THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.




_The Hampstead Mystery._

A Novel.

BY

FLORENCE MARRYAT,

 AUTHOR OF ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘VÉRONIQUE,’ ‘MY OWN
 CHILD,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’ ‘HOW LIKE
 A WOMAN,’ ‘PARSON JONES,’ ETC., ETC.

_IN THREE VOLUMES._

VOL. I.

LONDON:

 F. V. WHITE & CO.,
 14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.

1894.




_CONTENTS._


                 PAGE
 CHAPTER I.,        1

 CHAPTER II.,      25

 CHAPTER III.,     46

 CHAPTER IV.,      75

 CHAPTER V.,       97

 CHAPTER VI.,     123

 CHAPTER VII.,    145

 CHAPTER VIII.,   171

 CHAPTER IX.,     198

 CHAPTER X.,      218




THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.




_The Hampstead Mystery._




CHAPTER I.


‘Once for all,’ exclaimed Mr Crampton, bringing down his broad fist
heavily upon the table, ‘once for all, I tell you, _I will not have
it_.’

At this terrible assertion, Mrs Crampton shivered as if she had been
struck, and Aunt Clem silently dissolved into tears. Henry Hindes, of
all the party, alone preserved his composure. He leaned back in his
chair, carefully trimming his filbert nails with a penknife, as if the
affair under discussion were not of the slightest moment.

‘Of course you will not have it,’ he said after a pause to Mr Crampton,
‘no man in his senses would. Mr Frederick Walcheren has money and good
looks, but there his claims to admiration end. The first you do not
require for your daughter, and the second would have no weight with
anyone but a woman. To place against these supposed advantages, Mr
Walcheren is a young man of dissolute habits, and lavish expenditure.
You should hear what his cousin, Philip Walcheren, says of him.’

‘I want no one’s opinion but my own,’ replied Mr Crampton vehemently.
‘Jenny will have all my money by-and-by, and she shall marry no man
that will make ducks and drakes of it. Besides, he isn’t good enough
for her in any way. He thinks, I suppose, because his family have been
a set of idle scoundrels for centuries past, while my progenitors have
been working to support their children, that his is the better of the
two, but I don’t see it. Besides, if he were the heir to the Crown,
he shouldn’t have my daughter. He’s a Roman, that’s more than enough
for me. I’ll have no Papists in my family. I hate the whole crew, with
their cunning, underhand ways. If Jenny won’t give this Walcheren
fellow over, I’ll lock her up on bread and water till she comes to her
senses again.’

As neither of the ladies made any answer to this threat, Mr Hindes
interfered again.

‘Surely,’ he said with an incredulous smile, ‘Miss Crampton will not
dream of opposing your wishes in this particular, when so much depends
upon her obedience. What can she see in this young man to attract her,
above others of his kind; she who has a crowd of admirers wherever she
goes, and is the acknowledged beauty of Hampstead? I believe, Crampton,
that you are alarming yourself without cause. Miss Crampton means
nothing serious. She is merely amusing herself with the sight of young
Walcheren’s infatuation for her.’

‘It’s more than that,’ returned the older man; ‘I’ve forbidden the
girl to dance with him when she meets him out, or to receive him here
during my absence. And now, her mother tells me, she met them riding
together yesterday afternoon, and has intercepted a letter from him
to Jenny, in which he writes as though they were promised to each
other. What am I to do? I can’t be always at my daughter’s elbow, and
her mother can’t go galloping all over the country after her. It is
disgraceful to think that a young lady of twenty can’t be trusted to
behave herself properly as soon as she is out of her parents’ sight!’

‘Don’t you think you are making rather a mountain out of a molehill?’
inquired Henry Hindes, in the same calm way. ‘Doubtless, Miss Crampton
is young and thoughtless, and, if I may venture to say so--perhaps just
a wee bit spoilt; but is that any reason that you should suspect her
of impropriety? And, after all, is there anything wrong or unusual in
a lovely girl being followed and persecuted by her admirers? Perhaps,
if the truth were known, Miss Crampton might be as well pleased to get
rid of Mr Walcheren as you would be.’

At this juncture, Mrs Crampton took heart of grace to put in her oar.

‘Oh, thank you, dear Mr Hindes!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am sure you are
right. That is, I feel certain that Jenny cares no more for Mr
Walcheren than for anyone else. She is a trifle wilful and does not
brook contradiction well--I acknowledge that--and perhaps papa and I
have spoilt her a little; she is such a darling, you know, that it is
very difficult not to spoil her--but she would never really oppose our
wishes. Papa has only to speak to her--’

‘Nonsense!’ interposed Mr Crampton gruffly. ‘I have spoken to her a
dozen times already, and she laughs in my face and disobeys me as soon
as my back is turned. But this business has gone far enough, and I mean
to put a stop to it. Where is the girl?’ he continued, turning to his
wife; ‘go and tell her I wish to speak to her at once!’

‘My dear, she has not risen yet. I do not suppose she is awake!’

‘And it is past eleven,’ said her husband.

‘Yes; but remember how late she was up last night. I don’t think we
were home till past two o’clock.’

‘Whilst she was dancing with this young jackanapes, I conclude, and
letting him make eyes at her! Well! it is for the last time, I can tell
Miss Jenny that! If she disobeys me again, I’ll take her right away
from Hampstead, and she shall never see it till the fellow’s dead, or
married. No Papistical grandchildren for me! I can tell her that!’

‘Oh, Mr Crampton!’ cried his wife, with affected horror.

‘Yes, it is “Oh! Mr Crampton,”’ repeated the old man angrily, mimicking
her thin tones, ‘and it’ll be “Oh! Mrs Crampton,” if you don’t take
care. It’s more than half your fault! You should look better after
your daughter, and then these unpleasantries wouldn’t happen. But you
let her have her own way in everything. She just rules you and Miss
Bostock, and then you leave me to rectify your errors. It isn’t fair on
either me or the child!’

Mrs Crampton and her sister, Miss Bostock, familiarly known as Aunt
Clem, were now weeping in concert.

‘I am sure,’ sobbed the mother, ‘I’ve done everything in my power,
short of turning Mr Walcheren out of doors, to prevent his calling here
so often, because I knew you didn’t wish it, John. Last time he came
I would not order up tea, until Jenny made such a point of it that I
could not refuse. And when the dear child rides, or drives, you know it
is impossible for me to supervise her actions.’

‘You should go with her,’ grumbled her husband.

‘Oh! dear! I wouldn’t sit behind those cobs of hers for all the world!
It frightens me to see her drive them. And she won’t come out in the
barouche with Aunt Clem and me. She laughs at the very idea. She is so
very high-spirited, you see. She must have her own way in everything!’

‘Well, go and fetch her here,’ said Mr Crampton shortly; ‘I must speak
to her before I go to town.’

‘But if she is not dressed, my dear,’ remonstrated his wife.

‘Tell her to dress at once and come to me! Now, no nonsense, or I’ll
pull her out of bed myself.’

The two women flew from the room to prevent so awful a contingency, and
the men were left alone. They were partners in the well-known firm of
Messrs Hindes & Crampton, wool-staplers in the city.

Henry Hindes, although much the younger of the two, was head of the
business, having inherited his share through the death of his father.
He was a man of about five or seven and thirty, smooth and solid
looking, but much more polished in manners and appearance than his
partner. His fair, thin hair was parted in the middle, and combed
close to his head. He possessed a powerful brain and a good knowledge
of business. His blue eyes, straight thick nose, and smiling mouth,
gave him a benevolent and cordial look, which made him a favourite in
society. He was always perfectly dressed, and was proud of his white
hands and filbert nails.

People who wished to do business with the firm, always preferred to see
the senior partner to the junior, because the former was so _suave_ and
courteous, and the latter so rough and curt.

But Mr Crampton was the tenderer-hearted man of the two, though he
did not show it so much. His private purse-strings were always open
to help a disabled workman, or to head a subscription for the widows
and orphans of those who were removed by death. He was a man of
strong views, however, and a somewhat obstinate temperament, and this
business of his daughter and Mr Frederick Walcheren had disturbed him
very much. A Scotchman by birth, and brought up as a Nonconformist,
he had a righteous horror of Popery, and everything connected with
it. On this account alone he had, from the first, discountenanced the
acquaintanceship of Mr Walcheren with his family; and to find that his
daughter had, in express opposition to his wishes, made an intimate
friend of the young man, wounded him in his tenderest point. He sat
very gloomy and silent after his wife and sister-in-law had left the
room, and Mr Hindes tried his utmost to make him regard the matter in a
more hopeful light. For years he had been as intimate in the domestic
circle of the Crampton family, as he was with his partner in the city,
and was regarded as their nearest friend by them all.

‘This is a matter that only requires a few words of explanation to set
it right, Crampton,’ he remarked, ‘so it’s no use looking so black
about it. You must allow that you and your wife have rather given Miss
Jenny her own way, and naturally she clings to it. But she loves you
both too much to wilfully oppose you.’

‘I hope so, I hope so!’ replied the old man. ‘But spoilt children are
not always the most grateful, Hindes. I trust that Jenny may listen, as
you say, to reason, but I would rather appeal to the young man himself.
Perhaps, if he knew that we will never give our consent to her marrying
a Papist, he might see the advisability of giving up the pursuit.’

‘I will speak to him, if you empower me to do so,’ said Hindes,
eagerly. ‘He is sure to be at the Bouchers’ dance to-night. I did not
intend to go, but I believe Hannah wishes to do so, and the opportunity
will be an excellent one, particularly if Miss Crampton is to be there,
and carries out your prohibition with respect to dancing with him. He
will sulk and sit out, and I shall be able to give him a hint as to
your disapproval of his suit.’

‘Do so, Hindes, and I shall be exceedingly obliged to you,’ replied Mr
Crampton. ‘And, if that fails, we must take Jenny away, for, by hook or
by crook, I am determined to shake that young fellow off.’

‘Hannah is going with the little ones to Broadstairs next week. What do
you say to Miss Crampton accompanying her? You know how fond my wife is
of your daughter, and she would watch over her like a mother. At all
events, it is worth thinking of.’

‘It would be a capital plan,’ said Mr Crampton; ‘but why are you going?’

‘Because it is time one of us was at the office, my dear fellow; and,
since you are about to speak to your daughter on this subject, it is
just as well I should be out of the way. I shall see you later in the
afternoon, but don’t hurry on my account. And I shall not forget to
speak to Mr Walcheren this evening. I shall not spare him, I promise
you, but lay it on as thick as I know how, and, if he doesn’t like
it, he must do the other thing. By the way, I know the cousin, Philip
Walcheren, as well as their mutual director, Father Tasker, so, if
the young man won’t hear reason, I will appeal to them. There is one
convenience about these Papists, you can generally wield them through
their directors.’

‘Yes, the silly fools!’ said Crampton contemptuously. ‘They’re afraid
to say their lives are their own if the priests say they’re not. Pooh!
call them _men_. They’re more like a flock of silly sheep, who run
baa-ing after their shepherd.’

‘In that case,’ replied Mr Hindes, smiling, ‘I’m afraid Mr Frederick
Walcheren must be one of the lost sheep, for, from all I hear, he does
not trouble the church, nor the director of his conscience much. But
I’ll do my level best to bring him to hear reason in this instance. _Au
revoir._’

And, with a nod and a smile, he was gone.

‘He’s a true friend,’ thought Mr Crampton to himself, as he took up the
_Times_, and tried to possess his soul in patience until the appearance
of his daughter.

Meanwhile, Mrs Crampton and Miss Bostock were making their way,
timidly, towards the young lady’s bedroom. In the ante-chamber they
encountered her maid, employed in sewing.

‘Is Miss Crampton awake yet, Ellen?’ demanded her mother.

‘Oh! no, ma’am, I haven’t heard a sound of her, and she begged me
particularly not to call her till she rung. She was terrible tired, she
said, and didn’t wish to be disturbed.’

‘I’m sorry, Ellen, but I’m afraid I must wake her now. It’s past
eleven, and her papa particularly wishes to see her before he leaves
for the city,’ replied Mrs Crampton.

‘Oh, dear! I’m sure I don’t know what she’ll say,’ remarked the maid,
as she re-applied herself to her work, and looked as if she was glad
the task had not fallen to her.

The two ladies entered the adjoining bedroom on tip-toe, and as if
they feared the result of the least noise. It was one of the most
perfectly-arranged chambers a young girl could desire, and it was
pre-evident that its furnishings had been selected with the greatest
care, and for someone who was much loved and treasured. The walls
and chintzes were all of palest pink, the woodwork of white enamel,
and the hangings of lace. On the walls were hung a selection of
photographs, chiefly of dogs and horses, for Miss Crampton’s tastes
ran in that line, and the low, walnut-wood bookcase was filled with
the best authors. Everywhere were signs of profusion and luxury, for
the Cramptons were rich and spared no expense for this one beloved
child, who made all the joy of their lives. The toilet table was
covered with silver and cut glass, and on the mantelpiece stood a
handsome clock and candelabras of Sevres china; but the fairest sight
in all the room was Jenny Crampton herself, as she lay, flushed,
dishevelled and palpitating on her bed, one of the most beautiful
specimens of work that ever proceeded from the Creator’s hand. It was
difficult to believe that the two plain women who stood gazing at her
from the foot of the bed, could be her nearest blood relations. The
questions of hereditary resemblances and non-resemblances are amongst
the most anomalous in Nature. Whence did Jenny Crampton inherit her
perfect features and colouring? Her father was a type of the average
middle-class Englishman. He had a broad-set, muscular figure, with legs
too short for his size, a florid complexion, with thick bushy eyebrows,
a heavy nose, and a long upper lip. His small grey eyes were shrewd,
but honest and benevolent-looking, and his hands and feet were large
and coarse. His wife and her sister might have stood, with a little
caricaturing, for the Frenchman’s notion of an ‘English Mees.’

Mrs Crampton had the shapelier and more matured figure of the two, and
her soft brown eyes, attenuated nose, and weak drooping mouth, might
once have been styled pretty, but they both possessed the same tall,
flat frames, with sloping shoulders, long hands and feet, and limp,
lustreless hair. In what enchanted moment, then, had such progenitors
given life to such a lovely creature, as lay asleep upon the bed before
them? Her rounded dimpled arms were thrown restlessly above her head
(for it was summer weather), and were half hidden by the mass of light
chestnut hair, that strayed over her pillow. Her tints were those of a
maiden-blush rose. From her neck and shoulders to her flushed cheeks,
her skin was of one uniform texture, of a pale cream, just touched
with pink. Her lips were slightly parted as she slept and showed the
row of white teeth within. The lashes of her eyes lay thick and long
upon her cheeks; and those eyes, when open, formed, perhaps, the very
chief of her attractions. They were long, limpid eyes, of a light
hazel colour, and with the startled expression in them of a deer or
a child; eyes which made strangers think that Jenny Crampton was one
of the most innocent of God’s creatures upon earth, but which changed
considerably in expression when Jenny’s wishes were in any way crossed,
or her requests disregarded. From the time when she was a lovely little
child (the only one they had ever kept since its earliest infancy)
Mr and Mrs Crampton had learned to dread the clouding over of those
beautiful orbs, and the pouting of those pretty lips. It was in their
power to gratify every wish of their child, and so they gratified
themselves at the same time by avoiding anything so distressing to them
as her tears. Everyone had combined to spoil Jenny Crampton from her
babyhood, and by this time the young lady was pretty well beyond all
control. The father acceded to her every request, however unreasonable
or extravagant; and the mother and aunt only lived to worship her.
Even poor Aunt Clem, who was the standing butt for Jenny’s ridicule,
or the mark for her ill-humour, considered herself well repaid for all
her patience and endurance if the spoilt beauty gave her an occasional
hasty kiss (or rather peck) on her cheek, or her cap, or wherever it
might chance to fall, or honoured her by a request to tie her sash,
or do a commission for her. This was the sort of education the poor
girl had received to enable her to face the rebuffs of the world. But,
though her bringing-up had been very faulty, there was no mistake
about her beauty. Far or near, all round Hampstead and its environs,
there was not a girl who could vie in good looks with old Crampton’s
daughter, and, as her father was known to be a very wealthy man, Jenny
had more admirers than she could count on her ten fingers. But, of them
all, none had really appealed to her senses but Frederick Walcheren.
The Cramptons and Aunt Clem had a tough time before them.

‘How lovely she is!’ sighed Miss Bostock, as an intuition of their
presence, even through her dreams, made Jenny turn restlessly and throw
herself into another becoming attitude on the other side of the bed.

‘Yes! indeed, Clem; but I’m afraid I must rouse her,’ whispered Mrs
Crampton. ‘Papa is really vexed about this business, and, if she
doesn’t see him at once, I fear he may be more so. Jenny, my darling!’
she continued, going round to the girl’s side and laying her hand
gently on her shoulder, ‘Jenny, dear love, wake up; there’s a dear!
Papa wants to see you before he goes into the city.’

‘Eh! what?’ said the girl drowsily, as she turned away, ‘it’s not time
to get up yet. I’m so sleepy.’

‘But, Jenny, love, try and rouse yourself,’ repeated her mother, rather
tremblingly, ‘your father wants you, dear. He won’t keep you long. You
need only put on a tea-gown and can come back and finish your toilet
afterwards. Come Jenny, make an effort, love, for papa won’t be denied.’

The girl opened her big hazel eyes then, and stared stupidly at her
aunt and mother.

‘You here, mamma!’ she ejaculated, ‘and Aunt Clem! What on earth is the
matter? Is the house on fire?’

‘No! no! dear, of course not, but papa wants to speak to you for a
minute before he leaves home.’

‘Then he must wait till he comes back,’ replied Jenny, as she closed
her eyes again, ‘for I’m a great deal too sleepy to see anyone. Go
away, do! mamma, and leave me alone. It’s a shame to go waking me in
this way, when you know I was dancing up to three o’clock this morning.’

‘I know, darling, I know!’ said Mrs Crampton, almost weeping, ‘and I
wouldn’t have done it for the world, only papa insisted on it, and you
know what he is when he’s set on having his way. Jenny, my dear; do try
and rouse yourself a little, for papa says if you don’t go down and see
him, he will come up here and pull you out of bed himself.’

At this intelligence, Miss Crampton did see fit to open her eyes a
little wider, and sit up in bed. Perhaps her conscience warned her what
this unusual severity on the part of her father might portend, but she
looked exceedingly cross as she did so.

‘I never heard such nonsense in all my life,’ she exclaimed, ‘what can
he have to say to me, that will not keep till dinner time? I can’t
be down for half an hour, at anyrate, so papa must wait my pleasure.
Where’s Ellen? She must come and help me dress! My goodness me, Aunt
Clem,’ she broke off suddenly, as she caught sight of that lady’s
sympathetic features regarding her wistfully from the foot of the bed,
‘don’t stand there goggling at me like a stork on one leg, or you’ll
drive me out of my senses. Go and call Ellen, do! If I’m to see papa,
someone must dress me. I don’t suppose he wants me to walk downstairs
in my night-dress, though he is in such a hurry.’

‘No! no! love, of course not!’ returned her mother, hastily. ‘Clem!
call Ellen, and tell her Jenny is going to get up. Now, darling! what
can I do to help you?’

‘Nothing,’ replied her daughter peevishly, ‘unless you will give papa
a dose of morphia to keep him quiet till I can dress myself. What _is_
all this mystery about? Why can’t you say why the old gentleman is so
desirous of my company this morning. He is not in the habit of dragging
me out of bed, after a ball, at this unearthly hour.’

‘It is nearly twelve o’clock, my dear!’ said Mrs Crampton evasively.

‘What of that? I ordered my trap to be round at four this afternoon,
and told Ellen particularly that she was not to come near me till I
rang. You know the Bouchers’ dance is on to-night, and a nice figure I
shall look at it if I do not have my sleep out first.’

‘Well, dear,’ replied her mother, soothingly, ‘you can come to bed
again, if you think fit, in the afternoon. You know _I_ wouldn’t have
disturbed you for all the world, but gentlemen are not always so
considerate. And your father insisted upon my doing so, so what could I
say?’

‘What’s the row about?’ repeated Jenny, as her maid began to brush out
and twist up her superabundant hair.

But Mrs Crampton was too discreet to say all she knew before a servant.

‘Oh! it’s nothing particular, my love, and your father had best tell
you himself. You needn’t be afraid, he loves you too dearly ever to
scold you, whatever you may do or say.’

‘Oh! I’m not afraid of the old man!’ rejoined the young lady; ‘only
he’d better not go too far with me. I can guess what all the fuss is
about, mamma, and I’ve got a will of my own, as well as he has. If
papa is going to lecture me about Mr--’

‘Now, dear, don’t mention any names,’ interposed Mrs Crampton quickly,
‘for it may only lead to mischief. Your papa must tell you his own
business, and I’m sure you’ll do all in your power to fall in with his
wishes.’

‘I’m not so sure of that,’ replied the young lady, with a _moue_.
‘Here, Ellen, give me my blue tea-gown! My hair will do very well, for
I shall most likely be in bed again in half an hour. Go down, whilst
I’m with Mr Crampton, and fetch me some chocolate and a piece of toast,
and let it be ready when I come back. Now! mamma, we’ll go and beard
the old lion in his den.’




CHAPTER II.


Jenny looked, if possible, lovelier than usual as she tripped
downstairs beside her mother and her aunt. Her face was still flushed
from sleep, and her hair had been twisted up anyhow, whilst the pale
blue gown she wore accorded well with her rose-leaf complexion. Mrs
Crampton and Miss Bostock accompanied her in trembling dread of the
coming encounter, but the girl herself was perfectly confident and
fearless. As they reached the door of the library, where her father
awaited her, she caught sight of Aunt Clem’s visage and burst out
laughing.

‘Oh, dear!’ she cried, ‘Aunt Clem, if you don’t put on some other kind
of face, you’ll kill me! When you assume that lugubrious expression,
you look so like a cow that I always expect to hear you low.’

‘Dearest child! that is not kind,’ remarked her mother, with mild
reproof.

‘Oh! never mind, it doesn’t signify, I am sure dear Jenny doesn’t mean
it,’ interposed Aunt Clem, who had, nevertheless, winced under the
sarcasm.

‘I did mean it, though,’ cried Jenny boldly; ‘one would think I was
going to be hanged to see your long faces. Well, papa!’ she continued,
as they entered the presence of Mr Crampton, ‘and what may you have
to say to me this morning? You’ll have to pay for dragging me out of
my bed in this outrageous manner, you know, and I sha’n’t be pacified
until you buy me that little Arab mare of Mr Winchers’. Is it a
bargain?’

She looked so saucy and so pretty as she said this, and perched herself
on her father’s knee, that Mr Crampton, in his pride and affection,
was very nearly granting her request without further protest. But
the remembrance of the Popish admirer intruded itself just in time to
prevent the folly. Nevertheless, he kissed his daughter’s blooming
cheek, and said,--

‘If you will be a good girl, and do exactly as I tell you, you shall
have a dozen Arab mares if they will please you, Jenny.’

‘All right, old gentleman! that’s a bargain. Now for the conditions.’

‘But we must speak seriously, my dear, for I am quite in earnest in
this matter. You have been encouraging a young man to come about here,
Jenny, of whose acquaintanceship you know I do not approve--I mean Mr
Frederick Walcheren. Now, I must have a stop put to it at once. He
never comes here again, nor will I allow you to meet him out of the
house, unless it should be by accident, nor to dance with him if you do
meet him. I hope you understand me plainly. I will not permit you to
know any of the Walcherens from this time forward. You must entirely
drop them. Nor shall your mother ask them to my house. And I shall
never remove this prohibition from you--_never_!’

