the owner
having posted down from town--"regular type of the old English
gentleman."

"Now, if we are to get on together, Dick," said Pratt, plaintively,
"don't try to humbug me in that way.  Don't hoist false colours."

"Humbug you?--false colours?"

"Yes, humbug me.  Now, on your oath, didn't you think more of the two
ladies in the barouche than of the old gentleman?"

"Without being on my oath--yes, I did; for I haven't seen a pretty girl
for three years.  Get up first."

"After you," was the response.

And directly after the friends were mounted on the knifeboard of a great
three-horse omnibus, brought down expressly for the occasion.

The vehicle was soon loaded in a way that put its springs to the test,
for the exact licenced number was not studied upon that day.  There was
a fair sprinkling of gentlemen, quiet, businesslike professionals, and
decent tradesmen with a taste for sport; but the railway company having
run cheap special trains, London had sent forth a few representative
batches of the fancy, in the shape of canine-featured gentlemen "got up"
expressly for the occasion, with light trousers, spotted neckerchiefs,
velvet coats, and a sign in the breast of their shirt or tie in the
shape of a horseshoe pin.  It is impossible to sit in such company
without wondering whether the closely cropped hair was cut at the
expense of the country; and when a quiet, neutral-looking man, sitting
amongst them, accidentally clicks something in his pocket, you may know
all the time that it is the lid of a tobacco-box, or a few halfpence,
but you are certain to think of handcuffs.

You cannot pick your companions on an omnibus bound from a little
country station to the scene of a steeplechase, and Richard Trevor and
his friend soon found that they were in luck; for in addition to the
regular racing attendants, London had sent down a pleasant assortment of
those sporting gentlemen who used to hang about London Bridge Station on
the morning when an event was to "come off," police permitting, some
forty miles down the line.

In the hurry of climbing up, Pratt had not noticed the occupants of the
vehicle but as soon as they had taken their seats he was for descending
again, and he turned to whisper his wishes to his friend.

"All comes of being in such a plaguy hurry, Frank.  Always take
soundings before you come to an anchor.  Never mind now, though the
onions are far from agreeable."

The words had hardly left his lips, when a man on his left turned
sharply, and asked why he hadn't ordered his "kerridge," subsiding
afterwards into a growl, in which the word "sweeps" was plainly to be
made out.

This acted as the signal for a little light chaff, and remarks began to
fly about the dress of the friends.  Moses Brothers and Whitechapel hags
were mentioned, counter-jumping playfully alluded to, and permissions to
be out for the day; and then a battery of exceedingly foul pipes came
into play, emitting odours resembling anything but those of Araby the
Blest, and driving Frank Pratt to ask his friend, in self-defence, for a
cigar.

"Giv's that there light," said an individual on his right--a gentleman
in velveteen coat, tight trousers, and eyes of so friendly a nature that
they seemed ever seeking each other's society, and trying to burrow
beneath the bridge of their owner's flat nose.  He had no whiskers nor
beard, but a great deal of mouth and chin, spotted all over with tiny
black dots.  His massive neck was swathed in a great belcher kerchief,
with ample but useful ends; for besides supplying warmth, one was used
occasionally to supply the lack of nutriment, and be nibbled by the
owner's great horse-teeth.

Trevor took the vesuvian from his friend, and politely passed it to the
man, who leered, grinned, stuffed it into his pipe-bowl, holding it
there as he puffed for a few moments, and then, winking at a companion,
he pitched the little incandescent globe upon Pratt's light overcoat.

Pratt started, flushed angrily, and brushed the vesuvian from his coat,
but not until it had burned there a round black spot.  But he said
nothing; his face only twitched a little, as he began to make remarks
about the country they were passing.

"Hillo!--eo--eo!" came from behind, as the omnibus slowly lumbered
along; the driver drew a little on one side, and the open carriage, with
its post-horses, that they had seen by the railway hotel, began slowly
to pass, with the two young men eagerly scanning the occupants.

"Look at that old cock in the buff weskit," said some one on the
omnibus--a sally which was followed by roars of laughter, as an elderly
gentleman, of portly, magisterial aspect, half started from the back
seat, filming and frowning in utter astonishment at so ribald an attack
on his dignity.

"Going to ask us to lunch, guv'nor?" laughed a third.

"That's Brighamy Young and his three wives," cried some one else.

"Tell the postboy to go a little faster, Edward," the old gentleman
called out to a footman on the box.

"Do you hear, Edward?  Why don't you go on faster, Edward?--eh, Edward?"
cried the first speaker, while the old gentleman leaned forward to speak
to one of the young ladies opposite, who was evidently somewhat
agitated; while, to make matters worse, the omnibus driver had whipped
up his horses, and the great vehicle kept on thundering along abreast of
the barouche.

This fresh movement was the signal for a volley from the fellow on
Trevor's right; and he now made himself especially conspicuous, kissing
his hand, and evidently goading the old gentleman into a state of
apoplexy.  A scene was evidently brewing, and something unpleasant must
have inevitably occurred, had not, almost at one and the same moment,
Pratt whispered a word or two in French to his friend, and the postboy
given his horses a few cuts, which made them start forward with such
energy that the barouche was soon out of sight.

"You're about right, Frank," Trevor said, leaning back; "it is not worth
notice."

"P'raps you'll just use about as much of this here 'bus as you pays
for," said the man seated dos-a-dos to him, and whom he had slightly
pressed.

Trevor started forward; for the remark was unpleasantly made, and
qualified with offensive adjectives.  Pratt looked anxious, and would
gladly have finished the distance on foot; but to stop the omnibus, and
get down, would probably have made bad worse--especially as Trevor only
smiled, and sat up quite erect.

"He've been taking more than his share of the 'bus ever since he got
up," said the black-looking gentleman on the right, pressing closer to
Trevor.  "Keep yer own side, will yer?"

Very pale and quiet, Richard Trevor edged a little more towards his
companion; but this was only the signal for renewed insult, the
knifeboard being in possession of the fellow's friends.

"Where are you a-scrowging to?" said the fellow on Pratt's left.

And then, acting in concert, he and his companions forced the little
barrister closer to his friend.

"Here, let's speak to the driver," said Trevor, quietly; but there was a
dull red spot in each cheek.

"No, no!" said Pratt.  "It's not much further; don't let us have a row."

"Mind your pockets, then," muttered Trevor.

"Ah, just as I thought," said the fellow who had been ringleader
throughout.  "They're a talking about pockets--button up, gents."

Here followed a roar of laughter, and a few more witticisms of a similar
character were fired off.  Then, seeing how patiently the two friends
bore it all, a fresh crowding was tried, and one of the most offensive
of the fellows called out to the man in velveteens--

"Why don't you leave off, Barney?"

"Tain't me," said Barney, grinning hugely; "it's these here two swell
mob blokes."

There was another roar of laughter, which culminated in a shriek of
delight when Barney of the black muzzle removed his pipe from his mouth,
and designedly spat upon Trevor's glossy boot.

The young man started as if he had been stung; but there was a quiet,
firm pressure of his arm, and he said, in French--

"Is it much further to the course?"

As he spoke, he quietly drew a white cambric handkerchief from his
pocket, carefully removed all trace of the disgusting offence from his
boot, and threw the handkerchief into the road, following it up by
lighting a fresh cigar.

"My! what a pity!" said the fellow, sneeringly, as he watched with
curiosity the young man's action.  "I am sorry.  Wouldn't you like the
handkerchief--again?"

And he pointed to a boy who had just picked it up from the road.

The pressure was again upon Trevor's arm, but he did not speak, and the
only movement was a slight twitching about the muscles of the face.

What more insult might have followed it is impossible to say, for the
omnibus now stopped at a gate, and the occupants began to scramble off.
Trevor rose, and waited for the gentleman called Barney to get down.
But he remained; so Trevor stepped over him, and Pratt was about to
follow, when the fellow thrust out his legs, and the young man tripped,
staggered, and would have fallen from the omnibus but for the strong arm
of his friend.

"Get down first," said Trevor.

"No, no--never mind," said Pratt, catching his arm.

"Get down first," said Trevor, as if he were on the quarter-deck.

"There's nothing to be gained by it," whispered Pratt.

"I'll come directly," was the reply; and facing round upon the fellow,
who had risen, he looked him full in his closely-set eyes, face close to
face, as he said, quietly--

"I think I shall know you again, my friend."

Before the fellow had recovered from his surprise, Trevor stepped
lightly down, took Pratt's arm in an easy-going, familiar way, and the
friends joined the string of people crossing the fields.

"Thank goodness!" said Pratt; "I do hate a row.  You must be on the
losing side.  Lost anything?"

"No," said Trevor, thoughtfully.  "But if that fellow had been at sea
with me, and behaved like that--"

"You'd have had him flogged?"

"No," said Trevor, "I'd have pitched him overboard."

"Overboard?"

"Yes," said Trevor, with his face once more all smiles--"and fished him
out!"

Volume 1, Chapter IV.

RATHER UNPLEASANT.

"Ah," said Pratt, after a brisk walk, "it might have been worse; it all
comes of getting on knife-boards.  I never do go on a 'bus but I'm sure
to meet some one I don't want to see from that elevated position.  Let's
see: in somebody's fables one poor bird got his neck wrung through being
in bad company, and getting caught by the fowler."

"And what has that to do with knife-boards?"

"Only this," said Frank, grimly; "I should uncommonly like to see that
barouche; and the cocky old gentleman inside will be safe to give us
credit for being the ringleaders of those rowdies."

"Well, never mind," said Trevor; "I wanted to see a steeplechase, though
I don't suppose I shall like it any more than a ball."

No more was said then, for they had reached the ground flagged out for
the course--a pleasant tract running round in front of a mound-like
hill, affording the spectators from the various stands a capital view of
the whole race; save where here and there a tiny copse intervened, so
that it must inevitably hide the horses for a few moments.

They were in ample time, for twelve, one, and two o'clock upon racing
cards are very different hours to those represented upon the time-tables
at our various termini; so they had a stroll round, pausing here or
there; but, no matter where they strayed, so sure as Frank Pratt turned
his head, it was to see the evil-looking countenance of their companion
on the omnibus close at hand, though whether Trevor had seen him or not
he could not tell.

For, probably from a love of the beautiful, the young men's steps
generally led them to where they could stand in pretty close proximity
to the barouche--whose occupants seemed to have, for one at least,
something of an attraction.  And no wonder; for on the front seat were
two fresh, bright-eyed English girls, whose eyes sparkled with
animation, and in whose cheeks came and went the bright colour that told
you of excited interest in the day's proceedings.

"I thought as much," said Pratt, as they passed once close by the
carriage on their way to the stand, and a quick glance showed that they
were recognised by the ladies, who coloured slightly, and turned away;
whilst the old gentleman's countenance, as he stood up, gradually
assumed the purply-red well known to all who have seen a turkey-cock at
such time as he ruffleth his plumes, and scowled fiercely at the
friends.

"The impudent scoundrels!" he said aloud, as he turned to the elderly
lady at his side.

"That comes of being in bad company," said Pratt.  "Dick, old fellow, I
shall walk back.  Here, my friend, I have feeling in my toe."

"Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure," said a fine, handsome, bluff
West-countryman--a regular keeper, in brown velveteens; "I really didn't
see you."  And he passed on towards the barouche, the friends following
him with their eyes, to see him touch his hat to first one and then
another of the inmates, who smiled, and seemed to talk to him in a very
animated way, the old gentleman ending by pointing to the box-seat, a
good post for seeing, to which the young man climbed.

"Lucky dog!" said Frank Pratt, softly; and they took their places on the
stand, from which, close at hand, they could readily command the
movements of all in the barouche.

But there was the ground mapped out by the little flags; green field,
ploughed piece, brook, road, double fence, bullfinch; a cluster of
spectators by this dangerous leap; a pollard laden with human fruit
there; oak branches bending, groups of mounted men, with here and there
the flutter of veil and riding-habit; vehicles in pastures, lanes, and
wherever a glimpse could be obtained of the course; and over all the
bright unclouded sun looked down, gilding, with its mellow beams, brown
stubble and changing leaf; while overhead, little troubled by the
buzzing crowds, a lark carolled its sweet song.

The friends were in ample time; but at last the excitement here and
there announced the coming of the horses, and one by one the sleek,
fleet creatures made their appearance to give the customary canter down
the field, and then be gathered together for the start.

At last a low, dull, murmurous buzz runs through the crowd.  They are
off--nearly all together.  The first hedge--only a preparation for
troubles to come--and the horses going easily over a ploughed piece, the
young and ardent jockeys pushing to the front, the old stagers waiting
their opportunity.

Another hedge.  A refusal.  One--two--four--six--nine over somehow or
another, and one down.

Then a loud cheer, by no means pleasant for the fallen man; and "for the
fun of the thing," as he said, Trevor began to back the grey mare known
as White Lassie.

"How can you be so foolish?" said Pratt.

"So," said Trevor, laughing; and he doubled his stakes with another.

"I believe we should be better off there on the knoll," said Pratt,
pointing to the spot where the barouche was standing hemmed in by the
crowd.

And acting upon the suggestion, the two friends quitted the low,
temporary stand, and managed to get a pretty good position on the little
eminence, where they could see right down the valley with the horses
running along its slope.

But Pratt saw more than this; he noted that they were within half a
dozen yards of the barouche where the ladies were standing on the seats,
with eyes sparkling and parted lips, whilst close at hand were Barney,
of the omnibus, and a couple of his intimates, demonstrative in their
comments upon the race.

Of the eleven horses that started, four had, in hunting parlance, come
to grief; and now of the others only five seemed to be in the race.

"Twenty pounds fooled away, Dick," said Pratt, in a whisper, as they now
made out, the last of the five, the white cap and pale blue shirt of the
rider of White Lassie.

"Be quiet, raven," was the calm reply; "the race is not won yet.  Look
at that."

_That_ was the downfall of the leading horse at the next fence, the poor
beast literally turning a somersault, and then getting up to stand
shaking itself, as the other competitors got safely over; White Lassie,
still last clearing the obstacle with ease.

"Now comes the tug of war," said Trevor; and all eyes were strained in
the direction now taken by the horses towards a tolerably wide brook
running between stunted pollards; for this once passed, there was only a
low fence, and a straight run in to the winning post.

The betting on all sides was now fast and furious, Pratt biting his lips
with vexation as, in spite of the distance his favourite was behind,
Trevor kept making fresh engagements.

"He'll lose as much in ten minutes as would have kept me for a year,"
Pratt grumbled to himself; and then he was all eyes for the race, as, on
reaching the brook, the leading horse stopped short and shot his rider
right into the middle.

The next horse leaped short, and came into the brook with his hoofs
pawing the crumbling bank, the rider having to crawl over his head, and
help him ignominiously from his position.  But long ere this, a great
bay had cleared the brook easily, closely followed by White Lassie,
whose rider now seemed to press her forward till she was not more than a
length in the rear, the two horses racing hard for the last leap.

At a distance it looked but a low hedge, but there was a deep dyke on
the riders' side which would require no little skill to clear; and now,
of course, the slightest slip would be fatal to either.

"Don't look so bad now, does it, Franky?" said Trevor.

"No," said the other between his teeth.  "Look, how close they are.  I
couldn't have--bravo!"

For the mare had run up alongside of her great competitor, and together
they literally skimmed over the obstacle in front, and landing on the
stretch of smooth green sward, raced for home.

"King Dick!"

"White Lassie!"

"King Dick!"

"White Lassie!"

"White Lassie!"

"White Lassie!" rose in a perfect roar, as first one and then the other
head appeared in front, till, within a hundred yards of the stand, the
white mare's head--neck--shoulders--half-length--whole length appeared
in front of her competitor, and, amidst the frantic cheers of the crowd,
she leaped in, a clear winner.

"There," said Trevor, turning with a smile to Pratt, "what do--"

He stopped short, and seemed to have tried to emulate the last hound of
the mare; for at that moment, all excitement as she watched the race,
Trevor saw one of the occupants of the barouche give a sudden start, and
nearly fall over the side.

The cause was simple, and was seen by Pratt at the same moment.

Barney, of the omnibus, for the delectation of his friends, had, the
moment the race was ended, raised his stick, reached over the heads of
the crowd, and given the old gentleman a sharp thrust in the ribs.

The result was a violent start, and, as we have said, the young girl was
nearly precipitated from the seat upon which she stood.

A hoarse roar of laughter followed the clown-like feat; and then there
was a dead silence, for a fresh character appeared upon the scene, and
Barney was stooping down shaking his head to get rid of the dizziness
caused by a tremendous blow upon his bull-dog front.

The silence lasted but for a few moments, dining which Richard Trevor
caught one frightened glance from the lady in the barouche, and then
there was an ugly rush, and he and his friend were borne down the slope
of the hill.

The crowd seemed bubbling and seething with excitement for a few
minutes, during which the voices of Barney's friends could be heard
loudly exclaiming amongst them; and the gentleman named, in whose eyes
the tears had previously been gathering from the excess of his mirth,
was borne along with the others, still shaking his head, and feeling as
if the drops that collected had suddenly been turned to molten metal.

"Come away, Dick; for goodness' sake come away."

"My dear Frank, if you fill a vessel quite full, it begins to run over.
This ungodly vessel has been filled full of the gall of bitterness
to-day, and now it is running over."

"But, consider--what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to thrash this fellow within an inch of his life."

"But, Dick--the disgrace--you can't fight; you've punished him enough.
Think of what you're going to do."

"I am thinking," said Trevor, in a quiet, slow way--"thinking that he's
an ugly customer, and that his head looks precious hard."

"Keep back!"--"Make a ring!"--"Let him have it!"

"Now, Barney!" shouted the bystanders.

"Here, let me get at him!" shouted Barney.

"Call up the police!" said a mounted gentleman.  "You can't fight that
fellow, sir."

"I'm going to try," said Trevor, grimly.

There was a buzz of voices, the crowd swayed here and there, and an
opening was made--Barney having struggled out of his upper garments, and
begun to square--when, to the surprise of all, he was suddenly
confronted by the stout-built West-country-man, who had leaped off the
box of the barouche, now on the other side of the hill; and before the
fellow had recovered from his surprise, he was sent staggering back into
the arms of his friends with a sensation as if a hive of bees, suddenly
let loose, were buzzing and stinging in his head.

That was the end of the engagement, for there was a rush of police
through the crowd, people were separated, and by the time Frank Pratt
had fought his way out of a state of semi-suffocation, he was standing
with his friend fifty yards away, and the constables were hurrying two
men off to the station.

"Let's get back," said Trevor.  "I can't let that fellow bear all the
brunt of the affair."

Pratt felt disposed to dissuade, but he gave way, and they got to the
outskirts with no little difficulty, just in time to see that the
barouche horses had been put to, and that the carriage was being driven
off the ground with the West-countryman upon the box.

"He's out of the pickle, then," said Pratt.

"There, come away, man; the police have, for once in a way, caught the
right offender; don't let's get mixed up with it any more."

"Very well," said Dick, calmly.  "I feel better now; but I should have
liked to soundly thrash that scoundrel."

"It's done for you," said Pratt.  "Now let's go and get in your bets."

"I'm afraid, Franky," said Trevor, "that you are not only a mercenary
man, but a great--I mean little coward."

"Quite right--you're quite right," said Pratt.  "I am mercenary because
the money's useful, and enables a man to pay his laundress; and as to
being a coward, I am--a dreadful coward.  I wouldn't mind if it were
only skin, that will grow again; but fancy being ragged about and
muddied in tussle with that fellow!  Why, my dear Dick, I should have
been six or seven pounds out of pocket in no time."

"I wonder who those girls were in the barouche," said Trevor, after a
pause.

"Daresay you do," was the reply; "so do I.  Sweet girls--very; but you
may make yourself quite easy; you will never see either of them again."

"Don't know," said Trevor, slowly.  "This is a very little place, this
world, and I have often run against people I knew in the most
out-of-the-way places."

"Yes, you may do so abroad," said Pratt; "but here, in England, you
never do anything of the kind, except in novels.  I saw a girl once at
the chrysanthemum show in the Temple, and hoped I should ran against her
again some day, but I never did.  She wasn't so nice, though, as these."

Trevor smiled, and then, encountering one or two gentlemen with whom he
had made bets, a little pecuniary business followed, after which the
friends strolled along the course.

"By the way," said Trevor, "I was just thinking it rather hard upon our
friend of the omnibus; those policemen pounced upon him and walked him
off, without much consideration of the case.  Well, I don't want to see
the fellow again; he made my blood boil to-day."

"Then you will see him, you may depend upon it," said Pratt.  "That's
just the awkwardness of fate, or whoever the lady is that manages these
matters.  Owe a man ten pounds, and you will meet him every day like
clock-work."

"Why, Franky," said Trevor, laying his hand upon the other's arm, and
speaking with the old schoolboy familiarity, "I can't help noticing
these money allusions.  Have you been very short at times?"

There was a pause of a few moments' duration, and then Pratt said,
shortly--"Awfully!"

They walked on then in silence, which was broken at last by Pratt, who
said in a hurried way--

"That accounts for my shabby, screwy ways, Dick, so forgive me for
having developed into such a mean little beggar.  You see, the governor
died and left madam with barely enough to live on, and then she pinched
for my education, and she had to fight through it all to get ready for
my call to the bar, where, in our innocence--bless us!--we expected that
briefs would come showering in, and that, once started in chambers in
the Temple, my fortune would be made."

"And the briefs do not shower down yet, Franky?" said Trevor.

"Don't come even in drops.  Haven't had occasion for an umbrella once
yet.  So I went out to Egypt with Landells, you know, and wrote letters
and articles for the Geographical; and, somehow, I got elected to the
`Wanderers,' and--here's the gorgeous Van and little Flick."

"Ah, Trevor, my dear boy!" said the first-named gentleman, sauntering
up, "thought we should see you somewhere.  Flick, have the goodness to
slip that into the case for me."

As he spoke, he handed the race-glass he held in his delicately-gloved
hands to the young baronet, who looked annoyed, but closed the glass,
and slipped it into the sling-case hanging at his companion's side.

"We should have seen you before, but we came upon a pair of rural houris
in a barouche."

"Where?" said Pratt, sharply.

"Ah, Pratt--you there?  How do?" said the Captain, coolly.  "Over the
other side of the course, in a lane.  I couldn't get Landells away."

"Oh--come!" drawled the young baronet.

"Had his glass turned upon them, and there he was, perfectly
transfixed."

"Boot was on the other foot, 'sure you," said Sir Felix.  "It was Van
first made the discovery.  It was so, indeed."

"What, going?" said Vanleigh, as Trevor moved on.

"Yes; we were going to walk all round the course."

"No use to go houri hunting," said Vanleigh, maliciously.  "The barouche
has gone."

Trevor coloured slightly, and then more deeply, as he saw a smile on the
Captain's lip.

"We shall see you again, I daresay, by the stand," he said, taking no
notice of the allusion; and, laying a hand upon Pratt's shoulder, he
strolled away.

"Well," he said, after a few minutes, "the barouche had not quite
disappeared, Franky."

"No," said the other, shortly.  "Better for its occupants if it had.  I
say, Dick, if I had sisters, it would make me feel mad every time that
fellow looked at them."

"What--Landells?"

"Oh no, Felix is a good sort of fellow enough; getting spoiled, but I
don't think there's a great deal of harm in him.  I've taken a dislike
to Van, and I'm afraid I'm rather bitter, and--look, there goes, the
barouche!  Quick, lend me your glass!"

"Thanks, no, Franky," said Trevor, quietly, raising it to his eyes, and
watching the carriage, which was going down a lane to their left, the
owner having apparently given orders for the postboy to drive them from
place to place, where they could get a view of the races, which had
succeeded each other pretty quickly.  "Thanks, no, I will keep it; but,
for your delectation, I may mention that the ladies look very charming,
the old gentleman very important; and--now they are gone."

He replaced the glass in its case, smiled good-humouredly at his
companion, and they walked on.

"Dick," said Pratt, after a few moments' silence, "if I were a
good-looking fellow like you, I should get married."

"And how about yourself?" said the other, smiling.

"Self?  I marry?  My dear old fellow, marriage is a luxury for the rich.
I should be very sorry to starve a wife, and--I say, though, I'm as
hungry as a hunter.  Take me back to London, old fellow, and feed me,
without you want to stay."

"Stay--not I!" said Trevor; "a very little of this sort of thing goes a
long way with me.  But about those two fellows?"

"Let them try to exist without our company, for once in a way," said
Pratt, looking earnestly at his friend, who was busy once more with the
glass; but, catching his companion's eye, Trevor closed the binocular,
and they left the course.

Volume 1, Chapter V.

THE WRITER OF THE LETTER.

"Woa! d'ye hear? woa!  I'm blest if I ever did see sich a 'oss as you
are, Ratty, 'ang me if I did.  If a chap could drive you without
swearing, he must be a downright artch-angel.  Holt still, will yer?
Look at that now!"

A jig here at the reins, and Ratty went forward; a lash from the whip,
and the horse, a wall-eyed, attenuated beast, with a rat-tail, went
backwards, ending by backing the hansom cab, in whose shafts he played
at clay mill, going round and round in a perfect slough of a new unmade
road, cut into ruts by builders' carts.

"Now, look'ee here," said the driver, our friend of the Pall Mall
accident; "on'y one on us can be master, yer know.  If you'll on'y say
as yer can drive, and will drive, why, I'll run in the sharps, and
there's an end on't.  Hold still, will yer?  Yer might be decent
to-day."

The horse suddenly stood still--bogged, with the slushy mud over his
fetlocks, and the cab wheels half-way down to the nave.

"Thenky," said the driver, standing up on his perch; "much obliged.  I'm
blessed!" he muttered.  "Buddy may well say as mine's allus the dirtiest
keb as comes inter the yard, as well as the shabbiest.  'Struth, what a
place!  Now, then, get on, will yer?"

The horse gave his Roman-profiled head a shake, and remained motionless.

"Just like yer," said the cabman.  "When I want yer to go, yer stop; and
when I don't want yer to go, off yer do go, all of a shy, and knocks
'alf a dozen people into the mud, and gets yer driver nearly took up for
reckless driving, as the bobbies calls it.  Come, get on."

Another shake of the head, but the four legs seemed planted as if they
were to grow.

"Well, there's one thing, Ratty," said the driver, "we're about square,
mate; for if ever I've give yer too much of the whip, yer've had it
outer me with obstinacy.  Look at this now, just when yer oughter be on
yer best manners, seeing as I've come about the mischief as yer did; and
then, to make it wus, yer takes advantage of yer poor master's weakness,
and goes a-leading of him inter temptation sore as can't be bore, and
pulls up close aside of a public."

For the spot at which the horse had stopped was at the opening of one of
those new suburban streets run up by speculative builders--a street of
six and seven-roomed houses, with a flaring tavern at the corner; and
the houses, starting from the commencement of the street, in every stage
from finished and inhabited, through finished and uninhabited, down to
unfinished skeletons with the bricks falling out--foundations just above
the ground, foundations merely dug, to end only with a few scaffold
poles, and a brick-field in frill work.

"Stops right in front of a public, yer do," said the driver; "and me as
thirsty as a sack o' sawdust."

The cabman looked at the public-house, to read golden announcements of
"Tipkin's Entire," of "The Celebrated Fourpenny Ale," and the "Brown
London Stout, threepence per pot in your own jugs," and his whip-hand
was drawn across his lips.  Then the whip-hand was set free, and forced
its way into his pockets, where it rattled some halfpence.

"Must have 'alf pint now, anyhow," he muttered, and he made as if to
fasten the reins to the roof of the cab, but only to plump himself down
into his seat again, jig the reins, and give his whip, a sharp crack.

"I'll tell the missus on you, Hatty, see if I don't?" he said, "a-trying
to get your master back into his old ways.  Get on with yer, or yer'll
get it directly."

He gave his whip such a vigorous crack in the air that Ratty consented
to go, and dragging the muddy cab partially down the new street, its
driver pulled up by where a knot of shoeless boys were ornamenting, and
amusing themselves with, the new ill-laid pavement.  One was standing
like a small Colossus of Rhodes, with his grimy feet at either corner of
a loose slab, making the liquid mud beneath squirt out into a puddle,
while a companion carefully turned a naked foot into a stamp, dipped it
in the mud, and printed a pattern all along the pave, till a third
smudged it out, and a fight ensued.

"Hallo, yer young dogs," roared the cabman, and his long whip gave a
crack which stopped the fray; "a-fightin' like that!  Where's Whaley's
Place?"

"First turn to the left, and first to the right," shouted two boys.

"And is it all like this here?" said the cabman.

"No; you should have gone round Brick Street.  I'll show yer."

"Hook on, then," said the cabman, turning his horse; and, to the extreme
envy of his companions, the little speaker "hooked on" behind, his muddy
feet slipping about on the step; but he clung fast, shouting his
directions till the driver reached the main road, made a detour, and
arrived at last in Whaley's Place, where the present of a copper sent
the boy off in high glee to spend it in some coveted luxury.

"Nice sorter cheerful spot this," said the cabman, taking an
observation of the street, which was of a similar class to the new one
he had left, only that the houses had fallen into a state of premature
decay; quite half, too, had declined from the genteel private and taken
to trade, with or without the bow window of shop life.  For instance,
one displayed a few penny illustrated sheets and an assortment of
fly-specked clay pipes, the glass panes bearing the legends, "Tobacco"
and "Cigars."  Another house had the door wide open, and sundry squeaks
issued therefrom--squeaks of a manufacturing tendency, indicative of
grinding, the process being explained by a red and yellow board, having
an artistic drawing of the machinery used, and the words, "Mangling Done
Here."  Then, after an interval of private houses, there was a
fishmonger's, with a stock-in-trade of four plaice and ten bloaters,
opposite to a purveyors, in whose open window--the parlour by rights,
with the sashes out--were displayed two very unpleasant-looking
decapitations of the gentle sheep, and three trays of pieces, labelled
ninepence, sevenpence, and sixpence individually, apparently not from
any variation of quality, but the amount of bone.

"A werry nice sorter place," said the cabman, gazing down at the
numerous children, and the preternaturally big-headed, tadpoleish
babies, whose porters were staring at him.  "Said it was a little
groshers shop.  Ah, here we are."

It was only four doors farther on, and at this establishment there was a
shop front, with the name "B. Sturt" on the facia.  The stock here did
not seem to be extensive, though the place was scrupulously clean.
There was a decorative and pictorial aspect about the trade carried on,
which was evidently that of a chandler's shop; for, in attenuated
letters over the door, you read that Barnabas Sturt was licenced by the
Board of Inland Revenue to deal in tea, coffee, pepper, vinegar, and
tobacco.  The panes of the windows were gay with show cards, one of
which displayed the effects of Tomkins's Baking Powder, while in another
a lady was holding up fine linen got up with Winks's Prussian Blue, and
smiling sweetly at a neighbouring damsel stiff with regal starch.  There
were pictorial cards, too, telling of the celebrated Unadulterated
Mustard, the Ho-fi Tea Company, and Fort's Popular Coffee.

Descending from his perch, the cabman stroked and patted his horse, and
then entered the shop, setting a bell jingling, and standing face to
face with a counter, a pair of scales, and a box of red herrings.

Nobody came, so he tapped the floor with his whip, and a voice growled
savagely from beyond a half-glass door which guarded an inner room--

Waiting patiently for a few moments, the cabman became aware of the fact
that Barnabas Sturt consumed his tobacco as well as dealt in it; and at
last, growing impatient, he peered through the window, to perceive that
a very thin, sour-looking woman, with high cheek bones, was dipping
pieces of rag into a tea-cup of vinegar and water, and applying them to
the contused countenance of a bull-headed gentleman, who lay back in a
chair smoking, and making the woman wince and sneeze by puffing volumes
of the coarse, foul vapour into her face.

"Better mind what you are doing!" he growled.

"Can't help it, dear," said the woman, plaintively, "if you smoke me so.
Well, what now?" she said, waspishly, and changing her tone to the
metallic aggressive common amongst some women.

"Been having a--?" the cabman finished his sentence by grinning, and
giving his arms a pugilistic flourish.

"What's that got to do with you?" growled Mr Sturt.  "What d' yer come
into people's places like that for?"

"Because people says as they sells the werry best tobacco at threepence
a hounce," said the cabman.  "Give's half-hounce."

"Go an' weigh it," said Mr Sturt.

The woman dropped the piece of rag she held, and passed shrinkingly into
the shop, took the already weighed-out tobacco from a jar, and held out
her hand for the money.

"Now then," growled Mr Sturt from the back room, "hand that over here,
will yer?"

The cabman walked into the room and laid down the money, slowly emptying
the paper afterwards into a pouch, which he took from a side pocket.

"This here's twenty-seven, ain't it?" said the cabman then.

"Yes, it is twenty-seven," cried Mr Sturt--our friend Barney of the
steeplechase--and he seemed so much disturbed that he leaped up and
backed into a corner of the room.  "You ain't got nothin' again' me,
come, now."

"No, I ain't got nothin' again' yer," said the cabman, quietly, but with
his eye twinkling.  "Did yer think I was--?"

He finished his sentence with a wink.

"Never you mind what I thought," said Barney.  "What d' yer want here?"

"Only to know if Mrs Lane lives here."

"Yes, she do," cried the woman, spitefully; "and why couldn't you ring
the side bell, and not come bothering us?"

"Because I wanted some tobacco, mum," said the cabman, quietly.

"Oh!" said the woman, in a loud voice; "with their cabs, indeed,
a-comin' every day: there'll be kerridges next!"

"Just you come and go on with your job," said Barney, with a snarl.

"I'm coming!" said the woman, sharply.  Then to the cabman--"You can go
this way;" and she flung open a side door and called up the
stairs--"Here, Mrs Lane, another cab's come for you.  There, I s'pose
you can go up," she added; and then, in a voice loud enough to be heard
upstairs, "if people would only pay their way instead of riding in cabs,
it would be better for some of us."

A door had been heard to open on the first floor, and then, as the
vinegary remark of Mrs Sturt rose, voices were heard whispering.  The
cabman went straight up the uncarpeted stairs, to pause before the
half-open door, as he heard, in a low conversation, the words--

"Mamma--dear mamma, pray don't notice it."

The next moment the door opened fully, and the pale, worn-looking woman
of the accident stood before the cabman, who shuffled off his hat, and
stood bowing.

"Jenkles, mum," he said--"Samuel Jenkles, nine 'underd seven six, as
knocked you down in Pall Mall."

The woman stepped back and laid her hand upon her side, seeming about to
fall, when the cabman started forward and caught her, helping her to a
chair in the shabbily-furnished room, as the door swung to.

"Oh, mamma," cried a girl of about seventeen, springing forward, the
work she had been engaged upon falling on the floor.

"It is nothing, my dear," gasped the other; though her cheek was ashy
pale, and the dew gathered on her forehead.

"She's fainting, my dear," said the cabman.  "Got anything in the
house?"

"Yes, some water," said the girl, supporting the swooning woman, and
fanning her face.

"Water!" ejaculated the cabman, in a tone of disgust.  "Here, I'll be
back directly."

He caught up a little china mug from a side table, and ran out, nearly
upsetting Mrs Sturt on the landing and Barney at the foot of the
stairs, to return at the end of a few minutes, and find the passage
vacant; so he hastily ran up, to see that Mrs Lane had come to in his
absence, though she looked deadly pale.

"Here, mum," he said, earnestly, "drink this; don't be afeard, it's port
wine.  A drop wouldn't do you no harm neither, Miss," he added, as he
glanced at the pale, thin face and delicate aspect of the girl.

Mrs Lane put the mug to her lips, and then made an effort, and sat up.

"You was hurt, then, mum?" said the cabman, anxiously.

"Only shaken--frightened," she said, in a feeble voice.

"And my coming brought it all up again, and upset you.  It's jest like
me, mum, I'm allus a-doing something; ask my missus if I ain't."

"It did startle me," said Mrs Lane, recovering herself.  "But you
wished to see me.  I am better now, Netta," she said to the girl, who
clung to her.  "Place a chair."

"No, no, arter you, Miss," said the cabman; "I'm nobody;" and he
persisted in standing.  "'Scuse me, but I knows a real lady when I sees
one; I'll stand, thanky.  You see, it was like this: I saw Tommy Runce
on the stand--him, you know, as brought you home from the front of the
club there--and I ast him, and he told me where he brought you.  And
when I was talking to the missus last night, she says, says she, `Well,
Sam,' she says, `the least you can do is to drive up and see how the
poor woman is, even if you lose half a day.'  `Well,' I says, `that's
just what I was a thinking,' I says, `only I wanted to hear you say it
too.'  So you see, mum, thinking it was only decent like, I made bold to
come and tell you how sorry I am, and how it was all Ratty's fault; for
he's that beast of a horse--begging your pardon, mum, and yours too,
Miss--as it's impossible to drive.  He oughter ha' been called
Gunpowder, for you never know when he's going off."

"It was _very_ kind and very thoughtful of you, and--and your wife,"
said Mrs Lane; "and indeed I thank you; but I was not hurt, only
shaken."

"Then it shook all the colour outer your face, mum, and outer yours too,
Miss," he said, awkwardly.  "You'll excuse me, but you look as if you
wanted a ride every day out in the country."

As he spoke, the girl glanced at a bundle of violets in a broken glass
of water in the window; then the tears gathered in her eyes.  She seemed
to struggle for a moment against her emotion, and then started up and
burst into a passion of weeping.

"My darling!" whispered Mrs Lane, catching her in her arms, and trying
to soothe her, "pray--pray don't give way."

"I've done it again," muttered Jenkles--"I'm allus a-doing it--it is my
natur' to."

The girl made a brave effort, dashed away the tears, shook back her long
dark hair, and tried to smile in the speaker's face, but so piteous and
sad a smile that Jenkles gave a gulp; for he had been glancing round the
room, and in that glance had seen a lady and her daughter living in a
state of semi-starvation, keeping life together evidently by sewing the
hard, toilsome slop-work which he saw scattered upon the table and
chairs.

"She has been ill," said Mrs Lane, apologetically, "and has not quite
recovered.  We are very much obliged to you for calling."

"Well, you see, mum," said Jenkles, "it was to set both of us right,
like--you as I didn't mean to do it, and me and my missus that you
warn't hurt.  And now I'm here, mum, if you and the young lady there
would like a drive once or twice out into the country, why, mum, you've
only got to say the word, and--"

"You'll excuse me, ma'am," said the sharp voice of Mrs Sturt, laying
great stress on the "ma'am," "but my 'usban' is below, and going out on
business, and he'd be much obliged if you'd pay us the rent."

The girl looked in a frightened way at her mother, who rose, and said,
quietly--

"Mrs Sturt, you might have spared me this--and before a stranger, too."

"I don't know nothing about no strangers, ma'am," said Mrs Sturt,
defiantly.  "I only know that my master sent me up for the rent; for he
says if people can afford to come home in cabs, and order cabs, and
drink port wine, they can afford to pay their rent; so, if you please,
ma'am, if you'll be kind--"

"Why, them two cabs warn't nothing to do with the lady at all," said
Jenkles, indignantly; "and as for the wine, why, that was mine--and--and
I paid for it."

"And drunk it too, I dessay," said Mrs Sturt.  "Which it's four weeks
at seven-and-six, if you please, ma'am--thirty shillings, if you
please."  The girl stood up, her eyes flashing, and a deep flush in her
cheeks; but at a sign from her mother she was silent.

"Mrs Sturt," she said, "I cannot pay you now; give me till Saturday."

"That won't do for my master, ma'am; he won't be put off."

"But the work I have in hand, Mrs Sturt, will half pay you--you shall
receive that."

"I'm tired on it," said Mrs Sturt, turning to the door; "p'r'aps I'd
better send him up."

"Oh, mamma," said the girl, in a low, frightened voice, and she turned
of a waxen pallor, "don't let him come here."

And she clung trembling to her arm as the retreating footsteps of Mrs
Sturt were heard, and, directly after, her vinegary voice in colloquy
with her husband.

"Here, I'll soon let 'em know," he was heard to say, roughly.

The trembling girl hid her face on her mother's shoulder; but only to
start up directly, very pale and firm, as Barney's heavy step was heard.

"Blame me if I can stand this," muttered Jenkles.

Then without a word he stuck his hat on his head and walked out of the
room, in time to meet the master of the house on the stairs.

"Now, then?" said Barney, as Jenkles stopped short.

"Now, then," said Jenkles, "where are you going?"

"In there," said Barney, savagely; and he nodded towards the room.

"No, you ain't," said Jenkles; "you're a-going downstairs."

"Oh, am I?  I'll just show you about that."

He rushed up two more of the stairs; but Jenkles did not budge an inch--
only met the brute with such a firm, unflinching look in his ugly eyes
that the bully was cowed, puzzled at the opposition.

"You're a-going downstairs to send yer missus up; and jest you tell her
to go and take a spoonful o' treacle out o' the shop afore she does come
up, so as she'll be a little bit sweeter when the ladies pays her."

Then Jenkles walked back into the room, rammed his hand into his pocket,
and pulled out a dirty canvas bag, out of which he fished a piece of rag
tied tightly, in one corner of which was a sovereign, which had to be
set free with his teeth.  From another corner he tried to extricate a
half-sovereign, but it would not come, the knot was too tight.

"Here, lends a pair o' scissors," he exclaimed, angrily.

"What are you going to do?" said Mrs Lane.

"To cut this here out," said Jenkles; "there, that's it.  Here's a sov
and a arf, mum, as was saved up for our rent.  I never did such a thing
afore, but that's nothing to you.  I'll lend it you, and you'll pay me
again when you can.  There's my name on that dirty envelope, and you'll
send it, I know."

"No," exclaimed Mrs Lane, in a choking voice, "I--"

At this moment Mrs Sturt entered the room, looking very grim; but no
sooner did she see the money lying upon the table than she walked up,
took it, said "Thanky," shortly, and jerked a letter upon the table.

Jenkles was following her, when Mrs Lane cried "Stop!" seized the
letter, tore it open, and read it.

It was in reply to the second she had written, both of which had reached
Captain Vanleigh, though she believed the first had been lost.

Her letter had been brief--

  "Help us--we are destitute.

  "A.V."

The reply was--

  "Do what I wish, and I will help you."

No signature.

Mrs Lane clenched her teeth as she crushed the letter in her hand, then
raised her eyes to see the cabman at the door, with her daughter kissing
his hand.

"Oh, God!" she moaned, "has it come to this!"

The next minute Netta was clinging to her, and they wept in unison as
the sound of wheels was heard; and Sam Jenkles apostrophised his ugly
steed.

"Ratty," he said, "I wonder what it feels like to be a fool--whether
it's what I feels just now?"

There was a crack of the whip here, and the hansom trundled along.

"How many half-pints are there in thirty bob, I wonder?" said Sam again.

And then, as he turned into the main road at Upper Holloway, he pulled
up short--to the left London, to the right over the hills to the
country.

"Not above four or five mile, Ratty, and then there'll be no missus to
meet.  Ratty, old man, I think I'd better drive myself to Colney Hatch."

Volume 1, Chapter VI.

ALL AMONG THE FERNS.

An autumn morning in a lane.  A very prosaic beginning.  But there are
lanes and lanes; so let not the reader imagine a dreary, clayey way
between two low-cropped hedges running right across the flat landscape
with mathematical severity, and no more exciting object in view than a
heap of broken stones ready for repairs.  Our lane is a very different
affair, for it is a Cornish lane.

Do you know what a Cornish lane is like--a lane in a valley?  Perhaps
not; so we will describe the winding road, where, basket in hand, Tiny
and Fin Rea, walking home, were seeking ferns.

In this land of granite, a clear field is an exception--the great bare
bones of earth peer out in all directions; and however severe the taste
of the first maker of a beaten track, unless he were ready with
engineering tools and blasting appliances, instead of making his way
straight forward, he would have to go round and dodge about, to avoid
the masses of stone.  Hence, then, many of the lanes wind and double
between piled-up heaps of granite, through steep gorges, and rise and
fall in the most eccentric way; while--Nature having apparently scoured
the hill-tops, and swept the fertile soil into the vales along these
dell-like lanes--the verdure is thick and dense; trees interlace
overhead till you walk in a pale green twilight flecked with golden
rays; damp dripping stones are covered with velvet moss; a tiny spring
trickles here, and forms crystal pools, mirroring delicate fronds of
fern; gnarled oaks twist tortuous trunks in the great banks, and throw
distorted arms across the road; half hidden from sight--here five, there
fifty feet below the _toad_--a rapid stream goes musically onward
towards the sea, singing silvery songs to the little speckly trout which
hide beneath the granite shelves in their crystal homes.  Verdure rich
and bright on every side, and above all ferns--ferns of the tiniest, and
ferns tall and towering, spreading luxuriant fronds, and sending up
spikes of flowers, while lesser neighbours form patches of wondrous
beauty--tropic palm forests in miniature.

"Now, then, who's going to take my picture?" cried Fin Rea, plumping
herself down on a mossy stone, and snatching off her hat.  "Should I do
now, Tiny?"

Undoubtedly: for her lithe, slight form, in its grey muslin, stood out
from the ashy brown of the oak trunk that formed the background, while a
wondrous beauty of light and shade fell through the leafy network above.

"Oh, isn't it heavenly to be back?  I couldn't live in London.  I liked
the theatres, and going to the race, and seeing pictures, but I should
soon be tired of it all.  It makes you so cross.  I believe the blacks
get into your temper.  I say, Tiny, I wonder what Aunt Matty would be
like if she lived in London?"

"Don't make fun of poor Aunt Matty," said her sister.  "She has had a
good deal of trouble in her life."

"And made it," said Fin, jumping up.  "Oh, I say, look down there," she
cried, pointing through the ferns at her feet to a cool, dark pool,
twenty feet below; "there's a place.  Oh, Tiny, if I thought I should
ever grow into such a screwy, cross old maid as Aunt Matty, I think I
should jump down there and let the fishes eat."

"Fin, that little tongue of yours goes too fast," said her sister.

"Let it," was the laconic reply.  "Tongues were made to talk with.
Let's go on; I'm tired of digging up ferns.  Wasn't it funny, seeing
Humphrey Lloyd at that race?  And I wonder who those gentlemen were."

"Do you mean the people who stared at us so through the race-glass?"

"No, I don't, Miss Forgetful.  I mean the big, dark man, and the funny,
little fierce fellow with his hair brushed into points.  You don't
remember, I suppose?"

"Oh yes," said Tiny, quietly.  "I remember, for I was very much
frightened."

"Ah, I hope the knight-errant wasn't hurt; and, oh, do look, Tiny," Fin
cried, putting down her basket.  "What's that growing in that tree?"

As she spoke, she climbed from stone to stone up the steep bank, till
she was stopped short by her dress being caught by a bramble.

"Oh, Tiny, come and unloose me, do.  I'm caught."

There was nothing for it but that her sister should clamber up the bank,
and unhook the dress, which she did, when Fin gave her a hand, and drew
her up to her side.

"What a tomboy you do keep, Fin," said Tiny, panting; "see how my dress
is torn."

"Never mind, I'll sew it up for you.  What's the good of living in the
country if you can't be free as the birds?  Sweet, sweet, sweet!  Oh,
you beauty!" she cried, as a goldfinch sounded his merry lay.  "Tiny,
shouldn't you like to be a bird?"

"No," was the quiet reply.  "I would rather be what I am."

"I should like to be a bird," said Fin, placing one foot on an
excrescence of a stumpy pollard oak, and, making a jump, she caught hold
of a low bough.

"But not now," cried Tiny.  "What are you going to do?"

"Going to do?" laughed Fin.  "Why, climb this tree;" and she got a step
higher.

"Oh, Fin, how foolish!  Whatever for?  Suppose some one came by?"

"Nobody comes along here at this time of the day, my dear; so here goes,
and if I fall pick up my pieces, and carry them safely home to dear Aunt
Matty.  `And the dicky-bird sang in the tree,'" she trilled out, as step
by step she drew herself up into the crown of the stumpy, gnarled
pollard.

"Oh, Fin!" exclaimed her sister.

"Its all right, Miss Timidity.  I'm safe, and I came on purpose," cried
Fin, from up in her perch, her face glowing, and eyes sparkling with
merriment.

"But what are you trying to do?"

"To get some of this, sweet innocent.  You can't see, I suppose, what it
is?"

"No, indeed, I cannot," said Tiny--"yes, I can.  Why, it's mistletoe."

"Mistletoe, is it, Miss?  Ahem!" cried Finn, resting one little fist
upon her hip,--and stretching out the other--"Tableau--young Druid
priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel."

"Fin, dear, do come down.  Don't touch it."

"Not touch it?  But I will.  There!" she cried, tearing off a piece of
the pretty parasite.  "I'll wear that in my hat all the way home as a
challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross.  She'll--"

"Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet," whispered Tiny.

"Eh?  What's the matter?" cried Fin, from her perch.

"Oh, pray be quiet; here's somebody coming."

"Never mind," said Fin.  "You stand behind the tree--they can't see us--
till I shout `Hallo!'"

But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard
coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a
man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat.  The face was that of a
keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by
life's frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not
handsome, but likely to win confidence.

The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some
ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a
quart of some steaming compound.

"It's Saint Timothy," whispered Fin, from her perch.  "Keep close."

Tiny drew her dress closer together, and pressed to the tree trunk,
looking terribly guilty, while her sister went on watching.

The steps came nearer, and the stepper's eyes were busy with a keen look
for everything, as he seemed to feast on the beauties of Nature around
him.

"`I love the merry, merry sunshine,'" he sang, in a bold, bluff voice;
"and--Hallo, what the dickens have we here?" he cried, stopping short,
and setting two hearts beating quickly.  "Lady's basket and ferns dug
up--yes, within the last hour.  Why, that must be--Hallo, I spy, hi!"

For as he spoke his eyes had been wandering about, amongst the brakes
and bushes, and he had caught sight of a bit of muslin dress peeping out
from behind a gnarled oak.

The result of his summons was that the scrap of dress was softly drawn
out of sight, and a voice from up in the ties whispered--

"Oh, go down, Tiny, and then he won't see me."

"Hallo! whispers in the wind," cried the newcomer, glancing higher, and
seeing a bit of Fin.  "Is it a bird?  By Jove, I wish I'd a gun.  No:
poachers--trespassers.  Here, you fellows, come out!"

Volume 1, Chapter VII.

JENKLES'S CONFESSION.

Sam Jenkles always boasted that he never kept anything from his wife;
but he was silent for two days; and then, after a hard day's work, he
was seated in his snug kitchen, watching the browning of a half-dozen
fine potatoes in a Dutch oven before the fire, when Mrs Jenkles, a
plump, bustling little woman, who was stitching away at a marvellous
rate, her needle clicking at every stroke, suddenly exclaimed--

"Sam, you'd better give me that two pound you've got, and I'll put it
with the rest."

Sam didn't answer, only tapped his pipe on the hob.

Mrs Jenkles glanced at him, and then said--

"Did you hear what I said, Sam?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you give it me?  Draw that oven back an inch."

"Aint got it--only half a sov," said Sam, leaving the potatoes to burn.

Mrs Jenkles dropped her work upon her lap, and her face grew very red.

"Didn't you say, Sam, that if I'd trust you, you wouldn't do so any
more?"

"Yes."

"And you've broke your word, Sam."

"I aint, 'pon my soul, I aint, Sally," cried Sam, earnestly.  "I've had
my pint for dinner, and never touched a drop more till I had my pint at
home."

"Then where's that money?"

"Spent it," said Sam, laconically.

"Yes, at the nasty public-houses, Sam.  An' it's too bad, and when I'd
trusted you!"

"Wrong!" said Sam.

"Then where is it?"

"Fooled it away."

"Yes, of course.  But I didn't expect it, Sam; I didn't, indeed."

"All your fault," said Sam.

"Yes, for trusting you," said Mrs Jenkles, bitterly.  "Nice life we
lead: you with the worst horse and the worst cab on the rank, and me
with the worst husband."

"Is he, Sally?" said Sam, with a twinkle of the eye.

"Yes," said Mrs Jenkles, angrily; "and that makes it all the worse,
when he might be one of the best.  Oh, Sam," she said, pitifully, "do I
ever neglect you or your home?"

"Not you," he said, throwing down his pipe, and looking round at the
shining tins, bright fireplace, and general aspect of simple comfort and
cleanliness.  "You're the best old wife in the world."

And he got up and stood behind her chair with his arms round her neck.

"Don't touch me, Sam.  I'm very, very much hurt."

"Well, it was all your fault, little woman," he said, holding the comely
face, so that his wife could not look round at him.

"And how, pray?" said she.

"Didn't you send me up to see that poor woman as Ratty knocked down?"

"Yes; but did you go?"

"To be sure I did--you told me to go."

"Then why didn't you tell me you had been?"

"Didn't like to," said Sam.

"Such stuff!" cried Mrs Jenkles.  "But what's that got to do with it?"

Sam remained silent.

"What's that got to do with it, Sam?"

Silence still.

"Now, Sam, you've got something on your mind, so you'd better tell me.
Have you been drinking?"

"No, I haven't," said Sam, "and I don't mean to again."

"Then I'm very sorry for what I said."

"I know that," said Sam.

"But what does it all mean?"

"Well, you see," said Sam, "I've been a fool."

And after a little more hesitation, he told all about his visit.

Mrs Jenkles sat looking at the fire, rubbing her nose with her thimble,
both she and Sam heedless that the potatoes were burning.

"You've been took in, Sam, I'm afraid," she said at last.

"Think so?" he said.

"Well, I hope not; but you've either been took in, or done a very, very
kind thing."

"Well, we shall see," he said.

"Yes, we shall see."

"You aint huffy with me?"

"I don't know yet," said Mrs Jenkles; "but I shall go up and see them."

"Ah, do," said Sam.

"Yes, I mean to see to the bottom of it," said Mrs Jenkles.  "I haven't
patience with such ways."

"They can't help being poor."

"I don't mean them; I mean those people they're with.  I couldn't do
it."

"Not you," said Sam.  "But I say, don't Mr Lacy go next week?"

"Yes."

"And the rooms will be empty?"

"Yes," said Mrs Jenkles.  "I have put the bill up in the window; he
said he didn't mind."

Sam Jenkles went and sat down in his chair with an air of relief and
looked at his wife.

Mrs Jenkles looked at Sam, as if the same idea was in both hearts.
Then she jumped up suddenly.

"Oh, Sam, the potatoes are spoiling!"

They were, but they were not spoilt; and Sam Jenkles made a very hearty
meal, washing it down with the pint of beer which he termed his
allowance.

"Ah!" he said, speaking like a man with a load off his mind, "this
here's a luxury as the swells never gets--a regular good, hot, mealy
tater, fresh from the fire.  It's a wonderful arrangement of nature that
about taters."

"Why?" said Mrs Jenkles, as she emptied the brown coat of another
potato on her husband's plate.  "What do you mean?"

"Why, the way in which roast potatoes and beer goes together.  Six
mouthfuls of tater, and then a drink of beer to get rid of the dryness."

"I wish you wouldn't be so fond of talking about beer, Sam," said Mrs
Jenkles.

"All right, my dear," said Sam; and he finished his supper, retook his
place by the fireside, filled his pipe, glanced at the Dutch clock
swinging its pendulum to and fro; and then, as he lit the tobacco--"Ah!
this is cheery.  Glad I aint on the night shift."

Mrs Jenkles was very quiet as she bustled about and cleared the table,
before once more taking her place on the other side of the fire.

"Ratty went first-rate to-day," said Sam, after a few puffs.

But Mrs Jenkles did not take any notice; she only made her needle
click, and Sam kept glancing at her as he went on smoking.  At last she
spoke.

"I shall go up and see those people, Sam, for I'm afraid you've been
taken in.  Was she a married woman."

"Yes," said Sam; "I saw her ring.  But I say, you know, 'taint my fault,
Sally," he said, plaintively.  "I was born a soft un."

"Then it's time you grew hard, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles, bending over her
work.  "Thirty shillings takes a deal of saving with people like us."

"Yes," said Sam, "it do, 'specially when you has so many bad days to
make up."

"You ought not to have to pay more than twelve shillings a day for that
cab, Sam."

"I told the gov'nor so, and he said as it oughter be eighteen, and
plenty would be glad to get it at that."

Mrs Jenkles tightened her mouth, and shook her head.

"Oh!  I say, Sally," said Sam, plaintively, "I've been worried about
that money; and now it was off my mind, I did think as it was all right.
You've reglarly put my pipe out."

Mrs Jenkles rose, took a splint from the chimney-piece, lit it, and
handed it to her husband.

"No," he said, rubbing his ear with the stem of his pipe, "it aint that,
my dear; I meant figgeratively, as old Jones says."

Mrs Jenkles threw the match into the fire, and resumed her work for a
few minutes; then glanced at the clock, and put away her work.

"Yes, Sam, I shall go to Upper Holloway to-morrow, and see what I
think."

"Do, my lass, do," said Sam, drearily.  Then, in an undertone, as he
tapped his pipe-bowl on the hob, "Well, it's out now, and no mistake.
Shall we go to bed?"

Volume 1, Chapter VIII.

"OUR NEXT MEETING."

Fin Rea stood gazing down for a few moments, and then said--"No, indeed,
I can't, Mr Mervyn.  Pray go."

"Oh, Mr Mervyn," said Tiny, softly, "don't tease her any more."

"It is hard to refuse such a request," said the newcomer; "but, as
trespassers, you must leave me to administer punishment.  And, besides,
I owe Miss Fin here a grudge.  She has been laughing at me, I hear."

"I'll never do so any more, Mr Mervyn--I won't indeed," cried Fin;
"only let me off this time."

"Jump, you little gipsy, jump," cried Mr Mervyn.

"It's too high--I daren't," cried Fin.

"I have seen you leap down from a place twice as high, my little fawn.
Now, then, jump at once."

Fin looked despairingly round for a few moments, then made a piteous
grimace, and lastly sprang boldly down into the strong arms, which held
her as if she had been a child.

"Now," said Mr Mervyn, "about the mistletoe?"

"Mr Mervyn, pray.  Oh, it's too bad.  I..."

"Don't be frightened, little one," he said, tenderly, as he retained her
with one hand, to smooth her breeze-blown hair with the other.  "There,
come along; let me help you down."

But Fin started from him, like the fawn he had called her, and sprang
down the great bank.

"Mind my soup," shouted Mr Mervyn; and only just in time, for it was
nearly overset.  Then he helped Tiny down, blushing and vexed; but no
sooner were they in the lane, than Fin clapped her hands together, and
exclaimed--

"Oh, Mr Mervyn, don't go and tell everybody what a rude tomboy of a
sister Tiny is blessed with.  I am so ashamed."

"Come along, little ones," he said, laughing, as he stooped to pick up
the tin, and at the same time handed Fin her basket.

"How nice the soup smells," said Fin, mischievously.

"Yes; you promised to come and taste it some day," said Mr Mervyn; "but
you have never been.  I'm very proud of my soup, young ladies, and have
many a hard fight with Mrs Dykes about it."

"Do you?" said Tiny, for he looked seriously at her as he spoke.

"What about?" said Fin, coming to her sister's help.

"About the quantity of water," said Mr Mervyn.  "You know we've a big
copper for the soup; and Mrs Dykes has an idea in her head that eight
quarts of water go to the gallon, mine being that there are only four."

"Why, of course," laughed Fin.

"So," said Mr Mervyn, "she says I have the soup too strong, while I say
she wants to make it too weak."

"And what does old Mrs Trelyan say?"

"Say?" laughed Mr Mervyn.  "Oh, the poor old soul lets me take it to
her as a favour, and says she eats it to oblige me."

"It's so funny with the poor people about," said Fin; "they want things,
but they won't take them as if you were being charitable to them; they
all try to make it seem like a favour they are doing you."

"Well, I don't know that I object to that much," said Mr Mervyn.

"They're all pleased enough to see us," continued Fin; "but when Aunt
Matty and papa go they preach at them, and the poor people don't like
it."

"Fin!" said Tiny, in a warning voice.

"I don't care," said Fin; "it's only Mr Mervyn, and we may speak to
him.  I say, Mr Mervyn, did you hear about old Mrs Poltrene and Aunt
Matty?"

"Fin!" whispered Tiny, colouring.

"I _will_ tell Mr Mervyn; it isn't any harm," cried downright Fin.

