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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of In the Dead of Night. Volume 1 (of 3), by T. W. Speight

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and

-most other parts of the world 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

-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you

-will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before

-using this eBook.

-

-Title: In the Dead of Night. Volume 3 (of 3)

-       A Novel

-

-Author: T. W. Speight

-

-Release Date: September 21, 2018 [eBook #57947]

-[Most recently updated: May 19, 2021]

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: UTF-8

-

-Produced by: Charles Bowen

-

-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, VOLUME 3 ***

-

-

-

-

-IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

-

-A Novel.

-

-IN THREE VOLUMES.

-

-VOL. III.

-

-LONDON:

-RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.

-1874.

-

-(_All rights reserved_.)

-

-

-CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.

-

- CHAPTER I. A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY

- CHAPTER II. IN THE SYCAMORE WALK

- CHAPTER III. MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND

- CHAPTER IV. KNOCKLEY HOLT

- CHAPTER V. AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL

- CHAPTER VI. TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE

- CHAPTER VII. EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT

- CHAPTER VIII. DIRTY JACK

- CHAPTER IX. WHAT TO DO NEXT?

- CHAPTER X. HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE

- CHAPTER XI. THE EIGHTH OF MAY

- CHAPTER XII. GATHERED THREADS

-

-

-

-

-IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER I.

-A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.

-

-

-Two hours after the receipt of Mrs. McDermott’s second letter, Squire

-Culpepper was on his way to Sugden’s bank. His heart was heavy, and his

-step slow. He had never had to borrow a farthing from any man—at least,

-never since he had come into the estate—and he felt the humiliation, as

-he himself called it, very bitterly. There was something of bitterness,

-too, in having to confess to his friend Cope how all his brilliant

-castles in the air had vanished utterly, leaving not a wrack behind.

-

-He could see, in imagination, the sneer that would creep over Cope’s

-face as the latter asked him why he could not obtain a mortgage on his

-fine new mansion at Pincote; the mansion he had talked so much

-about—about which he had bored his friends; the mansion that was to

-have been built out of the Alcazar shares, but of which not even the

-foundation-stone would ever now be laid. Then, again, the Squire was

-far from certain as to the kind of reception which would be accorded

-him by the banker. Of late he had seemed cool, very cool—refrigerating

-almost. Once or twice, too, when he had called, Mr. Cope had been

-invisible: a Jupiter Tonans buried for the time being among a cloud of

-ledgers and dockets and transfers: not to be seen by any one save his

-own immediate satellites. The time had been, and not so very long ago,

-when he could walk unchallenged through the outer bank office, whoever

-else might be waiting, and so into the inner sanctum, and be sure of a

-welcome when he got there. But now he was sure to be intercepted by one

-or other of the clerks with a “Will you please to take a seat for a

-moment while I see whether Mr. Cope is disengaged.” The Squire groaned

-with inward rage as, leaning on his thick stick, he limped down Duxley

-High Street and thought of all these things.

-

-As he had surmised it would be, so it was on the present occasion. He

-had to sit down in the outer office, one of a row of six who were

-waiting Mr. Cope’s time and pleasure to see them. “He won’t lend me the

-money,” said the Squire to himself, as he sat there choking with secret

-mortification. “He’ll find some paltry excuse for refusing me. It’s

-almost worth a man’s while to tumble into trouble just to find out who

-are his friends and who are not.”

-

-However, the banker did not keep him waiting more than five or six

-minutes. “Mr. Cope will see you, sir,” said a liveried messenger, who

-came up to him with a low bow; and into Mr. Cope’s parlour the Squire

-was thereupon ushered.

-

-The two men met with a certain amount of restraint on either side. They

-shook hands as a matter of course, and made a few remarks about the

-weather; and then the banker began to play with his seals, and waited

-in bland silence to hear whatever the Squire might have to say to him.

-

-Mr. Culpepper fidgeted in his chair and cleared his throat. The crucial

-moment was come at last. “I’m in a bit of a difficulty, Cope,” he

-began, “and I’ve come to you, as one of the oldest friends I have, to

-see whether you can help me out of it.”

-

-“I should have thought that Mr. Culpepper was one of the last people in

-the world to be troubled with difficulties of any kind,” said the

-banker, in a tone of studied coldness.

-

-“Which shows how little you know about either Mr. Culpepper or his

-affairs,” said the Squire, dryly.

-

-The banker coughed dubiously. “In what way can I be of service to you?”

-he said.

-

-“I want five thousand five hundred pounds by this day week, and I’ve

-come to you to help me to raise it.”

-

-“In other words, you want to borrow five thousand five hundred pounds?”

-

-“Exactly so.”

-

-“And what kind of security are you prepared to offer for a loan of such

-magnitude?”

-

-“What security! Why, my I.O.U., of course.”

-

-Mr. Cope took a pinch of snuff slowly and deliberately before he spoke

-again. “I am afraid the document in question could hardly be looked

-upon as a negotiable security.”

-

-“And who the deuce wanted it to be considered as a negotiable

-security?” burst out the Squire. “Do you think I want everybody to know

-my private affairs?”

-

-“Possibly not,” said the banker, quietly. “But, in transactions of this

-nature, it is a matter of simple business that the person who advances

-the money should have some equivalent security in return.”

-

-“And is not my I.O.U. a good and equivalent security as between friend

-and friend?”

-

-“Oh if you are going to put the case in that way, it becomes a

-different kind of transaction entirely,” said the banker.

-

-“And how else did you think I was going to put the case, as you call

-it?” asked the Squire, indignantly.

-

-“Commercially, of course: as a pure matter of business between one man

-and another.”

-

-“Oh, ho that’s it, is it?” said the Squire, grimly.

-

-“That’s just it, Mr. Culpepper.”

-

-“Then friendship in such a case as this counts for nothing, and my

-I.O.U. might just as well never be written.”

-

-“Let us be candid with each other,” said the banker, blandly. “You want

-the loan of a very considerable sum of money. Now, however much

-inclined I might be to lend you the amount out of my own private

-coffers, you will believe me when I say that I am not in a position to

-do so. I have no such amount of available capital in hand at present.

-But if you were to come to me with a good negotiable security, I could

-at once put you into the proper channel for obtaining what you want. A

-mortgage, for instance. What could be better than that? The estate, so

-far as I know, is unencumbered, and the sum you need could easily be

-raised on it on very easy terms.”

-

-“I took an oath to my father on his deathbed that I would never raise a

-penny by mortgage on Pincote, and I never will.”

-

-“If that is the case,” said the banker, with a slight shrug of the

-shoulders, “I am afraid that I hardly see in what way I can be of

-service to you.” He coughed, and then he looked at his watch, an action

-which Mr. Culpepper did not fail to note and resent in his own mind.

-

-“I am sorry I came,” he said, bitterly. “It seems to have been only a

-waste of your time and mine.”

-

-“Don’t speak of it,” said the banker, with his little business laugh.

-“In any case, you have learned one of the first and simplest lessons of

-commercial ethics.”

-

-“I have, indeed,” answered the Squire, with a sigh. He rose to go.

-

-“And Miss Culpepper, is she quite well?” said Mr. Cope; rising also. “I

-have not had the pleasure of seeing her for some little time.”

-

-The Squire faced fiercely round. “Look you here, Horatio Cope,” he

-said; “you and I have been friends of many years’ standing. Fast

-friends, I thought, whom no reverses of fortune would have separated.

-Finding myself in a little strait, I come to you for assistance. To

-whom else should I apply? It is idle to say that you could not help me

-out of my difficulty, were you willing to do so.”

-

-“No, believe me——” interrupted the banker; but Mr. Culpepper went on

-without deigning to notice the interruption.

-

-“You have not chosen to do so, and there’s an end of the matter, so

-far. Our friendship must cease from this day. You will not be sorry

-that it is so. The insults and slights you have put upon me of late

-have all had that end in view, and you are doubtless grateful that they

-have had the desired effect.”

-

-“You judge me very hardly,” said the banker.

-

-“I judge you from your own actions, and from them alone,” said the

-Squire, sternly. “Another point, and I have done. Your son was engaged

-to my daughter, with your full sanction and consent. That engagement,

-too, must come to an end.”

-

-“With all my heart,” said the banker, quietly.

-

-“For some time past your son, acting, no doubt, on instructions from

-his father, has been gradually paving the way for something of this

-kind. There have been no letters from him for five weeks, and the last

-three or four that he sent were not more than as many lines each. No

-doubt he will feel grateful at being released from an engagement that

-had become odious to him; and on Miss Culpepper’s side the release will

-be an equally happy one. She had learned long ago to estimate at his

-true value the man to whom she had so rashly pledged her hand. She had

-found out, to her bitter cost, that she had promised herself to a

-person who had neither the instincts nor the education of a

-gentleman—to an individual, in fact, who was little better than a

-common boor.”

-

-This last thrust touched the banker to the quick. His face flushed

-deeply. He crossed the room and called down an India-rubber tube: “What

-is the amount of Mr. Culpepper’s balance?”

-

-Presently came the answer: “Two eighty eleven five.”

-

-“Two hundred and eighty pounds, eleven shillings, and five pence,” said

-Mr. Cope, with a sneer. “May I ask, sir, that you will take immediate

-steps for having this magnificent balance transferred to some other

-establishment.”

-

-“I shall take my own time about doing that,” said Mr. Culpepper.

-

-“What a pity that your new mansion was not finished in time—quite a

-castle it was to have been, was it not? A mortgage of five or six

-thousand could have been a matter of no difficulty then, you know. If I

-recollect rightly, all the furniture and decorations were to have come

-from London. Nothing in Duxley would have been good enough. I merely

-echo your own words.”

-

-The Squire winced. “I am rightly served,” he muttered to himself. “What

-can one expect from a man who swept out an office and cleaned his

-master’s shoes?” He rose to go. For all his bitterness, there was a

-little pathetic feeling at work in his heart. “So ends a friendship of

-twenty years,” was his thought. “Goodbye, Cope,” he said aloud as he

-moved towards the door.

-

-The banker, standing with his back to the fire, and looking straight at

-the opposite wall, neither stirred nor spoke, nor so much as turned his

-head to take a last look at his old friend. And so, without another

-word, the Squire passed out.

-

-A bleak north wind was blowing as the Squire stepped into the street.

-He paused for a moment to button his coat more closely around him. As

-he did so, a poor ragged wretch passed trembling by without saying a

-word. The Squire called the man back and gave him a shilling. “My

-plight may be bad enough, but his is a thousand times worse,” he said

-to himself as he walked down the street.

-

-Where to go, or what to do next, he did not know. He had gone to see

-Mr. Cope without any very great expectation of being able to obtain

-what he wanted, and yet, perhaps, not without some faint hope nestling

-at his heart that his friend would find him the money. But now he knew

-for a fact that nothing was to be got from that quarter, he felt a

-little chilled, a little lonely, a little lost as to what he should do

-next. That something must be done, he knew quite well, but he was at a

-nonplus as to what that something ought to be. To raise five thousand

-five hundred pounds at a few days’ notice, with no better security to

-offer than a simple I.O.U., was by no means an easy matter, as the

-Squire was beginning to discover to his cost. “Why not ask Sir Harry

-Cripps?” he said to himself. But then he bethought himself that Sir

-Harry had a very expensive family, and that only six months ago he had

-given up his hunter, and dispensed with a couple of carriage-horses,

-and had talked of going on to the continent for four or five years. No:

-it was evident that Sir Harry Cripps could do nothing for him.

-

-In what other direction to turn he knew not. “If poor Lionel Dering had

-only been alive, I could have gone to him with confidence,” he thought.

-“Why not try Kester St. George?” was his next thought. “No: Kester

-isn’t one of the lending kind,” he muttered, with a shake of the head.

-“He’s uncommonly close-fisted, is Kester. What he’s got he’ll stick to.

-No use trying there.”

-

-Next moment he nearly ran against General St. George, who was coming

-from an opposite direction. They started at sight of each other, then

-shook hands cordially. Their acquaintanceship dated only from the

-arrival of the General at Park Newton, but they had already learned to

-like and esteem one another.

-

-After the customary greetings and inquiries were over, said Mr.

-Culpepper to the General: “Is your nephew Kester still stopping with

-you at Park Newton?”

-

-“Yes, he is still there,” answered the General; “though he has talked

-every day for the last month or more about going. Kester is one of

-those unaccountable fellows that you can never depend on. He may stay

-for another month, or he may take it into his head to go by the first

-train to-morrow.”

-

-“I heard a little while ago that he was ill; but I suppose he is better

-again by this time?”

-

-“Yes—quite recovered. He was laid up for three or four days, but he

-soon got all right again.”

-

-“Your other nephew—George—Tom—Harry—what’s his name—is he quite well?”

-

-“You mean Richard—he who came from India? Yes, he is quite well.”

-

-“He’s very like his poor brother, only darker, and—pardon me for saying

-so—not half so agreeable a young fellow.”

-

-“Everybody seems to have liked poor Lionel.”

-

-“Nobody could help liking him,” said the Squire, with energy. “I felt

-the loss of that poor boy almost as much as if he had been my own son.”

-

-“Not a soul in the world had an ill word to say about him.”

-

-“I wish that the same could be said of all of us,” said the Squire. And

-so, after a few more words, they parted.

-

-As General St. George had told the Squire, Kester was still at Park

-Newton. The doctor who was called in to attend him after his sudden

-attack on the night that the footsteps were heard in the nailed-up

-room, prescribed a bottle or two of some harmless mixture, and a few

-days of complete rest and isolation. As Kester would neither allow

-himself to be examined, nor answer any questions, there was very little

-more that could be done for him.

-

-Kester’s first impulse after his recovery—and a very strong impulse it

-was—was to quit Park Newton at once and for ever. Further reflection,

-however, convinced him that such a step would be unwise in the extreme.

-It would at once be said that he had been frightened away by the ghost,

-and that was a thing that he could by no means afford to have said of

-him. For it to get gossiped about that he had been driven from his own

-house by the ghost of Percy Osmond, might, in time, tend to breed

-suspicion; and from suspicion might spring inquiry, and that might

-ultimately lead to nobody knew what. No: he would stay on at Park

-Newton for weeks—for months even, if it suited him to do so. The

-incident of his sudden illness was a very untoward one: on that point

-there could be no doubt whatever; but not if he could anyhow help it

-should the faintest breath of suspicion spring therefrom.

-

-The Squire’s troubles had faded into the background for a few minutes

-during his interview with General St. George, but they now rushed back

-upon him with, as it seemed, tenfold force. There was nothing left for

-him now but to go home, and yet he had never felt less inclined to do

-so in his life. He dreaded the long quiet evening, with no society but

-that of his daughter. Not that Jane was a dull companion, or anything

-like it; but he dreaded to encounter her pleading eyes, her pretty

-caressing ways, the lingering embrace she would give him when he

-entered the house, and her good-night kiss. He felt how all these

-things would tend to unman him, how they would merely serve to deepen

-the remorse which he felt already. If only he could meet with some one

-to take home with him!—he did not care much who it was—some one who

-would talk to him, and enliven the evening, and take off for a little

-while the edge of his trouble, and so help him to tide over the weary

-hours that intervened between now and the morrow, by which time

-something might happen—he knew not what—or some light be vouchsafed to

-him which would show him a way out of his difficulties.

-

-These, or something like these, were the thoughts that were floating

-hazily in his mind, when in the distance he spied Tom Bristow striding

-along at his usual energetic rate. The Squire being still very lame,

-wisely captured a passing butcher boy, and, with the promise of

-sixpence, bade him hurry after Tom, and not come back without him.

-

-“You must come back with me to Pincote,” he said, when the astonished

-Tom had been duly captured. “I’ll take no refusal. I’ve got a fit of

-mopes, and if you don’t come and help to keep Jenny and me alive this

-evening, I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live.” So saying,

-the Squire linked his arm in Tom’s, and turned his face towards

-Pincote; and nothing loath was Tom to go with him.

-

-“I’ve done a fine thing this afternoon,” said Mr. Culpepper, as they

-drove along in the basket-carriage, which had been waiting for him at

-the hotel. “I’ve broken off Jenny’s engagement with Edward Cope.”

-

-Tom’s heart gave a great bound. “Pardon me, sir, for saying so,” he

-said as calmly as he could, “but I never thought that Mr. Cope was in

-any way worthy of Miss Culpepper.”

-

-“You are right, boy. He was not worthy of her.”

-

-“From the first time of seeing them together, I felt how entirely

-unfitted was Mr. Cope to appreciate Miss Culpepper’s manifold charms of

-heart and mind. A marriage between two such people would have been a

-most incongruous one.”

-

-“Thank Heaven! it’s broken now and for ever.”

-

-“I’ve broken off your engagement to Edward Cope,” whispered the Squire

-to Jane in the hall, as he kissed her. “Are you glad or sorry, dear?”

-

-“Glad—very, very glad, papa,” she whispered back as she rained a score

-of kisses on his face. Then she began to cry, and with that she ran

-away to her own room till she could recover herself.

-

-“Women are queer cattle,” said the Squire, turning to Tom, “and I’ll be

-hanged if I can ever make them out.”

-

-“From Miss Culpepper’s manner, sir,” said Tom, gravely, “I should judge

-that you had told her something that pleased her very much indeed.”

-

-“Then what did she begin snivelling for?” said the Squire, gruffly.

-

-“Why not tell him everything?” said the Squire to himself, as he and

-Tom sat down in the drawing-room. “He knows a good deal already,—why

-not tell him more? I know he can do nothing towards helping me to raise

-five thousand pounds, but it will do me good to talk to him. I must

-talk to somebody—and I feel sure my secret is quite safe with him. I’ll

-tell him while Jenny’s out of the room.”

-

-The Squire coughed and hemmed, and poked the fire violently before he

-could find a word to say. “Bristow,” he burst out at last, “I want to

-raise five thousand five hundred pounds in five days from now, and as

-I’m rather a bad hand at borrowing, I thought that you could, maybe,

-give me a hint as to how it could best be done. Cope would have

-advanced it for me in a moment, only that he happens to be rather short

-of funds just now, and I don’t want to trouble any of my other friends

-if it can anyhow be managed without.” He began to hum the air of an old

-drinking-song, and poked the fire again. “Capital coals these,” he

-added. “And I got ’em cheap, too. The market went up three shillings a

-ton the very day after these were sent in.”

-

-“Five thousand five hundred pounds is rather a large amount, sir,” said

-Tom, slowly.

-

-“Of course it’s a large amount,” said the Squire, testily. “If it were

-only a paltry hundred or two I wouldn’t trouble anybody. But never

-mind, Bristow—never mind. I didn’t suppose that you could help me when

-I mentioned it; and, after all, it’s a matter of very little

-consequence whether I raise the money or not.”

-

-“I can only suggest one way, sir, by which the money could be raised in

-so short a time.”

-

-“Eh!” said the Squire, turning suddenly on him, and dropping the poker

-noisily in the grate. “You don’t mean to say that you can see how it’s

-to be done!”

-

-“I think I do, sir. Do you know the piece of ground called Prior’s

-Croft?”

-

-“Very well indeed. It belongs to Duckworth, the publican.”

-

-“Between you and me, sir, Duckworth’s hard up, and would be glad to

-sell the Croft if he could do it quietly and without its becoming

-generally known that he is short of money.”

-

-“Well?” said the Squire, a little impatiently. He could not understand

-what Tom was driving at.

-

-“I dare engage to say, sir, that you could have the Croft for two

-thousand pounds, cash down.”

-

-“Confound it, man, what an idiot you must be!” said the Squire

-fiercely, bringing his fist down on the table with a tremendous bang.

-“Didn’t I tell you that I wanted to borrow money, and not to spend it?

-In fact, as you know quite well, I’ve got none to spend.”

-

-“Precisely so,” said Tom, coolly. “And that is the point to which I am

-coming, if you will hear me out.”

-

-The Squire’s only answer was to glare at him, as if in doubt whether he

-had not taken leave of his senses.

-

-“As I said before, sir, Duckworth will take two thousand pounds for the

-Croft, cash down. Now I, sir, will engage to raise two thousand pounds

-for you by to-morrow, at noon, with which to buy the piece of ground in

-question. The purchase can be effected, and the necessary deeds made

-out and completed, by ten o’clock the following morning. If you will

-entrust those deeds into my possession, I will guarantee to effect a

-mortgage for six thousand pounds, in your name, on the Croft.”

-

-If the Squire had looked suspicious with regard to Tom’s sanity before,

-he now seemed to have no doubt whatever on the point. He quietly took

-up the poker again, as if he were afraid that Tom might spring at him

-unexpectedly.

-

-“So you could lend me two thousand pounds could you?” said the Squire

-drily.

-

-“I did not say that, sir. I said that I could raise two thousand pounds

-for you, which is a very different matter from lending it out of my own

-pocket.”

-

-“Humph! And who, sir, do you think would be such a consummate ass as to

-advance six thousand pounds on a plot of ground that had just been

-bought for two thousand?”

-

-“Strange as such a transaction may seem to you, sir, I give you my word

-of honour that I should find no difficulty in carrying it out. Have I

-your permission to do so?”

-

-“I suppose that the two thousand raised by you would have to be repaid

-out of the six thousand raised by mortgage, leaving me with a balance

-of four thousand in hand?” said the Squire, without heeding Tom’s

-question, a smile of incredulity playing round his mouth.

-

-“No, sir,” answered Tom. “The two thousand pounds could remain on

-interest at five per cent. for whatever term might suit your

-convenience. Again, sir, I ask, have I your permission to negotiate the

-transaction for you?”

-

-Mr. Culpepper gazed steadily for a moment or two into Tom’s clear, cold

-eyes. There were no symptoms of insanity visible there, at any rate.

-“And do you mean to tell me in sober seriousness,” he said, “that you

-can raise this money in the way you speak of?”

-

-“In sober seriousness, I mean to tell you that I can. Try me.”

-

-“I will try you,” answered the Squire, impulsively. “I will try you,

-boy. You are a strange fellow, and I begin to think that there’s more

-in you than I ever thought there was. But here comes Jenny. Not a word

-more just now.”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER II.

-IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.

-

-

-The Park Newton clocks, with more or less unanimity as to time, had

-just struck ten. It was a February night, clear and frosty, and Lionel

-Dering sat in his dressing-room in slippered ease, musing by firelight.

-He had turned out the lamp on purpose; it was too garish for his mood

-to-night. He was back again in thought at Gatehouse Farm. Again he saw

-the gray old cottage, with its moss-grown eaves—the cottage that was so

-ugly outside, but so cosy within. Again he saw the long low sandhills,

-where they stretched themselves out to meet the horizon, and, in fancy,

-heard again the low, monotonous plash of the waves, whose melancholy

-music, heard by day and night, had at one time been as familiar to him

-as the sound of his own voice. What a quiet, happy time that seemed as

-he now looked back to it—a time of soft shadows and mild sunshine, with

-a pensive charm that was all its own, and that was lost for ever in the

-hour which told him that he was a rich man! Riches! What had riches

-done for him? He groaned in spirit as he asked himself the question. He

-could have been happy with Edith in a garret—how happy none but himself

-could have told—had fortune compelled him to earn her bread and his own

-by the sweat of his strong right arm.

-

-His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in,” he

-called out mechanically; and in there came, almost without, a sound,

-Dobbs, body-servant to Kester St. George.

-

-“Oh, Dobbs, is that you?” said Lionel, a little wearily, as he turned

-his head and saw who it was.

-

-“Yes, sir, I have made bold to intrude upon you for a few seconds,”

-said Dobbs, with the utmost deference, as he slowly advanced into the

-room, rubbing the long lean fingers of one hand softly with the palm of

-the other. “My master has not yet got back from Duxley, and there’s

-nobody about just now.”

-

-“Quite right, Dobbs,” said Lionel. “Anything fresh to report?”

-

-“Nothing particularly fresh, sir, but I thought that you might perhaps

-like to see me.”

-

-“Very considerate of you, Dobbs, but I am not aware that I have

-anything of consequence to say to you to-night.”

-

-“Thank you, sir,” said Dobbs, with a faint smile and an extra rub of

-his fingers. “Master’s still very queer, sir. No appetite worth

-speaking about. Obliged to screw himself up with brandy in a morning

-before he can finish his toilet. Mutters and moans a good deal in his

-sleep, sir.”

-

-“Mutters in his sleep, does he?” said Lionel. “Have you any idea,

-Dobbs, what it is that he talks about?”

-

-“I’ve tried my best to ascertain, sir, but without much success. I have

-listened and listened for hours, and very cold work it is, sir; but

-there’s never more than a word now and a word then that one can make

-out. Nothing connected—nothing worth recollecting.”

-

-“Does Mr. St. George still walk in his sleep?”

-

-“He does, sir, but not very often—not more than two or three times a

-month.”

-

-“Keep your eyes open, Dobbs, and the very next time your master walks

-in his sleep come to me at once—never mind what hour it may be—and tell

-me.”

-

-“I won’t fail to do so, sir.”

-

-“In these sleep-walking rambles does Mr. St. George always confine

-himself to the house, or does he ever venture out into the park or

-grounds?”

-

-“He generally goes out of doors, sir, at such times. Three times out of

-four he goes as far as the Wizard’s Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk,

-stops there for a minute or two, and then walks back home. I have

-watched him several times.”

-

-“The Wizard’s Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk! What should take him

-there?”

-

-“Then you know the place, sir?”

-

-“I know it well.”

-

-“Can’t say what fancy takes him there, sir. Perhaps he doesn’t know

-hisself.”

-

-“In any case, let me know when he next walks in his sleep. I have no

-further instructions for you to-night, Dobbs.”

-

-“Thank you, sir. I have the honour to wish you a very good night, sir.”

-

-“Good-night, Dobbs. Keep your eyes open, and report everything to me.”

-

-“Yes, sir, yes. You may trust me for doing that, sir.” And Dobbs the

-obsequious bowed himself out.

-

-In his cousin’s valet Lionel had found an instrument ready to his hand,

-but it was not till after long hesitation and doubt that he made up his

-mind to avail himself of it. The necessities of the case at length

-decided him to do so. No one appreciated the value of a bribe better

-than Dobbs, or worked harder or more conscientiously to deserve one.

-There was a crooked element in his character which made whatever money

-he might earn by indirect means, or by tortuous working, seem far

-sweeter to him than the honest wages of everyday life. Kester St.

-George was not the kind of man ever to try to attach his inferiors to

-himself by any tie of gratitude or kindness. At different times and in

-various ways he suffered for this indifference, although the present

-could hardly be considered as a case in point, seeing that it was not

-in the nature of Dobbs to resist a bribe in whatever shape it might

-offer itself, and that gratitude was one of those virtues which had

-altogether been omitted from his composition.

-

-Late one afternoon, a few days after the interview between Lionel and

-Dobbs, Kester St. George had his horse brought round, and rode out

-unattended, and without leaving word in what direction he was going, or

-at what hour he might be expected back. The day was dull and lowering,

-with fitful puffs of wind, that blew first from one point and then from

-another, and seemed the forerunners of a coming storm. Buried in his

-own thoughts, Kester paid no heed to the weather, but rode quickly

-forward till several miles of country had been crossed. By-and-by he

-diverged from the main road, and turned his horse’s head into a

-tortuous and muddy lane, which, after half an hour’s bad travelling,

-landed him on the verge of a wide stretch of brown treeless moor, than

-which no place could well have looked more desolate and cheerless under

-the gray monotony of the darkening February afternoon. Kester halted

-for awhile at the end of the lane to give his horse breathing time. Far

-as the eye could see, looking forward from the point where he was

-standing, all was bare and treeless, without one single sign of

-habitation or life.

-

-“Whatever else may be changed, either with me or the world,” he

-muttered, “the old moor remains just as it was the first day that I can

-remember it. It was horrible to me at first, but I learned to like

-it—to love it even, before I left it; and I love it now—to-day—with all

-its dreariness and monotony. It is like the face of an old friend. You

-may go away for twenty years, and when you come back you know that you

-will find on it just the same look that it wore when you went away. Not

-that I have ever cared to cultivate such friendships,” he added, half

-regretfully. “Well, the next best thing to having a good friend is to

-have a good enemy, and I can thank heaven for granting me several

-such.”

-

-He touched his horse with the spur, and rode slowly forward, taking a

-narrow bridle path that led in an oblique direction across the moor.

-“This ought to be the road if my memory serves me aright,” he muttered,

-“but they are all so much alike, and intersect each other so

-frequently, that it’s far more easy to lose one’s way than to know

-where one is.”

-

-“I suppose I shall have the rough side of Mother Mim’s tongue when I do

-find her,” he went on. “I’ve neglected her shamefully, without a doubt.

-But such ties as the one between her and me become tiresome in the long

-run. She ought to have died off long ago, but she’s as tough as

-leather. Poor devils in this part of the country, that haven’t a penny

-to bless themselves with, think nothing of living till they’re a

-hundred. Is it a superfluity of ozone, or a want of brains, that keeps

-them alive so long?”

-

-He rode steadily forward till he had nearly crossed one angle of the

-moor. At length, but not without some difficulty, he found the place he

-had come in search of. It was a rudely-built hut—cottage it could

-hardly be called—composed of mud, and turf, and great boulders all

-unhewn. Its roof of coarsest thatch was frayed and worn with the wind

-and rain of many winters. Its solitary door of old planks, roughly

-nailed together, opened full on to the moor.

-

-At the back was a patch of garden-ground, which was supposed to grow

-potatoes in the season, but which had never yet been known to grow any

-that were fit to eat. Mr. St. George looked round with a sneer as he

-dismounted.

-

-“And it was in this wretched den that I spent the first eight years of

-my existence!” he muttered. “And the woman whom this place calls its

-mistress was the first being whom I learned to love! And, faith, I’m

-rather doubtful whether I’ve ever loved anybody half so well since.”

-

-Putting his horse’s bridle over a convenient hook, and dispensing with

-the ceremony of knocking, Kester St. George lifted the latch, pushed

-open the door, stooped his head, and went in. Inside the hut everything

-was in semi-darkness, and Kester stood for a minute with the door in

-his hand, striving to make out the objects before him.

-

-“Come in and shut the door: I expected you,” said a hollow voice from

-one corner of the room; and the one room, such as it was, comprised the

-whole hut.

-

-“Is that you, Mother Mim?” asked Kester.

-

-“Ay—who else should it be?” answered the voice. “But come in and shut

-the door. That cold wind gives me the shivers.”

-

-Kester did as he was told, and then made his way to a wretched pallet

-at the other end of the hut. Of furniture there was hardly any, and the

-aspect of the whole place was miserable in the extreme. Over the ashes

-of a wood fire crouched a girl of sixteen, ragged and unkempt, who

-stared at him with black, glittering eyes as he passed her. Next moment

-he was standing by the side of a ragged pallet, on which lay the figure

-of a woman who looked ill almost unto death.

-

-“Why, mother, whatever has been the matter with you?” asked Kester. “A

-little bit out of sorts, eh? But you’ll soon be all right again now.”

-

-“Yes, I shall soon be all right now—soon be quite well,” answered the

-woman grimly. “A black box and six feet of earth cure everything.”

-

-“You mustn’t talk in that way, mother,” said Kester, as he sat down on

-the only chair in the place, and took one of the woman’s lean, hot

-hands in his. “You will live to plague us for many a year to come.”

-

-“Kester St. George, this is the last time you and I will meet in this

-world.”

-

-“I hope not, with all my heart,” said Kester, feelingly.

-

-“I know what I know, and I know that what I say is true,” answered

-Mother Mim. “You would not have come now if I had not worked a spell

-strong enough to bring you here even against your will. I worked it

-four nights ago, at midnight, when that young viper there”—pointing a

-finger at the girl, who was still cowering over the ashes—“was fast

-asleep, and there were no eyes to see but those of the cold stars. Ah!

-but it was horrible! and if it had not been that I felt I must see you

-before I died, I could never have gone through with it.” She paused for

-a moment, as though overcome by some dreadful recollection. “Then, when

-it was over, I crept back to bed, and waited quietly, knowing that now

-you could not choose but come.”

-

-“I ought to have come and seen you long ago—I know it—I feel it,” said

-Kester. “But let bygones be bygones, and I give you my solemn promise

-never to neglect you again. I am rich now, mother, and you shall never

-want for anything as long as you live.”

-

-“Too late—too late!” sighed the woman. “Yes, you’re rich now, rich

-enough to bury me, and that’s all I ask you to do.”

-

-“Don’t talk like that, mother,” said Kester.

-

-“If you had only come to see me!” said the woman. “That was all I

-wanted. Just to see your face, and squeeze your hand, and have you to

-talk to me for a little while. I wanted none of your money—no, not a

-single shilling of it. It was only you I wanted.”

-

-Kester began to feel slightly bored. He squeezed Mother Mim’s hand, and

-then dropped it, but he did not speak.

-

-“But you didn’t come,” moaned the woman, “and you wouldn’t have come

-now if I hadn’t worked a charm to bring you.”

-

-“There you wrong me,” said Kester, decisively. “Your charm, or spell,

-or whatever it may have been, had no effect in bringing me here. I came

-of my own free will.”

-

-“Self-conceited, as you always were and always will be,” muttered the

-woman. Then, half raising herself in bed, and addressing the girl, she

-cried: “Nell, you hussy, just you hook it for a quarter of an hour. The

-gent and I have something to talk about.”

-

-The girl rose sullenly, went slowly out, and banged the door behind

-her.

-

-Kester wondered what was coming next. He had dropped the woman’s hand,

-but she now held it out for him to take again. He took it, and she

-pressed his hand passionately to her lips three or four times.

-

-“If the great secret of my life is to be told at all on this side the

-grave, the time to tell it is now come. I always thought to die without

-revealing it, but somehow of late everything has seemed different to

-me, and I feel now as if I couldn’t die easy without telling you.” She

-paused for a minute, exhausted. There was some brandy on the

-chimney-piece, and Kester gave her a little. Again she took his hand

-and kissed it passionately.

-

-“You will, perhaps, curse me for what I am about to tell you,” she went

-on, “but whether you do so or not, so may Heaven help me if it is

-anything more than the simple truth! Kester St. George, you have no

-right to the name you bear—to the name the world knows you by!”

-

-Kester was so startled that for a moment or two he sat like one

-suddenly stricken dumb. “Go on,” he said at last. “There’s more to

-follow. I like boldness in lying as in everything else.”

-

-“Again I swear that I am telling you no more than the solemn truth.”

-

-“If I am not Kester St. George,” he said with a sneer, “perhaps you

-will kindly inform me who I really am.”

-

-“You are my son!”

-

-He flung the woman’s hand savagely from him, and sprang to his feet

-with an oath. “Your son!” he said. “Ha! ha! ha! Your son, indeed! Since

-when have your senses quite left you, Mother Mim? A dark cell in Bedlam

-and a strait waistcoat would be your best physic.”

-

-“I am rightly punished,” moaned the woman—“rightly punished. I ought to

-have told you years ago—ay—before you ever grew to be a man. But I

-loved you so, and had such pride in you, that I couldn’t bear the

-thought of telling you, and it’s only now when I’m on my deathbed that

-the secret forces itself from me. But it will go no farther, never you

-fear that. No living soul but you will ever hear it from my lips; and

-you have only got to keep your own lips tightly shut, and you will live

-and die as Kester St. George.”

-

-She sank back with the exhaustion of speaking. Mechanically, and almost

-without knowing what he was doing, Kester again gave her a little

-brandy. Then he sat down; and Mother Mim, finding his hand close by,

-took possession of it again. He shuddered slightly, but did not

-withdraw it.

-

-Although Mother Mim had advanced no proofs in support of the strange

-story she had just told him, there was something in her tone which

-carried conviction to his inmost heart.

-

-“I must know more of this,” he said, after a little while, speaking

-almost in a whisper.

-

-“How well I remember everything about it! It seems only like yesterday

-that it all happened,” sighed the woman. “You—my own child, and he—the

-other one that was sent to me to nurse, were born within a few hours of

-one another. His father broke a blood-vessel about six weeks after the

-child was brought to me. The mother went with her husband to Italy to

-take care of him, and the child was left with me. A week or two

-afterwards he was taken suddenly ill, and died. Then the devil tempted

-me to put my own boy into the place of the lost heir. When Mrs. St.

-George came back from Italy she came to see her child, and you were

-shown to her as that child. She accepted you without a moment’s

-suspicion. They let you stay with me till you were eight years old, and

-then they took you away and sent you to school. My husband and my

-sister were the only two beside myself who knew what had been done, and

-they both died years ago without saying a word. I shall join them in a

-few days, and then you alone will be the keeper of the secret. With you

-it will die, and on your tombstone they will write: ‘Here lies the body

-of Kester St. George.’”

-

-She had told her story with great difficulty, and with frequent

-interruptions to gather strength and breath to finish it. She now lay

-back, utterly exhausted. Her eyes closed, her hand relaxed its hold on

-Kester’s, her jaw dropped slightly, the thin white face grew thinner

-and whiter: it seemed as if Death, passing that way, had looked in

-unexpectedly, and had beckoned her to go with him. Kester rose quickly,

-and struck a match and lighted a fragment of candle that he found on

-the chimney-piece. His next impulse was to try and revive her with a

-little brandy, but he paused with the glass in his hand. Why try to

-revive her? Would it not be better for him, for her, for every one, if

-she were really dead? If such were the case, it would do away with all

-fear of her strange secret being ever divulged to any one else. Yes—in

-every way her death would be a welcome release.

-

-It was not without a tremor, it was not without a faster beating of the

-heart, that Kester took the bit of cracked looking-glass from the wall

-and held it to the woman’s lips. His very life seemed to stand still

-for a moment or two while he waited for the result. It came. The glass

-clouded faintly. The woman was not dead. With a muttered curse Kester

-dashed the glass across the floor and put back the candle on the

-chimney-piece. Then he took up his hat. Where was the use of staying

-longer? She could tell him nothing more when she should have come to

-her senses than she had told him already: nothing, that is, of any

-consequence; and as for details, he did not want them—at least, not

-now. What he had been told already held food enough for thought for

-some time to come. He paused for a moment before going out. Was it

-really possible—was it really credible, that that haggard,

-sharp-featured woman was his mother?—that his father had been a coarse,

-common labouring man, a mere hedger and ditcher, who had lived and died

-in that mean hut, and that he himself, instead of being the Kester St.

-George he had always believed himself to be, was no other than the son

-of those two—the boy whose supposed death he remembered to have heard

-about when little more than a mere child?

-

-Fiercely and savagely he told himself again and again that such a thing

-could not be—that what Mother Mim had told him was nothing more than a

-pack of devil’s lies—the invention of a brain weakened and distorted by

-illness and the clouds of coming death. It was high time to go. He put

-five sovereigns on the chimney-piece, went softly out, and shut the

-door behind him. The girl was sitting on the low mud-wall near the

-door, with the skirt of her dress drawn over her head as some

-protection from the bitter wind. Her black, glittering eyes took him in

-from head to foot as he walked up to her. “Go inside at once. She has

-fainted,” said Kester. The girl nodded and went. Then Kester mounted

-his horse and rode slowly homeward through the chilly twilight.

-Bitterest thoughts held him as with a vice. When he came within sight

-of the chimneys of Park Newton, he gave a sigh of relief, and put spurs

-to his horse. “That is mine, and no power on earth shall take it from

-me,” he muttered. “That and the money that comes with it. I am Kester

-St. George. Let those disprove who can!”

-

-A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room,

-smoking a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct

-taps at the door, which he recognized as the peculiar signal of Dobbs.

-It was nearly an hour past midnight, and in that early household every

-one had been long abed, or, at least, had retired long ago to their own

-rooms.

-

-Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by

-no means infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier

-hour than on the present occasion.

-

-“Come in, Dobbs,” said Lionel. “You are later to-night than usual.”

-

-“Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such

-an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago,

-that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master

-took to walking in his sleep.”

-

-“Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my

-instructions.”

-

-“Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast

-asleep.”

-

-“In which direction did he go?”

-

-“He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and let

-himself out through the little glass door into the garden.”

-

-“And then which way did he go?”

-

-“I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you.”

-

-“Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to

-take?”

-

-“There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the Wizard’s

-Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the place

-to which he has gone.”

-

-“We must follow him, Dobbs.”

-

-“Yes, sir.”

-

-“We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him.”

-

-“Yes, sir.”

-

-“I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets back

-to the house?”

-

-“None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes

-quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and soberly

-as if he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does really

-wake up in the morning, he never seems to know anything about what has

-happened over-night. But we must make haste, sir, if we wish to

-overtake him.”

-

-“I will be ready in one minute.”

-

-Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap

-on his head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the

-open air.

-

-The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above

-the tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint old house in its

-white glory, but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in

-deepest shadow. Nowhere could they discern the figure of the man whom

-they had come out to follow; but the Wizard’s Fountain was a good half

-mile from the Hall, so they struck at once into the nearest footway

-that led towards it. A few minutes’ quick walking took them there.

-Lionel knew the place well. It had been a favourite haunt of his when

-living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks that preceded the

-murder. Very weird and solemn the whole place looked, as seen by

-moonlight at that still hour of the night.

-

-Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that

-particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows

-immediately over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted

-of beech, and oak, and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and

-fantastic: untended and uncared for—growing together year after year,

-whispering their leafy secrets to each other with every spring that

-came round, and standing shoulder to shoulder against the winds of

-winter: a hoary brotherhood of forest sages.

-

-The fountain itself, whatever it might have been in years long gone by,

-was now nothing more than a confused heap of huge stones, overgrown

-with lichens and creepers. From the midst of them, and from what had

-doubtless at one time been a representation in marble of the head of a

-leopard or other forest animal, but which now was almost worn past

-recognition, trickled a thin stream of coldest water; which, falling

-into a broken basin below, over-brimmed itself there, and was lost

-among the cracks and interstices in the masses of broken masonry that

-lay scattered around.

-

-“You had better, perhaps, wait here,” said Lionel to Dobbs, as they

-halted for a moment at the entrance to the avenue.

-

-Dobbs did as he was bidden, and Lionel advanced alone, keeping well

-within the shade of the trees. When within a dozen yards of the

-fountain, he halted and waited. The low, ceaseless monotone of the

-falling water was the only sound that broke the moonlit silence.

-

-From out the dense shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the

-avenue, and as if he himself were part of that shadow, Kester St.

-George slowly emerged. In the middle of the avenue, and in the full

-light of the moon, he paused. His right hand was thrust into the bosom

-of his vest, as if he were hiding something there. Standing thus, he

-seemed, as it were, to shrink within himself. Still hugging that hidden

-something, he seemed to listen—to listen as if his very life depended

-on the act. Then, with a slow, creeping motion, as though his feet were

-weighted with lead, he stole towards the fountain. He reached it. He

-grasped the stonework with one hand, and then he turned to gaze, as

-though in dread of some hidden pursuer. Then slowly, almost

-reluctantly, he seemed to draw something from within his vest, and,

-while still gazing furtively around him, he thrust his arm, elbow deep,

-into a crevice in the masonry, let it rest there for a single moment,

-and then withdrew it. With the same furtively restless look, and ears

-that seemed to listen more intently than ever, he paused for an

-instant. Then he stole swiftly back across the moonlit avenue, and so

-vanished among the black shadows from whence he had come.

-

-So natural had been his actions, so unstudied his every movement, that

-it seemed impossible to believe that he was indeed asleep.

-

-Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by

-the fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a minute

-before. He had noted well the place. There, before him, was the very

-crevice into which Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same crevice

-was Lionel’s arm now thrust—elbow deep—shoulder deep. His groping

-fingers soon laid hold of that which was hidden there. He drew out his

-arm quickly, and the something that he had found glittered steel-blue

-in the moonlight. With a cry of horror he dropped it, and it fell with

-a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering had recognized it in a

-moment as a dagger which he had last seen in the possession of Percy

-Osmond.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER III.

-MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.

-

-

-Mrs. McDermott had reached Pincote, and she did not fail to let every

-one know it. As the Squire had predicted, the moment she had taken off

-her waterproof, and changed her boots, she marched straight into the

-library, and asked for her money. It was with a feeling of profound

-satisfaction that her brother unlocked his bureau, and handed her a

-roll of notes representing five thousand seven hundred and fifty

-pounds. She counted the notes over twice, slowly and carefully.

-

-“What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?” she asked.

-

-“Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum.”

-

-“I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least,” she

-said ungraciously. “My man of business tells me that seven is quite a

-common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per cent.

-on real property, without any difficulty.”

-

-“I should advise you to be careful what you are about,” said the

-Squire, gravely. “Big profits, big risks; little profits, little

-risks.”

-

-“I know perfectly well what I’m doing,” said Mrs. McDermott, with a

-toss of her antiquated curls. “It’s you slow, sleepy, country folks,

-who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances that come

-to people who keep their eyes wide open.”

-

-The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned in spirit when

-he thought what his “golden chance” had done for him.

-

-“Let her buy her experience as I’ve bought mine,” he said to himself.

-“From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for it.”

-

-“Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?” he asked

-Jane, a day or two later.

-

-“No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to

-go by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one.”

-

-“I hope not, with all my heart,” sighed the Squire.

-

-Mrs. McDermott, in truth, was not a lady who ever troubled herself to

-make her presence agreeable to those with whom she might be staying.

-Consideration for the comfort of others was a thought that never

-entered her mind. From the day of her arrival at Pincote she began to

-interfere with the existing arrangements of the house; finding fault

-with everything: changing this, altering the other, and evidently

-determined to have her own way in all. The first thing she did was to

-find fault with her bedroom, although it was one of the pleasantest

-apartments in the house, and had been especially arranged by Jane

-herself with a view to her aunt’s comfort. But it was not the best

-bedroom—the state bedroom, therefore Mrs. McDermott would have none of

-it. Into the state bedroom, a gloomy apartment fronting the north,

-which was never used above once or twice in half a dozen years, she

-migrated at once with all her belongings. Her next act, she being

-without a maid of her own at the time, was to induct one of the Pincote

-servants into that office, taking her altogether from her proper

-duties, and not permitting her to do a stroke of work for any one but

-herself. Then she talked her brother into allowing the dinner hour to

-be altered from six to half-past seven; so that, as the Squire grumbled

-to himself, the cloth was hardly removed before it was time to go to

-bed. Then the Squire must never appear at dinner without a dress coat,

-and a white tie—articles which, or late years, he had been tacitly

-allowed to dispense with when dining en famille. A white cravat

-especially was to him an abomination. He never could tie the knot

-properly, and after crumpling three or four, and throwing them across

-the room in a rage, Jane’s services would generally have to be called

-into requisition as a last resource.

-

-One other infliction there was which the Squire found it very difficult

-to bear patiently. After dinner, when there was no particular company

-at Pincote, it was an understood thing that the Squire should have the

-dining-room to himself for half an hour, in order that he might enjoy

-the post-prandial snooze which long custom had made almost a necessity

-with him. But this was an arrangement that failed to meet with the

-approbation of Mrs. McDermott. She insisted that the Squire should

-either accompany the ladies, or, otherwise, she herself would keep him

-company in the dining-room; and woe be to him if he dared so much as

-close an eye for five seconds! It was “Where are your manners, sir? I’m

-thoroughly ashamed of you;” or else, “Falling asleep, sir, in the

-presence of a lady? a clodhopper could do no more than that!” till the

-Squire felt as if his life were being slowly tormented out of him.

-

-Nor did Jane fail to come in for a share of her aunt’s strictures. Mrs.

-McDermott evidently looked upon her as little more than a child.

-Firstly, her hair was not arranged in accordance with her aunt’s ideas

-of propriety in such matters, which, truth to say, belonged to a

-somewhat antiquated school. Then the girl was altogether too bright and

-sunny-looking, with her bows of ribbon and bits of lace showing

-daintily here and there. And she was too forward in introducing topics

-of conversation at meal-times, instead of allowing the introduction of

-appropriate themes to come from her elders and her betters. Then Jane

-was addicted to the heinous offence of laughing too heartily, and too

-often. Altogether her aunt saw in her much that stood in need of

-reformation. Jane bore everything with a sort of good-humoured

-indifference. “The time to speak is not come yet. I will see how much

-further she will go,” she said to herself. But when the cook came to

-her one morning and said: “If you please, miss, Mrs. Dermott says that

-for the future I am to take my dinner orders from her,” then Jane

-thought that the time to speak was drawing very near indeed.

-

-“Do as Mrs. McDermott tells you,” she said quietly to the astonished

-cook.

-

-“Well, I never! I thought that the mistress had more spirit than that,”

-said the woman as she went back to her duties in the kitchen.

-

-Next day brought the coachman. “Beg pardon, miss,” he said, with a

-touch of his hair; “but Mrs. McDermott have given orders that the

-brougham and gray mare is to be ready for her every afternoon at three

-o’clock to the minute. I am to take the order, miss, I suppose?”

-

-“Quite right, John, till I give you orders to the contrary.”

-

-Next came the gardener. “Very sorry, miss, but I shall have to give

-notice—I shall really.”

-

-“Why, what’s amiss now, Gibson?”

-

-“It’s all Mrs. McDermott, miss; begging your pardon for saying so. Why

-will she pretend to understand gardening better than me that has been

-at it, man and boy, for fifty year? Why will she come finding fault

-with this, that, and the other, in a way that neither the Squire nor

-you, miss, ever thinks of doing? And she not only finds fault, but

-gives orders, ridiculous orders, about things she knows nothing of. I

-can’t stand it, miss, I really can’t.”

-

-“Mrs. McDermott will give you no more orders, Gibson, after to-day. You

-can go back to your work with an easy mind.”

-

-Jane waited till next morning, and then having ascertained that her

-aunt had again given orders to the cook respecting dinner, she walked

-straight into the breakfast-room where she knew that she should find

-Mrs. McDermott alone, and busy with her correspondence—for she was a

-great letter writer at that hour of the morning.

-

-“What a noisy girl you are,” she said crossly, as her niece drew up a

-chair and sat down beside her. “I was just writing a few lines to dear

-Lady Clark when you came in in your usual brusque way and put all my

-ideas to flight.”

-

-“They must be poor, timid, little ideas, aunt, to be so easily

-frightened away,” said Jane.

-

-“Jane, there has been a flippant tone about you for the last day or two

-that I don’t at all approve of. Flippancy in young people is easily

-acquired, but difficult to get rid of. The sooner you get rid of yours

-the better I shall be pleased.”

-

-Jane rose from her chair and swept Mrs. McDermott a stately curtsey.

-“Is it not almost time, aunt,” she said quietly, “that you gave up

-treating me, and talking to me, as if I were a child?”

-

-“If you are no longer a child in years, you are still very childish in

-many of your ways.”

-

-“You are quite epigrammatic this morning, aunt.”

-

-“Don’t be impertinent, young lady.”

-

-“I have no intention of being impertinent. But I have come to see you

-about the order for dinner which you gave the cook half an hour ago.”

-

-“What about that?” asked Mrs. McDermott snappishly. “In what way does

-it concern you?”

-

-“It concerns me very materially indeed,” answered Jane. “You have

-ordered several things for dinner that papa does not care about; some,

-in fact, that he never eats. Fried soles, for instance, and veal

-cutlets—articles he never touches. So I have told the cook to

-supplement your order with some turbot and a boiled fowl à la marquise.

-I have also told her that for the future she will receive from me every

-evening the menu for next day. Should my list contain nothing that you

-care about, the cook has orders to obtain specially for you any

-articles that you may wish to have.”

-

-“Upon my word! what next?” was all that Mrs. McDermott could gasp out

-at the moment, so overcome was she with rage and surprise.

-

-“This next,” said Jane. “From to-day the dinner hour will be altered

-back to six o’clock. Half-past seven suits neither papa nor me. Should

-the latter hour be a necessity with you, you can always have your

-dinner served at that time in your own room. But papa and I will dine

-at six.”

-

-“I shall talk to your papa about this, and ascertain from his own lips

-whether I am to be dictated to and insulted by a chit like you.”

-

-“That is just what I must forbid you to do,” said Jane. “Papa’s health

-has not been what it ought to be for a long time past.

-

-“Only a few weeks ago he had a slight stroke. Happily he soon recovered

-from it, but Dr. Davidson says that all exciting topics must be kept

-carefully from him. You know how little things will often excite him;

-and if you begin to worry him about any petty differences that may

-arise between you and me, you will do so at your peril, and must be

-satisfied to take whatever consequences may arise from your so doing.”

-

-Mrs. McDermott stared at her niece in open-mouthed wonder.

-

-“Perhaps you have something more to say to me,” she gasped out.

-

-“Yes, several things. Before ordering the brougham to be at your beck

-and call every day at three o’clock, it might, perhaps, be just as well

-to make sure that your brother is not likely to want it. He has taken

-to using it rather frequently of late.”

-

-“Oh, indeed; I’ll make due inquiry,” was all that Mrs. McDermott could

-find to say.

-

-“And if I were you, I wouldn’t go quite so often into the greenhouses,

-or near the men at work in the garden.”

-

-“Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while

-you are about it.”

-

-“Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an

-hour. He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot do

-without it. This is most imperative.”

-

-“I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life.”

-

-“Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no

-intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you

-when you come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here

-as papa’s guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you

-comfortable. But there can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that

-mistress, at present, is your niece, Jane Culpepper.”

-

-And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had bent

-over her, kissed her, and swept from the room.

-

-For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary state, at half-past

-seven, in her own room. But she found it so utterly wretched to have no

-one to talk to but her maid, that on the third day her resolution

-failed her; and when six o’clock came round she found herself in the

-dining-room, sitting next her brother, with something of the feeling of

-a school-girl who has been whipped and forgiven.

-

-Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid and

-stand-off-ish for several days to come. Towards the Squire she

-imperceptibly thawed, and the old familiar intimacy was gradually

-resumed between them. But between herself and Jane there was

-something—a restraint, a coldness—which no time could altogether

-remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that she had

-been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some

-great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then

-have afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise.

-

-It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed over

-to his sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to her. It

-was a great weight off his mind, and although he did not say much to

-Tom Bristow about it, he was none the less grateful in his secret

-heart. He was still as much at a loss as ever to understand by what

-occult means Tom had been able to raise the mortgage of six thousand

-pounds on Prior’s Croft. He had hinted more than once that he should

-like to know the secret by means of which a result so remarkable had

-been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly impervious.

-

-Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six

-thousand pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said:

-“With regard to Prior’s Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in

-the matter: perhaps you won’t object to it a second time.”

-

-“What is it, Bristow, what is it?” said the Squire, graciously. “I

-shall be glad to listen to anything you may have to say.”

-

-“What I want you to do, sir,” said Tom, “is to have some plans at once

-drawn up, and have the foundations laid of a number of houses—twenty to

-thirty at the least—on Prior’s Croft.”

-

-“I thought you crazy about the mortgage,” said the Squire, with a

-twinkle in his eye. “Are you quite sure you are not crazy now?”

-

-“I am just as sane now as I was then.”

-

-“But to build houses on Prior’s Croft! Why, nobody would ever live in

-them. The place is altogether out of the way.”

-

-“That has nothing whatever to do with the question. If you will only

-take my advice, sir, you will get the foundations down without an

-hour’s unnecessary delay.”

-

-“And where should I be at the end of a month, when the contractor came

-to me for the first instalment of his money?”

-

-“All that can be arranged for without difficulty. Your credit is sound

-in the market, and that is the one thing indispensable.”

-

-“But what is to be the ultimate result of all these mysterious

-proceedings?”

-

-“Now you get me in a corner. But I must again crave your indulgence,

-and ask you to let the mystery remain a mystery a little while longer.

-If you have sufficient faith in me, why, take my advice. If not—you

-will simply be missing a chance of making an odd thousand or so.”

-

-“And that is what I can by no means afford to do,” said the Squire with

-emphasis.

-

-The result was that a week later some forty or fifty men were busily at

-work cutting the turf and digging the foundations for the score of

-grand new villas which Mr. Culpepper had decided on building at Prior’s

-Croft.

-

-Everybody’s verdict was that the Squire must be mad. New villas,

-indeed! Why there were hardly people enough in sleepy old Duxley to

-occupy the houses that fell vacant as the older inhabitants died off.

-

-“That may be,” said the Squire, when this plea was urged on his notice;

-“but I mean to make my villas so handsome, so commodious, and so

-healthy, that a lot of the old rattletrap dens will at once be

-deserted, and I shall not have house-room for half the people who will

-want to become my tenants.” So spoke the Squire, putting a brave face

-on the matter, but really as much in the dark as any one.

-

-But if there was one person more puzzled than another, that person was

-certainly Mr. Cope the banker. He had ascertained for a fact that

-within a few days of their interview—their very painful interview, he

-termed it to himself—his quondam friend had actually become the

-purchaser of Prior’s Croft; and what was a still greater marvel, had

-actually paid down two thousand pounds in hard cash for it! And now the

-town’s talk was of nothing but the grand villas which the Squire was

-going to build on his new purchase. Mr. Cope could hardly credit it all

-till he went and saw with his own eyes the men hard at work. Still, it

-was altogether incomprehensible to him. Could the Squire have merely

-been playing him a trick; have only been testing the strength of his

-friendship, when he came to him to borrow the five thousand pounds? No,

-that could hardly be; else why had his balance at the bank been allowed

-to dwindle to a mere nothing? Besides which, he knew from words that

-the Squire had let drop at different times, that he must have been

-speculating heavily. Could it be possible that his speculations had,

-after all, proved successful? If not, how account for this sudden flood

-of prosperity? For several days Mr. Cope failed to enjoy his dinner in

-the hearty way that was habitual with him: for several nights Mr.

-Cope’s sleep failed to refresh him as it usually did.

-

-Although the Squire’s heaviest burden had been lifted off his mind with

-the payment of his sister’s money, he had by no means forgotten the

-loss of his daughter’s dowry. And now that his mind was easy on one

-point, this lesser trouble began to assume a magnitude that it had not

-possessed before. He could not get rid of the thought that there was

-nothing but his own frail life between his daughter and all but

-absolute penury. A few hundred pounds Jane would undoubtedly have, but

-what would that be to a young lady brought up as she had been brought

-up? “Not enough,” as the Squire put it in his homely way, “to find her

-in bread-and-cheese and cotton gowns.”

-

-But what was to be done? Life assurance was out of the question. He was

-too old and too infirm. There was nothing much to be got out of the

-estate. It was true that he might thin the timber a little and make a

-few hundreds that way; but the heir-at-law had too shrewd an eye to his

-own ultimate interests to allow very much to be done in that line.

-Besides which, the Squire himself could not for very shame have

-impaired what was the chief beauty of the Pincote property—its

-magnificent array of timber.

-

-There was, perhaps, a little cheese-paring to be done in the way of

-cutting down domestic expenses. A couple of servants might be dispensed

-with indoors. The under-gardener and the stable-boy might be sent about

-their business. The gray mare and the brougham might be disposed of.

-The wine merchant’s bill might be lightened a little; and fewer coals,

-perhaps, might be burnt in winter—and that was nearly all.

-

-But even such reductions as these, trifling though they were, could not

-be made secretly—could not be made, in fact, without becoming the talk

-of the whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire

-detested more than another, it was having his private affairs

-challenged and discussed by other people. And what, after all, would

-the saving amount to? How many years of such petty economy would be

-needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of the sum he had

-lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle, as he said to

-himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled, too, with

-asking the same questions over and over again, and still finding

-himself as far from a satisfactory answer as ever.

-

-There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it

-any real basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground

-which has already been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed

-estate—the piece of ground on which his new mansion was to have been

-built. Land, just now, was fetching good prices. Yes, he would

-certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in Jenny’s name whatever money

-it might fetch—not that it would command a very high price, being a

-poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still it would be a nest egg,

-though only a little one, for a rainy day.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER IV.

-KNOCKLEY HOLT.