‘Anything more?’ asked Jenny, shortly.

A close observer might have seen and interpreted the change in her
countenance as she listened to her father’s mandate. Into the light
hazel eyes had crept a much darker shade, and the full lips had pouted
till they had become sullen. But all she said was ‘Anything more?’

‘I do not know that, as your father, I am in any way called upon to
give you my reasons, my dear, but, since you seem to ask for them,
I will. You appear to me to have shown a marked preference for Mr
Frederick Walcheren’s society, and, as it would be impossible for you
to marry him, it is best the affair should be put an end to at once.’

‘He has plenty of money,’ argued the young lady.

‘I am aware of that, and the uses he has hitherto put his money to. He
is a gambler and a loose liver. But that is not the chief objection
to him in my eyes. His vices might be reformed, but not his religion.
Young creatures like yourself do not think of such things, but the
Walcherens are all Roman Catholics, and that fact puts an insuperable
barrier between them and us. I would never, under any circumstances,
give my consent to your marriage with a Papist. I would rather see you
in your grave, Jenny, and I cannot say more than that. If you have
entertained any such idea, you must dismiss it from your mind at once.
And in order that there may be no fear of such a thing--in order to
secure your happiness and safety, I insist upon your giving up the
acquaintanceship of this young man altogether. You must not ask him to
the house again, and, if he calls, your mother will order the servant
to say that she is not at home. If you meet him out, you have my
strict commands not to dance with him, or to talk more than the merest
politeness necessitates. If, notwithstanding these precautions, I find
Mr Walcheren is obstinately bent on thrusting himself where he is not
welcome, I shall take the law into my own hands, by carrying you away
from Hampstead to some place where it is impossible you can meet him.
Don’t think me harsh, Jenny, for, God knows, that is the last thing
I wish to be towards you, but I have spoken to you on this subject
several times before, and I find you have taken no heed, so you force
me to speak more plainly. Do you quite understand me now?’

‘Yes, I understand,’ said the girl sullenly.

‘And you promise obedience?’

‘How can I do otherwise than obey?’ she broke out passionately. ‘The
house is yours, and you can do as you choose with it and those who
enter it. And Frederick Walcheren is not a man to thrust his company
where it is not wanted. All these accusations you bring against
him--what authority have you for them? He is to be condemned unheard,
and his religion is brought against him as a crime. If that is what
you call Christian, I’d rather be a Jew any day.’

The tone she had adopted made the old man angry. He was devotedly fond
and proud of her, but he had an obstinate temper, and would not brook
opposition to his wishes.

‘Now, now, that’s enough!’ he answered. ‘My word is law here, and
I will stand no arguments about the matter. I don’t approve of the
man--that is sufficient! Neither shall my daughter know him. As for
condemning him unheard, that is all rubbish. Hindes knows his character
as well as I do. He says--’

‘Oh! then it is to Mr Hindes I owe this unpleasant interview,’ cried
Jenny. ‘What business has he to poke his nose into my affairs? He’s
always meddling in some way or another. Mr Hindes made you sell my
beautiful hunter, because he said it was not safe for me to ride; and
Mr Hindes prevented my accepting Lady Makewell’s invitation to the
Castle, on account of some absurd rumours he had heard of her former
life. But, if Mr Hindes thinks he is to be the judge of all my actions
and the ruler of my destinies, he is very much mistaken, and so I
will let him know before he is many days older. I won’t have any man
interfering with me in this way, and turning my own parents against me.’

‘Don’t be a fool!’ exclaimed Mr Crampton, roughly. ‘Hindes is the best
friend you have--that any of us have--and it would be a bad day for the
firm and the family, that saw our interests divided. I mentioned him as
an authority for the sort of life Mr Frederick Walcheren lives, but,
far from setting me against you, he has stood up for your good sense
and filial obedience all through the discussion of this unfortunate
affair. It is I alone--your father--who has come to the conclusion to
cut Mr Walcheren’s acquaintance, and now I demand your obedience to my
commands. Once and for all, your implicit obedience. Do you promise it
me?’

‘I have no alternative!’ said Jenny.

‘All the same, I must have your promise given here, before your mother
and your aunt.’

‘Very well, then, I promise!’ replied the girl after a pause.

‘That is all I require,’ said the old man; ‘and now, I suppose, I can
go about my business. But remember! if I ever catch you trying to
outwit me by any d--d subterfuges, I will take you away from Hampstead,
and you shall never see it again whilst that man is in it.’

He turned then, as if to leave the room, but, perceiving that both his
wife and her sister were in tears, he thought he might have spoken too
harshly to this child whom he so dearly loved, and came back again for
a moment.

‘Kiss me, Jenny,’ he said; ‘I’m not angry with you, my girl, though I
may have seemed so, but it’s your happiness I have at heart and not my
own. There! there!’ with a sounding kiss on her cheek, ‘you won’t fret
about the matter, will you? and we’ll ride over together to Winchers’
to-morrow and secure the little mare you’ve set your heart on. God
bless you, my dear!’ and, with another kiss, he left them to themselves.

Jenny stood for a minute silent and motionless, then walked quickly
towards the door, as if to return to her own room.

‘Jenny, my darling,’ pleaded her mother, ‘you see the force of your
dear father’s argument, don’t you?’

She went towards the girl as she spoke, and would have wound her arms
about her, but Jenny pushed her impatiently aside.

‘Don’t bother me, mamma,’ she said, ‘you know how I hate a fuss. All
this worry is mostly your fault, you might have prevented it if you had
chosen.’

‘Oh! Jenny, my dear, how?’

‘Why, do you suppose I don’t know it has come of some repetition of
yours or Aunt Clem’s? How should papa, who is all day in the city,
and never goes with us anywhere in the evenings, have heard that I
danced more with Fred Walcheren than any other man, unless you had
told him? And I think it is beastly mean of you, too! Why can’t I
have my pleasure the same as other girls? I conclude you and papa made
love enough to each other when you were young, and yet you grudge me
a choice in the matter. I’m only to dance, and talk, and be agreeable
with such people as you select for me. It’s bitterly unfair.’

‘Oh, no, darling, don’t say that! Your dear father is only desirous
of one thing, to promote your welfare. And Mr Walcheren is very wild,
Jenny. He would not make you a good husband. Everybody says so.’

‘And so my happiness is to be sacrificed because “everybody” chooses to
tell lies of the man I like, and papa and you choose to believe them.
Well! I sha’n’t forget it in a hurry, I can tell you, mamma. And now,
please let me go to my room in peace. I suppose I may claim a right to
so much indulgence of my own wishes.’

‘My dear girl, when have any of your wishes been ungratified, unless
they were likely to prove hurtful to yourself. We should take a knife
away from a baby, my darling, however much it cried for it, for fear it
should cut itself.’

‘Thank you for comparing me to a baby, mamma, but I think you will find
I am not quite such a child as you imagine. Anyway, I am woman enough
to wish to be left alone to think over this matter by myself.’

And, without waiting for an answer, Jenny ran up the staircase, and
locked herself into her bedroom.

The two ladies downstairs were left in a very uncomfortable condition.

‘I hope,’ remarked Mrs Crampton to her sister, ‘I hope dear papa
did not go too far in what he said. Jenny is so high-spirited and
quick-tempered, that she might be tempted to do something wilful just
because she was crossed. And if she dances with Mr Walcheren at the
Bouchers’ to-night, I don’t know what her papa will say.’

‘Oh, she would never dare to do so, surely,’ replied Aunt Clem; ‘she
would never fly in John’s face in that manner! She is a little fond of
her own way sometimes, I admit, but she has a good heart, poor darling,
and says far more than she means. And John is right, Emma. Mr Walcheren
is a very wild young man, and it would never do for our Jenny to marry
him.’

‘Of course, John is right,’ acquiesced the wife; ‘but I wish Jenny
could see it in the same light. However, I will take care not to let
her out of my sight this evening, and then it will be impossible for Mr
Walcheren to get speech of her, without my overhearing what he may say.’

Meanwhile, Jenny, having reached the sanctuary of her own room, drank
off her chocolate hastily, and dismissed her maid who was in attendance.

‘Is my bath ready, Ellen?’ she inquired; ‘that is right. Well! you can
go now and I will ring when I am ready to dress. Tell Brunell that I
will have the Ralli cart at one.’

‘Before luncheon, miss?’ said the maid.

‘At one o’clock, sharp! And don’t go out of the way; I shall want you
in ten minutes.’

She turned the key of her door on the inside as the maid disappeared,
and, sitting down before her writing-table, drew out pen and paper, and
commenced to write a letter, which ran as follows:--

 ‘DARLING,--There has been a row here this morning, and papa has
 forbidden me ever to speak to you again. What are we to do? I shall be
 at the Bouchers’ to-night, without fail. I must not dance with you,
 but, if you will be in the picture gallery after the fourth dance, I
 will contrive to speak to you. Oh, Fred, where is all this going to
 end? They shall never make me give you up, if you remain of the same
 mind, but open communication with you seems almost impossible. I can’t
 write any more, my head and my heart are both in a whirl. Ever your
 loving

  JENNY.’

She sealed this letter, and directed it to Frederick Walcheren,
Esq., 308 Nevern Mansions, Earl’s Court, London, and placed it on one
side. Her next concern was to see in what condition this unpleasant
excitement had left her. But she found no reason to complain.

The exercise of her temper had made her cheeks rosier, and lent an
extra brightness to her eyes. She was glad of this--glad that she had
not given way to the weakness of tears, and swelled up her eyelids and
made her face look puffy. She might meet Frederick during her drive. He
spent most of his spare time in wandering about Hampstead in the hopes
of meeting her. But she seldom drove out until the afternoon. Still,
there was just the chance of a _rencontre_ with her lover, and for that
chance Jenny would have taken more trouble than this.

When she came downstairs again, an hour later, dressed in a tailor-made
suit of light fawn tweed, with her jaunty little felt hat on her
head, and her hands in white doeskin driving-gloves, holding a
handsome ivory-handled whip, few people would have guessed the state
of excitement she was still in, she looked so fresh and lovely and
smiling. In the hall she encountered her mother, who had heard the
wheels of the Ralli cart draw up to the door.

‘Out so early, my darling?’ Mrs Crampton said, kindly; ‘where are you
going to?’

‘For a drive,’ answered the girl curtly.

‘But doesn’t it look a little like rain,’ continued her mother timidly,
for she was half afraid of her idol, particularly when the idol was put
out.

‘I don’t care if it does,’ replied Jenny, in the same tone; ‘I’m not
made of sugar.’

‘But take an umbrella, darling,’ said her mother, anxiously, ‘and let
Brunell hold it over you, if it should be wet.’

But Miss Crampton rejected all her suggestions with scorn.

‘If it thunders and lightens, and I get wet through and go into a
consumption, so much the better,’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘You and
papa between you have contrived to make me so supremely miserable,
that I don’t care what happens to me! In fact, the sooner I’m dead the
better; and I’ve a good mind to take a dose of prussic acid and end it
at once.’

This is a very usual threat of selfish and ill-tempered people,
particularly if they have loving and anxious hearts to deal with. To
Mrs Crampton, to whom the girl was everything in the world, Jenny’s
words seem full of bitter portent.

‘Oh! my darling! my darling!’ she exclaimed, in a voice of the deepest
concern, ‘don’t say such terrible things, even in jest, for Heaven’s
sake! You will break my heart, Jenny, and your poor father would go mad
if he heard you speak in such an awful way. Why! we would cut off our
right hands to save you a moment’s trouble.’

‘Yes! it looks like it, doesn’t it?’ said the young lady, sarcastically.

‘My dearest, don’t discuss the subject again. Wait a little and you
will see it perhaps in a different light. My head aches so, Jenny, I
am not fit to argue it with you, and you have been upset as well. Go
for a nice drive, and the fresh air will make your head clearer. But be
careful, my love, and don’t do anything rash! I’m half afraid of those
cobs, Jenny, they’re so fresh and spirited.’

‘Oh! you’re afraid of everything,’ replied her daughter in a tone of
contempt; ‘and as for Aunt Clem, she’s alarmed at her own shadow.’

‘I was never brought up to horses and dogs, as you have been, dear,’
said Miss Bostock, who was standing near.

‘No; nor to anything, I should think,’ replied her niece, as she
prepared to get into her Ralli cart. ‘I often think you and mamma must
have been born and reared on a desert island, you seem so utterly
ignorant of the things most people do.’

With which Miss Crampton gently touched her steeds with the lash of her
whip, and they went prancing down the drive as if they intended to
bolt, whilst her mother and aunt held their breath with anxiety, lest
the wilful driver should come to any harm.

Jenny drove at a smart pace through the principal ways of Hampstead,
whilst the pedestrians whom she passed said to each other ‘There
goes the beautiful Miss Crampton,’ and she overheard some of their
remarks and flushed with pleasure at the notice she excited. For this
young lady’s besetting sin was an inordinate vanity of her personal
attractions, which she had cultivated to the exclusion of all the
Christian graces. She was a specimen of that most odious of all modern
innovations, the fast girl of the nineteenth century, and she was
vulgar in consequence, for all fast women are vulgar, and obnoxious
in the eyes of everybody but their male admirers. For when will men
be ever sensible enough to separate the value of personal beauty and
mental charm? Not while they have eyes to see. Once touch their senses,
and, for the time their infatuation lasts, you cannot convince them
but that the mind and soul of their goddess equal her body in charm.
Frederick Walcheren was infatuated with the beauty of this girl, and
he believed her disposition to be all that was good and lovable as
well. It appeared so to him, for, whenever they met, Jenny was in her
best temper, and ready to be pleased with everything. Had he even seen
her, as she had been on the present occasion, rude and impertinent to
her parents, cruelly sarcastic to her meek and unoffending aunt, and
obstinately resolved upon having her own way, he would still have taken
her part, declared her to be a suffering angel, and her father and
mother most unjust and tyrannical towards her. Shakespeare never wrote
a greater truism than when he made Rosalind declare that ‘Love is a
madness,’ a madness that blinds our vision, distorts our judgment, and
makes all things, not only apparently, but actually, different from
what they are; when the rose-coloured spectacles have been torn by
circumstance from our eyes, and we wonder we could ever have been such
egregious fools as to think that they were otherwise.

Miss Crampton, then, with her heart on fire and her soul up in arms,
stopped at the first pillar-box she passed, and bade Brunell post the
letter which she gave him, the letter she had written in her bedroom
and which she knew would reach town before Mr Walcheren left it to meet
her at the house of their mutual friends, the Bouchers.

And as she flew over the highway, one sentence kept revolving itself
over and over in her mind, and the burden of it was, ‘I will never give
him up, I will never give him up.’




CHAPTER III.


When Miss Crampton’s letter reached the hands of Mr Frederick
Walcheren, it was by the four o’clock post, and that gentleman was
lying on a couch in his apartments in Nevern Mansions. He was a
handsome man of about thirty, with dark eyes and hair, and classical
features, set in a pale, clear complexion. He was clean shorn, except
for a small, soft moustache, and the possessor of a tall, lithe figure.
He had an ample fortune, having inherited about two thousand a year
from an old Catholic godfather, who died when Frederick was quite an
infant, and who had expressed a wish in his will that his godson and
heir should enter the church, or, at all events, benefit the church by
founding some religious institution at his own death, with the fortune
he left in his charge. But the old gentleman could hardly have chosen a
worse guardian of his property. No embargo had been laid on the young
man spending his money as he chose, and his choice was to spend it on
himself and the companions whom he delighted to honour. His little
flat in Earl’s Court was only a _pied à terre_. His home may have been
said to exist at Epsom, Goodwood, Newmarket, or any one of the other
race-courses in England. He was also to be met periodically at Monte
Carlo or Paris. Occasionally he would take a fancy to run over to New
York or San Francisco, but, wherever he pitched his tent, one might be
sure there were plenty of opportunities for gambling and speculation.
Not but what Frederick Walcheren was a perfectly honourable man; but he
could not live (or he thought he could not live) without excitement of
some sort, and he loved the uncertainty and risk of betting and play.

His money and his good looks had rendered him an easy prey to the
harpies of the other sex, and had landed him into one or two scrapes
with more respectable women. His cousin, Philip, had often had to
be the go-between and peacemaker with sundry fair damsels, who were
violently bent on a breach of promise case, or a horse-whipping through
means of their next friend.

Mr Philip Walcheren was quite a different sort of character from his
cousin. Married, and the father of a family, a staunch Catholic, steady
and prosperous in his business as a solicitor, he was almost a pattern
man, and Frederick’s goings-on were a marvel and a misery to him. He
and his director, Father Tasker, were constantly talking over the other
man, and wondering by what means they could dissuade him from his
follies, and induce him to lead a more sober life. But, as yet, their
exhortations and entreaties had been of no avail. Frederick laughed
at their cautions, and pooh-poohed their predictions of a repentant
future. He meant to live his life, he told them, and asked for no one’s
pity or advice. He was in reality, what Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes
had called him, a dissolute and irreclaimable spendthrift, and not fit
to be the husband of any girl.

Still, he was pleasant and fascinating, and the _beau sexe_ spoilt him,
to a woman. As he lay indolently on his couch this afternoon, turning
Jenny’s letter over and over in his hands, his thoughts were much the
same as hers had been, for of all the femininities he had ever met, and
trifled with, she was the only one who had seriously touched his heart.
Women as handsome as Jenny, and far more amiable, had been ready,
before now, to throw themselves at his feet, but they had had no power
to move him. But for this petulant, spoilt, and rather underbred, girl,
he would have laid down his life. Who can account for anomalies? Is
love--such love as has its origin in admiration--a spiritual passion,
or is it the force of two magnetisms that attract each to each, beyond
the power of the individual to oppose? From the strange choices we see
made in this world, it would seem so. Anyway, this is how Frederick
Walcheren felt for Jenny Crampton--that he would die sooner than give
her up. She seemed, in the short time they had known each other, to
have grown into his life--to have become part of it, indeed--so that he
could no longer imagine living without her. He kept saying to himself
all the while, just as she had done,--‘I will not give her up for any
man or woman upon earth. What do I care about the old wool-stapler
raving? Let him rave. I will carry her off before his very eyes. But
she shall be mine; in fact, she _is_ mine in heart and soul, and I defy
the whole world to separate us.’

And, just at that moment, there sounded a double knock on his outer
door, and his man appeared to usher in his cousin, Philip Walcheren
and Father Tasker.

Frederick sprung to his feet. The instincts of a born Catholic were
still strong in him, and, though he never went to confession or mass,
he always showed a proper deference for the clergy. Added to which,
Father Tasker was an old friend of his family.

‘How are you, Father,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to see you. Pray take the
arm-chair. Well, Philip! all right at home?’

‘Quite right, thank you, Frederick,’ replied his cousin; ‘I was on
my way to have a talk with you when I met Father Tasker, so we came
together.’

‘I’m delighted to see you both,’ said Frederick, ‘what can I give you?
I know that it is no use my offering the father a brandy-and-soda, but,
if you will not take one, Philip, my man shall get some tea ready in
half a minute.’

‘I don’t think we have time for either,’ replied Philip Walcheren. ‘I
have only about ten minutes to spare, and the Father honours me with
his company at dinner to-night, so I think Marion will be disappointed
if I deprive her of her five-o’clock tea gossip with him. She is,
doubtless, anxiously awaiting us now. But I felt I could not pass
another night without asking you, Frederick, if a rumour which I have
heard concerning you is true.’

‘What’s up now?’ demanded his cousin.

‘I met young Fellows in the city this afternoon, Mrs Bouchers’ brother,
you know, and he told me that it is commonly said in Hampstead that you
are engaged, or about to be engaged, to Miss Crampton.’

‘What of it?’ said Frederick carelessly.

‘Surely it is not true! Surely, with your antecedents, Frederick, you
are not thinking of marrying any respectable woman!’

‘Would you prefer my marrying a disreputable one, then, Philip?’

‘Most certainly not! What I mean is, that, under the circumstances, you
have no right to marry at all. How can you go up to God’s holy altar
with any woman, whilst that unfortunate girl down at Luton is even now
expiating the awful sin you led her into?’

‘Of course, it is quite impossible that it was she who led me instead
of the other way?’ said Frederick, interrogatively.

‘Whosoever fault it may have been in the first instance, you know that
you are responsible now.’

‘And I am quite ready to meet my responsibilities. Do you want me to
marry the straw-plaiter down at Luton?’

‘No, no! I want you to do nothing but alter your mode of living,
Frederick, and try and be a decent member of society. It is terrible
to think how you go on, without care for yourself or others, without
a thought of God, or the future that lies before you. If poor Sir
Frederick Ascher had only foreseen the uses his money would have been
put to, he would have thought twice before he left it to you.’

‘Yes! but, luckily for me, he didn’t foresee, so I can do as I like
about it. Has Father Tasker a lecture in store for me as well?’
inquired Frederick, turning to the priest.

‘No! my son, we are not in the confessional, where I could wish we
met oftener; but I would like to remind you that, although your late
godfather made no actual conditions regarding the expenditure of
the fortune he left you, yet his wishes, that it should be devoted
to the church, were so strongly expressed, as almost to amount to a
demand, and I cannot believe that any blessing will follow a different
disposition of it.’

‘I have confessed to no intention of marrying, remember, but should I
ever do so, my wife will be my church, and I shall settle my money upon
her.’

But this was a blasphemy that neither Philip Walcheren nor the priest
could pass over in silence.

‘Be careful, my son, be careful,’ cried the one, ‘lest the curse of
Heaven, and the church you despise, are both provoked against you.’

‘I cannot believe, Frederick, that you seriously mean what you say,’
exclaimed his cousin. ‘The money is only yours for your lifetime,
and, if you do not dedicate it to the holy church at your death,
some fearful calamity will surely overtake you, or those to whom you
wrongfully give it.’

‘Nonsense!’ replied Frederick; ‘I suppose you both mean well, but I
would rather you understood me at once. As matters stand at present,
I have not the slightest intention of leaving my money to the church.
My godfather--peace to his ashes!--left it to me, and I recognise
but one authority in the matter, and that is the law, which is on my
side. I wonder, by the way, Philip, that you stick up so badly for the
stability of the profession by which you live!’

‘Every consideration must give way to the claims of the church,
Frederick!’

‘Well, I don’t agree with you. I think Mother Church has feathered her
own nest pretty well, considering her claims to humility and poverty.
In my idea, my own nest will have the prior claim on my indulgence!’

‘So you are really contemplating matrimony, Frederick,’ said Philip. ‘I
wonder you can dare to enter a church under the circumstances, lest the
walls and roof should fall in upon you.’

‘Perhaps I shall be married in a registrar’s office,’ responded
Frederick lightly; but the jest was so ill-timed that neither of his
hearers commented upon it.

‘With the fact of that misguided female down at Luton, you are about to
commit a great sacrilege, my son, in taking the sacrament of matrimony
on yourself!’ remarked Father Tasker.

‘Well, really, Father, I must say you and Philip are both rather hard
on me! You have been reproaching me for my loose style of living
for years past, and begging me to reform, and now, when you hear a
rumour--merely a rumour, remember--that I’m about to forsake the devil
and all his ways, and become a steady married man, like my good cousin
here, you attack me as if I had just formed a fresh _liaison_ instead.
Why shouldn’t I marry like a good boy, as well as Philip, who is, I
know, a pattern of propriety. Why shouldn’t I walk to mass every Sunday
morning, with a little boy by one hand and a little girl by the other?
It doesn’t seem as if I could please you anyway.’