And her sister, seeing that she only made matters worse, remained
silent.

"Mr Mervyn, you know old Mrs Poltrene, of course?"

"Oh yes, the old fisherman's wife down by the cliff."

"Yes; and Aunt Matty went to see her, and talked to her in her way, and
it made the old lady so cross that--that--oh, I mustn't tell you."

"Nonsense, child, go on."

"She--she told Aunt Matty to go along and get married," tittered Fin,
"and she could stay at home and mend her husband's stockings, and leave
people alone; and Aunt Matty thought it so horrible that she came home
and went to bed."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mr Mervyn.  "Mrs Poltrene has a temper; but here
we are--you'll come in?"

Tiny was for drawing back, but her sister prevailed.  They had been
walking along the lane, and had now reached a long, low cottage, built
after the fashion of the district, with massive blocks of granite, and
roofed with slabs of the same.  There was a strip of garden, though
gardens were almost needless, banked up as the place was on all sides
with the luxuriant wild growth of the valley.  On one side, though, of
the doorway was the simple old fuchsia of bygone days, with a stem here
as thick as a man's wrist--a perfect fuchsia tree, in fact; and on the
other side, leafing and flowering right over the roof, a gigantic
hydrangea, the flower we see in eastern England in pots, but here of a
delicious blue.

"Any one at home," said Mr Mervyn, walking straight in.  "Here, Mrs
Trelyan, I've brought you two visitors," and a very old, white-haired
woman, who was making a pilchard net, held her hand over her forehead.

"Sit down, girls--sit down," she said, in the melodious sing-song voice
of the Cornish people.  "I know them--they come and see me sometimes.
Eh?  How am I?  But middling--but middling.  It's been a bad season for
me.  Oh, soup?  Ah, you've brought me some more soup; you may empty it
into that basin.  I didn't want it; but you may leave it.  They've
brought me up some hake and a few herrings, so I could have got on
without.  That last soup was too salt, master."

"Was it?" said Mr Mervyn, giving a merry glance at Fin.  "Well, never
mind, I'll speak to Mrs Dykes about it."

"Ay, she's an east-country woman.  Those folks don't know much about
cooking.  Well, young ladies, I hear you have been to London."

"Yes, Mrs Trelyan."

"And you're glad to come back?"

"Yes, that we are," said Fin.

"Ay, I've heard it's a poor, lost sort of place, London," said the old
lady.  "I never went, and I never would.  My son William wanted to take
me once in his boot; but I wouldn't go.  Your father was a wise man to
buy Tolcarne; but it'll never be such a place as Penreife."

"You know young Trevor's coming back?" said Mr Mervyn.

"Ay, I know," said the old lady.  "Martha Lloyd came up to tell me, as
proud as a peacock, about her young master, talking about his fine this
and fine that, till she nearly made me sick.  I should get rid of her
and her man if I was him."

"What, Lloyd, the butler?" said Mr Mervyn, smiling.

"Yes," said the old lady, grimly, "they're Welsh people; so's that young
farm-bailiff of his."

"You know the whole family?" said Mr Mervyn.

"Why, I was born here!" said the old lady, "and I ought to.  We've been
here for generations.  Ah! and so the young squire's coming back.  Time
he did; going gadding off into foreign countries all this time.  Why,
he's six or seven and twenty now.  Ay, how time goes," continued the old
lady, who was off now on her hobby.  "Why, it was like yesterday that
the Lloyds got Mrs Trevor to send for their sister from some place with
a dreadful name; and she did, and I believe it was her death, when she
might have had a good Cornish nurse; and the next thing we heard was
that there was a son, and the very next week there was a grand funeral,
and the poor squire was never the same man again.  Ah! it was an artful
trick that--sending for the nurse because Mrs Lloyd wanted her too; and
young Humphrey Lloyd was born the same week.  Ay, they were strange
times.  It seemed directly after that we had the news about the squire,
who got reckless-like, always out in his yacht, a poor matchwood sort of
a thing, not like our boots, and it was blown on the Longships one
night, and there wasn't even a body came ashore."

"Rather a sad family history," said Mr Mervyn.

"Ay, sad enough," said the woman; "and now the young squire's coming
home at last from sea, but he'll never be such a man as his father."

"Think not?" said Mr Mervyn, musing.

"Sure not," said the old woman.  "Why, he was petted and spoiled by
those Lloyds while he was a boy, and a pretty limb he was.  Him and that
young Lloyd was always in some mischief.  Pretty pranks they played me.
I've been out with the stick to 'em scores of times; but he was
generous--I will say that--and many's the conger and bass he's brought
me here, proud of 'em as could be, because he caught them himself."

"Well, Mrs Trelyan, we must say good morning," said Tiny, rising and
taking the old lady's hand.  "Is there anything you would like--anything
we can bring you?"

"No, child, no," said the old lady; "I don't want anything.  If you'd
any good tea, I'd use a pinch; but I'm not asking for it, mind that."

"Where's your snuff-box, granny?" said Mr Mervyn, bringing out a small
canister from his pocket.

"Oh, it's here," said the old lady, fishing out and opening her box to
show it was quite empty.  "I don't know that I want any, though."

"Try that," said Mr Mervyn, filling it full; and the old lady took a
pinch.  "That's not bad, is it?"

"N-n-no, it's not bad," said the old lady, "but I've had better."

"No doubt," said Mr Mervyn, smiling.

"By the way, Mrs Trelyan, how old are you?"

"Ninety next month," said the old lady; "and--dear, dear, what a bother
visitors are.  Here's somebody else coming."

For at that moment there was a firm step heard without, and some one
stooped and entered the doorway, hardly seeing the group on his left in
the gloomy room.

"Is Mrs Trelyan at home?" he said; and Tiny Rea laid her hand upon her
sisters arm.

"Yes, young man," said the old lady, shading her eyes, and gazing at the
strongly-built figure before her.  "I'm Mrs Trelyan, and what may you
want?"

"To see how you are, granny.  I'm Richard Trevor."

"And--and--" cried the old woman, letting fall her net as she rose
slowly and laid her hand upon his arm; "and only a minute ago I was
talking about you, and declaring you'd never be such a man as your
father.  My dear boy, how you have grown."

"One does grow in twelve years, granny," said the young man.  "Well, I'm
glad to see you alive and hearty."

"Thank you, my boy," said the old lady; and then turning and pointing to
the wall, "Look!" she said, "that's the very stick that I took away from
you one day for teasing my hens.  You were a bad boy.  You know you
were."

"I suppose I was," said the young man, smiling.  "But I beg pardon; you
have company, granny."

"Oh, that's only Mr Mervyn, my dear, and he's going; and those are only
the two girls from Tolcarne.  I let them come and see me sometimes, but
they're going now."

"Mr Mervyn," said the young man, holding out his hand, which was taken
in a strong grip, "I am glad to meet so near a neighbour; perhaps you
will introduce me to the ladies?"

"That I will," said Mr Mervyn, heartily.  "Mr Trevor!"

"It's Squire Trevor now, Mr Mervyn," said the old lady, with some show
of impatience.

"I beg pardon," said Mr Mervyn, smiling.  "Squire Trevor, your very
near neighbours, Miss Rea, Miss Finetta Rea, of Tolcarne."

"Ladies whom I have had the pleasure of meeting before," said Trevor,
with a smile.

And then, in a confusion of bows, the two girls made their retreat,
followed by Mr Mervyn.

"Oh, Fin, how strange!" exclaimed Tiny; "it's the gentleman who struck
that man at the race."

"Yes," exclaimed Fin; "and that horrid little creature's sure to be
close behind."

Volume 1, Chapter IX.

SAM JENKLES PREPARES FOR AN EXPEDITION.

"There you are, Ratty," said Sam Jenkles, sticking a small yellow
sunflower in each of his horse's blinkers, before mounting to his perch
and driving out of the yard.  "Now you look 'andsome.  Only recklect
'andsome is as 'andsome does; so just putt your right leg fust for once
in a way."

He walked round the horse, giving it a smooth here and a smooth there
with his worn-out glove, and patting its neck, before walking back, and
beginning to button-up for the day.

"Blest if ever I see such a tail in my life as he's got," he muttered.
"Wonder what a hartificial one 'ud cost.  It aint no kind o' use to comb
it, 'thout you want to comb it all out and leave no tail at all I
wouldn't care if it warn't so ragged."

It certainly was a melancholy-looking tail, but only in keeping with the
rest of the horse's personal appearance, which was of the most
dejected--dispirited.  If it had only been black, the steed would have
been the beau ideal beast for a workhouse hearse; as he was of a dingy
brown, he was relegated to a cab.

"What's the matter, Sam?" said a cleaner, coming up--a man with a stable
pail of water in one hand, a spoke-brush in the other, and a general
exemplification of how, by degrees, Nature will make square people fit
into round holes, and the reverse; for, by the constant carriage of
stable pails, the man's knees had gone in, and out of the perpendicular,
so as to allow for the vessels' swing.

"What's the matter, Buddy?  Why, everythink.  Look at that there 'oss--
look at his tail."

"Well, he aint 'andsome, suttunly," said the helper.

"'Andsome!" exclaimed Sam; "no, nor he aint anythink else.  He won't go,
nor he won't stop.  If you wants him to 'old 'is 'ead up, he 'angs it
down; and if you wants him to 'old it down, he shoves it up in the air,
and goes shambling along like a sick camel.  He's all rules of
contrairy."

"'Oppin' about like a little canary," chimed in the helper.

"'Oppin' about!" said Sam, in a tone of disgust.  "I should just like to
see him, if on'y for once in a way.  I tell yer what it is, Buddy, I
believe sometimes all he does is to lift his legs up, one at a time, an'
lean up agin his collar.  Natur' does the rest."

"Werry likely," said Buddy; "but you can't expect everything in a cab
'oss."

"Heverythink?" said Sam.  "I don't expect everythink; I only want
some-think; and all you've got there," he continued, pointing with one
thumb over his shoulder at the unfortunate Ratty, "is so much walking
cats'-meat."

"Yes, he aint 'andsome, suttunly," said Buddy again, screwing up one
side of his face.  "But why don't you smooth him over?  Try kindness,
and give the whip a 'ollerday."

"Kindness--whip--'ollerday!  Why, I'm like a father to 'im.  Look here."

Sam went to the little boot at the back of his cab, and tugged out the
horse's nose-bag, which was lined at the bottom with tin, so that it
would have held water.

"See that?" said Sam.

"Yes: what's it for?" said Buddy.

"Beer," said Sam, fiercely, "beer!  Many's the 'arfpint I've poured in
there along of his chopped meat, jest to cheer him up a bit, and he aint
got no missus to smell his breath.  I thought that 'ud make 'im go if
anythink would."

"Well, didn't it?" said Buddy, rubbing his ear with the spoke-brush.

"Didn't it?" said Sam.  "Lets out at me with his orf 'ind leg, and then
comes clay mill, and goes round and round till he oughter 'ave been
dizzy, but he worn't.  There never was sech a ungrateful beast."

Buddy grinned as Sam stuffed back the nose-bag, the horse shaking his
head the while.

"Try it on me, Sam," said Buddy, as the driver prepared to mount.  "I
won't let out with no orf 'ind legs."

Sam winked, and climbed to his perch.

"What's the flowers for, Sam?" said the helper.

"The missus.  Goin' to call for her, and drive her to Upper 'ollerway,"
said Sam, "afore I goes on the rank."

"Oh, will you tell her," said Buddy, earnestly, "as Ginger's ever so
much better, and can a'most putt his little leg to the ground?  He eats
that stuff she brought him like fun."

"What stuff was that?" said Sam, gathering up the reins.

"Sorter yaller jally," said Buddy.

"What, as smells o' lemons?" said Sam.

"Yes, that's it," said Buddy; "he just do like it."

"How long's he been bad now?"

"Twelve weeks," said Buddy; "and he's been 'most worn to skin and bone;
but he's pulling up now.  Takes his corn."

"Mornin'," said Sam.

He tried to start; but Batty moved sidewise, laid a blinker against the
whitewashed wall of the yard, and rubbed it up and down, so that it had
to be wiped over with a wet leather by Buddy; and when that was done, he
tried to back the cab into a narrow stable door.  After that, though, he
seemed better, and began to go in a straight line.

"Tried that there game at a plate-glass winder t'other day," said Sam,
shouting over his shoulder as he left the yard.  "He'd ha' done it, too,
if it hadn't been for a lamp-post."

Sam and his steed went gently out of Grey's Inn Lane towards
Pentonville, where, in a little quiet street, Mrs Jenkles resided, and
Sam began musing as he went along--

"I smelt that there stuff in the cupboard, and meant to ask her what it
was, but I forgot.  On'y to think of her making that up, and taking it
to poor Buddy's little bairn!  Well, she's a good sort, is the missus,
on'y she will be so hard on me about a drop o' beer.  'Old that there
'ead still, will yer?  What are yer lookin' arter, there?  Oh! that
cats-meat barrer.  Ah! yer may well shy at that, Ratty; I don't wonder
at it.  Now, then, get on, old boy, the missus 'll be waiting."

On reaching Spring Place, where Sam dwelt, the horse objected.  He was
sawing along in a straightforward way, when Sam drew one rein, with the
consequence that the horse's head came round, his long neck bending till
the animal's face was gazing at him in a dejected, lachrymose fashion:
Ratty seeming to say, as plainly as looks would express it, "What are
you doing?" while all the time the legs went straight forward up
Pentonville Hill.

They had got twenty yards past Spring Place before Sam could pull the
horse up; and then he had to get down to take it by the head and turn it
in a very ignominious fashion.

"Jest opposite a public, too," said Sam.  "I never did see such a
haggravating beast as you are, Ratty.  Here, come along.  It aint no
wonder as fellows drinks, with a place offering 'em the stuff every five
minutes of their lives, and when they've got a Ratty to lead 'em right
up to it.  Come on, will yer?"

Mrs Jenkles was standing at the door ready, in a blue bonnet and red
Paisley shawl--for she was a woman of her word.  She had said that she
would go up and see those people, and Sam had promised to drive her.

Volume 1, Chapter X.

GOING THE ROUNDS.

Fin was quite right.  They had not gone above a couple of hundred yards
down the lane, with Mr Mervyn between them, swinging his empty soup
tin, when they became aware of a loud whistling, as of some one
practising a polka.  Then it would cease for a few moments, and directly
after begin again.

"There's somebody," said Fin; and then, turning a sharp corner, they
came suddenly on Mr Frank Pratt, perched in a sitting posture on the
top of a huge, round lith of granite, with his back to them, and his
little legs stretching out almost at right angles.  He was in his
threatened tweeds, a natty little deerstalker's hat was cocked on one
side of his head; in one hand he held a stick, and in the other a large
pipe, from which he drew refreshment between the strains of the polka he
tried to whistle.

Mr Frank Pratt was evidently enjoying the beauty of the place after his
own particular fashion; for, being a short man, he had a natural love
for elevated places.  As a boy, he had delighted in climbing trees, and
sitting in the highest fork that would bear him, eating cakes or
munching apples; as a man, cakes and apples had given way to extremely
black pipes, in company with which he alternately visited the top of the
Monument, the Duke of York's column, and the golden gallery of Saint
Paul's, where he regretted that the cost was eighteen-pence to go any
higher.  In these places, where it was strictly forbidden, he indulged
in surreptitious smokes, from which his friends deduced the proposition
that if not the cakes, probably the apples had been stolen.

The tail stone then being handy, Mr Pratt was enjoying himself, when he
suddenly became aware of steps behind, and hopped down in a most
ungraceful fashion to stare with astonishment so blank, that by the time
he had raised his hat Fin had gone by with her chin raised in the air,
and a very disdainful look upon her countenance, and her sister, with a
slightly heightened colour, had plunged into conversation with Mr
Mervyn.

Pratt stood half paralysed for a few moments, watching the party, until
a turn in the lane hid them from sight, and then he refilled and lit his
pipe, from which the burning weed had fallen.

"It's a mistake," he said at last, between tremendous puffs at his pipe.
"It's impossible.  I don't believe it.  One might call it a
hallucination, only that the beardless female face is so similar in one
woman to another that a man easily makes a mistake.  Those cannot be the
same girls that we saw at the steeplechase--it isn't possible; but there
is a resemblance, certainly; and, treating the thing philosophically, I
should say here we have the real explanation of what is looked upon as
infidelity in the male being."

A few puffs from the pipe, and then Mr Pratt reclimbed to his perch
upon the stone.

"I'll carry that out, and then write it down as a position worthy of
argument.  Yes, to be sure.  Here it is.  A man falls in love--say, for
the sake of argument, at first sight, with a pretty girl, quite unknown
to him before, upon a racecourse.  Symptoms: a feeling of sympathetic
attraction; a throbbing of the pulses; and the heart beating bob and go
one.  Say he gets to know the girl; is engaged to her; and is then
separated by three or four hundred miles."

A few more puffs, and sundry nods of the head, and then Mr Pratt went
on.

"He there encounters another girl, whose face and general appearance are
so much like the face and general appearance of girl number one, that
his secondary influences--to wit, heart, pulses, and sympathies
generally--immediately give signals; love ensues, and he declares and is
accepted by girl number two, while girl number one says he is
unfaithful.  The man is not unfaithful; it is simply an arrangement of
Nature, and he can't help himself.  Infidelity, then, is the same thing
in a state of change.  Moral: Nature has no business to make women so
much alike."

Mr Pratt got down once more from his perch, and began to stroll up the
lane, to encounter Trevor at the end of a few minutes.

"Did you meet any one?" was the inquiry.

"Yes," said Pratt, "a gentleman and two ladies."

"Well?"

"Well?"

"Did you not know them?"

"Ah!" said Pratt, "then you, too, noticed the similarity of feature, did
you?"

"Similarity?"

"Yes; wonderfully like the ladies we met at the steeplechase, were they
not?"

Richard Trevor looked hard in his friend's face for a moment, and then
they walked on side by side; for at a turn of the lane they met the
young keeper, who had so suddenly changed the aspect of the encounter on
the course.

"Ah, Humphrey!" said Trevor, "I'm glad I've met you.  I'll have a walk
round the preserves."

The young keeper touched his hat, changed the double gun from one
shoulder of his well-worn velveteen coat to the other, whistled to a
setter, and led the way to a stone stile.

"Another curious case of similarity of feature," said Trevor, laughing.

"Well, no--I'll give in now," said Pratt; "but I say, Dick, old fellow,
ought coincidences like this to occur out of novels?"

"Never mind that," said Trevor, "the keeper here, who used to be my
playmate as a boy, was as much astonished as I was--weren't you,
Humphrey?"

"Well, sir," said the young man, "when I see you th' other morning, I
couldn't believe my eyes like, that the gentleman who'd pummelled that
fellow was the one I'd come up to London to meet.  I saw you, too, sir,"
he said, touching his hat to Pratt.

"Yes, my man," said Pratt, "and felt my toe.  I'm sorry to find you did,
for you've blown up one of the most beautiful propositions I ever made
in my life."

"Well, now then," said Trevor, "I'll see about matters with you, Lloyd;
but, by the way, you had better be Humphrey, on account of your father."

"Yes, sir; Humphrey, please, sir," said the young man.

"Well, now then, as we go on," said Trevor, "if it don't bore you,
Pratt, we'll have a talk about farm matters."

"Won't bore me," said Pratt; "I'm going in for the country gentleman
while I stay."

"Well, then, Humphrey, how are the crops!"

"Well, sir," said Humphrey.  "Ah, Juno! what are you sniffing after
there?"  This to the young dog, which seemed to have been born with a
mission to push its head up rabbit burrows too small for the passage.
"Well, sir, begging your pardon, but that dog's took more looking after
than e'er a one I ever had."

"All right, go on," said Trevor, following the man across a broad,
rock-sided ditch, with a little brook at the bottom.

"Well, sir," said the keeper, "the corn is--"

"Here, I say, hold hard a minute!  This isn't Pall Mall, Trevor,"
shouted Pratt.  "How the deuce am I to get over that place?"

"Jump, man," cried Trevor, laughing and looking back.  "That's nothing
to some of our ditches."

Pratt looked at the ditch, then down at his little legs, and then blew
out his cheeks.

"Risk it," he said, laconically; and, stepping back a few yards, he took
a run, jumped, came short, and had to scramble up the bank, a little
disarranged, but smiling and triumphant.  "All right," he said, "go on."

"Corn is, on the whole, a fair crop, sir," said Humphrey.

"And barley?"

"Plenty of that too, sir.  But I've a deal of trouble with trespassers,
sir."

"How's that?" said Trevor, looking round at the bright, rugged hill and
dale, with trees all aglow with the touch of autumn's hand.

"You see, sir, it's the new people," said the keeper.

"What new people?"

"The old gentleman as bought Tolcarne, sir."

"Well, what of him?" said Trevor, rather anxiously.

"Well, sir, he's a magistrate and a Sir, and a great City of London man,
and he wants to be quite the squire.  The very first thing he does is to
get two men to work on the estate, and who does he get but that Dick
Darley and Sam Kelynack; and a nice pair they are, as you may know,
sir."

"Seeing that I've been away for years, Humphrey, I don't know," said
Trevor.

"Well, sir, they was both turned out of their last places--one for a bit
o' poaching, and the other for being always on the drink.  They know I
don't like 'em--both of 'em," said Humphrey, with the veins swelling in
his white forehead; "and no sooner do they get took on, than they begin
to worry me."

"How?" said Trevor, smiling.

"Trespassing on my land, sir--I mean yours, sir, begging your pardon,
sir.  They will do it, too, sir.  You see, there's a bit of land at the
corner where Penreife runs right into the Tolcarne estate--sort of
tongue o' land, sir--and to save going round, they make a path right
across there, sir, over our bit of pasture."

"Put up a fence, Humphrey," said Trevor.

"I do, sir, and bush it, and set up rails; but they knocks 'em down, and
tramples all over the place.  Sir Hampton's got an idea that he's a
right to that bit, as his land comes nigh surrounding it, and that makes
'em so sarcy."

"Well, we must see to it," said Trevor.  "I want to be good friends with
all my neighbours."

"Then you've cut out your work," said Pratt, drily.

"You won't be with Sir Hampton, sir, you may reckon on that," said
Humphrey.  "Lady Rea is a kind, pleasant lady enough, and the young
ladies is very nice, sir, and he's been civil enough to me; but he
upsets everybody nearly--him and his sister."

"Never mind about that," said Trevor, checking him.  "I wish to be on
good terms with my neighbours, and if there be any trespass--any
annoyance from Sir Hampton's people--tell me quietly, and I will lay the
matter before their master."

"Or we might get up a good action for trespass," said Pratt.  "But, by
the way," he said, stopping short, and sticking one finger on his
forehead, "is this Sir Hampton the chuffy old gentleman we saw at the
steeplechase?"

"Yes, sir; and as told me I might get up on the box-seat.  That was him,
you know, as that blackguard prodded with his stick."

"Phew!" whistled Pratt.  "I say, Dick," he whispered, "the old chap did
not see us under the best of auspices."

"No; it's rather vexing," was the reply.

They walked on from dense copse to meadow, through goodly fields of
grain, and down in deep little vales, with steep sides covered with
fern, bramble, and stunted pollard oaks.

"Poor youth!" said Pratt, and stopped to mop his forehead.  "How
low-spirited you must feel to be the owner of such a place.  It's
lovely.  Nature's made it very beautiful; but no wonder--see what
practice she has had."

Trevor laughed, and Humphrey smiled, saying--

"If you come a bit farther this way, sir, there's a capital view of the
house."

Pratt followed the man; and there, at about half a mile distance, on the
slope of a steep hill, was the rugged, granite-built seat--Penreife--
half ancient, half modern; full of buttresses, gables, awkward
chimney-stacks, and windows of all shapes, with the ivy clustering over
it greenly, and a general look of picturesque comfort that no
trimly-built piece of architecture could display.  The house stood at
the end of one of the steep valleys running up from the sea, which shone
in the autumn sun about another half-mile farther, with grey cottages
clustering on the cliff, and a little granite-built harbour, sheltering
some half a dozen duck-shaped luggers and a couple of yachts.

"Ah," said Pratt, "that's pretty!  Beats Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street
all to fits.  Is that your master's yacht?"

"The big 'un is, sir--the _Sea Launce_," said Humphrey; "the little
'un's Mr Mervyn's--the _Swallow_."

"By the way, who is this Mr Mervyn?" said Trevor, who had sauntered up.

"Well, sir," said Humphrey, taking off his hat and rubbing his brown
curls, "I don't kinder know what he is.  He's been in the navy, I think,
for he's a capital sailor; but he's quite the gentleman, and wonderful
kind to the poor people, and he lives in that little white house the
other side of the cliff."

"I can't see any white house," said Pratt.

"No, sir, you can't see it, 'cause it's the other side of the cliff; but
that's his flagstaff rigged up, as you can see, with the weathercock on
it, and--Here, hi! you, sir, come out of that!  Here, Juno, lass, come
along."

"Has he gone mad?" cried Pratt.

For Humphrey had suddenly set off down a steep slope towards a meadow,
and went on shouting with all his might.

"No," said Trevor, shading his eyes, "there's a man--two men with
billhooks there--labourers, I should think.  Come along, or perhaps
there'll be a quarrel; and I can't have that."

Volume 1, Chapter XI.

THE LION AT HOME.

Sir Hampton Rea was out that morning, and very busy.

He had been round to the stables and seen the four horses that had
arrived the night before, and bullied the coachman because he had said
that one of them had a splinter in its leg, and that the mare meant for
Miss Rea had rather a nasty look about the eye.

"You're an ass, Thomas," he said.

The man touched his hat, and Sir Hampton walked half across the
stable-yard.

"Er-rum!" he ejaculated, half turning; and the coachman came up,
obsequiously touching his hat again.

"Those horses, Thomas, were examined by a veterinary surgeon."

"Yes, sir," said the man.

"Er-rum!  And I chose them and examined them myself."

"Yes, sir."

"You've made a mistake, Thomas."

"Very like, sir," said the man.  "Very sorry, sir."

Sir Hampton did not respond, but gave a sharp glance round the very
new-looking stable-yard and buildings, saw nothing to find fault about;
and then, clearing his throat, went into the garden as the coachman
winked at the groom, and the groom raised a wen upon his cheek by the
internal application of his tongue.

"Er-rum!--Sanders!" cried the knight.

And something that had worn the aspect of a huge boa constrictor in cord
trousers, crawling into a melon-frame, slowly drew itself back, stood
upright, and revealed a yellow-faced man with a scarlet head and
whiskers.

Perhaps it is giving too decided a colour to the freckles which covered
Mr Sanders's face to say they were yellow, and to his hair to say it
was scarlet; but they certainly approached those hues, "Er-rum!
Sanders, come here," said Sir Hampton.

Sanders leisurely closed the melon-frame and raised the light a few
inches with a piece of wood, and then slowly approached his master, to
stop in front of him and scrape his feet upon a spade.

"Er-rum!  I'm going to inspect the grounds this morning, Sanders," said
Sir Hampton.

Sanders, head gardener, nodded; for he was a man so accustomed to deal
with silent objects that he seldom spoke, if he could possibly help it;
but here he was obliged.

"Shall I want a spade?"

"No; certainly not."

"Nor a barrow?"

"No!" sharply.

"Maybe ye'll like me to bring a billhook?"

"Er-rum!  No.  Yes; bring a billhook."

The gardener went slowly off to his tool-house, and returned as
leisurely; Sir Hampton the while fiercely poking vegetables about with
his stick--stirring up cabbages, as if angry because they did not grow--
beet, for having too much top-onions, for not swelling more
satisfactorily--and ending with a vicious cut at a wasp bent on a feast
of nectarine beneath the great, new, red-brick wall.

Wasp did not like it.  Ignorant of any doctrine concerning _meum_ and
_tuum_, he looked upon all fruit as _pro bono publico_, as far as the
insect world was concerned.  The nectarines might be choicely named
varieties, planted by Sir Hampton's order, after having been obtained at
considerable expense--the wall having been built for their use; but
fruit was fruit to the wasp, so long as it was ripe, and he resented
interference.  Pugnacity was crammed to excess in his small, yellow
body, and prevented from bursting it by a series of strong black rings;
so it was not surprising that the insect showed fight, and span round
the new magistrate's head with a fierce buzz.

"Css!  Get out!  Sh!" ejaculated Sir Hampton; and he struck at the wasp
again and again.  But the little insect was no respecter of persons.  He
had been insulted, and, watching his opportunity, he dashed in, and
stung the knight in the tender red mark where his stiffly starched
cravat frayed his neck, gave a triumphant buzz, and went over the wall
like a yellow streak.

"Confound!  Ugh!" ejaculated the knight; and then, seeing Sanders coming
slowly back, he played Spartan, and preserved outward composure, though
there was a volcano of wrath smouldering within.

He strutted off, with the gardener behind, fired a couple of shots at
gardeners two and three, who were sweeping the lawn, and then entered
into a general inspection of the garden.

"How--Er-rum!--how is it that bed is not in flower, Sanders?"  "Done
blooming," said Sanders, gruffly.

"Done blooming, Sir Hampton!" exclaimed the knight, facing round.

"Done blooming, Sir Hampton," said the gardener, slowly; and he looked
as expressionless as a big sunflower.

"Take off that branch," said the knight, pointing to an overhanging
bough; and it was solemnly lopped off.

"Er-rum!" ejaculated the knight, when they had gone a little farther.
"How is it that patch of lawn is brown?"

"Grubs," said the gardener.

"Grubs, Sir Hampton," said the knight, fiercely.

"Grubs, Sir Hampton," said the corrected gardener.

"Ha!" said Sir Hampton, and they went a little farther.

"Those Wellingtonias are not growing, Sanders."

"Two foot this year," said the gardener.

"That's very slow."

"Fast," said the gardener.

"Fast, Sir Hampton," said the knight.

"Fast, Sir Hampton," said the gardener, corrected again.

"Er-rum!  Ah!  This won't do.  This clump must be moved farther to the
right," said Sir Hampton, pointing to a cluster of shrubs.

"Kill 'em," said Sanders.

"Then we'll set more," said the knight; and he went on to the farthest
entrance of the garden, and the paths cut through the plantation, with a
general desire exhibited in his every act, that as he had, so to speak,
made the place and planted the grounds, it was absolutely necessary that
he should have all the trees pulled up at stated intervals, to see how
the roots were getting along.

There was a small iron gate at the end of the plantation walk, and this
the gardener opened for his master to pass through, closing it after
him, and sticking the billhook in his breast.

"Er-rum!  Where are you going, Sanders?" said the knight, sharply.

"Back," said Sanders--"'taint garden here."

His domain extended no farther.

"Come along this moment, sir; and stop till I dismiss you."

The knight looked purple as the gardener slowly unlatched the gate, and
followed him about a quarter of a mile, to where the estate joined that
of the Trevors; and here, as they neared the pastures, angry voices were
heard.

"Quick, Sanders," cried Sir Hampton--"trespassers!"

The next minute they were upon an angry group, consisting of Trevor,
Pratt, Humphrey, a man with a sinister look and a mouth like a rat-trap,
and a stumpy fellow, who was armed with a long plashing hook.

"Er-rum! what's this?" exclaimed Sir Hampton, with the voice of
authority.

"These men of yours, Sir Hampton," said Humphrey, flushed and angry,
"always trespassing across our ground."

"My servants would do nothing of the sort, fellow," said Sir Hampton.

"But they have done it, Sir Hampton," said Humphrey.  "There they are;
there's their footmarks right across the field; and they're always at
it, and breaking down the bushes."

"Hold your tongue, Humphrey," said Trevor.  "I beg your pardon--Sir
Hampton Rea, I believe?"

The wasp sting, kept back so long, now came out.

"And pray, sir, why are you trespassing on my grounds?" exclaimed the
knight, furiously.

"Excuse me, I am on my own," said Trevor.

"Your own!  I never heard such insolence in my life.  Who are you, sir?
What the devil are you?  Where do you come from?"

"Well," said Trevor, with a red spot coming into each cheek, but
speaking quite coolly, "my name is Trevor.  I am the owner of Penreife,
and I have lately returned from sea."

"Then--then--go back to sea, sir, or get off my grounds; or, by gad,
sir, my labourers shall kick you off."

The men advanced menacingly; but, with a face like fire, Humphrey rolled
up his cuffs.

"Humphrey!  Stop; how dare you!" exclaimed Trevor, angrily.

The young keeper drew back, grinding his teeth; for the others continued
to advance, and the rat-trap-mouthed man, finding Juno, the dog,
smelling about him, gave the poor brute a kick, which produced a loud
yelp.

"Excuse me, Sir Hampton, but--"

"Get off my grounds, sir, this instant!" roared the knight.

Wasp sting again.

"Look here," said Pratt, "if it's a question of boundary, any solicitor
will look through the deeds, and a surveyor measure, and put it all
right in--"

"Who the devil is this little cad?" exclaimed Sir Hampton.

"Cad?" cried Pratt.

"Yes, sir, cad.  Oh!  I thought I knew you again.  Yes; you are one of
that gang on the omnibus who insulted me the other day.  And--and--" he
stammered in his rage, turning to Trevor, "you were another of the
party.  Get off my grounds, sir--this instant, sir.  Darley, Sanders,
Kelynack--drive these fellows off!"

The three men advanced, and Sir Hampton took the general's place in the
rear, quivering still with rage and the poison of the wasp.  Trevor was
now flushed and angry, and Humphrey evidently ripe for any amount of
assault or resistance, when Pratt stepped forward and laid his hand upon
the arm of the angry knight.

Volume 1, Chapter XII.

HEBE.

"Stand back, sir--get off my ground, sir!" cried Sir Hampton, furiously.
"Look here, men, this is--er-rum--an assault."

"No, it is not, Sir Hampton," said Pratt, coolly.  "Look here, my good
man."

"Your good man, sir?"

"Yes," said Pratt, quietly; and there was something in the little fellow
that enforced attention.  "You are, I believe, a magistrate here--for
the county?"

"Yes, sir; I am, sir; and--er-rum--"

"Be cool--be cool," said Pratt, "You called me a cad just now."

"I did, sir; and--"

"Well, I am a barrister--of the Temple.  There is my card."

He stuck the little piece of pasteboard into the magistrate's hand.

"Confound your card, sir!  I--"

"Now--now, look here," said Pratt, button-holing him; "don't be cross.
Let me ask you this--Is it wise of you--a justice of the peace--to set
your men on, right or wrong, to break that peace?"

Sir Hampton Rea stopped short for a moment or two, and then gasped,
seemed as if he would choke, and ended by snatching his coat away from
Pratt's grasp.

"Darley, Sanders, come back--go back," he said at last.  "These people
shall hear from me."

The rat-trap man stood looking evilly at the young keeper, and the
Scotch gardener took a pinch of snuff.  Then they slowly followed their
master, and the coast was clear.

"You're sure, I suppose, about this tongue of land?" said Pratt.  "By
Jove! what a rage, though, the old boy was in."

"Sure? yes--oh yes," said Trevor.  "Wasn't it here that they sunk the
shaft for the copper mine, Humphrey?"

"Yes, sir, twenty yards farther on, under that clump.  It's 'most filled
up, though, now."

"To be sure, I recollect the spot well enough now.  But this is a bad
job, Franky," he continued, in an undertone.  "I wanted to be on the
best of terms with my neighbours."

"'Specially that neighbour," said Pratt, meaningly.

"With all my neighbours," said Trevor.

"You've made a nice beginning, then," said Pratt.

"If there is any fresh upset, Humphrey, let me know; but don't pick a
quarrel," said Trevor.  "I shall not go any farther to-day."

"Very well, sir," said the keeper; and then in an undertone, as he
stooped and patted the dog, "Kick you, would he, Juno, lass?  Never
mind, then, he shall have it back some day."

The dog whined and leaped up at him, as he rose again, and looked after
his master.

"Well, he's grown into a fine, bold-speaking gentleman," he said to
himself; "but I should have liked it better if he'd tackled to and
helped me to thrash them two ill-looking blackguards."

Meanwhile Trevor and his old schoolfellow had been walking sharply back
towards the house, where they were evidently being watched for by the
old butler, Lloyd--the remains of a fine-looking man, for he was bent
now, though his eyes were clear and bright.

"I saw you coming across the park, Master Dick," he said, his face
shining with pleasure.  "You'll have a bit of lunch now, won't you?"

"Early yet, isn't it?" said Pratt.

"I don't think so, sir," said the old butler, austerely.  "I am sure
Master Dick requires something after his long walk."

"Yes, yes--that he does," said a rather shrill voice; and an active,
grey-haired woman of about fifty came bustling out.  She was very primly
dressed in black silk, with white muslin kerchief, white holland apron,
in whose pockets her hands rested; and her grey hair was carefully
smoothed back beneath her plain white muslin cap.

"No, no; it's only twelve o'clock, Mrs Lloyd," said Trevor,
good-humouredly.  "I lunch at one."

"You take my advice, Master Dick, and have it now," said the butler.

"Yes, Lloyd, have it brought in, and ask Master Dick if he'll have some
of the old claret," said the woman.

"My dear Mrs Lloyd," said Trevor, smiling, "this is very kind of you--
of you both--but I'm not ready for lunch yet.  You can both go now.
I'll ring when I'm ready."

He led the way into his handsomely furnished study, the beau ideal of a
comfortable room for a man with a mingling of literary and sporting
tastes.

"Here, let's sit down and have a cigar," he said, pushing a great
leather-covered chair to his friend; "it will smooth us down after our
encounter."

"No; I'll fill my pipe," said Pratt, suiting the action to the word, and
lighting up, to send big clouds of smoke through the large room.

"You mustn't take any notice of the old butler and housekeeper, Frank,"
said Trevor, after a pause.

"Don't mean to."

"You see, they've had their own way here since I was a child."

"And now they don't like to give it up?"

"I suppose not.  But they mean well.  They were always, I can remember,
most affectionate to me."

"Yes; they seem to like Master Dick."

"Pish! yes, of course--their way.  Sounds stupid, though, Franky; but
you can't wonder at it."

"I don't," said Pratt.  "But I should put my foot down, I think."

"That I most decidedly shall, and before Van and the little Baronet come
down."

"Oh, by Jove!" said Pratt, starting, "why those two fellows are coming
to-morrow."

"Yes; they'll be here about five."

"And what in the world are you going to do with them?"

"Oh, there's plenty to do--billiards, and cards, and smoking indoors;
fishing and yachting out of doors."

"Yes," said Pratt, with a sigh; "but they'll both be murmuring after the
flesh-pots of Pall Mall.  You'll have your hands pretty full."

"Never fear," said Trevor; "I shall be able to entertain them.  How
strange it all seems, though--such a little while since we were boys at
Eton, and now Van a perfect exquisite."

"Landells an imperfect ditto."

"You a barrister."

"Yes," said Pratt, "very barrister, indeed; and you altered into a tawny
tar, regularly disguised by Nature."

Here there was a tap at the door.  "Come in," said Trevor, who was
sitting in a low, big-backed chair.  And then, as the door opened, "Who
is it?"

"Hebe!" said Pratt, softly.

"Eh?" said Trevor.

"If you please, sir, Mrs Lloyd said I was to bring this in," said a
pleasant little voice; and Trevor swung himself round in his chair, to
gaze upon a pretty little very round-faced girl of about seventeen or
eighteen, with smooth brown hair, clear white complexion, rather large
eyes, ruddy lips, and a face like fire with confusion.  There were the
faint traces, too, of tears lately wiped from her eyes, and her pleasant
little voice had a plaintive ring in it as, in answer to Trevor's "Eh?"
and wondering stare, she repeated her words--

"If you please, sir, Mrs Lloyd said I was to bring this in."

"And pray what is this?" said Trevor, glancing at the salver the girl
carried, bearing a good-sized silver flagon, with chased lid, and a
snowy napkin placed through the handle.

"If you please, sir, it's a pint of new milk beat up with three eggs,
three glasses of sherry, and some lump sugar," said the girl.

"And who's it for?" said Trevor.

"For you and the gentleman, sir; Mrs Lloyd said the sea air must have
made you faint."

"Well," said Trevor, "hand it to Mr Pratt, there."

The girl bore the flagon to Pratt, who took it, but emitted such a
volume of strong tobacco smoke that the girl sneezed, and choked, and
then looked more scarlet and confused than ever.

"I beg your pardon," said Pratt; and then he raised the flagon to his
lips, and took a long draught, wiping the brim afterwards with the
napkin.  "Splendid, old fellow!" he said.  "Take it to--your master."

"And pray who may you be, my dear?" said Trevor, looking critically at
the girl, but relieving her from his gaze the next moment, in compassion
for her confusion.

"If you please, sir, I'm Aunt Lloyd's niece," said the girl.

"And are you anything here--housemaid, or--?"

"Oh no, sir, if you please.  I am here on a long visit to my aunt; and
she said I was to help her."

"Well," said Trevor, setting down the flagon, "tell her the milk was
excellent; but she is not to send anything in again without I ring for
it.  Well, what's the matter?"

The girl was looking in a pitiful way at him, and she remained silent
for a few moments, when he spoke again.

"Is anything the matter?"

"Must--must I tell her that, sir?"

"Yes.  Why not?" said Trevor.

"Because--because, if you please, sir, I..."

The girl did not finish, but uttered a sob, and ran out of the room.

"Cornwall promises to be a queer place," said Pratt; "but that stuff was
heavenly--did you finish it, Dick?"

"Not quite, I think," said Trevor.

"And you sent it away.  Oh, Dick!"

The little maid had hardly got outside the door, when Mrs Lloyd came
across the hall, followed at a short distance by the butler, rubbing his
hands, smiling feebly, and looking anxious.

"Crying?" said Mrs Lloyd, sharply.  "You little goose!"

"I--I--couldn't help it, aunt, indeed," sobbed the girl.

"'Sh! not a sound," said Mrs Lloyd, sharply; and she caught the girl by
the arm.  "Did he drink the milk?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Did that other gentleman take any?"

"Yes, aunt--a lot."

"As if he couldn't come home without bringing such a pack with him.  Now
come into my room, and I'll talk to you, madam.  Lloyd, take that
waiter."

She led the way into the housekeeper's room, as her husband obediently
bore off the flagon to his pantry; and then, shutting the door, she took
her seat in a stiff, horse-hair-covered chair, looking as hard and prim
as the presses and cupboards around.

"Now listen to me," she said, harshly.

"Yes, aunt."

"I'm not going to boast; but what have I done for you?"

"Paid for my schooling, aunt, and kept me three years."

"Where would you have been if it hadn't been for me?"

"Living with Aunt Price at Caerwmlych."

"Starving with her, you mean, when she can hardly keep herself," said
Mrs Lloyd, sharply.  "Now, look here, Polly, I've taken you from a life
of misery to make you well off and happy; and I will be minded.  Do you
hear me?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Then do as I tell you exactly.  Do you hear?"

"I'll try, aunt."

"Try?  You must.  Now, then: Did he speak to you?"

"Yes, aunt."

"What did he say?  Come, speak, child!"

"He asked me who I was, aunt; and what I had come for."

"Of course, you silly little thing.  There, no more tears.  It's
dreadful treatment, isn't it, to make you go in and attend to him a
little?"

"Please, aunt, I don't mind that," said the girl.

"No, I should think not, indeed," said Mrs Lloyd.  "He's an ogre to
look at, isn't he?"

"No, aunt, I think he's a fine, handsome man."

"Not a finer, nor a handsomer, nor a nicer in all Cornwall: and you
ought to be fine and pleased to be in the house.  And now look here,
madam--no more tears, if you please."

"No, aunt."

"And you're always to be nicely dressed, and do your hair well."

"Yes, aunt."

"And keep yourself to yourself, madam.  Recollect, please, that you're
my niece, staying in the house, and not one of the servants."

"Yes, aunt."

The door opened, and the butler put in his head.

"It's lunch-time now, and I am having the things taken in again."

"That's quite right."

"Do you want to come?"

"Not now; only Mary shall bring in the vegetables."

"Hadn't William better help?" said the butler.

"No, not to-day.  There will be a pack more people here to-morrow, and
she can't come then.  Here, child, take these clean napkins and be ready
to carry them into the dining-room."

"But my face, aunt--won't they see?"

"What--that you have been crying?" said the housekeeper, critically.
"No; they won't.  Stop here a minute while I go out into the hall."

The girl, from being scarlet, was now pale, but quite a little "rustic
beauty" all the same; and she stood by the linen press looking very
troubled, while Mrs Lloyd went back into the hall, where Trevor had
stepped out to speak to the butler.

"Oh, there you are, Mrs Lloyd," he said, in a quiet, decided tone of
voice.  "I was just speaking to Lloyd about one or two little matters.
Of course, I feel the highest respect for both you and your worthy
husband."

"Thank you, Master Dick," said the housekeeper, stiffly.

"Yes, that's it," said Trevor.  "And of course you can't help looking
upon me as the boy you were almost father and mother to at one time."

"Of course not," said Mrs Lloyd, stiffly; "but you don't mean to turn
us away now you have grown a man?"

"God forbid!" said Trevor, earnestly.  "While I live, this is your home,
and I shall interfere but little with you in the conduct of the house.
But I take this opportunity of saying that I must ask of you both to
remember--old friends as well as old servants of the family--that I have
now come back to take my position here as the master of Penreife, and
that, in speaking to me before visitors, `Master Dick' sounds rather
childish.  That will do, Mrs Lloyd.  Yes, Lloyd, you can bring in some
of the claret."

He walked into the dining-room, the quiet, calm man of the world, with
enough dignity and self-assertion to show the housekeeper that the days
of her rule had departed for ever.

"That's going to sea, that is," she muttered.  "That's being used to
order people about, and being an officer.  But we shall see, Master
Dick--we shall see!"

And with a quick, spasmodic twitching of her hands as she smoothed down
her apron, she went back muttering to her own room.

Volume 1, Chapter XIII.

MISHAPS.

Lunch at Tolcarne that day was not one of the most pleasant of meals.
Sir Hampton had come in, looking purple instead of red with his walk, to
pause at the hall door and dismiss Sanders, the gardener, who stood
mopping his face.

"Er-rum!  Look here, Sanders!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, sir," said Sanders.

"Yes, Sir Hampton, man!"

"Yes, Sir Hampton," said Sanders, slowly and impressively, as if he were
trying to fix the formula in his mind.

"I'll see you in the morning about a new bed on the lawn, and--er-rum--
don't let this affair be talked about."

"No, sir--Hampton," said Sanders.

He went heavily down the new path, while his master stood apparently
loading himself--that is to say, he thrust what seemed to be a white
gun-wad into his mouth, before turning into the hall, and letting off a
tremendous "Er-rum," which echoed through the house.  The wad, however,
was only a digestive tablet, an antidote to the heartburn, from which
Sir Hampton suffered; and he strode into the dining-room, where the
family was already assembled for luncheon.

"Oh, dad--papa," cried Fin, "such news for you."

"Don't worry your papa, my dear," said Miss Matilda, smoothing her
handkerchief, which, from being sat upon, resembled a cambric cake;
"wait till he has had some refreshment.  He is tired.  Hampton, will you
take a cutlet?"

"Don't, pa.  Have some chicken pie."

"Shall I send you a poached egg, dear?" said Lady Rea, who was in
difficulties with the mustard-pot, the protruding spoon of which had
entangled itself with her open lace sleeve, and the yellow condiment was
flowing over the table.

"No," said Sir Hampton, gruffly.

"Tut, tut, tut," said Lady Rea, making matters worse by trying to scrape
up the mustard with a spoon.

"Hadn't you better let Edward do that, dear?" said Miss Matilda, with a
pained expression of countenance, as she played pat-a-cake once more
with her handkerchief.

"They do make the mustard so horribly thin," said Lady Rea.  "Finetta,
give papa some of the pie."

Fin looked mischievously across at her sister, and then cut a large
portion of the patty, enough to have called forth an angry remonstrance
at another time; but though Miss Matilda looked perfectly horrified, Sir
Hampton was too angry and absorbed to notice it; he only went on eating.

"Well, Finetta, dear," said Lady Rea, "what's the grand news?"

"Seen the sailor, ma, dear; been introduced to him.  Such a nice
fellow."

"Seen whom?" said Lady Rea, making a last scrape at the mustardy cloth.

"Mr Trevor, ma; met him at old Mrs Trelyan's.  Such fun."

"My dear Finetta," began Miss Matilda; but a shot fired by Sir Hampton
stopped her in dismay.

"Er-rum--what's that?" he asked.  "Have you met that person?"

"What person, papa?" said Finetta.  "That--that Penreife man--that
Trevor, or whatever his name is?"

"Yes, pa, we met him this morning; and he's the same--"

"Er-rum, I know!" exclaimed Sir Hampton, upsetting a carafe in his
excitement, and making Miss Matilda start back to save her silk.  "I
ought to have bought Penreife--it's one of those persons we saw--I know;
I met him this morning--trespass--an insulting--ugh! ugh! ugh!"

"Oh, pa!" cried Finetta, "you shouldn't get in a passion with your mouth
full; and so much pepper as there is in that pie."

For Sir Hampton had begun to cough furiously, his face growing deeper in
tint, and his eyes protruding, so alarming Lady Rea that she bustled
round the table and began to hammer his back, while Miss Matilda offered
a glass of water.

"Ugh! ugh! ugh!  Sit down--sit down!" gasped Sir Hampton.  "I--er-rum--I
forbid all fixture communication with that--that fellow.  If he calls
here, I'll have the door shut in his face.  Insulted me grossly this
morning, on my own grounds, and a dirty little jackanapes with him
talked to me in such a way as I was never spoken to before."

"Oh, Tiny, it's the horrid little man," whispered Fin.

"Why, my dear Hampy, whatever is it all about?" said Lady Rea.  "There,
do drink some water, and get cool."

Sir Hampton glanced at his wife and sister, and poured himself out half
a tumbler of sherry, which he drained, and then began to cough once
more.

"Eat a bit of bread, dear," said Lady Rea.  "Quick, you won't mind
mine--I haven't touched it."

Saying which she held a piece out to him on a fork.

"Frances!" ejaculated Miss Matilda.

"Ugh!  Any one would think I was a bear upon a pole," coughed Sir
Hampton; and he wiped his eyes as he grew better.

"But, Hampy, dear," said Lady Rea, "it will be so strange.  Suppose Mr
Trevor calls?"

"Tell the servants to shut the door in his face," growled Sir Hampton.
"An insulting puppy!"

"Oh, pa, dear, don't be so cross," said Fin.  "Take us out for a drive
this afternoon, and let's see if the box has come from Mudie's."

"Disgraceful--and on one's own land, too," growled Sir Hampton, not
heeding his daughter, but still muttering thunder.

"But you will take us, papa?" said Fin, leaning on his shoulder.

"Such insolence!" muttered Sir Hampton.

"Was he trespassing, Hampton?" said Miss Matilda.

"Yes, and a pack of fellows along with him," cried Sir Hampton, firing
up once more.

"You'll take us out, pa, dear?" said Fin, getting her cheek against his.

"No, no! well, there, yes," said Sir Hampton; and then, looking like a
half-mollified bull, he submitted to having his cheeks patted, and his
stiff cravat untied and retied by the busy fingers of his pet child.

"In half an hour, dad?"

"Yes, yes; only don't bother.  Er-rum!" he ejaculated, as Fin flew to
the bell, "tell them to bring round the waggonette."

Sir Hampton rose and left the room, firing a shot as he crossed the
hall.  Then the footman came in to receive his orders, and directly
after Lady Rea looked admiringly across at her daughter.

"Ah, Fin, my dear, I wish I could manage your papa as you do."

"Really, Frances," said Miss Matilda, bridling up, "I don't think that
is a proper way for you to speak respecting a parent to a child."

Poor downright Lady Rea looked troubled and distressed.

"Really, Matty," she began.

"Oh, it's all right," said Fin, coming to the rescue.  "It's because you
don't understand, Aunt Matty; only married people do.  Why don't you
marry Mr Mervyn?"

Miss Matilda rose from her chair, smoothed her skirts, gazed in utter
astonishment at her niece, and marched out of the room.

"Oh, Fin!" exclaimed her sister.

"You shouldn't do it, my dear," said Lady Rea, in whose gentle eyes the
tears were gathering.

"I should!" said Fin, stamping her foot and colouring with passion.  "I
won't stand here and hear my dear mother snubbed in that way by any one
but papa; and if Aunt Matty only dares to do such a thing again, I'll--
I'll--I'll say something horrid."

The next moment she had flung her impetuous little self into Lady Rea's
arms, and was sobbing passionately; but only to jerk herself free, and
wipe her eyes directly in a snatchy fashion.

"It's so vexatious, too, for papa to turn like that, when Mr Trevor's
one of the nicest, dearest, handsomest fellows you ever saw.  Isn't he,
Tiny?"

"I thought him very pleasing and gentlemanly," said Tiny, flushing
slightly.

"She thought ever so much more of him than that, I know, ma," said Fin,
nodding her head.  "But isn't it vexatious, mamma, dear?"

"It'll all come right, my dear," said Lady Rea, kissing her child
fondly.  "There, now, go and get ready, or papa will be cross."

Fin felt ready to say "I don't care," so rebellious was the spirit that
invested her that day; but she set her teeth, and ran to the door.

"You're coming, mamma?"

"No, my dear, Tiny will go with you.  I shall stay in this afternoon."

"And leave Aunt Matty to say disagreeable things to you.  Then I shall
stay, too."

"No, no, dear, go--to please me," said Lady Rea; and the girl ran off.

The waggonette was round, and Sir Hampton was drawing on his gloves, the
image of punctuality, when Fin came rushing down, closely followed by
her sister, and the party started for the little station town, Saint
Kitt's, passing on the road another handsome new waggonette, with a
fine, well-paced pair of horses.

"I wonder whose turn-out that is?" said Sir Hampton.  "Strange thing
that everybody gets better horses than I do."

"I know whose it is," said Fin, demurely.

"Whose?" said Sir Hampton.

"Daren't say," replied Fin.  "Ask Edward.  Edward!" she cried, "whose
carriage is that?"

"Think it's Mr Trevor's, ma'am," said the footman, touching his hat.

"Er-rum," ejaculated Sir Hampton, and Fin nudged her sister and made her
colour.

The box was at the station, and it was put in the waggonette by a tall
porter, whom Fin spoke of to her sister as the signal post, and then she
proposed that they should wait and see if anything would come by the
train due in a few minutes.

Now, Sir Hampton expected something by that train, but he had been so
crossed that day, and was in such a contrary mood, that he exclaimed--

"Er-rum, absurd; certainly not.  Drive back at once."

Fin made a grimace at her sister, who replied with a look of
remonstrance; Sir Hampton sat back and frowned at the landscape, as if
he thought it too green; and away they bowled just as the whistle of the
engine was heard in the distance.

Something has been said before about the Cornish lanes, and the way in
which the granite bones of Mother Nature peer out and form buttresses to
the banks, huge pillars, and mighty corners.  The lane they were
traversing on their way back was not one of the least rugged, though the
road was good; and they had gone at a pretty sharp trot for about a
mile, when a cart came rattling along just at a turn of the road where
it was narrow; and in making way--_click_! the box of one wheel caught
against a granite buttress pushed forth from the bank, the wheel
wriggled about, and fifty Yards farther came off and went trundling down
the hill--the coachman fortunately pulling his horses up short, so that
the waggonette sidled over against the ferny bank, and no one was hurt.

"Such abominable driving," exclaimed Sir Hampton.

"Very sorry, sir," said the coachman.

"Oh, pa, it was those other people's fault.  I saw it all," said Fin.

The coachman gave her a grateful look, and the footman helped all to
alight.

Five minutes' inspection showed that the wheel was so much injured that
it would take time to repair, and there was nothing for it but to send
to the little town to get assistance.

"Shall I send Edward with one horse, Sir Hampton, and ride the other
home and fetch the barouche."

"Yes--no--yes," said Sir Hampton, waking to the fact that they were yet
eight miles from home, and he had done quite as much walking as he cared
for in one day.

At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and the waggonette they
had before passed came up, evidently from the station, with two
gentlemen inside, the coachman pulling up on seeing that there was an
accident, while the gentlemen leaped out.

"I trust," said the elder, raising his hat, "that no one is hurt."

"Er-rum! none; no one," said Sir Hampton, stiffly.

"What misfortune!" said the younger, fixing his glass in his eye, and
looking in a puzzled way at the ladies.  "Under circumstances,
Vanleigh?"

"Yes, of course," said the other, and then raising his hat to the
ladies, "as my friend here observes.  You will allow me to place the
carriage at your disposal?"

Sir Hampton looked at the speaker, then at the carriage, then at his
own.  That was Trevor's carriage, but these were strangers, and he was
not obliged to know.  His legs ached; it was a long while to wait; and
he was still pondering when the first speaker said--

"Allow me," and offered his arm to Tiny, who glanced at her father, and
seeing no commands against the act, suffered herself to be led to the
whole waggonette, the other stranger offering his arm to Fin, who just
touched it, and then leapt in beside her sister.

"Will you follow, Mr--Mr--?"

"Er-rum!  Sir Hampton Rea, at your service, gentlemen," said the knight,
stiffly.

"I beg pardon, Sir Hampton--strangers, you see.  My friend here is Sir
Felix Landells; my name is Vanleigh--Captain Vanleigh."

"Guards," said Sir Felix, in the midst of a good deal of formal bowing;
and then, all being seated, the waggonette drove off, Sir Hampton, in
the conversation which ensued, being most careful to avoid any reference
to the destination of his new friends, merely requesting to be set down
at the end of the lane leading to Tolcarne, the party separating amidst
a profusion of bows.

"What a pair of dandies!" said Fin.

"A most refined gentleman that Captain Vanleigh," said Sir Hampton.

"What did you think of the other one, dad?" said Fin.

"Aristocrat.  Er-rum! aristocrat," said Sir Hampton.  "Blue blood there,
for a certainty.  I hope they'll call.  By the way, Tiny, I thought you
unnecessarily cold and formal."

"Did you, papa?" said Tiny.  "Indeed, I did not mean to be so."

Here they reached the hall, and the girls went to their room.

"Dad's hooked," said Fin, throwing herself into a chair.  "Tiny, that
dandy would come to grief if I knew him long.  I should feel obliged to
singe his horrid little sticky mustachios; and as for the other--oh, how
I could snub him if he looked and talked at me as he did at you."

"I sincerely hope," said Tiny, "that we shall never see them again."

Volume 1, Chapter XIV.

POLLY'S TROUBLES.

"By the way, Pratt," said Trevor, as they were strolling through the
grounds, "what aged man should you take Vanleigh to be?"

"Close upon forty," said Pratt; "but he takes such care of himself, and
dresses so young, that he keeps off the assaults of old Father Time."

"He can't be so old as that," said Trevor, thoughtfully; "and yet he
must begetting on.  He was much older than we were, you know, in the old
days."

"Yes," said Pratt; "bless him, I love Van dearly.  I suppose they'll be
here soon.  H'm!"

"Eh?" said Trevor.

"I said H'm!" replied Pratt.

"Yes, I know," said Trevor, laughing; "but what does H'm mean?"

"Shall I make mischief, or shan't I?  Well, I don't know that it would
be making mischief, for it seems quite natural."

"My dear Frank, don't play the Sphinx, please, for I'm one of the most
dense men under the sun.  Now, then, speak out."

"Only thinking, and putting that and that together," said Pratt,
relighting his cigar.  "Well?"

"Well--handsome young bailiff seen in the copse yonder; pretty girl is
seen going rather hurriedly along path leading to copse; and elderly
lady who holds post of housekeeper, and who, by the way, seems to know
it, is seen to peer through window, and then to come to door, as if in
search of pretty girl.  I say only, what does it mean?"

"Means a bit of sweethearting, apparently," said Trevor, laughing.
"Well, I suppose it's all right!"

"Not if the old lady catches them, perhaps; so let's go and talk to the
old lady."

Trevor shrugged his shoulders, and the couple walked back towards the
house, where Mrs Lloyd was standing, evidently fidgeted about something
or another.

"I tell you she must have gone out," she was saying as they came up.

But just at that moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and the
waggonette drew up at the door with Vanleigh and Landells.

"Jove!" said the latter, "what out-of-the-way place, Trevor.  Thought
never get here."

A sharp sniff drew his attention to Mrs Lloyd, who stood with her
husband just inside the door.

