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diff --git a/39377-h/39377-h.htm b/39377-h/39377-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4905e2b --- /dev/null +++ b/39377-h/39377-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8986 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mildred Arkell, Volume II (of 3), by Mrs. Henry Wood</title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + p.poem { + margin-left:5%; + } + p.blocksig { + margin-left:55%; + } +.blocksig2 {font-variant: small-caps; +margin-left:25%; } + + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +span.nb {font-weight: normal;font-size: smaller; } /* this corresponds to getting h2 to look appropriate for the chapter headings for this book */ + +hr.tb {width: 45%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%} +.likeh1 { font-size: 1.7em; margin: .75em 0; text-align: center; font-weight: bolder } +.likeh2 { font-size: 1.5em; margin: .75em 0; text-align: center; font-weight: bolder } +.author { font-size: 1.3em; margin: .83em 0; text-align: center; font-weight: bolder } +.likeh3 { font-size: 1.17em; margin: .83em 0; text-align: center; } +.likeh4 { text-align: center;} +.likeh5 { font-size: .83em; margin: 1.5em 0; text-align: center; } +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + span.right { + float:right; + } +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + width: 70%; +} + + + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 93%; + font-size: smaller; + color:#505050; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + + +/* Transcriber's notes */ + .tnote {border: dashed 1px;margin: 5em auto 5em auto; width: 600px; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-top: 1em; + padding-left: 1em; padding-right: 1em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Mildred Arkell, Volume II (of 3), by Mrs. +Henry Wood</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Mildred Arkell, Volume II (of 3)</p> +<p> A Novel</p> +<p>Author: Mrs. Henry Wood</p> +<p>Release Date: April 5, 2012 [eBook #39377]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MILDRED ARKELL, VOLUME II (OF 3)***</p> +<p> </p> +<h4 class="likeh4">E-text prepared by Robert Cicconetti, Paula Franzini,<br /> + and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> + from page images generously made available by<br /> + Internet Archive<br /> + (<a href="http://archive.org">http://archive.org</a>)</h4> +<p> </p> +<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> + <tr> + <td valign="top"> + Note: + </td> + <td> + Images of the original pages are available through + Internet Archive. See + <a href="http://archive.org/details/mildredarkellnov02woo"> + http://archive.org/details/mildredarkellnov02woo</a> + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>MILDRED ARKELL.</h1> +<p> </p> +<p class="likeh1">A Novel.</p> +<p> </p> +<p class="likeh5">BY</p> + +<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Mrs.</span> HENRY WOOD,</p> + +<p class="likeh5">AUTHOR OF <br /> +"EAST LYNNE," "LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS," "TREVLYN HOLD,"<br /> +ETC. ETC.</p> +<p> </p> +<p class="likeh5">IN THREE VOLUMES.</p> + +<p class="likeh3">VOL. II.</p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p class="likeh3">LONDON:<br /> +TINSLEY BROTHERS, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.<br /> +1865.</p> + +<p class="likeh5"><i>All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved.</i> +</p> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p class="likeh5"> +LONDON:<br /> +SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS-STREET,<br /> +COVENT-GARDEN.<br /> +</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="Contents" id="Contents">CONTENTS</a></span></h2> +<div class="center"> + <table summary="contents" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" > + <tbody> + <tr> + <td align="right"><small>CHAP.</small></td> + <td align="left"> </td> + <td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">I.</td> + <td align="left">THE SCHOOL-BOY'S LOVE</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_i">1</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">II.</td> + <td align="left">THE TOUR OF DAVID DUNDYKE, ESQUIRE</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_ii">20</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">III.</td> + <td align="left">A MEETING AT GRENOBLE</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_iii">37</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">IV.</td> + <td align="left">A MYSTERY</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_iv">65</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">V.</td> + <td align="left">HOME IN DESPAIR</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_v">87</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">VI.</td> + <td align="left">NEWS FOR WESTERBURY</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_vi">102</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">VII.</td> + <td align="left">ROBERT CARR'S VISIT</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_vii">118</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">VIII.</td> + <td align="left">GOING OVER TO SQUIRE CARR'S</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_viii">137</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">IX.</td> + <td align="left">A STARTLED LUNCHEON-TABLE</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_ix">153</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">X.</td> + <td align="left">A MISSIVE FOR SQUIRE CARR</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_x">175</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">XI.</td> + <td align="left">THE LAST OF ROBERT CARR</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_xi">191</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">XII.</td> + <td align="left">MR. RICHARDS' MORNING CALL</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_xii">214</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">XIII.</td> + <td align="left">A DISLIKE THAT WAS TO BEAR ITS FRUITS</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_xiii">230</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">XIV.</td> + <td align="left">THE EXAMINATION</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_xiv">251</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">XV.</td> + <td align="left">A NIGHT WITH THE GHOSTS </td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_xv">272</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">XVI.</td> + <td align="left">PERPLEXITY</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_xvi">294</a></td></tr> + <tr> + <td align="right">XVII.</td> + <td align="left">A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE</td> + <td align="right"><a href="#chapter_xvii">315</a></td></tr> + </tbody> + </table> +</div> +<hr class="chap" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="likeh2">MILDRED ARKELL.</p> + + +<p> </p> + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_i" id="chapter_i">CHAPTER I.</a><br /><small>THE SCHOOL-BOY'S LOVE.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>A brilliant evening in July. The sun had been blazing all day with +intense force, glittering on the white pavement of the streets, +scorching the dry and thirsty earth; and it was not until his beams +shone from the very verge of the horizon that the gay butterflies of +humanity ventured to come forth.</p> + +<p>Groups were wending their way to the Bishop's Garden: not the private +garden of the respected prelate who reigned over the diocese of +Westerbury, but a semi-public garden-promenade called by that name. In +the years long gone by, a bishop of Westerbury caused a piece of waste +land belonging to the grounds of his palace to be laid out as an +ornamental garden. Broad sunny walks for the cold of winter, shady +winding ones for the heat of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">[2]</a></span> summer, shrubberies and trees, flower-beds +and grass-plots, miniature rocks and a fountain, were severally formed +there; and then the bishop threw it open to the public, and it had ever +since gone by the name of the Bishop's Garden. Not to the public +indiscriminately—only to those of superior degree; the catering for the +recreation of the public indiscriminately had not come into fashion +then. It had always lain especially under the patronage of the residents +of the grounds, and they took care—or the Cerberus of a gatekeeper did +for them—that no inferior person should dare venture within yards of +it: a tradesman might not so much as put his nose through the iron +railings to take a peep in.</p> + +<p>The garden was getting full when a college boy—he might be known by his +trencher—passed the gate with a slow step. A party had just gone in +whose movements his eyes had eagerly followed, but he was not near +enough to speak. As he looked after them wistfully, his eye caught +something glittering on the ground, and he stooped and picked it up. It +was a small locket of gold, bearing the initials "G. B."</p> + +<p>He knew to whom it belonged. He would have given half his remaining +life, as it seemed, to go in and restore it to its owner. But that might +not be; for the college boys, whether king's scholars or private pupils, +were rigorously excluded by custom from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">[3]</a></span> the Bishop's Garden. And +Williams, the gatekeeper, was stealing up then.</p> + +<p>He was tall of his age, looking about sixteen, though he was not quite +so much; tall enough to lean over the iron railings, which he did with +intense eagerness; and never did woman's face betray more beauty, +whether of form or colouring, than did his.</p> + +<p>It was Henry Arkell. For the years have gone on, and the lovely boy of +ten or eleven, has grown into this handsome youth. Other people and +other things have grown with him.</p> + +<p>"Now then! What be you doing here? You just please to take yourself off, +young gentleman."</p> + +<p>He quitted the railings in obedience; the college boys never thought of +disputing the orders of the gatekeeper. Stepping backwards with a sort +of spring, he stepped upon the foot of some one who was approaching the +gate.</p> + +<p>"Take care, Arkell."</p> + +<p>He turned hastily and raised his trencher. The speaker was the +good-natured Bishop of Westerbury; his widowed daughter on his arm.</p> + +<p>"I beg your lordship's pardon."</p> + +<p>"Too intent to see me, eh! You were gazing into the garden as if you +longed to be there."</p> + +<p>"I was looking for Miss Beauclerc, sir; I thought she might be coming +near the gate. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">[4]</a></span> have just picked up this, which she must have dropped +going in."</p> + +<p>"How do you know it is Miss Beauclerc's?" cried the bishop, glancing at +the gold locket.</p> + +<p>"I know it's hers, sir; and her initials are on it." But Henry turned +his face out of sight, as he spoke. And lest any critic should set up a +cavil at the bishop being addressed as "sir," it may be as well to +mention that it was the custom with the college boys. Very few of them +could bring their shy lips to utter any other title.</p> + +<p>"Go in and give it to Miss Beauclerc, if it is hers," cried the bishop.</p> + +<p>"The gatekeeper will not let me," said Henry, with a smile. "He tells us +all that it is as much as his place is worth to admit a college boy."</p> + +<p>"They ain't fit for such a place as this, nohow, my lord," spoke up the +keeper. "Once let 'em in, and they'd be for playing at hare and hounds +over the flower-beds."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" said the bishop. "I don't see what harm there would be in +admitting the seniors. You need not be so over-strict, Williams. Come in +with me, Arkell, if you wish to find Miss Beauclerc; and come in +whenever you like. Do you hear, Williams, I give this young gentleman +the <i>entrée</i> of the garden."</p> + +<p>The bishop laid his hand on Henry's shoulder,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">[5]</a></span> and they walked in +together, all three, his daughter on his other side. Many a surprised +eye-glass was lifted; many an indignant eye regarded them.</p> + +<p>Never yet had a college boy—St. John always excepted—ventured within +the pale of that guarded place. And if the bishop and his daughter had +appeared accompanied by a fiery serpent, it could not have caused more +inward commotion. But nobody dared betray it: the bishop was the bishop, +and not to be interfered with.</p> + +<p>"There's Miss Beauclerc, my lad."</p> + +<p>And in a few minutes—Henry could not tell how, in his mind's tumultuous +confusion—Georgina Beauclerc had turned into a side walk with him, and +they were alone. Georgina was the same Georgina as ever—impulsive, +wilful, and daringly independent. Everybody paid court to the dean's +daughter.</p> + +<p>"Did you drop this in coming in, Miss Beauclerc?"</p> + +<p>"My locket! Of course I must have dropped it. Harry, I would not have +lost it for the world."</p> + +<p>His sensitive cheek wore a crimson flush at the words. <i>He</i> had given it +to her on her last birthday, when she was eighteen. As she took it from +him, their fingers touched. That touch thrilled through his veins, while +hers were unconscious, or at best heedless of the contact.</p> + +<p>It was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">[6]</a></span> +not uncommon tale; the tale that has been enacted many times +in life, and which Lord Byron has made familiar to us as being his own +heart's history—</p> + +<p class="poem"> +"The maid was on the eve of womanhood:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: .3em;">The boy had fewer summers; but his heart had far outgrown his years:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .3em;">And to his sight there was but one fair face on earth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: .3em;">And that was shining on him."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>It has been intimated that Georgina Beauclerc had inherited the dean's +innate taste for what is called beauty, both human and statuesque. In +the dean it was very marked. This, it may have been, that first drew +forth her regard for Henry Arkell. Certain it was, she saw him +frequently, and took no pains to disguise her admiration. He was a great +favourite of the dean's—was often invited to the deanery. That he was +no common boy, in nature, mind, or form, was apparent to the dean, as it +was to many others, and Dr. Beauclerc evinced his regard openly. +Georgina did the same. At first she had merely liked to patronize the +young college boy; rather to domineer over him, looking upon him as a +child in comparison with herself. But as they grew older, the difference +in their years became less marked, and now they appeared nearly of the +same age, for he looked older than he was, and Georgina younger. She was +very pretty, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">[7]</a></span> her large, rich blue eyes, and her small, fair +features.</p> + +<p>He had grown to love her; to love her with that impassioned love, which, +pure and refined though it is, can only bring unhappiness. What did he +think could be the ending? Did he reflect that it was utter madness in +<i>him</i> to love the dean's daughter? It was nothing less than madness; and +there were odd moments when the truth, that it was so, rose up in his +mind, turning his whole soul to faintness.</p> + +<p>And she, Georgina Beauclerc? She liked Henry Arkell very much indeed; +she took pleasure in being with him, in talking with him, in <i>flirting</i> +with him; she was conscious of a degree of pride when the handsome boy +walked, as now, by her side; she encouraged his too-evident admiration +for her; <i>but she did not love him</i>. She loved another too deeply to +have any love left for him.</p> + +<p>And she was so utterly careless of consequences. Had it been suggested +to Miss Beauclerc that she was doing a wrong thing, bordering upon a +wicked one, in thus trifling with that school-boy's heart, she would +have laughed in very glee, and thought it fun. Though she must have +known, if she ever took the trouble to glance forward, that in the years +to come, did things continue as they were now, and Henry Arkell told his +love to the ear, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">[8]</a></span> well as to the eye and heart, the explosion must +have place, and he would know how he had been deceived. What would her +excuse be? that she liked him; that she liked his companionship; that +she could not afford to reject his admiration? The gratification of the +present moment was paramount with Georgina.</p> + +<p>But what was Mrs. Beauclerc about, to suffer this? Mrs. Beauclerc! Had +her daughter flirted with the whole forty king's scholars on a string, +and the head master's private pupils to boot, she would never have seen +it; no, nor understood it if pointed out to her. Her daughter was Miss +Beauclerc, a young lady of high degree, and the college boys were +inferior young animals with whom it was utterly impossible Georgina +could possess anything in common.</p> + +<p>"But how did you get in here, Harry?" began Miss Beauclerc, slipping the +locket on her chain. "Has crusty old Williams gone to sleep this +evening?"</p> + +<p>"The bishop brought me in. He has given Williams orders that I am to be +admitted here."</p> + +<p>"Has he? What a glorious fellow! I'll give him ten kisses for that, as I +used to do when I was a little girl. And now, pray, what became of you +this afternoon? You said you should be in the cloisters."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">[9]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I know. I could not get out. I was doing Greek with my father."</p> + +<p>"Doing Greek! It's always that. 'Doing Greek,' or 'doing Latin,' it's +nothing else with you everlastingly. What a wretched pedant you'll be, +Harry Arkell!"</p> + +<p>"Never, I hope. But you know I <i>must</i> study; I have only my talents to +depend upon for advancement in life; and my father, his heart is set on +seeing me a bril—a good scholar."</p> + +<p>"You are a brilliant scholar already," grumbled Georgina, bringing out +the word which his modesty had left unspoken. "There's no reason why you +should be at your books morning, noon, and night. I always said Mr. +Peter Arkell was a martinet from the first hour he came to drill +literature into me. Which he couldn't accomplish."</p> + +<p>"The school meets in a week or two, you know, and——"</p> + +<p>"Tiresome young reptiles!" interjected Miss Beauclerc. "We are quieter +without them."</p> + +<p>"And I must make the best use of my holidays for study," continued +Henry. "They wish me to get to Oxford early."</p> + +<p>"Goodness me! you might go now, if that's what you mean; you know +enough. Harry, I do hope when you are ordained you'll get some high +preferment."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">[10]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Such luck is not for me, Miss Beauclerc. I may never get beyond a +curacy; or at most a minor canonry."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, and double nonsense! With the influential friends you may +count even now! You know that everybody makes much of you. I should like +to see you dean of this cathedral."</p> + +<p>"And you——" Henry stopped in time. A tempting vision had mentally +arisen, and for the moment led him out of himself. Did Georgina scent +the treason, all but uttered? She resumed volubly, hastily—</p> + +<p>"I have a great mind to tell you something; I think I will. But don't +you let it go farther, Henry, for it is a secret as yet. There's going +to be a school examination."</p> + +<p>"No!" exclaimed Henry, some consternation in his tone.</p> + +<p>"Why! are you afraid of it?"</p> + +<p>"I am not. But I was thinking how very unfit the school is to stand it. +What will Mr. Wilberforce say?"</p> + +<p>"There's the fun," cried Georgina in glee. "When I heard papa talking of +this, I said it would drive the head master's senses upside down. The +dean and chapter are going to introduce all sorts of improvements into +the school."</p> + +<p>"What can have set them on to it!" ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">[11]</a></span>claimed Henry, unable to recover +his surprise and concern.</p> + +<p>"The spelling, I think," said Georgina, pursing up her pretty mouth. +"Jocelyn—and he'll be the senior boy this next half, you know—wrote a +letter to his aunt; she rents her house and land under old Meddler, and +knows the Meddlers—visits them, in fact. What should she do but take +the letter to old Meddler, and asked him whether it was not a disgrace +to any civilized community. Old Meddler kept the letter and brought it +here, when he came into residence last week, and showed it to papa. +There were not ten words spelt right in it. Altogether, there's going to +be something or other done. But I'm sure you need not look so concerned +over it, Henry Arkell; you are safe."</p> + +<p>"I am safe. Yes, thanks to my father, I have enjoyed great advantages. +But I am thinking of the others."</p> + +<p>"Serve them right! They are a lazy set. Papa said, 'I should think Henry +Arkell does not write like this!' <i>I</i> could have answered that, you +know, had I chosen to bring out some of your letters."</p> + +<p>There was a pause of silence. The tone had been significant, and his +poor heart was beating wildly. "What a lovely rose!" he exclaimed, when +the silence had become painful. "I wish I dare pluck it!"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">[12]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Dare! Nonsense! Pluck it if you wish."</p> + +<p>"I thought it was forbidden to touch the flowers here!"</p> + +<p>"So it is," said Georgina, snapping off the rose, one of the variegated +species, and a great beauty. "But I do as I please. I would pluck all +the flowers in the garden for two pins, just to see the old gardener's +dismay."</p> + +<p>"What would the visitors say to you?"</p> + +<p>"Bow to me, and wish they dare perform such feats. Pshaw! I am the +dean's daughter. Here, Harry, I will make you a present of it."</p> + +<p>She threw the rose into his hand as she spoke, and she saw what the gift +was to him.</p> + +<p>"What shall you do with it, Harry?"</p> + +<p>"Had I plucked the rose myself, I should have given it to my mother. I +shall keep it now—keep it for ever. I may not," he added, lowering his +tone, and speaking, as it were, to himself, "part with your gifts."</p> + +<p>Georgina laughed lightly, an <i>encouraging</i> laugh.</p> + +<p>Oh! it was wrong; wrong of her to act so. They reached the end of the +shady walk and turned again.</p> + +<p>"How long are you going to remain in that precious choir?" resumed +Georgina, "wasting your time for the public benefit."</p> + +<p>"Mr. St. John put the very same question to me this morning. He——"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">[13]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mr. St. John!" she interrupted, in startling, nay, wild impulse, and +her face became one glow of excitement. "But what do you mean?" she +added, subsiding into calmness as recollection returned to her. "He is +not in Westerbury."</p> + +<p>The words, the emotion, told their own tale; and their true meaning +flashed upon his brain. It was an era in the unhappy boy's life. How was +it that he had been blind all these years?</p> + +<p>"You take a strange interest in him, Miss Beauclerc," and there seemed +to be no life left in his pale face, as he turned to her with the +question.</p> + +<p>"For another's sake," she evasively answered. "I told you some time ago +Frederick St. John was in love with <i>her</i>."</p> + +<p>He knew to whom she alluded. "Do you think it <i>likely</i> that he is, Miss +Beauclerc?"</p> + +<p>"If he's not in love with herself, he is in love with her beauty," said +Georgina, with a laugh. "But you know what the popular belief is—that +the heir of the St. Johns, whatever he may do with his love, may only +give his hand to his cousin, Lady Anne."</p> + +<p>"I hope it is so. She is the nicest girl, and he deserves a good wife. I +used to sing duets with her when she was last at the Palmery."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Georgina, turning her pretty nose into the air, "and so you +fell in love with her."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">[14]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No," replied Henry; "my love was not mine to give."</p> + +<p>Another pause. Georgina snatched a second flower—a carnation this +time—and began pulling it to pieces.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you heard from him this morning?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And where is he now?"</p> + +<p>"In Spain. But he talks of coming home."</p> + +<p>He stole a glance at her; at the loving light that shone in her bright +blue eyes; at the soft glow, red as the carnation she was despoiling, on +her conscious cheek. <i>Why</i> did he not read the signs in all their full +meaning? Why did hope struggle with the conviction that would have +arisen in his heart?</p> + +<p>"Have you his letter?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; you can read it if you like. There are no secrets. I have told him +that Miss Beauclerc was fond of looking at his letters. He is +enthusiastic, as usual, on the subject of pictures."</p> + +<p>She closed her hand upon the foreign-looking letter which he took from +his jacket pocket to give to her. "I will take it home with me, and +return it to you to-morrow; I can't read it now. And, Harry, I am going +back to my party, or perhaps they'll be setting the crier to work. Mind +you don't breathe a word of that school examination: it would not do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">[15]</a></span> +But I tell things to you that I'd not tell to anybody else in the +world."</p> + +<p>She ran away up a side path, and Henry made his way to the more +frequented part of the garden. It happened that he found himself again +with the bishop; and the prelate laid his hand, as before, on the +shoulder of the handsome boy, and kept him at his side.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Peter Arkell had not grown better with years; on the contrary, the +weakness in the back was greater, and her health in other ways began to +fail. A residence of some weeks at the sea-side was deemed essential for +her; absolutely necessary, said her medical attendant, Mr. Lane: and +indeed it was not much less necessary for Peter Arkell himself, who was +always ill now. His state of health told heavily upon them. He had been +obliged to give up a great portion of his teaching; and but for his +ever-ready friend and relative, Mr. Arkell, whose hand was always open, +and for certain five-pound notes that came sometimes in Mildred's +letters, Peter had not the remotest idea how he should have got along. +This going to the sea-side would have been quite out of the question, +but that they had met with a fortunate chance of letting their house for +two months, to a family desirous of coming to Westerbury. Lucy, of +course, would go with them; but the question was—what was to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">[16]</a></span> done +with Henry? Travice Arkell, in his impulsive good nature, said he must +stop with them, and Mr. Arkell confirmed it. Henry supposed he must, but +he felt sure it would not be palatable to Mrs. Arkell.</p> + +<p>Travice Arkell was in partnership with his father now. At the time of +his leaving school there had been a visible improvement in the prospects +of the manufacturers, and Mr. Arkell yielded to his son's wish to join +him, and hoped that the good times were coming back again. But the +improvement had not lasted long; and Mr. Arkell was wont to say that +Travice had cast in his lot with a sinking ship. The designation of the +firm had never been altered; it was still "George Arkell and Son." Times +fluctuated very much. Just now again there was a slight improvement; and +altogether Mr. Arkell was still upon the balance, to give up business or +not to give it up, as he had been for so many years.</p> + +<p>Henry walked home from the Bishop's Garden, with the strange emotion +displayed by Georgina Beauclerc, at the mention of Mr. St. John, telling +upon his memory and his heart. Lucy met him at the door, her sweet face +radiant.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Henry! such news! News in two ways. I don't know which to tell you +first. One part concerns you."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">[17]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Tell me that first, then," said he, laughing.</p> + +<p>"You are not to be at Mr. Arkell's while we are away. You are to be +at——guess where."</p> + +<p>"I can't guess at all. I don't know anybody who'd have me."</p> + +<p>"At the master's."</p> + +<p>His eye lightened as he looked up.</p> + +<p>"Am I? I am so glad! Is it true, Lucy?"</p> + +<p>"It is quite true. Mr. Wilberforce saw mamma at the window, and came in +to ask her how she was, and when she went, and all that. Mamma said how +puzzled she had been what to do with you, but it was decided now you +were to go to Mr. Arkell's. So then the master said he thought you had +better go to him, and he should be most happy to invite you there for +the time, no matter how long we remained away; and when mamma attempted +to say something about the great kindness, he interrupted her, saying +you had always been so good a pupil, and given him so little trouble, +and did him altogether so much credit, that he should consider the +obligation was on his side. So it is quite decided, Harry, and you are +to go there."</p> + +<p>"That's good news, then. And what's the other, Lucy?"</p> + +<p>"Ah! the other concerns me. It is good, too."</p> + +<p>"Are you going to be married?"</p> + +<p>The question was but spoken in jest, and Henry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">[18]</a></span> wondered to see his +sister's face change; but she only shook her head and laughed.</p> + +<p>"Eva Prattleton is to accompany us to the sea-side."</p> + +<p>"Eva Prattleton!"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Prattleton came in just after the master left," resumed Lucy. "He +said he had come with a petition: would mamma take charge of Eva to the +sea-side, and let her go with us? He had intended—you know we heard of +it, Harry—to take his two daughters to Switzerland this summer for a +treat; but he begins to fear that Eva will not be equal to the +travelling, for she's not strong, and a little thing fatigues her; and +he thinks a month or two of quiet at the sea-side would do her more +good. So <i>that's</i> arranged as well as the other."</p> + +<p>"And what will Mary do?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, she goes to Switzerland with her papa. He has not given up his +journey. The two boys are to stay at home, and George Prattleton's to +take care of them."</p> + +<p>Henry laughed. The idea of Mr. George Prattleton's taking care of the +boys struck him as being something ludicrous.</p> + +<p>"But what do you think mamma says?" added Lucy, dropping her voice. "The +terms hinted at by Mr. Prattleton for Eva were so liberal, that mamma +feels sure he is doing this as much to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">[19]</a></span> make our sojourn there more easy +to us, as for Eva's benefit; though she is not well, of course, and +never has been since her mother's death; the grief then seemed to take +such a hold upon her. How kind to us the Prattletons have always been!"</p> + +<p>Henry mentally echoed the words—for they were true ones—all +unconscious that a time was quickly approaching when he should have to +repay this kindness with something very like ingratitude.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">[20]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_ii" id="chapter_ii">CHAPTER II.</a><br /><small>THE TOUR OF DAVID DUNDYKE, ESQUIRE.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>Perhaps of all the changes time had wrought, in those connected with our +history, not one was more remarkable than that in Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke, +in regard to their position in the world. They had changed in themselves +of course; we all change; and were now middle-aged people of some +five-and-forty years: Mr. Dundyke being red and portly; his wife, thin +and meek as ever.</p> + +<p>Little by little, step by step, had David Dundyke risen in the world. +There had come a day when he was made a fourth partner in that famous +tea-importing house, with which he had been so long connected. He was +now the third partner, and his income was a large one. There had also +come a day when he was elected a common councilman (I am not sure but +this has been previously mentioned), and now the old longing, the height +of his ambition, was really and truly dawning upon him. In the +approaching autumn he was to be proposed for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">[21]</a></span> sheriff; and <i>that</i>, as we +all know, leads in time to the civic chair.</p> + +<p>You will readily understand that it was not at all consistent for a +partner in a wealthy tea house, and a common councilman rising into note +and attending the civic feasts, to remain the tenant of two humble +rooms. Mr. Dundyke had made a change long ago. He and his wife, clinging +still to apartments, as being less trouble, and also less expense on the +whole, had moved into handsome ones; and there they remained for some +years. But the prospect of the shrievalty demanded something more; and +latterly Mr. Dundyke had taken a handsome villa at Brixton, had +furnished it well, and set himself up there with two maid servants and a +footman. In some degree his old miserly habits were on him still, and he +rarely spent where he could save, or launched into any extravagance +unless he had an end in view in doing it; but he had never very much +loved money for its own sake alone, only as means to an end.</p> + +<p>His great care, now that the glorious end was near, was to blazon forth +his importance. He wanted the world (<i>his</i> little world) to forget what +he had been; to forget the pinching and saving, the poor way of living, +the red-herring dinners, and the past in general. He did what he could +to blot out the past in the present. He looked out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">[22]</a></span> for correspondents +to address him as "esquire;" and he took to wear a ring with a crest +upon it.</p> + +<p>In this very month of July, when you saw Henry Arkell and the dean's +daughter walking in the Bishop's Garden—and a very hot July it was—Mr. +Dundyke came to the decision of taking a tour. What first put it into +his unfortunate head to do so, his wife never knew; though she asked +herself the question afterwards many and many a time. He debated the +point with himself, to go or not to go, some little while; balancing the +advantages against the drawbacks. On the one hand, it would cost time +and money; on the other, it would certainly be another stepping-stone in +his advancing greatness, the more especially if he could get the <i>Post</i> +or some other fashionable organ to announce the departure of "David +Dundyke, Esquire, and Lady, on a Continental tour."</p> + +<p>One sultry afternoon, when Mrs. Dundyke was sewing in her own +sitting-room, he returned home somewhat earlier than usual.</p> + +<p>"My mind is made up, Mrs. Dundyke," he said, before he had had time to +look round, as he came in, wiping his hot brows. "I told you I thought I +should go that tour; and I mean to start as soon as we have fixed upon +our route. It must be somewhere foreign."</p> + +<p>Mr. Dundyke's intellectual improvement had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">[23]</a></span> advanced in an equal +ratio with his fortunes; he called tour tower, and route rout. Indeed, +he spoke almost exactly as he used to speak.</p> + +<p>"Foreign!" echoed Mrs. Dundyke, somewhat aghast. Her geographical +knowledge had always been imperfect and confused; the retired life she +led, occupied solely in domestic affairs, had not tended to enlarge it; +and the word "foreign" suggested to her mind extremely remote parts of +the globe—the two poles and Cape Horn. "Foreign?"</p> + +<p>"One can't travel anywhere now that's not foreign, Betsey," returned Mr. +Dundyke, testily. "One can't humdrum up and down England in a +stage-coach, as one used to do."</p> + +<p>"True; but you said foreign. You don't mean America—or China—or any of +those parts, do you, David?"</p> + +<p>"It's never of no use talking to you about anything, Mrs. D.," said the +common-councilman, in wrath. "Chinar! Why, it would be a life-journey! I +shall go to Geneva."</p> + +<p>"But, David, is not that very far?" she asked. "Where is it? Over in +Greece, or Turkey, or some of those places."</p> + +<p>"It is in Switzerland, Mrs. D. The tip-top quality go to it, and I mean +to go. It will cost a good deal, I know; but I can stand that."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">[24]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And how shall we manage to talk Swiss?"</p> + +<p>"There is no Swiss," answered Mr. Dundyke. "The language spoke there is +French; the guide-book says so."</p> + +<p>"It will be the same to us, David," she mildly said; "we cannot speak +French."</p> + +<p>"I know that 'we' means 'yes,' and 'no' means 'no.' We shall rub on well +enough with that. So get all my stockings and shirts seen to, Betsey, +and your own things; for the day after to-morrow I shall be off."</p> + +<p>His wife looked up, not believing in the haste. But it proved true, +nevertheless; for Mr. Dundyke had a motive in it. On the morning but one +after, an excursion opposition steamer was advertised to start for +Boulogne—fares, half-a-crown; return-tickets, four shillings. Of course +David Dundyke could not let so favourable an opportunity slip; he still +saved where he could.</p> + +<p>Accordingly, on the said morning, which was very squally, they found +themselves on the crowded boat. Such a sight! such a motley freight! +Half London, as it seemed, had been attracted by the cheapness; but it +was by no means a fashionable assemblage, nor yet a refined one.</p> + +<p>"I hear somebody saying we shall have it rough, David," whispered Mrs. +Dundyke, as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">[25]</a></span> sat side by side, and the vessel passed Greenwich. "I +hope we shall not be sea-sick."</p> + +<p>"Pooh! sea-sick! we shan't be sea-sick!" imperiously cried the sheriff +in prospective, as he turned his ring, now assumed for good, to the +front of all beholders. "I don't believe in sea-sickness for my part. We +did not feel sick when we went to Gravesend; you remember that, don't +you, Betsey? It is more brag than anything else with people, talking +about sea-sickness, that's my belief; a genteel way of letting out that +they can afford to be travellers."</p> + +<p>Excepting that one trip to Gravesend, of which he spoke, neither he nor +his wife had ever been on the water in their lives. Neither of them had +seen the sea. They had possessed really no inclination to stir from +home; and <i>saving</i> had been, the ruling motive in David Dundyke's life.</p> + +<p>The steamer went on. The river itself growing rough at Gravesend, the +dead-lights were put in; and as they got nearer to the sea, the wind was +freshening to a gale. Oh, the good steamer! will she ever live through +it? The unbelieving common-councilman, to his horror and dismay, found +sea-sickness was not a <i>brag</i>. He lay on the floor of the cabin, +groaning, and moaning, and bewailing his ill fate in having come to sea.</p> + +<p>"Heaven forgive me for having thought of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">[26]</a></span> foreign tour! Steward! He +stops up with them outsiders on deck! Heavens! Steward! Call him, +somebody! Tell him it's for a common-councilman!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke was in the ladies' cabin—very ill, but very quiet. A +dandy-looking man, impervious to the miseries of the passage, who had +nothing to do but gape and yawn, took a sudden look in, by way of +gratifying his curiosity, and, having done so, withdrew again—not, +however, before one of the lady passengers had marked him. She took him +for the captain.</p> + +<p>"Capting! capting!" she called out; "if you please is that the capting?"</p> + +<p>"Which?—where?" asked the steward's boy, to whom the question was +addressed, turning round with a glass of brandy-and-water in his hand, +which he was presenting to another lady, groaning up aloft in a berth.</p> + +<p>"He came in at the door; he have got on tan kid gloves and shiny boots."</p> + +<p>"<i>That</i> the captain!" cried the boy, gratified beyond everything at the +lady's notion of a captain's rigging. "No, ma'am, he's up on deck."</p> + +<p>"Just call the captain here, will you?" resumed the lady; "I know we are +going down. I'm never ill aboard these horrid boats; but I'm worse, I'm +dreadful timid."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">[27]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There ain't no danger, ma'am," said the boy.</p> + +<p>"I know there <i>is</i> danger, and I know we are a going to be emerged to +the bottom. If you'll call the capting down here, boy, I'll give you +sixpence; and if you don't call him, I'll have you punished for +insolence."</p> + +<p>"Call him directly, ma'am," said the boy, rushing off with alacrity.</p> + +<p>"I am the captain," exclaimed a rough voice, proceeding from a rough +head, poking itself down the companion ladder; "what's wanted of me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! capting, we are going to the fishes fast! and some of us is dead of +fright already. The vessel'll be in pieces presently! see how she rolls +and pitches! and there's the sea dashing over the decks and against them +boards at the windows, such as I never heard it; and all that awful +crashing and cording, what is it?"</p> + +<p>"There ain't no danger," shortly answered the commander, mentally vowing +to punch the boy's head for calling him for nothing.</p> + +<p>"Can't you put back, and land us somewhere, or take us into smooth +water?" implored the petitioner; "we'd subscribe for a reward for you, +capting, sir."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, yes," echoed a faint chorus of voices; "any reward."</p> + +<p>"There's no danger whatever, I tell ye, ladies,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">[28]</a></span> repeated the +exasperated captain. "When we've got round this bit of headland, we +shall have the wind at our starn, and go ahead as if the dickens druv +us."</p> + +<p>With this consolatory information, the rough head turned round and +vanished. The grinning boy came out of a corner where he had hid +himself, and appealed to the lady for his promised sixpence.</p> + +<p>"I know we are going down!" she cried, as she fumbled in her bag for +one. "That capting ought to lose his place for saying there's no danger; +to me it's apparent to be seen. If he'd any humanity in him, he'd put +back and land us somewhere, if 'twas only on the naked shore. Good +mercy! what a lurch!—and now we're going to t'other side. No danger +indeed! And all my valuable luggage aboard: my silk gownds, and my +shawls, and my new lace mantle! Good gracious, ma'am, don't pitch out of +your berth! you'll fall atop of me. Can't you hold on? What were hands +made for?"</p> + +<p>Some hours more yet, and then the steward, who had been whisking and +whirling like one possessed, now on deck, now in the cabins, and now in +his own especial sanctum, amid his tin jugs and his broken crockery, +came whirling in once more to the large cabin, and said they were at the +mouth of Boulogne harbour. "Just one pitch more, ladies and +gentlemen—there it is—and now we are in the port, safe and sound."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">[29]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't talk to me about being in," cried poor Mr. Dundyke, from his +place on the floor, not quite sure yet whether he was dead or alive, but +rather believing he'd prefer to be the former. "Please don't step upon +me, anybody. I couldn't stir yet."</p> + +<p>All minor disasters of the journey overcome, the travellers reached +Paris in safety. So far, Mr. Dundyke had found no occasion to rub on +with his "we" and "no," for he encountered very few people who were not +able to speak, or at least understand, a little English. But when they +quitted Paris—and they remained in it but two days—then their +difficulties commenced; and many were the distresses, and furious the +fits of anger, of the common-councilman. It pleased Mr. Dundyke to +travel by diligence on cross-country roads, rather than take the rail to +Lyons—of which rail, and of all rails, he had a sort of superstitious +dread—but this he found easy to do, though it caused him to be somewhat +longer on the road. Here his tongue was at fault. He wanted to know the +names of the towns and villages they passed through, the meaning of any +puzzling object of wonder he saw on his way, and he could not ask; or, +rather, he did ask repeatedly, but the answers conveyed to his ears only +an unmeaning sound. It vexed him excessively.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">[30]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't think they understand you, David," Mrs. Dundyke said to him one +day.</p> + +<p>"And how should they understand, speaking nothing but heathen +gibberish?" he returned. "It's enough to make a saint swear."</p> + +<p>Another source of annoyance was the living. Those who have travelled by +diligence in the more remote parts of France, and sat down to the +tables-d'hôte at the road-side inns where the diligence halted, and +remember the scrambling haste observed, may imagine the distresses of +Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke. In common with their countrymen in general, they +partook strongly of the national horror of frog-eating, and also of the +national conviction that that delicate animal furnished the component +parts of at least every second dish served up in France: so that it was +little short of martyrdom to be planted down to a dinner, where half the +dishes, for all the information they gave to the eye, might be composed +of frogs, or something equally obnoxious. There would be the bouilli +first, but Mr. Dundyke, try as he would, could not swallow it, although +he had once dined on red-herrings; and there would be a couple of skinny +chickens, drying on a dish of watercress, but before <i>he</i> could hope, in +his English deliberation, to get at them, they were snapped up and +devoured. Few men liked good living better than David Dundyke,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">[31]</a></span>—how +else would he have been fit to become one of the renowned metropolitan +body-corporate?—and when it was to be had at anybody else's cost, none +enjoyed it more. At these tables-d'hôte, eat or not eat, he had to pay, +and bitter and frequent were the heartburnings at throwing away his good +money, yet rising up with an empty stomach. Not a tenth part of the +cravings of hunger did he and his wife ever satisfy at these miserable +tables-d'hôte. The very idea of but the minutest portion of a frog's leg +going into their mouths, was more repulsive to their minds than that +shuddering reminiscence of the steam-packet; and, what with this dread, +and their inability to ask questions, Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke were nearly +starved.</p> + +<p>One day in particular it was very sad. They had halted at an inn in a +good-sized town, not very far distant from Lyons. While the soup and +bouilli were being devoured, the two unfortunates <a name="eat1" id="eat1"></a><ins title="Original has eat">ate</ins> a stray radish or +two, when up bustled the waiter with a funny-looking dish, its contents +wonderfully like what a roast-beef eater might suppose cooked frogs to +be, and presented it to Mr. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"What's this?" inquired Mr. Dundyke, delicately adventuring the tip of a +fork towards the suspicious-looking compound, by way of indicating the +nature of his question.</p> + +<p>"Plait-il, monsieur?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">[32]</a></span></p> + +<p>"This, <i>this</i>," rapping the edge of the dish with the fork; "what is it +made of? what do you call it?"</p> + +<p>"Une fricassée de petits pigeons, à l'oseille, monsieur," replied the +discerning waiter.</p> + +<p>Poor Mr. Dundyke pushed the dish away from him with a groan. "Une +fricassée de petits pigeons, à l'oseille" in French, might be "Stewed +frogs" in English.</p> + +<p>"What was all that green mess in the dish?" asked his wife.</p> + +<p>"The saints know," groaned the common-councilman. "Perhaps it's the +fashion here to cook frogs in their own rushes."</p> + +<p>Up came the waiter with another dish, that attentive functionary +observing that the Monsieur Anglais <a name="eat2" id="eat2"></a><ins title="Original has eat">ate</ins> nothing. A solid piece of meat, +with little white ends sticking out of it, rising out of another bed of +green. "Oseille" is much favoured in these parts of France.</p> + +<p>"Whatever's this?" ejaculated the common-councilman, eyeing the dish +with wondering suspicion. "It's as much like a porkipine as anything I +ever saw. What d'ye call it?" rapping the edge of the dish as before.</p> + +<p>"Foie-de-veau lardé, à l'oseille, monsieur."</p> + +<p>The common-councilman was as wise as before, and sat staring at it.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">[33]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It can't be frogs, David, this can't," suggested Mrs. Dundyke, "it is +too large and solid; and I don't think it's any foreign animal. It looks +to me like veal. Veal, waiter?" she asked, appealingly.</p> + +<p>"Oui, madame," was the answer, at a venture.</p> + +<p>"And the green stuff round it is spinach, of course. Veal and spinach, +my dear."</p> + +<p>"That's good, that is, veal and spinach. I'll try it," said Mr. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>He helped himself plentifully, and, pushing the dish to his wife, +voraciously took the first mouthful, for he was fearfully hungry.</p> + +<p>It was a rash proceeding. What in the world had he got hold of! Veal and +spinach!—Heaven protect him from poison! It was some horrible, soft +compound, sharp and sour; it turned him sick at once, and set his teeth +on edge. He became very pale, and called faintly for the waiter.</p> + +<p>But the garçon had long ago whisked off to other parts of the room, and +there was Mr. Dundyke obliged to sit with that nauseous mystery +underneath his very nose.</p> + +<p>"Waiter!" he roared out at length, with all the outraged dignity of a +common-councilman, "I say, waiter! For the love of goodness take this +away: it's only fit for pigs. There's a dish there, with two little +ducks upon it, and some carrots round 'em—French ducks I suppose they +are: an English<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">[34]</a></span>man might shut up shop if <i>he</i> placed such on his table. +Bring it here."</p> + +<p>"Plait-il, monsieur?"</p> + +<p>"Them ducks—there—at the top, by the pickled cowcumbers. I'll take +one."</p> + +<p>The waiter ranged his perplexed eyes round and round the table. "Pardon, +monsieur, plait-il?"</p> + +<p>"I think you are an idiot, I do!" roared out Mr. Dundyke, unable to keep +both his hunger and his temper. "That dish of ducks, I said, and it is +being seized upon! They are tearing them to pieces! they are gone! Good +Heavens! are we to famish like this?"</p> + +<p>The waiter, in despair, laid hold of a slice of melon in one hand and +the salt and pepper in the other, and presented them.</p> + +<p>"The man <i>is</i> an idiot!" decided the exasperated Englishman. "What does +he mean by offering me melon for dinner, and salt and pepper to season +it?—that's like their putting sugar to their peas! I want something +that I can eat," he cried, piteously.</p> + +<p>"Qu'est-ce que c'est que je peux vous offrir, monsieur?" asked the +agonized garçon.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see we want something to eat," retorted the gentleman; "this +lady and myself? We can't touch any of the trash on the table. Get us +some mutton chops cooked."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">[35]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Pardon, monsieur, plait-il?"</p> + +<p>"Some—mut—ton—chops," repeated the common-councilman, very +deliberately, thinking that the slower he spoke, the better he should be +understood. "And let 'em look sharp about it."</p> + +<p>The waiter sighed and shrugged, and, after pushing the bread and butter +and young onions within reach, moved away, giving up the matter as a +hopeless job.</p> + +<p>"Let's peg away at this till the chops come," cried Mr. Dundyke. And in +the fallacious hope that the chops <i>were</i> coming, did the unconscious +couple "peg" away till the driver clacked his long whip, and summoned +his passengers to resume their seats in the diligence.</p> + +<p>"I have had nothing to eat," screamed Mr. Dundyke. "They are doing me +some mutton chops. I can't go yet."</p> + +<p>"Deux diners, quatre francs, une bouteille de vin, trente sous," said +the waiter in Mr. Dundyke's ear. "Fait cinq francs, cinquante, +monsieur."</p> + +<p>"Fetch my mutton chops," he implored; "we can't go without them: we can +eat them in the diligence."</p> + +<p>"Allons! dépêchons-nous, messieurs et dames," interrupted the conductor, +looking in, impatiently. "Prenez vos places. Nous sommes en retard."</p> + +<p>"They are swindlers, every soul of them, in this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">[36]</a></span> country," raved the +common-councilman, passionately throwing down the money, when he could +be made to comprehend its amount, and that there were no chops to come. +"How dare you be so dishonest as charge for dinners we don't eat."</p> + +<p>"I am faint now for the want of something," bewailed poor Mrs. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"If ever I am caught out of Old England again," he sobbed, climbing to +his place in the diligence, "I'll give 'em leave to make a Frenchman of +me, that's all."</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">[37]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_iii" id="chapter_iii">CHAPTER III.</a><br /><small>A MEETING AT GRENOBLE.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>They arrived at Lyons; but here Mr. Dundyke's total ignorance of the +language led him into innumerable misapprehensions and mishaps, not the +least of which was his going from Lyons to Grenoble, thinking all the +time that he was on the shortest and most direct road to Switzerland. +This was in consequence of his rubbing on with "we" and "no." They had +arrived at Lyons late in the evening, and after a night's rest, Mr. +Dundyke found his way to the coach-office, to take places on to +Switzerland. There happened to be standing before the office door a huge +diligence, with the word "Grenoble" painted on it.</p> + +<p>"I want to engage a place in a diligence; two places; direct for +Switzerland," began Mr. Dundyke; "in a diligence like that," pointing to +the great machine.</p> + +<p>"You spoke French, von littel, sare?" asked the clerk, who could himself +speak a very little imperfect English.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">[38]</a></span></p> + +<p>"We," cried Mr. Dundyke, eagerly, not choosing to betray his ignorance.</p> + +<p>Accordingly, the official proceeded to jabber on in French, and Mr. +Dundyke answered at intervals of hazard "we" and "no."</p> + +<p>"Vous désirez aller à Grenoble, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?" remarked the +clerk.</p> + +<p>"We," cried out Mr. Dundyke at random.</p> + +<p>"Combien de places, monsieur?"</p> + +<p>"We," repeated the gentleman again.</p> + +<p>"I do demande of the monsieur how few of place?" said the official, +suspecting his French was not understood quite so well as it might be.</p> + +<p>"Two places for Switzerland," answered Mr. Dundyke. "I'm going on to +Geneva, in a diligence like that."</p> + +<p>"C'est ça. The monsieur desire to go to Gren-haub; et encore jusqu'à +Genève—on to Geneva."</p> + +<p>"We," rapturously responded the common-councilman.</p> + +<p>"I do comprends. Two place in the Gren-haub diligence. Vill the monsieur +go by dat von?" pointing to the one at the door. "She do go in de half +hour."</p> + +<p>"Not that one," retorted Mr. Dundyke, impatient at the clerk's obscure +English. "I said in one like that, later."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sare, I comprends now. You would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">[39]</a></span> partir by anoder von like her, +the next one that parts. Vill you dat I retienne two place for +Gren-haub?"</p> + +<p>"We, we," responded Mr. Dundyke. "Two places. My wife's with me, Mrs. +D.: I'm a common-councilman, sir, at home. Two places for Gren-haub. +Corner ones, mind: in the interior."