‘You mistake both me and your cousin, my son,’ replied the priest.
‘It is not that we are not most anxious to see you turn over a new
leaf and lead a pure life, but marriage is assuredly a condition of
great temptation for a man situated as you are. It will bring cares
and expenses with it, and your mind will be filled with the thought
of providing for the future of your family. You have been brought up
to no profession, for your sainted mother had no idea that you would
be anything but a priest, and that your godfather’s fortune would go
as he wished it should do, to our holy church. But since you elected
otherwise, there is but one honest course for you to pursue, and that
is, to remain single, and preserve your money intact for the purpose
for which your godfather left it to you. Marriage will interfere with
this, therefore marriage is not for you!’

At this juncture Frederick’s temper got the better of his judgment.

‘Then I’m d--d if the church shall have the money,’ he exclaimed
loudly; ‘all your advice, and precepts, and exhortations to a purer
life count for nothing; they are only made so you may hear yourselves
talk, and plume yourselves with the idea of how much better men you are
than myself. But this matter is in my own jurisdiction, thank goodness,
and I shall do exactly as I choose about it. I shall marry, or remain
single, as pleases me, but, whatever I may do, the church doesn’t get
my money, so you may put that thought out of your heads at once. I’ll
leave it to the Salvation Army, or the Home for Lost Dogs, first.’

He had thrown himself into a passion by this time, and he walked
quickly up and down his little room in order to cool his temper.
Philip Walcheren looked as if he expected the heavens to open and
strike his cousin dead for the utterance of such blasphemy, and the
priest rose and prepared to shake the dust of those apartments off his
feet.

‘Mark my words,’ he said solemnly, as he turned to leave the room, ‘God
will not be mocked, Frederick Walcheren. He knows all our hearts, and
He will avenge himself. Good-morning.’

And with that Father Tasker disappeared.

‘For shame!’ cried Philip, as he prepared to follow him, ‘for shame,
Frederick. You may have law on your side, but you have neither right
nor conscience. You have not told me whether the rumour I mentioned is
true or false, but, if it is true, and you have any such intention in
your head, pause, I beseech you, before you carry it into effect, or
some fearful calamity will follow it. You have defied our holy church,
and God will defend her rights. I shall not come again until you send
for me.’

And in another moment the room was clear.

‘Here, Watson,’ called Frederick to his man, ‘bring me a
whisky-and-soda. I declare,’ he continued to himself, ‘if their twaddle
has not made me quite uncomfortable. What on earth did that old fool,
my godfather, mean by not making his will decisive one way or the
other? _I_ a priest, indeed! No. I mean to live a rather jollier life
than that comes to. And there is only one other decent alternative, to
marry the girl I love, and rear a family for the benefit of the State.
And how can I do that without money? It is ridiculous to think of.’

Still, with the superstitious ideas which the Catholic religion infuses
in all her followers, with the childish inbred fear of the priestly
power to save or damn, with the fear of purgatory and a fiery hell, and
becoming an outcast from salvation for ever, Frederick Walcheren did
not feel quite comfortable, though he tried to laugh the feeling off,
and was as resolute as before, that no power in heaven or earth should
separate him from Jenny Crampton.

‘They are against us on every side,’ he thought, ‘but that fact will
only make me the more determined to have her. My beautiful darling! The
most beautiful woman, in my eyes, that I have ever met. Why, Father
Tasker himself couldn’t resist her, if she stood on one side and hell
on the other. What time is it, Watson? Six-thirty? By Jove! if I don’t
hurry up I shall get no dinner before I start for the Bouchers’.’

‘Going to Hampstead again to-night, sir?’ asked Watson, as he laid out
his master’s dress clothes upon the bed.

How well our servants know where we go, and who we go to see, and what
we do it for.

‘Yes,’ replied Frederick, ‘to Mrs Bouchers’ dance. You needn’t sit up
for me, Watson, for I shall be very late. Order the brougham to call
for me at Simpson’s at nine o’clock. I shall go on straight from there.’

He hurried into his dress clothes, for he was determined that nothing
should make him late that night, for fear he should miss the interview
in the picture gallery after the fourth dance.

The picture gallery at the Bouchers’ was very seldom entered by any of
their dancing guests, being some way removed from the ballroom, but
both Jenny and Mr Walcheren, being intimate friends at the house, knew
it well.

Frederick thought rightly that, since a prohibition had gone forth
against his dancing with the girl of his heart, it would be more
prudent if he did not put in an appearance to the ballroom till after
he had held the interview with Jenny. So, when he presented himself
at the house, between nine and ten o’clock, and had divested himself
of his crush hat and overcoat, he peeped into the dancing room to see
how far the evening had advanced. The number two had just been placed
above the bandstand, so he concluded he had at least half an hour to
wait before Jenny could join him, and turned away again to seek the
solitude of the picture gallery until the time of meeting had arrived.

But he reckoned without his host. Henry Hindes, who had been one of the
earliest arrivals, and on the express look-out for Walcheren, spied
him as soon as he looked into the room, and, rising quietly, followed
him out. So, as soon as Frederick had reached the picture gallery, he
heard a step in his rear, and, turning with annoyance to see who had
discovered the retreat besides himself, met the outstretched hand and
smiling glance of Mr Hindes. Mr Walcheren could not fail to return his
civilities, but he was infinitely vexed. Of all the people he knew, he
would rather have encountered anyone than Mr Hindes.

Not only because he was so intimately connected with the Cramptons,
and, undoubtedly, knew most of the family secrets, but also because
Frederick had conceived an unaccountable aversion for him. He did
not know _why_ himself. Henry Hindes had always been courteous and
polite to him, far more so, indeed, than Mr Crampton, who invariably
treated a Roman Catholic as if his religion were his own fault, and
he was sinning every day that he didn’t change it. Hindes, on the
contrary, had no scruples on the score of difference of faith, and no
right to object to the young man because he courted Jenny Crampton.
He had always spoken and behaved to him as one gentleman should to
another, and yet Walcheren hated him. Now, as he accepted his hand and
asked after his well-doing, he would have liked to strike him across
his smooth, smiling face instead. Mr Hindes, having no idea that the
young man was waiting to see Miss Crampton, had thought this would be
an excellent opportunity for him to fulfil the promise made to his
partner, and let Mr Walcheren know how utterly hopeless his suit was.

‘How are you, Walcheren?’ he said, cordially, as he came up with him.
‘You don’t mean to tell me you are going to eschew dancing to-night,
when there are so many pretty girls doing “wallflowers”? I saw you look
into the ballroom and disappear again, and wondered if you had found
your way to a buffet and a whisky-and-soda. I shouldn’t mind following
you if you have, for the night is very warm and I am very thirsty.’

‘No, I had no such intention,’ answered Walcheren, in a tone of
annoyance. ‘I fancy it is rather too early for that game. I came in
here because I have a slight headache, and thought the cool and quiet
might charm it away before I encountered the heat and glare of the
ballroom.’

‘To be sure, and I daresay it will. This is a charming place, though
one cannot see much of the pictures by night. It is in semi-darkness.
I do not suppose the Bouchers intend their guests to use it on such an
occasion as this, or they would have it better lighted.’

‘Perhaps not,’ replied Walcheren. ‘But I am an old friend of the
family, and consider myself privileged to do as I like.’

‘Oh! I am not finding fault with your decision, my dear fellow; on the
contrary, I am very glad of the opportunity of a few words in private
with you. It is not often that my wife can drag me out to a dance, and,
to tell you the honest truth, I came here this evening expressly to see
you.’

‘To see _me_?’ echoed Walcheren in astonishment. ‘Why, what on earth
can you have to say to me?’

‘Nothing on my account, my dear friend, unless it were to tell you
(what I hope you know) that I have always been pleased to welcome you
to my house, and always shall be. But I am, as I think you are aware,
a very intimate friend of Mr and Mrs Crampton, who were, indeed, the
intimate friends also of my father before me, and who have known me
almost from a child.’

‘I know it,’ replied Frederick. ‘What of it?’

‘Mr Crampton sent for me before ten o’clock this morning, and I found
him in the greatest distress. His wife had intercepted a letter from
you to Miss Crampton, and the contents had terribly upset him.’

‘Passing over the fact that I consider it a breach of honour to pry
into the private correspondence of anybody, I am not aware that there
was anything in the letter alluded to that was calculated to upset Mr
Crampton,’ said Frederick.

‘I don’t sanction the proceeding, my dear Walcheren; I am only telling
you the facts. The old gentleman was more than upset; he was terribly
angry, and he made his daughter give him a solemn promise not to see (of
her own free will), or speak, or write to you again.’

‘And pray, may I ask,’ cried Frederick Walcheren in a sudden fury,
‘what business it is of yours, Mr Hindes, to mention the subject to me?’

‘None at all, but I owe it to the entreaty of my friends. Both Mr and
Mrs Crampton have begged me to convey their wishes to you. They have
derived so much pleasure from your society as an acquaintance, and
think so highly of your intentions with regard to their daughter, that
they dreaded the task of telling you personally, that they can never
give their sanction to a marriage between you.’

‘Perhaps, as they told you so much, they were good enough to add their
reasons for so extraordinary a decision,’ exclaimed Walcheren, in a
tone of sarcasm.

‘Certainly they did, and it is one with which you cannot find serious
fault. The objection is your religion. Mr Crampton will never allow
his daughter to inter-marry with a Catholic, and his decision is
irrevocable. Since your feelings for Miss Crampton cannot have gone
beyond admiration, considering the short time you have known her,
he thought it best you should hear his decision at once, before any
mischief is done on either side.’

‘And Miss Crampton’s feelings? Are they not to be taken into
consideration also?’

‘Most certainly! There is nothing on earth Mr Crampton cares for so
much as his only child! She is his heiress, as doubtless you know, but
he will leave her nothing if she marries against his wishes. He is very
obstinate when thwarted, and very unrelenting. And Miss Crampton would
hardly be so foolish as to give up her fortune, as well as her parents,
at one blow. Under these circumstances, I hope you will not take
offence, my dear Walcheren, if I ask you, in his name, to relinquish
your acquaintanceship with Miss Crampton, and to leave off visiting
at the house. It is an unpleasant task my friends have set me, but I
have done it for their sakes, and without any ulterior feeling against
yourself. I have not a daughter old enough to aspire to your hand,’
said Henry Hindes, smiling, ‘but if I had, I am not sure that I should
deliver such a message to you on my own account!’

But Frederick Walcheren took no notice of this little sop for Cerberus.

‘Have the Cramptons any other objection to me besides that of my
religion?’ he asked presently.

‘Well! my dear fellow,’ replied Henry Hindes, dubiously, ‘rumours have
been conveyed to them of your life having been a little fast, not more
than that of other men of the world, I daresay, but these old people do
not regard such matters with the same eyes that you and I should do.
They have only mixed in a certain society, you see, and know little
of the sayings and doings of fashionable men and women. They have
very strict notions concerning propriety, and you cannot shake their
opinions on the subject. But the real objection is to your religion.
_That_ is insurmountable! They will never overlook it.’

‘It is most unfair,’ exclaimed Frederick; ‘how is a man to help what
his parents chose to make him? Besides, I have no religion at all! I
believe in nothing, not a God, nor a Hereafter, nor a Heaven, nor a
Hell! Will that suit them better?’

Mr Hindes laughed heartily at the idea.

‘Pray don’t hint at such a thing, Walcheren,’ he said, ‘or they would
think you were the old gentleman himself! But we must really talk
seriously about this matter. Mr Crampton is obdurate, and will remain
so. He declares that unless you will give your promise not to interfere
with his daughter for the future, he will take her away from Hampstead
and out of your reach, and keep her there until one of you is married.
I am sure you are too much a gentleman and man of honour to upset a
whole family in that way, in order to gratify your spite against them.
For it will not lead to your being readmitted to the house, and Miss
Crampton will be strictly watched for the future.’

Frederick Walcheren was thinking very deeply on the matter, and his
thoughts ran thus, ‘I must overcome these people by diplomacy. If I
refuse to give this promise, I shall be watched so closely that I shall
never get speech of Jenny again; whereas, if I pretend to give in to
their demands, I shall throw them off their guard. And the first thing
I must do is to get rid of this fellow!’ Aloud he said,--

‘I am deeply grieved to hear of Mr Crampton’s decision, but I see the
wisdom of it. Naturally, I admire Miss Crampton very much, I wonder who
doesn’t, but, to tell truth, I anticipated a great deal of opposition
from my own family, if it ever came to anything serious. They are as
staunch for the old faith as ever Mr Crampton can be for his. Mixed
marriages are, after all, a mistake. I am glad, therefore, that you
have spoken so frankly and openly to me, and I thank you for it. Will
you tell Mr Crampton that I acquiesce in his decision, and willingly
give my promise not to intrude upon his daughter, or himself, again.
You have been a true friend to both of us, Hindes. Accept my hand on
it. And now I think I will just go home without running the risk of
encountering _la belle_ Jenny. It will please Mr Crampton if he hears
that I have done so. And my headache really unfits me for any violent
exercise. Good-night. Are you going back to the ballroom? If so, we
will walk to the front of the house together.’

‘Yes; I must go back to wait for my wife, who is enjoying herself
just like a girl. I shall not say a word to Miss Crampton of having
seen you. It will be better to let her think you have been prevented
attending the party.’

‘Most certainly, and assure Mr Crampton that he has nothing to fear
from me. Good-night again,’ and the two men parted at the hall door,
with a shake of the hand.

Frederick Walcheren went forth into the darkness, whilst Henry Hindes,
congratulating himself on the diplomatic manner in which he had
executed his embassage, and the easy victory he had gained over the
enemy, re-entered the ballroom, and took his seat there, with the most
perfect assurance that all danger was over.




CHAPTER IV.


But he did not quite know Frederick Walcheren. Perhaps, also, he did
not how know cunning Love makes a man. The younger man had assumed his
overcoat and hat, and gone forth at the hall door, as if he had but one
intention--to seek the railway station, since his brougham had returned
to town. But, once clear of the scrutiny of the servants, he skirted
the house on the left side, and passed from the front garden to the
back, which is easily done in most suburban houses. This brought him
on to a large lawn, from which the interior of the lighted ballroom
might be easily seen through the open windows. Also, by turning the
other corner of the mansion, he could, by pressing his face against
the glass, see if the picture gallery was occupied or not, though he
remained himself unseen. The windows of this room were also thrown
open, and Frederick waited at one of them until he saw the white-robed
figure of Jenny Crampton steal in, and glance furtively around as if in
search of him.

‘Jenny, Jenny,’ he called softly, lest she should be followed by the
friend of the family, ‘Jenny, my love, come here, to this window.’

‘What is this?’ cried the girl as she perceived him; ‘why are you here?
Is anything wrong?’

‘Nothing is wrong whilst you love me,’ said Frederick, ‘but we are
watched, darling, so I have pretended to go home again. Have you the
pluck to join me in the garden? There are any number of arbours here
where we can talk undisturbed.’

‘Pluck,’ cried Jenny, jumping on the window sill, ‘of course I have.
Pluck enough to follow you over a precipice, if you wish me to do so.’

‘You angel. I will ask you to take no more dangerous leap than into my
arms. But were you seen? Did anyone follow you? We must not have an
open row.’

‘No, no one even saw me leave the ballroom, for I was at the buffet
with Captain Rawson, when number five dance struck up, so I told him to
go and find his partner and leave mine to seek me out. And as soon as
his back was turned I slipped out here.’

‘You dear girl! Give me your hand, then, and jump out; there is a
lovely seat under that acacia tree--but what will you say if your
mother asks where you have been?’

‘That I have been strolling in the garden with my partner. She will
think it was Captain Rawson; but she will not ask. She is used to my
vagaries, and lets me do just as I choose.’

‘But, darling, they won’t let you do that any longer, I’m afraid. I’ve
had a lecture as well as you, Jenny. Mr Hindes followed me to the
picture gallery just now, by your father’s request, and made me promise
I would give up all pretensions to your hand, and leave off visiting at
your house.’

‘And do you mean to keep your promise?’ inquired the girl, pouting.

‘Not unless you tell me to do so, Jenny; I love you too much for that.
I only did it to prevent a row, for if Mr Crampton carried his threat
of taking you away from Hampstead into execution, I might find it very
difficult to have any communication with you again.’

‘But what is the good of my staying here if I am never to see you,
Fred?’ asked Jenny.

‘That depends upon yourself, my darling; you can’t do it from your
father’s house, that’s certain.’

‘Who’s from, then?’ said Jenny.

‘From mine, sweetheart! Don’t think me very bold, but, if you love me
as you say, you will marry me whether your parents give their consent
or not.’

‘So I will, if you will only tell me how, Fred.’

‘We must elope together, dearest; heaps of husbands and wives have done
it before us, and been none the worse. Your father says that if you
marry without his consent, he will leave you none of his money; that is
a thing you must take into serious consideration, before you give me
your answer. I have enough for both of us, still, you would be a richer
woman if you remained your father’s heiress; his fortune cannot be less
than ten thousand a year, whilst mine is only two thousand.’

‘What do I care for money in comparison with you, Fred?’ whispered
Jenny.

‘That’s my own true girl,’ he answered, folding her closely to him,
‘and once you have made up your mind to marry me without your father’s
consent, the rest is easy enough. Tell me to get a licence, and to give
notice at the nearest registrar’s office to my place, and you have only
to arrange how you can join me, so as to give us a few hours’ start of
Mr Crampton, and I will have you out of his reach and power before the
day is over.’

‘To join you, dearest, is easily managed,’ replied the girl. ‘I must
take a few things with me, you know, Fred! To run away in the clothes
I stand up in, would be altogether too romantic for the nineteenth
century. But I can send a box to my dressmaker’s, under pretence of
wanting some dresses altered--no one interferes with my dress at
home--and then, when you let me know which day I am to be in town, I
will drive myself over, as if to go shopping; tell Brunell to put the
cobs up for a few hours, and call for me at Madame Costello’s at 5
o’clock, and _apres ça, le deluge_!’

‘A deluge of love, my darling--a life of happiness, during which I
shall have but one thought--one aspiration--how I can best repay my
darling angel for the sacrifice she has made for me. And, perhaps,
after a time, your parents will come round. I cannot believe but that
they will forgive our temerity in the end, and all will be merry as a
marriage bell.’

‘Oh! poor mamma has nothing to do with it, Fred. I honestly believe she
would let me marry a crossing-sweeper if I had set my heart upon it. I
never remember her saying “No” to me since I was a baby. It is papa who
is making all the fuss, and he is as obstinate as a pig. He thinks it
is a sign of his own religion, to kick up such a dust about your being
a Catholic, but I say he only proves he is no Christian by it. What
can it signify if one is a Protestant or a Catholic? I am sure, for my
own part, I would as soon be one as the other, and preferably neither.
If you wish me to become a Catholic, Fred, I will to please you, but I
hope you won’t expect me to go to church and hear sermons, for if there
is one thing beyond another for which I long to get married, it is to
have my liberty in such matters. Papa and mamma have sickened me of
church-going. Aunt Clem, too, who is so very pious, has a face long
enough to turn the milk sour. It is not encouraging to a girl to go and
do likewise.’

Frederick Walcheren laughed as he kissed the speaker.

‘My darling!’ he answered, ‘I daresay your people have warned you that
I am not a particularly good young man, but I can boast of one merit--I
have never pretended to be better than I am. My cousin, Philip, and his
great friend, Father Tasker, consider me a lost soul, but they cannot
say that I am a dishonest one. They have heard some rumour--how, Heaven
only knows--that I am very _épris_ in a certain quarter, and put in an
appearance at my rooms this afternoon to learn if it was true that I
contemplated matrimony. You may take your oath that I did not gratify
their curiosity. They want to get me into the church, so that they may
grab my money. They’ve been trying it on for years, but this fish won’t
bite!’

‘But, Fred, darling, would anything on earth ever make you go into the
church?’ inquired Jenny, rather anxiously.

‘Nothing on earth,’ he replied, quickly; but, after a slight pause,
he added, ‘at least only _one_ thing, and that is too dreadful to
contemplate. If you were taken from me, my treasure--if anything
happened to you and I were left alone--I should be mad enough for
anything--even to go into a monastery, and sacrifice every farthing I
possess. What good would money be to me without my love?’

He pressed her closely to him as he spoke, and the two young faces
were laid against each other, and the two young forms seemed to melt
for a moment into one. But in another moment Jenny had sprung up to a
standing position.

‘I must go, dear Fred,’ she exclaimed, ‘or they will miss me, and Mr
Hindes may be sent to find out where I am. Good-bye, good-bye, my
darling. How soon do you think I shall have your letter?’

‘The day after to-morrow, love! To-morrow morning I shall be in
Doctors’ Commons for the licence, and will wire you simply, “All right,
Costello.” Then, should the telegram fall into other hands, it will
be thought to come from the dressmaker. On receipt of this, you must
drive over on the following day to Madame Costello’s, and leave your
box there, and as soon as you have dismissed Brunell and the trap, I
will take you to the registrar’s office, and, when the knot is securely
tied, we will pick up the box and be off to Dover. Will that suit your
ladyship? Brunell will call for you at Costello’s at five o’clock, and,
after waiting about for a considerable time, will return to Hampstead
and give the alarm. By which time my wife and I will be enjoying our
dinner at the Castle Warden, and laughing over the adventures of our
wedding-day.’

‘Oh, Fred, it seems too good to come true,’ said the girl, with a
slight shiver.

‘Nonsense, my dearest. It will come true, sure enough. But you are
cold, my pretty Jenny. I have been a selfish brute to keep you out
here so long. Let me take you back to the picture gallery. Or is it
wiser you should go alone? Good-night, then, and God bless you. Give me
one kiss, and don’t forget to meet me the day after you receive that
wire!’

‘As if I _could_ forget,’ replied the girl reproachfully, as she raised
her face for her lover’s embrace, and, with his assistance, re-entered
the picture gallery, and walked slowly back to the ballroom, to tell
her mother she had such a terrible fit of neuralgia, she would rather
return home at once.

Mr and Mrs Hindes, who were seated near Mrs Crampton, were all
solicitude for her assumed indisposition, and Mr Hindes suggested
taking her for a turn in the fresh air to see if the change from the
heated ballroom would relieve her. Mrs Hindes, a tall, slight woman,
with dark eyes and hair, and a graceful figure, who was really attached
to Jenny, inquired with whom she had been dancing the last set, as she
had looked for her in vain.

‘I have not been dancing at all,’ replied Jenny, boldly; ‘I have been
sitting in the picture gallery with Lord Craven, but my head gets worse
instead of better. Come along, mother, the carriage must be waiting for
us by this time, and I am tired to death. I want to get to bed.’

‘Certainly, my love,’ replied Mrs Crampton, with her usual lamb-like
acquiescence to all her daughter’s demands; ‘perhaps Mr Hindes will be
good enough to see us to the carriage.’

And Henry Hindes, who was convinced that Miss Crampton’s neuralgia was
due to Mr Walcheren’s defalcation, smiled inwardly, and conducted the
ladies to their barouche, with much satisfaction that he had conducted
the business he had taken on himself so successfully.