-

-

-About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The

-Squire would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without

-Tom’s society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more and

-more disinclined either for going out himself or having company at

-home. Still he could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now

-and then; and Tom being either a good listener or a lively talker, as

-occasion might require, and having already rendered the Squire an

-important service, it seemed somehow to fall into the natural order of

-things that he should be invited three or four times a week to dine at

-Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott’s arrival was he there less

-frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very lively

-company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to

-say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she

-overwhelmed her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty

-gossip about things that had little or no interest for him; but about

-which he was obliged to feign an interest, unless, as he himself

-expressed it, “he wanted to know the length of his sister’s tongue.”

-

-But when Tom was there the case was different. He acted as a sort of

-buffer between Mrs. McDermott and the Squire. By means of a few adroit

-questions, and a clever assumption of ignorance with regard to whatever

-topic Mrs. McDermott might be dilating on, he generally succeeded in

-drawing the full torrent of her conversation on his own devoted head,

-thereby affording the Squire a breathing space for which he was truly

-grateful. Sometimes, but not very often, Tom let the demon of mischief

-get the mastery of him. On such occasions he would lead Mrs. McDermott

-on by one artful question after another till she began to contradict

-herself and eat her own words, and ended by floundering helplessly in a

-sort of mental quagmire, and so relapsing into sulky silence, with a

-dim sense upon her that she had somehow been coaxed into making an

-exhibition of herself by that demure-looking young scamp of a Bristow,

-who seemed hand and glove with both her brother and her niece after a

-fashion that she neither liked nor understood.

-

-Yet was the love of hearing herself talk so ingrained in Mrs.

-McDermott’s nature, that by the time of Tom’s next visit to Pincote she

-was ready to fall into the same trap again, had he been inclined to

-lead her on.

-

-“Who is that young Bristow that you and Jane make such a pet of?” she

-asked her brother one day. “I don’t seem to recollect any family of

-that name hereabouts.”

-

-“Pet, indeed! Nobody makes a pet of him, as you call it,” growled the

-Squire. “He’s the son of the doctor who attended poor Charlotte in her

-last illness. He’s a sharp young fellow who has got his head screwed on

-the right way, and he’s been useful to me in one or two business

-matters, and may be so again; so there’s no harm in asking him to

-dinner now and then.”

-

-“Now and then with you seems to mean three or four times a week,”

-sneered Mrs. McDermott.

-

-“And what if it does?” retorted the Squire. “As long as I can call the

-house my own, I’ll ask anybody I like to dinner, and as often as I

-like.”

-

-“Only if I were you, I wouldn’t forget that I’d a daughter who was just

-at a marriageable age.”

-

-“Nor a sister who wouldn’t object to a husband number two,” chuckled

-the Squire.

-

-“Why not set your cap at young Bristow, eh, Fanny? You might do worse.

-He’s young and not bad looking, and if he has no money of his own, he’s

-just the right sort to look well after yours.”

-

-Mrs. McDermott fanned herself indignantly. “You never were very

-refined, Titus,” she said; “but you certainly get coarser every time I

-see you.”

-

-Mr. Culpepper only chuckled to himself, and poked the fire vigorously.

-

-“I’ll have that young Bristow out of this house before I’m three weeks

-older!” vowed the ‘widow to herself. “The way he and Jane carry on

-together is simply disgusting, and yet that poor weak brother of mine

-can’t see it.”

-

-From that day forth she took to watching Tom and Jane more particularly

-than she had done before. Not satisfied with watching them herself, she

-induced her maid Emma to act as a spy on their actions. With her

-assistance, Mrs. McDermott was not long in gathering sufficient

-evidence to warrant her, as she thought, in seeking a private interview

-with her brother on the subject. “And high time too,” she said grimly

-to herself. “That minx of a Jane is carrying on a fine game under the

-rose. The arrant little flirt! And as for that young Bristow—of course

-it’s Jane’s money that he’s after. Titus must be as blind as a bat, or

-he would have seen it all long ago. I’ve no patience with him—none!”

-

-Having worked herself up to the requisite pitch, downstairs she bounced

-and burst into the Squire’s private room—commonly called his study. She

-burst into the room, but halted suddenly the moment she had crossed the

-threshold. The Squire was there, but not alone. Tom Bristow was with

-him. The two were in deep consultation—so much she could see at a

-glance—bending towards each other over the little table, and speaking,

-as it seemed to her, almost in a whisper. The Squire turned with a

-gesture of impatience at the opening of the door. “Oh, is that you,

-Fanny?” he said. “I’ll see you presently; I’m busy with Mr. Bristow,

-just now.”

-

-She went out without a word, but her face flushed deeply, and an evil

-look came into her eyes. “That’s the way you treat your only sister,

-Mr. Titus Culpepper, is it?” she muttered under her breath. “Not a

-penny of my money shall ever come to you or yours.”

-

-Tom had walked over to Pincote that morning to see the Squire

-respecting the building going on at Prior’s Croft. When their

-conference had come to an end, said the Squire to Tom: “You know that

-scrubby bit of ground of mine—Knockley Holt?”

-

-Tom started. “Yes, I know it very well,” he said. “It is rather

-singular that you should be the first to speak about it; because it was

-partly about that very piece of ground that I am here this morning to

-see you.”

-

-“Ay—ay—how’s that?” said the Squire, suddenly brightening up from the

-apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of late.

-

-“Why, it doesn’t seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that

-perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting me have a lease of it.”

-

-The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several weeks.

-“And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to ask your

-advice about it!”

-

-Tom’s face flushed suddenly. “And do you really think of selling

-Knockley Holt?” he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the

-Squire’s face more keenly than usual.

-

-“Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn’t have said what I have

-said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to me

-than the land is ever likely to be. It won’t fetch much I know, but

-then I didn’t give much for it, and whoever may get it won’t have much

-of a bargain.”

-

-“Perhaps you wouldn’t object to have me for a purchaser?”

-

-“You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I

-should want money down, and—— But I needn’t say more about it.”

-

-“If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve

-hundred pounds for it, cash down.”

-

-The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at anything

-that Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a moment or two

-in blank amazement.

-

-“Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!” were his first words.

-“And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve

-hundred pounds?”

-

-“Oh, I’m worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds,” said Tom,

-with a smile. “Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by one

-little stroke in cotton.”

-

-“Well done, young one,” said the Squire, heartily. “You are not such a

-fool as you look. And now take an old man’s advice. Don’t speculate any

-more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her cake. Don’t tempt

-her again. Be content with what you’ve got, and speculate no more.”

-

-“At any rate, I won’t forget your advice, sir,” said Tom. “I wonder,”

-he added to himself, “what he would think and say if he knew that it

-was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread and cheese.”

-

-“And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?”

-

-“I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it.”

-

-“Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do

-with it when you have got it?”

-

-“Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask

-me,” said Tom, laughingly. “If I buy it, it will be entirely on

-speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a big

-success.”

-

-“Well, well, that will be your look out,” said the Squire,

-good-naturedly. “But, Bristow, it’s not worth twelve hundred pounds,

-nor anything like that sum.”

-

-“I think it is, sir—at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay that

-amount for it.”

-

-“I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a

-clear thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied.”

-

-“I have made you an offer, sir. It is for you to say whether you are

-willing to accept it.”

-

-“Seeing that you offer me two hundred pounds more than I ever hoped to

-get, I’m not such an ass as to say, No. Only I think you are robbing

-yourself. I do indeed, Bristow; and that’s what I don’t like to see.”

-

-“I think, sir, that I’m pretty well able to look after my own

-interests,” said Tom, with a meaning smile. “Am I to consider that

-Knockley Holt is to become my property?”

-

-“Of course you are, boy—of course you are. But I must say that you are

-a little bit of a simpleton to give me twelve hundred when you might

-have it for a thousand.”

-

-“An offer’s an offer, and I’ll abide by mine.”

-

-“Then there’s nothing more to be said: I’ll see my lawyer about the

-deeds to-morrow.”

-

-Tom shook hands with the Squire and went in search of Jane.

-

-“Perhaps I may come in now,” said Mrs. McDermott five minutes later, as

-she opened the door of her brother’s room.

-

-“Of course you may,” said the Squire. “Young Bristow and I were talking

-over some business affairs before, that would have had no interest for

-you, and that you know nothing about.”

-

-“It’s about young Bristow, as you call him, that I have come to see you

-this morning.”

-

-“Oh, indeed,” said the Squire drily. Then he took off his spectacles,

-and rubbed them with his pocket handkerchief, and began to whistle a

-tune under his breath.

-

-Mrs. McDermott glared fiercely at him, and her voice took an added tone

-of asperity when she spoke again. “I suppose you are aware that your

-protégé is making violent love to your daughter, or else that your

-daughter is making violent love to him: I hardly know which it is!”

-

-“What!” thundered the Squire, as he started to his feet. “What is that

-you say, Fanny McDermott?”

-

-“Simply this: that there is a lot of lovemaking going on between Jane

-and Mr. Bristow. If it is done with your sanction, I have not another

-word to say. But if you tell me that you know nothing about it, I can

-only say that you must have been as blind as a bat and as stupid as an

-owl.”

-

-“Thank you, Fanny—thank you,” said the Squire sadly, as he sat down in

-his chair again. “I dare say I have been both blind and stupid; and if

-what you tell me is true, I must have been.”

-

-“Miss Jane couldn’t long deceive me,” said the widow spitefully.

-

-“Miss Jane is too good a girl to deceive anybody.”

-

-“Oh, in love matters we women hold that everything is fair. Deceit then

-becomes deceit no longer. We call it by a prettier name.”

-

-Her brother was not heeding her: he was lost in his own thoughts.

-

-“The young vagabond!” he said at last. “So that’s the way he’s been

-hoodwinking me, is it? But I’ll teach him: I’ll have him know that I’m

-not to be made a fool of in that way. Make love to my daughter, indeed!

-I’ll have him here to-morrow morning, and tell him a bit of my mind

-that will astonish him considerably.”

-

-“Why wait till to-morrow? Why not send for him now?”

-

-“Because he left here a quarter of an hour ago.

-

-“Oh, you would not have far to send for him.”

-

-“What do you mean?”

-

-“Simply that he and Jane are in the shrubbery together at the present

-moment.”

-

-The Squire stared at her helplessly for a moment or two. “How do you

-know that?” he said at last, speaking very quietly.

-

-“Because my maid, who was returning from an errand, saw them walking

-there, arm in arm.” She paused, as if expecting her brother to say

-something, but he did not speak. “I have not had my eyes shut, I assure

-you,” she went on. “But in these matters women are always more

-quick-sighted than men. From the very first hour of my seeing them

-together I had my suspicions. All their walking and talking together

-couldn’t be for nothing. All their hand-shakings and sly glances into

-each other’s eyes couldn’t be without a meaning.”

-

-The Squire got up from his chair and rang the bell. A servant came in.

-“Ascertain whether Mr. Bristow is anywhere about the house or grounds;

-and, if he is, tell him that I should like to see him before he goes.”

-

-Mrs. McDermott rose in some alarm. It was no part of her policy to be

-seen there by Tom. “I am glad you have sent for him,” she said. “I hope

-matters have not gone too far to be stopped without difficulty.”

-

-He looked up in a little surprise. “There will be no difficulty. Why

-should there be?” he said.

-

-“No, of course not. As you say, why should there be? But I must now bid

-you good-morning for the present. There will be hardly any need, I

-think, for you to mention my name in the affair.”

-

-“There will be no need to mention anybody’s name. Good-morning.”

-

-Mrs. McDermott went out and shut the door gently behind her. “Breaking

-fast, poor man,” she said to herself. “He’s not long for this world,

-I’m afraid. Well, I’ve the consolation of knowing that I’ve always done

-a sister’s duty by him. I wonder what he’ll die worth. Thousands, no

-doubt; and all to go to that proud minx of a Jane. We are not allowed

-to hate one another, or else I’m afraid I should hate that girl.”

-

-She shook her fist at an imaginary Jane, went straight upstairs, and

-gave her maid a good blowing-up.

-

-Some three weeks had now come and gone since Tom, breaking for once

-through the restraint which had hitherto kept him back, did and said

-something which made Jane very happy. What he did was to draw her face

-down to his and kiss it: what he said was simply, “Good-night, my

-darling.” Nothing more, but quite enough to be understood by her to

-whom the words were spoken. But since that evening not one syllable

-more of love had been breathed by Tom. For anything that had since

-passed between them Jane might have imagined that she had merely dreamt

-the words—that the speaking of them was nothing more than a fancy of

-her own lovesick brain.

-

-Under similar circumstances many young ladies would have considered

-themselves aggrieved, and would not have been deemed unreasonable in so

-thinking, But Jane had no intention whatever of adopting an injured

-tone even in her own inmost thoughts. She had never been in the habit

-of looking upon herself in the light of a victim, and she had no

-intention of beginning to do so now. Surprised—slightly surprised—she

-might be, but that was all. In Tom’s manner towards her, in the way he

-looked at her, in the very tone of his voice, there was that

-indescribable something which gave her the sweet assurance that she was

-still loved as much as ever. Such being the case, she was well

-satisfied to wait. She felt that her lover’s silence had a meaning,

-that he was not dumb without a reason. When the proper time should come

-he would speak, and to some purpose. Till then Eros should keep a

-finger on his lips, and speak only the language of the eyes.

-

-“So this is the way you treat me, is it, young man?” said the Squire,

-sternly, as Tom re-entered the room.

-

-“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Tom, looking at him in sheer amazement.

-

-“Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know what I mean.”

-

-“It may seem stupid on my part, but I must really plead ignorance.”

-

-“You worm yourself into my confidence till you get the run of the

-house, and can come and go as you like, and you finish up by making

-love to my daughter!”

-

-“It is no crime to love Miss Culpepper, I hope, sir. There are few

-people, I imagine, who could know her without loving her.”

-

-“That’s all very well, but you don’t get over me in that way, young

-sir. What right have you to make love to my daughter? That’s what I

-want to know.”

-

-“I may love Miss Culpepper, but I have never told her so.”

-

-“Do you mean to say that you have never asked her to marry you?”

-

-“Never, sir; on that point I give you my word of honour.”

-

-“A good thing for you that you haven’t. The sooner you get that love

-tomfoolery out of your head the better.”

-

-“I promise you one thing, sir,” said Tom; “if I ever do marry Miss

-Culpepper, it shall be with your full consent and good wishes.”

-

-The Squire could not help chuckling. “In that case, my boy, you will

-never have her—not if you live to be as old as Methuselah.”

-

-“Time will prove, sir.”

-

-“And look ye here. There must be no more walks in the shrubbery, no

-more gallivanting together among the woods. Do you understand?”

-

-“Perfectly, sir. Your words could not be plainer.”

-

-“I mean them to be plain. There seems to be no harm done so far, but

-it’s time this nonsense was put a stop to. Miss Culpepper must marry in

-a very different sphere from yours.”

-

-“Pardon the remark, sir, but you were quite willing to take Mr. Edward

-Cope as your son-in-law. Now, I consider myself quite as good a man as

-Mr. Cope—quite as eligible a suitor for your daughter’s hand.”

-

-“Then I don’t. Besides, young Cope would never have had the chance of

-getting her if he hadn’t been the son of my oldest friend; the son of

-the man to whose bravery I owe my life itself. Master Edward owes it to

-his father and not to himself that I ever sanctioned his engagement to

-Miss Culpepper.”

-

-“I am indebted for this good turn to Mrs. McDermott,” said Tom to

-himself, as he walked homeward through the park. “It will only have the

-effect of bringing matters to a climax a little earlier than I

-intended, but it will not alter my plans in the least.”

-

-“Fanny has been exaggerating as usual,” was the Squire’s comment.

-“There was something in it, no doubt, and it’s just as well to have

-crushed it in the bud; but I think it’s hardly worth while to say

-anything to Jenny about it.”

-

-A week later, the Squire happened to be riding on his white pony along

-the high road that fringed one side of Knockley Holt, when, to his

-intense astonishment, he heard the regular monotonous puffing and saw

-the smoke of a steam engine that was apparently hard at work behind a

-clump of larches in the distance. Riding up to the spot, he found some

-score or so of men all busily engaged. They were excavating a hole in

-the hill-side, filling-in stout timber supports as they got deeper

-down; the engine on the top being employed to hoist up the earth in big

-bucketfuls as fast as it was dug out.

-

-“What’s all this about?” inquired the Squire of one of the men; “and

-who’s gaffer here?”

-

-“Mr. Bristow, he be the gaffer, sur, and this hole be dug by his

-orders.”

-

-“Oh, ho! that’s it, is it? And how deep are you going to dig the hole,

-and what do you expect to find when you get to the bottom?”

-

-“I don’t rightly know, sur, but I should think we be digging for

-water.”

-

-“A likely tale that! What the dickens should anybody want water for

-when we haven’t had a dry day for seven weeks?”

-

-“Our foreman did say, sur, as how Mr. Bristow was going to have a hole

-dug clean through, so as to make a short cut like to the other side of

-the world. Anyhow, it be mortal dry work.”

-

-The Squire gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and rode off. “What queer

-crotchet has that young jackanapes got into his head now?” he muttered

-to himself. “It’s just possible, though, that there may be a method in

-his madness.”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER V.

-AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.

-

-

-“Hi! Jean, whose is this luggage?” cried Pierre Janvard one morning to

-his head waiter. He pointed at the same time to a large portmanteau

-which lay among a pile of other luggage in the hall of the Three Crowns

-Hotel, Bath.

-

-With that restless curiosity which was such a marked trait in his

-character, Janvard had a habit of peering about among the luggage of

-his guests, and even of prying stealthily about their bedrooms when he

-knew that their occupants were out of the way, and he himself safe from

-detection. It was not that he hoped to benefit himself in any way, or

-even to pick up any information that would be of value to him, by such

-a mode of proceeding; but it had been a habit with him from boyhood to

-do this kind of thing, and it was a habit that he could by no means

-overcome.

-

-Passing through the hall this morning, his eye had been attracted by a

-pile of luggage belonging to several fresh arrivals, and he at once

-began to peer among the labels. The second label that took his eye was

-inscribed, “Richard Dering, Esq., Passenger to Bath.” Janvard stood

-aghast as he read the name. A crowd of direful memories rushed to his

-mind. For a moment or two he could not speak. Then he called Jean as

-above.

-

-“That portmanteau,” answered Jean, “belongs to a gentleman who came in

-by the last train. He and another gentleman came together. They wanted

-a private sitting-room, and I put them into number twenty-nine.”

-

-“Has the other gentleman any luggage?”

-

-“Yes, this large black bag belongs to him.” Janvard stooped and read:

-“Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath.” “Quite strange to me, that

-name,” he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and

-shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.

-

-“They have ordered dinner, I suppose?”

-

-“Yes, sir.”

-

-“Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?”

-

-“No, sir.”

-

-“Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk

-about, and report it to me afterwards.”

-

-“Yes, sir.”

-

-Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind.

-Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel

-Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common

-enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to

-himself again and again.

-

-One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive to

-see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the

-slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any other

-quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these people,

-after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr. Kester St.

-George for instructions.

-

-He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his

-banker’s passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing

-source of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in

-walked Mr. Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow.

-

-It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard’s eyes

-rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his

-appearance. Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still.

-His thin lips quivered for a moment, and then his hands began to

-tremble slightly, so that in a little while he was obliged to take them

-off the table and bury them in his pockets.

-

-He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that

-other Mr. Dering whose face he remembered so well—whose face it was

-impossible that he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet

-strangely unlike: the same in many points, and yet in others most

-different. But the moment this dark-looking stranger opened his lips,

-it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back from the grave. A

-covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he beheld a

-man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before.

-

-“Your name is Janvard, I believe?” said Mr. Dering, with a slight bow.

-

-“Pierre Janvard at your service,” answered the Frenchman,

-deferentially.

-

-“You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St.

-George?”

-

-“I had that honour.”

-

-“My name is Dering—Richard Dering. It is probable that you never heard

-of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from India. I am

-cousin to Mr. Kester St. George.”

-

-The Frenchman bowed. “I have no recollection of having heard monsieur’s

-name mentioned by my late employer.”

-

-“I suppose not. But my brother’s name—Lionel Dering—must be well known

-to you.”

-

-Janvard could not repress a slight start So that was the relationship,

-was it?

-

-“Ah, yes,” he said. “I have seen Mr. Lionel Dering many times, and done

-several little services for him at one time or another.”

-

-“You were one of the chief witnesses on the trial, if I recollect

-rightly?”

-

-Janvard coughed, to gain a moment’s time. The conversation was taking a

-turn that he did not approve of. “I certainly was one of the witnesses

-on the trial,” he said, with an air of deprecation. “But monsieur will

-understand that it was a misfortune which I had no means of avoiding. I

-could not help seeing what I did see, and they made me tell all about

-it.”

-

-“Oh, we quite understand that,” said Mr. Dering. “You were not to blame

-in any way. You could not do otherwise than as you did.”

-

-Janvard smiled faintly, and bowed his gratification.

-

-“My friend here, Mr. Bristow, and myself, have come down to stay a week

-or two in your charming city. The doctors tell me there is something

-the matter with my spleen, and have recommended me to drink the Bath

-waters. Hearing casually that you were the proprietor of one of the

-most comfortable hotels in the place, and looking upon you somewhat in

-the light of a connection of the family, we thought that we could not

-do better than take up our quarters with you.”

-

-Again Janvard smiled and bowed his gratification. “Monsieur may depend

-upon my using my utmost endeavours to make himself and his friend as

-comfortable as possible. Pardon my presumption, but may I venture to

-ask whether Mr. St. George was quite well when monsieur saw or heard

-from him last?”

-

-“My cousin was a little queer a short time ago, but I believe him to be

-well again by this time.” Mr. Dering turned to go. “We have given your

-waiter instructions as to dinner,” he said.

-

-“I hope my chef will succeed in pleasing you,” said Janvard., with a

-smile. “He has the reputation of being second to none in the city.”

-With the same smile on his face he followed them to the door and bowed

-them out, and, still smiling, watched them till they turned the corner

-of the street. “No danger there, I think,” he said to himself. “None

-whatever. Still I must keep on the watch—always on the watch. I must

-look to their dinners myself, and leave them nothing to complain of.

-But I shall be very much pleased indeed when they call for their bill:

-very much pleased to see the last of them.”

-

-Said Tom to Lionel, as they were walking arm-in-arm towards the

-pump-room: “Did you notice that magnificent ring which Janvard wore on

-the third finger of his left hand?”

-

-“I could not fail to notice it. I was thinking about it at the very

-moment you spoke.”

-

-“I have not seen so splendid a ruby for a long time. The setting, too,

-is rather unique.”

-

-“Yes, it was the peculiar setting that caused me to recognize it

-again.”

-

-“That caused you to recognize it! You don’t mean to say that you have

-ever seen the ring before?”

-

-“I certainly have seen it before.”

-

-“Where?”

-

-“On the finger of Percy Osmond.”

-

-Tom halted suddenly and stared at Lionel as if he could hardly believe

-the evidence of his ears.

-

-“I am stating nothing but the simple truth,” continued Lionel. “The

-moment I saw the ring on Janvard’s finger the thought flashed through

-me that I had certainly seen it somewhere before. All the time I was

-talking to Janvard I was trying to call that somewhere to mind, but it

-did not come to me till after we had left the hotel—not, in fact, till

-a minute before you spoke about it.”

-

-“Are you sure you are not mistaken? There are many ruby rings in the

-world.”

-

-“I don’t for one moment think that I am mistaken,” answered Lionel

-deliberately. “If the ring worn by Janvard be the one I mean, it has

-three initial letters engraved inside the hoop. What particular letters

-they are I cannot now recollect. I chanced to express my admiration of

-the ring one night in the billiard-room, and Osmond took it off his

-finger in order that I might examine it. It was then I saw the letters,

-but without noticing them with sufficient particularity to remember

-them again.”

-

-“I always had an idea,” said Tom, “that Janvard was in some way mixed

-up with the murder, and this would seem to prove it. He must have

-stolen the ring from Osmond’s room either immediately before or

-immediately after the murder.”

-

-“I must see that ring,” said Lionel decisively. “It must come into my

-possession, if only for a minute or two, if only while I ascertain

-whether the initials are really there.”

-

-“I don’t think that there will be much difficulty about that,” said

-Tom. “The fellow has no suspicion as to whom you really are, or as to

-the object of our visit to Bath. To admire the ring is the first step:

-to ask to look at it the second.”

-

-A quarter of an hour later Lionel gripped Tom suddenly by the arm.

-“Bristow,” he whispered, “I have just remembered something. Osmond had

-that ruby ring on his finger the night before he was murdered! I have a

-distinct recollection of seeing it on his hand when we were playing

-that last game of billiards together.”

-

-“If this ring,” said Tom, “prove to be the one you believe it to be,

-the finding of it will be another and a most important link in the

-chain of evidence.”

-

-“Yes—almost, if not quite, the last one that we shall need,” said

-Lionel.

-

-At dinner that evening Janvard in person took in the wine. The eyes of

-both Lionel and Tom fixed themselves instinctively on his left hand.

-The ring was no longer there.

-

-“Can he suspect anything?” asked Lionel of Tom, as soon as they were

-alone.

-

-“I think not,” answered Tom. “The fellow is evidently uneasy, and will

-continue to be so as long as you stay under his roof. But the very

-openness of our proceedings, and the frank way in which we have told

-him who we are, will go far to disarm any suspicions which he might

-otherwise have entertained.”

-

-Two or three days passed quietly over. Lionel drank the waters with

-regularity, and he and Tom drove out frequently in the neighbourhood of

-King Bladud’s beautiful city. Janvard always gave them a look in in the

-course of dinner to see that everything was to their satisfaction; but

-he still carefully abstained from wearing the ring.

-

-By-and-by there came a certain evening when Janvard failed to put in

-his usual appearance at the dinner table. Said Tom to the man who

-waited upon them: “Where is your master this evening? Not ill, I hope?”

-

-“Gone to a masonic banquet, sir,” answered the man.

-

-“Then he won’t be home till late, I’ll wager.”

-

-“Not till eleven or twelve, I dare say, sir.

-

-“Gone in full fig, of course?” said Tom, laughingly.

-

-“Yes, sir,” answered the man with a grin.

-

-“Diamond studs and ruby ring, and everything complete, eh?” went on

-Tom.

-

-“I don’t know about diamond studs, sir,” said the man, “but he

-certainly had his ring on, for I saw it on his finger myself.”

-

-“Now is our time,” said Tom to Lionel, as soon as the man had left the

-room. “We may not have such an opportunity again.”

-

-It was close upon midnight when Pierre Janvard, alighting from a fly at

-the door of his hotel, found his two lodgers standing on the steps

-smoking a last cigar before turning in for the night. In this there was

-nothing unusual—nothing to excite suspicion.

-

-“Hallo! Janvard, is that you?” cried Tom, assuming the tone and manner

-of a man who has taken a little too much wine. “I was just wondering

-what had become of you. This is my birthday: so you must come upstairs

-with us, and drink my health in some of your own wine.”

-

-“Another time, sir, I shall be most happy; but to-night——”

-

-“But me no buts,” cried Tom. “I’ll have no excuses—none. Come along,

-Dering, and we’ll crack another bottle of Janvard’s Madeira. We’ll

-poison mine host with his own tipple.”

-

-He seized Janvard by the arm, and dragged him upstairs, trolling out

-the last popular air as he did so. Lionel followed leisurely.

-

-“You’re a good sort, Janvard—a deuced good sort!” said Tom.

-

-“Monsieur is very kind,” said Janvard, with a smile and a shrug; and

-then in obedience to a wave from Tom’s hand, he sat down at table. Tom

-now began to fumble with a bottle and a corkscrew.

-

-“Allow me, monsieur,” said Janvard, politely, as he relieved Tom of the

-articles in question, and proceeded to open the bottle with the ease of

-long practice.

-

-“That’s a sweet thing in rings you’ve got on your finger,” said Tom,

-admiringly.

-

-“Yes, it is rather a fine stone,” said Janvard, dryly.

-

-“May I be allowed to examine it?” asked Tom, as he poured out the wine

-with a hand that was slightly unsteady.

-

-“I should be most happy to oblige monsieur,” said Janvard, hastily,

-“but the ring fits me so tightly that I am afraid I should have some

-difficulty in getting it off my finger.”

-

-“Hang it all, man, the least you can do is to try,” cried Tom.

-

-The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little

-difficulty, and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom’s fingers

-clutched it like a vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if

-to reclaim the ring; but it was too late, and he sat down without

-speaking.

-

-Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it

-towards the light. “A very pretty gem, indeed!” he said. “And worth

-something considerable in sovereigns, I should say.”

-

-“Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?” asked Lionel gravely,

-as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from his

-seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom handed

-the ring across to Lionel.

-

-“A magnificent stone, indeed,” said the latter, “but somewhat

-old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable

-in my eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop

-are three initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I

-read them aright they are M. K. L.”

-

-“Yes, yes, monsieur,” said Janvard, uneasily. “As you say, M. K. L. The

-initials of the friend who gave me the ring.” He held out his hand, as

-if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to him, but

-Lionel took no notice of the action.

-

-“Three very curious initials, indeed,” said Lionel, musingly. “One

-could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in mind

-of a curious coincidence—of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I

-once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and

-inside the hoop of my friend’s ring were three initials. The initials

-in question were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved on

-your ring, Monsieur Janvard. Curious, is it not?”

-

-“Mille diables! I am betrayed!” cried Janvard, as he started from his

-seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him.

-The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.

-

-He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and

-looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom

-Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold,

-quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom’s right

-hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard’s ears were

-smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to

-the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The

-pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was beginning

-to desert him. He was trembling visibly.

-

-“Sit down, sir,” said Lionel, sternly, “and refresh yourself with

-another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to

-you.”

-

-The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders

-and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two

-glasses of wine rapidly one after another.

-

-“I am ready, monsieur,” he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips,

-and made a ghastly effort to smile. “At your service.”

-

-“What I want from you, and what you must give me,” said Lionel, “is a

-full and particular account of how this ring came into your possession.

-It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the night he was

-murdered.”

-

-“Ah ciel! how do you know that?”

-

-“It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it.

-But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was

-found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession.”

-

-For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: “Who

-are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and

-threaten me in this way?”

-

-“I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine.”

-

-“What if I refuse to answer them?”

-

-“In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than

-half an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger

-of Mr. Osmond the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought

-many a better man than you to the gallows: be careful that it does not

-land you there?”

-

-“If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the

-murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago.”

-

-“What proof have you—what proof was there adduced at the trial, that

-Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or those

-of any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew from the

-first that he was innocent! If you yourself are not the murderer, you

-know the man who is.”

-

-Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the

-floor. He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke,

-but it was in the same sullen tone that he had used before.

-

-“What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may

-know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?”

-

-“You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such promise.

-For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be the

-murderer of Percy Osmond.”

-

-Janvard shuddered slightly. “I am not the murderer of Percy Osmond,” he

-said quietly.

-

-“Who, then, was the murderer?”

-

-“My late master—Mr. Kester St. George.”

-

-There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although

-Janvard’s words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel

-and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears

-with all the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there,

-Janvard was the one who seemed least concerned.

-

-Lionel was the first to speak. “This is a serious charge to make

-against a gentleman like Mr. St. George,” he said.

-

-“I have made no charge against Mr. St. George,” said Janvard. “It is

-you who have forced the confession from me.”

-

-“You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement—to prove

-your words?”

-

-“I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you

-will not let me.”

-

-“All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell me.”

-

-“But, monsieur——” began Janvard, appealingly, and then he stopped.

-

-“You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use that

-power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time, understand me.

-I am no constable—no officer of the law—I am simply the brother of

-Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was accused and found

-guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I am, I have vowed

-that I will not rest night or day till I have discovered the murderer

-and brought him to justice. Such being the case, I tell you plainly

-that the best thing you can do is to make a full and frank confession

-of all that you know respecting this terrible business, leaving it for

-me afterwards to decide as to the use which I may find it requisite to

-make of your confession. Are you prepared to do what I ask of you?”

-

-Janvard’s shoulders rose and fell again. “I cannot help myself,” he

-said. “I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur.”

-

-“Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh

-your memory.”

-

-“Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that

-night are far too terrible to be forgotten.” With a hand that still

-shook slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank it

-off at a draught. Then he continued: “On the night of the quarrel in

-the billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master, Mr.

-St. George. About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering it,

-my master put Mr. Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the worse for

-wine, with instructions to see him safely to bed. This I did, and then

-left him. As it happened, I had taken a violent fancy to Mr. Osmond’s

-splendid ruby ring—the very ring monsieur has now in his possession—and

-that night I determined to make it my own. There were several new

-servants in the house, and nobody would suspect me of having taken it.

-Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and thrown it carelessly into

-his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into bed, afterwards

-putting his keys under his pillow.

-

-“When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made my

-way to Mr. Osmond’s bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A

-night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in

-through the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the

-sleeper’s face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with

-one hand clenched, and a frown on his face as if he were still

-threatening Mr. Dering. It was hardly the work of a minute to possess

-myself of the keys. In another minute the dressing-case was opened and

-the ring my own. Mr. Osmond’s portmanteau stood invitingly open: what

-more natural than that I should desire to turn over its contents

-lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed by the simple

-curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the portmanteau,

-admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard the

-noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that

-afforded by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next

-moment I was safely hidden behind them.

-

-“The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the

-room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned

-in his sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from

-peeping out of my hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester

-St. George, standing over the sleeping man, with a look on his face

-that I had never seen there before. He stood thus for a full minute,

-and then he came round to the near side of the bed, and seemed to be

-looking for Mr. Osmond’s keys. In a little while he saw them in the

-dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the other side

-of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found the

-right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond’s writing-case. He opened the

-case, took out of it Mr. Osmond’s cheque book, and from that he tore

-either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case

-when Mr. Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. ‘Villain! what

-are you doing there?’ he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But

-before he could set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his

-throat, and pinned him down almost as easily as if he had been a boy.

-What happened during the next minute I hardly know how to describe. It

-would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit of sleeping with a dagger

-under his pillow. At all events, there was one there on this particular

-night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his hand sought

-for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a sudden stab with

-it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master was too quick for

-him. There was an instant’s struggle—a flash—a cry—and—you may guess

-the rest.

-

-“A murmur of horror escaped my lips. In another instant my master had

-sprung across the room and had torn away the curtains from before me.

-‘You here!’ he said. And for a few seconds I thought my fate would be

-the same as that of Mr. Osmond. But at last his hand dropped. ‘Janvard,

-you and I must be friends,’ he said. ‘From this night your interests

-are mine, and my interests are yours.’ Then we left the room together.

-A terrible night, monsieur, as you may well believe.”

-

-“You have accounted clearly enough for the murder, but you have not yet

-told us how it happened that Lionel Dering came to be accused of the

-crime.”

-

-“That is the worst part of the story, sir. Whose thought it was first,

-whether Mr. St. George’s or mine, to lay the murder at the door of Mr.

-Dering, I could not now tell you. It was a thought that seemed to come

-into the heads of both of us at the same moment. As monsieur knows, my

-master had no cause to love his cousin. He had every reason to hate

-him. Mr. Dering had got all the estates and property that ought to have

-been Mr. St. George’s. But if Mr. Dering were to die without children,

-the estate would all come back to his cousin. Reason enough for wishing

-Mr. Dering dead.

-

-“We did not talk much about it, my master and I. We understood one

-another without many words. There were certain things to be done which

-Mr. St. George had not the nerve to do. I had the nerve to do them, and

-I did them. It was I who put Mr. Dering’s stud under the bed. It was I

-who took his handkerchief, and——”

-

-“Enough!” said Lionel, with a shudder. “Surely no more devilish plot

-was ever hatched by Satan himself! You—you who sit so calmly there, had

-but to hold up your finger to save an innocent man from disgrace and

-death!”

-

-“What would monsieur have?” said Janvard, with another of his

-indescribable shrugs. “Mr. St. George was my master. I liked him, and I

-was, besides, to have a large sum of money given me to keep silence.

-Mr. Dering was a stranger to me. Voilà tout.”

-

-“Janvard, you are one of the vilest wretches that ever disgraced the

-name of man!”

-

-“Monsieur s’amuse.”

-

-“I shall at once proceed to put down in writing the heads of the

-confession which you have just made. You will sign the writing in

-question in the presence of Mr. Bristow as witness. You need be under

-no apprehension that any immediate harm will happen to you. As for Mr.

-St. George, I shall deal with him in my own time, and in my own way.

-There are, however, two points that I wish you to bear particularly in

-mind. Firstly, if, even by the vaguest hint, you dare to let Mr. St.

-George know that you have told me what you have told me to-night, it

-will be at your own proper peril, and you must be prepared to take the

-consequences that will immediately ensue. Secondly, you must hold

-yourself entirely at my service, and must come to me without delay

-whenever I may send for you, and wherever I may be. Do you clearly

-understand?”

-

-“Yes, sir. I understand.”

-

-“For the present, then, I have done with you. Two hours later I will

-send for you again, in order that you may sign a certain paper which

-will be ready by that time. You may go.”

-

-“But, monsieur——”

-

-“Not a word. Go.”

-

-Tom held open the door for him, and Janvard passed out without another

-word.

-

-“At last, Dering! At last everything is made clear!” said Tom, as he

-crossed the room and laid his hand affectionately on Lionel’s shoulder.

-“At last you can proclaim your innocence to the world.”

-

-“Yes, my task is nearly done,” said Lionel, sadly. “And I thank heaven

-in all sincerity that it is so. But the duty that I have still to

-perform is a terrible one. I almost feel as if now, at this, the

-eleventh hour, I could go no farther. I shrink in horror from the last

-and most terrible step of all. Hark! whose voice was that?”

-

-“I hear nothing save the moaning of the wind, and the low muttering of

-thunder far away among the hills.”

-

-“It seemed to me that I heard the voice of Percy Osmond calling to me

-from the grave—the same voice that I have heard so often in my dreams.”

-

-“How your hand burns, Dering! Shake off these wild fancies, I implore

-you,” said Tom. “What a blinding flash was that!”

-

-“They are no wild fancies to me, but most dread realities. I tell you

-it is Osmond’s voice that I hear. I know it but too well, ‘Thou shalt

-avenge!’ it says to me. Only three words: ‘Thou shalt avenge!’”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VI.

-TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.

-

-

-Nearly a fortnight elapsed after Tom’s last interview with the Squire

-before he was again invited to Pincote, and after what had passed

-between himself and Mr. Culpepper he would not go there again without a

-special invitation. It is probable that the Squire would not have sent

-for him even at the end of a fortnight had he not grown so thoroughly

-tired of having to cope with Mrs. McDermott single-handed that he was

-ready to call in assistance from any quarter that promised relief. He

-knew that Tom would assist him if only a hint were given that he was

-wanted to do so. And Tom did relieve him; so that for the first time

-for many days the Squire really enjoyed his dinner.

-

-Notwithstanding all this, matters were so arranged between the Squire

-and Mrs. McDermott that no opportunity was given Tom of being alone

-with Jane even for five minutes. The first time this happened he

-thought that it might perhaps have arisen from mere accident. But the

-next time he went up to Pincote he saw too clearly what was intended to

-allow him to remain any longer in doubt. That night, after shaking

-hands with Tom at parting, Jane found in her palm a tiny note, the

-contents of which were three lines only. “Should you be shopping in

-Duxley either to-morrow or next day, I shall be at the toll-gate on the

-Snelsham road from twelve till one o’clock.”

-

-Next day, at half-past twelve to the minute, Jane and her pony-carriage

-found themselves at the Snelsham toll-gate. There was Tom, sure enough,

-who got into the trap and took the reins. He turned presently into a

-byroad that led to nowhere in particular, and there earned the

-gratitude of Diamond by letting him lapse into a quiet walk which

-enabled him to take sly nibbles at the roadside grass as he crawled

-contentedly along.

-

-Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then Tom spoke. “Jane,” he

-said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her Christian

-name, “Jane, your father has forbidden me to make love to you.”

-

-It seemed as if Jane had nothing to say either for or against this

-statement. She only breathed a little more quickly, and a lovelier

-colour flushed her cheeks. But just then Diamond swerved towards a

-tempting tuft of grass. The carriage gave a slight jerk, and Tom

-fancied—but it might be nothing more than fancy—that, instinctively,

-Jane drew a little closer to him. And when Diamond had been punished by

-the slightest possible flick with the whip between his ears, and was

-again jogging peacefully on, Jane did not get farther away again,

-being, perhaps, still slightly nervous; and when Tom looked down there

-was a little gloved hand resting, light as a feather, on his arm. It

-was impossible to resist the temptation. Dispensing with the whip for a

-moment he lifted the little hand tenderly to his lips and kissed it. He

-was not repulsed.

-

-“Yes, dearest,” he went on, “I am absolutely forbidden to make love to

-you. I can only imagine that your aunt has been talking to your father

-about us. Be that as it may, he has forbidden me to walk out with you,

-or even to see you alone. The reason why I asked you to meet me to-day

-was to tell you of these things.”

-

-Still Jane kept silence. Only from the little hand, which had somehow

-found its way back on to his arm, there came the faintest possible

-pressure, hardly heavy enough to have crushed a butterfly.

-

-“I told him that I loved you,” resumed Tom, “and he could not say that

-it was a crime to do so. But when I told him that I had never made love

-to you, or asked you to marry me, he seemed inclined to doubt my

-veracity. However, I set his mind at rest by giving him my word of

-honour that, even supposing you were willing to have me—a point

-respecting which I had very strong doubts indeed—I would not take you

-for my wife without first obtaining his full consent to do so.”

-

-Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom’s tone that his

-thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one

-to steal a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace

-into a still slower one, till at last he came to a dead stand.

-Admonished by a crack of the whip half a yard above his head that Tom

-was still wide awake, he put on a tremendous spurt—for him—which, as

-they were going down hill at the time, was not difficult. But no sooner

-had they reached a level bit of road again than the spurt toned itself

-down to the customary slow trot, with, however, an extra whisk of the

-tail now and then which seemed to imply: “Mark well what a fiery steed

-I could be if I only chose to exert myself.”

-

-“All this but brings me to one point,” said Tom: “that I have never yet

-told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to become my

-wife. To-day, then—here this very moment, I tell you that I do love you

-as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love; and here I

-ask you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir.”

-

-“Dearest, you are not blind,” he went on. “You must have seen, you must

-have known, for a long time past, that my heart—my love—were wholly

-yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has been a hope, a

-blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for longer than

-I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to you before, but

-there were certain reasons for my silence which it is not necessary to

-dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them, I will explain to

-you another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you feel as if you

-could ever learn to love me, whether you can ever care for me enough to

-become my wife. Speak to me, darling—whisper the one little word I burn

-to hear. Lift your eyes to mine, and let me read there that which will

-make me happy for life.”

-

-Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone

-with the trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no one

-to overhear them save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be not

-listening a bit. For the second time he came to a stand-still, and this

-time his artfulness remained unreproved and unnoticed.

-

-Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried to

-see into their depths but could not. “You promised papa that you would

-not take me from him without his consent,” she said, speaking in little

-more than a whisper. “That consent you will never obtain.”

-

-“That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first.”

-

-He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her ears.

-She looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their eyes

-met.

-

-“You don’t know papa as well as I do—how obstinate he is—how full of

-whims and crotchets. No—no; I feel sure that he will never consent.”

-

-“And I feel equally sure that he will. I have no fear on that

-score—none. But I will put the question to you in another way, in the

-short business-like way that comes most naturally to a man like me.

-Jane, dearest, if I can persuade your father to give you to me, will

-you be so given? Will you come to me and be my own—my wife—for ever?”

-

-Still no answer. Only imperceptibly she crept a little closer to his

-side—a very little. He took that for his answer. First one arm went

-round her and then the other. He drew her to his heart, he drew her to

-his lips; he kissed her and called her his own. And she? Well, painful

-though it be to write it, she never reproved him in the least, but

-seemed content to sit there with her head resting on his shoulder, and

-to suffer Love’s sweet punishment of kisses in silence.

-

-It is on record that Diamond was the first to move.

-

-While standing there he had fallen into a snooze, and had dreamt that

-another pony had been put into his particular stall and was at that

-moment engaged in munching his particular truss of hay. Overcome by his

-feelings, he turned deliberately round, and started for home at a

-gentle trot. Thus disturbed, Tom and Jane came back to sublunary

-matters with a laugh, and a little confusion on Jane’s part. Tom drove

-her back as far as the toll-gate and then shook hands and left her.

-Jane reached home as one in a blissful dream.

-

-Three days later Tom received a note in the Squire’s own crabbed

-hand-writing, asking him to go up to Pincote as early as possible. He

-was evidently wanted for something out of the ordinary way. Wondering a

-little, he went. The Squire received him in high good humour and was

-not long in letting him know why he had sent for him.

-

-“I have had some fellows here from the railway company,” he said. “They

-want to buy Prior’s Croft.”

-

-Tom’s eyebrows went up a little. “I thought, sir, it would prove to be

-a profitable speculation by-and-by. Did they name any price?”

-

-“No, nothing was said as to price. They simply wanted to know whether I

-was willing to sell it.”

-

-“And you told them that you were?”

-

-“I told them that I would take time to think about it. I didn’t want to

-seem too eager, you know.”

-

-“That’s right, sir. Play with them a little before you finally hook

-them.”

-

-“From what they said they want to build a station on the Croft.”

-

-“Yes, a new passenger station, with plenty of siding accommodation.”

-

-“Ah! you know something about it, do you?”

-

-“I know this much, sir, that the proposal of the new company to run a

-fresh line into Duxley has put the old company on their mettle. In

-place of the dirty ram-shackle station with which we have all had to be

-content for so many years, they are going to give us a new station,

-handsome and commodious; and Prior’s Croft is the place named as the

-most probable site for the new terminus.”

-

-“Hang me, if I don’t believe you knew something of this all along!”

-said the Squire. “If not, how could you have raised that heavy mortgage

-for me?”

-

-There was a twinkle in Tom’s eyes but he said nothing. Mr. Culpepper

-might have been still further surprised had he known that the six

-thousand pounds was Tom’s own money, and that, although the mortgage

-was made out in another name, it was to Tom alone that he was indebted.

-

-“Have you made up your mind as to the price you intend to ask, sir?”

-

-“No, not yet. In fact, it was partly to consult you on that point that

-I sent for you.”

-

-“Somewhere about nine thousand pounds, sir, I should think, would be a

-fair price.”

-

-The Squire shook his head. “They will never give anything like so much

-as that.”

-

-“I think they will, sir, if the affair is judiciously managed. How can

-they refuse in the face of a mortgage for six thousand pounds?”

-

-“There’s something in that, certainly.”

-

-“Then there are the villas—yet unbuilt it is true—but the plans of

-which are already drawn, and the foundations of some of which are

-already laid. You will require to be liberally remunerated for your

-disappointment and outlay in respect of them.”

-

-“I see it all now. Splendid idea that of the villas.”

-

-“Considering the matter in all its bearings, nine thousand pounds may

-be regarded as a very moderate sum.”

-

-“I won’t ask a penny less.”

-

-“With it you will be able to clear off both the mortgage and the loan

-of two thousand, and will then have a thousand left for your expenses

-in connection with the villas.”

-

-The Squire rubbed his hands. “I wish all my speculations had turned out

-as successful as this one,” he said. “This one I owe to you, Bristow.

-You have done me a service that I can never forget.”

-

-Tom rose to go. “Mrs. McDermott quite well, sir?” he said, with the

-most innocent air in the world.

-

-“If the way she eats and drinks is anything to go by, she was never

-better in her life. But if you take her own account, she’s never well—a

-confirmed invalid she calls herself. I’ve no patience with the woman,

-though she is my sister. A day’s hard scrubbing at the wash-tub every

-week would do her a world of good. If she would only pack up her trunks

-and go, how thankful I should be!”

-

-“If you wish her to shorten her visit at Pincote, I think you might

-easily persuade her to do so.”

-

-“I’d give something to find out how. No, no, Bristow, you may depend

-that she’s a fixture here for three or four months to come. She

-knows—no woman alive better—when she’s in comfortable quarters.”

-

-“If I had your sanction to do so, sir, I think that I could induce her

-to hasten her departure from Pincote.”

-

-The Squire rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

-

-“You are a queer fellow, Bristow,” he said, “and you have done some

-strange things, but to induce my sister to leave Pincote before she’s

-ready to go will cap all that you’ve done yet.”

-

-“I cannot of course induce her to leave Pincote till she is willing to

-go, but after a little quiet talk with me, it is possible that she may

-be willing, and even anxious, to get away as quickly as possible.”

-

-The Squire shook his head. “You don’t know Fanny McDermott as well as I

-do,” he said.

-

-“Have I your permission to try the experiment?”

-

-“You have—and my devoutest wishes for your success. Only you must not

-compromise me in any way in the matter.”

-

-“You may safely trust me not to do that. But you must give me an

-invitation to come and stay with you at Pincote for a week.”

-

-“With all my heart.”

-

-“I shall devote myself very assiduously to Mrs. McDermott, so that you

-must not be surprised if we seem to be very great friends in the course

-of a couple of days.”

-

-“Do as you like, boy. I’ll take no notice. But she’s an old soldier, is

-Fan, and if for a single moment she suspects what you are after, she’ll

-nail her colours to the mast, defy us all, and stop here for six months

-longer.”

-

-“It is, of course, quite possible that I may fail,” said Tom, “but

-somehow I hardly think that I shall.”

-

-“We’ll have a glass of sherry together and drink to your success.

-By-the-by, have you contrived yet to purge your brain of that lovesick

-tomfoolery?”

-

-“If, sir, you intend that phrase to apply to my feelings with regard to

-Miss Culpepper, I can only say that they are totally unchanged.”

-

-“What an idiot you are in some things, Bristow!” said the Squire,

-crustily. “Remember this—I’ll have no lovemaking here next week.”

-

-“You need have no fear on that score, sir.”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VII.

-EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.

-

-

-Tom and his portmanteau reached Pincote together a day or two after his

-last conversation with the Squire. Mrs. McDermott understood that Tom

-had been invited to spend a week there in order to assist her brother

-with his books and farm accounts. It seemed to her a very injudicious

-thing to do, but she did not say much about it. In truth, she was

-rather pleased than otherwise to have Tom there. It was dreadfully

-monotonous to have to spend one evening after another with no company

-save that of her brother and Jane. She was tired of her audience, and

-her audience were tired of her. Mr. Bristow, as she knew already, could

-talk well, was lively company, and, above all things; was an excellent

-listener. She had done her duty by her brother in warning him of what

-was going on between Mr. Bristow and her niece; if, after that, the

-Squire chose to let the two young people come together, it was not her

-place to dispute his right to do so.

-

-Tom was very attentive to her at dinner that day. Of Jane he took no

-notice beyond what the occasion absolutely demanded. Mrs. McDermott was

-agreeably surprised. “He has come to his senses at last, as I thought

-he would,” she said to herself. “Grown tired of Jane’s society, and no

-wonder. There’s nothing in her.”

-

-As soon as the cloth was removed, Jane excused herself on the score of

-a headache, and left the room. The Squire got into an easy-chair and

-settled himself down for a post-prandial nap. Tom moved his chair a

-little nearer that of the widow.

-

-“I have grieved to see you looking so far from well, Mrs. McDermott,”

-he said, as he poured himself out another glass of wine. “My father was

-a doctor, and I suppose I caught the habit from him of reading the

-signs of health or sickness in people’s faces.”

-

-Mrs. McDermott was visibly discomposed. She was a great coward with

-regard to her health, and Tom knew it.

-

-“Yes,” she said, “I have not been well for some time past. But I was

-not aware that the traces of my indisposition were so plainly visible

-to others.”

-

-“They are visible to me because, as I tell you, I am half a doctor both

-by birth and bringing up. You seem to me, Mrs. McDermott, pardon me for

-saying so—to have been fading—to have been going backward, as it were,

-almost from the day of your arrival at Pincote.”

-

-Mrs. McDermott coughed and moved uneasily on her chair. “I have been a

-confirmed invalid for years,” she said, querulously, “and yet no one

-will believe me when, I tell them so.”

-

-“I can very readily believe it,” said Tom, gravely. Then he lapsed into

-an ominous silence.

-

-“I—I did not know that I was looking any worse now than when I first

-came to Pincote,” she said at last.

-

-“You seem to me to be much older-looking, much more careworn, with

-lines making their appearance round your eyes and mouth, such as I

-never noticed before. So, at least, it strikes me, but I may be, and I

-dare say I am, quite wrong.”

-

-The widow seemed at a loss what to say. Tom’s words had evidently

-rendered her very uneasy. “Then what would you advise me to do?” she

-said, after a time. “If you can detect the disease so readily, you

-should have no difficulty in specifying the remedy.”

-

-“Ah, now I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth,” said Tom, with a

-smile. “I am little more than a theorizer, you know; but I should have

-no hesitation in saying that your disorder is connected with the mind.”

-

-“Gracious me, Mr. Bristow!”

-

-“Yes, Mrs. McDermott, my opinion is that you are suffering from an

-undue development of brain power.”

-

-The widow looked puzzled. “I was always considered rather

-intellectual,” she said, with a glance at her brother. But the Squire

-still slept.

-

-“You are very intellectual, madam; and that is just where the evil

-lies.”

-

-“Excuse me, but I fail to follow you.”

-

-“You are gifted with a very large and a very powerful brain,” said Tom,

-with the utmost gravity. The Squire snorted suddenly in his sleep. The

-widow held up a warning finger. There was silence in the room till the

-Squire’s gentle long-drawn snores announced that he was again happily

-fast asleep.

-

-“Very few of us are so specially gifted,” resumed Tom. “But every

-special gift necessitates a special obligation in return. You, with

-your massive brain, must find that brain plenty of work to do—a

-sufficiency of congenial employment—otherwise it will inevitably turn

-upon itself, grow morbid and hypochondriacal, and slowly but surely

-deteriorate, till it ends by becoming—what I hardly like to say.”

-

-“Really, Mr. Bristow, this conversation is to me most interesting,”

-said the widow. “Your views are thoroughly original, but, at the same

-time, I feel that they are perfectly correct.”

-

-“The sphere of your intellectual activity is far too narrow and

-confined,” resumed Tom; “your brain has not sufficient pabulum to keep

-it in a state of healthy activity. You want to mix more with the

-world—to mix more with clever people like yourself. It was never

-intended by nature that you should lose yourself among the narrow

-coteries of provincial life: the metropolis claims you: the world at

-large claims you. A conversationalist so brilliant, so incisive, with

-such an exhaustless fund of new ideas, can only hope to find her equals

-among the best circles of London or Parisian society.”

-

-“How thoroughly you appreciate me, Mr. Bristow!” said the widow, all in

-a flutter of gratified vanity, as she edged her chair still closer to

-Tom. “It is as you say. I feel that I am lost here—that I am altogether

-out of my element. I stay here more as a matter of duty—of

-principle—than of anything else. Not that it is any gratification to

-me, as you may well imagine, to be buried alive in this dull hole. But

-my brother is getting old and infirm—breaking fast, I’m afraid, poor

-man,” here the Squire gave a louder snore than common; “while Jane is

-little more than a foolish girl. They both need the guidance of a kind

-but firm hand. The interests of both demand a clear brain to look after

-them.”

-

-“My dear madam, I agree with you in toto. Your Spartan views with

-regard to the duties of everyday life are mine exactly. But we must not

-forget that we have still another duty—that of carefully preserving our

-health, especially when our lives are invaluable to the epoch in which

-we live. You, my dear madam, are killing yourself by inches.”

-

-“Oh, Mr. Bristow, not quite so bad as that, I hope!”

-

-“What I say, I say advisedly. I think that, without difficulty, I can

-specify a few symptoms of the cerebral disorder to which you are a

-victim. You will bear me out if what I say is correct.”

-

-“Yes, yes; please go on.”

-

-“You are a sufferer from sleeplessness to a certain extent. The body

-would fain rest, being tired and worn out, but the active brain will

-not allow it to do so. Am I right, Mrs. McDermott?”

-

-“I cannot dispute the accuracy of what you say.”

-

-“Your nature being large and eminently sympathetic, but not finding

-sufficient vent for itself in the narrow circle to which it is

-condemned, busies itself, for lack of other aliment, with the concerns

-and daily doings of those around it, giving them the benefit of its

-vast experience and intuitive good sense; but being met sometimes with

-coldness instead of sympathy, it collapses, falls back upon itself, and

-becomes morbid for want of proper intellectual companionship. May I

-hope that you follow me?”

-

-“Yes—yes, perfectly,” said the widow, but looking somewhat mystified,

-notwithstanding.

-

-“The brain thus thrown back upon itself engenders an irritability of

-the nerves, which is altogether abnormal. Fits of peevishness, of

-ill-temper, of causeless fault-finding, gradually supervene, till at

-length all natural amiability of disposition vanishes entirely, and

-there is nothing left but a wretched hypochondriac, a misery to himself

-and all around him.”

-

-“Gracious me! Mr. Bristow, what a picture! But I hope you do not put me

-down as a misery to myself and all around me.”

-

-“Far from it—very far from it—my dear Mrs. McDermott. You are only in

-the premonitory stage at present. Let us hope that in your case, the

-later stages will not follow.”

-

-“I hope not, with all my heart.”

-

-“Of course, you have not yet been troubled with hearing voices?”

-

-“Hearing voices! Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bristow?”

-

-“One of the worst symptoms of the cerebral disorder, from the earlier

-stages of which you are now suffering, is that the patient hears

-voices—or fancies that he hears them, which is pretty much the same

-thing. Sometimes they are strange voices; sometimes they are the voices

-of relatives, or friends, no longer among the living. In short, to

-state the case as briefly as possible, the patient is haunted.”

-

-“I declare, Mr. Bristow, that you quite frighten me!”

-

-“But there are no such symptoms as these about you at present, Mrs.

-McDermott. The moment you have the least experience of them—should such

-a misfortune ever overtake you—then take my advice, and seek the only

-remedy that can be of any real benefit to you.”

-

-“And what may that be?”

-

-“Immediate change of scene—a change total and complete. Go abroad. Go

-to Italy; go to Egypt; go to Africa;—in short to any place where the

-change is a radical one. But I hope that in your case, such a necessity

-will never arise.”

-

-“All this is most deeply interesting to me, Mr. Bristow, but at the

-same time it makes me very nervous. The very thought of being haunted

-in the way you mention is enough to keep me from sleeping for a week.”

-

-At this moment Jane came into the room, and a few minutes later the

-Squire awoke. Tom had said all that he wanted to say, and he gave Mrs.

-McDermott no further opportunity for private conversation with him.

-

-Next day, too, Tom carefully avoided the widow. His object was to

-afford her ample time to think over what he had said. That day the

-vicar and his wife dined at Pincote, and Tom became immersed in local

-politics with the Squire and the Parson. Mrs. McDermott was anxious and

-uneasy. That evening she talked less than she had ever been known to do

-before.

-

-The rule at Pincote was to keep early hours. It was not much past ten

-o’clock when Mrs. McDermott left the drawing-room, and having obtained

-her bed candle, set out on her journey to her own room. Half way up the

-staircase stood Mr. Bristow. The night being warm and balmy for the

-time of year, the staircase window was still half open, and Tom stood

-there, gazing out into the moonlit garden. Mrs. McDermott stopped, and

-said a few gracious words to him. She would have liked to resume the

-conversation of the previous evening, but that was evidently neither

-the time nor the place to do so; so she said good-night, shook hands,

-and went on her way, leaving Tom still standing by the window. Higher

-up, close to the head of the stairs, stood a very large, old-fashioned

-case clock. As she was passing it Mrs. McDermott held up her candle to

-see the time. It was nearly twenty minutes past ten. But at the very

-moment of her noting this fact, there came three distinct taps from the

-inside of the case, and next instant from the same place came the sound

-of a hollow, ghost-like voice. “Fanny—Fanny—list! I want to speak to

-you,” said the voice, in slow, solemn tones. But Mrs. McDermott did not

-wait to hear more. She screamed, dropped her candle, and staggered back

-against the opposite wall. Tom was by her side in a moment.