</p> + +<p>"C'est bien, monsieur. She goes à six of de hours."</p> + +<p>"She! Who?"</p> + +<p>"The diligence, I do say."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said the common-councilman to himself, "they call coaches 'she's' +in this country. I wonder what they call women. Six hours you say we +shall take going."</p> + +<p>"Oui, monsieur," answered the clerk, without quite understanding the +question, "il faut venir à six heures."</p> + +<p>"And when does it start?"</p> + +<p>"What you ask, sare?"</p> + +<p>"<i>She</i>—the diligence—at what o'clock does it start for Gren-haub?"</p> + +<p>"I do tell de sare at de six of de hours dis evening."</p> + +<p>"We'll be here a quarter afore it then: never was late for anything in +my life. Gren-haub's a little place, I suppose, sir, as it's not in my +guide-book?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">[40]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Comme ça," said the clerk, shrugging his shoulders. "She's not von +Lyon."</p> + +<p>"Who's she?" exclaimed the bewildered Mr. Dundyke; "who's not a lion?"</p> + +<p>"Gren-haub, sare. I thought you did ask about her."</p> + +<p>"The asses that these French make of themselves when they attempt to +converse in English!" ejaculated the common-councilman. "Who's to +understand him?"</p> + +<p>He turned away, and went back to the hotel in glee, dreadfully +unconscious that he had booked himself for Grenoble, and imagining that +Gren-haub (as the word Grenoble in the Frenchman's mouth sounded to his +English ears) must be the first town on the Swiss frontiers. "It's an +awkward hour, though, to get in at," he deliberated: "six hours, that +fellow said we should be, going: that will make it twelve at night when +we get to the place. Things are absurdly managed in this country." This +was another mistake of his: the anticipated six hours necessary, as he +fancied, to convey him from Lyons to "Gren-haub," would prove at least +sixteen.</p> + +<p>At the appointed hour Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke took their seats in the +diligence, which began its journey and went merrily on; at least as +merrily as <a name="ainserted" id="ainserted"></a><ins title="Original has no 'a' but has a blank space in its place">a</ins> French diligence, of the average weight and size,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">[41]</a></span> can be +expected to go. Mr. Dundyke was merry, too, for him; for he had +fortified himself with a famous dinner before starting: none of your +frogs and rushes and "oseille," but rosbif saignant, and pommes de terre +au naturel, specially ordered. Both the travellers had done it ample +justice, and seasoned it with some hot brandy-and-water; Mr. Dundyke +taking two glasses and making his wife take one. Therefore it was not +surprising that both should sink, about nine o'clock, into a sound +sleep. They had that compartment of the coach, called the intérieur, to +themselves, and could recline almost at full length; and so comfortable +were they, that all the various changing of horses and clackings of the +whip failed to arouse them.</p> + +<p>Not until six o'clock in the morning did Mr. Dundyke open his eyes, and +then only partially. He was in the midst of the most delicious +dream—riding in that coveted coach, all gilt and gingerbread, on a +certain 9th of November to come, moving in stately dignity through +Cheapside, amidst the plaudits of little boys, the crowding of windows, +and the arduous exertions of policemen to preserve order in the admiring +mob; sitting with the mace and sword-bearer beside him, <i>his</i> mace and +sword-bearer! Mr. Dundyke had been pleased that his sleep, with such a +dream, had lasted for ever, and he unwillingly aroused himself to +reality.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">[42]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was broad daylight; the sun was shining with all the glorious beauty +of a summer morning, shining right into the diligence, and roasting the +face of the common-councilman. He rubbed his eyes and wondered where he +was. Recollection began to whisper that when he had gone to sleep the +previous evening it was dusk, and that ere that dusk had well subsided +into the darkness of midnight he had expected to be at his destination, +"Gren-haub;" whereas—was he asleep still, and dreaming it?—or was it +really morning, and he still in the diligence?—or had some unexampled +phenomenon of nature caused the sun to shine out at midnight? <span class="smcap">What</span> was +it? In the greatest perturbation he tore his watch from his pocket, and +found it was five minutes past six; but he knew that he was rather +slower than French time.</p> + +<p>A fine hubbub ensued. Mr. Dundyke startled his wife up in such a fright, +that he nearly sent her into fits: he roared out to the coachman, he +called for the conductor: he shook the doors, he knocked at the windows: +he caused the utmost consternation amongst the quiet passengers in the +rotonde and banquette, and woke up a deaf old gentleman in the coupé, +who all thought he had gone suddenly mad. The diligence was stopped in +haste, and out of the door rushed Mr. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"Where were they taking him to? Why had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">[43]</a></span> they not left him at Gren-haub? +Did they know he was a common-councilman of the great city of London, a +brother of the Lord Mayor and aldermen? How dared they run away with him +and his wife in that style? <i>Where</i> were they carrying him to? Were they +going to smuggle him off to Turkey or any of them heathen places to sell +him for a slave? They must turn round forthwith, and drive him back to +Gren-haub."</p> + +<p>All this, and a great deal more of it, delivered in the English tongue +and interspersed with not a few English expletives, was as Greek to the +astonished lookers-on; and when they had sufficiently exercised their +curiosity and stared at the enraged speaker, standing there without his +hat, stamping his feet in the dust, and gesticulating more like a +Frenchman than a stout specimen of John Bull, they all let loose their +tongues together, in a jargon equally incomprehensible to the distressed +Englishman. In vain did Mr. Dundyke urge their return to "Gren-haub," +now with angry fury, now with tears, now with promises of reward; in +vain the other side demanded to know what was the matter, and tried to +coax him into the diligence. Not a word could one party understand of +the other.</p> + +<p>"Montez, monsieur; montez, mon pauvre monsieur. Dieu! qu'est-ce qu'il a? +Montez, donc!"</p> + +<p>Not a bit of it. Mr. Dundyke would not have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">[44]</a></span> mounted till now, save by +main force. It took the conductor and three passengers to push and +condole him in; and indeed they never would have accomplished it, but +for the sudden dread that flashed over his mind of what would become of +him if he were left there in the road, hatless, hopeless, and +Frenchless, while his wife and his luggage and the diligence went on to +unknown regions. Some of those passengers, if you could come across them +now, would give you a dolorous history of the pauvre monsieur Anglais +who went raving mad one summer's morning in the diligence.</p> + +<p>There was little haste or punctuality in those old days of French +posting—driver, conductor, passengers, and horses all liking to take +their own leisure; and it was not far off twelve o'clock at noon, six +hours after the morning's incomprehensible scene, and eighteen from the +time of departure from Lyons, that the lazy old diligence reached its +destination, and Mr. Dundyke discovered that he was in Grenoble. How he +would ever have found his way out of it, and on the road to Switzerland, +must be a question, had not an Englishman, a young man, apparently in +delicate health, who was sojourning in the town, fortunately chanced to +be in the diligence yard, and heard Mr. Dundyke's fruitless exclamations +and appeals, as he alighted.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">[45]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Can I do anything for you?" asked the stranger, stepping forward. "I +perceive we are countrymen."</p> + +<p>Overjoyed at hearing once more his own language, the unhappy traveller +seized the Englishman's hand with a rush of delight, and explained the +prolonged torture he had gone through, and the doubt and dilemma he was +still in—at least as well as he could explain what was to him still a +mystery. "The savages cannot understand me," he concluded politely, "and +of course I cannot be expected to understand them."</p> + +<p>Neither could the stranger understand just at first; but with the +conductor's tale on one side and Mr. Dundyke's on the other, he made out +the difficulty, and set things straight for him, and went with him to +the diligence office. No coach started for Chambéry, by which route they +must now proceed, till the next morning at nine, so the stranger took +two places for them in that.</p> + +<p>"I'm under eternal obligations to you, sir," exclaimed the relieved +traveller, "and if ever I should have it in my power to repay you, be +sure you count on me. It's a common-councilman, sir, that you have +assisted; that's what I am at home, and I'm going on to be Lord Mayor. +You shall have a card for my inauguration dinner, sir, if you are within +fifty miles of me. You will tell me your name, and where you live?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">[46]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My name is Robert Carr," said the stranger. "I am a clergyman. I am +from Holland."</p> + +<p>The name struck on a chord of Mrs. Dundyke's memory. It took her back to +the time when she was Betsey Travice, and on a certain visit at +Westerbury. Though not in the habit of putting herself forward when in +her husband's company, she turned impulsively to the stranger now.</p> + +<p>"Have you relations at Westerbury, sir? Was your mother's name Hughes?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, looking very much surprised. "Both my father and mother +were from Westerbury. I have a grandfather, I believe, living there +still. My mother is dead."</p> + +<p>"How very strange!" she exclaimed. "Can you come in this evening to us +at the hotel for half-an-hour?"</p> + +<p>"I would, with pleasure, but I leave Grenoble this afternoon," was the +young clergyman's answer. "Can I do anything for you in London?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said Mrs. Dundyke. "But my husband has given you our address; +and if you will call and see us when we get home——"</p> + +<p>"And you'll meet with a hearty welcome, sir," interrupted the +common-councilman, shaking his hand heartily. "I'm more indebted to you +this day than I care to speak."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke watched him out of the yard. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">[47]</a></span> might be about +four-and-twenty; and was of middle height and slightly made, and he +walked away coughing, with his hand upon his chest.</p> + +<p>"David," she said to her husband, "I do think he must be a relative of +yours! The Hughes's of Westerbury were related in some way to your +mother."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I don't know," said David Dundyke. "I think I have heard her +talk about them, but I am not sure. Any way I'm obliged to <i>him</i>; and +mind, Betsey, if he does come to see us in London, I'll give him a right +good dinner."</p> + +<p>Ah, how little! how little do we foresee even a week or two before us! +Never in this world would those two meet again.</p> + +<p>And Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke proceeded under convoy to the Hôtel des Trois +Dauphins, and made themselves as comfortable for the night as +circumstances and the stinging gnats permitted.</p> + +<p>Arriving at Geneva without further let or hindrance, David Dundyke, +Esquire, and his wife, put up at the Hôtel des Bergues. And on the +morning afterwards, when Mrs. Dundyke had dressed herself and looked +about her, she felt like a fish out of water. The size of the hotel, the +style pervading it, the inmates she caught chance glimpses of in the +corridors, were all so different from anything poor humble Betsey +Dundyke had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">[48]</a></span> brought into contact with, that she began to feel her +inferiority. And yet she looked like a lady, in her good and neat dress, +and her simple cap half covering her fair and still luxuriant hair. Her +face was red, tanned with the journey; but it was a pleasing and a nice +face yet to look upon.</p> + +<p>They descended to the great <i>salle</i> a little before ten. Many groups +were breakfasting there at the long tables; most of them English, as +might be heard by their snatches of quiet conversation. Some of them +possessed an air of distinction and refinement that bespoke their +standing in society. An English servant came in once and accosted his +master as "my lord;" and a plain little body in a black silk gown and +white net cap, was once spoken to as "Lady Jane." Mr. Dundyke had never, +to the best of his knowledge, been in a room with a lord before; had +never but once set eyes on a Lady Jane; and that was King Henry the +Eighth's wife in waxwork; and, alive to his own importance though the +common-councilman was, he felt unpleasantly out of place amidst them. In +spite of his ambition his nature was a modest one.</p> + +<p>Scarcely had he and his wife begun breakfast, when a lady and gentleman +came in and took the seats next to him. The stranger was a tall, dark, +rather handsome man; taller than Mr. Dundyke, who was by no means +undersized, and approaching<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">[49]</a></span> within three or four years to the same age. +But while the common councilman was beginning to get rather round and +puffy, just as an embryo alderman is expected to be, the stranger's form +was remarkable for wiry strength and muscle: in a tussle for life or +death, mark you, reader, the one would be a very child in the handling +of the other.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dundyke moved his chair a little to give more room, as they sat +down, and the gentleman acknowledged it with a slight bow of courtesy. +He spoke soon after.</p> + +<p>"If you are not using that newspaper, sir," pointing to one that lay +near Mr. Dundyke, "may I trouble you for it?"</p> + +<p>"No use to me, sir," said the common-councilman, passing the journal. "I +understand French pretty well when it's spoke, but am scarcely scholar +enough in the language to read it."</p> + +<p>"Ah, indeed," replied the stranger. "This, however, is German," he +continued, as he opened the paper.</p> + +<p>"Oh—well—they look sufficiently alike in print," observed the +common-councilman. "Slap-up hotel, this seems, sir."</p> + +<p>"Comfortable," returned the stranger, carelessly. "You are a recent +arrival, I think."</p> + +<p>"Got here last night, sir, by the diligence. We are travelling on +pleasure; taking a holiday."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">[50]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There's nothing like an occasional holiday, a temporary relaxation from +the cares of business," remarked the stranger, scanning covertly Mr. +Dundyke. "As I often say."</p> + +<p>"I am delighted to hear you say it, sir," exclaimed the +common-councilman, hastily assuming a fact, from the words, which +probably the speaker never thought to convey. "I am in business myself, +sir, and this is the first holiday from it I have ever took: I gather +that you are the same. Nothing so respectable as commercial pursuits: a +London merchant, sir, stands as a prince of the world."</p> + +<p>"Respectable and satisfactory both," joined in the stranger. "What +branch of commerce—if you don't deem me impertinent—may you happen to +pursue?"</p> + +<p>"I'm a partner in a wholesale tea-house, sir," cried Mr. Dundyke, +flourishing his hand and his ring for the stranger's benefit. "Our +establishment is one of the oldest and wealthiest in Fenchurch-street; +known all over the world, sir, and across the seas from here to Chinar. +And as respected as it is known."</p> + +<p>"Sir, allow me to shake hands with you," exclaimed the stranger, warmly. +"To be a member of such a house does you honour."</p> + +<p>"And I am a common-councilman," continued<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">[51]</a></span> Mr. Dundyke, his revelations +increasing with his satisfaction, "rising on fast to be a alderman and +Lord Mayor. No paltry dignity that, sir, to be chief magistrate of the +city of London, and ride to court in a gold and scarlet dress, and +broidered ruffles! I suspect we have got some lords round about us +here," dropping his voice to a still lower key, "but I'm blest, sir, if +I'd change my prospects with any of them. I'm to be put up for sheriff +in October."</p> + +<p>"Ah," said the stranger, casting his deep black eyes around, "young +scions with more debts than brains, long pedigrees and short purses, +dealers in post obits and the like—<i>they</i> can't be put in comparison +with a Lord Mayor of London."</p> + +<p>"And what line are you in, sir?" resumed the gratified Lord Mayor in +prospective. "From our great city, of course?"</p> + +<p>The stranger nodded, but, before he answered, he finished his second +<i>cotelette</i>, poured out some wine—for his breakfast disdained the more +effeminate luxuries of tea and coffee—popped a piece of ice in, and +drank it. "Have you heard of the house of Hardcastle and Co.?" he asked, +in a tone meant only for Mr. Dundyke's ear.</p> + +<p>"The East India merchants?" exclaimed the latter.</p> + +<p>The stranger nodded again.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">[52]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Of course I have heard of them: who has not? A firm of incalculable +influence, sir; could buy up half London. What of them?"</p> + +<p>"Do you know the partners personally?"</p> + +<p>"Never saw any of them in my life," replied Mr. Dundyke. "They are +top-sawyers, they are; a move or two above us city tea-folks. Perhaps +you have the honour of being a clerk in the house, sir?"</p> + +<p>"I am Mr. Hardcastle," observed the stranger, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Bless my soul, sir!" cried the startled Mr. Dundyke. "I'm sure I beg +pardon for my familiarity. But stop—eh—I thought——"</p> + +<p>"Thought what?" asked the stranger, for Mr. Dundyke came to a pause.</p> + +<p>"That Mr. Hardcastle was an old man. In fact, the impression on my mind +was, that he was something like seventy."</p> + +<p>"Pooh, my dear sir! your thoughts are running on my uncle. He has been +virtually out of the firm these ten years, though his name is still +retained as its head. He is just seventy. A hale, hearty man he is too, +and trots about the grounds of his mansion at Kensington as briskly as +one of his own gardeners. But not a word here of who I am," continued +the gentleman, pointing slightly round the room: "I am travelling +quietly, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">[53]</a></span> understand—<i>incog.</i>, if one may say so—travelling +without form or expense, in search of a little peace and quietness. I +have not a single attendant with me, nor has my wife her maid. Mrs. +Hardcastle," he said, leaning back, the better to introduce his wife.</p> + +<p>The lady bowed graciously to Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke, and the former, in +his flurry to acknowledge the condescension, managed to upset the +coffee-pot. Mrs. Dundyke saw a stylish woman of thirty—at least, if a +great deal of dress can constitute style. She had a handsome, but deadly +pale face, with bold eyes, black as her husband's.</p> + +<p>"I feel really glad to make your acquaintance," resumed Mr. Hardcastle. +"Standing aloof, as I have purposely done, from the persons of condition +staying in the hotel, I had begun to find it slow."</p> + +<p>"Sir, I am sure I'm greatly flattered," said Mr. Dundyke. "Have you been +long here, sir?"</p> + +<p>"About three weeks or a month," replied the gentleman, carelessly. "We +shall soon be thinking of going."</p> + +<p>Mr. Dundyke did indeed feel flattered, and with reason, for the firm in +question was of the very first consideration, and he was overwhelmed +with the honour vouchsafed him. "A Lord Mayor might be proud to know +him," he exclaimed to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">[54]</a></span> wife, when they got upstairs from the +breakfast. "I hope he'll give me his friendship when I am in the Chair."</p> + +<p>"I think they have the next room to ours," observed Mrs. Dundyke. "I saw +the lady standing at the door there this morning, when I was peeping +out, wondering which was the way down to breakfast. Is it not singular +they should be travelling in this quiet way, without any signs of their +wealth about them?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all singular," said the shrewd common-councilman. "They are so +overdone with grandeur at home, these rich merchants, with their +servants, and state, and ceremony, that it must be a positive relief to +get rid of it altogether for a time, and live like ordinary people. I +can understand the feeling very well."</p> + +<p>It was more than Mrs. Dundyke could; and though, from that morning, the +great merchant and his lady took pains to cultivate the intimacy thus +formed, she never took to them so cordially as her husband. He, if one +may use the old saying in such a sense, fell over head and ears in love +with both, but Mrs. Dundyke never could feel quite at home with either. +No doubt the sense of her own inferiority of position partly caused +this: <i>she</i> felt, if her husband did not, that they were no society, +even abroad, for the powerful Mr. and Mrs. Hard<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">[55]</a></span>castle. And, in her +inmost heart, she did not like the lady. Her attire was ten times as +costly and abundant as Mrs. Dundyke's, and she would wear more jewellery +at one time than the latter had ever seen in all her life; and that was +perhaps as it should be; but Mrs. Dundyke was apt to take likings and +dislikings, and she could not like this lady, try as she would. She was +certainly not a gentlewoman; and Mrs. Dundyke, with all her previous +life's disadvantages of position, was that at heart, and could +appreciate one. She decidedly wore rouge on her cheeks in an evening; +she was not choice in her expressions at all times; and she was fond of +wine, and did not object to brandy.</p> + +<p>One morning Mrs. Dundyke happened to be in Mrs. Hardcastle's room, when +the English waiter entered.</p> + +<p>"My master's compliments, madam," he said, "and he hopes Mr. Hardcastle +has some news for him this morning."</p> + +<p>The lady's face went crimson, the first time Mrs. Dundyke had seen any +natural colour on it, and she answered, in a haughty tone, that Mr. +Hardcastle was not then in—when he was, the man could speak with him.</p> + +<p>"For it is now a fortnight, madam, since he has daily promised to——"</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to do with it," interrupted Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">[56]</a></span> Hardcastle, +imperiously motioning the waiter from the room; "you must address +yourself to my husband."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke wondered what this little scene could mean. Had it been +people of less known wealth than the Hardcastles, she might have thought +it bore reference to the settlement—or non-settlement—of the bill. But +that could scarcely happen with them.</p> + +<p>"What are you thinking of, Betsey?" Mr. Dundyke asked her that same day, +she sat so deep in thought.</p> + +<p>"I was thinking of Mr. Hardcastle's eyes."</p> + +<p>"Of Mr. Hardcastle's eyes!" echoed the common-councilman.</p> + +<p>"Just then I was, David. The fact is, they puzzle me—they are always +puzzling me. I feel quite certain I have seen them somewhere, or eyes +exactly like them."</p> + +<p>"They are as handsome eyes as ever I saw," was the answer.</p> + +<p>"They may be handsome, but I don't like them. But that it is wrong to +say it, I could almost say I hate them. They frighten me, David."</p> + +<p>"That's just one of your foolish fancies," cried Mr. Dundyke, in wrath. +"You are always taking them up, you know."</p> + +<p>A day or two after this, Mr. Hardcastle came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">[57]</a></span> straight into the presence +of Mr. Dundyke, some papers in his hand. "My dear sir," he said, "I want +you to do me a favour."</p> + +<p>The common-councilman jumped up and placed a chair for the great man, +delighted at the prospect of doing <i>him</i> a favour.</p> + +<p>"I wrote home a few days ago for them to send me a letter of credit on +the bankers here. It came this morning, and just see what they have +done!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Hardcastle tossed, as he spoke, the letter of credit to Mr. Dundyke. +Now the latter, shrewd man of business though he was amid his own chests +of tea, knew very little of these foreign letters of credit, their +forms, or their appearance. All he could make out of the present one +was, that it was a sort of order to receive one hundred pounds.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see the error?" exclaimed Mr. Hardcastle. "They have made it +payable to my uncle, Stephen Hardcastle, instead of to me. <i>My</i> name's +not Stephen, so it would be perfectly useless for me to present it. How +the clerks came to make so foolish a mistake I cannot tell. Some one of +them I suppose, in the pressure of business, managed to give +unintelligible orders to the bankers, and so caused the error."</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" said Mr. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"Now I want to know if you can let me have this sum. I shall write +immediately to get the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">[58]</a></span> thing rectified, and if you can accommodate me +for a few days, until the needful comes, I will then repay you with many +thanks."</p> + +<p>"But, dear me, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Dundyke,—"not but what I should be +proud to do anything for you that I could, in my poor way—you don't +suppose I've got a hundred pound here? Nor the half! nor the quarter of +it!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Hardcastle carelessly smiled, and played with his glittering cable +watch-chain.</p> + +<p>"I should not like to offer you what I <i>have</i> got, sir," continued the +common-councilman, "but I am sure if you took it as no offence, and it +would be of any temporary use to you——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, thank you! No, it's not that," interrupted the great merchant. +"Less than the hundred pounds would not be worth the trouble of +borrowing. You have nothing like that sum, you say?"</p> + +<p>Out came Mr. Dundyke's purse and pocket-book. He counted over his store, +and found that, English and French money combined, he possessed +twenty-two pounds, eleven shillings. The twenty pounds, notes and gold, +he pushed towards Mr. Hardcastle, the odd money he returned to his +pocket. "You are quite welcome, sir, for a few days, if you will +condescend to make use of it."</p> + +<p>"I feel extremely obliged to you," said Mr. Hardcastle; "I am half +inclined to avail my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">[59]</a></span>self of your politeness. The fact is, Dundyke," he +continued, confidentially, "my wife has been spending money wholesale, +this last week—falling in love with a lot of useless jewellery, when +she has got a cartload of it at home. I let her have what money she +wanted, counting on my speedy remittances, and, upon my word, I am +nearly drained. I will write you an acknowledgment."</p> + +<p>"Oh no, no, sir, pray don't trouble to do that," cried the confiding +common-councilman, "your word would be your bond all over the world." +And Mr. Hardcastle laughed pleasantly, as he gathered up the money.</p> + +<p>"Can you let me have five francs, David," said Mrs. Dundyke, coming in +soon afterwards, when her husband was alone.</p> + +<p>"Five francs! What for?"</p> + +<p>"To pay our washing bill. It comes to four francs something; so far as I +can make out their French figures."</p> + +<p>"I don't know that you can have it, Mrs. D."</p> + +<p>"But why?" she inquired, meekly.</p> + +<p>"I have just lent most of my spare cash to Mr. Hardcastle. He received a +hundred pound this morning from England, but there was a stupid error in +the letter of credit, and he can't touch the money till the order has +been back home to be rectified."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">[60]</a></span></p> + +<p>The information set Mrs. Dundyke thinking. She had just returned from a +walk, and it was in coming up the stairs that a chambermaid had met her +and given her the washing-bill. Not being accustomed to French writing +and accounts, she could not readily puzzle it out, and, bill in hand, +had knocked at Mrs. Hardcastle's door, intending to crave that lady's +assistance. Mr. Hardcastle opened it only a little way.</p> + +<p>"Is Mrs. Hardcastle at leisure, if you please, sir?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"No; she's not in. I'll send her to you when she comes," was his reply, +as he re-closed the door. And yet Mrs. Dundyke was almost certain she +saw the tip of Mrs. Hardcastle's gown, as if she were sitting in the +room on the right, the door opening to the left. And she also saw +distinctly the person who had been once pointed out to her as the +landlord of the hotel. He was standing at the table, counting money—a +note or two, it looked, and a little gold. There was food in this to +employ Mrs. Dundyke's thoughts, now she knew, or supposed, that very +money was her husband's. A sudden doubt whether all was right—she +afterwards declared it many times—flashed across her mind. But it left +her as soon as thought: left her ashamed of doubting such people as the +Hardcastles, even for a moment. She remained thinking, though.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">[61]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I know these foreign posts are uncertain," she observed, arousing +herself, "and it will take, I suppose, eight or ten days before Mr. +Hardcastle's remittance can reach him. Suppose it should not come when +he expects, or that there should be another mistake in it?"</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"Why—as we cannot afford to remain on here an indefinite period, +waiting; at least, I suppose you would not like to do so, David; I was +thinking it might be better for you to write home for more money +yourself, and make certain."</p> + +<p>"Just leave me to manage my own business, Betsey, will you: I am +capable, I hope," was the common-councilman's ungracious answer. +Nevertheless, he adopted his wife's suggestion.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle continued all grace and smiles, pressing their +champagne upon Mr. Dundyke and his wife at dinner, and hiring carriages, +in which all the four drove out together. The common-councilman was +rapidly overcoming his repugnance to a table-d'hôte, but the sumptuous +one served in the hotel was very different from those he had been +frightened with on his journey, and in the third week of his stay his +wife had to let out all his waistcoats. The little excursions in the +country he cared less for. The lovely country about Geneva was driven<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">[62]</a></span> +over again and again: Ferney, Coppet, the houses of Madame de Staël and +Voltaire, all were visited, not much, it is to be feared, to the +edification of the common-councilman. Thus three weeks from the time of +their first arrival, passed rapidly away, and Mr. Dundyke and his wife +felt they could not afford the time to linger longer in Geneva. They now +only waited for the repayment of the twenty pounds from Mr. Hardcastle, +and, strange to say, that gentleman's money did not arrive. <i>He</i> could +not account for it, and gave vent to a few lordly explosions each +morning that the post came in and brought him no advice of it.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what it is!" he suddenly observed one morning—"I'll lay +a thousand pounds to a shilling they have misunderstood my instructions, +and have sent the money on to Genoa, whither we are bound after leaving +here!"</p> + +<p>"What a disaster!" uttered Mr. Dundyke. "Will the money be lost, sir?"</p> + +<p>"No fear of that: nobody can touch it but myself. But look at the +inconvenience it is causing, keeping me here! And you also!"</p> + +<p>"I cannot remain longer," said Mr. Dundyke; "my time is up, and I may +not exceed it. You can give me an order to receive the 20<i>l.</i> in London, +sir: it will be all the same."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But, my good fellow, how will you provide for the expenses of your +journey to London?"</p> + +<p>"I have managed that, sir," said the common-councilman. "I wrote home +for thirty pounds."</p> + +<p>"And is it come?" asked Mr. Hardcastle, turning his eye full upon the +common-councilman with the startling rapidity of a flash of lightning. +Mrs. Dundyke noticed, with astonishment, the look and the eager gesture: +neither ever faded from her recollection.</p> + +<p>"They came this morning," said the common-councilman. "I have them both +safe here," touching the breast-pocket of his coat. "They were in them +letters you saw me receive."</p> + +<p>On rising from breakfast, Mr. Dundyke strolled out of the hotel, and +found himself on the borders of the lake. The day was fearfully hot, and +he began to think a row might be pleasant. A boat and two men were at +hand, waiting to be hired, and he proceeded to haggle about the price, +for one of the boatmen spoke English.</p> + +<p>"I have spent a deal of money since I have been here, one way or +another," he soliloquized, "and the bill I expect will be awful. But it +<a name="wont" id="wont"></a><ins title="Original has wont">won't</ins> be much addition, this row—as good be hung for a sheep as a +lamb—so here goes."</p> + +<p>He stepped into the boat, anticipating an hour's enjoyment. A short +while after this, Mrs. Hardcastle, accompanied<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">[64]</a></span> +by Mrs. Dundyke, came on +to Rousseau's Island. Mr. Dundyke was not so far off then, but that his +wife recognised him. Mr. Hardcastle was the next to come up.</p> + +<p>"What are you looking at? Why, who's that in a boat there? Surely not +Dundyke! Give me the glass."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is," said Mrs. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"Where in the name of wonder is he off to, this melting day? To drown +himself?"</p> + +<p>The ladies laughed.</p> + +<p>"Ah! I see; he can't stand it. The men are bearing off to the +side—going to land him there. They had better put back."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke sat down underneath the poplar trees, spreading a large +umbrella over her head, and took out her work. Mrs. Hardcastle was never +seen to do any work, but she seated herself under the shade of the +umbrella; and the gentleman, leaving them to themselves, walked back +again over the suspension bridge.</p> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">[65]</a></span></p> +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_iv" id="chapter_iv">CHAPTER IV.</a><br /><small>A MYSTERY.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>Which of the three wore the deepest tint, the darkest blue—the skies, +the hills, or the lake? Each was of a different shade, but all were blue +and beautiful; and on all lay the aspect of complete repose. The two +ladies, in that little garden near the Hôtel des Bergues, Rousseau's +Island, as it is called, and which you who have sojourned in Geneva +remember well, looking out over the lake at the solitary boat bearing +away towards the right, noticed that no other object broke the +prospect's stillness. It was scarcely a day for a row on Geneva's lake. +Not a breath of air arose to counteract the vivid heat of the August +sun; hot and shadeless he poured forth his overpowering blaze; and, +lovely as the lake is, favoured by nature and renowned in poetry, it was +more lovely that day to look at than to glide upon.</p> + +<p>So thought the gentleman in that solitary boat, our friend Mr. David +Dundyke—or, let us give<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">[66]</a></span> him the title he had of late aspired to, David +Dundyke, Esquire. He felt, to use his own words, "piping hot;" he sat on +one side of the boat, and the sun burnt his back; he changed to the +other, and it blistered his face; he tried the stern, and the sun seemed +to be all round him. He looked up at the Jura, with a vain longing that +they might be transported from their site to where they could screen him +from his hot tormentor: he turned and gazed at the Alps, and wished he +could see on them a shady place, and that he was in it; but, wherever he +looked and turned, the sun seemed to blind and to scorch him. Some +people, clayey mortals though the best of us are, might have found +poetry, or food for it, in all that lay around; but David Dundyke had no +poetry in his heart, still less in his head. He glanced, with listless, +half-shut eyes, at the two men who were rowing him along; and began to +wonder how any men could be induced to row, that burning day, even to +obtain a portion of the world's idol—money. David Dundyke cared not, +not he, for the scenery around; he never cared for anything in his life +that was not substantial and tangible. What was the common scenery of +nature to him, since it could not add to his wealth or enhance his +importance?—and that was all the matter at <i>his</i> heart. He had never +looked at it all the way from London to Geneva; he did not look<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">[67]</a></span> at that +around him now. Geneva itself, its lovely surrounding villas, its +picturesque lake, the glorious chain of mountains on either side, even +Mont Blanc in the distance, were as nothing to him. For some days after +his arrival at Geneva, the mountain had remained obstinately enshrouded +in clouds; but one evening that he and his wife were walking outside the +town with Mr. Hardcastle, it was pointed out to him, standing proudly +forth in all its beauty; and he had stared at it with just as much +interest as he would have done at the hill in Greenwich Park covered +with snow. He had seen the lovely colour, the dark, brilliant blue of +the Rhone's waters, as they escaped from the lake to mingle with those +of the thick, turbulent Arve; and he did not care to notice the contrast +in the streams. There were no associations in his mind connected with +that fair azure lake, whence coursed the one; he had no curiosity as to +the never-changing glaciers that were the source of the other.</p> + +<p>But, had Mr. Dundyke's soul been wholly given up to poetry and +sentiment, it would have been lost that day in the overpowering heat. He +bore it as long as he could, and then suddenly told the men to bear to +the right and put him on shore. This movement had been observed by Mr. +Hardcastle, from the little island, as you may remember. The men, not +sorry perhaps to be off the lake them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">[68]</a></span>selves, inured though they were to +Geneva's August sun, made speedily for a shady place, and landed him.</p> + +<p>"Ah! this is pleasant," exclaimed Mr. Dundyke, throwing himself at full +length on the cool and shady grass. "It is quite Heaven, this is, after +that horrid burning lake." The two boatmen laid on their oars and +rested.</p> + +<p>"How thirsty it has made me!" he resumed, "I could drink the lake dry. +What a luxury some iced wine would be now! And ice is so cheap and +plentiful up at the hotel yonder. Suppose I send the boat back for Mr. +Hardcastle, and the two women? And tell 'em it's Paradise, sitting here, +in comparison with the hot hotel; and drop in a hint about the iced +wine? He will be sure to take it, and be glad of the excuse. The women +would find it rather of the ratherest for heat, coming across the lake, +but charming when they got here. 'Tain't far, and their complexions are +not of the spoiling sort. Mrs. D.'s ain't of no particular colour at all +just now, except red; and t'other's is like chalk. Oh! let 'em risk it."</p> + +<p>Taking out his silver pencil-case (as the men deposed to subsequently) +he tore a leaf from his pocket-book, scribbled a few lines on it, and +folding it, directed it to —— Hardcastle, Esquire: and it had never +occurred to Mr. Dundyke until that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">[69]</a></span> moment, and the fact struck him as a +singular one, that he was ignorant of —— Hardcastle, Esquire's +<a name="christian" id="christian"></a><ins title="Original has christian">Christian</ins> name. The men received the note and their orders, and then +prepared to push off.</p> + +<p>"We com back when we have give dis; com back for de jontilmans?" asked +the one who spoke English.</p> + +<p>"Come back! of course you are to come back," responded the +common-councilman. "How am I to get home, else? But you are to bring the +two ladies and the gentleman, and some ice and some wine; and to look +sharp about it. Take care that the bottles don't get broke in the boat."</p> + +<p>The men rowed away, leaving Mr. Dundyke lying there. They made good +speed to the Hôtel des Bergues, according to orders, but were told that +neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hardcastle was in. This caused a delay of two good +hours. The boatmen lingered near the door of the hotel, waiting; and at +last one of the waiters bethought himself that the ladies might be on +Rousseau's Island. There they were found, and Mrs. Hardcastle read the +note.</p> + +<p>"What do you say?" she asked, tossing it to Mrs. Dundyke. "Shall we go?"</p> + +<p>"But where is Mr. Hardcastle, ma'am?"</p> + +<p>"Who's to know? He may be gone round to meet your husband. He saw the +probable spot the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">[70]</a></span> boat was making for. We may as well go. Perhaps they +are both waiting for us. Waiter," continued Mrs. Hardcastle, in her +customary imperious manner, "let some wine be placed in the boat, and +plenty of ice."</p> + +<p>Under cover of umbrellas, the two ladies were rowed across the hot lake +to the place where the men had left Mr. Dundyke. But no trace of that +gentleman could now be seen; and they sat down in the shade to cool +their heated faces, glad of the respite. Mrs. Hardcastle helped herself +to some wine and ice, and Mrs. Dundyke presently took her work out of +her pocket.</p> + +<p>"How industrious you are!" exclaimed the idle woman. "What do you say +the embroidery is for? A shirt front?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke displayed her work. It was for a shirt-front, and the +embroidery was beautiful. She was doing two of them, she said. Her +husband would require them during his shrievalty.</p> + +<p>"I'd not take such trouble for my husband, though he were made king +to-morrow," exclaimed Mrs. Hardcastle.</p> + +<p>After making that remark she took some more wine, and subsequently +dropped asleep. Mrs. Dundyke, engaged in her labour of love, for she +loved both the work itself and him who was to wear it, let the time slip +on unconsciously. It was only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">[71]</a></span> when the afternoon shadows struck on her +view as becoming long, when the sun had changed his place from one part +of the heavens to another, that a vague feeling of alarm stole over her.</p> + +<p>"Where <i>can</i> he be? What is the time?"</p> + +<p>She spoke aloud. Mrs. Hardcastle started at the words, and stared to see +how the day had gone on. She, Mrs. Hardcastle, was the first to call out +the name of Mr. Dundyke. She called it several times, and she had a +loud, coarse, harsh voice; but only echo answered her. The boatmen woke +up from their slumbers, and shouted in their patois, but there came no +response from Mr. Dundyke. A sickening fear, whose very intensity made +her heart cold, rushed over Mrs. Dundyke. Her hands shook; the red of +her face turned to pallor.</p> + +<p>"Why, you never mean to say you are alarmed!" exclaimed Mrs. Hardcastle, +looking at her in surprise.</p> + +<p>"No—no, ma'am, not exactly alarmed," returned poor Mrs. Dundyke, half +ashamed to confess to the feeling. But her quivering lips gave the lie +to her words. "I do think it strange he should go away, knowing he had +sent for us. I was quite easy at first, thinking he had gone to sleep +somewhere, overpowered with the heat. There is no danger, I suppose, +that—that—anyone could fall into the water from this spot?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">[72]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was certainly no danger of that: and the boatmen laughed at the +notion, for the bank and the water were at that place nearly on a level.</p> + +<p>"A man might walk in if he felt so inclined," observed Mrs. Hardcastle, +jestingly, "but he could scarcely enter it in any other manner. And your +husband is not one to cut short his life for pleasure."</p> + +<p>Not he, indeed! Never a man less likely to make his own quietus than +plain practical David Dundyke, with his future aspirations and his +harmless ambition. His wife knew that the Lord Mayor's chair, shining in +the distant vista, would alone have kept him from plunging head foremost +into the most tempting lake that ever bubbled in the sunlight.</p> + +<p>"There is no marvel about it," said Mrs. Hardcastle. "The boatmen were +kept two hours at the hotel, remember, before we were found, and Mr. +Dundyke naturally grew tired of waiting, and went away, thinking we +should not come."</p> + +<p>"But where can he be?" cried Mrs. Dundyke. "What has he done with +himself?"</p> + +<p>"He has gone back by land. There was no other course for him, if he +thought—as he no doubt did think—that the boatman had misunderstood +his orders and would not return."</p> + +<p>"But, ma'am, he does not know his way back."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not know it! Instinct would tell it him. He has only to keep the lake +on his right, and follow his nose; he would soon be in Geneva."</p> + +<p>It was so probable a solution of the mystery, that Mrs. Dundyke had been +unreasonable not to adopt it; indeed she was glad to do it; and they got +into the boat, and were rowed back again, expecting Mr. Dundyke would be +at the hotel. But they did not find him there. And it was nearly five +o'clock then.</p> + +<p>"That's nothing," said Mrs. Hardcastle. "The day is so hot he would take +his time walking. My husband has not been in either, it seems. Rely upon +it they have met and are together; they have turned into some cool +café."</p> + +<p>The ladies went upstairs together, each into her respective chamber: it +has been said that the rooms joined. But that undefined dread, amounting +to a positive agony, weighed still on the spirits of Mrs. Dundyke. She +could not rest. Mrs. Hardcastle was attiring herself for dinner; not so +Mrs. Dundyke; she stood at the door peeping out, hoping to see her +husband appear in the long corridor. While thus looking, there came, +creeping up the stairs, Mr. Hardcastle, stealing along, as it seemed to +Mrs. Dundyke, to shun observation, his boots white, as if he had walked +much in the dusty roads, his face scratched, and one of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">[74]</a></span> fingers +sprained (as she learnt afterwards) and bound up with a handkerchief.</p> + +<p>"Oh, sir!" she cried, darting forward in high excitement, "where is he? +where is Mr. Dundyke? What has happened to him?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Hardcastle stood for a moment transfixed, and, unless Mrs. Dundyke +was strangely mistaken, his face changed colour. She associated no +suspicion with that pallor <i>then</i>; she but thought of her own ill +manners in accosting him so abruptly.</p> + +<p>"What of your husband?" he asked, rallying himself. "<i>I</i> don't know +anything of him. Is he not in?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke explained. Mrs. Hardcastle, hearing their voices, came out +of her room and helped her.</p> + +<p>"Is that all?" exclaimed Mr. Hardcastle, when he had listened, and his +tone was one of indifference. "Oh, he will soon be back. If he is not +in, in time for dinner, Mrs. Dundyke, you can go down with us. Don't +alarm yourself."</p> + +<p>"But have you not seen him?—not been with him?" urged poor Mrs. +Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"I have never seen him since breakfast."</p> + +<p>"We thought you might have walked round by the shore to join him, as you +saw this morning where the boat was making for," remarked Mrs. +Hardcastle.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">[75]</a></span></p> + +<p>He turned savagely upon her, his eyes glaring like a tiger's.</p> + +<p>"No, madam," he said, with concentrated passion, "none save a fool would +undertake such a walk to-day. I have been in the town, executing various +commissions," he added, changing his tone, and addressing Mrs. Dundyke, +"and a pretty accident I had nearly met with: in avoiding a restive +horse on the dusty quays, I slipped down, with my face on some flint +stones."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke would not go down to dinner, but Mrs. Hardcastle fetched +her into her own room afterwards, and ordered tea brought up, and they +were both very kind to her, buoying up her spirits, and laughing at her +fears. Her husband had only lost his way, they urged, and would be home +fast enough by morning—a rare joke they would have with him about +running away, when he did come.</p> + +<p>It was eleven o'clock when Mrs. Dundyke wished them good night, and +retired to her chamber, feeling like one more dead than alive. It is +probable that few of us can form any adequate idea of her sensations. +But for that horrible, mysterious dread, which seemed to have come upon +her without sufficient cause, the mere absence of her husband ought not +so very much to have alarmed her. She felt a conviction, sure and +certain, that some dreadful fate had overtaken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">[76]</a></span> him; and, in that dread +torture of suspense, she would have given her own life up the next +moment, oh, how willingly, to see him return.</p> + +<p>She stood at the open window of her room, leaning far out of it, hoping +to see him come round the corner of the street, (stay, not so much +hoping as <i>wishing</i>,) foot-sore and travel-worn, having lost his way and +found it again. She wondered whether anyone was still up, to let him in, +if he did come; if not, she would steal downstairs herself, and work at +the door fastenings until she undid them. It was with great difficulty, +exercising the very utmost self-control, that she stopped where she was, +that she did not go out into the streets, searching for him.</p> + +<p>While thus thinking, Mrs. Dundyke became aware that strange sounds were +proceeding from the next room, though not at first had she heeded them. +A fearful quarrel appeared to be taking place between Mr. and Mrs. +Hardcastle, and Mrs. Dundyke drew back and closed her window in tremor. +Its substance she could not hear, did not wish to hear; but wild sobs +and reproaches seemed to come from the lady, and sharp words, not +unmixed with oaths, from the gentleman. Twice Mrs. Dundyke heard her +husband's name mentioned, or her own ("Dundyke"); and the quarrel seemed +to have reference to him. One sentence of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">[77]</a></span> Mr. Hardcastle's came +distinctly on her ear, apparently in answer to some threat or reproach; +it was to the effect that Mrs. Hardcastle might leave him as soon as she +pleased; might take her departure then, in the midnight hour. After +awhile the anger appeared to subside, silence supervened, and Mrs. +Dundyke watched through the live-long night. But her husband did not +come.</p> + +<p>With the morning Mrs. Hardcastle came to her. She said they had received +letters which must cause them to depart for Genoa, where they found +their remitted money had really been sent.</p> + +<p>"But, ma'am," urged poor Mrs. Dundyke, "surely Mr. Hardcastle will not +go and leave me alone in this dreadful uncertainty!"</p> + +<p>"He intends to stay until the evening; he will not leave you a moment +earlier than he is obliged. Perhaps your husband will make his +appearance this morning."</p> + +<p>In the course of the morning, Mr. Hardcastle went with the two boatmen +to the place where they had landed Mr. Dundyke on the previous day, and +a gentleman named by the proprietor of the hotel accompanied them; but +not the slightest trace of him could be found, though some hours were +spent in exploring. In the evening, by the six o'clock diligence, Mr. +and Mrs. Hardcastle left Geneva, the former handing to Mrs. Dundyke an +order upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">[78]</a></span> the house in London, Hardcastle and Co., for the twenty +pounds he had borrowed of her husband. He regretted, he said, his +inability to furnish her, then, with any funds she might require, but he +had barely sufficient to carry himself and wife to Genoa. If Mrs. +Dundyke approved, he would, with the greatest pleasure, forward from +that city any sum she chose to name; for, being known there, his credit +was unlimited. Mrs. Dundyke declined his offer, with thanks: she +reflected that, if her husband returned, he would have his money with +him; and in the event of his mysterious absence being prolonged, she +might as well write home for money as borrow it from Mr. Hardcastle at +Genoa. She wondered, but did not presume to ask, how he had procured +funds for his own journey, and to discharge his hotel bill, which he +paid before starting.</p> + +<p>"Keep up your spirits, Mrs. Dundyke," he cheeringly said as he shook +hands with her at parting. "Depend upon it, your husband will come home, +and bring some good reason for his absence; and if it were not that I am +compelled—compelled by business—to go on to Genoa, I would not leave +you."</p> + +<p>She sat down as if some cold shiver had seized upon her heart. It was in +her own room that this farewell was spoken; and in that one moment, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">[79]</a></span> +he released her hand, and his peculiar eyes rested on her in the +parting, and then were lost sight of, it flashed into her mind where she +had seen those eyes before. They were the eyes she had once so shrunk +from at Westerbury; at least, they bore the same expression—Benjamin +Carr's.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke's pulses quickened, and she clasped her hands. For one +single moment a doubt arose to her whether Mr. Hardcastle could be Mr. +Hardcastle—whether he was not an impostor, Benjamin Carr, or any other, +travelling under a false name; and a whole host of trifling incidents, +puzzles to her hitherto, arose to her mind as if in confirmation. But +the doubt did not last. That he was really anybody but the great Mr. +Hardcastle—head, under his uncle, of the great house of Hardcastle and +Co.—she did not believe. As to the resemblance in the eyes to those of +Benjamin Carr, she concluded it must be accidental; and of Benjamin +Carr's features she retained no recollection. She opened the order he +had given her to receive the twenty pounds, and found it was signed "B. +Hardcastle:" no Christian name in full. Mrs. Dundyke dismissed all +doubts from her memory, and continued to believe implicitly in Mr. +Hardcastle.</p> + +<p>It was, perhaps, a somewhat curious coincidence—at least, you may deem +it so, as events go on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">[80]</a></span>—that on this same evening an English clergyman +should arrive at Geneva, and put up at the hotel. It was the Rev. +Wheeler Prattleton, who was visiting Switzerland in pursuance of his +intentions (as you once heard mention of), accompanied by his eldest +daughter. The strange disappearance of Mr. Dundyke had caused some stir +in the hotel, and the clergyman was told of it.</p> + +<p>"It is an uncommon name, papa—Dundyke," observed Miss Prattleton. "Do +you think it can be the Dundykes who are relatives of Mrs. Arkell's?"</p> + +<p>"What Dundykes?" returned Mr. Prattleton, his memory on these points not +so retentive as his daughter's. "Has Mrs. Arkell relatives of the name?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, papa, you forget. Mrs. Arkell's sister is a Mrs. Dundyke. I have +often heard Travice Arkell speak of her; he calls her Aunt Betsey. They +live in London."</p> + +<p>"We will ascertain, Mary," said Mr. Prattleton, his sympathies aroused. +"If this lady should prove to be Mrs. Arkell's sister, we must do all we +can for her."