When Jenny Crampton reached home and found herself in the seclusion of
her bedroom, she did not give way to any access of nervous agitation,
or feel any trepidation at the thoughts of the important step which
she had taken on herself. That might be all very well for a damsel of
romance of a hundred years ago, but it is not the way the young women
of the present day manage their affairs. They are too strong-minded,
to cry and shake and faint over the deeds they have put their sign and
seal to. Jenny had made an appeal to become the wife of Mr Walcheren
in a fair way, and her request had been denied her, for what she
considered a frivolous objection. She knew there was no chance of
altering her father’s decision, and having always been given her own
way since a child, she determined to take it now. She regretted having
to be married privately, but she saw no wrong in it. Her parents might
be sorry when they heard of it, but they had brought it on themselves.
She was not going to keep Frederick waiting for an indefinite period,
and perhaps lose him altogether, because her father did not like Roman
Catholics as well as he did Protestants. _She_ didn’t object to his
religion, and she was the principal party concerned, so the young lady
looked out the dresses she wished to take with her, and made her maid
Ellen pack them in the box to take to the dressmaker’s, and, when the
key was in her own hands, she unlocked it again and added the articles
of linen and jewellery that she needed, and managed the whole affair as
coolly as if she had been preparing for elopements all her life. On the
Friday--it was on a Thursday that she received the wire to tell her all
was right, and it was on a Friday that her ill-regulated marriage took
place--she dressed herself in her most becoming tailor-made costume,
and drove gaily off to town, with a wave of her hand and a crack of her
whip as a last adieu to the mother and aunt who loved her devotedly.
She had promised them privately that she would be back to luncheon,
unless her cousins, the Burtons, were at home again (which she did not
anticipate), and pressed her to stay the afternoon.

‘But, Jenny, love!’ expostulated her mother, ‘don’t stay later than
two, even if they do! Pray be home before papa comes back from the
city. Remember how very particular he is about your driving in town by
yourself, and I’m afraid he may blame me, if he finds I have let you go
with only Brunell.’

‘My dear mother, as if Brunell were not a better protection for me than
fifty fat old men like papa. Now, don’t worry, there’s a good creature,
for I shall be back long before dinner time, but you know what Costello
is, and how difficult it is to get away from her. And perhaps I sha’n’t
go to the Burtons at all. So keep up your pecker, and don’t expect me
till you see me. Good-bye,’ and with a flourish she was off.

She drove rapidly to Kensington, and, on arrival, directed her groom to
put up the cobs and get himself some dinner, and call for her at Mrs
Burton’s house in Cromwell Road at five o’clock. The man touched his
hat, the box was lifted out, and Miss Jenny entered the dressmaker’s
abode.

‘Madame Costello,’ she commenced, ‘this is a box of things belonging
to my cousin, Miss Burton, which I am just going to take to her in
Cromwell Road. I have brought it here first that you may take out the
canvas dress you made for me, and which is just a trifle tight under
the arms. No, I have no time to have it fitted on, thank you. Tell the
dressmaker to let it out half an inch under both sleeves. That will be
quite sufficient.’

And, unlocking the box, the little diplomatist took out an old dress,
which she had laid at the top, and locked the rest of its contents up
again. Frederick Walcheren was waiting for her round the corner, she
had spied him as she drove up to the door.

‘My cousin is waiting to take me on to Cromwell Road,’ she said to
Madame Costello, as she beckoned him to advance. ‘Ah, Fred,’ she
continued, ‘you must call a cab for me, for I have been obliged to send
the trap on to pick up papa, who wishes to join us. Have you one ready?
That’s right. Good-morning, Madame Costello. You needn’t hurry with the
alterations, for I shall not want that dress again just yet.’

And with that Miss Crampton entered the cab and was soon whirling away
to the registrar’s office.

‘I never saw anything more neatly managed in my life,’ was her first
remark. ‘Mamma has reason not to expect me home till five or six. I
told Brunell not to call for me at Cromwell Road till five, so he can’t
be back in Hampstead till six or seven, and by that time--’

‘By that time you will be Mrs Frederick Walcheren past all recall,’
said her lover, joyfully.

But at that the girl seemed suddenly to lose her self-possession for
the first time.

‘Oh! Fred,’ she cried, ‘what am I doing? Oh! do stop and let me out
before it is too late! I was mad to come! It is too wicked! My people
will never forgive me,’ and she struggled to loose herself from his
detaining clasp.

‘Jenny, my dearest,’ he exclaimed, ‘be reasonable, for my sake, do!
It is too late to go back now. I have made every arrangement for our
staying at the Castle Warden Hotel. Besides, would you disappoint me in
so terrible a manner, after having passed your plighted word to be my
wife? I am sure you won’t! What should I do without you, Jenny? What
would you do without me? If we part now, it must be for ever! Don’t
make both our lives unhappy for a little want of courage.’

‘No, no, I must go on, I feel it! I cannot live without you, Fred. I
love you too dearly! Do just as you will with me!’

‘I had a little difficulty with the licence business yesterday,’ he
whispered, as they travelled onwards; ‘they wanted to have the written
consent of your guardians, or my assurance that you were of age, so I
swore you were. It was the only way out of it, my darling, and quite
justifiable, in my eyes, under the circumstances; but I thought I would
put you on your guard in case the registrar put any awkward questions
to you concerning it.’

‘It doesn’t signify,’ replied the girl in a dejected tone. Now that the
goal of her desires was so nearly reached, her high spirits seemed all
to have evaporated, and she was trembling and nervous. ‘I have had to
tell so many lies to manage the business, that one more or less cannot
make much difference.’

‘Jenny, my own girl, what has come over you?’ asked Walcheren in some
alarm. ‘Are you not well? Do you not love me as much as you thought you
did? Your mood is not complimentary, dearest, to the coming ceremony.
If you really repent the step you have taken, say so, and at all costs,
if it breaks my heart, I will get out of the cab and you shall return
to Madame Costello’s. Jenny, do you no longer wish to be my wife?’

But, at that awful alternative, Jenny’s sudden weakness evaporated and
she clung to her lover, as if all her hopes in this world and the next
centred in him.

‘Yes! yes! yes!’ she exclaimed eagerly, ‘you are my life--my all. I
cannot live without you, or away from you. It is only a sudden fear
of the consequences of this step we are taking which terrified me. It
is gone now, dear Frederick, indeed it has. What fear could I have in
becoming your wife. You, whom I love beyond all other things. Only, my
poor parents, my poor, good mother, Fred. How I wish she had said, “God
bless you, Jenny,” as we parted. She has been such a kind mother to me,
and she will miss me so. She will have nothing to occupy her thoughts,
or her hands, poor mother, now I am gone. Do you think I shall ever see
them again, Fred?--my parents, and poor old Aunt Clem. Do you think my
father will keep them from me _all_ my life?’

She spoke so rapidly and excitedly, and she clung to him so tightly,
that Frederick Walcheren feared she was what the lower orders call
‘going off her head,’ and said all he could think of to soothe her.

‘No! no! my darling girl, what can you be thinking of, to ask me such a
silly question? Of course, your father will come round in time. The old
gentleman is too fond and proud of you himself to hold out very long.
It is _I_ on whom he will pour out the vials of his wrath. Come, let me
dry those tears. We are almost at the registrar’s office now, and he
will think I am inveigling you into a marriage against your will if he
sees you crying. Perhaps he will take it for a case of abduction, and
order me to be locked up, until he has found out where you come from,
and if I have carried you off by force. And then there will be the old
gentleman to pay, and no pitch hot.’

Jenny laughed at the expression and let Frederick kiss away her tears,
and in another half hour, they walked out of the registrar’s office
together man and wife.




CHAPTER V.


Henry Hindes’ house was the most remarkable in Hampstead. It was
called ‘The Old Hall,’ and was supposed to have been built more than
two hundred years before. It was situated within ten minutes’ walk
of Mr Crampton’s place, ‘The Cedars,’ but the two mansions belonged
to different eras of the world’s history. ‘The Cedars’ was fitted in
the most luxurious style. Everything that money could possibly buy,
or build up, had been added to it, to increase its convenience and
comfort. It revelled in glass houses, expensive out-buildings, swimming
and other baths, and all the luxuries of the prevailing season. But
everything about it was painfully new. Mr Crampton had purchased a
freehold of the ground, and built ‘The Cedars’ for himself, or rather
for the daughter who was to come after him. Often had he said to his
wife that when their Jenny married, they would find a smaller place
for themselves, and make ‘The Cedars’ part of her marriage portion.
Consequently, he had lavished money upon it, letting the builders and
upholsterers have their own way in everything, because it was only
so much more for Jenny, when she came, like a young queen, into the
property her father’s love had prepared for her.

But ‘The Old Hall’ was a very different sort of dwelling-place. Henry
Hindes was a man of refined tastes and culture, a man who, before he
had come into his father’s business, had travelled much and seen the
world of art and science, and cultivated his mind, and raised his ideas
of beauty and workmanship. He hated business and all its details, and,
had it not been for his children’s sake, and the loss it would prove to
them, would have sold his share of it for whatever it might fetch, and
given up his life to the pursuit of his fancy. As it was, he refreshed
himself, in the intervals of less congenial work, by making his home as
beautiful as he could, but in a very different fashion from that of the
Cramptons.

‘The Old Hall’ had low-roofed rooms, wainscotted with black oak, into
which he would not permit the innovation of gas, and ghostly corridors
that ran the whole length of the building, and stained glass windows
which let in very little light, and made the house dark and gloomy in
the eyes of such Philistines as could not appreciate medieval customs,
and the relics of barbarism which made the delight of its owner’s heart.

He was the possessor, too, of an admirable collection of paintings,
mostly of grim and melancholy subjects, but valuable in their way,
and well in accordance with the mummies, sarcophagæ, curious gems and
stones, and other curiosities which he had gathered on his travels and
stored up in remembrance of them. His was a charming household, and
his collection of odds and ends were the only gloomy things in it.
His wife, Hannah Hindes, was a cultured and intelligent gentlewoman,
eminently fond of him, and regarding his powerful brain and capacity
for business with an admiration which bordered on reverence; and he
was the father of three handsome and healthy children, all of whom he
loved, and one of whom he idolised--to wit, Master Walter Hindes, his
only son, an infant of some two years old.

To see Henry Hindes with this child in his fine old garden was to see
him at his best--he was so partial to floriculture, and such a student
of botany; though in this, as in other things, he would not allow
fashion to trample sweetness and commonsense under foot. In the large,
shady garden of ‘The Old Hall’ were to be found all sorts of flowers,
growing together in the same bed. No ribbon borders or collections of
prize begonias, or pelargoniums, of giant blossoms, or dwarfed bushes,
transformed it into the semblance of a nurseryman’s plot of ground;
but sweet-smelling herbs grew amongst the choicer plants, and high and
low bloomed side by side, as they used to do in the long ago.

In the summer weather, Henry Hindes spent almost all his spare time
in his garden with his children, and was apparently quite happy with
his own thoughts and them. Hannah Hindes was a woman who never grated
on her husband’s finer sensibilities. She was loving, tender and
conscientious; but she seldom obtruded herself or her opinions on him,
and never in opposition to his own. She was always there when needed,
calm and intelligent, ready to give advice but not eager to thrust it
down one’s throat; a restful sort of woman for a man to come home to
after a hard and perhaps harassing day’s work.

And she had in her turn an admirable husband, for Mr Hindes was
mild-tempered and indulgent; never found fault with anything his wife
did, or wished to do, and was always quick to think of her comfort and
that of her children.

A few mornings after the dance at the Bouchers’, they were strolling
together under the shade of an avenue of elm trees, which formed the
approach to the house, and he was telling her of his interview with
Frederick Walcheren. One of the little girls, Elsie, was holding her
mother by the hand, whilst the other, Laura, was wandering in front
of them, and the son and heir, was perched on his father’s shoulder,
enjoying a ride. In the length and breadth of England, you could hardly
have found a more united, or happier family.

‘I did not much relish the task, Hannah,’ he was saying to his wife,
‘when Mr Crampton entrusted it to me, for I anticipated a tough battle
with the young gentleman. A man does not particularly care to have a
stranger intermeddle with his love affairs--’

‘Oh! but Mr Walcheren could never look on you as a stranger,’
interposed Mrs Hindes, ‘he must know how very intimate you are with
the family and that you have known dear Jenny almost since she was
born.’

‘Not quite that, Hannah,’ said her husband, wincing, for he did not
like to be reminded that he was ‘getting on,’ ‘but long enough, at
all events, to act as her father’s ambassador. Anyhow, I thought he
would resent my speaking to him, and perhaps cause a bit of a scandal;
but, to my surprise, he took it so quietly and so much as a matter of
course, that I begin to think he was never in earnest, and was rather
glad than otherwise, of an opportunity to withdraw without dishonour.’

‘Then he must be a scoundrel!’ replied Mrs Hindes, with unusual
vehemence for her gentle nature, ‘for I am witness that he behaved to
dear Jenny just as if he were in earnest. I have been with them often,
_you_ know, Henry, when there has been no one else by, and if ever a
man pretended to be in love with a woman, Mr Walcheren did!’

‘Anyone would “spoon” a little, with such a pretty girl, if she gave
him the opportunity, my dear,’ replied Mr Hindes, ‘and our dear Jenny
is a bit of a flirt, you must allow that. I wouldn’t trust her with a
grandfather, if I valued his peace of mind.’

‘I don’t know what you mean by “spoon,”’ said Mrs Hindes, who professed
to understand no modern slang, ‘but he looked at her and spoke to her
as if he loved her and wished her to love him, and, if he meant nothing
by it, all I can say is that he deserves a much worse reprimand than a
mere hint to cease his visits at the house. Why, he might have broken
darling Jenny’s heart!’

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed her husband; ‘she doesn’t care for the
fellow!’

‘Who can say if she cares for him or not, Henry? Women don’t run about,
as a rule, telling everyone they meet of their predilections for
gentlemen who have not yet proposed for them.’

‘But, good God! do you mean to insinuate that the girl’s happiness is
likely to be affected by this business? You must be mistaken! Jenny
would never be such a fool as to risk losing all her father’s money for
the sake of the first young jackanapes who says he loves her!’

‘She may like the jackanapes better than the money, Henry. I don’t
think women stick at much where their hearts are concerned. Besides,
has not Mr Walcheren a fortune of his own?’

‘Perhaps--I don’t know--unless he has already made ducks and drakes of
it,’ replied Henry Hindes, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
‘But Jenny has never thought of him seriously, I am sure of it! Her
father was telling me only yesterday, that her demeanour has not
changed in the least since he told her she must give him up, but is
as cheerful and lively as usual. That doesn’t look as if she was very
miserable over the loss, eh, Hannah?’

‘Perhaps she does not believe she shall lose him,’ observed his wife.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing particular, only Jenny may derive comfort from looking
forward to the time when she will be of age and able to please
herself. It seems unnatural to me that they should give each other up
so cheerfully, and it is not Jenny’s disposition either. You seem to
forget what a self-willed little mortal she is! And Mr Walcheren is so
good-looking too. I am sure Jenny has positively raved to me about his
beauty. And where will he find such another girl? I thought she looked
more like an angel than a woman at the Bouchers’ on Wednesday. So pure
and sweet and fresh in that white dress, and with those lovely eyes of
hers shining like two stars. Don’t you think she has the very loveliest
eyes in the world, Hal?’

‘Yes! yes! very pretty, certainly; but handsome is as handsome does,
Hannah, and I should be dreadfully grieved if I thought Jenny could be
capable of wilfully deceiving her parents. It would break their hearts.
If you fancy she may be (and you women know best about each other as a
rule), tell me so, and I will warn the Cramptons. It will be my duty to
do so, for they are the oldest friends I possess.’

Mrs Hindes was just about to answer her husband’s query, when they were
both startled by the appearance of Mr Crampton coming up the drive
towards them. There was evidently something unusual about his visit. In
the first place, the old man was walking, a most unheard of exertion
on his part, and, in the second, he would, in the ordinary course of
events, have met his partner in a few minutes in the train, as this
was Saturday, when they made a point of going to the City together, in
order to pay the workmen’s wages, and set things generally right for
the ensuing week.

‘My dear Crampton! what on earth is the matter?’ cried Henry Hindes,
putting down his child, and hastening to his partner.

Mr Crampton’s face, which was always of a fine roseate hue, was now
positively purple, and, from fast walking and agitation, he found it
impossible to articulate. Hannah feared he was going to have a fit, and
urged her husband to get him to the house before he attempted to tell
them what was amiss. Even when he was placed in a library chair, it was
some minutes before he could find breath to speak, and, meanwhile, the
distress pictured on his features was unmistakable.

‘My dear friend,’ said Mr Hindes, with the greatest concern, ‘are you
ill? Is anything wrong at home? For God’s sake, speak, and put us out
of this terrible suspense!’

‘She’s gone, Hindes! she’s gone!’ gasped Mr Crampton at last.

‘Gone? Who? Not Jenny?’ cried Mrs Hindes.

The old man nodded his head.

‘Not dead?’ said Hindes, turning as white as a sheet.

‘No! No! Gone off with that scoundrel Walcheren,’ replied Mr Crampton,
who had somewhat recovered himself. ‘Didn’t you tell me that he
promised to give up all pretensions to her hand, and to leave off
visiting her or writing to her?’

‘He did, most emphatically!’ said Hindes. ‘I was just telling my wife
about it.’

‘And so did she--so did Jenny,’ continued the father, in a broken
voice; ‘and they were both lying to us, sir--both lying! She has left
us for him. She writes she is married to him--that it is of no use our
attempting any opposition, and we may keep our worthless money for
ourselves--and our broken hearts too, I suppose,’ he added, in a lower
tone.

‘But it is impossible--there must be some mistake--how did it happen?’
cried Henry Hindes, excitedly.

‘Well, they must have managed to have some communication with each
other since Wednesday, for the girl joined him yesterday. My wife is
such a fool--God forgive me for calling her by such a name!--that she
never exercised the least supervision over the child, and yesterday
morning it seems that Jenny said she was going to her dressmaker’s,
and they let her set off alone with Brunell. She told him on reaching
town--this is the man’s story, remember--to put up the horses, and call
for her at the Burtons in Cromwell Road, at five o’clock. He was there
to his time, and waited outside for an hour, when a caretaker came to
the door and asked him what he was waiting for. On his telling her, she
said that no young lady had been there that day--that the family was
still out of town, and she didn’t know when they were likely to be home
again. On hearing that, Brunell drove to Madame Costello’s, but learned
there that Jenny had left directly he drove off in the morning, and
had not returned since. A gentleman, her cousin, the woman said, had
fetched her away in a cab. The man came back with this story, and you
may imagine the night we have had. My wife was sure it was all right,
but I knew the end from the beginning.’

‘Don’t despair, sir, until you are quite sure,’ said Hannah, with ready
sympathy.

‘I _am_ sure, Mrs Hindes. We sat up all night, and the first post this
morning brought us that.’

He threw down a scribbled note on the table as he spoke, and Hannah
picked it up, for her husband seemed too paralysed at the calamity that
had overtaken his friends, to be able to do anything. The note ran
thus:--

 ‘DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,--I could not give Frederick up, as you
 desired me to do, because we love each other too much, so we were
 married this morning at the Earl’s Court Registrar Office, where you
 can see the entry if you doubt my word. Don’t be too angry with me.
 Remember I am your only child.--Yours affectionately,

  JENNY WALCHEREN.’

‘That’s a nice letter for a man to receive, who has idolised his
child for twenty years, isn’t it, Mrs Hindes?’ asked Mr Crampton
sarcastically. ‘Remember she is my only child; indeed, I’m not likely
to forget it, I can tell Miss Jenny that. And I’ll never see her again,
not if I live another fifty years!’

‘Oh, don’t say that. You don’t know what may happen to alter your
mind,’ said Hannah, as she took the old man’s hand in hers and pressed
it warmly. ‘You love her dearly, and she loves you. Things will not
look so black when you are more used to them. After all, Mr Walcheren
comes of a good family, and--’

‘And is a Papist,’ interrupted Mr Crampton angrily, ‘a member of the
faith which I despise and abhor and contemn--the faith which will bring
my wretched daughter down to hell with himself. No, Mrs Hindes, my
dear; you mean kindly, but don’t talk to me of ever seeing this matter
in a better light.’

‘But she is under age,’ said Henry Hindes, speaking for the first
time. ‘How could he marry her without the written consent of her
guardians?’

‘By a lie, of course. He must have sworn she was of age. It came
natural to a Papist, no doubt. They’re made of lies, religion and all!
It’s a proper beginning for a life of deception and ingratitude.’

‘But if the licence has been obtained under false pretences, Crampton,’
said Mr Hindes eagerly, ‘it may not yet be too late to set it aside.
It may be possible to force him to return your daughter to you, at all
events until she is of age. I don’t know the law accurately on this
point, but I can go to town at once and inquire, and if there is a
chance--if she could be returned to you--’

Mr Hindes’ urbanity seemed to have forsaken him at this juncture, for
he trembled so violently that his very teeth chattered.

‘And do you suppose that I would take her back?’ cried Mr Crampton,
vehemently. ‘What! take the casket without the jewel! Receive my
daughter--no longer only my daughter, but that man’s plaything--in
her dishonoured home? Never! I will see her dead first! I will stand
by thankfully, and watch her coffin lowered into the ground, sooner
than acknowledge her again as my child. I have no child now. My Jenny,
in whom I took such pride, for whom I have made money and treasured
and garnered it up, is gone from me. She is no longer mine. She is
Walcheren’s wife. I have lost her more effectually than if she had been
taken from me by death, as her brothers and sisters were, and never, so
help me God! will I see her of my own free will, in this world again.’

He was fuming and raging in his despair, and Hannah Hindes motioned
to her husband, to do or say something to calm the old man. But Henry
Hindes remained as silent and motionless, as if he had been carved in
stone. Then she attempted the task herself.

‘Dear Mr Crampton,’ she whispered, laying her gentle hand on
his knotted one, ‘surely you are going too far. This terrible
disappointment has come upon you too suddenly, but try to look at it in
a more reasonable light. Jenny has done very, very wrong; no one could
think otherwise, but you must not speak of her as if she were abandoned
to sin. She is honourably married, remember; and she is so young, that
perhaps she did not view the fault of rebelling against your authority
from so serious a point of view as we do. Mr Walcheren doubtless
persuaded her that it was only a venial error, which you would soon
forgive, for I cannot believe that she could ever forget your great
love for her, nor hers for you.’

She smoothed the old man’s palm with a motherly touch as she spoke, and
her soft voice and manner served in a measure to soothe his extreme
agitation.

‘You are a good woman, Mrs Hindes, my dear,’ he replied, more calmly,
‘but my daughter must abide by the step she has taken, however this
fellow cajoled her into it. She knew well enough that I would never
give my consent to her marriage with a d--d Papist. She gave me her
solemn promise, too, to give up all communication with him. She lied to
me, Mrs Hindes, as the man lied to your husband, and I renounce them
both--I renounce them both! Henceforth, I have no child. Heaven took
five from me, and the devil’s got the last.’

And with that Mr Crampton drew forth a red silk handkerchief and buried
his face in it.

‘But what is to be done?’ inquired Henry Hindes, ‘what is to be done?’

Hannah glanced round at him in astonishment. His full, deep voice
seemed all of a sudden to have become thin and squeaky.

‘Mr Crampton seems to think that we can do nothing, dearest,’ she
answered.

‘But some sort of reply must be sent to her letter,’ he continued,
‘or she may present herself at any moment in Hampstead. She is very
impetuous, you know, Crampton, and will not easily believe that you can
be seriously angry with her. We must prevent a scandal if possible.
You had better write to her, or see her once, just to come to an
understanding, that you may know what to expect, and she also.’

‘I will never see her, nor write to her again,’ said Mr Crampton.

‘Henry, could _you_ not do so?’ asked his wife, pleadingly. ‘If Mr
Crampton consents to it, could you not first verify the marriage, and
then see poor Jenny, and tell her her father’s decision? Someone ought
surely to do it.’

‘Where does she write from?’ asked Mr Hindes.