-

-“My dear Mrs. McDermott, whatever is the matter?” he said.

-

-“The voice! did you not hear the voice!” she gasped.

-

-“What voice? whose voice?” said Tom, with an arm round her waist.

-

-“A voice which spoke to me out of the clock!” she said, with a shiver.

-

-“Out of the clock?” said Tom. “We can soon see whether anybody’s hidden

-there.” Speaking thus, he withdrew his arm, and flung open the door of

-the clock. Enough light came from the lamp on the stairs to show that

-the old case was empty of everything, save the weights, chains, and

-pendulum of the clock.

-

-“Wherever else the voice may have come from, it is plain that it

-couldn’t come from here,” said Tom, as he proceeded to relight the

-widow’s candle.

-

-“It came from there, I’m quite certain. There were three distinct raps

-from the inside as well.”

-

-“Is it not possible that it may have been a mere hallucination on your

-part? You have not been well, you know, for some time past.”

-

-“Whatever it may have been, it was very terrible,” said Mrs. McDermott,

-drawing her skirts round her with a shudder. “I have not forgotten what

-you told me yesterday.”

-

-“Allow me to accompany you as far as your room door,” said Tom.

-

-“Thanks. I shall feel obliged by your doing so. You will say nothing of

-all this downstairs?”

-

-“I should not think of doing so.”

-

-The following day Mr. Bristow was not at luncheon. There were one or

-two inquiries, but no one seemed to know exactly what had become of

-him. It was Mrs. McDermott’s usual practice to retire to the library

-for an hour after luncheon—which room she generally had all to herself

-at such times—for the ostensible purpose of reading the newspapers,

-but, it may be, quite as much for the sake of a quiet sleep in the huge

-leathern chair that stood by the library fire. On going there as usual

-after luncheon to-day, what was the widow’s surprise to find Mr.

-Bristow sitting there fast asleep, with the “Times” at his feet where

-it had dropped from his relaxed fingers.

-

-She stepped up to him on tiptoe and looked closely at him. “Rather

-nice-looking,” she said to herself. “Shall I disturb him, or not?”

-

-Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on the

-table a little distance away. The temptation was too much for her.

-Still on tiptoe, she crossed to the table in order to examine them. But

-hardly had she stooped over the table when the same hollow voice that

-had sounded in her ears the previous night spoke to her again, and

-froze her to the spot where she was standing. “Fanny McDermott, you

-must get away from this house,” said the voice. “If you stop here you

-will be a dead woman in three months!”

-

-She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her trembling

-lips did at last falter out the words: “Who are you?”

-

-The answer came. “I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time.”

-

-Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to

-look round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep. She

-managed to reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence made

-the best of her way to her own room.

-

-Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one

-broad smile. “She’s going at last,” he said. “Off to-morrow like a

-shot. Just told me.”

-

-“Then, with your permission, I won’t dine with you this evening. I

-don’t want to see her again.”

-

-“But how on earth have you managed it?” asked the Squire.

-

-“By means of a little simple ventriloquism—nothing more. But I see her

-coming this way. I’m off.” And off he went, leaving the Squire staring

-after him in open-mouthed astonishment.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VIII.

-DIRTY JACK.

-

-

-There was one thing that puzzled both General St. George and Lionel

-Dering, and that was the persistent way in which Kester St. George

-stayed on at Park Newton. It had, in the first place, been a matter of

-some difficulty to get him to Park Newton at all, and for some time

-after his arrival it had been evident to all concerned that he had made

-up his mind that his stay there should be as brief as possible. But

-after that never-to-be-forgotten night when the noise of ghostly

-footsteps was heard in the nailed-up room—a circumstance which both his

-uncle and his cousin had made up their minds would drive him from the

-house for ever—he ceased to talk much about going away. Week passed

-after week and still he stayed on. Nor could his uncle, had he been

-desirous of doing so, which he certainly was not, have hinted to him,

-even in the most delicate possible way, that his room would be more

-welcome than his company, after the pressure which he had put upon him

-only a short time previously to induce him to remain.

-

-Nothing could have suited Lionel’s plans better than that his cousin

-should continue to live on at Park Newton, but he was certainly puzzled

-to know what his reason could be for so doing; and, in such a case, to

-be puzzled was, to a certain extent, to be disquieted.

-

-But much as he would have liked to do so, Kester had a very good reason

-for not leaving Park Newton at present. He was, in fact, afraid to do

-so. After the affair of the footsteps he had decided that it would not

-be advisable to go away for a little while. It would never do for

-people to say that he had been driven away by the ghost of Percy

-Osmond. It was while thus lingering on from day to day that he had

-ridden over to see Mother Mim. One result of his interview was that he

-felt how utterly unsafe it would be for him to quit the neighbourhood

-till she was safely dead and buried. She might send for him at any

-moment, she might have other things to speak to him about which it

-behoved him to hear. She might change her mind at the last moment, and

-decide to tell to some other person what she had already told him; and

-when she should die, it would doubtless be to him that application

-would be made to bury her. All things considered, it was certainly

-unadvisable that he should leave Park Newton yet awhile.

-

-Day after day he waited with smothered impatience for some further

-tidings of Mother Mim. But day after day he waited in vain. Most men,

-under such circumstances, would have gone to the place and have made

-personal inquiries for themselves. This was precisely what Kester St.

-George told himself that he ought to do, but for all that he did not do

-it. He shrank, with a repugnance which he could not overcome, from the

-thought of any further contact with either Mother Mim or her

-surroundings. His tastes, if not refined, were fastidious, and a

-shudder of disgust ran through him as often as he remembered that if

-what Mother Mim had said were true—and there was something that rang

-terribly like truth in her words—then was she—that wretched

-creature—his mother, and the filthy hut in which she lay dying his sole

-home and heritage. He knew that for the sake of his own interest—of his

-own safety—he ought to go and see again this woman who called herself

-his mother, but three weeks had come and gone before he could screw his

-courage up to the pitch requisite to induce him to do so.

-

-But before this came about, Kester St. George had been left for the

-time being, with the exception of certain servants, the sole occupant

-of Park Newton. Lionel Dering had gone down to Bath to seek an

-interview with Pierre Janvard, with what result has been already seen.

-Two days after Lionel’s departure, General St. George was called away

-by the sudden illness of an old Indian friend to whom he was most

-warmly attached. He left home expecting to be back in four or five days

-at the latest; whereas, as it fell out, he did not reach home again for

-several weeks.

-

-It was one day when thus left alone, and when the solitude was becoming

-utterly intolerable to him, that Kester made up his mind that he would

-no longer be a coward, but would go that very afternoon and see for

-himself whether Mother Mim were alive or dead. But even after he had

-thus determined that there should be no more delay on his part, he

-played fast and loose with himself as to whether he should go or not.

-Had there come to him any important letter or telegram demanding his

-presence fifty miles away, he would have caught at it as a drowning man

-catches at a straw. The veriest excuse would have sufficed for the

-putting off of his journey for at least one day. But the dull hours

-wore themselves away without relief or change of any kind for him, and

-when three o’clock came, having first dosed himself heavily with

-brandy, he rang the bell and ordered his horse to be brought round.

-

-What might not the next few hours bring to him? he asked himself as he

-rode down the avenue. They might perchance be pregnant with doom. Or

-death might already have lifted this last bitter burden from his life

-by sealing with his bony fingers the only lips that had power to do him

-harm.

-

-For nearly a fortnight past the weather had been remarkably mild,

-balmy, and open for the time of year. Everybody said how easily old

-winter was dying. But during the previous night there had come a bitter

-change. The wind had suddenly veered round to the north-east, and was

-still blowing steadily from that quarter. Steadily and bitterly it

-blew, chilling the hearts of man and beast with its icy breath,

-stopping the growth of grass and flowers, killing every faintest gleam

-of sunshine, and bringing back the reign of winter in its cruellest

-form.

-

-Heavy and lowering looked the sky, shrilly through the still bare

-branches whistled the ice-cold wind, as Kester St. George, deep in

-thought, rode slowly through the park. He buttoned his coat more

-closely around him, and pulled his hat more firmly over his brows as he

-turned out of the lodge gates, and setting his face full to the wind,

-urged his horse into a gallop, and was quickly lost to view down the

-winding road.

-

-It would not have taken him long to reach the edge of Burley Moor had

-not his horse suddenly fallen lame. For the last two miles of the

-distance his pace was reduced to a slow walk. This so annoyed Kester

-that he decided to leave his horse at a roadside tavern in the last

-hamlet he had to pass through, and to traverse the remainder of the

-distance on foot. A short three miles across the moor would take him to

-Mother Mim’s cottage.

-

-To a man such as Kester a three miles’ walk was a rather formidable

-undertaking—or, at least, it was an uncommon one. But there was no

-avoiding it on the present occasion, unless he gave up the object of

-his journey and went back home. But he could by no means bear the

-thought of doing that. In proportion with the hesitation and reluctance

-which he had previously shown, to ascertain either the best or the

-worst of the affair, was the anxiety which now possessed him to reach

-his journey’s end. His imagination pictured all kinds of possible and

-impossible evils as likely to accrue to him, and he cursed himself

-again and again for his negligence in not making the journey long ago.

-

-Very bleak and cold was that walk across the desolate, lonely moor, but

-Kester St. George, buried in his own thoughts, hardly felt or heeded

-anything of it. All the sky was clouded and overcast, but far away to

-the north a still darker bank of cloud was creeping slowly up from the

-horizon.

-

-The wind blew in hollow fitful gusts. Any one learned in such lore

-would have said that a change of weather was imminent.

-

-When about half-way across the moor he halted for a moment to gather

-breath. On every side of him spread the dull treeless expanse. Nowhere

-was there another human being to be seen. He was utterly alone. “If a

-man crossing here were suddenly stricken with death,” he muttered to

-himself, “what a place this would be to die in! His body might lie here

-for days—for weeks even—before it was found.”

-

-At length Mother Mim’s cottage was reached. Everything about it looked

-precisely the same as when he had seen it last. It seemed only like a

-few hours since he had left it. There, too, crouched on the low wall

-outside, with her skirt drawn over her head, was Mother Mim’s

-grand-daughter, the girl with the black glittering eyes, looking as if

-she had never stirred from the spot since he was last there. She made

-no movement or sign of recognition when he walked up to her, but her

-eyes were full of a cold keen criticism of him, far beyond her age and

-appearance.

-

-“How is your grandmother?” said Kester, abruptly. He did not like being

-stared at as she stared at him.

-

-“She’s dead.”

-

-“Dead!” It was no more than he expected to hear, and yet he could not

-hear it altogether unmoved.

-

-“Ay, as dead as a door nail. And a good job too. It was time she went.”

-

-“How long has she been dead?” asked Kester, ignoring the latter part of

-the girl’s speech.

-

-“Just half an hour.”

-

-Another surprise for Kester. He had expected to hear that she had been

-dead several days—a week perhaps. But only half an hour!

-

-“Who was with her when she died?” he asked, after a minute’s pause.

-

-“Me and Dirty Jack.”

-

-“Dirty Jack! who is he?”

-

-“Why Dirty Jack. Everybody knows him. He lives in Duxley, and has a

-wooden leg, and does writings for folk.”

-

-“Does writings for folk!” A shiver ran through Kester. “And has he been

-doing anything for your grandmother?”

-

-“That he has. A lot.”

-

-“A lot—about what?”

-

-“About you.”

-

-“About me? Why about me?”

-

-“Oh, you never came near. Nobody never came near. Granny got tired of

-it. ‘I’ll have my revenge,’ said she. So she sent for Dirty Jack, and

-he took it all down in writing.”

-

-“Took it all down in writing about me?” She nodded her head in the

-affirmative. “If you know so much, no doubt you know what it was that

-he took down—eh?”

-

-“Oh, I know right enough.”

-

-“Why not tell me?”

-

-“I know all about it, but I ain’t a-going to split.”

-

-Further persuasion on Kester’s part had no other effect than to induce

-the girl to assert in still more emphatic terms that “she wasn’t

-a-going to split.”

-

-Evidently nothing more was to be got from her. But she had said enough

-already to confirm his worst fears. Mother Mim, out of spite for the

-neglect with which he had treated her, had made a confession at the

-last moment, similar in purport to what she had told him when last

-there. Such a confession—if not absolutely dangerous to him—she having

-assured him that none of the witnesses were now living—might be made a

-source of infinite annoyance to him. Such a story, once made public,

-might bring forth witnesses and evidence from twenty hitherto

-unsuspected quarters, and fetter him round, link by link, with a chain

-of evidence from which he might find it impossible to extricate

-himself. At every sacrifice, Mother Mim’s confession must be destroyed

-or suppressed. Such were some of the thoughts that passed through

-Kester’s mind as he stood there biting his nails. Again and again he

-cursed himself in that he had allowed any such confession to emanate

-from the dead woman, whose silence a little extra kindness on his part

-would have effectually secured.

-

-“And where is this Dirty Jack, as you call him?” he said, at last.

-

-“He’s in there”—indicating the hut with a jerk of her head—“fast

-asleep.”

-

-“Fast asleep in the same room with your grandmother?”

-

-“Why not? He had a bottle of whiskey with him which he kept sucking at.

-At last he got half screwy, and when all was over he said he would have

-a snooze by the fire and pull himself together a bit before going

-home.”

-

-Kester said no more, but going up to the hut, opened the door and went

-in. On the pallet at the farther end lay the dead woman, her body

-faintly outlined through the sheet that had been drawn over her. A

-clear fire was burning in the broken grate, and close to it, on the

-only chair in the place, sat a man fast asleep. His hands were grimy,

-his linen was yellow, his hair was frowsy. He was a big bulky man, with

-a coarse, hard face, and was dressed in faded threadbare black. He had

-a wooden leg, which just now was thrust out towards the fire, and

-seemed as if it were basking in the comfortable blaze.

-

-On the chimney-piece was an empty spirit-bottle, and in a corner near

-at hand were deposited a broad-brimmed hat, greasy and much the worse

-for wear, and a formidable looking walking-stick.

-

-Such was the vision of loveliness that met the gaze of Kester St.

-George as he paused for a moment or two just inside the cottage door.

-Then he coughed and advanced a step or two. As he did so the man

-suddenly opened his eyes, got up quickly but awkwardly out of his

-chair, and laid his hand on something that was hidden in an inner

-pocket of his coat. “No, you don’t!” he cried, with a wave of his hand.

-“No, you don’t! None of your hanky-panky tricks here. They won’t go

-down with Jack Skeggs, so you needn’t try ’em on!”

-

-Kester stared at him in unconcealed disgust. It was evident that he was

-still under the partial influence of what he had been drinking.

-

-“Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?” asked Kester, sternly.

-

-“I am John Skeggs, Esquire, attorney-at-law, at your service. And who

-may you be, when you’re at home? But there—I know who you are well

-enough. You are Mr. Kester St. George, of Park Newton. I have seen you

-before. I saw you on the day of the murder trial. You were one of the

-witnesses, and white enough you looked. Anybody who had a good look at

-you in the box that day would never be likely to forget your face

-again.”

-

-Kester turned aside for a moment to hide the sudden nervous twitching

-of his lips.

-

-“I’m sorry the whiskey is done,” said Mr. Skeggs with a regretful look

-at the empty bottle. “I should like you and I to have had a drain

-together. I suppose you don’t do anything in this line?” From one

-pocket he produced an old clasp knife, and from the other a cake of

-leaf tobacco. Then he cut himself a plug and put it into his mouth.

-“When one friend fails me, then I fall back upon another,” he said.

-“When I can’t get whiskey I must have tobacco.”

-

-There was no better known character in Duxley than Mr. Skeggs. “Dirty

-Jack,” or “Drunken Jack,” were the sobriquets by which he was generally

-known, and neither of those terms was applied to him without good and

-sufficient reason. There could be no doubt as to the man’s shrewdness,

-ability, and knowledge of common law. He was a great favourite among

-the lower and the very lowest classes of Duxley society, who in their

-legal difficulties never thought of employing any other lawyer than

-Skeggs, the universal belief being that if anybody could pull them

-through, either by hook or crook, Dirty Jack was that man. And it is

-quite possible that Mr. Skeggs’s clients were not far wrong in their

-belief.

-

-“No good stopping here any longer,” said Skeggs, when he had put back

-his knife and tobacco into his pocket.

-

-“No, I suppose not,” said Kester.

-

-“I suppose you will see that everything is done right and proper by our

-poor dear departed?”

-

-“Yes, I suppose there is no one to look to but me. She was my

-foster-mother, and very kind to me when I was a lad.”

-

-“His foster-mother! Listen to that! His foster-mother! ha! ha!”

-sniggered Dirty Jack. Then laying a finger on one side his nose, and

-leering up at Kester with horrible familiarity, he added: “We know all

-about that little affair, Mr. St. George, and a very pretty romance it

-is.”

-

-“Look you here, Mr. Skeggs, or whatever your dirty name may be,” said

-Kester, sternly, “I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head or

-it may be worse for you. I’ve thrashed bigger men than you in my time.

-Be careful, or I shall thrash you.”

-

-“I like your pluck, on my soul I do!” said Skeggs, heartily. “If you’re

-not genuine silver—and you know you ain’t—you’re a deuced good

-imitation of the real thing. Thoroughly well plated, that’s what you

-are. Any one would take you to be a born gentleman, they would really.

-Which way are you going back?”

-

-Kester hesitated a moment. Should he quarrel with this man and set him

-at defiance, or should he not? Could he afford to quarrel with him?

-that was the question. Perhaps it would be as well to keep from doing

-so as long as possible.

-

-“I’m going to walk back across the moor as far as Sedgeley,” said

-Kester.

-

-“Then I’ll walk with you—though three miles is rather a big stretch to

-do with my game leg. I can get a gig from there that will take me

-home.”

-

-Kester shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment. Skeggs took up his

-hat and stick, and proceeded to polish the former article with his

-sleeve.

-

-“Queer woman that,” he said, with a jerk of his thumb towards the

-bed—“very queer. Hard as nails. With something heroic about her, to my

-mind—something that, under different circumstances, might have

-developed her into a remarkable woman. Well, that’s the way with heaps

-of us. Circumstances are dead against us, and we are not strong enough

-to overmaster them; else should we smite the world with surprise, and

-genius would not be so scarce an article in the market as it is now.”

-

-Kester stared. Was this the half-drunken blackguard who had been

-jeering at him but two minutes ago? “And yet, drunk he must be,” added

-Kester to himself. “No fellow in his senses would talk such precious

-rot.”

-

-“Your obedient servant, sir,” said Skeggs, with a purposely exaggerated

-bow as he held open the door for Mr. St. George to pass out.

-

-The girl was still sitting on the wall with her skirt drawn over her

-head. Kester went up to her. “I will send some one along first thing

-to-morrow morning to see to the funeral and other matters,” he said,

-“if you can manage till then.”

-

-“Oh, I can manage right enough. Why not?” said the girl.

-

-“I thought that perhaps you might not care to be in the house by

-yourself all night.”

-

-“Oh, I don’t mind that.”

-

-“Then you are not afraid?”

-

-“What’s there to be frittened of? She’s quiet enough now. I shall make

-up a jolly fire, and have a jolly supper, and then a jolly long sleep.

-And that’s what I’ve not had for weeks. And I shall read the Dream

-Book. She can’t keep that from me now. I know where it is. It’s in the

-bed right under her. But I’ll have it.” She laughed and nodded her

-head, then putting a nut into her mouth she cracked it and began to

-pick out the kernel. Kester turned away.

-

-“Nell, my good girl,” said Mr. Skeggs, insinuatingly, “just see whether

-there isn’t such a thing as a drop of whiskey somewhere about the

-house. I’ve an awful pain in my chest.”

-

-“There’s no whiskey—not a drop—but I know where there’s half a bottle

-of gin. Give me five shillings and I’ll fetch it.”

-

-“Five shillings for half a bottle of gin! Why, Nell, what a greedy

-young pig you must be!”

-

-“Don’t have it then. Nobody axed you. I can drink it myself.”

-

-“I’ll give you three shillings for it. Come now.”

-

-“Not a meg less than five will I take,” said Nell, emphatically, as she

-cracked another nut.

-

-“Why, you young viper, have you no conscience at all?” he cried

-savagely. Then seeing that Nell took no further notice of him, he

-turned to Kester. “I find that I have no loose silver about me,” he

-said. “Oblige me with the loan of a couple of half-crowns till we get

-to Sedgeley.” Whenever Mr. Skeggs made a new acquaintance he always

-requested the loan of a couple of half-crowns before parting from him.

-But the half-crowns were never paid back until asked for, and asked for

-more than once.

-

-A few premonitory flakes of snow were darkening the air as Kester St.

-George and Mr. Skeggs started on their way back across Burley Moor, the

-latter with a thick comforter round his neck and the bottle of gin

-stowed carefully away in the tail pocket of his coat. The cold seemed

-more intense than ever, but the wind had fallen altogether.

-

-“We are going to have a rough night,” said Skeggs as he stepped

-sturdily out. “We must contrive to get across the moor before the snow

-comes down very thick, or we shall stand a good chance of losing our

-way. Only the winter before last a pedlar and his wife were lost in the

-snow within a mile of here, and their bodies not found for a fortnight.

-This sudden change will play the devil with the young crops.”

-

-Kester did not answer. Far different matters occupied his thoughts. In

-silence they walked on for a little while.

-

-“I suppose you could give a pretty good guess,” said Skeggs at length,

-“at my reasons for asking you which way you were going to walk this

-afternoon?”

-

-“Indeed, no,” said Kester with a shrug. “I have not the remotest idea,

-nor do I care to know. It was you who chose to accompany me. I did not

-thrust my company upon you.”

-

-Skeggs laughed a little maliciously. “I don’t think there’s much good,

-Mr. Kester St. George, in you and I beating about the bush. I’m a plain

-man of business, and that reminds me,”—interrupting himself with a

-chuckle—“that when I once used those very words to a client of mine, he

-retorted by saying, ‘You are more than a plain man of business, Mr.

-Skeggs, you are an ugly one.’ I did my very utmost for that man, but he

-was hanged. Mais revenons. I am a plain man of business, and I intend

-to deal with this question in a business-like way. The simple point is:

-What is it worth your while to give me for the document I have buttoned

-up here?” tapping his chest with his left hand as he spoke.

-

-“I am at a loss to know to what document you refer,” said Mr. St.

-George, coldly.

-

-“A very few words will tell you the contents of it, though, if I am

-rightly informed, you can give a pretty good guess already as to what

-they are likely to be. In this document it is asserted that you, sir,

-have no right to the name by which the world has known you for so long

-a time—that you have no right to the position you occupy, to the

-property you claim as yours. That you are, in fact, none other than the

-son of Mother Mim herself—of the woman who lies dead in yonder hut.”

-

-Kester drew in his breath with something like a sigh. It was as he had

-feared. Mother Mim had told everything, and, of all people in the

-world, to the wretch now walking by his side. He braced his nerves for

-the coming encounter. “I have heard something before to-day of the

-rigmarole of which you speak,” he said, haughtily; “but I need hardly

-tell you that the affair is nothing but a tissue of vilest lies from

-beginning to end.”

-

-“I dare say it is,” said Skeggs, good humouredly. “But it may be rather

-difficult for you to prove that it is so.”

-

-“It will be still more difficult for you to prove that it is not so.”

-

-“Oh! I am quite aware of all the difficulties both for and against—no

-man more so. You have got possession, and a hundred other points in

-your favour. Still, with what evidence I have already, and with what

-evidence I can get elsewhere, I shall be able to make out a strong

-case—a very strong case against you in a court of justice.”

-

-“Evidence elsewhere!” said Kester, disdainfully. “There is no such

-thing, unless you are clever enough to make the dead speak.”

-

-“Even that has been done before now,” said Skeggs quietly. “But in this

-case we have no need to go to the churchyard to collect our evidence. I

-have a living, breathing witness whom I can lay my hands on at a day’s

-notice.”

-

-“You lie,” said Kester, emphatically.

-

-“I’ll wash that down,” said Skeggs, halting for a moment and proceeding

-to take a good pull at his bottle of gin. “If you so far forget

-yourself again, I shall begin to feel sure that you are not a St.

-George. What I told you was not a lie. There were four witnesses who

-had all a personal knowledge of a certain fact. Three of those

-witnesses are dead: the fourth still lives. Of the existence of this

-fourth witness Mother Mim never even hinted to you. It was her trump

-card, and she was far too cunning to let you see it.”

-

-Kester walked on in silence. He felt that just then he had hardly a

-word to say. Was all that he had sacrificed so much for in other ways,

-all that he had run such tremendous risks for, to be torn from him by

-the machinations of a vile old hag, and the drunken, ribald scoundrel

-by his side? Through what strange ambushes, through what dusky

-by-paths, doth Fate oft-times overtake us! We look back along the broad

-highway we have been traversing, and seeing no black shadow dogging our

-footsteps, we go rejoicing on our way; when suddenly, from some

-near-at-hand shrub, is shot a poisoned arrow, and the sunlight fades

-from our eyes for ever.

-

-“And now, after this little skirmish,” said Skeggs, “we come back to my

-first question: What can you afford to give me for the document in my

-pocket?”

-

-“Suppose I say that I will give you nothing—what then?” said Kester,

-sullenly.

-

-“Then I shall get my evidence together, work out my case on paper, and

-submit it to the heir-at-law.”

-

-“And supposing the heir-at-law, acting under advice, were to decline

-having anything to do with your case, as you call it?”

-

-“He would be a fool to do that, because my case is anything but a weak

-one. I tell you this in confidence. But supposing he were to decline,

-then I should say to him: ‘I am willing to conduct this case on my own

-account. If I fail, it shall not cost you a penny. If I succeed, you

-shall pay all expenses, and give me five thousand pounds.’ That would

-fetch him, I think.”

-

-“You have been assuming all along,” said Kester, “that your case is

-based on fact. I assure you again that it is not—that it is nothing but

-a devilish lie from beginning to end.”

-

-“Really, my dear sir, that has little or nothing to do with the matter.

-I dare say it is a lie. But it is my place to believe it to be the

-truth, and to make other people believe the same as I do. Here’s your

-very good health, sir.” Again Mr. Skeggs took a long pull and a strong

-pull at his bottle of gin.

-

-“Knowing what you know,” said Kester, “and believing what you believe,

-are you yet willing to sell the document now in your possession?”

-

-“Of course I am. What else is all this jaw for?”

-

-“And don’t you think you are a pretty sort of scoundrel to make me any

-such offer? Don’t you think——”

-

-“Now look you here, Mr. St. George—if that is your name, which I very

-much doubt—don’t let you and me begin to fling mud at one another,

-because that is a game at which I could lick you into fits. I have made

-you a fair offer. If we can’t come to terms, there’s no reason why we

-shouldn’t part friendly.”

-

-Once again Kester walked on in silence. The snow had been coming down

-more thickly for some time past, and already the dull gray moor began

-to look strange and unfamiliar, but neither of the two men gave more

-than a passing thought to the weather.

-

-“If you feel and know your case to be such a strong one,” said Kester,

-at last, “why do you come to me at all? Why send a white flag into your

-enemy’s camp? Why not fight him à l’outrance at once?”

-

-“Because I’m neither so young nor so pugnacious as I once was,”

-answered Skeggs. “I go in for peace and quiet nowadays. I don’t want

-the bother and annoyance of a law-suit. I have no ill-feeling towards

-you, and if you will only make me a fair offer, I shall be the last man

-in the world to disturb you in any way. Gemini! how the snow comes

-down! We are only about half way yet. We shall have some difficulty in

-picking our road across.”

-

-“I myself am as anxious as you can be, Mr. Skeggs, to be saved the

-trouble and annoyance of a law-suit, however sure I may feel that the

-result would be in my favour. But you must give me a little time to

-think this matter over. It is far too important to be decided at a

-moment’s notice.”

-

-“Time? To be sure. You can make up your mind in about a couple of days,

-I suppose. Shall I call upon you, or will you call upon me?”

-

-Hardly were the words out of Mr. Skeggs’s mouth when his wooden leg

-sunk suddenly into a hidden hole in the pathway. Thrown forward by the

-shock, the lawyer came heavily to the ground, and at the same moment

-his leg snapped short off just below the knee.

-

-Kester took him by the shoulders and assisted him to assume a sitting

-posture on the footpath.

-

-Mr. Skeggs’s first action was to pick up his broken limb and look at it

-with a sort of comical despair. “There goes a friend that has done me

-good service,” he said; “but he might have lasted till he got me home,

-for all that. How the deuce am I to get home?” he asked, turning

-abruptly to Kester.

-

-Kester paused for a minute and looked round before answering. The snow

-was coming down faster than ever. The moor was being gradually turned

-into a huge white carpet. Already its zig-zag paths and winding

-footways were barely distinguishable from the treacherous bog which lay

-on every side of them. In an hour and a half it would be dark with a

-darkness that would be unrelieved by either moon or stars. If it kept

-on snowing all night at this rate the drift would be a couple of feet

-deep by morning. Skeggs’s casual remark about the pedlar and his wife,

-unheeded at the time, now flashed vividly across Kester’s mind.

-

-“You will have to wait here till I can get assistance,” he said, in

-answer to his companion’s question. “There is no help for it.”

-

-“I suppose not,” growled Skeggs. “Was ever anything so cursedly

-unfortunate?”

-

-“Sedgeley is the nearest place to this,” said Kester. “There are plenty

-of men there who know the moor thoroughly. I will send half a dozen of

-them to your help.”

-

-“How soon may I expect them here?”

-

-“In about three-quarters of an hour from now.”

-

-“Ugh! I’m half frozen already. What shall I be in another hour?”

-

-“Oh, you’ll pull through that easily enough. Your bottle is not empty

-yet.”

-

-“Jove! I’d forgotten the bottle,” said Skeggs, with animation.

-

-He took it out of his pocket, and held it up to the light. “Not more

-than a quartern left. Well, that’s better than none at all.”

-

-“Goodbye,” said Kester, as he shook some of the snow off his hat. “You

-may look for help in less than an hour.”

-

-“Goodbye, Mr. St. George,” said Skeggs, looking very earnestly at him

-as he did so.

-

-“You won’t forget to send the help, will you? because if you do forget,

-it will be nothing more nor less than wilful murder.”

-

-Kester laughed a short grating laugh. “Fear nothing, Skeggs,” he said.

-“I won’t forget. About that other trifle, I will write you in two or

-three days. Again goodbye.”

-

-Skeggs’s face had turned very white. He could not speak. He took off

-his hat and waved it. Kester responded by a wave of his hand. Then

-turning on his heel he strode away through the snowy twilight. In three

-minutes he was lost to sight. Skeggs could no longer see him. Tears

-came into his eyes. “He’ll send no help, not he. I shall die here like

-a dog. The snow will be my winding-sheet. If ever there was mischief in

-a man’s eye, there was in his, as he bade me goodbye.”

-

-Onward strode Kester St. George through the blinding snow. Altogether

-heedless of the weather was he just now. He had other things to think

-about. As instinctively as an Indian or a backwoodsman tracks his way

-across prairie or forest did he track his way across the moor, all

-hidden though the paths now were. He was a child of the moor. He had

-learned its secrets when a boy, and in his present emergency, reason

-and intellect must perforce give way to that blind instinct which was

-left him as a legacy of his youth.

-

-At length the last patch of moorland was crossed, and a few minutes

-later he found himself close by a well-remembered finger-post, where

-three roads met. One of these roads led to Sedgeley, which was but a

-short quarter of a mile away; another of them led to Duxley and Park

-Newton. At Sedgeley his horse was waiting for him. There, too, was to

-be had the help which he had so faithfully promised Skeggs that he

-would send. Leaning against the finger-post, he took a minute’s rest

-before going any farther. Which road should he take? That was the

-question which at present he was turning over and over in his mind. Not

-long did he hesitate. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he made a

-wisp of it, and tied it round his throat. Then he turned up the collar

-of his coat. Then once again he shook the snow off his hat. Then

-plunging his hands deep in his pockets, and turning his back on the

-finger-post, he set out resolutely along the road that led towards Park

-Newton. Once, and once only did he pause, even for a moment, before

-reaching home. It was when he fancied that he heard, away in the far

-distance, a low, wild, melancholy cry—whether the cry of an animal or a

-man he could not tell—but none the less a cry for help. Whatever it

-was, it did not come again, and after that Kester pursued his way

-homeward steadily and without pause. It was quite dark long before he

-reached his own room.

-

-He changed his clothes and went down to dinner. Both his uncle and

-Richard Dering were away, and he dined alone, for which he was by no

-means sorry. Every half-hour or so he inquired as to the weather. They

-had nothing to tell him except that it was still snowing hard. The

-evening was one of slow torture, but at length it wore itself away. He

-went to bed about midnight. Dobbs’s last report to him was that the

-weather was still unchanged. But several times during the night Dobbs

-heard his master pacing up and down his room, and had he been there he

-might, ever and again, have seen a haggard face peering out with eager

-eyes into the darkness.

-

-“Twelve inches of snow, sir, on the drive,” was Dobbs’s first news next

-morning. “They say there has not been a fall like it in these parts for

-a dozen years.”

-

-The snow had ceased to fall hours before. By-and-by there came a few

-gleams of sunshine to brighten the scene, but the wind was still in the

-north, and all that day the weather kept bitterly cold. Soon after

-sunset, however, there was a change. Little by little the wind got

-round to the south-west. At ten o’clock Dobbs reported: “Snow going

-fast, sir. Regular thaw. Not be a bit left by breakfast-time.”

-

-“Call me at four,” said his master, “and have some coffee ready, and a

-horse brought round by four thirty.”

-

-He was quite tired out by this time, and when he went to bed he felt

-sure that he should have four or five hours’ sound sleep. But his sleep

-was several times disturbed by a strange dream: always the same thing

-repeated over and over again. He dreamt that he was standing under the

-finger-post on the edge of the moor. But the finger-post was neither

-more nor less than a gigantic skeleton, of which the outstretched arms

-formed the direction boards. On the bony palm of one outstretched arm,

-in letters of blood, was written the words: “To Sedgeley.” Then as he

-read the words in his dream, again would sound in his ears the low,

-weird, melancholy cry which had arrested his steps for a moment as he

-walked home through the snow, and hearing the cry he would start up in

-bed and stare round him, and wonder for a moment where he was.

-

-Dobbs duly called his master at four, and at four thirty he mounted his

-horse and rode away. The roads were heavy and sloppy with the melting

-snow. The morning was intensely dark, but Kester knew the country

-thoroughly, and was never at a loss as to which turn he ought to take.

-Not one human being did he meet during the whole of his ride. But,

-indeed, his nearest friend would have passed him by in the dark without

-recognition. He wore an old shooting suit, with a Glengarry bonnet and

-a macintosh, and had a thick shawl wrapped round his throat and the

-lower part of his face.

-

-Day was just breaking as he reached the edge of the moor. He tethered

-his horse to the stump of an old tree behind a hedge. He had brought a

-powerful field-glass in his pocket. He scanned the moor carefully

-through it before proceeding farther on his quest. No living being was

-in sight anywhere. Satisfied of this, he set out without further delay,

-leaving his horse by itself to await his return. Not without a

-tremor—not without a faster beating of the heart—did he again set foot

-on the moor. A drizzling rain now began to fall, but Kester was not

-sorry for this. The worse the weather, the fewer the people who would

-be abroad in it. Onward he strode, keeping a wary eye about him as he

-went.

-

-At length he reached a curve in the path from whence he ought to be

-able to discern the bulky form of John Skeggs, Esq., if that gentleman

-was still where he had last seen him. He looked, but the morning was

-still heavy and dark: he could see nothing. Then he adjusted his glass,

-and looking through that he could just make out a heap—a bundle—a

-shapeless something. It required a powerful effort on his part to brace

-his nerves to the pitch requisite to carry him through the task he had

-still before him. He had filled a small flask with brandy, and he now

-drank some of it. Then he started again. A few minutes more and the end

-of his journey was reached.

-

-There lay Skeggs, on the very spot where he had left him, resting on

-his side, with one hand under his head, as if asleep. His hat had

-fallen off. On the ground near him were the empty bottle, his

-walking-stick, and his broken wooden leg. Numbed by the intense cold,

-he had fallen asleep while waiting for the help which was never to

-come, and had so died, frozen to death. Doubtless his death had been a

-painless one, but none the less, as he himself would have said, was

-Kester St. George his murderer.

-

-Gloved though he was, it was not without a feeling of indescribable

-loathing that Kester could bring himself to touch the body. But it was

-absolutely necessary to do so. The paper he had come in quest of was in

-the breast pocket of the dead man’s coat. It did not take him long to

-find it. Having made sure that he had got the right document, he

-fastened it up in the breast pocket of his own coat. “Now I am safe!”

-he said to himself. Then he took off his gloves and buried them

-carefully under a large stone. Then with one last glance at the body,

-he slunk hurriedly away, cursing in his heart the daylight that was now

-creeping up so rapidly from the east. In the clear light of dawn the

-foul deed he had done looked a thousand times fouler than it had looked

-before.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER IX.

-WHAT TO DO NEXT?

-

-

-Not to every one among the children of men is given the power, the

-faculty, to act as comforter to others. To listen to another’s sorrow,

-to be told the history of another’s trouble, is one thing: to be able

-to give back comfort is another. That delicate intuitive sympathy with

-another’s woe which draws away the sting even while listening to it,

-which makes that woe its own property as it were, which sheds balm

-round the sufferer in every word and look and touch: this is surely as

-much a special gift as the gift of song or the poet’s fine phrenzy, and

-without it the world would be a much poorer place than it is.

-

-This rare gift of sympathy was possessed by Edith Dering in a

-pre-eminent degree. She was at once emotional and sympathetic. To

-Lionel in his dire trouble she was a comforter in the truest sense of

-the word. It was she who preserved his mental balance—the equipoise of

-his mind. But for her sweet offices he would have become a monomaniac

-or a misanthrope of the bitterest kind. Naturally she had him with her

-as much as possible, but still his home was of necessity at Park

-Newton. To the world he was simply Richard Dering, the unmarried nephew

-of General St. George. It would not do for him to be seen going to Fern

-Cottage sufficiently often to excite either scandal or suspicion. He

-could only visit there as the intimate friend of Mrs. Garside and her

-niece. Sometimes he took his uncle with him, sometimes Tom, in order to

-divert suspicion. For him to enter the garden gate of Fern Cottage was

-to cross the threshold of his earthly paradise. Edith and he had been

-married in the depth of a great trouble—troubles and danger had beset

-the path of their wedded life ever since. Owing, perhaps, to that very

-cause week by week, and month by month, their love seemed only to grow

-in depth and intensity. As yet it had lost nothing of its pristine

-charm and freshness. The gold-dust of romance lingered about it still.

-They were man and wife, they had been man and wife for months, but to

-the world at large they seemed nothing more than ordinary friends.

-

-But all Edith’s care and watchful love could not lift her husband,

-except by fits and starts, out of those moods of gloom and depression

-which seemed to be settling more closely down upon him day by day. As

-link after link was added to the chain of evidence, each one tending to

-incriminate his cousin still more deeply, his moods seemed to grow

-darker and more difficult of removal. With his cousin Lionel associated

-no more than was absolutely necessary. They rarely met each other till

-dinner-time, and then they met with nothing more than a simple “How do

-you do?” and in conversation they never got beyond some half-dozen of

-the barest commonplaces. Lionel always left the table as soon as the

-cloth was drawn.

-

-On Kester’s side there was no love lost. That dark, stern-faced cousin

-was a perpetual menace to him, and he hated him accordingly. He hated

-him for his likeness to his dead and gone brother. He hated him because

-of the look in his eyes—so coldly scrutinizing, so searching, so

-immovable. He hated him because it was a look that he could in nowise

-give back. Try as he might, he could not face Lionel’s steady gaze.

-

-For some two or three weeks after his return from Bath with Janvard’s

-written confession, Lionel was perfectly quiescent. He took no further

-action whatever. He was, indeed, debating in his own mind what further

-action it behoved him to take. There was no need to seek for any

-further evidence, if, indeed, any more would have been forthcoming. All

-that he wanted he had now got; it was simply a question as to what use

-he should make of it. Day and night that was the question which

-presented itself before his mind: what use should he make of the

-knowledge in his possession? His mind was divided this way and that;

-day passed after day, and still he could by no means decide as to the

-course which it would be best for him to adopt. Of all this he said not

-a word to Edith: he could not have borne to discuss the question even

-with her; but it is possible that she surmised something of it. She

-knew that she had only to wait and everything would be told her.

-Perhaps to Bristow, who knew all the details of the case as well as he

-did, he might have said something as to the difficulty by which he was

-beset, but as it happened, Tom was not at home just then. Much of his

-time was spent by Lionel in long solitary walks far and wide through

-the country. He could think better when he was walking than when

-sitting quietly at home, he used to say; and, indeed, the country folk

-who encountered him often turned to look at him, as he stalked along,

-with his eyes set straight before him, gazing on vacancy, and with lips

-that moved rapidly as he whispered to himself of his dreadful secret.

-

-But, little by little, the need of counsel, of sympathy, grew more

-strongly upon him. He was still as much at a loss as ever as to the

-step which he ought to take next.

-

-“They shall decide for me,” he said at last; “I will put myself into

-their hands: by their verdict I will abide.”

-

-General St. George at this time was away from Park Newton. As has been

-already stated, he had been summoned to the sick-bed of a very old and

-valued friend. The illness was a long and tedious one, and at the

-request of his friend the General stayed on and kept him company. Truth

-to tell, he was by no means sorry to get away from Park Newton for

-awhile. Of late his position there had been anything but a pleasant

-one. The silent, deadly feud between his two nephews troubled him not a

-little. If Kester would only have gone away, then, so far, all would

-have been well. But having pressed him so earnestly to visit Park

-Newton, he could not, with any show of conscience, ask him to go till

-he was ready to do so of his own accord. Knowing what he knew, that

-Kester was all but proved to have been the murderer of Percy Osmond, he

-might well not care to live under the same roof with him, hiding his

-feelings under a mask, and, while pretending to know nothing, to be in

-reality cognisant of the whole dreadful story. Knowing what he knew,

-that Richard was none other than Lionel, and knowing the quest on which

-he was engaged, and that, sooner or later, the climax must come, he

-might well wish to be away from Park Newton when that most wretched day

-should dawn—a day which would prove the innocence of one nephew at the

-price of the other’s guilt. Therefore did General St. George accept his

-old friend’s invitation to stay with him for an indefinite length of

-time—till, in fact, Kester should have left Park Newton, or till the

-tangled knot of events should, in some other way, have unravelled

-itself.

-

-When, at length, Lionel had decided that he would take the advice of

-his friends as to what his future course should be, he was obliged to

-await Tom Bristow’s return before it was possible to do anything. Then,

-when Tom did get back home, the General had to be written to. When he

-understood what he was wanted for, he agreed to come on certain

-conditions. He was to come to Fern Cottage, spend one night there, and

-go back to his friend’s house next day. No one, except those assembled

-at the cottage, was to know anything of his journey. Above all, it was

-to be kept a profound secret from Kester St George.

-

-Thus it fell out that on a certain April evening there were assembled,

-in the parlour of the cottage, Edith, Mrs. Garside, General St. George,

-Tom Bristow, and Lionel. It was a very serious occasion, and they all

-felt it to be such.

-

-The General would sit close to Edith, whom he had not seen for a little

-while; and several times during the evening he took possession of one

-of her hands, and patted it affectionately between his own withered

-palms.

-

-“You are not looking quite so well, my dear, as when I saw you last,”

-had been his first words after kissing her. Her cheeks were, indeed,

-just beginning to look in the slightest degree hollow and worn, nor did

-her eyes look quite so bright as of old. The wonder was, considering

-all that she had gone through during the last twelve months, that she

-looked as fair and fresh as she did. Of Mrs. Garside, whom we have not

-seen for some little time, it may be said that she looked plumper and

-more matronly than ever. But then nothing could have kept Mrs. Garside

-from looking plump and matronly. She was one of those people off whom

-the troubles and anxieties of life slip as easily as water slips off a

-duck’s back. Although she had a copious supply of tears at command,

-nothing ever troubled her deeply or for long, simply because there was

-no depth to be troubled. She was always cheerful, because she was

-shallow; and she was always kind-hearted so long as her kindness of

-heart did not involve any self-sacrifice on her part. “What a very

-pleasant person Mrs. Garside is,” was the general verdict of society.

-And so she was—very pleasant. If her father had been hanged on a Monday

-for sheepstealing, by Tuesday she would have been as pleasant and

-cheerful as ever.

-

-But we must not be unjust to Mrs. Garside. She had one affection, and

-one only, her love for Edith. During all the days of Edith’s

-tribulation, her aunt had never deserted her—had not even thought of

-deserting her; and now, for Edith’s sake, she had buried herself alive

-in Fern Cottage, where her only excitement was a little mild shopping,

-now and then, in Duxley High Street, under the incognito of a thick

-veil, or a welcome visit once and again from Miss Culpepper. Under

-these depressing circumstances, it ought perhaps to be put down to the

-credit of Mrs. Garside, rather than to her discredit, that her

-cheerfulness was not one whit abated, and that her face was a picture

-of health and content.

-

-“I think you know why I have asked you to meet me here to-night,” began

-Lionel. “I want your advice: I want you to tell me what step I must

-take next. You know what the purpose of my life has been ever since the

-night I escaped from prison. You know how persistently I have pursued

-that purpose—that I have allowed nothing to deter me or turn me aside

-from it. The result is that there has grown under my hands a fatal

-array of evidence, all tending to implicate one man—all pointing with

-deadly accuracy to one person, and to one only, as the murderer of

-Percy Osmond. I have but to open my mouth, and the four walls of a

-prison would shut him round as fast as ever they shut round me; I have

-but to speak of half I know and that man would have to take his trial

-for Wilful Murder even as I took mine. But shall I do this thing? That

-is the question that I want you to help me to answer. So long as the

-chain of evidence remained incomplete, so long as certain links were

-wanting to it, I felt that my task was unfinished. But at last I have

-all that I need. There is nothing more to search for. My task, so far,

-is at an end. Knowing, then, what I know, and with such proofs in my

-possession, am I to stop here? Am I to rest content with what I have

-done, and go no step farther? Or am I to go through with it to the

-bitter end? What that end would involve you know as well as I could

-tell you.”

-

-He ceased, and for a little while they all sat in silence. General St.

-George was the first to speak. “Lionel knows, and you all know, that

-from the very first he has had my heartfelt sympathy in this unhappy

-business. He has not had my sympathy only, he has had my help, although

-I have seen for a long time the point to which we were all tending, and

-the terrible consequences that must necessarily ensue. Me those

-consequences affect with peculiar force. One nephew can only be saved

-at the expense of the irretrievable ruin and disgrace of the other. It

-is not as though we had been searching in the dark, and had there found

-the bloodstained hand of a stranger. The hand we have so grasped is

-that of one of our own kin—one of ourselves. And that makes the

-dreadful part of the affair. Still, I would not have you misunderstand

-me. I am as closely bound to Lionel—my sympathy and help are his as

-much to-day as ever they were, and should he choose to go through with

-this business in the same way as he would go through with it in the

-case of an utter stranger, I shall be the last man in the world to

-blame him. More: I will march with him side by side, whatever be the

-goal to which his steps may lead him. Such unparalleled wrongs as his

-demand unparalleled reparation. For all that, however, it is still a

-most serious question whether there is not a possibility of effecting

-some kind of a compromise: whether there is not somewhere a door of

-escape open by means of which we may avert a catastrophe almost too

-terrible even to bear thinking about.”

-

-“What is your opinion, Bristow?” said Lionel, turning to Tom. “What say

-you, my friend of friends?”

-

-“I have a certain diffidence in offering any opinion,” said Tom,

-“simply on account of the relationship of the two persons chiefly

-involved. To tell the world all that you know, would, undoubtedly,

-bring about a family catastrophe of a most painful nature. It therefore

-seems to me that the members of that family, and they alone, should be

-empowered to offer an opinion on a question so delicate as the one now

-under consideration.”

-

-“Not so,” said Lionel, emphatically. “No one could have a better right,

-or even so great a right, to offer an opinion as you. But for you, I

-should not have been here to-night to ask for that opinion.”

-

-“Nor I here but for you,” interrupted Tom.

-

-“I will put my question to you in a different form,” said Lionel; “and

-so put to you, I shall expect you to answer it in your usual clear and

-straightforward way. Bristow, if you were circumstanced exactly as I am

-now circumstanced, what would you do in my place?”

-

-“I would go through with the task I had taken in hand, let the

-consequences be what they might,” said Tom, without a moment’s

-hesitation. “Nothing should hold me back. I would clear my own name and

-my own fame, and let punishment fall where punishment is due. You are

-still young, Dering, and a fair career and a happy future may still be

-yours if you like to claim them.”

-

-Tom’s words were very emphatic, and for a little while no one spoke.

-“We have yet to hear what Edith has to say,” said the General. “Her

-interests in the matter are second only to those of Lionel.”

-

-“Yes, it is my wife’s turn to speak next,” said Lionel.

-

-“What my opinion is, you know well, dearest, and have known for a long

-time.”

-

-“My uncle and Bristow would like to hear it from your own lips.”

-

-“Uncle,” began Edith, with a little blush, “whatever Lionel may

-ultimately decide to do will doubtless be for the best. The last wish I

-have in the world is to lead him or guide him in any way in opposition

-to his own convictions. But I have thought this: that it would be very

-terrible indeed to have to take part in a second tragedy—a tragedy

-that, in some of its features, would be far more dreadful than that

-first one, which none of us can ever forget. No one can know better

-than I know how grievously my husband has been sinned against. But

-nothing can altogether undo the wrong that has been done. Would it make

-my husband a happy man if, instead of being the accused, he should

-become the accuser? Let us for a few moments try to imagine that this

-second tragedy has been worked out in all its frightful consequences.

-That my husband has told everything. That he who is guilty has been

-duly punished. That Lionel’s fair fame has been re-established, and

-that he and I are living at Park Newton as if nothing had ever happened

-to disturb the commonplace tenor of our lives. In such a case, would my

-husband be a happy man? No. I know him too well to believe it possible

-that he could ever be happy or contented. The image of that man—one of

-his own kith and kin, we must remember—would be for ever in his mind.

-He would be the prey of a remorse all the more bitter in that the world

-would hold him as without blame. But would he so hold himself? I think

-not—I am sure not. He would feel as if he had sought for and accepted

-the price of blood.” Overcome by her emotion, she ceased.

-

-“I think in a great measure as you think, my dear,” said the General.

-“What course do you propose that your husband should adopt?”

-

-“It is not for me to propose anything,” answered Edith. “I can only

-suggest certain views of the question, and leave it for you and Lionel

-to adopt them or reject them, as may seem best to you.”

-

-“Holding the proofs of his innocence in his hands as he does,” said the

-General, “is it your wish that Lionel should sit down contented with

-what he has already achieved, and knowing that the real facts of his

-story are in the keeping of you and me, and two or three trusted

-friends, rest satisfied with that and ask for nothing more?”

-

-“No, I hardly go so far as that,” said Edith, with a faint smile. “I

-think that the man who committed the crime should know that Lionel

-still lives, and that he holds in his hands the proof at once of his

-own innocence and of the other’s guilt. Beyond that I say this: The

-world believes my husband to be dead: rather than re-open so terrible a

-wound, let the world continue so to believe. My husband and I can do

-without the world, as well as it can do without us. We have our mutual

-love, which nothing can deprive us of: against that the shafts of

-Fortune beat as vainly as hailstones against a castle wall. On this

-earth of ours are places sweet and fair without number. In one of

-them—not altogether dissevered from those ties of friendship which have

-already made our married life so beautiful—my husband and I could build

-up a new home, with no sad memories of the past to cling around it; and

-when this haunting shadow that now broods over his life shall have been

-brushed away for ever, then I think—I know—I feel sure that I can make

-him happy!” Her voice, her eyes, her whole manner were imbued with a

-sweet fervour that it was impossible to resist.

-

-Lionel crossed over and kissed her. “My darling!” he said. “But for

-your love and care I should long ago have been a madman.”

-

-“You, my dear, have put into words,” said the General, “the very ideas

-that for a long time have been floating about, half formed, in my own

-mind. Lionel, what have you to say to your wife’s suggestions?”

-

-“Only this: that I have made up my mind to follow them. _He_ shall know

-that I am alive, and that I hold the proofs of his guilt, ready to

-produce them at a moment’s notice, should I ever be compelled to do so.

-Beyond that, I will leave him in peace—to such peace as his own

-conscience will give him. The world believes Lionel Dering to be dead

-and buried. Dead and buried he shall still remain, and ‘requiescat in

-pace’ be written under his name.”

-

-The General got up with tears in his eyes and shook Lionel warmly by

-the hand. “Good boy! good boy! You will not go without your reward,”

-was all that he could say.

-

-“The eighth of May will soon be here,” said Lionel—“the anniversary of

-poor Osmond’s murder. On that day he shall be told. But I shall tell

-him in my own fashion. On that day, uncle, you must promise to give me

-your company; and you yours, Tom. After that I shall trouble you no

-more.”

-

-If Tom Bristow dissented from the conclusion thus come to, he said no

-word to that effect. There was one point, however, that struck his

-practical mind as having been altogether overlooked; and as soon as

-Edith and Mrs. Garside had left the room he did not fail to mention it.

-

-“What about the income of eleven thousand a year?” he said. “You are

-surely not going to let the whole of that slip through your fingers?”

-

-“Ah, by-the-by, that point never struck me,” said the General. “No, it

-would be decidedly unjust both to yourself and your wife, Lionel, to

-give up the income as well as the position.”

-

-“Now you are importing a mercenary tone into the affair that is utterly

-distasteful to me. It looks as if I were being bribed to keep silence.”

-

-“That is sheer nonsense,” said the General. “You have but to hold out

-your hand to take the whole.”

-

-Lionel said no more, but went and sat down dejectedly on the sofa.

-

-“You and I must settle this matter between us,” said the General to

-Tom. “It is most important. It shall be my place to see that whatever

-is agreed upon shall be duly carried out in the arrangement between the

-two men. I should think that if the income were divided it would be

-about as fair a thing as could be done. What say you?”

-

-“I agree with you entirely,” said Tom. “The other one will have the

-name and position to keep up, and that can’t be done for nothing.”

-

-“Then it shall be so settled.”

-

-“There is one other point that I think ought to be settled at the same

-time. Who is to have Park Newton after _his_ death? Lionel may have

-children. _He_ may marry and have children. But, in common justice, the

-estate ought to be secured on Dering’s eldest child, whether the

-present possessor die with or without an heir.”

-

-“Certainly, certainly. Good gracious me! a most valuable suggestion.

-Strange, now, that it never struck me. Yes, yes: Lionel’s eldest child

-must have the estate. I will see that there is no possible mistake on

-that score.”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER X.

-HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.

-

-

-After Mrs. McDermott’s departure from Pincote, life there slipped back

-into its old quiet groove—into its old dull groove which was growing

-duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company:

-when any of his old friends called he was never at home to them; and on

-the score of ill health he declined every invitation that was sent to

-him. But it was not altogether on account of his health that these

-invitations were declined, because three or four times a week he would

-be seen somewhere about the country roads being driven out by Jane in

-the basket-carriage. There was another reason for this state of

-things—a reason to which his friends and neighbours were not slow in

-giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser: that is

-what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a miser

-was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his

-daughter’s sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more

-ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme

-of domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous

-chapter, and the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to

-many people, seem miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality

-for which Pincote had heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he

-could not go much into society without giving return invitations. Now

-the four or five state dinners which he had been in the habit of giving

-every year were very elaborate and expensive affairs, and he no longer

-felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of spending so many

-pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom he cared

-little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount, trifling

-though it might seem, to that other trifling amount—only some few

-hundreds of pounds when all was told—which he had already managed to

-scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he should be gone

-from her side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be her home? “If I

-had only died a year ago,” he would sometimes say to himself, “then

-Jenny would have had a handsome fortune to call her own. Now she’s next

-door to being a pauper.”

-

-Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank—not to Sugden’s

-Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County—and he gloated over

-every five pounds added to the fund invested in his daughter’s name as

-something more added to the nest-egg; and to be able to put away fifty

-pounds in a lump now afforded him far more genuine delight than the

-putting away of a thousand would have done six months previously.

-

-There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father

-respecting the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the

-Squire himself first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more

-anxious than he was that the topic should never be broached between

-them again. She guessed in part what his object might be when he began

-to cut down the house expenses at Pincote discharging some half dozen

-of his people; raising his farm rents where it was possible to do so;

-letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the park as

-pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his

-famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of

-his kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She guessed,

-but that was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his reasons

-for so doing, and she made no inquiry. The sphere of his enjoyment had

-now become a very limited one. If it gave him pleasure—and she could

-not doubt that it did—to live penuriously so as to be enabled to put

-away a few extra pounds per annum, she would not mar the edge of that

-pleasure by seeming even to notice what was going on, much less make

-any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on his part, had many a good

-chuckle in the solitude of his own room. “After I’m gone, she’ll know

-what it all means,” he would say to himself. “She’s puzzled now—they

-are all puzzled. They call me a miser, do they? Let ’em call me what

-they like. Another twenty put away to-day. That makes——” and out would

-come his passbook and his spectacles.

-

-The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went into

-society compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his example.

-There were two or three houses to which, if she chose, she could still

-go without its being thought strange that there was no return

-invitation to Pincote; and there were two or three old school friends

-whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her own little room without

-their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay to dinner. But

-of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw little or

-nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she was far too

-deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.

-

-Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father’s

-no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by

-no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott’s warning words, nor Tom’s frank

-confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of

-his intention to encourage Tom’s visits to Pincote after the widow’s

-abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next

-day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his

-appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been

-French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom’s health in a

-bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when they

-parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front door,

-shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a sort of

-half intimation that some considerable time would probably elapse

-before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote again. In

-the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his sister, the

-Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home of an evening

-with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been content and

-happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so thinking he had

-overlooked one very important point. The Titus Culpepper of six months

-ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do gentleman, satisfied with himself

-and all the world, in tolerable health, and excited by the prospect of

-making a magnificent fortune without trouble or anxiety. The Titus

-Culpepper of to-day was a broken-down gambler—a gambler who had madly

-speculated with his daughter’s fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down,

-too, was he in health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of

-all, a man who no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own

-thoughts, and who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour

-at a time. Of this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected

-nothing: how few of us do know of such changes! Other people may

-change—nay, do we not see them changing daily around us, and smile

-good-naturedly as we note how querulous and hard to please poor Jones

-has become of late? But that we—we—should so change, becoming a burden

-to ourselves and a trial to those around us, with our queer,

-cross-grained ways, our peevish, variable tempers, and our general

-belief that the sun shines less brightly, and that the world is less

-beautiful than it was a little while ago—that is altogether impossible.

-The change is always in others, never in our immaculate selves.

-

-The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men’s company to

-that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all æsthetic. He liked

-to talk about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets; to talk

-a little about imperial politics—chiefly confined to blackguarding “the

-other side of the House”—and a great deal about local politics. He had

-been in the habit of talking by the hour together about paving, and

-lighting, and sewage, and the state of the highways: all useful matters

-without a doubt, but hardly topics calculated to interest a lady.