</p> + +<p>It was very soon ascertained, for the clergyman at once sent up his +card, and requested an interview with Mrs. Dundyke. Mr. Prattleton threw +himself completely into the affair, and became<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">[81]</a></span> almost painfully +interested in it. He believed, as did all others, that nothing serious +had occurred, but that from some unaccountable cause Mr. Dundyke +remained absent—perhaps from temporary illness or accident; and every +hour, as the days went on, was his return looked for. Mary Prattleton +had the room vacated by the Hardcastles, Mr. Prattleton had one on the +same floor; and their presence was of the very greatest comfort to poor, +lonely, bereaved Mrs. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"Mary, I cannot tell you how I like her!" Mr. Prattleton impulsively +exclaimed to his daughter. "She is a true lady; but so unobtrusive, so +simple, so humble—there are few like her."</p> + +<p>All the means they could think of were put in force to endeavour to +obtain some clue to Mr. Dundyke, and to the circumstances of his +disappearance. Mr. Prattleton took the conduct of the search upon +himself. A Swiss peasant, or very small farmer, a man of known good +character, and on whose word reliance might be placed, came forward and +stated that on the day in question he had seen two gentlemen, whom he +took to be English by their conversation, walking amicably together +<i>away</i> from the lake, and about a mile distant from the spot of Mr. +Dundyke's landing. The description he gave of these tallied with the +persons of the missing man and Mr. Hardcastle. The stouter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">[82]</a></span> of the two, +he said, who wore a straw hat and a narrow green ribbon tied round it, +carried a yellow silk handkerchief, and occasionally wiped his face, +which looked very red and hot. The other—a tall, dark man—had a cane +in his hand with a silver top, looking like a dog's head, which cane he +whirled round and round as he walked, after the manner of a child's +rattle. All this agreed exactly. Mr. Dundyke's hat was straw, its ribbon +green and narrow, and the handkerchief, which Mrs. Dundyke had handed +him clean that morning, was yellow, with white spots. And again, that +action of whirling his cane round in the air, was a frequent habit of +Mr. Hardcastle's. The country was scoured in the part where this peasant +had seen them, and also in the direction that they appeared to be going, +but nothing was discovered. Mr. Prattleton reminded Mrs. Dundyke that +there were more yellow silk handkerchiefs in the world than one, that +straw hats and green ribbons were common enough in Geneva, and that many +a gentleman, even of those staying at the hotel, carried a silver-headed +cane, and might twirl it in walking. "Besides," added the clergyman, "if +Mr. Hardcastle had been that day with Mr. Dundyke, what possible motive +could he have for denying it?"</p> + +<p>"True; most true," murmured the unhappy lady. She was still unsuspicious +as a child.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">[83]</a></span></p> + +<p>One of Mr. Prattleton's first cares had been to write to London, asking +for the number of the notes, forwarded by the house in Fenchurch-street +to Mr. Dundyke. It had of course been lost with him; as also anything +else he might have had in the shape of letters and papers, for they were +all in his pocket-book, and he had it about him. When the answer was +received by Mr. Prattleton, he made inquiries at the different +money-changers, and traced the notes, a twenty-pound and a ten-pound. +They had been changed for French money at Geneva, on the day subsequent +to Mr. Dundyke's disappearance: the halves were in the shop still, and +were shown to the clergyman. The money-changer could not recollect who +had changed them, except that it was an Englishman; he <i>thought</i> a tall +man: but so many English gentlemen came in to change money, he observed, +that it was difficult to recollect them individually.</p> + +<p>The finding of these notes certainly darkened the case very much, and +Mr. Prattleton went home with a slow step, thinking how he could break +the news to Mrs. Dundyke. She was sitting in his daughter's room, and he +disclosed the facts as gently as possible.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke did not weep; did not cry aloud: her quiet hands were +pressed more convulsively together in her lap; and that was all.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">[84]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If my husband were living, how could anyone else have the notes to +change?" she said. "Oh, Mr. Prattleton, there is no hope! It is as I +have thought from the first: he fell into the lake and was drowned."</p> + +<p>"Nay," said the clergyman, "had he been drowned the notes would have +been drowned too. Indeed, I do not think there is even a chance that he +was drowned: had he got into the lake accidentally, (which is next to +impossible, unless he rolled in from the grass,) he could readily have +got out again. But I find that more money was sent him than this thirty +pounds, Mrs. Dundyke. The two halves of a fifty-pound note were sent as +well. Do you know anything of it?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," she answered. "I knew he wrote home for thirty pounds; I knew +of no more."</p> + +<p>Mr. Prattleton gave her the letter, received that morning from +Fenchurch-street, and she found it was as the clergyman said. Mr. +Dundyke had written for fifty pounds, as well as the thirty; and it had +been sent in two half notes, the whole of the notes in two separate +letters: three half notes in one letter, and three in the other, and +both letters had been dispatched by the same post. There could be no +reasonable doubt therefore that all the money had been received by Mr. +Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"But I cannot trace the fifty," observed Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">[85]</a></span> Prattleton, "and I have +been to every money-changer's, and to every other likely place in +Geneva. I went to the bank; I asked here at the hotel, but I can't find +it. What do you want, Mary?"</p> + +<p>Mary Prattleton had been for some few minutes trying to move a chest of +drawers; the marble top made them heavy, and she desisted and looked at +her father.</p> + +<p>"I wish you would help me push aside these drawers, papa. My needle-book +has fallen behind."</p> + +<p>He advanced, and helped her to move the drawers from the wall. A chink, +as of something falling, was heard, and a silver pencil-case rolled +towards the feet of Mrs. Dundyke. She stooped mechanically to pick it +up; and Miss Prattleton, who was stooping for her needle-book, was +startled by a suppressed shriek of terror. It came from Mrs. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"It is my husband's pencil-case! it is my husband's pencil-case!"</p> + +<p>"Dear, dear Mrs. Dundyke!" cried the alarmed clergyman, "you should not +let the sight of it agitate you like this."</p> + +<p>"You do not understand," she reiterated. "He had it with him on that +fatal morning; he took it out with him. What should bring it back here, +and without him? Where <i>is</i> he?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Prattleton stood confounded; not able at first to take in quite the +bearings of the case.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">[86]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How do you know he had it? He may have left it in the hotel."</p> + +<p>"No, no, he did not. He went straight out from the breakfast-room, and, +not a minute before, I saw him make a note with it on the back of a +letter, and then return the pencil to the case in his pocket-book, where +he always kept it, and put the pocket-book back into his pocket. How +could he have written the note after the men landed him, telling us to +join him there, without it?—he never carried but this one pencil. And +now it is back in this room, and——oh, sir! the scales seem to fall +from my eyes! If I am wrong, may Heaven forgive me for the thought!"</p> + +<p>Her hands were raised, her whole frame was trembling; her livid face was +quite drawn with the intensity of fear, of horror. Mr. Prattleton stood +aghast.</p> + +<p>"What do you say?" he asked, bending his ear, for the words on her lips +had dropped to a low murmur. "<span class="smcap">What?</span>"</p> + +<p>"<i>He has surely been murdered by Mr. Hardcastle.</i>"</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">[87]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_v" id="chapter_v">CHAPTER V.</a><br /><small>HOME, IN DESPAIR.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>The Reverend Mr. Prattleton literally recoiled at the words, and +staggered back a few steps in his dismay. Not at first could he recover +his amazement. The suggestion was so dreadful, so entirely, as he +believed, uncalled for, that he began to doubt whether poor Mrs. +Dundyke's trouble had not turned her brain.</p> + +<p>"It surely, surely is so!" she impressively repeated. "He has been +murdered, and by Mr. Hardcastle."</p> + +<p>"Good heavens, my dear lady, you must not allow your imagination to run +away with you in this manner!" cried the shocked clergyman. "A gentleman +in Mr. Hardcastle's position of life——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, stop! stop!" she interrupted; "<i>is</i> it his position of life? Is he +indeed Mr. Hardcastle?"</p> + +<p>And she began, in her agitation, to pour out forthwith the whole tale: +the various half doubts of the Hardcastles, suppressed until now. Her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">[88]</a></span> +conviction that Mrs. Hardcastle was certainly not a lady, their +embarrassments for money, and other little items. Then there had been +the long absence of Mr. Hardcastle on the day of the disappearance; his +sneaking upstairs quietly on his return, hurt and scratched, warm and +dusty, as if he had walked far; his sudden change of colour when she +asked after her husband, and the angry look turned upon his wife when +she suggested that he had possibly been with Mr. Dundyke. There was the +description given by the Swiss peasant of the two gentlemen he had seen +walking together that day, and the furious quarrel she had heard at +night, when her husband's name was mentioned. All was told to Mr. +Prattleton, what she knew, what she thought; all with an exception: the +one faint suspicion that had crossed her as to whether Mr. Hardcastle +could be Benjamin Carr. She did not mention that. Perhaps it had faded +from her memory; and Benjamin Carr, a gentleman born, would be no more +likely to commit a murder than the real Mr. Hardcastle. However it may +have been, she did not mention it, then, or at any other time.</p> + +<p>How <i>could</i> the pencil have got back to the hotel, and into that room, +unless brought by Mr. Hardcastle? The testimony of the Swiss peasant, of +the two gentlemen he had seen walking together, was terribly significant +now. Mr. Prattleton, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">[89]</a></span> had never been brought into contact with +anything like murder in his life, felt as if he were on the eve of some +awful discovery.</p> + +<p>"It was so strange that people of the Hardcastles' position should be up +here in one small room on the third floor of the hotel!" cried Mrs. +Dundyke, mentioning the thought that had often struck her. "Mrs. +Hardcastle said no other room was vacant when they came, and that may +have been so; but would they not have changed afterwards?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Prattleton went downstairs. He sought an interview with the host, +and gleaned what information he could, not imparting a hint of these new +suspicions. Could the host inform him who Mr. Hardcastle was?</p> + +<p>The host supposed Mr. Hardcastle was—Mr. Hardcastle. Voilà tout! +Although he did think that the name given in to the hotel at first was +not so long as Hardcastle, but he was not quite sure; it had not been +written down, only the number of the room they occupied. Monsieur and +Madame had very much resented being put up on the third floor. It was +the only room then vacant in all the hotel, and at first Madame said she +would not take it, she would go to another hotel; but she was tired, and +stopped, and the luggage, too, had been all brought in. Afterwards, when +Madame was settled in it, she did not care to change. In what name<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">[90]</a></span> were +Monsieur's letters addressed—Hardcastle? Ma foi, yes, for all he knew; +but Monsieur's letters stopped at the post-office, as did those of three +parts of the company in the hotel, and Monsieur went for them himself. +Money? Well, Monsieur did seem short of money at times; but he had +plenty at others, and he had paid up liberally at last. Other gentlemen +sometimes ran short, when their remittances were delayed.</p> + +<p>There was not a word in this that could tell really against Mr. +Hardcastle. The host evidently spoke in all good faith; and Mr. +Prattleton began to look upon Mrs. Dundyke's suspicions as the morbid +fancies of a woman in trouble. He put another question to the +landlord—what was his private opinion of this singular disappearance of +Mr. Dundyke?</p> + +<p>The landlord shook his head; he had had but one opinion upon the point +for some days past. The poor gentleman, there was not the least doubt, +had in some way got into the lake and been drowned. But the notes in his +pocket-book? urged the clergyman—the money that had been changed at the +money-changer's? Well, the fact must be, the host supposed, that his +pocket-book was left upon the grass, or had floated on the water, and +some thief had come across it and appropriated the contents.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">[91]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Prattleton, after due reflection, became convinced that this must +have been the case; and for the pencil-case, he believed that Mrs. +Dundyke was in error in supposing her husband took it out with him.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke was not so easily satisfied. She urged the strange fact of +Mr. Hardcastle's appearance when he returned that day: his scratched +face, his dusty clothes, his altogether disordered look, his sneaking up +the stairs as if he did not want to be seen. But upon inquiry it was +found that a gentleman, whose appearance tallied with the person of Mr. +Hardcastle, did so fall on the dusty flint stones, in trying to avoid a +restive horse, and his face was scratched and his hand hurt in +consequence; and, as Mr. Prattleton observed, he really might be trying +to avoid observation in coming up the hotel stairs, not caring to be met +in that untidy state. The pencil-case was next shown to the boatmen; but +they could not say whether it was the one the gentleman had written the +note with. They were tired with the row in the hot sun, and did not take +particular notice. One of them was certain that, whatever pencil the +gentleman had used, he took it from his pocket; and he saw him tear the +leaf out of the pocket-book to write upon.</p> + +<p>Altogether it amounted to just this—that while Mr. Hardcastle <i>might</i> +be guilty, he probably was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">[92]</a></span> innocent. Mr. Prattleton inclined to the +latter belief; and as the days went on, Mrs. Dundyke inclined to it +also. The points fraught with suspicion began to lose their dark hue, +and when there arrived a stranger at the hotel, who happened to know +that old Mr. Hardcastle's nephew was travelling on the continent, and +was much inclined to spend money faster than he got it, though otherwise +honourable, Mrs. Dundyke's suspicions faded, and she reproached herself +for having entertained them.</p> + +<p>But nothing further could be heard of Mr. Dundyke; nothing further was +heard, and it became useless to linger on in Geneva. That he was in +Geneva's lake, she never doubted, and the place became hateful to her.</p> + +<p>She travelled towards home in company with Mr. Prattleton and his +daughter. At Paris they parted; they remaining in it for a few days, she +proceeding to London direct, which she reached in safety. Poor Mrs. +Dundyke! As she sat alone in the dark cab which was to take her to her +now solitary home at Brixton, she perhaps felt the loss, the dreadful +circumstances of it altogether, more keenly than she had felt them yet. +She sat with dry eyes, but a throbbing brain, feeling that life for her +had ended; that she was left in a world whose happiness had died out.</p> + +<p>It was a very pretty white villa, with a lawn before it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">[93]</a></span> +<a name="aand" id="aand"></a><ins title="Original has a">and</ins> encircled +by carriage drive, with double gates. As the man drove in at one, and +stopped before the entrance, and the door was thrown open to the light +of the hall, Mrs. Dundyke became aware that some gentleman was standing +there, behind the servant.</p> + +<p>"Who is that, John?" she whispered.</p> + +<p>"It's a stranger, ma'am; a gentleman who has just called. He seemed so +surprised when I said you had not returned yet; but you drove up at the +moment. And master, ma'am?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke did not answer. The servants knew that something was amiss; +but she had not courage to explain then; in fact, she could scarcely +suppress her emotion sufficiently to speak with composure. The stranger +came forward to meet her, and she recognised the gentleman who had +assisted them in Grenoble, and had given his name as Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>"You see I have availed myself of your invitation to call," he said. "It +is curious I should happen to come to-night when you are only returning. +I fancied you did not intend to remain away so long. But where is Mr. +Dundyke?"</p> + +<p>She turned with him into one of the sitting-rooms—an elegant room of +good proportions. The chandelier was lighted; a handsome china +tea-service, interspersed with articles of silver, stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">[94]</a></span> on the table; +cold meats and other good things were ready; and altogether it was a +complete picture of home comfort, of easy competency. The thought that +<i>he</i>, who had been the many years partner of her life, would never come +back to this again, combined with the home question of the Rev. Mr. +Carr, struck out of her what little composure she had retained, and Mrs. +Dundyke sank down in an easy chair, and burst into a storm of sobs.</p> + +<p>To say that the young clergyman stood in consternation, would be saying +little. He was not used to scenes, did not like them; and he felt +inwardly uncomfortable, not knowing what he ought to say or do.</p> + +<p>"Pray, forgive me," she murmured, when she had recovered sufficiently to +speak. "You asked after my husband. He is lost—he is gone. He will +never come home again."</p> + +<p>"Lost!" repeated Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke told her tale, and the young man listened in utter +astonishment. He had never heard of such a thing in all his life; had +never imagined anything so strange. It seemed that he could not be tired +of asking questions—of hazarding conjectures. He <i>wished</i> he had been +there, he said; he was sure that the search <i>he</i> would have instituted +would have found him, dead or alive.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">[95]</a></span> And it was a somewhat remarkable +fact that everybody, forthwith destined to hear the story, said the +same. So prone are we to under-rate the exertions of other people, and +over-rate our own.</p> + +<p>But simple, courteous Mrs. Dundyke, could not forget the duties of +hospitality amid her great sorrow. She went upstairs for a minute to +take off her travelling things, and then quietly made tea for Robert +Carr, asking him questions about himself as he drank it.</p> + +<p>He had come straight to London from Grenoble, on business connected with +an assistant ministry he expected to get in November, and then went to +Holland. He had been back in London now about a week, but should soon be +returning to Holland, as his wife was not in good health.</p> + +<p>"His wife!" Mrs. Dundyke repeated in surprise. She thought he looked too +young to have a wife.</p> + +<p>Robert Carr laughed. He had a wife and two children, he said; he had +married young.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke told him that she thought they were connected—in fact, she +knew they were, for old Mrs. Dundyke used to say so. "I do not quite +remember how she made it out," continued Mrs. Dundyke; "I think she was +a cousin in the second degree to the Miss Hughes's of Westerbury. They +were——"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke stopped short. None were more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">[96]</a></span> considerate than she of the +feelings of others; and it suddenly struck her that the young clergyman +before her, a gentleman himself, might not like to be reminded of these +things.</p> + +<p>"They were dressmakers, if you speak of my mother's sisters," he quietly +said; "I have heard her say so. She was a lady herself in mind and +manners; but her family were quite inferior."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke did not feel her way altogether clear. She remembered +hearing of the elopement; she remembered certain unpleasant subsequent +rumours—that Martha Ann Hughes remained with Mr. Carr in Holland, +although the ceremony of marriage had not passed between them. Always +charitably judging, she supposed now that they must have been married at +some subsequent period; and this, their eldest son, called himself +Robert <i>Carr</i>. But it was not a topic that she felt comfortable in +pursuing.</p> + +<p>"You say that your mother is dead?" she resumed.</p> + +<p>"She has been dead about five years. We are three of us: I; my brother +Thomas, who was born two years after me; and my sister, Mary Augusta, +who is several years younger. There were two other girls between my +brother and Mary, but they died."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Carr is in business in Rotterdam?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; partner in a merchant's house there. He has saved money, and is +well off."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">[97]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke faintly smiled; she was glad for a moment to make a +semblance of forgetting her own woes. "Those random young men often make +the most sober ones when they settle down. Your father was wild in his +young days."</p> + +<p>"Was he? I'm sure I don't know. You should see him now: a regular +steady-going old Dutchman, fat and taciturn, who smokes his afternoons +away in the summer-house. He has not been very well of late years; and I +tell him he ought to spend his hours of recreation in taking exercise, +not in sitting still and smoking."</p> + +<p>"Does he keep up any intercourse with his relatives in Westerbury?" +asked Mrs. Dundyke, for she had heard through Mildred Arkell that +Westerbury never heard anything of its renegade son, Robert Carr, and +did not know or care whether he was dead or alive—in fact, had +forgotten all remembrance of him.</p> + +<p>"Not any—not the least. I fancy my father and mother must have had some +disagreement with their home friends, for they never spoke of them. I +remember, when I was a little boy, my mother getting news of the death +of a sister; but how it came to her I'm sure I don't know."</p> + +<p>"She had two sisters, and she had a brother," said Mrs. Dundyke. "I +heard that Mary died. Are the other sister and the brother living?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">[98]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I really do not know. If we had possessed no relatives in the world, we +could not have lived more completely isolated from them. I believe my +grandfather is living, and in Westerbury—at least, I have not heard of +his death."</p> + +<p>"Have you lived entirely in Rotterdam?" she asked, her interest very +much awakened, she scarcely knew why, for this young man. Perhaps it +took its rise in the faint, sad thought, which <i>would</i> keep arising in +spite of herself, that a terrible blow might be in future store for him, +of whose possible existence he was evidently in utter ignorance.</p> + +<p>"Our home has been in Rotterdam, but I and my brother have been educated +in England. We were with a clergyman for some years in London, and then +went to Cambridge. It would not have done for me to preach with a +foreign accent," he added, with a smile.</p> + +<p>"But you speak with a perfect accent," said Mrs. Dundyke; "as well as if +you had never been out of England. Do you speak Dutch?"</p> + +<p>"As a native; in fact, I suppose it may be said that I <i>am</i> a native. +Dutch, English, German, and French—we speak them all well."</p> + +<p>Poor Mrs. Dundyke heaved a bitter sigh. The words brought to her +remembrance what her husband had said about their rubbing on with "we"<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">[99]</a></span> +and "no;" but she would not let it go on again to emotion. She observed +the same delicate look on this young man that had struck her at +Grenoble; and he coughed rather frequently, always putting his hand to +his chest at the time, as if the cough gave him pain.</p> + +<p>"Will you let me ask you if you are very strong?" she said. "I do not +think you look so."</p> + +<p>"I was strong," he replied, "no one more so, until I met with a hurt. In +riding one day at Cambridge, the horse threw me, and kicked me here," +touching his chest. "Since then, I have had a cough, more or less, and +am sometimes in slight pain. My father despatched me on that tour, when +I met you, with a view of making me strong."</p> + +<p>"Was the injury great at the time?"</p> + +<p>"No, I think not; the doctors said not. I believe some of the small +arteries were ruptured. I spit blood for some time after it; and, do you +know," he added, looking suddenly up at her, "the last day or two I have +been spitting it a little again."</p> + +<p>"You must take care of yourself," said Mrs. Dundyke, after a pause.</p> + +<p>"So I do. I am going to a doctor to-morrow morning, for I want to get +into duty again, and should be vexed if anything stopped it."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">[100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Have you ever done duty?"</p> + +<p>"Of course; for a twelvemonth. I had my title in the diocese of Ely. I +am in full orders now, and hope to be at work in November."</p> + +<p>A doubt came over Mrs. Dundyke as she looked at his slender hands and +his hollow cheek, whether he would ever work again. Robert Carr rose to +bid her good-bye.</p> + +<p>"Can I be of any service to you in any way?" he said, in a low, earnest +tone, as he held her hand in his. "You cannot tell what a strange +impression this tale has made upon me; and I feel as if I should like to +go to Geneva, and prosecute the search still."</p> + +<p>"You are very kind," she said; "but indeed there is nothing else that +can be done. The environs of Geneva were scoured, especially on the side +where, as I have told you, two gentlemen were seen who bore the +resemblance to my husband and Mr. Hardcastle."</p> + +<p>"I don't like that Mr. Hardcastle," cried the young man; "no, I don't. +He ought not to have gone away, and left you in the midst of your +distress. It was an unfeeling thing to do."</p> + +<p>"He could not help it. He said he had urgent business at Genoa."</p> + +<p>"The business should have waited, had it been mine. Well, if I can do +anything for you, Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">[101]</a></span> Dundyke, now or later, do let me. If what you +say is correct—that we are related—I have a right to help you."</p> + +<p>"Thank you very much. And remember," she added, in a voice almost as low +as a whisper, "that should you ever be in—in—trouble, or distress, or +need a friend in any way, you have only to come to me."</p> + +<p>What was in Mrs. Dundyke's mind as she spoke? What made her say it? She +was thinking of that shock which might be looming for him in the future, +it was hard to say how near or how distant. And she felt that she could +love this young man almost like a son.</p> + +<p>"I will see you again, Mrs. Dundyke, before I leave town," were his last +words.</p> + +<p>But he did not. When he reached his lodgings that night, he found a +telegraphic despatch awaiting him from Rotterdam, saying that his father +was taken dangerously ill.</p> + +<p>And the Reverend Robert Carr hastened to Dover by the first train, en +route for Holland.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">[102]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_vi" id="chapter_vi">CHAPTER VI.</a><br /><small>NEWS FOR WESTERBURY.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>It cannot be denied that the present time, this first day after coming +home, was one of peculiar pain to Mrs. Dundyke. She would have to go +over the sad and strange story again and again, and there was no help +for it. The chief partners in Fenchurch-street naturally required the +particulars; the few friends she had, the household servants, wished to +hear them, and there was only herself to tell the tale.</p> + +<p>By ten o'clock, on the morning after her arrival, the second partner of +the house, who wore rings and a moustache, and had altogether been an +object of envy to the unfortunate common-councilman, was sitting with +Mrs. Dundyke. She had not put on widow's weeds; she would not yet; she +had said to Mary Prattleton, with a burst of grief, that a widow's cap +would take the last remnant of lingering hope out of her. She wore a +rich black silk gown, trimmed with much crape, but the cap and bonnet of +the widow she assumed not.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">[103]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Knowles, a kind-hearted man, who did not want for good sense, dandy +though he was in dress, sat twirling his sandy moustache, the very +gravest concern pervading his countenance. Mrs. Dundyke, who had never +seen this gentleman more than once or twice, sat in humility, struggling +with her grief. His social position was of a different standing from +what poor Mr. Dundyke's had ever been.</p> + +<p>"You see, Mrs. Dundyke, one hardly knows how to act, or what to be at," +he remarked, after they had talked for some time, and she had related to +him the details (always excepting any suspicion she might once have +entertained of Mr. Hardcastle) as closely as she could. "Apart from the +grief, the concern for your husband personally, it is altogether so +awkward an affair, in a business point of view: we don't know whether we +are to consider him as dead or alive."</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>"There is little hope that he is alive, sir."</p> + +<p>"Well, it would really seem like it. But what <i>can</i> have become of him?"</p> + +<p>"There was the lake, you know."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>A pause. Presently Mr. Knowles went on.</p> + +<p>"When the letter came from that clergyman—Prattleton, wasn't his +name?—saying that Mr. Dun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">[104]</a></span>dyke was missing, and asking for the +particulars of the money we had forwarded to him, we could not +understand it. '<i>Missing!</i>' cried old Mr. Knowles, who happened to have +come to Fenchurch-street that day, 'one talks of a child being missing, +but not of a man.' And when Mr. Prattleton's second letter came to us, +giving some of the facts, I assure you we could with difficulty give +credence to them."</p> + +<p>"There is one little point I did not know of, sir; the sending to you +for a fifty-pound note. My husband told me he was sending for the thirty +pounds, but he did not say anything of the other. I cannot think why he +sent for it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Knowles took out his pocket-book.</p> + +<p>"I happen to have Mr. Dundyke's letter, which was preserved quite +accidentally, not being a strictly business one. You see, he only asks +for the fifty pounds in a postscript, as if it were an afterthought. In +fact, he says as much:" and Mrs. Dundyke's eyes filled as she looked on +the well-known characters.</p> + +<p>"P.S. Upon second thoughts, I doubt whether the 30<i>l.</i> will be enough +for me. Be so good as <a name="toinserted" id="toinserted"></a><ins title="Original has no 'to'">to</ins> send me a 50<i>l.</i> note in addition to it; in +halves as the other."</p> + +<p>"Which accordingly we did," resumed Mr. Knowles, as Mrs. Dundyke +returned him the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">[105]</a></span> letter. "And that note, you say, has not been traced?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir, it has not."</p> + +<p>"Well, it is altogether most strange. Of course whoever found the +pocket-book (if the supposition that it was picked up on the bank of the +lake be correct) may be keeping the fifty-pound note by him, but the +probability is that he would have got rid of it at once, as he did the +others."</p> + +<p>"The most singular point to my mind throughout, sir, is the finding of +the pencil-case in Mr. Hardcastle's room," said Mrs. Dundyke. "I can't +get over that."</p> + +<p>"Can't you? It appears to me easily explainable. The supposition that +Mr. Dundyke took it out with him that morning must be a mistake. Mr. +Hardcastle probably borrowed it from him at breakfast."</p> + +<p>"I am quite sure, sir, he did not. I saw my husband put the pencil in +its place in the pocket-book, and return the pocket-book to his pocket."</p> + +<p>"Then he must have taken it out again when outside the room, and perhaps +dropped it. Mr. Hardcastle may have picked it up, and carried it up to +the chamber and forgotten it. There are many ways of accounting for +that; but it is a pity the pencil was not found before Mr. Hardcastle's +departure."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">[106]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke opened her lips to ask how then could her husband have +written the pencilled note afterwards—that he never carried but that +one; but she was weary with reiterating the same thing over and over +again; and, after all, what Mr. Knowles said was possible. He might have +dropped the pencil afterwards; Mr. Hardcastle might have picked it up +and carried it to his room; and it certainly <i>might</i> have happened, it +was not impossible, that her husband, contrary to custom, had a second +pencil in his pocket.</p> + +<p>"Shall we send the twenty-pound order to Hardcastle's house and get it +cashed for you?" Mr. Knowles asked, when he was leaving. "I fancy that +young Hardcastle is not very steady. He is a great deal on the +continent, and I have heard he gambles."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke thanked him and handed him the order. "Perhaps you would +let the clerk inquire for Mr. Hardcastle's address at the same time, +sir?" she said; "and whether he is still at Genoa. I should like to +write and ask how he did find the pencil."</p> + +<p>But when the order on Hardcastle and Co. was presented—as it was that +same day—the house in Leadenhall-street declined to pay it, disclaiming +all knowledge of the drawer. Upon the clerk's saying that it had been +given by the nephew of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">[107]</a></span> Mr. Hardcastle, senior, to Mrs. Dundyke, in +liquidation of money borrowed at Geneva, the firm shrugged their +shoulders, and recommended the clerk to apply personally to that +gentleman, at his residence at Kensington. This information was conveyed +to Mrs. Dundyke, and she at once said she should like to go herself.</p> + +<p>She went up to Mr. Hardcastle's the next day, and the old gentleman +received her very courteously. He was a venerable man with white hair, +and was walking up and down the room, which opened to a conservatory. +Mrs. Dundyke did not state any particulars at first; she merely said +that she had an order on the house in Leadenhall-street for twenty +pounds, money borrowed by his nephew; that the house had declined to pay +it, and had referred it to him.</p> + +<p>"Borrowed money?" he repeated, in a sharp tone, as if the words visibly +annoyed him.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," he borrowed it of my husband; "his remittances did not +arrive from England."</p> + +<p>Mr. Hardcastle put on his spectacles, and she noticed that his hands +trembled, she thought with agitation. "I have a nephew," he said, "who +lives principally upon the continent; a thankless scapegrace he is, and +has caused me a world of trouble. He has not been in England for +eighteen months now, and I hope he will not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">[108]</a></span> come to it in a hurry; but +he is always threatening it."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke was surprised. "He told us, sir, that he had come from +London recently; in fact, he said—he certainly implied—that he took a +principal and active part in your house in Leadenhall-street."</p> + +<p>"All boast, madam, all boast. He has not anything to do with it, and we +would not let him have. I wonder he should say that, too! He is +tolerably truthful, making a confession of his shortcomings, rather than +hiding them."</p> + +<p>"Is he at Genoa still, sir?"</p> + +<p>"At where?" asked Mr. Hardcastle, looking at Mrs. Dundyke through his +spectacles, which he had been all the time adjusting.</p> + +<p>"He went on to Genoa, sir, from Geneva. I asked whether he was there +still."</p> + +<p>"He has not been at Geneva or at Genoa," said Mr. Hardcastle; "latterly, +at any rate."</p> + +<p>"Yes he has, sir; he was at Geneva when we got to it in July, and he +stayed some time. He then went on to Genoa."</p> + +<p>"Then he has deceived me," said Mr. Hardcastle, in a vexed tone. "I +don't know why he should; it does not matter to me what place he is in. +What is this, madam—the order? This is not his handwriting," hastily +continued Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">[109]</a></span> Hardcastle, at the first glance, as he unfolded the +paper.</p> + +<p>"I saw him write it, sir," said Mrs. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"Madam, it is no more like his writing than it is like yours or mine," +was the testy answer. "And—what is this signature, <i>B.</i> Hardcastle? My +nephew's name is Thomas."</p> + +<p>There was a momentary silence. Mr. Hardcastle sat looking at the written +order, knitting his brow in reflection.</p> + +<p>"Madam, I do not think he could have been at <a name="genoa" id="genoa"></a><ins title="Original has Genoa">Geneva</ins> when this was +dated," he resumed; "I had a letter from him just about this time, +written from Brussels. Stay, I will get it."</p> + +<p>He opened a desk in the room and produced the letter. Singular to say, +it bore date the 10th of August, the very day that the order was dated. +The post-marks, both in Brussels and London, agreed with the date.</p> + +<p>"It is impossible that it could have been he who wrote this order, +madam, as you must perceive. Being in Brussels, he could not have been +in Geneva. That this letter is in my nephew's handwriting, I assure you +on my honour. You may read it; it is about family affairs, but that does +not matter."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke read the letter: it was not a long one. And then she looked +in a dreamy sort of way at Mr. Hardcastle.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">[110]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Madam, I fear you must have been imposed upon."</p> + +<p>"Have you two nephews, sir?"</p> + +<p>"I never had but this one in my life, ma'am; and I have found him one +too many."</p> + +<p>"His wife is a showy woman, very pale, with handsome features," +persisted Mrs. Dundyke, in a tone as dreamy as her gaze. Not that she +disbelieved that venerable old man, but it all seemed so great a +mystery.</p> + +<p>"His wife! my nephew has no wife: I don't know who'd marry him. I tell +you, ma'am, you have been taken in by some swindler who must have +assumed his name. Though egad! my nephew's little better than a swindler +himself, for he gets into debt with everybody who will let him."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke sat silent a few moments, and she then told her tale—told +everything that had occurred in connexion with her husband's mysterious +fate. But when she came to hint her suspicions of Mr. Hardcastle's +having been his destroyer, the old gentleman was visibly shocked and +agitated.</p> + +<p>"Good heavens! no! Spendthrift though he is, he is not capable of that +awful crime. Madam, how do you suppose your husband lost his life? In a +struggle? Did they quarrel?"</p> + +<p>"I know nothing," answered poor Mrs. Dundyke.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">[111]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A quarrel and struggle it may have been. Mr. Hardcastle was a powerful +man."</p> + +<p>"A what? A powerful man, did you say, this Mr. Hardcastle?"</p> + +<p>"Very powerful, sir; tall and strong. Standing nearly six feet high, and +as dark as a gipsy."</p> + +<p>"Thank Heaven for that relief!" murmured Mr. Hardcastle. "My nephew is +one of the smallest men you ever saw, ma'am, short and slight, with fair +curls: in fact, an effeminate dandy. There's his picture," added the old +gentleman, throwing open the door of an inner room, "and when he next +comes to England, and he is threatening it now, as you read in that +letter, you shall see him. But, meanwhile, I will refer you to fifty +persons, if you like, who will bear testimony that he is, in person, as +I describe. There is no possible identity between them. Once more, thank +Heaven!"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke returned to her home. The affair seemed to wear a darker +appearance than it had yet worn. And again her suspicions reverted to +the man who had called himself Mr. Hardcastle.</p> + +<p>We must now turn to Westerbury. That generally supine city was awakened +out of its lethargy one morning, by hearing that Death had claimed +Marmaduke Carr. On the very night that his grandson was at Mrs. +Dundyke's, he was dying:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">[112]</a></span> and in the morning, Westerbury heard that he +was dead.</p> + +<p>On the same day, the instant the news was conveyed to them, Squire Carr +and his son and heir came over with all the speed that the train could +bring them, and went bustling to the house of the dead man. There they +found Mr. Fauntleroy, the solicitor to the just deceased Mr. Carr. He +was a tall, large man, this lawyer; a clever practitioner, a fast-living +man, and, by the way, the same scapegrace who had done that injury, in +the shape of money, to Peter Arkell. But Mr. Fauntleroy had settled down +since then, and had made an enormous deal of money; and he held some +sway in Westerbury.</p> + +<p>"Here's a pretty go!" cried Mr. Fauntleroy, in his loud, blustering +tones. "To think that he should die off like this, and nobody know of +it!"</p> + +<p>"I never knew he was ill," said the squire. "I should, of course, have +come over if I had."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he has been ill—that is to say, ailing—a good month now," +returned the lawyer. "And when these aged healthy men begin to droop, +their life is not worth much."</p> + +<p>"Well, what's to be done now?" cried Squire Carr.</p> + +<p>"Nothing of consequence until we hear from the son. I sent down to the +carpenter this morning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">[113]</a></span> about the shell, but I shall do nothing more +until we hear from Mr. Carr in Holland. I wrote a line to him the moment +I heard what had happened, and was in time to get it off by the day +mail. He will come over, there's no doubt."</p> + +<p>"You knew his address, then?" cried Valentine. It was the first word he +had spoken, and he had stood, with his little mean figure, rather behind +his father, and his little mean light eyes furtively scanning the +lawyer's countenance.</p> + +<p>"I believe I know it," replied Mr. Fauntleroy. "There has been an +address in our books as long as I have had anything to do with the +office, 'Robert Carr, Messrs. something (I forget the name), Rotterdam.' +I once asked Mr. Carr if it was his son's correct address, and he said +it was, for all he knew. That is the address I have written to."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure that the old man did not make a will?" asked the squire, +alluding to his relative, Marmaduke.</p> + +<p>"I am sure that I never made one for him," returned Mr. Fauntleroy. +"Will? no, not he! The very mention of the subject used to anger him? +Where was the use of his making a will, he said. His son would inherit +just as well without a will as with one: he was heir-at-law."</p> + +<p>Squire Carr's covetous heart gave vent to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">[114]</a></span> resentful sigh. They were +the very self-same words that Mr. Carr had used to him so many years +ago, on the same topic. That old Marmaduke had <i>not</i> made a will, he +felt as certain as that he should go to his own bed that night, but he +could not help harping upon the contrary hope. As to Valentine, he could +almost have found in his heart to forge one, had such doings not been +unfashionable.</p> + +<p>"Well, I must say Marmaduke might have remembered that he had other +relatives besides that runagate son," grumbled the squire. "Had he been +mine, I'd have cut him off with a shilling."</p> + +<p>"Not a bit on't, Carr," laughed the lawyer, in his coarse way. "You'll +not leave your chattels away from your own progeny; not even from the +roving sheep, Ben."</p> + +<p>Now it was a singular coincidence, amid the many small coincidences of +this history, that Marmaduke Carr's son Robert should die at the same +time as his father. But so it was. The exile of many, many years died +without ever having seen his father, or sought for a word of +reconciliation with him: he had died suddenly in a fit, <i>before</i> his +father, but not above an hour or two; and without seeing one of his +three children, for all were away from home when it occurred.</p> + +<p>In reply to Mr. Fauntleroy's letter there arrived a short note, written +by a lady who signed herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">[115]</a></span> "Emma Carr, neé D'Estival." The language +was English, and good English, too; but the handwriting was unmistakably +French. In acknowledging the receipt of Mr. Fauntleroy's letter, it +stated that "her husband" was from home; and it gave the information +that Mr. Carr was dead—had died after a few hours' illness.</p> + +<p>Nothing could exceed the commotion that this news excited at Squire +Carr's. Robert Carr dead! then they were the heirs-at-law. They beset +the office of Mr. Fauntleroy; they took the conduct of affairs into +their own hands; they ordered the funeral, and they fixed the day of +interment. Not by any means a remote day; scarcely decently so, +according to English notions of keeping the dead. It was hot weather, +Valentine remarked; and that was true: but Westerbury said they wanted +to get the poor old man under ground that they might ransack the house, +and see what valuables were in it. Mr. Fauntleroy was rather taken aback +at these proceedings; at the summary wrestling of affairs out of <i>his</i> +hands; and he had promised himself some nice little pickings out of all +this, the funeral and the acting for Robert Carr, and one thing or +another; but he did not see his way clear to hinder it. If Robert Carr +was dead, and the old man had left no will, Squire Carr was undoubtedly +the heir-at-law.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">[116]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was not, however, to be quite smooth sailing. On their return home +from the funeral—and the only stranger invited to it was Mr. Arkell, he +and Mr. Fauntleroy, with the two Carrs forming the mourners—Mr. +Fauntleroy produced from his pocket a letter which he had received that +morning. It was from the Reverend Robert Carr, the son of the deceased +gentleman in Holland, requesting Mr. Fauntleroy to take all necessary +arrangements upon himself for the interment of old Mr. Carr, his +grandfather, and regretting that he was prevented journeying to attend +it, in consequence of the melancholy circumstances already known to Mr. +Fauntleroy. It desired that the style of the funeral should be handsome, +in accordance with the fortune and position of the deceased. It was +signed Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>"Robert <i>Carr</i>!" contemptuously ejaculated the squire. "What a fool he +must be to write in that strain to us!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy chuckled over the letter; especially over that part of it +ordering a suitable funeral. In his opinion, and in the opinion of +Westerbury generally, the funeral of Mr. Carr had <i>not</i> been suitable. +There were no mutes, no pall-bearers, no superfluous plumes, no +anything: none but a mean-minded man would have ordered such a one.</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy wrote back to the Reverend<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">[117]</a></span> Robert Carr. He gave him a +statement of the case in a dry, lawyery sort of way, and told him that +Squire Carr being, under the apparent circumstances, heir-at-law, had +taken possession of the affairs and property. This elicited a most +indignant reply from Robert Carr. There could not be the slightest doubt +that his father and mother were married, he said, and he should be in +Westerbury as speedily as he could to maintain his own rights.</p> + +<p>"Does he think he can impose upon us, this young fellow of a parson?" +cried Squire Carr, when the letter was shown him. "He will be for making +out next that his mother, that Hughes girl, was my cousin's wife. Let +him prove it. Old birds are not caught with chaff."</p> + +<p>And Squire Carr took out letters of administration.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">[118]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_vii" id="chapter_vii">CHAPTER VII.</a><br /><small>ROBERT CARR'S VISIT.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>Mrs. Arkell sat in her drawing-room with a visitor. She was listening to +what struck her as being the very strangest tale she had ever heard or +dreamt of. The Reverend Mr. Prattleton, who had reached home the +previous night, had come this afternoon to tell her of the disappearance +of Mr. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"Your sister wished me to give you the particulars as soon as I got +home," he observed. "There was little, if any, acquaintance between you +and Mr. Dundyke," <a name="she" id="she"></a><ins title="Original has she">he</ins> said, "but she felt sure you would feel concern for +him, now he was dead, and would like to hear the details. It is a sad +thing; I may say an awful thing."</p> + +<p>"I never heard of such a thing," exclaimed Mrs. Arkell, forgetting her +contempt for the Dundykes in the moment's interest. "It appears +incredible that such a thing could happen. Do you really think he was +murdered, Mr. Prattleton?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">[119]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, no; I don't think that," said the minor canon. "Of course there is +the possibility; but I incline to the belief that he must have fallen +into the lake, leaving his pocket-book on the shore. Indeed, I feel +convinced of it, and I think Mrs. Dundyke felt so at last. In the first +uncertainty and suspense, I hardly know what horrible things she did not +fancy."</p> + +<p>"But surely all proper search was made for him!"</p> + +<p>"Of course it was. I am not sure that the police took so much interest +in it, all of us being foreigners, and temporary sojourners in the town, +as they would have done if a native had been missing. It was with +difficulty they were persuaded to take a serious view of the case. The +gentleman had only gone off somewhere else, they thought, without +telling his wife. However, they did their best to find traces of him; +but it proved useless."</p> + +<p>"What could have taken them to Geneva?" exclaimed Mrs. Arkell.</p> + +<p>"A desire for change and recreation, I suppose. The same that took +me—that takes us all."</p> + +<p>"But——those common working-people don't require change," had been on +Mrs. Arkell's tongue; but she altered the words. Mrs. Dundyke <i>was</i> her +sister, and unfortunately she could not deny it. "But——Geneva was very +far to go."</p> + +<p>"Not very, in these days of travelling. It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">[120]</a></span> twenty years, Mrs. +Arkell, since I was on the continent, and one seems to get about there +ten times as quick as formerly. It's true I took the rail this time as +much as I could; the Dundykes, on the contrary, preferred the old +diligences, wherever they were to be had."</p> + +<p>"Did you see Mr. Dundyke?"</p> + +<p>"No," said the minor canon. "He had disappeared—is it not a strangely +sounding word?—before we reached Geneva."</p> + +<p>"What a mercy that it was not after it!" thought Mrs. Arkell, +remembering the graces of manner of the ill-fated common-councilman. +"Mrs. Dundyke has returned home, you say?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes. When all hope was gone, we left Geneva. She went on home +direct, but we stayed in Paris. I very much wished to call upon her as +we came through London, but we had remained beyond our time, and I could +not. I assure you, Mrs. Arkell, I do not know when I have met with +anyone that so won on my regard and on Mary's, as your sister."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Arkell raised her eyes in pure surprise. <i>Her</i> sister, humble +Betsey Dundyke, win upon anybody's regard! It struck her that the +clergyman must be saying it out of some notion of politeness; he could +surely never mean it. The fact was, Mrs. Arkell had so long been +accustomed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">[121]</a></span> to regard her sister in a disparaging point of view, that +she could not look upon her in any other light.</p> + +<p>"She was always a poor, weak sort of girl, between ourselves, Mr. +Prattleton. Otherwise you know she never could have made such a +marriage. The man was most inferior; dreadfully inferior."</p> + +<p>"Indeed! Then I think he must have got on well," said Mr. Prattleton. +"He was to have been one of the sheriffs, I believe, next year."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Arkell superciliously drew down her still pretty lips. "A great +many of those civic London people are quite inferior tradesmen," she +said; "at least I have heard so. I only hope poor Betsey has enough left +to keep her from want. When these business people die, it often happens +that all they have dies with them, and—oh, William, Mr. Prattleton has +brought us the strangest news! Mr. Dundyke—Betsey's husband, you +know—is either murdered or drowned."</p> + +<p>She had broken off thus on the entrance of her husband. Mr. Arkell, as +he shook hands with the clergyman, listened in amazement little less +great than his wife's, and asked question upon question, greatly +interested. You see there was sufficient—what shall I +say?—uncertainty, about the matter still, to make them look upon it +more as an uncleared-up mystery, than a certain tragedy, and perhaps the +chief feeling excited in all minds when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">[122]</a></span> they first heard it, was that +of marvel. In the midst of Mr. Prattleton's explanations, the college +clock struck three, and the bell rang out for afternoon service. It was +the minor canon's signal.</p> + +<p>"I must go," he said, as he rose; "it is my week for chanting. Mr. +Wilberforce took the duty for me the two first days. I did intend to get +home on Saturday last, but somehow the time slipped on."</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell was going into the town, and he walked with Mr. Prattleton as +far as the large cathedral gates; for the minor canon went round to the +front way that afternoon, as it lay in the road for Mr. Arkell. Lounging +about in an idle mood, now against the contiguous railings, now against +a post of the great doorway, in a manner not often seen at cathedral +doors, and not altogether appropriate to them, was a rather tall, +bilious-looking young man, with fair hair. He did not see them; his head +was turned the other way.</p> + +<p>"Can't you find anything better to do, George?"