‘From the Castle Warden Hotel at Dover, whence they will probably cross
over to Paris. If you follow them it should be at once. Will you go?
Shall I get your portmanteau ready?’

She loved the girl, and cherished a secret hope that, through her
husband’s intervention, a reconciliation might be effected between the
daughter and her parents.

‘I am at Mr Crampton’s service,’ said Mr Hindes.

‘What do you expect to issue from the proceeding?’ asked the old man,
in a muffled voice. ‘I will never receive her back at “The Cedars.”
It is of no use giving her any false hopes, for my decision is
irrevocable. She is dead to me from this time forward.’

‘Will her mother consent to that, sir?’

‘If she does not she must join her daughter, for I will have no one who
associates with Papists in my house. I would as soon cherish a brood
of vipers. But I do not anticipate my wife being so ungrateful as to
desert me in this extremity.’

‘But if Jenny--if your daughter, on hearing your decision, and learning
that it is unalterable, should elect to give up her husband and return
to the protection of her parents--what then, sir?’

‘There is no chance of it,’ said the old man.

‘I am not so sure of that. Our childhood’s affections are generally the
strongest. She may be repenting the step she has taken even now. If I
see her and find she wishes to come home again--what then?’

‘I do not say that, in such a case, I should absolutely refuse to
receive her, but it would be only on the very strictest conditions.
And you would let me know first? You would not bring me face to face
with her without any preparation, for, by the Lord, Hindes, I would not
trust myself to say what I might do in such a case.’

‘No,’ replied Hindes, ‘I promise you I will not act in any way without
your consent. But I will go down to Dover, and see if it is possible to
have an interview with her alone. If Mr Walcheren is present I have no
hopes of success.’

‘Don’t mention the fellow’s name!’ exclaimed Mr Crampton. ‘The very
sound of it makes me feel like a murderer. I can conceive at this
moment nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to squeeze the
last breath out of his vile body.’

He rose to leave then, tottering as if the fatal intelligence had added
twenty years to his existence.

‘Don’t walk home. Let me order the carriage. It won’t be ten minutes,
and then it can take Henry to the station,’ said Hannah, kindly.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ replied Mr Crampton, reseating himself. ‘I do not
really think I am equal to the exertion. To think that a rebellious
girl has the power to sap a man’s strength in this manner.’

‘The news has been a shock to all of us,’ returned Hannah. ‘My husband
looks almost as bad as you do. Henry, you must take something before
you start. Ring the bell and tell Simmonds to bring some brandy and
soda. Your face is positively ghastly. What shall I put up for you?
Shall you stay the night?’

‘No, I think not; but, perhaps, I may. Just a shirt and a brush and
comb, please, nothing more. I am so grieved for the Cramptons,’ said
her husband to her, in a lower tone, ‘so deeply, deeply grieved. This
will break their hearts. I shouldn’t wonder if it were the death of
both of them.’

‘Yes, yes; poor, dear, old people, they loved her so,’ rejoined Hannah,
with the tears in her eyes, ‘and we shall feel it terribly, too, Henry,
when we have time to realise that it is true.’

‘Oh! that’s all nonsense,’ said her husband, roughly. ‘It is of them we
have to think. What can it matter to us? Sooner or later she must have
married someone, and _we_ have no especial antipathy to Papists. But
there is no time to discuss the matter now. Do as I tell you, and let
me be off.’

And in another five minutes the two partners in the firm of Hindes &
Crampton were driving down the elm-tree road together.




CHAPTER VI.


Honeymoons are not always the blissful periods anticipated by those who
enter on them, but Frederick’s and Jenny’s promised to be an exception
to the rule. The girl was so lively and merry, so easily pleased with
all that surrounded her, and disposed to make so light of any little
_désagremens_, that she formed a delightful companion. And then, she
was so desperately in love with her husband, and he with her, that
they both thought, and perhaps rightly, that they had never known what
happiness was till then. Frederick especially, who had frittered away
his time and his affections on more girls than he could remember the
names of, could not understand how he could have been such a fool as
to waste his life in so frivolous a manner, when so much pleasure had
been within his grasp. The day after his marriage, when he was ready to
consider himself quite a Benedict of experience, he decided that there
was but one source of happiness, worth calling by the name, in this
world, and that was the whole and undivided love of a wife, whose heart
you felt to be entirely your own.

It was a lovely day, and the two young people were sitting in a room
that looked upon the sea, watching the bright waves that were dashing
up against the harbour bar, and filling the air with their sweet, salt
flavour. Jenny, looking the very quintessence of youth and beauty,
attired in a flowing gown of white muslin and lace, with a knot of blue
ribbon in her sunny hair, was seated on her husband’s knee, playing
with his dark locks, and ever and anon pressing her ripe lips upon his
forehead.

‘My darling, my darling!’ he said, in a fervour of admiration, ‘how
happy we are! Did you ever think we should be so exquisitely happy,
Jenny?’

‘No, Fred, I have never dreamed there could be such bliss in my life
before. It is like heaven to be here, all alone with you, and to feel
that we shall never, never part again, that we are all in all to one
another, and that no one can ever come between us, or separate us. I
have only one little regret, Fred, darling, and that is a very little
one.’

‘What is it, sweetheart?’

‘That father and mother are angry with me! If they had been kind about
you, I should be the very happiest girl alive. I think _I am_ that,
now, but if everything were right with the old people, I should be the
happiest in heaven or earth.’

‘My dear little wife, I don’t think you need trouble your sweet self
about that, they are sure to come round before long. Why you know they
couldn’t live without you. Naturally they are angry at present. We
have been very naughty, but we mean to be ever so good for the future,
so that they shall be quite proud of us. By the way, Jenny, did you
write that letter to your father?’

‘Certainly, and posted it yesterday. Oh! what a time it seems since we
were married. I can hardly believe it is only a day. It seems like a
year.’

‘That’s very complimentary to me, my darling; but you might have had an
answer to your letter by telegram this morning.’

‘So I might, but I daresay dear old papa is awfully enraged with me,
and is keeping me in suspense on purpose; but mamma is sure to write in
a day or two; I shall be glad to hear from them, Fred. I’d rather know
the worst at once.’

‘Why, what do you suppose the worst will be, you little silly? Who can
do you any real harm, now that you have me to protect you? Who could
wound you through the circle of my arms,’ exclaimed Frederick, as he
cast them around her. ‘I defy the world to take my angel from my
clasp; and so long as she has me and I have her, we shall be happy!’

The girl was silent for a few moments, whilst her husband was devouring
her with kisses, but when he released her, she said thoughtfully,--

‘Do you know who I doubt, Fred, though he has been our friend for
years, and papa thinks there is no one like him--Mr Hindes! He has
always been awfully good to me, and his wife is one of my dearest
friends, but still, somehow, he always seems to come between me and
anything I like. He is always advising papa about me, as if I belonged
to him as well. He made him exchange my dog-cart for a Ralli, because
he declared it was too dangerous for me to drive about in, and he
makes mamma take me home from parties before twelve o’clock, for fear
I should be overtired. I suppose he means it kindly, but I think it
is very officious of him, and I have told him so. And now, I fancy,
he will be advising my parents not to give in and forgive me too
soon--perhaps tell them not to forgive me at all,’ added Jenny, with
drooping head.

‘Officious, indeed! I should call it d--d impertinence on his part,’
acquiesced her husband, ‘and he wouldn’t try that game on twice with
me! To tell you the truth, little woman, I don’t like your Mr Hindes
any more than you do; he interfered in my affairs sufficiently by
informing me I was to make myself scarce, but I expect by this time
that he has found out his mistake. There is certainly something curious
about the fellow. One cannot find fault with his manner, which is most
courteous, and he seems well-informed into the bargain, and yet he has
a knack of saying the most unpleasant things in a pleasant way that I
ever came across. However, he will never worry you again, my Jenny, nor
cross your path, if you don’t wish him to do so.’

‘Oh! I have no wish to cut him, only I fancy he will influence papa
to hold out against us as long as possible. For the funny part about
him is, that although he has always been so kind to me, personally,
whenever he advises papa on my account, it is always something to give
me annoyance instead of pleasure. I really quite hated him at one time,
for so constantly opposing my wishes. I was always doing something
unladylike, or dangerous, or foolish, according to Mr Hindes’ account.’

‘Well, that’s over, at all events,’ replied Frederick, ‘neither Mr
Hindes, nor Mr Anybody else, shall ever interfere with my wife’s
pursuits. If I think she is endangering her precious safety, I shall
kiss her till she promises me to leave it off and be a good girl, but
nothing else shall come between us.’

‘I shall go on being bad, so that you may go on kissing me,’ said
Jenny, as she nestled closer to him.

‘But what are we going to decide about to-morrow, little wife?’ asked
the young man, after an eloquent pause. ‘Is it to be Paris or not?’

‘Do the boats run to-morrow?’ asked Jenny, dubiously.

‘I fancy so, but that is soon ascertained. They are sure to know
all about it in the hotel. The question is, do you prefer to cross
to-morrow or Monday?’

‘We are very happy here,’ said the girl, thoughtfully.

‘Happy! my sweet! happy is not the word for it. We are in Paradise, at
least I know I am. But what made you make that remark?’

‘Because, if it is all the same to you, Fred, I would rather stay here
till Monday; then, if my father writes to me, or wishes to see me, I
shall have time to receive his letter or to receive him before we leave
England.’

‘Very well, dear, have your own way in everything. You will never find
me oppose your wishes. I am not so sanguine as you are about the old
people coming round so quickly--I fancy your dear papa has a will of
his own--still, it will be as well, perhaps, to stay a day or two in
England, to give them a chance of behaving like Christians. But what do
you feel like now doing now, eh?’

‘Kissing you,’ replied Jenny, suiting the action to the word.

‘But we’ve been at that game for twenty-four mortal hours, my darling,’
he cried, laughing, ‘and before long there will be nothing of us left.
Will you come for a walk?’

‘Dearest, I’m too tired.’

‘Well, if your ladyship will give me a little leave of absence, I will
go for a swim. It is just the day for it. I sha’n’t be long. Back for
luncheon, at all events.’

‘Oh! love, be careful,’ exclaimed Jenny, with startled eyes; ‘don’t do
anything rash. Think how precious you are to me!’

‘You dear goose,’ replied her husband, ‘why, swimming is one of the
things I do best. However, I will be careful, I promise you, now, and
always, that I have such a dear wife to care if I live or die.’

‘I suppose you will not want luncheon till three,’ said Jenny, for the
remains of breakfast were still on the table.

‘No, three will do nicely, and then we will have a carriage and go for
a jolly drive over the cliffs.’

‘I wish I had my dear cobs here, and could drive you myself,’ said
Jenny, with a slight sigh. ‘I wonder if father will let me have my
cobs. They are my very own, for he gave them to me on my birthday.’

‘If he doesn’t, your husband will give you a pair that you will like
just as well.’

He came back as he spoke and embraced her fondly.

‘Don’t regret anything you may have left behind you, my sweet,’ he
murmured, ‘remember, you cannot have them and me as well.’

‘I regret nothing and nobody,’ she answered, clinging to him, ‘you are
my world, dearest. In having you I have everything.’

The young man’s face glowed with delight, as he tore himself away from
his enchantress, and left the hotel to have his swim.

For a little time after he had quitted her, Jenny tried to interest
herself with the newspapers and magazines which they had purchased
the day before. But she was naturally restless, and could not chain
her thoughts to anything. She read one or two short stories without
knowing what they were about, for her mind would keep wandering back
to Hampstead and all that was happening there. Every time a footfall
sounded near her room, she fancied it was the waiter bringing a
telegram from her father, or a message, perhaps, that he waited below
to speak to her. At last her nervous dread, lest he should arrive and
interview her without the protection of her husband, grew to such a
height that she felt as if she could not remain in the hotel without
Frederick, and put on her walking attire with the idea of going to
the beach and waiting for him there. But Dover was a strange place to
Jenny, and she had no idea which direction Frederick might have taken,
nor where the gentlemen bathed, nor if it would be proper for her to
go there if she did. Besides, did she not remember her husband saying
something about bathing from a boat, in which case he might be miles
away from the land. The green downs stretched out invitingly before
her; looking so much cooler and less glaring than the sandy beach
sprinkled over with nursemaids and children, so she turned her steps
in that direction. She carried a magazine in her hand, and she would
go and sit on the cliffs she thought, till three o’clock had struck
and Frederick had returned home again. A little chill feeling ran over
Jenny, as she took her seat on the sward close to the edge of the
cliffs whence she could see and hear the sparkling waves as they dashed
over the shingly beach, and she moved further inland with a shudder.

‘What an awful thing it would be,’ she inwardly said, ‘if I were to
fall over those cliffs now--_now_, in the very hey-day of my youth and
happiness. To leave my Frederick just as I know what it is to love him;
just as I have taken the bold step to unite myself with him forever!
Yet others have done it; others, I suppose, with hopes as high as mine,
and with feelings as strong. Oh, it must have been terrible! terrible!
The very idea makes my flesh creep! I must be over-excited and nervous
to-day to think of such a silly thing!’ and she drew herself further
and further away from the edge of the cliff and tried to interest
herself in her book.

It was about this time that Henry Hindes, pale and anxious as to the
issue of his errand, walked into the vestibule of the Castle Warden
Hotel and asked if Mrs Walcheren were at home. The porter having
referred to half-a-dozen waiters in turn, at first said ‘yes,’ but on
Mr Hindes sending up his name for admittance, the man returned to say
he had been mistaken, and neither Mr nor Mrs Walcheren were indoors.

‘Is it only an excuse, or is the lady really not in?’ demanded Mr
Hindes.

‘She is really not at home, sir,’ was the reply, ‘but I did not see her
go out; I suppose she went through the garden. Mr Walcheren went out
better than an hour ago, for I saw him pass through the hall myself.’

‘Do you know when they are likely to be in?’ next asked the visitor.

‘I can’t say for certain, sir, but their lunch is ordered for three
o’clock.’

‘Very well; I will return at three.’

‘What name shall I say, sir?’

‘You need say no name. I will send it up on my return,’ said Henry
Hindes as he walked away.

He was disappointed that he had not found Jenny at home and alone, yet
it was hardly natural that a young husband and wife should separate
on the very morning after their wedding-day. But we are all apt to be
unreasonable when our wishes are thwarted. However, he made up his
mind to call again at three o’clock. Whether alone or together, he
could not return to Hampstead without seeing Jenny, and delivering to
her the message with which her father had entrusted him. So he must
wile away the intervening hours as best he could. He stopped at the
bar to have a brandy-and-soda, not the first by several, that he had
taken that morning to build up his courage for the coming interview,
and sustain him under the shock which the news of her marriage had been
to him. And then he wandered forth into the town and took his way idly
up the very path to the cliffs that Jenny had trodden before him. He
had not walked, slowly and clumsily, for more than half an hour when
he came upon her, seated on the close-cropped herbage, with her eyes
fixed thoughtfully upon the water, and her book lying unheeded in her
lap. Henry Hindes’ heart gave a great leap and throb as he recognised
the lovely features, shaded by a broad chip hat, trimmed with field
flowers, and the graceful figure of the beauty of Hampstead. Here was
an opportunity, for which he had never hoped--to find her thus alone
and unoccupied, amidst the glories of Nature, with her attention free
to listen to his pleadings on her parents’ behalf. His involuntary
exclamation as he encountered her, caused Jenny to look round, and the
hot blush of shame that flooded her face at seeing him proved that she
was not dead to the knowledge that she had done something to blush for.

‘Mr Hindes!’ she said, with a little gasp as if of fear, ‘what has
induced you to follow me?’

‘Nothing but the heartiest interest in your welfare, Jenny, you may
be sure of that! Did you think that we could hear the news of your
marriage at Hampstead without emotion? It paralysed us, Jenny! We could
not believe it without further proof--without your assurance that it
was undertaken of your own free will.’

‘My father is the proper person to put such questions to me,’ replied
Jenny, proudly. ‘If he wished them answered, why did he not come to
Dover himself, instead of sending you?’

‘Your father could not come if he wished it. Your letter has made him
so ill that he is not fit to leave home. I dread what the effects
of the shock may be on him. Remember, he is no longer a young man,
sixty-two on his last birthday, and you have robbed him of all he had
in life.’

‘I don’t see that,’ replied Jenny, with her old pertness, ‘I must have
married some day; I don’t suppose my father meant to keep me single all
my life, and in such a matter, people are generally left to choose for
themselves.’

‘Not when their choice is in direct opposition to their parents’
wishes! However, you have elected to fly in their faces, and what’s
done can’t be undone. I visited the Earl’s Court Registrar’s Office
this morning, and found the ill news was, indeed, too true. It,
therefore, now only remains to be seen what remedy there is for so sad
a state of affairs, and if you are prepared to hear the proposal your
father has sent you by me.’

He had made as though he were about to throw himself on the grass
beside her, and, in order to avoid his doing so, Jenny rose and moved a
few paces forward. Henry Hindes had, therefore, no alternative but to
walk slowly by her side, and as she had turned her face from the town,
each step took them further from it.

‘If you have anything unpleasant to tell me,’ she said, with a slight
laugh, ‘for goodness’ sake don’t make it public property. Let us go
further up the cliffs, where our voices will not reach any loiterers on
the beach below.’

‘You can hardly expect my message to be a very pleasant one, Jenny,’
commenced Henry Hindes, as composedly as he knew how, ‘but it is
soon told. Mr Crampton refuses either to write to or see you, unless
you agree to his conditions. When he received your terrible news
this morning, I was afraid he would have a fit, it affected him so
dreadfully. As for your poor mother and aunt, they are, I hear, in
utter despair. You have changed a happy home, Jenny, into a house of
mourning.’

‘Well, they should have been more considerate of my feelings,’ said the
girl, in a low voice, but Mr Hindes could detect signs of softening in
it.

‘They were considerate of them, they intended to be considerate of
them,’ exclaimed Henry Hindes, ‘they only told you the truth when they
said that Walcheren was not a fit man for you to marry, that he was a
gambler and an evil liver--that--’

‘Mr Hindes, you forget yourself,’ cried the girl with newly acquired
dignity, ‘when you said those things the other day, you were speaking
of an acquaintance, to-day you are maligning _my husband_!’

‘I cannot help it! Were he twenty times your husband, I must say what
is in my mind concerning him. You have had your own way too long,
Jenny, and now you have taken it to your ruin. But your father is
willing to receive you back as his daughter, on one condition, and that
is, that you leave this man who has led you into so grievous an error,
and return to the protection of your parents.’

Jenny gazed at him as if he had been a lunatic.

‘Do I hear you rightly,’ she said, ‘or are you mad? Leave my husband,
whom I have just married, leave the man whom I love above all the
world, father and mother included, leave him all alone and go back to
Hampstead to live a widowed life with my people! Why, papa must have
been tipsy to propose such a thing. What had you been giving the old
gentleman to make him talk such nonsense? Surely you are dreaming and
have fancied it all.’

‘Dreaming!’ echoed Hindes, indignantly; ‘is it dreaming to see your
father’s agony, to hear of your mother’s tears? No, these things may be
play to you, Jenny, but they are death to them. I have repeated your
father’s words just as he told them to me. “I will never see her, nor
speak, nor write to her so long as life lasts,” he said, “and I will
never, under any circumstances, receive that man into my house; but,
if Jenny will give him up and come back to our protection, I will try
and forgive the past.” Jenny! think of what you are resigning before
you finally decide. Mr Crampton is much richer than you imagine. You
will inherit nothing short of fifteen to twenty thousand a year at his
death. And you were married illegally. Mr Walcheren took a false oath
about your age, and this may be set aside if you will only give your
consent to it. Why, Jenny, you have not been half clever enough! With
your beauty and prospective wealth, you should have married into the
aristocracy. Think twice about it. Give up this man who is not worthy
of you, and you will make twice as brilliant a marriage by-and-by.’




CHAPTER VII.


The girl turned round upon him like a fury.

‘How dare you,’ she cried, ‘make such an infamous proposal to me? I
don’t believe papa ever told you to say so. I don’t believe he would
have thought of such a thing if you had not put it into his head. You
are not telling me the truth, Mr Hindes. What spite have you against
me, that you are always trying to put a spoke in my wheel in this way.
You never propose anything for my pleasure, it is always something for
my pain. I believe you have taken a hatred to me, you go against me so
persistently.’

‘_I_--I hate you, Jenny!’ stammered Hindes.

‘Yes, I feel sure you do, else why should you be forever urging papa
to do something to displease me. I have seen it for years past. Every
obstacle that has been thrown in my way has been by your advice. What
am I to you? Why can’t you let me and my affairs alone?’

‘Why can’t I let you alone? Why am I for ever interesting myself in
your affairs?’ he repeated after her. ‘Cannot you guess, Jenny; has no
glimmer of the truth reached your heart during all these years? Well,
then, I will tell you; it is because I love you.’

‘A nice way of loving,’ interposed the girl sarcastically.

‘Yes! you may laugh, but it will not unmake the fact. I love you,
Jenny, as no one of your admirers has ever loved you yet, love you
with the fire and fervour of a disappointed man, of one who knows, and
has known for years past, that his love is of no avail, that it lives
without hope, but still lives, burning on--loving on--because it can
never die even if it would, because it would not die even if it could.
Oh! my darling! I have loved you for years. Just give me one look of
pity at last.’

But Jenny recoiled from him with a shudder of disgust.

‘How dare you! how _dare_ you!’ she panted; ‘and you pretend to be my
friend, you, a married man. Oh! you have made me feel that I have sunk
low indeed.’

Her look of horror and her tone of contempt stung Hindes more than a
dozen lashes from her hand would have done.

‘Married!’ he exclaimed; ‘what has that to do with a man’s feelings? Am
I blind, deaf, insensible, because I am married. And what about your
fine scoundrel over there? You imagine he loves you. Yet, what is he?
A married man, and worse than a married man, a thousand times over,
for he has left a poor girl who is, to all intents and purposes, his
wife, and a child who has the right to call him father, to break their
hearts, and perhaps to starve down at Luton, whilst he is philandering
after you. Ah! that has touched you, has it?’ he continued almost
savagely, as he saw Jenny’s cheeks flush. ‘Well! it is the solemn
truth, as I can prove to you. And she is not the only one either. Ask
Philip Walcheren! You are one of many, Jenny, though you may wear the
wedding-ring upon your finger.’

‘You lie!’ cried the girl vehemently; ‘I am sure you lie, and I will
tell my husband every word you say, and he shall punish you for them.
You want to frighten me, that is all--you are jealous of my great
happiness. I have always suspected you were double-faced, and now I
know it. And I hate you--I hate you. And I love my husband as much as I
hate you, and nothing shall ever separate us, try as hard as you may.
We will be together and together and together, until death.’

She turned, in all her beauty with a mocking smile upon her lovely
face, towards him as she spoke, and stepped backwards towards the edge
of the cliff. Henry Hindes’ first impulse was to catch her by the
wrist to prevent her falling over. But she wrenched it from his grasp.

‘Don’t dare to touch me, you brute!’ she cried excitedly. ‘You want to
push me over the cliff now, I suppose!’