"Not bad," said Vanleigh, superciliously.

"Ah, you'll like it when you've been down a day or two," said Trevor.
"I'm heartily glad to see you both."

"Thanks," said Vanleigh, as his host led the way into the hall.  "Ah,
quite mediaeval."

"Mrs Lloyd, you've got the oak room ready for Captain Vanleigh?" said
Trevor.

"No, Master Dick, I've ordered the blue room for him."

Trevor's brow clouded, but he only bit his lip.

"Then you've arranged that Sir Felix shall have the oak room?"

"No, Master--sir," she said, correcting herself in a very stately way,
"Sir Felix will sleep in the chintz chamber."

Trevor flushed, but he turned it off lightly.

"These are our old butler and housekeeper, Vanleigh," he said.  "Mrs
Lloyd there was almost like a mother to me as a child."

"Indeed," said Vanleigh, superciliously; and Sir Felix fixed his glass
and had a good stare at the old lady, who looked every whit the mistress
of the house.

"Grey mare?" he said, in a whisper.

"Old favoured servants," said Trevor, in return; and the young men
walked into the drawing-room.

"Don't stand staring there," said Mrs Lloyd, fiercely, to the footman;
"take up these portmantees."

The man gave her a surly look.

"He'll go to ruin, that he will," said Mrs Lloyd, in a voice of
suppressed anger, to her husband, as soon as they were alone; "and there
you stand without a word to say for yourself."

"Well, what can I do, my dear?" said Lloyd, feebly.

"Nothing--nothing; what you have always done--nothing.  But I'll stop it
soon.  I won't be made quite a nonentity of.  Where's that girl?  Go and
look for her.  Or, no, you must see to the dinner; and mind this,
Lloyd--she's to be kept out of sight while these fine sparks are here.
I don't like the looks of that dark fellow at all."

Mrs Lloyd hurried away to meet Polly, just about to enter the
housekeeper's room.

"And pray, where have you been, madam?"

"Only out in the grounds, aunt--it was so fine," was the reply.

Mrs Lloyd looked at her till a red glow overspread the girl's face.

"Look here," said Mrs Lloyd, catching her by one hand; "you are not a
fool, Polly.  You understand what I mean, don't you?"

The girl looked up at her with a shiver, and then her eyes fell.

"Don't you try to thwart me, mind, or you'll be sorry for it to the last
day of your life.  Now, look here, do you mind me?"

"Yes, aunt."

"You are to keep in the housekeeper's room here till those friends of
Master Dick's are gone.  And don't you try to deceive me, because I can
read that pink and white face of yours like a book."

Mrs Lloyd flung the little maiden's hand away from her, walked to a
drawer, and brought out some new linen, which she set the girl to sew,
while she went about the house seeing to the arrangements for her
master's guests.

As a matter of course, little Polly had "a good cry," making several
damp places on the new linen; and then, with a sob, she wished herself
safe back at her old aunt's in the Welsh mountains, where she was poor,
but happy and free as the goats.

"I'd go to-morrow if I could," she sobbed, and then the needle hand fell
upon the stiff, hard work, and she closed her wet eyes till a faint
smile came across her face like a little ray of sunshine; and she
whispered softly to herself, as if it were a great secret, "No, I don't
think I would."

Volume 1, Chapter XV.

MRS JENKLES'S MORNING CALL.

"Been waiting, old lady?" said Sam Jenkles, throwing open the apron of
the cab as he reached his wife's side.

"Not a minute, Sam; but why weren't you driving?  Is he restive?"

"Restive!" said Sam; "I only wish he was.  I'd give 'arf a sovrin' to
see 'im bolt."

"And suppose I was in the cab!" said Mrs Jenkles.

"There, don't you be alarmed.  Jump in.  Ratty wouldn't run away with
you inside, my dear--nor any one else."

Sam rattled the apron down, hopped on to his perch, chirruped to Ratty,
and, for a wonder, he went decently out on to Pentonville Hill, past the
Angel, along Upper Street, and round by the Cock at Highbury.

"What do you think of that, old lady?" said Sam, opening his little lid
to peer down at his wife.  "Comfortable?"

"Comfortable--yes," said Mrs Jenkles, looking up and beaming.  "And you
said he wouldn't go."

"He knows as you're here," said Sam; "and that's his aggrawating nature.
He's a-selling me."

"Selling you, Sam?"

"Yes; a-making out as I grumbles without cause.  Sit fast; I'll bowl yer
up there in no time."

"No, Sam, don't--pray, don't go fast!" said his wife, in alarm.

"You sit still; it's all right, I tell yer.  Good wives is scarce,
Sally, so you won't be spilled."

Only half convinced, Mrs Jenkles held on very tightly by the sides of
the cab, till, well up now in the geography of the place, Sam ran round
by the better road, and drew up at B. Sturt's grocery warehouse.

"No," said Sam, as Mrs Jenkles made for the shop; "side door, and ring
once."

As he spoke, Barney's ill-looking face appeared at the door; and as Mrs
Jenkles went and rang--

"Mornin'," said Sam.

Barney scowled, and blew a cloud of tobacco at him.

"Keb, sir?" said Sam, mounting to his perch.

Barney growled, and then spat.

"Run yer up to town in no time.  Cheap trains to S'burban 'andicap,"
said Sam, grinning.

But Barney turned his back as the cab drove off, and asked his
wife--"What, them people wanted with kebs now?"

Mrs Lane admitted her visitor, and, in a hesitating way, asked her
upstairs, where her daughter, looking very pale, was seated by the
window, working for very life at the hard, blue cloth garments upon
which they were engaged.

The girl rose as Mrs Jenkles entered, and bent towards her, flushing
slightly beneath the scrutinising gaze to which she was subjected.

At the same time, Mrs Jenkles made a short bob, and then another to
Mrs Lane, who placed a chair for her, which she declined to take.

"It was my husband, ma'am," said Mrs Jenkles, "who came up to you the
other day."

"Yes," said Mrs Lane.  "You have come from him.  He brought you
to-day?"

"I said I should come and see you," said Mrs Jenkles, looking sharply
from one to the other.

"And he told you?" said Mrs Lane, hesitatingly.

"Yes; my husband tells me everything," said Mrs Jenkles, stiffly.

"Then you know how good he was to mamma?" said the girl, coming forward.

"My husband's one of the best men under the sun, Miss; only he has his
weaknesses."

"Yes, it was weak," said Mrs Lane, with a touch of bitterness in her
voice--"and to such strangers."

"If you mean about the money, ma'am," said Mrs Jenkles, in the same
uncompromising manner, "I don't; I meant something else."

Mrs Lane directed an imploring look at her daughter, and the girl
hastily took up her work, as did her mother, and stitched away.

"That may have been weak, and it may not," said Mrs Jenkles, who took
in everything.  "It all depends."

"It was a most generous act," said Mrs Lane, in a low, pained voice,
"and will bear its fruit.  But you will sit down?"

Mrs Jenkles seated herself on the very edge of her chair, bolt upright,
while Mrs Lane drew out a well-worn purse, took from it half a
sovereign, and laid it upon the table.

"I am ashamed to offer you so little of it back," said Mrs Lane, "but
it was all we could get together in so short a time.  You shall have the
rest--as we can make it up."

"Thanky," said Mrs Jenkles, shortly; but without attempting to touch
the coin.

There was a pause then, only broken by that weary sound of hard
stitching, which tells of sore fingers and aching eyes.

"How much more have you got in that purse?" said Mrs Jenkles, shortly.

A faint flush of resentment appeared in the mothers face, and the
daughter darted an angry look at the speaker.  But it died out in an
instant, as with a sad, weary action, Mrs Lane reopened the purse, and
shook out two more coins beside the half-sovereign upon the table.

"Two shillings," she said, faintly; "it is all."

Mrs Jenkles sat very still, and the stitching went on like the ticking
of two clocks, measuring out the short span of the workers' lives.

Mrs Jenkles's eyes were busy, and she saw, as they went over the room,
how shabbily it was furnished, how thinly mother and daughter were
clothed, how pale and weary was their aspect, while the girl's eyes were
unnaturally bright.

At last Mrs Jenkles's eyes caught sight of a little white corner in one
of the compartments of the open purse, and she gave a hysterical gulp.

There was a heap of thick cloth work lying on the table between the two
women--the one coarse, unrefined, but comfortably clothed and fed, the
other refined and worn to skin and bone--and this heap covered Mrs
Jenkles's actions as she rose, walked to the table, and then, without a
word, went out of the room.

"Has she gone?" whispered Netta, as Mrs Jenkles's retreating footsteps
were heard.

"Yes," said Mrs Lane, with a weary sigh, and she worked on.

"It was very, very cruel," said the girl, with her voice shaking, and,
in spite of her efforts, a heavy sob would make its way from her breast,
and the tears stole down her cheeks.  "Mother, darling, what shall we
do?"

"Hope and wait," was the response, in a low, pained voice.  "It was only
their due.  The husband was very kind."

"But the two shillings--for bread," sobbed the girl.  "Mamma, does papa
know--can he know of this?"

Mrs Lane leaned back in her chair, and held one hand over her eyes for
a few moments; then, with a gesture to her child to be silent, she once
more bent over her work.

Netta brushed the tears from her eyes, drew in her breath as if in pain,
and worked on in silence for a quarter of an hour, when steps were once
more heard upon the stairs.

The eyes of mother and daughter met, those of the latter in dread; but
it was not the heavy step of Barney, nor the snatchy shuffle of his
wife, but a quick, decided, solid footstep, and the moment afterwards
Mrs Jenkles re-entered the room, and closed the door.

Mrs Lane rose in surprise, and took a step to meet her.  Directly
after, completely broken down, she was sobbing on the coarse, uneducated
woman's neck; for she had seen at a glance that the money still lay upon
the table by the empty purse--empty now, for the duplicate it had
contained was gone--as, with a loving, sisterly movement, the cabman's
wife slipped back upon her finger the ring she had been to redeem, and
then, kissing her upon the forehead, whispered--

"My poor dear, what you must have suffered!  Hush, hush!  There, there!"
said Mrs Jenkles, after a pause, with tears streaming down her own
simple, honest face; and she patted and tried to soothe her forsaken
sister as she would a child.

"There, there, there; don't you cry too, my pretty," she said, as Netta
flew to her, and kissed her on the cheek.  "Come, come, come, we must
hold up.  There, that's better; now sit down."

"And I said God had forsaken us in our distress," sobbed Mrs Lane.  "I
little thought what forms his angels took."

"There, there, there," said Mrs Jenkles, wiping her eyes with a rapid
motion; "if you talk like that you'll drive me away.  I told Sam I'd
come up to see, for I didn't know; and he is so easily led away, and I
thought all sorts of things.  But, bless and save us, he never told me
half enough.  There, there, wipe your eyes."

As she spoke, with a delicacy for which one might not have given her
credit, she turned her back, leaving mother and daughter sobbing in each
other's arms, while she slipped the money back in the purse, and placed
it on the chimney-piece.  Her next act was to take off her bonnet and
shawl, hang them behind the door, and take up Netta's work and chair,
beginning to stitch away with a vigour that astonished the girl, as she
tore herself away from her mother, and came to resume her toil.

"No, no, my dear; I'll give you a rest while you see about a bit of
dinner; for," she said, with a cheery smile, "you'll let me have a bit
with you to-day, now, won't you?  I'll try and earn it."

The girl's tears were ready to flow again, but Mrs Jenkles's finger was
shaken menacingly at her, and she turned to her mother, who rose, dried
her eyes, and came and kissed the broad, smooth forehead.

"God will bless you for this," she said, softly; and then the work went
on once more, with such sunshine in the room as had not seemed to enter
it for weeks.

"Ah!" said Mrs Jenkles, as she bit off a fresh length of thread with
her firm, white teeth.  "Rents are dear up this part, I suppose."

"I pay seven and sixpence a week for this and the back room," said Mrs
Lane.

"They'd be dear at half with such furniture," said Mrs Jenkles.

There was another spell of sewing, when Mrs Lane said that she would
see about the dinner; and then, as if reading Mrs Jenkles's thoughts--

"I don't like letting Netta go out alone."

"And quite right, too, with her face," said Mrs Jenkles.  "But she
looks tired.  You ought to walk out every day for an hour or two."

The girl gave her a pitiful look.

So the day wore on, Mrs Jenkles taking dinner and tea with them, and
seeing that each of them partook of a hearty meal, leaving about
half-past nine with a bundle.

It was sharp work to get home before Sam should arrive from the yard;
but Mrs Jenkles managed it, had the table laid, the supper out, and the
beer fetched, before he came in, took off his shiny hat and old coat,
and seating himself began to fill his pipe.

"Well, old lady," he said, "what time did yer get back?"

"About a quarter of an hour ago," said Mrs Jenkles, as she took out
some of the work upon which she had been engaged.

Sam whistled and stared.

"What's them?" he said, pointing with his pipe at the work.

"Only some slop-work I want to finish."

Mrs Jenkles seemed so busy, that she could not look up and meet her
husband's eye.  In fact, to use her own expression, she was all of a
twitter, and did not know what Sam would say; for though she nominally
ruled him, Sam had a will of his own.

"Well, and did you find out about 'em?"

"Yes, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles, without raising her eyes.

"Bad lot, aint they?" he said, puffing away at his pipe.

Mrs Jenkles shook her head.

"What, aint I been took in, then?" said Sam.  "Aint they deep, designing
people, as got hold of yer poor innocent husband, and swindled him out
of thirty bob?"

"Oh, Sam, Sam!" exclaimed Mrs Jenkles, with her lip quivering, "I never
see anything so pitiful in my life."

"Poof!" exclaimed Sam, bursting out into a guffaw, as he turned in his
seat, hugged the back of the chair, and shook with laughter.  "That's my
poor, silly, soft old wife, as can't be trusted out.  Did they offer to
pay you any of the money back?"

Mrs Jenkles nodded.

"How much?"

"Half a sovereign, Sam."

"Well, that's something; and jolly honest, too!"

"But I didn't take it, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles, dropping her work, to go
and rest her hands upon his shoulder.

"You didn't take it?"

"No, Sam, dear."

"Then you've been and let 'em have more."

"Yes, Sam, dear."

"There's a wife for you," he said--"there's a helpmate; and I aint made
my guv'nor's money to-day by four bob."

"I couldn't help it, Sam--I couldn't, indeed," she said; bursting into
tears; "it was so pitiful--she's a real lady, I'm sure, and her
daughter, straining over that heart-breaking work; oh! it was more than
I could bear."

"I wasn't such a werry great fool, Sally," he said.

"Oh no, Sam.  Oh no.  But I haven't told you all yet."

"You haven't?"

"No, dear."

"Well, put me out of my misery at once," said Sam, "that's all."

"Don't be angry with me, Sam, it'll come back to us some way, I hope;
and if it don't, we shall only have done what thousands more would have
done if they had only known."

"Let's have it," said Sam, gruffly.

"They're paying seven and six, Sam, for those wretched rooms, and the
woman's a horrid creature."

"Yes, she is that," said Sam, nodding.

"And the poor young lady's frightened to death of the man, who insulted
her once.  He is a dreadful-looking fellow."

"Wuss, ever so much," said Sam, nodding at his pipe-bowl.

"And I--I--"

"Told 'em about our being about to be empty; that's about what you did,"
said Sam.

"Yes, Sam."

"Well, you're a nice one.  Of course you've put the rent up?"

"No, I haven't, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles.  "I've--"

"Asked only the same.  Why, our rooms is a palace to theirs--not as I
ever see a palace to know."

"They're smaller, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles.

"Precious little," said Sam.  "Well, you've offered 'em at six bob, eh?
Well, you are a nice one; and doing their work, too!"

"No, Sam, dear, I told them they could have them for five shillings a
week."

"Five!" shouted Sam.

"Yes, dear," said Mrs Jenkles, pitifully; "don't be cross, dear.  They
said they wouldn't take them."

"That's a comfort," said Sam.

"But," exclaimed Mrs Jenkles, hurriedly, "I persuaded them to come.  I
told them that they would be saving half a crown a week, and that in
twelve weeks they would have paid off the thirty shillings you lent
them, and they're coming."

"And how many more weeks will it take to pay off the money you lent
them?" said Sam, facing round sharply.

"Only three, dear; it was only seven and sixpence, Sam."

"You'll ruin me," said Sam.  "You know as we're as poor as can be," he
went on, with his eyes averted from her.

"No, Sam, we're not; for we've a comfortable home, and we always save a
little."

"And you go and make jellies and give away."

"How did you know that?" said Mrs Jenkles, sharply.

"Ah! you women can't go on long in your wicked ways without being found
out," said Sam.  "I heerd on it."

"The poor child was dying, same as our poor little Dick was, Sam, and--
and--"

Sam turned his head farther away.

"And now you invite poor people to come, as 'll never be able to pay
their bit o' rent; an' the end on it all 'll be the workus."

"Oh, Sam; pray, pray, don't!  Do I deserve all this?" and the poor woman
burst out sobbing.

"God bless you! no, old lady," cried Sam, pulling her on to his knee,
and giving her a sounding kiss, as she laid her head upon his shoulder.
"It 'll all come right in the long run; see if it don't.  Life aint
worth having if you can't do, a bit o' good in it."

"Then you really aint cross with me, Sam?"

"Not a bit," said Sam.  "Look at me.  Sally, my old gal, it's my belief
as them angels as takes the toll at the gate up above in the shiny way
'll let you go through free."

"Sam!" cried Mrs Jenkles, trying to lay her hand on his mouth.

"And look here, old lady," he continued, stroking her face; "when that
does come off, which I hope it won't be for scores o' years to come, you
keep werry, werry tight hold o' my hand, and then, perhaps, I shall
stand a chance of getting into heaven too."

End of Volume One.

Volume 2, Chapter I.

LOVE MINOR.

Little Polly wiped her eyes after her happy thoughts; for the shower had
passed, and the gleam of sunshine augmented till her face grew dimpled,
and she went on stitching busily.  It was very evident that she had some
consolation--some pleasant unguent for the irritation caused by Aunt
Lloyd; for at the end of half an hour she was singing away at some old
Welsh ditty, in a sweet, bird-like voice, filling up, when she forgot
the words, with a melodious little hum, which was only checked on the
appearance of her tyrant, that lady mating occasional incursions.
Sometimes Aunt Lloyd required table linen; then she came to unlock the
press where the dessert was laid out, and hand it to the footman,
counting the fruit on the dishes as she did so.

"Now, Robert, what are you looking at there?" she said, sharply, as she
caught the man's eyes straying in the direction of Polly.  "Mind your
work, if you please."

Polly did not get snubbed, for she had been bending diligently over her
stitching, which, as soon as the tray of dessert had gone, came in for a
close inspection; but, as it was very neatly done, there was no
complaint.

"Hold out your hands, child," said Mrs Lloyd, suddenly; and she
examined the finger roughened by the hard material and contact with the
needle.  "Ah, that stuffs too stiff; it shall be washed first.  Mend
those."

The linen was doubled up, put away, and some soft material placed in the
girl's hands, over which she had been diligently at work one hour, when
Mrs Lloyd returned for coffee from her stores, with which she again
departed, muttering about "Such a set to bring down!" and Polly's
musical little voice began once more.

Let's see: the dictionary says that an enchanter is one who calls down
by chanting or singing--one who practises sorcery by song.  Polly, then,
must have been an enchantress, for her little ditty about the love of
some deserted maid had the effect of bringing cousin Humphrey Lloyd
through the shrubbery to the open window of the housekeeper's room; and
just in the midst of one of the sweetest of the little trills there was
a rustle amongst the laurels, and a deep voice whispered "Polly!"

"Oh, my!" ejaculated Polly, dropping her work, and starting farther from
the window.  "What will aunt say?"

Now, her instructions had been stringent; and knowing that it would be
like high treason to speak to Humphrey, she determined that she would
not, just as an industrious young needle, which had been warned not to
get rusty by associating with common bits of steel, might have gone on
busily through its work like the one Polly held in her hand.

But supposing that, instead of a common piece of steel, a magnet that
had been rubbed with the loadstone of love should come in its way, what
could the poor needle do?

Even as did little Polly--vow that aunt would be so cross; and then feel
herself drawn, drawn closer and closer to the iron-barred window, till
her little hands were caught in two strong, muscular fists, which
pressed them so hard that they almost hurt.

"Oh! you mustn't, mustn't come!" sobbed Polly.  "If aunt found it out
she would almost kill me!"

"No, no, little one," said Humphrey; "why should she?"

"You--you don't know aunt," whispered Polly.  "She's ordered me not to
speak to you."

"Not to speak to me!"

"Yes; nor to any one else.  She would be so angry if she knew.  You
don't want to get me scolded."

"No, no," he whispered--"not for worlds."

"Pray, pray, go then; and you must not speak to me any more."

"But Polly, dear Polly," whispered Humphrey, "tell me one thing, and
then I'll go and wait years and years, if you like, only tell me that."

Humphrey stopped short, for a singular phenomenon occurred.  Polly's
fingers seemed to suddenly change from within his hands to his wrists,
and to become bony and firm, a sharp voice at the same moment
exclaiming--

"Who's this?"

Humphrey Lloyd was a man, every inch of him, and he spoke out boldly--

"Well, if you must know, it's me--Humphrey."

"Go round to the side door, and come to my room," said Mrs Lloyd, in a
low, angry voice.

Humphrey was heard to go rustling through the laurels, as Mrs Lloyd
exclaimed--

"Go up to your room, Miss, this instant; and don't you stir till I call
you down."

Shivering with fear and shame, Polly made her escape to run up to her
room, throw herself on the bed, and cry as if her heart would break,
just missing Humphrey, who came round without loss of time.

"Now," said Mrs Lloyd, as soon as the door was closed, "what have you
to say to this?"

"Only that it was my fault," said Humphrey--"all my fault; so don't
blame the poor little girl.  It was all my doing."

"Now, look here, Humphrey Lloyd," exclaimed the housekeeper, speaking in
a low, angry voice, "you like your place here?"

"Yes, if you and he could treat me a little better."

"Never mind about that," said Mrs Lloyd.

"It's no use to mind," said Humphrey, bitterly.  "If I had been a dog
instead of your own flesh and blood, you couldn't have treated me
worse."

"Treated you badly!" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd; "haven't you been well fed,
educated, and placed in a good situation?"

"Yes--all that," said Humphrey.  "And for reward you fly in my face.
Now, look here, Humphrey.  If you so much as look at that girl again,
let alone speak to her, off you go.  You shall not stay on the premises
another day."

"Well," said Humphrey, "that's pleasant; but all the same I don't see
what power you have in the matter, so long as I satisfy the young
master."

"Then just content yourself with satisfying your young master, sir, and
mind, that girl's not for you, so let's have no more of it.  Now go."

"But look here," said Humphrey.  "I told you to go," said Mrs Lloyd,
pointing.  "Your place is at the keeper's lodge.  Go and stay there, and
don't go thinking you can influence Master Dick--Mr Trevor--to keep
you, because even if you could, the girl should go away, and you should
see her no more.  Now go."

"Poor little lassie," muttered Humphrey, as, in obedience to Mrs
Lloyd's pointing finger, he slowly left the room, walked heavily along
the passage, and out into the dark evening, to pass round the house, and
cross the lawn, where he could see through the open windows into the
dining-room.

"Nice for me," he muttered.  "Forbidden to go near her--girl in my own
station.  What does the old woman mean?"

He stood gazing in at the merry, laughing party of young, well-dressed
men.

"Nice to be you," he thought; "plenty of money to spend; people to do
all you tell them to; nobody to thwart you.  But I wonder what the old
lady means."

He laughed to himself directly after, in a low, bitter fashion.

"No, not so bad as that," he said, half aloud.  "She's ambitious, and
scheming, but that would be going too far."

Volume 2, Chapter II.

KINKS IN THE LINE.

Matters were not so pleasant, though, with the four occupants of the
dining-room as Humphrey Lloyd believed.  Vanleigh had his skeleton in
the cupboard and was very impecunious; Sir Felix had wealth, but he was
constantly feeling that his friend Vanleigh was an incubus whom he would
give the world to shake off, but wanted the moral courage; Pratt
suffered from poverty, and now told himself that he must be bored by his
friend's affairs; lastly, Trevor had come down to his old home thinking
it would be a bower of roses, and it was as full of thorns, as it could
possibly be.

The dinner had been a failure.  At every turn the influence of Mrs
Lloyd was perceptible, and proof given that so far she had been sole
mistress of the house.

"By the way, Vanleigh, try that claret," said Trevor, in the course of
the dinner.  "Lloyd, the claret to Captain Vanleigh."

The Captain tasted it, and set down his glass.

Pratt took a glass, and made a point of drinking it.

Trevor saw there was something wrong.

"Bring me that claret," he said.

The butler poured him out a glass of very thin, poor wine.

Lloyd was then proceeding to fill Sir Felix's glass, but he declined.

"I thought we had some good old claret," said Trevor, fuming.

"Yes, sir," said the butler.

"Fetch a bottle directly," exclaimed Trevor.  "Really, gentlemen, I am
very sorry," he continued, as the butler went out of the room.  "It's a
mistake.  Here, Robert, what champagne's that?"

The footman brought a bottle from the ice-pail.

"Why, confound it all!" cried Trevor, "I said the dry Clicquot was to be
brought--such fools!"

"Mr Lloyd did get out the Clicker, sir; but Mrs Lloyd said the second
best would do, sir," replied the footman, glad of an opportunity to
change the responsibility.

"Then all the wine is of the ordinary kind?" said Trevor.

"Yes, sir," said the footman.

"Look here, Lloyd," said Trevor, as the butler came into the room, "you
made a mistake about that claret.  See that the other wine is right; and
if not, change it."

The butler looked aghast and hurried out, to return in a few minutes
with a basket of bottles, which he changed for those already in the
room.

Trevor said no more, but he was evidently making up his mind to suppress
the mutiny with a high hand on the morrow; for, as the dinner went on,
he became aware that in many little things his orders had been departed
from.  There was a paucity of plate, when an abundance lay in the
chests; the dinner was good, by stretching a point, but not such as
would please men accustomed to the _chefs_ of Pall Mall; and when at
last the coffee was brought in it was of the most economical quality.

"There," said Trevor, "I'll set all right to-morrow, I'm very sorry,
Vanleigh; but things are all sixes and sevens here.  Pratt, pass the
claret.  Landells, try that port."

"Never drink port, dear boy," said the Baronet.

"Then let's go into the billiard-room; or what do you say, Van--would
you prefer my room and a rubber?"

"Don't much care for billiards to-night," said Vanleigh.  "By the way,
though," he said, "will your estimable housekeeper permit smoking in the
dining-room."

"Oh, come, Van," said Sir Felix, "don't be hard on your host."

"Shall I ring for cigars, Dick?" said Pratt, reaching out his hand.

"Do, please," was the reply.  "Smoke where you like, gentlemen, and make
yourselves at home.  I don't want to be hard on the old people.  You
see, it's a particular case.  I've been away for years.  I left a boy,
and they have had it all their own way.  Oh, Lloyd, bring in the cigar
boxes, and brandy and soda."

"Here, sir?" said the butler, hesitating.

"Here?  Yes, here directly," said Trevor; and he looked annoyed as he
caught a glance passing from Vanleigh to Sir Felix.

"It's all right, Dick," said Pratt.  "It's a nice estate, but weedy.
Pull 'em up, one at a time."

"By the way, Van," said Sir Felix, "didn't tell Trevor of our 'venture."

"No," said Vanleigh, kicking at his friend beneath the table; "been so
taken up with other things.  Brought home some neighbours of yours--
without leave--in the waggonette."

"Neighbours--without leave?" said Trevor, passing the claret.  "We are
all ears."

"Some of us," muttered Pratt, glancing at Sir Felix, and then looking
perfectly innocent.

"Neighbours of yours--a Sir Hampton Court."

"No, no--Weir or Here, or name of that sort," said Sir Felix.

"Carriage broke down--two daughters--deuced fine girls, too."

"Vewy," said Sir Felix, arranging his gummy moustache.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Trevor.  "No one hurt?"

"Calm yourself, my friend," said Vanleigh, proceeding in a most
unruffled way.  "The ladies were uninjured, and we--"

"Brought back--home," said Sir Felix, feebly.

"I'm heartily glad of it--I am, indeed," said Trevor, earnestly.
"Frank, old fellow, that will be an excuse for a call; and we can patch
up the encounter.  We were both horribly hot."

"Fever heat?" said Pratt.

"Yes, and I daresay the old fellow's as sorry now as I am.  I'll--Well,
Lloyd," he continued, as the butler came in, looking rather alarmed, and
rubbing his hands softly, "where are the cigars?"

"Mustn't smoke!" said Vanleigh, in a whisper to Sir Felix, but heard by
Pratt.

"If you please, sir, Mrs Lloyd thought you would like a fire in the
smoking-room, sir, and I've taken the cigars in there."

"Bring--"

Trevor caught Pratt's eye, and he checked himself.

"Lloyd," he said, very quietly.  "I don't think you understand me yet.
Go and fetch those cigar boxes."

The butler directed a pitiful, appealing look at the speaker, and then
went out, leaving Trevor tapping the mahogany table excitedly, till
Pratt tried to throw himself into the breach, with a remark about Sir
Hampton; but no one answered, for Trevor was hard at work keeping down
his annoyance, Vanleigh was picking his white teeth with a gold point,
and Sir Felix was intent upon the tints in the glass he held up before
his eye.

In another minute the butler returned with the cigars, and then departed
to fulfil the other part of his orders.

"Now, Vanleigh, since we are favoured," said Trevor, laughing, "try one
of these.  I know they are genuine, for I got them myself at the
Havanna."

"Really," said Vanleigh, with a show of consideration, "I'll give up my
smoke, and I'm sure Flick will."

"Oh, yes, dear boy; don't mind me."

"For goodness' sake, gentlemen, don't make bad worse," said Trevor;
"take your cigars and light up.  Hallo, Frank!  Don't go out, man."

"Not going," said Pratt, who had already lit a tremendous cigar, and was
puffing away as he took a chair to the window.

"Then, why have you gone there?"

"To smoke the curtains for the benefit of Mrs Lloyd," was the reply;
and he proceeded to put his intention in force.

After an hour they adjourned to Trevor's room, where they had
refreshments brought in, and were soon deep in a rubber of whist, Pratt
being partner with Vanleigh, and playing his very worst; but all the
same, luck and his partner's skill carried them through, so that they
won rather heavily.  Time glided away, and the cigars were so good that
for the first time that evening Trevor felt comfortable.

"Well," he thought, "we shall have no more of Mrs Lloyd to-night, and
to-morrow I'll set things right.  Me to lead?  Good that--there's a
trump."

At that moment the door opened, and Mrs Lloyd appeared, bearing a
waiter with four flat candlesticks, and looking the very image of
austerity.

"The house is all locked up now, sir," she said, in a cold, hard voice.
"It is half-past ten."

"Thank you, Mrs Lloyd," said Trevor, and his face twitched with
annoyance.

"Is half-past ten--bedtime--Mrs Lloyd?" said Pratt, laying down his
cards.

"Yes, sir, it is," said Mrs Lloyd, severely.

"And you've brought us our candles," said Frank, taking the waiter.
"Thank you, Mrs Lloyd; don't you sit up.  Good night."

Pratt's good-humoured, smiling face puzzled the housekeeper.  She
allowed herself to be backed out, and the door closed behind her.

Volume 2, Chapter III.

TWO SCENES.

Matters had not been very pleasant in the neighbourhood of Mrs Lloyd
that night Polly had escaped by being a prisoner; but the butler had
been reduced, between fear of his wife and a burst of passion from his
master, into a state of semi-idiocy; while the rest of the servants,
after one or two encounters, had had a meeting, and declared--being, for
the most part, newly engaged in consequence of the young heir's return--
that if that woman was to do as she liked in the house, they'd serve
their month and then go.

But it was on retiring for the night that the butler came in for the
full torrent of his wife's anger.

"It sha'n't go on!" she exclaimed, fiercely, as she banged a chair down
in the centre of the room, and seated herself.  "Here do I stop till
every light's out.  That boy whom we worshipped almost, who's been our
every thought, to come home at last like a prodigal son--backwards, and
begin to waste his patrimony in this way."

"'Sh! 'sh!" said the butler.

"'Sh yourself!" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, angrily.

"But, my dear, he's master here," the butler ventured to say.

"Is he indeed!" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd.  "I'll see about that."

"Oh, for goodness' sake--for Heaven's sake--pray don't do anything rash,
Martha," said the butler, imploringly.  "Think--think of the
consequences."

"Consequences--you miserable coward, you; I haven't patience with you."

"But we are old now, Martha; and what could we do if anything happened
to us here?  Pray, pray think.  After thirty years in this place; and we
should never get another.  Pray, pray don't speak."

"Hold your tongue!  Do you think, after bringing him up and rearing him
as we did when he was delicate, and nursing him through measles and
scarlatina, and making a man of him as we have, taking care of the
pence, and saving and scratching together, that I'm going to be trampled
under foot by him?"

"But, Martha--"

"Hold your tongue, I say.  Bringing home here his evil companions, for
whom nothing's good enough; and they must have the best wines, and turn
my dining-room into a tap-room with their nasty smoke.  I won't have it,
I tell you--I won't have it."

"But, Martha, dear, you are so rash; come to bed now, and sleep on it
all."

"Not till every light is out in this house will I stir.  Sitting
smoking, and diceing, and gambling there at this time of night."

"Were they, my dear?" said the butler, mildly.

"Yes, with gold by their sides, playing for sovereigns; and that
black-looking captain had actually got a five-pound note on the table.
We shall all come to ruin."

"Yes, that we shall, if you forget your place," said the butler,
pitifully, as he gave his pillow a punch.

"Forget my place, indeed!" retorted his wife; "have I been plotting and
planning all these years for nothing?  Have I brought matters to this
pitch to be treated in this way, to be turned upon by an ungrateful boy,
with his rough, sea-going ways?  This isn't the quarter-deck of a ship--
do you hear what I say?--this isn't the quarter-deck of a ship."

"No, my dear, of course it isn't," said the butler, mildly--"it's our
bedroom," he added to himself.

"But I'll bring him to himself in the morning, see if I don't," she
said, folding her arms, and speaking fiercely.  "I'll soon let him know
who I am--an overbearing, obstinate, mad--are you asleep, Lloyd?"

"No, my dear, I'm listening."

"Now, look here; I have my plans about Polly."

"Yes, dear."

"And, mind this, if that fellow Humphrey attempts to approach her
again--"

"Poor Humphrey!" sighed the butler.

"Ah!" exclaimed his wife, "what was I about to marry such a milksop?
Did you know that he was making up to her?"

"I thought he cared for the girl, my dear."

"You fool! you idiot, Lloyd! and not to tell me.  Have you no brains at
all?"

"I'm afraid not much, my dear," said the butler, pitifully: "what little
I had has been pretty well muddled with trouble, and upset, and dread,
and one thing and another."

"Lloyd!" exclaimed the housekeeper, "if ever I hear you speak again like
that--"

She did not finish her sentence, but her eyes flashed as she looked full
in his, holding the candle over him the while.

"Now, look here," she said, more temperately.  "I shall have a talk with
my gentleman in the morning."

"What, poor Humphrey?"

"Poor Humphrey, no.  But mind this--he's not to come near Polly."

"But you don't think--"

"Never mind what I think, you mind what I say, and leave me to bring
things round.  If she don't know what's good for her, I do; and I shall
have my way."

The butler sighed.

"Now, look here, I shall have some words of a sort with my fine
gentleman in the morning."

"No, no, Martha, don't--pray don't; let things be now; we can't alter
them."

"Can't we?" said Mrs Lloyd, viciously--"I'll see about that."

"But, Martha, dear, I'm fifteen years older than you, and if anything
happened it would break my heart--there!" he exclaimed, vehemently.
"I'd sooner go down to Trevass Rocks, and jump off into the sea, and end
it all, than that anything should happen to us now--after all these
years."

Mrs Lloyd did not speak for a few minutes.  Then, hearing a voice
downstairs, she opened the door gently, and listened, to make out that
it was only laughter from the smoking-room, and she closed the door once
more.

"If ever there was a coward, Lloyd, you are one," she said, with a
bitter sneer.

"Yes," said the butler.  "I suppose I am, for I can't bear the idea of
anything happening now.  Then people say we're unnatural to poor
Humphrey."

"Poor Humphrey again!" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, angrily; "let people talk
about what they understand.  I should like for any one to say anything
to me."

"But Martha," said Lloyd, after a pause.  "Well?"

"You'll not be rash in the morning--don't peril our position here out of
an angry feeling."

"You go to sleep," was the uncompromising response.

And sighing wearily, the butler did go to sleep, his wife sitting
listening hour after hour till nearly two, when there was the sound of a
door opening, a burst of voices, steps in the hall, "Good nights!"
loudly uttered, Pratt going upstairs to his room, whistling number one
of the Lancers-quadrilles with all his might.  Then came the closing of
bedroom doors and silence.

Mrs Lloyd sat for ten minutes more, then, taking her candle, she walked
softly downstairs; went round dining- and drawing-rooms and study,
examining locks, bolts, and shutters, and then went to the butler's
pantry, gave a drag at the handle of the iron plate-closet, to satisfy
herself that all was right there, and lastly made for the smoking-room.

"Like a public-house," she muttered, as she crossed the hall, turned the
handle with a snatch, and threw open the door, to find herself face to
face with Trevor, who was sitting at a table writing a letter.

"Mrs Lloyd!"

"Not gone to bed!"

The couple looked angrily at each other for a few moments, and then
Trevor said, sternly--

"Why are you downstairs at this time of the night, Mrs Lloyd?"

"The morning you mean, sir," said the housekeeper.  "What am I down
for?" she continued, angrily; "to see that the house is safe--that
there's no fire left about--that doors are fastened, so that the house
I've watched over all these years isn't destroyed by carelessness, and
all going to rack and ruin."

Trevor jumped up with an angry exclamation on his lips; but he checked
it, and then spoke, quite calmly--

"Mrs Lloyd, I should be perfectly justified in speaking to you perhaps
in a way in which you have never been spoken to before."

"Pray do, then, Master--sir," jerked out Mrs Lloyd, looking white with
anger.

"In half a dozen things during the past evening you have wilfully
disobeyed my orders.  Why was this?"

"To protect your interests and property," exclaimed the housekeeper.

"Giving me credit for not knowing my own mind, and making me look absurd
in the eyes of my friends."

"I didn't mean to do anything of the kind, sir," said Mrs Lloyd,
stoutly.

"I'll grant that; and that you did it through ignorance," said Trevor.

"I don't want to see the place I've taken care of for years go to ruin,"
said Mrs Lloyd.

"I'll grant that too," said Trevor, "and that you and your husband have
been most faithful servants, and are ready at any time to give an
account of your stewardship.  I feel your zeal in my interests, but you
must learn to see, Mrs Lloyd, that you can carry it too far.  I
daresay, too, that for all these years you and your husband have felt
like mistress and master of the house, and that it seems hard to give up
to the new rule, and to render the obedience that I shall exact; but,
Mrs Lloyd, you are a woman of sound common sense, and you must see that
your conduct to me has been anything but what it should be."

"I've never had a thought but for your benefit!" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd.

"I believe it, Mrs Lloyd--I know it; but tell me frankly that you feel
you have erred, and no more shall be said."

Mrs Lloyd gave a gulp, and stood watching the fine, well-built man
before her.

"It grieves me, I assure you, to have to speak as I do, Mrs Lloyd,"
continued Trevor; "but you must see that things are altered now."

"And that you forget all the past, Master Dick," cried Mrs Lloyd, with
a wild sob, "and that those who have done everything for you may now be
turned out of the house in their old age and go and beg their bread,
while you make merry with your friends."

"Come--come--come, Mrs Lloyd," said Trevor, advancing to her, and
laying his hand caressingly on her shoulder, "you don't believe that;
you have too much respect for your old master's son to think he would
grow up such an ingrate--so utterly void of common feeling.  He has not
forgotten who took the place of his mother--who nursed him--who tended
him through many an illness, and was always more a friend than a
servant.  He has come back a man--I hope a generous one--accustomed to
command, and be obeyed.  He wishes you to keep your position of
confidential trust, and the thought of making any change has never
entered his mind.  All he wishes is that you should make an effort to
see the necessity for taking the place necessitated by the relative
positions in which we now find ourselves; and he tells you, Mrs Lloyd,
that you may rest assured while Penreife stands there is always a home
for you and for your husband."

As he touched her a shiver ran through the woman's frame; the inimical
aspect faded out, and she looked admiringly in his face, her own working
the while, as his grave words were uttered, till, sobbing violently, she
threw her arms round his neck, kissed him passionately again and again,
and then sank upon the floor to cover her face with her hands.

"There--there, nurse," he said, taking her hand and raising her.  "Let
this show you I've not forgotten old times.  This is to be the seal of a
compact for the future,"--he kissed her gravely on the forehead.  "Now,
nurse, you will believe in your master for the future, and you see your
way?"

"Yes, sir," she said, looking appealingly in his face.

"We thoroughly understand each other?"

"Yes, sir; and I'll try never to thwart you again."

"You'll let me be master in my own house?" he said, his handsome face
lighting up with a smile.

"Yes, indeed, I will, sir," sobbed the woman; "and--and--you're not
angry with me--for--for--"

"For what--about the wine?"

"No, sir, for the liberty I took just now."

"Oh no," he said; "it was a minute's relapse to old times.  And now," he
continued, taking her hand, to lead her to the door, "it is very late,
and I must finish my letter.  Good night, nurse."

"Good night, sir--and--God bless you!" she exclaimed, passionately.

And the door closed between them--another woman seeming to be the one
who went upstairs.

Volume 2, Chapter IV.

"SING HEIGH--SING HO!"

Trevor's letter was sent off by one of the grooms by eight o'clock; for,
accustomed to late watches and short nights at sea, the master of
Penreife was down betimes, eagerly inspecting his stables and horses,
and ending by making inquiries for Humphrey Lloyd, to find that he was
away somewhere or another to look after the game.

Donning a wideawake, and looking about as unlike a naval officer as
could be, he summoned the butler, to name half-past nine as the
breakfast hour, and then, with little Polly watching him from one of the
windows, he strode off across the lawn.

Polly sighed as she looked after him, and then she started, for a couple
of hands were laid upon her shoulder, and turning hastily, it was to
confront Mrs Lloyd, whose harsh countenance wore quite a smile as she
gazed fixedly in the girl's blushing face, and then kissed her on the
forehead.

"He's a fine, handsome-looking man, isn't he, child?" said the
housekeeper.  "Don't you think so?"

"Yes, aunt," said the girl, naively; "I was thinking so as I saw him go
across the lawn."

Which was the simple truth, though, all the same, Miss Polly had been
comparing him, somewhat to his disadvantage, with Humphrey.

"Good girl," said Mrs Lloyd.  "You must get yourself a silk dress,
child--a nice light one."

"Thank you, aunt," said the girl, flushing with pleasure.

"Yes, he's a fine young fellow, and as good and noble as he is high."

"I'm sure he must be, aunt," said the girl.  "He spoke so nicely to me."

"When?--where?" said Mrs Lloyd, eagerly.

"Yesterday, aunt, when I took in that silver cup."

"Ah?" said Mrs Lloyd.  "Yes, she'll be a lucky girl who wins him."

"Yes, that she will, aunt," said the girl, enthusiastically.  "He's very
rich, isn't he?"

"Very, my dear; and his wife will be the finest lady in the county, with
dresses, and carriages, and parties, and a town-house, I daresay."

"I hope he'll marry some one who loves him very much," said the girl,
simply.

"Of course he will, child.  Why, any girl could love him.  She ought to
jump at the chance of having such a man.  And now I must go, child.  I
was rather cross to you last night.  I was worried with the
preparations, and it did not look well for me to come and see that
fellow with his hands through the window; but that won't happen again.
A little flirting's all very well for once in a girl's life, but there
must be no more of it, and I know I shan't have to speak any more."

She hurried out of the room before the girl could reply, leaving her
with her little forehead wrinkled by the puzzling, troubled thoughts
which buzzed through her brain.

"Aunt must mean something," she said to herself.  "I wonder what she
really does mean.  She can't really--oh, nonsense, what a little goose I
am!"

Polly's pretty little face puckered with a smile, and she took up her
work, waiting to be called for breakfast, and sat wondering the while
what Humphrey was doing.

Humphrey was away down by the disputed piece of land, and Trevor soon
forgot all about him; for, crossing a field and leaping a stile, he
stood in one of the winding lanes of the neighbourhood; then crossing
it, and leaping another stile, he began to make his way along the side
of a steep valley, when he stopped short; for, from amongst the trees in
front, rang out, clear and musical--

  "There came a lady along the strand,
  Her fair hair bound with a golden band,
  Sing heigh!"

And a second voice--

  "Sing ho!"

Then the two, sweetly blended together, repeated the refrain, "Oh,
Tiny!" cried the voice, "here's one pretty enough to make even Aunt
Matty look pleasant.  Oh, my gracious!" she exclaimed, dropping her
little trowel, for Trevor had come into sight.

"Don't be alarmed, pray!" he said, laughing.  "But really I did not know
we had such sweet song-birds in the woods."

"It was very rude to listen, Mr Trevor; and it isn't nice to pay
compliments to strangers," said Fin, nodding her saucy head.

"Then," said Trevor, taking the hand slightly withheld, "I shall be rude
again only in one thing--listening; for we must be strangers no more,
seeing that we are such near neighbours.  Miss Rea," he said, taking
Tiny's hand in turn, and looking earnestly in her timid eyes, "you were
not hurt yesterday?"

"Oh no, not in the least," was the reply.

"We are indebted to your friends, too, for taking compassion upon us in
our misfortune."

"Don't name that," he said, hastily.  "I am glad the carriage came up in
time.  By the way, Miss Rea, I am glad we have met, I want to clear up a
little unpleasantly that occurred yesterday."

"Oh, of course," said Fin.  "Why, we ought to have cut you this
morning."

"No, no," said Trevor, laughing, "that would be too cruel I am really
very, very sorry about it all; and I have sent a letter over to Sir
Hampton this morning, apologising for my hasty words."

"Oh, have you?" said Fin, clapping her hands, and making a bound off the
moss; "how nice!  I mean," she added, demurely, "how correct."

Fin whispered her sister, who was growing flushed and troubled by the
eager and impressive way in which Trevor spoke to her.

"It would be such a pity," he said, walking on by her side, "if any
little trifle like that in dispute should be allowed to disturb the
peace, and break what would, I am sure, be a charming intimacy!"

"Why, the great, handsome wretch is making love to her," said Fin to
herself.  "Oh, what a shame!  I hate him already."

"I know--I feel sure papa will only be too glad--too ready to make
amends," said Tiny, who was growing more confused; for every time she
spoke and ventured to glance at her companion, it was to meet his eyes
gazing into hers with a depth of tenderness that pleased while it
troubled her, and made her little heart behave in the most absurdly
fluttering fashion.  He looked so frank and handsome--so different in
his brown tweeds and carelessly put-on hat to the carefully dressed
dandies, their companions of the day before.

"I have told Sir Hampton that I mean to call this afternoon to ask him
to shake hands with me.  Do you think I may?" he said, with another
look.

"I don't know--I think so--oh yes! pray call," said Tiny, confused, and
blushing more than ever.

"Thank you, I will," he said, earnestly, "and you will be at home?"

"I forbid thee--no, thou must not come," said Fin, in a mock-serious
tone, "And why not?" said Trevor, turning upon her.

"Because Aunt Matty hates the sight of young men, and papa will be ready
to eat you."

"Why, bless your bright, merry little face," cried Trevor,
enthusiastically, and catching Fin's hands in his.  "Do you know what I
feel as if I could do?"

"No, of course not," cried Fin, trying to frown, and looking bewitching.

"Why, catch you up and kiss you a dozen times for a merry little
woodland fay," cried Trevor.

"Oh, gracious!" cried Fin, snatching away her hands, and retreating
behind her sister.

"Don't be alarmed, little maiden," said Trevor, laughing; "I won't do
so."

"I should think not," cried Fin.

"Sailors' manners," said Trevor, laughing, as he walked on by their
side.

"Do you know how old I am, sir?" said Fin, austerely.

"I should say nearly sixteen," said Trevor, glancing at her sister.

"Seventeen and a half, sir," said Fin, with dignity on her forehead, and
a laugh at each corner of her little mouth.

"Then it will be a sin if Nature ever lets you get a day older," said
Trevor, laughing.

"Thank you, sir," said Fin, with a mock curtsey.

"Is she always as merry as this?" said Trevor to Tiny, who glanced at
him again, to once more lower her eyes in confusion, he looked at her so
earnestly.

"Yes; but you must not heed what she says," was the reply.

"I'm very wicked in my remarks, Mr Trevor," said Fin; "and now, sir, if
you please, we are going this way to dig up ferns--so good morning."

"That is my direction," said Trevor, quietly; "and as I am only your
neighbour, surely you need not treat me as a stranger."

"Tiny, it's all your fault," said Fin, maliciously; "so if Aunt Matty
scolds, you may take the blame.  I would make him carry the basket,
though."

"Yes, pray let me," said Trevor, holding out his hand.

"Thank you, no," said Tiny, recovering herself, and speaking with a very
sweet assumption of maidenly dignity.  "If Mr Trevor will excuse us, I
think we will return now to breakfast.  I feel sure that papa will
gladly receive you this afternoon."

"And you will be at home?" said Trevor, earnestly.

"I cannot say," said Tiny, quietly; "but I hope the little unpleasantly
will be removed."

"You do hope that?" said downright Trevor.

"Yes--of course," said Tiny, ingenuously opening her soft eyes, and
meeting his this time without a blush.  "It would be so unpleasant--so
unneighbourly for there to be dissension between us," and she held out
her hand.  "Good morning, Mr Trevor."

If he might only have kissed it!  But it would have been enough to stamp
him as a boor, and he contented himself with pressing it tenderly as he
bent over it.

"Good morning, Mr Trevor," said Fin, holding out her hand in turn, and
she gazed at him out of her laughing, mischievous eyes, till a dull red
glow spread over his bronzed cheeks, and he squeezed her fingers so that
she winced with pain.

"Good morning," he said.  "Eh--what is it?"

"Oh, dear!" cried Fin, shutting her eyes, "here's that horrid,
solemn-looking little man coming, just in the way we want to go."

"Then, let me introduce you," said Trevor, laughing, as Pratt came
sauntering along, whistling and cutting off fern leaves with his stick,
till he saw the group in front, when he became preternaturally solemn.

"Pratt, let me introduce you to my neighbours.  Miss Rea--Miss Finetta
Rea--my old friend, Frank Pratt."

"Pratt!  What a disgusting name!" said Fin to herself, as, with a tender
display of respect that his friend did not fail to notice, Trevor
performed the little ceremony out there amid the gleaming sunbeams; and
then they parted.

"Oh, Tiny, isn't he delicious?" cried Fin, as soon as they were out of
hearing.  "Isn't he grand?"

"Hush, Fin!  How can you?" said her sister.

"How can I?  So," said Fin, throwing her arms round her sister, and
kissing her.  "He's head over heels in love with you.  What fun!  And I
hate him for it like poison, because I want him myself."

"Fin, dear, don't, pray.  Suppose any one heard you."

"Don't care if they did.  Ugh!  I'm as jealous as an Eastern sultana I
shall stab you some night with a bodkin.  But, I say, isn't the solemn
man fun?"

"I don't see it," said Tiny, glad of a diversion.

"I think he's a regular little cad."

"Slang again, Fin!"

"Yes, it's because I'm cross and want my breakfast," and she hurried her
sister along.

"Ahem!" said Pratt, as soon as they were alone in the lane.

"Franky," cried Trevor, clutching his friend by the arm, "did you ever
see a sweeter girl in your life?"

"What, than that little Miss who laughed at me?" said Frank.

"No, no; the other.  I declare she's a perfect angel.  I never saw so
much sweetness in my life before.  I--"

"Phew--phew--phew--phew--phew--phew--phew--phew!" whistled Pratt.

"Don't be a fool, Franky."

"But 'tis my nature to," said Pratt.

"Listen, man; I really do believe that there is something true about
fellows falling in love at first sight, and that sort of thing; I do
indeed."

"So do I," said Pratt.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come now, that's rich.  To go and get hooked like that, before
you've been at home a month!  Well, that comes of going to sea, and
being out of the way of civilised beings from year's end to year's end.
I say, there's a romance beginning here--tyrannical heavy father, and
the rest of it."

"Nonsense!" cried Trevor.  "Come along, old boy; I'm as hungry as a
hunter.  By Jove, though, I came out on purpose to find Humphrey."

"And only met a goddess in the dell," said Pratt.

And the two young men returned to breakfast.

Volume 2, Chapter V.

A CEREMONIOUS CALL.

"How could I be such an ass as to ask them down?" said Trevor, aloud, as
he stood at the dining-room window directly after lunch.

"And then such an ass as to say so out loud?" said a voice behind him;
Frank Pratt having returned to the room, and his footsteps being
inaudible on the thick Turkey carpet.

"Ah, Frank?" said Trevor, turning sharply, "you there!"

"Yes, sir," said Pratt, solemnly, "I am here--for the present.  Will you
have the goodness to order a carriage, or a cart, or something, to
convey my portmanteau to Saint Kitt's, and I'll be off by the night
train."

"Be off--night train--what the deuce do you mean?"

"Mean?  Why, that you were just accusing yourself of being a fool for
firing me down; and--"

"Don't, Franky--don't be a donkey I'm worried and bothered, old man.
Help me: don't get in my way."

"I that moment proposed getting out of it," said Pratt, quietly.

"Tut, tut, tut!--you know I didn't mean you.  Look here, Frank, I want
to go out this afternoon--to make a call."

Pratt made a grimace, and an attempt to feel his friend's pulse.

"No, no; don't play the fool now," said Trevor.  "You know I've only
just got those two down, and it would be so rude to leave them."

"And you don't want to take them--with you?"

"No, certainly not," exclaimed Trevor, hastily.

"But they have been introduced," said Pratt.

"To whom--where?" said Trevor.

"Oh, my dear, transparent, young sea deity," said Pratt, laying his hand
on Trevor's shoulder.  "It is so easy to see through you.  Of course you
don't want to go straight off to Sir Hampton Court's this afternoon."

"Well, and if I do, what then?"

"Nothing, whatever," said Pratt.  "She really is nice; I own it."

"Don't humbug, Frank.  Of course I want to call there.  I want to patch
up that unpleasantly.  I want to be on good terms with my neighbours."

"Hadn't you better have only a week's holiday down here, and then be off
again to sea?"

"Will you help me, Franky, or won't you?"

"I will.  Now, then, what is it?  Get up something to amuse Van and
Flick till you come back?"

"Yes, that's it.  Do that for me, there's a dear old fellow."

"What should you think the hour or so worth to you?"

"Worth?  I don't understand you."

"Would you stand a five-pound note for the freedom?"

"Half a dozen, you mercenary little limb of the law."

"Hold hard, there! or, in your nautical parlance, avast there!  I don't
want the money--only to lose.  If I play billiards with Van he's sure to
beat me, and he knows it; therefore, he won't play me without he thinks
he can win some money.  Give me a fiver to lose to him, and I'll warrant
he won't leave the billiard-room till he has got every shilling."

"Here--take ten pounds," said Trevor, hastily; "and go on, there's a
good fellow."

"No; five will do for him," said Frank.  "And now I shall have to play
my best, to make it last."

"Frank, old boy, you're a trump.  I don't know what I should have done
without you."

"I always was a young man who could make himself generally useful," said
Pratt.  "Good luck to you, old boy!"

He sighed, though, and looked rather gloomy as he went out to seek the
friends whom he had left in the smoking-room, where Vanleigh was in
anything but a good humour, and had been pouring a host of complaints
into Sir Felix's ear.  It was foolish of them to come down to such an
out-of-the-way place; they should be eaten up with ennui.  Why didn't
Trevor order horses round?  The wines weren't good; and he hadn't smoked
such bad weeds for years.

"Must make the best of a bad bargain," said Sir Felix.  "Must stay--
week."

"Oh! we'll stay a month now we are here," said Vanleigh; "let's punish
him somehow.  What do you say to having a smoke outside?"

"I'm 'greeable," said Sir Felix; and they passed out through the window.

Five minutes after Pratt entered the room, with--

"Now, Vanleigh, I'll play a--Hallo! where the deuce are they?"

He walked hastily into the billiard-room, expecting to find a game
begun; but, of course, they were not there.

"Gone to write letters," he muttered; and he went into the library.

Then he entered the drawing-room, the dining-room, the conservatory.
Ran up and knocked at their bedroom doors, and then ran down again.

"Having a weed in the garden," said Pratt, "of course.  How provoking!"

He took a hat and ran out to the summer-house, garden chairs being set
out beneath the various favourite trees, and at last caught sight of a
couple of figures in the distance, evidently making for the sea.

"That must be them," he said; and he started off in full chase.

Meanwhile Trevor had hurried off; and as he left the house, Mrs Lloyd
came into the hall, and then watched him from a side window.

"Yes!" she said; "he's gone that way again--I thought he would.  He's
sure to meet her."

Mrs Lloyd was quite right; for a quarter of a mile out of the grounds,
and down the principal lane, he saw a white dress, and his heart gave a
bound, but only to calm down in its throbbing as he saw that it was
little Polly, who advanced to meet him with a very warm blush on her
face.

"Hallo! little maid," he said, heartily--"out for a walk?"

"Yes, sir," said Polly, all in a flutter.  "I've been--"

"I see, picking wild flowers," said Trevor.  "Well, come, give me one
for my coat."

The girl hesitated, and then took a cornflower from her little bouquet.

"Thanks," he said, smiling.  "But I shan't pay you for it with a kiss.
I ought to, though, oughtn't I?"

"Oh, no--please no!" said the girl, with a frightened look, and she
glanced round.

"What?" said Trevor, "is there some one coming?  There, run away; and
tell your aunt to take care of you."

The girl hurried away, and Trevor walked on, to come suddenly upon
Humphrey, leaning upon his thistle staff, at a turn of the road.

"Ah, Humphrey," he said, "going your rounds?  I want to have a talk to
you to-morrow."

There was a hard, stern look on the young man's face as he involuntarily
saluted his master; but Trevor did not notice it, and turning down the
lane which led to Tolcarne, he began to tap his teeth with the stick he
carried, and run over in his own mind what he should say, till he
reached the new gates, walked up to the house, and was shown into the
presence of the knight's sister.

Miss Matilda Rea did not like Cornwall, principally for theological
reasons.  She preferred her brother's town-house in Russell Square,
because she was within reach of the minister she "sat under"--a
gentleman who, she said, "was the only one in London to awaken her
stagnant belief."

The fact was that Aunt Matty was a lady who required a zest with her
worship--she liked pickles with her prayers, and her friend the minister
furnished them--verbal pickles, of course, and very hot.

But there were other reasons why she did not like Cornwall; there were
no flagstones; the people did not take to her visitations; her prospects
of getting a suitable companion grew less; and lastly, Cornwall did not
agree with her dog.

Aunt Matty was dividing her time between nursing Pepine, who was very
shivery about the hind legs, and reading small pieces out of a "serious"
book--tiny bits which she took like lozenges, and then closed her eyes,
and mentally sucked them, so as to get the goodness by degrees.  In
fact, she was so economical with her "goody" books, that one would last
her for years.

"Mr Trevor!" said the servant, loudly, and then--"I'll tell Sir
Hampton, sir, that you are here."

Aunt Matty raised her eyes, and Pepine barked virulently at the
stranger, as her mistress half rose and then pointed rather severely to
a chair.

"He can't be nice," said Aunt Matty to herself, "or Pepine would not
bark."  Then aloud--"Sir Hampton will, I have no doubt, soon be here."

"Have I the pleasure of addressing Lady Rea?" said Trevor, with a smile.

Pepine barked again.

"What an insult!" thought Aunt Matty.  "Did she look like the mother of
two great girls?"

In truth, she really did not.

"I am Sir Hampton's sister," she said, stiffly--"Miss Matilda Rea."

Volume 2, Chapter VI.

A FRIENDLY CALL.