-Though he liked to have Jane play to him now and then—but never for

-more than ten minutes at any one time—he always designated it as

-“tinkling;” and as often as not, when he asked her to sing, he would

-say, “Now, Jenny, lass, give us a squall.” But for all this, in former

-times Jane and he had got on very well together on the occasions when

-they had been without company at Pincote. He was moving about a good

-deal in the world at that time, mixing with various people, talking to

-and being talked to by different friends and acquaintances, and was at

-no loss for subjects to talk about, even though those subjects might

-not be particularly interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a

-capital listener, and could always give him a good commonplace answer,

-and that was all he craved—that and three-fourths of the talk to

-himself.

-

-Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but given

-up going into society, by which means he at once dried up the source

-from which he had been in the habit of obtaining his conversational

-ideas. When he came to dine alone with Jane he found himself with

-nothing to talk about. Under such circumstances there was nothing left

-for him but grumbling. But even grumbling becomes tiresome after a

-time, especially when the person to whom such complainings are

-addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you, and is incapable

-of being grumbled at herself.

-

-It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to

-Jane, “We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to see

-him about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner. So you

-had better drop him a line.”

-

-The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was

-too stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man’s

-lively company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next

-morning happened to be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself as

-she noted how anxious her father was lest the rain should keep Tom from

-coming. Jane knew that neither rain nor anything else would keep him

-away. “Papa is almost as anxious to see him as I am,” she said to

-herself. “He thought that he could live without him: he now begins to

-find out his mistake.”

-

-Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a hearty

-greeting, and took him into the study before he had an opportunity of

-seeing Jane. “I’ve heard nothing more from those railway people about

-the Croft,” he said. “Penfold was here yesterday and wanted to know

-whether he was to go on with the villas—all the foundations are now in,

-you know. I hardly knew what instructions to give him.”

-

-“If you were to ask me, sir,” said Tom, “I should certainly say, let

-him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to

-know that the company must have the Croft—that they cannot possibly do

-without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to go

-to them and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to

-come to you; which, in a transaction of this nature, makes all the

-difference.”

-

-“I don’t think you are far wrong in your views,” said Mr. Culpepper.

-“I’ll turn over in my mind what you’ve said.” Which meant that the

-Squire would certainly adopt Tom’s advice.

-

-“No lovemaking, you know, Bristow,” whispered the old man, with a dig

-in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.

-

-“You may trust me, sir,” said Tom.

-

-“I’m not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty

-girl is in question.”

-

-Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old man

-his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources in

-that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully

-introduced topics sufficed. The Squire’s own long-winded remarks,

-unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made

-a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready

-with his “I quite agree with you, sir;” or his “Just so, sir;” or his

-“Those are my sentiments exactly, sir.” To be able to talk for half an

-hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that

-interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly enjoyed.

-

-After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by

-himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the

-drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the

-dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though he

-might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of that

-illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly cautioned.

-

-As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into

-the drawing-room, and whispered, “None of your tomfoolery, remember.”

-Five minutes later he was fast asleep.

-

-They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so

-they fell back upon chess. “There’s to be no lovemaking, you know,

-Jenny,” whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.

-

-“None, whatever,” whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the head,

-and a demure smile.

-

-A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for

-any further conversation, except about the incidents of the game,

-which, truth to tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of

-studying the board, as a chess-player ought to do, Jane found her eyes,

-quite unconsciously to herself, studying the face of her opponent,

-while Tom’s hand, wandering purposelessly about the board, frequently

-found itself taking hold of Jane’s hand instead of a knight or a pawn;

-so that when at last the game did contrive to work itself out to an

-ineffective conclusion, they could hardly have said with certainty

-which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire woke up, smiling

-and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each other, and

-there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of chess. If he

-were content, they had no reason to be otherwise.

-

-After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as

-often as the latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of

-himself the old man’s heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when

-it so happened that business took Tom away from home for two or three

-days, then the Squire grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane’s tact

-and good temper were needed to make life at all endurable. She tried

-her best to persuade him to invite some of his old friends to come and

-see him, or go himself and call up on some of them, but in vain.

-Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would he have. He looked upon

-himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to economize in every

-possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a sensible

-fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony, or be at

-any extra expense—a man who was content with a chop and a rice pudding,

-and a glass of St. Julien. “He doesn’t come here for what he gets to

-eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine. He finds that he

-can learn a good many things from me, and he’s not above learning.”

-

-All this time the works at Knockley Holt were being pushed busily

-forward, much to the bewilderment and aggravation of the good people of

-Duxley. They were aggravated, and they considered they had a right to

-be aggravated, because they could not understand, and had not been

-told, what it was that was intended to be done there. In a small town

-like Duxley, no inhabitant has a right to put before his

-fellow-citizens a problem which they find incapable of solution, and

-then when asked to solve it for them decline to do so. Such conduct

-merits the severest social reprehension.

-

-Surely next to the madness of building a row of villas on Prior’s

-Croft, was the puzzling folly of digging a hole in Knockley Holt. After

-much discussion pro and con, amongst the townspeople—chiefly over

-sundry glasses of whiskey toddy, in sundry bar parlours, after business

-hours—it seemed to be settled that Culpepper’s Hole, as some wag had

-christened it, could be intended for nothing else than an artesian

-well—though what was the exact nature of an artesian well it would have

-puzzled some of the Duxley wiseacres to tell, and why water should be

-bored for there, and to what uses it could be put when so obtained,

-they would have been still more at a loss to say. The Squire could not

-drive into Duxley without being tackled by one or another of his

-friends as to what he was about at Knockley Holt. But the old man would

-only wink and shake his head, and try to look wise, and say, “It

-doesn’t do to blab everything nowadays, but between you and me and the

-post—this is in confidence, mind—I’m digging a tunnel to the

-Antipodes.” Then he would chuckle and give the reins a shake, and

-Diamond would trot off with him, leaving his questioner angry or

-amused, as the case might be.

-

-It was not known to any one in Duxley, except the Squire’s lawyer, that

-Knockley Holt was now the property of Tom Bristow. That the works there

-were under Tom’s direction was a well-known fact, but he was merely

-looked upon as Mr. Culpepper’s foreman in the matter. “Gets a couple of

-hundred or so a year for looking after the Squire’s affairs,” one

-wiseacre would remark to another. “If not, how does he live? Seems to

-have nothing to do when he’s not at Pincote. A poor way of getting a

-living. Serve him right: he should have stopped with old Hoskyns when

-he had the chance, and not have thought he was going to set the Thames

-on fire with his six thousand pounds.”

-

-No one could be possessed by a more burning desire than the Squire

-himself to know the meaning of the works at Knockley Holt, but having

-asked once and asked in vain, his pride would not allow him to make any

-further direct inquiry. Not a day passed on which he saw Tom, that he

-did not try, by one or two vague hints, to lead up to the subject, but

-when Tom turned the talk into another channel, then the old man would

-see that the time for him to be enlightened had not yet come.

-

-But it did come at last, and after what was, in reality, no very long

-waiting. On a certain afternoon—to be precise in our dates, it was the

-fifth of May—Tom walked over to Pincote, in search of the Squire. He

-found him in his study, wearying his brain over a column of figures,

-which would persist in coming to a different total every time it was

-added up. The first thing Tom did was to take the column of figures and

-bring it to a correct total. This done, his next act was to produce

-something from his pocket that was carefully wrapped up in a piece of

-brown paper. He pushed the parcel across the table to the Squire. “Will

-you oblige me, sir,” he said, “by opening that paper, and giving me

-your opinion as to the contents?”

-

-“Why, bless my heart, this is neither more nor less than a lump of

-coal!” said the Squire, when he had opened the paper.

-

-“Exactly so, sir. As you say, this is neither more nor less than a lump

-of coal. But where do you think it came from?”

-

-“There you puzzle me. Though I don’t know that it can matter much to me

-where it came from.”

-

-“But it matters very much to you, sir. This lump of coal came from

-Knockley Holt.”

-

-The Squire was rather dull of comprehension. “Well, what is there so

-wonderful about that?” he said. “I dare say it was stolen by some of

-those confounded gipsies, and left there when they moved.”

-

-“What I mean is this, sir,” answered Tom, with just a shade of

-impatience in his tone. “This piece of coal is but a specimen of a

-splendid seam which has been struck by my men at the bottom of the

-shaft at Knockley Holt.”

-

-The Squire stared at him, and gave a long, low whistle. “Do you mean to

-say that you have found a bed of coal at the bottom of the hole you

-have been digging at Knockley Holt?”

-

-“That is precisely what I have found, sir, and it is precisely what I

-have been trying to find from the first.”

-

-“I see it all now!” said the Squire. “What a lucky young scamp you are!

-But what on earth put it into your head to go looking for coal at

-Knockley Holt?”

-

-“I had a friend of mine, who is a very clever mining engineer, staying

-with me for a little while some time ago. But my friend is not only an

-engineer—he is a practical geologist as well. When out for a

-constitutional one day, we found ourselves at Knockley Holt. My friend

-was struck with its appearance—so different from that of the country

-around. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, there is coal under here,’ he said,

-‘and at no great distance from the surface either. The owner ought to

-think himself a lucky man—that is, if he knows the value of it.’ Well,

-sir, not content with what my friend said, I paid a heavy fee and had

-one of the most eminent geologists of the day down from London to

-examine and report upon it. His report coincided exactly with my

-friend’s opinion. You know the rest, sir. I came to you with a view of

-getting a lease of the ground, and found you desirous of selling it. I

-was only too glad to have the chance of buying it. I set a lot of men

-and a steam engine to work without a day’s delay, and that lump of

-coal, sir, is the happy result.”

-

-The Squire rubbed his spectacles for a moment or two without speaking.

-“Bristow, that’s an old head of yours on those young shoulders,” he

-said at last. “With all my heart congratulate you on your good fortune.

-I know no man who deserves it more than you do. Yes, Bristow, I

-congratulate you, though I can’t help saying that I wish that I had had

-a friend to have told me what was told you before I let you have the

-ground. For want of such a friend I have lost a fortune.”

-

-“That is just what I have come to see you about, sir,” said Tom, as he

-rose and pushed back his chair. The Squire looked up at him in

-surprise. “Although I bought Knockley Holt from you as a speculation, I

-had a pretty good idea when I bought it as to what I should find below

-the surface. If I had not found what I expected, my bargain would have

-been a dear one; but having found what I expected, it is just the

-opposite. In fact, sir, you have lost a fortune, and I have found one.”

-

-“I know it—I know it,” groaned the Squire. “But you needn’t twit me

-with it.”

-

-“So far the speculation was a perfectly legitimate one, as speculations

-go nowadays. But that is not the sort of thing I wish to exist between

-you and me. You have been very kind to me in many ways, and I have much

-to thank you for. I could not bear to treat you in this matter as I

-should treat a stranger. I could not bear to think that I was making a

-fortune out of a piece of ground that but a few short weeks ago was

-your property. The money so made would seem to me to bring a curse with

-it, rather than a blessing. I should feel as if nothing would ever

-prosper with me afterwards. Sir, I will not have this coal mine. There

-are plenty of other channels open to me for making money. Here are the

-title deeds of the property. I give them back to you. You shall repay

-me the twelve hundred pounds purchase-money, and reimburse me for the

-expenses I have been put to in sinking the shaft. But as for the pit

-itself, I will have nothing to do with it.”

-

-Tom had produced the title deeds from his pocket and had laid them on

-the table while speaking. He now pushed them across to the Squire. Then

-he took the deed of sale tore it across, and threw the fragments into

-the grate.

-

-It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished in

-the whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For a

-little while he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did

-speak, his words were not lacking in force.

-

-“Bristow, you are a confounded fool!” he said with emphasis.

-

-“I have been told that many times before.”

-

-“You are a confounded fool—but you are a gentleman.”

-

-Tom merely bowed.

-

-“You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after

-having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there—eh?”

-

-“I don’t propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are the

-title deeds,” pointing to the table. “There is the deed of sale,”

-pointing to the fire-grate.

-

-“And do you think, sir,” said the Squire, with dignity, “that Titus

-Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity from

-one who is little more than a boy! Not so.—It would be impossible for

-me to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind The property is

-fairly and legally yours, and yours it must remain.”

-

-“It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title

-deeds. Do with them as you will.” He buttoned his coat, and took up his

-hat, and turned to leave the room.

-

-“Stop, Bristow, stop!” said the Squire, as he rose from his chair. Tom

-halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back

-to the table.

-

-Mr. Culpepper walked to the window and stood there looking out for full

-three minutes without uttering a word. Then he turned and beckoned Tom

-to go to him.

-

-“Bristow,” he said, laying his hand affectionately on Tom’s shoulder,

-“as I said before, you are a gentleman—a gentleman in mind and feeling.

-More than that a man cannot be, whether his family be old or new. You

-propose to do a certain thing which I can only accede to on one

-condition.”

-

-“Name it, sir,” said Tom briefly.

-

-“I cannot take Knockley Holt from you without giving you something like

-an equivalent in return. Now, I only possess one thing that you would

-care to receive at my hands—and that is the most precious thing I have

-on earth. Exchange is no robbery. I will agree to take back Knockley

-Holt from you, if you will take in exchange for it—my daughter Jane.”

-

-“Oh! Mr. Culpepper.”

-

-“That you love her, I know already, and I dare say the sly hussy is

-equally as fond of you. If such be the case, take her. I know no man

-who so thoroughly deserves her, or who has so much right to her as you

-have.”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XI.

-THE EIGHTH OF MAY.

-

-

-The eighth of May had come round at last.

-

-Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George

-intended least to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell out,

-he could not well avoid doing so.

-

-After the death and burial of Mother Mim—the expenses of the last-named

-ceremony being defrayed out of Kester’s pocket—it had been his

-intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so fell out

-that in the document purloined by him from the pocket of Skeggs when

-that individual lay dead on the moor, there was given the name of a

-certain person, still living, who could depose, of his own personal

-knowledge, to the truth of the facts as put down in the dying woman’s

-confession. This person was the only witness to the facts there stated

-who was now alive. The name of the man in question was William Bendall,

-and the point that Kester had now to clear up was: Who was this William

-Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was no address given in

-the Confession, nor any hint as to the man’s whereabouts; but Skeggs

-had doubtless known where he was to be found, and had, in fact, told

-Kester that he could put his hand on the man at a day’s notice.

-

-With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it

-was impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn

-that Mother Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of a

-few days, and when the restraining power which had doubtless kept him

-silent should be removed for ever, what was to prevent him from telling

-all that he knew, or, at least, from giving such broad hints as to the

-information in his possession as might lead to inquiry—to many

-inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would care to

-encounter—unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven to

-bay?

-

-But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It behoved

-him, therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain cautious

-inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with the view

-of ascertaining what kind of a man he was, or whether there was any

-danger to be apprehended from him. And if so, how could the danger best

-be met?

-

-It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave

-Park Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at any

-hour should Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he stayed on

-at the old place, very much against his will in other respects. But, to

-a certain extent, his patience had already been rewarded. Mr. Bendall’s

-address had been discovered, and Mr. Bendall himself had been found to

-be first cousin to Mother Mim, and a railway ganger by profession. But

-just at this time he was away from home—his home being at Swarkstone, a

-great centre of railway industry, about twenty miles from Duxley—he

-having been sent out to Russia in charge of a cargo of railway plant.

-He was now expected back in the course of a few days, and Kester

-determined not to leave the neighbourhood till he had found out for

-himself what manner of man he was.

-

-We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two

-days after Kester’s visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg,

-so that the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen,

-and it was at once understood how he had come by his death. No one

-except the girl Nell had seen Kester St. George in his company, so, as

-it fell out, that gentleman’s name was never even whispered in

-connexion with the affair.

-

-The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously

-discussed in his own mind, after Mother Mim’s death. What to do with

-such a strange girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence.

-Did she really know anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she

-not? If anything, how much did she know, and to what use did she intend

-to put her knowledge? Kester had no opportunity of talking to her in

-private before the funeral, so he made an appointment with her for the

-morning following that event. She was to meet him at a certain

-milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o’clock. Kester was there to the

-minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all. Kester

-went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to Mother

-Mim’s cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the old

-woman who had been looking after matters previously to the funeral:

-From her he ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two hours after

-her return from seeing the last of her grandmother, taking with her her

-new black frock and a few other things tied up in a bundle, and had

-given no hint as to where she was going, or whether it was her

-intention ever to come back.

-

-The girl’s disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude

-to Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any

-sign of her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness

-gradually wore itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself

-that from that quarter at least there was no possible danger to be

-apprehended.

-

-But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester

-St. George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park

-Newton, not even though he could not have left it till the seventh, and

-had been compelled to come back to it on the ninth. He would have gone

-somewhere—anywhere if only for a dozen hours—if only from sunset till

-sunrise, had it in anyway been possible for him to do so. But it so

-happened that it was not possible for him to do so. On the fifth he

-received a letter from his uncle, which astonished him very much.

-General St. George was still staying at Salisbury with his sick friend,

-Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:

-

-“All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant,

-but for a few hours only. I don’t know whether your cousin Richard has

-told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out to

-New Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him.”

-

-

-“The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of life!”

-muttered Kester. “Of course, it’s Master Richard’s dodge to take him

-with him, so as to make sure of his money when he dies. Well, if I can

-only get rid of the young one, the old one may go with him, and

-welcome.” Then he went on with his uncle’s letter.

-

-

-“I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope

-to spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old

-place, and there are several things I wish to talk to you about.

-We—that is, Richard and I, leave by the eight o’clock train next

-morning direct for Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us. By

-this day next week, I shall have bidden a final farewell to dear Old

-England.”

-

-“So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it,” said Kester, as

-he folded up the letter. “I would give much if it was any other day

-than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But there’s no

-help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company than to

-spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that.”

-

-“Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there’s no

-chance of any of his money coming to me,” he said to himself later on.

-“That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I

-don’t suppose he’s got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I

-wouldn’t mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for

-ever.”

-

-The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often

-are. Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and

-away he started without telling any one where he was going. He was out

-all day, and did not get back till five o’clock, an hour after the

-arrival of his uncle, with whom had come Mr. Perrins, the family

-lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not seen for a long time. He

-was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester that his uncle

-had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving England,

-in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.

-

-“This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England,” said Kester.

-

-“Yes, it is very sudden,” replied the General. “It is not more than

-three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The reasons

-he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not

-blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel

-left us, I seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I

-presently made up my mind to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of

-living alone. I have only you and him—and you; Kester, are too much of

-a Bohemian, too much a citizen of the world—a wandering Arab who

-strikes his tent a dozen times a year—for me ever to think of staying

-with you. Dick is far more of an old fogey than you are, and he and I—I

-don’t doubt—will get on very well together.”

-

-“All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you.”

-

-Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to

-dinner, for there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton,

-the octogenarian Vicar of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally

-during the course of the trial, but not since. The vicar he had known

-from boyhood.

-

-It was by Lionel’s express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar

-had been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell

-Kester to-night should be told to them also. They were all, in a

-certain sense, friends of the family; they were all men of honour; with

-them his secret would be safe. In simple justice to himself, he felt

-that it was not enough that his uncle and Bristow should be the sole

-depositories of that secret. There ought to be at least two or three

-family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly trusted, and

-whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in exile.

-

-None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular

-reason why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had

-any suspicion that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom

-they all so sincerely mourned. They had simply been invited to a little

-dinner party given by General St. George on the eve of his departure

-from England for ever.

-

-The last to arrive at Park Newton—and he did not arrive till two

-minutes before dinner was served—was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven

-Miss Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking

-with Edith till the last minute.

-

-Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General introduced

-them to each other. Tom had seen Kester several times, knowing well who

-he was, but the latter had no recollection of having ever seen Tom.

-

-Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as

-to the particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin

-that which he had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had

-kept his own counsel, having spoken no word to any one. It was a

-subject on which even his wife felt that she could not question him.

-During the past week he had been even more silent and distrait than

-usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one subject, to the

-exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be aware of,

-what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious

-one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon her:

-that she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed for was

-that the fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come and go

-without any encounter between her husband and his cousin. Lionel and

-Tom were to ride across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at the close

-of the evening—Tom, in order that he might escort Jane back to Pincote:

-Lionel, because he should then have bidden the old house a last

-farewell, because he should then have done with the past for ever, and

-because he should then be ready to start with his wife for their new

-home on the other side of the world.

-

-“And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to

-reconsider your determination?” said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand

-in hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had

-gone into Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little

-parlour all to themselves.

-

-“I’m afraid not,” answered Edith with a melancholy smile

-

-“It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight

-and clear—just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the

-world! Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it

-aloud on the housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which he

-deserves to pay. I would never banish myself from my native country for

-his sake; he is not worthy of such a sacrifice.”

-

-“You must not talk like that,” said Edith, with a little extra squeeze

-of Jane’s hand; “but it is easy to see who has been inoculating you

-with his wild doctrines.”

-

-“They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones,” said

-Jane emphatically. “There’s nothing wild about them; they are plain

-common sense.”

-

-“There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow

-the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are

-about to do is best for all concerned.”

-

-“I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in this

-way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you.”

-

-“I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I’m afraid

-Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear

-transplanting to a foreign clime.”

-

-“Yes, I suppose so,” said Jane, with a little sigh. “Only I should so

-like to travel: I should so like a six months’ voyage to somewhere.”

-

-“The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel

-so.”

-

-“You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand,

-some place within four or five days’ journey, where one could run over

-for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous of

-you to go so far away.”

-

-“When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the case.

-If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be the

-least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a

-perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable.

-He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his

-face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without

-fear of detection.”

-

-“I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to you to get

-away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful associations—to hide

-yourself in some remote valley where no shadow of the past can darken

-your door; but it seems to me that you need not go quite so far away in

-order to do that.”

-

-“It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it.”

-

-“No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one

-would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for

-me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make

-it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that

-effect. But, New Zealand!”

-

-As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith’s uneasiness increase, but

-she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had told

-her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to the

-time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share in

-the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she was

-unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might not

-even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her

-husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly

-chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be

-a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers

-of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait—wait—wait! If she

-went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the sound

-of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be possible

-to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance away. To and

-fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned leopardess.

-White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping and

-unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess of

-old, who sees in her mind’s eye a vision of doom—a vision of things to

-come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched her in

-silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but there

-was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.

-

-“I can bear this no longer,” said Edith, at last; “the room suffocates

-me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel.” She

-snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside’s, that lay on the sofa, and flung

-it over her head and shoulders.

-

-“Let me go with you,” cried Jane, “I am almost as anxious as you are.”

-

-“Hush! hush!” cried Edith, suddenly, “I hear them coming!”

-

-Hardly breathing, they all listened.

-

-“I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind,” cried Mrs.

-Garside, after a few moments.

-

-“Nor I,” said Jane.

-

-“I tell you they are coming,” said Edith. “There are two of them.

-Listen! Surely you can hear them now!” She flung open the window as she

-spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard

-highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage

-door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the

-top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them.

-

-Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed

-by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was

-no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour.

-To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all of

-them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave.

-

-Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith’s white arms

-were round his neck.

-

-“My darling: what is it?” she said. “What dreadful thing has happened?”

-He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something in her ear.

-She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms tightened

-suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.

-

-

-At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom

-and Mr. Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar,

-did their best to keep the conversation from flagging, but at times

-with only indifferent success. None of them could forget what day it

-was—could forget what took place that night twelve months ago, only a

-few yards from where they were sitting; and so remembering, who could

-wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless and the wines without flavour,

-that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to the imagination of more

-than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the room, invisible

-to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking when they

-drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing well all

-the time which one of the company would be the first to join it in that

-Land of Shadows to which it now belonged.

-

-Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke

-at all except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep up

-some show of conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no one

-but himself knew how irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel intend to

-do? Would there be a scene—a fracas—between the two cousins? What would

-be the end of the wretched business? How fervently he wished that the

-morrow was safely come, that he had seen that unhappy man’s face for

-the last time, and that he, and Lionel, and Edith were fairly started

-on their long journey to the other side of the world!

-

-The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party

-would break up by ten o’clock at the latest. Not that it mattered

-greatly to either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton

-all night. But the vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in

-decent time, so that when he began to fidget and look at his watch,

-Lionel, who was only waiting for him to make a move, knew that it would

-be impossible to detain him much longer.

-

-“I must really ask you to excuse me, General,” said the old man at

-last. “But I see that it is past ten o’clock, and quite time for gay

-young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps.”

-

-“I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar,” said Lionel.

-“I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my uncle’s

-permission, we will all adjourn there.”

-

-“You must not keep me long,” said the vicar.

-

-“I will not,” said Lionel. “But I know that you like to finish up your

-evening with a little café noir; and I have, besides, a picture which I

-want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much—a

-picture—which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all

-the other gentlemen who are here to-night.”

-

-They all rose and made a move towards the door.

-

-“As I don’t care for café noir, and don’t understand pictures, you will

-perhaps excuse me,” said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing

-himself to his uncle.

-

-“You had better go with us,” said Lionel, turning to his cousin. “You

-are surely not going to be the first to break up the party.”

-

-“I don’t want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come

-back,” answered Kester, doggedly.

-

-“You had better go with us,” said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so

-that the others could not hear him.

-

-“Pray who made you dictator here?” said Kester haughtily. “I don’t

-choose to go with you. That is enough.”

-

-“You had better go with us,” said Lionel for the third time. “If you

-still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go.”

-

-“Afraid!” sneered Kester. “Of whom and what should I be afraid?”

-

-“That is best known to yourself.”

-

-“Anyhow, I’m neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do.”

-

-“If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are

-kept away by some abject fear.”

-

-“Lead on.—I’ll follow.—But mark my words, you and I will have this

-little matter out in the morning—alone.”

-

-“Willingly.”

-

-The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to

-those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and

-no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered:

-a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as

-possible.

-

-Lionel’s sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided

-into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on

-the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.

-

-“Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” said

-Lionel. “My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it

-to you.” So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of

-the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.

-

-Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were

-bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now,

-as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his

-shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that

-one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. “Come!”

-was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little

-malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his heart

-there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to him; a

-dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating on some

-far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know that he was

-there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable bitterness, how

-utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human being anywhere

-who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret him—not one

-single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his grave.—But such

-thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away somehow. He rose and

-went to the table, poured himself out half a tumbler of brandy, and

-drank it off without water. “It puts fresh life into me as it goes

-down,” he muttered to himself.

-

-He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden

-noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were

-being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they

-stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness.

-Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel—or, as most

-there took it to be, the voice of Richard—but Lionel himself was

-unseen.

-

-“Gentlemen,” said the voice, “you all know what day this is. It is the

-eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered.

-About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed

-about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how

-the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have

-painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you.”

-

-The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open.

-The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that

-every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed canvas,

-on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel Dering’s Dream.

-

-The scene was Percy Osmond’s bedroom, and the moment selected by the

-artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and

-Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while

-pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other

-hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent’s heart. Peeping from

-behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of

-Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses

-takable.

-

-Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at

-the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely

-accused was one of themselves.

-

-“Now you see how the murder really happened—now you know who the

-murderer really was,” said Lionel, speaking from some place in the

-farther room where he could not be seen. “This is no dream but a most

-dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs—ample

-proofs—of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy

-Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!”

-

-At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was

-still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right

-hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported

-himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face;

-his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one face

-to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to speak, but

-could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy. Tom

-interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it greedily

-and then he spoke.

-

-“What you have just been told,” he said, “is nothing but a cruel,

-cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he

-hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar—because he dare not

-face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer—we all know

-that Lionel Dering——”

-

-“Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you to

-your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!”

-

-Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood

-Lionel, no longer disguised—the dye washed off his face, his hands, his

-hair—the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from the

-dead—his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at a

-glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair

-beard.

-

-For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue, glaring

-across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.

-

-One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so.

-That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his

-face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half

-round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.

-

-“He has fainted,” said the General.

-

-“He is dead,” said Tom.

-

-“Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this,” said Lionel.

-“None whatever!”

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XII.

-GATHERED THREADS.

-

-

-The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering with

-two courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out his

-original intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving the

-world still to believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he could

-give himself up to justice, under his real name, and, his first trial

-never having been finished—take his stand at the bar again under the

-original charge, and with the proofs he had gathered in his possession,

-let his innocence of the crime imputed to him work itself out through a

-legitimate channel to a verdict of Not Guilty. This latter course was

-the only one open to him if he wished to clear himself in the eyes of

-the world from the stain of blood, or even if he wished to assume his

-own name and his position as the owner of Park Newton. But did he

-really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad, of burying himself

-and his wife in some far-away nook of the New World, had taken such

-hold on his imagination, that even now it had by no means lost its

-sweetness in his thoughts. Then, again, Kester having died without a

-will, if he—Lionel were to leave himself undeclared, the estate would

-go to General St. George, as next of kin, and after the old soldier’s

-time it would go, in the natural course of events, to his brother

-Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give himself into custody and

-undergo the pain and annoyance of another term of imprisonment, and

-another trial—and they would be both painful and annoying, even though

-his innocence were proved at the end of them? Why not rather bind over

-to silence those few trusted friends to whom his secret was already

-known, and going abroad with Edith, spend the remainder of his days in

-happy obscurity. Why re-open that bloodstained page of family history,

-over which the world had of a surety gloated sufficiently already?

-

-But in this latter view he was opposed by everybody except his wife; by

-his uncle, by Tom, by the vicar, and by nobody more strongly than by

-Messrs. Perrins and Hoskyns. The cry from all was—take your trial; let

-your innocence be proved, as proved it must be, and assume the name and

-position that are rightfully yours. Edith, with her head resting on his

-shoulder, only said: “Do that which seems best to you in your own

-heart, dearest, and that alone. Whether you go or stay, my place is by

-your side—my love unalterable. Only to be with you—never to lose you

-again—is all I ask. Give me that: I crave for nothing more.”

-

-Strange to say, the person who brought matters to a climax, and finally

-decided Lionel as to his future course of action, was the girl Nell,

-Mother Mim’s plain-spoken grand-daughter. Through some channel or other

-she had heard of the death of Mr. St. George, and one day she marched

-up the steps at Park Newton, and rang the big bell, and asked, as bold

-as brass, to see the General. The General was one of the most

-accessible of men, and when told that the girl wanted to see him

-privately, he marched off at once to the library, and ordered her to be

-admitted.

-

-It was a strange story the girl had to tell—so strange that the General

-at first put her down as a common impostor. Fortunately Mr. Perrins

-happened to be still at Park Newton, and he at once called the shrewd

-old lawyer to his assistance.

-

-But Miss Nell was now taken with a stubborn fit, and refused either to

-say any more or to answer any more questions, till five pounds had been

-given her as an earnest of more to follow, in case her information

-should prove to be correct. The five pounds having been put into her

-hands, she told all that she knew freely enough, and answered every

-question that was put to her. Then she was dismissed for the time

-being, having first left an address where she might be found when

-wanted.

-

-Nell had told them how the body of Dirty Jack had been found dead on

-the moor, and the first point to ascertain was, what had become of the

-confession which was known to have been in his possession when he left

-Mother Mim’s cottage? Had it been found on his person? If so, where was

-it now? It was rather singular that Mr. St. George should be the last

-person known to have been seen in the company of Skeggs. The second

-question was, where was Mr. Bendall to be found? Mr. Perrins set to

-work without delay to solve this latter problem, by engaging one of Mr.

-Hoskyns’s confidential clerks to make the requisite inquiries for him.

-To the first question, the whereabouts of the confession, he determined

-to give his own personal attention. But before he had an opportunity of

-doing this, he found among the papers of Kester the very document

-itself—the original confession, duly witnessed by Skeggs and the girl

-Nell. A day or two later Mr. Bendall was also found, and—for a

-consideration—had no objection to tell all he knew of the affair. His

-evidence, and that given in the confession, tallied exactly. There

-could no longer be any moral doubt as to the fact of Kester St. George

-having been a son of Mother Mim.

-

-This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was

-still debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one

-weapon more in favour of the course they were desirous that he should

-pursue. If Kester St. George were not Lionel’s cousin, if he were not

-related to the family in any way, there was less reason than ever why

-Lionel should not declare himself, why he should not give himself up,

-and let his own innocence be proved once and for ever, by proving the

-guilt of this other man.

-

-Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the

-others, and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer.

-Exactly a week after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well

-continue to call him) Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at

-Duxley, and gave himself up into the hands of the sergeant on duty.

-

-Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. “How can you be Mr.

-Dering?” he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with the

-superintendent’s recollection of him. “I saw that gentleman lying dead

-in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could have

-sworn to him anywhere.”

-

-“What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and

-not the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without

-recognizing me. At all events here I am, alive and well, and if you

-will kindly lock me up, I shall esteem it a favour.”

-

-“I was never so sold in the whole course of my life,” said Drayton.

-“But there’s one comfort—Sergeant Whiffins was just as much sold as I

-was.”

-

-At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial

-for the murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been

-carefully looked after by a private detective in the guise of a guest

-at his hotel, was admitted as evidence for the Crown, and without

-leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty was found by the jury. Never

-had such a scene been known in Duxley as was enacted that summer

-afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the Court-house

-a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by main

-force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of the

-crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company with

-two brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster. Lionel’s

-arm had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he had shaken

-hands with a great multitude of his friends—and every man and boy

-prided himself upon being Mr. Dering’s friend that day. As for the

-ladies, they had their own way of showing their sympathy with him. Half

-the children in the parish that came to light during the next twelve

-months were christened either Edith or Lionel.

-

-The post-mortem examination showed that heart disease of long standing

-was the proximate cause of Kester St. George’s death. He was buried not

-in the family vault where the St. Georges for two centuries lay in

-silent state, but in the town cemetery. The grave was marked by a plain

-slab, on which was engraved simply the initials of the name he had

-always been known by, and the date of his death.

-

-“I warned him of it long ago,” said Dr. Bolus to two or three fellows

-at Kester’s old club, as he stood with his back to the fire and his

-coat tails thrown over his arms. “But whose warnings are sooner

-forgotten than a doctor’s? By living away from London, and leading a

-perfectly quiet and temperate life, he might have been kept going for

-years. But, above all things, he should have avoided excitement of

-every kind.”

-

-Lionel and Edith put off for a little while their long-talked-of tour

-in order that they might be present at the wedding of Tom and Jane. The

-ceremony took place in August. Tom and his bride went to Scotland for

-their honeymoon. Lionel and his wife started for Switzerland, en route

-for Italy, where they were to spend the ensuing winter.

-

-Of late the Squire had recovered his health wonderfully. He seemed to

-have grown ten years younger in a few weeks. In the working of that

-wonderful coal-shaft, and in the prospect of his making a far larger

-fortune for his daughter than the one he so foolishly lost, he found a

-perpetual source of healthy excitement, which, by keeping both his mind

-and body actively and legitimately employed, had an undoubted tendency

-to lengthen his life. Besides this, Tom had asked him to superintend

-the construction of his new house. It was just the sort of job that the

-Squire delighted in—to look sharply after a lot of working men, and

-while pretending that they were all in a league to cheat him, blowing

-them up heartily all round one half-hour, and treating them to

-unlimited beer the next.

-

-“I should like to see you in the Town Council, Bristow,” said the

-Squire one day to his son-in-law.

-

-“Thank you, sir, all the same,” said Tom, “but it’s hardly good enough.

-There will be a general election before we are much older, when I mean,

-either by hook or by crook, to get into the House.”

-

-“Bristow, you have the cheek of the Deuce himself,” was all that the

-astonished Squire could say.

-

-It may just be remarked that Tom’s ambition has since been gratified.

-He is now, and has been for some time, member for W——. He is clever,

-ambitious, and a tolerable orator, as oratory is reckoned nowadays.

-What may not such a man aspire to?

-

-Mr. Hoskyns is a frequent guest both of Tom and Lionel. Chatting with

-the former one day over the “walnuts and the wine,” said the old man:

-“I have often puzzled my brain over that affair of Baldry’s—that

-positive assertion of his that he saw and spoke to me one night in the

-Thornfield Road when I was most certainly not there. Have you ever

-thought about it since?”

-

-“Once or twice, I dare say, but I could have enlightened you at the

-time had I chosen to do so. It was I whom Baldry met. I had made myself

-up to resemble you, and previously to my visit to the prison in your

-character, I thought I would try the effect of my disguise upon

-somebody who had known you well for years. As it so happened, Baldry

-was the first of your acquaintances whom I encountered on my nocturnal

-ramble. The rest you know.”

-

-“You young vagabond! And yet you have the audacity to call yourself a

-respectable member of society. Perhaps you can explain the mystery of

-the ghostly footsteps at Park Newton when poor Pearce, the butler, was

-frightened out of the small quantity of wit that he could lay claim

-to?”

-

-“That, too, I can explain. The ghostly footsteps, as it happened, were

-very corporeal footsteps, being those of none other than your humble

-servant.”

-

-“But how did you get into the room? It had been nailed up months

-before.”

-

-“The nailing up was more apparent than real. The nails were sham nails.

-The door could be unlocked at any time, and the room entered in the

-ordinary way.”

-

-“But how about the cough—Mr. Osmond’s peculiar cough?”

-

-“That was an imitation by me from lessons given me by Mr. Dering. It

-answered the purpose admirably for which it was intended.”

-

-“To hear such sounds at midnight in a room where a man had been

-murdered was enough to shake the strongest nerves. I wonder you were

-not frightened yourself to be in the room.”

-

-“That would have been ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of.”

-

-“In any extraordinary circumstances I shall never believe the evidence

-of my own senses again.”

-

-Mr. Cope was not long in perceiving that he had committed a grave error

-of judgment in refusing Mr. Culpepper the assistance he had asked for.

-There would be a splendid fortune for Jane after all. It was enough to

-make a man tear his hair with vexation—only Mr. Cope hadn’t much hair

-to tear—to think what a golden chance he had let slip through his

-fingers. Edward was recalled at once on the slight chance that if a

-meeting could anyhow be brought about between him and Jane, the old

-flame might spring up with renewed ardour in the young lady’s bosom, in

-which case she might insist upon her engagement with Edward being

-carried out. But Edward bore his disappointment very philosophically,

-and had not been three hours in Duxley before he found himself eating

-pastry, and being ministered to by Miss Moggs, who was still unmarried,

-and still as plump and smiling as ever.

-

-Three weeks later the good people of Duxley were treated to a

-delightful sensation. Mr. Cope, Junior, had run away with the daughter

-of Mr. Moggs, the confectioner, and Mr. Cope, Senior, had threatened to

-cut his son off with the well-known metaphorical shilling.

-

-The latest news of young Mr. Cope is, that he is living in furnished

-apartments in a cheap suburb of London. The late Miss Moggs, her

-plumpness notwithstanding, has developed into a Tartar. They have six

-children. Mr. Cope’s income is exactly two hundred a-year, left him by

-his mother. His father will not give him a penny, and he is either too

-lazy, or too incompetent, to attempt to add to his means by a little

-honest work. He is very stout and very short of breath. When he has any

-money he spends his time in a neighbouring billiard-room, smoking a

-short pipe and drinking half-and-half, and watching other men play.

-When he has no money he stops at home and rocks the cradle, and listens

-to his wife’s reproaches. Mrs. Cope vows that she will buy a mangle and

-make her husband turn it, and try whether she cannot shame him into

-work that way. And all this is the result of eating pastry and being

-waited upon by a pretty girl.

-

-After the trial was over, Nell, by means of some speciously-concocted

-tale, contrived to cozen General St. George out of twenty pounds. With

-this she disappeared, and was never either seen or heard of in Duxley

-or its neighbourhood again.

-

-During the time that Lionel and his wife were abroad the General went

-with his friend, Major Beauchamp, to Madeira, and wintered there.

-

-It had been Lionel’s intention to stay abroad for about three years.

-But as it fell out, he and Edith were back at Park Newton by the end of

-twelve months, being brought thither by the expectation of an

-all-important event. Lionel has not since then left home for more than

-a month at a time. So full of painful memories was Park Newton to him,

-that it was only by Edith’s persuasion that he was induced to settle

-there at all. But years have come and gone since then, and nothing

-would now induce him to live anywhere else. Whatever gloomy

-associations might otherwise have clung to the old house have been

-exorcised long ago by the merry laughter of children. It was difficult

-at first for the Echoes of that murder-haunted roof to bring themselves

-to mimic the soft syllables of childhood, but when one little stranger

-after another came to teach them, then their voices, rusty and creaky

-at first through long disuse, gradually won back to themselves a

-long-forgotten sweetness; and now the Echoes follow the children

-wherever they go, and all the grim old pile is musical with the

-laughter and songs and free joyous shouts of childhood. Many a time

-they have a bout together—the children and the Echoes—trying which of

-them can make the more noise; and then the children call to the Echoes

-and bid them come out of their hiding-places and show themselves in the

-dusky twilight; but the Echoes only laugh back their answer, and are

-ever too timid to let themselves be seen.

-

-Who, of all people in the world, should be the children’s primest

-favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the

-nursery, and there he spends hours every day. He “keeps shop” with

-them, he plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring

-lion, their wild man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the

-old warrior, whose very name was once a word of terror among the

-lawless hill-tribes of the far East see him led about by one boy by

-means of a piece of string tied round his arm, and while another

-youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to watch him

-imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing

-bear. There can be no doubt on one point—that the old soldier enjoys

-himself quite as much as the children do.

-

-After his year’s imprisonment was at an end—to which mitigated

-punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted

-as witness for the Crown—he and his sister went over to Switzerland,

-and opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist

-travel. There, not long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking,

-bowing, and rubbing his hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request

-that Monsieur Dering would do him the honour of stopping at his hotel.

-But Lionel would have nothing to do with him, and when Janvard could be

-made to comprehend this, his face became a study of mortification and

-surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently hurt. He

-never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so

-positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d’Or.

-

-In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a

-few things that change not. One of these is the friendship between

-Lionel and Tom, which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of other

-interests has power to alter in the least. When they both happen to be

-in Midlandshire at the same time, a week never passes without their

-seeing more or less of each other, and between their wives there is

-almost as firm a friendship as there is between themselves. Four people

-more united, more happy in each other’s society, it would be impossible

-to find.

-

-It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that

-Edith and Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm

-together, for the sake of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow

-perpetually round the old house. They were sitting one day on the broad

-yellow sands, idling through the glowing afternoon, with their

-embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane’s little girls happened to

-fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith’s little boy was

-by her side in a moment.

-

-“Don’t cry,” he said, as he stooped and kissed her. “I will marry you

-when I grow to be a big man.”

-

-The little girl’s tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked

-up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.

-

-“Such a thing is by no means improbable,” said Edith.

-

-“I shall not be a bit surprised if it really comes to pass,” replied

-Jane.

-

-THE END.