</p> + +<p>The words came from the clergyman, and the young man turned with a +start. It was George Prattleton, the half-brother of the minor canon, +but very, very much younger. Mr. George held a good civil appointment in +India, but he was now home on sick leave, and his days were eaten up +with <i>ennui</i>. He made the Rev. Mr. Prattleton's his home, who +good-naturedly allowed him to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">[123]</a></span> it; but he was inclined to be what the +world calls fast, and, except at the intervals (somewhat rare ones) when +he had plenty of money in his pocket, he felt that the world was a +wearisome sort of place, of no good to anybody. A good-natured, +inoffensive young fellow on the whole; free from actual vice; but +extravagant, incorrigibly lazy, and easily imposed upon. He generally +called his brother "Mr. Prattleton." The difference in their ages +justified it, and they had not been brought up together.</p> + +<p>"I was deliberating whether I should go in to service this afternoon," +said George—a sort of excuse for lounging against the door-post, as he +shook hands with Mr. Arkell.</p> + +<p>"By way of passing away the time!" cried the clergyman, some covert +reproof in his tone.</p> + +<p>"Well—yes," returned George, who was by no means unwilling to confess +to his shortcomings. "It <i>is</i> a bore, having nothing to do."</p> + +<p>"When you first came home you brought a cartload of books with you, +red-hot upon studying Hindustanée. I wonder how many times you have +opened them!"</p> + +<p>Mr. Prattleton passed into the cathedral as he spoke. It was time he +did, for the bell had been going twelve minutes. George pulled a rueful +face as he thought of his Hindustanée.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">[124]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I tried it for six whole days after I came home, Mr. Arkell—I give you +my word I did; but I couldn't get on at all by myself, and there is not +a master to be had in the town. I shall set to it in right earnest +before I go out again."</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell laughed. He rather liked the good-natured young man, and +Travice he knew was fond of him.</p> + +<p>"But, George, you should remember one thing," he said: "idleness does +not get a man on in the world. You have a fine career before you out +yonder, if you only take the trouble to secure it."</p> + +<p>"I know that, Mr. Arkell; and I assure you not a fellow in all the three +presidencies is steadier than I am, or works harder than I do, when I am +there. It is only here, where I have no work before me, that I get into +this dawdling way."</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell left him, passed out of the cathedral inclosure, and +continued his way up the town. George Prattleton remained where he was, +wondering what on earth he could do with himself. It was too late to go +in to service, for the bell had ceased, the organ was pealing out, and +he caught a glimpse, across the great body of the cathedral, of the +white surplices of the dean and two of the chapter, as they whisked in +at the cloister door. George Prattleton believed time must be given to +mortals as a punishment for their sins. He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">[125]</a></span> not a sixpence in his +pocket; he owed so much at the billiard-rooms that he did not like to +show his face there; he was in debt to all the tobacconists of the +place; he had borrowed money from private friends; and altogether he +rather wished for an earthquake, or something of that light nature, by +way of a diversion to the general stagnation of the sultry afternoon.</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell meanwhile reached the house of lawyer Fauntleroy, for that +was the place he was bound for. Mr. Fauntleroy was not his solicitor, +but he had a question to ask him on a matter unconnected with +professional business. As he was turning out of the office again, he +nearly ran against a stranger in deep mourning, who was looking up, as +though he wanted to find the number of the house. He was a slight, +delicate-looking young man; and it instantly struck Mr. Arkell that he +had seen his face before, or one like it.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," said the stranger, taking his hat more completely +off than an Englishman generally does to one of his own sex, "can you +tell me whether this is Mr. Fauntleroy's?"</p> + +<p>"It is Mr. Fauntleroy's. I think—I think you are the son of Robert +Carr!" impulsively cried Mr. Arkell, as the resemblance to the exiled +and now dead friend of his boyhood flashed across his memory.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">[126]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was no other. The Reverend Robert Carr had hastened to Westerbury as +soon as family arrangements and his own health permitted him. A few +moments of conversation, and Mr. Arkell turned back with him to +introduce him to Lawyer Fauntleroy, thinking at the same time that he +had rarely seen anyone look so thin, so pale, so shadowy as Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>It was a handsome house, this of Lawyer Fauntleroy's—and if you object +to the term "Lawyer Fauntleroy," as old-fashioned, you must not blame me +for using it. Westerbury rarely called him anything else; does not call +him anything else now, if it has occasion to recal him or his doings. +The offices were on either side of the door, as you entered; Mr. +Fauntleroy's private room, a large, well fitted-up apartment, being on +the right; a small ante-room led to it, generally the sanctum of the +managing clerk.</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy was at leisure, and the whole affair in all its details, +past and present, was related to Robert Carr. Mr. Arkell remained also. +It was not a pleasant office to have to seek to convince this young man +of his own illegitimacy, never a doubt of which had arisen in his mind.</p> + +<p>"My mother not married!" he repeated, a streak of suspicious +crimson—suspicious when taken in conjunction with that hacking cough, +those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">[127]</a></span> shadowy hands—"indeed you would not entertain such a thought had +you known her. She was, I believe, of inferior family, but in herself +she was a lady, and her children had cause to love and bless her. Not +married! Why, are you aware, Mr. Fauntleroy, that my father was a +partner in one of the first merchant's houses in Rotterdam, and that my +mother held her own, and was visited, and respected as few are, so long +as she lived?"</p> + +<p>Lawyer Fauntleroy shook his head. He was a man who took practical views +of most things, utterly scorning theoretical ones.</p> + +<p>"I don't doubt your word, Mr. Carr, that your mother was a most +estimable lady; I remember her myself, an uncommon pretty girl; but that +does not prove that she was married."</p> + +<p>Mr. Carr's eyes flashed. "Not prove it! Do you think, being what I tell +you she was, a good, religious woman, that she would have lived with my +father unless they had been married?"</p> + +<p>"I have known such cases," cried the lawyer, with his dry practicalness, +if there is such a word. "One of the first men in this city—if you +except the clergy and that set—Haughton was his name, and plenty of +money he had, and lived in style, as Mr. Arkell here can tell you, his +sons sticking themselves above everybody, his wife and daughters +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">[128]</a></span>setting the fashions—well, Mr. Carr, when he died, it was discovered +that his wife was not his wife; that his children were nothing in the +eyes of the law. Westerbury was electrified, I can tell you, and bestows +hard names upon old Haughton to this day, for having so imposed upon +them."</p> + +<p>"You should not put such a case on a parallel with ours," said the young +clergyman, in pained reproof.</p> + +<p>"But, my good sir, it <i>is</i> on a parallel; so far, at all events. I tell +you this family were looked upon as superior, as everything that was +moral; not a word could be urged against the wife (as we'll call her for +the argument's sake); she was respected and visited; and not until old +Haughton died, and his will came to be read, did the secret ooze out. He +left his money to them, but he could not leave it in the usual +straightforward way. By the way," added the lawyer briskly, as a thought +struck him; "in what manner was your father's will worded? How was your +mother styled in it?"</p> + +<p>"You forget that my mother has been dead for some time. The will was +made only two years ago. It was a perfectly legally-drawn-up will, +according to the Dutch laws; there can be no doubt of that."</p> + +<p>"Do you remember how you are described in it, and your brothers and +sisters?" persisted Mr. Fauntleroy.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">[129]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I have but one brother and one sister; we are described in what I +suppose is the usual manner, by our Christian names, Robert, Thomas, and +Mary Augusta, the sons and daughter of Robert Carr. It is something to +that effect; I did not take particular notice of the wording."</p> + +<p>"I wonder what the law is, over there, with regard to legitimacy?" mused +Mr. Fauntleroy, his eyes seeing an imaginary Holland in the distance. +"But, Mr. Carr, this is waste of time," he added, rousing himself; "the +plain case round which the question will revolve, is not so much whether +your father and mother were married, as whether it can be <i>proved</i> that +they were. The law, in a case like this, requires proof actual—and very +right that it should."</p> + +<p>"I suppose there will not be the slightest difficulty in proving it," +said Robert Carr, resenting the very suggestion.</p> + +<p>"Can <i>you</i> prove it? Do you know where it took place?"</p> + +<p>The young man shook his head. "I never heard where. It can be readily +found out."</p> + +<p>"Did you ever question your father upon the point?"</p> + +<p>"No; it was not likely I should, seeing that my attention was never +drawn to any doubt of the sort."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">[130]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, Westerbury has never entertained any doubt the other way," said +the lawyer. "It is not agreeable to say these things to your face, Mr. +Carr; but there's no help for it; and the sooner the question is set at +rest for you, one way or the other, the better. I should not think +there's a single person living still in Westerbury, who recollects the +circumstances as they took place, that would believe your father married +Miss Hughes after she went away with him."</p> + +<p>"It is probable they were married before they did go away," spoke Robert +Carr, hating more than he liked to show the being compelled to this +discussion.</p> + +<p>"That, I can answer for, they were not. When they left here she was +Martha Ann Hughes."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Fauntleroy is right so far," interposed Mr. Arkell. "They were not +married when they left Westerbury: on that point there can be no +mistake. The question that remains is, were they married subsequent to +it?"</p> + +<p>"They must have been," said Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>"But there is no must in the case," dissented the lawyer. "The +probabilities are that they were not: the belief is such."</p> + +<p>"I do not see why you should persistently seek to cast this opprobrium +on my father and mother, Mr. Fauntleroy!" exclaimed Robert Carr, his +hollow face lighting up with reproach.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">[131]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Bless you, my good sir, I don't seek to cast it," said the lawyer, +good-humouredly. "Facts are facts. If you can prove that Robert Carr +married Miss Hughes, and your own legal birth with it, you will take the +property; but if you can't prove it, Squire Carr must keep possession, +and things will remain as they are. Where's the use of shutting our eyes +to the truth?"</p> + +<p>"There can be no doubt whatever of the marriage. I am sure of it; I +would stake all my hopes upon it here and—I was going to +say—hereafter."</p> + +<p>"But you so speak only according to your belief, sir? You have no shadow +of proof."</p> + +<p>"True; but——"</p> + +<p>"Just so," interrupted Mr. Fauntleroy, in his decisive and rather +overbearing manner. "All the proofs lie on the other side—negative +proofs, at any rate. They went away together without being married; that +is certain—and, by the way, they hoaxed my friend here, William Arkell, +into helping them off; and I believe his father never forgave him for +it. Neither were there wanting subsequent proofs—negative ones, +perhaps, as I say—that they remained unmarried; at any rate, for some +years. Rely upon one thing, Mr. Robert Carr: that old Marmaduke, just +dead, would have left his money away from his son unless he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">[132]</a></span> been +thoroughly certain that no marriage took place. He had sworn to +disinherit his son if he married Miss Hughes, and he was a man to keep +his word."</p> + +<p>"Excuse me," said Robert Carr: "you do not perceive that this very fact +may have been the motive that induced my father to keep his marriage a +secret."</p> + +<p>"I perceive it very well. But it is a great deal more probable that +there never was a marriage. Weigh all the circumstances well, Mr. Carr; +without prejudice: though, of course, it is difficult for you to do so. +Over and over again your father was heard to say that he had no +intention of marrying the girl——"</p> + +<p>"You forget that you are speaking to me of my mother," interrupted +Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, I did," acknowledged the lawyer. "It is difficult to speak +to a son upon these things; but I think, Mr. Carr, you had better hear +them. Mr. Arkell there, who was your father's intimate acquaintance, can +testify how positively he disclaimed, even to him, any intention of +marriage. Next came the——"</p> + +<p>"Allow me," interposed the clergyman, his haughty tone bespeaking how +painful all this was to him. "I presume no suspicion was cast upon my +mother's name while she was in Westerbury?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">[133]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not a breath of it. Blame was cast, though, on her and her sisters for +allowing the visits of Robert Carr: as is usual in all cases where there +is much disparity in the social standing of the parties. Next came the +elopement, I was about to say. They went direct to London, where they +stayed together——"</p> + +<p>"The marriage must have taken place there," again interrupted Robert +Carr.</p> + +<p>"I believe not," said Mr. Fauntleroy, dryly. "Marmaduke Carr took care +to acquaint himself with particulars, and it was ascertained that they +did not remain in London long enough to allow of it. The law, more +particular then than it is now, required a residence of three weeks in a +place, before a marriage could be solemnized, and they left for Holland +ere the expiration of a fortnight. It was our house—my father then +being its head—which sought out these particulars for old Marmaduke. +No; rely upon it there was no marriage in London."</p> + +<p>His tone plainly said, "Rely upon it there was no marriage, there or +elsewhere." Mr. Carr was about to speak, but the lawyer raised his hand +and continued.</p> + +<p>"Some little time after they had settled in Rotterdam, John Carr—Squire +Carr now—went over and saw them. There's no doubt his visit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">[134]</a></span> was a +fishing one, hoping to find out that a marriage <i>had</i> taken place; for +in that case, Marmaduke Carr would have wanted another heir than his +son. I am sure that John, close-fisted as he was known to be, would have +given a hundred pounds out of his pocket to be able to come back and +report that they were married; but he could not. He was obliged to +confess not only that his cousin and Miss Hughes were not married, but +that Robert had told him he never should marry her. And, indeed, it was +hardly to be supposed that he would then."</p> + +<p>"But——"</p> + +<p>"A moment yet, if you please, Mr. Carr. Some considerable time after +this, and when I think there was one child born—which must have been +you, sir—Mr. Carr got to see a letter written by Martha Ann Hughes to +her sister Mary. I think he got the sight of it through you, Mr. +Arkell?"</p> + +<p>"Through my father. Mary Hughes was at work at our house, and Tring, our +maid, brought the letter on the sly to my mother. My father, I remember, +said he should like to show it to Marmaduke Carr; and he did so."</p> + +<p>"Ay. Well, Mr. Carr, nothing could have been plainer than that letter. +Mary Ann Hughes acknowledged that she had no hope of Robert's marrying +her; but he was kind to her, she said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">[135]</a></span> and she was as happy as anyone +well could be under her unfortunate circumstances. Indeed, I fear you +have no room for hope."</p> + +<p>"Where is that letter?" asked the clergyman.</p> + +<p>"It's impossible to say. Destroyed most likely long ago. None of your +mother's family are remaining in Westerbury."</p> + +<p>"Are they all dead?"</p> + +<p>"Dead or dispersed. The brother went off to America or somewhere; and +the second sister, Mary, died: it was said she grieved a great deal +about her sister, your mother. The eldest sister married a young man of +the name of Pycroft, and they also emigrated. Nothing has been heard of +any of them for years."</p> + +<p>"You must permit me to maintain my own opinion, Mr. Fauntleroy," pursued +Robert Carr; "and I shall certainly not allow anyone to interfere with +my grandfather's property. If the other branch of the family—Squire +Carr and his sons—wish to put forth any pretensions to it, they must +first prove their right."</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy laughed. He was amused at the clergyman's idea of law.</p> + +<p>"The proof lies with you, Mr. Carr," he said; "and not with them. They +cannot prove a negative, you know; and they say that no marriage took +place. It is for you to prove that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">[136]</a></span> did. Failing that proof, the +property will be theirs."</p> + +<p>"And meanwhile? While we are searching for the proof?" questioned Robert +Carr, after a pause.</p> + +<p>"Meanwhile they retain possession. I understand that Mrs. Lewis has +already come over and taken up her abode in the house."</p> + +<p>"Who is Mrs. Lewis?" asked the clergyman.</p> + +<p>"Squire Carr's widowed daughter. She has been living at home since her +husband died. I was told this morning that she had come to the house +with the intention of remaining."</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy's information was correct. Mrs. Lewis <i>had</i> come to +Marmaduke Carr's house, and was fully resolved to stop in it, fate and +the squire permitting. Mr. Lewis had died about a year before, and left +her not so well off as she could have wished. She had a competency; but +she had not riches. She broke up her household in the Grounds, and went +on a long visit to her father's, to save housekeeping temporarily; +leaving her two boys, who were on the foundation of the college school, +as boarders at the house of Mr. Wilberforce.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">[137]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_viii" id="chapter_viii">CHAPTER VIII.</a><br /><small>GOING OVER TO SQUIRE CARR'S.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>Mr. Arkell put his arm within Robert Carr's, as they walked away +together. It would be difficult to express how very much he felt for +this young man. His father's fault was not his, and Mr. Arkell, at +least, would not be one to visit it upon him. For a few yards their +steps were taken in silence; but the clergyman spoke at last, his eye +dilating, his voice vehement.</p> + +<p>"If they had only known my mother as I knew her, they would see how +improbable is this tale that they are telling! I do not care what their +suspicions are, what their want of proof; I <i>know</i> that my mother was my +father's wife."</p> + +<p>"Indeed I hope it will prove so," said Mr. Arkell, rather at a loss what +else to say.</p> + +<p>"She was modest, gentle, good, refined; she was respected as few are +respected. There never was a trace of shame upon her brow. Could her +children have been trained as she trained hers, if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">[138]</a></span>—if—I can hardly +trust myself to speak of this. It is a cruel calumny."</p> + +<p>Perhaps so. But, looking at it in its best light; allowing that they +were really married; the calumny was alone the fault of this young man's +father. If he could have removed the stigma, he should have done it. Did +this poor young man begin to think so? Did unwilling doubts arise, even +to him? Scarcely, yet. But the lines grew hard in his face as they +walked along, and his troubled eyes looked out straight before him into +space, seeing nothing.</p> + +<p>"I wish you would give me the whole history of the past yourself, Mr. +Arkell, now that I can listen quietly. I was hardly in a state to pay +attention just now; somehow I distrusted that old lawyer."</p> + +<p>"You need not have done that. He was your grandfather's man of business; +and, though a little rough, he is sufficiently honest."</p> + +<p>"Is he not acting for Squire Carr?"</p> + +<p>"I think not. I am sure not."</p> + +<p>"Will you give me the history of the past, quietly? as correctly as you +can remember it."</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell did so; telling, with a half laugh, the ruse Robert Carr had +exercised in getting his father's carriage to take them away, and the +hot water he, William, got into in consequence. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">[139]</a></span> told the whole +affair from its earliest beginning to its ending, concealing nothing; he +mentioned how Mary Hughes had happened to be at work at his mother's +house that day; and the dreadful <a name="distresss" id="distresss"></a><ins title="Original has distresss">distress</ins> she experienced, as soon as +the matter was made known to her; he even told how severe in its +judgment on the fugitives was Westerbury.</p> + +<p>"And were <i>you</i> severe upon them also?" asked Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>"Just at first. That is, I believed the worst. But afterwards my opinion +changed, and I thought it most likely that Robert married her in London. +I thought that for some time. In fact, until I saw the letter that you +heard Mr. Fauntleroy speak of, as having been written by your mother to +her sister Mary."</p> + +<p>"You saw that letter yourself, then?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, my father showed it to me. Not in any gossiping spirit, but as a +convincing proof that the opinion I had held was wrong, and his was +right. He had been very greatly vexed at the whole affair, and would +never listen to me when I said I hoped and thought they were married. It +was, as Mr. Fauntleroy observed, a plain, convincing letter; and from +the moment I saw it, I felt sure that there had been no marriage, and +would be none. I am so grieved to tell you this, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">[140]</a></span> dear young friend; +but I might not be doing my duty if I were to suppress it."</p> + +<p>Robert Carr's face turned a shade paler.</p> + +<p>"I see exactly how it is," he said: "that it is next to impossible for +you, or anyone else, to believe there was a marriage; all the +circumstances telling against it. Nevertheless, I declare to you, Mr. +Arkell, on my sacred word as a clergyman, that I am as certain a +marriage did take place, as that there is a heaven above us."</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell did not think so, and there ensued a pause.</p> + +<p>"Your father died rather suddenly, I believe," he said to Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>"Very suddenly. He was taken with a sort of fit; I really cannot tell +you its exact nature, for the medical men differed, but I suppose it was +apoplexy. They agreed in one thing, that there was no hope from the +first; and he never recovered consciousness. I was in London when they +telegraphed to me, but when I got home he had been for some hours dead."</p> + +<p>"I will send to the hotel for your portmanteau," said Mr. Arkell; "you +must be our guest while you stay. My son will be delighted. He is about +your own age."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, no; you are very kind, but I would rather be alone just +now," was Robert Carr's<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">[141]</a></span> answer. "This is not a pleasant visit for me, +and I am in poor health, besides. I shall not stay here long; I must +enter upon a search for the register of the marriage. But I should like +to pay a visit to the Carr's before I leave, and I am too fatigued to go +back to-day."</p> + +<p>"To pay a visit to the Carr's?" Mr. Arkell echoed.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Why should I not? They are my relatives, and I do not see that +there need be ill blood between us. As to the property, they have no +real right to it whatever, and I hope I shall speedily produce proof +that it is mine, and so put an end to any heartburning. I suppose," he +added, reverting to the one subject, "that you are quite sure the +marriage did not take place before they left Westerbury?"</p> + +<p>"You may put that idea entirely aside," replied Mr. Arkell. "There's no +doubt that their going away was in consequence of a bitter quarrel +Robert had with his father; that it was unpremeditated until the night +previous to their departure. In Westerbury they were not married, could +not have been; but perhaps they were in London. It is true, I believe, +they did not stay there anything like three weeks—and you heard what +Mr. Fauntleroy said; but I suppose it is possible to evade the law, +which exacts a residence of that length of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">[142]</a></span> time in a place, before the +ceremony can be performed."</p> + +<p>"Yes, there's no doubt they were married in London," concluded Robert +Carr. "I must ascertain what parish they stayed in there; and the rest +will be easy."</p> + +<p>Not another word was said. Robert Carr walked on in silence, and Mr. +Arkell did not interrupt it. Mr. Arkell took him into his house. In the +dining-room, the old familiar room you have so often seen, sat a lady, +languidly looking over a parcel of books just come in. By her side, +leaning over her chair, grasping the books more eagerly than she, the +stranger saw a young man of about his own age—tall, slender, +gentlemanly—with a face of peculiar refinement, and a sweet smile.</p> + +<p>"Now, I wonder what they mean by their negligence? The two books I +ordered are not here. I wish <i>they</i> knew what it was to have these fine +starry nights, and be without a book of reference; they——"</p> + +<p>"Travice," interrupted Mr. Arkell, "I have brought you a visitor, the +son of a once close friend of mine. My wife, Mrs. Arkell. Charlotte, +this is Mr. Robert Carr, Mr. Carr's grandson."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Arkell turned and received him with a curtsey and a dubious look. +Always inclined to judge on the uncharitable side, she had had nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">[143]</a></span> +but indifferent scorn to cast to the rumour that Robert Carr's children +were going to lay claim to the property, just as she had scorned Robert +Carr himself in the old days. She knew that this must be one of the +children.</p> + +<p>Travice went up at once and shook him warmly by the hand, his pleasant +face smiling its own welcome. "I have often heard my father speak of +yours," he said; "I am so pleased to see you."</p> + +<p>Very little was said in the presence of Mrs. Arkell, touching the +business that had brought Robert Carr to Westerbury; but one subject led +to another, and Robert Carr told, as one of the strange occurrences of +the world, that which had made so strong an impression on himself—the +story of the disappearance of Mr. Dundyke. He told it as to strangers; +and not, until he had related his own meeting with them at Grenoble, and +his visit to Mrs. Dundyke on the night of her return to London, did he +find that Mrs. Arkell was her sister. It was Travice Arkell's +impetuosity that brought it out then; Mrs. Arkell had been better +pleased that it should remain a secret.</p> + +<p>"We have heard it all," said Travice; "and Mrs. Dundyke is my aunt and +my godmother. She and my mother are sisters."</p> + +<p>"I was not aware of it," said Robert Carr. "Is it not a strange tale?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">[144]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Strange!" repeated Travice, "I never heard of anything half so strange. +I have been waylaying Mr. Prattleton as he came out of college, wanting +to hear more than my mother could tell me. I wish I had been at Geneva!"</p> + +<p>"So do I," said Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>Robert Carr remained to dinner. He still expressed a wish to make +himself known to his relatives, the Carrs; and Mr. Arkell offered to +drive him to Eckford on the following morning. A railway now went near +the place; but the seven miles' drive was pleasanter than the ten of +rail, and Squire Carr's house was a good mile and a half from the +Eckford station. So it was arranged.</p> + +<p>"Travice," said Mr. Arkell, as Robert Carr took his departure, "I was +glad to see your reception of this gentleman. Be to him a <i>friend</i> in +any way that you can. It may be, that he will not find too many of them +in Westerbury."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Arkell tossed her head. "I am rather surprised that you should +bring him here, and introduce him on this familiar footing. The past +history of the father is not a passport for the son. I should not have +cared so much had Charlotte and Sophy been away."</p> + +<p>"Charlotte and Sophy! He'll not poison them. What are you thinking of, +Charlotte? He has been reared a gentleman; he is a clergyman of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">[145]</a></span> +Church of England. Whatever may have been the truth of the past, <i>he</i> is +not to blame for it."</p> + +<p>Travice Arkell was full of sympathy. "How ill he looks!" he exclaimed; +"though he seems to think nothing of it, and says it is the result of a +hurt. Is it not curious that he should have met with Mrs. Dundyke? He +says his mother was in some way related to the Dundykes."</p> + +<p>"There, that will do, Travice," interposed Mrs. Arkell. "I shall dream +of that Geneva lake to-night, and of seeing dead men in it. But, +William," she added in a lower tone to her husband, "what a misfortune +it will be for Betsey, should she have nothing left to live upon! She +would have to go out as a housekeeper, or something of that sort."</p> + +<p>Squire Carr's residence was a low, rambling, red-brick building, with a +quantity of outhouses lying around it, and an avenue of oaks leading +almost up to the low-porched entrance door. Pacing before this porch, a +clay pipe in his mouth, and his dark hair uncovered to the September +sun, was Benjamin Carr. He seemed in a moody study, from which the sound +of wheels aroused him, and he saw Mr. Arkell driving up in his open +carriage, a stranger sitting with him, and the groom in the back seat. +Benjamin Carr wore a short velveteen shooting-coat—it set off his tall +form to advan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">[146]</a></span>tage; and Robert Carr thought what a fine man he was.</p> + +<p>"Why, Benjamin, I did not know you were at home."</p> + +<p>"I got here a day or two ago," returned Benjamin, putting aside his +pipe, and shaking hands with Mr. Arkell. "The squire's slice of luck +brought me. One of the girls wrote me word of it; so I've come to see +whether I can't drop in for a few of the pickings."</p> + +<p>It was an awkward answer, considering that Robert Carr was listening; +perhaps he did not understand it. Mr. Arkell made rather a bustle of +getting out, and of standing aside for Robert, telling his groom to take +the horse round to the stables. "Is your father in, Benjamin?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"For all I know. I have seen none of them since breakfast. Valentine's +gone over to Eckford, I believe; but—here's the squire."</p> + +<p>The squire, attracted by the sounds of the arrival, was peeping forth +from the house door. He wore a shabby old coat, and his poor shrunken +clothes looked altogether too small even for his miserable little +figure. Robert Carr was struck with the contrast to his fine son.</p> + +<p>A word or two of explanation from Mr. Arkell, delivered in a low tone, a +prolonged, astonished stare from Benjamin, and the squire, in a +bewilder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">[147]</a></span>ment of surprise, was shaking hands with Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>"It is the first visit I have made to my father's native place, and +though unpleasant circumstances have brought me, I do not see that they +need be any reason for my shunning my relatives; I daresay we only wish, +on both sides, all that is fair and right," began Robert Carr. "I +expressed a wish to come and see you, sir, and Mr. Arkell kindly offered +to drive me over."</p> + +<p>Had the squire followed his first impulse, he might possibly have +ordered Mr. Robert Carr off his premises again; for he could only look +upon him as a secret enemy, who had very nearly wrested from him a brave +inheritance. But his policy throughout life had been to conciliate, no +matter at what expense of hypocrisy. It was the safest course, he held; +and he pursued it now. Besides, if there was one man that the squire did +not care to stand altogether a sneak before, it was William Arkell with +his well-known uprightness.</p> + +<p>The squire led the way to his study, turning over in his mind what +secret end Robert Carr could hope to answer by coming over and spying +into the enemy's quarters. That he had come as a spy, or in some +character as base, it was out of the squire's nature to do other than +believe. Benjamin followed, in a state of wonder. As they went along the +stone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">[148]</a></span> passage, Robert Carr caught sight of some pretty girls peeping +here and there like scared pheasants; but the squire raised his finger +meaningly, and they scuttered away.</p> + +<p>The visit was not a pleasant one, after all; and perhaps it was a +mistake to have made it. The restraint was too visibly evident. Robert +himself spoke of the inheritance—spoke openly, as one honourable, or we +may as well say, indifferent, man would discuss it with another. There +could be no possible doubt that his father and mother were married, he +said; and he hoped the property of all sorts would be allowed to rest in +abeyance until the fact was ascertained, which might be done in a week's +time.</p> + +<p>The squire was rather taken aback, especially at the easy, confident +tone; not a boasting tone—one of quiet, calm surety. "Why, how do you +think to ascertain it?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I shall search the registers of the London churches."</p> + +<p>The squire burst into a laugh. Had Robert Carr told him he was going to +search the moon, it could not have struck upon his ear as a more absurd +proceeding. Squire Carr was as sure that there had been no marriage as +that the sun was then shining on his visitor's head; he had been sure of +it, to his cost, all these long years.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">[149]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well," said he, "you'll do as you like, of course, but don't go to much +expense over it."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because you will <i>never</i> find what you are looking for, and it's a sin +to throw away good money. I asked your father myself whether he had been +married to the girl in London, and he told me he had not, that he had +never been inside a church in London in his life; he told me also that +he never should marry her. He spoke on his honour, and therefore I know +he spoke the truth."</p> + +<p>There was an unpleasant silence. Robert Carr began to feel that the +topic could not be pursued.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Mr. Carr," resumed the squire, in his piping voice: "you, as +a university man, must be in a degree a man of the world, and must know +that what's fair for the goose is fair for the gander. Had Marmaduke +Carr's son lived and come over here to take possession, he would have +taken it, uninterfered with by us; it would have been his own, and we +should have wished him joy. But he did not live, he died; he died, in +the eyes of the law, childless, and I am the inheritor. As good tell me +you lay claim to this house of mine here, as to the property I have just +come into of my uncle Marmaduke's."</p> + +<p>"You will not allow it to lie in abeyance for a while?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">[150]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Most certainly not. Nobody else would: and you must be a very young man +to ask it. I have the law on my side: you cannot in England act contrary +to the law, Mr. Carr."</p> + +<p>"Well, I daresay you <i>think</i> you are right," said Robert Carr in a +tolerant spirit. "Let us drop the subject. I did not, I assure you, come +here to enter upon it; I came to make acquaintance with you, my +relatives, and to say, but in no spirit of anger or contention, that I +intend to establish and maintain my rights. We need not be enemies, or +speak as such."</p> + +<p>"Very well," said the squire, "I'll ask you one thing, and then we'll +drop it, as you say; and it was not I who began it, mind. How came you +to think of advancing your claim to my uncle Marmaduke's property? What +put it in your head?"</p> + +<p>"I believe it to be my property—that I have succeeded to it, with my +brother and sister, in consequence of the death of my father. You must +understand, Squire Carr, it is only now, since this question arose, that +I have heard there was any doubt cast upon our birth."</p> + +<p>"I see. Robert kept it from you. He was a simpleton for his pains; and +you must not mind my being plain enough to say it. Next to the wrong +itself, the worst wrong that parents can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">[151]</a></span> inflict is the keeping it a +secret from their children. And now let us go to luncheon. I told them +to lay it. Never mind about its being early: you shall not go back +without first taking something to eat."</p> + +<p>"If you go away without partaking of our bread and salt, we shall think +you bear us malice," said Benjamin, courteously, as he walked on to the +dining-room with the clergyman.</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell was following, but the squire laid his finger on his arm to +detain him. "Don't let him do it," he whispered.</p> + +<p>"Do what?" asked Mr. Arkell.</p> + +<p>"All this searching of registers and stuff that he talks of. Mind! I am +not speaking in a selfish spirit, as I might if I were afraid of +it,"—and for once the squire's earnest tones, and eyes, raised full in +Mr. Arkell's face, proved that he was really speaking truth. "I am sorry +for the young man; he is evidently a gentleman, and he looks sickly; and +his father has done an ill part by him in letting this come upon him as +a blow. There's not the smallest probability that they were married; I +know what Robert said to me, and I would stake my life that they were +not. If he searches every register in the three kingdoms, he'll never +find its record; and it is a pity he should spend his money, and his +time, and his hopes over it. Don't let him do it."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">[152]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That he will do it, I am quite certain," was the reply of Mr. Arkell. +"He seems perfectly to reverence the memory of his mother; and it is as +much to vindicate her fame that he will make the search, as for the sake +of the inheritance. Robert Carr was grievously to blame to let it come +to this. He ought to have set the question at rest, one way or the +other, before his death."</p> + +<p>"The fact is, Robert overreached himself," said Squire Carr. "I can see +it plainly. He did not marry the girl, because it would have been the +means of forfeiting his father's property—for old Marmaduke would have +kept his word. He wanted to come into that property, and then to have +made a will and left it to these children, relying on their foreign +birth and residence to keep always the fact of their illegitimacy from +them. But he died suddenly, you see, before he had come into it, and +therefore the property goes from them. Robert overreached himself."</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell nodded his head. His opinion coincided with Squire Carr's.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">[153]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_ix" id="chapter_ix">CHAPTER IX.</a><br /><small>A STARTLED LUNCHEON-TABLE.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>The luncheon was laid in a low room, with a beam running across the +ceiling; the walls, once bright with red flock paper and much gilding, +were soiled and dull now, after the manner of a great many of our +dining-rooms. Squire Carr took the head of the table. He apologised for +the fare: cold veal, ham (which Benjamin, who sat at the foot of the +table, carved), and salad. The squire's daughters did not appear at it. +There were too many of them, he said to Robert; but Mrs. Lewis, who had +just come over from Westerbury by the train, did. She was a big woman, +with little eyes like the squire's, and a large face—the latter very +red just now, through her mile-and-a-half walk in the sun from Eckford. +She turned her back on the young clergyman when he said grace, as though +he had no business there. Benjamin had whispered to her who he was, and +the search of the marriage register books<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">[154]</a></span> that was in prospect; and +Mrs. Lewis resented it visibly. She had no mind to give up that bijou of +a house just entered upon. She believed she should have trouble enough +with her father to keep it, without another opponent coming into the +field.</p> + +<p>"What brings you over to-day, Emma?" asked the squire of Mrs. Lewis, as +the meal proceeded. "Anything turned up?"</p> + +<p>A rather ambiguous question, the latter one, to uninitiated ears; but +the squire had been burning to put it, and Mrs. Lewis understood. He +looked covertly at her for a moment with his blinking eyes, and then +dropped them again.</p> + +<p>"I only came over to see Ben, papa," she answered. "The news reached me +this morning that he had come home. I have not had time to do anything +yet."</p> + +<p>Now, the fact was, Squire Carr had placed his daughter, knowing her +admirable ferreting propensities, in Marmaduke Carr's house for one sole +purpose—that of visiting its every hole and corner. "There <i>may</i> be a +will," the squire had said to himself, in his caution, several times +since the death. "I don't think there is; I could stake a great deal +that there is not, for Marmaduke was not likely to make one; but it's as +well to be on the safe side, and such things have been heard of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">[155]</a></span> as +wills hid away in houses." And when the squire saw Mrs. Lewis, whom he +had not expected that day, he began to fear that something of the sort +had "turned up." The relief was great.</p> + +<p>"Oh, to see Ben. You'll see enough of him, I <a name="ect" id="ect"></a><ins title="Original has ' ect'">expect</ins>, before he's off +again."</p> + +<p>"Are you going to make a long stay here, this time, Ben?" asked Mr. +Arkell.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think I shall. Will you take some more ham, Emma?"</p> + +<p>"Your name is the same as my wife's," observed the young clergyman, with +a smile, as he passed Mrs. Lewis's plate for more ham: for it was Squire +Carr's pleasure that servants did not wait at luncheon.</p> + +<p>"Is it? It is a very ugly one," roughly replied Mrs. Lewis, who could +not recover her equanimity in the presence of this gentleman. "I can't +think how they came to give it me, for my part. I have a prejudice +against the name 'Emma.' The woman bore it whom, of all the women I have +known in the world, I most disliked."</p> + +<p>"It was your mother's name, my dear," said the squire.</p> + +<p>"And <i>I</i> think a charming name," said Robert Carr. "I am not sure but it +was Emma D'Estival's name that first attracted me to her."</p> + +<p>The squire looked up with a sort of start. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">[156]</a></span> remembered the letter +written by "Emma Carr, <i>née</i> D'Estival." Of course! she was this young +man's wife.</p> + +<p>"You look young to have a wife," was all the squire said.</p> + +<p>"You look, to me, as if you had no business with one at all," added Mrs. +Lewis with blunt plainness. "Sickly men should be cautious how they +marry, lest they leave their wives widows. I have been so left. I threw +aside my widow's cap only last week."</p> + +<p>Robert Carr explained to them what his hurt had been, and how his chest +had suffered at times since. He was aware he looked unusually ill just +now, he said; but he had looked just as much so about a year and a half +before—had coughed also. He should get well now, he supposed, like he +did then. For one thing, speaking of his present looks, this matter was +harassing him a good deal, and there had been his father's sudden death.</p> + +<p>"Oh, by the way, Mr. Arkell, let me ask you something," exclaimed Mrs. +Lewis suddenly. "I have heard the strangest thing. That a gentleman, a +Mr. Dundas, or some such name, had been drowned or murdered, or +something, at Geneva; a relative of your wife's. What <i>is</i> the truth of +it?"</p> + +<p>"That is the truth, as far as we can learn it," replied Mr. Arkell. "It +was Mr. Dundyke, the husband of Mrs. Arkell's sister. You saw her once,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">[157]</a></span> +I know, at my mother's house, a great many years ago; she was Miss +Betsey Travice then——"</p> + +<p>"But about the murder?" interrupted Mrs. Lewis. "<i>Was</i> he murdered? +Roland ran home from Mr. Wilberforce's for a minute last night, and I +heard it from him. I think he said the young Prattletons told him. I +know he was quite up in arms about it. What is it?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell pointed to Robert Carr. "That gentleman can tell you better +than I can," he said. "He heard the particulars from Mrs. Dundyke +herself. I only heard them from Mr. Prattleton secondhand."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you want me to tell the story, instead of yourself," said +Robert Carr, with a glance and a smile at Mr. Arkell. "Mr. Prattleton +was on the spot, and instituted the search, so <i>his</i> information cannot +be secondhand."</p> + +<p>They began it between them, but Mr. Arkell gradually ceased, and left it +to Robert Carr. It appeared to take a singular hold on the squire's +interest. He had just asked his son for more ham, but was too absorbed +to send his plate for it. Ben held the slice between his knife and fork, +and had to let it drop at last.</p> + +<p>"Then he was not murdered!" exclaimed Mrs. Lewis. "It was only a case of +drowning, after all!"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">[158]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Of drowning," assented Robert Carr. "At least that is the most probable +supposition."</p> + +<p>"It may rather be called at present a case of mysterious disappearance, +as the sensational weekly papers would phrase it," interposed Mr. +Arkell, speaking again. "Mrs. Dundyke at one time felt convinced that a +murder had been committed, as Mr. Prattleton tells me, and afterwards +modified her opinion. Now she feels her doubts renewed again."</p> + +<p>"What a shocking thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Lewis. "And who does she think +murdered him—if he was murdered?"</p> + +<p>"The Mr. Hardcastle of whom mention has been made. Mrs. Dundyke has +discovered that he was an impostor."</p> + +<p>"Has she!" exclaimed Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Prattleton heard from her by last evening's post, and he came in +late, and showed me her letters," said Mr. Arkell. "This man, +Hardcastle, had passed himself off as being a partner of the great +Hardcastle house in Leadenhall-street—a nephew of its head and +chief—whereas he turns out to be entirely unknown to them."</p> + +<p>"And she thinks he did the murder?" quickly cried Mrs. Lewis, who was +possessed of all a woman's curiosity on such subjects.</p> + +<p>"She thinks the suspicions look very dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">[159]</a></span> against him," said Mr. +Arkell. "I confess I think the same."</p> + +<p>"But I thought Mr. Carr, here, said she had completely exonerated this +Mr. Hardcastle!" cried the squire. "Be quiet, Emma; you would let nobody +speak but yourself, if you had your way."</p> + +<p>"So I believe she did exonerate him," returned Mr. Arkell; "but in all +cases the same facts wear so different an aspect, according to their +attendant surroundings. When Mr. Hardcastle was supposed to <i>be</i> Mr. +Hardcastle, one of the chief partners of the great East India house, the +nephew of its many-years' chief, it was almost impossible to suppose +that he <i>could</i> have committed the murder, however little trifling +circumstances might seem to give point to the suspicion. But when we +know that this man was not Mr. Hardcastle, but an impostor—probably a +<i>chevalier d'industrie</i>, travelling about to see what prey he could +bring down—those same trifling circumstances change into alarming +facts, every one of which bears its own significance."</p> + +<p>"I don't clearly understand what the facts were," said the squire. "He +borrowed money, didn't he?"</p> + +<p>"He borrowed money—twenty pounds; he would have borrowed a hundred, but +Mr. Dundyke had it not with him. He, poor Mr. Dundyke, was utterly taken +in by them from the first—never had a shadow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">[160]</a></span> of suspicion that +anything was wrong; Mrs. Dundyke, on the contrary, tells Mr. Prattleton +that she had. She feels quite sure that their running account at the +hotel, for which she knows they were pressed, was paid with that twenty +pounds, or part of it; and she says they——"</p> + +<p>"In saying 'they,' of whom do you speak besides Mr. Hardcastle?" asked +the squire.</p> + +<p>"Of his wife. And Mrs. Dundyke did not like <i>her</i>. But let us come to +the day of the disappearance. On that morning, as they sat at breakfast, +Mr. Dundyke told Mr. Hardcastle that he was about to leave; and that +some money he had written for, notes for thirty pounds, had come that +morning—were inclosed in two letters which Mr. Hardcastle saw him +receive and put in his pocket. Mrs. Dundyke says that she shall never +forget the strangely eager glance—something like a wolf's when it +scents prey—that he cast on Mr. Dundyke at mention of the thirty +pounds. Mr. Dundyke went out alone, and hired a boat, as you have heard; +and they afterwards saw him on the lake bearing away to the spot where +he landed; Mr. Hardcastle saw him, and then walked away. Nothing more +was seen of either of them until dinner-time, six o'clock, when Mr. +Hardcastle returned; he came creeping into the house as if he wished to +shun observation, travel-soiled, dusty, his face scratched,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">[161]</a></span> his hand +hurt—just as if he had been taking part in some severe struggle; and +Mrs. Dundyke is positive that his face turned white when she rushed up +and asked where her husband was."</p> + +<p>"Did she suspect him then?"</p> + +<p>"Oh dear no; not with the faintest suspicion. That same night she heard +a fearful quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle; weepings, lamentings, +reproaches from Mrs. Hardcastle, ill-language from him; and twice she +heard her husband's name mentioned. She told Mr. Prattleton subsequently +that it was just as though the fact of the murder had been then +disclosed to Mrs. Hardcastle, and she, the wife, had received it with a +storm of horror and reproach. But the most suspicious circumstance was +the pencil-case."</p> + +<p>"What was that?" came the eager question from the squire and his +daughter, for this had not yet been named.</p> + +<p>"Well, what Mr. Prattleton tells me is this," said Mr. Arkell. "When Mr. +Dundyke went out in the boat he had his pencil-case with him; Mrs. +Dundyke saw him return it to his pocket-book the last thing before +leaving the breakfast-room, and put the book in his pocket. It was the +same pocket-book in which he had just placed the letters containing the +bank-notes. The pencil-case was silver; it had been given to Mr. Dundyke +by my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">[162]</a></span> cousin Mildred, and had his initials upon it; Mrs. Dundyke says +he never carried any other—had not, she feels convinced, any other with +him that morning. After he had landed on the opposite side of the lake, +he must have made use of this pencil to write the note, which note he +sent back to the hotel by the boatmen. So that it appears to be a pretty +certain fact that, whatever evil overtook Mr. Dundyke, this pencil must +have been about him. Do you follow me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," answered the squire, testily. He did not like the narrative +to be interrupted by so much as a thread.</p> + +<p>"Good. But this same pencil-case was subsequently found in Mr. and Mrs. +Hardcastle's room at the hotel."</p> + +<p>"What!" exclaimed Benjamin Carr, looking up as if startled to sudden +interest.</p> + +<p>"The droll question is, how did it come there?" continued Mr. Arkell. +"It was found in the room the Hardcastles had occupied at the hotel. +They had left there some days; had gone on, they said, to Genoa. Mr. +Prattleton's daughter was put in this room after their departure, and +the silver pencil-case was picked up from behind the drawers. Mr. +Prattleton and Mrs. Dundyke were in the chamber at the time, and the +latter was dreadfully agitated; she quite startled him, he says, by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">[163]</a></span> +saying that Mr. Hardcastle must have murdered her husband."</p> + +<p>"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Squire Carr. "I see. The pencil-case which +was lost with Mr. Dundyke reappeared in their room! How very strange! I +should have had the man apprehended."</p> + +<p>"The hypothesis of course is, that Mr. Hardcastle had in some manner +possessed himself of the things the missing man had about his person," +pursued Mr. Arkell. "Mr. Prattleton thought at the time that this could +perhaps have been explained away. I mean the finding of the +pencil-case—that Mr. Dundyke might have dropped it on going out from +breakfast, and the other have picked it up; but since the arrival of +Mrs. Dundyke's letter yesterday, he says he does not like the look of it +at all."</p> + +<p>"And the bank-notes that Mr. Dundyke had undoubtedly about his person +were found to have been changed the subsequent day in Geneva," spoke up +Robert Carr. "The money-changer thought they had been changed by a man +whose appearance agreed with that of Mr. Hardcastle. And then there was +the testimony of the Swiss peasant."</p> + +<p>"What was the testimony?" asked the squire.</p> + +<p>"A peasant, or small farmer, testified that he saw two gentlemen +together walking away from the direction of the lake on the day of the +disappearance;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">[164]</a></span> and in describing them, he exactly described the persons +and dress of Mr. Hardcastle and Mr. Dundyke. I told Mrs. Dundyke," added +the clergyman, "that I did not like her account of this Mr. Hardcastle; +and she had expressed to me no suspicion of him then."</p> + +<p>"And why did they not cause him to be apprehended?" asked the squire. +"There could not well be a clearer case. I have committed many a man +upon half the evidence. What sort of a man was he in person, this +Hardcastle?"</p> + +<p>"A tall, strong man, very dark; a fine man, Mrs. Dundyke says. I should +think," added the clergyman, ranging his eyes around, lest haply he +might find anyone in the present company to illustrate his meaning by +ever so slight a likeness, as we are all apt to do in trying to describe +a stranger—"I should think——"</p> + +<p>Robert Carr stopped; his eyes were resting on the white face of Benjamin +Carr. Those sallow, dark faces when they turn white are not pleasant to +look upon.