There was a pause of the kind that may be called cold for a few moments
in Sir Hampton's drawing-room.  Then Trevor spoke--

"I beg pardon, I'm sure," he said, frankly; "I hope my name is not
unknown to you."

"I think I have heard my brother mention it," said Aunt Matty, stiffly.
"Hush, Pepine I don't bark!" when, as a matter of course, the dog barked
more furiously than before.

"I've just come back from sea," said Trevor, to break the chill.

"Indeed," said Aunt Matty, freezing a little harder; and added to
herself, "A most objectionable person."  Then aloud, "Pepine must not
bark so, hush! hush!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Matty, do send that cross little wretch away,"
cried Lady Rea, bursting into the room.  "Mr Richard Trevor, is it?"
she said, her plump countenance breaking into a pleasant smile as she
gazed up at her visitor.  "I'm very glad to see you," she continued,
holding out both hands, "and I hope we shall be very good neighbours."

"I hope we shall, indeed," said Trevor, shaking the little lady's hands
very heartily, and thinking what a homely, pleasant face it was.

"And aren't you glad to get back?  Did you enjoy yourself at sea?  I
hope you didn't get wrecked!" said Lady Rea, in a breath.

"No; I reached home safe and sound," said Trevor.

"We do have such storms on this coast sometimes.  I've told Edward to
look for his master.  Hampy's always about his grounds."

"My sister means she has sent for Sir Hampton," said Miss Matilda,
frigidly.  In fact, the cold was intense, and showed in her nose.

"Yes, I've sent for Sir Hampton," said Lady Rea, feeling that she had
made a slip.  "The girls will be here, too, directly.  You have met
them?"

Miss Matilda darted a look of horror at her sister; but it missed her,
and the little lady prattled on.

"They told me about meeting you twice; and, oh!--here, darlings!--Mr
Trevor's come to give us a neighbourly call."

They came forward--Tiny to offer her hand in a quiet, unaffected manner,
though a little blush would make its way into her cheek as her eyes met
Trevor's, and she felt the gentle pressure of his hand; Fin to screw up
her face into a very prim expression, shake hands, and then retire,
after the fashion taught by the mistress of deportment at her last
school.

"I wish that old griffin would go," thought Trevor, as the conversation
went on about the sea, the country and its pursuits--a conversation
which Aunt Matty thought to be flighty, and wanting in ballast--which
she supplied.

But Aunt Matty did not mean to go, and dealt out more than one snub keen
enough to have given offence to the young sailor, but for the genial
looks of Lady Rea and the efforts of Fin, who, to her sister's trouble,
grew spiteful as soon as her aunt snubbed her ladyship, and became
reckless in her speech.

Aunt Matty thought it was quite time for "the seafaring person," as she
mentally termed him, to go.  She had never known a visit of ceremony
last so long.  On the contrary side, Trevor forgot all about its being a
visit of ceremony: he was near his deity--for a warm attachment for the
sweet, gentle girl was growing fast--and he liked the merry laughing
eyes of Fin.

"By the way, Mr Trevor," said Lady Rea.  "I hear you've got beautiful
horses."

"Oh, I don't know," said Trevor.  "I tried to get good ones."

"I'm told they are lovely.  The girls are just beginning riding--papa
has had horses sent down for them."

"I hope they are quiet and well broken," said Trevor, with an anxious
glance at Tiny.

"I don't think, Fanny, that Mr Trevor can care to know about our simple
domestic matters--our horses, for instance," said Miss Matilda, now
solid ice.

"Oh, sailors always love horses, aunty," said Fin, colouring a little;
and then mischievously, as she sent an arrow at Trevor, "because they
can't ride them."

Aunt Matty's lips parted, but no words came; and to calm her ruffled
feelings she took a little dog--in strokes.

"Your daughter is right," said Trevor, "I do love horses; and," he said,
laughing at Fin, "I do try to ride them."

"I hope you'll look at the girls' horses, then, Mr Trevor," said Lady
Rea.  "As you understand them, you'd be able to tell whether they are
safe.  I don't half like the idea of the girls mounting such wild beasts
as horses often are.  As for me, I wouldn't ride on one for the world."

The idea of plump little Lady Rea in a riding-habit, mounted on a horse,
like a long-draped pincushion, was too much.  Tiny coloured.  Aunt Matty
looked horrified.  Trevor grew hot and bit his lip, caught Fin's eye,
and then that young lady, who had held her handkerchief to her mouth,
burst out laughing.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Lady Rea, good-humouredly.  "What have I said
now?--something very stupid, I'm sure.  But you must not mind me, Mr
Trevor, for I do make such foolish mistakes."

Miss Matilda took hold of the two sides of the light shawl thrown over
her angular shoulders, and gave it a sawing motion to work it higher up
towards her neck, a shuddering sensation, like that caused by a cold
current of air, having evidently attacked her spine.

"I think it was a foolish mistake, Fanny," she said, in a voice acid
enough to corrode any person's temper, "to doubt Sir Hampton's Judgment
with respect to the horses he would choose for his daughters' use."

Fin began to bristle on the instant; her bright eyes flashed, and the
laughing dimples fled as if in dismay, as she threw down her challenge
to her aunt.

"Why, aunt," said the girl, quickly, "one of the grooms said pa didn't
hardly know a horse's head from its tail."

"Oh, Fin, my dear!" cried mamma.

"Which of the grooms made use of that insolent remark?" cried Aunt
Matty.  "If I have any influence with your papa, that man will be
discharged on the instant."

"I think it was Thomas, aunt, who makes so much fuss over Pepine," said
Fin, maliciously.

"I'm quite sure that Thomas is too respectable and well-conducted a
servant to say such a thing," said Aunt Matty.  "It was my doing that
your papa engaged him; for he came with a letter of introduction from
the Reverend Caius Carney, who spoke very highly indeed of his honesty
and pious ways."

"Oh, aunty," cried Fin, "and he swears like a trooper!"

Aunt Matilda went into a semi-cataleptic state, so rigid did she grow;
and her hand, with which she was taking a little more dog by friction,
closed so sharply on the scruff of the little terrier's neck, that it
yelped aloud.

"You mustn't say so, my dear, if he does," said Lady Rea, rather sadly.

And to turn the conversation, Trevor asked her if she liked flowers.

"Oh yes, Mr Trevor," she exclaimed, beaming once more.  "And you've got
some lovely gladioluses--li--oli," she added, correcting herself, and
glancing from one to the other like a tutored child, "in your grounds,
of a colour we can't get.  May I beg a few?"

"The gardener shall send in as many as you wish for, Lady Rea--anything
in my place is at your service."

Poor Tiny!  His eager, earnest words began to wake up such a curious
little tremor in her breast.  It was all so new--so strange.  Now she
told herself she was foolish, childish, and that she was giving way to
silly, romantic fancies; only Fin was evidently thinking something too,
and gave her all sorts of malicious looks.  As for Aunt Matty, she sat
now with her eyes closed, sucking a mental lozenge about patience; and
Fin's championship was in abeyance for the rest of the visit--the
conversation being principally between Lady Rea and their visitor.

"It's very kind of you to say so, I'm sure," said Lady Rea.  "We saw
them, you know, when we went over your place, once or twice, for Mrs
Lloyd was good enough to say we might.  And a very beautiful place it
is."

"It's a dear old home, Lady Rea, indeed," said Trevor, enthusiastically.

"Though you must have found it very _sad_," said Lady Rea.

"No," said Trevor, frankly; "it would be mockery in me to say so.  My
parents died when I was so very young, that I never could feel their
loss: I hardly knew what it was to have any one to love."

"Let him look at her now, if he dare," thought Fin, with her eyes
sparkling.

But Trevor did not dare; he only gazed in Lady Rea's pleasant face, and
she made Aunt Matty shiver--firstly, by laying her hand in a soothing
way upon the young man's arm; secondly, by saying she would put herself
under an obligation to this dreadful seafaring person, by accepting his
offer of flowers; and thirdly, by the following terribly imprudent
speech--

"I'm sure I don't know where dear papa can be gone; but as he's not
here, Mr Trevor, you must let me say that whenever you feel dull and
lonely, you must come up here and have a chat, and some music, or
something of that sort.  We shall always be delighted to see you."

"Er-rum!  Er-rum!" came from the garden.

"Oh! here's papa!" cried Lady Rea.  "I'm glad he's come!"

"Er-rum!" came again, and then steps and voices were heard in the
conservatory--voices which made Trevor rise and look annoyed.

The next moment Sir Hampton ushered two gentlemen into the drawing-room
through the conservatory.

"Lady Rea--Tiny dear," he said, loudly--"er-rum, let me make you known
to my friends--Sir Felix Landells and Captain Vanleigh."

Volume 2, Chapter VII.

AUNT MATTY IS CROSS.

Sir Hampton started as his eyes fell upon Trevor, and his pink
complexion began to grow red.

"Oh, Fin!" whispered Tiny, heedless of the admiring gaze of Vanleigh,
who now advanced; while after saluting Lady Rea, Landells turned to Fin.

"This is Mr Trevor, called to see us, dear," said Lady Rea.

"Er-rum!" went Sir Hampton, and he bristled visibly; but Trevor
approached with extended hand.

"Sir Hampton," he said, "I came to apologise for my very hasty behaviour
to you.  I'm afraid I gave you a very bad opinion of your neighbour."

"Er-rum!  I--er?  I--er-rum," said and coughed Sir Hampton, hesitating;
but there was the hand of amity stretched out, and he was obliged to
take it--moving with great dignity, and looking at Trevor as if he had
just pardoned a malefactor for committing some heinous crime.

"Didn't 'spect to see; here," said Sir Felix, making play with his glass
at everybody in turn.

"The surprise is mutual," said Trevor.

"Odd coincidence," said Vanleigh, who had crossed now to Miss Matilda,
like a good diplomatist.  "We were walking, after you ran away from us,
and met Sir Hampton."

"Er-rum--Mr Trevor," said Sir Hampton, pompously, "I am in your debt;
your friends here were kind enough to give my daughters and myself the
use of your carriage after a very--er-rum--narrow escape from a
terrible--er-rum--catastrophe.  I am very much obliged."

"Don't name it, Sir Hampton, pray," said Trevor.  "Out here in this
place, we are all obliged to rely upon one another for a little help.  I
shall have to beg favours of you, some day, I hope."

"Er-rum--you are very good," said Sir Hampton, stiffly.

"Yes, Hampton, dear," said Lady Rea, "Mr Trevor is really very kind: he
has promised us a lot of those beautiful gladioli that you admired so
when you went over Penreife grounds."

Sir Hampton bowed to Trevor, and looked daggers at his wife, who glanced
then at Fin, as much as to say--"What have I done now!"

"A particularly fine specimen, I should say," Vanleigh was heard to
remark.  "Do you think so?" said Miss Matilda.

"I should say perfectly pure," said Vanleigh, stooping to caress Pepine,
who snarled and tried to bite.

"Fie, Pepine, then!" said Miss Matilda.  "Don't be afraid of him,
Captain Vanleigh."

"I am not," said Vanleigh, showing his white teeth, and taking the
terrier in his hands.  "Look here, Landells, what should you say of this
dog?"

Sir Felix fixed his glass, and crossed to his friend.

"'Markably fine terrier," said Sir Felix, "most decidedly."

And he touched Pepine, and was bitten spitefully on the glove.

"You remember the dog you sent to the Palace Show?"

"'Member perfectly," said Sir Felix; "splen' collection."

"But did you see a finer bred specimen than that--say frankly?"

"Nothing like it; 'fectly sure of it."

"There, Miss Rea," said Vanleigh, "and Landells is one of the finest
amateur judges of dogs in the country."

"Is he really?" said Miss Matilda, smiling.

"Oh yes," said Vanleigh.  "What should you think that dog was worth,
Landells?"

"Any money," said Sir Felix; "five at least."

"But I gave ten pounds for it," said Miss Matilda, indignantly.

"Exactly," said Vanleigh.  "Then you obtained it at a great bargain."

"But he said five pounds," said Miss Matilda.

"Exactly, my dear madam," said Vanleigh.  "That is the judge's fashion--
five pounds a paw; twenty pounds."

"Oh, I see!" said Miss Matilda, and Trevor turned aside, for he had
encountered Fin's laughing eyes, and her pinched-up mouth had said
dumbly--

"My!  What a fib!"

After a little more conversation, the trio took their leave, and there
was peace between the dwellers at Penreife and Tolcarne for many days to
come.

"Er-rum," said Sir Hampton, as soon as they were alone.  "I am not very
agreeably impressed with this Mr Trevor."

"Aren't you, dear?" said Lady Rea; "and I thought him such a nice,
gentlemanly, frank fellow, and so did the girls."

"Sadly wanting in manners," said Aunt Matty.  "Quite as you said,
Hampton--rough and uncultivated."

Sir Hampton nodded his head approvingly.

"But he don't call out `avast!' and `Ship ahoy!' and `Haul in slack,' as
you said he would, aunty," said Fin.

"Finetta, I never made use of any such language," said Miss Matilda.

"Then it must have been I," said Fin.  "I know somebody said so."

"Most gentlemanly men the friends you introduced, Hampton--especially
Captain Vanleigh."

"And the dog-fancier with the glass," put in Fin, in an undertone; but
her aunt heard her.

"Hampton," she said, viciously, "I am unwilling to make complaints, but
I am sorry to say that the treatment I receive from Finetta is anything
but becoming.  Several times this afternoon her remarks to me have been
such as when I was a little girl I should never have thought of using,
and I should have been severely reprimanded if I had said a tithe."

"Why, I thought tithes were parsons' payments, aunty," said Fin,
merrily; and Aunt Matty stopped short, Lady Rea turned away to smile,
and Sir Hampton actually chuckled.

Miss Matilda gathered up her skirts, and taking Pepine under her arm,
was marching out of the room.

"Please, aunt, I'm very sorry," said Fin.  "I'm afraid I'm a very
naughty little girl, and shall have to be punished--Papa, can I have any
dinner?"

"Er-rum.  Matilda," said Sir Hampton, "I am going on the lawn.  Will you
come?"

Aunt Matty was mollified, and took his arm.

"You shouldn't, Fin, indeed," said Tiny.

"My darling, I must beg of you not," said Lady Rea, piteously.

"Then she shan't snub my darling, dear mamma," said Fin, kissing her.
"I'm never saucy to Aunt Matty only when she says rude things to you;
treating me like a child, too!  Oh, mamma, if you ever find me growing
into a sour old maid, pray poison me with something hidden in a spoonful
of currant jam."

Volume 2, Chapter VIII.

PROPOSALS.

"If you wish it, Hampton, of course have it; but I think the money that
it will cost might very well be given to some missionary fund," said
Miss Matilda.

"Er-rum!  When I want your advice, Matty, I shall ask it," said Sir
Hampton.  "I must keep up my dignity in the county."

"You could do it in no better way, Hampton, than by subscribing to the
South Sea Islander Society--`Sir Hampton Rea, twenty guineas,' in the
county paper, would add more to your dignity than giving a dinner
party."

This was at breakfast, and Fin cast malicious glances at her sister, who
was blushing, and bending over her plate.

"Fanny!--er-rum!" continued Sir Hampton, not seeming to notice his
sister, "we'll say Friday.  You will send invitations to--er-rum--let me
see!"

"Stop a minute, Hampy dear," cried her ladyship, making a scuffle to get
at something.  "There--oh! now, how tiresome--that cream jug always gets
in the way.  Thank you, Fin, my dear; take it up with a spoon--it isn't
hurt."

"Oh, ma dear," cried Fin, "the cream will taste of hot washerwoman and
mangles.  You can't use it now."

"Oh, I'll drink it, my dear--oh!" she added, in a low voice, "Aunt Matty
will think it such waste."

"Are you ready, Fanny?" said Sir Hampton, rolling his head in his stiff
cravat.

"One moment, Hampy," said her ladyship, getting her pencil and tablets.
"My memory is so bad now, I must put them down."

"Then--er-rum--first we'll say--"

"Oh, one moment, Hampy; this tiresome pencil's got no point again."

"Take mine, ma dear," said Fin.

"Thank you, my love.  Now, pa."

"Er-rum," said Sir Hampton--"first, then, we'll have er--er--Sir Felix
Landells."

Aunt Matty bowed her head approvingly.

"E, double L, S," said Lady Rea, writing.  "Don't shake me, Fin, there's
a dear."

For Lady Rea had come undone at the back of her dress, and Fin was busy
with a pin at her collar.

"Er-rum!" continued Sir Hampton.  "Next we'll have Captain Vanleigh."

And he looked hard at Tiny, who bent lower over her plate.

"Van, I--tut-tut-tut, how do you spell leigh, e first or i first?" said
Lady Rea.

"Shall I write them down for you, Fanny?" said Aunt Matty.

"No, thank you, Matty," said Lady Rea, who was getting into a knot.
"There, I shall know what that means."

"Er-rum!" said Sir Hampton; "Mr Mervyn."

"La!  Hampy," cried Lady Rea, looking up, "you haven't said Mr Trevor."

"Mister--er-rum--Mervyn!" exclaimed Sir Hampton, sharply.

"Oh, there, my dear, don't fly at me like that," cried Lady Rea.  "M, e,
r, v, i--"

"Y, Fanny, y," said Aunt Matty, with a shudder.

"Oh yes, y, of course," said Lady Rea, good-humouredly; "y, n, Mervyn.
Next?"

The girls bent their heads--Tiny over her breakfast, Fin smoothing the
rather tousled hair of her mother.

"Er-rum, I suppose I must ask this--er-rum--Trevor."

"Surely, Hampton," exclaimed Aunt Matty, "you will not think of inviting
that objectionable person."

Fin glanced at her sister, whose face was crimson, and Lady Rea looked
pained.  "Matty, my dear, I think you are wrong.  I..."

"Have you got that name down, Lady Rea?" said Sir Hampton.

"No, dear; but I soon will have," said her ladyship, making her pencil
scramble over the tablet.

"Er-rum!" ejaculated Sir Hampton, rising, puffing himself out, and
walking slowly up and down the room; "a man in my position is obliged to
make sacrifices, and ask people to whom he objects.  In the event of my
contesting the county such a man as this--er-rum--this--er-rum--Trevor
would be useful I thank you, Matty; you mean, er--mean--rum, well.  Put
his name down, Fanny."

"I have, my love," said Lady Rea, beaming at her children.

"Hampton, I protest against this outrage," cried Aunt Matty, "after the
marked way in which he has--"

"Tiny, come and cut some flowers," said Fin; and her sister gladly beat
a retreat, Fin whispering as they went--"Will he ask the little man?"

"Now, Matty," said Sir Hampton, "have the goodness to proceed; and in
future, when you enter upon such subjects, have the kindness to--
er-rum--remember that I am not deaf."

"I say, Hampton, after the marked way in which that `seafaring person'
has behaved to Valentina, it is most indiscreet to ask him here."

"Oh, Matty," cried Lady Rea, "I'm sure that young man is as nice as can
be."

"If that was what you intended to say, Matilda--er-rum--it would have
been most indecent before those children," said Sir Hampton, pompously.

"In--"

Aunt Matty could not say it, the word was too outrageous.

"I feel bound--er-rum--bound," said Sir Hampton, with emphasis, "to ask
the young man, as a proprietor, even as we might ask a tenant, Fanny."

"Yes, my love."

"Put down that lawyer as well, Mr--er, er--Mr--" he got the name out
with great disgust at last, "Pratt," and carefully wiped his mouth
afterwards.

"You'll be sorry for this, Hampton," said Miss Matilda, shaking with
virtuous indignation, so that some frozen dewdrops in her head-dress
quivered again, and Pepine, who had been surreptitiously nursed under a
canopy of table-cloth, received, in her excitement, such a heavy nip
from his mistress's knees, that he uttered an awful howl.

"Er-rum--sorry?"

"Yes, sorry.  That objectionable person is always hanging about the
house like--like--like a vagrant; and those girls never go for a walk
without being accosted by him or his companion.  If you have any eyes,
you ought to see."

"Oh, Matty, pray don't," said Lady Rea, appealingly.

"Er-rum!  Silence, Fanny," said Sir Hampton.  "And as for your remarks,
Matilda, they are uncalled for.  My children would not, I am sure,
encourage the--er-rum--advances of that person; and Lady Rea would be
one of the first to crush any--er-rum--thing of the kind."

"Indeed!" said Aunt Matty, spitefully.  "That--er-rum--will do," said
Sir Hampton.  "Fanny, those will be our guests.  See that the dinner is
worthy of our position."

He went out like a stout, elderly emperor of florid habit, and, as soon
after as was possible, Lady Rea beat a retreat, leaving Aunt Matty
taking dog, after her habit, in strokes with one hand, holding a pocket
handkerchief cake in the other; "and looking," Edward the footman, said
in the kitchen, after removing the breakfast things, "like a bilious
image getting ready for a fit."

Sir Hampton's study was horticulture that morning; and, after swallowing
a page on the manipulation of the roots of espaliers and pyramid trees,
he was about to go out and attack Sanders, the gardener, when Edward
announced Sir Felix Landells and Captain Vanleigh on business, and they
were shown in.

"Really--hope not deranging--untimely call," said Sir Felix.

"We will not detain you long, Sir Hampton," said Vanleigh, with a great
show of deference.

"Er-rum, gentlemen," said Sir Hampton, whose face shone with pride, "in
these rural--er-rum--districts, when one is--er-rum--far from society
and town, sociability and hospitality should, er--"

"Go hand in hand--exactly," said Vanleigh, smiling.

"Er-rum, I am very glad to see you, gentlemen," said Sir Hampton.
"Oddly--er-rum--oddly enough, we were discussing a little dinner for
Friday.  Could you--er-rum--both, both--er--honour us with your
company?"

And he looked from one to the other.

"Well," said Vanleigh, hesitating, and glancing at Sir Felix, "it
depends somewhat on--Would you like to speak out, Landells?"

"'Sure you, no.  Do it so much better.  Pray go on."

And the young man turned crimson.

"Not pre-engaged, I hope?" said Sir Hampton.

"Well, Sir Hampton," said Vanleigh, modestly, after a pause, during
which he sat with his eyes on the carpet, "this is all so new to me, and
you have confused me so with your kind invitation, that my business--our
business--comes doubly hard to us to state."

"Er-rum--pray go on," said Sir Hampton, smiling condescendingly, for all
this was sweet to his soul; two scions of aristocratic houses with sense
enough to respect his position in life.  Captain Vanleigh might have
borrowed a hundred pounds on the instant had he liked; but he was
playing for higher stakes.

"Then, if you won't speak, Landells, I must," said Vanleigh, who seemed
overcome with confusion.  "No doubt there is a proper etiquette to be
observed in such cases, but I confess I am too agitated to recall it,
and I merely appeal to you, Sir Hampton, as a gentleman and a parent."

Sir Hampton bowed, and uttered a cough that seemed wrapped up in cotton
wool, it was so soft.

"The fact is, Sir Hampton, we have been here now three weeks--Landells
and I--and we have been so charmed, so taken with your sweet daughters,
that, in this hurried, confused way--I tell you, in short, we thought it
right, as gentlemen, to come first and tell you, to ask you for your
permission to visit more frequently, to be more in their society--to, in
short, make formal proposals for their hands."

There was another soft cough, and Vanleigh continued--

"I hope I am forgiven, Landells, for my awkward way?"

"Yes.  Pray go on; capital," said Landells, who was perspiring
profusely.

"It is only fair to say how we are placed in the world, Sir Hampton.  My
friend there, Sir Felix, has his eight thousand per annum; and it will
increase.  For myself, I am but a poor officer of the Guards."

"Er-rum! a gentleman is never poor," said Sir Hampton, with dignity.

"I think I can say no more, Sir Hampton," said Vanleigh, bowing to the
compliment.  "You see now my hesitation about the dinner; for, of
course, if you refuse to regard our application favourably, to-morrow we
should--eh, Landells?"

"Back--town--certainly," said Sir Felix, wiping his face.

"Er-rum!" said Sir Hampton, rising, and placing a hand in his breast.
"Gentlemen, you take me by surprise, and you ask a great deal in--
er-rum--I say you ask a great deal--I, er-rum, I--honoured by your--
er-rum--proposals--and--and--er-rum, if I express myself badly, it is a
father's emotion.  In short, I--er-rum--gentlemen--I, er-rum, give both
my full consent to visit here as often as you wish, and Lady Rea and my
daughters shall be acquainted with your proposals.  I can, er-rum, say
no more now.  Let us join the ladies."

Sir Felix, with tears in his eyes, took and wrung the old man's hand,
and, as the friends followed him out, Vanleigh bestowed upon the young
baronet a most solemn, but very vulgar, wink.

Volume 2, Chapter IX.

AN INTERVIEW WITH BARNEY STURT.

"Couldn't you make it a four-wheeler, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles, one
evening, "and take me up and bring us all back together?"

"Now, lookye here, old lady," said Sam, "I don't want to be hard, nor I
don't want to be soft, but what I says is this here--Where's it going to
end?"

"What _do_ you mean, Sam?" exclaimed Mrs Jenkles.

"What I says, my dear--Where's it going to end?  You've got over me
about the money, and you've got over me about the lodgings.  You're
allus going to Mrs Lane to tea, as I knows they don't find; and now you
wants me to give up my 'ansom, borrer a four-wheeler, and lose 'bout a
pound as I should make in fares; and what I says is--Where's it going to
end?"

"Sam, Sam, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles, "when did you ever go out with your
cab for about a couple of hours and make a pound?"

Sam stood rubbing his nose, and there was a droll twinkle in his eye as
he replied--

"Well, I might make a pound, you know."

"Now don't talk stuff, Sam, but go to the yard and change your cab, take
me up there, and bring us all back comfortable."

"You're argoing it, you are, missus," said Sam.  "That's the way--order
your kerridge.  `Sam,' says you, `the kerridge at six.'  `Yes, mum,'
says I.  `Oppery or dinner party?'  `Only to make a hevening call, Sam,'
says you.  `Werry good, mum,' says I."

"If you want me to go up there by myself, Sam, and fetch them, I'll go,
and we can get back somehow by the 'bus; but I thought you'd like to
come up and see that those ladies and your wife weren't insulted."

"I should jest like to catch anybody at it, that's all," said Sam,
sharply.

"I didn't mean to say anything, Sam," continued Mrs Jenkles; "for I
thought if we'd got such a man as you with us, no one would dare to
interfere."

"Now, look here," said Sam, "I never did come across such an old snail
as you are, missus; I like the allus being at home part of it, but it's
the hiding as I don't like.  Now, look here, I never does nothing
without coming and telling you all about it; and as for you, why, you've
allus got something in the way for me to find out."

"What's the use of me bothering you with trifles, Sam, when you've got
plenty of troubles on your mind?  I would tell you if it was anything
you need know."

"Well, come now, what's it all mean bout Miss Lane?" said Sam.

"Only, dear, that since those people have found that Mrs Lane meant to
leave, they've turned very strange, and the poor child's quite
frightened and timid like."

"Now, why couldn't you say so at first," said Sam, "instead of dodging
and hiding, and making a blind man's buffer of me?  That's it, is it?
Mr Barney of the betting ring--`Ten to one bar one'--means to be nasty,
does he?  Well, all I've got to say is, just let him try it on, that's
all!"

"Now, there it is," said Mrs Jenkles; "that's just what I want to
avoid.  Tell you about it, and you want to do the very thing as will
upset that poor girl; and oh!  Sam, do be careful, she--"

Mrs Jenkles added something in a whisper.

"I'll be careful enough," said Sam; "and look here--how long shall you
be?"

"I'm ready now, Sam," said his wife.

"Yes, but I've got to go down to the yard, and get the keb changed; take
me 'bout three-quarters of an hour, it will, and then I'm back."

Sam went off, muttering to himself; the only words audible being--

"Jest let him, that's all!"

And within the prescribed time he was driving Mrs Jenkles up to Mrs
Lane's wretched lodgings.

Mrs Jenkles passed in, after a word or two with her husband, and saw at
a glance Barney of the black chin smoking in his shop, and Mrs Barney
looking over his shoulder.  She took no notice of them, and went
upstairs, to find Mrs Lane looking very pale and much excited, holding
Netta's hand.

"And how's my pretty to-night?" said Mrs Jenkles, after a quick glance
had passed between her and the mother.

"Quite--quite well," said the girl, placing both her hands in those of
Mrs Jenkles, and holding her face to be kissed; but her unnaturally
bright eyes and flushed face contradicted her words, and she kept
glancing timidly towards the door.

"That's right, my dear," said Mrs Jenkles.  "Ah! and I see you've got
the trunk packed, and all ready.  I've got some flowers for you at home,
and everything waiting; so don't you go looking like that."

"She has been a little frightened today," said Mrs Lane; "the people
downstairs--"

"Oh, don't you mind them," said Mrs Jenkles.  "They don't like losing
good lodgers, now it comes to the point, with all their grumbling.  Have
you paid your bit of rent?"

"Yes," said Mrs Lane; and she glanced anxiously at her child, whose
alarm seemed to increase.

"I see," said Mrs Jenkles, in her most business-like way.  "Now, look
here, the thing is to get it over quickly.  Have you got everything
there?" and she pointed to a trunk and carpet-bag.

"Yes, everything," said Mrs Lane.

"Then I'll call up Sam to take them down to the cab."

"No, no--stop!" exclaimed Netta.  "Oh! mamma, had we not better stop?
That man--what he said this morning!"

"There, there, my pretty," said Mrs Jenkles, "don't you be alarmed.
You leave it to me."

Then going to the window, she signalled to Sam, who was busy tying knots
in his shabby whipthong.

As Mrs Jenkles turned from the window, the door was thrown open, and
Mrs Sturt, looking very aggressive, entered the room, closely followed
by her lord, smoking his black pipe of strong, rank tobacco.

Netta shrank timidly back into her seat, catching at her mothers hand,
while the result of the tobacco-smoke was to set her coughing painfully.

"Now if you please," said Mrs Sturt, "I want to know what this means?"

And she pointed to the trunk and the other manifest signs of departure.

"I told you a week ago, Mrs Sturt, that we intended to leave," said
Mrs Lane, speaking with a forced calmness, as she pressed her child's
hand encouragingly.

"And so you think a week's notice is enough after the way as we've been
troubled to get our bit of rent?" said Mrs Sturt, raising her voice.
"Are we to be left with our place empty, after harbouring a pack of
lodgers with no more gratitude than--than--than nothing?" continued the
woman, at a loss for a simile.

"I have nothing to do with that," said Mrs Lane, with dignity.  "Mrs
Sturt, I have rigidly kept to the arrangement I made with you, and you
have no right to expect more."

"Oh, haven't I?" said the woman.  "Do you hear that, Barney?  I'll just
let 'em see!"

Barney growled, and showed his teeth.

"Lookye here," he said, hoarsely; "you aint agoing to leave here, so now
then.  And you, missus," tinning to Mrs Jenkles, "you're gallus clever,
you are; but you may let your lodgings to some one else."

Netta's clutch of her mother's hand grew convulsive, and her face wore
so horrified an expression that Mrs Jenkles did not reply to the
challenge directed at her, but stepped to the poor girl's side.

"Don't you be frightened, my dear," she whispered; and then to
herself--"Why don't Sam come?"

"Mr Sturt," said Mrs Lane, firmly in voice, though she trembled as she
spoke to the fellow, "you have no right to try and force us to stay if
we wish to leave."

"Oh! aint I," said Barney.  "I'll let you see about that.  Here, give us
that," he said, turning to snatch a paper from his wife's hand.  "Let
alone what he telled me too, about yer--"

"He!  Who?" exclaimed Mrs Lane, excitedly.

Netta started from her chair.

"Never you mind," said Barney, showing his great teeth in a grin.  "You
think I don't know all about yer, now, don't yer?  But you're precious
mistaken!"

"But tell me, man, has any one--"

"There, there, it's all right, Mrs Lane--you've got to stop here,
that's what you've got to do.  What have you got to say to that, for
another thing?"

As Barney spoke, he thrust the paper down before Mrs Lane, and went on
smoking furiously.

"What's this?  I don't owe you anything," said Mrs Lane, whose courage
seemed failing.

"Don't owe us anything, indeed!" said Mrs Sturt, in her vinegary voice;
"why, there's seven pun' ten, and seven for grosheries!"

"Oh! this is cruel as it's scandalous and false!" cried Mrs Lane, in
reply to Mrs Jenkles's look.  "I do not owe a shilling."

"Which you do--there!" cried Mrs Sturt; "and not a thing goes off these
premishes till it's paid."

"And they don't go off, nor them nayther, when it is paid," said Barney,
grinning offensively.  "So now, Mrs What's-yer-name, you'd better be
off!"

Mrs Jenkles had been very quiet, but her face had been growing red and
fiery during all this, and she gave a sigh of relief as she patted Netta
on the shoulder; for at that moment Sam came slowly into the room,
closed the door, and bowed and smiled to Mrs Lane and her daughter.

"Sam," said Mrs Jenkles; and then she stopped almost aghast at her
husband's proceedings, for with a sharp flourish of the hand, he knocked
Barney's pipe from his mouth, the stem breaking close to his teeth, and
he looking perfectly astonished at the cabman's daring.

"What are yer smoking like that for, here?  Can't yer see it makes the
young lady cough?"

"I'll--" exclaimed Barney, rushing at Sam menacingly; and Netta uttered
a shriek.

"Don't you mind him, Miss," said Sam, laughing, "it's only his fun.
It's a little playful way he's got with him, that's all.  Which is the
boxes?"

"That trunk, and the carpet-bag, Sam," said Mrs Jenkles; and Sam
advanced to them.

"Hadn't we better give up?" said Mrs Lane, pitifully; and she glanced
at Netta who trembled violently.

"I should think not, indeed," said Mrs Jenkles.  "Don't you be afraid--
they daren't stop you."

"But we just dare," said Mrs Sturt, furiously.  "Not a thing goes off
till my bill's paid."

"And they don't go off when it is! now then," said Barney.

"Don't let him touch those things," said Mrs Sturt.

"Sam, you take that trunk down directly," said Mrs Jenkles.  "Now, my
dear; come along."

"All right," said Sam, and he advanced to the trunk; but Barney pushed
himself forward, and sat down upon the box; while, as Mrs Jenkles
placed her arm round Netta, and led her towards the door, Mrs Sturt
jerked herself to it, and placed her back against the panels.

"You're a nice 'un, you are, Barney Sturt, Esquire, of the suburban
races," said Sam, good-temperedly; "but it aint no good, so get up, and
let's go quietly."

Barney growled out an oath, and showed his teeth, as Mrs Lane came up
to Sam, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you much," she said, with a shudder; "but I give up: we cannot
go."

"Believe you can't," said Barney, grinning.  "D'yer hear that, cabby?"

"Yes, I hear," said Sam, gruffly; "and if it weren't that I don't want
to make a row afore the ladies, I'd have you off that trunk afore you
knew where you was.  And as to leaving the box alone, my missus said I
was to take it down to the keb.  Is it to go, old lady?"

"Yes, certainly," said Mrs Jenkles, with flashing eyes.

"Now, Barney, d'yer hear?" said Sam.

"Who do you call Barney?  You don't know me," said he.

"Oh no," said Sam; "I don't know you.  I didn't give yer a lift in my
'ansom, and drive yer away down at 'Ampton, when the mob had torn yer
clothes into rags for welching, and they was going to pitch yer in the
Thames, eh?"

Barney scowled, and shuffled about on his seat.

"Now, then," said Sam; "are you going to get up?"

"No," said Barney.

"Mrs Jenkles, pray end this scene!" exclaimed Mrs Lane,
pitifully--"for her sake," she added in a whisper.

"I'll end it, mum," said Sam.

And he gave a sharp whistle, with the result that the door was opened so
violently that Mrs Sturt was jerked forward against Sam, the cause
being a policeman, who now stood in the entry, with the further effect
that Barney leaped off the trunk, and stood looking aghast.

Mrs Jenkles gave a sigh of relief, and a gratified look at her husband.

"Here's the case, policeman," said Sam.  "Ladies here wants to leave
these lodgings: they've given notice and paid their rent; but the missus
here brings out a bill for things as the lady says she's never had, and
wants to stop their boxes.  It's county court, aint it?  They can't stop
the clothes?"

"Nobody wants to stop no boxes," said Barney, uneasily.  "Only it was
precious shabby on 'em going like this."

"Then you don't want to stop the boxes, eh?" said Sam.

Mrs Sturt gave her husband a sharp dig with her elbow.

"Be quiet, can't you!" he snarled; and then to Sam, "'course I don't."

"Then ketch hold o' t'other end," said Sam, placing the bag on the
trunk.

And like a lamb Barney helped to bear his late lodger's impedimenta
downstairs, and then to place them on the cab, as Mrs Jenkles led Netta
half fainting from the room.

Five minutes after, Sam had banged-to the rattling door, shutting in the
little party, climbed to his box, and settled himself in his place, with
a good-humoured nod to the policeman, who stood beating his gloves
together, while Barney stood at the side of his wife.

"Here's the price of a pint for you, Barney," said Sam, throwing him a
couple of pence--money which Barney instantly secured; and then, vowing
vengeance against the donor, he slunk off in the opposite direction; but
only to double round by a back street, and track the cab like a dog,
till he saw it set down its inmates at the humble little home of Mrs
Jenkles.

Volume 2, Chapter X.

FRANK PRATT'S CROSS-EXAMINATION, AND APRES.

Captain Vanleigh had declared solemnly that Penreife was "the deucedest
dullest place" he ever saw in his life; and Sir Felix said it was
"'nough to kill 'fler;" but, all the same, there was no talk to Trevor
of moving; they lounged about the house chatting to each other, and
consumed their host's cigars to a wonderful extent; they ate his dinners
and drank his wine; and Vanleigh generally contrived to go to bed a few
guineas richer every night from the whist table.

Pratt protested against the play, but Trevor laughed at him.

"My dear boy," he said, "why not let such matters take their course?
Van is my guest; surely I should be a bad host if I did not let him win
a little spare cash.  Have you anything else to grumble about?"

"Heaps," said Pratt, trying to put his little legs on a chair in front
of the garden seat where he and his friend were having a morning cigar;
but they were too short, and he gave up the attempt.

"Go on, then," said Trevor, lazily, "have your grumble out."

"Hadn't I better go back to town?" said Pratt, sharply.

"Why, are you not comfortable?"

"Yes--no--yes--no.  I'm precious uncomfortable.  I see too much," said
Pratt.

"Well, let's hear what you see that makes you so uncomfortable," said
Trevor, carelessly.

"Dick, old boy," said Pratt, "you won't be offended with me for what I
say?"

"Not I," was the answer.

"What are you thinking about?" said Pratt, watching the other's face.

"I was only thinking about you, and wondering why, if you don't like
what you see, you can't close your eyes."

"That's what you are doing, Dick!" said Pratt, eagerly.

"My dear Frank, have you discovered powder barrels beneath the house--is
there a new plot?"

"Don't be so foolish, Dick.  Why don't you let those two fellows go?"

"Because they are my guests, and stay as long as they like."

"And are doing their very best to undermine your happiness."

"Nonsense, man."

"Dick, old fellow, answer me honestly.  Don't you care a great deal for
that little girl up at Tolcarne?"

There was a few moments' pause, during which the colour came into
Trevor's cheek.

"Honestly, I do," he said at last.  "Well, and what of that?"

"Well, Dick, are you blind?  Van's making all the play that he can, and
father and aunt favour him.  He's there nearly every day.  He's there
now."

Trevor gave a start, and turned round to face his friend, his lips
twitching and fingers working; but he burst out laughing the next
moment.

"Anything else, Franky?"

"Laugh away," said Pratt, who looked nettled--"only give me credit for
my warning when you find I am right."

"That I will," said Trevor.  "Now then, go on!  What's the next plot
against my peace of mind?"

"Suppose I ask you a question or two!"

"All right--go on!"

"Have you noticed anything wrong with Humphrey?"

"Been precious sulky lately."

"Sulky!  The fellow's looked daggers at you, and has barely answered you
civilly."

"Well, he has been queer, certainly."

"Why is it?" said Pratt.

"Bilious--out of order--how should I know?"

"The poor fellow's in love!"

"Poor Strephon," said Trevor, idly.

"And he sees a powerful rival in the path," continued Pratt.

"The deuce he does!" said Trevor, laughing.  "Is that Van, too?  But
hang it, Frank!" he cried, starting up, "seriously, I won't stand any
nonsense of that kind.  If Van's been making love to that little lass,
I'll put a stop to it.  Why, now I think of it, I did see him looking at
her!"

"No!" said Pratt, quietly.  "It isn't Van--he's too busy at Tolcarne!"

"Silence, croaker!" cried, Trevor, laughing in a constrained fashion.
"But, come--who is the powerful rival?"

"Dick, old fellow, I'm one of those, and no humbug, who have a habit of
trying to ferret out other people's motives."

"Don't preach, Franky.  Is it Flick? because if it is, the girl's
laughing at him."

"No," said Pratt; "it isn't Flick."

"Then who the deuce is it?"

"You!"

Trevor burst into a hearty laugh.

"Why, Frank!" he exclaimed, "if ever there was a mare's-nesting old
humbug, it's you.  Why, whatever put that in your head?"

Pratt sat looking at him in silence for a few moments.

"Dick," he said, "if ever there was a deliciously unsuspicious, trusting
fellow, you are he."

"Never mind about that," said Trevor.  "I want to get this silly notion
out of your head."

"And I want to get it into yours."

"Well, we'll both try," said Trevor.  "You begin: I'll settle you
after."

"To begin, then," said Pratt.  "You've several times met that girl in
the lane yonder."

"Yes; now you mention it--I have."

"About the time when you've been going up to Tolcarne?"

"Yes; and it was evident that she was there to meet Humphrey.  Why, I
laughed and joked the pretty little lass about it."

"Yes; and did you ever meet Humphrey afterwards?"

"Bravo! my little cross-examining barrister.  Yes I did--two or three
times.  I'm not sworn, mind," added Trevor, laughing.

"True men don't need swearing," said Pratt.

"Thanks for the compliment.  Well?"

"How did Humphrey look?"

"Well--yes--now you mention it--to be sure!  He looked black as thunder.
Oh, but, Franky, I'll soon clear that up.  I wouldn't hurt the poor
lad's feelings for the world."

"Wait a bit," said Pratt.  "What, more mystery?  Well, go on."

"Did it ever strike you as strange that you should encounter a pretty,
well-spoken little girl like that in your walks?"

"No; I told you I thought she was out to see Humphrey."

"Or that you should meet her in the passages at home here, to bring you
letters, or messages from Mrs Lloyd?"

"Well, now you mention it, yes: it has struck me as odd once or twice."

"Never struck you that the girl came of her own accord?"

"Never, and I'm sure she never did.  She rather avoided me than not; so
come, Master Counsellor, you're out there."

"Did it never strike you that she was sent?"

Trevor did not answer, but sat gazing in his friend's face for a few
moments, as if he were trying to catch his drift, and then in a flash he
seemed to read all the other meant; for his brow grew cloudy, and he sat
down hastily, then got up, and took a few strides up and down before
reseating himself.

"Well," said Pratt, "can you see it?"

"I see what you mean, Franky; but I can't quite think it.  The old woman
would never have the impudence to plan such a thing."

"Dick, old fellow, it's as plain as the day.  She's made up her mind
that her little niece shall be mistress of Penreife, and she is playing
her cards accordingly."

"Then I'm afraid, if that is her game, she'll lose the trick."

"Dick, old fellow," said Pratt, "you're not annoyed?"

"But I am--deucedly annoyed--not with you, Franky; but don't say any
more now, I mean to think it over."

"Being a friend to an unsuspicious man is about the most unpleasant post
on the face of the earth," said Pratt, moralising, as he saw his friend
stride away.  "Everybody hates you for enlightening him, and even he
cannot forgive you for waking him from his pleasant dreams.  Now where
has he gone?--oh, to bully that plotting old woman.  Well, I've done
right, I think; and now I'll have my stroll."

Frank Pratt started off to do what he called "a bit of melancholy
Jaques," in the pleasant woodland lanes; and was not long in finding an
agreeable perch, where he seated himself, lit his big pipe, and began
communing with himself till the pipe was smoked out; and then he sat on
and thought without it, till a coming light footstep took his attention.

"Now I make a solemn affidavit," he said, "that I did not come here to
play the spy upon anybody's actions.  If they choose to come and act
under my very nose, why, I must see the play.  Who's this?"

"This" proved to be little Polly, who walked quickly by him, glancing
suspiciously round as she continued her walk.

"Scene the first!" said Pratt; "enter village maiden with flowers.  To
her village lover," he continued as a heavy step was heard.  "No, by
Jove! it's Dick."

He was right, for Trevor came along at a swinging pace, and apparently
in a few moments he would overtake the girl.

"If I didn't believe Dick Trevor to be as open as the day, how
suspicious that would look!" thought Pratt.

Trevor passed on without seeing him, and then there was a pause.  The
sun's rays darted through the overhanging boughs; birds flitted and sang
their little love songs overhead; and in a half-dreamy way Pratt sat
thinking upon his perch till voices and coming footsteps once more
aroused him.

"It's them!" he said to himself.  "I'll go."

He made as if to descend, but it struck him that he should be seen if he
moved, and he sat still watching--to see at the end of a few moments
Tiny Rea coming along the footpath, evidently looking agitated as she
walked on in advance.

"She's never seen Dick and her together!"  Pratt said, mentally; and he
felt as if he could have run and spoken to the girl; but that which next
met his eyes made him utter a low, deep sigh, and he looked as if made
of the mossy stone upon which he sat, as Fin Rea followed her sister,
hanging on Mr Mervyns arm, and gazing eagerly in his face, while he
evidently told her something which was of interest.

They passed slowly by, as if in no hurry to overtake Tiny; and Pratt
watched them till quite out of sight, when he got down in a heavy,
stunned fashion, to go slowly farther and farther into the wood, where
he threw himself down amongst the ferns, and buried his face in his
hands, as he groaned--

"More than old enough to be her father!"

Volume 2, Chapter XI.

MISUNDERSTANDING.

Meanwhile Trevor had gone along the lane, evidently meaning to make a
call at Tolcarne.  He was walking with his head bent down, thinking very
deeply over what Pratt had said, when he stopped short with a start; for
there, just in front, and gazing at him in a startled way, was little
Polly.

He nodded to her and passed on; but ere he had gone a dozen yards, he
turned sharp round and retraced his steps, calling to the girl to stop.

"I'll get to the bottom of it at once," he said.  "Here, Polly."

The little girl turned, and stood trembling before him, her face like
fire, but her eyes full of tears.

"Did you call me, sir?" she faltered.

"Yes, my little maid, I want a few words with you."

"Oh, sir, please--pray don't speak to me!" faltered the girl, bursting
into tears.

"Why, you silly child, what are you afraid of?" cried Trevor, catching
her by the wrist.  "Look here, tell me this, and don't be afraid."

"No--no, sir," faltered the girl.

"Tell me now, honestly--there, there, stop that crying, for goodness'
sake!  Any one would think I was an ogre.  I hate to see a woman
crying."

"Please, sir, I am trying," sobbed the girl.

"Now, then, I want to know this--you have often met me here--do you come
to meet Humphrey?"

"No, sir."

"Then why the deuce--there--there, I don't mean that--tell me why you do
come?"

"Aunt sends me to walk here, sir; but please don't say I told you, or
she will be so angry."

"Then you don't want to come and walk here?"

"Oh no, sir!  I would much rather not," exclaimed the girl, eagerly.

"Your aunt sends you, then?" said Trevor, looking at her searchingly,
while she gazed up in his eyes like a dove before a hawk.

"Ye-yes, sir!"

"Do you know why?"

The girl's face grew fiery red now, even to the roots of her hair, and
as she looked appealingly at him, he flung her hand angrily from him.

"There, go back," he exclaimed.  "I'm not cross with you, but--there, go
home."

The girl sprang away, evidently frightened to death, and weeping
bitterly, to pass these people--she could not tell whom--as she held
down her head; but Trevor saw, and he knew that they saw him, and must
have witnessed part of the interview; for the party consisted of Tiny
Rea, her sister, and Mr Mervyn.

"Was ever anything so provoking?" muttered Trevor, as they bowed and
passed, taking a turning that led in another direction.  "Oh! this is
unbearable."

For a moment he stood irresolute, hesitating as to whether he should
hurry after them; but he was, to use his own words, too much taken
aback, and ended by following a narrow pathway into the woods, down
which he had not gone half a dozen yards before he became aware that
there had been another spectator to his interview with Polly, and that
no less a person than Humphrey.

"What the devil are you doing there, sir?" roared Trevor, who was half
beside himself with a rage which grew hotter as the bluff young
Cornishman stood leaning on his gun, and said, sturdily--

"Watching you, sir."

"Watching me?"

"Yes, sir.  I did not mean to, but I was obliged when I saw what I did."

"Then you saw me talking to that girl?"

"Yes, sir, I did; and you had no right to do so."

"How dare you speak to me like that, sir?" roared Trevor; and thoroughly
roused now, he caught the young keeper by the throat, and for a few
moments the ferns were trampled under foot as they wrestled together,
till the veins stood up in knots in Humphrey's white forehead, as his
hat fell off, and, grinding his teeth together, he put out his strength,
and, with all the skill of a Cornish wrestler, threw Trevor heavily on
his back.

"You would have it," said the keeper, hoarsely.  "You made me forget my
place; so don't blame me for it.  Have I hurt you, sir?"

The rage had departed as quickly as it came, and the young man went down
on one knee by Trevor, who was half-stunned, but recovered himself
quickly, and got up.

"No.  I'm not much hurt," he said, hoarsely.

"You made me do it, sir," said Humphrey, pitifully.  "You shouldn't have
laid hands on me, sir--it made me mad."

"Made you mad!" said Trevor, angrily.  "This is a pretty way to serve
your master."

"You're no master of mine, sir, from now," cried Humphrey.  "I can't
stand to serve you no more.  I'd have stuck to you, sir, through thick
and thin, if you'd been a gentleman to me, but--"

"Do you dare to say I've not been a gentleman to you, you scoundrel?"
cried Trevor, menacingly, as he clenched his fists.

"Now, don't 'ee, sir," cried Humphrey, appealingly.  "I don't want to
hurt you, and if you drive me to it I shall do you a mischief."

"You thick-headed, jealous dolt!" cried Trevor, restraining himself with
difficulty.  "How can you be such an ass?"

"I don't blame you, sir," cried Humphrey, "not so much as that silly old
woman who has set it all going."

"Then it is all true?" cried Trevor, angrily.  "Humphrey," he said,
"you're as great a fool as that mother of yours; and--there, I'll speak
out, though you don't deserve it: as to little Polly, you great dolt, I
never said a tender word to her in my life."

"Why, I saw you with her hand in yours, not ten minutes ago," cried
Humphrey, indignantly.

"I've been calling you fool and dolt, Humphrey," said Trevor, cooling
down, "when I've been both to let my passion get the better of me, as it
has.  There's a wretched mistake over this altogether; and more mischief
done," he continued, bitterly, "than you can imagine.  You think, then,
that Mrs Lloyd has that idea in her head?"

"Think, sir!" cried the keeper, hotly, "I know it.  Hasn't she forbidden
me to speak to the poor girl?  Hasn't she half-broken her heart?"

"Humphrey," said Trevor, "you had good reason for feeling angry, but not
with me."

Humphrey looked at him searchingly.

"You doubt me?" said Trevor.

"Will you say it again, sir?" cried the young man, pitifully--"will you
swear it?"

"I give you my word of honour as a gentleman, Humphrey, that I have
never given the girl a thought; and that this afternoon, when I spoke to
her, it was to ask her if she came there to meet you; and she owned her
aunt had sent her."

"Master Dick--Master Dick!" cried the young man in a choking voice,
"will you forgive me, sir?  If I had known that, sir, I'd sooner have
cut my right hand off than have done what I did."

"It was all a mistake, Humphrey.  There--that will do."

"But I said, sir, you were no master of mine--Master Dick--Mr Trevor,
sir.  We were boys together here--at the old place--don't send me away!"

"There, go now; that will do.  Yes, it's all right, Humphrey.  I'm not
angry.  Send you away?  No, certainly not; only go now, and don't make a
scene," said Trevor, incoherently, his eyes the while turned in another
direction; for he had heard footsteps, and at the turn of the lane he
could see through the trees that Mr Mervyn was coming, with his two
companions.

Trevor hurried off through the wood, so as to gain the path a hundred
yards in advance, and then he sauntered along so as to meet them.

"If I can get a few words with her I can explain," he said; and then
they were close at hand.

"Ah, Mr Trevor!" cried Mervyn, gaily, for he seemed elated, and he held
out his hand.

Before Trevor could take it, Fin had looked straight before her and
marched on, her little lips pinched together, and her arm tight in that
of her sister; while Tiny met Trevor's gaze in one short, sad look--
piteous, reproachful, and heartbroken--before she hurried away.

Volume 2, Chapter XII.

INVITATIONS.

Trevor returned home in no very enviable frame of mind.  The look Tiny
Rea had given him troubled him more than he could express, and he felt
ready to rail at Fortune for the tricks she had played him.  Old Lloyd
came, smiling and deferential, into the room with some letters, which
his master snatched up and threw on the table.

"In which room are Captain Vanleigh and Sir Felix?"

"I think they're gone up to Tolcarne, sir," said the butler.

Worse and worse: they were evidently liked there, too, and that was the
reason why they prolonged their stay without a word of leaving.

"Is there anything I can get for you, sir?" said the butler.

"No," said Trevor, sharply.

And he walked out of the room, to encounter Mrs Lloyd, who was ready to
smile and give him a curtsey; but he passed her with such an expression
of anger that the blood flushed into her face, and she stood looking
after him as, with his letters crumpled in his hand, he walked out into
the grounds, to think over what he should next do.

"I'll send them both away," he thought.  "That old woman's insolence is
intolerable.  It's plain enough.  Pratt's right.  Where is the little
humbug?  Out of the way just when I want him.  I'll give that old woman
such a setting down one of these days--but I have not time now."

He sat very still for a time, thinking of what he should do--Tiny's soft
eyes haunting him the while, with their sad reproachful look.

He had seen very little of her, but, sailor-like, his heart had gone
with a bound to her who had won it; and he was even now accusing himself
of being dilatory in his love.

"Yes," he said, "I do love her, and very dearly.  I'll see her, tell her
frankly all, take her into my counsel, and she will believe me.  I'm
sure she will, and forgive me too.  Humph!  Forgive me for doing
nothing.  But I must talk to the old gentleman--propose in due form, ask
his permission to visit his daughter, and the rest of it.  Heigho! what
a lot of formality there is in this life!  I think I may cope with her,
though.  She looked so gently reproachful I could wait; but no, I
mustn't do that.  I'll call this afternoon and suffer the griffin.  But
those two fellows, why should they go up this morning?  Evident that
they did not see the ladies, for they were out.  No wonder Van takes to
making calls, seeing how I've neglected him and Flick.  I wish Pratt
were here.  Where did he go?"

"Thy slave obeys," said Pratt, who had approached unobserved upon the
soft turf!  "Should you have liked Van to hear what you said just now?"

"No.  Was I talking aloud?" said Trevor.

"You were, and very fast," was the reply.

"But what's the matter, Franky?  What's the letter?"

And he pointed to an open missive in his friend's hand.

"It's about that I've come to you," said Pratt.  "Read."

Trevor took the note, glanced over it, and found it was an invitation to
Mr Frank Pratt to dine at Tolcarne on the following Friday.  This
brought Trevor's thoughts back to the letters Lloyd had given him, and
he hastily took them from his pocket, to find a similar invitation to
the one Pratt had had placed in his hand.

"That's lucky," he said, brightening.

"Lucky--why?" said Pratt.

"Because I want to go.  But why are you looking so doleful?"

"Natural aspect, Dick.  I only came to tell you I should not go."

"Not go!  Why?"

"Because I am going back to town."

"Are you upset, Franky?  Is anything wrong?  I've been rude, I suppose,
and said something that put you out this morning."

"No--oh no!"

"But I'm sure that must have been it.  But really, old fellow, I was
much obliged.  Franky, you were quite right--it is as you say; so if I
said anything when I was hipped, forgive me."

"Dick, old fellow," cried Pratt, grasping the extended hand, "don't talk
of forgiveness to me.  I have been here too long; this idle life don't
suit me, and I've got to work."

"Work, then, and help me through my troubles.  I can't spare you."

"Dick, old fellow, I feel that I must go.  Don't ask me why."

"No, I won't ask you why," said Trevor, eyeing him curiously; "but, to
oblige me, stay over this Friday, and go with me to the dinner."

Pratt hesitated a moment.

"Well, I will," he said; and the conversation ended.

During the intervening days Trevor was too much excited to say anything
to Mrs Lloyd.  He called at Tolcarne twice, but the ladies were out.
He tried every walk in the neighbourhood, but without avail; and at
last, blaming himself bitterly for his neglect of his guests, and
thinking that the opportunity he sought must come on the Friday, he
determined to try and make up for the past by attending to Vanleigh and
Landells.

"I'll talk to Lady Rea about it--that's; how I'll manage," he said.
"She's a good, motherly soul, and will set me right, I'm sure.  I know--
tell her I want advice and counsel; ask her to help me counteract Mrs
Lloyd's designs."

Trevor laughed over what he considered the depth of his plans, and after
dinner that night was in excellent spirits, losing thirty guineas to
Vanleigh in a cheery way that made Pratt shudder for his recklessness,
and bite his lips with annoyance at the cool manner in which the money
was swept up.

"By the way," said Trevor, as they sat smoking, "what do you say to a
sail to-morrow?--the yacht's in trim now, and the weather delightful."

"Thanks--no," said Vanleigh.  "I don't think we can go, eh, Landells?"

"Jove!--no; drive, you know, with the old gentleman."

Trevor looked inquiringly from one to the other.

"Fact is," said Vanleigh, coolly, "Sir Hampton Rea has asked us to join
him in a little picnic excursion to the north coast--drive over, you
know, to-morrow.  Yes, Thursday," he said, looking at his little
note-book--one which usually did duty for betting purposes--"Yes,
Thursday, and Friday we all dine there, of course."

"Yes, of course," said Trevor, in a quiet, constrained way, which made
Sir Felix, who had already felt rather hot and confused, colour like a
girl.

"Mustn't mind our running away from you so much, Trevor," continued
Vanleigh, with a smile, which the former felt carried a sneer, and an
allusion to his own playing of the absentee.  "Fact is, the old
gentleman seems to be rather taken with Flick here."

"'Sure you, no," said Sir Felix, excitedly; "it's the other way, Trevor.
Makes no end of Van, showing him over grounds, asking 'vice, you know,
and that sort of thing."

"I am glad you find the place so much more agreeable than you expected,"
said Trevor, gravely.

"Never s' jolly in m' life, Trevor," said Sir Felix, excitedly, and
speaking nervously and fast.  "Fine old fellow, S' Hampton.  Fitting up
b'liard-room.  'L have game after come back."

"Take another cigar," said Trevor, and his voice was very deep, as he
seemed now to be exerting himself all that he could to make up for his
past neglect to those whom he had invited down as his friends.
"Vanleigh, you are taking nothing."

"I'm doing admirably, dear boy," said the captain, in the most
affectionate of tones; and then to himself--"What does that little cad
mean by watching me as he does?"

He smiled pleasantly, though, all the while, and when, to pass the time
away, and conceal his trouble, Trevor once more proposed cards, the
captain condescended to take "that little cad" as his partner, and
between them they won fifty pounds of Trevor and Sir Felix--the latter
throwing the cards petulantly down, and vowing he would play no more.

"Good night, dear boy," said Vanleigh, rising and yawning a few minutes
after smilingly taking his winnings.  "It's past one, and we shall be
having our respected friend, Mrs Lloyd, to send us to bed."

A sharp retort was on Trevor's lip, but he checked it, and with a
courtesy that was grave in spite of his efforts, wished him good night,
saying--

"There is no fear of that; Mrs Lloyd and I understand each other pretty
well now."

"Ya-as, exactly," said Vanleigh; and he went out whistling softly.

"Good night, Trevor," said Sir Felix, in turn.  "'Fraid we're doocid bad
comp'ny.  Too bad, I'm sure, going 'way as we do."