God! why did she say the word? Why did she put the idea into his
excited brain? It had never entered his head before. He had never
thought of her but in kindness. For years past, he had secretly
cherished her image, suffering himself to indulge in beatific
day-dreams of what his life might have been had Jenny been destined
to spend it by his side--had permitted himself to enjoy her presence,
to bask in her beauty, to be miserable when the thought crossed his
mind that some day he would be assuredly called upon to relinquish her
to another man, but never had he done less than love her. But now, as
he held her in his power, and she laughed derisively into his face,
whilst those words, ‘I hate you,’ still rung on the air, something
entered into Henry Hindes that had never been there before. A wild fury
that she should spurn him, her friend of years, and love Frederick
Walcheren--a mad despair that he would never possess her beauty, and
that another had the legal right to gloat over it night and day for
all time--whilst he stood apart, baffled and disappointed, and then a
desperate resolve to save her from further contamination and himself
from a life-longing, and the devil, which is in all of us, glared out
of his eyes, as with a single effort, hardly calculating what the
effects would be, acting more on the impulse of what he _would do_,
than of what he _was doing_, he pushed the girl violently from him and
sent her light body hurling over the stupendous abyss which separated
them from the beach below.

It was done in a second, beyond power of recall. This moment Jenny was
standing before him in her mocking loveliness--and the next there was
only a void, and not even the impress of her footprints on the short
herbage where she had stood.

Henry Hindes remained motionless for the space of half a minute, then
sunk down into a sitting position, and trembled as if he were taken
with an ague. He did not look over the cliff to see what had become
of his victim. He knew but too well! He had glanced over it before
he met her, and saw that it consisted of an unbroken line of chalk
cliffs, leading precipitately to the shingly shore. He knew what he
should see if he looked over, and he dared not look! He only sat there
and shook like an aspen leaf. The clammy perspiration rose upon his
face, and stood in great beads upon his brow, but he did not raise
his hand to wipe it away. He only remained dumb and motionless and
trembled. By-and-by some instinct warned him that he ought to move,
to go back to the town, and that it would not do for him to be found
sitting so close by. Upon this he tried to stand, but found he could
not, so turned round and crawled away, for some distance, on his hands
and knees. A fresh breeze had sprung up from the sea, and it revived
him sufficiently to enable him to stand upon his feet, and to commence
with a tottering step to find his way back again. As he did so, he
hardly believed that what had happened was real. He must have drunk
more than was good for him, he thought, and it was a bad dream that had
overtaken him. But a backward glance made the horrid truth too plain.
There was the barren cliff, deserted for the time being, whilst all
the world of Dover was occupied on the beach, with bathing or flirting
or play. There was the very spot where they had stood together on the
close grass, besprinkled with pink thrift and stunted daisies--the same
irregular edge where she had mocked him, whence he would have saved her
if she had let him, but where--

‘I must pull myself together!’ thought Henry Hindes, with a violent
shudder; ‘this is not the time or place for me to think about it! It
was an awful accident, but nothing more--I would not have injured her
for all the world, but it is an awkward time for it to have occurred,
and in my presence, too--and I must take measures not to have my name
implicated in the affair!’

He looked around with dimmed eyes as he argued with himself, but,
far or near, he could perceive no one and no thing, except a few
sheep grazing on the stunted herbage. Then he ventured near the
cliff--not with his eyes towards that point where she had fallen, but
turned the other way, and he saw it was quite deserted, the bathing
population being at the further end of the town. Not a soul was
on the beach, only a few boats were drawn up high and dry, whilst
several more were dancing on the blue waters, laden with fishing nets
or pleasure-seekers. The complete seclusion of the place imparted a
temporary confidence to him.

‘For the children’s sake,’ he muttered to himself, as he took his way
downwards; ‘for Walter’s sake, and the others and Hannah, I must be
brave and calm and not betray myself. Let me see! what time is it?
Three o’clock! and I said I would return to the hotel about three.
Well! I mustn’t hurry, it will look bad! I will go into a restaurant
first and have my dinner!’

The thought of eating sickened him, but he persevered, and, entering
the principal restaurant in the town, ordered an expensive meal. But
when it was served he could not eat it. The food would have choked
him. Something seemed to have closed in his throat and prevented his
swallowing.

Presently an idea struck him. Calling the waiter, he said,--

‘I have some business to talk over with a friend in this town, and,
as my time is short, I think it will facilitate matters if we dine
together. Lay another plate and tell them to keep the dinner back till
I return. I am going round to the hotel to fetch my friend. Keep the
champagne in ice. I shall not be absent more than a few minutes.’

He left the restaurant as he spoke, and re-entered the vestibule of
the Castle Warden Hotel.

‘Has Mrs Walcheren returned yet?’ he inquired, in an unconcerned voice.

‘No, sir; she has not. Mr Walcheren, he came home about half an hour
ago, but he went out again. I really can’t say when they’ll be back,
sir!’

Hindes took out his card and wrote on it in a very shaky hand:--

 ‘I have called twice to-day to see you, with a message from home, and
 hoped to have persuaded you to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant;
 but my time is up, and I must return to town. Will write in a day or
 two.

  H. H.’

‘Give this to Mrs Walcheren on her return, please,’ he said to the
waiter, and took his way, as best he could, back to the Tivoli.

There he forced himself to eat a little and drink a good deal, and,
calling for the bill, gave the waiter a liberal tip, and departed in a
cab to the station.

He had done all he could. He should tell the Cramptons, he had called
twice to interview Mrs Walcheren and been unsuccessful each time, and
he had waited about Dover till four o’clock. It was Saturday, and he
could not spend Sunday away from his wife and children. They would
surely say that he had done all that was necessary, and more than
they had required from him. He had tried to see her twice, and he had
failed; they must wait now until Jenny wrote to them herself.

‘_Until Jenny wrote to them herself!_’ As the thought crossed his mind,
Henry Hindes sunk back into the corner of the railway carriage, in the
same comatose state in which he had been on the downs. The train flew
screeching through the evening air, on its way to London, but time and
place were alike unheeded by him.

Had it been a dream--an unholy, lurid nightmare--or was it reality?

When he reached ‘The Old Hall,’ it was nine o’clock. He told his wife
he had stayed to dine in town, but, in truth, he had been wandering
about the streets, hardly conscious of what he was doing, until the
time warned him that each hour he delayed would make it more difficult
to account for his prolonged absence. So he dragged himself home, and
the effort he made to look like a man who was rather disgusted for
having been foolish enough to take a lot of trouble for nothing, sat
upon him much as a clown’s paint would sit upon a corpse. Hannah was
naturally all sympathy for his disappointment and failure, and Hindes
was compelled to take refuge in gruffness, to elude her searching
inquiries.

‘My dearest, how ill you look, and how tired you seem. This has been a
trying day for you, I am sure. So fond as you are of dear Jenny, too.
And did you really not see her?’

‘I have told you already half-a-dozen times, Hannah, that I called
twice at the Castle Warden Hotel to see her, but she was out each time,
so was he, so there was nothing to be done but to return home. I did
not relish the idea of wasting a Sunday in hanging about Dover, perhaps
with the same result, when I might be at home with you and the chicks.’

‘Dear Henry,’ said his wife, ‘you are always so considerate of us.
Still, for Jenny’s sake--if it were to lead to a reconciliation between
her and her parents, I would give you up for even a longer time than
that. You might have written her a letter, Henry, though.’

‘I _did_ write, just a scribble on my card, to say I had hoped to get
her to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant, when we could have
talked the unhappy matter over together; indeed, I had ordered lunch
for two, but she was not in and they couldn’t say when she would be in,
so I was obliged reluctantly to come back without seeing her. But I
don’t suppose it would have been of any use. What girl would give up
her lover the day after her wedding? It was a mad scheme, and quixotic
in me to set out on such an errand.’

‘No; don’t say that dear, for I am sure the old people will be glad
hereafter, to think that you did all you could to bring them together.’

Henry Hindes started.

‘“Hereafter?”’ he echoed; ‘what do you mean by “hereafter?”’

‘Nothing, my dearest, only you surely do not think the Cramptons will
hold out for ever, do you? And, when they are reconciled to Jenny and
we are all happy again, I am sure they will be pleased to remember (and
so will she), that _you_ were the first to try and bring them together.’

‘Oh, yes, yes! I see!’ replied her husband, as he passed his
handkerchief over his brow.

‘Poor Mrs Crampton and Miss Bostock were over here this afternoon,’
continued Mrs Hindes. ‘They said they should go mad if they had no one
to talk to about it. I don’t think they are half so angry with Jenny as
her father is. Of course, they say she has been very naughty, and her
papa is quite right not to forgive her in a hurry, but they evidently
think in the long run, he will find he cannot live without her. “It
would be ridiculous,” Mrs Crampton said, “and most wicked if they
cast off their only child, however wrong she might be.” She is afraid
it will be a long time before Mr Crampton forgives Mr Walcheren or
consents to receive him at “The Cedars,” because of his being a Papist,
but as for their darling, she declared if papa did not ask her up next
week, she should go down to Dover to see her herself. I believe there
is a great deal more in the old lady than we have given her credit for,
Henry, and that she will have her own way in this matter, whatever her
husband may say. But you are not feeling well, dear, surely? I never
remember to have seen you look so white before. Are you sure that you
made a good dinner in town? Or will you have a brandy-and-soda? You
must have something, your looks quite frighten me.’

Mr Hindes pulled himself together and sat straight up on the sofa.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ he began, but, seeing the consternation which his
rudeness evoked, he added, ‘don’t worry me, Hannah. This has been a
very fatiguing day, and, I may say, a very distressing one into the
bargain. I cannot look on this matter in the same bright light as you
do. Mrs Crampton may be very brave and determined, but she has her
match in her husband, and I never knew him to go from his word yet.
And the girl inherits her determination from him. I do not believe she
was from home when I called to-day. I believe I was denied on purpose.
They anticipated my errand, naturally, and declined to have a scene,
which there undoubtedly would have been if Mr Walcheren and I had been
brought in contact. I believe the young man to be a regular scoundrel,
and I should have told him so. After which, I suppose, I should never
have spoken to either of them again.’

‘Oh, I don’t believe Jenny would really quarrel with you, whatever
you said, Henry. She is too fond of you for that. She is an impetuous
little creature and says a great deal more than she means, but she has
often told me how highly she thinks of your friendship, and how she
felt sure that, whatever happened, _you_ would always stick by her and
help her out of all her scrapes.’

‘There, there, hold your tongue, that will do!’ exclaimed her husband,
as he rose and walked slowly towards the door. ‘I want to see my boy
before I sleep to-night,’ and he took his way, closely followed by his
wife, to the nursery.

The two little girls were very pretty creatures, who combined the best
points in both father and mother, but the boy, by one of these freaks
of Nature which have been mentioned before, was like neither of them,
but rejoiced in a particularly ugly mug of his own invention. He lay
asleep in a magnificent cot which his father had had carved for him on
the occasion of his birth, covered with a finely embroidered quilt; his
black eyes were closed, but his little snub nose, swarthy complexion,
and wide mouth, formed a sorry contrast to the lace and linen which
enveloped them. No prince of the realm could have been more luxuriously
surrounded than was Master Walter Hindes. His sisters were lying in
their beds close by, their fair hair straying over their pillows, but
their father hardly glanced at them as he crossed the room and bent
over the carved cot at the further end. As he gazed at his sleeping
son and heir, all the stolid feelings of despair which had occupied
his mind during the day seemed to fade away and leave a wealth of
passionate love behind them. He stooped down closely and laid his face
against that of the slumbering child.

‘My son, my son,’ he murmured, but as the words left his lips, though
heard by no one but himself, a vision of Jenny’s face rose before
him--of Jenny’s mocking face, as she stood on the edge of the precipice
and defied him--and, with a sudden impulse, he drew forth his silk
handkerchief and wiped his kiss off his child’s brow.

‘What is that for, my dear?’ asked Mrs Hindes, with a low laugh.

‘A fly--a gnat--’ he stammered, ‘it might disturb Wally in his sleep,’
and he withdrew, at the same moment, from the child’s bed.

‘Won’t you look at Elsie and Laurie?’ whispered the mother, as she
passed her arm through his, and pulled him gently towards the girls’
bed. ‘They have been such good maids all day; I took them with me for
a drive to call on old Miss Buckstone this afternoon, and she was
delighted with them; she wants us to let them go and spend a whole day
with her.’

‘And not Wally?’ said Henry Hindes, quickly.

‘Well, she did not ask Master Wally, and she would regret it, I fancy,
if she did. He is rather a handful away from home, dearest, you know,
and too much used to have his own way; we really must not spoil him so
much, or he may come to the same sad end as poor Jenny.’

‘What sad end? What do you mean by saying that?’ demanded Henry Hindes,
for the second time that evening.

‘Why, marry without our consent, to be sure, Henry; what else could I
mean? Though I hope her marriage may have a happy ending after all. I
shall always believe in it and pray for it, until it comes to pass.’

‘Yes, yes, pray for it, Hannah,’ replied her husband. ‘I don’t believe
much in prayer myself, but if anybody should ever be heard, it is
you! You have been a good wife to me, my dear, I seem to see it more
plainly to-night than I have ever done before.’

‘Ah! that’s because of this trouble about poor Jenny; it has regularly
upset us all. Shall you go over and see the Cramptons to-night, Harry?’

‘No, no, I couldn’t. I have had enough bother already,’ replied Hindes,
shrinking from the idea.

‘Of course, and perhaps they will not expect it; but you must write to
them, for they will be anxiously expecting to hear some news of your
journey.’

‘So they will,’ he answered, as if the idea had only just struck him;
‘well, I will not write, I will go,’ and he rose to get his hat and
stick, then suddenly turning to Hannah, he added,--‘it’s a fine night,
will you go with me?’

She looked surprised at the request, but answered readily,--

‘With pleasure, dear, if you will wait whilst I put on my hat and
mantle.’

The brief walk to ‘The Cedars’ was accomplished in silence, but, as
they reached the house, Hindes said to his wife,--

‘Don’t repeat anything I told you; leave me to tell my own story, I
want to save them as much pain as possible.’

They found the three old people sitting together and looking very
forlorn. Mr Crampton had recovered his temper of the morning, and was
seated in an arm-chair, huddled up behind his newspaper, and professed
to take no interest in the conversation that ensued. The two women flew
at Henry Hindes as soon as he appeared.

‘Oh, dear Mr Hindes! did you see her? What news do you bring us? Do not
keep us in suspense; we implore you! Is she well? What did she say?’

‘My dear friends,’ he answered, with assumed jocularity; ‘one
at a time, if you please, and you must prepare yourselves for a
disappointment. I haven’t seen her at all! I called twice at the hotel
and they were out each time. What else could we expect? I’m afraid I
went down on a wild goose chase. Such a lovely day! Where should a
bride and bridegroom be but out of doors! I am afraid we must have
patience till next week. Then, if Mr Crampton wishes it, I will go down
again and make a second attempt to interview them.’

‘Oh, dear, dear; I _am_ disappointed,’ sighed Mrs Crampton; ‘for I feel
sure, if you had seen darling Jenny, that all would have been right!’

‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ interposed her husband. ‘How can anything be
right again since she has elected to marry that scoundrel? The jade has
made her own bed, and she may lie on it, and I hope it’ll be a deuced
hard one, too!’

‘Don’t say that,’ replied Henry Hindes, quickly; ‘if it should be hard
it is not _you_ that will make it so! I scribbled a line to her on my
card to say I had brought her a message from home, so, if I am not
very much mistaken, you will receive another letter from her before
long.’

‘Dear Mr Hindes, how can we ever thank you enough for the trouble you
have taken on our behalf,’ said Mrs Crampton, as she slid her slender
hand in his; ‘you are the truest and best friend we have. God bless
you!’

But he could not stand the gentle pressure of her hand, nor the
grateful intonation of her voice.

‘Don’t speak about it, please!’ he answered, pulling his hand out
of hers almost roughly; ‘I wish--I wish I could have done more,
but--but--Come! Hannah!’ he exclaimed, interrupting himself; ‘we must
go home! It is late, and my two journeys have tired me. Good-night, Mrs
Crampton! Good-night to everybody! we must leave the further discussion
of the matter to another time,’ and, with a hasty nod all round, he
left the room.

He did appear very tired when they reached their home, very exhausted
and overdone, but his condition did not tend to give him a good night’s
rest. On the contrary, long after Hannah had sunk into the dreamless
sleep which waits on a good conscience joined to a good digestion, her
unhappy husband lay wide awake staring into the darkness, and starting
at every shadow that lurked in the corners of the room.




CHAPTER VIII.


Amongst Frederick Walcheren’s varied accomplishments, swimming held a
prominent position. From a child he had exercised this most useful of
all practices, until he was as much at home in the water as on land.
And on that fatal Saturday there was every inducement for him to spend
a long time in his favourite occupation. The day was transcendently
beautiful; the sea was sparkling with electricity and warm as a tepid
bath; and the beach was crowded with spectators, eager to watch and
applaud the various feats of natation which he performed. He was in
good temper with himself and the world, poor fellow! and anxious
to give them all the pleasure in his power. So he remained in the
warm, exhilarating water as long as possible, performing all sorts of
extraordinary dives and plunges and strange modes of swimming, whilst
the people on the shore were full of admiration for his skill. At last
he felt he had had about enough of it for the present, and dressed to
return to the hotel. As he descended the steps of his machine, a young
man of ordinary appearance, who was apparently waiting for him, came
forward.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he began, ‘but, from witnessing your feats
of skill in the water, I presume you are a swimming master, and should
like to know your terms for a course of lessons.’

Frederick laughed heartily at the idea, but he was not snob enough to
be offended by the young man’s mistake.

‘Indeed, I wish I were anything half so useful,’ he replied; ‘but I am
only an amateur like yourself. Swimming is not at all difficult; it
only requires pluck and practice. Anyone could attain my proficiency
if he cared to take the trouble.’

‘You’ll forgive me for mentioning it, sir?’ said the stranger, who
feared he might have offended him.

‘With all my heart. There was no harm in asking,’ replied Frederick, as
he heard the town clock strike three, and hastened towards the hotel.
He reached it, almost running, and, going breathlessly upstairs, threw
open the door of their sitting-room. But Jenny was not there. A waiter
was employed putting the last touches to the luncheon-table, which was
evidently only waiting their return to be spread with the noonday meal.

‘Where is Mrs Walcheren?’ inquired Frederick.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ replied the stolid waiter, as he continued putting
out cruets and water bottles.

Frederick ran up to their bedroom, which was on an upper floor, and
finding that also empty, put on his straw hat again and descended to
the vestibule.

‘Has my wife--Mrs Walcheren, gone out?’ he asked of the porter.

‘Well, sir, I really can’t say. There’s been a gentleman asking that
question here already, but I couldn’t give him no satisfaction. I
suppose the lady must be out, because we can’t find her nowhere, but
none of us see her pass through the hall, and I’ll take my oath she
hasn’t come in, for I’ve never left my post one minute. Perhaps she
went to the beach to you, sir.’

‘Oh, doubtless, but about the gentleman who called to see her, what was
his name?’

‘He didn’t leave no name, sir, but said he would call again.’

‘What was he like? Short and stout and middle-aged, with rather a red
complexion, eh?’

He concluded at once that it must have been Mr Crampton, who had
followed his daughter on the receipt of her letter that morning.

‘Well, not very red in the face, sir, but stoutish certainly, and not
over tall.’

‘I know him,’ replied Frederick, thinking he did. ‘If he comes again
during my absence, ask him to walk upstairs and wait until we return.’

‘All right, sir.’

Of course it was Mr Crampton, he thought. It could be no one else, and
he must be by Jenny’s side when their encounter took place. If old
Crampton thought that, by right of his paternity, he would bully Jenny,
he was very much mistaken. He would have to answer to her husband
first. He went back to the beach, thinking he should find her amongst
all the nursemaids, children, serenaders and fruit-sellers, and was
prepared to meet her with a little scolding for exposing herself to
the heat of the day and the vulgarities of the Dover sands. But she
was not there. The beach was almost deserted now, for the babies and
their attendants had gone back to their lodgings to early dinner,
and the serenaders were performing in front of the ‘pubs,’ in hopes
of earning a meal. There would have been no difficulty in discerning
Jenny’s distinguished little figure on the long line of sand and
shingle, but it was evident she was not there. Where could the minx
have hidden herself? Frederick was a little inclined to feel cross,
although it _was_ the first day of their married life, because Jenny
had so decidedly said she would rather not go out that morning, and,
if she had not done so, he should not have left her to herself. Could
she have ventured into the town? She had come away so hurriedly, that
she might have found herself in want of some trifling article that she
had forgotten and gone to the shops to procure it. He turned his steps,
therefore, in that direction, but saw her nowhere in the streets. He
even asked one or two pedestrians if they had met a young lady in a
broad-brimmed hat trimmed with poppies and grasses, but they all shook
their heads. Frederick wandered about the streets for some time, and
then resolved to go back to the hotel. After all, Jenny was not a baby.
She had been well used to look after herself, and had a watch to tell
her the proper time to return. It was more than likely she was already
at the Castle Warden. His first inquiry on re-entering was naturally
for her.

‘No, sir, the lady ain’t been in yet,’ was the disappointing reply,
‘but the gentleman as I spoke of, he came again and left his card.’

‘Where is it?’ said Frederick, eagerly, and was handed the one which
Henry Hindes had left behind him.

‘Did you ask him to wait and see us?’ he inquired.

‘Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I had gone for my dinner and didn’t
see the gentleman this time, but William tells me he seemed in a great
hurry like, and didn’t ask to wait, but said he had no time to come
again to-day, as he had to catch a train for London.’

‘Oh, very well, it is of no consequence,’ replied Frederick Walcheren
rather testily. ‘Tell them not to serve luncheon until Mrs Walcheren
returns. She cannot be many minutes now.’

But it was many many minutes before she came back to the hotel.
Frederick went upstairs to their sitting-room, and tried to occupy his
mind with newspapers, and persuade himself that he was not particularly
anxious for his wife’s return. But there is nothing more irritating
than to be kept in suspense, especially for a trifle. He could not help
wondering where Jenny had gone to, and why she had gone, and why the
dickens she hadn’t come back again! If the stranger who had inquired
for her had not left a proof that he was Mr Henry Hindes instead of Mr
Crampton, he should have almost fancied that she had been silly enough
to have been lured away again by her father. But that was folly! Jenny
was his wife; by love and by law. No one could ever take her from him
again unless that quibble about her age would be considered sufficient
to annul the marriage. But the next moment he laughed at the idea. Mr
Crampton would surely never be such a fool as to take advantage of
a loop-hole that would bring disgrace upon his daughter’s name! How
foolish he was to let so absurd an idea worry him!

But why the deuce didn’t Jenny come back? It was now four o’clock. This
was carrying a joke too far. She couldn’t possibly have lost her way
in such a place as Dover. Besides, she wasn’t the sort of girl to lose
her way! Even if she had broken her leg, or done any unlikely thing of
that sort, she would have had the nous to call assistance, or send him
a message to say what was the matter. The only solution of the mystery
that he could think of, was that she had gone for a walk and wandered
so far away that she was too tired to walk home quicker. But why, in
that case, had she not procured some vehicle to convey her back again.
The more Frederick thought of it, the more puzzled he became. When five
o’clock struck, he went out of doors for the second time, and ran all
over the place, making inquiries of everybody he met. One girl said she
had seen a very pretty young lady at about one o’clock that afternoon,
walking towards the cliffs. She particularly noticed that she wore a
large chip hat with scarlet poppies in it, and a white dress. She had
a book in her hand, and she went up that way, continued his informant,
pointing in the direction of the grassy downs. Frederick thanked her
and commenced running off in the direction she had intimated. Of
course, he said to himself, the cool breezy downs would be far more
likely to attract Jenny than the hot beach. How foolish it was of him
not to have thought of that before! He walked rapidly straight ahead of
him for three or four miles, and then stopped to consider what he was
doing. Jenny was not there! He could see from end to end of the broad
wide expanse, and a sheep would have been visible to the naked eye.
What was the use of his rushing about in that aimless manner, after a
full-grown woman. Jenny was such a spoilt child, the Lord only knew
whether she might not be playing a practical joke on him all this time,
and hiding away for her own pleasure to see how much she could frighten
him. He had been far wiser to eat his luncheon in comfort and let the
young lady see that that sort of trick would not do with him. He was
beginning to feel a little angry and hurt by this time. It was not
good manners, to say the least of it--it showed a lack of good feeling
and good taste to make him look like a fool in the eyes of the hotel
servants, so soon after their wedding-day. He should give up the search
as a bad job, and return to the Castle Warden and rest. Without doubt,
she would come in for her dinner.