-

-

-BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY

-

-

-

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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of In the Dead of Night. Volume 1 (of 3), by T. W. Speight
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world 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
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: In the Dead of Night. Volume 3 (of 3)
+       A Novel
+
+Author: T. W. Speight
+
+Release Date: September 21, 2018 [eBook #57947]
+[Most recently updated: May 19, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Charles Bowen
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, VOLUME 3 ***
+
+
+
+
+IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
+
+A Novel.
+
+IN THREE VOLUMES.
+
+VOL. III.
+
+LONDON:
+RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.
+1874.
+
+(_All rights reserved_.)
+
+
+CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.
+
+ CHAPTER I. A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY
+ CHAPTER II. IN THE SYCAMORE WALK
+ CHAPTER III. MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND
+ CHAPTER IV. KNOCKLEY HOLT
+ CHAPTER V. AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL
+ CHAPTER VI. TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE
+ CHAPTER VII. EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT
+ CHAPTER VIII. DIRTY JACK
+ CHAPTER IX. WHAT TO DO NEXT?
+ CHAPTER X. HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE
+ CHAPTER XI. THE EIGHTH OF MAY
+ CHAPTER XII. GATHERED THREADS
+
+
+
+
+IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.
+
+
+Two hours after the receipt of Mrs. McDermott’s second letter, Squire
+Culpepper was on his way to Sugden’s bank. His heart was heavy, and his
+step slow. He had never had to borrow a farthing from any man—at least,
+never since he had come into the estate—and he felt the humiliation, as
+he himself called it, very bitterly. There was something of bitterness,
+too, in having to confess to his friend Cope how all his brilliant
+castles in the air had vanished utterly, leaving not a wrack behind.
+
+He could see, in imagination, the sneer that would creep over Cope’s
+face as the latter asked him why he could not obtain a mortgage on his
+fine new mansion at Pincote; the mansion he had talked so much
+about—about which he had bored his friends; the mansion that was to
+have been built out of the Alcazar shares, but of which not even the
+foundation-stone would ever now be laid. Then, again, the Squire was
+far from certain as to the kind of reception which would be accorded
+him by the banker. Of late he had seemed cool, very cool—refrigerating
+almost. Once or twice, too, when he had called, Mr. Cope had been
+invisible: a Jupiter Tonans buried for the time being among a cloud of
+ledgers and dockets and transfers: not to be seen by any one save his
+own immediate satellites. The time had been, and not so very long ago,
+when he could walk unchallenged through the outer bank office, whoever
+else might be waiting, and so into the inner sanctum, and be sure of a
+welcome when he got there. But now he was sure to be intercepted by one
+or other of the clerks with a “Will you please to take a seat for a
+moment while I see whether Mr. Cope is disengaged.” The Squire groaned
+with inward rage as, leaning on his thick stick, he limped down Duxley
+High Street and thought of all these things.
+
+As he had surmised it would be, so it was on the present occasion. He
+had to sit down in the outer office, one of a row of six who were
+waiting Mr. Cope’s time and pleasure to see them. “He won’t lend me the
+money,” said the Squire to himself, as he sat there choking with secret
+mortification. “He’ll find some paltry excuse for refusing me. It’s
+almost worth a man’s while to tumble into trouble just to find out who
+are his friends and who are not.”
+
+However, the banker did not keep him waiting more than five or six
+minutes. “Mr. Cope will see you, sir,” said a liveried messenger, who
+came up to him with a low bow; and into Mr. Cope’s parlour the Squire
+was thereupon ushered.
+
+The two men met with a certain amount of restraint on either side. They
+shook hands as a matter of course, and made a few remarks about the
+weather; and then the banker began to play with his seals, and waited
+in bland silence to hear whatever the Squire might have to say to him.
+
+Mr. Culpepper fidgeted in his chair and cleared his throat. The crucial
+moment was come at last. “I’m in a bit of a difficulty, Cope,” he
+began, “and I’ve come to you, as one of the oldest friends I have, to
+see whether you can help me out of it.”
+
+“I should have thought that Mr. Culpepper was one of the last people in
+the world to be troubled with difficulties of any kind,” said the
+banker, in a tone of studied coldness.
+
+“Which shows how little you know about either Mr. Culpepper or his
+affairs,” said the Squire, dryly.
+
+The banker coughed dubiously. “In what way can I be of service to you?”
+he said.
+
+“I want five thousand five hundred pounds by this day week, and I’ve
+come to you to help me to raise it.”
+
+“In other words, you want to borrow five thousand five hundred pounds?”
+
+“Exactly so.”
+
+“And what kind of security are you prepared to offer for a loan of such
+magnitude?”
+
+“What security! Why, my I.O.U., of course.”
+
+Mr. Cope took a pinch of snuff slowly and deliberately before he spoke
+again. “I am afraid the document in question could hardly be looked
+upon as a negotiable security.”
+
+“And who the deuce wanted it to be considered as a negotiable
+security?” burst out the Squire. “Do you think I want everybody to know
+my private affairs?”
+
+“Possibly not,” said the banker, quietly. “But, in transactions of this
+nature, it is a matter of simple business that the person who advances
+the money should have some equivalent security in return.”
+
+“And is not my I.O.U. a good and equivalent security as between friend
+and friend?”
+
+“Oh if you are going to put the case in that way, it becomes a
+different kind of transaction entirely,” said the banker.
+
+“And how else did you think I was going to put the case, as you call
+it?” asked the Squire, indignantly.
+
+“Commercially, of course: as a pure matter of business between one man
+and another.”
+
+“Oh, ho that’s it, is it?” said the Squire, grimly.
+
+“That’s just it, Mr. Culpepper.”
+
+“Then friendship in such a case as this counts for nothing, and my
+I.O.U. might just as well never be written.”
+
+“Let us be candid with each other,” said the banker, blandly. “You want
+the loan of a very considerable sum of money. Now, however much
+inclined I might be to lend you the amount out of my own private
+coffers, you will believe me when I say that I am not in a position to
+do so. I have no such amount of available capital in hand at present.
+But if you were to come to me with a good negotiable security, I could
+at once put you into the proper channel for obtaining what you want. A
+mortgage, for instance. What could be better than that? The estate, so
+far as I know, is unencumbered, and the sum you need could easily be
+raised on it on very easy terms.”
+
+“I took an oath to my father on his deathbed that I would never raise a
+penny by mortgage on Pincote, and I never will.”
+
+“If that is the case,” said the banker, with a slight shrug of the
+shoulders, “I am afraid that I hardly see in what way I can be of
+service to you.” He coughed, and then he looked at his watch, an action
+which Mr. Culpepper did not fail to note and resent in his own mind.
+
+“I am sorry I came,” he said, bitterly. “It seems to have been only a
+waste of your time and mine.”
+
+“Don’t speak of it,” said the banker, with his little business laugh.
+“In any case, you have learned one of the first and simplest lessons of
+commercial ethics.”
+
+“I have, indeed,” answered the Squire, with a sigh. He rose to go.
+
+“And Miss Culpepper, is she quite well?” said Mr. Cope; rising also. “I
+have not had the pleasure of seeing her for some little time.”
+
+The Squire faced fiercely round. “Look you here, Horatio Cope,” he
+said; “you and I have been friends of many years’ standing. Fast
+friends, I thought, whom no reverses of fortune would have separated.
+Finding myself in a little strait, I come to you for assistance. To
+whom else should I apply? It is idle to say that you could not help me
+out of my difficulty, were you willing to do so.”
+
+“No, believe me——” interrupted the banker; but Mr. Culpepper went on
+without deigning to notice the interruption.
+
+“You have not chosen to do so, and there’s an end of the matter, so
+far. Our friendship must cease from this day. You will not be sorry
+that it is so. The insults and slights you have put upon me of late
+have all had that end in view, and you are doubtless grateful that they
+have had the desired effect.”
+
+“You judge me very hardly,” said the banker.
+
+“I judge you from your own actions, and from them alone,” said the
+Squire, sternly. “Another point, and I have done. Your son was engaged
+to my daughter, with your full sanction and consent. That engagement,
+too, must come to an end.”
+
+“With all my heart,” said the banker, quietly.
+
+“For some time past your son, acting, no doubt, on instructions from
+his father, has been gradually paving the way for something of this
+kind. There have been no letters from him for five weeks, and the last
+three or four that he sent were not more than as many lines each. No
+doubt he will feel grateful at being released from an engagement that
+had become odious to him; and on Miss Culpepper’s side the release will
+be an equally happy one. She had learned long ago to estimate at his
+true value the man to whom she had so rashly pledged her hand. She had
+found out, to her bitter cost, that she had promised herself to a
+person who had neither the instincts nor the education of a
+gentleman—to an individual, in fact, who was little better than a
+common boor.”
+
+This last thrust touched the banker to the quick. His face flushed
+deeply. He crossed the room and called down an India-rubber tube: “What
+is the amount of Mr. Culpepper’s balance?”
+
+Presently came the answer: “Two eighty eleven five.”
+
+“Two hundred and eighty pounds, eleven shillings, and five pence,” said
+Mr. Cope, with a sneer. “May I ask, sir, that you will take immediate
+steps for having this magnificent balance transferred to some other
+establishment.”
+
+“I shall take my own time about doing that,” said Mr. Culpepper.
+
+“What a pity that your new mansion was not finished in time—quite a
+castle it was to have been, was it not? A mortgage of five or six
+thousand could have been a matter of no difficulty then, you know. If I
+recollect rightly, all the furniture and decorations were to have come
+from London. Nothing in Duxley would have been good enough. I merely
+echo your own words.”
+
+The Squire winced. “I am rightly served,” he muttered to himself. “What
+can one expect from a man who swept out an office and cleaned his
+master’s shoes?” He rose to go. For all his bitterness, there was a
+little pathetic feeling at work in his heart. “So ends a friendship of
+twenty years,” was his thought. “Goodbye, Cope,” he said aloud as he
+moved towards the door.
+
+The banker, standing with his back to the fire, and looking straight at
+the opposite wall, neither stirred nor spoke, nor so much as turned his
+head to take a last look at his old friend. And so, without another
+word, the Squire passed out.
+
+A bleak north wind was blowing as the Squire stepped into the street.
+He paused for a moment to button his coat more closely around him. As
+he did so, a poor ragged wretch passed trembling by without saying a
+word. The Squire called the man back and gave him a shilling. “My
+plight may be bad enough, but his is a thousand times worse,” he said
+to himself as he walked down the street.
+
+Where to go, or what to do next, he did not know. He had gone to see
+Mr. Cope without any very great expectation of being able to obtain
+what he wanted, and yet, perhaps, not without some faint hope nestling
+at his heart that his friend would find him the money. But now he knew
+for a fact that nothing was to be got from that quarter, he felt a
+little chilled, a little lonely, a little lost as to what he should do
+next. That something must be done, he knew quite well, but he was at a
+nonplus as to what that something ought to be. To raise five thousand
+five hundred pounds at a few days’ notice, with no better security to
+offer than a simple I.O.U., was by no means an easy matter, as the
+Squire was beginning to discover to his cost. “Why not ask Sir Harry
+Cripps?” he said to himself. But then he bethought himself that Sir
+Harry had a very expensive family, and that only six months ago he had
+given up his hunter, and dispensed with a couple of carriage-horses,
+and had talked of going on to the continent for four or five years. No:
+it was evident that Sir Harry Cripps could do nothing for him.
+
+In what other direction to turn he knew not. “If poor Lionel Dering had
+only been alive, I could have gone to him with confidence,” he thought.
+“Why not try Kester St. George?” was his next thought. “No: Kester
+isn’t one of the lending kind,” he muttered, with a shake of the head.
+“He’s uncommonly close-fisted, is Kester. What he’s got he’ll stick to.
+No use trying there.”
+
+Next moment he nearly ran against General St. George, who was coming
+from an opposite direction. They started at sight of each other, then
+shook hands cordially. Their acquaintanceship dated only from the
+arrival of the General at Park Newton, but they had already learned to
+like and esteem one another.
+
+After the customary greetings and inquiries were over, said Mr.
+Culpepper to the General: “Is your nephew Kester still stopping with
+you at Park Newton?”
+
+“Yes, he is still there,” answered the General; “though he has talked
+every day for the last month or more about going. Kester is one of
+those unaccountable fellows that you can never depend on. He may stay
+for another month, or he may take it into his head to go by the first
+train to-morrow.”
+
+“I heard a little while ago that he was ill; but I suppose he is better
+again by this time?”
+
+“Yes—quite recovered. He was laid up for three or four days, but he
+soon got all right again.”
+
+“Your other nephew—George—Tom—Harry—what’s his name—is he quite well?”
+
+“You mean Richard—he who came from India? Yes, he is quite well.”
+
+“He’s very like his poor brother, only darker, and—pardon me for saying
+so—not half so agreeable a young fellow.”
+
+“Everybody seems to have liked poor Lionel.”
+
+“Nobody could help liking him,” said the Squire, with energy. “I felt
+the loss of that poor boy almost as much as if he had been my own son.”
+
+“Not a soul in the world had an ill word to say about him.”
+
+“I wish that the same could be said of all of us,” said the Squire. And
+so, after a few more words, they parted.
+
+As General St. George had told the Squire, Kester was still at Park
+Newton. The doctor who was called in to attend him after his sudden
+attack on the night that the footsteps were heard in the nailed-up
+room, prescribed a bottle or two of some harmless mixture, and a few
+days of complete rest and isolation. As Kester would neither allow
+himself to be examined, nor answer any questions, there was very little
+more that could be done for him.
+
+Kester’s first impulse after his recovery—and a very strong impulse it
+was—was to quit Park Newton at once and for ever. Further reflection,
+however, convinced him that such a step would be unwise in the extreme.
+It would at once be said that he had been frightened away by the ghost,
+and that was a thing that he could by no means afford to have said of
+him. For it to get gossiped about that he had been driven from his own
+house by the ghost of Percy Osmond, might, in time, tend to breed
+suspicion; and from suspicion might spring inquiry, and that might
+ultimately lead to nobody knew what. No: he would stay on at Park
+Newton for weeks—for months even, if it suited him to do so. The
+incident of his sudden illness was a very untoward one: on that point
+there could be no doubt whatever; but not if he could anyhow help it
+should the faintest breath of suspicion spring therefrom.
+
+The Squire’s troubles had faded into the background for a few minutes
+during his interview with General St. George, but they now rushed back
+upon him with, as it seemed, tenfold force. There was nothing left for
+him now but to go home, and yet he had never felt less inclined to do
+so in his life. He dreaded the long quiet evening, with no society but
+that of his daughter. Not that Jane was a dull companion, or anything
+like it; but he dreaded to encounter her pleading eyes, her pretty
+caressing ways, the lingering embrace she would give him when he
+entered the house, and her good-night kiss. He felt how all these
+things would tend to unman him, how they would merely serve to deepen
+the remorse which he felt already. If only he could meet with some one
+to take home with him!—he did not care much who it was—some one who
+would talk to him, and enliven the evening, and take off for a little
+while the edge of his trouble, and so help him to tide over the weary
+hours that intervened between now and the morrow, by which time
+something might happen—he knew not what—or some light be vouchsafed to
+him which would show him a way out of his difficulties.
+
+These, or something like these, were the thoughts that were floating
+hazily in his mind, when in the distance he spied Tom Bristow striding
+along at his usual energetic rate. The Squire being still very lame,
+wisely captured a passing butcher boy, and, with the promise of
+sixpence, bade him hurry after Tom, and not come back without him.
+
+“You must come back with me to Pincote,” he said, when the astonished
+Tom had been duly captured. “I’ll take no refusal. I’ve got a fit of
+mopes, and if you don’t come and help to keep Jenny and me alive this
+evening, I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live.” So saying,
+the Squire linked his arm in Tom’s, and turned his face towards
+Pincote; and nothing loath was Tom to go with him.
+
+“I’ve done a fine thing this afternoon,” said Mr. Culpepper, as they
+drove along in the basket-carriage, which had been waiting for him at
+the hotel. “I’ve broken off Jenny’s engagement with Edward Cope.”
+
+Tom’s heart gave a great bound. “Pardon me, sir, for saying so,” he
+said as calmly as he could, “but I never thought that Mr. Cope was in
+any way worthy of Miss Culpepper.”
+
+“You are right, boy. He was not worthy of her.”
+
+“From the first time of seeing them together, I felt how entirely
+unfitted was Mr. Cope to appreciate Miss Culpepper’s manifold charms of
+heart and mind. A marriage between two such people would have been a
+most incongruous one.”
+
+“Thank Heaven! it’s broken now and for ever.”
+
+“I’ve broken off your engagement to Edward Cope,” whispered the Squire
+to Jane in the hall, as he kissed her. “Are you glad or sorry, dear?”
+
+“Glad—very, very glad, papa,” she whispered back as she rained a score
+of kisses on his face. Then she began to cry, and with that she ran
+away to her own room till she could recover herself.
+
+“Women are queer cattle,” said the Squire, turning to Tom, “and I’ll be
+hanged if I can ever make them out.”
+
+“From Miss Culpepper’s manner, sir,” said Tom, gravely, “I should judge
+that you had told her something that pleased her very much indeed.”
+
+“Then what did she begin snivelling for?” said the Squire, gruffly.
+
+“Why not tell him everything?” said the Squire to himself, as he and
+Tom sat down in the drawing-room. “He knows a good deal already,—why
+not tell him more? I know he can do nothing towards helping me to raise
+five thousand pounds, but it will do me good to talk to him. I must
+talk to somebody—and I feel sure my secret is quite safe with him. I’ll
+tell him while Jenny’s out of the room.”
+
+The Squire coughed and hemmed, and poked the fire violently before he
+could find a word to say. “Bristow,” he burst out at last, “I want to
+raise five thousand five hundred pounds in five days from now, and as
+I’m rather a bad hand at borrowing, I thought that you could, maybe,
+give me a hint as to how it could best be done. Cope would have
+advanced it for me in a moment, only that he happens to be rather short
+of funds just now, and I don’t want to trouble any of my other friends
+if it can anyhow be managed without.” He began to hum the air of an old
+drinking-song, and poked the fire again. “Capital coals these,” he
+added. “And I got ’em cheap, too. The market went up three shillings a
+ton the very day after these were sent in.”
+
+“Five thousand five hundred pounds is rather a large amount, sir,” said
+Tom, slowly.
+
+“Of course it’s a large amount,” said the Squire, testily. “If it were
+only a paltry hundred or two I wouldn’t trouble anybody. But never
+mind, Bristow—never mind. I didn’t suppose that you could help me when
+I mentioned it; and, after all, it’s a matter of very little
+consequence whether I raise the money or not.”
+
+“I can only suggest one way, sir, by which the money could be raised in
+so short a time.”
+
+“Eh!” said the Squire, turning suddenly on him, and dropping the poker
+noisily in the grate. “You don’t mean to say that you can see how it’s
+to be done!”
+
+“I think I do, sir. Do you know the piece of ground called Prior’s
+Croft?”
+
+“Very well indeed. It belongs to Duckworth, the publican.”
+
+“Between you and me, sir, Duckworth’s hard up, and would be glad to
+sell the Croft if he could do it quietly and without its becoming
+generally known that he is short of money.”
+
+“Well?” said the Squire, a little impatiently. He could not understand
+what Tom was driving at.
+
+“I dare engage to say, sir, that you could have the Croft for two
+thousand pounds, cash down.”
+
+“Confound it, man, what an idiot you must be!” said the Squire
+fiercely, bringing his fist down on the table with a tremendous bang.
+“Didn’t I tell you that I wanted to borrow money, and not to spend it?
+In fact, as you know quite well, I’ve got none to spend.”
+
+“Precisely so,” said Tom, coolly. “And that is the point to which I am
+coming, if you will hear me out.”
+
+The Squire’s only answer was to glare at him, as if in doubt whether he
+had not taken leave of his senses.
+
+“As I said before, sir, Duckworth will take two thousand pounds for the
+Croft, cash down. Now I, sir, will engage to raise two thousand pounds
+for you by to-morrow, at noon, with which to buy the piece of ground in
+question. The purchase can be effected, and the necessary deeds made
+out and completed, by ten o’clock the following morning. If you will
+entrust those deeds into my possession, I will guarantee to effect a
+mortgage for six thousand pounds, in your name, on the Croft.”
+
+If the Squire had looked suspicious with regard to Tom’s sanity before,
+he now seemed to have no doubt whatever on the point. He quietly took
+up the poker again, as if he were afraid that Tom might spring at him
+unexpectedly.
+
+“So you could lend me two thousand pounds could you?” said the Squire
+drily.
+
+“I did not say that, sir. I said that I could raise two thousand pounds
+for you, which is a very different matter from lending it out of my own
+pocket.”
+
+“Humph! And who, sir, do you think would be such a consummate ass as to
+advance six thousand pounds on a plot of ground that had just been
+bought for two thousand?”
+
+“Strange as such a transaction may seem to you, sir, I give you my word
+of honour that I should find no difficulty in carrying it out. Have I
+your permission to do so?”
+
+“I suppose that the two thousand raised by you would have to be repaid
+out of the six thousand raised by mortgage, leaving me with a balance
+of four thousand in hand?” said the Squire, without heeding Tom’s
+question, a smile of incredulity playing round his mouth.
+
+“No, sir,” answered Tom. “The two thousand pounds could remain on
+interest at five per cent. for whatever term might suit your
+convenience. Again, sir, I ask, have I your permission to negotiate the
+transaction for you?”
+
+Mr. Culpepper gazed steadily for a moment or two into Tom’s clear, cold
+eyes. There were no symptoms of insanity visible there, at any rate.
+“And do you mean to tell me in sober seriousness,” he said, “that you
+can raise this money in the way you speak of?”
+
+“In sober seriousness, I mean to tell you that I can. Try me.”
+
+“I will try you,” answered the Squire, impulsively. “I will try you,
+boy. You are a strange fellow, and I begin to think that there’s more
+in you than I ever thought there was. But here comes Jenny. Not a word
+more just now.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.
+
+
+The Park Newton clocks, with more or less unanimity as to time, had
+just struck ten. It was a February night, clear and frosty, and Lionel
+Dering sat in his dressing-room in slippered ease, musing by firelight.
+He had turned out the lamp on purpose; it was too garish for his mood
+to-night. He was back again in thought at Gatehouse Farm. Again he saw
+the gray old cottage, with its moss-grown eaves—the cottage that was so
+ugly outside, but so cosy within. Again he saw the long low sandhills,
+where they stretched themselves out to meet the horizon, and, in fancy,
+heard again the low, monotonous plash of the waves, whose melancholy
+music, heard by day and night, had at one time been as familiar to him
+as the sound of his own voice. What a quiet, happy time that seemed as
+he now looked back to it—a time of soft shadows and mild sunshine, with
+a pensive charm that was all its own, and that was lost for ever in the
+hour which told him that he was a rich man! Riches! What had riches
+done for him? He groaned in spirit as he asked himself the question. He
+could have been happy with Edith in a garret—how happy none but himself
+could have told—had fortune compelled him to earn her bread and his own
+by the sweat of his strong right arm.
+
+His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Come in,” he
+called out mechanically; and in there came, almost without, a sound,
+Dobbs, body-servant to Kester St. George.
+
+“Oh, Dobbs, is that you?” said Lionel, a little wearily, as he turned
+his head and saw who it was.
+
+“Yes, sir, I have made bold to intrude upon you for a few seconds,”
+said Dobbs, with the utmost deference, as he slowly advanced into the
+room, rubbing the long lean fingers of one hand softly with the palm of
+the other. “My master has not yet got back from Duxley, and there’s
+nobody about just now.”
+
+“Quite right, Dobbs,” said Lionel. “Anything fresh to report?”
+
+“Nothing particularly fresh, sir, but I thought that you might perhaps
+like to see me.”
+
+“Very considerate of you, Dobbs, but I am not aware that I have
+anything of consequence to say to you to-night.”
+
+“Thank you, sir,” said Dobbs, with a faint smile and an extra rub of
+his fingers. “Master’s still very queer, sir. No appetite worth
+speaking about. Obliged to screw himself up with brandy in a morning
+before he can finish his toilet. Mutters and moans a good deal in his
+sleep, sir.”
+
+“Mutters in his sleep, does he?” said Lionel. “Have you any idea,
+Dobbs, what it is that he talks about?”
+
+“I’ve tried my best to ascertain, sir, but without much success. I have
+listened and listened for hours, and very cold work it is, sir; but
+there’s never more than a word now and a word then that one can make
+out. Nothing connected—nothing worth recollecting.”
+
+“Does Mr. St. George still walk in his sleep?”
+
+“He does, sir, but not very often—not more than two or three times a
+month.”
+
+“Keep your eyes open, Dobbs, and the very next time your master walks
+in his sleep come to me at once—never mind what hour it may be—and tell
+me.”
+
+“I won’t fail to do so, sir.”
+
+“In these sleep-walking rambles does Mr. St. George always confine
+himself to the house, or does he ever venture out into the park or
+grounds?”
+
+“He generally goes out of doors, sir, at such times. Three times out of
+four he goes as far as the Wizard’s Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk,
+stops there for a minute or two, and then walks back home. I have
+watched him several times.”
+
+“The Wizard’s Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk! What should take him
+there?”
+
+“Then you know the place, sir?”
+
+“I know it well.”
+
+“Can’t say what fancy takes him there, sir. Perhaps he doesn’t know
+hisself.”
+
+“In any case, let me know when he next walks in his sleep. I have no
+further instructions for you to-night, Dobbs.”
+
+“Thank you, sir. I have the honour to wish you a very good night, sir.”
+
+“Good-night, Dobbs. Keep your eyes open, and report everything to me.”
+
+“Yes, sir, yes. You may trust me for doing that, sir.” And Dobbs the
+obsequious bowed himself out.
+
+In his cousin’s valet Lionel had found an instrument ready to his hand,
+but it was not till after long hesitation and doubt that he made up his
+mind to avail himself of it. The necessities of the case at length
+decided him to do so. No one appreciated the value of a bribe better
+than Dobbs, or worked harder or more conscientiously to deserve one.
+There was a crooked element in his character which made whatever money
+he might earn by indirect means, or by tortuous working, seem far
+sweeter to him than the honest wages of everyday life. Kester St.
+George was not the kind of man ever to try to attach his inferiors to
+himself by any tie of gratitude or kindness. At different times and in
+various ways he suffered for this indifference, although the present
+could hardly be considered as a case in point, seeing that it was not
+in the nature of Dobbs to resist a bribe in whatever shape it might
+offer itself, and that gratitude was one of those virtues which had
+altogether been omitted from his composition.
+
+Late one afternoon, a few days after the interview between Lionel and
+Dobbs, Kester St. George had his horse brought round, and rode out
+unattended, and without leaving word in what direction he was going, or
+at what hour he might be expected back. The day was dull and lowering,
+with fitful puffs of wind, that blew first from one point and then from
+another, and seemed the forerunners of a coming storm. Buried in his
+own thoughts, Kester paid no heed to the weather, but rode quickly
+forward till several miles of country had been crossed. By-and-by he
+diverged from the main road, and turned his horse’s head into a
+tortuous and muddy lane, which, after half an hour’s bad travelling,
+landed him on the verge of a wide stretch of brown treeless moor, than
+which no place could well have looked more desolate and cheerless under
+the gray monotony of the darkening February afternoon. Kester halted
+for awhile at the end of the lane to give his horse breathing time. Far
+as the eye could see, looking forward from the point where he was
+standing, all was bare and treeless, without one single sign of
+habitation or life.
+
+“Whatever else may be changed, either with me or the world,” he
+muttered, “the old moor remains just as it was the first day that I can
+remember it. It was horrible to me at first, but I learned to like
+it—to love it even, before I left it; and I love it now—to-day—with all
+its dreariness and monotony. It is like the face of an old friend. You
+may go away for twenty years, and when you come back you know that you
+will find on it just the same look that it wore when you went away. Not
+that I have ever cared to cultivate such friendships,” he added, half
+regretfully. “Well, the next best thing to having a good friend is to
+have a good enemy, and I can thank heaven for granting me several
+such.”
+
+He touched his horse with the spur, and rode slowly forward, taking a
+narrow bridle path that led in an oblique direction across the moor.
+“This ought to be the road if my memory serves me aright,” he muttered,
+“but they are all so much alike, and intersect each other so
+frequently, that it’s far more easy to lose one’s way than to know
+where one is.”
+
+“I suppose I shall have the rough side of Mother Mim’s tongue when I do
+find her,” he went on. “I’ve neglected her shamefully, without a doubt.
+But such ties as the one between her and me become tiresome in the long
+run. She ought to have died off long ago, but she’s as tough as
+leather. Poor devils in this part of the country, that haven’t a penny
+to bless themselves with, think nothing of living till they’re a
+hundred. Is it a superfluity of ozone, or a want of brains, that keeps
+them alive so long?”
+
+He rode steadily forward till he had nearly crossed one angle of the
+moor. At length, but not without some difficulty, he found the place he
+had come in search of. It was a rudely-built hut—cottage it could
+hardly be called—composed of mud, and turf, and great boulders all
+unhewn. Its roof of coarsest thatch was frayed and worn with the wind
+and rain of many winters. Its solitary door of old planks, roughly
+nailed together, opened full on to the moor.
+
+At the back was a patch of garden-ground, which was supposed to grow
+potatoes in the season, but which had never yet been known to grow any
+that were fit to eat. Mr. St. George looked round with a sneer as he
+dismounted.
+
+“And it was in this wretched den that I spent the first eight years of
+my existence!” he muttered. “And the woman whom this place calls its
+mistress was the first being whom I learned to love! And, faith, I’m
+rather doubtful whether I’ve ever loved anybody half so well since.”
+
+Putting his horse’s bridle over a convenient hook, and dispensing with
+the ceremony of knocking, Kester St. George lifted the latch, pushed
+open the door, stooped his head, and went in. Inside the hut everything
+was in semi-darkness, and Kester stood for a minute with the door in
+his hand, striving to make out the objects before him.
+
+“Come in and shut the door: I expected you,” said a hollow voice from
+one corner of the room; and the one room, such as it was, comprised the
+whole hut.
+
+“Is that you, Mother Mim?” asked Kester.
+
+“Ay—who else should it be?” answered the voice. “But come in and shut
+the door. That cold wind gives me the shivers.”
+
+Kester did as he was told, and then made his way to a wretched pallet
+at the other end of the hut. Of furniture there was hardly any, and the
+aspect of the whole place was miserable in the extreme. Over the ashes
+of a wood fire crouched a girl of sixteen, ragged and unkempt, who
+stared at him with black, glittering eyes as he passed her. Next moment
+he was standing by the side of a ragged pallet, on which lay the figure
+of a woman who looked ill almost unto death.
+
+“Why, mother, whatever has been the matter with you?” asked Kester. “A
+little bit out of sorts, eh? But you’ll soon be all right again now.”
+
+“Yes, I shall soon be all right now—soon be quite well,” answered the
+woman grimly. “A black box and six feet of earth cure everything.”
+
+“You mustn’t talk in that way, mother,” said Kester, as he sat down on
+the only chair in the place, and took one of the woman’s lean, hot
+hands in his. “You will live to plague us for many a year to come.”
+
+“Kester St. George, this is the last time you and I will meet in this
+world.”
+
+“I hope not, with all my heart,” said Kester, feelingly.
+
+“I know what I know, and I know that what I say is true,” answered
+Mother Mim. “You would not have come now if I had not worked a spell
+strong enough to bring you here even against your will. I worked it
+four nights ago, at midnight, when that young viper there”—pointing a
+finger at the girl, who was still cowering over the ashes—“was fast
+asleep, and there were no eyes to see but those of the cold stars. Ah!
+but it was horrible! and if it had not been that I felt I must see you
+before I died, I could never have gone through with it.” She paused for
+a moment, as though overcome by some dreadful recollection. “Then, when
+it was over, I crept back to bed, and waited quietly, knowing that now
+you could not choose but come.”
+
+“I ought to have come and seen you long ago—I know it—I feel it,” said
+Kester. “But let bygones be bygones, and I give you my solemn promise
+never to neglect you again. I am rich now, mother, and you shall never
+want for anything as long as you live.”
+
+“Too late—too late!” sighed the woman. “Yes, you’re rich now, rich
+enough to bury me, and that’s all I ask you to do.”
+
+“Don’t talk like that, mother,” said Kester.
+
+“If you had only come to see me!” said the woman. “That was all I
+wanted. Just to see your face, and squeeze your hand, and have you to
+talk to me for a little while. I wanted none of your money—no, not a
+single shilling of it. It was only you I wanted.”
+
+Kester began to feel slightly bored. He squeezed Mother Mim’s hand, and
+then dropped it, but he did not speak.
+
+“But you didn’t come,” moaned the woman, “and you wouldn’t have come
+now if I hadn’t worked a charm to bring you.”
+
+“There you wrong me,” said Kester, decisively. “Your charm, or spell,
+or whatever it may have been, had no effect in bringing me here. I came
+of my own free will.”
+
+“Self-conceited, as you always were and always will be,” muttered the
+woman. Then, half raising herself in bed, and addressing the girl, she
+cried: “Nell, you hussy, just you hook it for a quarter of an hour. The
+gent and I have something to talk about.”
+
+The girl rose sullenly, went slowly out, and banged the door behind
+her.
+
+Kester wondered what was coming next. He had dropped the woman’s hand,
+but she now held it out for him to take again. He took it, and she
+pressed his hand passionately to her lips three or four times.
+
+“If the great secret of my life is to be told at all on this side the
+grave, the time to tell it is now come. I always thought to die without
+revealing it, but somehow of late everything has seemed different to
+me, and I feel now as if I couldn’t die easy without telling you.” She
+paused for a minute, exhausted. There was some brandy on the
+chimney-piece, and Kester gave her a little. Again she took his hand
+and kissed it passionately.
+
+“You will, perhaps, curse me for what I am about to tell you,” she went
+on, “but whether you do so or not, so may Heaven help me if it is
+anything more than the simple truth! Kester St. George, you have no
+right to the name you bear—to the name the world knows you by!”
+
+Kester was so startled that for a moment or two he sat like one
+suddenly stricken dumb. “Go on,” he said at last. “There’s more to
+follow. I like boldness in lying as in everything else.”
+
+“Again I swear that I am telling you no more than the solemn truth.”
+
+“If I am not Kester St. George,” he said with a sneer, “perhaps you
+will kindly inform me who I really am.”
+
+“You are my son!”
+
+He flung the woman’s hand savagely from him, and sprang to his feet
+with an oath. “Your son!” he said. “Ha! ha! ha! Your son, indeed! Since
+when have your senses quite left you, Mother Mim? A dark cell in Bedlam
+and a strait waistcoat would be your best physic.”
+
+“I am rightly punished,” moaned the woman—“rightly punished. I ought to
+have told you years ago—ay—before you ever grew to be a man. But I
+loved you so, and had such pride in you, that I couldn’t bear the
+thought of telling you, and it’s only now when I’m on my deathbed that
+the secret forces itself from me. But it will go no farther, never you
+fear that. No living soul but you will ever hear it from my lips; and
+you have only got to keep your own lips tightly shut, and you will live
+and die as Kester St. George.”
+
+She sank back with the exhaustion of speaking. Mechanically, and almost
+without knowing what he was doing, Kester again gave her a little
+brandy. Then he sat down; and Mother Mim, finding his hand close by,
+took possession of it again. He shuddered slightly, but did not
+withdraw it.
+
+Although Mother Mim had advanced no proofs in support of the strange
+story she had just told him, there was something in her tone which
+carried conviction to his inmost heart.
+
+“I must know more of this,” he said, after a little while, speaking
+almost in a whisper.
+
+“How well I remember everything about it! It seems only like yesterday
+that it all happened,” sighed the woman. “You—my own child, and he—the
+other one that was sent to me to nurse, were born within a few hours of
+one another. His father broke a blood-vessel about six weeks after the
+child was brought to me. The mother went with her husband to Italy to
+take care of him, and the child was left with me. A week or two
+afterwards he was taken suddenly ill, and died. Then the devil tempted
+me to put my own boy into the place of the lost heir. When Mrs. St.
+George came back from Italy she came to see her child, and you were
+shown to her as that child. She accepted you without a moment’s
+suspicion. They let you stay with me till you were eight years old, and
+then they took you away and sent you to school. My husband and my
+sister were the only two beside myself who knew what had been done, and
+they both died years ago without saying a word. I shall join them in a
+few days, and then you alone will be the keeper of the secret. With you
+it will die, and on your tombstone they will write: ‘Here lies the body
+of Kester St. George.’”
+
+She had told her story with great difficulty, and with frequent
+interruptions to gather strength and breath to finish it. She now lay
+back, utterly exhausted. Her eyes closed, her hand relaxed its hold on
+Kester’s, her jaw dropped slightly, the thin white face grew thinner
+and whiter: it seemed as if Death, passing that way, had looked in
+unexpectedly, and had beckoned her to go with him. Kester rose quickly,
+and struck a match and lighted a fragment of candle that he found on
+the chimney-piece. His next impulse was to try and revive her with a
+little brandy, but he paused with the glass in his hand. Why try to
+revive her? Would it not be better for him, for her, for every one, if
+she were really dead? If such were the case, it would do away with all
+fear of her strange secret being ever divulged to any one else. Yes—in
+every way her death would be a welcome release.
+
+It was not without a tremor, it was not without a faster beating of the
+heart, that Kester took the bit of cracked looking-glass from the wall
+and held it to the woman’s lips. His very life seemed to stand still
+for a moment or two while he waited for the result. It came. The glass
+clouded faintly. The woman was not dead. With a muttered curse Kester
+dashed the glass across the floor and put back the candle on the
+chimney-piece. Then he took up his hat. Where was the use of staying
+longer? She could tell him nothing more when she should have come to
+her senses than she had told him already: nothing, that is, of any
+consequence; and as for details, he did not want them—at least, not
+now. What he had been told already held food enough for thought for
+some time to come. He paused for a moment before going out. Was it
+really possible—was it really credible, that that haggard,
+sharp-featured woman was his mother?—that his father had been a coarse,
+common labouring man, a mere hedger and ditcher, who had lived and died
+in that mean hut, and that he himself, instead of being the Kester St.
+George he had always believed himself to be, was no other than the son
+of those two—the boy whose supposed death he remembered to have heard
+about when little more than a mere child?
+
+Fiercely and savagely he told himself again and again that such a thing
+could not be—that what Mother Mim had told him was nothing more than a
+pack of devil’s lies—the invention of a brain weakened and distorted by
+illness and the clouds of coming death. It was high time to go. He put
+five sovereigns on the chimney-piece, went softly out, and shut the
+door behind him. The girl was sitting on the low mud-wall near the
+door, with the skirt of her dress drawn over her head as some
+protection from the bitter wind. Her black, glittering eyes took him in
+from head to foot as he walked up to her. “Go inside at once. She has
+fainted,” said Kester. The girl nodded and went. Then Kester mounted
+his horse and rode slowly homeward through the chilly twilight.
+Bitterest thoughts held him as with a vice. When he came within sight
+of the chimneys of Park Newton, he gave a sigh of relief, and put spurs
+to his horse. “That is mine, and no power on earth shall take it from
+me,” he muttered. “That and the money that comes with it. I am Kester
+St. George. Let those disprove who can!”
+
+A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room,
+smoking a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct
+taps at the door, which he recognized as the peculiar signal of Dobbs.
+It was nearly an hour past midnight, and in that early household every
+one had been long abed, or, at least, had retired long ago to their own
+rooms.
+
+Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by
+no means infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier
+hour than on the present occasion.
+
+“Come in, Dobbs,” said Lionel. “You are later to-night than usual.”
+
+“Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such
+an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago,
+that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master
+took to walking in his sleep.”
+
+“Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my
+instructions.”
+
+“Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast
+asleep.”
+
+“In which direction did he go?”
+
+“He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and let
+himself out through the little glass door into the garden.”
+
+“And then which way did he go?”
+
+“I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you.”
+
+“Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to
+take?”
+
+“There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the Wizard’s
+Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the place
+to which he has gone.”
+
+“We must follow him, Dobbs.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets back
+to the house?”
+
+“None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes
+quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and soberly
+as if he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does really
+wake up in the morning, he never seems to know anything about what has
+happened over-night. But we must make haste, sir, if we wish to
+overtake him.”
+
+“I will be ready in one minute.”
+
+Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap
+on his head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the
+open air.
+
+The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above
+the tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint old house in its
+white glory, but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in
+deepest shadow. Nowhere could they discern the figure of the man whom
+they had come out to follow; but the Wizard’s Fountain was a good half
+mile from the Hall, so they struck at once into the nearest footway
+that led towards it. A few minutes’ quick walking took them there.
+Lionel knew the place well. It had been a favourite haunt of his when
+living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks that preceded the
+murder. Very weird and solemn the whole place looked, as seen by
+moonlight at that still hour of the night.
+
+Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that
+particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows
+immediately over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted
+of beech, and oak, and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and
+fantastic: untended and uncared for—growing together year after year,
+whispering their leafy secrets to each other with every spring that
+came round, and standing shoulder to shoulder against the winds of
+winter: a hoary brotherhood of forest sages.
+
+The fountain itself, whatever it might have been in years long gone by,
+was now nothing more than a confused heap of huge stones, overgrown
+with lichens and creepers. From the midst of them, and from what had
+doubtless at one time been a representation in marble of the head of a
+leopard or other forest animal, but which now was almost worn past
+recognition, trickled a thin stream of coldest water; which, falling
+into a broken basin below, over-brimmed itself there, and was lost
+among the cracks and interstices in the masses of broken masonry that
+lay scattered around.
+
+“You had better, perhaps, wait here,” said Lionel to Dobbs, as they
+halted for a moment at the entrance to the avenue.
+
+Dobbs did as he was bidden, and Lionel advanced alone, keeping well
+within the shade of the trees. When within a dozen yards of the
+fountain, he halted and waited. The low, ceaseless monotone of the
+falling water was the only sound that broke the moonlit silence.
+
+From out the dense shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the
+avenue, and as if he himself were part of that shadow, Kester St.
+George slowly emerged. In the middle of the avenue, and in the full
+light of the moon, he paused. His right hand was thrust into the bosom
+of his vest, as if he were hiding something there. Standing thus, he
+seemed, as it were, to shrink within himself. Still hugging that hidden
+something, he seemed to listen—to listen as if his very life depended
+on the act. Then, with a slow, creeping motion, as though his feet were
+weighted with lead, he stole towards the fountain. He reached it. He
+grasped the stonework with one hand, and then he turned to gaze, as
+though in dread of some hidden pursuer. Then slowly, almost
+reluctantly, he seemed to draw something from within his vest, and,
+while still gazing furtively around him, he thrust his arm, elbow deep,
+into a crevice in the masonry, let it rest there for a single moment,
+and then withdrew it. With the same furtively restless look, and ears
+that seemed to listen more intently than ever, he paused for an
+instant. Then he stole swiftly back across the moonlit avenue, and so
+vanished among the black shadows from whence he had come.
+
+So natural had been his actions, so unstudied his every movement, that
+it seemed impossible to believe that he was indeed asleep.
+
+Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by
+the fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a minute
+before. He had noted well the place. There, before him, was the very
+crevice into which Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same crevice
+was Lionel’s arm now thrust—elbow deep—shoulder deep. His groping
+fingers soon laid hold of that which was hidden there. He drew out his
+arm quickly, and the something that he had found glittered steel-blue
+in the moonlight. With a cry of horror he dropped it, and it fell with
+a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering had recognized it in a
+moment as a dagger which he had last seen in the possession of Percy
+Osmond.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.
+
+
+Mrs. McDermott had reached Pincote, and she did not fail to let every
+one know it. As the Squire had predicted, the moment she had taken off
+her waterproof, and changed her boots, she marched straight into the
+library, and asked for her money. It was with a feeling of profound
+satisfaction that her brother unlocked his bureau, and handed her a
+roll of notes representing five thousand seven hundred and fifty
+pounds. She counted the notes over twice, slowly and carefully.
+
+“What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?” she asked.
+
+“Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum.”
+
+“I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least,” she
+said ungraciously. “My man of business tells me that seven is quite a
+common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per cent.
+on real property, without any difficulty.”
+
+“I should advise you to be careful what you are about,” said the
+Squire, gravely. “Big profits, big risks; little profits, little
+risks.”
+
+“I know perfectly well what I’m doing,” said Mrs. McDermott, with a
+toss of her antiquated curls. “It’s you slow, sleepy, country folks,
+who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances that come
+to people who keep their eyes wide open.”
+
+The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned in spirit when
+he thought what his “golden chance” had done for him.
+
+“Let her buy her experience as I’ve bought mine,” he said to himself.
+“From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for it.”
+
+“Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?” he asked
+Jane, a day or two later.
+
+“No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to
+go by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one.”
+
+“I hope not, with all my heart,” sighed the Squire.
+
+Mrs. McDermott, in truth, was not a lady who ever troubled herself to
+make her presence agreeable to those with whom she might be staying.
+Consideration for the comfort of others was a thought that never
+entered her mind. From the day of her arrival at Pincote she began to
+interfere with the existing arrangements of the house; finding fault
+with everything: changing this, altering the other, and evidently
+determined to have her own way in all. The first thing she did was to
+find fault with her bedroom, although it was one of the pleasantest
+apartments in the house, and had been especially arranged by Jane
+herself with a view to her aunt’s comfort. But it was not the best
+bedroom—the state bedroom, therefore Mrs. McDermott would have none of
+it. Into the state bedroom, a gloomy apartment fronting the north,
+which was never used above once or twice in half a dozen years, she
+migrated at once with all her belongings. Her next act, she being
+without a maid of her own at the time, was to induct one of the Pincote
+servants into that office, taking her altogether from her proper
+duties, and not permitting her to do a stroke of work for any one but
+herself. Then she talked her brother into allowing the dinner hour to
+be altered from six to half-past seven; so that, as the Squire grumbled
+to himself, the cloth was hardly removed before it was time to go to
+bed. Then the Squire must never appear at dinner without a dress coat,
+and a white tie—articles which, or late years, he had been tacitly
+allowed to dispense with when dining en famille. A white cravat
+especially was to him an abomination. He never could tie the knot
+properly, and after crumpling three or four, and throwing them across
+the room in a rage, Jane’s services would generally have to be called
+into requisition as a last resource.
+
+One other infliction there was which the Squire found it very difficult
+to bear patiently. After dinner, when there was no particular company
+at Pincote, it was an understood thing that the Squire should have the
+dining-room to himself for half an hour, in order that he might enjoy
+the post-prandial snooze which long custom had made almost a necessity
+with him. But this was an arrangement that failed to meet with the
+approbation of Mrs. McDermott. She insisted that the Squire should
+either accompany the ladies, or, otherwise, she herself would keep him
+company in the dining-room; and woe be to him if he dared so much as
+close an eye for five seconds! It was “Where are your manners, sir? I’m
+thoroughly ashamed of you;” or else, “Falling asleep, sir, in the
+presence of a lady? a clodhopper could do no more than that!” till the
+Squire felt as if his life were being slowly tormented out of him.
+
+Nor did Jane fail to come in for a share of her aunt’s strictures. Mrs.
+McDermott evidently looked upon her as little more than a child.
+Firstly, her hair was not arranged in accordance with her aunt’s ideas
+of propriety in such matters, which, truth to say, belonged to a
+somewhat antiquated school. Then the girl was altogether too bright and
+sunny-looking, with her bows of ribbon and bits of lace showing
+daintily here and there. And she was too forward in introducing topics
+of conversation at meal-times, instead of allowing the introduction of
+appropriate themes to come from her elders and her betters. Then Jane
+was addicted to the heinous offence of laughing too heartily, and too
+often. Altogether her aunt saw in her much that stood in need of
+reformation. Jane bore everything with a sort of good-humoured
+indifference. “The time to speak is not come yet. I will see how much
+further she will go,” she said to herself. But when the cook came to
+her one morning and said: “If you please, miss, Mrs. Dermott says that
+for the future I am to take my dinner orders from her,” then Jane
+thought that the time to speak was drawing very near indeed.
+
+“Do as Mrs. McDermott tells you,” she said quietly to the astonished
+cook.
+
+“Well, I never! I thought that the mistress had more spirit than that,”
+said the woman as she went back to her duties in the kitchen.
+
+Next day brought the coachman. “Beg pardon, miss,” he said, with a
+touch of his hair; “but Mrs. McDermott have given orders that the
+brougham and gray mare is to be ready for her every afternoon at three
+o’clock to the minute. I am to take the order, miss, I suppose?”
+
+“Quite right, John, till I give you orders to the contrary.”
+
+Next came the gardener. “Very sorry, miss, but I shall have to give
+notice—I shall really.”
+
+“Why, what’s amiss now, Gibson?”
+
+“It’s all Mrs. McDermott, miss; begging your pardon for saying so. Why
+will she pretend to understand gardening better than me that has been
+at it, man and boy, for fifty year? Why will she come finding fault
+with this, that, and the other, in a way that neither the Squire nor
+you, miss, ever thinks of doing? And she not only finds fault, but
+gives orders, ridiculous orders, about things she knows nothing of. I
+can’t stand it, miss, I really can’t.”
+
+“Mrs. McDermott will give you no more orders, Gibson, after to-day. You
+can go back to your work with an easy mind.”
+
+Jane waited till next morning, and then having ascertained that her
+aunt had again given orders to the cook respecting dinner, she walked
+straight into the breakfast-room where she knew that she should find
+Mrs. McDermott alone, and busy with her correspondence—for she was a
+great letter writer at that hour of the morning.
+
+“What a noisy girl you are,” she said crossly, as her niece drew up a
+chair and sat down beside her. “I was just writing a few lines to dear
+Lady Clark when you came in in your usual brusque way and put all my
+ideas to flight.”
+
+“They must be poor, timid, little ideas, aunt, to be so easily
+frightened away,” said Jane.
+
+“Jane, there has been a flippant tone about you for the last day or two
+that I don’t at all approve of. Flippancy in young people is easily
+acquired, but difficult to get rid of. The sooner you get rid of yours
+the better I shall be pleased.”
+
+Jane rose from her chair and swept Mrs. McDermott a stately curtsey.
+“Is it not almost time, aunt,” she said quietly, “that you gave up
+treating me, and talking to me, as if I were a child?”
+
+“If you are no longer a child in years, you are still very childish in
+many of your ways.”
+
+“You are quite epigrammatic this morning, aunt.”
+
+“Don’t be impertinent, young lady.”
+
+“I have no intention of being impertinent. But I have come to see you
+about the order for dinner which you gave the cook half an hour ago.”
+
+“What about that?” asked Mrs. McDermott snappishly. “In what way does
+it concern you?”
+
+“It concerns me very materially indeed,” answered Jane. “You have
+ordered several things for dinner that papa does not care about; some,
+in fact, that he never eats. Fried soles, for instance, and veal
+cutlets—articles he never touches. So I have told the cook to
+supplement your order with some turbot and a boiled fowl à la marquise.
+I have also told her that for the future she will receive from me every
+evening the menu for next day. Should my list contain nothing that you
+care about, the cook has orders to obtain specially for you any
+articles that you may wish to have.”
+
+“Upon my word! what next?” was all that Mrs. McDermott could gasp out
+at the moment, so overcome was she with rage and surprise.
+
+“This next,” said Jane. “From to-day the dinner hour will be altered
+back to six o’clock. Half-past seven suits neither papa nor me. Should
+the latter hour be a necessity with you, you can always have your
+dinner served at that time in your own room. But papa and I will dine
+at six.”
+
+“I shall talk to your papa about this, and ascertain from his own lips
+whether I am to be dictated to and insulted by a chit like you.”
+
+“That is just what I must forbid you to do,” said Jane. “Papa’s health
+has not been what it ought to be for a long time past.
+
+“Only a few weeks ago he had a slight stroke. Happily he soon recovered
+from it, but Dr. Davidson says that all exciting topics must be kept
+carefully from him. You know how little things will often excite him;
+and if you begin to worry him about any petty differences that may
+arise between you and me, you will do so at your peril, and must be
+satisfied to take whatever consequences may arise from your so doing.”
+
+Mrs. McDermott stared at her niece in open-mouthed wonder.
+
+“Perhaps you have something more to say to me,” she gasped out.
+
+“Yes, several things. Before ordering the brougham to be at your beck
+and call every day at three o’clock, it might, perhaps, be just as well
+to make sure that your brother is not likely to want it. He has taken
+to using it rather frequently of late.”
+
+“Oh, indeed; I’ll make due inquiry,” was all that Mrs. McDermott could
+find to say.
+
+“And if I were you, I wouldn’t go quite so often into the greenhouses,
+or near the men at work in the garden.”
+
+“Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while
+you are about it.”
+
+“Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an
+hour. He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot do
+without it. This is most imperative.”
+
+“I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life.”
+
+“Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no
+intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you
+when you come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here
+as papa’s guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you
+comfortable. But there can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that
+mistress, at present, is your niece, Jane Culpepper.”
+
+And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had bent
+over her, kissed her, and swept from the room.
+
+For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary state, at half-past
+seven, in her own room. But she found it so utterly wretched to have no
+one to talk to but her maid, that on the third day her resolution
+failed her; and when six o’clock came round she found herself in the
+dining-room, sitting next her brother, with something of the feeling of
+a school-girl who has been whipped and forgiven.
+
+Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid and
+stand-off-ish for several days to come. Towards the Squire she
+imperceptibly thawed, and the old familiar intimacy was gradually
+resumed between them. But between herself and Jane there was
+something—a restraint, a coldness—which no time could altogether
+remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that she had
+been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some
+great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then
+have afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise.
+
+It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed over
+to his sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to her. It
+was a great weight off his mind, and although he did not say much to
+Tom Bristow about it, he was none the less grateful in his secret
+heart. He was still as much at a loss as ever to understand by what
+occult means Tom had been able to raise the mortgage of six thousand
+pounds on Prior’s Croft. He had hinted more than once that he should
+like to know the secret by means of which a result so remarkable had
+been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly impervious.
+
+Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six
+thousand pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said:
+“With regard to Prior’s Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in
+the matter: perhaps you won’t object to it a second time.”
+
+“What is it, Bristow, what is it?” said the Squire, graciously. “I
+shall be glad to listen to anything you may have to say.”
+
+“What I want you to do, sir,” said Tom, “is to have some plans at once
+drawn up, and have the foundations laid of a number of houses—twenty to
+thirty at the least—on Prior’s Croft.”
+
+“I thought you crazy about the mortgage,” said the Squire, with a
+twinkle in his eye. “Are you quite sure you are not crazy now?”
+
+“I am just as sane now as I was then.”
+
+“But to build houses on Prior’s Croft! Why, nobody would ever live in
+them. The place is altogether out of the way.”
+
+“That has nothing whatever to do with the question. If you will only
+take my advice, sir, you will get the foundations down without an
+hour’s unnecessary delay.”
+
+“And where should I be at the end of a month, when the contractor came
+to me for the first instalment of his money?”
+
+“All that can be arranged for without difficulty. Your credit is sound
+in the market, and that is the one thing indispensable.”
+
+“But what is to be the ultimate result of all these mysterious
+proceedings?”
+
+“Now you get me in a corner. But I must again crave your indulgence,
+and ask you to let the mystery remain a mystery a little while longer.
+If you have sufficient faith in me, why, take my advice. If not—you
+will simply be missing a chance of making an odd thousand or so.”
+
+“And that is what I can by no means afford to do,” said the Squire with
+emphasis.
+
+The result was that a week later some forty or fifty men were busily at
+work cutting the turf and digging the foundations for the score of
+grand new villas which Mr. Culpepper had decided on building at Prior’s
+Croft.
+
+Everybody’s verdict was that the Squire must be mad. New villas,
+indeed! Why there were hardly people enough in sleepy old Duxley to
+occupy the houses that fell vacant as the older inhabitants died off.
+
+“That may be,” said the Squire, when this plea was urged on his notice;
+“but I mean to make my villas so handsome, so commodious, and so
+healthy, that a lot of the old rattletrap dens will at once be
+deserted, and I shall not have house-room for half the people who will
+want to become my tenants.” So spoke the Squire, putting a brave face
+on the matter, but really as much in the dark as any one.
+
+But if there was one person more puzzled than another, that person was
+certainly Mr. Cope the banker. He had ascertained for a fact that
+within a few days of their interview—their very painful interview, he
+termed it to himself—his quondam friend had actually become the
+purchaser of Prior’s Croft; and what was a still greater marvel, had
+actually paid down two thousand pounds in hard cash for it! And now the
+town’s talk was of nothing but the grand villas which the Squire was
+going to build on his new purchase. Mr. Cope could hardly credit it all
+till he went and saw with his own eyes the men hard at work. Still, it
+was altogether incomprehensible to him. Could the Squire have merely
+been playing him a trick; have only been testing the strength of his
+friendship, when he came to him to borrow the five thousand pounds? No,
+that could hardly be; else why had his balance at the bank been allowed
+to dwindle to a mere nothing? Besides which, he knew from words that
+the Squire had let drop at different times, that he must have been
+speculating heavily. Could it be possible that his speculations had,
+after all, proved successful? If not, how account for this sudden flood
+of prosperity? For several days Mr. Cope failed to enjoy his dinner in
+the hearty way that was habitual with him: for several nights Mr.
+Cope’s sleep failed to refresh him as it usually did.
+
+Although the Squire’s heaviest burden had been lifted off his mind with
+the payment of his sister’s money, he had by no means forgotten the
+loss of his daughter’s dowry. And now that his mind was easy on one
+point, this lesser trouble began to assume a magnitude that it had not
+possessed before. He could not get rid of the thought that there was
+nothing but his own frail life between his daughter and all but
+absolute penury. A few hundred pounds Jane would undoubtedly have, but
+what would that be to a young lady brought up as she had been brought
+up? “Not enough,” as the Squire put it in his homely way, “to find her
+in bread-and-cheese and cotton gowns.”
+
+But what was to be done? Life assurance was out of the question. He was
+too old and too infirm. There was nothing much to be got out of the
+estate. It was true that he might thin the timber a little and make a
+few hundreds that way; but the heir-at-law had too shrewd an eye to his
+own ultimate interests to allow very much to be done in that line.
+Besides which, the Squire himself could not for very shame have
+impaired what was the chief beauty of the Pincote property—its
+magnificent array of timber.
+
+There was, perhaps, a little cheese-paring to be done in the way of
+cutting down domestic expenses. A couple of servants might be dispensed
+with indoors. The under-gardener and the stable-boy might be sent about
+their business. The gray mare and the brougham might be disposed of.
+The wine merchant’s bill might be lightened a little; and fewer coals,
+perhaps, might be burnt in winter—and that was nearly all.
+
+But even such reductions as these, trifling though they were, could not
+be made secretly—could not be made, in fact, without becoming the talk
+of the whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire
+detested more than another, it was having his private affairs
+challenged and discussed by other people. And what, after all, would
+the saving amount to? How many years of such petty economy would be
+needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of the sum he had
+lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle, as he said to
+himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled, too, with
+asking the same questions over and over again, and still finding
+himself as far from a satisfactory answer as ever.
+
+There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it
+any real basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground
+which has already been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed
+estate—the piece of ground on which his new mansion was to have been
+built. Land, just now, was fetching good prices. Yes, he would
+certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in Jenny’s name whatever money
+it might fetch—not that it would command a very high price, being a
+poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still it would be a nest egg,
+though only a little one, for a rainy day.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+KNOCKLEY HOLT.
+
+
+About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The
+Squire would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without
+Tom’s society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more and
+more disinclined either for going out himself or having company at
+home. Still he could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now
+and then; and Tom being either a good listener or a lively talker, as
+occasion might require, and having already rendered the Squire an
+important service, it seemed somehow to fall into the natural order of
+things that he should be invited three or four times a week to dine at
+Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott’s arrival was he there less
+frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very lively
+company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to
+say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she
+overwhelmed her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty
+gossip about things that had little or no interest for him; but about
+which he was obliged to feign an interest, unless, as he himself
+expressed it, “he wanted to know the length of his sister’s tongue.”
+
+But when Tom was there the case was different. He acted as a sort of
+buffer between Mrs. McDermott and the Squire. By means of a few adroit
+questions, and a clever assumption of ignorance with regard to whatever
+topic Mrs. McDermott might be dilating on, he generally succeeded in
+drawing the full torrent of her conversation on his own devoted head,
+thereby affording the Squire a breathing space for which he was truly
+grateful. Sometimes, but not very often, Tom let the demon of mischief
+get the mastery of him. On such occasions he would lead Mrs. McDermott
+on by one artful question after another till she began to contradict
+herself and eat her own words, and ended by floundering helplessly in a
+sort of mental quagmire, and so relapsing into sulky silence, with a
+dim sense upon her that she had somehow been coaxed into making an
+exhibition of herself by that demure-looking young scamp of a Bristow,
+who seemed hand and glove with both her brother and her niece after a
+fashion that she neither liked nor understood.
+
+Yet was the love of hearing herself talk so ingrained in Mrs.
+McDermott’s nature, that by the time of Tom’s next visit to Pincote she
+was ready to fall into the same trap again, had he been inclined to
+lead her on.
+
+“Who is that young Bristow that you and Jane make such a pet of?” she
+asked her brother one day. “I don’t seem to recollect any family of
+that name hereabouts.”
+
+“Pet, indeed! Nobody makes a pet of him, as you call it,” growled the
+Squire. “He’s the son of the doctor who attended poor Charlotte in her
+last illness. He’s a sharp young fellow who has got his head screwed on
+the right way, and he’s been useful to me in one or two business
+matters, and may be so again; so there’s no harm in asking him to
+dinner now and then.”
+
+“Now and then with you seems to mean three or four times a week,”
+sneered Mrs. McDermott.
+
+“And what if it does?” retorted the Squire. “As long as I can call the
+house my own, I’ll ask anybody I like to dinner, and as often as I
+like.”
+
+“Only if I were you, I wouldn’t forget that I’d a daughter who was just
+at a marriageable age.”
+
+“Nor a sister who wouldn’t object to a husband number two,” chuckled
+the Squire.
+
+“Why not set your cap at young Bristow, eh, Fanny? You might do worse.
+He’s young and not bad looking, and if he has no money of his own, he’s
+just the right sort to look well after yours.”
+
+Mrs. McDermott fanned herself indignantly. “You never were very
+refined, Titus,” she said; “but you certainly get coarser every time I
+see you.”
+
+Mr. Culpepper only chuckled to himself, and poked the fire vigorously.
+
+“I’ll have that young Bristow out of this house before I’m three weeks
+older!” vowed the ‘widow to herself. “The way he and Jane carry on
+together is simply disgusting, and yet that poor weak brother of mine
+can’t see it.”
+
+From that day forth she took to watching Tom and Jane more particularly
+than she had done before. Not satisfied with watching them herself, she
+induced her maid Emma to act as a spy on their actions. With her
+assistance, Mrs. McDermott was not long in gathering sufficient
+evidence to warrant her, as she thought, in seeking a private interview
+with her brother on the subject. “And high time too,” she said grimly
+to herself. “That minx of a Jane is carrying on a fine game under the
+rose. The arrant little flirt! And as for that young Bristow—of course
+it’s Jane’s money that he’s after. Titus must be as blind as a bat, or
+he would have seen it all long ago. I’ve no patience with him—none!”
+
+Having worked herself up to the requisite pitch, downstairs she bounced
+and burst into the Squire’s private room—commonly called his study. She
+burst into the room, but halted suddenly the moment she had crossed the
+threshold. The Squire was there, but not alone. Tom Bristow was with
+him. The two were in deep consultation—so much she could see at a
+glance—bending towards each other over the little table, and speaking,
+as it seemed to her, almost in a whisper. The Squire turned with a
+gesture of impatience at the opening of the door. “Oh, is that you,
+Fanny?” he said. “I’ll see you presently; I’m busy with Mr. Bristow,
+just now.”
+
+She went out without a word, but her face flushed deeply, and an evil
+look came into her eyes. “That’s the way you treat your only sister,
+Mr. Titus Culpepper, is it?” she muttered under her breath. “Not a
+penny of my money shall ever come to you or yours.”
+
+Tom had walked over to Pincote that morning to see the Squire
+respecting the building going on at Prior’s Croft. When their
+conference had come to an end, said the Squire to Tom: “You know that
+scrubby bit of ground of mine—Knockley Holt?”
+
+Tom started. “Yes, I know it very well,” he said. “It is rather
+singular that you should be the first to speak about it; because it was
+partly about that very piece of ground that I am here this morning to
+see you.”
+
+“Ay—ay—how’s that?” said the Squire, suddenly brightening up from the
+apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of late.
+
+“Why, it doesn’t seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that
+perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting me have a lease of it.”
+
+The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several weeks.
+“And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to ask your
+advice about it!”
+
+Tom’s face flushed suddenly. “And do you really think of selling
+Knockley Holt?” he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the
+Squire’s face more keenly than usual.
+
+“Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn’t have said what I have
+said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to me
+than the land is ever likely to be. It won’t fetch much I know, but
+then I didn’t give much for it, and whoever may get it won’t have much
+of a bargain.”
+
+“Perhaps you wouldn’t object to have me for a purchaser?”
+
+“You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I
+should want money down, and—— But I needn’t say more about it.”
+
+“If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve
+hundred pounds for it, cash down.”
+
+The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at anything
+that Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a moment or two
+in blank amazement.
+
+“Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!” were his first words.
+“And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve
+hundred pounds?”
+
+“Oh, I’m worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds,” said Tom,
+with a smile. “Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by one
+little stroke in cotton.”
+
+“Well done, young one,” said the Squire, heartily. “You are not such a
+fool as you look. And now take an old man’s advice. Don’t speculate any
+more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her cake. Don’t tempt
+her again. Be content with what you’ve got, and speculate no more.”
+
+“At any rate, I won’t forget your advice, sir,” said Tom. “I wonder,”
+he added to himself, “what he would think and say if he knew that it
+was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread and cheese.”
+
+“And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?”
+
+“I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it.”
+
+“Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do
+with it when you have got it?”
+
+“Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask
+me,” said Tom, laughingly. “If I buy it, it will be entirely on
+speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a big
+success.”
+
+“Well, well, that will be your look out,” said the Squire,
+good-naturedly. “But, Bristow, it’s not worth twelve hundred pounds,
+nor anything like that sum.”
+
+“I think it is, sir—at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay that
+amount for it.”
+
+“I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a
+clear thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied.”
+
+“I have made you an offer, sir. It is for you to say whether you are
+willing to accept it.”
+
+“Seeing that you offer me two hundred pounds more than I ever hoped to
+get, I’m not such an ass as to say, No. Only I think you are robbing
+yourself. I do indeed, Bristow; and that’s what I don’t like to see.”
+
+“I think, sir, that I’m pretty well able to look after my own
+interests,” said Tom, with a meaning smile. “Am I to consider that
+Knockley Holt is to become my property?”
+
+“Of course you are, boy—of course you are. But I must say that you are
+a little bit of a simpleton to give me twelve hundred when you might
+have it for a thousand.”
+
+“An offer’s an offer, and I’ll abide by mine.”
+
+“Then there’s nothing more to be said: I’ll see my lawyer about the
+deeds to-morrow.”
+
+Tom shook hands with the Squire and went in search of Jane.
+
+“Perhaps I may come in now,” said Mrs. McDermott five minutes later, as
+she opened the door of her brother’s room.
+
+“Of course you may,” said the Squire. “Young Bristow and I were talking
+over some business affairs before, that would have had no interest for
+you, and that you know nothing about.”
+
+“It’s about young Bristow, as you call him, that I have come to see you
+this morning.”
+
+“Oh, indeed,” said the Squire drily. Then he took off his spectacles,
+and rubbed them with his pocket handkerchief, and began to whistle a
+tune under his breath.
+
+Mrs. McDermott glared fiercely at him, and her voice took an added tone
+of asperity when she spoke again. “I suppose you are aware that your
+protégé is making violent love to your daughter, or else that your
+daughter is making violent love to him: I hardly know which it is!”
+
+“What!” thundered the Squire, as he started to his feet. “What is that
+you say, Fanny McDermott?”
+
+“Simply this: that there is a lot of lovemaking going on between Jane
+and Mr. Bristow. If it is done with your sanction, I have not another
+word to say. But if you tell me that you know nothing about it, I can
+only say that you must have been as blind as a bat and as stupid as an
+owl.”
+
+“Thank you, Fanny—thank you,” said the Squire sadly, as he sat down in
+his chair again. “I dare say I have been both blind and stupid; and if
+what you tell me is true, I must have been.”
+
+“Miss Jane couldn’t long deceive me,” said the widow spitefully.
+
+“Miss Jane is too good a girl to deceive anybody.”
+
+“Oh, in love matters we women hold that everything is fair. Deceit then
+becomes deceit no longer. We call it by a prettier name.”
+
+Her brother was not heeding her: he was lost in his own thoughts.
+
+“The young vagabond!” he said at last. “So that’s the way he’s been
+hoodwinking me, is it? But I’ll teach him: I’ll have him know that I’m
+not to be made a fool of in that way. Make love to my daughter, indeed!
+I’ll have him here to-morrow morning, and tell him a bit of my mind
+that will astonish him considerably.”
+
+“Why wait till to-morrow? Why not send for him now?”
+
+“Because he left here a quarter of an hour ago.
+
+“Oh, you would not have far to send for him.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“Simply that he and Jane are in the shrubbery together at the present
+moment.”
+
+The Squire stared at her helplessly for a moment or two. “How do you
+know that?” he said at last, speaking very quietly.
+
+“Because my maid, who was returning from an errand, saw them walking
+there, arm in arm.” She paused, as if expecting her brother to say
+something, but he did not speak. “I have not had my eyes shut, I assure
+you,” she went on. “But in these matters women are always more
+quick-sighted than men. From the very first hour of my seeing them
+together I had my suspicions. All their walking and talking together
+couldn’t be for nothing. All their hand-shakings and sly glances into
+each other’s eyes couldn’t be without a meaning.”
+
+The Squire got up from his chair and rang the bell. A servant came in.
+“Ascertain whether Mr. Bristow is anywhere about the house or grounds;
+and, if he is, tell him that I should like to see him before he goes.”
+
+Mrs. McDermott rose in some alarm. It was no part of her policy to be
+seen there by Tom. “I am glad you have sent for him,” she said. “I hope
+matters have not gone too far to be stopped without difficulty.”
+
+He looked up in a little surprise. “There will be no difficulty. Why
+should there be?” he said.
+
+“No, of course not. As you say, why should there be? But I must now bid
+you good-morning for the present. There will be hardly any need, I
+think, for you to mention my name in the affair.”
+
+“There will be no need to mention anybody’s name. Good-morning.”
+
+Mrs. McDermott went out and shut the door gently behind her. “Breaking
+fast, poor man,” she said to herself. “He’s not long for this world,
+I’m afraid. Well, I’ve the consolation of knowing that I’ve always done
+a sister’s duty by him. I wonder what he’ll die worth. Thousands, no
+doubt; and all to go to that proud minx of a Jane. We are not allowed
+to hate one another, or else I’m afraid I should hate that girl.”
+
+She shook her fist at an imaginary Jane, went straight upstairs, and
+gave her maid a good blowing-up.
+
+Some three weeks had now come and gone since Tom, breaking for once
+through the restraint which had hitherto kept him back, did and said
+something which made Jane very happy. What he did was to draw her face
+down to his and kiss it: what he said was simply, “Good-night, my
+darling.” Nothing more, but quite enough to be understood by her to
+whom the words were spoken. But since that evening not one syllable
+more of love had been breathed by Tom. For anything that had since
+passed between them Jane might have imagined that she had merely dreamt
+the words—that the speaking of them was nothing more than a fancy of
+her own lovesick brain.
+
+Under similar circumstances many young ladies would have considered
+themselves aggrieved, and would not have been deemed unreasonable in so
+thinking, But Jane had no intention whatever of adopting an injured
+tone even in her own inmost thoughts. She had never been in the habit
+of looking upon herself in the light of a victim, and she had no
+intention of beginning to do so now. Surprised—slightly surprised—she
+might be, but that was all. In Tom’s manner towards her, in the way he
+looked at her, in the very tone of his voice, there was that
+indescribable something which gave her the sweet assurance that she was
+still loved as much as ever. Such being the case, she was well
+satisfied to wait. She felt that her lover’s silence had a meaning,
+that he was not dumb without a reason. When the proper time should come
+he would speak, and to some purpose. Till then Eros should keep a
+finger on his lips, and speak only the language of the eyes.
+
+“So this is the way you treat me, is it, young man?” said the Squire,
+sternly, as Tom re-entered the room.
+
+“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Tom, looking at him in sheer amazement.
+
+“Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know what I mean.”
+
+“It may seem stupid on my part, but I must really plead ignorance.”
+
+“You worm yourself into my confidence till you get the run of the
+house, and can come and go as you like, and you finish up by making
+love to my daughter!”
+
+“It is no crime to love Miss Culpepper, I hope, sir. There are few
+people, I imagine, who could know her without loving her.”
+
+“That’s all very well, but you don’t get over me in that way, young
+sir. What right have you to make love to my daughter? That’s what I
+want to know.”
+
+“I may love Miss Culpepper, but I have never told her so.”
+
+“Do you mean to say that you have never asked her to marry you?”
+
+“Never, sir; on that point I give you my word of honour.”
+
+“A good thing for you that you haven’t. The sooner you get that love
+tomfoolery out of your head the better.”
+
+“I promise you one thing, sir,” said Tom; “if I ever do marry Miss
+Culpepper, it shall be with your full consent and good wishes.”
+
+The Squire could not help chuckling. “In that case, my boy, you will
+never have her—not if you live to be as old as Methuselah.”
+
+“Time will prove, sir.”
+
+“And look ye here. There must be no more walks in the shrubbery, no
+more gallivanting together among the woods. Do you understand?”
+
+“Perfectly, sir. Your words could not be plainer.”
+
+“I mean them to be plain. There seems to be no harm done so far, but
+it’s time this nonsense was put a stop to. Miss Culpepper must marry in
+a very different sphere from yours.”
+
+“Pardon the remark, sir, but you were quite willing to take Mr. Edward
+Cope as your son-in-law. Now, I consider myself quite as good a man as
+Mr. Cope—quite as eligible a suitor for your daughter’s hand.”
+
+“Then I don’t. Besides, young Cope would never have had the chance of
+getting her if he hadn’t been the son of my oldest friend; the son of
+the man to whose bravery I owe my life itself. Master Edward owes it to
+his father and not to himself that I ever sanctioned his engagement to
+Miss Culpepper.”
+
+“I am indebted for this good turn to Mrs. McDermott,” said Tom to
+himself, as he walked homeward through the park. “It will only have the
+effect of bringing matters to a climax a little earlier than I
+intended, but it will not alter my plans in the least.”
+
+“Fanny has been exaggerating as usual,” was the Squire’s comment.
+“There was something in it, no doubt, and it’s just as well to have
+crushed it in the bud; but I think it’s hardly worth while to say
+anything to Jenny about it.”
+
+A week later, the Squire happened to be riding on his white pony along
+the high road that fringed one side of Knockley Holt, when, to his
+intense astonishment, he heard the regular monotonous puffing and saw
+the smoke of a steam engine that was apparently hard at work behind a
+clump of larches in the distance. Riding up to the spot, he found some
+score or so of men all busily engaged. They were excavating a hole in
+the hill-side, filling-in stout timber supports as they got deeper
+down; the engine on the top being employed to hoist up the earth in big
+bucketfuls as fast as it was dug out.
+
+“What’s all this about?” inquired the Squire of one of the men; “and
+who’s gaffer here?”
+
+“Mr. Bristow, he be the gaffer, sur, and this hole be dug by his
+orders.”
+
+“Oh, ho! that’s it, is it? And how deep are you going to dig the hole,
+and what do you expect to find when you get to the bottom?”
+
+“I don’t rightly know, sur, but I should think we be digging for
+water.”
+
+“A likely tale that! What the dickens should anybody want water for
+when we haven’t had a dry day for seven weeks?”
+
+“Our foreman did say, sur, as how Mr. Bristow was going to have a hole
+dug clean through, so as to make a short cut like to the other side of
+the world. Anyhow, it be mortal dry work.”
+
+The Squire gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and rode off. “What queer
+crotchet has that young jackanapes got into his head now?” he muttered
+to himself. “It’s just possible, though, that there may be a method in
+his madness.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.
+
+
+“Hi! Jean, whose is this luggage?” cried Pierre Janvard one morning to
+his head waiter. He pointed at the same time to a large portmanteau
+which lay among a pile of other luggage in the hall of the Three Crowns
+Hotel, Bath.
+
+With that restless curiosity which was such a marked trait in his
+character, Janvard had a habit of peering about among the luggage of
+his guests, and even of prying stealthily about their bedrooms when he
+knew that their occupants were out of the way, and he himself safe from
+detection. It was not that he hoped to benefit himself in any way, or
+even to pick up any information that would be of value to him, by such
+a mode of proceeding; but it had been a habit with him from boyhood to
+do this kind of thing, and it was a habit that he could by no means
+overcome.
+
+Passing through the hall this morning, his eye had been attracted by a
+pile of luggage belonging to several fresh arrivals, and he at once
+began to peer among the labels. The second label that took his eye was
+inscribed, “Richard Dering, Esq., Passenger to Bath.” Janvard stood
+aghast as he read the name. A crowd of direful memories rushed to his
+mind. For a moment or two he could not speak. Then he called Jean as
+above.
+
+“That portmanteau,” answered Jean, “belongs to a gentleman who came in
+by the last train. He and another gentleman came together. They wanted
+a private sitting-room, and I put them into number twenty-nine.”
+
+“Has the other gentleman any luggage?”
+
+“Yes, this large black bag belongs to him.” Janvard stooped and read:
+“Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath.” “Quite strange to me, that
+name,” he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and
+shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.
+
+“They have ordered dinner, I suppose?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk
+about, and report it to me afterwards.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind.
+Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel
+Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common
+enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to
+himself again and again.
+
+One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive to
+see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the
+slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any other
+quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these people,
+after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr. Kester St.
+George for instructions.
+
+He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his
+banker’s passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing
+source of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in
+walked Mr. Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow.