"Good night, Flick," said Trevor, smiling; and then, as the door closed,
he turned to find Pratt leaning against the chimneypiece, counting over
his winnings.  "Well, my lad!" continued Trevor, trying to be gay.

"Twenty-five pounds, Dick," said Pratt, laying the money on the table.
"I shan't take that."

"Nonsense, man," said Trevor; "keep it till Van wins it back.  But
what's the matter?  Have you found another of your mare's-nests?"

"I was thinking, Dick," said Pratt, gravely, "that you must be very
sorry you asked any of us here."

Trevor's lips parted to speak; but without a word he wrung his friend's
hand, took his candle, and hastily left the room.

Volume 2, Chapter XIII.

BEFORE DINNER.

It was a busy day at Tolcarne, that of the dinner party.  The picnic had
not been a success.  In fact, at one time, when very much bored by the
attentions of Vanleigh, Tiny had gazed out to sea at a pretty little
yacht gliding by, and longed to be on board--innocent, poor girl! of the
fact that Dick Trevor was lying on the deck with a powerful lorgnette,
seeing the party distinctly, and plainly making out the captain leaning
on the rock by her side.

Fin, too, was no wiser--though, for quite a quarter of an hour Frank
Pratt was gazing, with knitted brow, through a second lorgnette at the
little rocky cove where Sir Felix Landells was pestering her with
attentions, and evidently labouring under the impression that unless she
partook of lobster salad every five minutes she must feel faint.

Aunt Matty was the only really happy person in the party.  She had, to
the dismay of all, announced her intention of going, feeling sure that
the change would benefit Pepine; and the way in which Vanleigh and
Landells tried in emulation to gratify her whims was most flattering to
her.

Not that she was deceived by the attentions, and imagined them extorted
by her charms; she knew well enough the visitors' aims, and was
gratified at their discernment.

"They know how much depends upon my opinion," she said to herself; and
she smiled graciously upon them both as one carried Pepine down the
rocks, the other her shawl, and gave his arm; ending by playfully
sending them afterwards to the girls.

"Old girl's warm, I know," said Vanleigh to himself.

"We must keep in with the old nymph, Van," said Sir Felix to him at the
end of the day; just about the same time that Tiny was crying silently
in her bedroom; and Fin striding up and down like a small tragedy queen.

"He's a born idiot, Tiny!" she exclaimed; "and what pa can mean by
making such a fuss over him, and telling me it's a proud thing to become
a lady of title, I don't know.  Ahem!--Lady Landells--fine, isn't it?  I
don't see that dear ma's any happier for being Lady Rea."

"Papa seems infatuated with them," said Tiny, bitterly.

"Yes; and when he found that black captain paying you such attention, I
saw him smile and rub his hands."

"Oh, don't Fin!" exclaimed Tiny, shuddering.

"I believe he's a regular Bluebeard.  Look at the little blue-black dots
all over his chin.  I shouldn't be at all surprised if he's got half a
dozen wives in a sort of Madame Tussaud's Blue Chamber of Horrors,
preserved in waxwork."

"Pray don't be so foolish, Fin."

"Foolish?  I don't call it foolish to talk about our future husbands."

"Fin!" cried her sister.

"Well, you see if that isn't what pa means!  I saw Aunt Matty smirking
about it and petting the captain; and ma was almost in tears about their
goings on."

"Oh, Fin! don't talk so," said Tiny, sadly; "I shall never marry."

"Till you say Yes at the altar, and the bevy of beauteous bridesmaids
dissolve in tears," laughed Fin.  "I say, though, Tiny, I'm not going to
be bought and sold like a heroine of romance.  I wouldn't have that Sir
Felix--no, not if he was ten thousand baronets; and if you listen to
Bluebeard, Tiny, you are no sister of mine."

"Do you think papa seriously thinks anything of the kind?"

"I'm sure of it, dear, and--and--and--oh!  Tiny, Tiny--I do feel so
very, very miserable!"

To the surprise of her sister, she threw herself in her arms, and they
indulged in the sweet feminine luxury of a good cry, ending by Fin
declaring that she shouldn't go back to her own room; and more than
once, even in sleep, the pillows upon which the two pretty little
flushed faces lay, side by side, were wet with tears that stole from
beneath their eyelids in their troubled dreams.

And now the day of the dinner had arrived, and Lady Rea had had such a
furiously red face that Sir Hampton told her she ought to be ashamed of
herself, and made the poor little woman, who had been fretting herself
to death to do honour to his guests, shed tears of vexation.

Next there was a furious ringing of Sir Hampton's bell, about six
o'clock, and a demand whether the house was to smell of cabbage like
that.

As the odour did not pass away, Sir Hampton sought his lady, who had
gone to dress, and again made her shed tears by exclaiming against his
mansion being made to smell like a cookshop.

"It's that dreadful prize kitchener, Hampton, dear," said poor Lady Rea.
"The smell comes into the house instead of going up the chimney."

"It's nothing of the sort--its your stupid servants!" exclaimed the
knight, and he bounced off to his room to prepare for the banquet.

"I've a good mind to make myself ugly as sin, Tiny," said Fin,
pettishly.  But she did not, for she looked very piquante in her palest
of pale blue diaphanous dresses, while her sister looked very sweet and
charming in white.

"Why, Tiny, you look quite poorly," cried Fin, in alarm.  "Pray, don't
look like that, or that wretch Trevor will see that you've been
fretting.  If he prefers little servant-girls to my dear sister, let him
have them."

"Fin, dear, you hurt me," said Tiny, simply; and there was such a
tender, reproachful look in her sweet eyes that Fin gave a gulp, and,
regardless of her get-up, threw herself on her sister's breast.

"I'm such a thoughtless wretch, Tiny; I won't say so any more."

"Please, Miss, your par says are you a coming down?" said the maid sent
to summon them; and they went down, to find Sir Hampton in so violently
stiff a cravat, that the wonder was how it was possible that it could be
tied in a bow, and the spectator at last came to the conclusion that it
had been starched after it was on.

Aunt Matty had, in her Irish poplin, a dress that was fearfully and
wonderfully made, and dated back to about a quarter of a century before.
It was of the colour of the herb whose perfume it exhaled--lavender;
and every time you approached her you began to think of damask--not
roses, but table-cloths and household linen, put away in great drawers,
in a country house.

This is not a wardrobe style of story, but we must stay to mention the
costume of Frances, Lady Rea, who came into the room with her cheeks
redder than ever, although she had tried cold water, hot water, lavender
water, and every cooling liquid she could think of.  She was in peony
red--a stiff silk of Sir Hampton's own choice, and she sought his eye,
trembling lest he should be displeased; but as he emitted a crackle,
produced by his cravat, as he bent his head in satisfactory assent, a
bright smile shot across the pleasant face, dimpling it all over, and
she exclaimed--

"Lor', my dears, how well you look.  There, they may come now as soon as
they like."

"Mind your dress, Fanny," said Aunt Matty, austerely, as she sat minding
her own.  "Sh!"

She held up her fan to command silence, as Sir Hampton cleared his
throat, chuckled violently, and spoke--

"Er-rum, I think our guests will not find our circle much less
attractive than--er-rum!--Ah, here they are!"

Volume 2, Chapter XIV.

AFTER DINNER.

Sir Hampton was right--the visitors had arrived; and almost directly
after the ordinary greetings, during which Tiny never raised her eyes,
and Fin was so short that Sir Hampton darted an angry glance at her, the
dinner was announced.  Trevor took in Lady Rea; Vanleigh, Tiny;
Landells, Fin; and Pratt, Aunt Matty--Sir Hampton bringing up the rear.

The dinner was good, and passed off with no greater mishaps than a
slight distribution of the saccharine juices in a dish in the second
course down the back of Aunt Matilda's poplin--Edward being the
offender; but the sweetly gracious smile with which the lady bore her
affliction was charming, and Fin looked her astonishment at her sister.

But the dinner was not a pleasant one, even if good; there was too much,
"Thompson, that hock to Sir Felix Landells;" "Thompson, the dry
champagne to Captain Vanleigh"--it was hard work to Sir Hampton not to
add "of the Guards;" "Thompson, let Mr Trevor taste that Clos-Vougeot;"
and it was a relief when the ladies rose.

"If he will talk about his cellar, Felix, punish it," whispered
Vanleigh, as they drew closer; but Sir Felix Landells's thoughts were in
the drawing-room, and though Sir Hampton persisted in talking about his
cellar--how many dozens of this he had laid down, how many dozens of
that; how he had been favoured by getting a few dozens of Sir Magnum
O'pus's port at the sale, and so on ad infinitum--Sir Felix refrained
from looking upon the wine when it was red; and as soon as etiquette
allowed they joined the ladies in the drawing-room, where Trevor had the
mortification of seeing Vanleigh resume his position by Tiny, while
Landells loomed over Fin like an aristocratic poplar by a rose-bush.

Trevor consoled himself, though, by sitting down by pleasant Lady Rea,
while Sir Hampton crackled at Pratt, talked politics to him, and his
ideas of Parliament, and Aunt Matty fanned herself, as she treated
Pepine to the sensation of lavender poplin as a couch.

"What a nice little man your friend is, Mr Trevor," began Lady Rea; "I
declare he's the nicest, sensiblest man I ever met."

"I'm glad you like him, Lady Rea," said Trevor, earnestly; "but I want
to talk to you."

"There isn't anything the matter, is there?" said Lady Rea, anxiously.

Trevor looked at her for an instant, and saw that in her face which
quickened his resolve, already spumed into action by the markedly
favoured attentions of Vanleigh to the elder daughter of the house.

"Lady Rea," he said, "I'm in trouble."

"I'm so sorry," she said, with simple, genuine condolence.  "Can I help
you?"

"Indeed you can," said Trevor; and he proceeded to tell her what he had
discovered respecting Mrs Lloyd's designs.

"Well, I never knew such impudence!" cried Lady Rea, indignantly.

"You will sing now to oblige me," said Vanleigh; but for the time, Tiny
declined, and Fin was carried off to the piano by Sir Felix.

"Do you know `Won't you tell me why, Robin?'" said Sir Felix, beaming
down at the little maiden.

"Yes," said Fin, sharply.

"Then do sing it."

"I shall sing `Maggie's Secret' instead," said Fin, sending the colour
flushing into her sister's face, as she rattled it out, with tremendous
aplomb given to the words--

So I tell them they needn't come wooing to me.

Meanwhile, Trevor went on pouring his troubles into Lady Rea's attentive
ears, as Sir Hampton prosed, Aunt Matty dozed with a smile on her
countenance, Pepine snoozed in her lap in a satin tent made of his
mistress's fan, and Poor Tiny longed for the hour when she could be
alone.

"Lady Rea," said Trevor, at last, "I will not attempt to conceal my
feelings--I think you can guess them, when I tell you that my trouble is
that your daughter passed me in the wood talking to--questioning the
little girl I have mentioned, and I read that in her face which seemed
to say that she despised me."

"Then that's what's made Tiny so low-spirited for the last few days,"
said Lady Rea.

"God bless you for that!" said Trevor, in a low, hoarse voice, "you've
made me very happy.  Lady Rea, will you take my part?  If I have no
opportunity of explaining, will you do it for me?  I am very blunt, I
know--recollect I am a sailor; so forgive me if I tell you that since I
first met Miss Rea, I have scarcely ceased to think about her."

"I'm not cross with you for it," said Lady Rea, "and I will tell Tiny;
but you mustn't ask me to interfere--I couldn't think of doing so.
There," she whispered, "go and talk to her yourself."

And she gave the young fellow so pleasant a look, as their eyes met,
that he knew that if the matter depended upon her, Tiny Rea would be his
wife.

But there was no opportunity as yet, for Tiny had been unwillingly led
to the piano, vacated by Fin, Sir Felix being buttonholed by Sir
Hampton, and Pratt taking his place, and talking to the sharp-tongued
little maid in a way that made her exclaim--

"How solemn you are!"

"Hush!" said Pratt.  "Listen!  What a sweet voice!"

"Yes, Tiny can sing nicely," replied Fin.

And they listened, as did Trevor, while, in a sweet, low voice, Tiny
sang a pathetic old ballad with such pathos that a strangely sweet sense
of melancholy crept over Trevor, and he stood gazing at her till the
last note had ceased to thrill his nerves, when Vanleigh led her to her
seat, and crossed to pay his court to Aunt Matty, awakened by the song.

"Now," whispered Lady Rea, "go and tell her how it was."

In strict obedience to the indiscreet advice, Trevor crossed to where
Tiny was seated, offered his arm, and together they strolled into the
handsome conservatory.

"Miss Rea," said Trevor, plunging at once in medias res, as Tiny made
one or two constrained replies to his remarks, "I have been explaining
to Lady Rea what trouble I am in."

"Trouble, Mr Trevor?" said Tiny, coldly.

"Yes: how I had ventured to hope that I had won the friendship of two
ladies, and with the vanity, or weakness, of a sailor, I trusted that
that friendship would ripen into something warmer."

"Mr Trevor," said Tiny, her voice trembling, "I must request--"

"Tiny, dear Tiny," cried Trevor, passionately, "I may have but a few
moments to speak to you.  Don't misjudge me, I have explained all to
Lady Rea, and she will tell you.  If I am mad and vain in hoping,
forgive me--I cannot help it, for I love you dearly; and this that I
see--these attentions--these visits--madden me."

"Mr Trevor, pray--pray don't say more!" exclaimed Tiny, glancing in the
direction of the drawing-room.

"I must--I cannot help it," he whispered, passionately.  "Tell me my
love is without hope, and I will go back to sea and trouble you no more;
but give me one little word, tell me if only that we are friends again,
and that you will not misjudge me, or think of me as you did the other
day in the wood.  Tell me--confess this: you thought me wrong?"

"I had no right to judge you, Mr Trevor," said Tiny, in a trembling
voice; "but--but my sister--and I--"

"Tiny," whispered Trevor, catching her land in his, "my darling, I could
not have a thought that you might not read.  Give me one word--one look.
Heaven bless you for this."

Young men are so thoughtless, so full of the blind habits of the
sand-hiding ostrich at such times, and so wrapped up was Richard Trevor,
sailor and natural unspoiled man, in the soft, gentle look directed at
him from Tiny's timid, humid eyes, that, regardless of the fact that
they were close to the drawing-room, the chances are that he might have
gone farther than kissing the little blue-veined hand he held in his,
had not, from behind a clump of camellias, a harsh voice suddenly
exclaimed--

"Now, then, am I right?"

Sir Hampton Rea and Aunt Matty appeared upon the scene.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Aunt Matty had had her way, and was satisfied.  Quiet as she was,
she had her suspicions of Trevor's earnest talk to Lady Rea; and when
Vanleigh drew her attention to the fact that the two imprudent young
people had strolled off into the conservatory, by saying, "I suppose
Miss Rea finds the room too close?" she gave him a significant look.

"Sit down and hold Pepine for me, Captain Vanleigh," she said, in a low
voice, "and I'll soon put a stop to that."

Vanleigh said something very naughty, sotto voce, and then, as he felt
bound to flatter Aunt Matty, he seated himself, and nursed the wretched
little dog, while Aunt Matty made her way to Sir Hampton, who was deep
in a political speech, to which Sir Felix kept saying "Ya-as" and "Ver'
true," eyeing Fin the while through his glass.

Fin's sharp eyes detected something wrong, and she tried a flank
movement.

"Go and tell my sister I want her directly, Mr Pratt," she said--"in
the conservatory."

It was too late; Aunt Matty's forced march had done it.

"Eh! what?  Er-rum!" ejaculated Sir Hampton.

Then he followed his sister out into the conservatory, where she made
the before-mentioned remark, and Sir Hampton, turning port wine colour,
caught his daughter by the wrist.

"Go to bed this instant!" he exclaimed, reverting in his rage to the
punishment inflicted years before.  "As to you, sir--"

"Excuse me, Sir Hampton," said Trevor, boldly.

"Let me speak," said Aunt Matty, with great dignity.  "Hampton, this is
neither the time nor the place to have words about the works of the
wicked.  I warned you, but you would not take heed.  Valentina, you are
not to go to bed, but to return to the drawing-room as if nothing had
happened.  Hampton, you must not disturb your other guests--the
strangers sojourning in peace within your gates."

At a time like this Aunt Matty was too much for Sir Hampton.  She had
girded herself as she would have termed it; and when Aunt Matty girded
herself her words were like a strong solution of tracts, and she became
a sort of moral watering-pot, with which she sprinkled the wicked and
quenched their anger.  Sir Hampton never so much as said "Er-rum!" at
such times, and now seeing the wisdom of her words, he picked two or
three flowers, and walked back into the drawing-room with Tiny, the poor
girl trying hard to conceal her agitation.

Trevor was about to follow, but Aunt Matty stopped him.

"Sit down there, young man," she said, severely.

"If you wish to speak to me, certainly," said Trevor, politely; "but
what I have to say must be to Sir Hampton, with all respect to you."

"Sit down there for five minutes, young man, and then you can return."

Trevor fumed--the position was so ridiculous; but he accepted it,
glancing the while at his watch, and then fighting hard to preserve his
gravity before the stiff figure in whose presence he sat.  For, in spite
of the annoyance, a feeling of joyous hilarity had come upon the
offender against decorum: he knew that Tiny loved him, and doubtless a
few words of explanation would be listened to when Sir Hampton was cool,
and then all would come right.

"I think the five minutes are up, Miss Rea," said Trevor, rising.
"Perhaps you will take my arm, and we can stroll back as if nothing had
happened.  I will see Sir Hampton in the morning."

Aunt Matty bowed, and then, wearing the aspect of some jointless
phenomenon, she stalked by his side back into the drawing-room, where,
in spite of the efforts of Lady Rea and Vanleigh, nothing could disperse
the gloom that had fallen; and the party broke up with the departure of
the gentlemen, who walked home on account of the beauty of the night--
Vanleigh talking incessantly, and Trevor quiet, but striving hard to
conceal his triumph.

"I'll ease him as much as possible," Trevor had said to himself, apropos
of Vanleigh.

"Poor brute! he little thinks how he's shelved," said Vanleigh to
Landells.

"Little girl's pos'tively b'witching," said Landells.

"Who, Miss Rea?"

"Jove!  No--sister.  Sharp and bright as lit' needle."

"Just suit you, there, Flick."

"Ya-as."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It came to a climax, then, Dick, eh?" said Pratt.

"Franky, old boy, I'm the happiest dog under the sun."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

These fragments of conversation took place at odd times that night; and
the next morning, soon after breakfast, Trevor made an excuse to his
friends, and started for Tolcarne.

"Gone to get his conge, Flick," said Vanleigh.

"Poor Trevor!  Sorry.  Not bad 'fler," said Sir Felix.

"Bah! every man for himself.  But we shall have to clear out after this.
We'll go and stay at Saint Francis, and when the old boy finds we are
there, he'll ask us up to Tolcarne."

"But seems so shabby to poor Trevor," said Sir Felix.

"Pooh, nonsense!  Every man has his crosses in this way.  Let's get out
somewhere, though, so as not to be at hand when the poor beggar comes
back; he'll be in a towering fury.  I hope he won't make an ass of
himself, and force a quarrel on me."

Volume 2, Chapter XV.

SPEAKING TO PAPA.

Meanwhile Trevor was on his way to Tolcarne, where he was shown into the
library.  He felt flushed and excited, but he had come with the
confidence of a conqueror; and, besides, he could feel that he was no
ineligible parti for the young lady.

"Poor Franky, I know he's bitten by that little fairy," he said, as he
waited impatiently--the "directly" of Edward, who had announced that Sir
Hampton was in the garden and would come, having extended to ten
minutes.

"Hang the formality of these things!" said Trevor.  "I could talk to
that dear little woman, Lady Rea, by the hour without feeling
uncomfortable; but as to pater--well, there; it's only once in a man's
life.  Here he is."

The door leading into a farther passage opened this moment, and Trevor
rose; but instead of encountering fierce Sir Hampton, in skipped petite
Fin, to run up to him flushed and excited, but with her eyes sparkling
with pleasure.

She placed both her little hands in his, and her words came in hurried
jerks, as she exclaimed--

"Tiny told me all about it--last night--Oh, I'm so glad!"

"That's right, little fairy," laughed Trevor, smiling down on the
pleasant little _face_.

"But there's been such a rumpus, and I came to tell you before pa came."

"Indeed," said Trevor, retaining the little hands, though there was no
effort made to remove them.

"Yes, pa's been raging and bullying poor Tiny so.  Those friends of
yours came and proposed for us, and papa said they might come, and he is
horribly cross about it.  But you won't give way?"

"Do I look as if I would?" said Trevor.

"No; and I am glad, because I think you do like Tiny."

"Like?"

"Well, love her, then.  Ma likes you, too."

"And little Fin?"

"There's little Fin's answer," said the girl, with tears in her eyes,
and she held up her face and kissed him with quiet gravity.  "Oh, let me
go," she cried, and she struggled from his arms and fled, leaving him to
turn round and face Sir Hampton and Aunt Matty, who had entered by the
other door.

"What does this mean, sir?" exclaimed Sir Hampton, furiously.  "Er-rum!
I am astounded!"

"Merely, Sir Hampton, that your daughter was willing to accord to me the
licence that she would to a brother."

Aunt Matty was heard to mutter something about vulgar assurance, and
Trevor flushed as Sir Hampton motioned him to a chair, took one, and
crossed his legs; but he was determined not to be angry, and he went
on--

"Our meetings, so far, Sir Hampton, have been unfortunate, and I have
come over this morning to try and set myself at one with you.  I presume
I am to speak before Miss Rea?"

"My sister is in my confidence, and is my adviser," said Sir Hampton, in
the tone he had prepared for the magisterial bench.

"Then, Sir Hampton, speaking as a frank, blunt sailor, I humbly ask your
pardon for any lapses of politeness wherein I have been guilty, and also
beg of you to forgive me for my conduct last night."

"A perfect outrage--barbarous," said Aunt Matty.

"Er-rum!--Matilda, let the young man speak," said Sir Hampton,
magisterially.

"It was, I am aware, very foolish of me, but I was carried away by my
feelings.  Sir Hampton Rea, I love your daughter, Valentina."

"Absurd!" exclaimed Miss Matilda, who remained standing.

"I ventured to tell her so last night, in explaining away a little
misapprehension that had existed between us."

"I never heard such assurance!" said Miss Matilda.

"Matty--er-rum!  Matilda, I mean, have the goodness not to interrupt the
pris--I mean--er-rum--the statement that is being made."

"If I could feel warrant for such a proceeding," continued Trevor,
calmly, "I intended to speak to you this morning, and ask your consent,
even as I spoke to Lady Rea last night, before I addressed your
daughter."

"Just like Fanny--encouraging it!" muttered Aunt Matty.

"Go on, sir, I am listening," said Sir Hampton, telling himself this was
quite a preparation for the bench.

"I came, then, Sir Hampton, to formally propose for your daughter's
hand.  Though comparatively a stranger to you, I am well known here--of
one of the most ancient county families--and I have eight thousand a
year.  That, Sir Hampton, is putting the matter in a plain,
business-like form.  If I am wanting in the proper etiquette, my excuse
is my seafaring life."

"Exactly," said Aunt Matty, satirically.

The words "prisoner at the bar" were on Sir Hampton's lips, but he did
not utter them; he only rolled his words nice and round, and infused as
much dignity as was possible into his tones.  "The young man" had
insulted him, but he could afford to treat him with dignified composure.

"Mr Trevor," he began, "I have listened to your remarks with
patience"--magisterial here, very--"I have, er-rum I heard your
application.  For your friends' sake, I was willing to condone"--capital
magisterial word, and he liked it so much that he said it
again--"er-rum! to condone that which was past.  Er-rum! but under the
circumstances, near neighbours as we are, I think it better that all
communication"--the clearest magisterial tone here, and
repeated--"er-rum! communication between us should cease."

"Decidedly!" put in Aunt Matty, arranging her mittens.

"Er-rum--hear me out, sir"--a magisterial wave of the hand here, and a
quiet settling down into the chair, as of one about to pass
sentence--"Er-rum--as to your formal matrimonial proposals, they are
quite out of the question.  Captain Vanleigh has honoured me by
proposing for my daughter Valentina's hand, and he is accepted."

"By the young lady?" exclaimed Trevor.

"Er-rum! there is no occasion for us to enter upon that point, Mr
Trevor, for--tut! tut! what do you want here, Lady Rea?--this is
business."

"Fanny!" exclaimed Miss Matilda, as her sister-in-law entered the room,
walked up to Trevor, shook hands very warmly, and then accepted the
chair he vacated on her behalf.

"Thank you, Mr Trevor.  Matty, I think any of my husband's affairs that
are business for you, are business for me," said Lady Rea, firmly; "and
as I know why Mr Trevor has visited us this morning, I came down."

Aunt Matty looked yellow with anger, and for a few moments Sir Hampton's
magisterial dignity was so upset that he could only ejaculate "Er-rum"
three times at a few seconds' interval.  It was awful, this
manifestation of firmness on his wife's part, and he could only glare
fiercely.

"What have you been saying to Mr Trevor?" said Lady Rea, earnestly.

"Sir Hampton informs me that the young lady is irrevocably engaged to
Captain Vanleigh," said Trevor, quietly.  "May I appeal to Miss Rea?"

"My daughters will leave us to discriminate as to--er-rum--what is good
for them," said Sir Hampton, stiffly.  "Mr Trevor, we must bring this
very unpleasant interview to an end.  Sir--er-rum!--you have heard my--
er-rum--ultimatum!"

Aunt Matty bowed, and smiled a wintry smile, that was as cold as her
steely eyes.

Trevor directed a piteous look at Lady Rea, and without a moment's
hesitation she exclaimed--

"It's all stuff and nonsense, Hampy!  I won't stand by and see either of
my darlings made miserable!"

"Frances!" exclaimed Aunt Matty.

"Er-rum!" exclaimed Sir Hampton, and he sent at his wife a withering
look.

"You can say what you like," cried the little lady, ruffling up like a
very bantam hen in defence of her chicks; and now, for the first time,
Trevor saw a trace of Fin.  "I say I won't stand by and see my darlings
made miserable.  Tiny told me not ten minutes ago, crying up in her own
room as if her heart would break, that she would sooner die than listen
to Captain Vandells."

"Vanleigh," said Aunt Matilda, contemptuously.

"Vandells, or Vanleigh, or Vandunk, I don't care a button what his ugly
Dutch name is!" cried Lady Rea, angrily; "and I say it shan't go on!"

"Hampton!" began Aunt Matty, "do you intend--"

"Didn't I tell you not to interfere, Matilda?" exclaimed Sir Hampton,
pettishly.

Aunt Matty darted an indignant glance at him, gathered up her skirts,
and sailed out of the room, Sir Hampton wiping his perspiring brow.

"I thank you for your kindness, Lady Rea," said Trevor.  "I will go now;
perhaps another time Sir Hampton will accord me an interview."

"No; don't you go, my dear boy," said Lady Rea, earnestly, and she took
his hand.  "I give way in nearly everything, but I'm not going to give
way in this."

"Fanny, this is foolishness," said Sir Hampton, who looked as if in a
state of collapse.

"It's such foolishness as this that makes people happy," said Lady Rea;
"and if Mr Trevor loves my darling, as I know she loves him, no one
shall stand in their way."

"But, Fanny," said Sir Hampton, "I..."

"Look here, Hampy, you used to be very fond of me.  Now, how would you
have liked my father to make me marry some one else?"

"May I come in?" said a little voice; and Fin peeped in, entered, and
closed the door.  "I saw Aunt Matty go, so I came.  Oh, pa, dear, Tiny
is in such trouble--how could you?"

She seated herself on his knee, nestled up to him, and the knight began
to stroke her hair.

"There now," said Fin, "I knew pa would be a dear kind old dad, as soon
as he knew about Tiny.  There now, I may fetch her down."

"No, no, Finetta, certainly not, I..."

Fin was gone.

"There, Hampy," said Lady Rea, going up to him, "you do love your
children."

"I don't like it--I--I protest against it!" exclaimed Sir Hampton,
struggling against the bonds his woman folk had wreathed around him.

"Sir Hampton," said Trevor, holding out his hand, "say you relent."

"And--er-rum!--how the deuce--devil am I to face those gentlemen?"
exclaimed Sir Hampton.

"I'll see them," said Lady Rea, firmly.  "Here's Tiny."

In effect that young lady entered, red-eyed, wet-cheeked, and blushing,
to throw herself on her father's breast, and cling there sobbing
violently, while Fin took the precaution to lock the door.

"I don't like it, Tiny, I--er-rum!--I..."

"Oh, dear papa, I could not marry him," sobbed Tiny--and her emotion was
so excessive that Sir Hampton grew frightened, and soothed and petted
her till her sobs grew less violent, when Trevor approached and took her
hand, and unresistingly drew her to him, till she hid her face in his
breast.

Then there was a fine scene.  Poor Lady Rea ran up to them, kissed Tiny,
and tried to kiss Trevor, but could not reach, till he bent lower.
After which she broke into a violent fit of sobbing, and plumped herself
down in the nearest chair, Fin tending her for a moment, and then
fetching Sir Hampton to her side, to ask forgiveness.

Next there was a general display of pocket-handkerchiefs.  Fin gave a
hysterical hurrah, and kissed everybody in turn, ending by exclaiming,
as she sobbed aloud--

"And now we're all happy!"

In fact there were smiles upon every face but Sir Hampton's, and he,
feebly saying he did not like it, was left alone as the party adjourned
to the drawing-room.

"Lady Rea, I have you to thank for this," said Trevor, affectionately.
"How am I ever to show it?"

"By being very, very, very kind to my darling there," said Lady Rea,
pitifully; "for you're a bad, cruel man to come and win away her love."

Then, of course, there was a great deal more kissing, ending in a burst
of merriment; for Fin dashed, wet-eyed, to the piano, and rattled off,
"Haste to the Wedding," running into Mendelssohn's "Wedding March," till
Tiny went and closed the instrument.

At that moment Edward, the footman, knocked at the door, and entered,
saying to Lady Rea--

"If you please, m'lady, Miss Matilda's took bad, and wants the doctor.
Who shall I send?"

"Gracious, Edward! what is it?" said Lady Rea.

"Please, m'lady, they think it's spasms," said the footman.

Lady Rea ran out, and the doctor was sent for from St Kitt's; but, by
the time he arrived, Aunt Matty's spasms were better.

And so Richard Trevor, master of Penreife, became engaged to Valentina
Rea, of Tolcarne.

Volume 2, Chapter XVI.

VERY DREAMY.

Trevor heard it afterwards from Fin, how that mamma saw Captain Vanleigh
when he called with Sir Felix; Sir Hampton leaving a note, and--so Fin
declared--hiding in the gardener's toolhouse till the visit was over;
and that she had, at the earnest wish of Sir Felix, seen him in the
drawing-room.

"Where he made the most downright booby of himself you ever saw," said
Fin.

And the result was that one morning, after the most elaborate fencing
had been going on between Trevor and his guests, one vieing with the
other in politeness, Pratt met his old schoolfellow on his return from
Tolcarne with--

"Thank goodness, Dick, there's peace in the grove."

"What do you mean, Franky?" said Trevor, who was rather uneasy at having
heard from Lady Rea that Sir Felix and Vanleigh had been up to the house
while he was away with the girls, and had a long interview with Sir
Hampton and Aunt Matty.

"Mean, Dick?  Why, that the telegram has come at last--message from St
Kitt's--Vanleigh and Flick wanted directly in town--so sorry couldn't
stop to say good-bye, and that sort of thing."

"Then they are gone?"

"Yes.  I ordered round the waggonette; and Mrs Lloyd seems in ecstasies
at the clear-out, and is getting ready to bestow a benediction on me--
for I must be off next."

"Nonsense, Franky; you are happy enough here."

"No, old fellow--this Sybarite's life is spoiling me, and I must go."

"Why not follow my example, Franky?" said Trevor, laughing.

Pratt shrugged his shoulders, and the matter dropped for the time being.

The next evening the Reas dined at Penreife in great state and dignity--
all but Aunt Matty, who steadily refused pardon, and turned her back
upon Trevor; while Sir Hampton preserved a dignified composure upon the
matter, as if submitting of necessity; for--

"Mark my words, Hampton," his sister had said, "this ridiculous marriage
will never take place.  I should as soon expect Finetta to be espoused
by that wretched little companion of the seafaring man."

Sir Hampton grunted, and went to the dinner, which he thoroughly
enjoyed, and softened a good deal over his wine; after which, the
evening being delicious, he allowed himself to be inveigled into the
grounds, where Trevor asked his advice respecting some new
forcing-houses which he proposed having, listening to him with
deference; and at last, when they strolled in through the open
drawing-room window, Sir Hampton said aloud--

"Er-rum--yes, Trevor, I'll come over with Sanders--say Wednesday--and he
shall mark out the lines on the same plan as mine.  I think I can put
you in the way of many improvements."

Directly after, he was settled in an easy-chair, with his handkerchief
spread upon his knees, thinking--with his eyes closed; and while he
thought, everybody spoke in a whisper, for it was a custom with Sir
Hampton Rea to think for half an hour after dinner--with his eyes
closed: he never took a nap.

Lady Rea, looking rosy, round, and warm, was presiding at the tea-table;
and Tiny, blushing and happy, was rearranging some flowers, Frank Pratt
helping her in a loving, deferential manner, very different from his
general easy-going way; while Fin had caught Trevor by the arm, led him
into the far window, and forced him back into a chair, before which she
stood, holding up a menacing finger.

"I'm ashamed of you, Dick--I am indeed," she said, sharply.

"Ashamed!" he exclaimed.  "Why?"

"Such cunning, such artfulness!  I didn't give you credit for it."

"What do you mean?"

"Coaxing pa round like that, when you no more want hothouses than I do.
There, go away, sir; I'm disgusted.  Look! ma's beckoning to you."

In effect, Lady Rea was cautiously making signals from the tea-tray; and
on Trevor going to her, Pratt slowly crossed to the window, and began to
talk to Fin.

"Do you know, Miss Rea, I find I've been here six weeks," he said
awkwardly.

"You don't say so, Mr Pratt," said Fin, quietly.

Pratt stared, and went on.

"The time has gone like magic."

"Has it really?" said Fin, demurely.

"Yes," said Pratt a little bitterly; "and as I have decided upon
returning to town in a day or two, I thought I'd take this opportunity
of saying good-bye."

"I think its the very best thing you can do, Mr Pratt," said Fin,
sharply.

"What, say good-bye?"

"No, go back to town.  You will be industrious there.  See what's come
to your poor friend by mooning about in the country."

She nodded her saucy head in the direction of Trevor, who was bending
over Tiny--she looking shyly conscious and happy--while Lady Rea beamed
upon them both; and Sir Hampton thought so deeply with his eyes closed,
that he emitted something much like a stertorous snore.

"Yes, dear old Dick's very happy," said Pratt, gravely.  "Rich, loved,
and with the fixture all sunshine.  She's a sweet girl."

"Yes, a rose--with a thorn of a sister, ready to pester her husband,"
said Fin.  "Yes, Mr Pratt, you had better go.  It is not good for young
men to be idle."

"So I have been thinking," said Pratt--"especially poor fellows like
myself."

"How is our little friend?" said Fin, maliciously.

"What little friend?"

"The little, round-cheeked niece of Mrs Lloyd--Polly, isn't her name?"

"Really, I don't know, Miss Rea," said Pratt, smiling.

"Fie, Mr Pratt!" said Fin.  "Why, you are always being seen with her in
the lane.  Is it true you are to be engaged?"

Pratt looked at her sharply.

"Does it give you so much pleasure to tease?" he said, quietly.

"Tease?  I thought it was a settled thing."

"I don't think you did," said Pratt, quietly.

"Well," said Fin, laughing, "Mr Mervyn told me the other day that--oh,
look at that now!"

The last words were said by Fin to herself; for as she mentioned Mr
Mervyn's name Pratt turned slowly away, and going to a table began to
turn over the leaves of a book.

In the meantime Lady Rea had had a few words with Trevor.

"I declare I felt quite frightened of her, my dear."

"It's her way only," said Trevor, smiling.  "She nursed me like a
mother, Lady Rea; and she and her husband have for years done almost as
they liked here, only checked by the agent and my poor father's
executors, who seem to have come down once a year to look at the place
so long as they lived; but they have both gone now."

"She looked dreadfully cross, though, at Tiny--just as if, my dear, she
was horribly jealous of her.  And now, Richard, my dear, you won't be
offended if I ask a favour of you?"

"Certainly not," said Trevor, in the same low whisper in which the
conversation was carried on.

"Then make her send that niece of hers away.  After what you told me,
I'm sure it would be for the best; because while she is here the poor
woman will always be thinking of her disappointed plans."

"Well, but," said Trevor, smiling, "I was thinking of hurrying on her
marriage with my keeper, Humphrey; the poor fellow is desperately fond
of her, and, as far as I can make out, the feeling is mutual."

"Oh, if that's it," said Lady Rea, "pray don't do anything to make the
young people unhappy."

"Yes, Trevor," said Sir Hampton, "fifty feet by twenty will be the
size."

The conversation was carried on henceforth in voices pitched now in the
normal key.

The distance was so short that it was decided to walk back through the
moonlit lane, and as Trevor and Pratt accompanied the party, it was a
matter of course that Fin should walk papa off first, Lady Rea following
with Pratt, and Tiny lingering behind in the silvered arcades--dreamy,
loving, too happy to speak, and feeling that if life would but always be
the same, how could they ever tire?

Here, in the rugged lane, all was black darkness, and the gnarled tree
trunks seemed to spring from sable velvet.  A few yards farther, a sheaf
of silver arrows seemed shot down through the foliage upon the laced
ferns that rose like a tiny forest of palms; down by their side there
was the rippling tinkle of water, gurgling amongst stones; and again a
few steps, and a pool shone like molten silver.  Above all, the air was
soft, humid, and balmy; and love seemed breathed in the gentle wind that
barely stirred the leaves.  They had no need to talk, for it was very
sweet; and they could foresee no black clouds to come sweeping across
their horizon.

Tolcarne gates at last, new and crest-crowned--good-bye--and then out
cigars, and a matter-of-fact walk back, the young men both too dreamy to
speak.  And after a brief "Good night, Dick, old fellow"--"Good night,
Franky, old boy," each sought his room--Trevor thinking the while of
Lady Rea's words, and how that he had hardly seen Polly lately, while he
had been too happy in his love to so much as think of Mrs Lloyd and her
baffled plans.  For her part, she seemed to have avoided him ever since
she had heard of the engagement that he had made.

"Ah, well," he said, smiling, as he gazed from the open window at the
moonlit shimmering sea, "all these things come right in the end.  What
need have I to trouble, with life so pleasurably spread out before me?
Heigho!  I don't deserve such good luck; but I think I can bear it like
a good man and true.  I wonder, though, whether Frank really cares for
little Fin!"

Ten minutes after, Trevor was dreaming happily of his love, without a
sign of cloud or storm in his sunlit fancies; but they were gathering
fast the while.

Volume 2, Chapter XVII.

A LITTLE CONFESSION.

But Mrs Lloyd, though quiet for a time, and letting matters rest till
the termination of Vanleigh and Sir Felix Landells's visit, was anything
but dormant.

The fact was, that Vanleigh had been in the way upon more than one
occasion.  When Polly had been sent for a walk in the hope of enchanting
the "young master," Vanleigh had met her, and been so attentive that the
girl had come back at last, sobbing and almost defiant, telling her aunt
that sooner than be so treated she would run away back to the mountains
in Wales.

This put a stop to it for the time, and Aunt Lloyd waited, hearing
rumours that the two London visitors were engaged to the young ladies of
Tolcarne, and rubbing her hands thereon, for these were threatened
rivals out of the way.

Her encounters with Trevor had been few and far between; but all seemed
satisfactory, and, to use her own words, she "bided her time."

When the news came to her ears, endorsed by the sudden departure of the
visitors, and further confirmed by the many visits to Tolcarne, and
lastly by the coming of the Reas to Penreife, that Trevor was engaged to
Valentina Rea, the woman was furious.

"It shan't go on, Lloyd--I won't have it.  I'll put a stop to it.  He
shall marry Polly, or--"

"Martha, Martha!" cried her husband, wringing his hands--"you will ruin
us."

"Ruin!  I'll ruin him--an upstart!  I'll have him on his knees to me.
After the way in which I brought him up, to turn upon me like this.  He
shall marry Polly!"

"How can you be so mad?" groaned Lloyd.  "Oh, Martha, think of our old
age."

"Think!" said Mrs Lloyd, contemptuously, "I do think.  Mad?  Isn't a
girl with the blood of the Lloyds in her veins better than the daughter
of an upstart London merchant?  There--hold your tongue; and don't you
interfere.  I'm not going to be stopped in my plans, so I tell you.
Lloyd, are you asleep?"

"No," said her husband, with a heavy sigh, "I wish I was, so as to
forget my troubles."

"You dolt!" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd.  "Have you seen Humphrey hanging about
lately?"

There was no answer.

"I say, have you seen Humphrey hanging about or talking to Polly lately?
I don't want to think the girl artful; but she has been very quiet, and
I hardly like it.  Lloyd, do you hear what I say?"

There was a long-drawn breath for reply, and Mrs Lloyd went on making
her plans--giving her husband the credit of being asleep.

But the latter was very wide awake, and he had seen something that night
of which he did not wish to tell.  For while Mrs Lloyd had been busy
with the company that evening, there had come a soft tap on the
housekeeper's room window, whose effect was to make little Polly turn
violently red in the face, begin to tremble, then, after listening at
the door, steal out, little thinking that the butler had seen her go.

Of course it was very artful and very wrong, but it is an acknowledged
fact that there is a certain magnetism in love; and, to go back to the
simile before used, when the loadstone came what could the industrious
little needle do?

The next morning, after breakfast, Mrs Lloyd called Polly to her.

"Found out at last," thought poor Polly.

She went shivering up to her very stern-countenanced aunt, with the
recollection of twenty sweet but stolen meetings on her conscience.

"Go and put on your white muslin dress and blue ribbons, Polly," said
her aunt.

"Are we going out, aunt?" faltered the girl.

"You are, my dear," said Mrs Lloyd; "so put on your hat--the new one,
mind."

"Please, aunt, I'd rather not go," faltered the girl.

"Go and dress yourself this minute," exclaimed the housekeeper, firmly:
"and look here, if you dare to cry, and make those eyes red, I'll punish
you."

Polly shivered, went to her room, and came back, looking as pretty a
little rustic rosebud as could be seen for miles around.

"Ah," said Mrs Lloyd, hanging about her with a grim smile on her face,
to give a pull at a plait here, a brush at a fold there, and ending by
smoothing the girl's soft hair--"if he can resist that, he's no man."

"Please, aunt, what do you mean?" pleaded the girl.  "Don't send me out
again."

"There are no captains about now, goose, are there?" said the
housekeeper, angrily.

"No, aunt, dear," faltered the girl; "but don't send me out.  What do
you mean?"

"What do I mean?" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd; "as if you didn't know what I
mean.  To raise the house of Lloyd, child--to make you mistress of
Penreife--"

"Oh, aunt!"

"Instead of letting you throw yourself away upon a common servant."

"Aunt--aunt, dear!" cried the girl, piteously.

But the woman stopped her.

"Not another word.  Now, look here--do I speak plain?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Hush!--no crying.  You are to be Mrs Richard Trevor, with a handsome
husband, and plenty of money.  If you don't know what's good for you, I
do.  Now go out for a walk; and when he meets you, if you don't smile on
him, and lead him on, I'll--I'll--There, I believe I shall poison you!"

The girl turned, shivering, from the fierce-looking face, as if
believing the threat, and hurried out of the house.

"If Humphrey don't take me away I shall go and drown myself," she cried,
with a sob.  "Oh, it's dreadful!  He will hate me for this, and if Mr
Richard sees me, what will he think!"

Poor Polly's life had been a very hard one.  So accustomed was she to
blindly obey, that it never occurred to her that she might take any
other route than the one so often indicated by her aunt; and she went as
usual--ready to cry, but not daring, and thinking bitterly of her
position.

"If I had only been a man," she thought, "I'd run away to sea, and--here
he is."

"Ah, little maiden," exclaimed Trevor--for Mrs Lloyd had timed the
matter well--"why, how bright and pretty you look!"

"Please, sir, I'm very sorry," faltered the girl.

"Sorry!  Why?  Have you come out here," he continued, suspiciously, "to
meet Humphrey?"

"Please, sir--no, sir," said the girl, looking appealingly in his frank
face.

"Having a walk then, eh?"

"Please, sir, aunt sent me," said the girl.

"Polly, my little maid, I believe you are a good girl," said Trevor, his
face growing dark--"there, don't cry, I'm not angry with you.  Speak
out, and trust me.  You are not afraid of me?"

"Oh no, sir.  Humphrey says you're so good and kind," said the girl.

"Thanks to Humphrey for his good opinion," said Trevor.  "But, now, tell
me plainly, what does all this mean?"

"Please, sir, I dursen't," sobbed the girl.

"Nonsense, child!  Tell me directly."

"Aunt would kill me," sobbed Polly.

"Stuff, child!  Now, be a good, sensible little girl, and fancy I'm
Humphrey."

"Oh, sir--please, sir, I couldn't do that."

"Come, come, speak out.  Now, do you come of your own accord for these
walks?"

"No, sir.  I--I--Aunt makes me."

"I thought so--I supposed so," said Trevor.  "And why do you come?"

"Oh, sir, don't ask me, please--don't ask me," sobbed Polly, now crying
out-right.

"Now, look here, my little girl; if you'll speak plainly perhaps I can
help you.  Once more, why do you come here?  There, there, don't cry."

"Oh, please, sir, it's--it's aunt's doing."

"Well, well, child, speak," said Trevor, and he took the girl's hand.
"It makes me cross when you will keep on crying."

"Pray, sir, don't--pray, don't," she sobbed, trying to withdraw her
hand.  "Oh! what shall I do?"

"Speak put," said Trevor.

"Aunt--aunt thinks, sir--wants, sir--you to marry me, sir; and oh!" she
cried, throwing herself on her knees, and holding up her little hands as
in prayer, "I do hate you so--I do, indeed!"

"Thank you, little one," exclaimed Trevor, laughing merrily.  "There,
Polly, get up before you stain that pretty dress with the moss.  Wipe
your little eyes, and leave off hating me as soon as you can, and you
shall marry Humphrey."

"Oh, sir!" faltered Polly, rising.

"There, little one, go and walk about till your eyes are not red; and if
you should see Humphrey down by the long copse, where they are repairing
the ditches, tell him I shall want to see him about three--no, stop, say
this evening.  I am going for a drive."

Polly hesitated a moment, and then caught and kissed his hand, shrinking
back the next moment, ashamed at her boldness.

"There, I thought you would not hate me," said Trevor.  "I'll go back at
once and see your aunt.  You shan't be unhappy any more, little maiden."

"Oh, pray, sir!" cried Polly again.

"I'm master here, my child; and I won't have anybody about me made
unhappy if I can stay it.  Now, trot along."

The girl gave him one timid glance, and then went on, while he turned in
the direction of Penreife.

Before he had gone far, though, he turned back, with a smile on his lip.

"I'll wager a sovereign," he thought, "that Humphrey was not down at the
long copse, but pretty close at hand, watching for the safety of his
sweetheart."

He walked sharply back to a curve in the woodland path, and found that
he was right; for some distance ahead he caught sight of Polly's pretty
muslin dress, and across it there was plainly visible a bar of what
resembled olive velveteen.

"Eight," said Trevor, smiling.  "Well, why shouldn't they be happy too?
Now, then, to have it out with Mrs Lloyd."

Volume 2, Chapter XVIII.

A REVELATION.

"If you please," said a hard, cold voice.

And Richard Trevor started to find himself face to face with the object
of his remark, one which he had uttered aloud.

Trevor stood for a moment looking round; but they were quite alone, and
standing now in the lane where Mr Mervyn captured Fin Rea in the rugged
tree far up the rocky bank.

"You had better return to the house, Mrs Lloyd," said Trevor, coldly.
"I want to speak to you."

"You can speak now, if you please," said the woman, in a low, suppressed
voice.  "I don't suppose you would like the servants to know."

Trevor was getting angry, and he took a step towards the woman, and held
up a finger.

"You have been watching me, Mrs Lloyd."

"Yes," she said, coolly--"I came on purpose."

"You sent that poor girl here, then, Mrs Lloyd, and you have been
playing the spy?"

"You can call it any hard names you like, Mr Richard," said the woman,
defiantly.

She rolled her white apron round her arms, tightened her lips until they
formed a thin livid line, and looked at him without flinching.

Trevor bit his lip to keep down his rising passion, and then went on--

"Mrs Lloyd," he said, "I thought we had made a truce.  Mind, you are
the one who breaks it, not I."

The woman laughed mockingly.

"We may as well understand one another," said Trevor; "so speak out.
You have been forcing that poor girl, day after day, to throw herself in
my way--have you not?"

"Yes."

She nodded her head many times, as she said the word with quite a sharp
hiss.

"You wanted me to take a fancy to her?"

"Yes."

"To marry her?"

"Yes."

"And make her the mistress of Penreife?"

"Yes; and I mean to do it."

Trevor stared at her, in wonder at the effrontery displayed.

"And, in your foolish vanity, you thought such a thing possible?"

"Yes."

"Regardless of the poor girl's feelings?"

"Yes--yes--yes!" said Mrs Lloyd, slowly.  "I know what is for her
good--and yours."

"Mrs Lloyd," said Trevor, coldly, "I would gladly keep to my promise
with you, that you should never leave Penreife.  If harm to your
prospects comes of this, don't blame me.  You had better go back to the
house."

He turned, as if to walk away; but she caught him sharply by the wrist.

"Stop!" she cried, angrily.  "Tell me this.  Have you been trying to
make an engagement with that wax doll up at Tolcarne?"

"You insolent old--There, go back, Mrs Lloyd," he cried, checking
himself.  "You must be mad."

"Mad?  Yes, enough to make me, you wild, ungrateful boy," she cried, her
fingers tightening round his wrist, so that it would have taken a
violent effort to free himself.  "Stop, and listen to me."

Trevor looked at her, his anger cooling; for he thought the housekeeper
was suffering from mental excitement brought on by the disappointment
consequent upon the failure of her plans.

"What do you want to say?" he said, quietly.

"A great deal.  Ah, you see, you must listen.  Now tell me--that Miss
Rea, have you been talking to her father and mother?"

"Yes," said Trevor, thinking it better to humour her till he could get
her back to the house.

"Then go and break it all off--at once.  Do you hear--at once."

"And why, pray?" said Trevor, smiling--the position, now that his anger
had passed, seeming ridiculous.

"Because you are to marry little Mary, as I wish," said Mrs Lloyd, in a
quick whisper.

"The parties, neither of them being agreed.  Come, Mrs Lloyd, let's get
back to the house."

"Richard," cried the woman, shaking his arm--"listen.  Do you hear me?
How dare you laugh at me like this?"

"Come, Mrs Lloyd--come, nurse, what are you thinking about?" said
Trevor, good-humouredly.  But he was beginning to fret under the
opposition.

"Of your fixture--of your good, boy.  Now, listen to me, Richard.  I
have long planned this out.  I have brought Mary here, educated her, and
prepared her for it."

"And now she has fallen in love with Humphrey, and they are going to
marry," said Trevor, laughing.

But the smile passed away as he saw the malignant look in the woman's
face.

"Humphrey!" she exclaimed, and as she uttered the name she spat upon the
ground--"Humphrey shall go.  Humphrey shall not stay here.  I hate him!
His being here is a curse to me."

"Her own son.  The woman is crazy," thought Trevor; and he looked
anxiously in her eyes.

"Mrs Lloyd," he began; but she caught him by the other wrist, and her
strength in her excitement was prodigious.

"Richard," she exclaimed, "will you mind me--will you do as I wish, and
marry Polly?"

"Come to the house, and let's talk about it there, nurse," he said,
kindly.

"No--no! here--here!  I say you _shall_ have her, or, mark me, you shall
rue it.  There, I know what you think; but I'm as sane as you are--more
sane, for you would throw yourself away, and I won't let you."

"Come, Mrs Lloyd, there must be an end to this.  Come to the house."

"Stay where you are, boy," she cried, with her eyes flashing.  "Will you
obey me?"

"No--no--no," said Trevor, impatiently, and he tried to extricate
himself.  "Nurse, you are mad."

"Don't call me nurse," she cried, viciously.  "Do as I bid you, or I'll
make you rue it till your deathbed.  But, no, I can't do that.  Richard,
you shall mind me--you shall obey me in this.  I have a right to be
minded."

"Mrs Lloyd, you have gone to the extent of your right, and beyond it;
from henceforth you and your husband must find another home.  You shall
have a comfortable income, but this cannot go on.  There, I cannot leave
you in this way--come up to the house."

He tried to lead her, but she broke away.

"You will have it then?" she hissed, in a hoarse whisper.  "Richard, is
this the way you treat your mother?"

"My--"

Trevor started back to the extent of their arms, looking at the woman
aghast.  The fancy that she was distraught had passed away during the
last few minutes, and there was such an air of decision and truth in her
words and looks that he staggered beneath the shock.  The past, her
determined action, her opposition to his will--so different to the
behaviour of a dependent, and explained at the time on the score of old
service--and many little words and looks, notably her passionate embrace
on the night of the encounter in the study, all came back to him like a
flash, and he could find no words for quite a minute.

"It's a lie!" he said at last.  "Woman, how dare you?  My father was too
honourable a gentleman ever to descend to a low intrigue with one of his
servants."

"Yes," said the woman, "and Martha Jane Lloyd was too good a wife to
have listened to him if he had."

"Then," cried Trevor, in a fury, "how dare you say what you did?"

"Because, my boy, it is the truth.  You are my flesh and blood."

"You are mad!" exclaimed Trevor.  "Loose my wrist, woman, or I shall
hurt you."

He looked sharply round, but there was no help at hand; for his first
impulse was to tie her wrists, and have her carried to the house.  But
she prisoned one of his the tighter, by placing her other bony hand a
little higher.

"_I'm_ not mad, Richard," she said, quietly; "and when you hear me, you
will see that you must mind me; for, at a word from me, all your riches
would be swept away, and you might change places with your keeper."

"Humphrey!" ejaculated Richard, his brain in a whirl of doubt.  "Tell
me--what do you mean?"

"Only this," said the woman, hoarsely.  "That Mrs Trevor and I had sons
almost together.  Humphrey and you were the two boys.  Do you
understand?"

"No," said Richard, fiercely.  "Go on."

"I got my sister, Dinah Price, from Caerwmlych to come and be nurse for
both, for I was in the house--the maid Jane, as they called me then.  Do
you want to hear more?"

"Go on," said Richard, in a hoarse whisper.

"One day I sat thinking.  There was death in the house, Richard, and I
was wondering about the fixture--how hard it would be if my fine boy
should grow up to poverty through the changes that might take place, and
me perhaps sent away by a new mistress.  I was jealous, too, of the
Trevors' boy, petted and pampered and waited upon, while my darling had
to take his chance.  I tell you it made me nearly mad sometimes, for I
was ill and weak; and I think the devil came and tempted me, knowing how
I was."

"Go on," said Richard; for she stopped, and the great drops of sweat
were standing on his brow.

"One day, boy, I felt that I could bear it no longer.  Dinah had gone
down to the kitchen to join the servants watching the funeral; and I sat
thinking, when the Trevors' baby cried, and no one went.  I had you on
my knee, Richard, nursing you, and I went up, innocently enough, to
quiet the motherless little bairn, and as I saw it lying alone there in
its cradle, my heart yearned over the poor little thing, and I took it
in my arms, when it nestled to my breast so pitifully, that I nursed it
as I did you, and sat there with you both in my arms."

Her voice was very husky now; but her words came firmly, and bore the
impress of truth.

"It was then, Richard, that the temptation came; for all at once, as I
looked down upon you both, the thought came, and I shivered.  Then all
opened out before me--a bright life, wealth, position, a great future
for the helpless babe I held; and I said why should it not be for my
boy.  I shrank from it for a moment, not more.  Then it seemed so easy,
so sure, that I did not hesitate.  In two minutes you had on the little
master's night-gown, and he wore yours; and I laid _you_, Dick--my boy--
my flesh and blood, in the cradle, and stole downstairs with theirs."

There was a faint rustle amongst the leaves overhead; but no one heeded,
and the woman went on.

"As soon as I got down, shivering with fear, a sort of hysterical fit
came over me, and I got worse; I grew so feverish that I had to lie
down, and I was ill for weeks; but that passed off, and the struggle
began.  Ah, Richard, boy, your poor mother bore it all for you--that you
might be rich and happy, while she suffered the tortures of hell; her
heart yearning to take you to her heart, hearing you cry as she lay
awake at nights with a stranger nursed at her breast.  But that passed
off when you both grew bigger; and you know how I treated you after, as
I saw you grow up.  People said I was hard to Humphrey.  Perhaps I was,
but I was never hard to you; and many a night I've cried myself to sleep
with joy, when I have found you loving and affectionate, soothing me for
the jealous tortures I suffered because I could not call you mine.  But
I said `no, there is no going back; you have made him, let it be.'"

"And Lloyd?" said Richard, hoarsely--"did he know of this?"

"Yes, I told him, and he would have confessed; but he did not dare.  My
boy, when you spoke to me that night in your room--when for the first
time for years I kissed you, I felt that I must tell you all."

"It's monstrous!" cried Richard, and his face looked ten years older.
"But, no; I won't believe it--it can't be true."

"Not true!" exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, with her sallow cheeks flushing.  "Ask
your father.  Is it so hard," she added, bitterly, "to find that you
have a father and mother alive instead of in the grave?"

"It is impossible!" cried Richard.

"Hush, hold your tongue!" she said, angrily.  "You know the secret now--
keep it.  What is it to a soul?  I never had the heart to send Humphrey
away, but treated him well.  Send him away now--give him money to go
away.  He'll soon forget Polly.  You must many her; and Richard--say a
kind word to me," she whispered, softening, "kiss me once--once only, my
boy--your mother--before she goes back to be your servant, and to hold
her peace for ever."

She crept closer to him, as he stood staring straight away, her thin
hands rested on his shoulders, and she gazed up into his eyes, with her
face working and growing strangely young, even as his tinned old.

"Dick, my darling, handsome son, kiss me--once only.  And you'll marry
her, won't you, and make her happy?  One kiss, my own boy."

She uttered a hoarse cry, for he looked down at her with a look of
loathing, and thrust her away.

"Mother?  No!" he cried.  "I can't call you that.  Woman, you thought to
bless me, and what you have done comes upon me like a curse.  Don't
touch me.  Don't come near me.  Take away your hands.  I cannot bear
it."

She clung to him; but he tore her hands away, and pushed her from him.

"Dick," she cried, throwing herself on her knees to him, and embracing
his knees.  "Your mother.  One loving word."

"I can't," he gasped--"I can't.  It is too much.  An impostor--a
pretender; and now to be an outcast!  My God! what have I done that I
should suffer this?  Oh, Tiny!  My love--my love!"

Those last words seemed torn from his breast in a low, hoarse whisper,
as, breaking from the prostrate woman, he rushed away, right into the
woods--the undergrowth bending and snapping as he passed on; till, with
a groan of despair, he threw himself upon the earth, and lay there, in
the deep shade, with his face buried in his hands.

Volume 2, Chapter XIX.

WITH THE OWNER.

How long Richard lay there he did not know.  To him, it seemed like a
year of torment, during which, in a wildly fevered state, he went over,
again and again, the narrative he had heard; tried to find a flaw in it,
but in vain.  It was too true--too circumstantial; and at last, in a
dazed, heavy way, he raised his haggard face, with his hair roughened,
and wrinkled brow, to see Humphrey sitting upon a fallen tree by his
side.

"Ah, Humphrey," he said, in a calm, sad voice.  "How long have you been
there?"

"Ever since, sir," said the young man.  "I followed you."

"Then you heard?"

"Every word, sir.  I couldn't help it, though.  I didn't want to
listen."

Richard bowed his head, and remained with his chin upon his breast.

"I had left Polly, sir--God bless her! she'd made me very happy with
what she said--and I was taking a short cut back to try and catch you,
sir, when I came upon you sudden like."