</p> + +<p>"I should think," he continued, "that he must have been some such a man +as your son here, sir. Yes, just such another; tall, strong, dark——"</p> + +<p>"How dare you?" shouted Benjamin Carr, with a desperate oath. "How dare +you point at me as the—the—as Mr. Hardcastle?"</p> + +<p>The whole table bounded to their feet as if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">[165]</a></span> electrified. Benjamin had +risen to his full height; his eyes glared on the clergyman; his fist was +lifted menacingly to his face. Had he gone out of his senses? Some of +them truly thought so. That he had momentarily allowed himself to lose +his presence of mind, there could be no question.</p> + +<p>"What on earth has taken you, Ben?"</p> + +<p>The words came from Mrs. Lewis. Her brother's demeanour had been +puzzling her. He had sat, with that one slight interruption mentioned, +with his head down, looking sullen, as if he took no interest in the +narrative; and she had seen his face grow whiter and whiter. She +supposed it to be caused by the story; and said to herself, that she +should not have thought Ben was chicken-hearted.</p> + +<p>The squire followed suit. "Have you taken leave of your senses, sir? +What's the matter with you? <i>What</i> is it, I say?"</p> + +<p>"Your visitor offended me, sir," replied Benjamin Carr, slowly sitting +down in his chair again, and beginning to recollect himself. "How dare +he say that I bear a resemblance to this Hardcastle?"</p> + +<p>"He never did say it," angrily returned the squire. "If you cause such a +startling interruption at my table again, I shall request you to think +twice before you sit down to it."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lewis was staring at her brother with a sort of wondering stare. +Mr. Arkell could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">[166]</a></span> make him out; and the young clergyman stood +perfectly confounded. Altogether, Benjamin Carr was under a sea of keen +eyes; and he knew it.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I beg your pardon if my words offended you," began Robert +Carr. "I meant no offence. I only wished to convey an impression of what +this Mr. Hardcastle was like—a tall, fine, dark man, as described to +me. I never saw him. The same description would apply to thousands of +men."</p> + +<p>"I thought you did intend offence," said Benjamin Carr in a distinct +tone. "Your words and manner implied it, at any rate."</p> + +<p>"Don't show yourself a fool, Benjamin," cried out the squire. "I shall +begin to think you are one. The clergyman no more meant to liken you to +the man, than he meant to liken me; he was only trying to describe the +sort of person. What has taken you? You must have grown desperately +thin-skinned all on a sudden."</p> + +<p>"Can't you let it drop?" said Benjamin, angrily. The squire sent up his +plate as he spoke, for the ham that had been waiting all this while; +perhaps by way of creating a divertissement; and Ben lifted the slice +with a jerk, and then jerked the knife and fork down again. Mrs. Lewis, +who had never come out of the prolonged stare, apparently arrived now at +the solution of the problem.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">[167]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I know what it is, Ben," she quietly said. "This Hardcastle must be an +acquaintance of yours. You know you do pick up all sorts of——"</p> + +<p>"It is a lie," interrupted Ben, regardless of his good manners.</p> + +<p>"Papa"—turning to the squire—"rely upon it I am right. Ben no doubt +fell in with this Hardcastle on his travels, grew intimate with him, and +now does not like to hear him aspersed."</p> + +<p>"Be quiet, Emma," cried Ben, but his voice was lowered now, as if with +concentrated passion, or policy. "You talk like a fool."</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps I do," retorted Mrs. Lewis, "but I think it is as I say +for all that. You would not put yourself out like this for nothing. I +dare say you did know the man; it was just the time that you were at +Geneva."</p> + +<p>"I was not at Geneva."</p> + +<p>"You <i>were</i> at Geneva," she persisted. "You know you wrote home from +thence."</p> + +<p>"Why yes, of course you did, Ben," added the squire. "Valentine showed +us the letter: you said you were hard up in it. But that's nothing new."</p> + +<p>"I swear that I never saw this Hardcastle in my life," said Ben Carr, +his white face turning to a dusky red. "What time did this affair +happen?" he continued, suddenly addressing Mr. Arkell. "If<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">[168]</a></span> I had been +in Geneva at the time, I must have heard of it."</p> + +<p>"I can tell you," said Robert Carr. "Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke went to Geneva +the middle of July, and this must have happened about the second week in +August."</p> + +<p>Benjamin Carr poured himself out a glass of wine as he listened. He was +growing cool and collected again.</p> + +<p>"Ah, I thought I could not have been there. I went to Geneva the latter +part of June. I and a fellow were taking a walking tour together. We +stayed there a few days, and left it for Savoy the first week in July. I +think I did write to Valentine while I was there. All these people, that +you speak of, must have arrived afterwards."</p> + +<p>"Then did you not see this Mr. Hardcastle, Ben?" asked his sister.</p> + +<p>"I tell you, no! I never saw or heard of him in my life."</p> + +<p>"Then why need you have flown out so?"</p> + +<p>"Well, one does not like to be compared to a—murderer. Some of you had +been calling him one."</p> + +<p>No more was said. But the hilarity (if there had been any) of the +meeting was taken away, and Robert Carr rose to leave. He had a little +business to do in Westerbury yet, he said, and must go back that night +to London. The squire was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">[169]</a></span> only one who showed courtesy in the +farewell. Benjamin was sullenly resentful still; Mrs. Lewis haughty and +indifferent.</p> + +<p>"Is he quite in his right mind?" Robert Carr asked of Mr. Arkell, as +they drove out of the avenue.</p> + +<p>"Who?—Benjamin Carr? Oh yes, he is right enough. He is as sharp as a +needle."</p> + +<p>"Then what could have caused him to break out in the manner he did? I +never was so taken to in my life."</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Mr. Arkell; "it is puzzling me still. But for his +very emphatic denial, I should <a name="asume" id="asume"></a><ins title="Original has asume">assume</ins> it to be as Mrs. Lewis +suggested—that he must have got acquainted with this Hardcastle, and +did not like to hear any ill of him."</p> + +<p>"Is he a married man?"</p> + +<p>"No. Not any of the squire's children have married, except Mrs. Lewis. +And she's a widow, as you heard her say."</p> + +<p>"I suppose she is the daughter that has entered into possession of my +grandfather's house?"</p> + +<p>"She is. Hoping, no doubt, to stay there."</p> + +<p>"Tell me, Mr. Arkell," resumed Robert Carr after a pause, for he could +not forget the recent occurrence, "did <i>you</i> see anything offensive in +my allusion?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not. Neither would anyone else. I say I cannot make out +Benjamin Carr."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">[170]</a></span></p> + +<p>Before starting for London that night, Robert Carr paid a visit to Mr. +Fauntleroy. It was after office hours, but that gentleman received him +in his drawing-room. One of Mr. Fauntleroy's daughters, a buxom damsel +on the same large scale as her father, was thumping through some loud +piece on the piano. She satisfied her curiosity by a good look at the +intruder, as all Westerbury would like to have done, for his name had +been in men's mouths that day, and then retired with a good-humoured +smile and nod, carrying her piece of music.</p> + +<p>"Bab!" called out the lawyer.</p> + +<p>Miss Fauntleroy came back. "Did you speak, pa?"</p> + +<p>"Don't go strumming that in the next room. This gentleman has perhaps +called to talk on matters of business."</p> + +<p>She threw down the music with a laugh: gave another good-natured nod to +Robert, and finally quitted the room.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Fauntleroy, I have come—but I ought first to apologize for calling +at this hour, but I am going off at once to London—I have come to ask +if you will act for me as my legal adviser?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy made a momentary pause. "Do you mean generally, or in any +particular cause?"</p> + +<p>"I mean in this, my cause. I require some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">[171]</a></span> solicitor to take it up at +once, and serve a notice of ejectment on Squire Carr, from the +possession of the property he has assumed. I suppose that would be the +first legal step; but you will know what to do better than I. As the +many years solicitor to my grandfather, I thought you might perhaps have +no objection to become mine."</p> + +<p>"I have no objection in the world," said Mr. Fauntleroy. "But, my good +sir—and this, mind you, is disinterested advice—I would recommend you +to pause before you enter on any such contest. There's not a shadow of +chance that the property can be wrested from Squire Carr, so long as +your father's marriage remains a doubt. It is his by law."</p> + +<p>"I do not think there is a shadow of doubt that the proofs of the +marriage will be found, and speedily. I go up to London to search. +Meanwhile you will be so kind as act just as you would act were the +proofs in your hand. I will not allow Squire Carr to retain, by ever so +short a time, the property unmolested, or to fancy he retains it," +continued the young man, in some emotion. "Every hour that he does so is +a reflection on my mother's name."</p> + +<p>"But—yes, that's all very well, very dutiful—but where's the use of +entering on a contest certain to be lost?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">[172]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is certain to be gained; I know the proofs will be forthcoming."</p> + +<p>"The most prudent plan will be to wait until they are," returned the +lawyer. He was not usually so considerate for his clients; but this, as +he looked upon it, was a hopeless case, one that nobody, many degrees +removed from a fool, would venture upon.</p> + +<p>"No," said Robert Carr, "I will not wait a day. Be so kind as take +proper steps at once, Mr. Fauntleroy."</p> + +<p>"Very well; if you insist upon it. It will cost money, you know."</p> + +<p>"That shall be placed in your hands as soon as I can send the necessary +instructions to Rotterdam. What sum shall you require?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, suppose you let me have fifty pounds at first. Before that's +expended, perhaps—perhaps some decision may have been come to."</p> + +<p>Had Mr. Fauntleroy spoken the words on his tongue, they would have run, +"perhaps you will have come to your senses."</p> + +<p>"I will spare no expense on this cause; any money you want, you shall +have, only my right must be maintained against the other branch of the +family. Do you understand me, Mr. Fauntleroy?"</p> + +<p>"I do; and I must ask you to understand me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">[173]</a></span> and to remember later that +I did not advise this. If the proofs of the marriage shall come to +light, why, then of course the tables will be turned."</p> + +<p>"By the way," said Robert Carr, "I have never asked what amount of money +my grandfather has left?"</p> + +<p>"Not much less than the value of twenty thousand pounds, taking it in +the aggregate. He did not live up to his income, and it accumulated. +There are several houses; the one he resided in is a beautiful little +place. You have not been inside it?"</p> + +<p>"No; I met Mrs. Lewis to-day, at the squire's, and I thought she might +have invited me to see it," added Robert Carr. "But she did not."</p> + +<p>"No danger; they'll keep you at arm's length, if they can. Well, Mr. +Carr, you will not forget what I say, that I do not advise you to enter +on this contest. And should you, after a day or two's reflection, think +better of it, there's no harm done. Just drop me a line to say so, +that's all. I <a name="wont2" id="wont2"></a><ins title="Original has wont">won't</ins> charge you for my advice."</p> + +<p>"You must think I am of a changeable nature," returned the young +clergyman, half resentfully.</p> + +<p>"I should think you a sensible man."</p> + +<p>Robert could not smile, he was too serious. "And if you receive the +money from me, instead of the letter you suggest, you will immediately<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">[174]</a></span> +commence this action; is that an understood thing between us, Mr. +Fauntleroy?"</p> + +<p>"It is," said Mr. Fauntleroy; "it will cost a mint of money, mind you, +if it goes on to trial."</p> + +<p>Robert Carr said no more; he was satisfied. As he went down the +richly-carpeted stairs, two large female heads, and two +coarsely-handsome, good-natured faces were propelled over the +balustrades, to gaze after him: the heads and the faces of the Miss +Fauntleroys.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">[175]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_x" id="chapter_x">CHAPTER X.</a><br /><small>A MISSIVE FOR SQUIRE CARR.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>Domestic relations did not progress very pleasantly at Squire Carr's. It +was the old story; the old grievance; the one that had disturbed the +internal economy of the home ever since Benjamin became a grown man: +Benjamin required money, and the squire protested he had it not to give. +Ben, he said, wanted to ruin him.</p> + +<p>This time Ben had come home particularly out at elbows, metaphorically +speaking; literally, he was, in regard to clothes, rather better off +than usual. Ben had quitted his home the previous April, with a very +fair sum of money in his pocket, drawn from the squire; where he had +spent the time since was not very clear, unless he had been, as the +squire expressed it, dodging about the continent; two or three letters +having been received from him at long intervals, dated from different +parts of it. Ben was not accustomed to be particularly communicative on +the subject of his own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">[176]</a></span> wanderings; and all he said now was, that he had +made a "pedestrian tour." One other thing was a vast deal more +clear—that he had brought back empty pockets.</p> + +<p>He was now worrying the squire to advance him funds for a visit to +Australia, where he should be sure to make his fortune. Three or four +fellows, whom he knew, were going, he said; they had a fine prospect +before them, and he had the opportunity offered him of joining them. The +worrying had begun on the very evening subsequent to the visit of Mr. +Arkell and Robert Carr; a week or more had gone on since; and Ben +systematically continued his importunities. The squire turned a +stone-deaf ear. Ben had once before got money from him to make his +fortune in Australia; and had come home after a two years' absence +without a shirt to his back: Squire Carr must live to be an older man +than he was now, before he forgot that. Valentine Carr put in <i>his</i> +voice against it; he had for a long while been angrily resentful at +these sums of money being advanced to Ben, far larger ones, he +suspected, than the reigning powers allowed to come to his knowledge; +and he was now raising his voice in opposition. He was the heir; and the +estate, he said, was already impoverished too much.</p> + +<p>One cloudy Saturday morning, close, hot, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">[177]</a></span> unhealthy, Valentine Carr +was mounting his horse to go to Westerbury. They had breakfasted early; +breakfast was always taken early at the squire's, but especially so on +Saturdays, the market day at Westerbury. Squire Carr was standing by his +son, giving him various directions.</p> + +<p>"You'll see how prices run to-day, Valentine; but mark you, I'll not +sell a sheaf of the old corn if the market's flat. And the new you need +not think of soliciting offers for, for I shall not sell yet awhile. The +barley market ought to be brisk to-day; some of the maltsters, I hear, +are already preparing to steep; and you may, perhaps, get rid of some +loads. Have you the samples?"</p> + +<p>Valentine Carr dived with one hand into his capacious pocket, by way of +answer, and just showed some three or four little bags tied round with +tape.</p> + +<p>"You'll get first prices, mind, or you won't sell. Not a farmer in all +the county can show better barley this year than ours. Do you hear?"</p> + +<p>"I know," ungraciously returned Valentine. "I believe you think I'm a +child still. I can't ride off to market without you, but you go on at me +in this fashion: and it's nigh upon thirty years now since I went +first."</p> + +<p>"I know my own business better than anybody, and I can't afford to let +things go below their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">[178]</a></span> value," rejoined the squire. "A halfpenny a +bushel would make a difference to me now, and I should feel it. I'm +shorter of money than I ought to be."</p> + +<p>"Money goes in many ways that it ought not to go in," said Valentine, +gathering up his bridle with a sniff. And the squire knew that it was a +side-thrust at Ben. "Anything more?"</p> + +<p>"You had better call on Emma, and ask whether she has made a list of the +plate and pictures. If she has not, you may tell her that I shall come +over next week and go over the things for myself. She might have sent it +to me days ago. I'll not have so much as a plated spoon omitted, and so +I told her. That's all."</p> + +<p>Valentine Carr touched his horse and rode at a quick trot down the +avenue. When the squire looked round, he found Benjamin—who had just +got down to breakfast—at his side.</p> + +<p>"We shall have a nasty, hot, muggy day, Ben!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Ben, "we get these days sometimes in September. Father, if +you won't let me have the two hundred, will you let me have one? I don't +want to lose this chance, and my friends will have sailed. They are +putting in three hundred each, but——"</p> + +<p>"How many times are you going to tell me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">[179]</a></span> that?" interrupted the squire. +"I don't believe it; no, I don't believe you have any friends who are +possessed of three hundred to put. It is of no use your bothering, Ben; +I haven't got the money to spare."</p> + +<p>"Not got it to spare, when you have just come in to twenty thousand +pounds!" returned Ben, not, however, venturing to speak in any tone but +a conciliating one. "I only wish I had come in to a tithe of it! It was +a slice of good luck that you never expected, squire, and you might be +generous enough to help me once again."</p> + +<p>In truth, the good luck had been so entirely unlooked for, that Squire +Carr could not find in his heart to snub Ben for saying so, quite as +fiercely as he might otherwise have done. "It was just a chance, Ben, +Robert Carr's dying as he did."</p> + +<p>"A very good chance for us. Look here, father: I can't stop on here, +nagged at by Valentine, out of purse, out of <i>your</i> favour——"</p> + +<p>"Whose fault is it that you are out of my favour?" interrupted the +squire, taking off his old drab wide-awake to straighten a dent in the +brim.</p> + +<p>"Well, I suppose it's mine," acknowledged Ben. "What is a hundred pounds +to the twenty thousand you have come into? A drop of water in the +ocean."</p> + +<p>"And if you got the hundred pounds and started<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">[180]</a></span> with it, you'd be +writing home in three months for another hundred! It has always been the +case, Ben."</p> + +<p>The words seemed to imply symptoms of so great a concession, compared to +the positive refusal hitherto accorded him, that Ben Carr's hopes went +up like a sky-rocket. He saw the hundred pounds in his possession and +himself ploughing the deep waters, as vividly as though the picture had +been presented to him in a magic mirror.</p> + +<p>"It is a chance that I have never had, squire. These men are steady, +industrious, practical fellows, who will keep me to my work, whether I +will or not. They go out to make money, and I shall make some. Who knows +but I may return home with a fortune to match this, just come to you?"</p> + +<p>"Ben, you harp upon this money of Marmaduke's; but let me tell you that +I don't know what I should have done without it. I have had nothing but +drains upon me for years: you've been one of them."</p> + +<p>"The old hypocrite!" thought Ben, "he's rolling in money, besides this +new windfall. Well, sir," he said aloud, "I shall write——"</p> + +<p>"Who's this?" interrupted the squire, who did not see so well as he once +did.</p> + +<p>It was the postman. Letters were not frequent at the squire's, as they +are at many houses. The man was coming up the avenue, in the distance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">[181]</a></span> +as yet. Squire Carr walked towards him and stretched out his hand for +the letters.</p> + +<p>The postman gave him two. One was a large, blue, formidable-looking +packet, addressed to himself; the other was a perfumed, mignonne, +three-cornered sort of missive, for Benjamin Carr, Esq.</p> + +<p>"Here, Ben, I don't know who your correspondent may be," said the +squire, tossing him the note. "She's an idiot, that's certain; nobody, +above one, would think of sending a doll's thing like that through the +post. It's a wonder it wasn't lost."</p> + +<p>Benjamin Carr glanced at the handwriting and slipped the note into the +pocket of his shooting coat. Sauntering to a little distance, while the +squire was busy with his own letter, he there took it out, opened, and +began to read it: a closely-written epistle, on thin foreign paper.</p> + +<p>He was startled by something very like the bellow of a bull. Turning +round, he saw the squire in a fine commotion, and the noise had come +from him.</p> + +<p>"Why, what is the matter?" exclaimed Ben, advancing.</p> + +<p>"Matter!" ejaculated Squire Carr—"<i>matter!</i> They are mad; or else I am +dreaming."</p> + +<p>He held the formidable document before his eyes. He turned it, he gazed +at it, he shook it, he pinched himself to see whether he <i>was</i> dreaming. +If any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">[182]</a></span> man ever believed that his eyes played him false, Squire Carr +believed his did then.</p> + +<p>"What is it?" repeated the astonished Ben.</p> + +<p>It was a notice from Mr. Fauntleroy that an action was entered upon—to +eject him from the possession of that bijou of a house; to wrest from +him the fortune; to give Marmaduke's money to Robert Carr; to forbid him +to touch or remove so much (his own words just before to his son) as a +plated spoon of the effects; to reduce him, in short, to a poor wretched +non-inheriting beggar again. Not that all this, or the half of it, was +stated; it was implied, and that was enough for the squire's vivid +imagination.</p> + +<p>"Ben, my boy, what does it mean?" he gasped.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I don't know," said Ben, considerably crestfallen.</p> + +<p>"I'm not dreaming, am I?" asked the squire. "Mercy be good to us! What +can they have found? Perhaps old Marmaduke made a will after all! They'd +never enter an action without being justified. Get the horse into the +dog-cart and drive me to the station, Ben. I must go over to see +Fauntleroy. Hang him! the sly old villain! I should like to twist his +neck."</p> + +<p>"But you will promise me the hundred pounds, father?"</p> + +<p>"Hundred pounds be shot!" shrieked the squire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">[183]</a></span> in a fury. "I've just got +notice that I'm ruined, and he asks me for a hundred pounds! No, sir! +nor a hundred pence. How can I afford money, now this inheritance is +threatened?"</p> + +<p>Benjamin Carr had a great mind to tell his father, that even if it were +threatened and taken, he was as well off now as he had been a short +while before. But it was not a time to press matters, and he drove the +squire to the station in silence.</p> + +<p>On that busy Saturday morning—and Saturdays were always busy days at +the office of Mr. Fauntleroy—the clerks were amazed by the disturbed +entrance of Squire Carr, pushing, agitated, restless; far more amazed +than was perhaps their master, Mr. Fauntleroy. He had half expected it.</p> + +<p>There ensued a hasty explanation; but the squire scarcely allowed +himself to listen to it. Of all the blows that could have come upon him, +this was the worst.</p> + +<p>"And what do you think of yourself, pray, to be taking up a cause +against the Carr family, when you have stuck by it for half a century, +or it by you?"</p> + +<p>"By old Marmaduke; by no others of it," returned Mr. Fauntleroy, who was +secretly enjoying the squire's perplexity beyond everything.</p> + +<p>"Why do you turn round against him now? I did not expect it of you, +Fauntleroy."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand you, squire."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">[184]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are turning against the money he left, which is the same thing, +wanting to make ducks and drakes of it."</p> + +<p>"Marmaduke Curr's grandson came here and asked me if I would act for him +as his solicitor, and I assented," said Mr. Fauntleroy. "In entering +this action against you, I am but obeying his instructions."</p> + +<p>"Marmaduke Carr's grandson!" scoffed the squire. "Who is he, the +ill-born cur"—not but that the squire's words were somewhat +plainer—"that he should presume to set himself up in his false +pretences?"</p> + +<p>"Ill-born or well-born, my clients are the same to me, provided their +cause is good, and they pay me," coolly rejoined Mr. Fauntleroy.</p> + +<p>"Well, is it a hoax?" asked the squire, coming nearer to the point, for +Mr. Fauntleroy was taking a stealthy glance at his watch.</p> + +<p>"If you mean is the action a hoax, most certainly it is not. Robert Carr +looks upon it that he has the best right to his grandfather's money, +and——"</p> + +<p>"Why do you call him Robert <i>Carr</i>?" interposed the squire, in a flash +of anger.</p> + +<p>"What else can I call him? I wish you'd be a little cooler, and let me +finish. And he has given me instructions to spare no pains, no expense, +in maintaining this action against you."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">[185]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Is he a fool?" asked the squire. "It's one of two things: either he is +a fool—for he must know that such an action can't be sustained under +present circumstances, and so must you—or else he has got some secret +information that I am in ignorance of. <i>Has</i> he got it? Is there a will +of Marmaduke's found?"</p> + +<p>"Of course there's not," said Mr. Fauntleroy, taken by surprise; "I +should have heard of it, if there had been. As to any other information, +I can't say; I don't know of any."</p> + +<p>"Look here, Fauntleroy: if there is to be an action—not that I should +think the fellow will be mad enough to go on with it—will you act for +me?"</p> + +<p>"I can't," said Mr. Fauntleroy; "I am acting for him."</p> + +<p>"Turn him over. Who's he? I'd rather have you myself. And I must say you +might have been neighbourly enough not to take this up against me."</p> + +<p>"What does that signify? If I had not taken it up, somebody else would. +And you have your own solicitors, you know, squire."</p> + +<p>The squire growled. His solicitors were Mynn and Mynn, of +Eckford—quiet, steady-going practitioners; but in so desperate a cause +as this, the squire would have felt himself safer with a keen and not +over-scrupulous man, such as Mr. Fauntleroy.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">[186]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You will not act for me, then?"</p> + +<p>"I can't, squire."</p> + +<p>"And you mean to carry it on to action?"</p> + +<p>"I must do it. They are my positive instructions."</p> + +<p>Squire Carr turned off in desperation, nearly upsetting Mr. Kenneth as +he stamped through the outer office. As fast as he could, he stamped up +to the railway station, and took the first train to Eckford, arriving at +the office of Mynn and Mynn in a white heat.</p> + +<p>Mynn and Mynn themselves were nearly myths, so far as their clients +could get hold of them. Old Mynn had the gout perpetually; and the +younger brother, George Mynn, had a chronic sort of asthma, and could +not speak to people half his time. What business was absolutely +necessary for a principal to do, George Mynn mostly did it. He made the +journeys to London, he attended the sessions and assizes at Westerbury; +but it very often happened that, when a client called at the office, +neither would be there.</p> + +<p>As it was, on this day. A young man of the name of Richards was head of +the office just now, for the managing clerk had died, and Mynn and Mynn +were looking out for another. A sharp, clever, unscrupulous man was this +Richards, who, if he proved as clever when he got into practice for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">[187]</a></span> +himself, would stand a fair chance of getting out of it again. He was +alone when Squire Carr entered, and leaned over his desk to shake hands +with him. He was a great friend of Valentine Carr's, and sometimes dined +at the squire's on Sundays—a thin, <a name="weaseny" id="weaseny"></a><ins title="Original has weaseny">weaselly</ins> sort of man, not unlike +Valentine himself, with a cast in one eye.</p> + +<p>"Mr. George Mynn here to-day?"</p> + +<p>"He is here to-day, squire; but he is not in just now. He's gone to +Westerbury."</p> + +<p>"I want to see him; I must see him," cried the squire, wiping his hot +brows. "The most infamous thing has happened, Richards, that you ever +heard of. They are going to try and wrest my Uncle Marmaduke's property +from me."</p> + +<p>"Who is?" asked Richards, in wonder.</p> + +<p>"The son of that Robert Carr who went off with Martha Ann Hughes. It was +before your time; but perhaps you have heard of it. There are children; +and one of them has been down here, and has given Fauntleroy +instructions to proceed against me and force me to give up the +property."</p> + +<p>"But I thought there was no marriage?" cried Richards. "Mr. Mynn was +talking about it the other day."</p> + +<p>"Neither was there."</p> + +<p>Richards paused a moment, and then burst into a fit of laughter. To make +pretensions of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">[188]</a></span> claiming property in such a case, amused him +excessively.</p> + +<p>"Well, they are doing it," said Squire Carr. "But I am astonished at +Fauntleroy taking up such a cause. It's infamous, you know. They can do +it only to annoy me; for they must be aware it's an action that will not +lie."</p> + +<p>"I say, squire, you must take care of one thing," said Richards, with +the familiarity that characterised him, and which to some minds was +exceedingly offensive—"mind they don't get up a false marriage."</p> + +<p>"A false marriage! Why, the parties are dead."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I mean proofs—false proofs. I've known such things done. When a +fortune's at stake, you know, any means seem right ones."</p> + +<p>"And I dare say they'd be capable of it," assented the squire. "Well, it +must be seen to immediately. Here's what I had sent from Fauntleroy."</p> + +<p>He drew out of his pocket the large letter, and Richards ran his eyes +over it.</p> + +<p>"They mean mischief," was his laconic remark.</p> + +<p>"When <i>can</i> I see Mr. George Mynn?" asked the squire, the usual +difficulties of getting at that gentleman striking upon his mind, +especially after the last sentence, as a personal wrong. "Why doesn't he +get a confidential clerk to do the outdoor work, so as to be in to see +clients himself?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">[189]</a></span></p> + +<p>"They are about engaging one, I believe," said Mr. Richards, alluding to +the confidential clerk; "but he won't enter before December or January."</p> + +<p>"Not before December or January!" retorted Squire Carr, as if that were +another personal wrong.</p> + +<p>"I heard George Mynn say we could do without one until then. So we can. +The assize business is over, and there won't be much press for the next +month or two. For my part, I wish they'd do without one for good. <i>I</i> +could manage all they want done, if they'd let me."</p> + +<p>"Well, look you here, Richards. I shall go on to the 'Bell' and get a +bit of dinner at the ordinary, and then I shall come back here and wait +till he comes in."</p> + +<p>"He mayn't come in at all again to-day—sure not to, if he doesn't get +back from Westerbury till late," was the satisfactory rejoinder of +Richards; and Squire Carr felt that he should like to strike somebody in +the dilemma, if he only knew whom.</p> + +<p>"Then you will have to take my instructions," he said, sharply; "I shall +be back in an hour."</p> + +<p>"Very good," said Mr. Richards. "And we can talk this business over +to-morrow, squire, as much as you like; for I am coming to your place +for the day. I've promised Valentine, and I want to make the +acquaintance of your second son."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">[190]</a></span></p> + +<p>For this Mr. Richards was but a clerk of some months standing at Mynn +and Mynn's; to which situation he had come from a distance, and, +therefore, had not yet enjoyed the honour of an introduction to Mr. +Benjamin Carr.</p> + +<p>Thus the great cause, "Carr <i>versus</i> Carr," was inaugurated. Those +connected with it little dreamt of the strange excitement it was to +create, ere the termination came.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">[191]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_xi" id="chapter_xi">CHAPTER XI.</a><br /><small>THE LAST OF ROBERT CARR.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>By a bright fire in her handsome and most comfortable drawing-room, in +her widow's cap—assumed, now that all hope had died out—sat Mrs. +Dundyke. The October wind was whistling without, the October rain was +falling on the window panes; and there was a look of anxiety on her +otherwise calm face, still so fair and attractive, as she listened to +the storm. The summer and autumn, up to the close of September, had been +remarkably warm and fine; but when October came in, it brought bad +weather with it.</p> + +<p>A gust and a patter, worse than any that had gone before, aroused Mrs. +Dundyke from her seat. She laid her work—a woollen comforter, that she +was knitting—on the small and beautiful table at her side, inlaid with +mother-of-pearl, and walked to the window.</p> + +<p>"I wonder whether he is out in it?" she said, as she watched the trees +bending in the storm. "This<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">[192]</a></span> anxiety is killing him. The very work is +killing him. Abroad in all weathers; out of one damp church into +another; getting heated with his weak state and the ardour of the +pursuit, and then becoming chilled in some sudden storm such as this! He +may find the record, perhaps, but he will never live to reap the +benefit."</p> + +<p>Need you be told that Mrs. Dundyke's soliloquy applied to Robert Carr? +He was staying with her. When he went back to London from Westerbury, +and sought Mrs. Dundyke, to deliver certain messages of the kindest +nature sent by him from Mr. Arkell and Travice, she had insisted upon +his making her house his home while he remained in London to pursue his +search.</p> + +<p>And he did so; and began his toilsome search of the London church +marriage registers. What a wearying task it was, let those testify who +may have been obliged to enter upon such. By dint of a great deal of +trouble, and of correspondence with Mr. Fauntleroy, and recalled +recollections from middle-aged people in Westerbury, who had been young +men once and friends of the elder Robert Carr, he, the present Robert +Carr, succeeded in ascertaining the place where his father and mother +had sojourned that fortnight in London. It was in one of the quiet +streets of the Strand, in the parish of St. Clement Danes. But when St. +Clement Danes'<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">[193]</a></span> register was examined, no entry of any such marriage +could be found there; and for the first time since the blow fell, Robert +Carr felt his heart sink with a vague fear that he dared not dwell upon.</p> + +<p>It had seemed to him so easy! He had felt as sure a trust in his +mother's marriage as he felt in Heaven. It was only to find out where +they had stayed that fortnight in London, and search the parish church +register; for there, and only there, Robert Carr argued, the marriage +had taken place. But there, it was now evident, that it had <i>not</i> taken +place, and he was all at sea.</p> + +<p>He began with the other churches; he knew not what else to do. In +Holland they could not have been married, from the want of legal papers, +and other matters, necessary to foreigners united abroad. He searched +the churches nearest to St. Clement Danes first, and then went on to +others, and others, and others. He would go up after breakfast from his +kind friend, who was nursing him like a mother, and begin his daily +task; out of one church into another, as she had phrased it, in all +weathers—rain, hail, storm—and go back at night again utterly wearied +out.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke stood at the window watching the rain. She fancied it was +beginning to grow dusk; but it was not time just yet, and the afternoon +was a dark one. He would not be home yet awhile, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">[194]</a></span> was thinking. He +stopped in those cold churches as long as there was a ray of light to +see by. Mrs. Dundyke was turning from the window, when she saw an +omnibus stop, and Robert Carr get out of it. He seemed worse than usual; +weaker in strength, more tottering in frame; and as he looked up at her +with a faint, sad smile, a conviction came over her that she should not +be able to save the life of this poor young man; that all her care, all +her comforts, all her ample income would not benefit him. And how very +ample her income would for the future be, she had not known until that +day. She was a rich lady for this world; she might ride in her carriage, +if she chose, and be grand for all time.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Robert!" she exclaimed, meeting him on the stairs—and she had +taken to call him by the familiar name, as she might a son—"I fear you +have got very wet! I am so glad you came home early!"</p> + +<p>He walked unsteadily to the easy chair by the fire, and sunk in it. Mrs. +Dundyke, with him daily, saw not the change that every hour was surely +making in him; but she did notice how wan and ill he looked this +evening.</p> + +<p>"Have you not been well to-day, Robert?"</p> + +<p>"Not very. I have been spitting so much of that blood again. And I felt +so weary too; so sick of it all."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">[195]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There's no success, then, again!"</p> + +<p>"None. Altogether, I thought I'd leave it for the day, and come back and +take a rest."</p> + +<p>He sighed as he spoke, but the sigh broke off with a moaning sound. Mrs. +Dundyke glanced at him. She had resumed her knitting—which was a chest +protector for himself—until the wine that she had rung for should be +brought.</p> + +<p>"Robert, are you losing heart?"</p> + +<p>"No, I can never lose that. There <i>was</i> a marriage, if we could only +find out where. You would be as sure of it as I am, dear Mrs. Dundyke, +had you known my mother."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke made no rejoinder. For herself, she had never fully +believed in the marriage at all, but she was not cruel enough to say so. +She sat watching him over her knitting: now bending forward with his +thin hands spread out to the warmth of the fire; now suddenly bringing +his hands to his chest as he coughed, choked; now lying back in the +chair, panting, his thin nostrils working, his breath coming in great +gasps; and there came in that moment over Mrs. Dundyke as she looked, a +conviction—she knew not whence or why—that a very, very short period +would bring the end.</p> + +<p>She felt her face grow moist with a cold moisture. How was it that she +had been so blind to the obvious truth? She knitted two whole rows of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">[196]</a></span> +knitting before she spoke, and then she told him, with a calm voice, +that she should write for his wife.</p> + +<p>"How kind you are!" he murmured. "I shall never repay you."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke laughed cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"I don't want repayment. There is nothing to repay."</p> + +<p>"Nothing to repay! No kindly friendship, no trouble, no cost! I wonder +how much I cost you in wine alone?"</p> + +<p>"Robert," she said, in a low, earnest tone—though she wondered whether +he might not be jesting—"do you know what they tell me my future income +will be? Mr. Littelby was here to-day, giving me an account of things, +for I put my poor husband's affairs into his hands on my return. It will +not be much less than two thousand a year."</p> + +<p>The amount of the sum quite startled him.</p> + +<p>"Two thousand a year!"</p> + +<p>"It will indeed, as they tell me. By the articles of partnership I am +allowed a handsome income from the house in Fenchurch-street; but the +chief of the money comes from speculations my husband has been engaged +in for many years, in connexion with a firm on the Stock Exchange. Safe +speculations, and profitable; not hazardous ones. This money is +realized, and put out in the Funds, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">[197]</a></span> what they call the +Five-per-Cents.; and I shall have nearly two thousand a year. I had no +idea of it; and the puzzle to me now is, how I shall spend it. Don't you +think I require a few kind visitors to help me?"</p> + +<p>Before he could answer, there came on a violent fit of coughing, worse +than any she had yet seen, and quite a little stream of blood trickled +from his mouth. It was nothing particularly new, but that night Mrs. +Carr was written for in haste.</p> + +<p>"Tell her to bring the desk with her," said Robert; and Mrs. Dundyke +wrote down the words just as he spoke them.</p> + +<p>But he rallied again, and in a day or two was actually out as before, +prosecuting his search amidst those hopeless churches. He confided what +he called a secret to Mrs. Dundyke—namely, that he had not confessed to +his wife that any suspicion was cast upon his birth. The honest truth +was, Robert Carr shrunk from it; for he knew it would so alarm and +grieve her. She was well connected; had fallen in love with the young +Cambridge student during a visit she was paying in England; and when the +time came that marriage was spoken of, her friends raised some objection +because Robert Carr's father was not of gentle blood, but was in +business as a merchant. What she would say when she came to know that he +was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">[198]</a></span> suspected of not being even that merchant's legitimate son, Robert +scarcely cared to speculate.</p> + +<p>She arrived in an afternoon at Mrs. Dundyke's, having come direct to +London Bridge by the steamer from Rotterdam. Robert was out in London, +as usual; but Mrs. Dundyke was not alone: Mildred Arkell was with her. +Perhaps of all people, next to his wife, Mildred had been most shocked +at the fate of Mr. Dundyke. This was the first time she had seen his +widow, for she had been away in the country with Lady Dewsbury.</p> + +<p>A young, pretty woman, looking little more than a girl, with violet-blue +eyes, dark hair, and a flush upon her cheeks. Mrs. Dundyke marvelled at +her youth—that she should be a wife since three years, and the mother +of two children.</p> + +<p>"I wrote to you to be sure to bring the children," said Mrs. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>"I know: it was very kind. But I thought, as Robert was ill, they might +disturb him with their noise. They are but babies; and I left them +behind."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke was considering how she could best impart the news of the +suspected birth to this poor, unconscious young lady. "If you could give +her a hint of it yourself, should she arrive during my absence!" Robert +Carr had said to Mrs. Dundyke that very morning, with the hectic +deepen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">[199]</a></span>ing on his hollow cheeks. And Mrs. Dundyke began her task.</p> + +<p>And a sad shock it proved to be. Mrs. Carr, accustomed to the legal +formalities that attend a marriage in the country of her birth, and +without which formalities the ceremony cannot be performed, could not +for some time be led to understand how, if there was a marriage, it +could have been kept a secret. There were many points difficult to make +her, a foreigner, understand; but when she had mastered them, she grew +strangely interested in the recital of the past, and Mildred Arkell, as +a resident in Westerbury at the time, was called upon to repeat every +little detail connected with the departure of her husband's father and +mother from their native place. In listening, Mrs. Carr's cheek grew +hectic as her husband's.</p> + +<p>But she had her secret also, which she had been keeping from her +husband. She told it now to Mrs. Dundyke. Something was wrong with +affairs at Rotterdam. The surviving partners of the house, three +covetous old Dutchmen, disputed their late partner's right (or rather +that of his children) to draw out certain monies from the house; at the +death of Robert Carr it lapsed to the house, they said. This was the +account Mrs. Carr gave, but it was not a very clear one, neither did she +seem to understand the case. The Carrs had in the house<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">[200]</a></span> other money, +about which there was no dispute, but even this the firm refused to pay +out until the other matter was settled. The effect was, that the Carrs +had no money to go on with; and there would probably be litigation.</p> + +<p>"I did not tell Robert, because I was in hopes it would be comfortably +decided without him," said Mrs. Carr. "By the way, you wrote me word +that Robert said I was to bring over the desk. Which desk did he mean? +his own or his father's?"</p> + +<p>"I really don't know," replied Mrs. Dundyke; "he was very ill when he +spoke, and I wrote the words down just as he spoke them."</p> + +<p>"Well, I have brought both; I know he examined Mr. Carr's desk after his +death, and he locked it up again, and has the key with him. His own desk +also was at home; so, not knowing which was meant, I brought the two."</p> + +<p>When Robert Carr came home that evening he looked awfully ill. The +expression is not too strong a one; there was something in his +attenuated face, its sunken eyes, its ghastly colour, and its working +nostrils, that struck the beholder with awe. Mrs. Dundyke was alone in +the dining parlour when he came in, and was shocked to see him. Whether +it was the long day's work on his decreasing strength—for he had +remained later than usual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">[201]</a></span>—she could not tell, but he had never looked +so near death as this.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Robert!" was her involuntary exclamation; "I had better go up and +prepare your wife before she sees you."</p> + +<p>He suffered her to put him in the great invalid chair she had +surreptitiously had brought in a day or two before; he drank the +restoring cordial she tendered him; he was passive in her hands as a +child, in his great weakness. "I'm afraid I must have a week's rest," he +said to her, as she busied herself taking off his gloves, and smoothing +his poor damp hair. "My strength seems to be failing unaccountably; I +don't know how I have got through the day."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, yes," she eagerly assented; "a little rest; that is what you +want. You shall lie in bed all to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Has Emma brought the children?"</p> + +<p>"No. They are quite well," she says; "I am going to send her down to +you. And, Robert, she knows all, and says she'll help to search the +registers herself."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke spoke in a light-hearted tone, but before she went upstairs +she sent an urgent message for the doctor.</p> + +<p>And when the surgeon came, he said there was no further hope whatever, +as, indeed, there had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">[202]</a></span> not been for some time now, and that a day or two +would "decide."</p> + +<p>Decide what? But that he did not say.</p> + +<p>In one sense of the word, it may be said that death had come suddenly +upon Robert Carr. Had he been less absorbed in that one point of worldly +interest, he might have seen its approach more clearly. Not until the +morning succeeding his wife's arrival, did he look it fully in the face; +and then he found that it was upon the very threshold, was entering in +at the opened door.</p> + +<p>All the bustle, the anxiety as to temporal interests, the plans and +provisions for the future for those to be left behind, ensued. Mrs. +Dundyke hastily summoned a legal gentleman, Mr. Littelby. He was a +solicitor of many years' standing, not in practice for himself, but +conducting the business of an eminent legal firm. He was an old friend +of the Dundykes, and Robert Carr had seen him several times; indeed his +advice and assistance had been of much service in the search of the +church registers. Mr. Littelby was about leaving his present situation, +and was in negotiation with a firm in the country for another. Mrs. +Dundyke sent up a hasty summons for him.</p> + +<p>A handsome bedchamber, in which was every comfort, a bright fire in the +hearth, a bed, on which lay a shadowy form, a pale shadowy face, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">[203]</a></span> +young weeping girl standing near, soon to be a widow, and you have +almost the last scene in the short life of Robert Carr.</p> + +<p>He was dying, poor fellow, with that secret, which he had no doubt +shortened his life in endeavouring to trace, still unsolved; and he was +dying with the conviction, that the proofs did exist somewhere, as fully +upon him as it ever had been.</p> + +<p>"Emma!"</p> + +<p>She dried her eyes, and tried to hide that they had been wet, as she +heard the call. The day was getting on.</p> + +<p>"Is Littelby not come yet?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think he is. Some one came a few minutes ago, and is downstairs +with Mrs. Dundyke. I think I hear them coming up."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke was coming into the room with a gentleman, a middle-aged +man with a sharp nose and pleasant dark eyes. It was Mr. Littelby. They +were left alone together—the lawyer and the dying man. But it was a +very short and simple task, this will-making. Over almost as soon as +begun.</p> + +<p>"He asked me to tie you up with trustees, Emma," said the dying man; +"but I have left all to you—children, and money, and all else. You will +love them, won't you, when I am gone?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Robert, yes!" she said, with a burst of sorrow. "I wish I and they +could go with you."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">[204]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And, Emma, mind that you prosecute this search. I have asked Littelby +to help you, and he will. He says he expects to leave London at the end +of the year, for he is in negotiation with another firm; but I dare say +it will be found before then. Let that search be your first and greatest +task."</p> + +<p>She said it should be—she would have promised anything in that parting +hour. She lay, with her pretty hair on the counterpane, and her wet eyes +turned to him, devouring his last looks, listening to his last words. +Almost literally the last in this world, for, before the close of the +afternoon, Robert Carr fell into a lethargy, from which he did not awake +alive.</p> + +<p>And those two lone women were together in the house of the dead—widows +indeed. The one deprived of her young husband almost on the threshold of +life; the other bereft, she knew not how, of her many years' partner. +Poor Mrs. Dundyke had hardly wanted more sorrow in her desolate home.</p> + +<p>So far as ease in the future went, <i>she</i> was well off. The large income +mentioned by her to Robert Carr would indeed be hers. It was chiefly the +result of that first thousand pounds Mr. Dundyke had risked on the Stock +Exchange. Fortune had favoured him in an unusual degree. You remem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">[205]</a></span>ber +the nails in the horse-shoe, how they doubled and doubled: so it had +seemed to be with the thousand pounds of Mr. Dundyke. But poor Mrs. +Carr's future fortune was all uncertain. Whether she would have +sufficient to keep her children in easy competency, or whether she would +find herself, like so many more gentlewomen, obliged to do something for +her bread in this world of changes, she did not know.</p> + +<p>Even in this week that succeeded her husband's death, she was applied to +for money, which she could not find. The application came from Mr. +Fauntleroy. Lawyers have a peculiar facility for getting rid of money, +as some of us have been obliged to know to our cost; and Mr. Fauntleroy +had already disposed of the first fifty pounds advanced to him, and +wanted more if he was to go on with the case.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carr had it not. Until affairs should be settled in Rotterdam, she +had no such sum at her command. She could have procured it indeed from +many friends, but she was sorely puzzled what to do for the best. On the +one hand, there was the dying promise to her husband to pursue this +cause; on the other, there was the extreme doubt whether there was any +real cause to pursue. If there was no cause, why, then, how worse than +foolish it would be to spend money over a chimera.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">[206]</a></span> Many and many were +the anxious consultations she had with Mrs. Dundyke, even while her +husband lay dead in the house.</p> + +<p>On the day after the funeral—and there had been no mourner found to +follow that poor young man to his last home, but one who had been fellow +curate with him, and who was now in London—Mrs. Dundyke and her visitor +were alone when a gentleman was shown in. A fine man yet, of middle age, +but with a slight bend in the shoulders, as if from care, and grey +threads mingling with his dark hair. It was not a time for Mrs. Carr to +see strangers, and she rose to quit the drawing-room, after hurriedly +replacing some papers in a desk she was examining. But there was +something so noble, so pleasing, so refined, in the countenance of the +man standing there, his hands held out to Mrs. Dundyke, and a sweet +smile upon his lips, that she stopped involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"Have you forgotten me, Betsey?"</p> + +<p>For the moment she really had, for he was much changed; but the voice +and the smile recalled her memory, and with a glad cry of recognition +Mrs. Dundyke sprang forward, and received on her lips a sisterly kiss.</p> + +<p>"Emma, don't go. This is your husband's friend, and my brother-in-law, +William Arkell."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carr gladly held out her hand; her pretty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">[207]</a></span> face raised in its +widow's cap. A shade came over William Arkell's at seeing that badge on +one so young.</p> + +<p>He had a little business in London, he explained, connected with the +transfer of some of his property, and came up, instead of writing; came +up—there was no doubt of it, though he did not say so—that he might +have the opportunity of seeing Mrs. Dundyke.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carr left the room, and Mr. Arkell drew his chair nearer to his +sister-in-law.</p> + +<p>"You have heard nothing further, Betsey, of—of of your lost husband?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head; she should never hear that again.</p> + +<p>It was only natural that she should relate the circumstances to him, now +that they met, although he had heard them so fully from Mr. Prattleton. +Where much mystery exists, especially pertaining to undiscovered crime, +it seems that we can never be tired of attempting to solve it. Human +nature is the same all the world over, and these things do possess an +irrepressible attraction for the human heart—very human it is, now and +then. Mr. Arkell sat with his elbow on the arm of the chair, and his +chin resting on his hand; he was looking dreamily into the fire as they +talked.