+
+It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard’s eyes
+rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his
+appearance. Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still.
+His thin lips quivered for a moment, and then his hands began to
+tremble slightly, so that in a little while he was obliged to take them
+off the table and bury them in his pockets.
+
+He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that
+other Mr. Dering whose face he remembered so well—whose face it was
+impossible that he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet
+strangely unlike: the same in many points, and yet in others most
+different. But the moment this dark-looking stranger opened his lips,
+it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back from the grave. A
+covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he beheld a
+man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before.
+
+“Your name is Janvard, I believe?” said Mr. Dering, with a slight bow.
+
+“Pierre Janvard at your service,” answered the Frenchman,
+deferentially.
+
+“You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St.
+George?”
+
+“I had that honour.”
+
+“My name is Dering—Richard Dering. It is probable that you never heard
+of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from India. I am
+cousin to Mr. Kester St. George.”
+
+The Frenchman bowed. “I have no recollection of having heard monsieur’s
+name mentioned by my late employer.”
+
+“I suppose not. But my brother’s name—Lionel Dering—must be well known
+to you.”
+
+Janvard could not repress a slight start So that was the relationship,
+was it?
+
+“Ah, yes,” he said. “I have seen Mr. Lionel Dering many times, and done
+several little services for him at one time or another.”
+
+“You were one of the chief witnesses on the trial, if I recollect
+rightly?”
+
+Janvard coughed, to gain a moment’s time. The conversation was taking a
+turn that he did not approve of. “I certainly was one of the witnesses
+on the trial,” he said, with an air of deprecation. “But monsieur will
+understand that it was a misfortune which I had no means of avoiding. I
+could not help seeing what I did see, and they made me tell all about
+it.”
+
+“Oh, we quite understand that,” said Mr. Dering. “You were not to blame
+in any way. You could not do otherwise than as you did.”
+
+Janvard smiled faintly, and bowed his gratification.
+
+“My friend here, Mr. Bristow, and myself, have come down to stay a week
+or two in your charming city. The doctors tell me there is something
+the matter with my spleen, and have recommended me to drink the Bath
+waters. Hearing casually that you were the proprietor of one of the
+most comfortable hotels in the place, and looking upon you somewhat in
+the light of a connection of the family, we thought that we could not
+do better than take up our quarters with you.”
+
+Again Janvard smiled and bowed his gratification. “Monsieur may depend
+upon my using my utmost endeavours to make himself and his friend as
+comfortable as possible. Pardon my presumption, but may I venture to
+ask whether Mr. St. George was quite well when monsieur saw or heard
+from him last?”
+
+“My cousin was a little queer a short time ago, but I believe him to be
+well again by this time.” Mr. Dering turned to go. “We have given your
+waiter instructions as to dinner,” he said.
+
+“I hope my chef will succeed in pleasing you,” said Janvard., with a
+smile. “He has the reputation of being second to none in the city.”
+With the same smile on his face he followed them to the door and bowed
+them out, and, still smiling, watched them till they turned the corner
+of the street. “No danger there, I think,” he said to himself. “None
+whatever. Still I must keep on the watch—always on the watch. I must
+look to their dinners myself, and leave them nothing to complain of.
+But I shall be very much pleased indeed when they call for their bill:
+very much pleased to see the last of them.”
+
+Said Tom to Lionel, as they were walking arm-in-arm towards the
+pump-room: “Did you notice that magnificent ring which Janvard wore on
+the third finger of his left hand?”
+
+“I could not fail to notice it. I was thinking about it at the very
+moment you spoke.”
+
+“I have not seen so splendid a ruby for a long time. The setting, too,
+is rather unique.”
+
+“Yes, it was the peculiar setting that caused me to recognize it
+again.”
+
+“That caused you to recognize it! You don’t mean to say that you have
+ever seen the ring before?”
+
+“I certainly have seen it before.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“On the finger of Percy Osmond.”
+
+Tom halted suddenly and stared at Lionel as if he could hardly believe
+the evidence of his ears.
+
+“I am stating nothing but the simple truth,” continued Lionel. “The
+moment I saw the ring on Janvard’s finger the thought flashed through
+me that I had certainly seen it somewhere before. All the time I was
+talking to Janvard I was trying to call that somewhere to mind, but it
+did not come to me till after we had left the hotel—not, in fact, till
+a minute before you spoke about it.”
+
+“Are you sure you are not mistaken? There are many ruby rings in the
+world.”
+
+“I don’t for one moment think that I am mistaken,” answered Lionel
+deliberately. “If the ring worn by Janvard be the one I mean, it has
+three initial letters engraved inside the hoop. What particular letters
+they are I cannot now recollect. I chanced to express my admiration of
+the ring one night in the billiard-room, and Osmond took it off his
+finger in order that I might examine it. It was then I saw the letters,
+but without noticing them with sufficient particularity to remember
+them again.”
+
+“I always had an idea,” said Tom, “that Janvard was in some way mixed
+up with the murder, and this would seem to prove it. He must have
+stolen the ring from Osmond’s room either immediately before or
+immediately after the murder.”
+
+“I must see that ring,” said Lionel decisively. “It must come into my
+possession, if only for a minute or two, if only while I ascertain
+whether the initials are really there.”
+
+“I don’t think that there will be much difficulty about that,” said
+Tom. “The fellow has no suspicion as to whom you really are, or as to
+the object of our visit to Bath. To admire the ring is the first step:
+to ask to look at it the second.”
+
+A quarter of an hour later Lionel gripped Tom suddenly by the arm.
+“Bristow,” he whispered, “I have just remembered something. Osmond had
+that ruby ring on his finger the night before he was murdered! I have a
+distinct recollection of seeing it on his hand when we were playing
+that last game of billiards together.”
+
+“If this ring,” said Tom, “prove to be the one you believe it to be,
+the finding of it will be another and a most important link in the
+chain of evidence.”
+
+“Yes—almost, if not quite, the last one that we shall need,” said
+Lionel.
+
+At dinner that evening Janvard in person took in the wine. The eyes of
+both Lionel and Tom fixed themselves instinctively on his left hand.
+The ring was no longer there.
+
+“Can he suspect anything?” asked Lionel of Tom, as soon as they were
+alone.
+
+“I think not,” answered Tom. “The fellow is evidently uneasy, and will
+continue to be so as long as you stay under his roof. But the very
+openness of our proceedings, and the frank way in which we have told
+him who we are, will go far to disarm any suspicions which he might
+otherwise have entertained.”
+
+Two or three days passed quietly over. Lionel drank the waters with
+regularity, and he and Tom drove out frequently in the neighbourhood of
+King Bladud’s beautiful city. Janvard always gave them a look in in the
+course of dinner to see that everything was to their satisfaction; but
+he still carefully abstained from wearing the ring.
+
+By-and-by there came a certain evening when Janvard failed to put in
+his usual appearance at the dinner table. Said Tom to the man who
+waited upon them: “Where is your master this evening? Not ill, I hope?”
+
+“Gone to a masonic banquet, sir,” answered the man.
+
+“Then he won’t be home till late, I’ll wager.”
+
+“Not till eleven or twelve, I dare say, sir.
+
+“Gone in full fig, of course?” said Tom, laughingly.
+
+“Yes, sir,” answered the man with a grin.
+
+“Diamond studs and ruby ring, and everything complete, eh?” went on
+Tom.
+
+“I don’t know about diamond studs, sir,” said the man, “but he
+certainly had his ring on, for I saw it on his finger myself.”
+
+“Now is our time,” said Tom to Lionel, as soon as the man had left the
+room. “We may not have such an opportunity again.”
+
+It was close upon midnight when Pierre Janvard, alighting from a fly at
+the door of his hotel, found his two lodgers standing on the steps
+smoking a last cigar before turning in for the night. In this there was
+nothing unusual—nothing to excite suspicion.
+
+“Hallo! Janvard, is that you?” cried Tom, assuming the tone and manner
+of a man who has taken a little too much wine. “I was just wondering
+what had become of you. This is my birthday: so you must come upstairs
+with us, and drink my health in some of your own wine.”
+
+“Another time, sir, I shall be most happy; but to-night——”
+
+“But me no buts,” cried Tom. “I’ll have no excuses—none. Come along,
+Dering, and we’ll crack another bottle of Janvard’s Madeira. We’ll
+poison mine host with his own tipple.”
+
+He seized Janvard by the arm, and dragged him upstairs, trolling out
+the last popular air as he did so. Lionel followed leisurely.
+
+“You’re a good sort, Janvard—a deuced good sort!” said Tom.
+
+“Monsieur is very kind,” said Janvard, with a smile and a shrug; and
+then in obedience to a wave from Tom’s hand, he sat down at table. Tom
+now began to fumble with a bottle and a corkscrew.
+
+“Allow me, monsieur,” said Janvard, politely, as he relieved Tom of the
+articles in question, and proceeded to open the bottle with the ease of
+long practice.
+
+“That’s a sweet thing in rings you’ve got on your finger,” said Tom,
+admiringly.
+
+“Yes, it is rather a fine stone,” said Janvard, dryly.
+
+“May I be allowed to examine it?” asked Tom, as he poured out the wine
+with a hand that was slightly unsteady.
+
+“I should be most happy to oblige monsieur,” said Janvard, hastily,
+“but the ring fits me so tightly that I am afraid I should have some
+difficulty in getting it off my finger.”
+
+“Hang it all, man, the least you can do is to try,” cried Tom.
+
+The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little
+difficulty, and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom’s fingers
+clutched it like a vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if
+to reclaim the ring; but it was too late, and he sat down without
+speaking.
+
+Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it
+towards the light. “A very pretty gem, indeed!” he said. “And worth
+something considerable in sovereigns, I should say.”
+
+“Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?” asked Lionel gravely,
+as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from his
+seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom handed
+the ring across to Lionel.
+
+“A magnificent stone, indeed,” said the latter, “but somewhat
+old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable
+in my eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop
+are three initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I
+read them aright they are M. K. L.”
+
+“Yes, yes, monsieur,” said Janvard, uneasily. “As you say, M. K. L. The
+initials of the friend who gave me the ring.” He held out his hand, as
+if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to him, but
+Lionel took no notice of the action.
+
+“Three very curious initials, indeed,” said Lionel, musingly. “One
+could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in mind
+of a curious coincidence—of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I
+once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and
+inside the hoop of my friend’s ring were three initials. The initials
+in question were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved on
+your ring, Monsieur Janvard. Curious, is it not?”
+
+“Mille diables! I am betrayed!” cried Janvard, as he started from his
+seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him.
+The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.
+
+He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and
+looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom
+Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold,
+quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom’s right
+hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard’s ears were
+smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to
+the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The
+pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was beginning
+to desert him. He was trembling visibly.
+
+“Sit down, sir,” said Lionel, sternly, “and refresh yourself with
+another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to
+you.”
+
+The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders
+and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two
+glasses of wine rapidly one after another.
+
+“I am ready, monsieur,” he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips,
+and made a ghastly effort to smile. “At your service.”
+
+“What I want from you, and what you must give me,” said Lionel, “is a
+full and particular account of how this ring came into your possession.
+It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the night he was
+murdered.”
+
+“Ah ciel! how do you know that?”
+
+“It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it.
+But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was
+found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession.”
+
+For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: “Who
+are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and
+threaten me in this way?”
+
+“I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine.”
+
+“What if I refuse to answer them?”
+
+“In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than
+half an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger
+of Mr. Osmond the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought
+many a better man than you to the gallows: be careful that it does not
+land you there?”
+
+“If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the
+murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago.”
+
+“What proof have you—what proof was there adduced at the trial, that
+Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or those
+of any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew from the
+first that he was innocent! If you yourself are not the murderer, you
+know the man who is.”
+
+Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the
+floor. He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke,
+but it was in the same sullen tone that he had used before.
+
+“What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may
+know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?”
+
+“You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such promise.
+For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be the
+murderer of Percy Osmond.”
+
+Janvard shuddered slightly. “I am not the murderer of Percy Osmond,” he
+said quietly.
+
+“Who, then, was the murderer?”
+
+“My late master—Mr. Kester St. George.”
+
+There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although
+Janvard’s words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel
+and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears
+with all the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there,
+Janvard was the one who seemed least concerned.
+
+Lionel was the first to speak. “This is a serious charge to make
+against a gentleman like Mr. St. George,” he said.
+
+“I have made no charge against Mr. St. George,” said Janvard. “It is
+you who have forced the confession from me.”
+
+“You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement—to prove
+your words?”
+
+“I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you
+will not let me.”
+
+“All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell me.”
+
+“But, monsieur——” began Janvard, appealingly, and then he stopped.
+
+“You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use that
+power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time, understand me.
+I am no constable—no officer of the law—I am simply the brother of
+Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was accused and found
+guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I am, I have vowed
+that I will not rest night or day till I have discovered the murderer
+and brought him to justice. Such being the case, I tell you plainly
+that the best thing you can do is to make a full and frank confession
+of all that you know respecting this terrible business, leaving it for
+me afterwards to decide as to the use which I may find it requisite to
+make of your confession. Are you prepared to do what I ask of you?”
+
+Janvard’s shoulders rose and fell again. “I cannot help myself,” he
+said. “I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur.”
+
+“Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh
+your memory.”
+
+“Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that
+night are far too terrible to be forgotten.” With a hand that still
+shook slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank it
+off at a draught. Then he continued: “On the night of the quarrel in
+the billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master, Mr.
+St. George. About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering it,
+my master put Mr. Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the worse for
+wine, with instructions to see him safely to bed. This I did, and then
+left him. As it happened, I had taken a violent fancy to Mr. Osmond’s
+splendid ruby ring—the very ring monsieur has now in his possession—and
+that night I determined to make it my own. There were several new
+servants in the house, and nobody would suspect me of having taken it.
+Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and thrown it carelessly into
+his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into bed, afterwards
+putting his keys under his pillow.
+
+“When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made my
+way to Mr. Osmond’s bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A
+night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in
+through the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the
+sleeper’s face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with
+one hand clenched, and a frown on his face as if he were still
+threatening Mr. Dering. It was hardly the work of a minute to possess
+myself of the keys. In another minute the dressing-case was opened and
+the ring my own. Mr. Osmond’s portmanteau stood invitingly open: what
+more natural than that I should desire to turn over its contents
+lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed by the simple
+curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the portmanteau,
+admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard the
+noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that
+afforded by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next
+moment I was safely hidden behind them.
+
+“The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the
+room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned
+in his sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from
+peeping out of my hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester
+St. George, standing over the sleeping man, with a look on his face
+that I had never seen there before. He stood thus for a full minute,
+and then he came round to the near side of the bed, and seemed to be
+looking for Mr. Osmond’s keys. In a little while he saw them in the
+dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the other side
+of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found the
+right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond’s writing-case. He opened the
+case, took out of it Mr. Osmond’s cheque book, and from that he tore
+either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case
+when Mr. Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. ‘Villain! what
+are you doing there?’ he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But
+before he could set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his
+throat, and pinned him down almost as easily as if he had been a boy.
+What happened during the next minute I hardly know how to describe. It
+would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit of sleeping with a dagger
+under his pillow. At all events, there was one there on this particular
+night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his hand sought
+for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a sudden stab with
+it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master was too quick for
+him. There was an instant’s struggle—a flash—a cry—and—you may guess
+the rest.
+
+“A murmur of horror escaped my lips. In another instant my master had
+sprung across the room and had torn away the curtains from before me.
+‘You here!’ he said. And for a few seconds I thought my fate would be
+the same as that of Mr. Osmond. But at last his hand dropped. ‘Janvard,
+you and I must be friends,’ he said. ‘From this night your interests
+are mine, and my interests are yours.’ Then we left the room together.
+A terrible night, monsieur, as you may well believe.”
+
+“You have accounted clearly enough for the murder, but you have not yet
+told us how it happened that Lionel Dering came to be accused of the
+crime.”
+
+“That is the worst part of the story, sir. Whose thought it was first,
+whether Mr. St. George’s or mine, to lay the murder at the door of Mr.
+Dering, I could not now tell you. It was a thought that seemed to come
+into the heads of both of us at the same moment. As monsieur knows, my
+master had no cause to love his cousin. He had every reason to hate
+him. Mr. Dering had got all the estates and property that ought to have
+been Mr. St. George’s. But if Mr. Dering were to die without children,
+the estate would all come back to his cousin. Reason enough for wishing
+Mr. Dering dead.
+
+“We did not talk much about it, my master and I. We understood one
+another without many words. There were certain things to be done which
+Mr. St. George had not the nerve to do. I had the nerve to do them, and
+I did them. It was I who put Mr. Dering’s stud under the bed. It was I
+who took his handkerchief, and——”
+
+“Enough!” said Lionel, with a shudder. “Surely no more devilish plot
+was ever hatched by Satan himself! You—you who sit so calmly there, had
+but to hold up your finger to save an innocent man from disgrace and
+death!”
+
+“What would monsieur have?” said Janvard, with another of his
+indescribable shrugs. “Mr. St. George was my master. I liked him, and I
+was, besides, to have a large sum of money given me to keep silence.
+Mr. Dering was a stranger to me. Voilà tout.”
+
+“Janvard, you are one of the vilest wretches that ever disgraced the
+name of man!”
+
+“Monsieur s’amuse.”
+
+“I shall at once proceed to put down in writing the heads of the
+confession which you have just made. You will sign the writing in
+question in the presence of Mr. Bristow as witness. You need be under
+no apprehension that any immediate harm will happen to you. As for Mr.
+St. George, I shall deal with him in my own time, and in my own way.
+There are, however, two points that I wish you to bear particularly in
+mind. Firstly, if, even by the vaguest hint, you dare to let Mr. St.
+George know that you have told me what you have told me to-night, it
+will be at your own proper peril, and you must be prepared to take the
+consequences that will immediately ensue. Secondly, you must hold
+yourself entirely at my service, and must come to me without delay
+whenever I may send for you, and wherever I may be. Do you clearly
+understand?”
+
+“Yes, sir. I understand.”
+
+“For the present, then, I have done with you. Two hours later I will
+send for you again, in order that you may sign a certain paper which
+will be ready by that time. You may go.”
+
+“But, monsieur——”
+
+“Not a word. Go.”
+
+Tom held open the door for him, and Janvard passed out without another
+word.
+
+“At last, Dering! At last everything is made clear!” said Tom, as he
+crossed the room and laid his hand affectionately on Lionel’s shoulder.
+“At last you can proclaim your innocence to the world.”
+
+“Yes, my task is nearly done,” said Lionel, sadly. “And I thank heaven
+in all sincerity that it is so. But the duty that I have still to
+perform is a terrible one. I almost feel as if now, at this, the
+eleventh hour, I could go no farther. I shrink in horror from the last
+and most terrible step of all. Hark! whose voice was that?”
+
+“I hear nothing save the moaning of the wind, and the low muttering of
+thunder far away among the hills.”
+
+“It seemed to me that I heard the voice of Percy Osmond calling to me
+from the grave—the same voice that I have heard so often in my dreams.”
+
+“How your hand burns, Dering! Shake off these wild fancies, I implore
+you,” said Tom. “What a blinding flash was that!”
+
+“They are no wild fancies to me, but most dread realities. I tell you
+it is Osmond’s voice that I hear. I know it but too well, ‘Thou shalt
+avenge!’ it says to me. Only three words: ‘Thou shalt avenge!’”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.
+
+
+Nearly a fortnight elapsed after Tom’s last interview with the Squire
+before he was again invited to Pincote, and after what had passed
+between himself and Mr. Culpepper he would not go there again without a
+special invitation. It is probable that the Squire would not have sent
+for him even at the end of a fortnight had he not grown so thoroughly
+tired of having to cope with Mrs. McDermott single-handed that he was
+ready to call in assistance from any quarter that promised relief. He
+knew that Tom would assist him if only a hint were given that he was
+wanted to do so. And Tom did relieve him; so that for the first time
+for many days the Squire really enjoyed his dinner.
+
+Notwithstanding all this, matters were so arranged between the Squire
+and Mrs. McDermott that no opportunity was given Tom of being alone
+with Jane even for five minutes. The first time this happened he
+thought that it might perhaps have arisen from mere accident. But the
+next time he went up to Pincote he saw too clearly what was intended to
+allow him to remain any longer in doubt. That night, after shaking
+hands with Tom at parting, Jane found in her palm a tiny note, the
+contents of which were three lines only. “Should you be shopping in
+Duxley either to-morrow or next day, I shall be at the toll-gate on the
+Snelsham road from twelve till one o’clock.”
+
+Next day, at half-past twelve to the minute, Jane and her pony-carriage
+found themselves at the Snelsham toll-gate. There was Tom, sure enough,
+who got into the trap and took the reins. He turned presently into a
+byroad that led to nowhere in particular, and there earned the
+gratitude of Diamond by letting him lapse into a quiet walk which
+enabled him to take sly nibbles at the roadside grass as he crawled
+contentedly along.
+
+Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then Tom spoke. “Jane,” he
+said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her Christian
+name, “Jane, your father has forbidden me to make love to you.”
+
+It seemed as if Jane had nothing to say either for or against this
+statement. She only breathed a little more quickly, and a lovelier
+colour flushed her cheeks. But just then Diamond swerved towards a
+tempting tuft of grass. The carriage gave a slight jerk, and Tom
+fancied—but it might be nothing more than fancy—that, instinctively,
+Jane drew a little closer to him. And when Diamond had been punished by
+the slightest possible flick with the whip between his ears, and was
+again jogging peacefully on, Jane did not get farther away again,
+being, perhaps, still slightly nervous; and when Tom looked down there
+was a little gloved hand resting, light as a feather, on his arm. It
+was impossible to resist the temptation. Dispensing with the whip for a
+moment he lifted the little hand tenderly to his lips and kissed it. He
+was not repulsed.
+
+“Yes, dearest,” he went on, “I am absolutely forbidden to make love to
+you. I can only imagine that your aunt has been talking to your father
+about us. Be that as it may, he has forbidden me to walk out with you,
+or even to see you alone. The reason why I asked you to meet me to-day
+was to tell you of these things.”
+
+Still Jane kept silence. Only from the little hand, which had somehow
+found its way back on to his arm, there came the faintest possible
+pressure, hardly heavy enough to have crushed a butterfly.
+
+“I told him that I loved you,” resumed Tom, “and he could not say that
+it was a crime to do so. But when I told him that I had never made love
+to you, or asked you to marry me, he seemed inclined to doubt my
+veracity. However, I set his mind at rest by giving him my word of
+honour that, even supposing you were willing to have me—a point
+respecting which I had very strong doubts indeed—I would not take you
+for my wife without first obtaining his full consent to do so.”
+
+Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom’s tone that his
+thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one
+to steal a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace
+into a still slower one, till at last he came to a dead stand.
+Admonished by a crack of the whip half a yard above his head that Tom
+was still wide awake, he put on a tremendous spurt—for him—which, as
+they were going down hill at the time, was not difficult. But no sooner
+had they reached a level bit of road again than the spurt toned itself
+down to the customary slow trot, with, however, an extra whisk of the
+tail now and then which seemed to imply: “Mark well what a fiery steed
+I could be if I only chose to exert myself.”
+
+“All this but brings me to one point,” said Tom: “that I have never yet
+told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to become my
+wife. To-day, then—here this very moment, I tell you that I do love you
+as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love; and here I
+ask you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir.”
+
+“Dearest, you are not blind,” he went on. “You must have seen, you must
+have known, for a long time past, that my heart—my love—were wholly
+yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has been a hope, a
+blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for longer than
+I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to you before, but
+there were certain reasons for my silence which it is not necessary to
+dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them, I will explain to
+you another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you feel as if you
+could ever learn to love me, whether you can ever care for me enough to
+become my wife. Speak to me, darling—whisper the one little word I burn
+to hear. Lift your eyes to mine, and let me read there that which will
+make me happy for life.”
+
+Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone
+with the trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no one
+to overhear them save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be not
+listening a bit. For the second time he came to a stand-still, and this
+time his artfulness remained unreproved and unnoticed.
+
+Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried to
+see into their depths but could not. “You promised papa that you would
+not take me from him without his consent,” she said, speaking in little
+more than a whisper. “That consent you will never obtain.”
+
+“That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first.”
+
+He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her ears.
+She looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their eyes
+met.
+
+“You don’t know papa as well as I do—how obstinate he is—how full of
+whims and crotchets. No—no; I feel sure that he will never consent.”
+
+“And I feel equally sure that he will. I have no fear on that
+score—none. But I will put the question to you in another way, in the
+short business-like way that comes most naturally to a man like me.
+Jane, dearest, if I can persuade your father to give you to me, will
+you be so given? Will you come to me and be my own—my wife—for ever?”
+
+Still no answer. Only imperceptibly she crept a little closer to his
+side—a very little. He took that for his answer. First one arm went
+round her and then the other. He drew her to his heart, he drew her to
+his lips; he kissed her and called her his own. And she? Well, painful
+though it be to write it, she never reproved him in the least, but
+seemed content to sit there with her head resting on his shoulder, and
+to suffer Love’s sweet punishment of kisses in silence.
+
+It is on record that Diamond was the first to move.
+
+While standing there he had fallen into a snooze, and had dreamt that
+another pony had been put into his particular stall and was at that
+moment engaged in munching his particular truss of hay. Overcome by his
+feelings, he turned deliberately round, and started for home at a
+gentle trot. Thus disturbed, Tom and Jane came back to sublunary
+matters with a laugh, and a little confusion on Jane’s part. Tom drove
+her back as far as the toll-gate and then shook hands and left her.
+Jane reached home as one in a blissful dream.
+
+Three days later Tom received a note in the Squire’s own crabbed
+hand-writing, asking him to go up to Pincote as early as possible. He
+was evidently wanted for something out of the ordinary way. Wondering a
+little, he went. The Squire received him in high good humour and was
+not long in letting him know why he had sent for him.
+
+“I have had some fellows here from the railway company,” he said. “They
+want to buy Prior’s Croft.”
+
+Tom’s eyebrows went up a little. “I thought, sir, it would prove to be
+a profitable speculation by-and-by. Did they name any price?”
+
+“No, nothing was said as to price. They simply wanted to know whether I
+was willing to sell it.”
+
+“And you told them that you were?”
+
+“I told them that I would take time to think about it. I didn’t want to
+seem too eager, you know.”
+
+“That’s right, sir. Play with them a little before you finally hook
+them.”
+
+“From what they said they want to build a station on the Croft.”
+
+“Yes, a new passenger station, with plenty of siding accommodation.”
+
+“Ah! you know something about it, do you?”
+
+“I know this much, sir, that the proposal of the new company to run a
+fresh line into Duxley has put the old company on their mettle. In
+place of the dirty ram-shackle station with which we have all had to be
+content for so many years, they are going to give us a new station,
+handsome and commodious; and Prior’s Croft is the place named as the
+most probable site for the new terminus.”
+
+“Hang me, if I don’t believe you knew something of this all along!”
+said the Squire. “If not, how could you have raised that heavy mortgage
+for me?”
+
+There was a twinkle in Tom’s eyes but he said nothing. Mr. Culpepper
+might have been still further surprised had he known that the six
+thousand pounds was Tom’s own money, and that, although the mortgage
+was made out in another name, it was to Tom alone that he was indebted.
+
+“Have you made up your mind as to the price you intend to ask, sir?”
+
+“No, not yet. In fact, it was partly to consult you on that point that
+I sent for you.”
+
+“Somewhere about nine thousand pounds, sir, I should think, would be a
+fair price.”
+
+The Squire shook his head. “They will never give anything like so much
+as that.”
+
+“I think they will, sir, if the affair is judiciously managed. How can
+they refuse in the face of a mortgage for six thousand pounds?”
+
+“There’s something in that, certainly.”
+
+“Then there are the villas—yet unbuilt it is true—but the plans of
+which are already drawn, and the foundations of some of which are
+already laid. You will require to be liberally remunerated for your
+disappointment and outlay in respect of them.”
+
+“I see it all now. Splendid idea that of the villas.”
+
+“Considering the matter in all its bearings, nine thousand pounds may
+be regarded as a very moderate sum.”
+
+“I won’t ask a penny less.”
+
+“With it you will be able to clear off both the mortgage and the loan
+of two thousand, and will then have a thousand left for your expenses
+in connection with the villas.”
+
+The Squire rubbed his hands. “I wish all my speculations had turned out
+as successful as this one,” he said. “This one I owe to you, Bristow.
+You have done me a service that I can never forget.”
+
+Tom rose to go. “Mrs. McDermott quite well, sir?” he said, with the
+most innocent air in the world.
+
+“If the way she eats and drinks is anything to go by, she was never
+better in her life. But if you take her own account, she’s never well—a
+confirmed invalid she calls herself. I’ve no patience with the woman,
+though she is my sister. A day’s hard scrubbing at the wash-tub every
+week would do her a world of good. If she would only pack up her trunks
+and go, how thankful I should be!”
+
+“If you wish her to shorten her visit at Pincote, I think you might
+easily persuade her to do so.”
+
+“I’d give something to find out how. No, no, Bristow, you may depend
+that she’s a fixture here for three or four months to come. She
+knows—no woman alive better—when she’s in comfortable quarters.”
+
+“If I had your sanction to do so, sir, I think that I could induce her
+to hasten her departure from Pincote.”
+
+The Squire rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
+
+“You are a queer fellow, Bristow,” he said, “and you have done some
+strange things, but to induce my sister to leave Pincote before she’s
+ready to go will cap all that you’ve done yet.”
+
+“I cannot of course induce her to leave Pincote till she is willing to
+go, but after a little quiet talk with me, it is possible that she may
+be willing, and even anxious, to get away as quickly as possible.”
+
+The Squire shook his head. “You don’t know Fanny McDermott as well as I
+do,” he said.
+
+“Have I your permission to try the experiment?”
+
+“You have—and my devoutest wishes for your success. Only you must not
+compromise me in any way in the matter.”
+
+“You may safely trust me not to do that. But you must give me an
+invitation to come and stay with you at Pincote for a week.”
+
+“With all my heart.”
+
+“I shall devote myself very assiduously to Mrs. McDermott, so that you
+must not be surprised if we seem to be very great friends in the course
+of a couple of days.”
+
+“Do as you like, boy. I’ll take no notice. But she’s an old soldier, is
+Fan, and if for a single moment she suspects what you are after, she’ll
+nail her colours to the mast, defy us all, and stop here for six months
+longer.”
+
+“It is, of course, quite possible that I may fail,” said Tom, “but
+somehow I hardly think that I shall.”
+
+“We’ll have a glass of sherry together and drink to your success.
+By-the-by, have you contrived yet to purge your brain of that lovesick
+tomfoolery?”
+
+“If, sir, you intend that phrase to apply to my feelings with regard to
+Miss Culpepper, I can only say that they are totally unchanged.”
+
+“What an idiot you are in some things, Bristow!” said the Squire,
+crustily. “Remember this—I’ll have no lovemaking here next week.”
+
+“You need have no fear on that score, sir.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.
+
+
+Tom and his portmanteau reached Pincote together a day or two after his
+last conversation with the Squire. Mrs. McDermott understood that Tom
+had been invited to spend a week there in order to assist her brother
+with his books and farm accounts. It seemed to her a very injudicious
+thing to do, but she did not say much about it. In truth, she was
+rather pleased than otherwise to have Tom there. It was dreadfully
+monotonous to have to spend one evening after another with no company
+save that of her brother and Jane. She was tired of her audience, and
+her audience were tired of her. Mr. Bristow, as she knew already, could
+talk well, was lively company, and, above all things; was an excellent
+listener. She had done her duty by her brother in warning him of what
+was going on between Mr. Bristow and her niece; if, after that, the
+Squire chose to let the two young people come together, it was not her
+place to dispute his right to do so.
+
+Tom was very attentive to her at dinner that day. Of Jane he took no
+notice beyond what the occasion absolutely demanded. Mrs. McDermott was
+agreeably surprised. “He has come to his senses at last, as I thought
+he would,” she said to herself. “Grown tired of Jane’s society, and no
+wonder. There’s nothing in her.”
+
+As soon as the cloth was removed, Jane excused herself on the score of
+a headache, and left the room. The Squire got into an easy-chair and
+settled himself down for a post-prandial nap. Tom moved his chair a
+little nearer that of the widow.
+
+“I have grieved to see you looking so far from well, Mrs. McDermott,”
+he said, as he poured himself out another glass of wine. “My father was
+a doctor, and I suppose I caught the habit from him of reading the
+signs of health or sickness in people’s faces.”
+
+Mrs. McDermott was visibly discomposed. She was a great coward with
+regard to her health, and Tom knew it.
+
+“Yes,” she said, “I have not been well for some time past. But I was
+not aware that the traces of my indisposition were so plainly visible
+to others.”
+
+“They are visible to me because, as I tell you, I am half a doctor both
+by birth and bringing up. You seem to me, Mrs. McDermott, pardon me for
+saying so—to have been fading—to have been going backward, as it were,
+almost from the day of your arrival at Pincote.”
+
+Mrs. McDermott coughed and moved uneasily on her chair. “I have been a
+confirmed invalid for years,” she said, querulously, “and yet no one
+will believe me when, I tell them so.”
+
+“I can very readily believe it,” said Tom, gravely. Then he lapsed into
+an ominous silence.
+
+“I—I did not know that I was looking any worse now than when I first
+came to Pincote,” she said at last.
+
+“You seem to me to be much older-looking, much more careworn, with
+lines making their appearance round your eyes and mouth, such as I
+never noticed before. So, at least, it strikes me, but I may be, and I
+dare say I am, quite wrong.”
+
+The widow seemed at a loss what to say. Tom’s words had evidently
+rendered her very uneasy. “Then what would you advise me to do?” she
+said, after a time. “If you can detect the disease so readily, you
+should have no difficulty in specifying the remedy.”
+
+“Ah, now I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth,” said Tom, with a
+smile. “I am little more than a theorizer, you know; but I should have
+no hesitation in saying that your disorder is connected with the mind.”
+
+“Gracious me, Mr. Bristow!”
+
+“Yes, Mrs. McDermott, my opinion is that you are suffering from an
+undue development of brain power.”
+
+The widow looked puzzled. “I was always considered rather
+intellectual,” she said, with a glance at her brother. But the Squire
+still slept.
+
+“You are very intellectual, madam; and that is just where the evil
+lies.”
+
+“Excuse me, but I fail to follow you.”
+
+“You are gifted with a very large and a very powerful brain,” said Tom,
+with the utmost gravity. The Squire snorted suddenly in his sleep. The
+widow held up a warning finger. There was silence in the room till the
+Squire’s gentle long-drawn snores announced that he was again happily
+fast asleep.
+
+“Very few of us are so specially gifted,” resumed Tom. “But every
+special gift necessitates a special obligation in return. You, with
+your massive brain, must find that brain plenty of work to do—a
+sufficiency of congenial employment—otherwise it will inevitably turn
+upon itself, grow morbid and hypochondriacal, and slowly but surely
+deteriorate, till it ends by becoming—what I hardly like to say.”
+
+“Really, Mr. Bristow, this conversation is to me most interesting,”
+said the widow. “Your views are thoroughly original, but, at the same
+time, I feel that they are perfectly correct.”
+
+“The sphere of your intellectual activity is far too narrow and
+confined,” resumed Tom; “your brain has not sufficient pabulum to keep
+it in a state of healthy activity. You want to mix more with the
+world—to mix more with clever people like yourself. It was never
+intended by nature that you should lose yourself among the narrow
+coteries of provincial life: the metropolis claims you: the world at
+large claims you. A conversationalist so brilliant, so incisive, with
+such an exhaustless fund of new ideas, can only hope to find her equals
+among the best circles of London or Parisian society.”
+
+“How thoroughly you appreciate me, Mr. Bristow!” said the widow, all in
+a flutter of gratified vanity, as she edged her chair still closer to
+Tom. “It is as you say. I feel that I am lost here—that I am altogether
+out of my element. I stay here more as a matter of duty—of
+principle—than of anything else. Not that it is any gratification to
+me, as you may well imagine, to be buried alive in this dull hole. But
+my brother is getting old and infirm—breaking fast, I’m afraid, poor
+man,” here the Squire gave a louder snore than common; “while Jane is
+little more than a foolish girl. They both need the guidance of a kind
+but firm hand. The interests of both demand a clear brain to look after
+them.”
+
+“My dear madam, I agree with you in toto. Your Spartan views with
+regard to the duties of everyday life are mine exactly. But we must not
+forget that we have still another duty—that of carefully preserving our
+health, especially when our lives are invaluable to the epoch in which
+we live. You, my dear madam, are killing yourself by inches.”
+
+“Oh, Mr. Bristow, not quite so bad as that, I hope!”
+
+“What I say, I say advisedly. I think that, without difficulty, I can
+specify a few symptoms of the cerebral disorder to which you are a
+victim. You will bear me out if what I say is correct.”
+
+“Yes, yes; please go on.”
+
+“You are a sufferer from sleeplessness to a certain extent. The body
+would fain rest, being tired and worn out, but the active brain will
+not allow it to do so. Am I right, Mrs. McDermott?”
+
+“I cannot dispute the accuracy of what you say.”
+
+“Your nature being large and eminently sympathetic, but not finding
+sufficient vent for itself in the narrow circle to which it is
+condemned, busies itself, for lack of other aliment, with the concerns
+and daily doings of those around it, giving them the benefit of its
+vast experience and intuitive good sense; but being met sometimes with
+coldness instead of sympathy, it collapses, falls back upon itself, and
+becomes morbid for want of proper intellectual companionship. May I
+hope that you follow me?”
+
+“Yes—yes, perfectly,” said the widow, but looking somewhat mystified,
+notwithstanding.
+
+“The brain thus thrown back upon itself engenders an irritability of
+the nerves, which is altogether abnormal. Fits of peevishness, of
+ill-temper, of causeless fault-finding, gradually supervene, till at
+length all natural amiability of disposition vanishes entirely, and
+there is nothing left but a wretched hypochondriac, a misery to himself
+and all around him.”
+
+“Gracious me! Mr. Bristow, what a picture! But I hope you do not put me
+down as a misery to myself and all around me.”
+
+“Far from it—very far from it—my dear Mrs. McDermott. You are only in
+the premonitory stage at present. Let us hope that in your case, the
+later stages will not follow.”
+
+“I hope not, with all my heart.”
+
+“Of course, you have not yet been troubled with hearing voices?”
+
+“Hearing voices! Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bristow?”
+
+“One of the worst symptoms of the cerebral disorder, from the earlier
+stages of which you are now suffering, is that the patient hears
+voices—or fancies that he hears them, which is pretty much the same
+thing. Sometimes they are strange voices; sometimes they are the voices
+of relatives, or friends, no longer among the living. In short, to
+state the case as briefly as possible, the patient is haunted.”
+
+“I declare, Mr. Bristow, that you quite frighten me!”
+
+“But there are no such symptoms as these about you at present, Mrs.
+McDermott. The moment you have the least experience of them—should such
+a misfortune ever overtake you—then take my advice, and seek the only
+remedy that can be of any real benefit to you.”
+
+“And what may that be?”
+
+“Immediate change of scene—a change total and complete. Go abroad. Go
+to Italy; go to Egypt; go to Africa;—in short to any place where the
+change is a radical one. But I hope that in your case, such a necessity
+will never arise.”
+
+“All this is most deeply interesting to me, Mr. Bristow, but at the
+same time it makes me very nervous. The very thought of being haunted
+in the way you mention is enough to keep me from sleeping for a week.”
+
+At this moment Jane came into the room, and a few minutes later the
+Squire awoke. Tom had said all that he wanted to say, and he gave Mrs.
+McDermott no further opportunity for private conversation with him.
+
+Next day, too, Tom carefully avoided the widow. His object was to
+afford her ample time to think over what he had said. That day the
+vicar and his wife dined at Pincote, and Tom became immersed in local
+politics with the Squire and the Parson. Mrs. McDermott was anxious and
+uneasy. That evening she talked less than she had ever been known to do
+before.
+
+The rule at Pincote was to keep early hours. It was not much past ten
+o’clock when Mrs. McDermott left the drawing-room, and having obtained
+her bed candle, set out on her journey to her own room. Half way up the
+staircase stood Mr. Bristow. The night being warm and balmy for the
+time of year, the staircase window was still half open, and Tom stood
+there, gazing out into the moonlit garden. Mrs. McDermott stopped, and
+said a few gracious words to him. She would have liked to resume the
+conversation of the previous evening, but that was evidently neither
+the time nor the place to do so; so she said good-night, shook hands,
+and went on her way, leaving Tom still standing by the window. Higher
+up, close to the head of the stairs, stood a very large, old-fashioned
+case clock. As she was passing it Mrs. McDermott held up her candle to
+see the time. It was nearly twenty minutes past ten. But at the very
+moment of her noting this fact, there came three distinct taps from the
+inside of the case, and next instant from the same place came the sound
+of a hollow, ghost-like voice. “Fanny—Fanny—list! I want to speak to
+you,” said the voice, in slow, solemn tones. But Mrs. McDermott did not
+wait to hear more. She screamed, dropped her candle, and staggered back
+against the opposite wall. Tom was by her side in a moment.
+
+“My dear Mrs. McDermott, whatever is the matter?” he said.
+
+“The voice! did you not hear the voice!” she gasped.
+
+“What voice? whose voice?” said Tom, with an arm round her waist.
+
+“A voice which spoke to me out of the clock!” she said, with a shiver.
+
+“Out of the clock?” said Tom. “We can soon see whether anybody’s hidden
+there.” Speaking thus, he withdrew his arm, and flung open the door of
+the clock. Enough light came from the lamp on the stairs to show that
+the old case was empty of everything, save the weights, chains, and
+pendulum of the clock.
+
+“Wherever else the voice may have come from, it is plain that it
+couldn’t come from here,” said Tom, as he proceeded to relight the
+widow’s candle.
+
+“It came from there, I’m quite certain. There were three distinct raps
+from the inside as well.”
+
+“Is it not possible that it may have been a mere hallucination on your
+part? You have not been well, you know, for some time past.”
+
+“Whatever it may have been, it was very terrible,” said Mrs. McDermott,
+drawing her skirts round her with a shudder. “I have not forgotten what
+you told me yesterday.”
+
+“Allow me to accompany you as far as your room door,” said Tom.
+
+“Thanks. I shall feel obliged by your doing so. You will say nothing of
+all this downstairs?”
+
+“I should not think of doing so.”
+
+The following day Mr. Bristow was not at luncheon. There were one or
+two inquiries, but no one seemed to know exactly what had become of
+him. It was Mrs. McDermott’s usual practice to retire to the library
+for an hour after luncheon—which room she generally had all to herself
+at such times—for the ostensible purpose of reading the newspapers,
+but, it may be, quite as much for the sake of a quiet sleep in the huge
+leathern chair that stood by the library fire. On going there as usual
+after luncheon to-day, what was the widow’s surprise to find Mr.
+Bristow sitting there fast asleep, with the “Times” at his feet where
+it had dropped from his relaxed fingers.
+
+She stepped up to him on tiptoe and looked closely at him. “Rather
+nice-looking,” she said to herself. “Shall I disturb him, or not?”
+
+Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on the
+table a little distance away. The temptation was too much for her.
+Still on tiptoe, she crossed to the table in order to examine them. But
+hardly had she stooped over the table when the same hollow voice that
+had sounded in her ears the previous night spoke to her again, and
+froze her to the spot where she was standing. “Fanny McDermott, you
+must get away from this house,” said the voice. “If you stop here you
+will be a dead woman in three months!”
+
+She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her trembling
+lips did at last falter out the words: “Who are you?”
+
+The answer came. “I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time.”
+
+Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to
+look round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep. She
+managed to reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence made
+the best of her way to her own room.
+
+Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one
+broad smile. “She’s going at last,” he said. “Off to-morrow like a
+shot. Just told me.”
+
+“Then, with your permission, I won’t dine with you this evening. I
+don’t want to see her again.”
+
+“But how on earth have you managed it?” asked the Squire.
+
+“By means of a little simple ventriloquism—nothing more. But I see her
+coming this way. I’m off.” And off he went, leaving the Squire staring
+after him in open-mouthed astonishment.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+DIRTY JACK.
+
+
+There was one thing that puzzled both General St. George and Lionel
+Dering, and that was the persistent way in which Kester St. George
+stayed on at Park Newton. It had, in the first place, been a matter of
+some difficulty to get him to Park Newton at all, and for some time
+after his arrival it had been evident to all concerned that he had made
+up his mind that his stay there should be as brief as possible. But
+after that never-to-be-forgotten night when the noise of ghostly
+footsteps was heard in the nailed-up room—a circumstance which both his
+uncle and his cousin had made up their minds would drive him from the
+house for ever—he ceased to talk much about going away. Week passed
+after week and still he stayed on. Nor could his uncle, had he been
+desirous of doing so, which he certainly was not, have hinted to him,
+even in the most delicate possible way, that his room would be more
+welcome than his company, after the pressure which he had put upon him
+only a short time previously to induce him to remain.
+
+Nothing could have suited Lionel’s plans better than that his cousin
+should continue to live on at Park Newton, but he was certainly puzzled
+to know what his reason could be for so doing; and, in such a case, to
+be puzzled was, to a certain extent, to be disquieted.
+
+But much as he would have liked to do so, Kester had a very good reason
+for not leaving Park Newton at present. He was, in fact, afraid to do
+so. After the affair of the footsteps he had decided that it would not
+be advisable to go away for a little while. It would never do for
+people to say that he had been driven away by the ghost of Percy
+Osmond. It was while thus lingering on from day to day that he had
+ridden over to see Mother Mim. One result of his interview was that he
+felt how utterly unsafe it would be for him to quit the neighbourhood
+till she was safely dead and buried. She might send for him at any
+moment, she might have other things to speak to him about which it
+behoved him to hear. She might change her mind at the last moment, and
+decide to tell to some other person what she had already told him; and
+when she should die, it would doubtless be to him that application
+would be made to bury her. All things considered, it was certainly
+unadvisable that he should leave Park Newton yet awhile.
+
+Day after day he waited with smothered impatience for some further
+tidings of Mother Mim. But day after day he waited in vain. Most men,
+under such circumstances, would have gone to the place and have made
+personal inquiries for themselves. This was precisely what Kester St.
+George told himself that he ought to do, but for all that he did not do
+it. He shrank, with a repugnance which he could not overcome, from the
+thought of any further contact with either Mother Mim or her
+surroundings. His tastes, if not refined, were fastidious, and a
+shudder of disgust ran through him as often as he remembered that if
+what Mother Mim had said were true—and there was something that rang
+terribly like truth in her words—then was she—that wretched
+creature—his mother, and the filthy hut in which she lay dying his sole
+home and heritage. He knew that for the sake of his own interest—of his
+own safety—he ought to go and see again this woman who called herself
+his mother, but three weeks had come and gone before he could screw his
+courage up to the pitch requisite to induce him to do so.
+
+But before this came about, Kester St. George had been left for the
+time being, with the exception of certain servants, the sole occupant
+of Park Newton. Lionel Dering had gone down to Bath to seek an
+interview with Pierre Janvard, with what result has been already seen.
+Two days after Lionel’s departure, General St. George was called away
+by the sudden illness of an old Indian friend to whom he was most
+warmly attached. He left home expecting to be back in four or five days
+at the latest; whereas, as it fell out, he did not reach home again for
+several weeks.
+
+It was one day when thus left alone, and when the solitude was becoming
+utterly intolerable to him, that Kester made up his mind that he would
+no longer be a coward, but would go that very afternoon and see for
+himself whether Mother Mim were alive or dead. But even after he had
+thus determined that there should be no more delay on his part, he
+played fast and loose with himself as to whether he should go or not.
+Had there come to him any important letter or telegram demanding his
+presence fifty miles away, he would have caught at it as a drowning man
+catches at a straw. The veriest excuse would have sufficed for the
+putting off of his journey for at least one day. But the dull hours
+wore themselves away without relief or change of any kind for him, and
+when three o’clock came, having first dosed himself heavily with
+brandy, he rang the bell and ordered his horse to be brought round.
+
+What might not the next few hours bring to him? he asked himself as he
+rode down the avenue. They might perchance be pregnant with doom. Or
+death might already have lifted this last bitter burden from his life
+by sealing with his bony fingers the only lips that had power to do him
+harm.
+
+For nearly a fortnight past the weather had been remarkably mild,
+balmy, and open for the time of year. Everybody said how easily old
+winter was dying. But during the previous night there had come a bitter
+change. The wind had suddenly veered round to the north-east, and was
+still blowing steadily from that quarter. Steadily and bitterly it
+blew, chilling the hearts of man and beast with its icy breath,
+stopping the growth of grass and flowers, killing every faintest gleam
+of sunshine, and bringing back the reign of winter in its cruellest
+form.
+
+Heavy and lowering looked the sky, shrilly through the still bare
+branches whistled the ice-cold wind, as Kester St. George, deep in
+thought, rode slowly through the park. He buttoned his coat more
+closely around him, and pulled his hat more firmly over his brows as he
+turned out of the lodge gates, and setting his face full to the wind,
+urged his horse into a gallop, and was quickly lost to view down the
+winding road.
+
+It would not have taken him long to reach the edge of Burley Moor had
+not his horse suddenly fallen lame. For the last two miles of the
+distance his pace was reduced to a slow walk. This so annoyed Kester
+that he decided to leave his horse at a roadside tavern in the last
+hamlet he had to pass through, and to traverse the remainder of the
+distance on foot. A short three miles across the moor would take him to
+Mother Mim’s cottage.
+
+To a man such as Kester a three miles’ walk was a rather formidable
+undertaking—or, at least, it was an uncommon one. But there was no
+avoiding it on the present occasion, unless he gave up the object of
+his journey and went back home. But he could by no means bear the
+thought of doing that. In proportion with the hesitation and reluctance
+which he had previously shown, to ascertain either the best or the
+worst of the affair, was the anxiety which now possessed him to reach
+his journey’s end. His imagination pictured all kinds of possible and
+impossible evils as likely to accrue to him, and he cursed himself
+again and again for his negligence in not making the journey long ago.
+
+Very bleak and cold was that walk across the desolate, lonely moor, but
+Kester St. George, buried in his own thoughts, hardly felt or heeded
+anything of it. All the sky was clouded and overcast, but far away to
+the north a still darker bank of cloud was creeping slowly up from the
+horizon.
+
+The wind blew in hollow fitful gusts. Any one learned in such lore
+would have said that a change of weather was imminent.
+
+When about half-way across the moor he halted for a moment to gather
+breath. On every side of him spread the dull treeless expanse. Nowhere
+was there another human being to be seen. He was utterly alone. “If a
+man crossing here were suddenly stricken with death,” he muttered to
+himself, “what a place this would be to die in! His body might lie here
+for days—for weeks even—before it was found.”
+
+At length Mother Mim’s cottage was reached. Everything about it looked
+precisely the same as when he had seen it last. It seemed only like a
+few hours since he had left it. There, too, crouched on the low wall
+outside, with her skirt drawn over her head, was Mother Mim’s
+grand-daughter, the girl with the black glittering eyes, looking as if
+she had never stirred from the spot since he was last there. She made
+no movement or sign of recognition when he walked up to her, but her
+eyes were full of a cold keen criticism of him, far beyond her age and
+appearance.
+
+“How is your grandmother?” said Kester, abruptly. He did not like being
+stared at as she stared at him.
+
+“She’s dead.”
+
+“Dead!” It was no more than he expected to hear, and yet he could not
+hear it altogether unmoved.
+
+“Ay, as dead as a door nail. And a good job too. It was time she went.”
+
+“How long has she been dead?” asked Kester, ignoring the latter part of
+the girl’s speech.
+
+“Just half an hour.”
+
+Another surprise for Kester. He had expected to hear that she had been
+dead several days—a week perhaps. But only half an hour!
+
+“Who was with her when she died?” he asked, after a minute’s pause.
+
+“Me and Dirty Jack.”
+
+“Dirty Jack! who is he?”
+
+“Why Dirty Jack. Everybody knows him. He lives in Duxley, and has a
+wooden leg, and does writings for folk.”
+
+“Does writings for folk!” A shiver ran through Kester. “And has he been
+doing anything for your grandmother?”
+
+“That he has. A lot.”
+
+“A lot—about what?”
+
+“About you.”
+
+“About me? Why about me?”
+
+“Oh, you never came near. Nobody never came near. Granny got tired of
+it. ‘I’ll have my revenge,’ said she. So she sent for Dirty Jack, and
+he took it all down in writing.”
+
+“Took it all down in writing about me?” She nodded her head in the
+affirmative. “If you know so much, no doubt you know what it was that
+he took down—eh?”
+
+“Oh, I know right enough.”
+
+“Why not tell me?”
+
+“I know all about it, but I ain’t a-going to split.”
+
+Further persuasion on Kester’s part had no other effect than to induce
+the girl to assert in still more emphatic terms that “she wasn’t
+a-going to split.”
+
+Evidently nothing more was to be got from her. But she had said enough
+already to confirm his worst fears. Mother Mim, out of spite for the
+neglect with which he had treated her, had made a confession at the
+last moment, similar in purport to what she had told him when last
+there. Such a confession—if not absolutely dangerous to him—she having
+assured him that none of the witnesses were now living—might be made a
+source of infinite annoyance to him. Such a story, once made public,
+might bring forth witnesses and evidence from twenty hitherto
+unsuspected quarters, and fetter him round, link by link, with a chain
+of evidence from which he might find it impossible to extricate
+himself. At every sacrifice, Mother Mim’s confession must be destroyed
+or suppressed. Such were some of the thoughts that passed through
+Kester’s mind as he stood there biting his nails. Again and again he
+cursed himself in that he had allowed any such confession to emanate
+from the dead woman, whose silence a little extra kindness on his part
+would have effectually secured.
+
+“And where is this Dirty Jack, as you call him?” he said, at last.
+
+“He’s in there”—indicating the hut with a jerk of her head—“fast
+asleep.”
+
+“Fast asleep in the same room with your grandmother?”
+
+“Why not? He had a bottle of whiskey with him which he kept sucking at.
+At last he got half screwy, and when all was over he said he would have
+a snooze by the fire and pull himself together a bit before going
+home.”
+
+Kester said no more, but going up to the hut, opened the door and went
+in. On the pallet at the farther end lay the dead woman, her body
+faintly outlined through the sheet that had been drawn over her. A
+clear fire was burning in the broken grate, and close to it, on the
+only chair in the place, sat a man fast asleep. His hands were grimy,
+his linen was yellow, his hair was frowsy. He was a big bulky man, with
+a coarse, hard face, and was dressed in faded threadbare black. He had
+a wooden leg, which just now was thrust out towards the fire, and
+seemed as if it were basking in the comfortable blaze.
+
+On the chimney-piece was an empty spirit-bottle, and in a corner near
+at hand were deposited a broad-brimmed hat, greasy and much the worse
+for wear, and a formidable looking walking-stick.
+
+Such was the vision of loveliness that met the gaze of Kester St.
+George as he paused for a moment or two just inside the cottage door.
+Then he coughed and advanced a step or two. As he did so the man
+suddenly opened his eyes, got up quickly but awkwardly out of his
+chair, and laid his hand on something that was hidden in an inner
+pocket of his coat. “No, you don’t!” he cried, with a wave of his hand.
+“No, you don’t! None of your hanky-panky tricks here. They won’t go
+down with Jack Skeggs, so you needn’t try ’em on!”
+
+Kester stared at him in unconcealed disgust. It was evident that he was
+still under the partial influence of what he had been drinking.
+
+“Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?” asked Kester, sternly.
+
+“I am John Skeggs, Esquire, attorney-at-law, at your service. And who
+may you be, when you’re at home? But there—I know who you are well
+enough. You are Mr. Kester St. George, of Park Newton. I have seen you
+before. I saw you on the day of the murder trial. You were one of the
+witnesses, and white enough you looked. Anybody who had a good look at
+you in the box that day would never be likely to forget your face
+again.”
+
+Kester turned aside for a moment to hide the sudden nervous twitching
+of his lips.
+
+“I’m sorry the whiskey is done,” said Mr. Skeggs with a regretful look
+at the empty bottle. “I should like you and I to have had a drain
+together. I suppose you don’t do anything in this line?” From one
+pocket he produced an old clasp knife, and from the other a cake of
+leaf tobacco. Then he cut himself a plug and put it into his mouth.
+“When one friend fails me, then I fall back upon another,” he said.
+“When I can’t get whiskey I must have tobacco.”
+
+There was no better known character in Duxley than Mr. Skeggs. “Dirty
+Jack,” or “Drunken Jack,” were the sobriquets by which he was generally
+known, and neither of those terms was applied to him without good and
+sufficient reason. There could be no doubt as to the man’s shrewdness,
+ability, and knowledge of common law. He was a great favourite among
+the lower and the very lowest classes of Duxley society, who in their
+legal difficulties never thought of employing any other lawyer than
+Skeggs, the universal belief being that if anybody could pull them
+through, either by hook or crook, Dirty Jack was that man. And it is
+quite possible that Mr. Skeggs’s clients were not far wrong in their
+belief.
+
+“No good stopping here any longer,” said Skeggs, when he had put back
+his knife and tobacco into his pocket.
+
+“No, I suppose not,” said Kester.
+
+“I suppose you will see that everything is done right and proper by our
+poor dear departed?”
+
+“Yes, I suppose there is no one to look to but me. She was my
+foster-mother, and very kind to me when I was a lad.”
+
+“His foster-mother! Listen to that! His foster-mother! ha! ha!”
+sniggered Dirty Jack. Then laying a finger on one side his nose, and
+leering up at Kester with horrible familiarity, he added: “We know all
+about that little affair, Mr. St. George, and a very pretty romance it
+is.”
+
+“Look you here, Mr. Skeggs, or whatever your dirty name may be,” said
+Kester, sternly, “I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head or
+it may be worse for you. I’ve thrashed bigger men than you in my time.
+Be careful, or I shall thrash you.”
+
+“I like your pluck, on my soul I do!” said Skeggs, heartily. “If you’re
+not genuine silver—and you know you ain’t—you’re a deuced good
+imitation of the real thing. Thoroughly well plated, that’s what you
+are. Any one would take you to be a born gentleman, they would really.
+Which way are you going back?”
+
+Kester hesitated a moment. Should he quarrel with this man and set him
+at defiance, or should he not? Could he afford to quarrel with him?
+that was the question. Perhaps it would be as well to keep from doing
+so as long as possible.
+
+“I’m going to walk back across the moor as far as Sedgeley,” said
+Kester.
+
+“Then I’ll walk with you—though three miles is rather a big stretch to
+do with my game leg. I can get a gig from there that will take me
+home.”
+
+Kester shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment. Skeggs took up his
+hat and stick, and proceeded to polish the former article with his
+sleeve.
+
+“Queer woman that,” he said, with a jerk of his thumb towards the
+bed—“very queer. Hard as nails. With something heroic about her, to my
+mind—something that, under different circumstances, might have
+developed her into a remarkable woman. Well, that’s the way with heaps
+of us. Circumstances are dead against us, and we are not strong enough
+to overmaster them; else should we smite the world with surprise, and
+genius would not be so scarce an article in the market as it is now.”
+
+Kester stared. Was this the half-drunken blackguard who had been
+jeering at him but two minutes ago? “And yet, drunk he must be,” added
+Kester to himself. “No fellow in his senses would talk such precious
+rot.”
+
+“Your obedient servant, sir,” said Skeggs, with a purposely exaggerated
+bow as he held open the door for Mr. St. George to pass out.
+
+The girl was still sitting on the wall with her skirt drawn over her
+head. Kester went up to her. “I will send some one along first thing
+to-morrow morning to see to the funeral and other matters,” he said,
+“if you can manage till then.”
+
+“Oh, I can manage right enough. Why not?” said the girl.
+
+“I thought that perhaps you might not care to be in the house by
+yourself all night.”
+
+“Oh, I don’t mind that.”
+
+“Then you are not afraid?”
+
+“What’s there to be frittened of? She’s quiet enough now. I shall make
+up a jolly fire, and have a jolly supper, and then a jolly long sleep.
+And that’s what I’ve not had for weeks. And I shall read the Dream
+Book. She can’t keep that from me now. I know where it is. It’s in the
+bed right under her. But I’ll have it.” She laughed and nodded her
+head, then putting a nut into her mouth she cracked it and began to
+pick out the kernel. Kester turned away.
+
+“Nell, my good girl,” said Mr. Skeggs, insinuatingly, “just see whether
+there isn’t such a thing as a drop of whiskey somewhere about the
+house. I’ve an awful pain in my chest.”
+
+“There’s no whiskey—not a drop—but I know where there’s half a bottle
+of gin. Give me five shillings and I’ll fetch it.”
+
+“Five shillings for half a bottle of gin! Why, Nell, what a greedy
+young pig you must be!”
+
+“Don’t have it then. Nobody axed you. I can drink it myself.”
+
+“I’ll give you three shillings for it. Come now.”
+
+“Not a meg less than five will I take,” said Nell, emphatically, as she
+cracked another nut.
+
+“Why, you young viper, have you no conscience at all?” he cried
+savagely. Then seeing that Nell took no further notice of him, he
+turned to Kester. “I find that I have no loose silver about me,” he
+said. “Oblige me with the loan of a couple of half-crowns till we get
+to Sedgeley.” Whenever Mr. Skeggs made a new acquaintance he always
+requested the loan of a couple of half-crowns before parting from him.
+But the half-crowns were never paid back until asked for, and asked for
+more than once.
+
+A few premonitory flakes of snow were darkening the air as Kester St.
+George and Mr. Skeggs started on their way back across Burley Moor, the
+latter with a thick comforter round his neck and the bottle of gin
+stowed carefully away in the tail pocket of his coat. The cold seemed
+more intense than ever, but the wind had fallen altogether.
+
+“We are going to have a rough night,” said Skeggs as he stepped
+sturdily out. “We must contrive to get across the moor before the snow
+comes down very thick, or we shall stand a good chance of losing our
+way. Only the winter before last a pedlar and his wife were lost in the
+snow within a mile of here, and their bodies not found for a fortnight.
+This sudden change will play the devil with the young crops.”
+
+Kester did not answer. Far different matters occupied his thoughts. In
+silence they walked on for a little while.
+
+“I suppose you could give a pretty good guess,” said Skeggs at length,
+“at my reasons for asking you which way you were going to walk this
+afternoon?”
+
+“Indeed, no,” said Kester with a shrug. “I have not the remotest idea,
+nor do I care to know. It was you who chose to accompany me. I did not
+thrust my company upon you.”
+
+Skeggs laughed a little maliciously. “I don’t think there’s much good,
+Mr. Kester St. George, in you and I beating about the bush. I’m a plain
+man of business, and that reminds me,”—interrupting himself with a
+chuckle—“that when I once used those very words to a client of mine, he
+retorted by saying, ‘You are more than a plain man of business, Mr.
+Skeggs, you are an ugly one.’ I did my very utmost for that man, but he
+was hanged. Mais revenons. I am a plain man of business, and I intend
+to deal with this question in a business-like way. The simple point is:
+What is it worth your while to give me for the document I have buttoned
+up here?” tapping his chest with his left hand as he spoke.
+
+“I am at a loss to know to what document you refer,” said Mr. St.
+George, coldly.
+
+“A very few words will tell you the contents of it, though, if I am
+rightly informed, you can give a pretty good guess already as to what
+they are likely to be. In this document it is asserted that you, sir,
+have no right to the name by which the world has known you for so long
+a time—that you have no right to the position you occupy, to the
+property you claim as yours. That you are, in fact, none other than the
+son of Mother Mim herself—of the woman who lies dead in yonder hut.”
+
+Kester drew in his breath with something like a sigh. It was as he had
+feared. Mother Mim had told everything, and, of all people in the
+world, to the wretch now walking by his side. He braced his nerves for
+the coming encounter. “I have heard something before to-day of the
+rigmarole of which you speak,” he said, haughtily; “but I need hardly
+tell you that the affair is nothing but a tissue of vilest lies from
+beginning to end.”
+
+“I dare say it is,” said Skeggs, good humouredly. “But it may be rather
+difficult for you to prove that it is so.”
+
+“It will be still more difficult for you to prove that it is not so.”
+
+“Oh! I am quite aware of all the difficulties both for and against—no
+man more so. You have got possession, and a hundred other points in
+your favour. Still, with what evidence I have already, and with what
+evidence I can get elsewhere, I shall be able to make out a strong
+case—a very strong case against you in a court of justice.”
+
+“Evidence elsewhere!” said Kester, disdainfully. “There is no such
+thing, unless you are clever enough to make the dead speak.”
+
+“Even that has been done before now,” said Skeggs quietly. “But in this
+case we have no need to go to the churchyard to collect our evidence. I
+have a living, breathing witness whom I can lay my hands on at a day’s
+notice.”
+
+“You lie,” said Kester, emphatically.
+
+“I’ll wash that down,” said Skeggs, halting for a moment and proceeding
+to take a good pull at his bottle of gin. “If you so far forget
+yourself again, I shall begin to feel sure that you are not a St.
+George. What I told you was not a lie. There were four witnesses who
+had all a personal knowledge of a certain fact. Three of those
+witnesses are dead: the fourth still lives. Of the existence of this
+fourth witness Mother Mim never even hinted to you. It was her trump
+card, and she was far too cunning to let you see it.”
+
+Kester walked on in silence. He felt that just then he had hardly a
+word to say. Was all that he had sacrificed so much for in other ways,
+all that he had run such tremendous risks for, to be torn from him by
+the machinations of a vile old hag, and the drunken, ribald scoundrel
+by his side? Through what strange ambushes, through what dusky
+by-paths, doth Fate oft-times overtake us! We look back along the broad
+highway we have been traversing, and seeing no black shadow dogging our
+footsteps, we go rejoicing on our way; when suddenly, from some
+near-at-hand shrub, is shot a poisoned arrow, and the sunlight fades
+from our eyes for ever.
+
+“And now, after this little skirmish,” said Skeggs, “we come back to my
+first question: What can you afford to give me for the document in my
+pocket?”
+
+“Suppose I say that I will give you nothing—what then?” said Kester,
+sullenly.
+
+“Then I shall get my evidence together, work out my case on paper, and
+submit it to the heir-at-law.”
+
+“And supposing the heir-at-law, acting under advice, were to decline
+having anything to do with your case, as you call it?”
+
+“He would be a fool to do that, because my case is anything but a weak
+one. I tell you this in confidence. But supposing he were to decline,
+then I should say to him: ‘I am willing to conduct this case on my own
+account. If I fail, it shall not cost you a penny. If I succeed, you
+shall pay all expenses, and give me five thousand pounds.’ That would
+fetch him, I think.”
+
+“You have been assuming all along,” said Kester, “that your case is
+based on fact. I assure you again that it is not—that it is nothing but
+a devilish lie from beginning to end.”
+
+“Really, my dear sir, that has little or nothing to do with the matter.
+I dare say it is a lie. But it is my place to believe it to be the
+truth, and to make other people believe the same as I do. Here’s your
+very good health, sir.” Again Mr. Skeggs took a long pull and a strong
+pull at his bottle of gin.
+
+“Knowing what you know,” said Kester, “and believing what you believe,
+are you yet willing to sell the document now in your possession?”
+
+“Of course I am. What else is all this jaw for?”
+
+“And don’t you think you are a pretty sort of scoundrel to make me any
+such offer? Don’t you think——”
+
+“Now look you here, Mr. St. George—if that is your name, which I very
+much doubt—don’t let you and me begin to fling mud at one another,
+because that is a game at which I could lick you into fits. I have made
+you a fair offer. If we can’t come to terms, there’s no reason why we
+shouldn’t part friendly.”
+
+Once again Kester walked on in silence. The snow had been coming down
+more thickly for some time past, and already the dull gray moor began
+to look strange and unfamiliar, but neither of the two men gave more
+than a passing thought to the weather.
+
+“If you feel and know your case to be such a strong one,” said Kester,
+at last, “why do you come to me at all? Why send a white flag into your
+enemy’s camp? Why not fight him à l’outrance at once?”
+
+“Because I’m neither so young nor so pugnacious as I once was,”
+answered Skeggs. “I go in for peace and quiet nowadays. I don’t want
+the bother and annoyance of a law-suit. I have no ill-feeling towards
+you, and if you will only make me a fair offer, I shall be the last man
+in the world to disturb you in any way. Gemini! how the snow comes
+down! We are only about half way yet. We shall have some difficulty in
+picking our road across.”
+
+“I myself am as anxious as you can be, Mr. Skeggs, to be saved the
+trouble and annoyance of a law-suit, however sure I may feel that the
+result would be in my favour. But you must give me a little time to
+think this matter over. It is far too important to be decided at a
+moment’s notice.”
+
+“Time? To be sure. You can make up your mind in about a couple of days,
+I suppose. Shall I call upon you, or will you call upon me?”
+
+Hardly were the words out of Mr. Skeggs’s mouth when his wooden leg
+sunk suddenly into a hidden hole in the pathway. Thrown forward by the
+shock, the lawyer came heavily to the ground, and at the same moment
+his leg snapped short off just below the knee.
+
+Kester took him by the shoulders and assisted him to assume a sitting
+posture on the footpath.
+
+Mr. Skeggs’s first action was to pick up his broken limb and look at it
+with a sort of comical despair. “There goes a friend that has done me
+good service,” he said; “but he might have lasted till he got me home,
+for all that. How the deuce am I to get home?” he asked, turning
+abruptly to Kester.
+
+Kester paused for a minute and looked round before answering. The snow
+was coming down faster than ever. The moor was being gradually turned
+into a huge white carpet. Already its zig-zag paths and winding
+footways were barely distinguishable from the treacherous bog which lay
+on every side of them. In an hour and a half it would be dark with a
+darkness that would be unrelieved by either moon or stars. If it kept
+on snowing all night at this rate the drift would be a couple of feet
+deep by morning. Skeggs’s casual remark about the pedlar and his wife,
+unheeded at the time, now flashed vividly across Kester’s mind.
+
+“You will have to wait here till I can get assistance,” he said, in
+answer to his companion’s question. “There is no help for it.”
+
+“I suppose not,” growled Skeggs. “Was ever anything so cursedly
+unfortunate?”
+
+“Sedgeley is the nearest place to this,” said Kester. “There are plenty
+of men there who know the moor thoroughly. I will send half a dozen of
+them to your help.”
+
+“How soon may I expect them here?”
+
+“In about three-quarters of an hour from now.”
+
+“Ugh! I’m half frozen already. What shall I be in another hour?”
+
+“Oh, you’ll pull through that easily enough. Your bottle is not empty
+yet.”
+
+“Jove! I’d forgotten the bottle,” said Skeggs, with animation.
+
+He took it out of his pocket, and held it up to the light. “Not more
+than a quartern left. Well, that’s better than none at all.”
+
+“Goodbye,” said Kester, as he shook some of the snow off his hat. “You
+may look for help in less than an hour.”
+
+“Goodbye, Mr. St. George,” said Skeggs, looking very earnestly at him
+as he did so.
+
+“You won’t forget to send the help, will you? because if you do forget,
+it will be nothing more nor less than wilful murder.”
+
+Kester laughed a short grating laugh. “Fear nothing, Skeggs,” he said.
+“I won’t forget. About that other trifle, I will write you in two or
+three days. Again goodbye.”
+
+Skeggs’s face had turned very white. He could not speak. He took off
+his hat and waved it. Kester responded by a wave of his hand. Then
+turning on his heel he strode away through the snowy twilight. In three
+minutes he was lost to sight. Skeggs could no longer see him. Tears
+came into his eyes. “He’ll send no help, not he. I shall die here like
+a dog. The snow will be my winding-sheet. If ever there was mischief in
+a man’s eye, there was in his, as he bade me goodbye.”
+
+Onward strode Kester St. George through the blinding snow. Altogether
+heedless of the weather was he just now. He had other things to think
+about. As instinctively as an Indian or a backwoodsman tracks his way
+across prairie or forest did he track his way across the moor, all
+hidden though the paths now were. He was a child of the moor. He had
+learned its secrets when a boy, and in his present emergency, reason
+and intellect must perforce give way to that blind instinct which was
+left him as a legacy of his youth.
+
+At length the last patch of moorland was crossed, and a few minutes
+later he found himself close by a well-remembered finger-post, where
+three roads met. One of these roads led to Sedgeley, which was but a
+short quarter of a mile away; another of them led to Duxley and Park
+Newton. At Sedgeley his horse was waiting for him. There, too, was to
+be had the help which he had so faithfully promised Skeggs that he
+would send. Leaning against the finger-post, he took a minute’s rest
+before going any farther. Which road should he take? That was the
+question which at present he was turning over and over in his mind. Not
+long did he hesitate. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he made a
+wisp of it, and tied it round his throat. Then he turned up the collar
+of his coat. Then once again he shook the snow off his hat. Then
+plunging his hands deep in his pockets, and turning his back on the
+finger-post, he set out resolutely along the road that led towards Park
+Newton. Once, and once only did he pause, even for a moment, before
+reaching home. It was when he fancied that he heard, away in the far
+distance, a low, wild, melancholy cry—whether the cry of an animal or a
+man he could not tell—but none the less a cry for help. Whatever it
+was, it did not come again, and after that Kester pursued his way
+homeward steadily and without pause. It was quite dark long before he
+reached his own room.
+
+He changed his clothes and went down to dinner. Both his uncle and
+Richard Dering were away, and he dined alone, for which he was by no
+means sorry. Every half-hour or so he inquired as to the weather. They
+had nothing to tell him except that it was still snowing hard. The
+evening was one of slow torture, but at length it wore itself away. He
+went to bed about midnight. Dobbs’s last report to him was that the
+weather was still unchanged. But several times during the night Dobbs
+heard his master pacing up and down his room, and had he been there he
+might, ever and again, have seen a haggard face peering out with eager
+eyes into the darkness.
+
+“Twelve inches of snow, sir, on the drive,” was Dobbs’s first news next
+morning. “They say there has not been a fall like it in these parts for
+a dozen years.”
+
+The snow had ceased to fall hours before. By-and-by there came a few
+gleams of sunshine to brighten the scene, but the wind was still in the
+north, and all that day the weather kept bitterly cold. Soon after
+sunset, however, there was a change. Little by little the wind got
+round to the south-west. At ten o’clock Dobbs reported: “Snow going
+fast, sir. Regular thaw. Not be a bit left by breakfast-time.”
+
+“Call me at four,” said his master, “and have some coffee ready, and a
+horse brought round by four thirty.”
+
+He was quite tired out by this time, and when he went to bed he felt
+sure that he should have four or five hours’ sound sleep. But his sleep
+was several times disturbed by a strange dream: always the same thing
+repeated over and over again. He dreamt that he was standing under the
+finger-post on the edge of the moor. But the finger-post was neither
+more nor less than a gigantic skeleton, of which the outstretched arms
+formed the direction boards. On the bony palm of one outstretched arm,
+in letters of blood, was written the words: “To Sedgeley.” Then as he
+read the words in his dream, again would sound in his ears the low,
+weird, melancholy cry which had arrested his steps for a moment as he
+walked home through the snow, and hearing the cry he would start up in
+bed and stare round him, and wonder for a moment where he was.
+
+Dobbs duly called his master at four, and at four thirty he mounted his
+horse and rode away. The roads were heavy and sloppy with the melting
+snow. The morning was intensely dark, but Kester knew the country
+thoroughly, and was never at a loss as to which turn he ought to take.
+Not one human being did he meet during the whole of his ride. But,
+indeed, his nearest friend would have passed him by in the dark without
+recognition. He wore an old shooting suit, with a Glengarry bonnet and
+a macintosh, and had a thick shawl wrapped round his throat and the
+lower part of his face.
+
+Day was just breaking as he reached the edge of the moor. He tethered
+his horse to the stump of an old tree behind a hedge. He had brought a
+powerful field-glass in his pocket. He scanned the moor carefully
+through it before proceeding farther on his quest. No living being was
+in sight anywhere. Satisfied of this, he set out without further delay,
+leaving his horse by itself to await his return. Not without a
+tremor—not without a faster beating of the heart—did he again set foot
+on the moor. A drizzling rain now began to fall, but Kester was not
+sorry for this. The worse the weather, the fewer the people who would
+be abroad in it. Onward he strode, keeping a wary eye about him as he
+went.
+
+At length he reached a curve in the path from whence he ought to be
+able to discern the bulky form of John Skeggs, Esq., if that gentleman
+was still where he had last seen him. He looked, but the morning was
+still heavy and dark: he could see nothing. Then he adjusted his glass,
+and looking through that he could just make out a heap—a bundle—a
+shapeless something. It required a powerful effort on his part to brace
+his nerves to the pitch requisite to carry him through the task he had
+still before him. He had filled a small flask with brandy, and he now
+drank some of it. Then he started again. A few minutes more and the end
+of his journey was reached.
+
+There lay Skeggs, on the very spot where he had left him, resting on
+his side, with one hand under his head, as if asleep. His hat had
+fallen off. On the ground near him were the empty bottle, his
+walking-stick, and his broken wooden leg. Numbed by the intense cold,
+he had fallen asleep while waiting for the help which was never to
+come, and had so died, frozen to death. Doubtless his death had been a
+painless one, but none the less, as he himself would have said, was
+Kester St. George his murderer.
+
+Gloved though he was, it was not without a feeling of indescribable
+loathing that Kester could bring himself to touch the body. But it was
+absolutely necessary to do so. The paper he had come in quest of was in
+the breast pocket of the dead man’s coat. It did not take him long to
+find it. Having made sure that he had got the right document, he
+fastened it up in the breast pocket of his own coat. “Now I am safe!”
+he said to himself. Then he took off his gloves and buried them
+carefully under a large stone. Then with one last glance at the body,
+he slunk hurriedly away, cursing in his heart the daylight that was now
+creeping up so rapidly from the east. In the clear light of dawn the
+foul deed he had done looked a thousand times fouler than it had looked
+before.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+WHAT TO DO NEXT?
+
+
+Not to every one among the children of men is given the power, the
+faculty, to act as comforter to others. To listen to another’s sorrow,
+to be told the history of another’s trouble, is one thing: to be able
+to give back comfort is another. That delicate intuitive sympathy with
+another’s woe which draws away the sting even while listening to it,
+which makes that woe its own property as it were, which sheds balm
+round the sufferer in every word and look and touch: this is surely as
+much a special gift as the gift of song or the poet’s fine phrenzy, and
+without it the world would be a much poorer place than it is.
+
+This rare gift of sympathy was possessed by Edith Dering in a
+pre-eminent degree. She was at once emotional and sympathetic. To
+Lionel in his dire trouble she was a comforter in the truest sense of