"Yes," said Richard, looking him full in the face.  "But it was no fault
of mine.  I thought I was too happy for it to last.  But I'll be a man
over it.  Humphrey," he exclaimed, rousing himself, "they educated me to
be a gentleman, and I won't belie them there.  Once for all, I am very
sorry, and I'll make you every restitution in my power."

"Well, sir, I did wonder why she was always so hard to me: but I don't
understand you, sir," said Humphrey, quietly.

"Don't sir me, man," exclaimed Richard, passionately.

"Don't be cross with me about it, Master Dick," said Humphrey, smiling;
"'taint my fault."

"No, no, my good fellow, I know.  Oh, it was monstrous!"

He turned away his head.

"Do you think it's all true, Master Richard," said Humphrey, quietly;
"it seems so wild-like."

"True enough.  Oh yes, it's true.  But there, we won't talk."

"But I think we'd better, sir."

"Haven't I told you that I'll make you restitution, man--give up all?"

"Master Richard," said Humphrey, with a happy smile on his face, "you've
give up to me my little love, and made me feel as if there was nothing
else in the world I'd care to have.  Look ye here, sir, it's stunned me
like; it's hard, you know, to understand.  I'm only a poor fellow like,
come what may; and if I had the place--oh, you know, it just sounds like
so much nonsense!--what could me and Polly do with it, when we could be
happier at the lodge?  It makes me laugh--it do indeed, sir.  You, you
see, have been made a scholar, and have your big friends--been made a
gentleman, in fact--and nothing would ever make one of me.  Let's go on,
then, as we are, sir.  I'm willing.  Only sometimes Polly, maybe, 'll
want a new dress, or a ribbon, or something of that kind; and then, if I
ask you, you'll give me half a sovereign, or may be a sovereign, eh?"

"Half a sovereign--a sovereign!  Why, man, can you not realise that you
have from now eight thousand a year?"

"No, sir, that I can't," said Humphrey, smiling pleasantly.  "I never
was good at figures.  Dogs, you know, or horses, or anything in the
farming line, I'm pretty tidy at; but figures bothers me.  Let things
stop as they are, sir; I won't say a word, even to Polly."

"Humphrey," said Richard, holding out his hand, "you always were a good,
true, simple-hearted fellow."

"I hope so, sir," said Humphrey, giving his horny palm a rub down his
cord breeches before taking the extended hand, "and that's what makes it
right that we should go on as we are.  Nature knew it, sir, and that's
how it was the change came about--you being the clever one, and best
suited for the estate.  I'm glad of one thing, though."

"What's that?" said Richard, wringing the extended hand.

"Why, I know now, sir, why Mrs Lloyd was always so down on me--she
always was down on me, awful--regular hated me, like.  Ah, the times
I've cried over it as a boy!  Nobody ever seemed to love me like till
now, sir--till now."

Humphrey beamed as he slapped his broad chest; and his simple words
seemed to corroborate those of Mrs Lloyd, till the last ray of hope was
crushed from Richard's breast.

"No, Humphrey," he said, gravely, though every word cost him a pang, "I
cannot stay here as an impostor.  The place is yours, I give up all."

"That you just won't, sir," said Humphrey.  "Why, I should be a brute
beast if I let you.  Come, come, let it go for a day or two, and think
it over.  It won't trouble me.  I don't want it.  I'm only glad of one
thing--I've got somebody on the hip, and she won't say no now."

"I want no thinking, Humphrey; and we can still be friends.  Come up to
the house."

"And what would Miss Tiny say?"

If Humphrey had stabbed him with the iron-pointed staff he carried, he
could not have given him greater pain; and his eyes wore a strange
piteous aspect as they gazed upon the young keeper's face,

"You've got her to think about too, sir," said Humphrey, "same as I
have.  Oh no, Master Richard, it wouldn't never, never do."

"Come up to the house, Humphrey--come up to the house."

And then, without another word, but closely followed by his late
servant, Richard strode hastily through the wood, whose briars and twigs
in the unaccustomed path seemed now to take the part of fate, and lashed
and tore him in his reckless passage, till his face was smeared with the
blood which he had wiped hastily away.

"Has Mrs Lloyd come back from her walk?" said Richard to the staring
footman.

"Yes, sir, two hours ago," said the man.

"Go into the study, Humphrey Trevor," said Richard, quietly; and then to
himself, "Poor woman! and it was done for me."

Volume 2, Chapter XX.

IN TRANSITION.

It was a hard fight, and the temptation was strong upon him to hide the
truth.  Humphrey would be content--he did not want to take his place;
and he sat opposite to him now in the study, upon the very edge of the
chair.  Oh, it was ridiculous that he should have to give the place up
to such a man--one whom he had to order before he could get him to sit
down in his presence.  And even when he felt that his mind was made up,
and he was stoically determined to do that which was right, the rightful
heir would keep upsetting his plans.

"You see, it would be so foolish, Master Dick."

"I can't help that, Humphrey.  You must have your rights.  I will not be
a party to the imposture."

"Hadn't you better see a lawyer about it all?"

To be sure.  There was Pratt--a barrister--he might give good advice.

Richard rang the bell and a servant came.  "Ask Mr Pratt to be kind
enough to step here."

"If you please, sir, Mr Pratt's gone, sir.  I put his letter on your
table.  Yes, there it is, sir."

Richard started.

"The rats desert the sinking ship," he muttered; and then blushed for
his doubt of his friend.

"When did he go?"

"Hour ago, sir.  Telegraph come from Saint Kitt's, sir; and he wrote
that letter, sir, for you, while they got the dogcart ready to take him
to the station."

"That will do."

He tore open the letter, which enclosed the telegram from a friend in
chambers--

"Come directly.  A good brief for you.  Don't lose the chance."

The hastily-scrawled letter was as follows:--

  "Dear Dick,--Don't blame me for going.  I must take work when it
  comes; and honestly, for reasons I can't explain, I am glad to go.--
  Yours, F.P."

"Must be genuine," thought Richard.  "Well, it has happened at a good
time.  I'm glad he has gone."

Then a thought struck him.

He and Humphrey might divide the estate.  But, no, he drove it away; he
would be honest.

"Shall I go over to Saint Kitt's and fetch Mr Lawyer Dancer, sir?" said
Humphrey.

"Say no more about it, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed Richard.  "I want
no advice--I want nothing--only this, Humphrey, that you will forgive
those old people--my--my parents.  Let them have money to the end of
their days, even if it is not deserved."

"Oh, but Master Richard."

"And promise me that you will not allow any prosecution and punishment
to be held over their heads."

"Is it likely, Master Richard?" said Humphrey, laughing.

"Now let me have a few hours to myself, to collect my thoughts, and
write a few letters."

Humphrey leaped from his chair.

"'Bout draining the little meadow, sir?" he said.  "Shall I set the men
on?  The tiles is come."

Richard's face contracted with pain, and then a bitter smile crossed it.

"My dear Humphrey," he said, taking his hand, "can you not realise your
position?  You are master here."

"No, sir," cried Humphrey, flinging down his hat, and then picking it
up--"I'll be blessed if I can.  This has put my head all in a buzz, like
bees swarming, and I can't understand it a bit."

He left the room, and Richard gave a sigh of relief, seating himself at
his table, and taking up a pen to write; but only to rest his head upon
his hand, and stare before him, dazed--crushed.

"Please, sir, Mrs Lloyd says can you make it convenient to see her?"
said the footman; and then he started back, astounded at his master's
anger.

"No," roared Richard, "I will see no one.  Let me be left alone."

Then he hastily wrote a letter to Pratt, and fastened it down before
dropping it in the letter-bag, and threw it into the hall.

He had hardly finished before, knocking first softly, Lloyd opened the
door, to stand trembling before him.

Richard pointed to the door.

"Go," he said, hoarsely.  "I can't talk to you now.  Another time--in a
week--in a month--wait until then."

"But--"

"Go--for Heaven's sake, go!" cried Richard, frantically.

He was left alone.

Next came a note in pencil from Mrs Lloyd.

  "My dearest Boy--Forgive me; it was for your sake I did all this.
  Pray be careful, for I fear Humphrey has some suspicion.  Do see me,
  and give me your advice.

  "M.J.L."

"Poor woman!" he muttered, tearing the note bit by bit into tiny
fragments.  "Her plan is destroyed, save that this niece--my fair
cousin, Polly--will sit in the seat she intended, without poor Humphrey
is spoiled by prosperity.  Poor fellow!  It will be a hard trial for
him.

"Be careful?" he said, laughing in a strange, harsh fashion.  "Does she
think I am going to remain her accomplice in this horrible fraud?"

He sat down, then, to think; but his brain was in a whirl, and he gave
up in despair.

At last he woke up to the fact that it was growing late, and he
remembered that he was to have accompanied the Reas on an expedition
that afternoon, and now it was past six.  They must have been and
returned.

What would poor Tiny think?

A cold, chilling feeling of despair came over him now.  What would she
think?  Yes, how would she take it?  All must be over between them now--
at least, for some years to come.

A servant announced dinner, and he bade him send it back.  Locking the
door after him, he sat down in an easy-chair, conscious that several
times there had been knocks at the door, but paying no heed whatever.

Night fell, and he had not moved; and then, in a strange, fitful, dreamy
fashion, the night passed away.

He must have dozed at times, he knew; for his thoughts had wandered off
into dreams, and the dreams had trailed off in turn into thoughts; and
now it was morning, for the grey light was streaming through the antique
casement, and a feint glow overhead told of the rising sun.

He threw open the windows, and the cool morning breeze, fresh from the
Atlantic, seemed to calm and refresh him.  His thoughts grew more
collected; and at last he left the window, and went out into the hall,
to seek his bedroom.

A bitter smile crossed his lip as he noticed the luxurious air of wealth
about him, and then a sigh drew his attention to the fact that the cause
of all his agony had been watching at his door the night through, and
was now on her knees stretching out her hands as if in supplication for
pardon.

"Oh, my boy--my boy, what are you going to do," she groaned.

"Do?" he said, bitterly, as she crept to his feet.  "Act like the
gentleman you wanted me to be."

"What do you mean, Richard--my son?  There, I give up about Polly.  I'll
never say another word.  You shall do as you like."

"I need not ask you if what you told me yesterday was true," he said,
calmly.  "Well, we must make amends."

"How?  What do you mean?" she said, starting up.

"Mean?  Why, by giving up everything to the rightful owner, and leaving
him possession at once."

"Richard," she cried, passionately, catching him by the arm, "you would
not be so mad."

"I shall be so honest," he said.

"What, give up--give up everything to Humphrey?"

"Everything," he said, coldly, "and at once."

"You're mad--mad!" gasped Mrs Lloyd.  "And after all I have done for
you--to make you a gentleman."

"These are its effects," he said, bitterly.  "You made me a gentleman--I
wish to act as one."

"But, Richard--think--your father--your old mother--we shall be turned
out in disgrace--to starve," she cried, piteously.

"Mother, I cannot help the disgrace," he said, coldly.  "I would save
you if I could, but the disgrace would be greater to keep up this
horrible imposture."

"Hush!" she whispered, "the servants will soon be down--they may hear
us.  Oh, you cannot mean, Richard, what you say."

"I told Humphrey yesterday," continued Richard, "that I begged he would
care for you; but that is only for the present.  As soon as I can find
means to earn my bread, I will keep you both myself; so that you shall
be spared the disgrace of taking alms from the man you wronged."

"Fool--idiot--mad boy!" hissed Mrs Lloyd, seizing his arm angrily, and
shaking it.  "You shall not act like this.  I've been nearly thirty
years building this up, and do you think I will have it crushed down
like that?  Say a word if you dare!"

"If I dare!" exclaimed Richard.  "Do you know that Humphrey does more
than suspect, that he knows all--heard all from your own lips in the
lane yesterday?"

Mrs Lloyd's jaw dropped.

"The true-hearted, honest fellow refused to take advantage of his
position."

"Of course, yes," cried Mrs Lloyd.  "We'll pay him out, and let him go.
Yes, he shall have Polly," she added, with a look of pleasure on her
troubled face.

"Enough of this," said Richard, firmly.  "Loose my arm.  Some day I may
be able to talk to you again.  Now, go to your room, and make
arrangements either for leaving, or make your peace with your new lord.
He loves little Polly, and that will act as a shield for you."

"I say you shall not give in," cried Mrs Lloyd, in a hoarse, angry
voice.

But he dragged his arm free, and dashed up the stairs.

End of Volume Two.

Volume 3, Chapter I.

MISTAKEN ZEAL.

In the course of the morning Richard grew calmer.  He had a long
interview with Humphrey, giving him plenty of advice as to his future
proceedings; and then sending for Mr Mervyn, whom Humphrey happened to
mention as a gentleman in whom he had great confidence.

But the messenger was not needed, for Mr Mervyn was coming up the
drive, and he was sent on another errand, with a couple of notes to
Penreife--one to Sir Hampton, the other to Tiny.

"I was on my way here, Mr Trevor," he began.

"My name is Richard Lloyd, Mr Mervyn," said Richard, quietly.

"Yes--yes," said Mr Mervyn, "I have heard.  It is all over the place."

"So soon?" said Richard, bitterly.

"Yes; and directly I heard," said Mervyn, "I came up.  But, my dear sir,
it's like a romance; it can't be true."

"It's true enough," said Richard, coldly.

"But under the circumstances, Mr Trev--Lloyd," said Mervyn, "Mr
Humphrey here won't press--"

"That's what I want Master Richard here to understand," said Humphrey.
"As I says to him yesterday, sir, what's the good of it to me?"

"Exactly," said Mervyn, "right is right; but as Mr Trev--Lloyd is
innocent in the matter, and has made engagements and the rest of it, why
not come to some arrangement satisfactory to both?"

"Mr Mervyn, you are sent for here as the friend of Mr Humphrey
Trevor."

"Exactly, Mr Tre--Lloyd.  I beg your pardon, but my tongue is not so
quick of apprehension as my brain."

"I want you to advise and help him in his novel position."

"I will," said Mervyn, frankly; "but I should like to advise and help
you too.  You see, Mr Tre--there--Mr Richard, you have possession."

"I give it up," said Richard.

"But you might hold it, and give friend Humphrey here a great deal of
trouble."

"Mr Mervyn, I claim to be still a gentleman, whatever my birth," said
Richard, haughtily.  "Will you act as Humphrey's friend?"

"I will."

"Then understand this, sir.  I have had a hard fight, and I have come
through the temptation, I hope, like a man.  I now resign everything to
Mr Humphrey Trevor here.  I ask his pardon for usurping his rights, and
I beg his forbearance towards my poor father and mother.  I will not
make this cruel injury to him worse by any opposition."

Humphrey shuffled in his seat, and tried to speak, but he only wiped his
damp face, and looked helplessly at the man he was bound to oust.

"You see, Mr Mervyn," continued Richard, "Mr Trevor's will be a
peculiar position."

"Yes," said Mervyn; "but had you not better get some legal advice?"

"What for?" said Richard.  "Can anything be plainer?  As I said, Mr
Trevor's will be a peculiar position.  He will be the mark of the
designing, and he will need a staunch friend at his side.  Will you be
that friend?"

"I will," said Mervyn, wringing his hand.  "Yours too, my dear fellow,
if you'll let me.  But," he added, in a whisper, "Miss Rea?"

A spasm of pain shot across Richard's face, and he was about to speak
when Humphrey turned to him.

"Master Richard," he said, in a husky voice, "we was boys together, and
played together almost like brothers.  This here comes to me stunning,
like.  You say it's mine.  Well, it aint my fault.  I don't want it.
Keep it all, if you like; if not, let's share and share alike."

The last words fell on empty air, for Richard had waved his hand to
both, and hurried out of the room.

That evening, with beating heart, he walked towards Tolcarne gates.  He
had been busy amongst his papers, tearing up and making ready for that
which he had to do on the morrow; and now, more agitated than he would
own, he sought the lane where so many happy hours had been spent to see
if Tiny Rea would grant him the interview he had written to ask for,
that he might say good-bye.

It was a soft, balmy night, and the stars seemed to look sadly down
through the trees as he leaned against a mass of lichen-covered granite,
pink here and there with the pretty stonecrop of the place, waiting, for
she was behind time.

"Will she come," he said, "now that I am a beggar without a shilling,
save that which I could earn?  Oh, shame! shame! shame!  How could I
doubt her?"

No, he would not doubt her; she could not have cared about his money.
She was too sweet and loving and gentle.  And what should he say--wait?
No, he dared not.  He could only--only--leave her free, that she might--

"Oh, my darling!" he groaned; and he laid his broad forehead upon the
hard, rugged stone, weeping now like a child.

The clouds came across the sky, blotting out one by one the glistening
stars; a chilly mist swept along the valley from the sea, and all around
was dark and cold as the future of his blasted life.  For the minutes
glided into hours, and she came not--came not to say one gentle, loving
word--one God-speed to send him on his way; and at last, heart-broken,
he staggered to the great floral gate, held the chilly rails, kissed the
iron, and gazed with passionate longing up at the now darkened house,
and then walked slowly away, stunned by the violence of his grief.

The wind was rising fast, and coming in heavy soughs from off the sea.
As he reached the lodge gates at Penreife he paused, staring before him
in a helpless way, till a heavy squall smote him, and with it a sharp
shower of rain, whose drops seemed to cool his forehead and rouse him to
action.

Starting off, with great strides, he took the short cut, and made for
the sea, where the fields ended suddenly, their short, thyme-scented
grass seeming to have been cut where there was a fall of full four
hundred feet, down past a rugged, piled-up wall of granite, to the
white-veined rock, polished by the restless sea below.  To any one
unaccustomed to the coast a walk there on a dark night meant death,
either by mutilation on the cruel rocks, always seeming to be studded
with great gouts of crimson blood, where the sea anemones clung in
hundreds, or else by drowning in the deep, clear water, when the tide
was up, and the waves played amidst the long, chocolate strands of fucus
and bladder-wrack, waving to and fro.

It was going to be a wild night, but it seemed in keeping with the chaos
of his mind.  Far out on the sea, softly rising to and fro in the thick
darkness, were the lights of the fishing-boats, as a score or so lay
drifting with their herring-nets; and in his heart there was not a rough
fisher there whose lot he did not envy.

"And she could not come!" he groaned, as he stood there, with bare head.
"Oh, my love--my love!  To go without one gentle word, far, far away,
and but yesterday so happy!"

The wind increased in force, and, with the gathering strength of the
tide, the waves came rushing in, to beat in thunder against the rocks
far beneath his feet; and then, with a rush, the fine salt spray was
whirled up, and swept in his face, as he gazed straight out to sea.

At another time he might have shuddered, standing thus upon the edge of
that great cliff, with--just dimly seen in its more intense blackness--
the rugged headland that stretched like a buttress into the sea upon his
left.  But now the horrors of the place seemed welcome, and he felt, as
a smile came on his dripping features, that it would be pleasant to leap
from where he stood right off at once into oblivion.

It seemed so easy, such a quiet way of getting rest from the turmoil and
trouble of the future, that the feeling seemed to grow upon him.

"No," he said at last; "that would be a coward's end.  I've done one
brave thing to-day; and now, old friend, you shall have me again to toss
upon your waves, but it shall be as your master, not as a slave."

As he spoke he raised his hands and stretched them out, when he heard a
hoarse cry behind him, and as he sharply turned and stepped back,
something seemed to come out of the darkness, seize him by the throat,
and the next moment he was over the cliff, suspended above eternity.

Then there was an awful silence, only broken by the roar, thud, and hiss
of the waves below, as they rushed in, broke upon the rocks, and then
fled back in foamy spray.

Richard's fingers were dug into the short, velvet turf, and he hung
there, with his legs rigid, afraid to move, and wondering whether those
were friendly or inimical hands that clutched his throat.  It seemed an
age of horror before the silence was broken, and then came a panting
voice, which he knew as Humphrey's, to sob, as it were, in his ear--

"Master Dick, don't be scar'd.  I've got you tight, but I can't move.
Get your nerve, and then shift your hands one at a time to me."

Without a moment's hesitation, Richard did so, with the damp gathering
on his brow the while.

"That's brave, sir.  Now get your toes in the cracks of the granite
somewhere--gently, don't hurry--I won't let go, though I can't move."

Richard obeyed, drew himself up an inch, then another, and another, felt
that he was saved--then made a slip, and all seemed over, but Humphrey
held to him with all his strength, and once more Richard tried, tearing
hands and knees with the exertion, till he got his chest above the cliff
edge, then was halfway up, and crawled safely on, to fall over panting
on his side.

"Quick, Master Richard, your hand!" shouted Humphrey.

And the saved had to turn saver, for the keeper had been drawn closer
and closer to the edge by Richard's efforts, and but for a sudden
snatch, and the exercise of all his strength, the new owner of Penreife
would have glided off the slippery grass into the darkness beneath.

"Safe," muttered Humphrey, rising.  "Give me your hand, Master Richard.
I thought, when I followed you, you meant to leap off."

"No, Humphrey," said Richard, sadly, "I will not throw my worthless life
away.  It is such glimpses of death as that we have just seen that teach
the value of life.  Goodnight; don't speak to me again."

Humphrey obeyed, and followed him in silence to the house.

The next morning, as soon as the letters had been brought in, Richard
took his--a single one--and, without a word to a soul, carried a small
portmanteau to the stable-yard, waited while the horse was put to, and
then had himself driven off.

As he passed the lodge a note was put into his hand by a boy.  An hour
later he was in the train, and the destination of that train was the big
metropolis, where most men come who mean to begin afresh.

Volume 3, Chapter II.

CORRESPONDENCE.

It never struck Richard that some of his behaviour was verging on the
Quixotic.  His only thought now was that he was degraded from his high
estate, and that the woman whom he had loved with all his heart--did
love still--had turned from him in his poverty and distress.

At such times men are not disposed to fairly analyse the motives of
others; and Richard was anything but an unbiased judge, as he knit his
brow, told himself that he had the fight to begin now, and determined to
take help from no one who had known him in his prosperity.

With this feeling strong upon him he dismissed the man who had driven
him over; and, to the utter astonishment of the Saint Kitt's
station-master, took a third-class ticket for London, and entered a
compartment wherein were a soldier with a bottle, a sailor just landed,
an old lady with several bundles, bound on a visit to her boy in
London--a gentleman, she informed everybody, who kept a public--and the
customary rural third-class passengers.

And then the long, dreary journey began, Richard making up his mind to
suit himself to the company amongst whom he was thrown, and failing
dismally; for both soldier and sailor, whose idea of enjoyment seemed to
be that they must get hopelessly intoxicated as soon as possible, took
it as an offence that he would not "take a pull" of rum out of the
bottle belonging to the son of Neptune, and of gin from that of the son
of Mars.

To make up for this, Richard tried to be civil to a couple of rustic
lasses, who received all his little bits of matter-of-fact politeness
and conversation with giggles and glances at a young Devonian in the
corner of the carriage, till his brickdust-coloured visage became the
colour of one of his own ruddy ploughed fields, and he announced that
"for zigzpence he'd poonch that chap's yed."

Hereupon the old lady with the bundles loudly proclaimed a wish that her
"zun" was there; and ended by hoping that, if "this young man" (meaning
Richard) intended to make himself unpleasant, he would go into another
carriage.

It was hard--just at a time, too, when Richard's temper seemed to be
angular and sore--when the slightest verbal touch made him wince.  But
he set his teeth, bore a good deal of vulgar banter with patience, and
was able to compliment himself grimly for his forbearance during the
long ride along that single line of Cornish railway that is one
incessant series of scaffold-like viaducts, over some of the most
charming little valleys in our isle.

After passing Plymouth, the old lady became so sociable that she dropped
asleep against our traveller.  The rustics had given place to a tall
traveller; and the soldier and sailor grew hilariously friendly after
replenishing their bottles at Plymouth.  And so, fighting hard to put
the past in its proper place--behind--the train bore Richard onward to
his goal.

Just before nearing Paddington Station, Trevor took out his pocket-book,
and the rugged, hard look upon his face was softened.  He glanced round
the compartment, to see that half his fellow-passengers were asleep, the
soldier drunk, the stout old lady with the bundles busy hunting for her
railway ticket, and the sailor disconsolately trying to drain a little
more rum out of his bottle.

By this time Trevor had grown weary of the long journey--so tedious on
the hard third-class seats--in spite of his determination; and a sigh
would once or twice escape, as recollections of his old first-class
luxury intruded.

"I'll hold to it, though," he muttered.

And, determined to go on in his course, he opened his pocket-book, and
drew from it a letter which he had received from Tolcarne.  It was not
long, but it sent the blood dancing through his veins, and nerved him
for the fight to come.  It ran as follows:--

  "Dearest Dick--What shall I say to you in this your great trouble?
  Can I say more than that I would give anything to be by your side, to
  try and advise--at all events, to try and help and comfort?  Papa was
  very angry when your letter came, and read it to Aunt Matty; but let
  that pass, as I tell you only, Dick, that you have a friend in dear
  mamma, who stood up for you as nobly as did darling little Fin, who
  had been in unaccountably low spirits before.  I tried so hard, Dick,
  to come to you--to answer your letter and scold you; but they would
  not let me stir.  I dare not tell you what they said; you must guess
  when I tell you that I was a dreadfully disobedient child, and Aunt
  Matty declared that no good could ever come to a girl who set herself
  up in opposition to her father and aunt.  Poor dear mamma was left out
  of it altogether.  I say all this, Dick, for fear you should think I
  fell away from you in your trouble, and would not come to you as you
  wished; but my heart was with you all the time.  And now, Dick,
  darling, to be more matter-of-fact, what is all this to us?  You could
  not help it; and whether you are Richard Trevor or Richard Lloyd by
  name, how does it alter you in the eyes of her to whom you said so
  much?  Dick, you don't know me, or you would never have sent me that
  cruel letter, so full of your dreadful determination.  Oh, Dick, do
  you think--can you think--I wish to be free?  You taught me to love
  you, and you cannot undo your work.  For shame, to write in that
  desponding tone because of this accident.  It was very wicked and
  dreadful of Mrs Lloyd, but you could not help it; and now you have so
  nobly determined to make restitution to poor Humphrey, let it all go.
  My Dick only stands out more nobly than ever.  You have your
  profession, sir--go back to that, and they will only be too proud to
  have you; but don't go long voyages, or where there are storms.  I lay
  awake all night listening to the wind, and thinking how thankful I
  ought to be that you were ashore, Dick, and all the time I felt
  prouder than ever of my own boy.  Oh, Dick, never talk to me of
  freedom!  Nothing can make me change.  Even if I saw with my own poor
  little crying eyes that you cared for me no more, I could not leave
  off loving; and, dear Dick--dearest Dick--don't think me bold and
  unmaidenly if I say now what I should not have dared to say if you had
  not been in trouble--Dick, recollect this--that there is some one
  waiting your own time, when, rich or poor, you shall ask her to come
  to you, when and where you will, and she will be your own little
  wife--Tiny.

  "P.S.--Pin has looked over my shoulder, and read all this as I wrote
  it; and she says it is quite right, besides sending her dear love to
  brother Dick."

Trevor's forehead went down on his hands as he finished, his face was
very pale, and a strange look was in his eyes as he re-perused the note.

"God bless her!" he muttered.  "I will do something, and I believe she
will wait for me; but I can't drag her down to share my poverty.  But
there, I won't curse it, when I see how it brings out the pure metal
from the fire.  I can't go back to the sea, though.  Pooh! what chance
have I--a poor penniless servant's son--how should I get a ship.  Why,
my rank has been obtained by imposture."

The rugged, hard look came back, but the sight of an enclosure once more
smoothed his forehead.

"Here's dear little Fin," he said to himself.  "Well, after all, it's
very sweet to find out how true some hearts can be."

Saying this to himself, he opened and read a little jerky scrawl from
Fin:--

  "My own dear Brother Dick,--I sent you a message by Tiny, but I
  thought I'd write too, so as to show you that little people can be as
  staunch as big.  Never mind about the nasty money, or the troublesome
  estate--you can't have everything; and I tell you, sir, that you've
  won what is worth a thousand Penreifes--my darling little Tiny's
  heart--you great, ugly monster!  Dear Dick, I'm so sorry for you, but
  I can't cry a bit--only pat you on the back and say, `Never mind.'
  I'll take care of Tiny for you, in spite of Aunt Matty--a wicked old
  woman!--for if she didn't look up from a goody-goody book, and say
  that she'd always expected it, and she was very glad.  Ma sends her
  love to you, and says she shall come across to Penreife to see you,
  the first time papa goes over to Saint Kitt's.  She would come now,
  only she wants to keep peace and quietness in the house.  They're
  against you now, but it will soon blow over.  If it don't, we'll win
  over Aunt Matty to our side by presenting her with dogs.  By the way,
  Pepine has a cold: he sneezed twice yesterday, and his tail is all
  limp.  Goodbye, Dick.--Your affectionate sister,

  "Fin Rea."

Richard's eyes brightened as he read this, and then carefully bestowed
it in his pocket-book.

He then took out and read again the letter that had come by post:--

  "My dear old Dick,--Had yours and its thunderclap.  Gave me a bad
  headache.  Hang it all! if it's true, what a predicament for a fellow
  to find out that he's somebody else--`Not myself at all,' as the song
  says!  But you have possession, Dick; and, speaking as a lawyer, I
  should say, let them prove it on the other side.  Don't you go running
  about and telling people you've no right to the property; for, after
  all, it may only be an hallucination of that old woman's brain.  What
  a dreadful creature!  Why, if she isn't your mother--and really, I
  think she can't be--I should feel disposed to prosecute her; and I
  should like to hold the brief.  Don't be in too great a hurry to give
  up, but, on the contrary, hold on tight; for that's a fine estate, and
  very jolly, so long as you could keep off the locusts.  On looking
  back, though, there are a good many strange things crop up--the
  wonderful display of interest in dear Master Dick, and all the rest of
  it.  Looks bad--very bad--and like the truth Dick.  But, as I said
  before, legally you've got possession, and if I can help you to keep
  it--no, hang it, Dick! if the place isn't yours, old boy, give it up.
  There, you see how suitable I am for a barrister.  I could never fight
  a bad cause.  But, as I said before, give it up, every inch of it.  I
  wouldn't have my old man Dick with the faintest suspicion of a dirty
  trick in his nature.  Cheer up, old fellow, there's another side to
  everything.  That Sybaritish life was spoiling you.  Why, my dear boy,
  you've no idea how jolly it is to be poor.  Hang the wealth! a fico
  for it!  Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the
  matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on
  fire at high or low water, above bridge or below.  Meanwhile, we'll
  banquet, my boy, feast on chops--hot chops--and drink cold beady beer
  out of pewters.  Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your
  tin, what do you know of real life?  Setting aside metaphysics, Dick,
  old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly
  bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long
  as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,

  "Frank Pratt.

  "P.S.--I should have liked to see Tolcarne again.  Pleasant, dreamy
  time that.  Of course you will see no more of the little girls?"

"Poor old Frank," said Richard, refolding the letter.  "I believe he
cared for little Fin."

There was no time for dreaming, with the bustle of Paddington Station to
encounter; and making his way into the hotel, he passed a restless,
dreamless night.

Volume 3, Chapter III.

NEW LODGINGS.

Richard was pretty decided in his ways.  Hotel living would not suit him
now; and soon after breakfast he took his little valise, earned a look
of contempt from the hotel porter by saying that he did not require a
cab, and set off to walk from Paddington to Frank's chambers in the
Temple; where he arrived tired and hot, to climb the dreary-looking
stone stairs, and read on the door the legend written upon a wafered-up
paper, "Back in five minutes."

With all the patience of a man accustomed to watch, Richard up-ended his
portmanteau, and sat and waited hour after hour.  Then he went out, and
obtained some lunch, returning to find the paper untouched.

Sitting down this time with a newspaper to while away the time, he tried
to read, but not a word fixed itself upon his mind; and he sat once more
thinking, till at last, weary and low-spirited, he walked out into the
Strand, the portmanteau feeling very heavy, but his determination strong
as ever.

"Keb, sir--keb, sir," said a voice at his elbow; for he was passing the
stand in Saint Clement's Churchyard.

"No, my man--no."

"Better take--why, I'm blest!"

The remark was so emphatic that Richard looked the speaker in the face.

"Don't you remember me, sir--axdent, sir--op'site your club, sir--me as
knocked the lady down, sir?"

"Oh yes," said Richard, "I remember you now.  Not hurt, was she?"

"On'y shook, sir.  But jump in, sir.  Let me drive yer, sir.  Here, I'll
take the portmanter."

"No, no," said Richard, "I don't want to ride, I--there, confound it,
man, what are you about?"

"No, 'fence, sir--I on'y wanted to drive a gent as was so kind as you
was.  Odd, aint it, sir?  That there lady lives along o' me, at my
house, now--lodges, you know--'partments to let, furnished."

"Apartments!" cried Richard, eagerly; "do you know of any apartments?"

"Plenty out Jermyn Street way, sir."

"No, no; I mean cheap lodgings."

"What, for a gent like you, sir?" said Sam Jenkles.

"No, no--I'm no gentleman," said Richard, bitterly; "only a poor man.  I
want cheap rooms."

"Really, sir?" said Sam, rubbing his nose viciously.

"Yes, really, my man.  Can you tell me of any?"

"You jump in, sir, and I'll run you up home in no time."

"But I--"

"My missus knows everybody 'bout us as has rooms to let--quiet lodgings,
you know, sir; six bob a week style--cheap."

"No, no; give me your address, and I'll walk."

"No you don't, sir, along o' that portmanter.  Now, I do wonder at a
gent like you being so obstinit."

Richard still hesitated; but it was an opportunity not to be lost, and,
before he had time to thoroughly make up his mind, Sam had hoisted the
portmanteau on the roof, afterwards holding open the flap of the cab.

"It's all right, sir; jump in, sir.  Ratty wants a run, and you can't
carry that there portmanter."

"A bad beginning," muttered Richard.

Then he stepped into the cab, and the apron was banged to, Sam hopped on
to his perch, and away they rattled along the Strand into Fleet Street,
and up Chancery Lane.

"He's a-going it to-day, sir, aint he?" said a voice; and Richard turned
sharply round, to see Sam Jenkles's happy-looking face grinning through
the trap.  "He's as fresh as a daisy."

The little trapdoor was rattled down again, for other vehicles were
coming, and Sam's hands were needed at the reins, the more especially
that Ratty began to display the strangeness of his disposition by laying
down his ears, whisking his tail, and trying hard to turn the cab round
and round, clay-mill fashion.  But this was got over, the rest of the
journey performed in peace, and Sam drew up shortly at the door of his
little home, the two front windows of which had been turned into
gardens, as far as the sills were concerned, with miniature green
palings, gate and all, the whole sheltering a fine flourishing display
of geraniums and fuchsias, reflected in window-panes as clean as hands
could make them.

"Why, this would do capitally," said Richard, taken by the aspect of the
place.

"Dessay it would, sir," said Sam, grinning; "but our rooms is let.  But
come in, sir, and see the missus--she'll pick you out somewheres nice
and clean.  But, hallo! what's up?"

Richard had seen that which brought the exclamation from Sam's lips, and
stepped forward to help.

For, about a dozen yards down the quiet little street, Mrs Lane was
supporting Netta, the pair returning evidently from a walk, and the
latter being overcome.

"Thank you--a little faint--went too far," said Mrs Lane, as Richard
ran up to where she was sustaining her daughter.  "Netta, darling, only
a few yards farther.  Try, dear."

"She has fainted," said Richard.  "Here, let me carry her."

Before Mrs Lane could speak, Richard had taken the light figure in his
arms, and, guided by the frightened mother, bore it to Sam's door.

"That's right, sir, in there," said Sam, eagerly--"fust door on the
left's the parly.  Poor gal!"

This last was in an undertone, as the young man easily bore his burden
in--finding, though, that a pair of large dark eyes had unclosed, and
were gazing timidly in his, while a deep blush overspread cheek and
forehead.

"There," said Richard, laying her lightly down upon the couch, and
helping to arrange the pillows with all a woman's tenderness.  "You look
weak and ill, my dear, and--and--I beg pardon," he said, hesitating, as
he met Mrs Lane's gaze, "I think we have met before."

Mrs Lane turned white, and shrank away.

"Of course," said Richard, smiling.  "My friend here, who drove me up,
told me you lodged with him."

Mrs Lane did not speak, only bowed her head over Netta.

"If I can do anything, pray ask me," said Richard, backing to the door,
and nearly overturning bustling Mrs Jenkles, who came hurrying in
with--

"Oh, my dear, you've been overdoing it--I beg your pardon, sir."

"My fault, I think," said Richard.

And with another glance at the great dark eyes following him, he backed
into the passage--this time upon Sam, who had carried in the
portmanteau.

"If you wouldn't mind, sir," said Sam--"our back room here's on'y a
kitchen; but we lets our parlour, as you see.  There," he said, leading
the way, "that's my cheer, sir; and the wife 'll come and talk to you
dreckly, I dessay.  I must go back on to the rank."

"One moment," said Richard.

"There, sir, I don't want paying for a bit of a job like this," said
Sam.  "Oh, well, if you will pay, I shall put that down to the lodgers'
nex' ride."

"They are your lodgers, then?"

"Yes, sir; and it all come out of that old Ratty when I knocked Mrs
Lane over."

"But the young lady?"

"Thanky, sir, for calling her so; that's just what she is."

"Is she an invalid?"

"Feard so, sir," said Sam, in a hoarse whisper.  "I don't like her looks
at all.  But I can't stop, sir; the missus 'll be here, and I hope
she'll know of a place as suits."

The next moment, Sam Jenkles was gone, and Richard sat looking round at
the bright candlesticks and saucepan-lids, hardly able to realise the
fact that but a day or two before he was the master of Penreife, for
what had taken place seemed to be back years ago.

His musings were interrupted by the entry of Mrs Jenkles, who stood
curtseying and smoothing her apron.

"Is she better?" said Richard, anxiously.

"Yes, sir, she's quite well again now," said Mrs Jenkles.  "She's weak,
sir--rather delicate health; and Sam--that is my husband--said you
wanted apartments, sir."

"And that you would be able to find me some," said Richard, smiling.

"I don't think we've anything good enough about here, sir, for a
gentleman like you."

"For a poor man like me, you mean.  Now look here, Mrs--Mrs--"

"Jenkles, sir."

"Mrs Jenkles.  I can afford to pay six or seven shillings a-week, that
is all."

"Then there's Mrs Fiddison, sir, nearly opposite.  Very clean and
respectable.  Bedroom and sitting-room, where a young gentleman left
only about a week ago.  He played a long brass thing, sir, at one of the
theatres, and used to practise it at home; and that's why he left."

"That will do, I daresay," exclaimed Richard, who, in the first blush of
his determination, was stern as an ascetic, and would have said Yes to
the lodgings if Mrs Jenkles had proposed a couple of neatly furnished
cellars.

The result was that the cabman's wife went over with him to Mrs
Fiddison's, and introduced him to that lady, who was dressed in sombre
black, held a widow's cap in her hand, and was evidently determined to
keep up the supply, for there were at least six arranged about the
little parlour into which she led the way.

Volume 3, Chapter IV.

NOT MUSICAL.

Mrs Fiddison was a tall, thin lady, who was supposed to be a widow from
her display of caps; but the fact was that she had no right to the
matronly prefix, she being a blighted flower--a faded rosebud, on whom
the sun of love had never shone; and the consequence was that her head
drooped upon its stalk, hung over weakly on one shoulder, while a
dewdrop-like tear stood in one eye; and, like carbonic acid gas
concealed in soda-water, she always had an indefinite number of sighs
waiting to escape from her lips.

She smiled sadly at Richard, and waved him to a chair, to have taken
which would have caused the immolation of a widow's cap--which, however,
Mrs Fiddison rescued, and perched awry upon her head, to be out of the
way.

"This gentleman wants apartments, Mrs F.," said Mrs Jenkles.

"Mine are to let," said Mrs Fiddison, sadly; "but does the gentleman
play anything brass?"

Richard stared, and then remembered about the last lodger.

"Oh, dear, no," he said, smiling.

"Because I don't think I could bear it again, let alone the neighbours'
lodgers," said Mrs Fiddison.  "I might put up with strings, or wood,
but I could not manage brass."

"I do not play any instrument," said Richard, looking at the lady in a
troubled way, as her head drooped over the cap she was making, and she
gazed at it like a weeping widow on a funeral card.

"So many orchestral gentlemen live about here," said Mrs Fiddison.
"You can hear the double bass quite plain at Cheadley's, next door but
one; but Waggly's have given the kettledrum notice."

"Indeed," said Richard, glancing at Mrs Jenkles, who stood smoothing
her apron.

"Yes," said Mrs Fiddison, holding out the white crape starched grief
before him, so that he might see the effect of her handiwork.  "The last
new pattern, sir."

Richard stared at Mrs Jenkles, and that lady came to his assistance.

"Mrs F. makes weeds for a wholesale house, sir."

"They ought to be called flowers of grief, Mrs Jenkles," said the lady.
"A nice quiet, genteel business, sir; and if you don't object to the
smell of the crape, you'd not know there was anything going on in the
house."

"Oh, I'm sure I shouldn't mind," said Richard.

"Prr-oooomp!" went something which sounded like young thunder coming up
in the cellar.

"That's the double bass at Cheadley's, sir," said Mrs Fiddison; "and,
as I was a-saying, you'll find the rooms very quiet, for Waggly's have
given the kettledrum notice.  Mrs Waggly said she was sure it was that
made her have the bile so bad; and I shouldn't wonder if it was."

"And the terms," said Richard.

"You are sure you don't play anything brass, sir?" said Mrs Fiddison,
looking at him with her head all on one side, as if to say, "Now, don't
deceive a weak woman!"

"Indeed, I am not musical at all," said Richard, smiling.

"Because it isn't pleasant, sir, for a landlady who wishes to make
things comfortable," continued Mrs Fiddison, smiling at the cap--which
she had now put on her left fist--as if it were a face.

"It can't be, of course." said Richard, getting impatient.

"Mr Took, my last lodger, sir, played the rumboon; and sometimes of a
morning, when he was doing his octaves, it used to quite make my brain
buzz."

"I think the rooms would suit me," said Richard, glancing round.

"Thank you, sir," said Mrs Fiddison, wiping one eye with a scrap of
crape.  "You can see the marks all over the wall now."

"Marks--wall?" said Richard.

"Ah, you don't understand the rumboon, sir," said Mrs Fiddison,
pointing with a pair of scissors to various little dents and scratches
on the wall, as she still held up the widow's cap.  "Those places are
what he used to make when he shot the thing out to get his low notes--
doing his octaves, sir."

"Indeed," said Richard, recalling the action of the trombone player in
the marine band on board his last ship.

"Perhaps you'd like to see the bedroom, sir?"

"Would you mind seeing that for me, Mrs Jenkles?" said Richard.

"It's plain, sir, but everything at Mrs Fiddison's here is as clean as
hands can make it," said Mrs Jenkles, glancing from one to the other.

"Then it will do," said Richard.  "And the terms?"

"Seven shillings my last lodger paid me, sir," said Mrs Fiddison,
drooping more and more, and evidently now much impressed by one of
Richard's boots.  "I did hope to get seven and six for them now, as
there's a new table-cover."

Richard glanced at the new cotton check on the table.

"Then I'll pay you seven and sixpence," he said.

"The last being full of holes he made when smoking," said Mrs Fiddison.

"Then that's settled," said Richard.  "Mrs--Mrs--"

"Jenkles, sir," said the cabman's wife, smiling.

"Mrs Jenkles, I'm much obliged to you for your trouble," he said.

"And so am I," said Mrs Fiddison, removing a tear once more with a
scrap of crape.  "My dear," she continued, fixing a band to the cap, and
holding it out--"isn't that sweet!"

Mrs Jenkles nodded.

"I think the gentleman wants the rooms at once," she said, glancing at
Richard.

"Yes, that I do," he replied.  "I'll fetch my portmanteau over
directly."

"Oh, dear!" ejaculated Mrs Fiddison--"so soon."

And with some show of haste, she took a widow's cap off a painted
plaster Milton on the chimneypiece, another from Shakespeare, and
revealed, by the removal of a third, the celebrated Highland laddie, in
blue and red porcelain, taking leave of a green Highland lass, with a
china sheep sticking to one of her unstockinged legs.

Half an hour after, Richard was sitting by the open window, looking
across the street at where a thin, white hand was busy watering the
fuchsias and geraniums in the window, and from time to time he caught a
glimpse of Netta's sweet, sad face.

Then he drew back, for two men came along the street.  The first,
black-browed and evil-eyed, he recollected as the fellow with whom he
had had the encounter on the race day, and this man paused for a moment
as he reached Sam Jenkles's door, turned sharply round, pointed at it,
and then went on; the second, nodding shortly as he came up, raised his
hand, and knocked, standing glancing sharply up and down the street,
while Richard mentally exclaimed--"What does he want here?"  Then the
door opened, there was a short parley with Mrs Jenkles, and the man
entered, leaving Richard puzzled and wondering, as he said, half aloud--

"What could these men be doing here?"

Volume 3, Chapter V.

BETWEEN FRIENDS.

A fortnight passed away.

It was a difficult matter to do--to make up his mind as to the future;
but after a struggle, Richard arrived at something like the course he
would pursue.  He must live, and he felt that he had a right to his pay
as an officer; so that would suffice for his modest wants.

Then, as to the old people.  He wrote a quiet, calm letter to the old
butler, saying that some time in the future he would come down and see
them, or else ask them to join him.  That he would do his duty by them,
and see that they did not come to want; but at present the wound was too
raw, and he felt that it would be better for all parties that they
should not meet.

Another letter he despatched to Mr Mervyn, asking him once more to be a
friend and guide to Humphrey; and, above all, to use his influence to
prevent injury befalling Stephen and Martha Lloyd.

His next letter was a harder one to write, for it was to Valentina Rea.
It was a struggle, but he did it; for the man was now fully roused in
spirit, and he told himself that if ever he was called upon to act as a
man of honour it was now.  He told her, then, that he never loved her
more dearly than now; that he should always remember her words in the
letter he treasured up, but that he felt it would be like blighting her
young life to hold her to her promise.  If, in the future, he could
claim her, he would; but he knew that father--soon, perhaps, mother--
would be against it, for he could at present see no hope in his future
career.

But all the same, he signed himself hers till death; sent his dear love
to "little Fin;" and then, having posted his letters, he felt better,
and went to seek out Frank Pratt.

"He won't turn out a fine weather friend, of that I'm sure," he said, as
he went up, the staircase in the Temple, to be seized by both hands as
soon as he entered, and have to submit to a couple of minutes' shaking.

"Why, Dick, old man, this does one good!" exclaimed Pratt.  "Now, then,
a steak and stout, or a chop and Bass, two pipes, and a grand debauch at
night, eh?"

"What debauch?" said Richard, smiling.

"Front row of the pit, my boy.  Absolute freedom; comfort of the stalls
without having to dress.  Nobody waiting to seize your `overcoat, sir.'
Good view of the stage; and, when the curtain's down, time and
opportunity to pity the curled darlings of society, who stand, in
melancholy row, with their backs to the orchestra, fiddling their crush
hats, and staring up at the audience through eyeglasses that blind."

"And meet Flick and Vanleigh."

"Who cares?" said Pratt, forcing his friend into a well-worn easy chair,
and taking away hat and stick.  "Isn't that a lovely chair, Dick?  I've
worked that chair into that shape--moulded it, sir, into the form of my
figure, and worn off all its awkward corners.  Pipe?--there you are.
'Bacco?--there you are.  Whisky?--there you are.  And there's a light.
Have a dressing-gown and slippers?"

"No, no--thanks," said Dick, laughing.

But his face twitched as, after filling and trying to light a pipe, he
laid it hastily down, wrung Pratt's hand, and then started up and walked
to the window, to stand gazing out at the dirty walls before him.

Before he had been there a moment, a friendly hand was laid upon his
shoulder and Pratt got hold of his hand, standing behind him without a
word, till he turned again and walked back to his seat.

"Don't mind me, Franky, I'm very sore yet."

"I know, I know," said Pratt, feelingly.  "It's hard--cursed hard!  I'd
say damned hard, only as a straightforward man I object to swearing.
But where's your bag, portmanteau, luggage?"

"Oh, that's all right," said Richard, lighting his pipe, and smoking.

"What do you mean by all right?  Where shall I send for them?"

"Send for them?"

"Send for them--yes.  You've come to stay?"

"Yes, for an hour or two."

"Dick," cried Pratt, bringing his fist down upon the table with a bang,
"if you are such a sneak as to go and stay anywhere else, I'll cut you."

"My dear Frank, don't be foolish, I've taken lodgings."

"Then give them up."

"Nonsense, man!  But listen to me.  You don't blame me for giving up?"

"I don't know, Dick--I don't know," said Pratt.  "I've lain in bed
ruminating again and again; and one time I say it's noble and manly, and
the next time I call you a fool."

Richard laughed.

"You see, old fellow, I'm a lawyer.  I've been educating myself with
cases, and the consequence is that I think cases.  Here, then, I say, is
a man in possession of a great estate; somebody tells him what may be a
cock-and-bull tale--like a melodrama at the Vic, or a story in penny
numbers--about a mysterious changeling and the rest of it, and he throws
up at once."

"Yes," said Richard.

"Speaking still as a man fed upon cases I say, then, give me proofs--
papers, documents, something I can tie up with red tape, make abstracts
of, or set a solicitor to prepare a brief from.  I'm afraid you've done
wrong, Dick, I am indeed."

"No, you are not, Franky," said Richard, quietly.  "Now speak as a man
who has not been getting up cases--speak as the lad who was always ready
to share his tips at school.  No, no, Franky; the more I think of it,
the more I feel convinced that I have behaved--as I cannot be a
gentleman--like a man of honour."

"Gentleman--cannot be a gentleman!" said Pratt, puffing out his cheeks,
and threatening his friend with one finger, as if he were in the
witness-box.  "What do you mean, sir?  Now, be careful.  Do you call
Vanleigh a gentleman?"

"Oh yes," said Richard, smiling.

"Then I don't," said Pratt, sharply.  "I saw the fellow yesterday, and
he cut me dead."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, and no wonder.  He was talking to a black-looking ruffian who
bothers me."

"Bothers you?"

"Yes, I know I've seen him before, and I can't make out where."

"Was it at the steeplechase?" said Richard, quietly.

"You've hit it, Dick," cried Pratt.  "That's the man.  Why weren't you
called to the bar?  But I say, why did you name him?  You know
something--you've seen them together."

"I have."

"Um!" said Pratt, looking hard at his friend.  "Then what does it mean?"

"Can't say," said Richard, quietly--"only that it don't concern us."

"I don't know that," said Pratt; "it may, and strongly.  But tell me
this, how long have you been in town?"

"A fortnight."

"A fortnight, and not been here!"

"I have been three times," said Richard, "and you were always out."

"How provoking!  But you might have written.  The fact is, Dick, I'm
busy.  All that work that was held back from me for so long is coming
now.  I was a bit lucky with my first case."

Which was a fact, for he had carried it through in triumph, and
solicitors were sending in briefs.

"I have been busy, too--making up my mind what to do."

"Then look here, Dick, old fellow.  I'm getting a banking account--do
you hear? a banking account--and if you don't come to me whenever you
want funds, we are friends no more."

"Franky," said Richard, huskily, "I knew you were a friend, or I should
not have come to your chambers for the fourth time.  But what did you
mean about Vanleigh's affairs concerning us?"

"Well, only that they may.  You know they are in town, of course?"

"Why, yes; I met Van the other day.  Flick is sure to be near him."

"Yes, as long as Flicky has any money to spare--afterwards Van will be
out.  But I mean them."

"Whom?" said Richard, starting.  "Our Tolcarne friends--Russell Square,
you know," said Pratt, reddening slightly.

"No," said Richard, hoarsely, "I did not know it."

"Yes, they have been up a week."

"How did you know it?"

"Well," said Pratt, reddening a little more, "I--that is--well, there, I
walked past the house, and saw them at the window."

"You've watched it, then, Franky?" said Richard, quietly.

"Well, yes, if you like to call it so; and I've seen Van and Flick go
there twice.  How did they know that you had--well, come to grief?"

Richard shook his head.

"I'll tell you.  Depend upon it, that amiable spinster aunt, who loved
you like poison, sent them word, and also of their return to town."

"Possibly," said Richard, in the same low, husky voice.

"Dick, old fellow, I don't think you've done quite right in giving up
all," said Pratt.  "You had some one else to think of besides yourself."

"For Heaven's sake, don't talk to me now," said Richard, hoarsely.  "The
task is getting harder than I thought; but if that fellow dares--Oh,
it's absurd!"

He stood for a few moments with his fists clenched, and the thoughts of
Vanleigh's dark, handsome face, and his visit to the little Pentonville
street, seemed to run in a confused way through his brain, till he
forced them aside, and, with assumed composure, filled his glass, and
tossed it off at a draught.

He was proceeding to repeat it, when Pratt laid a hand upon his arm.

"Don't do that, old fellow," he said, quietly.  "If there's work to be
done, it's the cool head that does it; drink's only the spur, and the
spurred beast soonest flags.  Let you and me talk it over.  Two heads
are better than one, and that one only Van's.  Dick, old fellow, what
are you going to do?"

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

LADY REA'S STATE OF MIND.

Frank Pratt was quite right, the Rea family were in town; and thanks to
Aunt Matilda, who had sent to Captain Vanleigh a notification of all
that had taken place, that gentleman and his companion had resumed their
visits; and had, in the course of a few days, become quite at home.

Lady Rea had felt disposed to rebel at first, but Vanleigh completely
disarmed the little lady by his frank behaviour.

"You see, Lady Rea," he said to her one day, in private, "I cannot help
feeling that you look upon me rather as an intruder."

"Really, Captain Van--"

"Pray hear me out, dear Lady Rea," he said, in protestation.  "You
prefer poor Trevor as your son-in-law--I must call him Trevor still."

"He was as good and gentlemanly a--"

"He was, Lady Rea--he was indeed," said Vanleigh, warmly, "and no one
lamented his fall more than I did."

"It was very, very sad," said Lady Rea.

"And you must own, dear Lady Rea that as soon as I heard of the
attachment between Trevor--I must still call him Trevor, you see--and
your daughter, I immediately withdrew all pretensions."

"Yes, you did do that," said Lady Rea.

"Exactly," said Vanleigh.  "Well, then, now the coast is once more
clear, and the engagement at an end--"

"But it isn't," said Lady Rea.

"Excuse me, my dear Lady Rea--I have Sir Hampton's assurance that it is
so.  He tells me that Trevor--poor old Trevor--resigned his pretensions
in the most gentlemanly way."

"Yes, he did," said Lady Rea; "and it was very foolish of him, too."

"Doubtless," said Vanleigh, with a smile; "but still, under the
circumstances, how could he have done otherwise?  Ah, Lady Rea, it was a
very sad blow to his friends."

"It's very kind of you to say so, Captain Vanleigh," said Lady Rea.

"Don't say that," replied Vanleigh.  "But now, Lady Rea, let me try and
set myself in a better position with you.  Of course you must know that
I love Miss Rea?"

"Well, yes--I suppose so," said the little lady.

"Then let us be friends," said Vanleigh.  "I am coming merely as a
visitor--a friend of the family; and what I have to ask of you is this,
that I may be treated with consideration."

"Oh, of course, Captain Vanleigh."

"If in the future Miss Rea can bring herself to look upon my pretensions
with favour, I shall be the happiest man alive.  If she cannot--well, I
will be patient, and blame no one."

"He was very nice, my dear," said Lady Rea to her daughter.  "No one
could have been more so; but I told him I didn't think there was any
hope."

"Of course there isn't, ma, dear," said Fin; "and it's very indecent of
him to come as he does, and so soon after Richard's misfortune; but I
know how it all was--Aunt Matty did it."

"Aunt Matty did it, my dear?"

"Yes, ma.  Wrote to Captain Vanleigh at his club, and told him all about
how pa said poor Richard was not to be mentioned in the house, and how
we were all brought up to town for change."

"I don't think Aunt Matty would do anything so foolish, my dear," said
mamma.

"Then how came they to call as soon as we had been up two days?" said
Fin.  "Aunt Matty would do anything she thought was for our welfare,
even if it was to poison us."

"Oh, Fin, my dear!"

"Well, I can't help it, ma, dear; she is so tiresome.  Aunt Matty is so
good; I'm glad I'm not, for it does make you so miserable and
uncharitable.  Oh, ma, darling, what a dreadfully wicked little woman
you must be!"

"Oh, my dear!"

"I'm sure Aunt Matty thinks you are.  I often see her looking painfully
righteous at you when you are reading the newspaper or a story, while
she is studying `Falling Leaves from the Tree of Life,' or `The Daily
Dredge.'"

"My dear Fin, don't talk so," said Lady Rea.  "Aunt Matty means all for
the best."

"Yes, ma, dear," said Fin, with a sigh, "that's it.  If she only meant
things for the second best, I wouldn't care, for then one might perhaps
be comfortable."

"But, my dear, don't talk so," said Lady Rea; "and I think you are
misjudging Aunt Matty about her sending to Captain Vanleigh."

"Oh no, ma, dear," cried Fin.  "It's quite right.  That dreadful noodle,
Sir Felix, let it all out to me just now in the dining-room, while the
Captain was upstairs with you."

"Has he been speaking to you, then?" said Lady Rea, eagerly.

"Yes, ma," said Fin, coolly; but there was a pretty rosy flush in her
little cheek.

"What did he say, dear?"

"He-haw, he-haw, he-haw-w-w-w!" said Fin, seriously.

"Fin!"

"Well, it sounded like it, ma," said Fin, "for I never did meet such a
donkey."

"But, my dear Fin--"

"Well, I know, ma," exclaimed Fin, "it's rude of me; but I'm naturally
rude.  I've got what Aunt Matty would call the mark of the beast on me,
and it makes me wicked."

"Tut, tut, tut!  Fin, my dear," said Lady Rea, drawing her child to her,
till Fin lay with her head resting against her, but with her face
averted.  "Now, come, tell me all about it.  I don't like you to have
secrets from me."

"Well, ma, he met me, and begged for five minutes' interview."

"Well, my dear?"

"Well, ma, I told him it was of no use, for I knew what he was going to
say."

"Oh, Fin, my dear child, I'm afraid they neglected your etiquette very
much at school."

"No, they didn't, ma," said Fin, with her eyes twinkling--"they were
always sowing me with it; but I was stony ground, as Aunt Matty would
say, and it never took root.  Oh, ma, if you had only seen what a donkey
he looked!--and he smelt all over the room, just like one of Rimmel's
young men.  Then," continued Fin, speaking fast and excitedly, "he went
on talking stuff--said he'd lay his title and fortune at my feet; that
he'd give the world to win my heart, and I told him I hadn't got one;
said he should wait patiently, and kept on talk, talk, talk--all stuff
that he had evidently been learning up for the occasion; and I'd have
given anything to have been able to pull his ears and rumple his hair,
only he might have thought it rude."

"Oh yes, my dear," said mamma, innocently.

"And at last I said I didn't think I should ever accept any one, for I
hated men; and then he sighed, and looked at me side-wise, and wanted to
take my hand; and I ran out of the room, and that's all."

"But, Fin, my dear--"

"Oh, I know, ma, it was horribly rude; but I hate him.  Pf!  I can smell
him now."

Lady Rea sighed.

"And now, I suppose," said Fin, "we are to be pestered--poor Tiny and
your humble servant; they'll follow us to church, get sittings where
they can watch us, and carry on a regular siege.  I wish them joy of
it!"

Lady Rea only sighed, and stroked the glossy head, till Fin suddenly
jumped up, and ran out of the room; but only to come back at the end of
a minute, and stand nodding her head.

"Well, my dear, what is it?" said Lady Rea.

"You'll have to put your foot down, mamma," said Fin, sharply.

Lady Rea glanced at her little member, which, in its delicate kid boot,
looked too gentle to crush a fly; and she sighed.

"A nice state of affairs!" said Fin.

"There's Tiny, up in her bedroom crying herself into a decline, and Aunt
Matty in the study with papa conspiring against our happiness, because
it's for our good.  Now, mark my words, mamma--there'll be a regular
plot laid to marry Tiny to that odious Bluebeard of a Captain, and if
you don't stop it I shall."