</p> + +<p>"I should strongly suspect that Mr. Hardcastle,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">[208]</a></span> Betsey; should you know +him if you saw him again?"</p> + +<p>"Know him! know that same Mr. Hardcastle!" she repeated, wondering at +what seemed so superfluous a question. "I should know him to the very +end of my life. I should know him by his eyes, if by nothing else. They +seem to be always before mine."</p> + +<p>"Were they peculiar eyes, then?"</p> + +<p>"Very. The first time I saw him, that morning at breakfast, his eyes +seemed to strike upon my memory with a sort of repulsion. I felt sure I +had seen eyes like them somewhere; and that the <i>other</i> eyes had caused +me repulse likewise. All the time we were together at Geneva, his eyes +kept puzzling me; it was like a word we have on the tip of the tongue, +every moment thinking we must recollect it, but it keeps baffling us. So +was it with Mr. Hardcastle's eyes; and it was only in the moment he was +leaving for Genoa that I recollected whose they were like."</p> + +<p>"And whose were they like?"</p> + +<p>"A gentleman's I never saw but twice; once at your house, at your own +wedding breakfast, and once in the week subsequent to it at Mrs. Daniel +Arkell's: Benjamin Carr."</p> + +<p>"Who?" exclaimed Mr. Arkell.</p> + +<p>"Benjamin Carr, the present squire's son."</p> + +<p>He sat with sudden uprightness in his chair,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">[209]</a></span> staring at her. The +strange scene, when Robert Carr had likened Benjamin to the suspected +murderer, was flashing into his mind. What did it <i>mean</i>, that agitation +of Benjamin's? What did this likeness, now spoken of, mean? A wild doubt +of horror came creeping over Mr. Arkell.</p> + +<p>He opened his lips to speak, but recollected himself before the hasty +impulse was put in force. Mrs. Dundyke noticed nothing unusual; her eyes +and her thoughts were alike absorbed in the past.</p> + +<p>"Will you describe this Mr. Hardcastle to me?" he asked presently, +breaking the pause of silence: "as accurately and minutely as you can."</p> + +<p>He noted every point that she gave in answer, every little detail. And +he came to the conclusion that if Benjamin Carr was not Mr. Hardcastle, +he might certainly have sat for his portrait.</p> + +<p>"Unfortunately," said Mr. Arkell, speaking more to himself than to her, +"were this man apprehended and punished, it could not bring poor Mr. +Dundyke back to life."</p> + +<p>"Alas no, it could not. I would almost rather let things remain as they +are. If the man is guilty, his daily life must be one perpetual, +ever-present punishment."</p> + +<p>"Ay, indeed," murmured Mr. Arkell; "better leave him to it."</p> + +<p>And he rather persistently, had her suspicions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">[210]</a></span> been awakened, led the +conversation into other channels.</p> + +<p>"Let me say to you what I chiefly came to say, Betsey," he whispered to +Mrs. Dundyke in parting. "This has been a sudden and unexpected blow for +you. I do not know how you may be left in regard to means; but if you +have need of help, temporary or otherwise, you will let me know it. I +have a right to give it, you know: you are Charlotte's sister."</p> + +<p>The tears fell from her eyes on his hands as she pressed them gratefully +in hers. She did not say how well she was left off, for her heart was +full; she only thanked him, and intimated that she had enough.</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell went away in a sort of perplexed dream. <i>Could</i> that +suspicion of Benjamin Carr be a true one? <i>He</i> would be silent; but it +was nearly certain to come out in some other way: murder generally does. +From Mrs. Dundyke's he went straight up to Lady Dewsbury's, and found +that she and Miss Arkell had again gone out of town. It was a +disappointment; he had not seen Mildred for years and years.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carr came back to the room, and resumed her occupation after he had +gone—that of searching amid the papers in the desk of the late Robert +Carr the elder. It had proved to be his own desk<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">[211]</a></span> that her husband had +wanted her to bring over—but that is of no consequence. She was +searching for a very simple thing—merely a receipt for a small sum of +money which she had herself paid for Mr. Carr just before he died, and +had returned the receipt to him; but it is often upon the merest trifles +that the great events of life turn. The claim for this small sum she +heard was sent in again, and she thought perhaps she might find the +receipt in the desk, where Mr. Carr had sometimes used to place such +papers. She did not find that, but she found something else.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Dundyke was sitting by, between the other side of the table and the +fire. She was talking about the Arkells—the kindly generosity of +William, the selfishness and persistent ill-will of Charlotte.</p> + +<p>"And the children?" asked Mrs. Carr, as she stood, opening paper after +paper. "Do they follow their father or mother in their treatment of +you?"</p> + +<p>"Of the daughters I know little; I may say nothing. They have never +noticed me, even by a message. But the son—ah! you should know Travice +Arkell! I cannot tell you how I love him. Will you believe that +Charlotte——What is the matter?"</p> + +<p>Emma Carr had come upon a sealed letter in an old blotting-book. The +superscription was in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">[212]</a></span> handwriting of her father-in-law, and ran as +follows:—"To my son Robert. Not to be opened until after the death of +my father, Marmaduke Carr."</p> + +<p>She uttered the exclamation which had attracted the attention of Mrs. +Dundyke, and sat down on her chair. With a prevision that this letter +had something to do with the question of the marriage, she tore the +letter open and sat gazing on it spellbound.</p> + +<p>"Have you found the receipt, my dear?"</p> + +<p>Not the receipt. With her cheeks flushing, her pulses quickening, her +hands trembling, she laid the letter open before Mrs. Dundyke. "Robert +was right; Robert was right! Oh! if he had but lived to read this! How +could he have overlooked this, when he examined the desk after his +father's death? It must have slipped between the leaves of the +blotting-book, and been hidden there."</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">My dear Son Robert</span>,—There may arise a question of your legitimacy when +the time shall arrive for you to take possession of your grandfather's +property. On the day I left Westerbury for ever, I married your mother, +Martha Ann Hughes—she would not else have come with me. We were married +in her parish church at Westerbury, St. James the Less, and you will +find it duly entered in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">[213]</a></span> the register. This will be sufficient to prove +your rights, so that there may be no litigation.</p> + +<p class="blocksig"> +"Your affectionate father,<br /> +<span class="blocksig2">"Rt. Carr</span>."<br /> +</p> + +<p>And, scarcely knowing whether she was awake or dreaming, while Mrs. +Dundyke, in vain attempted to recover her astonishment, Mrs. Carr wrote +a line of explanation inside an envelope, and despatched the +all-important document to Westerbury to Mr. Fauntleroy.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">[214]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_xii" id="chapter_xii">CHAPTER XII.</a><br /><small>MR. RICHARDS' MORNING CALL.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy was seated at breakfast, when this missive reached him. +His two strapping daughters were with him: buxom, vulgar damsels, +attired this morning in Magenta skirts and straw-coloured jackets. Mrs. +Fauntleroy had been some years dead, and they ruled the house, and +nearly ruled the lawyer. Strong-willed man though he was, carrying +things out of doors with an iron hand, and sometimes a coarse one, he +would yield to domestic tyranny; as many another has to do, if it were +but known. It was fond tyranny, however, here; for whatever may have +been the faults of the Miss Fauntleroys, they loved their father with a +tender love. They were the only children of the lawyer—his +co-heiresses—and to him they were as the apple of his eye.</p> + +<p>The room they sat in faced the garden—a large fine garden at the back +of the house. The leaves were red with the glowing tints of autumn, and +as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">[215]</a></span> Mr. Fauntleroy looked up from his well-covered breakfast-table at +the October sky, he made some remark upon the famous run the hounds +would make; and a half sigh escaped his lips that his own hunting days +were gone for ever.</p> + +<p>"Would you be afraid to ride now, pa?"</p> + +<p>"Look at my weight, Lizzy."</p> + +<p>"I think some who ride are as heavy as you," was Miss Elizabeth's +answer.</p> + +<p>"Ah! but they are used to it; they have kept the practice up. Never a +better follower than I in my younger days—always in at the death—but +that's a long while ago now. I gave up hunting when I settled down. What +d'ye call that, Bab?"</p> + +<p>He was pointing with his fork to a dish apart. Miss Barbara looked at it +critically, and did not recognise it. "I dare say it's some dish the new +cook has sent up. It looks nice, pa."</p> + +<p>"Hand some of it over, then," said Mr. Fauntleroy.</p> + +<p>She helped him plentifully. The lawyer and his daughters were all fond +of nice dishes, and liked good servings of them; as perhaps their large +frames and their high colours testified. Miss Lizzy pushed up her plate.</p> + +<p>"I'll take some, too, Bab."</p> + +<p>"About that pic-nic, pa? Are we——"</p> + +<p>"Oh! I don't know," interrupted the lawyer, with his mouth full. "You +girls are always bothering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">[216]</a></span> for something of the sort. Get it up if you +like, only don't expect me to go."</p> + +<p>"The Arkells will <a name="joins" id="joins"></a><ins title="Original has joins">join</ins> us, pa; Bab has asked them."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said the lawyer with a loud laugh. "She'd not fail to ask +<i>them</i>. How was Mr. Travice, Bab?"</p> + +<p>"I shan't tell you, pa," answered Miss Bab, tossing her head in +demonstrative indignation, though her whole face beamed with a gratified +smile. "The idea! How should I know anything about Mr. Travice Arkell!"</p> + +<p>"A good-looking young fellow," said the lawyer, significantly. "Perhaps +others may be finding him so as well as you, Bab."</p> + +<p>"Pa, then, you are a stupid! And I want to know who it is that's coming +to dinner to-day?"</p> + +<p>"Coming to dinner to-day, Bab? Nobody that I know of."</p> + +<p>"You said last night you had invited somebody, but you went to sleep +when I asked who."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I remember. I met him yesterday, and he said he was going to call +to-day. I told him to come in and dine, if he liked. It's Ben Carr."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Miss Bab, with a depreciating sniff. "Only Ben Carr!"</p> + +<p>"He's over here for a few days, stopping with Mrs. Lewis. He wants to be +off to Australia or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">[217]</a></span> some place, but the squire turns crusty about +advancing the funds. Ben and he came to an explosion over it, and Ben +has made himself scarce at home in consequence. What's the time, Bab?"</p> + +<p>Barbara Fauntleroy glanced over her father's head at the French clock +behind him. "It's twenty-five minutes after nine, pa."</p> + +<p>"Eh!" cried the lawyer, starting up. "Why, what a time I have been at +breakfast! You girls should not keep me with your chatter."</p> + +<p>He gathered up his letters, which lay in a stack beside him, and +hastened into his office. The head clerk, Kenneth, was in the outer +room, with one of the other clerks, a young man named Omer. Mr. +Fauntleroy went in to ask a question.</p> + +<p>"Have those deeds come in yet from the engrosser's, Kenneth?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir."</p> + +<p>"Not come! Why they promised them for nine o'clock this morning, and now +it's half-past. Go for them yourself, Kenneth, at once, and give them a +word of a sort. It's not the first time by many that they've been +behindhand."</p> + +<p>Mr. Kenneth took his hat and went out; and his master shut himself in +his private room and began to open his letters. Sometimes he opened his +letters at breakfast time, at others he carried them, as now, into the +office.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">[218]</a></span></p> + +<p>Amidst these letters was the envelope despatched by Mrs. Carr, +containing the important letter found in the desk. To describe Mr. +Fauntleroy's astonishment when he read it, would be beyond mortal pen. +To think that they should have been looking half over the world for this +marriage record, when it was lying quietly under their very nose!</p> + +<p>"By George!" exclaimed Mr. Fauntleroy. "A clever trick, though, of +Robert Carr's—if he <i>did</i> so marry her. The secret was well kept. He +would be sure we should suspect any place rather than Westerbury." +"Omer!" he called out aloud.</p> + +<p>The clerk came in, in answer, and stood before the table of Mr. +Fauntleroy.</p> + +<p>"Go down to St. James the Less, and look through the register. See if +there's a marriage entered between Robert Carr and—what was the girl's +<a name="christian2" id="christian2"></a><ins title="Original has christian">Christian </ins> name?—Martha Ann Hughes. Stop a minute, I'll give you the +date of the year. And—Omer—keep a silent tongue in your head."</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy nodded significantly, and his clerk went out, knowing +what that mandate meant, and that it might not be disobeyed. He came +back after a while and went in to Mr. Fauntleroy.</p> + +<p>"Well?" said the latter, looking up eagerly.</p> + +<p>"It is there, sir."</p> + +<p>"By George!" repeated the lawyer. "Only to think of that! That's all, +Omer," he added, after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">[219]</a></span> a pause. "Mr. Kenneth wants you. And mind what I +charged you as to a silent tongue."</p> + +<p>"No fear, sir," said Omer, as he retired. And to give him his due there +was no fear. One clerk had been discharged from Mr. Fauntleroy's office +six months before, some tattling having been traced back to him; but +Omer was of a silent nature, and cautious besides.</p> + +<p>"I shall never be surprised at anything again," soliloquized Mr. +Fauntleroy. "A week longer, and I should have thrown up the cause, +unless the Holland Carrs had come forward with money. Won't I go on with +it now! But—I suppose—" he continued more slowly, and in due +deliberation, "the cause will be at an end now. Old Carr can't hold out +in the face of this. Shall <i>I</i> tell of it? If I don't—and they don't +else come to know of it—and the cause goes on, there'll be a pretty +picking for both sides; and old Carr can afford it, for it's his pocket +that will have to stand costs now. I'm not obliged to tell them; and I +<i>won't</i>," concluded Mr. Fauntleroy.</p> + +<p>But this little cunning plan of secresy on the part of Mr. Fauntleroy +was destined to be defeated. Mynn and Mynn, the solicitors of Eckford, +were in negotiation with a gentleman in London to take the head of their +office, and act as its chief during their own frequent absence. This +gentleman, by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">[220]</a></span> one of those coincidences that arise in this world, to +help our projects or baffle them, as the case may be, happened to be Mr. +Littelby. The negotiation had been opened for some little time, and was +only waiting for a personal interview for completion; Mr. Littelby +himself being rather anxious for it, as it held out greater advantages +than he enjoyed in his present post, one of which was a possible +partnership. Mr. George Mynn made a journey to London to see him; and +while he was gone, it chanced that the clerk, Richards, had occasion to +see Mr. Fauntleroy.</p> + +<p>He, Richards, arrived in Westerbury betimes on this same morning, and +was told by Kenneth that he might go in to Mr. Fauntleroy. Richards +found, however, that the room was empty; Mr. Fauntleroy having quitted +it for an instant, leaving the inner door ajar.</p> + +<p>The morning's letters, open, lay in a stack on the table, one upon +another, faces upwards. Mr. Richards, a prying man, with a curiosity as +sharp as his nose, and both were sharp as a needle, saw these letters, +and took the liberty of bending his body forward from the spot where he +stood, to bring his eyes within range of their contents. He read the +first, which did him no good whatever; and then gently lifted it an inch +slant-wise with his thumb and finger, and so came to the second. That<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">[221]</a></span> +likewise afforded him scant gratification; for it did not concern him at +all, or any business with which he could possibly be connected, and he +lifted it gingerly and came to the third. The third was the +all-important letter of the deceased Robert Carr; and Mr. Richards read +it with devouring eyes.</p> + +<p>He did not care to go on now to the other letters. <i>This</i> was enough; +and he regaled himself with a second perusal. A faint foot-fall in the +passage warned him, and Mr. Richards stole away from danger.</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy entered, coming bustling in by the door he had left ajar. +Surprised perhaps to see the room tenanted which he had left empty, he +glanced at his letters. Thought is quick. They were lying in the stack +just as he had placed them, certainly undisturbed for any sign they +gave; and the visitor was sitting yards off, in a remote chair behind +the other door, his legs crossed and his hat held on his knees.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Richards! you are here early this morning!"</p> + +<p>"I was obliged to come early, sir, to get back in time," said Richards +as he rose. "Mr. Mynn is ill, as usual, and Mr. George went to London +yesterday afternoon; so the office is left to me."</p> + +<p>"Gone to engage his new clerk, isn't he?" asked Mr. Fauntleroy, who had +no more objection than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">[222]</a></span> Richards to hear somewhat of his neighbours' +business.</p> + +<p>"I believe so; gone to see him, at all events," replied Richards, +speaking with scant ceremony; but it was in his nature so to do. "They +want him to come next month, I hear."</p> + +<p>"What's his name?"</p> + +<p>"Littelton, or Littelby, or some such name. I heard them talking of him +in their room. We are going to have a busy winter of it, Mr. +Fauntleroy," continued the candid Richards, brushing a speck off his +hat; "so the governors want the new man to come to us next month, or in +December at latest. We have three causes already on hand for the spring +assizes."</p> + +<p>"That's pretty well for your quiet folks," returned Mr. Fauntleroy, as +he sat down and placed a large weight on the stack of letters. "Whose +are they?"</p> + +<p>"Well, there's that old-standing cause of the Whitcombs, the remanet +from last assizes; and there's a new one that I suppose I must not talk +about: it's a breach of trust affair, and our side want it kept close, +meaning to have a try at going in for a compromise, which they'll never +get: and then there's your cause, Carr <i>versus</i> Carr. But, Mr. +Fauntleroy, surely you'll never bring that into court! you <i>can't</i> win, +you know."</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy's eyes rested lovingly for a mo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">[223]</a></span>ment on the stack of +letters. "If clients are sanguine without reasonable cause, we can't +help it you know, Richards."</p> + +<p>"Well, how those Holland Carrs <i>can</i> be sanguine bangs me hollow!" was +the retort of Mr. Richards. "They've never had the ghost of a case from +the first. I was dining at the old squire's on Sunday again, and we got +talking of it. The old man was saying he thought the Carrs over in +Holland must be mad, to persist risking their money in this way; and so +they must be. There never could have been any marriage, Mr. Fauntleroy: +I dare say you feel as sure of it as everybody else does."</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy shrugged his huge shoulders. "The clergyman is dead; and +the rest may not be so sanguine as he was. I confess I did think him a +little mad. And now to your business, Richards. I suppose you have come +about that tithe affair. Will Kenneth do for you? I am busy this +morning."</p> + +<p>"Kenneth won't do until I have had a word with yourself, and shown you a +paper," replied Richards, taking out his letter-case. "Just look at +that, Mr. Fauntleroy."</p> + +<p>Mr. Fauntleroy unfolded the paper handed to him. It had nothing to do +with our history; but he apparently found it so interesting or +important,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">[224]</a></span> that Richards was not dismissed for nearly an hour. And at +his departure, to make up for lost time, Mr. Fauntleroy set to work with +a will: one of his first tasks being to drop a line to Mrs. Carr, +acknowledging the receipt of the important letter, and cautioning her to +keep the discovery a strict secret. All unconscious, as he was, that one +had seen it in his own office.</p> + +<p>Mr. Richards was scuttering along the street to the railway station, +when he encountered Benjamin Carr. He could hardly stop to speak, for +his own office really wanted him. In the past few weeks, since their +first introduction, he and Benjamin Carr had been a great deal together, +and the latter placed himself right in his path.</p> + +<p>"I can't stay a minute, Ben,"—they had grown familiar, as you +perceive,—"I shall lose the train."</p> + +<p>Benjamin Carr turned, and stepped out alongside him, with a pace as +quick. He began telling him, as they walked, of an outbreak he had had +with the "old man," as he was pleased to call his father. "It was all +about this money," exclaimed Ben. "He refuses to give me any until this +affair is settled; persists in saying he may lose the inheritance: +altogether we got in a passion, both of us. As if he <i>could</i> lose it!"</p> + +<p>"I suppose it is within the range of possibility," said Richards.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">[225]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nonsense!" replied Benjamin Carr. "You'll say there was a marriage +next."</p> + +<p>"There might have been."</p> + +<p>"Pigs might fly."</p> + +<p>"Suppose there <i>was</i> a marriage—and that it can be proved? What then?"</p> + +<p>"Suppose there wasn't," wrathfully returned Ben Carr. "I'm not in a mood +for joking, Richards."</p> + +<p>They stepped on to the platform. The train was not in yet; was scarcely +due: one of the porters remarked that "that there mid-day train didn't +keep her time as well as some on 'em did." Richards familiarly passed +his arm within Benjamin Carr's, and drew him beyond the platform. They +turned sideways and halted before a dwarf wall, looking over it at the +town, which lay beneath.</p> + +<p>"You say you are not in a mood for joking, Ben: neither am I; and what I +said to you I said with a meaning," began Richards in a low tone. "It +has come to my knowledge—and you needn't ask me how or when or where, +for I shan't tell you—that old Marmaduke's money, so far as you Eckford +Carrs go, <i>is</i> imperilled. If the thing goes on to trial, you'll lose +it: but I should think it won't go on to trial, for you'd never let it +when you come to know what I know. The other side has got hold of a +piece of evidence that would swamp you."</p> + +<p>Benjamin Carr's great dark eyes turned themselves<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">[226]</a></span> fiercely upon his +companion: he saw that he was, in truth, not jesting. "It's not <a name="cord" id="cord"></a><ins title="Original has 'there cord'">the +record</ins> of the marriage, is it?" he asked, after a pause.</p> + +<p>"Something like it."</p> + +<p>Not a word was spoken for a couple of minutes. A little tinkling bell +was heard in the station. Benjamin Carr broke the silence.</p> + +<p>"Real, or forged?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, I don't know. Real, I suppose. The man's dead you see, that young +clergyman-fellow who came down, so he'd be hardly likely to get it up. I +don't see how it could be done, either, in the present case. It's easier +to suppress evidence of a marriage than it is to invent it. Still it +<i>may</i> be on the cross."</p> + +<p>"Can't you speak plain English, Richards."</p> + +<p>"I hardly dare. But I suppose you could be silent, if I were to."</p> + +<p>"I suppose I could. I have had secrets to carry in my lifetime weightier +than this, whatever it may be."</p> + +<p>Benjamin Carr lifted his hat, and wiped his brow with his handkerchief, +as if the secrets were there and felt heavy still. Richards looked at +him.</p> + +<p>"You may speak out, Richards. You can't believe," he added, his tone +changed to one of passionate pain, "that it is not safe with me."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">[227]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It must be kept safe for your own sake, for your family's sake. If any +evidence <i>has</i> turned up, there's no cause to let the world know it +before you are compelled. It would be damaging your cause irreparably."</p> + +<p>Ben Carr nodded assent. "What is it?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Well, I think they have found out where the marriage was solemnized. I +<i>think</i> so, mind; I am not positive. That is, I am not positive of the +fact; only that they think it so."</p> + +<p>"How did you hear it?"</p> + +<p>"Now, Ben, you'll not get me to let out that. I've said so. Perhaps I +dreamt it; perhaps a little bird told me: never mind. I mean to go over +to your place to see Valentine to-night, and drop him a hint of the +state of affairs. Shall you be at home?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to be at home for some days to come; but I'll meet you +there. Take care of one thing: that you say nothing to the squire."</p> + +<p>Mr. Richards gave a knowing nod sideways, as if to intimate that he knew +just as well what to do and what not to do as Benjamin Carr. Just then +the noise of a train was heard puffing up.</p> + +<p>"Here it comes, Richards."</p> + +<p>"Here it doesn't," was the reply. "It's coming the wrong way. This is +the London train coming in."</p> + +<p>The train came in, and stopped on the other side<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">[228]</a></span> +<a name="ofinserted" id="ofinserted"></a><ins title="Original has no 'of'">of</ins> the platform, while +it discharged its passengers and any luggage pertaining to them. It then +went puffing on, and the passengers crossed the line to this side, as +they had to do before they could leave the station. Benjamin Carr and +his friend stood still to look at them, and the former recognised in one +of them Mr. Arkell.</p> + +<p>"How d'ye do, Mr. Arkell," said Ben, holding out his hand. "Been out +anywhere?"</p> + +<p>But Mr. Arkell did not see the hand. What with the jostling crowd, what +with a small portmanteau he was carrying, what with wondering who the +stranger might be, hanging lovingly on Ben's arm, for Mr. Arkell had not +the honour of knowing Mr. Richards by sight, he certainly did not appear +to see the held-out hand. "Where have you been?" inquired Ben, +inquisitively.</p> + +<p>"I have been to London, Mr. Benjamin, as you wish to know. A short +visit, though."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said Ben, meaning to be jocular. "Seen any of my friends there?"</p> + +<p>"I saw Mrs. Carr, the clergyman's young widow: I don't know whether you +count her as one of your friends. And I saw Mrs. Dundyke."</p> + +<p>There was a look in Mr. Arkell's face, not usual on it: a peculiar, +solemn, penetrating look. Somehow Mr. Ben Carr's jocularity and his +courage went out of him together.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">[229]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mrs. Dundyke?" he repeated, vaguely, staring over the heads of the +passing passengers. "Oh, ah, I remember, that connexion of yours. I +don't know her."</p> + +<p>"I got her to give me a description of the man, calling himself +Hardcastle, who lies under the suspicion of knowing rather too clearly +what became of Mr. Dundyke. Poor Robert Carr, just dead, attempted the +description of him, you may remember, at your father's table."</p> + +<p>"Ah; yes," said Ben, striving to be more vague than before: and his dark +face perceptibly changed its hue.</p> + +<p>"And I may tell you that this description of Mrs. Dundyke's has made a +singular impression upon me, and a very disagreeable one. It is not my +affair," he added, slowly and distinctly; "and for the present I shall +not make it mine: but——"</p> + +<p>"Here's your train, Richards. Got a return ticket?"</p> + +<p>The two walked forward to meet it, Richards evidently pulled along by +his companion. The train came dashing in too far, and had to be backed: +porters ran about, departing passengers hustled each other. And +altogether, in the general confusion, there was no more to be seen of +Mr. Benjamin Carr.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">[230]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_xiii" id="chapter_xiii">CHAPTER XIII.</a><br /><small>A DISLIKE THAT WAS TO BEAR ITS FRUITS.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>The information, hinted at by Miss Beauclerc to Henry Arkell, had proved +to be correct—the dean and chapter purposed to hold an examination of +the college school.</p> + +<p>To describe the consternation this caused would be difficult. It fell, +not only upon the boys, but on the masters, like a clap of thunder: +indeed the former cared for it the least. That the school was not in a +state, in regard to its proficiency of study, to bear an examination, +was a fact known to nearly everybody; and the head master, had it been +possible, would have resisted the fiat of the dean.</p> + +<p>In point of fact, the school had become notorious for its inefficiency. +The old days of confining the boys' studies exclusively to Latin and +Greek were over; but the additional branches inaugurated could scarcely +be said to have begun. The masters, wedded to the old system, did not +take to them kindly; the boys did not, of their own will, take to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">[231]</a></span> them +at all. They could not spell; they knew nothing of English grammar, +except what they could pick up of it through their acquaintance with the +Latin; they hardly knew a single event in English, French, or modern +history; and of geography they were intensively ignorant. What could be +expected? For years and years, for many hours a day, had these boys been +kept to work, always at the old routine work, Latin and Greek. Examine +them in these classics, and Mr. Wilberforce would have no reason to +complain of his pupils; but in all else a charity boy could beat them. +Had one of those college boys been required to write a letter in +English, every other word in it would have been spelled incorrectly. I +am giving you a true account of the state of the school at that period: +and I fear that you will scarcely believe it. A few of the boys, a very +few, only some three or four, had been generally well educated; but +these owed it to the care, the forethought, perhaps the <i>means</i> of their +parents: home tutors were expensive.</p> + +<p>As Miss Beauclerc had said, it was in consequence of a letter, written +by one of the senior boys, that this trouble had come about. It was a +disgraceful letter—speaking in reference to its spelling and +composition—neither more nor less. The letter had been brought under +the astonished eyes of one of the chapter, and he showed it to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">[232]</a></span> the +dean. They awoke from their supineness, and much indignation at the +young scholar was privately expressed. What <i>did</i> they expect? Did they +think spelling came to the boys intuitively, as pecking at grain does to +birds? It may be said that the boys ought to have been able to spell +correctly before entering the school, and to have possessed some other +general learning; that the parents ought to have taken care of that. But +"ought" does not go for much in this world. Many of the boys were +indulged children who had never been brought on at all, except in +reading, and that was essential, or they could not be admitted; and, at +that time, they entered young—nine years old. As they went in, little +ignoramuses, so they remained, except in the classics. Many a boy has +gone from that school to the university not educated at all, save in the +dead languages.</p> + +<p>Of course, when the innovation (as the masters regarded it) came in, a +little stir was caused. A pretence was made of teaching the school +foreign branches, such as spelling and geography; but whether it might +be owing to the innate prejudice of their masters, or to their own +stupidity, little, if any, progress was made. The boys remained +lamentably deficient; and they thought it no shame to be so. Rather the +contrary, in fact; for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">[233]</a></span> feeling grew up in the school that these +common branches of learning were not essential to them as gentlemen; +that it was derogatory altogether to a foundation school to have them +introduced. The masters had winked at this state of things, and they +perhaps did not know how intensely ignorant some of their best classical +scholars were.</p> + +<p>It may be imagined, therefore, what the consternation was when the +dean's announcement was received early in August. There was to be an +examination held; but not until November; so the boys and the masters +had three months to prepare. It's true you cannot convert ignorant boys +into finished scholars in three months, however humble may be the +attainments required; but you may do something towards it by means of +drilling. So the boys, to their intense disgust, were drilled late and +early—and that disgust did not render their apprehensions the quicker.</p> + +<p>Amidst the very few who need not fear that, or any other examination, +was Henry Arkell. He was not yet a senior boy (speaking of the four +seniors), but he was by far the best scholar in the school. He owed this +chiefly to his father. Mr. Peter Arkell was so finished a scholar +himself, it had been strange indeed if he had not sought to render his +son one; and Henry's abilities were of a most superior order. +Indeed—but that a sort<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">[234]</a></span> of prejudice exists against these clever lads, +I could say a great deal more of his abilities, his attainments, than I +mean to say—for this is no fictitious history. Intellectual, clever, +good, refined, sensitive, Henry Arkell seemed to be one of those +superior spirits not meant for this world. The event too often proves +that they were not meant for it.</p> + +<p>He was not a favourite in the school, except with a few. By the majority +he was intensely disliked. The dislike arose from envy, and his own +gifts excited it. His unusual beauty, his sensitive temperament, his +refinement of manner, his ever-pervading sense of religion, his +honourable nature, as seen in even the smallest action,—all and each of +them were objectionable to the rough schoolboys. Most of these qualities +he had inherited from his mother, and for any one of them, the school, +as a whole, would have ridiculed and despised him. They would have been +quite enough without his superior advancement; which put <i>them</i> to the +shame, and called forth now and again some stinging comparison from the +lips of the head master. When he first entered the school, he had +unintentionally excited the ill-will of the two sons of Mrs. Lewis, and +of their chosen companions, the two Aultanes. These boys longed above +everything to thrash him every day of their lives;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">[235]</a></span> but he had been +taken under the protection of Mr. St. John and Travice Arkell, and they +dared not, and it did not increase their love for him.</p> + +<p>But there was to arise a worse cause of enmity than any of these, as +Henry grew older, and <i>that</i> was the favour shown him by the dean's +daughter. To see him under the especial favour of the dean was +aggravation enough; but that was as nothing compared to the intimacy +accorded him by the dean's daughter. You know what these things are with +schoolboys. Half the school believed themselves in love with this +attractive girl, who condescended to freedom with them; the other half +<i>were</i> in love with her. After their fashion, you know. It was not that +serious love that makes or mars the heart for all time, though the boys +might think it so. Lewis senior—his name was Roland, and he was one of +the four senior boys—was especially envious of this favour of Miss +Beauclerc's. He was very fond of her, and would have given all he +possessed in the world for it to be accorded to him. <i>He</i> could only +love and admire her at a distance; while Arkell might tell it to her +face if he pleased—and Lewis felt sure he <i>did</i>. He hated Henry with a +passionate hatred. He saw, with that intuition natural to these things, +that Henry loved Georgina Beauclerc, and with no passing school-boy's +love. He wished that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">[236]</a></span> earth contained only their three selves, that +he might set upon the fragile boy and kill him, and keep the young lady +to himself ever afterwards—Adam and Eve in a second Paradise. Indeed, +Mr. Lewis had got into a habit of indulging this train of thought rather +more than was wholesome for him, and would have shot Henry Arkell in a +duel with all the non-compunction in the world.</p> + +<p>Not being able to do this—for the human race could not be exterminated +so easily, and duels are not in fashion—he made up for the +disappointment by rendering Henry Arkell's life as miserable as it is +well possible for one boy to render another's. He excited the school +against him; he openly derided the position and known poverty of his +father, Peter Arkell; and he positively affected to rebel—he would have +rebelled had he dared—when Henry came to reside temporarily in the head +master's house. The scholars in that house had hitherto been gentlemen, +he said, loudly. Indeed, but for one fortunate circumstance, Henry's +life at the master's might have been rendered nearly unbearable; and +this was, that he was in favour with the senior boy—an idle, +gentlemanly fellow of the name of Jocelyn. So long as Jocelyn remained +in the school, there could be no very undue open oppression put upon +Henry Arkell. It was not that the head boy held Henry in any especial<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">[237]</a></span> +favour; but he was of too just a nature, too much the gentleman in ideas +and habits, to permit cruelty or unfairness of any sort. But you have +now heard enough to gather that Henry Arkell was not in favour with the +majority of the college boys, his fellows; and you hear its causes.</p> + +<p>The cramming that the boys were now subjected to, did not improve their +temper. Unfortunately, the dean had not specified—perhaps +purposely—what would be the branches chosen for examination. Mr. +Wilberforce and the under masters presumed that it would chiefly lie in +the classics, and, so far, were tolerably easy; but the result of this +was, that the Latin and Greek lessons were increased, leaving less time +for what they were pleased to consider inferior studies.</p> + +<p>"Suppose," suggested the second master, one day, "it should be in those +other studies that the dean purposes to examine them?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Wilberforce turned purple.</p> + +<p>"In <i>those</i>!—to the exclusion of the higher! Nonsense! It is not +likely. The boys will cut a pretty figure if he should."</p> + +<p>"The fact is, they are such a dull lot."</p> + +<p>"Most of them: yes. I think, Mr. Roberts, you had better hold some +dictation classes; and we'll get in a few conspicuous maps."</p> + +<p>But all the studies that came in addition, whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">[238]</a></span> dictation classes or +the staring at maps, the boys resented wofully; and though they were +obliged to submit, it did not, I say, improve their temper. One +afternoon in October, when everything seemed to have gone wrong, and the +school rather wished, on the whole, that they had never been born, or +that books had not been invented, or that they were private pupils of +the head master's (for <i>they</i> were not to be included in the +examination, only the forty foundation boys, the king's scholars), the +school was waiting impatiently to hear half-past four strike, for then +only another half-hour must elapse before they would be released from +school. The choristers had come in at four o'clock from service with the +head master, whose week it was for chanting, and had settled down to +their respective desks. Henry Arkell, who was at the first desk now, but +nothing like its head, for promotion in the school was not attained by +proficiency, but by priority of entrance, had come in with the rest; he +was senior chorister now, and was seated bending over a book, his head +half buried between his raised hands, and his elbows on the desk.</p> + +<p>"What are you conning there so attentively, Mr. Arkell?"</p> + +<p>The authoritative words came from Lewis. He was monitor that week, and +therefore head of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">[239]</a></span> the school, under the senior boy: his present +position on the rolls was that of fourth senior.</p> + +<p>"I'm reading Greek," replied Henry, without removing his hands or +looking up. "I've done my lessons."</p> + +<p>"Take your hands and elbows down. I should like to see."</p> + +<p>Down went the hands and elbows, but he did not look up.</p> + +<p>"I thought it might be an English comedy instead of a Greek tragedy," +observed Lewis, satirically; "but it <i>is</i> Greek, I see. Boys, he's +reading Greek! He's thinking to take the shine out of us at the +examination. Preparing! Oh!"</p> + +<p>"Not at all," said Henry, quietly. "I should have been as well prepared +for the examination at a day's notice, as I am after nearly three +months'. So might you have been if you'd chosen."</p> + +<p>"You insolent young beggar! Do you mean to say I am not prepared?"</p> + +<p>"I said nothing of the sort, Lewis."</p> + +<p>"You implied it, though. <i>You</i> needn't think to get the prize—if it's +true that the dean gives one."</p> + +<p>"I don't think to get it. I wish you'd let me go on with my book."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, you do. You think to creep up the dean's sleeve, at second +hand, through somebody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">[240]</a></span> that's a friend of yours; or that you are +presumptuous enough to fancy is."</p> + +<p>He understood the allusion, and suddenly raised his hands again, for the +delicate hue of his transparent cheek changed to crimson. Lewis noted +the movement.</p> + +<p>"Now, by Jove, I'll put you up for punishment. I order your elbows off +the desk, and you fling them on again in defiance. Wilberforce has +flogged for less."</p> + +<p>"Be quiet, Lewis," interposed Jocelyn. "Arkell's doing nothing that you +need trouble him for. Just turn your attention to that second desk, and +see what's going on there. They'll get Mr. Wilberforce's eyes upon them +directly."</p> + +<p>Lewis could have found in his heart to hang the senior boy. He was +always interfering with him in this manner whenever he was monitor, to +the detriment of his dignity as such. Lewis immediately struck up a +wordy war, until the master's attention was excited and he commanded +silence.</p> + +<p>Oh, if this dislike of Henry Arkell had but died out at first! half this +history would not then have been written. It might have done so under +different circumstances; it might, perhaps, have done so but for the +dean's daughter. From the very first hour that she knew him, Georgina +Beauclerc made no secret of her liking. When she met the college<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">[241]</a></span> boys, +child though she was then, she would single him out from the rest, and +stop talking to him. Her governess used to look defiance, but that made +not the least impression on Miss Beauclerc. She invited him to the +deanery; <i>they</i> never were allowed to put their noses inside it, except +at those odd moments when they went to solicit the dean to allow them +holiday from the cathedral; she would pass them sometimes without the +slightest notice in the world, but she never so passed <i>him</i>.</p> + +<p>If he had but been a dull, stupid, clumsy boy! Strange though it may +seem, the rest hated him because he did his lessons. <i>Their</i> tasks were +hurried over, imperfectly learnt at the best, if at all, and were +generally concluded with a caning. His were always perfectly and +efficiently done. They called him hard names for this; prig, snob, +sneak; but, in point of fact, the boy was never allowed the opportunity +of <i>not</i> doing them, for his father on that score was a martinet, and +drilled him at home just as much as Mr. Wilberforce did at school. And, +greatest of all advantages, his early education had been so +comprehensive and sound. The horribly hard lessons, that were as death +to the rest, seemed but play to him; and the natural consequence was, +that the envy boiled over. Circumstances, in this point of view, were +not favourable to him.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">[242]</a></span></p> + +<p>The long afternoon came to an end, five o'clock struck, and the boys +clattered down the broad schoolroom steps, making the grounds and the +old cloisters echo with their noise. There had been little time for play +latterly; since the announcement of the forthcoming examination, the +head and other masters had been awfully exacting on the subject of +lessons, not to be trifled with. Henry Arkell, from the state of +preparation in which he always was, had nearly as much time on his hands +as usual, and had not ceased to take his lessons on the organ, or to +practise on it twice a week, as was his custom. He learnt of the +cathedral organist, Mr. Paul; for Mrs. Peter Arkell had deemed it well +that Henry's great taste for music should continue to be cultivated. +Another of the boys, named Robbins, a private pupil of the head +master's, also learnt. The organist would not allow them to touch the +noted cathedral instrument, save in his presence; and they were +permitted by Mr. Wilberforce to practise in the church of St. James the +Less, of which, as you may remember, he was the incumbent. One of the +minor canons invariably held this living, for it was in the gift of the +Dean and Chapter.</p> + +<p>Henry was going there to practise this evening. He was at the house of +the head master yet; his friends being still absent from Westerbury, for +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">[243]</a></span> family who had taken their house wished to remain in it until +Christmas. The sea-side was doing Mrs. Peter Arkell a vast deal of good; +her husband had obtained some teaching there, and Mr. Wilberforce had +kindly intimated that Henry was welcome to remain with him a +twelvemonth, if it suited their plans that he should; but the boy was +beginning to long for them back with an intense longing.</p> + +<p>He walked across the grounds to the master's house; put down his books, +got his music, and went on towards the church of St. James the Less. It +was a large, ancient church, with thick walls and little windows, and it +stood all solitary by itself, in the midst of its churchyard, beyond the +town on that side, but not many minutes' walk from the cathedral. The +only house near it was the clerk's, and that not close to it: a poor, +low, damp, aguish building, surrounded by grass as long as that in the +neighbouring graveyard. The clerk was a bent, withered old man, always +complaining of rheumatism; he had been clerk of that church now for many +years.</p> + +<p>Once beyond the grounds, Henry Arkell set off at his utmost speed. The +evenings were growing dusk early, and Mr. Wilberforce allowed no light +in the church, so he had to make the most of the daylight. He was flying +past the palmery, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">[244]</a></span> in making a dexterous spring to avoid a truck of +apples standing there, he let his roll of music fly out of his hand; and +it was in turning to pick up this that his eyes caught sight of a tall +form at the palmery door; a distinguished, noble-looking young man, +whose deep blue eyes were gazing at him in doubt. One moment's +hesitation, on Henry's part, and he made but a step towards him.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mr. St. John! I did not know you were back."</p> + +<p>"I thought it was certainly you, Harry, but your height puzzled me. How +you have grown!"</p> + +<p>Henry laughed. "They say I bid fair to be as tall as my cousin Travice. +I hope I shan't be as tall as papa! When did you come home, Mr. St. +John?"</p> + +<p>"Now: an hour ago. I am going to look in at the deanery. Will you come +with me, lest I should have forgotten the way?"</p> + +<p>It was not often that Henry Arkell put aside duty for pleasure; he had +been too well trained for that; but this temptation was irresistible. +What would he not have put aside for the sake of seeing Georgina +Beauclerc; and, it may be, that that wild suspicion of where Georgina's +love was given, made him wish to witness the meeting.</p> + +<p>A couple of minutes brought them to the deanery. St. John's joke of not +finding the way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">[245]</a></span> might have some point in it, for he had been absent at +least two years. In the room where you first saw her, gliding softly +over the carpet with a waltzing step, was Georgina Beauclerc; and close +to the window, listlessly looking out, sat a young lady of delicate +beauty, one of the fairest girls it was ever Mr. St. John's lot to look +upon. But this was not the first time he had seen her. It was the dean's +niece, Sarah Beauclerc.</p> + +<p>Henry was in the room first; St. John pushed him on, and followed him; +he was in time therefore to see the momentary suspense, the start of +surprise, the deep glow of crimson, of love, that rushed over the face +of Georgina. Was it at himself, or at <i>him</i>? But never yet, so far as +Henry saw, had that crimson hue dyed her face at his own approach.</p> + +<p>One moment, and she had recovered herself. She went up to Mr. St. John +with an outstretched hand, bantering words on her tongue.</p> + +<p>"So you really are alive! We thought you had been buried in the Red +Sea."</p> + +<p>He made some laughing answer, and passed on to Sarah Beauclerc. He +clasped both her hands in his; he bent over her with only a word or two +of greeting, his low voice subdued to tenderness. What did it mean? +Georgina's lips turned white as ashes, but she could not see her +cousin's face.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">[246]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How is Mrs. Beauclerc?" asked St. John, turning, and beginning to talk +generally; "Harry tells me that the dean is well, to the consternation +of the college school, which has to prepare itself for an examination."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that examination!" laughed Georgina; "it is turning some of their +senses upside down. But now," she added, standing in front of Mr. St. +John, "what am I to call you? Frederick?—Or am I to be formal, and say +'Mr. St. John?'"</p> + +<p>"You used to call me Fred."</p> + +<p>"But I was not a grown-up young lady then," making him a mock curtsey; +"after all, I suppose I must call you Fred still, for I should be sure +to lapse into it. Where have you been all this while? We have heard of +you everywhere; in Paris, in Madrid, in Vienna, in Rome, in Antwerp, +in——oh, all over the world."</p> + +<p>"I think I have been nearly all over Europe," said Mr. St. John.</p> + +<p>"Which of us has the most changed?" she abruptly asked, a curl of the +finger indicating that she meant to speak of her cousin.</p> + +<p>"Sarah has not changed," he answered, turning to Sarah Beauclerc, and an +involuntary tenderness was again perceptible in his tone. "You have not +changed either, Georgie, in manner," he added, with a laugh.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">[247]</a></span></p> + +<p>Georgina pouted. "You are not to call me 'Georgie' any longer, Mr. St. +John."</p> + +<p>"Very well, Miss Beauclerc, our careless times have gone for ever, I +suppose; old age is creeping upon us."</p> + +<p>"Don't be stupid," said Georgina. "Have you seen Lady Anne since your +return?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You <i>have</i>!" she exclaimed, not expecting the answer.</p> + +<p>"I saw her in London, as I came through it."</p> + +<p>"Ah—yes—of course, I might have guessed that," was Georgina's +rejoinder, spoken mysteriously. "Shall we have a battle royal?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" asked Mr. St. John.</p> + +<p>"Between Lady Anne and another; you can't cut yourself in two, you know. +Sarah, what's the matter with your face?"</p> + +<p>It was a very conscious face just then, and a very haughty one. St. John +knitted his brows, as if he divined Georgina's meaning, and was angered +at it; and he began speaking hastily.</p> + +<p>"Mine has been one of the pleasantest of tours. The galleries of +paintings alone would have been worth——"</p> + +<p>"Now, Fred, if you begin upon that everlasting painting theme, you'll +never leave off," unceremoniously interrupted Georgiana. "Mrs. St. John +says paintings will be your ruin."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">[248]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Does she?"</p> + +<p>"Your purse has a hole at both ends, she says, where pictures are +concerned, and she wishes you had only a tithe of the prudence of Mr. +Isaac St. John."</p> + +<p>Another slight knit of the brows. Sarah Beauclerc went to a side table +and opened a book of views, taken in Spain, artistic sketches, +exquisitely done. She turned her fair face to Mr. St. John.</p> + +<p>"Will you kindly tell me if these are correct, Mr. St. John? That is, if +you are personally acquainted with the spots."</p> + +<p>He needed no second invitation. He did know the spots, and they bent +over the views together, St. John growing eloquent. Henry Arkell, +tolerably at home at the deanery, had drawn away from the group and was +touching the keys of the piano; some sweet, extemporized melody, played +so softly that it could scarcely be heard. Suddenly he found Georgina at +his side.</p> + +<p>"What did I tell you?" she abruptly said.</p> + +<p>"What did you tell me?" he replied. "I'm sure I don't know what you +mean, Miss Beauclerc."</p> + +<p>"Go on with your playing; why do you stop? I don't care to be heard by +the chairs and tables. Did I not tell you that he was in love either +with her or with her beauty? You see, and hear."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure he is not in love with somebody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">[249]</a></span> else?" asked Henry, his +heart beating with that wild tumult that it mostly did when in the +presence of Miss Beauclerc.</p> + +<p>She understood his meaning, however it might please her to affect not to +do so. He did not raise his eyes to look at her; and he continued the +soft sweet playing, as she desired.</p> + +<p>"Somebody else! Do you mean Lady Anne?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Miss Beauclerc! I was not thinking of Lady Anne."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you mean me, you stupid boy; perhaps you would like to +insinuate that I am in love with him. You <i>are</i> stupid, Henry. Play a +little louder. How I wish I played with half your taste. I should not +get so much of old Paul's frownings and mamma's reproachings. Do you +think I'd have Fred St. John? No, not though he were worth his weight in +gold. We should never get along together; you might as well try to mix +oil and water."