He gained the hotel again, but still no news had been heard of the
missing lady. By this time every menial in the house knew that the
bride (for when can people ever hide the glaring fact that they were
married yesterday?) had played truant, designedly or otherwise, and
many were the conjectures as to her reason for making herself so
conspicuous. Meanwhile, Frederick Walcheren sat in his own apartments,
by turns angry, impatient, anxious and despairing. He hardly took heed
how the time went on. Every moment he expected to hear the sound of
Jenny’s footstep running up the staircase--to hear her merry voice
telling him the reason of her extraordinary absence--to feel her arms
round his neck and her lips pleading for forgiveness. But the hours
went on till seven and eight o’clock had struck, and still she was
not there. As the last hour sounded Frederick heard a low tap on his
door; he was not in the mood to see strangers or talk with them, but
he cried, ‘Come in!’ The door opened, and the landlord of the Castle
Warden entered and closed it securely behind him.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he commenced, ‘but I am told that your lady
has not come home, and that you are rather uneasy about her.’

‘Well, I am, naturally,’ replied Frederick, ‘in fact, I don’t know
what the devil to think about her absence. It is most extraordinary! I
went out to bathe this morning, leaving Mrs Walcheren here, and when I
returned she was gone. No one saw her go out, nor can I hear any news
of her, except from a little girl, who says she met her walking in the
direction of the cliffs, about one o’clock this afternoon. I have been
all over the cliffs, and the town, and the beach, but can neither see
nor hear anything more. What should you advise me to do, Mr Cameron? I
am nearly distracted with anxiety.’

‘The lady was seen going towards the cliffs,’ said the landlord,
musingly, ‘our cliffs are not very safe for strangers. I hope there
has not been an accident.’

At this Frederick leapt from his seat as if he had been shot.

‘My God! man,’ he cried, ‘what do you mean? You cannot think it
possible that--that--’

He tried to finish the sentence, but failed.

‘Indeed, sir, I meant nothing but that we must look at all possible
contingencies if we are to find the young lady. It is a long time for
her to be away, and, if I mistake not (though I hope you will excuse my
mentioning it), the day after her wedding.’

‘Yes, yes; I don’t care who knows it,’ replied Frederick in a voice of
pain. ‘We were only married yesterday, that makes this all the more
mysterious and extraordinary; but how are we to ascertain the truth?
What am I to do?’

‘If you will allow me, sir, I will send some of the boatmen who know
the cliffs to search for Mrs Walcheren, and they will soon relieve
your suspense, for if she is there they will find her safe enough.’

‘By all means; I ought to have thought of it myself. Thank you, Mr
Cameron; pray send for the boatmen as soon as possible, and I will
accompany them.’

Mr Cameron looked dubious.

‘If you will permit me, sir, to advise you, I should say stay here, in
case of your being wanted, or other news arriving.’

But Frederick was not to be persuaded.

‘Stay here!’ he echoed; ‘what on earth should I do that for? My place
is with the men who are going to find her. She has lost her way,
probably, and is wandering about in the dark. Of course, I shall
accompany them.’

But the landlord kept his back firmly against the door, and prevented
the young man passing out.

‘You will forgive me, sir, but you must not go--not just yet--not till
I have said something. I have been trying to break it to you, Mr
Walcheren, but I am afraid I have done it badly. They _have_ found her,
sir. She was found hours ago, and I came to tell you so.’

Frederick Walcheren stared at him, as if he thought he was mad.

‘_Found!_’ he ejaculated, ‘and hours ago. What do you mean? Why has she
not come home then? Is she injured--hurt? Has any accident happened to
her?’

‘Yes, sir, there has indeed, and you must try and bear it like a man.
The lady has been hurt--badly--and she was found on the beach by two
boatmen at five o’clock, or thereabouts.’

‘Hurt! my darling. Oh! my God! this is hard,’ exclaimed Frederick, in
a voice of anguish. ‘But where is she? Why have they not brought her
here? Why did they not send for me?’

‘Well, sir, they did not know where the lady belonged at first, nor who
she was, so they carried her to the nearest public-house; “The Bottle
and Spurs,” which is half-way down the cliffs to the town.’

‘A public-house!’ cried Walcheren, indignantly; ‘how dared they take
a lady there? What was Mrs Walcheren about, to consent to it? Order a
carriage at once, if you please, Mr Cameron, and I will go and fetch
her home.’

The landlord fidgeted with the handle of the door.

‘Well, you see, sir, I am not sure if the authorities will allow of her
removal. It’s the usual thing, under the circumstances, you see, and
sorry as I should be to disoblige you, I’m afraid my customers might
object to her being brought here. “The Bottle and Spurs” is a very
respectable house, sir, and everything will be done, I feel sure, as
can be done, to make things as little unpleasant for you as possible,
but the authorities--’

Still the unhappy man did not understand the extent of his calamity. He
sat down again and passed his hand wearily through his hair.

‘What does it all mean?’ he muttered in a dazed manner. ‘At all
events order the carriage and send for the best doctor in the town to
accompany me.’

‘The doctor is here sir,’ replied the landlord, quickly, ‘ready to
speak to you. Dr M‘Coll, one of our most skilful practitioners.’

Then he opened the door, and called out, ‘Will you step up, doctor,
please, the gentleman is ready to see you,’ and in another minute
a middle-aged kindly-looking man entered the room and went up to
Walcheren’s side.

‘Doctor!’ said Frederick faintly, ‘what is all this about? I don’t
understand it. Have you seen my wife? Is she much hurt?’

‘She is not suffering now, my dear sir,’ replied the doctor.

‘Thank God for that. But why did you not bring her home? I have been in
such awful suspense all the afternoon.’

‘I am sure you must have been, but now I am going to take you to see
her. Here, Mr Cameron, a glass of brandy for Mr Walcheren. No! no soda
thanks. I want him to take it as it is.’

He held the liquor to Frederick’s lips, who drank it at a draught, and
put down the wine-glass with a deep sigh.

‘You must nerve yourself to hear what I have to tell you,’ said Dr
M‘Coll firmly. ‘I told you your wife no longer suffered, it is because
she has gone beyond the reach of suffering. She had been dead for hours
before the boatmen found her.’

The young man sprung from his seat with the one word on his
lips--‘DEAD!’ He stared at his informant for a moment wildly, and then
sinking down on his chair again, threw his arms over his stricken face
and burst into a storm of tears.

‘Leave him alone,’ whispered the doctor to the landlord; ‘they will
save his brain.’ But the next minute Frederick leapt up, and, seizing
Dr M‘Coll by the arm, exclaimed,--

‘Take me to her. Don’t let us lose a moment. Oh, my God! my darling, my
darling!’

He tore down the staircase as he spoke, closely followed by the
landlord and the doctor. The waiters and chambermaids, who were hanging
about the passages discussing the awful event that had occurred, made
way respectfully for him as he appeared, and looked after the bereaved
bridegroom with melancholy interest. But Frederick might have passed
through the ranks of a regiment at that moment without perceiving them.
There was but one idea in his brain--to get as quickly as he could to
the side of his beloved. He had heard distinctly what the doctor said,
but he did not realise that Jenny was dead--that she would never speak
to him, nor smile at him, nor kiss him any more. The drive to the
public-house was performed in mournful silence, and when they reached
it they were at once taken through the bar to a back room, where on
a table was placed, just as she had been found, all that was left
of sweet Jenny Walcheren. Her chip hat, so fresh and pretty in the
morning, was still attached to her hair, by a long pin with a butterfly
at the end of it, but it was crushed and forced back upon her head by
the awful fall she had sustained. Her white dress had been decently
composed about her young limbs; she might have almost have deceived
one into the belief that she was sleeping, except for the purple lips
which were drawn off the white teeth, and a dark blue bruise over the
right eye, where her temple had struck the cruel rocks. But Frederick
saw nothing but that he had regained his wife, and falling on her body,
covered it with kisses, imploring her by every fond entreaty he could
frame, to open her eyes once more and look at him, and to unclose her
bruised and livid lips and speak his name. At last his madness calmed
down a little, leaving a dull despair behind it, when he turned to the
doctor and said,--

‘Tell me, for mercy’s sake, how did it happen?’

‘We are as much in the dark as you are, my dear young friend,’ replied
Dr M‘Coll, ‘all we know is, that two Deal boatmen, Jackson and Barnes
by name, went to the lower beach after their boats, which are drawn up
there, at five this afternoon, and found the poor lady lying under the
cliffs, over which there is no doubt she must have fallen, but how,
there is nothing to tell. They did not know her name, so carried her
here and sent for me. But I could do nothing. She must have been dead
for two or three hours before I saw her. When I was convinced of that,
I set inquiries on foot, to find out who she was, and they soon led me
to the Castle Warden Hotel.’

‘It wasn’t easy to mistake her,’ interposed Mr Cameron, whose own eyes
were suspiciously red; ‘the prettiest bride, as everyone says, we have
had in the hotel for the last twelve month.’

‘Don’t, don’t,’ said Frederick, in a voice of the keenest pain.
‘Doctor, how shall we take her back? She shall not lie here! I must
take her to the hotel at once.’

‘My dear Mr Walcheren, even if that were admissible, it would not be
permitted. The body must not be touched until after the inquest, which,
unfortunately, cannot be held till Monday.’

‘She must lie here on this rough table, within sound of those rough
voices, for forty-eight hours? Oh, impossible! I will not allow it!’

‘My dear sir, you must allow it! It is the law! This poor young lady
has met her death in a mysterious manner, and, until the police have
evidence that it was an accident, they will not, in the cause of
justice, permit the body to be tampered with.’

‘An accident! but how could it be anything but an accident?’ said
Frederick, staring at the doctor.

‘I have no doubt myself whatever in the matter; but the law must be
satisfied. Meanwhile, let me persuade you, Mr Walcheren, to return to
the hotel and try and calm yourself. You can do no good by remaining
here, and I will engage that every respect shall be paid to her
remains.’

‘_I_ go away,’ said Frederick, in a broken voice, ‘and leave her lying
here? Oh, no; you mistake me! It is impossible! If I may not take her
away yet, I shall stay by her till I can! Nothing shall persuade me to
leave her, my darling little wife!’ and he took one of her dead hands
and kissed it fondly as he spoke.

‘If you are determined--’ began Dr M‘Coll.

‘I am determined, and nothing will shake my determination. Here I
remain till they take my angel from me. But is an inquest imperative?
I cannot bear to think of it! It is such an indignity--such a public
insult! A body of strangers, men, too, whom I would not have allowed in
her presence whilst living, to be admitted to view her remains. I am
rich, doctor! Can no payment of money avert this outrage?’

‘Nothing can avert it, Mr Walcheren; but I will take care it is
conducted as quietly as possible. Remember, it is in the cause of
justice; and now, what can I do for you? Can I wire the sad news to any
of her relatives, or yours? You should have your own friends near you
in this trial.’

Frederick turned and seized the doctor’s hands as if he were a child,
clinging to him in his trouble.

‘Advise me, tell me what to do,’ he said. ‘I am unfit to think for the
best. My head is all in a maze. Doctor, I must tell you the truth. This
was a runaway marriage. She was an only child, and her parents doated
on her. I dare not think what they will say. How am I to break it to
them? Ought I to go myself?’

‘I don’t think they would let you leave Dover until after the inquest,
Mr Walcheren, but your late wife’s relations should certainly be told
at once. If you wish it, to-morrow being a free day with me, I will go
and break the sad intelligence to them.’

‘It will greatly relieve me if you will. And every expense, you know
doctor--’

‘Yes, yes. We need not mention that at present. When you have strength
to write down the names and addresses, I will make my arrangements.’

‘And what about the gentleman who called twice to see Mrs Walcheren
to-day?’ inquired the landlord. ‘Is he a relation of hers?’

‘No, curse him!’ said Frederick unthinkingly.

The doctor and the landlord glanced at one another.

‘I have _his_ name and address on his card,’ whispered Mr Cameron
significantly to his companion. ‘I fancy he will be subpœnaed. He may
have seen the poor lady after she left the hotel.’

‘What are you whispering about?’ said Frederick irritably.

‘Nothing, sir. I will speak to the people of the house. I know them
well, and they will see you have everything you may want.’

‘And I will communicate with you directly I return to Dover,’ added the
doctor.

And so they left him to his vigil, with his hand clasping the hand of
his dead wife, and his face bowed down till it was lost in the folds of
her dress.




CHAPTER IX.


The next morning Henry Hindes received a scrawl, in a hand which he
could not recognise as that of Mr Crampton’s, containing but three
words, ‘Come to me.’

He guessed at once what they meant. He had just returned from church
with his wife and elder children. He had not dared to refuse to go, for
he was a regular attendant there, and the omission would have looked
peculiar. So he had stood and knelt and sat through a service of two
mortal hours, whilst his eyes gazed into space and his mind was a
blank, and he only followed mechanically what the others said or did.

He walked home with Hannah on his arm and Elsie and Laurie trotting
before them, for the Hindes were far too strict a family to have out
their horses on a Sunday, but all the while that acquaintances were
bowing and smiling and exchanging civilities with himself and his wife,
he was wondering how soon the news would reach Hampstead, and if it
would come by telegraph or post, or if Walcheren would send a special
messenger to break it to the old people at ‘The Cedars.’ And as soon as
he re-entered his own house, the note was handed to him with the fatal
words ‘Come to me!’ He knew then that the worst was known--that the
poor parents had been told of their bereavement, and that it was his
mission to fly to comfort them.

‘What can be the matter?’ questioned Hannah. ‘Can they have already
heard from Jenny, or do you think it possible she can be in Hampstead?
Oh, Henry! if they meet, surely Mr Crampton cannot refuse to speak to
her!’

‘I know no more than you do,’ he answered, ‘but I suppose I must go!
The old man may have been taken ill. He looked bad enough for anything
yesterday evening.’

‘Oh! certainly, Henry dear, you must go at once, and you can take your
luncheon with them. But I shall be impatient to hear what he wants you
for. If Jenny should be there--oh, Henry, you _will_ let me know, won’t
you? for I should love to give the dear girl a kiss, and assure her of
my faithful friendship. You will send someone over to tell me, in that
case, won’t you, dearest?’

‘Yes, yes; of course I will,’ he answered, quickly, ‘but there is no
likelihood of such a thing. Good-bye, I had better be off at once.’

And so he left her. The scene he encountered at ‘The Cedars’ is easier
imagined than described. Mr Crampton received him in his library, in
the presence of his wife, and sister-in-law, and Dr M‘Coll. The old
man looked as if he had suddenly crumpled up. His features were drawn
and shrivelled, and his complexion the colour of parchment. His wife
was laid face downwards on a couch at the further end of the room,
stupefied with the shock of the news they had just heard, whilst Miss
Bostock sat by her, silent and motionless, with her hands hanging
passively on her lap. No one stirred except the doctor, as Henry
Hindes, white and trembling, but with the assumption of being at his
ease, entered the room.

‘Well, my dear friend,’ he commenced cheerily, ‘what is it?’

Mr Crampton turned to the doctor, and muttered in a croaking voice,
‘Tell him.’

‘I have the misfortune to be the bearer of very bad news to Mr and
Mrs Crampton, sir,’ said Dr M‘Coll, in obedience to his instructions.
‘Their daughter, Mrs Walcheren, met with a terrible accident on the
Dover cliffs yesterday afternoon, and is, in fact--has not recovered
the injuries inflicted--is lying at this moment--dead!’

Henry Hindes’ face went crimson instead of pale.

‘Dead, sir!’ he ejaculated slowly, as if he were choosing his words,
‘are you sure she is dead? An accident? How can you tell it was an
accident? Might not someone have done it on purpose--have pushed her
over?’

Then he paused, as if he thought he had been talking too fast, and
repeated his first question: ‘But are you sure that she will not
recover? She is very young, you know,’ after which, perceiving the
grief of all around him, he broke down, exclaiming, ‘Oh! Jenny dead!
Impossible! Impossible! Why, I went to see her only yesterday! She
can’t be dead! my dear, dear friend!’ seizing old Crampton’s hand;
‘don’t give way! It is impossible!’

‘You are only buoying this gentleman up with false hopes, sir,’ said Dr
M‘Coll. ‘There is no doubt of the truth of the news, distressing as it
may be, and I am commissioned by Mr Walcheren to break it to all whom
it may concern. As to your suggestion that it may be due to foul play,
there is nothing whatever to point to it, but it will cause the subject
of the inquiry at the inquest to-morrow. Your presence will, of course,
be necessary, also Mr Crampton’s. I understand, as you say yourself,
that you went down to Dover yesterday to see the unfortunate lady, so
that your testimony may be valuable to the coroner, and the marriage
having been, I am told, a little irregular, there is the more necessity
that everything should be made perfectly clear.’

‘An inquest!’ stammered Hindes. ‘But surely there is no need of our
undergoing such a painful ordeal? Why, it will nearly kill Mr Crampton.
My dear friend, you must not think of attending it.’

‘Not go?’ cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from the lethargy
into which he had temporarily fallen. ‘What are you saying, Hindes? Of
course we must go. Don’t you see how this has come about? That villain
has murdered her; he stole her from me first, and then he killed her.
Who else would have pushed her over the cliff? My poor butchered lamb!
my pretty Jenny! my beautiful, innocent daughter! Oh! but we will be
avenged on him, never fear; we’ll see him brought to justice and give a
hand to set him swinging. My poor child! my murdered darling! I can see
how the whole damnable trick was done!’

‘You must not heed what he says,’ whispered the doctor to Henry Hindes,
‘the shock has been too much for him, though I broke it as gently as
I could. You must get him to bed and give him a sleeping draught, but
don’t listen to any nonsense he may talk. There never was a clearer
case of misadventure. The poor girl went out on the cliffs alone and
fell over them. The coroner can bring in no other verdict.’

‘But why, then, need we attend?’ asked Hindes, with quivering lips; ‘it
will be a fearful trial for all of us. What do we need more than your
assurance of the calamity that has befallen?’

‘You may need nothing more, Mr Hindes, but the law needs your
deposition as to what you know of the matter.’

‘I know nothing--nothing--’ repeated Hindes.

‘Then you can say so,’ answered Dr M‘Coll, shortly.

‘No, we know nothing as yet,’ exclaimed Mr Crampton, eagerly, ‘but we
_will_ know it. We will not rest till we have got at the bottom of this
infamy. If ever a poor child was murdered, my girl has been.’

‘Papa, papa,’ wailed Mrs Crampton from the sofa, ‘don’t speak like
that, or you will break my heart.’

‘Ay, my poor woman,’ said her husband, ‘you’ve plenty of cause to
greet. They’ve taken your ewe lamb from you. You had but one left, and
the Lord let her be done to death, without stretching forth His hand
to save. And yet they say He cares for us! But the murderer shall be
brought to justice, never fear. I’ll see to that.’

‘Oh! if he goes on like this he’ll kill me,’ sobbed the tortured mother.

‘Mr Crampton,’ interposed the doctor, ‘we all feel deeply for you in
this sore affliction, but you must not bring unmeaning accusations
against anyone. There is no question of how your poor daughter came by
her death. It was an unfortunate accident, nothing more.’

‘I know better, sir, I know better,’ replied Mr Crampton. ‘You can’t
deceive me. My lamb was murdered, and may God’s deepest curse rest--’

‘Oh! stop, stop,’ cried Henry Hindes, holding up his hand. ‘It is
terrible to hear you blaspheming in this manner, without the least
authority to do so. It will not ease your own pain, Crampton, and may
add to it hereafter. For your wife’s sake and your own, let me take you
to your room, where you can think over this terrible news in quiet.
Trust in God, Crampton, trust in God. There is nothing else to be done
in a time like the present.’

But the old man, usually so acquiescent in all that his partner said,
turned round on him, on this occasion, in a fury.

‘Don’t preach to me, Hindes!’ he exclaimed, angrily. ‘It’s all very
well for you to talk of trusting in God, whilst your own kids are
safe at home, but lose five, my boy, lose five--three boys and two
girls--and set all your hopes and chances of happiness on the remaining
one, and have her murdered before your eyes, and then talk of trusting
in God. You’re a hypocrite, sir, a d--d hypocrite.’

‘Mr Crampton,’ said Henry Hindes, deeply wounded, ‘I never thought to
hear you speak to me like this.’

‘For shame, John, for shame!’ exclaimed his wife, rousing herself for
a moment. ‘What are you thinking of? Mr Hindes, too, who loved our
darling almost as if she had been his own child, and who has always
been so kind to her and us all.’

‘Ah, well, well,’ said the old man in a tired voice, ‘I suppose I was
wrong, and I ask your pardon for it, Hindes. But I don’t seem to quite
know what I am saying. My head keeps going round so. I suppose you
are right, and I should be better by myself for a few hours. Give me
your arm, and take me to my own room. I leave this gentleman in your
hands, Hindes. See that he is attended to, and arrange everything for
our going down to Dover. Good-morning, sir!’ and with that Mr Crampton
rose, and, leaning on the arm of his friend, quitted the apartment.

There was a less difficult task with the women, whose sorrow was too
deep for words. Then Dr M‘Coll agreed with Mr Hindes that they had
better travel down to Dover by an early train on the morrow, as every
endeavour was being made to have the inquest on that day, on account
of the hot weather rendering it desirable to get the burial over as
quickly as possible. Hindes shuddered at the thought, but showed no
emotion beyond that which was evinced by his white face and silent
demeanour. Luncheon was then served for the doctor, and he departed to
interview Mr Philip Walcheren on the matter, when Henry Hindes was free
to return home.

Here, as may be imagined, he had a difficult task before him, but he
felt freer, for, in the presence of his wife, who had loved Jenny
Crampton so dearly, he was not ashamed to break down himself, and give
some relief to his overcharged feelings. Hannah’s grief was extreme,
but she tried to curb it for the sake of her husband, who only rose in
her estimation for the tears and moans which he felt he might indulge
in at last.

Both husband and wife had quite exhausted themselves with their
emotion, when a servant entered to announce that a constable desired to
speak to his master. Hannah could not help observing how vividly white
Henry became at this intimation. She could not understand it, unless
the sad events of the day had so undermined his usual intrepidity as to
make him start at shadows.

‘Only a constable, Henry, dear,’ she repeated, seeing how he trembled.
‘It is probably something to do with this unhappy business! Will you
see him here?’

‘No! no!’ replied her husband, as he wiped the sweat from his
forehead, ‘not here! Let him wait, Johnson! I will be with him
presently--presently!’

Could anything have been discovered? he thought to himself, as he leant
against the form of his wife for support, and she passed her cambric
handkerchief across his wet hair. Was it possible he had dropped any
article belonging to him on the spot where he and Jenny had stood
together? Had this man come to tell him that he was suspected, and must
consider himself under arrest until the inquest had been held on the
morrow?

He pushed Hannah’s kindly ministrations away and stood upright.

‘I cannot see him in this condition,’ he said, alluding to his swollen
eyelids and stained cheeks. ‘I must go to my room first and smooth my
hair.’