Lady Rea sat, with wrinkled brow, looking puzzled at the little decisive
figure before her; and then, as Fin went out with a whisk of all her
light skirts, she sat for a few moments thinking, and then went up to
her elder daughter's room.

Volume 3, Chapter VII.

FRANK A VISITOR.

Richard felt very sanguine of success during the first weeks of his stay
in London.  He was young, ardent, active, and a good sailor.  Some
employment would be easily obtained, he thought, in the merchant
service; and he only stipulated mentally for one thing--no matter how
low was his beginning, he must have something to look forward to in the
future--he must be able to rise.  But as the days glided into weeks, and
the weeks into months, he was obliged to own that it was not so easy to
find an opening as he had expected, and night after night he returned to
his solitary lodgings weary and disheartened.

Mrs Fiddison sighed, and said he was very nice--so quiet; her place did
not seem the same.  And certainly the young fellow was very quiet,
spending a great deal of his time in writing and thinking; and more than
once he caught himself watching the opposite window, and wondering what
connexion there could be between Vanleigh and his neighbours.

This watching led to his meeting the soft dark eyes of Netta, as she
busied herself at times over her flowers, watering them carefully,
removing dead leaves and blossoms, and evidently tending them with the
love of one who longs for the sweet breath of the country.

Then came a smile and a bow, and Netta shrank away from the window, and
Richard did not see her for a week.

Then she was there again, showing herself timidly, and as their eyes met
the how was given, and returned this time before the poor girl shrank
away; and as days passed on this little intercourse grew regular, till
it was a matter of course for Richard to look out at a certain hour for
his pretty neighbour, and she would be there.

This went on till she would grow bold enough to sit there close to the
flowers, her sad face just seen behind the little group of leaves and
blossoms; and, glad of the companionship, Richard got in the habit of
drawing his table to the open window, and read or wrote there, to look
up occasionally and exchange a smile.

"I don't see why I shouldn't know more of them," he said to himself, one
morning; and the next time a donkey-drawn barrow laden with Covent
Garden sweets passed, Richard bought a couple of pots of lush-blossomed
geraniums, delivered them to Mrs Jenkles, and sent them to Miss Lane,
with his hope that she was in better health.

Mrs Jenkles took the pots gladly, but shook her head at the donor.

"Is she so ill?" said Richard, anxiously.

"I'm afraid so, sir," said Mrs Jenkles.  "Her cough is so bad."

As she spoke, plainly enough heard from the upper room came the painful
endorsement of the woman's words.

Richard went across the way thoughtfully; and as he looked from his
place a few minutes after, it was to see his plants placed in the best
position in the window; and he caught a grateful look directed at him by
his little neighbour, "Poor girl!" said Richard.

A very strange feeling of depression came over him as his thoughts went
from her to one he loved; and he sighed as he sat making comparisons
between them.

An hour after, Mrs Fiddison came in, with her head on one side, a
widow's cap in one hand, a crape bow in the other, and a note in her
mouth, which gave her a good deal the look of a mourning spaniel, set to
fetch and carry.

Mrs Fiddison did not speak, only dropped the note on the table, gave
Richard a very meaning look, and left the roam.

"What does the woman mean?" he said, as he took up the note.  "And
what's this?"

"This" was a simple little note from Netta Lane, written in a ladylike
hand, and well worded, thanking him for the flowers, and telling him
that "mamma" was very grateful to him for the attention.

A week after, and Richard had called upon them; and again before a week
had elapsed, he was visiting regularly, and sitting reading to mother
and daughter as they plied their needles.

Then came walks, and an occasional ride into the country, and soon
afterwards Frank Pratt called upon his old friend, to find him leading
Netta quietly into the Jenkles's house, and Pratt stood whistling for a
moment before knocking at Mrs Fiddison's door, and asking leave to wait
till his friend came across.

Mrs Fiddison had a widow's cap cocked very rakishly over one ear, and
she further disarranged it to rub the ear as she examined the visitor,
before feeling satisfied that he had no designs on any of the property
in the place, and admitting him to Richard's sanctum.

At the end of half an hour Richard came over.

"Ah, Franky!" he exclaimed, "this is a pleasure."

"Is it?" said Pratt.

"Is it?--of course it is; but what are you staring at?"

"You.  Seems a nice girl over the way."

"Poor darling!--yes," said Richard, earnestly.

"Got as far as that, has it?" said Pratt, quietly.

"I don't understand you," said Richard, staring hard.

"Suppose not," said Pratt, bitterly.  "Way of the world; though I didn't
expect to see it in you."

"`Rede me this riddle,' as Carlyle says," exclaimed Richard.  "What do
you mean, man?"

"Only that it's as well to be off with the old love before you begin
with the new."

"Why, Franky, what a donkey you are!" said Richard, laughing.  "You
don't think that I--that they--that--that--well, that I am paying
attentions to that young lady--Miss Lane?"

"Well, it looks like it," said Pratt, grimly.

"Why, my dear boy, nothing has ever been farther from my thoughts," said
Richard.  "It's absurd."

"Does the young lady think so too?"

Richard started.

"Well, really--I never looked at it in that light.  But, oh, it's
ridiculous.  Only a few neighbourly attentions; and, besides, the poor
girl's in a most precarious state of health."

"Hum!" said Pratt.  "Well, don't make the girl think you mean anything.
Who are they?"

"I asked no questions, of course--how could I?  They are quite ladies,
though, in a most impecunious state."

"Hum!" said Frank, thoughtfully, and he rose from his chair to make
himself comfortable after his way; that is to say, he placed his feet in
the seat, and sat on the back--treatment at which Mrs Fiddison's modest
furniture groaned.  "Old lady object to this?"

Frank tapped the case of his big pipe, as he drew it from his pocket in
company with a vile-scented tobacco pouch.

"Oh no, I'm licenced," said Richard, dreamily; for his thoughts were
upon his friend's words, and he felt as if he had unwittingly been doing
a great wrong.

"I'm going to take this up, Dick," said Pratt, after smoking a few
minutes in silence.

"Take what up?" said Richard, starting.

"This affair of yours, and these people."

"I don't understand you."

"Perhaps not," said Pratt, shortly.  "But look here, Dick, you're not
going to break faith with some one."

"Break faith, Frank!" exclaimed Richard, angrily.  "There is no
engagement now.  The poor girl is free till I have made such a
fortune"--he smiled bitterly--"as will enable me once more to propose.
There, there, don't say another word, Franky, old man, it cuts--deeper
than you think.  I wouldn't say this much to another man living.  But as
for that poor child over the way, I have never had a thought towards her
beyond pity."

"Which is near akin to love," muttered Frank.  Then aloud--"All right,
Dick.  I could not help noticing it; but be careful.  Little girls'
hearts are made of tender stuff--some of them," he said, speaking
ruefully--"when they are touched by fine, tall, good-looking fellows."

"Pish!" ejaculated Richard.  "Change the subject."

"Going to," said Pratt, filling his pipe afresh, and smoking once more
furiously.  "Better open that window, these pokey rooms so soon get
full.  That's right.  Now, then, for a change.  Look here, old fellow,
you know I'm going ahead now, actually refusing briefs.  Do you hear,
you unbelieving-looking dog?--refusing briefs, and only taking the best
cases."

"Bravo!" said Richard, trying to smile cheerily.

"I'm getting warm, Dick--making money.  Q.C. some day, my boy--perhaps.
But seriously, Dick, old fellow, I am going ahead at a rate that
surprises no one more than yours truly.  When I'd have given my ears for
a good case, and would have studied it night and day, the beggars
wouldn't have given me one to save my life, even if I'd have done it for
nothing.  Now, when I'm so pressed that it's hard work to get them up,
they come and beg me to take briefs.  This very morning, one came from a
big firm of solicitors at ten o'clock, marked fifty guineas, and I
refused it.  At one o'clock, hang me if they didn't come back with it,
marked a hundred, and a fellow with it, hat in hand, ready, if I'd
refused again, to offer me more."

"Frank," cried Richard, jumping up, and shaking his friend warmly by the
hand, "no one is more delighted than I am."

"Mind what you're up to," said Pratt, who had nearly been tilted off his
perch by his friend's energy.  "But I say, it don't seem like it."

"Why?"

"Because you won't share in it.  Now, look here, Dick, old fellow, you
must want money, and it's too bad that you won't take it."

"I don't want it, Frank--I don't, indeed," cried Richard, hastily.
"Living as I do, I have enough and to spare.  I tell you, I like the
change."

"Gammon," said Pratt, shortly.  "It's very well to talk about liking to
be poor, and no one knows what poverty is better than I; but I like
money as well as most men.  I used to eat chaff, Dick; but I like corn,
and wine, and oil, and honey better.  Now, look here, Dick, once for
all--if you want money, and don't come to me for it, you are no true
friend."

"Franky," said Richard, turning away his face, "if ever I want money,
I'll come to you and ask for it.  As matters are, I have always a few
shillings to spare."

As he spoke, he got up hastily, lit a pipe, and began to smoke; while
Mrs Fiddison in the next room, heaved a sigh, took off her shoes, and
went on tiptoe through the little house, opening every door and window,
after carefully covering up all her widows' caps.

"There is one thing about noise," she said to herself, "it don't make
the millinery smell."

"I knocked off a few days ago," said Frank, from out of a cloud.

"You are working too hard," said Richard, anxiously.

"'Bliged to," said Pratt.  "Took a change--ran down to Cornwall."

Richard started slightly, and smoked hard.

"Thought I'd have a look at the old place, Dick--see how matters were
going on."

Silence on the part of Richard, and Pratt breathed more freely; for he
had expected to be stopped.

"First man I ran against was that Mervyn, along with the chap who was
upset in the cab accident in Pall Mall, and gave you his card--a Mr
John Barnard, solicitor, in Furnival's Inn--cousin or something of
Mervyn's--knew me by sight, and somehow we got to be very sociable.
Don't much like Mervyn, though.  Good sort of fellow all the same--
charitable, and so on."

Richard smoked his pipe in silence longing to hear more of his old home,
though every word respecting it came like a stab.

"Heard all about Penreife," continued Pratt, talking in a careless,
matter-of-fact way.  "Our friend Humphrey is being courted, it seems, by
everybody.  Half the county been to call upon him, and congratulate him
on his rise.  I expected to find the fellow off his head when I saw him;
but he was just the same--begged me to condescend to come and stay with
him, which of course I didn't, and as good as told me he was horribly
bored, and anything but happy."

There was a pause here, filled up by smoking.

"The old people are still there, and they say the new owner's very kind
to them; but our little friend Polly's away at a good school, where she
is to stay till the wedding.  Humphrey wants to see you."

Richard winced.

"Asked me to try and bring about a meeting, and sent all sorts of kind
messages."

Richard remained silent.

"Says he feels like as if he had deprived you of your birthright; and as
for the people about, they say, Dick,"--Pratt paused for a few moments
to light his pipe afresh--"they say, Dick, that you acted like a fool."

Richard faced round quietly, and looked straight at his friend.

"Do you think, Frank, that I acted like a fool?"

Pratt smoked for a moment or two, then he turned one of his fingers into
a tobacco stopper, and lastly removed his pipe.

"Well, speaking as counsel, whose opinion is that you ought to have
waited, and left the matter to the law to sift, I say yes."

"But speaking as my old friend, Frank Pratt," said Richard, "and as an
honest man?"

"Well, we won't discuss that," said Frank, hopping off his perch.
"Good-bye, old chap."

He shook hands hastily, and left the house, glancing up once at Sam
Jenkles's upper window, and then, without appearing to notice him,
taking a side glance at Barney of the black muzzle, who was making a
meal off a scrap of hay, with his shoulders lending polish to a
public-house board at the corner.

"There's some little game being played up here," said Frank to himself.
"I'll have a talk to Barnard."

Volume 3, Chapter VIII.

A PROPOSAL.

Frank Pratt had no sooner gone than Richard began to stride hastily up
and down the little room, to the great endangering of Mrs Fiddison's
furniture.  As he neared the window he glanced across, to see Netta
sitting there at work, and a faint smile and blush greeted him.

"Poor girl," he muttered.  "But, no, it's nonsense.  She can't think it.
Absurd!  She's so young--so ill.  There, it's childish, and I should be
a vain fool if I thought so."

He stood thinking for a few moments, and as he paused there was the
rattle of wheels in the street, and Sam Jenkles drove his hansom to the
door and stopped, gave the horse in charge of a boy, and went in.

The next minute Richard had crossed too, for a plan had been formed on
the instant.

Mrs Jenkles met him at the door, and at his wish led him to where Sam
was seated at a table, hurriedly discussing a hot meal.

"Drops in, sir, if ever I drives a fare in this direction, and the
missus generally has a snack for me.  Eh, sir?  Oh no, sir.  All right,
I'll wait," he said, in answer to a question or two.

And then Richard ascended the stairs, knocked and entered, to find that
mother and daughter had just risen from their needlework, Mrs Lane to
look grave, Netta with a bright look in her eyes, and too vivid a red in
either cheek.

"Ah, you busy people," he said, cheerily, "what an example you do set
me!  How's our little friend to-day?"

The bright look of joy in Netta's face faded slightly as she heard their
visitor speak of her as he would of some child, but there was a happy,
contented aspect once more as she placed her hand in his, and felt his
frank pressure.

"Mrs Lane," said Richard, speaking gaily, "I'm like the little boy in
the story--I'm idle, and want some one to come and play with me, but I
hope for better luck than he."

Mother and daughter looked at him wonderingly.

"I've come to tell you," he said, "that the sun shines brightly
overhead; there's a deep blue sky, and silvery clouds floating across
it; and six or seven miles out northward there are sweet-scented wild
flowers, waving green trees, all delicious shade; the music of
song-birds, the hum of insects, and views that will gladden your hearts
after seeing nothing but smoke and chimneypots.  I am Nature's
ambassador, and I am here to say `Come.'"

As he spoke the work fell from Netta's hands, her eyes dilated, and a
look of intense glad longing shone from her soft, oval face, while she
hung upon her mother's lips, till, hearing her words, the tears gathered
in her eyes, and she bent her head to conceal them.

Mrs Lane's words were very few; they were grateful, but they told of
work to be done by a certain time, and she said it was impossible.

"But it would do you both good.  Miss Netta there wants a change badly,"
said Richard; "and you haven't heard half my plan.  Jenkles has his cab
at the door, and I propose a drive right out into the country, and when
we get back you will ask me to tea.  It will be a squeeze, but you will
forgive that."

Poor Mrs Lane's face looked drawn in its pitiful aspect.  She felt that
such a trip would be like so much new life to her child, but she could
not go, and she shook her head.

"It may not be etiquette, perhaps," said Richard, quietly, "but I shall
ask you to waive that, and let me take Netta here.  You know it will do
her good, and she will have Mr Jenkles, as well as your humble servant,
to take care of her."

Mrs Lane looked him searchingly in the face, which was as open as the
day, and then, glancing at Netta, she saw her parted lips and look of
intense longing.  The refusal that had been imminent passed away, and
laying her hand upon the young man's arm, she said, softly--

"I will trust you."

There was something almost painful in the look of joy in Netta's face
as, with trembling eagerness, she threw her arms round her mother, and
then, with the excitement of a child, hurried away to put on hat and
mantle.

"I shall be back directly," she exclaimed.

Richard's heart gave one heavy painful throb as he turned for an instant
at the door.

Mrs Lane laid her hand upon his arm as soon as they were alone, and
once more looked searchingly into his face.

"I ought not to do this," she said, pitifully.  "You're almost a
stranger; but it is giving her what she has so little of--pleasure;
more, it is like giving her life.  You know--you see how ill she is?"

"Poor child, yes," said Richard.

"Child!"

"Yes," said Richard, gravely.  "I have always looked upon her as a
child--or, at least, as a young, innocent girl.  Mrs Lane, I tell you
frankly, for I think I can read your feelings--every look, every
attention of mine towards that poor girl has been the result of pity.
If you could read me, I think you would never suspect me of trifling."

"I am ready to trust you," she said.  "You will not be late.  The night
air would be dangerous for her--hush!"

"I'm ready!" exclaimed Netta, joyfully.

As she appeared framed in the doorway of the inner room, her dark hair
cast back, eyes sparkling, and the flush as of health upon her cheeks,
and lips parted to show her pure white teeth, Richard's heart gave
another painful throb, and he thought of Frank Pratt's words, for it was
no child that stood before him, but a very beautiful woman.

"You'll be back before dark, my darling?" said Mrs Lane, tenderly.

"Oh yes," cried Netta, excitedly.  "Mr Lloyd will take such care of me;
but--"

The joy faded out of her countenance, and she clung to her mother,
looking from her to the work.

"What is it, my dear?" said Mrs Lane, stroking her soft dark hair.

"It's cruel to go and leave you here at work," sobbed the girl.

"What! when you are going to get strength, and coming back more ready to
help me?" said Mrs Lane, cheerfully.  "There, go along!  Take care of
her, Mr Lloyd."

Richard had been to the head of the stairs, and spoken to Sam, who was
already on his box; and as the young man offered his arm, Netta took it,
with the warm, soft blush returning, and she stole a look of timid love
at the tall, handsome man who was to be her protector.

The next minute she was in the cab, Richard had taken his place at her
side, and Sam essayed to start as the good-bye nods were given.

"Lor!" said Mrs Jenkles, her woman's instinct coming to the fore, "what
a lovely pair they do make!"

At the same moment, on the opposite side of the way, a lady with a
widow's cap cocked back on her head, gazed from behind a curtain, wiped
her eyes on a piece of crape, and said, with a sigh--

"And him the handsomest and quietest lodger I ever had!"

Meanwhile, in answer to every appeal from Sam Jenkles, Ratty was laying
his ears back, wagging his tail, and biting at nothing.

"Don't you be skeared, Miss," said Sam, through the little roof-trap,
"it's on'y his fun.  Get on with yer, Ratty--I'm blowed if I aint
ashamed on yer.  Jest ketch hold of his head, and lead him arf a dozen
yards, will yer, mate?" he continued, addressing a man, after they had
struggled to the end of the street.  "Thanky."

For the leading had the desired effect, and Ratty went off at a trot to
Pentonville Hill.

"Blest if I don't believe that was Barney," said Sam to himself, looking
back, and he was quite right, for that gentleman it was; and as soon as
the cab was out of sight he had taken a puppy out of one pocket of his
velveteen coat, looked at it, put it back, and then slouched off to
where he could take an omnibus, on whose roof he rode to Piccadilly,
where he descended, made his way into Jermyn Street, and then stopping
at a private house, rang softly, took the puppy out of his pocket, a
dirty card from another, and waited till the door was answered.

"Tell the captain as I've brought the dawg," he said to the servant, who
left him standing outside; but returned soon after, to usher him into
the presence of Captain Vanleigh, who smiled and rubbed his hands
softly, as he wished Tiny Rea could have been witness of that which had
been brought to him as news.

Volume 3, Chapter IX.

IN THE WOODS.

The captain would have been more elate if he had been able to follow the
fortunes of Sam Jenkles's cab; for having received his instructions, Sam
bowled along by Euston Square in the direction of the Hampstead Road,
till he had to go at a foot's pace on account of some alteration to the
roadway, the result being that for a few moments the cab was abreast of
a barouche containing four ladies, one of whom started, and said, in a
quick whisper--

"Oh, look, Tiny, that's the church with the figures I told you about."

But Fin Rea was too late, her sister was leaning over the side of the
carriage, gazing intently at Sam Jenkles's cab, and the dark-haired
girl, with the wondrous colour and look of animation, looking so
lovingly in her companion's face; and as the carriage swept on, unseen
by the occupants of the cab, poor Tiny sank back, not fainting, but with
a pitiful sigh and a look of stony despair that made Fin clasp her
hands, as she set her little white teeth together, and muttered--

"The wretch!"

Lady Rea saw nothing of this; but Aunt Matty, who was beside her, did,
and a look of quiet triumph came into her withered features.  But
nothing was said, and as for the cab, it rolled on and on quickly, till
it came to the tree-shadowed hill beneath Lady Coutts' park, and then,
after a long walk up to the top of Highgate Hill, on and on again, till
London was far behind, the soft green meads and the sheltered lanes
reached; and while Sam pulled up at a roadside public-house, amongst
half a dozen fragrant, high-laden hay carts, Richard led off his charge,
with sinking heart, over a stile, and away midst waving cornfields,
bright with poppy and bugloss; and by hedges wreathed with great white
convolvuli, and the twining, tendrilled bryonies, or wild clematis.

Richard was grave, and his heart sank as he saw the joyous air of the
young girl by his side, felt the light touch of her little hand, and
when he met her eyes read in them so much gentle, trusting love, that he
felt as if he had been a scoundrel to her, and that he was about to
blight her life.

He was not a vain man, and he had used no arts to gain the sympathy that
it was easy to read in the sweet face beside him but he could not help
telling himself that it was but too plain; and he groaned in his heart
as he thought of that which he had determined to say.

"Hark, listen!" cried the girl, as a lark rose from the corn close by.
"Isn't it beautiful?  How different to those poor caged things in our
street.  Look, too, at the green there--four, five, twenty different
tints upon those trees.  Oh, you are losing half the beauties of those
banks!  Look at them, scarlet with poppies!  There, too, the crimson
valerian.  How beautiful the foxgloves are!  Why, there's a white one.
Who'd ever think that London could be so near!"

She stopped, panting, and held her hand to her side.

"You are tired?" he said, anxiously.

"Oh no," she said, darting a grateful look in return for his
sympathy--"it is nothing.  I feel as if I should like to set off and
run, but I think sometimes I am not so strong as I used to be.  Mamma
says I have outgrown my strength; but it is my cough."

She said these last words plaintively, and there was a sad, pinched look
in her face as she gazed up at him; but it lit up again directly as she
met his eager, earnest eyes fixed upon her, and her trembling little
hand stole farther through his arm.

"That's right," he said, patting it--"lean on me.  I'm big and strong."

"May I?" she said, softly.

"To be sure," he answered.

"It's very kind of you," she whispered, "and I like it.  I go out so
little, and yet I long to; and if I don't stay here long, I shall have
seen so little of the world."

"Netta, my child," he exclaimed, "what are you saying?"

The girl's other hand was laid upon his arm, as they stood beneath a
shady tree, and she looked up at him in a dreamy way.

"I think sometimes," she said, slowly, "that I shall not be here long.
It's my cough, I suppose.  It's so pleasant to feel, though, that
people--some one cares for me; only it makes me feel that I shall not
want to go."

"Come, come, this is nonsense," he said, cheerily.  "Why, you're not an
invalid."

"I should be, I think, if we were rich," she said, sadly.  "But let's go
on along by that high sand bank, where the flowers are growing; and here
is a wood all deep shades of green."

"But you will be tired?"

"No, no; you said I might rest on you.  I should not be weak if I could
live out here, and dear mamma were not compelled to work.  Poor mamma!"

They walked on in silence, and she leaned more heavily upon his arm.
Twice their eyes met, and as Netta's fell before those of her companion
it was not until they had told the sweet, pure love of her young heart.
They were no fiery, rapturous glances--no looks of passionate ecstasy;
but the soft, beaming maiden love of an innocent, trusting girl, whose
young heart was opening, like a flower, to offer its fragrant sweets to
the man who had first spoken gentle words to her--words that had seemed
to her, who had not had girlhood's joys, like the words of love.  And
that young heart had opened under the influence, like the scented
rosebud in the sun; but there was a fatal canker there, and as the
flower bloomed, the withering was at hand.

"Let us stop here," cried Netta, drinking in the beauty of the scene;
"it is like being young again, when we were so happy--when mamma watched
for papa's coming, and there seemed no trouble in life.  Oh, it has been
a cruel time!"

She shuddered, and clung to the arm which supported her.

"This is very wrong of me," she said, looking up, and smiling the next
moment.  "I ought not to talk of the past like that."

"Shall we sit down here?" he said, pointing to a fallen tree trunk.

Then, with the low hum of the insects round them, they entered the edge
of the wood.

He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments, and twice her eyes
were raised to his with so appealing and tender a look that he felt
unmanned.  He had brought her there to tell her something, and her love
disarmed him; so that he snatched at a chance to put off that which he
wished to say.

"You were telling me of the happy past," he said.  "Your were well off
once?"

"Yes, and so happy," said the girl, her eyes filling with tears.  "I
ought not, perhaps, to tell you, though."

"You may trust me, Netta," he said, taking her hand.

"I always felt that I could," she cried, eagerly, as her face flushed
more deeply, and her hand trembled in his; for he had again called her
Netta, and her heart throbbed with joy, even though he was so grave.
"Shall I tell you?"

"Yes--tell me; but are you weary?"

"Oh, no, no," she said, excitedly.  "But I must not mention names.
Mamma wishes ours kept secret, for she is very proud.  Papa is an
officer, and as I remember him first, he was so handsome, even as mamma
was beautiful.  We used to live in a pretty cottage, just outside town,
and papa was so kind.  But how it came about I never knew, he gradually
grew cold, and hard, and stern, so that I was afraid of him when he came
to see us, and he used to be angry to mamma, and then stay away for
weeks together, then months, till at last we rarely saw him.  The pretty
cottage was sold, with everything in it--even my presents; and mamma and
I lived in lodgings.  And then trouble used to come about money; for
poor mamma would be half distracted when none was sent her, and this
dreadful neglected state went on, till mamma said she could bear it no
more.  Then she used to go out and give lessons; but that was terribly
precarious work, and soon after she used to work with her needle."

"And your father?" said Richard.

"Never came," said Netta--"at least, very rarely.  But I ought not to
tell you more."

"Can you not trust me?" he said, with a smile.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes," cried the girl, impetuously, and she nestled closer
to him.  "I can trust you.  It was like this:--Papa was a Roman
Catholic, and mamma had always brought me up in her own Protestant
religion; and by degrees I found out he had made a point of that, and
had told mamma that their marriage was void, as it had only been
performed according to one church.  He used to write and tell her that
he was free, and that if she would give up every claim on him, and
promise to write to that effect, he would settle a regular income upon
her."

"And your mamma?"

"I heard her say once to herself that it would be disgracing me, and
that she would sooner we starved.  That is why we have worked so hard,
and had to live in such dreadful places," said the girl, shuddering.

"My poor child!" he said, tenderly.  "Yours has been a hard life, and
you so delicate."

"I shall grow strong now," she said, half shyly; "but why do you call me
child?"

She looked up in his face with a smile, half playful, half tender--a
look that made him shiver.

"You are not cross with me?" she said, gazing at him piteously.

"Cross?  No," he said, gently.

And he once more took her hand, trying hard to begin that which he had
brought her there to tell, but as far off as ever.  At the end of a
minute, though, she gave him the opportunity, by saying naively--

"You have never told me anything about yourself.  Mamma wondered what
you were--so different to everybody we meet."

"Let me tell you, Netta," he said, earnestly.  "And promise me this--
that we are still to be great friends."

She looked at him wonderingly.

"Yes, of course," she said.  "Why should we not be?  You have always
been so kind."

He paused for a moment or two; and then, there in the calm of that
shadowy wood, with the sunbeams coming like golden arrows through the
leafy boughs, and the distant twitter of some bird for interruption, he
told her of his own life and troubles, watching her bright, animated
face as she listened eagerly, sometimes laying her hand confidingly upon
his arm, till his tale approached the chapters of his love; and now,
impassioned in his earnestness, he half forgot the listener at his side,
till, in the midst of his declaration of love and trust and fidelity to
Valentina Rea, he became aware of a faint sigh, and he had just time to
catch the poor girl as she was slipping from the tree trunk to the
ground.

"Poor child!" he said, raising her in his arms, gazing in the pale face,
and kissing her forehead.  "It was a cruel kindness, for Heaven knows I
never thought of this."

He sat holding her for a few moments, as animation came slowly back,
till at last her eyes opened, looking wonderingly in his; and then, as
recollection returned, she put up her two hands as if in prayer, and
said, piteously--

"Take me home--please, take me home."

"Netta, my child," cried Richard, sinking at her feet, "recollect your
promise--that we were to be friends.  I have hurt you--I have wounded
you.  I call God to witness that I never meant it!"

A sad smile quivered for a moment on her poor white lips, as he kissed
her hands again and again; and then, as the full reality of all she had
heard came upon her, she uttered a low, heart-breaking wail, and sank
upon the ground amidst the ferns and grass, covered her face with her
hands, and sobbed aloud.

"My God, what have I done?" exclaimed Richard, hoarsely.  "Netta, my
child, I tried to be kind to you, and it has all turned to gall and
bitterness.  For Heaven's sake, tell me you forgive me--that you do not
think me base and cruel.  Netta, pray--pray speak to me."

She dropped her hands in her lap, and raised her blank white face to
his.

"You believe me?" he cried, hoarsely.

"Yes, yes," she said, piteously.  "It was my fault.  I thought--I
thought--"

"Hush, my poor darling!" he whispered, "I know what you would say.  I
should have known better."

"No," she said, sweetly, and her trembling voice was so piteous that the
tears rose to the strong man's eyes.  "It was I who should have known
better, Richard--I, who have only a few short months to stay on earth."

"Netta!" he cried, and his voice was wild and strange.

"Yes, it is true," she said, simply--"it is quite true; but you came
like sunshine to my poor dark life, and I could not help it--I thought
you loved me."

"And I do, my child, dearly, as I would a sister!" he exclaimed,
passionately, as he raised her up, and kissed her forehead.  "Netta, I
would have given my right hand sooner than have caused you pain."

"Don't blame yourself," she said, softly, extricating herself from his
arms; "I should have known better.  Take me home--take me home!"

She caught at his arm after trying to walk alone, and looked pitifully
in his face.

"You see," she whispered, "it was a dream--a dream; but so bright, and
now--"

She reeled, and would have fallen but for the strong arm flung round
her; and Richard held her for a few moments till she recovered.

"Richard," she whispered, sadly, "forgive me if I was unmaidenly and
bold; but it seemed so short a time that I should be here, that I could
not act as others do.  But take me home--take me home."

She seemed half fainting, and raised he handkerchief to her lips, to
take it down stained with blood.  Then, shuddering slightly, she turned
her face to his, smile faintly, and laid one little thin hand upon his
breast, before hanging almost inanimate upon his arm.

Richard uttered a groan as he raised her in his arms, and bore her
rapidly into the lane, where, at the distance of a hundred yards, stood
the cab, with Batty grazing comfortably, and Sam Jenkles dozing on his
box.

"Taken ill--quick!" gasped Richard, as he lifted his burden into the
vehicle.  "Quick--London--the first doctor's."

Volume 3, Chapter X.

THE USE OF MONEY.

That evening Frank Pratt was busily preparing himself for a City dinner,
when Richard rushed panting into the room, haggard, his face covered
with perspiration, and a look of despair in his eyes that frightened his
friend.

"Why, Dick, old man," he cried, catching his hands, "what is it?"

"Money, Frank--give me money--ten--twenty--fifty pounds; doctors--
doctors.  I've killed her--killed her!" he groaned.

Pratt asked no questions, but unlocking a desk, he took out and placed
five crisp bank notes in his friend's hand.

"I knew you would," panted Richard.  "God bless you, Frank!  Best
doctor--consumption?"

"Morley, Cavendish Square," said Pratt, with sharp brevity.

Then waving his hand, Richard dashed from the room; while Pratt quietly
sat down, half-dressed, to think it out, which meant to light his pipe.

Meanwhile his friend had rushed down, taken Sam Jenkles's cab, which was
waiting, and, as he was being driven through the streets, went over the
incidents of his return--how they had called on a suburban surgeon, who
had administered a styptic, and ordered them to go back very gently--how
Mrs Lane had met him with a look of reproachful agony in her eyes, as
he lifted out the half insensible girl, and bore her upstairs; and then,
as he turned to go, after laying poor Netta on the bed, she had held out
her hands to him, taking his in hers, and kissing them--so unmanning him
that he had sunk upon his knees by her side, and hid his face.

He could hardly recall the rest--only that he had had to go to four
doctors before he could find one ready to come to the shabby street; and
when at last he had been brought to the poor girl's bedside, he had
recommended the hospital.

It was this that had sent the young man to Frank Pratt's for money, the
value of which he now thoroughly realised for the first time in his
life.

The old white-haired physician came with him at once--Ratty, the horse,
never once causing trouble; and Netta gave the messenger a grateful
smile, as she saw the mission upon which he had been.  Then, with his
mind in a whirl, Richard waited to see the physician, taking him over
into his own rooms, that his questions might be unheard.

"But she will recover?" said Richard, eagerly.

The old physician shook his head.

"It is but a matter of time," he said, gravely.  "I can do nothing.
Quiet, change, nutritious food, are the best doctors for a case like
hers.  A southern climate might benefit her a little; but it would be
cruelty to send her away from home, and might do more harm than good.
The poor girl is in a deep decline."

Richard was alone.  What an end to the pleasant day he had projected!--
one which should do his poor little neighbour good, and wherein at the
same time he could quietly tell her of his position, and so stop at once
any nascent idea she might have that he was seeking to win her love.
How could he know, he asked himself, that matters had gone so far--that
the poor child really cared for him--for him, who had not a disloyal
thought to Valentina Rea; who, like the poor sufferer, lay that night
wakeful, and with a weary, gnawing pain at her heart--in the one case
mingled of hopeless misery, in the other tinged with bitterness, and a
feeling new to her--anger against the author of her pain.

Thus the days glided by, with Netta lying dangerously ill, too weak to
be moved.  Richard was over a dozen times a day, asking after her
health, and he had insisted upon Mrs Lane taking money for the
necessities of the case.  Then came a day when a fly stopped at the
door; and Richard from his window, expecting to see a fresh doctor, saw
a quiet-looking man step out, enter, stay a quarter of an hour, and then
return; and when, an hour later, he went over himself, it was to find
Mrs Lane deeply agitated, and with traces of tears upon her face; but
she made no confidant of him.

At last, while he was sitting writing one day, there came a letter for
him, with Frank Pratt for bearer.  It had come to his chambers by post,
he said, enclosed in another, asking him to forward it.

Frank went away as soon as he had delivered it, seeming troubled; and on
Richard opening the note, he found these words:--

  "I think it right to tell you what you have done, though no one knows
  that I have written.  I did trust you, Richard Trevor; for I thought
  you a true, good man, who would be as faithful to my dear sister as
  she would have been to you.  If any one had told me you would give her
  up directly for somebody else, I could have struck him.  But I'll tell
  you what you've done, for you ought to know it for your punishment:
  you've broken the heart of the dearest, sweetest sister that ever
  lived, and I hate you with all mine.

  "Fin Rea.

  "P.S.--Tiny's very ill, almost seriously, and all through you."

He had hardly read the note a second time, when Mrs Fiddison came in
dolefully, to say that Mrs Jenkles wanted to speak to him; and upon
that lady being admitted, it was to say, with a curtsey--

"If you please, sir, Mrs Lane says Miss Netta has been begging for you
to be sent for, if you'd come."

Richard rose to follow the messenger, who said, softly--

"You must be very quiet, sir, for she's greatly changed."

Volume 3, Chapter XI.

IN THE SQUARE CALLED RUSSELL.

There's plenty of room in Russell Square for a walk, without the
promenaders being seen by those without, either in the houses or on the
pavement.

Russell Square had grown very attractive to Frank Pratt of late, and he
used to smoke cigars there at all sorts of hours.  He had been seen by
the milk there at 6:15, railway time; Z 17 had glanced suspiciously at
him at one a.m.; while the crossing-sweeper said she "knowed that there
little stumpy gent by heart."

It was one afternoon about three, though, that Pratt was sauntering
along one side of the square, when he saw Vanleigh and Sir Felix go
slowly up to Sir Hampton's house; and a pang shot through the little
fellow, as envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness took
possession of his heart.

"Lucky beggars!" he groaned.

He felt better, though, the next minute, for the servant who answered
the door had evidently said "Not at home!" card-cases had been
withdrawn, and then the visitors had languidly descended the steps and
continued their way.

"Lucky beggars!" said Pratt again.  "Heigho! what a donkey I am to
wander about here.  Poor Dick, though, it's to do him a good turn."

He crossed the road to the railings of the garden, and as he walked
there he cast a very languishing look up at the great, grim house,
almost fancying he heard "Er-rum!" proceed from an open window; and if
he had not said his presence there was on account of his friend, any
looker-on would have vowed it was in his own interests.

He walked slowly on, thinking about Cornwall, and another visit he had
projected there; of Fin Rea; about Richard and his disappointments;
about his pretty neighbour; and lastly of a case he had in hand, when a
little toy dog rushed amongst the shrubs inside the railings, and began
snapping and barking at him with all the virulence of an old
acquaintance.

"Get out, you little wretch!" thought Pratt, and then he fancied he
recognised the dog.

"Why, it's Pepine!" he mentally exclaimed.

And if any doubt remained it was solved by a voice crying--

"Naughty Pepine, come here directly!"

Then through the trees he caught a glimpse of a lavender dress
gracefully draping an iron seat.

It was not the dog that made Frank Pratt flee with rapid strides, till a
thought made him check his steps.

"Suppose some one else was walking there!"

In the hope that it might be possible, Pratt went slowly on, taking
advantage of every break in the trees to peer anxiously through the
railings, seeing, however, nothing but nursemaids in charge of naughty
children, whom it was necessary to correct by screwing their arms at the
sockets--a beneficial practice, no doubt, but whose good was not
apparent at the time.  There was a perambulator being propelled by a
nursemaid reading the _Family Herald_, while the two children it
contained were fast asleep--one hanging forward, sustained by a strap,
and looking like a fat Punch in a state of congestion; the other leaning
over the side, and having a red place ground in its ear by the
perambulator wheel.  Farther on there were more children, playing alone
at throwing dirt, their protectress being engaged in a flirtation with a
butcher in blue with a round, bullet head, whose well-oiled hair shone
in the afternoon sun.

Pratt walked on, getting hopeless as he progressed, for soon he would
come within range of Pepine, and perhaps be discovered when--What was
that?

A sharp, short little cough that could be no other than Fin's; and
there, through the trees, were she and her sister, Tiny resting on Fin's
arm, and walking very slowly.

There was an opening in the shrubs farther on; and hurrying to this,
though it was dangerously near Pepine and Aunt Matty, Pratt waited the
coming of the sisters.

Alas, for human hopes!--they had turned back, and he had to hurry after
them for some distance before he could find an opening sufficiently
clear to display his figure, when he hazarded a cough; and on Fin
looking sharply round, he followed it up with a "How d'ye do, Miss Rea?"

"It's Mr Pratt!" he heard Fin whisper.  And then came back a quiet
response.

"Do you always walk like this--within prison bars?" said Pratt, walking
on parallel with them.

"It can't be prison when one holds the keys, Mr Pratt," said Fin,
sharply.

"You'll let me shake hands?" he said, after a pause.  "I never see you
now."

"How can you?" said Fin, sharply, "when you never call."

"What was the use of my calling, when your servant could only speak me
one speech?" said Pratt.

"And pray, what was that?" said Fin, with her nose in the air.  "Not at
home."

Fin gave her foot a little stamp on the gravel, and whispered to her
sister.  By this time they had reached the gate, just as a nursemaid
unlocked it to pass through with her charge.

"Thanks," said Pratt, quietly.  And, walking in, he was the next moment
with Fin and her sister; the former looking defiant, and half drawing
back her hand, the latter so pale and ill that, forgetting Fin, Pratt
took both her hands affectionately, as, with a husky voice, he
exclaimed--

"My dear Miss Rea, I didn't know you had been so ill."

Tiny answered with a gentle smile; and Fin, who had been setting up all
the thorns about her, ready to tear and lacerate this intruder, now
looked quite humid of eye, and shook hands warmly.

"I--I didn't know you'd be so glad to see me," said Pratt, flushing with
pleasure.

"I didn't say I was," said Fin, archly.

"You looked so," it was on Pratt's lips to say; but he checked it, and
they strolled on--away from Aunt Matty, after Fin had mischievously
proposed that Pratt should go and see her--till Tiny complained of
fatigue and sat down.

Here was an opportunity not to be lost; and, after a little
solicitation, Fin consented to leave her sister and walk on,
conditionally that they kept in sight.

Pratt, on the strength of his prosperity, had determined to sound his
little companion; but before they had gone a dozen yards, he found that
his own affairs were to be of no account.

"What's become of that wretch of a friend of yours?" said Fin, sharply.

"Do you mean Sir Felix Landells?" said Pratt, borrowing a shaft from her
own quiver.

"No, I don't," said Fin, flushing scarlet, "nor any such silly donkey, I
mean--"

Pratt would have gone down on his knees in the gravel, only there was a
nursemaid close by, and a big, fat child was sucking its thumb, and
staring at them; but he burst out, in a husky voice--

"Oh, Miss Rea--Finetta--pray, pray say that again."

"Indeed, I shall do no such thing," said Fin, sharply, and becoming more
red--"why should I?"

"Because it makes me so happy," said Pratt.  "I thought it was to be
he."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Fin.  "A nice feeling
of respect you must have for me, to couple me with that scented dandy."

"Finetta, don't be hard upon me," gasped Pratt--"I can't talk now.  If I
had you in a witness-box I could go ahead, but I feel now as if I were
going to lose my case."

"What stuff are you talking?" said Fin, whose breast was panting.

"I was trying to tell you that I loved you with my whole heart," said
Pratt, earnestly; "even as I learned to love you down in Cornwall, when
I was such a poor, miserable beggar that I wouldn't have told you for
the world."

"And now you're in Jumbles _versus_ Hankey, and the great cotton case."

"Why, how did you know?" cried Pratt.

"I always read the law reports in the _Times_" said Fin, demurely.

Pratt choked; he felt blind; then the railings seemed to be dancing with
the trees, and the little children to be transformed into cherubs,
attended by angels, with triumphant perambulating cars.  He felt as if
he wanted to do something frantic; and it was a minute before he came to
himself, and could see that the tears were running down Fin's cheeks.

"Thank you," he said at last.  "Finetta--Fin--may I call you Fin?--
dearest Fin, say I may."

"No, no, no," jerked out Fin, hysterically--"you mustn't do anything of
the kind.  Pa wouldn't approve, and Aunt Matty hates you, and--and--and
I'm nearly sure I do."

"Go on hating me like this, then," cried Pratt, rapturously.  "Oh,
darling, you've made me so happy!"

"I haven't," protested Fin, "and I can't, and I won't.  How can I, when
poor darling Tiny has been so treated by that odious wretch?"

"What--Vanleigh?"

"No, you know what I mean; but he's an odious wretch, too.  It's
abominable.  Mr Trevor ought to be hung."

"Why?" said Pratt.

"Why?" echoed Fin.  "Hasn't he jilted my poor darling, and behaved
cruelly to her, after winning her heart, just as all men do?"

"No," said Pratt, stoutly.

"What!" cried Fin, "didn't I see him out with her himself, and hasn't
somebody been at our house dropping hints about it--unwillingly, of
course--and made pa delighted, and Aunt Matty malicious? while poor
mamma has done nothing but cry, because she liked and believed in your
nice friend.  As to poor Tiny, she was dangerously ill for a time."

"I don't care," said Pratt, vehemently; and he arranged an imaginary
wig, and waved some non-existent papers in the air.  "Matters may be
against my client--I mean Dick; but I'll stake my life on his honour.  I
say Richard Trevor--Lloyd, as he calls himself now--is a true man of
honour.  Look how he gave up the estate!  See how he yielded his
pretensions to Miss Rea's hand!  And do you dare to tell me that this is
a man who would stoop to a flirtation, or worse, when he owns to being
cut up by the loss he has sustained?  I say it's impossible, and that
the person who would dare to charge my cli--friend, Richard Trevor,
alias Lloyd, with such duplicity is--"

"What?" said Fin, sharply.  That one little word went through Frank
Pratt.  He cooled on the instant, the flush of excitement passed away,
and, in a crestfallen manner, he groaned--

"That's just like me.  What a fool I am!  Now you'll be cross with me."

"No, I shan't," said Fin, demurely.  "I like it.  It's nice of you to
stand up for your friend.  I like a man to be a trump."

Fin's face was like scarlet as soon as she made this admission; and to
qualify it, she hurriedly exclaimed--

"You may like him if you please; but till I see him cleared I shall hate
him bitterly; and--and--and--I don't know how he ought to be punished.
He'll be punished enough, though, by losing my sweet sister.  Why didn't
you like her, instead of some one else?" she said, archly.

"Don't ask me," said Pratt.  "I'm so happy, I shall do something
foolish."

"You haven't anything to be happy about," said Fin; "for I'm going to
devote myself to Tiny, and if they force her into this hateful marriage,
I mean to be a nun."

"What marriage?" said Pratt.

"Why, with that Bluebeard of a captain."

"And are they pushing that on?"

"Yes," said Fin, "and it's abominable.  It will kill her."

"No, it won't!" said Pratt, coolly.

"Then you're a wretch!" said Fin, with flashing eyes.  "I say it will."

"And I say it won't," said Pratt; "because it must never come off."

Fin stared at him.

"I'll see to that," said Pratt, confidently.  "I have a friend busy
about Master Captain Vanleigh.  But, oh!" he exclaimed, as the
recollection of one Barnard, solicitor, brought up a gentleman of the
name of Mervyn--"but, oh!  I say, tell me this, Fin--Mr Mervyn--you
know--there wasn't ever--anything--eh?"

"Oh, you goose!" cried Fin, stamping her foot.  "Mr Mervyn--dear Mr
Mervyn, of all people in the world!--who used to treat us like as if we
were his little girls.  Oh, Mr Pratt, I did think you had some sense in
your head."

"Oh no," said Pratt, solemnly; "never--not a morsel."

Then they looked at one another, and laughed; but only for Fin to turn
preternaturally serious.

"I must go back to Tiny now," she said.

"But when shall I see you again?" urged Pratt.

"Perhaps never," said Fin--"unless you can come about once a week, on a
Friday afternoon, here in the square, and tell me some news that will do
poor Tiny good."

"I may come and say good-bye to her, then?" said Pratt, getting hold for
a moment of the little half-withdrawn hand.

"Yes, if you like.  No--here's Aunt Matty."

In fact her herald approached in the shape of Pepine, who no sooner
caught sight of the retreating form of Pratt, than he made a dash at
him, chasing him ignominiously to the gate, where he stood barking long
after his quarry had gone.  But Pepine was no gainer in the end, for
during the next week Fin never neglected an opportunity of administering
to him a furtive thump.

Volume 3, Chapter XII.

NETTA'S APPEAL.

Richard felt very bitter as he followed Mrs Jenkles across the road.
Mingled with pity for the poor girl he was about to visit, there was a
sense of resentment; for she seemed to have been the cause of pain and
sorrow to one he dearly loved.  And yet, how innocent and gentle she
was--how unlike any one he had met before!  Pity may or may not be akin
to love, but certainly it was very strong in Richard's breast at the
present moment.

"If you'll step in the kitchen just a moment, sir, I'll see if you can
go up," said Mrs Jenkles, smoothing her apron.

She ushered the visitor into the clean, bright place, where Sam was
seated by the fireside, looking very hard at his pipe.

"How do, sir, how do?" he said.  "Take a cheer, sir."

"Thanks, no, Sam, I'll stand," said Richard, quietly.  "But where's your
pipe?"

"There it hangs, sir," said Sam, folding his arms and looking at it.

"No tobacco?"

"Plenty, sir," said Sam; "but I've put the pipe out at home, sir: cos
why?  It sets that poor gal a-coughing, and that spoils it.  It's a
wonder, aint it, as doctors can't do more?"

Further converse was cut short by the entrance of Mrs Jenkles, who
beckoned their visitor to come, and he followed her upstairs to the neat
little front room, where a pang shot through Richard as he saw the
change.  Netta was half lying on a couch, propped up by pillows, and
beside her, on a table, were the two plants he had sent across,
evidently carefully tended,--not a withered leaf to be seen amongst
their luxuriant foliage, while she who had made them her care lay there,
white, shrunken, and so changed.

There was a bright smile of pleasure flickering about her lips, and a
ray of gladness flashing from her eyes, as she held out her hands to
him--hands that he caught in his and kissed, as he sank on his knees by
her side.

"My poor girl!" he exclaimed, huskily, "is it so bad as this?"

"I'm so glad you are come," she whispered; and then she lay gazing at
him, as if her very soul were passing from her eyes to his.  "I've
longed and prayed so for this.  I thought once that it wasn't to be--
that I was never to see you again; but I'm better now."

"Better--yes; and you'll soon grow strong and well again."

"Do you think so?" she said, looking at him wistfully, while an
incredulous smile was upon her lips.  "But don't let's talk of that.
Sit down by me, where I can see you--I've so much to say."

He drew a chair to her side, and, as he did so, he saw that they were
alone, for Mrs Lane had gone out softly directly he had entered.  Then
sitting down, the note which he had received fell from his pocket, and
lay half beneath the couch.

"You are not angry with me for sending for you?" said the girl,
piteously.  "Why do you frown?"

"Did I frown?" he said, gently.  "It was only a passing thought.  There,
now, let's have a quiet, long chat."

"Yes," she said, eagerly.  "I want to thank you for being so kind to
us--for the fruit and flowers, and all you have done for mamma.  As for
me," she continued, laying her hand in his, "I shall be so ungrateful."

"No, no, I cannot believe that."

"Yes," she said, smiling, "you have done so much to make me well, and in
return I shall die."

"My dear child, you must not talk like this," exclaimed Richard, with an
involuntary shiver.  "You must get well and strong again."

She shook her head sadly, and then lay gazing up into his eyes.

"Netta," he said, gently, "you have thought a great deal about me since
you have been ill."

"Yes--oh yes," she said.

"Looking back, then, do you blame me--do you think I was cruel, and led
you on to think I loved you?"

"No," she said, and her hand closed almost convulsively on his.  "I
don't think so now.  I have thought it all over, and it was my folly and
weakness.  I seem to have grown old since then, and to have become so
much wiser.  That's all past now; but I want you to tell me, first, that
you did not think me forward then, and strange."

"My child," said Richard, "I have felt that the blame has been on my
side, and it has caused me many a pang."

"But it is all past now," said Netta, eagerly.  "I know--I can see
plainly enough.  You knew better how ill I was than I did, and pitied
and were very sorry for me; and it seemed so sweet to me that--that I
could not help watching for you--feeling glad when you came.  But that's
all past now, and you said we could be friends."

"Indeed, yes," he said, gazing into the great, brilliant eyes; but in a
sad, dreamy way, for he could read but too plainly the coming end.

"And you forgive me--quite forgive me?" she murmured.

"My poor child, I have nothing to forgive," he said, leaning over and
kissing her forehead.

"Thank you," she murmured, closing her eyes; and she lay silent for a
few moments.  Then, brightening, she said, "Now tell me again about
her."

He remained silent, and she repeated her request--almost impatiently.

"Tell me her name."

He looked at her wonderingly for a few moments, before he answered,
softly--

"Valentina."

"Valentina," said Netta, smiling.  "Yes, a pretty name--Valentina.  I
shall love it as I love her."

"You love her?"

"Yes, though I have never seen her.  Did you not tell me that she loved
you?  You think me strange," she continued, smiling in his face, "but I
am not.  Why, if you could have loved me, I could not have stayed, and
you would have been unhappy.  It is for the best, and I shall know that
you are content."

"Netta," said Richard, hoarsely, "you must not talk like this."

"Why not?" she said, wonderingly.  "All the trouble seems past to me.
Now I know you feel for me--I believe you like me.  Everybody seems kind
to me now, and that foolish little dream has quite passed away.  Come,
tell me about her.  I should like to know her.  Would she come to see
me--if she knew that I was dying?"

"Yes, I feel sure she would, if she knew all," said Richard, sadly.
"She is everything that is gentle and good, and would have loved you
dearly, Netta.  You may meet yet."

"I should like to see her," said the girl, enthusiastically, "that I
might tell her how noble and good you are.  There, you see how I make an
idol of my brother Richard."

He started, and looked hard at her.

"Yes," she said, "brother Richard--you were behaving like a dear brother
to me, only I could not understand.  I never had a brother, but you will
be one to me still.  You will not stay away, Richard, even if I love
you, for it is a chastened love now--one that I need not feel ashamed to
own.  You'll not stay away, but come and sit with me, and read to me, as
you did before?"

He shook his head sadly.

"Yes--yes, you will come," she cried, putting her hands together.  "I
shall have something to live for then--a little longer--and we can sit
and talk of her--of Valentina.  If you stay away--I--I--shall--die."

It was no fiction of the lips, and Richard knew it, as her voice grew
weaker, and she seemed to droop.  The mark was upon her face, telling
that she was one of those soon to fall.  Her pitiful appeal went to his
heart; and raising her in his arms, he pillowed her head upon his
shoulder, and kissed her quivering, pallid lips, as in a voice broken
with emotion he muttered in the familiar old scriptural words--

"God do so to me, and more also, my poor stricken lamb, if I do not try
and smooth your poor, thorny path."

Once, and once only, did her poor, thin lips respond to his caress.
Then, her transparent, white hand was passed lightly over his forehead;
her eyes closed, and with a faint sigh of content, she lay quite still,
her fluttering breath telling, at the end of a few minutes, that she
had, thoroughly exhausted, fallen asleep.

Volume 3, Chapter XIII.

WAITING FOR NEWS.

The weeks went on, and glided into months.  Frank Pratt had been as
punctual as the clock in his visits to Russell Square, but his love
matters made no progress.  Unless he had something to communicate
affecting Tiny, Fin would hardly stay a minute.  Then, too, at times,
there were checks caused by the presence of Aunt Matty, when Pratt would
return to his chambers disconsolate, and yet happy at having had a
glimpse of the darling of his heart.

Once, when he had entered strongly into his affairs, and spoke of trying
to renew his acquaintance in a straightforward way with the family--

"Because I should not be ashamed to meet Sir Hampton now," he said.

Fin responded coolly--

"I'm afraid I hate you very much, Mr Pratt."

"Hate me!  Why?" he exclaimed.

"Because you're so unfeeling."

"Unfeeling?"

"You think so much of yourself, and your silly love nonsense, when poor
Tiny is persecuted and tortured by that hateful Vanleigh, who only wants
her money.  I believe he'd ill-treat her before they'd been married a
month.  He looks like a wife-beater."

"But they never persecute you," said Pratt.

"Don't they?  Why, only this morning pa told me that he should expect me
to receive Sir Felix Landells; while ma cried, and Aunt Matty nodded her
head approvingly."

"And--and what did you say?" cried Pratt.

"I gave Pepine a vicious kick, and walked out of the room.  And now,
sir, if you please, how about all your fine promises?  What have you
done all these months?  Have you got that wicked wretch Trevor back his
property?  Come, speak!"

"No," said Pratt, "I went down on Tuesday to see how things were, and
Master Humphrey seems settling down comfortably enough.  Quite the
country squire."

"Serve Richard Trevor right," said Fin.  "And now, about that girl?
Does he go to see her still?"

Pratt was silent.

"How dare you stand there like that, Frank, and not answer me?" cried
Fin.

"Call me Frank again, darling, and I'll say anything you wish."

"I won't," said Fin.  "You shall tell me without."

"I don't like telling tales about poor Dick," said Pratt.

"If you care for me, sir, it's your duty to tell me the honest truth
about everything.  Am I less than Richard Trevor?"

Bodily, of course, she was; but as she meant in his regards, he said she
was all the world to him.

"Now, then," said Fin, "does he go to see that girl now?"

"Yes," said Pratt; "but I'm sure it's all in innocence.  The poor girl
is in a dying state.  I went to see her with him once, and a sweeter
creature you never saw."

"Then she has captivated you, too?" cried Fin, viciously.

"Oh, come--I say!" exclaimed Pratt.  "Fin, that goes right to my heart."

"And now about Vanleigh.  You've boasted over and over again that you
could produce something which would put a stop to his pretensions--where
is it?"

"You are so hard on a poor fellow," said Pratt.  "I am trying my best,
and I feel quite sure that he has no right to pretend to the hand of
your sister; but then, you know, before one makes such a charge, there
must be good personal and documentary evidence."

"Well," exclaimed Pin, "and where is it?"

"I haven't got it yet," said Pratt; "but I have tried very, very hard.
I shall succeed, though, yet, I know."

"And while you are succeeding, poor Tiny is to be sacrificed?"

"Oh no; not so bad as that.  I don't despair of seeing Dick back at
Penreife, and your dear sister its mistress."

"Then I do," cried Pin, bitterly; "for she's drifting into a state of
melancholy, and will let them persuade her to do what they wish.  She
thinks Richard has given her up, and deceived her; and soon she won't
care whether she lives or dies."

"But, Fin--" said Pratt.

"Miss Rea, if you please, Mr Pratt," said the girl, formally.

"Don't be hard on me," he pleaded.  "I'm trying my best, and if I can
only get some one to speak, I shall have the whole thing at my finger's
ends."

"Then the sooner you do the better," said Fin, sharply.  "Good-bye."

"One moment, dear," whispered Pratt.

"Well, what is it?" said Fin.

"Give me one kind look, you beautiful little darling," whispered Pratt.

Fin made a grimace, and then, as if in spite of herself, her bright eyes
beamed on him for a moment ere she withdrew them.

"And now tell me this," whispered Pratt; "if they say any more to you
about Landells, or if he speaks to you, you'll--you'll--you'll--"

"There, good-bye!" cried Fin.  "How can you be such a goose?  I haven't
patience with you--good-bye."

There was a look accompanying that good-bye that sent a thrill through
Frank Pratt, and he went back to his musty briefs as light as if
treading on air.

On reaching his chambers, though, it was to find Barnard, the solicitor,
waiting for him.

"Well, what news?" was Pratt's greeting.

"Nothing more," was the reply.  "I've sent, and I've been myself.  That
this Vanleigh has compromised himself in some way, so that his marriage
is impossible, I feel convinced; but a solution of the matter can only
come from one pair of lips."

"Well?"

"And they remain obstinately silent."

Volume 3, Chapter XIV.

A VISIT.

And the months glided on.  Winter came, and in its turn gave place to
the promise of spring; that came, though, with its harsh eastern blasts
that threatened to extinguish the frail lamp of life still burning
opposite Richard's rooms.

He had responded to Pin's letter soon after its receipt, but he had
heard no more.  His attempts at obtaining an engagement had proved
failures still; and so he had accepted his fate, and spent his time
reading hard, his sole pleasures being a visit across the road, or a
dinner with Frank Pratt.

Of the acts of the Rea family he knew little, save that they had
wintered in Cornwall, from which a letter came occasionally from
Humphrey or Mr Mervyn, both sent to the care of Frank Pratt, Esq.; and
in his, Humphrey had twice over expressed a wish to divide the property
with his old companion.

"I don't see why you shouldn't do so," Pratt had said.  "It's Quixotic
not to accept his offer."

"Aut Caesar, aut nullus," was Richard's reply.  "No, Franky, I'm too
proud.  I could never go to Cornwall again but as master.  Those days
are gone."

"But, Dick, old man!"

"My dear Franky," said Richard, dropping something of the misanthropical
bitterness that had come over him of late, "I am quite content as I am--
content to wait; some of these days a chance will turn up.  I'll abide
my time."

"He's gone back to her," said Pratt, shaking his head.  "Poor old
Dick!--some people would misjudge him cruelly.  Well, time will show."

Pratt was quite right, Richard had gone back to Netta; for it promised
to be a fine afternoon, and on such days it had grown to be his custom
to devote the few shillings he could spare from his scanty income to the
payment of Sam Jenkles.

It was so this day.  Sam was at the door by two, with the old horse
brushed up, and every worn buckle shining.  Then Richard would go
upstairs, to find Netta with a bright spot in each cheek, and an eager
welcome in her eye.  She had gained ground during the autumn, but in the
winter it had all been lost; and now the time had come when Richard
raised her in his arms, and had to carry her--grown so light--down to
the cab, wherein he tenderly placed her, and took her for one of the
drives of which she was never weary.

It seemed a strange taste, but her desire was always for the same spot--
the little wood where the fallen tree was lying.  Here, on sunny days,
she would sit for an hour, while he read to her; and then the quiet,
slow journey was taken back, when the little ceremony had to be gone
through in reverse, there was a grateful pressure of the hand, and
Richard took his leave.

Twenty or thirty times was this little excursion made, and always with a
foreboding on Richard's part that it was to be the last.  But still she
lingered, brightening with the balmy April weather that came by fits,
and then fading again under the chilling blasts.