</p> + +<p>Oh, false words! But how many such are uttered daily, in the natural +reticence of the shy heart, loving for the first time! Henry Arkell +believed her at the moment, and his heart bounded on in its wild love, +in spite of that ever present conviction that had taken up an abode +within it. The strain changed to a popular love melody; but the playing +was soft and sweet as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">[250]</a></span> before. Few have the charmed gift of playing as +he played.</p> + +<p>"I have been making something for you. I can't give it you now with +those two pairs of eyes in the room. Lovers though they may be, I dare +say they are watching; and Sarah's blue ones are very sharp. She might +get telling mamma that I flirt with the college boys. And I won't give +it you at all if you are stupid. What's Fred St. John to me, do you +suppose? It's nothing really worth having, you know; but your vanity +likes to be humoured, and——"</p> + +<p>"Henry! how exquisitely you play!"</p> + +<p>Mr. St. John was coming towards them with the remark, and the spell was +broken. Henry rose from the piano, laughing carelessly in answer; and +Frederick St. John wondered at the bright light in his eye, the flush of +emotion on his cheek. But he did not read the signs correctly.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">[251]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_xiv" id="chapter_xiv">CHAPTER XIV.</a><br /><small>THE EXAMINATION.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>November came in. The nineteenth approached, and the travelling +carriages of the different prebendaries bowled into Westerbury, as was +customary at that season, bringing their owners to their residences in +the Grounds. A great day in cathedral life was the nineteenth of +November. It was the grand chapter day; the day when every member +attached to the cathedral had to attend in the chapter-house after +morning prayers, and answer to their names, as called over from the roll +by the chapter clerk. The dean, the canons, the minor canons, the king's +scholars, the organist, the lay-clerks, the sextons, the vergers, the +bedesmen, and the two men-cooks officiating for the audit dinners at the +deanery; all had to be there, health permitting. It was also the grand +audit day; and the first day of the series of dinners held at the +deanery; the dinner on this day being confined to the members of the +cathedral: that is, the clergy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">[252]</a></span> the choristers, and the lay-clerks. The +rest of the boys, those who were only king's scholars, were not +included, and very savage they were; but things were done in accordance +with ancient custom. When the dean, at the conclusion of the ceremonies +in the chapter-house, proffered an invitation to the "gentlemen +choristers" to dine with him that evening at the deanery, and the +gentlemen choristers bowed a gracious or a confused acquiescence, +according to their state of nerves, the thirty king's scholars turned +rampant with envy; and always wished either the choristers or the dean +might come to some grief before the night arrived.</p> + +<p>The great day came; an unusually great day, this, for the school, the +examination having been fixed to take place on it by the dean. The +morning service in the cathedral was at ten o'clock, the usual daily +hour; and at eleven began the business in the chapter-house. Next came +the examination. There had been some consultation between the dean and +canons as to whether the examination should take place in the college +hall, as the schoolroom was called, or the chapter-house; but they +decided in favour of the college hall. As the boys were passing through +the cloisters from the chapter-house on their way to it, walking orderly +two and two in their surplices and trenchers, Georgina Beauclerc met +them, her blue eyes smiling, the blue strings<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">[253]</a></span> of her bonnet flying. The +undaunted girl stopped to have a word, although the clergy, with the +dean at their head, were actually coming out of the chapter-house, +within view.</p> + +<p>"There <i>is</i> to be a prize, boys," she whispered. "Good luck to whoever +gets it. Will it be you, Jocelyn?"</p> + +<p>"That it will not, Miss Beauclerc," was the reply of the senior boy. +None knew better than he his own deficiencies, and that they chiefly +arose through his own idleness.</p> + +<p>"Whose will it be, then?"</p> + +<p>"Well, if it turns upon general scholarship it ought to be Arkell's no +doubt, Miss Beauclerc, only you see he is not a senior. If we are +examined in Greek and Latin only, the merit may lie between him and +Lewis senior."</p> + +<p>Lewis senior, a great big hulky fellow, with hair as black as his uncle +Ben's, sly eyes, and an ugly face, was standing close to Jocelyn. Taking +the classics only, he was the best scholar in the school, Henry Arkell +excepted; but he was more than a year older than Henry. Miss Beauclerc +saw his countenance light up with triumph, and she threw back her pretty +head. She detested Lewis, though perfectly conscious that he entertained +more than a liking for her.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> won't have much chance, Lewis, by the side<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">[254]</a></span> of Arkell. Don't +deceive yourself; don't faint with the disappointment."</p> + +<p>She turned round and flew off, for the dean and clergy were close at +hand. The boys continued their way to the college hall, Lewis's +amiability not improved by the taunt. The general opinion in the school +was, that if a prize was given, Lewis would gain it. He was a clever +boy, though not popular; more clever than any one of the other seniors. +Seniority went for everything in the college school, and for the dean to +be guilty of the heterodoxy of awarding the prize to any except one of +the four seniors had not occurred to the boys as being within the range +of serious possibility.</p> + +<p>The boys took their station in the school, and the dean proceeded to the +examination. Two of the canons were with him, and the masters of the +school, one of whom was the Rev. Mr. Prattleton; but he attended only +twice a week for an especial branch of study. The clergy and boys all +wore their surplices, and the dean and prebendaries retained their caps +on their heads.</p> + +<p>The examination proceeded smoothly enough, for the complaisant dean +confined himself chiefly to the classics. He questioned the boys in the +books and at the places put into his hands by the masters, and he winked +metaphorically at the low promptings administered when the classes came +to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">[255]</a></span> a full stop or a stammer. The masters recovered confidence, and were +congratulating themselves inwardly at the dreaded event being well over, +when, to their unspeakable dismay, the dean disbanded the classes, and, +desiring the forty boys to stand indiscriminately before him, began to +question them.</p> + +<p>This was the real examination: some of the questions were simple, some +difficult, embracing various subjects. But, simple or difficult, it was +all one, for, taken by surprise, ill-educated, ill-grounded, the boys +could not answer. One of them alone proved himself equal to the +emergency. You need not be told that it was Henry Arkell. Not at a +single question did he hesitate, till at length the dean told him, with +a smile, <i>not</i> to answer, until the questions had gone the round of the +school. Of all branches of education, save their rote of Latin and +Greek, the boys were entirely ignorant, though some of the dean's +questions were ludicrously simple.</p> + +<p>"Can you make the square of a cube?"</p> + +<p>Nobody answered, save by a prodigious deal of coughing, and Henry Arkell +had once more to be appealed to.</p> + +<p>"What is the difference between a right angle and an acute one?"</p> + +<p>More coughing, and then a dead silence. The dean happened to be looking +hard at one particular boy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">[256]</a></span> or the boy fancied so, and his ears became +as red as the head master's. "If you please, Mr. Dean, our desk is not +in algebra."</p> + +<p>"Who was Caligula?" continued the dean.</p> + +<p>"King of France in the ninth century," was the prompt answer from one +who thought he was in luck.</p> + +<p>It was now the dean's turn to cough, as he replaced the question by +another: "Can you tell me anything about Charles the Second?"</p> + +<p>"He invented black lap-dogs with long ears."</p> + +<p>The dean nearly choked.</p> + +<p>"And was beheaded," added a timid voice.</p> + +<p>"Was he?" retorted the dean. "Can you say anything about Charles the +First, and the events of his reign?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. He found out the Gunpowder Plot, and was succeeded by Oliver +Cromwell."</p> + +<p>"Where are the Bahama Isles," asked the dean, in despair.</p> + +<p>"In the Mediterranean," cried a tall boy.—"And they are very fertile," +added another.</p> + +<p>The dean paused a hopeless pause. "Can you spell 'Dutch?'"</p> + +<p>"D-u-c-h." "D-u-t-s-h." "D-u-s-h-t," escaped from various tongues, +drowning other novel phases of the word.</p> + +<p>"Spell 'Cane,'" frowned the dean, though he was laughing inwardly.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">[257]</a></span></p> + +<p>"K-a-n-e," was the eager reply.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you can spell 'birch,'" roared Dr. Ferraday, an irascible +prebendary.</p> + +<p>They could: "B-u-r-c-h."</p> + +<p>"What was the social condition of the Ancient Britons when their country +was invaded by Julius Cæsar?" the dean asked, rubbing his face.</p> + +<p>"They always went about naked, and never shaved, and their clothes were +made of the skins of beasts."</p> + +<p>"This is frightful," interrupted Dr. Ferraday. "The school reflects the +greatest discredit upon—somebody," glaring through his spectacles at +the purple and scarlet faces of the masters. "There's only one boy who +is not a living monument of ignorance. He—what's your name, boy?"</p> + +<p>"Arkell, sir."</p> + +<p>"True; Arkell," assented Dr. Ferraday. He knew who he was perfectly +well, but he was the proudest man of all the canons, and would not +condescend to show that he remembered. "Sir, for your age you are a +brilliant scholar."</p> + +<p>"How is it?" puzzled Mr. Meddler, another of the prebendaries: "has +Arkell superior abilities, and have all the rest none? Answer for +yourself, Arkell."</p> + +<p>The boy hesitated. Both in mind and manners he was so different from the +general run of school<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">[258]</a></span>boys; and he could not bear to be thus held out as +a sort of pattern for the rest.</p> + +<p>"It is not my fault, sir—or theirs. My father has always kept me to my +studies so closely out of school hours, and attended to them himself, +that I could not help getting on in advance of the school."</p> + +<p>"Wilberforce," roughly spoke up Dr. Ferraday, in his overbearing manner, +"how is it that this boy is not senior?"</p> + +<p>"That post is attained by priority of entrance, sir," replied the +master. "Arkell can only become senior boy when those above him leave."</p> + +<p>"He ought to be senior now."</p> + +<p>"We cannot act against the customs of the school, Dr. Ferraday," +repeated the master. "Arkell is at the first desk, but he cannot be +senior of the school out of his turn."</p> + +<p>"Can you tell me whence England chiefly procures her supplies of +cotton?" asked Mr. Meddler, mildly, of a mild-looking boy belonging to +the third desk. "You, sir; Van Brummel, I think your name is."</p> + +<p>Mr. Van Brummel, considerably taken-to at being addressed individually, +lost his head completely. "From the signing of Magna Charta by King +John."</p> + +<p>"Why, what a stupid owl you must be!" snapped Dr. Ferraday, before Canon +Meddler could speak.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">[259]</a></span> Mr. Van Brummel's face turned red; he was a timid +boy, and he wondered whether they would order him to be flogged.</p> + +<p>"Please, sir, I know that's the answer in the book," he earnestly said: +"I learnt them over again this morning."</p> + +<p>"It may be an answer to something, but not to my question," said Mr. +Meddler, as he stepped apart to confer with his colleagues. "What is to +be done, Mr. Dean? This state of things cannot be allowed to go on."</p> + +<p>They talked for a few moments together, and then the dean turned to the +boys.</p> + +<p>"Stand forward, Arkell."</p> + +<p>Henry Arkell advanced, a hot flush on his sensitive face; and the Dean +threw round his neck a broad blue ribbon, suspending a medal of gold. "I +have much pleasure in bestowing this upon you; never was reward more +justly merited; and," he concluded, raising his voice high as he swept +the room with his eyes, "I feel bound to declare publicly, that Henry +Cheveley Arkell is an honour to Westerbury collegiate school."</p> + +<p>"As all the rest of you are a disgrace to it," stormed Dr. Ferraday on +the discomfited lot behind.</p> + +<p>"You must let me have it back again to-morrow morning, that I may get +your name inscribed on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">[260]</a></span> it," said the dean to Henry, in a low tone. +"Wear it for to-day."</p> + +<p>The boys were dismissed. They took off their surplices in the cloisters, +not presuming to unrobe in the presence of the cathedral dignitaries, +who prolonged their stay in the college hall: "to blow off at +Wilberforce and the rest," one of the seniors irreverently surmised +aloud. Some swung the surplices across their arms; some crammed them +into bags; and an unusual silence pervaded the group. Lewis was bitterly +disappointed. He was as good a classical scholar as Arkell, and thought +he ought to have had the medal.</p> + +<p>Miss Beauclerc was waiting at the deanery door. "Well, boys, and who has +got it?" was her salutation before any of them were up.</p> + +<p>"A sneaking young beggar," called out Lewis, thinking he might as well +make the best of things to her, and answer first.</p> + +<p>"Then you have not got it, Lewis; I told you you wouldn't," laughed the +young lady; "though I heard that you made certain sure of it, and had +ordered a glass case to keep it in."</p> + +<p>Lewis nearly boiled over with rage.</p> + +<p>"Arkell has gained it, Miss Beauclerc," said the senior boy.</p> + +<p>"Of course; I knew he would. I was sure from the first that none of you +could contend against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">[261]</a></span> him, provided there was a fair field and no +favour."</p> + +<p>"No favour!" scornfully echoed Lewis. "A bright eye and a girl's face, +these are what we should covet now, to curry favour with the Dean and +Chapter."</p> + +<p>"Lewis, you forget yourself," reproved Miss Beauclerc; "and I'll inform +against you if you talk treason of the dean," she laughingly continued.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon, Miss Beauclerc," was the sullen apology of Lewis, +delivered in a most ungracious tone.</p> + +<p>"Arkell's merits alone have gained the prize, Lewis, and you know it," +proceeded the young lady; "they must have gained it had he been as ugly +as you."</p> + +<p>"I am much obliged to you, Miss Beauclerc," foamed Lewis, with as much +resentment as he dared show to the dean's daughter.</p> + +<p>"Well, you are right about his merits, Miss Beauclerc," interrupted +Jocelyn; "no question came amiss to him. By Jove! old Ferraday was not +wrong in calling him a brilliant scholar; I had no idea he knew half as +much. The dean said he was an honour to the school."</p> + +<p>"<i>That</i> he has been a long while," she said, quietly. "You boys may +sneer—you are sneering now, Aultane, but——"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">[262]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, indeed, Miss Beauclerc," interrupted Aultane, "I would not do such +a thing as sneer in your presence. Of course it couldn't be expected +that he'd be anything but a good scholar, when his father's a +schoolmaster."</p> + +<p>"And teaches boys at half-a-crown an hour," put in Lewis junior. "He +acknowledged to the dean, it was all through his father's cramming him."</p> + +<p>Henry Arkell was coming up; Miss Beauclerc moved forwards and shook him +by the hand.</p> + +<p>"I congratulate you," she said, in a half whisper. "Why it looks like +the ribbon of the Garter. You may win that some time, if you live; who +knows? I knew you would get it, if you were only true to yourself; +Frederick St. John said so too. Mind you write to-day to tell him."</p> + +<p>She had taken the medal in her hand, and was looking at it. The rest +pressed round as closely as they dared. Lewis only stood aside, a bitter +expression on his ugly lips.</p> + +<p>A little fellow ran up, all in a fright. "Oh! if you please, if you +please, Miss Beauclerc, here comes the dean."</p> + +<p>"What if he does?" retorted Miss Beauclerc; "he won't eat you. There, +you may go, boys. Henry Arkell, you know you are expected at the deanery +to-night."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">[263]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, thank you, Miss Beauclerc," he replied, some hesitation, or +surprise, visible in his tone.</p> + +<p>"Ah, but I mean to <i>us</i>, after the dinner. Mamma has what she calls one +of her quiet soirées. You'll be sure to come."</p> + +<p>One glance from his brilliant eyes, beneath which her blue ones fell, +and he drew away. The rest were already off. Georgina walked forward to +meet the dean, and she put her arm within his in her loving manner.</p> + +<p>"Oh, papa, the boys are so envious of the medal. I stopped them and made +them show it me. That ugly Lewis is ready to cut his throat."</p> + +<p>"Random-spoken as usual, my darling. Who's throat?"</p> + +<p>"Henry Arkell's of course, papa. But I knew no one else would gain it. +They are not fit to tie his shoes."</p> + +<p>"In learning, they certainly are not. You can't imagine what a ludicrous +display we have had! And some of them go soon to the university!"</p> + +<p>"It's not the fault of the boys, papa. If they are never taught anything +but Greek and Latin, how can they be expected to know anything else?"</p> + +<p>"Very true, Georgie," mused Dr. Beauclerc. "Some of these old systems +are stupid things."</p> + +<p>The audit dinner in the evening went off as those dinners generally did. +The boys dined at a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">[264]</a></span> table by themselves, and Henry, as their senior, +had to exert firm authority over some, for the supply of wine was +unlimited. Later in the evening, he passed through the gallery to the +drawing-room, as invited by Miss Beauclerc. A few ladies were assembled: +the <a name="canon" id="canon"></a><ins title="Original has canon's">canons'</ins> wives and daughters, Mrs. Wilberforce, and two or three +other inhabitants of the Grounds; all very quiet, and what in these +later days might have been called "slow:" Mrs. Beauclerc's parties +mostly were so. They were talking of Frederick St. John when Henry went +in, who was again absent from Westerbury, visiting somewhere with his +mother and Lady Anne.</p> + +<p>Henry wore his medal; the broad blue ribbon conspicuous. Some time was +taken up examining that, and then he was asked to sing. It was a treat +to hear him; and his voice as yet gave forth no token of losing its +power and sweetness, though he was close upon sixteen.</p> + +<p>He sang song after song—for they pressed for it—accompanying himself. +One song that he was especially asked for, he could not remember without +the music. Mrs. Wilberforce suggested that he should fetch it from home, +but Georgina said she could play it for him, and sat down. It was that +fine song called "The Treasures of the Deep," by Mrs. Hemans. It was +found, however, that she could not play it; and after two or three +attempts,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">[265]</a></span> she began a waltz instead; and the ladies, in the distance +round the fire, forgot at length that they had wanted it.</p> + +<p>Georgina wore an evening dress of white spotted muslin, a broad blue +sash round her waist, and a bit of narrow blue velvet suspending a cross +on her neck. She had taken off her bracelets to play, and her pretty +white arms were bare. Her eyes were blue as the ribbon, and altogether +she looked very attractive, very <i>young</i>, and she was that night in one +of her wild and inexplicable humours.</p> + +<p>What she really said, how he responded, will never be wholly known: +certain it is, that she led him on, on, until he resigned himself wholly +to the fascination and "told his love;" although he might have known +that to do so was little less than madness. She affected to ridicule +him; she intimated that her love was not for a college boy; but all the +while her looks gave the lie to her words; her blue eyes spoke of +admiration still; her flushed face of triumphant, gratified vanity. +<i>They</i> were engaged round the fire, round the tables, anywhere; and +Georgina had it all to herself, and played bars of music now and then, +as if she were essaying different pieces.</p> + +<p>"Let us put aside this nonsense," she suddenly said. "It <i>is</i> nonsense, +and you know it, Harry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">[266]</a></span> Here's a song," snatching the first that came +to hand—"sing this; I'll play it for you."</p> + +<p>"Do you think I can <i>sing</i>?—now? with your cold words blighting me. Oh, +tell me the worst!" he added, his tone one of strange pain. "Tell +me——"</p> + +<p>"Goodness, Henry Arkell. If you look and talk in that serious manner, I +shall think you have become crazy. Come; begin."</p> + +<p>"I seem to be in a sort of dream," he murmured, putting his hands to his +temples. "Surely all the past, all our pleasant intercourse, is not to +be forgotten! You will not throw me away like this?"</p> + +<p>"Where's the use of my playing this symphony, if you don't begin?"</p> + +<p>"Georgina!—let me call you so for the first, perhaps for the last +time—dear Georgina, you cannot forget the past! You cannot mean what +you have just said."</p> + +<p>"How unpleasant you are making things to-night!" she said, with a laugh. +"I shall begin to think you have followed the example of those wretched +little juniors, and taken plentifully of wine."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I have; perhaps it is owing to that that I have courage freely +to talk to you now. Georgina, you <i>know</i> how I have loved you; you know +that for years and years my life has been as one long blissful dream, +filled with the image of you."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">[267]</a></span></p> + +<p>She stole a glance at him from her blue eyes; a smile hovered on her +parted lips. He bent his head until his brown wavy curls mingled with +her lighter hair.</p> + +<p>"Georgina, you know—you know that you can be life or death to me."</p> + +<p>He could not speak with consecutive smoothness; his heart was beating as +if it would burst its bounds, his whole frame thrilled, his fingers were +trembling.</p> + +<p>"Tell me that it is not all to be forgotten!"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, if you have been cultivating a wrong impression—I can only +advise you to forget it. I have liked you;" her voice sank to the lowest +whisper—"very much; I have been so stupid as to let you see it; but I +never meant you to—to—presume upon it in this uncomfortable manner."</p> + +<p>"One question!" he urged. "Only one. Is it that you have played with me, +loving another?"</p> + +<p>Her right hand was on the keys of the piano, striking chords +continually; a false note grating now and then on the ear. Her left hand +lay passive on her lap, as she sat, slightly turned to him.</p> + +<p>"Stuff and nonsense! No, I have not. You will have them overhear you, +Harry."</p> + +<p>"Do not equivocate—dearest Georgina—let me hear the truth. It may be +better for me; I can bear anything rather than deceit. Let me know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">[268]</a></span> the +truth; I beseech it of you by all the hours we have passed together."</p> + +<p>"Harry, you are decidedly beside yourself to-night. Don't suffer the +world behind to get a notion of it."</p> + +<p>"You are playing with me now," he said, quite a wail in his low voice. +"Let me, one way or the other, be at rest. I never shall bear this +suspense, and live. Give me an answer, Georgina; one that shall abide +for ever."</p> + +<p>"An answer to what?"</p> + +<p>"Have you all this while loved another?"</p> + +<p>She took her hand off the keys, and began picking out the treble notes +of a song with her forefinger, bending her head slightly.</p> + +<p>"The answer might not be palatable."</p> + +<p>"No, it may not. Nevertheless, I pray you give it me. You are killing +me, Georgina."</p> + +<p>She looked up hastily; she saw that the bright, transparent complexion +of the face had turned to a deadly whiteness; and, perhaps, in that one +moment, Georgina Beauclerc's heart smote her with a slight reproach of +cruelty. But she may have deemed it well to put an end to the suspense, +and she bent her head again as she spoke.</p> + +<p>"Even though I had loved another, what of that? I don't admit that I +have; and I say that it is a question you have no right to ask me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">[269]</a></span> +Harry! be reasonable; though I had loved <i>you</i>, it could not come to +anything; you know it could not; so what does it signify?"</p> + +<p>"But you have <i>not</i> loved me?"</p> + +<p>"Well—no. Not in that way. Here's the dean coming in; and here's +pompous old Ferraday. You must sing a song; papa's sure to ask for one."</p> + +<p>She hastened from the piano, as if glad to escape. The dean did ask for +a song. But when they came to look for him who was to sing it, he was +nowhere to be seen.</p> + +<p>"Bless me!" cried the dean, "I thought Henry Arkell was here. Where is +he?"</p> + +<p>"I dare say he has gone home for the 'Treasures of the Deep,' papa," +readily replied Georgina. "Somebody asked him to fetch it just now."</p> + +<p>He had not gone for the "Treasures of the Deep;" and, as she guessed +pretty accurately, he had no intention of returning. He was walking +slowly towards the master's house, his temporary home; his head was +aching, his brain was burning, and he felt as if all life had gone out +of him for ever. That she had been befooling him; that she loved +Frederick St. John with an impassioned lasting love, appeared to him as +clear as the stars in a frosty sky.</p> + +<p>But there were no stars then, and no frost; the fineness of the night +had gone, and a drizzling rain was falling. He did not heed it; it +might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">[270]</a></span> wet him if it would, might soak even that gay blue badge on his +breast. Two people within view seemed to heed it as little; they were +pacing together, arm-in-arm, in a dark part of the grounds, talking in +an undertone. So absorbed were they, that both started when Henry came +up; they were near a gaslight then, and he recognised George Prattleton. +The other face, on which the light shone brightly, he did not know.</p> + +<p>"How d'ye do?" said Henry. "Do you know whether Prattleton junior has +got home yet?" Prattleton junior, the younger of the Reverend Mr. +Prattleton's sons, was in the choir under Henry; and the senior +chorister had had some trouble with that gentleman at the dinner-table +on this, the audit-night.</p> + +<p>"I don't know anything about Prattleton junior," returned George +Prattleton in a testy tone, as if the question itself, or the being +spoken to, had annoyed him.</p> + +<p>Henry walked on, and round the corner came upon the gentleman in +question, Prattleton junior, with another of the choristers, Mr. +Wilberforce's son Edwin, each having taken as much as was good for him, +both to eat and to drink.</p> + +<p>"Who's that with George?" asked Henry—for it was somewhat unusual to +see a stranger in the grounds at night.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">[271]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, it's a Mr. Rolls," replied young Prattleton: "I heard my brother +ask George. He meets him in the billiard rooms."</p> + +<p>"Well, you be off home, now; you'll get wet. Wilberforce, I'm going in. +You can come with me."</p> + +<p>Young Mr. Prattleton appeared disposed to resist the mandate. He liked +being in the rain, he persisted. But the arrival of his father at that +moment from the deanery settled the matter.</p> + +<p>And Henry Arkell, having happened to look back, saw George Prattleton +draw the stranger into the shade, and remain in ambush while the minor +canon passed.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">[272]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_xv" id="chapter_xv">CHAPTER XV.</a><br /><small>A NIGHT WITH THE GHOSTS.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>The succeeding day to this was fine again, a charming day for the middle +of November; and when the college school rushed down the steps at four +o'clock, the upper boys were tempted to commence one of their noisy +games. Nearly the only two who declined were the senior boy and Arkell. +The senior of the school, whoever he might be for the time being, +rarely, if ever, played, and the present one, Jocelyn, was also too +idle. Both went quietly on to the master's, walking arm-in-arm. The +school closed at four in the dead of winter. Henry came out again +immediately, his music in his hand, and was running past the boys.</p> + +<p>"I say, Arkell, we are going to cast lots for the stag. Where are you +bolting to?"</p> + +<p>"I can't join this evening—I'm off to practise. To-morrow is my lesson +day, and I have not touched the organ this week."</p> + +<p>"Cram! What's the good? It'll be night<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">[273]</a></span> directly, and that mouldy old +organ loft as dark as pitch."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I shall see for ever so long to come—the sun has not set yet," +returned Henry, without stopping. "Thank you, Lewis," he added, as a +sharp stone struck his trencher. "That was from you, I saw. I shall not +pay you back in kind."</p> + +<p>There was a sting in the retort, from the very manner of giving it, so +pointedly gentleman-like, for Henry Arkell had stopped a moment, and +raised his trencher, as he might have done to the dean. Lewis saw that +the boys were laughing at him, and he suddenly set upon seven juniors, +and made the whole lot cry.</p> + +<p>Active and swift, Henry soon gained the precincts of the church, St. +James the Less. He pushed open the outer door of the clerk's house, and +took the key of the church from its niche in the passage, close to the +kitchen door. This he also opened, and looked in. It was a square room, +the floor of red brick, and a bed, with a curtain drawn before it, was +on one side against the wall. The old man, Hunt, sat smoking in the +chimney corner.</p> + +<p>"I am going in to play, Hunt. I have the key."</p> + +<p>"Very well, sir."</p> + +<p>"How's the missis?" he stopped to ask.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">[274]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She be bad in all her bones, sir, she be. I telled her to lie down for +half an hour: it's that nasty ague she have got upon her again. This be +a damp spot to live in, so many low trees about," he continued, with a +shrug of his shoulders.</p> + +<p>Henry could not remember when the "missis" was not "bad in all her +bones;" her ague seemed to be chronic. He proceeded on his way, passed +the iron gates, walked up the churchyard, and unlocked the church door. +Once in, he took the key from the outer lock, and placing it upon the +bench inside, pushed the door to, but did not shut it. The taking out +the key in this manner was by Mr. Wilberforce's orders: if they left it +in the lock outside, some mischievous person might come and remove it, +he had told the boys. Then he ascended to the organ-loft and commenced +his practising. No blower was required, as certain pedals, touched with +the feet, acted instead, something after the manner of a modern +harmonium. His heart was in his task, in spite of the heavy care at it, +for he loved music; and when it grew too dusk to see, he continued +playing from memory.</p> + +<p>The shades of evening were gathering outside, as well as in; and under +cover of them a boy might have been seen <a name="tealing" id="tealing"></a><ins title="Original has tealing">stealing</ins> through the +churchyard. It was Henry's rival, Lewis, whose mind had just<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">[275]</a></span> been +hatching a nice little revengeful plot. To say that Lewis had been half +mad since the preceding day, would not be saying too much: he could have +borne anything better than taunts from Miss Beauclerc; and for those +taunts he would be revenged, the fates permitting, upon Henry Arkell. He +did not quite see how, yet; but, as a little prologue, he intended to +lock him in the church for the night, the idea of <i>that</i> having flashed +into his mind after Henry had thanked him for throwing the stone.</p> + +<p>Lewis gently pulled open the church door, looked for the key, saw it, +and snatched it, locked the church door upon the unconscious boy, who +was playing, and stole back again, key in hand. Beyond the gates of the +churchyard he stopped to laugh, as though he had accomplished a great +feat.</p> + +<p>"Won't his crowing be cooled by morning! He'll be seeing ghosts all +night, and calling out blue murder; but nobody can hear him, and there +he must stop with them. What a jolly sell!"</p> + +<p>He hid the key in his jacket pocket until he reached old Hunt's house. +Lewis knew it was kept there, but did not know there was a niche or a +nail for it in the passage. He did not care to be seen, and therefore +must get the key in, in the best way he could.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">[276]</a></span></p> + +<p>The clerk and his ailing wife were sitting by their fire now, taking +tea. A china saucer, containing some milk, had just been put down on the +brick floor for the cat, a snarling, enormous yellow animal, but a +particularly cherished one by both master and mistress. The cat had got +her nose in it, and the old woman was lovingly regarding her, when the +door opened about an inch, and the church key came flying in, propelled +on to the cat's head and the saucer. The cat started away with a howl, +the saucer flew in pieces, and the milk was scattered. In the midst of +this the door closed again, and footsteps were heard scampering off.</p> + +<p>"Mercy on us!" shrieked the old dame, startled out of her seven senses. +"What be that?"</p> + +<p>The clerk, recovering his consternation, rose and regarded the damage; +the broken saucer, the wasted milk, and the scared cat—the genial +animal standing with her back up in the farthest corner.</p> + +<p>"That's the way they do it, is it?" he wrathfully cried, as he stooped +to pick up the key, a difficult process, from his rheumatic loins. "My +gentleman can't bring in the key and hang it up decently, but must shy +it in, and do this mischief! I wonder the master lets 'em have the run +of the organ! I wouldn't."</p> + +<p>"It were that Robbins, I know," said the dame, shaking still.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">[277]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It were just the t'other, then—Arkell. Poor pussy! poor tit, tit, +tit!"</p> + +<p>"Arkell! Why he be always so quiet and perlite!"</p> + +<p>"It's a perlite thing to fling the key in upon us after this fashion, +ain't it?" growled the clerk.</p> + +<p>"Come along then, titsey! Don't put its back up! Come to its missis!"</p> + +<p>But the outraged cat wholly refused to be soothed. It snarled, and spit, +and snarled again; making a spring finally into a pantry, and thence +away through an open casement window.</p> + +<p>The tea hour at the head master's was half-past five; and the boys sat +down to it this evening as usual. They were accustomed to take that meal +alone, and the absence of one or other of the boys at it had become, in +consequence, rather general; therefore, Arkell's not appearing went +really without notice. Lewis appeared to be in a flow of delight, and +devoured Arkell's share of bread-and-butter as well as his own. There +were in all, at this time, about ten boarders residing at the master's, +some of them being his private pupils. The two Lewises were there still; +but Mrs. Lewis had given notice of their removal at Christmas, as she +intended to receive them into the house she had taken possession of—the +late Marmaduke Carr's.</p> + +<p>Now it happened, by good or by ill luck, as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">[278]</a></span> reader may decide, that +the master and Mrs. Wilberforce were abroad that evening. In his absence +the senior boy had full authority, and the rest dared not disobey him. +This might not have been well with some seniors; but Jocelyn was one in +whom confidence could be placed. At supper—eight o'clock—Arkell was +still absent, and Jocelyn now observed it. One of the others remarked +that he was most likely at the deanery. This was Vaughan; a rather +stupid boy, who had been nicknamed in consequence Bright Vaughan.</p> + +<p>At nine o'clock, the man-servant brought in the book for prayers, read +by the senior boy when the master himself was not there. Absence from +prayers was never excused, unless under the especial permission of Mr. +Wilberforce; and he would have severely punished any boy guilty of it. +Another thing that he exacted was, that prayers should be read precisely +to the hour. So Jocelyn read them, and the servant carried away the +book.</p> + +<p>"I say, though, where can Arkell be?" wondered the boys. "He's never out +like this, unless he has leave."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he means to make a night of it?" suggested Lewis junior, +opportunely enough, if he had but known it.</p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue, Lewis junior," said Jocelyn.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">[279]</a></span> "He may have got leave +from the master for the evening, and we not know it."</p> + +<p>"I don't think he has, though," dissented young Wilberforce.</p> + +<p>"We won't split upon him," eagerly spoke up Lewis—not the junior. "He +has been a horrid sneak, especially in getting himself in with the +dean's daughter; but it won't do to begin splitting one upon another."</p> + +<p>"I should like to hear any of you attempting it," authoritatively spoke +the senior boy. "I'd split you."</p> + +<p>"We don't mean to. Don't be so sharp, Jocelyn."</p> + +<p>"There's not the least doubt that he is at the deanery," decided +Jocelyn. "I heard something said the other day about the master's having +given him general leave to stop there, when asked, without coming home +to say it."</p> + +<p>"Who told you that, Jocelyn?" questioned Lewis, his ears turning red.</p> + +<p>"I heard it, and that's enough. The master can depend upon Arkell, you +know."</p> + +<p>"Oh, can he though!" cried Lewis, ironically. "I'd lay a crown he's not +at the deanery."</p> + +<p>"Up to bed, boys," commanded Jocelyn.</p> + +<p>The Lewises, senior and junior, and Henry Arkell slept in one room; the +rest of the boys were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">[280]</a></span> divided into two others. The rooms in the quaint +old house were not large. All had separate beds. Arkell's was in the +corner behind the door. Marmaduke Lewis, the younger, was in bed +immediately, schoolboy fashion, the process occupying about +half-a-minute; but the elder did not seem inclined to be so quick +to-night. He dawdled about the room, brushed his hair, held his mouth +open to admire his teeth in the glass, tried how many different faces he +could make, stuck pins in the candle, and, in short, seemed in anything +but a bed humour. In the midst of this delay, he heard the voice of Mr. +Wilberforce, speaking to one of the servants, as he ascended the stairs.</p> + +<p>What Lewis did, in his consternation, he hardly knew. The first thing +was to turn the candle upside down in the candlestick, and jam it well +in; the next was to fling some of his brother's clothes on to his own +chair; and the third to bolt into bed with his own clothes on, and draw +the counterpane over his head. Mr. Wilberforce opened the door.</p> + +<p>"Are you in bed, boys?"</p> + +<p>Lewis put part of his face out.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."</p> + +<p>"Good night," repeated Mr. Wilberforce, and closed the door upon the +room.</p> + +<p>Lewis breathed a blessing upon all propitious stars, that he had not +looked behind the door at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">[281]</a></span> the vacant bed. Then his going to let out +Arkell was impossible, now Mr. Wilberforce was in: which had been the +indecisive project agitating his brain.</p> + +<p>And now we must return to Henry Arkell. The church of St. James the Less +struck a quarter past five when Henry took his fingers from the keys of +the organ. "Only a quarter past five," he soliloquized; "how the +evenings draw in! Last week was moonlight, and I did not notice it so +much. I don't see how I shall get my practising here these winter +months, unless I snatch an hour between morning and afternoon school."</p> + +<p>He felt for his music, for it was too dark to see, rolled it up, and +then felt his way down the narrow and nearly perpendicular staircase, +dark even in daylight. When he reached the bench at the entrance, he +placed his hand on the spot where he had put the key. He could not feel +it: he only supposed he had missed the spot by an inch or two, and +groped about with his hands. He turned to the door to pull it open, and +let in the light.</p> + +<p>The door was closed, was fast; and Henry Arkell felt his face grow hot +as the truth burst upon him, that he was fastened up in the church. He +concluded that the old clerk had done it in mistake. "I must ring the +bell," thought he, "and let them know somebody's in the church."</p> + +<p>But he was doomed to fresh disappointment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">[282]</a></span> for, on groping his way to +the belfry, he found it fastened: cords, bells, and all were locked up. +Sometimes this door was locked, sometimes it was left open, just as the +clerk remembered, or not, to fasten it.</p> + +<p>"I can't stop here all night!" exclaimed he, his face growing more and +more heated. "What in the world am I to do?"</p> + +<p>What indeed? What would you have done, reader? Set on and shouted? But +there was nobody to hear: the church was solitary, and its walls were +thick. Thump at the door? But if you had nothing but your hands to thump +with, little hope that any result would be obtained.</p> + +<p>It was a novel and a disagreeable situation for the boy to be placed +in—locked alone in the gloomy old church; gloomy in more than one sense +of the word, and smelling of the dead. The small, confined windows were +high up in the walls, and entirely inaccessible, and there was no other +outlet. The vestry was only lighted by two panes of thick glass inserted +into its roof; and, in short, the case was hopeless.</p> + +<p>And the boy grew so. He shouted, and called, and thumped, just as you or +I might have done, without any regard to its manifest inutility. He was +a brave-spirited boy, owning a clear conscience; and he was a singularly +religious boy, far more so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">[283]</a></span> than it is usual for those of his age to be, +possessing an ever-present trust in God's good care and protection. +Still, disagreeable thoughts would intrude: his lonely situation stood +out in exaggerated force, and recollections of a certain ghostly tale, +connected with that church, rose up before him. It was a tale which had +gone the round of Westerbury the previous year, and the ghostly-inclined +put firm faith in it. The old clerk was an obstinate believer in it, for +he had seen it with his own eyes; the sexton had seen it with his, and +two gravediggers had seen it with theirs. A citizen had died, and been +buried in the middle aisle, not many yards from where Henry Arkell now +stood. After his burial, suspicion arose that he had not come fairly to +his end, and the coroner had issued his mandate for the disinterment of +the body, and the sexton and two gravediggers proceeded to their task. +They chose night to do it in, "not to be bothered with starers at 'em," +they said; and the clerk chose to bear them company. At three o'clock in +the morning the whole four rushed out of the church panic-stricken, made +their way to the nearest street, and rose it with their frantic cries. +Windows were thrown up in alarm, and nightcaps stretched out—what on +earth was the matter? The buried man's ghost had appeared to them in a +sea of blue flame, was the trembling tale they told,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">[284]</a></span> and which went +forth to Westerbury. The blue flame was accounted for; the ghost, never. +They had a basin full of gin with them, and, in lighting a pipe, they +had managed to set light to the gin, which immediately ascended in a +ghastly stream. The men, it was found, had a little gin on board +themselves, as well as in the basin; and to that, no doubt, in +conjunction with the blue flames, the ghost owed its origin.</p> + +<p>Now a ghost in broad daylight, with all the bustle and reality of +mid-day life about us, and a ghost fastened up with oneself in a church +at night-time, bear two widely different aspects. Henry Arkell had +heartily laughed at the story, had made merry over the consternation of +the half-drunken men, but he did not altogether enjoy being so near the +ghostly spot now; for though reason tried to be heard, imagination had +got fast hold of the reins. He lifted his eyes, with a desperate effort, +and looked round the church: he began to calculate which was the very +spot, in the gloom of the middle aisle: he grasped the door of a pew +near where he stood, and bent his face down upon it in an agony of +terror.</p> + +<p>"And I must be here until morning," his conviction whispered. "O God! +keep this terror from me! Send thine Holy Spirit to come near and +strengthen me! Oh, yes, yes," he resumed, after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">[285]</a></span> a pause; "I shall be +all right if I do but trust in God. He is everywhere; He is with me now. +I will go up to the organ again."</p> + +<p>He groped his way up, sat down, and began to play as well as he could in +the perfect darkness. He played some of the cathedral chants, and sang +to them; it was a curious sound, echoing there in the dark and lonely +night; and it was a positive fact that, in so doing, his superstitious +alarm passed, from his mind.</p> + +<p>But oh, how long the hours were! how long the quarters, as the slow +clock gave them out! He still kept on playing, dreading to leave off +lest the terror should come back again. When it struck nine, he could +have thought it four in the morning, judging by the dreary time that +seemed to have elapsed. "The boys will be going up to bed directly," he +said, thinking of the master's; "oh, why don't they send out to look for +me? But they'd never think of looking here!"</p> + +<p>He kept on playing. About ten o'clock he knelt down to say his prayers, +as if preparing to retire for the night, and then ensconced himself as +comfortably as he could on the seat of the singers, which was well +cushioned. "If I could but go to sleep, and sleep till daylight," +thought he, "there would be no chance of that foolish terror coming back +again. Foolish indeed! How very absurd I am!"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">[286]</a></span></p> + +<p>He fell into a train of thought; not happy thought: schoolboys have +trouble as well as grown people: and Henry Arkell had plenty just then, +as you know. The superstitious feeling did not come back, and at length +he sank into sleep.</p> + +<p>He did not know what roused him: something did. The first thing he heard +distinctly was a scuffling noise, followed by a "hush-sh-sh!" breathed +from a human voice. He felt a cramped sensation all over, but that arose +from his inconvenient couch, and he could not for the life of him +remember where he was.</p> + +<p>He stretched out his hand, and it came in contact with the front of the +gallery; it was close to him, for the singers' seat was very narrow: he +raised himself to look over, still not remembering what had passed. He +seemed to be in a church, for one of two male figures, walking up the +aisle, carried a lighted taper, which threw its glimmering upon the +pews, though the man shaded it with his hand. Whether Henry Arkell had +been dreaming of robbers, certain it is, he judged these men to be such: +they turned off to the vestry, which was on the side of the church, +nearly at the top; and he rubbed his eyes, and full recollection +returned to him.</p> + +<p>"What has put robbers in my head?" he debated. "They are not robbers: +they must be come to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">[287]</a></span> look for me. But they stole up as if they were +robbers!" he added after a pause. "And why did they not call out to me?"</p> + +<p>An impulse took him down from the gallery and up the church; he moved as +silently as the men had done. The vestry door was open, and he stood +outside on the matting and peeped in, secure of not being seen in the +darkness. To his surprise, he recognised faces he knew—gentlemen's +faces, not robbers'. One of them was George Prattleton; and the other +was the stranger he had seen with him the previous night. What were they +doing in the vestry at that hour?</p> + +<p>"Now make haste about it, Rolls," George Prattleton was saying, as Henry +gazed in. "I don't half like the work, and if I had not been more hard +up than any poor devil ever was yet, you would never have got me on to +it. There's the register."</p> + +<p>George Prattleton had unlocked a safe and taken a book from it, which he +put on the table. "Mind, Rolls, you are not to copy anything; that was +the agreement."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to copy anything: I gave you my word, didn't I?" was the +reply of Mr. Rolls, who had seized upon the book. "I only want to see +whether a certain entry is here, or whether it is not, and I give you +20<i>l.</i> for getting me the sight: and a deuced easy <a name="wayit" id="wayit"></a><ins title="Original has 'wayit'">way it</ins> is of earning +20<i>l.</i>, Prattleton."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">[288]</a></span></p> + +<p>Rolls had drawn a chair to the table, and was poring over the register, +as he spoke, turning the leaves one by one. Prattleton stood by, and +held the candle, not very steadily.</p> + +<p>"I can't see, if you whiffle it like that, Prat," cried Mr. Rolls, +taking the candlestick from his hand and setting it on the table.</p> + +<p>"How long shall you be?"</p> + +<p>"Why, I have hardly begun. Don't be impatient. Sit down on that other +chair and take a nap, if you are tired."</p> + +<p>Prattleton continued to stand at the table, but his impatience was +evidently great. His back was to Henry Arkell, but the boy had full view +of the countenance and movements of the other: his interest, in what was +passing, was not less than his astonishment.</p> + +<p>"You say you know the date, so where's the use of being so dilatory?" +cried Mr. Prattleton. "You turn over the leaves as slow as if you were +going to execution. Ah, you have it now, I think."</p> + +<p>"No, I have not." And Rolls turned another leaf over as he spoke, and +went on studying; but he stealthily placed his thumb to mark the page he +left. Prattleton yawned, whistled, and yawned again, and finally turned +away and began to look in the safe; anything to cover his impatience. +Upon which, Henry Arkell distinctly saw Rolls<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">[289]</a></span> turn back to the page +where his thumb was, examine it intently, and then silently blow out the +light.</p> + +<p>"Halloa!" roared Prattleton, finding himself in darkness.</p> + +<p>"What a beast of a candle!" indignantly uttered Mr. Rolls. "It's gone +out!"</p> + +<p>"What put it out?"</p> + +<p>"How can I tell? The damp, I suppose: everything smells mouldy. Give us +the matches, Prat."</p> + +<p>"I have not got the matches. You took them."</p> + +<p>"Did I? Then I'm blest if I have not left them on the bench at the door. +Go for them, Prat, will you: if I lose my place in the book I shall have +to begin all over again, and that will keep us longer than you'd like."</p> + +<p>Mr. Prattleton—with a few expletives not often heard in churches—felt +his way through the vestry door. Henry had not time to retreat, so he +drew himself closely up against the wall, and Prattleton passed him. +But, to Henry Arkell's surprise, a light almost immediately reappeared +inside the vestry. He naturally looked in again.</p> + +<p>Rolls had relighted the candle, and was inserting what looked like a +thin board, behind one of the leaves of the register: he then drew a +sharp penknife down it, close to the binding, and out came the leaf, +leaving no trace. He folded the leaf, put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">[290]</a></span> it in his pocket with the +board and the knife, and then blew out the light again. All was +accomplished with speed, but with perfect coolness. "Nothing risk, +nothing win," cried he, audibly: "I thought I could do him."</p> + +<p>Prattleton soon came up the church with the box of matches, igniting +some as he walked, by way of lighting his steps. Henry drew away against +the wall, and crouched down beneath a dark mahogany pew.</p> + +<p>"There go the three-quarters past one, Rolls; we have been in here +five-and-twenty minutes. Don't let the light go out again."</p> + +<p>"I shall soon have done. I am getting near the place where the entry +ought to be—if it is in at all; but I told you there was a doubt. So +much the better for us if it's not."</p> + +<p>Prattleton sat down and drummed on the table. Rolls came to the end of +the register.</p> + +<p>"It's not in, Prattleton. Hurrah! It will be thousands of pounds in our +pocket. When the other side brought forth the lame tale that there was +such a thing, we thought it was a bag of moonshine. Here's your +register. Put it up."</p> + +<p>Henry stole silently towards the church door, hoping to get out: he +dared not show himself to those two swindlers. He was fortunate: though +the door was locked, the key was in, and he passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">[291]</a></span> out, leaving it +open. What he was to do with himself till morning, he knew not: he might +sit down on the gravestones; but he had had enough of graves; he +supposed he must pace the town.</p> + +<p>The gentlemen set things straight in the vestry, and also came, in due +course, to the door. They had left it locked, and now it was open! Each +looked at the other in amazement.</p> + +<p>"What possessed you to do that?" demanded Rolls, in a fiercer tone than +was consistent with politeness.</p> + +<p>"I do it! that's good," retorted Prattleton. "It was you locked it, or +pretended to."</p> + +<p>"I did lock it. You must have opened it when you came down for the +matches."</p> + +<p>"I wish we may be dropped upon if I did! I should be an idiot to open +the door and give nightbirds a chance of scenting what we were up to."</p> + +<p>"Psha!" impatiently uttered Rolls, "a locked door could not open of +itself. But there's no harm done; so blow out the light, and let's get +off."</p> + +<p>Thus disputing—for in truth the open door had struck something like +terror on the heart of both—George Prattleton and his friend quitted +the church, leaving all secure. Mr. George had to carry the key home +with him; he could not fling it into the clerk's house, as Lewis had +done, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">[292]</a></span> the house was fastened up; most houses are at two in the +morning. He had successfully executed a little <i>ruse</i> to get the key, +unsuspected by the clerk: watching his opportunity, he had arrived at +the clerk's house when that official had gone out for his supper-beer, +ostensibly to put a question in regard to the time that a funeral was to +take place on the morrow; and while talking to the old dame, he managed +to abstract the key, hanging one that outwardly resembled it in its +place. The Reverend Mr. Prattleton often took the duty at St. James the +Less for the head master; and George was tolerably familiar with its +ways and places.</p> + +<p>They went along with stealthy steps, their eyes peering fitfully into +dark corners, lest any should be abroad and see them. Once in the more +frequented streets it did not so much matter; they might be going home +from some late entertainment, as Mr. George and his latch-key were not +infrequently in the habit of doing. Rolls was in a glow of delight; and +even an odd fear of detection now and then could not check it.