He escaped by a back way as he spoke, and gaining his dressing-room,
arranged his toilet a little. Then he searched in a drawer for a bottle
of morphia, which he had been occasionally in the habit of taking to
induce sleep, for the condition of his mind regarding Jenny Crampton
had not been conducive to sound and restful repose.

‘If I am taken away from here,’ he thought, ‘I will not reach Dover.
They shall see I know a trick worth two of that.’

He thrust the vial in his breast and descended to the hall to interview
the constable. But he had come on a very simple errand. He had received
information from the Dover police that the inquiry on the death of Mrs
Walcheren had been fixed for the morrow, and that Mr Hindes’ presence
would be necessary.

‘You see, sir,’ said the man, fumbling with his papers, ‘we’re sorry
to trouble you, but as you went down to Dover to see the lady, it
is necessary the coroner should hear the why and the wherefore of
everything to come to a right understanding of the case. It’s a sad
thing, ain’t it, sir? A poor young creature done to death in a moment,
as you may say, and only married on the Friday.’

‘A frightful thing, indeed, constable!’ replied Hindes.

‘The poor gentleman, they say, is almost out of his senses, as he well
may be,’ continued the policeman; ‘they can’t get him away from the
corpse, and he turns round like a madman on any one who proposes of it.
Perhaps so be you’re a relation, sir!’

‘No, no; only a friend,’ said Hindes, quickly.

‘Well, he ought to have some friend by him now, if all they tell me is
true, for the shock seems to have unsettled his mind. The inquiry won’t
be till three o’clock to-morrow afternoon, sir, at the ‘Bottle and
Spurs’ public-house, where the poor lady lies. If you’re there, sir,
they’ll get it over at once, but if so be as you’re not there, the jury
will have to be called to attend another day.’

‘I shall be there,’ replied Henry Hindes, and then he went upstairs
again and replaced the vial in the drawer before he rejoined his wife.
‘Only a notice to attend this miserable inquest, my dear,’ he said in
explanation as he threw himself on a couch and buried his face in his
hands.

‘Oh, Henry, how much I wish it were not necessary for you to go! I know
how bitterly you will feel it! To have to be questioned by a man who
cares nothing for our poor dear darling, and who will rake up all sorts
of things to wound you and make the remembrance still more bitter than
it is; but it is your duty, and you must go! Shall you see her, Harry?’
she added, in a whisper.

Her husband shuddered.

‘I suppose so! That is, if I must!’

‘But you wouldn’t like our sweet Jenny to go to her grave without a
last look, dear, I am sure! And may I send some flowers to put over
her? Will you take them from me?’

‘No! no! for God’s sake, no!’ cried Hindes, covering his face again; ‘I
cannot enter into all these harrowing details like women can. I shall
go down and come away again as quickly as possible; the sight of the
poor child would kill me! I have no morbid inclination for gazing at
corpses, Hannah.’

‘But our poor Jenny,’ said his wife, regretfully; ‘it would seem to
me like refusing to look at Elsie or Laurie if they were taken from
us. Thank God they are not. Oh, poor Mrs Crampton,’ continued Hannah,
breaking down again; ‘what must she be feeling at this moment! How I
pity her with my whole, whole heart!’

Meanwhile, Philip Walcheren, having heard the news of Jenny’s death
from Dr M‘Coll, had hastened to the presence of Father Tasker.

‘A judgment, a judgment, my dear father!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have just
heard the most terrible piece of news. Poor, misguided Frederick’s
young wife was killed yesterday by a fall over the cliffs at Dover!’

‘Heaven rest her soul!’ said the priest, crossing himself. ‘Who told
you of it?’

‘A medical man called M‘Coll, who came from Dover, at Frederick’s
request, to break the news to me. There is to be an inquest held on
the remains of the poor, young creature to-morrow, and Frederick would
like me to support him on the occasion. Can you manage to accompany me,
father? Your presence might have a great effect on my cousin.’

‘No, my son, I think not! You had better go alone! This is not a
time for exhortation or reproof. It is the time for affection and
kindness. Your poor cousin will, as you say, feel very desolate, and
as if Heaven had forsaken him. Let him find if he has lost a wife
he has found a brother. If ever we are to succeed in our plans for
him--if ever our hopes of persuading him to enter the Church are to
be realised, it is now--now, when he will feel as if the world had
given way beneath him. Go down to-night by all means and comfort him
as best you can. This marriage was entered into, you tell me, without
the consent of the lady’s parents. Possibly, they may be the more set
against him in consequence of this event, though it happened from no
fault of his own. Let him see that his misfortunes bind us more nearly
to him--make us more anxious that he should seek comfort where it is
only to be obtained--in the exercise of his religion. Heaven’s workings
are very mysterious, my son. I see already in this sad dispensation,
a glimmer of hope for your cousin’s future. Perhaps this, and nothing
else, would have made him regard your exhortations and my entreaties in
a proper light.’

‘God grant you may be right, father,’ answered Philip. ‘If I could see
Frederick fulfilling my good Aunt Alicia’s wishes, and his godfather’s
intentions, by entering our Holy Church, and dedicating his money to
her use, I should feel my life had not been wasted by devoting it to
such a purpose.’




CHAPTER X.


Frederick was still bending over the dead body of his wife, when Philip
Walcheren entered the little back parlour of the ‘Bottle and Spurs’
that evening. The landlady told him that he had not left the room since
the preceding night.

‘Nor has bit nor sup passed his lips, sir, except a cup of coffee,
which I made expressly, and took to him this morning. Nor haven’t his
clothes been off, neither! I’m sure I don’t know what _is_ to become of
the poor gentleman at this rate. He seems just eat up with grief.’

‘I will go to him,’ said Philip, as he turned the handle of the door
and entered his cousin’s presence.

Frederick was much in the same position he had at first assumed. He
occupied a chair by the side of the table on which the body of poor
Jenny lay--his hand clasped hers, and his head was bowed down on the
deal boards.

‘Frederick--my dear Frederick,’ said Philip, gently.

At the sound of his voice the bereaved husband roused himself, and made
a slight deprecatory gesture with his hand.

‘Don’t speak to me--don’t reproach me,’ he answered, bitterly, ‘for I
cannot bear it.’

‘Far be it from me to reproach you, Frederick,’ replied his cousin
as he laid his hand on his; ‘on the contrary, I have come to comfort
you, as far as lies in my power, under the terrible calamity that has
befallen you.’

‘No one can comfort me, Philip.’

‘No one but our Heavenly Father, Frederick, and our Blessed Mother, who
is watching your sufferings even now, with eyes of divine compassion
and love.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said the other, brusquely; ‘if she pitied me why
didn’t she prevent it? She could stand by and see the whole of my life
ruined at a blow. What pity is there in that? What good can her pity
do me after my love has been taken from me? Look at her, Philip,’ he
continued, uncovering the pretty, bruised face of the dead, over which
the livid hues of decomposition were already beginning to steal. ‘See
how lovely she was! How young! how innocent! And she loved me--she
loved me! And now it is all over; we are torn asunder for evermore.
Oh, God! it is too hard for mortal man to bear! They might have let me
enjoy a few months, a few weeks of happiness in her affection, but to
call her mine one day and to lose her the next--I shall kill myself. I
cannot live without her!’

‘Hush, my dear Frederick, hush!’ replied Philip, ‘God’s hand is very
heavy upon you, but you must not blaspheme. Was not this beautiful
creature His as well as yours? May He not do as He wills with His
own? No one denies the awful grief you are called upon to bear, but
you cannot lessen it by raving against the justice of the Almighty.
Rather bend with submission to His decree, my dear cousin, and live
your future life so as you may meet your wife again. You can think
of nothing now but your exceeding loss, but when you have time to
consider, you will realise that she is not really gone, only hidden
from your natural sight for a little while, and that, if you choose it,
you are bound to meet her again and to dwell with her for ever!’

This thought broke down the unhappy man.

‘Oh! my Jenny, my Jenny!’ he sobbed, ‘is it possible you are looking
on your wretched husband now? that you pity and love him and will wait
for him at the eternal gates? Philip, Philip, is this a judgment on
me? I have been thinking ever since it happened of that unfortunate
girl, Rhoda Berry, at Luton! I cannot get her out of my head! All last
night I fancied I saw her grinning and rejoicing at my misfortune. Has
God done this out of anger for my sin? Has He made my sweet innocent
wife the scapegoat for my iniquity? Was it the blood of the other
woman, crying up from the eternal depths for vengeance, that caused my
angel to take a false step and meet with her death over those dreadful
cliffs? The idea has nearly driven me mad! Tell me it is not true!’

‘My dear cousin--my dear brother, for such you are in affection to
me--I cannot say that this loss has not been sent by the Almighty
Father to wake you to a sense of the sinful life you have been
leading. I should be false to my trust and to my belief were I to say
so. But for whatever reason it has been permitted, it has come in
love, Frederick, from a Father Who cannot see you ruin your hopes of
everlasting happiness, but would have the soul of your beloved wife,
and your own soul as well, in His keeping. My dear Fred, you must
know that you were wrong, not only to marry this poor child under the
existing circumstances, but to marry her without the consent of her
parents. Think of the trouble you have brought upon them, those poor
old people, who had no one to solace their age but this young creature
who lies before us. Frederick, my dear cousin, I know you don’t believe
in prayer, but let me pray for you and for _her_, that she may be
received into the ranks of those who shall be saved hereafter, even
though as by fire!’

‘Do you mean to say she is not happy now? That she has not already
entered into the joys of Heaven?’ asked Frederick anxiously.

‘My dear cousin, you have surely not so far forgotten the precepts
of our Holy Church as to imagine that Heaven is obtained without
purgatory--bliss without self-sacrifice. This poor girl, however
innocent and blameless she may have seemed, will have her expiation
to pass through, as well as all of us. But we can pray for her, that
she may find relief. We can yield up our own wishes, our own pleasures,
that she may the sooner pass from purgatory to Paradise. Much will rest
with you. Your future life will make or mar her progress to the gates
of Heaven!’

‘It shall not mar it,’ replied Frederick, brokenly; ‘my life is worth
nothing to me now, and I will give it into your hands and Father
Tasker’s to do with as you think fit!’

Philip Walcheren smiled inwardly, not sardonically, for he was in
earnest if man ever was, but with sublime satisfaction that the
Almighty had seen fit to deliver the soul of this bruised reed into the
power of the Church. He had no doubt now but that his hopes for his
cousin’s future were assured, and the poisoned barb had gone home so
deeply that whilst the sting lasted he would be able to wield Frederick
as he chose. But he was too prudent to press the subject home at the
present moment. He contented himself with consoling his cousin to the
best of his ability, always keeping before him the power and influence
of the Blessed Mother of God, and her interest in the souls of young
girls, like the poor dead child before them, until the miserable
husband was almost supplicating the Virgin of his boyhood, then and
there, to save his darling from the pit his misdeeds had drawn her
into--he, who had not breathed a prayer for years past.

Philip Walcheren stayed by him all through that night and until the
coroner’s jury assembled on the following afternoon. At the appointed
hour a noise, as of the trampling of many feet, sounded in the public
bar of the house, and Philip touched Frederick gently on the shoulder.

‘Fred, dear old man, rouse yourself. Here are the coroner and jury
coming to view the body. And Mr Crampton and Mr Hindes wish to come in
first. Be brave, my dear cousin. It is a painful but necessary ordeal.
Stand apart a little and let your wife’s father have access to the
body. It is his right, you know.’

The young man stood up mechanically, and taking Philip’s arm staggered
to the other side of the room. Mr Crampton entered, leaning on Henry
Hindes. The latter was suffering the tortures of the damned. His eyes
were not still for a moment, and his whole frame shook and quivered.
The sight of the crushed and pallid corpse struck both men like a heavy
blow. Old Crampton gazed at it for a minute, muttering, ‘My God! My
God! can that be my Jenny?’ but Hindes said nothing, and kept his eyes
turned on Frederick Walcheren. Presently Mr Crampton’s followed suit,
and the sight appeared to rouse him into fury.

‘Yes!’ he exclaimed, brandishing his stick, ‘there lies my murdered
child, and there stands her murderer.’

‘Crampton, Crampton, think what you are saying!’ cried Hindes, shaking
his friend’s arm, whilst Philip Walcheren said angrily, ‘If the effect
of this sad sight, which should draw two men in misfortune together,
is only to cause you to make malevolent and unjustifiable accusations,
sir, I shall be compelled, as my cousin’s friend, to request you to
leave the room. This lady may have been your daughter, but she was his
wife, and as such, no one has a right to intrude upon his grief.’

‘Ay, Ay! a wife he stole from me, sir--that he _stole_ from me, and
murdered!’ repeated the old man, shaking with rage.

‘Gentlemen, I must beg you to clear the room,’ said the landlord at
this juncture. ‘The coroner and jury are coming in to view the body.’

His wife, entering at the same time, hustled them all into another
apartment, where they sat glaring at each other, until their time came
to be called to appear and give evidence. The coroner, a Mr Procter,
rather prided himself on his astuteness. He was for ever finding a
mountain in a molehill, for he hoped to mount the magisterial chair
some day, and his aim was to impress the public with his cleverness and
ingenuity. The first witnesses called were the two boatmen Jackson and
Barnes, who had found Jenny’s body lying at the bottom of the cliffs.

‘It was five o’clock or nigh upon it, please yer honour,’ commenced the
spokesman, ‘as I and my mate here went to the lower beach to haul up
our boats.’

‘What do you call the “lower beach”?’ snapped Mr Procter, who was a
sandy-haired man, with a pimply face and red-rimmed eyes, ‘all the
beach is lower than the cliffs.’

‘Yes, yer honour; but we calls the beach below Dragon’s Foot the lower
beach, because so be, when the tide runs out--’

‘You are not here to tell us when the tide runs out, but to say how you
discovered the body of the deceased Jane Emily Walcheren,’ said the
coroner, consulting his papers.

‘Yes, yer worship. Well! as I and my mate here was a-haulin’ up the
boats, I says to him, I says, “Bob,” I says, “what be that ’ere bundle
of white,” I says, “under the cliff?” “Blowed if I know,” he says, “it
looks like a sheet as has blowed over in drying,” he says.’

‘You are not here to tell the jury what your mate thought the body
looked like. You are to tell us how you found it.’

‘Yes, sir. Well, sir, we thought it was a sheet, you see, but when
we went to pick it up, we see it was a young woman. So we lifted her
atween us and carries her to this ’ere ’ouse, and then my mate he
fetches Dr M‘Coll. And that’s all, sir!’

‘Very good! Now, tell us, please, when you found the body was there no
one about?’

‘Not a soul as we see, my lord--I mean, yer worship--the beach was
empty from hend to hend.’

‘And the cliffs?’

‘Didn’t see a soul on the cliffs neither, yer worship.’

‘You met no one on your way here? You are sure!’

‘Quite sure, your honour! ’Twould be all over the town if we had!’

‘Very well! You can sit down. Call Dr M‘Coll!’

The doctor, having been sworn, deposed that he had been called to the
‘Bottle and Spurs’ at about six o’clock on Saturday night, to see the
deceased. She was then quite dead--had been dead for two or three
hours. There was a large bruise on the temple caused by her striking
against the rocks in her fall. That was of itself sufficient to have
caused death, but the spine was broken and the neck. The body was also
much bruised. There was no question but that the deceased had met her
death by falling over the cliffs.

‘Now, Dr M‘Coll, I should like to put a few questions to you, if you
please,’ said Mr Procter, looking his very sharpest. ‘Is it your
opinion that the deceased must inevitably have fallen over the cliffs
of her own accord? Might she not have been blown over, or pushed over,
or thrown herself over by design?’

‘Certainly she might! It is impossible to say how she came to fall
over, but she _did_ fall over--that is beyond a question.’

‘Ah!’ said the coroner, with self-satisfaction, as if he had discovered
a very knotty point. ‘Then you consider death was due--’

‘To dislocation of the spine from a fall over the cliffs.’

‘That’s your opinion, is it?’ remarked the coroner, dubiously.

‘Yes, sir, that’s my opinion,’ replied M‘Coll shortly, as he retired.

The next witness was Crampton. He came tottering into the room, and
stood supporting himself on his silver-mounted cane.

‘You are, I believe, the father of the deceased, Mr Crampton,’ began
the coroner, scrutinising the old man through his eye-glasses.

‘I am, sir. She was my only child--the only one I had left.’

‘And she was married on the Friday preceding her death?’

‘She was, worse luck!’

‘Was her marriage undertaken with your consent, Mr Crampton?’

At this question, the old man became violently agitated.

‘It was not, sir. She was stolen from me by a villain, who came to my
house under the disguise of friendship, and--’

Some one in the jury remarked that this was quite irrelevant to the
evidence on hand, but Mr Procter ordered him to be silent.

‘This poor gentleman has sustained a double injury,’ he said. ‘Let him
tell his story in his own words.’

‘I have not much more to say, gentlemen,’ resumed Mr Crampton. ‘This
man, Frederick Walcheren, stole my daughter from me, and the next thing
I hear is that she is dead. It is not a long story, but it is a very
bitter one.’

‘And you have the full sympathy of the jury for it, Mr Crampton. I
believe your daughter was your heiress. Did you threaten to make any
alteration in your will if she went against your wishes?’

‘I did. I said that if she married this Walcheren, who is a Papist, she
shouldn’t have a halfpenny.’

‘Did you make the same intimation to Mr Walcheren?’

‘I think not, at least personally, but I suppose she did, for they ran
away together two days afterwards. And this is the end of it--this is
the end.’

‘You have recognised the deceased as your daughter?’

The father broke down.

‘Oh, yes, sir, I have recognised her only too well. My poor pretty
darling. She was called the “Beauty of Hampstead,” sir, the “Beauty of
Hampstead.”’

‘Thank you, Mr Crampton, that will do. I am sorry to have troubled
you so far, but it was necessary. You can retire, sir. Call Mr Henry
Hindes.’

The witness entered the room, with a pallid face, compressed lips, as
if resolved that nothing should make him betray himself, and a stolid
demeanour which was wholly put on. The stakes were too high. He could
not afford to think or fear. All he had to do was to believe things
were _not so_, and to act accordingly.

‘You look ill, Mr Hindes. Do you wish for a chair?’

‘Certainly not! But I am an old friend of the family. I have known the
deceased from a child.’

‘Ah! We will detain you as short a time as possible. You were in Dover,
Mr Hindes, on Saturday last, I believe. Will you tell the jury why you
came here?’

‘I came at the instigation, and with the knowledge, of my old friends
Mr and Mrs Crampton, to bring a message to their daughter, and to see
if I could effect a reconciliation between them.’

‘Between them and the young couple?’

‘No, not with Mr Walcheren--they steadfastly refused to see or speak
with Mr Walcheren--but with his wife, their daughter.’

‘How could a reconciliation be effected with one and not with the
other?’

‘Because Miss Crampton--the deceased--had married without the consent
of her people, and her father had cut her out of his will. But, as the
marriage was somewhat irregular--’

‘How was it irregular?’

‘Miss Crampton was not of age, and Mr Walcheren swore, when he procured
the licence, that she was!’

‘Oh! he did!’ said the coroner, making a note of the fact on his
papers; ‘and Mr Crampton cut the deceased out of his will in
consequence?’

‘He did so, or meant to do so, but he sent me here with a message to
the effect that if she would return home, and permit the marriage to be
annulled, he would receive her back, but on no other terms.’

‘And may I ask what the lady said when you delivered that message to
her?’

‘I never delivered it! I did not see her! I called twice at the Castle
Warden Hotel, but each time was told that she was out, so I returned to
town without seeing her!’

‘And you did not see Mr Walcheren either?’

‘I did not see Mr Walcheren either.’

‘Upon which you returned to town?’

‘Yes! I went up by the five-thirty train.’

‘One moment, Mr Hindes. Can you tell me if Mr Walcheren was aware of Mr
Crampton’s intention to cut his daughter out of his will _before_ this
marriage took place?’

‘I do not know! I was deputed once to make Mr Crampton’s wishes
relative to his daughter known to Mr Walcheren, and the risk may have
been mentioned, but he would not take it as a definite decision from
me. The chief objection always brought forward was to his religion. Mr
Crampton would not hear of his daughter marrying a Roman Catholic.’

‘Of course not! very natural!’ observed Mr Procter, who, like most
of the middle classes in England, was an ultra-Protestant, and only
connected Catholicism with monasteries, nunneries, fasting, confession
and the Grand Inquisition.

‘That will do, Mr Hindes! you can stand down,’ said the coroner, with
a smile. The next witnesses examined were Mr Cameron, the landlord of
the Castle Warden, and the waiters and chambermaids, who had or had not
seen poor Jenny Walcheren leave the hotel on that fatal day.

Then came a call for the last witness--the witness whom Mr Procter had
purposely reserved to the last.

‘Tell Mr Frederick Walcheren he is required.’

But Philip Walcheren stepped forward instead.

‘Are you the husband of the deceased, sir?’

‘No! I am his cousin. I have come to ask you if his presence and
testimony on this, the most trying occasion of his life, cannot be
dispensed with? He is half beside himself with grief. Picture to
yourself, gentlemen, a young husband bereft the very day after his
wedding of all that made his life happy. He is not in a fit state to
answer any questions, nor to have his inmost feelings submitted to
scrutiny. Besides, he knows no more than you do! He parted with his
poor wife in radiant health and spirits on Saturday morning, and never
saw her again until she lay on that table as you have seen her. The
doctor has given you his testimony that her death was the result of a
pure accident! Is it necessary, then, that my poor cousin should be
tortured by recalling in public the memories that are nearly driving
him out of his mind.’

‘It is absolutely necessary, Mr Walcheren,’ replied the coroner, ‘the
husband’s testimony may prove the most important of all. I cannot, in
the pursuit of my duty, excuse the presence of your cousin. Call Mr
Frederick Walcheren.’

And all eyes were turned eagerly towards the door, to watch the advent
of the greatest sufferer of all by this most hapless adventure.


END OF VOL. I.


COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

*       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's note


Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. The following
Printer errors have been changed:

  CHANGED     FROM                         TO
  Page 2:     “by-and-bye”                 “by-and-by”
  Page 21:    “dinner-time”                “dinner time”
  Page 21:    “half-an-hour”               “half an hour”
  Page 40     “unbrella”                   “umbrella”
  Page 47:    “anyone of the other”        “any one of the other”
  Page 49:    “spend-thrift”               “spendthrift”
  Page 56:    “Well, really, father”       “Well, really, Father”
  Page 57:    “liason”                     “liaison”
  Page 61:    “six thirty”                 “six-thirty”
  Page 67:    “promise not see”            “promise not to see”
  Page 78:    “prententions”               “pretensions”
  Page 80:    “Brunnel”                    “Brunell”
  Page 95:    “think off”                  “think of”
  Page 111:   “Your’s”                     “Yours”
  Page 132:   “remains of breakfast was”   “remains of the breakfast were”
  Page 138:   “paralysed us us”            “paralysed us”
  Page 155:   “half-an-hour”               “half an hour”
  Page 161:   “he begun”                   “he began”
  Page 169:   “out of her’s”               “out of hers”
  Page 202:   “chosing his words”          “choosing his words”
  Page 210:   “ividly white”               “vividly white”
  Page 210:   “s probably something”       “is probably something”
  Page 227:   “if the effect”              “If the effect”
  Page 228:   “Proctor”                    “Procter”
  Page 232:   “Proctor”                    “Procter”
  Page 238:   “of hs”                      “of his”

All other inconsistencies are as in the original.