+the word. It was she who preserved his mental balance—the equipoise of
+his mind. But for her sweet offices he would have become a monomaniac
+or a misanthrope of the bitterest kind. Naturally she had him with her
+as much as possible, but still his home was of necessity at Park
+Newton. To the world he was simply Richard Dering, the unmarried nephew
+of General St. George. It would not do for him to be seen going to Fern
+Cottage sufficiently often to excite either scandal or suspicion. He
+could only visit there as the intimate friend of Mrs. Garside and her
+niece. Sometimes he took his uncle with him, sometimes Tom, in order to
+divert suspicion. For him to enter the garden gate of Fern Cottage was
+to cross the threshold of his earthly paradise. Edith and he had been
+married in the depth of a great trouble—troubles and danger had beset
+the path of their wedded life ever since. Owing, perhaps, to that very
+cause week by week, and month by month, their love seemed only to grow
+in depth and intensity. As yet it had lost nothing of its pristine
+charm and freshness. The gold-dust of romance lingered about it still.
+They were man and wife, they had been man and wife for months, but to
+the world at large they seemed nothing more than ordinary friends.
+
+But all Edith’s care and watchful love could not lift her husband,
+except by fits and starts, out of those moods of gloom and depression
+which seemed to be settling more closely down upon him day by day. As
+link after link was added to the chain of evidence, each one tending to
+incriminate his cousin still more deeply, his moods seemed to grow
+darker and more difficult of removal. With his cousin Lionel associated
+no more than was absolutely necessary. They rarely met each other till
+dinner-time, and then they met with nothing more than a simple “How do
+you do?” and in conversation they never got beyond some half-dozen of
+the barest commonplaces. Lionel always left the table as soon as the
+cloth was drawn.
+
+On Kester’s side there was no love lost. That dark, stern-faced cousin
+was a perpetual menace to him, and he hated him accordingly. He hated
+him for his likeness to his dead and gone brother. He hated him because
+of the look in his eyes—so coldly scrutinizing, so searching, so
+immovable. He hated him because it was a look that he could in nowise
+give back. Try as he might, he could not face Lionel’s steady gaze.
+
+For some two or three weeks after his return from Bath with Janvard’s
+written confession, Lionel was perfectly quiescent. He took no further
+action whatever. He was, indeed, debating in his own mind what further
+action it behoved him to take. There was no need to seek for any
+further evidence, if, indeed, any more would have been forthcoming. All
+that he wanted he had now got; it was simply a question as to what use
+he should make of it. Day and night that was the question which
+presented itself before his mind: what use should he make of the
+knowledge in his possession? His mind was divided this way and that;
+day passed after day, and still he could by no means decide as to the
+course which it would be best for him to adopt. Of all this he said not
+a word to Edith: he could not have borne to discuss the question even
+with her; but it is possible that she surmised something of it. She
+knew that she had only to wait and everything would be told her.
+Perhaps to Bristow, who knew all the details of the case as well as he
+did, he might have said something as to the difficulty by which he was
+beset, but as it happened, Tom was not at home just then. Much of his
+time was spent by Lionel in long solitary walks far and wide through
+the country. He could think better when he was walking than when
+sitting quietly at home, he used to say; and, indeed, the country folk
+who encountered him often turned to look at him, as he stalked along,
+with his eyes set straight before him, gazing on vacancy, and with lips
+that moved rapidly as he whispered to himself of his dreadful secret.
+
+But, little by little, the need of counsel, of sympathy, grew more
+strongly upon him. He was still as much at a loss as ever as to the
+step which he ought to take next.
+
+“They shall decide for me,” he said at last; “I will put myself into
+their hands: by their verdict I will abide.”
+
+General St. George at this time was away from Park Newton. As has been
+already stated, he had been summoned to the sick-bed of a very old and
+valued friend. The illness was a long and tedious one, and at the
+request of his friend the General stayed on and kept him company. Truth
+to tell, he was by no means sorry to get away from Park Newton for
+awhile. Of late his position there had been anything but a pleasant
+one. The silent, deadly feud between his two nephews troubled him not a
+little. If Kester would only have gone away, then, so far, all would
+have been well. But having pressed him so earnestly to visit Park
+Newton, he could not, with any show of conscience, ask him to go till
+he was ready to do so of his own accord. Knowing what he knew, that
+Kester was all but proved to have been the murderer of Percy Osmond, he
+might well not care to live under the same roof with him, hiding his
+feelings under a mask, and, while pretending to know nothing, to be in
+reality cognisant of the whole dreadful story. Knowing what he knew,
+that Richard was none other than Lionel, and knowing the quest on which
+he was engaged, and that, sooner or later, the climax must come, he
+might well wish to be away from Park Newton when that most wretched day
+should dawn—a day which would prove the innocence of one nephew at the
+price of the other’s guilt. Therefore did General St. George accept his
+old friend’s invitation to stay with him for an indefinite length of
+time—till, in fact, Kester should have left Park Newton, or till the
+tangled knot of events should, in some other way, have unravelled
+itself.
+
+When, at length, Lionel had decided that he would take the advice of
+his friends as to what his future course should be, he was obliged to
+await Tom Bristow’s return before it was possible to do anything. Then,
+when Tom did get back home, the General had to be written to. When he
+understood what he was wanted for, he agreed to come on certain
+conditions. He was to come to Fern Cottage, spend one night there, and
+go back to his friend’s house next day. No one, except those assembled
+at the cottage, was to know anything of his journey. Above all, it was
+to be kept a profound secret from Kester St George.
+
+Thus it fell out that on a certain April evening there were assembled,
+in the parlour of the cottage, Edith, Mrs. Garside, General St. George,
+Tom Bristow, and Lionel. It was a very serious occasion, and they all
+felt it to be such.
+
+The General would sit close to Edith, whom he had not seen for a little
+while; and several times during the evening he took possession of one
+of her hands, and patted it affectionately between his own withered
+palms.
+
+“You are not looking quite so well, my dear, as when I saw you last,”
+had been his first words after kissing her. Her cheeks were, indeed,
+just beginning to look in the slightest degree hollow and worn, nor did
+her eyes look quite so bright as of old. The wonder was, considering
+all that she had gone through during the last twelve months, that she
+looked as fair and fresh as she did. Of Mrs. Garside, whom we have not
+seen for some little time, it may be said that she looked plumper and
+more matronly than ever. But then nothing could have kept Mrs. Garside
+from looking plump and matronly. She was one of those people off whom
+the troubles and anxieties of life slip as easily as water slips off a
+duck’s back. Although she had a copious supply of tears at command,
+nothing ever troubled her deeply or for long, simply because there was
+no depth to be troubled. She was always cheerful, because she was
+shallow; and she was always kind-hearted so long as her kindness of
+heart did not involve any self-sacrifice on her part. “What a very
+pleasant person Mrs. Garside is,” was the general verdict of society.
+And so she was—very pleasant. If her father had been hanged on a Monday
+for sheepstealing, by Tuesday she would have been as pleasant and
+cheerful as ever.
+
+But we must not be unjust to Mrs. Garside. She had one affection, and
+one only, her love for Edith. During all the days of Edith’s
+tribulation, her aunt had never deserted her—had not even thought of
+deserting her; and now, for Edith’s sake, she had buried herself alive
+in Fern Cottage, where her only excitement was a little mild shopping,
+now and then, in Duxley High Street, under the incognito of a thick
+veil, or a welcome visit once and again from Miss Culpepper. Under
+these depressing circumstances, it ought perhaps to be put down to the
+credit of Mrs. Garside, rather than to her discredit, that her
+cheerfulness was not one whit abated, and that her face was a picture
+of health and content.
+
+“I think you know why I have asked you to meet me here to-night,” began
+Lionel. “I want your advice: I want you to tell me what step I must
+take next. You know what the purpose of my life has been ever since the
+night I escaped from prison. You know how persistently I have pursued
+that purpose—that I have allowed nothing to deter me or turn me aside
+from it. The result is that there has grown under my hands a fatal
+array of evidence, all tending to implicate one man—all pointing with
+deadly accuracy to one person, and to one only, as the murderer of
+Percy Osmond. I have but to open my mouth, and the four walls of a
+prison would shut him round as fast as ever they shut round me; I have
+but to speak of half I know and that man would have to take his trial
+for Wilful Murder even as I took mine. But shall I do this thing? That
+is the question that I want you to help me to answer. So long as the
+chain of evidence remained incomplete, so long as certain links were
+wanting to it, I felt that my task was unfinished. But at last I have
+all that I need. There is nothing more to search for. My task, so far,
+is at an end. Knowing, then, what I know, and with such proofs in my
+possession, am I to stop here? Am I to rest content with what I have
+done, and go no step farther? Or am I to go through with it to the
+bitter end? What that end would involve you know as well as I could
+tell you.”
+
+He ceased, and for a little while they all sat in silence. General St.
+George was the first to speak. “Lionel knows, and you all know, that
+from the very first he has had my heartfelt sympathy in this unhappy
+business. He has not had my sympathy only, he has had my help, although
+I have seen for a long time the point to which we were all tending, and
+the terrible consequences that must necessarily ensue. Me those
+consequences affect with peculiar force. One nephew can only be saved
+at the expense of the irretrievable ruin and disgrace of the other. It
+is not as though we had been searching in the dark, and had there found
+the bloodstained hand of a stranger. The hand we have so grasped is
+that of one of our own kin—one of ourselves. And that makes the
+dreadful part of the affair. Still, I would not have you misunderstand
+me. I am as closely bound to Lionel—my sympathy and help are his as
+much to-day as ever they were, and should he choose to go through with
+this business in the same way as he would go through with it in the
+case of an utter stranger, I shall be the last man in the world to
+blame him. More: I will march with him side by side, whatever be the
+goal to which his steps may lead him. Such unparalleled wrongs as his
+demand unparalleled reparation. For all that, however, it is still a
+most serious question whether there is not a possibility of effecting
+some kind of a compromise: whether there is not somewhere a door of
+escape open by means of which we may avert a catastrophe almost too
+terrible even to bear thinking about.”
+
+“What is your opinion, Bristow?” said Lionel, turning to Tom. “What say
+you, my friend of friends?”
+
+“I have a certain diffidence in offering any opinion,” said Tom,
+“simply on account of the relationship of the two persons chiefly
+involved. To tell the world all that you know, would, undoubtedly,
+bring about a family catastrophe of a most painful nature. It therefore
+seems to me that the members of that family, and they alone, should be
+empowered to offer an opinion on a question so delicate as the one now
+under consideration.”
+
+“Not so,” said Lionel, emphatically. “No one could have a better right,
+or even so great a right, to offer an opinion as you. But for you, I
+should not have been here to-night to ask for that opinion.”
+
+“Nor I here but for you,” interrupted Tom.
+
+“I will put my question to you in a different form,” said Lionel; “and
+so put to you, I shall expect you to answer it in your usual clear and
+straightforward way. Bristow, if you were circumstanced exactly as I am
+now circumstanced, what would you do in my place?”
+
+“I would go through with the task I had taken in hand, let the
+consequences be what they might,” said Tom, without a moment’s
+hesitation. “Nothing should hold me back. I would clear my own name and
+my own fame, and let punishment fall where punishment is due. You are
+still young, Dering, and a fair career and a happy future may still be
+yours if you like to claim them.”
+
+Tom’s words were very emphatic, and for a little while no one spoke.
+“We have yet to hear what Edith has to say,” said the General. “Her
+interests in the matter are second only to those of Lionel.”
+
+“Yes, it is my wife’s turn to speak next,” said Lionel.
+
+“What my opinion is, you know well, dearest, and have known for a long
+time.”
+
+“My uncle and Bristow would like to hear it from your own lips.”
+
+“Uncle,” began Edith, with a little blush, “whatever Lionel may
+ultimately decide to do will doubtless be for the best. The last wish I
+have in the world is to lead him or guide him in any way in opposition
+to his own convictions. But I have thought this: that it would be very
+terrible indeed to have to take part in a second tragedy—a tragedy
+that, in some of its features, would be far more dreadful than that
+first one, which none of us can ever forget. No one can know better
+than I know how grievously my husband has been sinned against. But
+nothing can altogether undo the wrong that has been done. Would it make
+my husband a happy man if, instead of being the accused, he should
+become the accuser? Let us for a few moments try to imagine that this
+second tragedy has been worked out in all its frightful consequences.
+That my husband has told everything. That he who is guilty has been
+duly punished. That Lionel’s fair fame has been re-established, and
+that he and I are living at Park Newton as if nothing had ever happened
+to disturb the commonplace tenor of our lives. In such a case, would my
+husband be a happy man? No. I know him too well to believe it possible
+that he could ever be happy or contented. The image of that man—one of
+his own kith and kin, we must remember—would be for ever in his mind.
+He would be the prey of a remorse all the more bitter in that the world
+would hold him as without blame. But would he so hold himself? I think
+not—I am sure not. He would feel as if he had sought for and accepted
+the price of blood.” Overcome by her emotion, she ceased.
+
+“I think in a great measure as you think, my dear,” said the General.
+“What course do you propose that your husband should adopt?”
+
+“It is not for me to propose anything,” answered Edith. “I can only
+suggest certain views of the question, and leave it for you and Lionel
+to adopt them or reject them, as may seem best to you.”
+
+“Holding the proofs of his innocence in his hands as he does,” said the
+General, “is it your wish that Lionel should sit down contented with
+what he has already achieved, and knowing that the real facts of his
+story are in the keeping of you and me, and two or three trusted
+friends, rest satisfied with that and ask for nothing more?”
+
+“No, I hardly go so far as that,” said Edith, with a faint smile. “I
+think that the man who committed the crime should know that Lionel
+still lives, and that he holds in his hands the proof at once of his
+own innocence and of the other’s guilt. Beyond that I say this: The
+world believes my husband to be dead: rather than re-open so terrible a
+wound, let the world continue so to believe. My husband and I can do
+without the world, as well as it can do without us. We have our mutual
+love, which nothing can deprive us of: against that the shafts of
+Fortune beat as vainly as hailstones against a castle wall. On this
+earth of ours are places sweet and fair without number. In one of
+them—not altogether dissevered from those ties of friendship which have
+already made our married life so beautiful—my husband and I could build
+up a new home, with no sad memories of the past to cling around it; and
+when this haunting shadow that now broods over his life shall have been
+brushed away for ever, then I think—I know—I feel sure that I can make
+him happy!” Her voice, her eyes, her whole manner were imbued with a
+sweet fervour that it was impossible to resist.
+
+Lionel crossed over and kissed her. “My darling!” he said. “But for
+your love and care I should long ago have been a madman.”
+
+“You, my dear, have put into words,” said the General, “the very ideas
+that for a long time have been floating about, half formed, in my own
+mind. Lionel, what have you to say to your wife’s suggestions?”
+
+“Only this: that I have made up my mind to follow them. _He_ shall know
+that I am alive, and that I hold the proofs of his guilt, ready to
+produce them at a moment’s notice, should I ever be compelled to do so.
+Beyond that, I will leave him in peace—to such peace as his own
+conscience will give him. The world believes Lionel Dering to be dead
+and buried. Dead and buried he shall still remain, and ‘requiescat in
+pace’ be written under his name.”
+
+The General got up with tears in his eyes and shook Lionel warmly by
+the hand. “Good boy! good boy! You will not go without your reward,”
+was all that he could say.
+
+“The eighth of May will soon be here,” said Lionel—“the anniversary of
+poor Osmond’s murder. On that day he shall be told. But I shall tell
+him in my own fashion. On that day, uncle, you must promise to give me
+your company; and you yours, Tom. After that I shall trouble you no
+more.”
+
+If Tom Bristow dissented from the conclusion thus come to, he said no
+word to that effect. There was one point, however, that struck his
+practical mind as having been altogether overlooked; and as soon as
+Edith and Mrs. Garside had left the room he did not fail to mention it.
+
+“What about the income of eleven thousand a year?” he said. “You are
+surely not going to let the whole of that slip through your fingers?”
+
+“Ah, by-the-by, that point never struck me,” said the General. “No, it
+would be decidedly unjust both to yourself and your wife, Lionel, to
+give up the income as well as the position.”
+
+“Now you are importing a mercenary tone into the affair that is utterly
+distasteful to me. It looks as if I were being bribed to keep silence.”
+
+“That is sheer nonsense,” said the General. “You have but to hold out
+your hand to take the whole.”
+
+Lionel said no more, but went and sat down dejectedly on the sofa.
+
+“You and I must settle this matter between us,” said the General to
+Tom. “It is most important. It shall be my place to see that whatever
+is agreed upon shall be duly carried out in the arrangement between the
+two men. I should think that if the income were divided it would be
+about as fair a thing as could be done. What say you?”
+
+“I agree with you entirely,” said Tom. “The other one will have the
+name and position to keep up, and that can’t be done for nothing.”
+
+“Then it shall be so settled.”
+
+“There is one other point that I think ought to be settled at the same
+time. Who is to have Park Newton after _his_ death? Lionel may have
+children. _He_ may marry and have children. But, in common justice, the
+estate ought to be secured on Dering’s eldest child, whether the
+present possessor die with or without an heir.”
+
+“Certainly, certainly. Good gracious me! a most valuable suggestion.
+Strange, now, that it never struck me. Yes, yes: Lionel’s eldest child
+must have the estate. I will see that there is no possible mistake on
+that score.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.
+
+
+After Mrs. McDermott’s departure from Pincote, life there slipped back
+into its old quiet groove—into its old dull groove which was growing
+duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company:
+when any of his old friends called he was never at home to them; and on
+the score of ill health he declined every invitation that was sent to
+him. But it was not altogether on account of his health that these
+invitations were declined, because three or four times a week he would
+be seen somewhere about the country roads being driven out by Jane in
+the basket-carriage. There was another reason for this state of
+things—a reason to which his friends and neighbours were not slow in
+giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser: that is
+what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a miser
+was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his
+daughter’s sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more
+ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme
+of domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous
+chapter, and the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to
+many people, seem miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality
+for which Pincote had heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he
+could not go much into society without giving return invitations. Now
+the four or five state dinners which he had been in the habit of giving
+every year were very elaborate and expensive affairs, and he no longer
+felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of spending so many
+pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom he cared
+little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount, trifling
+though it might seem, to that other trifling amount—only some few
+hundreds of pounds when all was told—which he had already managed to
+scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he should be gone
+from her side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be her home? “If I
+had only died a year ago,” he would sometimes say to himself, “then
+Jenny would have had a handsome fortune to call her own. Now she’s next
+door to being a pauper.”
+
+Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank—not to Sugden’s
+Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County—and he gloated over
+every five pounds added to the fund invested in his daughter’s name as
+something more added to the nest-egg; and to be able to put away fifty
+pounds in a lump now afforded him far more genuine delight than the
+putting away of a thousand would have done six months previously.
+
+There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father
+respecting the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the
+Squire himself first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more
+anxious than he was that the topic should never be broached between
+them again. She guessed in part what his object might be when he began
+to cut down the house expenses at Pincote discharging some half dozen
+of his people; raising his farm rents where it was possible to do so;
+letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the park as
+pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his
+famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of
+his kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She guessed,
+but that was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his reasons
+for so doing, and she made no inquiry. The sphere of his enjoyment had
+now become a very limited one. If it gave him pleasure—and she could
+not doubt that it did—to live penuriously so as to be enabled to put
+away a few extra pounds per annum, she would not mar the edge of that
+pleasure by seeming even to notice what was going on, much less make
+any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on his part, had many a good
+chuckle in the solitude of his own room. “After I’m gone, she’ll know
+what it all means,” he would say to himself. “She’s puzzled now—they
+are all puzzled. They call me a miser, do they? Let ’em call me what
+they like. Another twenty put away to-day. That makes——” and out would
+come his passbook and his spectacles.
+
+The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went into
+society compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his example.
+There were two or three houses to which, if she chose, she could still
+go without its being thought strange that there was no return
+invitation to Pincote; and there were two or three old school friends
+whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her own little room without
+their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay to dinner. But
+of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw little or
+nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she was far too
+deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.
+
+Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father’s
+no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by
+no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott’s warning words, nor Tom’s frank
+confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of
+his intention to encourage Tom’s visits to Pincote after the widow’s
+abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next
+day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his
+appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been
+French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom’s health in a
+bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when they
+parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front door,
+shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a sort of
+half intimation that some considerable time would probably elapse
+before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote again. In
+the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his sister, the
+Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home of an evening
+with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been content and
+happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so thinking he had
+overlooked one very important point. The Titus Culpepper of six months
+ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do gentleman, satisfied with himself
+and all the world, in tolerable health, and excited by the prospect of
+making a magnificent fortune without trouble or anxiety. The Titus
+Culpepper of to-day was a broken-down gambler—a gambler who had madly
+speculated with his daughter’s fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down,
+too, was he in health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of
+all, a man who no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own
+thoughts, and who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour
+at a time. Of this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected
+nothing: how few of us do know of such changes! Other people may
+change—nay, do we not see them changing daily around us, and smile
+good-naturedly as we note how querulous and hard to please poor Jones
+has become of late? But that we—we—should so change, becoming a burden
+to ourselves and a trial to those around us, with our queer,
+cross-grained ways, our peevish, variable tempers, and our general
+belief that the sun shines less brightly, and that the world is less
+beautiful than it was a little while ago—that is altogether impossible.
+The change is always in others, never in our immaculate selves.
+
+The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men’s company to
+that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all æsthetic. He liked
+to talk about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets; to talk
+a little about imperial politics—chiefly confined to blackguarding “the
+other side of the House”—and a great deal about local politics. He had
+been in the habit of talking by the hour together about paving, and
+lighting, and sewage, and the state of the highways: all useful matters
+without a doubt, but hardly topics calculated to interest a lady.
+Though he liked to have Jane play to him now and then—but never for
+more than ten minutes at any one time—he always designated it as
+“tinkling;” and as often as not, when he asked her to sing, he would
+say, “Now, Jenny, lass, give us a squall.” But for all this, in former
+times Jane and he had got on very well together on the occasions when
+they had been without company at Pincote. He was moving about a good
+deal in the world at that time, mixing with various people, talking to
+and being talked to by different friends and acquaintances, and was at
+no loss for subjects to talk about, even though those subjects might
+not be particularly interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a
+capital listener, and could always give him a good commonplace answer,
+and that was all he craved—that and three-fourths of the talk to
+himself.
+
+Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but given
+up going into society, by which means he at once dried up the source
+from which he had been in the habit of obtaining his conversational
+ideas. When he came to dine alone with Jane he found himself with
+nothing to talk about. Under such circumstances there was nothing left
+for him but grumbling. But even grumbling becomes tiresome after a
+time, especially when the person to whom such complainings are
+addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you, and is incapable
+of being grumbled at herself.
+
+It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to
+Jane, “We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to see
+him about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner. So you
+had better drop him a line.”
+
+The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was
+too stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man’s
+lively company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next
+morning happened to be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself as
+she noted how anxious her father was lest the rain should keep Tom from
+coming. Jane knew that neither rain nor anything else would keep him
+away. “Papa is almost as anxious to see him as I am,” she said to
+herself. “He thought that he could live without him: he now begins to
+find out his mistake.”
+
+Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a hearty
+greeting, and took him into the study before he had an opportunity of
+seeing Jane. “I’ve heard nothing more from those railway people about
+the Croft,” he said. “Penfold was here yesterday and wanted to know
+whether he was to go on with the villas—all the foundations are now in,
+you know. I hardly knew what instructions to give him.”
+
+“If you were to ask me, sir,” said Tom, “I should certainly say, let
+him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to
+know that the company must have the Croft—that they cannot possibly do
+without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to go
+to them and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to
+come to you; which, in a transaction of this nature, makes all the
+difference.”
+
+“I don’t think you are far wrong in your views,” said Mr. Culpepper.
+“I’ll turn over in my mind what you’ve said.” Which meant that the
+Squire would certainly adopt Tom’s advice.
+
+“No lovemaking, you know, Bristow,” whispered the old man, with a dig
+in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.
+
+“You may trust me, sir,” said Tom.
+
+“I’m not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty
+girl is in question.”
+
+Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old man
+his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources in
+that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully
+introduced topics sufficed. The Squire’s own long-winded remarks,
+unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made
+a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready
+with his “I quite agree with you, sir;” or his “Just so, sir;” or his
+“Those are my sentiments exactly, sir.” To be able to talk for half an
+hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that
+interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly enjoyed.
+
+After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by
+himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the
+drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the
+dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though he
+might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of that
+illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly cautioned.
+
+As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into
+the drawing-room, and whispered, “None of your tomfoolery, remember.”
+Five minutes later he was fast asleep.
+
+They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so
+they fell back upon chess. “There’s to be no lovemaking, you know,
+Jenny,” whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.
+
+“None, whatever,” whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the head,
+and a demure smile.
+
+A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for
+any further conversation, except about the incidents of the game,
+which, truth to tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of
+studying the board, as a chess-player ought to do, Jane found her eyes,
+quite unconsciously to herself, studying the face of her opponent,
+while Tom’s hand, wandering purposelessly about the board, frequently
+found itself taking hold of Jane’s hand instead of a knight or a pawn;
+so that when at last the game did contrive to work itself out to an
+ineffective conclusion, they could hardly have said with certainty
+which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire woke up, smiling
+and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each other, and
+there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of chess. If he
+were content, they had no reason to be otherwise.
+
+After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as
+often as the latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of
+himself the old man’s heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when
+it so happened that business took Tom away from home for two or three
+days, then the Squire grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane’s tact
+and good temper were needed to make life at all endurable. She tried
+her best to persuade him to invite some of his old friends to come and
+see him, or go himself and call up on some of them, but in vain.
+Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would he have. He looked upon
+himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to economize in every
+possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a sensible
+fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony, or be at
+any extra expense—a man who was content with a chop and a rice pudding,
+and a glass of St. Julien. “He doesn’t come here for what he gets to
+eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine. He finds that he
+can learn a good many things from me, and he’s not above learning.”
+
+All this time the works at Knockley Holt were being pushed busily
+forward, much to the bewilderment and aggravation of the good people of
+Duxley. They were aggravated, and they considered they had a right to
+be aggravated, because they could not understand, and had not been
+told, what it was that was intended to be done there. In a small town
+like Duxley, no inhabitant has a right to put before his
+fellow-citizens a problem which they find incapable of solution, and
+then when asked to solve it for them decline to do so. Such conduct
+merits the severest social reprehension.
+
+Surely next to the madness of building a row of villas on Prior’s
+Croft, was the puzzling folly of digging a hole in Knockley Holt. After
+much discussion pro and con, amongst the townspeople—chiefly over
+sundry glasses of whiskey toddy, in sundry bar parlours, after business
+hours—it seemed to be settled that Culpepper’s Hole, as some wag had
+christened it, could be intended for nothing else than an artesian
+well—though what was the exact nature of an artesian well it would have
+puzzled some of the Duxley wiseacres to tell, and why water should be
+bored for there, and to what uses it could be put when so obtained,
+they would have been still more at a loss to say. The Squire could not
+drive into Duxley without being tackled by one or another of his
+friends as to what he was about at Knockley Holt. But the old man would
+only wink and shake his head, and try to look wise, and say, “It
+doesn’t do to blab everything nowadays, but between you and me and the
+post—this is in confidence, mind—I’m digging a tunnel to the
+Antipodes.” Then he would chuckle and give the reins a shake, and
+Diamond would trot off with him, leaving his questioner angry or
+amused, as the case might be.
+
+It was not known to any one in Duxley, except the Squire’s lawyer, that
+Knockley Holt was now the property of Tom Bristow. That the works there
+were under Tom’s direction was a well-known fact, but he was merely
+looked upon as Mr. Culpepper’s foreman in the matter. “Gets a couple of
+hundred or so a year for looking after the Squire’s affairs,” one
+wiseacre would remark to another. “If not, how does he live? Seems to
+have nothing to do when he’s not at Pincote. A poor way of getting a
+living. Serve him right: he should have stopped with old Hoskyns when
+he had the chance, and not have thought he was going to set the Thames
+on fire with his six thousand pounds.”
+
+No one could be possessed by a more burning desire than the Squire
+himself to know the meaning of the works at Knockley Holt, but having
+asked once and asked in vain, his pride would not allow him to make any
+further direct inquiry. Not a day passed on which he saw Tom, that he
+did not try, by one or two vague hints, to lead up to the subject, but
+when Tom turned the talk into another channel, then the old man would
+see that the time for him to be enlightened had not yet come.
+
+But it did come at last, and after what was, in reality, no very long
+waiting. On a certain afternoon—to be precise in our dates, it was the
+fifth of May—Tom walked over to Pincote, in search of the Squire. He
+found him in his study, wearying his brain over a column of figures,
+which would persist in coming to a different total every time it was
+added up. The first thing Tom did was to take the column of figures and
+bring it to a correct total. This done, his next act was to produce
+something from his pocket that was carefully wrapped up in a piece of
+brown paper. He pushed the parcel across the table to the Squire. “Will
+you oblige me, sir,” he said, “by opening that paper, and giving me
+your opinion as to the contents?”
+
+“Why, bless my heart, this is neither more nor less than a lump of
+coal!” said the Squire, when he had opened the paper.
+
+“Exactly so, sir. As you say, this is neither more nor less than a lump
+of coal. But where do you think it came from?”
+
+“There you puzzle me. Though I don’t know that it can matter much to me
+where it came from.”
+
+“But it matters very much to you, sir. This lump of coal came from
+Knockley Holt.”
+
+The Squire was rather dull of comprehension. “Well, what is there so
+wonderful about that?” he said. “I dare say it was stolen by some of
+those confounded gipsies, and left there when they moved.”
+
+“What I mean is this, sir,” answered Tom, with just a shade of
+impatience in his tone. “This piece of coal is but a specimen of a
+splendid seam which has been struck by my men at the bottom of the
+shaft at Knockley Holt.”
+
+The Squire stared at him, and gave a long, low whistle. “Do you mean to
+say that you have found a bed of coal at the bottom of the hole you
+have been digging at Knockley Holt?”
+
+“That is precisely what I have found, sir, and it is precisely what I
+have been trying to find from the first.”
+
+“I see it all now!” said the Squire. “What a lucky young scamp you are!
+But what on earth put it into your head to go looking for coal at
+Knockley Holt?”
+
+“I had a friend of mine, who is a very clever mining engineer, staying
+with me for a little while some time ago. But my friend is not only an
+engineer—he is a practical geologist as well. When out for a
+constitutional one day, we found ourselves at Knockley Holt. My friend
+was struck with its appearance—so different from that of the country
+around. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, there is coal under here,’ he said,
+‘and at no great distance from the surface either. The owner ought to
+think himself a lucky man—that is, if he knows the value of it.’ Well,
+sir, not content with what my friend said, I paid a heavy fee and had
+one of the most eminent geologists of the day down from London to
+examine and report upon it. His report coincided exactly with my
+friend’s opinion. You know the rest, sir. I came to you with a view of
+getting a lease of the ground, and found you desirous of selling it. I
+was only too glad to have the chance of buying it. I set a lot of men
+and a steam engine to work without a day’s delay, and that lump of
+coal, sir, is the happy result.”
+
+The Squire rubbed his spectacles for a moment or two without speaking.
+“Bristow, that’s an old head of yours on those young shoulders,” he
+said at last. “With all my heart congratulate you on your good fortune.
+I know no man who deserves it more than you do. Yes, Bristow, I
+congratulate you, though I can’t help saying that I wish that I had had
+a friend to have told me what was told you before I let you have the
+ground. For want of such a friend I have lost a fortune.”
+
+“That is just what I have come to see you about, sir,” said Tom, as he
+rose and pushed back his chair. The Squire looked up at him in
+surprise. “Although I bought Knockley Holt from you as a speculation, I
+had a pretty good idea when I bought it as to what I should find below
+the surface. If I had not found what I expected, my bargain would have
+been a dear one; but having found what I expected, it is just the
+opposite. In fact, sir, you have lost a fortune, and I have found one.”
+
+“I know it—I know it,” groaned the Squire. “But you needn’t twit me
+with it.”
+
+“So far the speculation was a perfectly legitimate one, as speculations
+go nowadays. But that is not the sort of thing I wish to exist between
+you and me. You have been very kind to me in many ways, and I have much
+to thank you for. I could not bear to treat you in this matter as I
+should treat a stranger. I could not bear to think that I was making a
+fortune out of a piece of ground that but a few short weeks ago was
+your property. The money so made would seem to me to bring a curse with
+it, rather than a blessing. I should feel as if nothing would ever
+prosper with me afterwards. Sir, I will not have this coal mine. There
+are plenty of other channels open to me for making money. Here are the
+title deeds of the property. I give them back to you. You shall repay
+me the twelve hundred pounds purchase-money, and reimburse me for the
+expenses I have been put to in sinking the shaft. But as for the pit
+itself, I will have nothing to do with it.”
+
+Tom had produced the title deeds from his pocket and had laid them on
+the table while speaking. He now pushed them across to the Squire. Then
+he took the deed of sale tore it across, and threw the fragments into
+the grate.
+
+It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished in
+the whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For a
+little while he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did
+speak, his words were not lacking in force.
+
+“Bristow, you are a confounded fool!” he said with emphasis.
+
+“I have been told that many times before.”
+
+“You are a confounded fool—but you are a gentleman.”
+
+Tom merely bowed.
+
+“You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after
+having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there—eh?”
+
+“I don’t propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are the
+title deeds,” pointing to the table. “There is the deed of sale,”
+pointing to the fire-grate.
+
+“And do you think, sir,” said the Squire, with dignity, “that Titus
+Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity from
+one who is little more than a boy! Not so.—It would be impossible for
+me to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind The property is
+fairly and legally yours, and yours it must remain.”
+
+“It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title
+deeds. Do with them as you will.” He buttoned his coat, and took up his
+hat, and turned to leave the room.
+
+“Stop, Bristow, stop!” said the Squire, as he rose from his chair. Tom
+halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back
+to the table.
+
+Mr. Culpepper walked to the window and stood there looking out for full
+three minutes without uttering a word. Then he turned and beckoned Tom
+to go to him.
+
+“Bristow,” he said, laying his hand affectionately on Tom’s shoulder,
+“as I said before, you are a gentleman—a gentleman in mind and feeling.
+More than that a man cannot be, whether his family be old or new. You
+propose to do a certain thing which I can only accede to on one
+condition.”
+
+“Name it, sir,” said Tom briefly.
+
+“I cannot take Knockley Holt from you without giving you something like
+an equivalent in return. Now, I only possess one thing that you would
+care to receive at my hands—and that is the most precious thing I have
+on earth. Exchange is no robbery. I will agree to take back Knockley
+Holt from you, if you will take in exchange for it—my daughter Jane.”
+
+“Oh! Mr. Culpepper.”
+
+“That you love her, I know already, and I dare say the sly hussy is
+equally as fond of you. If such be the case, take her. I know no man
+who so thoroughly deserves her, or who has so much right to her as you
+have.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+THE EIGHTH OF MAY.
+
+
+The eighth of May had come round at last.
+
+Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George
+intended least to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell out,
+he could not well avoid doing so.
+
+After the death and burial of Mother Mim—the expenses of the last-named
+ceremony being defrayed out of Kester’s pocket—it had been his
+intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so fell out
+that in the document purloined by him from the pocket of Skeggs when
+that individual lay dead on the moor, there was given the name of a
+certain person, still living, who could depose, of his own personal
+knowledge, to the truth of the facts as put down in the dying woman’s
+confession. This person was the only witness to the facts there stated
+who was now alive. The name of the man in question was William Bendall,
+and the point that Kester had now to clear up was: Who was this William
+Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was no address given in
+the Confession, nor any hint as to the man’s whereabouts; but Skeggs
+had doubtless known where he was to be found, and had, in fact, told
+Kester that he could put his hand on the man at a day’s notice.
+
+With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it
+was impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn
+that Mother Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of a
+few days, and when the restraining power which had doubtless kept him
+silent should be removed for ever, what was to prevent him from telling
+all that he knew, or, at least, from giving such broad hints as to the
+information in his possession as might lead to inquiry—to many
+inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would care to
+encounter—unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven to
+bay?
+
+But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It behoved
+him, therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain cautious
+inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with the view
+of ascertaining what kind of a man he was, or whether there was any
+danger to be apprehended from him. And if so, how could the danger best
+be met?
+
+It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave
+Park Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at any
+hour should Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he stayed on
+at the old place, very much against his will in other respects. But, to
+a certain extent, his patience had already been rewarded. Mr. Bendall’s
+address had been discovered, and Mr. Bendall himself had been found to
+be first cousin to Mother Mim, and a railway ganger by profession. But
+just at this time he was away from home—his home being at Swarkstone, a
+great centre of railway industry, about twenty miles from Duxley—he
+having been sent out to Russia in charge of a cargo of railway plant.
+He was now expected back in the course of a few days, and Kester
+determined not to leave the neighbourhood till he had found out for
+himself what manner of man he was.
+
+We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two
+days after Kester’s visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg,
+so that the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen,
+and it was at once understood how he had come by his death. No one
+except the girl Nell had seen Kester St. George in his company, so, as
+it fell out, that gentleman’s name was never even whispered in
+connexion with the affair.
+
+The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously
+discussed in his own mind, after Mother Mim’s death. What to do with
+such a strange girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence.
+Did she really know anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she
+not? If anything, how much did she know, and to what use did she intend
+to put her knowledge? Kester had no opportunity of talking to her in
+private before the funeral, so he made an appointment with her for the
+morning following that event. She was to meet him at a certain
+milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o’clock. Kester was there to the
+minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all. Kester
+went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to Mother
+Mim’s cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the old
+woman who had been looking after matters previously to the funeral:
+From her he ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two hours after
+her return from seeing the last of her grandmother, taking with her her
+new black frock and a few other things tied up in a bundle, and had
+given no hint as to where she was going, or whether it was her
+intention ever to come back.
+
+The girl’s disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude
+to Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any
+sign of her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness
+gradually wore itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself
+that from that quarter at least there was no possible danger to be
+apprehended.
+
+But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester
+St. George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park
+Newton, not even though he could not have left it till the seventh, and
+had been compelled to come back to it on the ninth. He would have gone
+somewhere—anywhere if only for a dozen hours—if only from sunset till
+sunrise, had it in anyway been possible for him to do so. But it so
+happened that it was not possible for him to do so. On the fifth he
+received a letter from his uncle, which astonished him very much.
+General St. George was still staying at Salisbury with his sick friend,
+Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:
+
+“All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant,
+but for a few hours only. I don’t know whether your cousin Richard has
+told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out to
+New Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him.”
+
+
+“The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of life!”
+muttered Kester. “Of course, it’s Master Richard’s dodge to take him
+with him, so as to make sure of his money when he dies. Well, if I can
+only get rid of the young one, the old one may go with him, and
+welcome.” Then he went on with his uncle’s letter.
+
+
+“I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope
+to spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old
+place, and there are several things I wish to talk to you about.
+We—that is, Richard and I, leave by the eight o’clock train next
+morning direct for Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us. By
+this day next week, I shall have bidden a final farewell to dear Old
+England.”
+
+“So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it,” said Kester, as
+he folded up the letter. “I would give much if it was any other day
+than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But there’s no
+help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company than to
+spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that.”
+
+“Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there’s no
+chance of any of his money coming to me,” he said to himself later on.
+“That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I
+don’t suppose he’s got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I
+wouldn’t mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for
+ever.”
+
+The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often
+are. Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and
+away he started without telling any one where he was going. He was out
+all day, and did not get back till five o’clock, an hour after the
+arrival of his uncle, with whom had come Mr. Perrins, the family
+lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not seen for a long time. He
+was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester that his uncle
+had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving England,
+in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.
+
+“This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England,” said Kester.
+
+“Yes, it is very sudden,” replied the General. “It is not more than
+three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The reasons
+he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not
+blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel
+left us, I seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I
+presently made up my mind to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of
+living alone. I have only you and him—and you; Kester, are too much of
+a Bohemian, too much a citizen of the world—a wandering Arab who
+strikes his tent a dozen times a year—for me ever to think of staying
+with you. Dick is far more of an old fogey than you are, and he and I—I
+don’t doubt—will get on very well together.”
+
+“All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you.”
+
+Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to
+dinner, for there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton,
+the octogenarian Vicar of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally
+during the course of the trial, but not since. The vicar he had known
+from boyhood.
+
+It was by Lionel’s express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar
+had been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell
+Kester to-night should be told to them also. They were all, in a
+certain sense, friends of the family; they were all men of honour; with
+them his secret would be safe. In simple justice to himself, he felt
+that it was not enough that his uncle and Bristow should be the sole
+depositories of that secret. There ought to be at least two or three
+family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly trusted, and
+whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in exile.
+
+None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular
+reason why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had
+any suspicion that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom
+they all so sincerely mourned. They had simply been invited to a little
+dinner party given by General St. George on the eve of his departure
+from England for ever.
+
+The last to arrive at Park Newton—and he did not arrive till two
+minutes before dinner was served—was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven
+Miss Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking
+with Edith till the last minute.
+
+Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General introduced
+them to each other. Tom had seen Kester several times, knowing well who
+he was, but the latter had no recollection of having ever seen Tom.
+
+Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as
+to the particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin
+that which he had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had
+kept his own counsel, having spoken no word to any one. It was a
+subject on which even his wife felt that she could not question him.
+During the past week he had been even more silent and distrait than
+usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one subject, to the
+exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be aware of,
+what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious
+one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon her:
+that she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed for was
+that the fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come and go
+without any encounter between her husband and his cousin. Lionel and
+Tom were to ride across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at the close
+of the evening—Tom, in order that he might escort Jane back to Pincote:
+Lionel, because he should then have bidden the old house a last
+farewell, because he should then have done with the past for ever, and
+because he should then be ready to start with his wife for their new
+home on the other side of the world.
+
+“And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to
+reconsider your determination?” said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand
+in hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had
+gone into Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little
+parlour all to themselves.
+
+“I’m afraid not,” answered Edith with a melancholy smile
+
+“It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight
+and clear—just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the
+world! Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it
+aloud on the housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which he
+deserves to pay. I would never banish myself from my native country for
+his sake; he is not worthy of such a sacrifice.”
+
+“You must not talk like that,” said Edith, with a little extra squeeze
+of Jane’s hand; “but it is easy to see who has been inoculating you
+with his wild doctrines.”
+
+“They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones,” said
+Jane emphatically. “There’s nothing wild about them; they are plain
+common sense.”
+
+“There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow
+the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are
+about to do is best for all concerned.”
+
+“I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in this
+way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you.”
+
+“I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I’m afraid
+Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear
+transplanting to a foreign clime.”
+
+“Yes, I suppose so,” said Jane, with a little sigh. “Only I should so
+like to travel: I should so like a six months’ voyage to somewhere.”
+
+“The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel
+so.”
+
+“You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand,
+some place within four or five days’ journey, where one could run over
+for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous of
+you to go so far away.”
+
+“When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the case.
+If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be the
+least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a
+perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable.
+He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his
+face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without
+fear of detection.”
+
+“I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to you to get
+away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful associations—to hide
+yourself in some remote valley where no shadow of the past can darken
+your door; but it seems to me that you need not go quite so far away in
+order to do that.”
+
+“It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it.”
+
+“No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one
+would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for
+me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make
+it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that
+effect. But, New Zealand!”
+
+As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith’s uneasiness increase, but
+she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had told
+her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to the
+time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share in
+the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she was
+unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might not
+even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her
+husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly
+chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be
+a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers
+of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait—wait—wait! If she
+went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the sound
+of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be possible
+to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance away. To and
+fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned leopardess.
+White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping and
+unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess of
+old, who sees in her mind’s eye a vision of doom—a vision of things to
+come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched her in
+silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but there
+was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.
+
+“I can bear this no longer,” said Edith, at last; “the room suffocates
+me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel.” She
+snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside’s, that lay on the sofa, and flung
+it over her head and shoulders.
+
+“Let me go with you,” cried Jane, “I am almost as anxious as you are.”
+
+“Hush! hush!” cried Edith, suddenly, “I hear them coming!”
+
+Hardly breathing, they all listened.
+
+“I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind,” cried Mrs.
+Garside, after a few moments.
+
+“Nor I,” said Jane.
+
+“I tell you they are coming,” said Edith. “There are two of them.
+Listen! Surely you can hear them now!” She flung open the window as she
+spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard
+highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage
+door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the
+top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them.
+
+Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed
+by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was
+no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour.
+To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all of
+them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave.
+
+Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith’s white arms
+were round his neck.
+
+“My darling: what is it?” she said. “What dreadful thing has happened?”
+He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something in her ear.
+She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms tightened
+suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.
+
+
+At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom
+and Mr. Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar,
+did their best to keep the conversation from flagging, but at times
+with only indifferent success. None of them could forget what day it
+was—could forget what took place that night twelve months ago, only a
+few yards from where they were sitting; and so remembering, who could
+wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless and the wines without flavour,
+that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to the imagination of more
+than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the room, invisible
+to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking when they
+drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing well all
+the time which one of the company would be the first to join it in that
+Land of Shadows to which it now belonged.
+
+Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke
+at all except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep up
+some show of conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no one
+but himself knew how irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel intend to
+do? Would there be a scene—a fracas—between the two cousins? What would
+be the end of the wretched business? How fervently he wished that the
+morrow was safely come, that he had seen that unhappy man’s face for
+the last time, and that he, and Lionel, and Edith were fairly started
+on their long journey to the other side of the world!
+
+The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party
+would break up by ten o’clock at the latest. Not that it mattered
+greatly to either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton
+all night. But the vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in
+decent time, so that when he began to fidget and look at his watch,
+Lionel, who was only waiting for him to make a move, knew that it would
+be impossible to detain him much longer.
+
+“I must really ask you to excuse me, General,” said the old man at
+last. “But I see that it is past ten o’clock, and quite time for gay
+young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps.”
+
+“I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar,” said Lionel.
+“I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my uncle’s
+permission, we will all adjourn there.”
+
+“You must not keep me long,” said the vicar.
+
+“I will not,” said Lionel. “But I know that you like to finish up your
+evening with a little café noir; and I have, besides, a picture which I
+want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much—a
+picture—which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all
+the other gentlemen who are here to-night.”
+
+They all rose and made a move towards the door.
+
+“As I don’t care for café noir, and don’t understand pictures, you will
+perhaps excuse me,” said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing
+himself to his uncle.
+
+“You had better go with us,” said Lionel, turning to his cousin. “You
+are surely not going to be the first to break up the party.”
+
+“I don’t want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come
+back,” answered Kester, doggedly.
+
+“You had better go with us,” said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so
+that the others could not hear him.
+
+“Pray who made you dictator here?” said Kester haughtily. “I don’t
+choose to go with you. That is enough.”
+
+“You had better go with us,” said Lionel for the third time. “If you
+still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go.”
+
+“Afraid!” sneered Kester. “Of whom and what should I be afraid?”
+
+“That is best known to yourself.”
+
+“Anyhow, I’m neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do.”
+
+“If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are
+kept away by some abject fear.”
+
+“Lead on.—I’ll follow.—But mark my words, you and I will have this
+little matter out in the morning—alone.”
+
+“Willingly.”
+
+The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to
+those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and
+no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered:
+a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as
+possible.
+
+Lionel’s sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided
+into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on
+the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.
+
+“Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” said
+Lionel. “My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it
+to you.” So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of
+the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.
+
+Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were
+bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now,
+as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his
+shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that
+one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. “Come!”
+was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little
+malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his heart
+there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to him; a
+dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating on some
+far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know that he was
+there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable bitterness, how
+utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human being anywhere
+who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret him—not one
+single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his grave.—But such
+thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away somehow. He rose and
+went to the table, poured himself out half a tumbler of brandy, and
+drank it off without water. “It puts fresh life into me as it goes
+down,” he muttered to himself.
+
+He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden
+noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were
+being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they
+stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness.
+Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel—or, as most
+there took it to be, the voice of Richard—but Lionel himself was
+unseen.
+
+“Gentlemen,” said the voice, “you all know what day this is. It is the
+eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered.
+About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed
+about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how
+the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have
+painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you.”
+
+The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open.
+The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that
+every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed canvas,
+on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel Dering’s Dream.
+
+The scene was Percy Osmond’s bedroom, and the moment selected by the
+artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and
+Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while
+pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other
+hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent’s heart. Peeping from
+behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of
+Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses
+takable.
+
+Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at
+the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely
+accused was one of themselves.
+
+“Now you see how the murder really happened—now you know who the
+murderer really was,” said Lionel, speaking from some place in the
+farther room where he could not be seen. “This is no dream but a most
+dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs—ample
+proofs—of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy
+Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!”
+
+At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was
+still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right
+hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported
+himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face;
+his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one face
+to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to speak, but
+could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy. Tom
+interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it greedily
+and then he spoke.
+
+“What you have just been told,” he said, “is nothing but a cruel,
+cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he
+hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar—because he dare not
+face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer—we all know
+that Lionel Dering——”
+
+“Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you to
+your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!”
+
+Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood
+Lionel, no longer disguised—the dye washed off his face, his hands, his
+hair—the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from the
+dead—his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at a
+glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair
+beard.
+
+For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue, glaring
+across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.
+
+One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so.
+That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his
+face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half
+round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.
+
+“He has fainted,” said the General.
+
+“He is dead,” said Tom.
+
+“Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this,” said Lionel.
+“None whatever!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+GATHERED THREADS.
+
+
+The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering with
+two courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out his
+original intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving the
+world still to believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he could
+give himself up to justice, under his real name, and, his first trial
+never having been finished—take his stand at the bar again under the
+original charge, and with the proofs he had gathered in his possession,
+let his innocence of the crime imputed to him work itself out through a
+legitimate channel to a verdict of Not Guilty. This latter course was
+the only one open to him if he wished to clear himself in the eyes of
+the world from the stain of blood, or even if he wished to assume his
+own name and his position as the owner of Park Newton. But did he
+really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad, of burying himself
+and his wife in some far-away nook of the New World, had taken such
+hold on his imagination, that even now it had by no means lost its
+sweetness in his thoughts. Then, again, Kester having died without a
+will, if he—Lionel were to leave himself undeclared, the estate would
+go to General St. George, as next of kin, and after the old soldier’s
+time it would go, in the natural course of events, to his brother
+Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give himself into custody and
+undergo the pain and annoyance of another term of imprisonment, and
+another trial—and they would be both painful and annoying, even though
+his innocence were proved at the end of them? Why not rather bind over
+to silence those few trusted friends to whom his secret was already
+known, and going abroad with Edith, spend the remainder of his days in
+happy obscurity. Why re-open that bloodstained page of family history,
+over which the world had of a surety gloated sufficiently already?
+
+But in this latter view he was opposed by everybody except his wife; by
+his uncle, by Tom, by the vicar, and by nobody more strongly than by
+Messrs. Perrins and Hoskyns. The cry from all was—take your trial; let
+your innocence be proved, as proved it must be, and assume the name and
+position that are rightfully yours. Edith, with her head resting on his
+shoulder, only said: “Do that which seems best to you in your own
+heart, dearest, and that alone. Whether you go or stay, my place is by
+your side—my love unalterable. Only to be with you—never to lose you
+again—is all I ask. Give me that: I crave for nothing more.”
+
+Strange to say, the person who brought matters to a climax, and finally
+decided Lionel as to his future course of action, was the girl Nell,
+Mother Mim’s plain-spoken grand-daughter. Through some channel or other
+she had heard of the death of Mr. St. George, and one day she marched
+up the steps at Park Newton, and rang the big bell, and asked, as bold
+as brass, to see the General. The General was one of the most
+accessible of men, and when told that the girl wanted to see him
+privately, he marched off at once to the library, and ordered her to be
+admitted.
+
+It was a strange story the girl had to tell—so strange that the General
+at first put her down as a common impostor. Fortunately Mr. Perrins
+happened to be still at Park Newton, and he at once called the shrewd
+old lawyer to his assistance.
+
+But Miss Nell was now taken with a stubborn fit, and refused either to
+say any more or to answer any more questions, till five pounds had been
+given her as an earnest of more to follow, in case her information
+should prove to be correct. The five pounds having been put into her
+hands, she told all that she knew freely enough, and answered every
+question that was put to her. Then she was dismissed for the time
+being, having first left an address where she might be found when
+wanted.
+
+Nell had told them how the body of Dirty Jack had been found dead on
+the moor, and the first point to ascertain was, what had become of the
+confession which was known to have been in his possession when he left
+Mother Mim’s cottage? Had it been found on his person? If so, where was
+it now? It was rather singular that Mr. St. George should be the last
+person known to have been seen in the company of Skeggs. The second
+question was, where was Mr. Bendall to be found? Mr. Perrins set to
+work without delay to solve this latter problem, by engaging one of Mr.
+Hoskyns’s confidential clerks to make the requisite inquiries for him.
+To the first question, the whereabouts of the confession, he determined
+to give his own personal attention. But before he had an opportunity of
+doing this, he found among the papers of Kester the very document
+itself—the original confession, duly witnessed by Skeggs and the girl
+Nell. A day or two later Mr. Bendall was also found, and—for a
+consideration—had no objection to tell all he knew of the affair. His
+evidence, and that given in the confession, tallied exactly. There
+could no longer be any moral doubt as to the fact of Kester St. George
+having been a son of Mother Mim.
+
+This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was
+still debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one
+weapon more in favour of the course they were desirous that he should
+pursue. If Kester St. George were not Lionel’s cousin, if he were not
+related to the family in any way, there was less reason than ever why
+Lionel should not declare himself, why he should not give himself up,
+and let his own innocence be proved once and for ever, by proving the
+guilt of this other man.
+
+Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the
+others, and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer.
+Exactly a week after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well
+continue to call him) Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at
+Duxley, and gave himself up into the hands of the sergeant on duty.
+
+Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. “How can you be Mr.
+Dering?” he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with the
+superintendent’s recollection of him. “I saw that gentleman lying dead
+in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could have
+sworn to him anywhere.”
+
+“What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and
+not the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without
+recognizing me. At all events here I am, alive and well, and if you
+will kindly lock me up, I shall esteem it a favour.”
+
+“I was never so sold in the whole course of my life,” said Drayton.
+“But there’s one comfort—Sergeant Whiffins was just as much sold as I
+was.”
+
+At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial
+for the murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been
+carefully looked after by a private detective in the guise of a guest
+at his hotel, was admitted as evidence for the Crown, and without
+leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty was found by the jury. Never
+had such a scene been known in Duxley as was enacted that summer
+afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the Court-house
+a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by main
+force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of the
+crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company with
+two brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster. Lionel’s
+arm had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he had shaken
+hands with a great multitude of his friends—and every man and boy
+prided himself upon being Mr. Dering’s friend that day. As for the
+ladies, they had their own way of showing their sympathy with him. Half
+the children in the parish that came to light during the next twelve
+months were christened either Edith or Lionel.
+
+The post-mortem examination showed that heart disease of long standing
+was the proximate cause of Kester St. George’s death. He was buried not
+in the family vault where the St. Georges for two centuries lay in
+silent state, but in the town cemetery. The grave was marked by a plain
+slab, on which was engraved simply the initials of the name he had
+always been known by, and the date of his death.
+
+“I warned him of it long ago,” said Dr. Bolus to two or three fellows
+at Kester’s old club, as he stood with his back to the fire and his
+coat tails thrown over his arms. “But whose warnings are sooner
+forgotten than a doctor’s? By living away from London, and leading a
+perfectly quiet and temperate life, he might have been kept going for
+years. But, above all things, he should have avoided excitement of
+every kind.”
+
+Lionel and Edith put off for a little while their long-talked-of tour
+in order that they might be present at the wedding of Tom and Jane. The
+ceremony took place in August. Tom and his bride went to Scotland for
+their honeymoon. Lionel and his wife started for Switzerland, en route
+for Italy, where they were to spend the ensuing winter.
+
+Of late the Squire had recovered his health wonderfully. He seemed to
+have grown ten years younger in a few weeks. In the working of that
+wonderful coal-shaft, and in the prospect of his making a far larger
+fortune for his daughter than the one he so foolishly lost, he found a
+perpetual source of healthy excitement, which, by keeping both his mind
+and body actively and legitimately employed, had an undoubted tendency
+to lengthen his life. Besides this, Tom had asked him to superintend
+the construction of his new house. It was just the sort of job that the
+Squire delighted in—to look sharply after a lot of working men, and
+while pretending that they were all in a league to cheat him, blowing
+them up heartily all round one half-hour, and treating them to
+unlimited beer the next.
+
+“I should like to see you in the Town Council, Bristow,” said the
+Squire one day to his son-in-law.
+
+“Thank you, sir, all the same,” said Tom, “but it’s hardly good enough.
+There will be a general election before we are much older, when I mean,
+either by hook or by crook, to get into the House.”
+
+“Bristow, you have the cheek of the Deuce himself,” was all that the
+astonished Squire could say.
+
+It may just be remarked that Tom’s ambition has since been gratified.
+He is now, and has been for some time, member for W——. He is clever,
+ambitious, and a tolerable orator, as oratory is reckoned nowadays.
+What may not such a man aspire to?
+
+Mr. Hoskyns is a frequent guest both of Tom and Lionel. Chatting with
+the former one day over the “walnuts and the wine,” said the old man:
+“I have often puzzled my brain over that affair of Baldry’s—that
+positive assertion of his that he saw and spoke to me one night in the
+Thornfield Road when I was most certainly not there. Have you ever
+thought about it since?”
+
+“Once or twice, I dare say, but I could have enlightened you at the
+time had I chosen to do so. It was I whom Baldry met. I had made myself
+up to resemble you, and previously to my visit to the prison in your
+character, I thought I would try the effect of my disguise upon
+somebody who had known you well for years. As it so happened, Baldry
+was the first of your acquaintances whom I encountered on my nocturnal
+ramble. The rest you know.”
+
+“You young vagabond! And yet you have the audacity to call yourself a
+respectable member of society. Perhaps you can explain the mystery of
+the ghostly footsteps at Park Newton when poor Pearce, the butler, was
+frightened out of the small quantity of wit that he could lay claim
+to?”
+
+“That, too, I can explain. The ghostly footsteps, as it happened, were
+very corporeal footsteps, being those of none other than your humble
+servant.”
+
+“But how did you get into the room? It had been nailed up months
+before.”
+
+“The nailing up was more apparent than real. The nails were sham nails.
+The door could be unlocked at any time, and the room entered in the
+ordinary way.”
+
+“But how about the cough—Mr. Osmond’s peculiar cough?”
+
+“That was an imitation by me from lessons given me by Mr. Dering. It
+answered the purpose admirably for which it was intended.”
+
+“To hear such sounds at midnight in a room where a man had been
+murdered was enough to shake the strongest nerves. I wonder you were
+not frightened yourself to be in the room.”
+
+“That would have been ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of.”
+
+“In any extraordinary circumstances I shall never believe the evidence
+of my own senses again.”
+
+Mr. Cope was not long in perceiving that he had committed a grave error
+of judgment in refusing Mr. Culpepper the assistance he had asked for.
+There would be a splendid fortune for Jane after all. It was enough to
+make a man tear his hair with vexation—only Mr. Cope hadn’t much hair
+to tear—to think what a golden chance he had let slip through his
+fingers. Edward was recalled at once on the slight chance that if a
+meeting could anyhow be brought about between him and Jane, the old
+flame might spring up with renewed ardour in the young lady’s bosom, in
+which case she might insist upon her engagement with Edward being
+carried out. But Edward bore his disappointment very philosophically,
+and had not been three hours in Duxley before he found himself eating
+pastry, and being ministered to by Miss Moggs, who was still unmarried,
+and still as plump and smiling as ever.
+
+Three weeks later the good people of Duxley were treated to a
+delightful sensation. Mr. Cope, Junior, had run away with the daughter
+of Mr. Moggs, the confectioner, and Mr. Cope, Senior, had threatened to
+cut his son off with the well-known metaphorical shilling.
+
+The latest news of young Mr. Cope is, that he is living in furnished
+apartments in a cheap suburb of London. The late Miss Moggs, her
+plumpness notwithstanding, has developed into a Tartar. They have six
+children. Mr. Cope’s income is exactly two hundred a-year, left him by
+his mother. His father will not give him a penny, and he is either too
+lazy, or too incompetent, to attempt to add to his means by a little
+honest work. He is very stout and very short of breath. When he has any
+money he spends his time in a neighbouring billiard-room, smoking a
+short pipe and drinking half-and-half, and watching other men play.
+When he has no money he stops at home and rocks the cradle, and listens
+to his wife’s reproaches. Mrs. Cope vows that she will buy a mangle and
+make her husband turn it, and try whether she cannot shame him into
+work that way. And all this is the result of eating pastry and being
+waited upon by a pretty girl.
+
+After the trial was over, Nell, by means of some speciously-concocted
+tale, contrived to cozen General St. George out of twenty pounds. With
+this she disappeared, and was never either seen or heard of in Duxley
+or its neighbourhood again.
+
+During the time that Lionel and his wife were abroad the General went
+with his friend, Major Beauchamp, to Madeira, and wintered there.
+
+It had been Lionel’s intention to stay abroad for about three years.
+But as it fell out, he and Edith were back at Park Newton by the end of
+twelve months, being brought thither by the expectation of an
+all-important event. Lionel has not since then left home for more than
+a month at a time. So full of painful memories was Park Newton to him,
+that it was only by Edith’s persuasion that he was induced to settle
+there at all. But years have come and gone since then, and nothing
+would now induce him to live anywhere else. Whatever gloomy
+associations might otherwise have clung to the old house have been
+exorcised long ago by the merry laughter of children. It was difficult
+at first for the Echoes of that murder-haunted roof to bring themselves
+to mimic the soft syllables of childhood, but when one little stranger
+after another came to teach them, then their voices, rusty and creaky
+at first through long disuse, gradually won back to themselves a
+long-forgotten sweetness; and now the Echoes follow the children
+wherever they go, and all the grim old pile is musical with the
+laughter and songs and free joyous shouts of childhood. Many a time
+they have a bout together—the children and the Echoes—trying which of
+them can make the more noise; and then the children call to the Echoes
+and bid them come out of their hiding-places and show themselves in the
+dusky twilight; but the Echoes only laugh back their answer, and are
+ever too timid to let themselves be seen.
+
+Who, of all people in the world, should be the children’s primest
+favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the
+nursery, and there he spends hours every day. He “keeps shop” with
+them, he plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring
+lion, their wild man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the
+old warrior, whose very name was once a word of terror among the
+lawless hill-tribes of the far East see him led about by one boy by
+means of a piece of string tied round his arm, and while another
+youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to watch him
+imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing
+bear. There can be no doubt on one point—that the old soldier enjoys
+himself quite as much as the children do.
+
+After his year’s imprisonment was at an end—to which mitigated
+punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted
+as witness for the Crown—he and his sister went over to Switzerland,
+and opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist
+travel. There, not long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking,
+bowing, and rubbing his hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request
+that Monsieur Dering would do him the honour of stopping at his hotel.
+But Lionel would have nothing to do with him, and when Janvard could be
+made to comprehend this, his face became a study of mortification and
+surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently hurt. He
+never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so
+positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d’Or.
+
+In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a
+few things that change not. One of these is the friendship between
+Lionel and Tom, which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of other
+interests has power to alter in the least. When they both happen to be
+in Midlandshire at the same time, a week never passes without their
+seeing more or less of each other, and between their wives there is
+almost as firm a friendship as there is between themselves. Four people
+more united, more happy in each other’s society, it would be impossible
+to find.
+
+It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that
+Edith and Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm
+together, for the sake of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow
+perpetually round the old house. They were sitting one day on the broad
+yellow sands, idling through the glowing afternoon, with their
+embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane’s little girls happened to
+fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith’s little boy was
+by her side in a moment.
+
+“Don’t cry,” he said, as he stooped and kissed her. “I will marry you
+when I grow to be a big man.”
+
+The little girl’s tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked
+up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.
+
+“Such a thing is by no means improbable,” said Edith.
+
+“I shall not be a bit surprised if it really comes to pass,” replied
+Jane.
+
+THE END.
+
+
+BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY
+
+
+
+
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-Project Gutenberg's In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3), by T. W. Speight