</p> + +<p>"I was as sure there was no entry there as sure can be. Our side was +sure of it also; only it was well to look and see. I'm more glad than if +anybody had put a hundred pounds in my hand."</p> + +<p>"Who <i>is</i> your side?" asked George Prattleton.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">[293]</a></span> "You have not told me +anything, you know, Rolls."</p> + +<p>"Well, it would not be very interesting to you. It's an old dispute +about a tithe cause; the name's Whiffam."</p> + +<p>Not a very lucid explanation; but George Prattleton was tired and cross, +and not really overcurious. At the corner of a street he and Rolls +parted, and Mr. George went home and let himself in with his latch-key, +deeming nobody the wiser for the night's exploit.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">[294]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_xvi" id="chapter_xvi">CHAPTER XVI.</a><br /><small>PERPLEXITY.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>Henry Arkell had ample leisure that night for reflection. He got into a +newly-built house, whose doors were not yet in, glad of even that +shelter. The precise object of what he had seen he did not presume to +guess; but, that some bad deed had been transacted, there could be no +doubt. And what ought to be his course in it?—it was <i>that</i> that was +puzzling him. He could not go to Mr. Wilberforce, the incumbent of the +church, and denounce George Prattleton—as he would have done had this +stranger, Rolls, been the sole offender. Of all the people in +Westerbury, that it should have been George Prattleton!—the brother of +that kind man from whom his family had received so many obligations. +Gratitude towards Mr. Prattleton seemed to demand his silence as to +George; and Henry Arkell had an almost ultra sense of the sin of +ingratitude.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">[295]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was no one of whom he could take counsel; his father was still +absent, and he did not like to betray what he had seen to others. Once, +the thought crossed him to ask Travice Arkell; but he knew how vexed +George Prattleton would be; and he came to the final resolution of +speaking to George himself. The mystery of locking him in seemed to be +clear now. He supposed George had done it to get possession of the key, +not knowing he was in the church.</p> + +<p>With the first glimmering dawn of morning—not very early, you know, in +November—Henry was hovering about the precincts of the clerk's house. +He had no particular business there; but he was restless, and thought he +might, by good luck, see or find out something, and he could not hope +yet to get in at the master's. Hunt came out to fasten back his +shutters.</p> + +<p>"What's it you, sir?" exclaimed the old man, in surprise. "You be abroad +betimes."</p> + +<p>"Ay. How's the rheumatism?"</p> + +<p>"Be you going to pay for that chaney saucer you broke?" asked Hunt, +allowing the rheumatism to drop into abeyance.</p> + +<p>"What saucer?"</p> + +<p>"Why that chaney saucer. It was on the floor with the cat's milk, when +you flung the key in last night and broke it. The missis is as vexed as +can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">[296]</a></span> be—she have had it for years; and if it were cracked a bit, it did +for our cat."</p> + +<p>"I never broke it," returned Henry. "At least," he added, recollecting +himself, and afraid of making some admission that might excite +inquiries, "I did not know that I did."</p> + +<p>"No, you weren't perlite enough to stop and see what damage you'd done; +you made off as fast as your legs would take you. Here's the pieces on +the dresser," added the clerk; "you can come and look at the smash +you've made. The missis began a talking of getting 'em jined. 'Jine +seven pieces,' says I; 'it would cost more nor a new one of the best +chaney; and run out then.'"</p> + +<p>He hobbled indoors as fast as he could for his lameness, and Henry +followed him. The church key hung on its nail in the niche. Henry stared +at it with open eyes; he did not expect to see it there. Had George +Prattleton returned it to the clerk in the middle of the night? and was +the old man an accomplice? But, as he gazed, his keen eye detected +something not familiar in its aspect, and he raised his hand and turned +the wards into the light. It was <i>not</i> the church key, though it closely +resembled it.</p> + +<p>He went into the kitchen: the old man was putting the broken pieces in a +row. "There they be, sir; you can count 'em for yourself; and they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">[297]</a></span> +ought to be replaced with a new one. A common delf would be better than +none, for we be short of saucers, and the missis don't like a animal to +drink out of the same as us Christians."</p> + +<p>"You shall have a saucer," said Henry, somewhat dreamily. "Who threw in +the key?"</p> + +<p>"Who threw it in?" echoed the clerk.</p> + +<p>"I meant to ask what time it was thrown in."</p> + +<p>"Why, about five, or a little after: we was at tea. Didn't you know what +time it was, yourself, with the clock going the quarters and the halves +in your ears while you was at the organ? The missis——Who's that!"</p> + +<p>The "who's that!" referred to a thumping at the house door, which Henry +Arkell had closed when he came in. The clerk went and opened it. It was +Lewis. Henry recognised his voice, and drew back out of sight.</p> + +<p>Now, however uncomfortably Henry Arkell had passed the night, the author +of his misfortune had passed it more so. Conscience, especially at the +midnight hours, does indeed make cowards of us all, and it had made a +miserable one of the senior Lewis. Not that he repented of what he had +done, for the ill in itself, or from a better feeling towards his +schoolfellow; but he feared the consequences. Suppose Henry Arkell, +locked up with the dead, should die of fright, or turn mad? Lewis +remem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">[298]</a></span>bered to have heard of such things. Suppose he should, by a +superhuman effort, reach one of the high and narrow windows, and, +impelled by terror, propel himself through it and be killed? Why he, +Lewis, would be hung; or, at the very least, transported for life. These +flights of imagination, conveniently suppressing themselves during the +evening, worked him into a state of indescribable dread and agitation, +when alone at night. How he lay through it he could not tell, and as +soon as the master's servants were astir, he got up and sneaked out of +the house, with the intention of looking after Arkell, and what the +night might have brought forth for him, administering first of all a +preliminary beating to his brother as an instalment of what he would +get, if he opened his mouth to tell of Arkell's absence.</p> + +<p>"Why, what do you want?" uttered the clerk, when he saw Lewis. "We shall +have the whole rookery of you college gents here presently."</p> + +<p>Lewis paid no attention to what the words might imply; indeed, it may be +questioned if he heard them, so great was his state of suspense and +agitation. "Old fellow," said he, "I want the key of the church. Do lend +it me: I'll bring it back to you directly."</p> + +<p>"The key of the church!" returned the clerk; "you'll come and ask me +for my house next. No, no, young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">[299]</a></span> master; I have not got the rector's +orders to trust it to any but the two what practises. What do you want +in the church?"</p> + +<p>"Only to look after something that's left there. It's all right. I won't +keep it five minutes."</p> + +<p>"No, that you won't, sir, for you won't get it. If the master says you +may have it, well and good; but you must get his orders first."</p> + +<p>Lewis was desperate. He saw the key hanging in its place, rushed +forward, took it from the hook, and made off with it in defiance.</p> + +<p>"I won't have this," uttered the discomfited old man. "One a breaking +our cat's saucer, and t'other a thieving off the key in my very face! +I'll complain to Mr. Wilberforce. Sir, what do that senior Lewis want in +the church? He looked as resolute as a lion, and his breath was a +panting. What's he after?"</p> + +<p>"It is beyond my comprehension," replied Henry, who was preparing to +depart, more mystified than before. "If Lewis can get out, I can get +in," he thought to himself, "and by dint of some great good luck, they +may not have missed me."</p> + +<p>Calling out a good morning to Hunt, he hastened away in the direction of +the master's, wondering much what Lewis wanted in the church, but not +believing it could have reference to his own incarceration.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">[300]</a></span></p> + +<p>The next actor on the scene was George Prattleton. He softly entered the +clerk's passage, and stretched his hand up to the niche. But there he +halted as if dumbfounded, and a key which he held he dropped back into +his pocket again.</p> + +<p>"What the mischief has been at work now?" muttered he. "How can the old +man's eyes have been so quick? I must face the matter boldly, and +persuade him his eyes are wrong. Hunt," cried he, aloud, pushing open +the kitchen door, "where's the key of the church?"</p> + +<p>"Where indeed, sir!" grumbled Hunt. "One of them senior college rebels +have just been in and clawed it. But I promise him he won't do it twice: +Mr. Wilberforce shall know the tricks they play me, now I'm old. Did you +want it, sir?"</p> + +<p>"No," returned George Prattleton, carelessly. "I saw it was not on its +nail, that's all. I came to know the hour fixed for the funeral. Mr. +Prattleton desired me to ascertain, and I looked in last evening, but +you were out."</p> + +<p>"The missis told me you had been, sir, but I had only just stepped out +for our supper beer. Three o'clock to-day is the hour, sir: I thought +the missis told you."</p> + +<p>At this juncture, in came Lewis, very pale. "Hunt, this is not the key; +it won't undo it; and——"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">[301]</a></span></p> + +<p>Lewis stopped in consternation, for his eyes had fallen on Mr. George +Prattleton. The latter took the key from his unresisting hand.</p> + +<p>"If Hunt is to let you college boys have the key at will, and you get +tampering with the lock, no wonder it will not undo it. I had better +keep it for him," he added, slipping it into his own pocket. "What did +you want with the key, Lewis?"</p> + +<p>Lewis did not answer.</p> + +<p>"Here, Hunt, I'll give you up possession," continued Mr. Prattleton, +putting the key on the hook; "but you know if any damage is done to the +church, through your allowing indiscriminate entrance to these college +gentlemen, you will be held responsible."</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> allow 'em!" returned the indignant clerk. "But Mr. Wilberforce +shall settle it."</p> + +<p>"That's not the church key," said Lewis, staring at the one just hung +up.</p> + +<p>Mr. Prattleton heard the assertion with equanimity, and began whistling +a popular air as he left the house. Hunt just glanced upwards, and saw +it was the veritable church key. "It is the key," he said. "What do you +mean?"</p> + +<p>"It must have been my shaking hand then," debated Lewis. "Old Hunt must +know the key, and George Prattleton too. Hunt," he added, aloud, "you +will lend me the key again for five minutes."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">[302]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No, sir," raved out the old clerk, "and I hope you'll be flogged for +having took it in defiance, though you be a senior, and a'most six foot +high."</p> + +<p>He pushed Lewis out at the door as he spoke, fearing another act of +defiance, and closed it.</p> + +<p>Lewis stood in irresolution; his terror for the fate of Henry Arkell was +strong upon him. He flew after George Prattleton.</p> + +<p>"Will you do me a favour?" he panted, completely out of breath in his +haste and agitation. "I want to get into the church, and Hunt has turned +obstinate about the key. Will you get it from him for me?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Prattleton stopped and gazed at him. "You cannot want anything in +the church, Lewis. What are you up to?"</p> + +<p>"Do get the key for me," he entreated, unable to help betraying his +emotion. "I must go in; I <i>must</i>, Mr. Prattleton. It may be a matter of +life or death."</p> + +<p>"You are ill, Lewis; you are agitated. What is all this?"</p> + +<p>"I am not ill. I only want to get into the church."</p> + +<p>"For what purpose?"</p> + +<p>"It's a little private matter of my own."</p> + +<p>"You can tell me what it is."</p> + +<p>"No, I cannot do that."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">[303]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Then I cannot help you."</p> + +<p>Lewis was pushed to his wits' end. George Prattleton was walking on, but +turned again and waited. He was not free from some inward wonder and +agitation himself, remembering his own adventure of the past night.</p> + +<p>"If I trust a secret to you, will you promise, on your honour, not to +tell it again?" asked Lewis. "It's nothing much; only a lark, concerning +one of us college boys."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll promise," readily answered George Prattleton, who was rarely +troubled with scruples of any sort, and used to be fond of "larks" +himself; rather too much so.</p> + +<p>"Well, then, I locked Harry Arkell in the church last night, and I want +to go and see after him, for fear he should be dead of fright, or +something of that, you know."</p> + +<p>"In there all night? in the church all night?" stammered George +Prattleton, as if he could not take in the meaning of the words.</p> + +<p>"He went in to practise after school yesterday evening, and I turned the +key upon him, and took it back to old Hunt's, and he has been in there +ever since, fastened up with the ghosts. I did it only for a lark, you +know."</p> + +<p>George Prattleton's arms dropped powerless by his side, and his face +turned of some livid colour<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">[304]</a></span> between white and green. Would the previous +night's exploit—<i>his</i> exploit—come out to the world through this +miserable fellow's ill-timed "joke?" But all they could do now was to +see after Henry Arkell.</p> + +<p>They went back to the clerk's, and George Prattleton took the key from +the hook.</p> + +<p>"Something has been dropped in the church, Hunt," he carelessly said; +"I'll go myself with Lewis, and see that he meddles with nothing."</p> + +<p>"Something dropped in the church?" repeated the old man; "then, I +suppose, that was what the other college gent has been after; though he +didn't say nothing of it. He was here afore I had opened our shutters."</p> + +<p>"Which of them was that?" asked George Prattleton, pausing, with the key +in his hand.</p> + +<p>"It were Mr. Arkell, sir; him what goes in to practise on the organ. He +were in yesterday practising, and he flung the key back when he'd done, +and broke our cat's chaney saucer, and then made off. I've been a +showing him the mischief he went and done."</p> + +<p>"Was that Mr. Arkell, do you say? Has Arkell been here this morning?"</p> + +<p>"Why, it ain't two minutes since, sir. He cut up that way as if he was +going straight home."</p> + +<p>And as the man spoke, there flashed into George<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">[305]</a></span> Prattleton's mind the +little episode that had so startled him and his friend Rolls in the +night—the finding of the church door open, when they had surely locked +it. It must have been then that Henry Arkell got out of the church. How +much had he witnessed of the scene in the vestry? had he recognised him, +George Prattleton?</p> + +<p>George Prattleton exchanged a look with Lewis, and hung the key up +again, making some vague remark to the clerk, that Mr. Arkell had +probably found what they were about to look for, if he had been to +practise so recently as yesterday evening. Shutting the door behind him, +he walked away with Lewis, whose senses were in a state of hopeless +perplexity.</p> + +<p>"He has got out, you hear, Lewis."</p> + +<p>"But how could he get out?" returned Lewis. "He's not a fairy, to get +through the keyhole, and he couldn't have got down from the windows! +It's an impossibility."</p> + +<p>"These apparent 'impossibilities' turn out sometimes to have been the +most straightforward trifles in the world," observed George Prattleton, +carelessly. "How do we know but old Hunt may have gone into the church +himself last evening, to dust it, or what not? It is——"</p> + +<p>"But then, Arkell would have come home," debated the perplexed Lewis, +who truly thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">[306]</a></span> some incomprehensible magic must have been at work.</p> + +<p>"Well, Lewis, I don't think it much signifies how he got out, provided +he is out; and were I you, I should not inquire too closely into +particulars. You had better keep as quiet as you can in the matter; +that's my advice to you; Mr. Wilberforce might not be disposed to treat +your exploit as a 'joke,' should it come to his ears."</p> + +<p>"But nobody knows it was me," said Lewis, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Just so: therefore your policy should be to keep still. As you please, +though, of course."</p> + +<p>"You won't tell of me, Mr. Prattleton?"</p> + +<p>"Not I, faith! It's no affair of mine; but I'd not recommend you to +attempt it again, Lewis. Good morning; I'm going into the town."</p> + +<p>So early had they been abroad, and all this taken place, that it was not +yet very much past seven, and when Henry Arkell reached the master's +house, some of the boys were only going out of it for morning school. +The hour for assembling was seven, but in the winter season some +irregularity in arriving was winked at, for the best of all possible +reasons, that the masters were late themselves; and it was often half +past before the senior boy called over the roll. Henry went upstairs to +give his face a wash; the man-servant saw him going up, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">[307]</a></span> supposed he +had only returned for something he might have forgotten. Neither of the +Lewises was in the room, and he found his own bed tumbled as if he had +slept in it. This of course had been Lewis's care; but Henry wondered at +it. If Lewis had done it out of good nature, that his absence should not +be observed, he must have changed greatly. It must be remembered that he +knew nothing of Lewis's having locked him in the church; he supposed +that must have been George Prattleton; but what he had seen tied his +tongue from inquiring.</p> + +<p>Jocelyn had done calling the roll when Henry got to the college hall. It +was so unusual a thing for him to be marked late, that Jocelyn heaved +his eyebrows in a sort of lazy surprise. Presently Jocelyn asked him in +an undertone where he had been the previous evening.</p> + +<p>"You missed me, then?" said Henry.</p> + +<p>"Missed you!—we couldn't help missing you; you had not got back at +bed-time. I suppose you were at the deanery—and got home at eleven? +It's fine to be you! How's Miss Beauclerc?"</p> + +<p>"As well as usual," replied Henry, with a nod and a laugh, to keep up +the deception. Jocelyn's assumed idea was the most convenient one that +could have been taken up.</p> + +<p>Henry threw his eyes round the school in search<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">[308]</a></span> of the Lewises. Surely +<i>they</i> must know of his night's absence. The elder one he could not see; +but the younger was at his desk with a red and sullen face, the effects +of the private beating. He sat down to his lessons, with what courage he +had, after his vigil; and presently, happening to look up, he saw Lewis +senior.</p> + +<p>Lewis senior was stealthily regarding him over the corner of a desk, +with as much inward curiosity as though he had risen from the dead. +Lewis was in a perplexed state of mystification yet. There Arkell was, +sure enough; alive, and apparently well. He had not become an idiot; +that, Lewis could see; he had not parted with his arms and legs. How +<i>had</i> he got out? But the relief, to find him thus, was so great to +Lewis's mind, that his spirits rose to a reckless height; and he was +insolent to Jocelyn when the latter spoke to him about coming in after +the roll was called.</p> + +<p>At breakfast time Henry went in search of George Prattleton, but could +not see him; the probability was that Mr. George had gone to bed again, +and was taking out his night's rest by daylight. He sought him again at +dinner-time, and then he had gone out; the two Prattleton boys thought +to the billiard rooms. In the afternoon, however, as Henry was passing +through the cloisters to the school, after service in the cathedral, he +met him.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">[309]</a></span></p> + +<p>George Prattleton listened with an air of apparent incredulity to the +tale; Henry had got locked up in the church, and seen him and a stranger +go into the church at midnight, or thereabouts!—<i>him</i>, George +Prattleton! Mr. George denied it <i>in toto</i>; and expressed his belief +that Henry must have been dreaming.</p> + +<p>"It's of no use talking like that, George Prattleton," said Henry, in a +vexed tone. "You know quite well you were there. I saw the same man with +you in the Grounds, the previous night, when I was going home after the +audit-dinner."</p> + +<p>"You must have seen double, then! I don't know whom you are talking of. +Had you been drinking?"</p> + +<p>"It won't do, George Prattleton. I was in full possession of both my +sight and senses. You know whom I mean. His name's Rolls."</p> + +<p>"Did he tell you his name?"</p> + +<p>"No; but you did. I heard you call him by his name two or three times in +the church last night. I want to know what I am to do about it."</p> + +<p>"I don't know any Rolls; and I was not in the church last night; and my +full persuasion is—if you really were locked in, as you say—that you +fell asleep and dreamt this story."</p> + +<p>"Now look you here, George Prattleton; if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">[310]</a></span> persist in this line of +denial, I shall be obliged to tell Mr. Wilberforce. I don't like to do +it; your family and mine are intimate, and we have received many +kindnesses from them, and I assure you I'd almost rather cut my tongue +out than speak. But I can't let things go on at this uncertainty. Do you +know what that Rolls did?"</p> + +<p>"What did he do?" was the mocking rejoinder.</p> + +<p>"He cut a leaf out of the register book."</p> + +<p>"No?" shouted George Prattleton, the words scaring him to seriousness.</p> + +<p>"I declare he did. When the candle went out, you thought it went out of +itself, didn't you; well, he blew it out. I saw him blow it, and he +called out, 'What a beast of a candle,' and said it was the damp put it +out, and he got you to go for the matches. Was it not so?"</p> + +<p>"Well?" said George Prattleton, too much alarmed to heed the half +admission.</p> + +<p>"Well, you had no sooner gone than he somehow got the candle alight +again; I didn't see how, I suppose he had matches; and he took out a +penknife, and put what looked like a thin board behind the leaf he was +looking at, and cut it out. I say I'm not sure! but it's transportation +for life to rob a church register."</p> + +<p>George Prattleton wound his arm round one of the cloister pillars: face, +heart, senses, alike scared.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">[311]</a></span> To give him his due, he would no more have +countenanced a thing like this than he would have committed murder. All +denial to Henry was over; and he felt half dead as he glanced forward to +future consequences, and their effect upon his own reputation.</p> + +<p>"You saw all this! Why on earth did you not pounce in upon him? or help +me when I got back with the matches?"</p> + +<p>"Because I was bewildered—frightened, if you will; and it all passed so +quickly. I knew afterwards that it was what I ought to have done; but +one can't do always the right thing at the right time."</p> + +<p>"He put the leaf in his pocket, you say? It may not be destroyed. I——"</p> + +<p>"Do you know what it related to?" interrupted Henry.</p> + +<p>"Yes; to some old tithe cause—a dispute in a family he knows; people of +the name of Whiffam," answered George Prattleton. "Some trifling cause, +he said."</p> + +<p>"Well, it's an awfully dangerous thing to do, let it relate to ever so +trifling a cause," observed Henry. "Who is this Rolls? Do you know him +well?"</p> + +<p>"Three days back I did not know him from Adam," was the candid +admission. "We met at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">[312]</a></span> the billiard rooms; and, somehow, we got thick +directly. That night, when you saw us in the grounds, he was sounding me +on this very thing—whether I could not get him a sight of the +register."</p> + +<p>"What's to be done about it?" asked Henry.</p> + +<p>"<i>I</i> don't know," returned George Prattleton, flinging up his hands.</p> + +<p>"It ought to be told to Mr. Wilberforce!"</p> + +<p>"Be still, for heaven's sake! Would you ruin me? You must give me your +promise, Henry Arkell, not to betray this; now, before we part."</p> + +<p>"I don't wish to betray it; I'd do anything rather than bring trouble +upon you. But it <i>ought</i> to be told."</p> + +<p>"Nobody living may be the worse for what Rolls has done; nobody may ever +hear of it more. Of course I shall charge him with his duplicity, and +get the leaf back from him, if it is not destroyed, and replace it in +the book. In that case, nobody can be the worse. Give me your promise."</p> + +<p>Henry did not see what else he could do. If the leaf could be got back, +and replaced, to speak of the abstraction might be productive of +needless, gratuitous harm to George Prattleton. He put his hand into +George's.</p> + +<p>"You have my promise," he said; "but on one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">[313]</a></span> condition. I will never +speak of this, so long as I am unaware of any urgent necessity existing +for its disclosure. But should that necessity come, then I shall ask you +to release me from my promise; and if you decline, <i>I</i> shall consider +myself no longer bound by it."</p> + +<p>"Very well; a bargain," said George Prattleton, after a pause. "And now +I'm after that scoundrel Rolls. I'll tell <i>you</i> a secret before I +go—tit for tat. Do you know how you got fastened in the church?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose you did it, not knowing I was there."</p> + +<p>"Not I. It was Lewis."</p> + +<p>"Lewis!"</p> + +<p>"Lewis senior. For a lark, he said, but I expect he owed you some +grudge. By the way, though, I promised him I'd not speak of this; he +told it me in confidence. I forgot that."</p> + +<p>"I'll not speak of it. I can't, if I am to keep the other a secret. It +was only the difficulty of accounting for my getting out of the church, +that kept me from asking Hunt how I got locked in."</p> + +<p>They parted. Mr. George Prattleton went in search of his friend Rolls, +and Henry tore along the cloisters with all his might, anticipating he +knew not what of reprimand from the head master<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">[314]</a></span> for lingering on his +way from college. It was close upon four o'clock, and his desk had some +Greek to do yet; but the afternoon lessons were less regularly performed +in winter than in summer.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">[315]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><span class="nb"><a name="chapter_xvii" id="chapter_xvii">CHAPTER XVII.</a><br /><small>A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE.</small></span></h2> + + +<p>On the second of December, Peter Arkell and his family came home, +looking blooming. Eva Prattleton, who had stayed with them all the time, +was blooming; as was Lucy; as was, for her, Mrs. Arkell. Even Peter +himself looked quite a different man from the one who had gone away in +July. Ah, my friends, there's nothing like running away from home to +restore health and looks, <i>if you can only leave care behind</i>.</p> + +<p>Quite a small crowd had assembled to meet them at the station. Nearly +all the Prattleton family, including Mr. George, who was dreadfully in +want just now of some distraction for his long hours. The two young +Prattletons and Henry Arkell had rushed up, books in hand, just as they +came out of school; and Travice Arkell, he was there. Handsome Travice! +the best-looking young man in Westerbury when Frederick St. John was out +of it.</p> + +<p>"How have <i>you</i> been, Lucy?" he whispered,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">[316]</a></span> quietly coming near her, +when he had done greeting the rest.</p> + +<p>She shyly looked up at him as he took her hand. Scarcely a word was +spoken. His head was bent for a moment over her blushing cheeks, and +Travice looked as if he would very much have liked to take a kiss from +the red ripe lips. It was impossible there; perhaps impossible +elsewhere. Peter came up.</p> + +<p>"Travice, I wish you'd see to the luggage, and that; and put my wife in +a fly. There's enough of you here without me. I shall walk quietly on."</p> + +<p>Just the same shy, awkward, incapable Peter Arkell as of yore. In +usefulness his daughter Lucy was worth ten of him. He slipped out of the +station by the least-frequented way, and walked on towards home. As he +was going along, he met Kenneth, Mr. Fauntleroy's confidential clerk; +and the latter stopped.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad I met you," said Kenneth; "it will save me a journey to your +house to-day, for we heard you'd be at home. How is it you have never +sent us any money, Mr. Arkell?"</p> + +<p>"Because I couldn't send it," returned Peter. "I wrote to Mr. +Fauntleroy, telling him how impossible it was. I suppose he has managed +it. He could if he liked, you know; it all lies in his hands."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">[317]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah, but he couldn't," answered Kenneth. "He had been too easy in one or +two matters (I don't allude to your affairs), and had got involved in a +good deal of expense through it; and the consequence is, he has been +obliged to adopt a stricter policy in general."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Fauntleroy knows how I was situated. In a strange place, you have +to pay for everything as it comes in. I got a little teaching down +there, and that helped; but it was not much."</p> + +<p>"Well, Mr. Fauntleroy thought you ought to have sent him some money," +persisted Kenneth. "And I'm not sure but he would have enforced it, had +he not got it elsewhere."</p> + +<p>"Got it elsewhere! On my account? What do you mean, Kenneth?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Arkell gave him ten pounds."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Arkell gave him ten pounds!" almost shouted Peter. "How did that +come about? Who said anything to Mr. Arkell?"</p> + +<p>"I believe Mr. Fauntleroy happened to mention it accidentally. Or +whether it was that he asked him for your exact address at the place, +and said he was going to worry you for money, I'm not sure. I know Mr. +Arkell said, better let you be quiet while you were there, and advanced +the ten pounds."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Fauntleroy had no right to speak to my cousin about it at all, Mr. +Kenneth. I regard it as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">[318]</a></span> a breach of good faith. I wrote and asked Mr. +Fauntleroy to wait, and he might have done so. As to the address, he +knew that, for I gave it him."</p> + +<p>"I'm in a hurry," said Mr. Kenneth. "I thought I'd speak to you, because +I know Mr. Fauntleroy intended to send to you as soon as you came home. +Here's another instalment due, now December's come in."</p> + +<p>He went on his way. Peter Arkell looked after him for a minute, and then +went on his. "Home to care! home to care!" he murmured with a sigh of +pain.</p> + +<p>Over and over again had Peter Arkell—not cursed, he was too good a man +for that—but repented the day that placed him in the power of Mr. +Fauntleroy. Some years previous to this, in a moment of great +embarrassment, Peter Arkell had gone to Mr. Fauntleroy with his tale of +woes. "Won't you help me?" he asked; "I once helped you." And Mr. +Fauntleroy, entirely indifferent to his fellow-creature's woes though he +was at heart, had not the face to refuse, with the recollection of that +past obligation upon him. He helped him in this way. He advanced Peter +Arkell two or three hundred pounds at a heavy rate of interest. It was +not his own money, he said—he really had none to spare—it was the +money of a client who had left it in his hands to make some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">[319]</a></span> profitable +use of. Of course Peter Arkell understood it: at least he believed he +did—that the money was Mr. Fauntleroy's own, and the plea of the client +only put forth that the interest might be exacted—and his simple, +honourable nature blushed for Mr. Fauntleroy. But he accepted it—he was +too much in need of the assistance not to do it—and as the months and +years went on he found himself unable to pay the interest. Things went +on with some discomfort for a long time, and then Mr. Fauntleroy +insisted on what he called some final arrangement being come to—that +is, he said his client insisted upon it. The result was that Peter +Arkell undertook to pay ten pounds every three months off the debt, +interest, and costs, without the smallest notion how he could accomplish +it. He had some learned book coming out, and if that turned up a trump +card, he might be able to do it and more. But, when the book did come +out it did not turn out a trump. The first ten pounds was due on the +first of June last, and Peter had managed to pay it. The second ten was +due on the first of September, and he wrote to Mr. Fauntleroy for grace. +He now heard it had been paid by his cousin William Arkell. The third +ten had been due the previous day, for this was the second of December. +He would be able to pay this, for he had some money coming to him yet +from the people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">[320]</a></span> who had rented his house, and, so far, <i>that</i> would be +got rid of.</p> + +<p>Peter might have paid it in another way. The first thing he saw on +entering his home was a letter from his sister Mildred, and on opening +it he found it contained a ten-pound note. These windfalls would come +from Mildred now and then; and without them Peter had not an idea how he +should have got along.</p> + +<p>But not to his necessities did he appropriate this. The most prominent +feeling swaying him then, was vexation that William Arkell should have +been troubled about the matter—William, who had ever been so good to +him—who had helped him out of more difficulties than the world knew of. +In the impulse of the moment, without stopping to sit down, he went out +again, carrying the note. He could not remember the day when he had been +able to pay anything to his cousin, but at least he could do this.</p> + +<p>Things were not prospering with the city, or with William Arkell. That +the trade was going gradually down to ruin, to all but total +extermination, he felt sure of now; and he bitterly regretted that +Travice had cast in his lot with it. He had designed to send Travice to +Oxford, to cause him to embrace one of the learned professions; but +Travice had elected to follow his father,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">[321]</a></span> and Mr. Arkell had +yielded—all just as it had been with himself in his own youth. None, +save William Arkell himself, knew the care that was upon him, or how his +property was dwindling down. Ever and anon there would come flashing a +gleam of improvement in the trade, and rather large orders would come +in, whispering hope for the future; but the orders and the hope soon +faded again.</p> + +<p>Peter entered the iron gates, and was turning to the left to the +manufactory, when he saw Mr. Arkell at the dining-room window; so he +went across to the house.</p> + +<p>"No need to look for me abroad to-day, Peter," said his cousin, opening +the dining-room door and meeting him in the hall. "I am not well enough +to go out."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" asked Peter.</p> + +<p>"I don't know; I have had shivering fits all the morning—can do nothing +but sit over this hot fire. Charlotte thinks it must be some sort of +illness coming on; but I suppose it's only a cold. So you have got back +at last?"</p> + +<p>"Now, just," answered Peter, sitting down on the other side of the fire; +"Travice said nothing about your illness; he was at the station."</p> + +<p>"Was he? I did not know he had gone out. Oh, he thinks it's nothing, I +dare say; I hope it will be nothing. What's this?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">[322]</a></span></p> + +<p>Peter had handed him the ten-pound note. "It is what you paid to Mr. +Fauntleroy while I was away; and bitterly vexed I am, to think he should +have applied to you. I met Kenneth in leaving the station, and heard of +it from him. But, William, I want to know why you paid it. Did +Fauntleroy hold out any threats to you?"</p> + +<p>"Something to that effect. He spoke of putting an execution into your +house: it would not have done at all, you know, while strangers were in +it. I never knew that he had got judgment."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, he did," said Peter, bitterly; "he took care of that. I am at +his mercy any day, both in goods and person. He forgets, William, the +service I rendered him, and my having to pay it: it is nothing but that +that has kept me down in life. Put an execution in my house! I wonder +where he expects to go to? Not to heaven, I should think?"</p> + +<p>"He said his client pressed for the money—would not, in fact, wait."</p> + +<p>"I dare say he did; it's just like him to say it. His client is +himself."</p> + +<p>"No?" exclaimed William Arkell, lifting his head.</p> + +<p>"I firmly believe it to be so. He is pressing for another ten pounds +now; it was due yesterday."</p> + +<p>"Have you got it for him? If not, why do you give me this?"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">[323]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I have got it," said Peter; "I have to receive money to-day. Thank you +a thousand times, William, for this and all else. How is business?"</p> + +<p>"Don't ask. I feel too ill to fret over it just now. I'd give it up +to-morrow but for Travice."</p> + +<p>Certain words all but escaped Peter Arkell's lips, but they were +suppressed again. He wondered—he had wondered long—<i>why</i> William +Arkell continued to live at an expensive rate. That it was his wife's +doings, not his, Peter knew; but he could not help thinking that, had he +been a firm, clever man, as William was, he should not have yielded to +her.</p> + +<p>He met her in the hall as he went out. She wore a rich, trailing silk, +and bracelets of gold. Peter stopped to shake hands with her; but she +was never too civil to him, or to his daughter Lucy. In point of fact, +Lucy had for some time haunted Mrs. Arkell's dreams in a very unpleasant +manner, entailing a frequent nightmare, hideous to contemplate.</p> + +<p>"What did Peter Arkell want here?" she asked of her husband, before she +was well in the room; and her tone was by no means a gracious one.</p> + +<p>"Not much," carelessly answered Mr. Arkell, who had drawn over the fire +in another fit of shivering.</p> + +<p>She took her seat in the chair Peter had vacated,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">[324]</a></span> and slightly lifted +her rich dress, lest the scorching fire should mar its beauty.</p> + +<p>"I suppose he came to borrow money," she said, no pleasant look upon her +countenance.</p> + +<p>"On the contrary, he came to pay me some."</p> + +<p>"To pay you some! What for?"</p> + +<p>"To repay me some, I should have said. I paid something for him during +his absence—ten pounds—and he has now returned it."</p> + +<p>For one single moment she felt inclined to doubt the words, and to say +so. The next, she remembered how simply truthful was her husband.</p> + +<p>"I want Travice," she said, presently. "I sent to the manufactory for +him, but he was out. Will he be long, do you know?"</p> + +<p>"I dare say not. Peter told me he was at the railway station. He went, I +suppose, to meet them."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Arkell lifted her head with a sort of start.</p> + +<p>"Did you know he had gone?" she asked, sharply.</p> + +<p>"I knew nothing at all of it. What are you so cross about?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Arkell bit her lips—her habit when put out.</p> + +<p>"I have always objected to Travice's excessive intimacy with the Peter +Arkells," she slowly said. "You know I have. But I might just as well +have objected to the wind's blowing, for all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">[325]</a></span> effect it has had. I +hope it will not prove that I had cause."</p> + +<p>"Cause! What cause? What do you mean, Charlotte?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I think they are a mean, deceitful set. I think they are scheming +to entrap Travice into an engagement with Lucy Arkell."</p> + +<p>Ill as Mr. Arkell felt, he yet burst into a laugh. The notion of Peter's +scheming to entrap anyone, or anything, was so ludicrous: simple, +single-minded Peter, who had probably never given a thought to Lucy's +marrying at all since she was in existence! and his wife was utterly +above meanness of any sort—the very soul of openness and honour.</p> + +<p>"Where did you pick up that notion?" he asked, when his laugh was over.</p> + +<p>"I picked it up from observation and common sense," answered Mrs. +Arkell, resentful of the laugh. "Travice used always to be there; and +now that they are back, I suppose he will be again. He has lost no time +in beginning, it seems."</p> + +<p>"And if he is there, it does not follow that he goes for the sake of +Lucy."</p> + +<p>"It looks wonderfully like it, though."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Charlotte! In the old days, when I was a young man, as +Travice is, and Mildred was a girl like Lucy, quite as attractive——"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">[326]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Quite as what?" shrieked Mrs. Arkell. "I hope your taste does not put +forward Lucy Arkell as attractive—or as Mildred's having been so before +her. They are as like as two peas. A couple of uneducated, +old-fashioned, old-maidish things, possessing not a single attraction."</p> + +<p>"Opinions differ," said Mr. Arkell, quietly. "But if it be as you +intimate, there's the less danger for Travice. What I was about to say +was this—that in the old days I was in the habit of going to that house +more than Travice goes to it now, and busy people, even my own mother, +never believed but that I went for the sake of Mildred. I did not; +neither did I marry her."</p> + +<p>"The cases are different. You had no companion at home; Travice has his +sisters. And it might have ended in your marrying Mildred, had I not +come down on that long visit here, and saved you."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it might." He was looking dreamily into the fire, his thoughts +buried in the past; utterly oblivious to the present, and to the effect +his remark might make. Mrs. Arkell felt particularly savage when she +heard it.</p> + +<p>"And a nice wife you'd have had! She is only fit for what she is—a +lady's maid. Lucy will follow her example, perhaps, when old Peter's +poverty has sent him into the grave. I always hated Lucy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">[327]</a></span> Arkell—it may +be a strong term to use—but it's the truth. From the time that she was +only as high as the elbow of that chair, and her mother, with the fine +Cheveley notions, used to deck her out as a little court doll, I hated +her!"</p> + +<p>"And I have always thought her one of the sweetest and most loveable of +children," quietly returned Mr. Arkell. "Opinions differ, I say, +Charlotte. But why should you have hated her?"</p> + +<p>"Because—I think it must have been" (and Mrs. Arkell looked into the +fire also in reflection, and for once spoke her true sentiments)—"I +think it must have been because you and Travice made so much of her. I +only know it has been."</p> + +<p>"I'd not cherish it, Charlotte."</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> would not, I know. Tell me," she added, with quite a gust of +passion in voice and eye, "would you like to see your fine, attractive, +noble son, thrown away upon Lucy Arkell?"</p> + +<p>"My head is as bad as it can be, Charlotte; I wish you'd not worry me. I +think I must be going to have some fever."</p> + +<p>"He might marry half Westerbury. With his good looks, his education, his +fine prospects——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, do put in <i>them</i>," interrupted Mr. Arkell. "Very fine they are, in +the present aspect of affairs."</p> + +<p>"Affairs will get good again. I don't believe the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">[328]</a></span> half that's said +about the badness of trade. <i>You</i> have made a good thing of it," she +added significantly.</p> + +<p>"Pretty well; I and my father before me. But those times have gone by +for ever."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe it; I believe the trade will revive again and be as +lucrative as before; and Travice will be able to maintain a home such as +we have maintained. It <i>is</i> a fine prospect, I don't <a name="cear" id="cear"></a><ins title="Original has cear">care</ins> how you may +deny it in your gloom; and I say that Travice, enjoying it, might marry +half the desirable girls in Westerbury."</p> + +<p>"He'd be taken up for bigamy if he did."</p> + +<p>"Can't you be serious?" she angrily asked. "Whereas, if he got +enthralled by that bane, Lucy Arkell, and——Good patience, here she +is!" broke off Mrs. Arkell, as her eyes fell on the courtyard. "The +impudence of that! Not half an hour in the town, and to come here!"</p> + +<p>Lucy, in her grey travelling cloak, and fresh straw bonnet, came +staggering in under a load: a flower-pot, with a great plant in bloom. +She looked well. In moments of excitement, there was something of her +mother's loveliness in her face; in the lustre of the soft and sweet +dark eyes, in the rose bloom of the delicate cheeks, and at those times +she was less like Mildred. Lucy put her load on the table, and turned to +offer her hand to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">[329]</a></span> Mrs. Arkell. Mrs. Arkell touched the tips of the +fingers, but Mr. Arkell took her in his arms and kissed her twice; and +then recollected himself and fell into proper repentance.</p> + +<p>"I ought not to have done it, Lucy; I forgot myself. But, my dear, in +the joy of seeing you, and seeing you so pretty, I quite lost sight of +precaution. I am shivering with cold and illness, Lucy, and may be going +to have I don't know what."</p> + +<p>Lucy laughed. She was not afraid, and said so.</p> + +<p>"Mamma made me bring this down at once for your conservatory," she said, +addressing Mrs. Arkell. "It is a wax plant, and a very beautiful one. +The last time we were here, you were regretting you had not a nice one, +and when mamma saw this, she thought of you. She sends her very kind +regards, Mrs. Arkell, and hopes you will accept it. And now that's my +message, and there's my load, and I have delivered both," concluded +Lucy, merrily.</p> + +<p>In the face of the present—and it was really a beautiful one of its +nature—Mrs. Arkell could not maintain her utter ungraciousness. She +unbent a very little: unwillingly thanked Lucy for the plant, and +inquired how Mrs. Peter Arkell was.</p> + +<p>"I think we had better send our girls to the sea-side, if they could +come back improved as Lucy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">[330]</a></span> has," remarked Mr. Arkell; and the remark +aggravated his wife. "Are those roses on your cheeks real, Lucy, or have +you learnt the use of that fashionable cosmetic, rose-powder?"</p> + +<p>"They are quite real," answered Lucy, the cheeks blushing their own +testimony to the answer. "It has done us all so much good! Mr. +Prattleton said he should not have known mamma, had he met her in a +strange place, she is looking so different. But I am warm just now. It +was coming through the streets with that: everybody stared at me."</p> + +<p>"Could not Travice have brought it?" asked Mr. Arkell.</p> + +<p>"He did offer; but mamma said I should bring it more carefully than he, +and she sent me off with it at once. She had been taking care of it +herself all the way."</p> + +<p>"Where is Travice?" inquired Mrs. Arkell, the sharp tone perceptible in +her voice again, more especially to Mr. Arkell's ears.</p> + +<p>"He was helping mamma indoors when I came. Papa had gone somewhere: he +left us at the station."</p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell did not say that he had been there. He was looking very +poorly just then, and his hands, quite trembling with cold, were blue as +he stretched them out to the fire. Lucy, an admirable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">[331]</a></span> sick nurse from +her training, the being with her ailing mother, threw back her grey +cloak, knelt down, and took them into her own warm hands to chafe them.</p> + +<p>It was what one of Mr. Arkell's own daughters would not, or could not, +have done. He looked down on the pretty upturned face, every line of +which spoke of a sweet goodness. She was more lovely, more attractive +than Mildred had been—or was it that his eyes had then had a film +before them?—and he felt that—were he in Travice's place——</p> + +<p>"I wonder you liked to stay so long away, leaving Henry to himself!" +interrupted Mrs. Arkell.</p> + +<p>"He was at Mr. Wilberforce's, you know," replied Lucy. "He was very well +there; very happy."</p> + +<p>"I suppose he comes home to-day."</p> + +<p>"No, not until the college school breaks up for Christmas. Mr. +Wilberforce thinks he had better not disturb himself before. Have you +heard of the gold medal? But of course you have. I hope I shall not grow +too proud of my brother. But oh, Mrs. Arkell! pray tell me! What do you +think of that dreadful thing, the loss of Mr. Dundyke? Will he ever come +back again?"</p> + +<p>"Ever come back again!" repeated Mrs. Arkell, believing that Lucy was +putting on an affectation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">[332]</a></span> of childishness. "How can a murdered man come +back?"</p> + +<p>"Was he murdered? I thought they supposed he was drowned, but were not +certain what it was. Was he murdered?" she repeated, looking at Mr. +Arkell, for Mrs. Arkell did not appear inclined to answer her.</p> + +<p>"I fear he was, Lucy."</p> + +<p>"Oh, what a dreadful thing! Mrs. Arkell, what will Mrs. Dundyke do?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, she has enough to live upon, I believe."</p> + +<p>"I did not quite mean it in that light," said Lucy, gently, as Mrs. +Arkell's remark jarred upon her ear. "And old Marmaduke Carr has died," +she resumed, "and there's going to be a law-suit about the property. +What a great many things seem to have happened since we went away! Mr. +Arkell, which side do you think has the most right to gain the +law-suit?"</p> + +<p>"The most right? Well, there's a great deal to be said on both sides, +Lucy. If there was no marriage, of course the property does belong to +the Carrs of Eckford; if there was a marriage, they have no right to it +whatever. In any case, the blame lies with Robert Carr; and his +descendants suffer."</p> + +<p>"Do you think there was a marriage?" continued Lucy.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333">[333]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. Arkell shook his head.</p> + +<p>"I don't, my dear, now. Had there been one, some traces of it would have +been found ere this."</p> + +<p>"Then young Mrs. Carr will lose the law-suit!"</p> + +<p>"Undoubtedly. It appears very strange to me that Fauntleroy should go on +with it."</p> + +<p>The hands were warm now, and Lucy rose.</p> + +<p>"You have done me good, Lucy," said Mr. Arkell, as she was putting on +her gloves to leave; "good in all ways. A bright face and a cheering +manner! my dear, in sickness, they are worth their weight in gold."</p> + +<p>Making the best of her way home, she found Travice alone. Henry was +upstairs with his mother, uncording boxes.</p> + +<p>"What a time you have been, Lucy!" was the salutation; for it had seemed +very long to him.</p> + +<p>"Have I? I did not once sit down. Mr. Arkell says I look well after my +sojourn, but I told him he should see mamma."</p> + +<p>"So he should. But I must be going, Lucy. <i>Do</i> you look well?"</p> + +<p>He took both her hands in his, and stood before her, his face a little +bent, regarding her intently. Lucy blushed violently under the gaze. +Suddenly, without any warning, his lips were on hers; and he took the +first kiss that he had taken from Lucy since her childhood.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334">[334]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Don't be angry with me, Lucy! Think it a cousin's kiss, if you will."</p> + +<p>As he went out, the large shadow of a large, gaily-dressed woman, +passing between him and the setting sun, was cast upon Travice Arkell. +The shadow of Barbara Fauntleroy. If he could but have foreseen the type +it was of the terrible shadow that was to fall upon him in the future!</p> +<p> </p> + +<p class="likeh4">END OF VOL. II.</p> + +<p> </p> +<hr class="chap" /> + +<div class='tnote'> +<h2><a name="Transcribers_note" id="Transcribers_note">Transcriber's note:</a></h2> +<p>In general every effort has been made to replicate the original text as +faithfully as possible, including some instances of no longer standard +spelling and punctuation. However, obvious punctuation errors have been +corrected. In particular, there were several occurences of words split at +the end of a line where the space for the hyphen was evident but the +hyphen itself was not visible; these words have been rejoined as if the +hyphen was present. Hyphenation has been made consistent. The following +changes were made to correct apparent errors, generally of typographical +nature:</p> + +<p> + p. 31 "the two unfortunates eat" eat changed to <a href="#eat1">ate</a><br /> + p. 32 "Monsieur Anglais eat nothing" eat changed to <a href="#eat2">ate</a><br /> + p. 40 "merrily as [a] French diligence" <a href="#ainserted">a</a> inserted<br /> + p. 63 "wont be much addition" wont changed to <a href="#wont">won't</a><br /> + p. 69 "christian name. The men" christian changed to <a href="#christian">Christian</a><br /> + p. 93 "a encircled by carriage drive" a changed to <a href="#aand">and</a><br /> + p. 104 "Be so good as [to] send" <a href="#toinserted">to</a> inserted<br /> + p. 109 "could have been at Genoa" Genoa changed to <a href="#genoa">Geneva</a><br /> + p. 118 "and Mr. Dundyke," she said" she changed to <a href="#she">he</a><br /> + p. 139 "distresss she experienced" distresss changed to <a href="#distresss">distress</a><br /> + p. 155 "enough of him, I ect, before" ' ect' changed to <a href="#ect">expect</a><br /> + p. 169 "I should asume it to be" asume changed to <a href="#asume">assume</a><br /> + p. 173 "I wont charge you for" wont changed to <a href="#wont2">won't</a><br /> + p. 187 "thin, weaseny sort of man" weaseny changed to <a href="#weaseny">weaselly</a><br /> + p. 216 "The Arkells will joins us" joins changed to <a href="#joins">join</a><br /> + p. 218 "christian name?—Martha Ann" christian changed to <a href="#christian2">Christian</a><br /> + p. 226 "there cord of the marriage" there cord changed to the <a href="#cord">record</a><br /> + p. 227-8 "on the other side [of] the platform" <a href="#ofinserted">of</a> inserted<br /> + p. 264 "the canon's wives and daughters" canon's changed to <a href="#canon">canons'</a><br /> + p. 274 "boy might have been seen tealing" tealing changed to <a href="#tealing">stealing</a><br /> + p. 287 "and a deuced easy wayit is" wayit changed to <a href="#wayit">way it</a><br /> + p. 328 "I don't cear how you may" cear changed to <a href="#cear">care</a><br /> +</p> +</div> + +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MILDRED ARKELL, VOLUME II (OF 3)***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 39377-h.txt or 39377-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/9/3/7/39377">http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/3/7/39377</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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