By some means Netta had informed herself of the return of the Rea family
to town for the season, and she prepared to execute a little plan that
had been long deferred.  She had possessed herself of the note sent by
Fin--the note which Richard had let fall.  Probably Mrs Jenkles was the
bearer of her messages, and had obtained the information she required.
Suffice it that Tiny Rea, now somewhat recovered, but still pale and
dejected, received one morning a note, which she read, and then placed
in her mother's hands.

It was as follows:--

  "I have heard so often of your beauty, goodness, and your many acts of
  kindness, that I have been tempted to ask you to come once and see me
  before I pass away.  I would say _pray_ come, but I think your gentle
  heart will listen to my simple appeal.  Come to me, and say good-bye.

  "Netta Lane."

Here followed the address.

"It's some poor creature in great distress, my dear, who has heard of
us.  We'll go this afternoon, and take her something."

"Would you go, mamma?" faltered Tiny, whose heart told her whom the
letter was from.

"Certainly, my dear.  I shouldn't rest to-night if I'd left such an
appeal as that unanswered, let alone enjoy our At Home; though there
isn't much enjoyment to be got out of those affairs, with everybody
drinking tea on the stairs, and ten times as many people as we've room
for."

"Then you would go, mamma?"

"Certainly, darling.  It's an awkward time for her to send, but we'll
go; and oh, my darling, pray, pray try and look bright.  You make me
wretched."

"I do--I will try, mamma!" exclaimed Tiny, suppressing a sob.  "But tell
me, is Captain Vanleigh going to be here to-night?"

"I--I was obliged to send him an invitation, my darling," said Lady Rea,
pitifully.  "Your papa stood at my side while I wrote it.  If--if--he--
Mr Trevor had stood firm to you, they should have cut me in pieces
before I'd have done it; but as it is, what can I do?"

Tiny made no reply; and directly after luncheon the carriage came round,
and, being left at the corner of the narrow street, Lady Rea and her
daughter made their way on foot to the house of Mrs Jenkles.

Mrs Lane met them, and said it was her daughter's wish to see Miss Rea
alone, if she would condescend to go up and see her; and a minute after,
with a mist floating before her eyes, and a singing in her ears, Tiny
stood near Netta's couch, as the poor girl lay, with clasped fingers,
gazing up at the graceful, fashionably-dressed girl.

Tiny maintained a haughty silence for a few minutes.  This was the girl
for whom she had been forsaken.  She felt sure of it.  How could it be
otherwise?  But the letter said that she was dying.  Fin had told her of
Pratt's assurances; and, as the mist cleared away, so melted the
hauteur, for she could not look upon the soft, sweet face before her
with anger; and if he loved her, should not she do the same?  The two
girls gazed in each other's eyes for a few moments, and then, with a
smile, Netta held out one hand.

"Thank you for coming," she said.  "I have wanted to see you for months,
and I was afraid I should not live long enough.  Do you know why?"

"No--I cannot tell," said Tiny, in a choking voice; for she, too, could
see for herself the truth of what had been said.

"I wanted to see the beautiful girl that he loves--her of whom he has so
often talked--and to tell you that you have misjudged him, if you think
as your sister thinks in the letter she sent."

"Letter?" exclaimed Tiny.

"Yes, this," said the girl, producing one from her bosom.  "Oh, Miss
Rea, how can you slight his noble love?  If you only knew!  You both
misjudge him.  Look at me, dear.  I am here now; perhaps to-morrow, or
the next day, I shall be gone.  But I do not think I could have died
without seeing you face to face, and telling you that he has been true,
and noble, and faithful to you.  You might not have believed me if I had
been different; but now, ready to go away, you know mine are true words,
when I tell you Richard Lloyd has been to me as a brother."

"Oh, I believe, I believe!" sobbed Tiny, sinking on her knees beside the
couch.  "But it is too late--too late!"

"No, no," whispered Netta, "it is not too late.  Make him happy.  Send
to him to come to you.  He is too proud and poor to come himself.  But I
know his story: how he lost all through being so honourable and good.
Tiny--you see I know your name; why, he has described you to me so often
that I should have known _you_--send for him, and bless him.  You could
not love such a one as he too well."

"Too late!" sobbed Tiny.  "It is too late."

She started up, and turned as if to go; but only to push her hair back
from her forehead, lean over Netta's couch and kiss her, as a pair of
thin, weak arms closed round her neck.  Then, tearing herself away, she
hurried from the house with Lady Rea, who vainly questioned her as to
the cause of her agitation.

"I asked the woman, who is very ladylike, my dear, but she said her
daughter would explain; so I waited till you came down; and now," said
the little ruffled dame, "you do nothing but cry."

"Don't ask me now, mamma, dear," sobbed Tiny, covering her face with her
hands.  "Another time I'll tell you all."

"Very well, my darling," said Lady Rea, resignedly.  "But, pray, try now
and look brighter.  Papa will be terribly put out if he finds you so;
for he said you told him yesterday you would do as he wished about
Captain Vanleigh, and Aunt Matty has been quite affectionate to me ever
since."

"Mamma, dear, do you think it will make you happier?"

"I don't know, my dear," said Lady Rea.  "I blame myself sometimes for
not being more determined; but I'm obliged to own that Captain Vanleigh
has been very patient, and he must care for you."

Tiny shuddered again, and her sobs became so violent that Lady Rea drew
up the carriage window, for a few minutes being quite alarmed.  At
length, though, the poor girl grew calm, and seemed to make an effort
over herself as they neared home, just as Fin crossed the road from the
square garden, looking as innocent as if she had not had half an hour's
talk with Frank Pratt.

Volume 3, Chapter XV.

AT HOME.

"And what do you mean to do, Tiny?" said Fin, as she stood by her
sister's side, dressed for the evening.  "Papa told me about it, and
nearly boxed my ears because I said it was a shame; and he ended by
saying if I did not follow your example, and listen to Sir Felix, he
would keep me on bread and water; and then I laughed out loud, and he
left the room in a fury.  How could you be so weak?"

"I don't know," faltered Tiny, "only that I was very miserable.
Constant dropping will wear a stone."

"Then the stone must be very soft.  Withdraw your promise," cried Fin.
"Do as I do.  I'll be as obedient a child as I can, but I will not be
married against my will."

"Please, Miss, somebody's downstairs already," said their maid, entering
the room.  "And Edward says Sir Hampton's in a towering passion because
there was no one but him in the drawing-room."

"Isn't mamma there?" cried Fin.

"No, Miss, her ladyship was dressed, and going down; but her primrose
satin came undone--give way at the hooks and eyes--and she had to go
back to change it."

"Tell Edward to say we'll be down in a moment," said Fin.

Hurrying the girl out of the room, she turned to Tiny, who stood looking
pale and stunned.

"It wasn't true, Fin!" she said, pitifully, as her face began to work.
"He wasn't deceitful.  I saw her to-day."

"Saw whom?" exclaimed Fin, in wonder.

"That poor girl.  She sent for me--she is dying; and oh, Fin, darling, I
feel as if my heart would break!"

She sank sobbing on her sister's shoulder, sadly disarranging poor Fin's
dress; but that was forgotten as, with eager haste, the little maiden
tried hard to soothe and comfort her.

"If ma won't fight for you, Tiny, I will," she cried, impetuously.  "I
declare its too bad.  I don't half know what you are talking about; but
Frank--I mean Mr Pratt, always sticks up for his friend.  Ugh!  I wish
I'd been near when that wicked Mrs Lloyd changed the babies, I'd have
knocked her head off."

At this moment there was a knock at the bedroom door.

"Coming--coming--coming--coming!" said Fin, in a crescendo,

Then running to the door, she opened it once more to the maid.

"Please, Miss--"

"Bother--bother--bother!" cried Fin.  "Don't you see Miss Rea's poorly?
Go and say we'll be down soon."

"But, please, Miss, Sir Hampton sent Edward for me, and jumped on me
horrid.  He said it was my fault you weren't dressed, and your dear ma
looks quite frightened with the people coming."

"Go and say we'll come down as soon as my sister's better--there!"

She half pushed the girl from the room, and then turned to Tiny.

"Now, look here, Tiny--you're very fond of that wicked Richard Trevor,
bad as he's behaved to you."

Tiny gave her a pitiful look.

"Then I say, once for all, it would be a piece of horrible wickedness
for you to let papa frighten you into this engagement.  Now, tell me
directly how it was.  You ought to have told me before.  If you had been
a good, wise sister, you would."

"Oh, Tin, I could not tell you!" said Tiny, plaintively.  "You had just
come in from the square, and looked so happy about--"

"I didn't--I wasn't--I hate him; and I won't listen to him any more till
you are happy," burst out Fin.

Tiny smiled.

"Papa sent for me into his study, and took my hand, and sat down by me.
He was so gentle and kind.  He said he wanted to see us both settled in
a position which should give us the entree into good society; for he
said that, after all, he knew well enough people did not care for him,
as he'd been a tradesman."

Fin gave her head a jerk.

"He told me he had given way about--about--"

"Yes, yes--go on--I know," said Tin.

"And that if he had not lost his position he should never have opposed
the match; but as that was all over, he begged me to consent to receive
Captain Vanleigh's attentions.  And, oh, Fin, he knew about the
attentions to that poor girl, and told me of it."

"Then some spiteful spy must have told him that," cried Fin.  "Oh, Aunt
Matty."

"He talked to me for an hour, Fin, so kindly all the time--said it would
be for the best, and that it would make him happy and me too, he was
sure; and at last I gave way.  For oh, Fin, darling, I had no hope
yesterday--nothing, I felt, to live for; and I thought that if I could
make him satisfied, and dear ma happy, that was all I need care to do."

"Then you were a wicked, weak little coward," said Fin, "I'd have died
sooner than given way.  There, here they are again for us; and now I
suppose we are to meet those people to-night."

"Yes; papa said he should write to Captain Vanleigh."

"And Sir Felix, of course.  Madame, your humble servant--Finetta, Lady
Landells.  There, we're coming down now.  Miss Rea is better," she said,
in answer to a knock at the door.

Tiny turned to the glass, and smoothed her hair, while Fin went and
stood behind her, holding her waist.

"What are you going to do?" she said, sharply.

Tiny shook her head.

"Masterly inactivity--that's the thing," cried Fin.  "Do nothing; let
things drift, same as I do.  It can't go on, I'm sure it can't.  There,
let's go down, for poor dear mamma's sake, and I'll be buffer all the
evening.  Whenever Bluebeard comes near you, I'll get between, and we'll
have a long talk to-morrow."

The two girls went down, to find many of the visitors arrived; and the
news of Tiny's indisposition having spread, she was surrounded directly
with kind inquirers.  But she hardly heard a word that was said to her,
for her timid eyes were wandering round the room, to see if the object
of her dread had arrived; and then, noticing his absence, she sank back
in a fauteuil with a sigh of relief.

Fin mounted guard by her side, and snubbed the down off the wings of
several butterflies who came fluttering about them, her little lips
tightening into a thin smile as Sir Felix and Vanleigh were announced.

Directly they had freed themselves from their host and hostess, they
made their way to the corner of the great drawing-room, now ablaze with
gas and candles, where the sisters were together; and, in spite of Fin's
diplomacy, she found Vanleigh too much for her, as he quietly put aside
her vicious little thrusts, and ended by interposing himself between her
and Tiny--Fin being carried off by Sir Felix, whose face wore quite a
puzzled expression, so verbally nettled was his little prize.

Aunt Matty met them, carrying with her a halo of lavender wherever she
went, and exhaling the sad fragrance in every direction as she moved.
Pepine was poorly in bed, so that his mistress was able to devote the
whole of her attention to those with whom she came in contact.

"Ah, Sir Felix!" she exclaimed, "and so you've captured my saucy little
bird of a niece.  You'll have to clip her wings some day," she
continued, playfully.

As she spoke she tapped Fin on each shoulder--from whence the imaginary
wings doubtless sprang--with her fan, while aunt and niece gazed in each
other's eyes.

"Yes, exactly," said Sir Felix, smiling feebly.

But somehow he did not feel comfortable, and in spite of his
after-efforts to lead Fin into conversation, he failed.

The end of it was that the little maid telegraphed to another admirer,
and had herself carried back to where she had left her sister; but Tiny
was gone.

In fact, as soon as they were left alone, Vanleigh had quietly offered
his arm.

"This room is too hot for you, Valentina," he said.  "Let me take you
out of the crowd."

"Masterly inactivity," Fin had said, and the words seemed to ring in
Tiny's ears, as, unable to refuse, she suffered herself to be led
through the crowded rooms, past Lady Rea, who nodded and smiled--past
Aunt Matty, who came up, tapped the Captain on the middle shirt stud
with her fan, and pinched her niece's cheek, as she smiled at her like a
wintry apple--past Sir Hampton, who came behind her, and whispered, a
faint "Er-rum."

"Thank you, Tiny: good girl!"--out on to the great broad staircase, now
a complete conservatory of exotics where the air was perfectly cool by
comparison; and there Vanleigh found her a seat smiling occasionally at
the new-comers who kept thronging upstairs to where Lady Rea was
receiving--Sir Hampton now keeping an eye upon the couple, a flight of
stain below him, and nodding encouragement whenever his eyes met those
of his child.

"I received Sir Hampton's note yesterday," said Vanleigh at last,
speaking slowly, and in a suppressed voice, as the guests passed on.
"Don't start--I am not going to make a scene.  I only wish to tell you
how happy you have made me, and that you shall find me patient and
watchful of your every wish."

"Masterly inactivity," thought Tiny.

"I am going to wait--to let you see that heretofore you have misjudged
me.  And now let me assure you that I am not going to presume upon the
consent I have received."

He waited, and she felt obliged to speak.

"Captain Vanleigh," faltered Tiny, "it was at my father's wish that I
gave way, and consented to receive your visits.  It is only fair to tell
you that you are seeking to gain one who does not--who can never care
for you."

"My dear Valentina," he said, smiling, "I am quite content.  I know your
sweet, gentle nature better than you know it yourself.  And now for
once, and once only, I am going to revert to an unpleasant theme,
begging you first to forgive me for touching a wound that I know still
throbs."

"Captain Vanleigh!"

"It is odd, is it not," he said, speaking with a mingling of profound
tenderness and respect--"this talking of such things in a crowd?  I only
wished to say this once, that you do not know me.  I am going to prove
my love by patience.  Valentina, dearest, you have been wasting the
sweetness of your heart on an unworthy object."

She tried to rise; but his hand rested on her arm, and detained her.

"I pain you; but I must tell you, sweet one, that he whom you cared for,
no sooner left your side than he sought consolation with another,
forsaking a love that is meet for the best on earth--a love of which I
feel myself unworthy.  Stay, not a syllable.  Those were cruel words,
but the words of truth.  Now we understand one another, let us draw a
veil over the past, never to refer to it again.  You will know me better
soon."

As he spoke, there was a little bustle in the hall, where visitors were
constantly arriving; and as Vanleigh stood gazing down in the pale,
frightened face before him, watching the struggle that was going on, a
plainly dressed woman brushed by the servant, who tried to stay her, and
reached the stairs.

"Forgive me, Valentina," whispered Vanleigh, bending over her.  "I
touched the wound but to try and heal it.  My future life shall be all
devotion; and in the happiness to come you will--"

Tiny half rose; and he was about offering his arm to conduct her back to
the drawing-room, when a voice below arrested him.

"Don't stop me!  I must see him.  I know he is here."

"But you can't, you know.  Here, Edward!"

It was one of the servants who called, but he was too late; the strange
visitor had already reached the landing as Sir Hampton hurried down,
aghast at such a daring interruption.

At that moment the woman uttered a cry of joy, and darted towards where
Vanleigh stood with his companion.

"Oh, Arthur!" she cried, "they would not bring a message.  I was obliged
to force my way in."

"Who is this madwoman?" cried Vanleigh, turning of a waxy pallor, while
Tiny clung to the balustrade for support.

"Yes; mad--almost!" cried the woman, with a piteous cry.  "But come--
come at once!  She is praying to see you once more.  Arthur, Arthur,"
she panted, sinking at his knees, and clasping them, "for God's sake,
come--our darling is on the point of death!"

"Who is this woman?  Er-rum--Edward--James!" cried Sir Hampton, "where
are the police?"

"Don't touch me!" cried the unwelcome visitor, starting to her feet; and
her words came panting from her breast.  "Quiet, Arthur, or it's too
late!  Sir," she cried, turning to Sir Hampton, whose hand was on her
arm, "I am Captain Vanleigh's wife!"

Volume 3, Chapter XVI.

TOO LATE.

Frank Pratt, the successful barrister, saw a portion of the scene from
the pavement outside, where he formed one of the little crowd by the
awning.  He had been restlessly walking up and down, watching the lights
and shadows on the blinds.  He had gazed in at the open door at what
seemed to him a paradise, as he heard the music and hum of conversation,
scented the fragrance from flower and perfumes that floated out, and
then called himself a miserable little beggar.

"Never mind," he said at last, lighting his pipe, and looking longingly
at one of the tall obelisks by the door of a neighbouring mansion, and
thinking what a capital perch it would make for him to sit and look on
from--"never mind, bless her, she'll snub them like fun."

He felt better then, and saw Sir Felix and Vanleigh go up the carpeted
steps without a pang.  Ten times over he made up his mind to go and have
a quiet little tavern supper, and then to his chambers and read; but he
could not tear himself away; and so it was that he saw the arrival of
the uninvited guest, and in the confusion that ensued witnessed
something of what followed, standing aside to let Vanleigh come hurrying
out, holding his neglected wife by the hand, furious, and yet too
horror-stricken and remorseful to speak to her.

"A cab!" he shouted; and a minute after they entered, and the shabby
screw was whipped into a gallop, and going in the direction of
Pentonville.

Earlier in the evening Netta had seemed brighter, and had eaten heartily
of some fruit Richard had fetched for her from Covent Garden.  She was
very weak, but she had begged to be dressed, and was lying upon the
little couch; while Mrs Jenkles, after helping, had gone down into the
kitchen, where Sam was sitting at his tea, to look at him very fixedly,
and then her face began to twitch and work.

"She aint worse, is she?" said Sam, in an awe-stricken whisper.

"Oh, Sam, Sam," sobbed the poor woman, bursting into tears; "and her so
young, too.  It's very, very sad."

"I shan't go out to-night, then," said Sam, a little more hoarsely than
usual.  "Ratty may have a holiday.  It's a hill wind as blows nobody any
good.  If I do go to have a smoke, old woman, I shall be standing across
the road in Mother Fiddison's doorway."

"Oh, Sam, it's very, very sad," sobbed Mrs Jenkles again; "and her so
young.  If it had been her mother or me!"

"Stow that, old gal," said Sam, with a choke.  "If there's e'er a woman
as can't be spared outer this here wicked world of pore cabmen and hard
fares, it's you.  What'd become o' me?"

"Oh, Sam," sobbed Mrs Jenkles from inside her apron.

"I should go to the bad in a week, old gal.  I should never pass a
corner public without dropping in; and at the end of six months there'd
be a procession o' cabs follering a subscription funeral, raised by
threepenny bits and tanners; and every cabby on the ranks'd have a
little crape bow on his whip in memory o' Sam Jenkles, as drunk hisself
to death."

"Don't, pray, Sam," sobbed his wife.

"It's true enough, missus; and I b'lieve the chaps 'd be sorry; while as
for old Ratty, I b'lieve he'd cry."

"Sam!" sobbed his wife.

"I wonder," said Sam, dolefully, "whether they'd let the old 'oss follow
like they do the soldiers, with my whip and boots hanging one side, and
my old 'at on the other.  Sh! here's Mrs Lane."

"Mrs Jenkles," cried their lodger, hurriedly, "go and ask Mr Lloyd to
come over.  She wants to see him."

"Is she worse, ma'am?"

The mother's lip quivered for reply; but after stifling a sob, she
gasped--

"And ask Mr Reston, the doctor, to step in."

"I'll run for him, mum, while the missus fetches Mr Lloyd," said Sam,
hurrying away.

A few minutes after, Richard ascended to Netta's room, to be received
with a smile of pleasure, and he took the seat to which the poor girl
pointed.

"Are you better to-night, my dear?" he said, kissing her gravely.

"Yes, much," she said, retaining his hand and keeping it pinioned
between hers.  "I want you to sit and talk to me to-night--mamma will
like to hear--about our rides, and the woods and flowers.  Ah, how
little I've seen of the country and the flowers!"

She started as she caught a sigh from Mrs Lane.

"You could not help it, dear," she said, hastily.  "Don't think me
ungrateful.  Come and kiss me, and tell me you don't."

Mrs Lane bent over her, and kissed her poor thin lips; and though the
fount was nearly dry, a couple of burning tears fell upon the face of
her child.

"If I could only be at rest about you," said Netta, drawing her mother
closer to her, "I could be so happy.  There, we've asked Mr Lloyd to
come, and here is a welcome."

She half playfully pointed to a chair, and once more took Richard's hand
between both hers, listening to him as he tried to talk cheerfully, not
so much of the past as of trips to come, till, meeting her eyes, and
seeing in them the sad, reproachful gaze of one who said "Why this
deceit?" his voice grew husky, and he was silent.

"What's that?" said Netta, suddenly, as she heard steps below.  "Oh,
mamma, you have sent for him again--why did you?"

There was tender love in the reproachful smile--one which faded as the
doctor entered, and Richard gave up his place to him.

He made but a brief stay, and was followed out of the room by Mrs Lane.

"Sit down again, Richard," said the girl, fondly.  "Take those," she
said, pointing to a pair of scissors on the table.  "Now cut off that
long piece of hair."

As she spoke she separated a long, dark brown tress and smilingly bent
towards him as he divided it from her head.

"There," she said, smiling, as she knotted it together like so much
silk; "give that to Tiny--some day--and tell her it was sent by one who
had prayed night and day for her happiness and yours."

"Oh, my poor child!" groaned Richard, as he placed her gift in his
pocket-book.

"And, Richard, when you are happy together, talk about me sometimes;
you'll bring her to see where they have laid me--where I lie asleep?"

"For God's sake, do not talk like this, my darling!" he exclaimed; "I
cannot bear it!"

"I must," she said, excitedly.  "I must, the time is so short.  Tell
her, Richard," she whispered, earnestly, "that I loved you very dearly;
for I did not know then about her.  But tell her it was so innocent and
dear a love, that I think God's angels would not blame me for it.  I
would not talk so now, Richard, but I am dying."

He started up to run for help, but she feebly restrained him.

"No, no, don't go; it is not yet," she whispered.  "Stay with me even
when it's growing dark.  Promise me you will stay and hold my hand till
the last.  I shall not feel so afraid then, and I don't think it can be
wrong.  I used to think once about you, so strong and brave; how in the
future you would take care of me, and that I should never be afraid
again.  Then I used to sit and whisper your name, and stop from my work
to kiss the flowers you sent me, every leaf and every blossom, and
whisper to it, `You are my darling's gift.'  Was this wrong of me?  I
could not help it.  No one knew, and I have been so different to others.
My life has been all work and sorrow--her sorrow--and those were my
happy moments."

"My poor darling!" was all he could utter; and the words came like a
groan.

"Don't trouble about it," she whispered; "I'm not sorry to die.  You
have made me so happy.  I feel as if I may take those tender words from
you now, Richard.  You called me darling twice to-night.  Kiss me once
again."

Tiny's name was on his lips as he bent over her, and raised the little
frail form in his arms; and hers were wreathed around his neck as he
pressed his lips to hers twice--lips which responded to the caress.

As he laid her tenderly back upon her pillow, she retained one of his
broad, nervous hands, pressed her lips to it once, and then placed it
feebly beneath her cheek, lying with her eyes half-closed, and her voice
coming in a faint whisper as she said--

"I don't think she would be angry if she knew all.  Ah, mother darling,
I did not know you had come back.  Come here."

For Mrs Lane was sitting in the corner of the room by the door, with
her face buried in her hands.

She came and sat at the foot of the couch, unable to restrain her sobs.

"I could not help loving him, dear," she said, smiling; "he is so good
and true.  It was not the same love I have for you.  Richard, you'll be
rich again some day.  You'll be kind to her?"

"Rich or poor, on my soul I will!" he exclaimed.

"She has worked so hard for me," said Netta, feebly.  Then starting with
a wildly anxious look upon her face, she uttered a strange, passionate
cry as of one in intense mental agony.

"My child--my poor child!" cried Mrs Lane, throwing herself on her
knees by the couch.

"Why--why did I not think of it before?" cried Netta, wildly.  "I ought
to have thought--Oh, it will be too late."

"What is it--what can I do?" cried Mrs Lane.

"Papa--papa--papa!" wailed the girl; "I must see papa."

Mrs Lane sank in a heap with her head bowed down upon her knees.

"I--I must see papa," wailed Netta again--"I did not think before--I
have something to say--it only came just now.  Oh, mother, you will
fetch him before it is too late."

Mrs Lane started up and gazed wildly at her guest.

"Can I go?  Can I do anything?" he exclaimed.

"No, no, stay with me," wailed Netta; "he would not come for you.
Mamma, you will go.  Dear mother, bring him here."

Without another word, Mrs Lane ran into the next room and hurried on
her things, returning to kiss the anxious, flushed face gazing so
wistfully at her.

"You will not leave her?" she said, hoarsely.

"No, he will not go," moaned Netta; "but be quick--be quick."

Richard's heart beat fast, for, as he was left alone, Netta's eyes
closed and a terrible pallor succeeded the flush.  He was about to rise
and summon Mrs Jenkles, but Netta divined his intention, and uttered a
feeble protest.

"You said you would not leave me.  I am only tired.  It is of no use."

She lay there with her cheek pillowed on his hand, and her eyes closed,
but her lips moved gently; and as in that feebly-lighted room the solemn
silence seemed to grow more painful, Richard felt a strange thrill of
awe pass through him: for he knew that the words she softly whispered to
herself were words of prayer.

After a time, Mrs Jenkles softly opened the door and peered in.

"Can I do anything for you, my dear?" she said, gently.

"Yes," said Netta, in a faint whisper; "come here.  Kiss me and say
good-bye," she continued, after a pause.  "Now go and tell Sam I have
prayed for a blessing on you both for your kindness to the poor creature
you found in such distress."

Mrs Jenkles's sorrow, in spite of herself, found vent in a wail; and
she hurried out of the room to weep alone by her own fireside.

Then an hour passed without a change, only that twice over the great
soft, dilated eyes opened widely to gaze wonderingly about till they
rested on Richard, when a faint smile came on the poor wan face, the
thin cheek nestled down into the strong man's hand, and a faint sigh of
content fluttered from the lips of the dying girl.

It must have been nearly eleven when Netta opened her eyes widely.

"They are very long," she said, in a harsh, cracked voice--"Very long;
he must come soon.  Why did I not think of it before?"

"She must soon return," said Richard.  "Shall I send?"

"No, no!  It would be no use," she whispered; and her great loving eyes
rested fondly on his for a moment.  "Do not let go of my hand, and I
shall not feel afraid."

She sank back once more, but only to start at the end of a few moments.

"He's coming--yes, he's coming now."

Richard strained his ears to listen, but there was not a sound; but as a
smile of content came once more upon the anxious features, there was the
roll of distant cab wheels, and he knew that the senses of the dying
girl were preternaturally quickened.

The next minute the wheels stopped at the door, and there were steps on
the stairs.

"He has come!" cried the girl, joyfully.  "Lift me up in your arms,
Richard, that I may see him."

As he responded to her wish, and held her up with her head resting upon
his shoulder, the door opened, and, to his intense astonishment, the
handsome man of fashion, looking sallow, haggard, and ten years older,
with the great drops of sweat upon his face, and his hair clinging wetly
to his brow, half staggered into the room.

"Papa, dear papa!" wailed the girl, stretching out one hand; and with a
groan, as he read in her wasted features the coming end, he stumbled
forward, to sink crushed and humbled to his knees before the face of
death.

"My poor child!" he groaned.

"I knew--you would come," moaned the girl, faintly.  "Mother--quick--
papa--kind to her--once more--suffered so--so much--"

With her last strength, her trembling little fingers placed those of
Vanleigh upon the hand of his neglected, forsaken wife; and then, as a
shudder ran through her frame, her nerveless arm dropped, and her head
turned away to sink pillowed on Richard's arm.  There was a smile upon
her lip, as her eyes were bent fixedly upon his, and then as he gazed he
saw that their loving light faded, to give place to a far-off, awful
stare, and a deep groan burst from the young man's breast.

Vanleigh started up at that, exclaiming wildly--

"Quick--a doctor--the nearest physician--do you hear!"

"It is too late," said Richard, sadly.  "Your child is dead."

Volume 3, Chapter XVII.

THREE MONTHS AFTER.

"Why did you come, Humphrey?  Why did you hunt me out?" cried Richard,
in answer to a speech made by the broad-shouldered West-country-man, who
had been ushered in by Mrs Fiddison.

"Because I wanted to see you, Master Dick.  I've written, and you won't
answer; so I got Mr Pratt there to tell me where you were, and here I
am."

Richard stood frowning for a few moments; but there was something so
bright and frank in the face before him that a sunshiny look came in his
own, and he shook hands heartily.

"Come, sir, that does one good," cried Humphrey.  "I _am_ glad I've
come."

"Well, I am glad to see you, Humphrey; but yet--"

"I know, sir--I know," said Humphrey.  "I could tell you exactly what
you feel--a bit of envy-like; but there, bless your heart, if it wasn't
for Polly and the thoughts of her, I should be a miserable man."

"Well, you've got plenty to make you miserable," said Richard.

"Ah, you may smile, sir--I know what you mean; but I have, all the same.
I tell you, I was a deal happier man without the estate than I am with
it.  Old Lloyd and Mrs Lloyd--begging your pardon for speaking so of
them--look sneering-like at me; so do the quality; hang them, they're
civil enough, but I can see them sneer.  They look down on me, of
course.  I'm not one of their sort.  I'm ignorant, and can't talk to
them.  I get on well enough with the young fellows, shooting, and so on;
but I always feel as if I ought to load their guns, and I can't help
saying `sir' to every one of them."

"But I thought Mr Mervyn--"

"Mr Mervyn's as good and kind a gentleman as ever lived, and he's
wanted to learn me all sort of things; but I can't take to them--I
can't, indeed, sir.  Then there's Polly: she's at a fine school, and,
poor lass, she's miserable, and writes to me how glad she'll be to get
away.  It's all wrong, sir.  What's the good of a horse to a man as
can't ride, or a yacht to a man as can't sail it?  I've got Penreife,
and I go in and out of it feeling quite ashamed-like, just as if I was a
fish out of water.  I tell you, Master Dick, upon my sivvy, what with
feeling uncomfortable about ousting you, and being sneered at on the
sly, and bothered with the company and invitations, and hints to dress
different, and learn this, and learn that, I haven't had a happy day
since you left.  I don't like it, and I don't want it.  Damn the
estate!--there!"

"Why, my dear fellow, you'll soon get used to it if you make up your
mind.  Why, you're in your old keeper's clothes."

"Of course I am.  Why shouldn't I be?  There's no one up here I know, so
I thought I'd be comfortable-like, and I thought--I thought I should be
better in them to come and see you.  And now, sir, how's it with you?"

"Oh, pretty well, Humphrey.  I've got the command of a schooner, and I'm
going on a voyage to India."

"No, no--don't go, Master Dick--don't.  Come down into Cornwall again."

Richard shook his head.

"Nonsense, sir; why, lookye here.  Here am I, Humphrey Lloyd--"

"Trevor," said Richard.

"Hang the name!" said Humphrey, "it's always bothering me.  I more often
sign Lloyd than Trevor, which is about the awkwardest name there ever
was to write.  Ah, Master Dick, it was a bad day's work for me when
there was that change."

"Nonsense, man."

"Ah, but it was; and I tell you what: if it wasn't for my darling little
lassie, I should take to drinking to drown my cares--But, look here,
Master Richard--they wanted me to take that name, too--Richard--but I
wouldn't stand that.  Well, look here, sir, why don't you come down, and
put your foot in the old place again?  What's being born got to do with
it?  We couldn't help being born; we didn't want to be, I dessay; and we
couldn't help what they did with us in our cradles."

"Of course not, Humphrey."

"Well, look here, sir; you grew into a gentleman, I grew into a common
man.  Well, then, what's stupider than trying to make me what I didn't
grow into, and you into a common man?  It's rubbish: we're neither of us
no good as we are."

Richard laughed--rather bitterly, though.

"Polly and I have had it all over, sir.  I went down to her
school-place, poor little lass.  She's very unhappy, and we came to the
conclusion that with the cottage nicely papered and painted, and a
hundred a year, we should be as happy as the day's long.  So come,
Master Richard--there's the place nohow for want of you.  Come down, and
take possession."

"Humphrey, if ever there was a fellow born with the soul of a gentleman,
it's you.  But no; there is such a thing in a man as pride, and I have
too much to accept your offer; and, besides, I have made an engagement."

"Not to be married, sir?"

"No, no; my ship, man, my ship."

"Oh!" said Humphrey; "because I was thinking, sir.  There's Miss Rea,
you know."

"What about her?" said Richard, sharply.

"Oh, only that she's down at Tolcarne now, sir.  They say she's been
better lately.  There was some talk about her being engaged to an
officer--that captain, sir, as come down and stayed with us--you, I
mean--but they say that's all broken off, because he was married
already.  His wife fetched him, and he's gone off in a regiment to
India."

Richard remained silent.

"Well, come--look here, Master Dick, you say you won't take the place
back?"

"Certainly not."

"Then let's go halves."

"Humphrey, it is yours by right; keep it," said Richard, decisively.

"Well, come then, sir, we were boys together, you won't refuse to do
your old companion a good turn?"

"Anything consistent that you ask me to do, Humphrey, I'll do with
pleasure."

"Then come down and be my best man at my wedding."

Richard hesitated, for there was a battle going on within his breast.
He longed--longed intensely to go down and see Cornwall again.  Tiny Rea
was there--he might see her.  Yes, and make himself more wretched than
ever, for he could not speak to her.  It would be madness to go--and yet
once--to see the old place before he left England--just for a few hours.
And why should he not see Tiny, just to tell her of his unaltered
faith?  He felt that he would give the world to go, and yet pride kept
him back, "All right--I'll walk in, Mrs Fiddison," said a voice, and
Frank Pratt entered.

"Well, Dick, old man, how are you?  Ah, Humphrey, I told you I should
turn up some time."

"I'm trying to get Master Dick here, sir, to come down and be my best
man at the wedding."

"Well, he'll do that for you, surely," said Pratt, quietly.  "Go down,
Dick.  I've promised Humphrey to go.  I said I would directly he asked."

Pratt looked very solemn over it; but there was tremendous exultation in
his heart as he thought of seeing Pin, for the family had left Russell
Square directly after the unpleasant eclaircissement.

"He'll come, Humphrey.  There, I'll promise for him, and so you may make
your mind happy."

"But just say you will, Master Dick," said Humphrey, rising.

"Well, I will, Humphrey," said Richard, holding out his hand, though he
repented the next moment, as his successor took his leave.

"Seen Mrs Vanleigh lately?" said Pratt, as soon as they were alone.

"Poor woman! no, not for two days.  I must call."

"Van's behaving very well now that it's too late.  There's a regular
allowance for her at his army agents.  I didn't believe a man could have
changed so as he did.  It was that fever did it, coming upon the shock.
Poor wretch!  I never saw a man so stricken down as he was at the poor
girl's funeral."

He caught Richard's eye.

"There, what a blundering ass I am, Dick, old man.  It's my trade to
rout out all sorts of old sores.  But, mum, I won't say any more.  How's
our friend the cabby?"

"Oh, quite well!"

"And Madame?"

"Excellently well.  They say that perhaps Mrs Vanleigh is coming to
stay with them again; but I don't think it would be wise for the poor
woman to do so."

"Quite right," said Pratt.  "Well, I must be off and work.  I've got an
Indian case on--Jeefee Rustam versus Tomkins, and two or three more
things to get out of the way before I go down to Cornwall.  By the way,
I met our languid friend, Flick, at the dub yesterday."

"Well?"

"He cut me, sir.  Looked bayonets, lance-points, and sabres at me.
Heigho!  Well, we can't all win.  Ta-ta."

"Good-bye."

"Cornwall, mind."

Richard nodded, and he was left alone, to make up his mind a dozen times
that he could not go down to the old place without a great sacrifice of
dignity, and as often something seemed to whisper him that he must go;
and to that faint whisper he lent an attentive ear, for the desire grew
so strong at last that he found himself unable to resist.

Volume 3, Chapter XVIII.

A FELLOW-TRAVELLER.

"Don't mind telling you now," said Frank Pratt, sitting back in the
railway carriage, with his hands under his head, and great puffs of
smoke issuing from between his lips as he stared at Richard, who was
gazing quietly at the pleasant Devon prospect past which they flew.

"Don't mind telling me what?" said Richard, dreamily.

"That I never expected to get you down here.  Dick, old man, I've felt
like a steam-tug fussing about a big ship these last few days.  However,
I've got you out of dock at last."

"Yes," said Richard, dreamily, "you've got me out of dock at last."

They relapsed into silence for a time, Pratt sitting watching his
friend, and noting more than ever the change that had come over him
during the last few months.  There were lines in his forehead that did
not exist before, and a look of staid, settled melancholy, very
different from the calm, insouciant air that used to pervade his
countenance.

"Poor old Dick," muttered Pratt, laying aside his pipe; "I mustn't let
him look down like this."  Then aloud, "Dick, old boy, I'm going to
preach to you."

Richard turned to him with a sad smile.

"Go on, then," he said.

"I will," said Pratt.  "Never mind the text or the sequence of what I
say.  I only wanted to talk to you, old fellow, about life."

"I was just then thinking about death," said Richard, quietly.

"About death?"

"I was visiting in spirit the little corner at Highgate where that poor
girl lies, and thinking of a wish she expressed."

"What was that?"

Richard shook his head, and they were silent as the train rushed on.

"Life is a strange mystery, Dick," said Pratt at last, laying his hand
on his friend's knee; "and I know it is giving you great pain to come
down here and see others happy.  It is to give them pleasure you are
coming down?"

Richard nodded.

"Last time we were down here together, Dick, I was one of the most
miserable little beggars under the sun.  I don't mind owning it now."

His friend grew more attentive.

"You were happy then, old fellow, and very hard you tried to make others
so too, but I was miserable."

"Why?"

"Because I was poor--a perfect beggar, without a prospect of rising, and
I had found out that in this queer little body of mine there was a very
soft heart.  Dick, old boy, the wheel of fortune has given a strange
turn since then.  I've gone up and you have gone down, and 'pon my soul,
old fellow, I'm very, very sorry."

"Nonsense, Franky," said Richard, speaking cheerfully.  "If ever a man
was glad, I am, at your prosperity.  But you don't look so very
cheerful, after all."

"How can I?" said Frank, dolefully, "with you on my mind for one thing,
and the lion's mouth gaping for my unlucky head."

"Lion's mouth?"

"Yes, Dick; I'm going to Tolcarne to pop my head in; and, to make
matters worse, there's a horrible, sphinxy griffin sits and guards the
lion's den."

"You mean that you are going to propose for little Fin?"

"I am, Dick, I am," said Pratt, excitedly.  "I wouldn't have said a word
if I had kept poor, but with my rising income--"

"And some one's permission?"

"Bless her, yes; she says she hates me, and always shall, till her
sister's happy, but I may ask papa, so as to get rid of poor Flick and
his persecutions.  I believe the poor chap cares for her; but I can't
afford to let him have her, and make her miserable--eh, Dick?"

"Frank, old fellow, I wish you joy, and I'm glad of it, for she's a dear
little girl."

"Oh, that don't express it within a hundred," said Pratt.  "Dear little
girl!  That's the smallest of small beer, while she's the finest vintage
of champagne.  But, I say, Dick, old fellow, you've got to help me over
this."

"I?  How?"

"She says she shall hate me till her sister's happy; and, Dick, old
fellow, there's only one way of making Valentina Rea happy, and that you
know.  There--there--I've done.  Don't look at me like that.  Fortune's
wheel keeps turning on: I shall be down in the mud again soon, and you
cock-a-hoop on the top.  Do you stick to your purpose of not going on
to-night?"

"Yes, I shall go on in the morning from Plymouth, be present at the
wedding, and then come away."

"But you'll go and see the old people?  Dick, recollect Mrs Lloyd did
all out of love and pride in her boy."

"Yes, I have made up my mind to go and see them," said Richard, quietly.
"I'll try and be a dutiful son."

"And if I can manage it, you shall be a dutiful friend and
brother-in-law too, my boy," muttered Pratt, as he sank back in his
seat, relit his pipe, and smoked in peace.

Plymouth platform was in a state of bustle on the arrival of the train.
The friends had alighted from their coupe, inquired about the early
morning train for Penzance, pointed out their light luggage toon
obsequious porter, whose words buzzed with z's, and were about to make
their way to the great hotel, when Pratt's attention was taken by a
little grey, voluble old woman, very neatly and primly dressed in blue
print, with a scarlet shawl, and a wonderful sugar-loaf beaver hat upon
her head.  She was in trouble about her railway ticket, two bundles tied
up in blue handkerchiefs, and a large, green umbrella.

"I can't find it, young man; I teclare to cootness, look you, I can't
find it."

"Very sorry, ma'am," said the ticket collector, who had followed her
from the regular platform; "then you'll have to pay from Bristol."

"Put look you," cried the old lady, "I tid pay once and cot the ticket,
look you, and I put it somewhere to pe safe."

"Have you searched all your pockets?" said Richard.

"Yes, young man," said the old lady; "I've only cot one, look you--
there!" and she dragged up her dress to display a great olive green
pocket as big as a saddle-bag, out of which, after placing a bundle in
Pratt's hands and the umbrella in Richard's to hold, she turned out a
heterogeneous assortment of nutmegs, thimbles, reels of cotton, pieces
of wax-candle, ginger, a bodkin case, pincushions, housewives, and, as
the auctioneers say, other articles too numerous to mention.

"It don't seem to be there," said Richard, kindly.

"No, young man, it isn't.  I hunted it all over, look you, and I must
have peen robbed."

"Well, ma'am, I'm very sorry," said the collector, "but you must pay
again."

"I teclare to cootness, young man, I can't, and I won't.  I shall have
no money to come pack."

"Can't help that," said the collector, civilly enough.  "I must do my
duty, ma'am."

"How much is it?" said Richard.

"From Bristol, third-class, sir, eight and tenpence."

"Look you, young man, I shall pe ruined," cried the old woman,
tearfully.

"I'll pay it," said Richard, thrusting his hand into his pocket.

"You're a tear, coot poy, pless you," cried the old lady; and to the
amusement of all on the platform, she went on tiptoe, reached up to
Richard, and gave him a sounding kiss.  "Pless you for it.  Coot teeds
are never thrown away."

"I hope you are a witch, Mother Hubbard," said Pratt, laughing.  "Here's
your bundle.  Don't forget to do him a good turn."

Richard took out the money, and the collector was about to write a
receipt, when it suddenly occurred to the young man to open the
umbrella, which he did with some difficulty, and the missing ticket fell
out.

"There," cried the old lady, joyfully, "I knew I put it somewhere to pe
safe.  Thank you, young man, and pless you all the same; for, look you,
it was as coot a teed as if you had tone it."

"Don't say any more, mother," said Richard, laughing.  "Good-bye."

Volume 3, Chapter XIX.

A QUIET WEDDING.

There was just time to snatch a hasty breakfast the next morning before
starting for the station, and after a short journey they mounted into
the dog-cart which Humphrey had sent to meet them.  By comparing times,
Pratt, who had taken all the management upon himself, found that he
could execute a little plan he had been hatching; and when they neared
Penreife, after a chat with the groom about the preparations, he
proposed to Richard that they should alight, send the vehicle on, and
take the short cut by the lanes.

"If you like," said Richard, quietly; and the sadness that had seemed to
hang over him more and more as they neared their journey's end now half
unmanned him.

"I thought you'd like better to walk up to the old place alone," said
Frank, "instead of having a third person with us."

"Thank you, Frank, thank you," said Richard, in a voice that was husky
with emotion.  "It was a mistake to come."

"No, no, a kindness to Humphrey and me."

"I--I--thought I could stand it better, and not behave like such a weak
fool," said Richard.  "There, it's over now.  Let's get through our
task, so that I may go back."

"You must wait for me, you know, Dick," said Frank, cheerily.  "There,
cheer up, old man, it isn't for ever and a day.  Try and be hopeful, and
put on a bright face before the wedding folks.  It's all going to be as
quiet as possible--a couple of carriages to the church and back.  Your
old people will be there.  Say a kind word to them--there, you know how
to do it."

"I'll try and act like a man, Frank, hard as it will be.  But you've set
me a bitter task."

"Then you shall have some sweet to take with it," said Pratt to himself.
Then aloud, "Ah, how nice this old lane looks.  I never saw the ferns
brighter or richer.  How the sun shines through the trees.  What a
lovely morning, Dick!  I say," he gabbled on in a hasty way, "look at
that tiny waterfall.  What a change, Dick, from Fountain Court, Temple."

"Why did you come this way?" groaned Richard, as he strove hard to fight
down the emotion caused by the recollections that pervaded his memory.

That lane was hallowed to him: but a quarter of a mile farther was the
old woman's cottage where he had encountered the sisters; there was the
place where he had walked one evening with Tiny; there--oh, there was a
happy memory clinging to every tree and mossy block of granite; and but
for the strong effort he made, he could have wandered out of the path,
thrown himself down amongst the ferns, and cried like a child.

Meanwhile, Pratt chatted excitedly.

"Bless the dear old place.  Why, Dick, that's where I saw my little Fin
looking so disdainfully at me, coming round the sharp turn there; and,
look here, that's my old perch, where I've had many a jolly pipe."

He caught his friend suddenly by the arm, in a strangely-excited
fashion, and turned him round, as he pointed to the grey, lichen-covered
monolith of granite.

"Dick, old man, I could smoke a pipe there now, and sit and whistle like
a bird.  I say, Dick, how comical a fellow would look up there in his
wig and gown, and--thank goodness!"

He said those last two words to himself with a sigh of relief, as,
turning round, there, timed to a moment by his vile machinations and
those of Fin, the sisters came, basket and fern trowel in hand, from
amongst the trees, just as if time had been standing still, and no
troubles had intervened.

To two of the party the surprise was complete.  Richard stopped short,
rigid and firm; while Tiny, as soon as her eyes rested upon him, turned
pale, her basket fell to the ground, and uttering a faint cry of pain,
she pressed her hand to her side and tottered back.

Conventional feelings, rigid determination, everything went down before
nature then.  With one bound Richard was at Tiny's side, and the next
moment, with a cry of joy, the poor girl's arms were round his neck, and
she was sobbing on his breast.

The probabilities are that had the insane behaviour of Frank Pratt been
seen, he would have lost caste at the bar; for, dashing down his hat and
an expensive meerschaum, which was shivered to atoms on the granite
path, he executed a wild breakdown, brought his foot to the earth with a
flop, and then rushed at Fin; but only to be disappointed, for she was
clinging to and sobbing over Dick--that is, as far up as she could
reach, crying--

"Oh, you dear, good darling, Dick--pray, pray don't go on breaking her
poor heart any more."

"I say," said Pratt, reproachfully, as Richard bent down and kissed the
little maid, "what have I done?  Ain't I nobody?"

"Oh, go away now," cried Fin, "There, you may have one, if nobody's
looking.  Now, that will do;" and, after suffering a kiss, she returned
it with a push.

"Time's up, Dick, come.  You shall see her again," said Pratt, looking
ruefully at his meerschaum scraps, as he dusted his hat.  Then followed
a little whispering with Pin, and he caught his friend's arm, as his
fellow-conspirator led her sister away.

"This is madness," groaned Richard, as he yielded to his friend's touch,
and they walked rapidly away.  "Oh, Franky, you contrived this."

"To be sure I did," said Pratt, grinning; "and you shall have another
dose to cure you both, if you are good.  But, quick; now, then, look a
man.  Here we are."

Richard walked steadily up to the house, where he was pleased to find
that all the servants' faces were new.  Humphrey met him at the door,
and Mr and Mrs Lloyd were in the hall ready to approach timidly, as
the young man gravely kissed the late housekeeper, and shook hands with
Lloyd.

Polly was in the drawing-room, for it was to be a very homely,
unconventional marriage; and she blushed warmly on encountering the
former owner of the place.

"I wish you every happiness, my dear," said Richard, to set her at ease;
and he bent down and kissed her.  "Humphrey has told me of your good
little heart."

"And you will listen to him, Mr Lloy--Trevor?" said the girl, mixing
the two names together.

"Time to go," said Humphrey; and he handed Polly, Mrs Lloyd, and her
husband into the first carriage, which was kept back while he, Richard,
and Pratt entered the other, and were driven off to the church.

In spite of the endeavours to keep the affair quiet, the little
churchyard was crowded, and it was a harder trial for Richard even than
he had expected, to hear the whisperings, and receive the friendly nods
and bows from so many of those who knew him well.

But he bore it all in a calm, manly fashion; shook hands warmly with Mr
Mervyn, who had come with a white favour in his button-hole; stood best
man to Humphrey; and after little Polly, but a week before at school,
had been given away by her uncle, and, the wedding over, the carriage
had driven back with the bride and bridegroom, he took his place again
quite calmly, shook hands with those who clustered round, and was driven
away.

Everything went off well; and at the simple wedding breakfast, when
called upon, Richard, in a very manly speech, wished health and
happiness to the bride and bridegroom.  Humphrey responded, broke down,
tried again, broke down again, and then, leaving his place, crossed to
where Richard sat, grasped his hand, and in a voice choking with
emotion, exclaimed--

"Master Dick, I'm speaking for my wife as well as myself when I tell you
that, if you wish us to be a happy couple, you must come back to your
own."

Richard rose, and returned the strong grasp; but before he could utter a
word Pratt brought his hand down bang upon the table, exclaiming--

"Mother Hubbard, by Jove!"

Every face was directed at the door, where, standing, in her black hat
and scarlet shawl, with her hands resting upon the horn handle of her
umbrella, was the little grey old woman of Plymouth Station.

"It's dear Aunt Price," cried Polly, jumping up; and, regardless of her
finery, she ran to the severe-looking old lady, hugged her
affectionately, and then began to unpin her shawl, and take off her hat.
"Oh, aunty, I'm _so_ glad you've come."

"And are you married, look you?" said the old lady.

"Married, yes," cried Humphrey, heartily; "we couldn't wait, you know,
or it would have been too late.  Give's your umbrella, and come and sit
down.  Why didn't you come last night?"

"It was too far, my poy," said the old lady; "and I was tired.  It's a
long way, look you, from Caerwmlych, and I'm a very old woman now.
Well, Lloyd--well, Chane, you're both looking older than when I was here
last, close upon thirty years ago, and nursed you through two
illnesses."

"We are quite well," said Mrs Lloyd; "but didn't expect you here."

"P'r'abs not, p'r'abs not," said the old lady; "put Polly here wrote to
me to come, and I thought it was time, for she's peen telling me strange
news, look you."

Lloyd shuffled in his chair, Mrs Lloyd was silent, and Richard's brow
knit as he glanced across the table at Pratt, while Humphrey busied
himself in supplying the old lady's plate.

"I cot Polly's letter, look you, and I teclare to cootness, if I'd been
tead and perried, I think I should have cot up and t come, look you.
And so you're married to Humphrey!  Ah, well, he was a tisacreeable
paby; but he's grown, look you, into a fine lad, and I wish you poth
choy."

The old lady took a glass of wine and ate a little, and then grew more
garrulous than ever, while no one else seemed disposed to speak.

"And I'm glad to see you again," said the old lady, looking at Richard.
"I tidn't expect it when I left you at the railway place; and yet I
seemed to know you again, look you.  I felt I knew the face, and I
teclare to cootness I couldn't tell where I'd seen it, but I rememper
now."

"Come, aunt, darling," said Polly, "make a good breakfast."

"Tinner you mean, child," said the old lady.

"Well, dinner, dear," said Polly, "because I want a long talk with you
before we go."

"You're coing away, then?"

"Yes, aunt, for a month; but you'll stay till we come back?"

"Well, I ton't know, look you," said the old lady, sturdily.  "Chane
Lloyd and I never tid get on well together; but if Mr Richard Trevor
there isn't too prout to ask a poor old woman off the mountains--who
nursed his poor mother, and tantled him in her arms when he was a paby--
I teclare to cootness I will stay."

A dead silence fell upon the group at the table.  Humphrey seemed
uncomfortable, Polly clung to his arm, Mrs Lloyd looked white and
downcast, and her husband glanced at the door, and motioned a servant
who was entering to retire.

Richard broke the silence, after giving a reassuring smile to Humphrey
and his wife, by saying, gravely--

"I would ask you to stay with pleasure, Mrs Price, if I were master
here, but you are mistaken.  There sits Mr Humphrey Trevor; I am your
own kith and kin, Richard Lloyd."

"Chut!--chut!--chut!" exclaimed the old lady, starting up and speaking
angrily, as she pointed at him with one finger.  "Who ever saw a Lloyd
or a Price with a nose like that?  Ton't tell me!  You're Mr Richard
Trevor, your father's son, and as much like him, look you, as two peas."

The Lloyds rose, Mrs Lloyd looking like ashes as she clung to her
husband's arm; while Pratt left his place, and stood behind the chair of
his friend.

"I'd forgotten all about it, look you," said the old lady, prattling
away, "till Polly wrote to me from her school; and then it all came back
about Chane Lloyd and her paby, and her having the fever when her
mistress died.  Why, look you, tidn't I go up to the nursery after peing
town to see the funeral, and find Chane Lloyd hat peen up there, and put
her paby in the young master's cratle? and, look you, titn't I go town
to chite her, and find her all off her heat, and she was ill for weeks?
I thought she'd tone it without knowing, or, peing wild-like, had liked
to see her little one in the young master's clothes.  I put that all
right again, and nursed poth pabies till she cot well.  Lloyd--Trevor--
tidn't I see them poth as soon as they came into the worlt, and to you
think I ton't know them?  Why, look at them!"

She turned to Pratt, who was nearest to her; but she cried out in alarm,
for the little fellow had caught her in his arms and kissed her on both
cheeks, as he cried--

"It isn't Mother Hubbard, Dick, but the good fairy out of the
story-book.  God bless you! old lady, for this.  Here, Humphrey, see to
your mother."

But Humphrey was pumping away at both Richard Trevor's arms, as he
cried, excitedly--

"Hooray!  Master Dick.  I never felt so happy in my life.  Polly, lass,
we shall get the cottage after all."

He saw the next moment, though, that Mrs Lloyd had fainted dead away;
and his were the arms that carried her to her bedroom, while Polly crept
to the old Welshwoman's side.

"I came, look you, Master Richard, to put all this right," said the old
lady.  "Putt it was all nonsense, I teclare to cootness.  Anypody might
have seen."

"I--I thank you--I'm contused--dazed, rather," said Trevor, looking from
one to the other.  "Polly, my poor girl, I'll try to make up to you for
this disappointment."

"I'm not disappointed, please, Mr Richard, sir," said Mrs Humphrey,
bobbing a curtsey, and then trying a boarding-school salute and failing,
and blushing terribly.

"I'm very happy indeed, and I'm sure Humphrey is--he said so, and he
always tells the truth.  And if you please, sir, aunt and I will go now
into the housekeeper's room."

"That you won't, if I have any influence with some one here," said
Pratt.  "No, my pretty little wife; you and your brick of a husband
shall go off in triumph; and oh, by Jove! here's the present I brought
down for you."

Frank Pratt's present was a handsome ring, and he was placing it above
the plain one already on her finger, when Humphrey came back.

"She's all right again," he said, huskily.  "I was obliged to come away,
for she wanted to go on her knees--and I couldn't stand it.  Polly--Aunt
Price--she wants you both.  Master Dick, sir, isn't this a day?"

Volume 3, Chapter XX.

CONCLUSION.

Everybody said, as a matter of course, afterwards, that the whole affair
was perfectly absurd, and that anybody could see with half an eye that
Humphrey was not a Trevor.  All the same, though, he had been accepted
for many months as the owner of the estate.

The young couple went off on their wedding trip, for Mrs Lloyd's
illness was of only a transitory nature; and soon after the carriage had
taken them to the station, the old housekeeper sent a message to Trevor,
asking leave to see him.

What took place at that interview Richard Trevor never said; but the
result was that a couple of hours after she and her husband had left the
place, having refused Trevor's offer to let them stay, though living on
his bounty to the end.

In writing, it needs but a stroke of the pen to carry the reader now to
a year ago or the reverse; so let us say that a year has elapsed, and
there is once more a dinner-party at Penreife, where there are visitors
staying.  It is to meet them that Sir Hampton and Lady Rea are coming
from Tolcarne.  One of the visitors is with her sister beneath one of
the shady trees on the lawn; and the other, a little solemn-looking man,
her husband, has been making a tour of the place with Richard Trevor.

They stopped at the pretty keeper's lodge, with its little farm, to
drink new milk, tempered from a flask, offered in glasses by pretty Mrs
Humphrey Lloyd, who looked wonderfully important with the new baby.
Then they visited the stables, where an old friend was enjoying a pipe
after seeing to the comforts of the horses; for Sam Jenkles, when poor
Ratty was obstinate for the last time, and insisted upon dying of old
age in the road instead of at peace in the stables, gladly accepted the
offer made to him to take the superintendence of the little stud at
Penreife; while his wife lived in one of the prettiest cottages on the
estate, and was always busy at the house during company times.

Sam's news when he came down was that Mrs Fiddison had changed her
name, having been proposed to by a widower who fancied she was one of
the bereaved; also that one Barney had got into some little difficulty
with the police, and had gone abroad for change of air.

On returning to the house for dressing, the ladies were already
prepared, and the gentlemen had only time to hurry on their things
before there was a loud "Er-rum" in the hall, and Sir Hampton Rea was
ready to button-hole his sons-in-law, telling the Cornish one that the
new greenhouse was a great success, and that Sanders should come over
the next day to see the wistaria.

As for Lady Rea, she was being heartily kissed, every kiss budding into
a smile on her pleasant face, till Tiny made the discovery that the
plump, affectionate little dame was coming undone, when she had her
whisked away and pinned, volubly telling her daughter the while that
Pepine was so ill, Aunt Matty had not the heart to come.

At eleven precisely the last "Er-rum" is heard in the hall, and peace--
truly a blessed peace--falls on the pleasant Cornish home.

Three months after we have the return visit, Richard Trevor and
Valentina, his wife, being up at Frank Pratt's old-fashioned house at
Highgate, where the only trouble happy little Fin can complain of is
that Frank is so bunted by the solicitors that he has no peace.  Fin has
quite made up her mind that he will be Lord Chancellor; but Frank thinks
it more than doubtful, and is very fond of teasing his wife, his great
coup being to tell her that she asked him to marry her at last.

There is a quiet, grave look in the faces of Richard and his wife, for
they have paid two visits that day--one to the living, one to the dead.

Mrs Vanleigh is living in a pleasant little cottage in a Highgate lane,
and from her they learn that Sir Felix Landells marries the daughter of
an earl in a few weeks; also that Captain, now Major, Vanleigh is still
in India, where he is likely to stay; but that he writes regularly to
his neglected wife, and has devoted himself heart and soul to his
profession.

The visit to the dead was made in Highgate Cemetery, where there is a
neat little railing round a grave--green in summer, purple in spring
with violets; and as husband and wife stand hand in hand there, the
tears of the latter fall fast, while his eyes are blurred and misty as
he pictures the past, and seems to see the slight, fragile form slowly
wasting day by day, till once more, for the thousandth time, he conjures
up the dimly-lit room, and the solemn scene wherein he was an actor.  He
knows that the long, dark tress of hair lies upon his wife's bosom; and
he knows, too, that in her gentle heart there is no tinge of jealous
feeling, or want of faith; for as he raises his head with a muttered
"God rest her!" he meets the loving look of a sweet, trusting pair of
eyes.  Lastly, they gaze together at the simple headstone, but his are
even now too blurred to read the simple inscription--"Netta."

The End.






End of Project Gutenberg's Thereby Hangs a Tale, by George Manville Fenn