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most

-other parts of the world 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

-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have

-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

-

-Title: In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3)

-       A Novel

-

-Author: T. W. Speight

-

-Release Date: September 21, 2018 [EBook #57947]

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

-

-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, VOLUME 3 ***

-

-

-

-

-Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the

-Internet Web Archive

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-Transcriber's Notes:

-

-     1. Page scan source: The Internet Web Archive

-        https://archive.org/details/indeadofnightnov03spei

-        (University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)

-

-

-

-

-

-

-IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

-

-

-

-A Novel.

-

-

-

-

-IN THREE VOLUMES.

-

-VOL. III.

-

-

-

-

-LONDON:

-RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.

-1874.

-

-(_All rights reserved_.)

-

-

-

-

-

-

-CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

-

-CHAPTER

-     I. A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.

-

-    II. IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.

-

-   III. MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.

-

-    IV. KNOCKLEY HOLT.

-

-     V. AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.

-

-    VI. TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.

-

-   VII. EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.

-

-  VIII. DIRTY JACK.

-

-    IX. WHAT TO DO NEXT?

-

-     X. HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.

-

-    XI. THE EIGHTH OF MAY.

-

-   XII. GATHERED THREADS.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER I.

-A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.

-

-

-Two hours after the receipt of Mrs. McDermott's second letter, Squire

-Culpepper was on his way to Sugden's bank. His heart was heavy, and

-his step slow. He had never had to borrow a farthing from any man--at

-least, never since he had come into the estate--and he felt the

-humiliation, as he himself called it, very bitterly. There was

-something of bitterness, too, in having to confess to his friend Cope

-how all his brilliant castles in the air had vanished utterly, leaving

-not a wrack behind.

-

-He could see, in imagination, the sneer that would creep over Cope's

-face as the latter asked him why he could not obtain a mortgage on

-his fine new mansion at Pincote; the mansion he had talked so much

-about--about which he had bored his friends; the mansion that

-was to have been built out of the Alcazar shares, but of which

-not even the foundation-stone would ever now be laid. Then, again,

-the Squire was far from certain as to the kind of reception which

-would be accorded him by the banker. Of late he had seemed cool, very

-cool--refrigerating almost. Once or twice, too, when he had called,

-Mr. Cope had been invisible: a Jupiter Tonans buried for the time

-being among a cloud of ledgers and dockets and transfers: not to be

-seen by any one save his own immediate satellites. The time had been,

-and not so very long ago, when he could walk unchallenged through the

-outer bank office, whoever else might be waiting, and so into the

-inner sanctum, and be sure of a welcome when he got there. But now he

-was sure to be intercepted by one or other of the clerks with a "Will

-you please to take a seat for a moment while I see whether Mr. Cope is

-disengaged." The Squire groaned with inward rage as, leaning on his

-thick stick, he limped down Duxley High Street and thought of all

-these things.

-

-As he had surmised it would be, so it was on the present occasion. He

-had to sit down in the outer office, one of a row of six who were

-waiting Mr. Cope's time and pleasure to see them. "He won't lend me

-the money," said the Squire to himself, as he sat there choking with

-secret mortification. "He'll find some paltry excuse for refusing me.

-It's almost worth a man's while to tumble into trouble just to find

-out who are his friends and who are not."

-

-However, the banker did not keep him waiting more than five or six

-minutes. "Mr. Cope will see you, sir," said a liveried messenger, who

-came up to him with a low bow; and into Mr. Cope's parlour the Squire

-was thereupon ushered.

-

-The two men met with a certain amount of restraint on either side.

-They shook hands as a matter of course, and made a few remarks about

-the weather; and then the banker began to play with his seals, and

-waited in bland silence to hear whatever the Squire might have to say

-to him.

-

-Mr. Culpepper fidgeted in his chair and cleared his throat. The

-crucial moment was come at last. "I'm in a bit of a difficulty, Cope,"

-he began, "and I've come to you, as one of the oldest friends I have,

-to see whether you can help me out of it."

-

-"I should have thought that Mr. Culpepper was one of the last people

-in the world to be troubled with difficulties of any kind," said the

-banker, in a tone of studied coldness.

-

-"Which shows how little you know about either Mr. Culpepper or his

-affairs," said the Squire, dryly.

-

-The banker coughed dubiously. "In what way can I be of service to

-you?" he said.

-

-"I want five thousand five hundred pounds by this day week, and I've

-come to you to help me to raise it."

-

-"In other words, you want to borrow five thousand five hundred

-pounds?"

-

-"Exactly so."

-

-"And what kind of security are you prepared to offer for a loan of

-such magnitude?"

-

-"What security! Why, my I.O.U., of course."

-

-Mr. Cope took a pinch of snuff slowly and deliberately before he spoke

-again. "I am afraid the document in question could hardly be looked

-upon as a negotiable security."

-

-"And who the deuce wanted it to be considered as a negotiable

-security?" burst out the Squire. "Do you think I want everybody to

-know my private affairs?"

-

-"Possibly not," said the banker, quietly. "But, in transactions of

-this nature, it is a matter of simple business that the person who

-advances the money should have some equivalent security in return."

-

-"And is not my I.O.U. a good and equivalent security as between friend

-and friend?"

-

-"Oh if you are going to put the case in that way, it becomes a

-different kind of transaction entirely," said the banker.

-

-"And how else did you think I was going to put the case, as you call

-it?" asked the Squire, indignantly.

-

-"Commercially, of course: as a pure matter of business between one man

-and another."

-

-"Oh, ho that's it, is it?" said the Squire, grimly.

-

-"That's just it, Mr. Culpepper."

-

-"Then friendship in such a case as this counts for nothing, and my

-I.O.U. might just as well never be written."

-

-"Let us be candid with each other," said the banker, blandly. "You

-want the loan of a very considerable sum of money. Now, however much

-inclined I might be to lend you the amount out of my own private

-coffers, you will believe me when I say that I am not in a position to

-do so. I have no such amount of available capital in hand at present.

-But if you were to come to me with a good negotiable security, I could

-at once put you into the proper channel for obtaining what you want. A

-mortgage, for instance. What could be better than that? The estate, so

-far as I know, is unencumbered, and the sum you need could easily be

-raised on it on very easy terms."

-

-"I took an oath to my father on his deathbed that I would never raise

-a penny by mortgage on Pincote, and I never will."

-

-"If that is the case," said the banker, with a slight shrug of the

-shoulders, "I am afraid that I hardly see in what way I can be of

-service to you." He coughed, and then he looked at his watch, an

-action which Mr. Culpepper did not fail to note and resent in his own

-mind.

-

-"I am sorry I came," he said, bitterly. "It seems to have been only a

-waste of your time and mine."

-

-"Don't speak of it," said the banker, with his little business laugh.

-"In any case, you have learned one of the first and simplest lessons

-of commercial ethics."

-

-"I have, indeed," answered the Squire, with a sigh. He rose to go.

-

-"And Miss Culpepper, is she quite well?" said Mr. Cope; rising also.

-"I have not had the pleasure of seeing her for some little time."

-

-The Squire faced fiercely round. "Look you here, Horatio Cope," he

-said; "you and I have been friends of many years' standing. Fast

-friends, I thought, whom no reverses of fortune would have separated.

-Finding myself in a little strait, I come to you for assistance. To

-whom else should I apply? It is idle to say that you could not help me

-out of my difficulty, were you willing to do so."

-

-"No, believe me----" interrupted the banker; but Mr. Culpepper went on

-without deigning to notice the interruption.

-

-"You have not chosen to do so, and there's an end of the matter, so

-far. Our friendship must cease from this day. You will not be sorry

-that it is so. The insults and slights you have put upon me of late

-have all had that end in view, and you are doubtless grateful that

-they have had the desired effect."

-

-"You judge me very hardly," said the banker.

-

-"I judge you from your own actions, and from them alone," said the

-Squire, sternly. "Another point, and I have done. Your son was engaged

-to my daughter, with your full sanction and consent. That engagement,

-too, must come to an end."

-

-"With all my heart," said the banker, quietly.

-

-"For some time past your son, acting, no doubt, on instructions from

-his father, has been gradually paving the way for something of this

-kind. There have been no letters from him for five weeks, and the last

-three or four that he sent were not more than as many lines each. No

-doubt he will feel grateful at being released from an engagement that

-had become odious to him; and on Miss Culpepper's side the release

-will be an equally happy one. She had learned long ago to estimate

-at his true value the man to whom she had so rashly pledged her hand.

-She had found out, to her bitter cost, that she had promised herself

-to a person who had neither the instincts nor the education of a

-gentleman--to an individual, in fact, who was little better than a

-common boor."

-

-This last thrust touched the banker to the quick. His face flushed

-deeply. He crossed the room and called down an India-rubber tube:

-"What is the amount of Mr. Culpepper's balance?"

-

-Presently came the answer: "Two eighty eleven five."

-

-"Two hundred and eighty pounds, eleven shillings, and five pence,"

-said Mr. Cope, with a sneer. "May I ask, sir, that you will take

-immediate steps for having this magnificent balance transferred to

-some other establishment."

-

-"I shall take my own time about doing that," said Mr. Culpepper.

-

-"What a pity that your new mansion was not finished in time--quite a

-castle it was to have been, was it not? A mortgage of five or six

-thousand could have been a matter of no difficulty then, you know. If

-I recollect rightly, all the furniture and decorations were to have

-come from London. Nothing in Duxley would have been good enough. I

-merely echo your own words."

-

-The Squire winced. "I am rightly served," he muttered to himself.

-"What can one expect from a man who swept out an office and cleaned his

-master's shoes?" He rose to go. For all his bitterness, there was a

-little pathetic feeling at work in his heart. "So ends a friendship of

-twenty years," was his thought. "Goodbye, Cope," he said aloud as he

-moved towards the door.

-

-The banker, standing with his back to the fire, and looking straight

-at the opposite wall, neither stirred nor spoke, nor so much as turned

-his head to take a last look at his old friend. And so, without

-another word, the Squire passed out.

-

-A bleak north wind was blowing as the Squire stepped into the street.

-He paused for a moment to button his coat more closely around him. As

-he did so, a poor ragged wretch passed trembling by without saying a

-word. The Squire called the man back and gave him a shilling. "My

-plight may be bad enough, but his is a thousand times worse," he said

-to himself as he walked down the street.

-

-Where to go, or what to do next, he did not know. He had gone to see

-Mr. Cope without any very great expectation of being able to obtain

-what he wanted, and yet, perhaps, not without some faint hope nestling

-at his heart that his friend would find him the money. But now he knew

-for a fact that nothing was to be got from that quarter, he felt a

-little chilled, a little lonely, a little lost as to what he should do

-next. That something must be done, he knew quite well, but he was at a

-nonplus as to what that something ought to be. To raise five thousand

-five hundred pounds at a few days' notice, with no better security to

-offer than a simple I.O.U., was by no means an easy matter, as the

-Squire was beginning to discover to his cost. "Why not ask Sir Harry

-Cripps?" he said to himself. But then he bethought himself that Sir

-Harry had a very expensive family, and that only six months ago he had

-given up his hunter, and dispensed with a couple of carriage-horses,

-and had talked of going on to the continent for four or five years.

-No: it was evident that Sir Harry Cripps could do nothing for him.

-

-In what other direction to turn he knew not. "If poor Lionel Dering

-had only been alive, I could have gone to him with confidence," he

-thought. "Why not try Kester St. George?" was his next thought. "No:

-Kester isn't one of the lending kind," he muttered, with a shake of

-the head. "He's uncommonly close-fisted, is Kester. What he's got

-he'll stick to. No use trying there."

-

-Next moment he nearly ran against General St. George, who was coming

-from an opposite direction. They started at sight of each other, then

-shook hands cordially. Their acquaintanceship dated only from the

-arrival of the General at Park Newton, but they had already learned to

-like and esteem one another.

-

-After the customary greetings and inquiries were over, said Mr.

-Culpepper to the General: "Is your nephew Kester still stopping with

-you at Park Newton?"

-

-"Yes, he is still there," answered the General; "though he has talked

-every day for the last month or more about going. Kester is one of

-those unaccountable fellows that you can never depend on. He may stay

-for another month, or he may take it into his head to go by the first

-train to-morrow."

-

-"I heard a little while ago that he was ill; but I suppose he is

-better again by this time?"

-

-"Yes--quite recovered. He was laid up for three or four days, but he

-soon got all right again."

-

-"Your other nephew--George--Tom--Harry--what's his name--is he quite

-well?"

-

-"You mean Richard--he who came from India? Yes, he is quite well."

-

-"He's very like his poor brother, only darker, and--pardon me for

-saying so--not half so agreeable a young fellow."

-

-"Everybody seems to have liked poor Lionel."

-

-"Nobody could help liking him," said the Squire, with energy. "I felt

-the loss of that poor boy almost as much as if he had been my own

-son."

-

-"Not a soul in the world had an ill word to say about him."

-

-"I wish that the same could be said of all of us," said the Squire.

-And so, after a few more words, they parted.

-

-As General St. George had told the Squire, Kester was still at Park

-Newton. The doctor who was called in to attend him after his sudden

-attack on the night that the footsteps were heard in the nailed-up

-room, prescribed a bottle or two of some harmless mixture, and a few

-days of complete rest and isolation. As Kester would neither allow

-himself to be examined, nor answer any questions, there was very

-little more that could be done for him.

-

-Kester's first impulse after his recovery--and a very strong impulse

-it was--was to quit Park Newton at once and for ever. Further

-reflection, however, convinced him that such a step would be unwise in

-the extreme. It would at once be said that he had been frightened away

-by the ghost, and that was a thing that he could by no means afford to

-have said of him. For it to get gossiped about that he had been driven

-from his own house by the ghost of Percy Osmond, might, in time, tend

-to breed suspicion; and from suspicion might spring inquiry, and that

-might ultimately lead to nobody knew what. No: he would stay on at

-Park Newton for weeks--for months even, if it suited him to do so. The

-incident of his sudden illness was a very untoward one: on that point

-there could be no doubt whatever; but not if he could anyhow help it

-should the faintest breath of suspicion spring therefrom.

-

-The Squire's troubles had faded into the background for a few minutes

-during his interview with General St. George, but they now rushed back

-upon him with, as it seemed, tenfold force. There was nothing left for

-him now but to go home, and yet he had never felt less inclined to do

-so in his life. He dreaded the long quiet evening, with no society but

-that of his daughter. Not that Jane was a dull companion, or anything

-like it; but he dreaded to encounter her pleading eyes, her pretty

-caressing ways, the lingering embrace she would give him when he

-entered the house, and her good-night kiss. He felt how all these

-things would tend to unman him, how they would merely serve to deepen

-the remorse which he felt already. If only he could meet with some one

-to take home with him!--he did not care much who it was--some one who

-would talk to him, and enliven the evening, and take off for a little

-while the edge of his trouble, and so help him to tide over the weary

-hours that intervened between now and the morrow, by which time

-something might happen--he knew not what--or some light be vouchsafed

-to him which would show him a way out of his difficulties.

-

-These, or something like these, were the thoughts that were floating

-hazily in his mind, when in the distance he spied Tom Bristow striding

-along at his usual energetic rate. The Squire being still very lame,

-wisely captured a passing butcher boy, and, with the promise of

-sixpence, bade him hurry after Tom, and not come back without him.

-

-"You must come back with me to Pincote," he said, when the astonished

-Tom had been duly captured. "I'll take no refusal. I've got a fit of

-mopes, and if you don't come and help to keep Jenny and me alive this

-evening, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live." So saying,

-the Squire linked his arm in Tom's, and turned his face towards

-Pincote; and nothing loath was Tom to go with him.

-

-"I've done a fine thing this afternoon," said Mr. Culpepper, as they

-drove along in the basket-carriage, which had been waiting for him at

-the hotel. "I've broken off Jenny's engagement with Edward Cope."

-

-Tom's heart gave a great bound. "Pardon me, sir, for saying so," he

-said as calmly as he could, "but I never thought that Mr. Cope was in

-any way worthy of Miss Culpepper."

-

-"You are right, boy. He was not worthy of her."

-

-"From the first time of seeing them together, I felt how entirely

-unfitted was Mr. Cope to appreciate Miss Culpepper's manifold charms

-of heart and mind. A marriage between two such people would have been

-a most incongruous one."

-

-"Thank Heaven! it's broken now and for ever."

-

-"I've broken off your engagement to Edward Cope," whispered the Squire

-to Jane in the hall, as he kissed her. "Are you glad or sorry, dear?"

-

-"Glad--very, very glad, papa," she whispered back as she rained a

-score of kisses On his face. Then she began to cry, and with that she

-ran away to her own room till she could recover herself.

-

-"Women are queer cattle," said the Squire, turning to Tom, "and I'll

-be hanged if I can ever make them out."

-

-"From Miss Culpepper's manner, sir," said Tom, gravely, "I should

-judge that you had told her something that pleased her very much

-indeed."

-

-"Then what did she begin snivelling for?" said the Squire, gruffly.

-

-"Why not tell him everything?" said the Squire to himself, as he and

-Tom sat down in the drawing-room. "He knows a good deal already,--why

-not tell him more? I know he can do nothing towards helping me to

-raise five thousand pounds, but it will do me good to talk to him. I

-must talk to somebody--and I feel sure my secret is quite safe with

-him. I'll tell him while Jenny's out of the room."

-

-The Squire coughed and hemmed, and poked the fire violently before he

-could find a word to say. "Bristow," he burst out at last, "I want to

-raise five thousand five hundred pounds in five days from now, and as

-I'm rather a bad hand at borrowing, I thought that you could, maybe,

-give me a hint as to how it could best be done. Cope would have

-advanced it for me in a moment, only that he happens to be rather

-short of funds just now, and I don't want to trouble any of my other

-friends if it can anyhow be managed without." He began to hum the air

-of an old drinking-song, and poked the fire again. "Capital coals

-these," he added. "And I got 'em cheap, too. The market went up three

-shillings a ton the very day after these were sent in."

-

-"Five thousand five hundred pounds is rather a large amount, sir,"

-said Tom, slowly.

-

-"Of course it's a large amount," said the Squire, testily. "If it were

-only a paltry hundred or two I wouldn't trouble anybody. But never

-mind, Bristow--never mind. I didn't suppose that you could help me

-when I mentioned it; and, after all, it's a matter of very little

-consequence whether I raise the money or not."

-

-"I can only suggest one way, sir, by which the money could be raised

-in so short a time."

-

-"Eh!" said the Squire, turning suddenly on him, and dropping the poker

-noisily in the grate. "You don't mean to say that you can see how it's

-to be done!"

-

-"I think I do, sir. Do you know the piece of ground called Prior's

-Croft?"

-

-"Very well indeed. It belongs to Duckworth, the publican."

-

-"Between you and me, sir, Duckworth's hard up, and would be glad to

-sell the Croft if he could do it quietly and without its becoming

-generally known that he is short of money."

-

-"Well?" said the Squire, a little impatiently. He could not understand

-what Tom was driving at.

-

-"I dare engage to say, sir, that you could have the Croft for two

-thousand pounds, cash down."

-

-"Confound it, man, what an idiot you must be!" said the Squire

-fiercely, bringing his fist down on the table with a tremendous bang.

-"Didn't I tell you that I wanted to borrow money, and not to spend it?

-In fact, as you know quite well, I've got none to spend."

-

-"Precisely so," said Tom, coolly. "And that is the point to which I am

-coming, if you will hear me out."

-

-The Squire's only answer was to glare at him, as if in doubt whether

-he had not taken leave of his senses.

-

-"As I said before, sir, Duckworth will take two thousand pounds for

-the Croft, cash down. Now I, sir, will engage to raise two thousand

-pounds for you by to-morrow, at noon, with which to buy the piece of

-ground in question. The purchase can be effected, and the necessary

-deeds made out and completed, by ten o'clock the following morning. If

-you will entrust those deeds into my possession, I will guarantee to

-effect a mortgage for six thousand pounds, in your name, on the

-Croft."

-

-If the Squire had looked suspicious with regard to Tom's sanity

-before, he now seemed to have no doubt whatever on the point. He

-quietly took up the poker again, as if he were afraid that Tom might

-spring at him unexpectedly.

-

-"So you could lend me two thousand pounds could you?" said the Squire

-drily.

-

-"I did not say that, sir. I said that I could raise two thousand

-pounds for you, which is a very different matter from lending it out

-of my own pocket."

-

-"Humph! And who, sir, do you think would be such a consummate ass as

-to advance six thousand pounds on a plot of ground that had just been

-bought for two thousand?"

-

-"Strange as such a transaction may seem to you, sir, I give you my

-word of honour that I should find no difficulty in carrying it out.

-Have I your permission to do so?"

-

-"I suppose that the two thousand raised by you would have to be repaid

-out of the six thousand raised by mortgage, leaving me with a balance

-of four thousand in hand?" said the Squire, without heeding Tom's

-question, a smile of incredulity playing round his mouth.

-

-"No, sir," answered Tom. "The two thousand pounds could remain on

-interest at five per cent. for whatever term might suit your

-convenience. Again, sir, I ask, have I your permission to negotiate

-the transaction for you?"

-

-Mr. Culpepper gazed steadily for a moment or two into Tom's clear,

-cold eyes. There were no symptoms of insanity visible there, at any

-rate. "And do you mean to tell me in sober seriousness," he said,

-"that you can raise this money in the way you speak of?"

-

-"In sober seriousness, I mean to tell you that I can. Try me."

-

-"I will try you," answered the Squire, impulsively. "I will try you,

-boy. You are a strange fellow, and I begin to think that there's more

-in you than I ever thought there was. But here comes Jenny. Not a word

-more just now."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER II.

-IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.

-

-

-The Park Newton clocks, with more or less unanimity as to time, had

-just struck ten. It was a February night, clear and frosty, and Lionel

-Dering sat in his dressing-room in slippered ease, musing by

-firelight. He had turned out the lamp on purpose; it was too garish

-for his mood to-night. He was back again in thought at Gatehouse Farm.

-Again he saw the gray old cottage, with its moss-grown eaves--the

-cottage that was so ugly outside, but so cosy within. Again he saw the

-long low sandhills, where they stretched themselves out to meet the

-horizon, and, in fancy, heard again the low, monotonous plash of the

-waves, whose melancholy music, heard by day and night, had at one time

-been as familiar to him as the sound of his own voice. What a quiet,

-happy time that seemed as he now looked back to it--a time of soft

-shadows and mild sunshine, with a pensive charm that was all its own,

-and that was lost for ever in the hour which told him that he was a

-rich man! Riches! What had riches done for him? He groaned in spirit

-as he asked himself the question. He could have been happy with Edith

-in a garret--how happy none but himself could have told--had fortune

-compelled him to earn her bread and his own by the sweat of his strong

-right arm.

-

-His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," he

-called out mechanically; and in there came, almost without, a sound,

-Dobbs, body-servant to Kester St. George.

-

-"Oh, Dobbs, is that you?" said Lionel, a little wearily, as he turned

-his head and saw who it was.

-

-"Yes, sir, I have made bold to intrude upon you for a few seconds,"

-said Dobbs, with the utmost deference, as he slowly advanced into the

-room, rubbing the long lean fingers of one hand softly with the palm

-of the other. "My master has not yet got back from Duxley, and there's

-nobody about just now."

-

-"Quite right, Dobbs," said Lionel. "Anything fresh to report?"

-

-"Nothing particularly fresh, sir, but I thought that you might perhaps

-like to see me."

-

-"Very considerate of you, Dobbs, but I am not aware that I have

-anything of consequence to say to you to-night."

-

-"Thank you, sir," said Dobbs, with a faint smile and an extra rub of

-his fingers. "Master's still very queer, sir. No appetite worth

-speaking about. Obliged to screw himself up with brandy in a morning

-before he can finish his toilet. Mutters and moans a good deal in his

-sleep, sir."

-

-"Mutters in his sleep, does he?" said Lionel. "Have you any idea,

-Dobbs, what it is that he talks about?"

-

-"I've tried my best to ascertain, sir, but without much success. I

-have listened and listened for hours, and very cold work it is, sir;

-but there's never more than a word now and a word then that one can

-make out. Nothing connected--nothing worth recollecting."

-

-"Does Mr. St. George still walk in his sleep?"

-

-"He does, sir, but not very often--not more than two or three times a

-month."

-

-"Keep your eyes open, Dobbs, and the very next time your master walks

-in his sleep come to me at once--never mind what hour it may be--and

-tell me."

-

-"I won't fail to do so, sir."

-

-"In these sleep-walking rambles does Mr. St. George always confine

-himself to the house, or does he ever venture out into the park or

-grounds?"

-

-"He generally goes out of doors, sir, at such times. Three times out

-of four he goes as far as the Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk,

-stops there for a minute or two, and then walks back home. I have

-watched him several times."

-

-"The Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk! What should take him

-there?"

-

-"Then you know the place, sir?"

-

-"I know it well."

-

-"Can't say what fancy takes him there, sir. Perhaps he doesn't know

-hisself."

-

-"In any case, let me know when he next walks in his sleep. I have no

-further instructions for you to-night, Dobbs."

-

-"Thank you, sir. I have the honour to wish you a very good night,

-sir."

-

-"Good-night, Dobbs. Keep your eyes open, and report everything to me."

-

-"Yes, sir, yes. You may trust me for doing that, sir." And Dobbs the

-obsequious bowed himself out.

-

-In his cousin's valet Lionel had found an instrument ready to his

-hand, but it was not till after long hesitation and doubt that he made

-up his mind to avail himself of it. The necessities of the case at

-length decided him to do so. No one appreciated the value of a bribe

-better than Dobbs, or worked harder or more conscientiously to deserve

-one. There was a crooked element in his character which made whatever

-money he might earn by indirect means, or by tortuous working, seem

-far sweeter to him than the honest wages of everyday life. Kester St.

-George was not the kind of man ever to try to attach his inferiors to

-himself by any tie of gratitude or kindness. At different times and in

-various ways he suffered for this indifference, although the present

-could hardly be considered as a case in point, seeing that it was not

-in the nature of Dobbs to resist a bribe in whatever shape it might

-offer itself, and that gratitude was one of those virtues which had

-altogether been omitted from his composition.

-

-Late one afternoon, a few days after the interview between Lionel and

-Dobbs, Kester St. George had his horse brought round, and rode out

-unattended, and without leaving word in what direction he was going,

-or at what hour he might be expected back. The day was dull and

-lowering, with fitful puffs of wind, that blew first from one point

-and then from another, and seemed the forerunners of a coming storm.

-Buried in his own thoughts, Kester paid no heed to the weather, but

-rode quickly forward till several miles of country had been crossed.

-By-and-by he diverged from the main road, and turned his horse's head

-into a tortuous and muddy lane, which, after half an hour's bad

-travelling, landed him on the verge of a wide stretch of brown

-treeless moor, than which no place could well have looked more

-desolate and cheerless under the gray monotony of the darkening

-February afternoon. Kester halted for awhile at the end of the lane to

-give his horse breathing time. Far as the eye could see, looking

-forward from the point where he was standing, all was bare and

-treeless, without one single sign of habitation or life.

-

-"Whatever else may be changed, either with me or the world," he

-muttered, "the old moor remains just as it was the first day that I

-can remember it. It was horrible to me at first, but I learned to like

-it--to love it even, before I left it; and I love it now--to-day--with

-all its dreariness and monotony. It is like the face of an old friend.

-You may go away for twenty years, and when you come back you know that

-you will find on it just the same look that it wore when you went

-away. Not that I have ever cared to cultivate such friendships," he

-added, half regretfully. "Well, the next best thing to having a good

-friend is to have a good enemy, and I can thank heaven for granting me

-several such."

-

-He touched his horse with the spur, and rode slowly forward, taking a

-narrow bridle path that led in an oblique direction across the moor.

-"This ought to be the road if my memory serves me aright," he

-muttered, "but they are all so much alike, and intersect each other so

-frequently, that it's far more easy to lose one's way than to know

-where one is."

-

-"I suppose I shall have the rough side of Mother Mim's tongue when I

-do find her," he went on. "I've neglected her shamefully, without a

-doubt. But such ties as the one between her and me become tiresome in

-the long run. She ought to have died off long ago, but she's as tough

-as leather. Poor devils in this part of the country, that haven't a

-penny to bless themselves with, think nothing of living till they're a

-hundred. Is it a superfluity of ozone, or a want of brains, that keeps

-them alive so long?"

-

-He rode steadily forward till he had nearly crossed one angle of the

-moor. At length, but not without some difficulty, he found the place

-he had come in search of. It was a rudely-built hut--cottage it could

-hardly be called--composed of mud, and turf, and great boulders all

-unhewn. Its roof of coarsest thatch was frayed and worn with the wind

-and rain of many winters. Its solitary door of old planks, roughly

-nailed together, opened full on to the moor.

-

-At the back was a patch of garden-ground, which was supposed to grow

-potatoes in the season, but which had never yet been known to grow any

-that were fit to eat. Mr. St. George looked round with a sneer as he

-dismounted.

-

-"And it was in this wretched den that I spent the first eight years of

-my existence!" he muttered. "And the woman whom this place calls its

-mistress was the first being whom I learned to love! And, faith, I'm

-rather doubtful whether I've ever loved anybody half so well since."

-

-Putting his horse's bridle over a convenient hook, and dispensing with

-the ceremony of knocking, Kester St. George lifted the latch, pushed

-open the door, stooped his head, and went in. Inside the hut

-everything was in semi-darkness, and Kester stood for a minute with

-the door in his hand, striving to make out the objects before him.

-

-"Come in and shut the door: I expected you," said a hollow voice from

-one corner of the room; and the one room, such as it was, comprised

-the whole hut.

-

-"Is that you, Mother Mim?" asked Kester.

-

-"Ay--who else should it be?" answered the voice. "But come in and shut

-the door. That cold wind gives me the shivers."

-

-Kester did as he was told, and then made his way to a wretched pallet

-at the other end of the hut. Of furniture there was hardly any, and

-the aspect of the whole place was miserable in the extreme. Over the

-ashes of a wood fire crouched a girl of sixteen, ragged and unkempt,

-who stared at him with black, glittering eyes as he passed her. Next

-moment he was standing by the side of a ragged pallet, on which lay

-the figure of a woman who looked ill almost unto death.

-

-"Why, mother, whatever has been the matter with you?" asked Kester. "A

-little bit out of sorts, eh? But you'll soon be all right again now."

-

-"Yes, I shall soon be all right now--soon be quite well," answered the

-woman grimly. "A black box and six feet of earth cure everything."

-

-"You mustn't talk in that way, mother," said Kester, as he sat down on

-the only chair in the place, and took one of the woman's lean, hot

-hands in his. "You will live to plague us for many a year to come."

-

-"Kester St. George, this is the last time you and I will meet in this

-world."

-

-"I hope not, with all my heart," said Kester, feelingly.

-

-"I know what I know, and I know that what I say is true," answered

-Mother Mim. "You would not have come now if I had not worked a spell

-strong enough to bring you here even against your will. I worked it

-four nights ago, at midnight, when that young viper there"--pointing a

-finger at the girl, who was still cowering over the ashes--"was fast

-asleep, and there were no eyes to see but those of the cold stars. Ah!

-but it was horrible! and if it had not been that I felt I must see you

-before I died, I could never have gone through with it." She paused

-for a moment, as though overcome by some dreadful recollection. "Then,

-when it was over, I crept back to bed, and waited quietly, knowing

-that now you could not choose but come."

-

-"I ought to have come and seen you long ago--I know it--I feel it,"

-said Kester. "But let bygones be bygones, and I give you my solemn

-promise never to neglect you again. I am rich now, mother, and you

-shall never want for anything as long as you live."

-

-"Too late--too late!" sighed the woman. "Yes, you're rich now, rich

-enough to bury me, and that's all I ask you to do."

-

-"Don't talk like that, mother," said Kester.

-

-"If you had only come to see me!" said the woman. "That was all I

-wanted. Just to see your face, and squeeze your hand, and have you to

-talk to me for a little while. I wanted none of your money--no, not a

-single shilling of it. It was only you I wanted."

-

-Kester began to feel slightly bored. He squeezed Mother Mim's hand,

-and then dropped it, but he did not speak.

-

-"But you didn't come," moaned the woman, "and you wouldn't have come

-now if I hadn't worked a charm to bring you."

-

-"There you wrong me," said Kester, decisively. "Your charm, or spell,

-or whatever it may have been, had no effect in bringing me here. I

-came of my own free will."

-

-"Self-conceited, as you always were and always will be," muttered the

-woman. Then, half raising herself in bed, and addressing the girl, she

-cried: "Nell, you hussy, just you hook it for a quarter of an hour.

-The gent and I have something to talk about."

-

-The girl rose sullenly, went slowly out, and banged the door behind

-her.

-

-Kester wondered what was coming next. He had dropped the woman's hand,

-but she now held it out for him to take again. He took it, and she

-pressed his hand passionately to her lips three or four times.

-

-"If the great secret of my life is to be told at all on this side the

-grave, the time to tell it is now come. I always thought to die

-without revealing it, but somehow of late everything has seemed

-different to me, and I feel now as if I couldn't die easy without

-telling you." She paused for a minute, exhausted. There was some

-brandy on the chimney-piece, and Kester gave her a little. Again she

-took his hand and kissed it passionately.

-

-"You will, perhaps, curse me for what I am about to tell you," she

-went on, "but whether you do so or not, so may Heaven help me if it is

-anything more than the simple truth! Kester St. George, you have no

-right to the name you bear--to the name the world knows you by!"

-

-Kester was so startled that for a moment or two he sat like one

-suddenly stricken dumb. "Go on," he said at last. "There's more to

-follow. I like boldness in lying as in everything else."

-

-"Again I swear that I am telling you no more than the solemn truth."

-

-"If I am not Kester St. George," he said with a sneer, "perhaps you

-will kindly inform me who I really am."

-

-"You are my son!"

-

-He flung the woman's hand savagely from him, and sprang to his feet

-with an oath. "Your son!" he said. "Ha! ha! ha! Your son, indeed!

-Since when have your senses quite left you, Mother Mim? A dark cell in

-Bedlam and a strait waistcoat would be your best physic."

-

-"I am rightly punished," moaned the woman--"rightly punished. I ought

-to have told you years ago--ay--before you ever grew to be a man. But

-I loved you so, and had such pride in you, that I couldn't bear the

-thought of telling you, and it's only now when I'm on my deathbed that

-the secret forces itself from me. But it will go no farther, never you

-fear that. No living soul but you will ever hear it from my lips; and

-you have only got to keep your own lips tightly shut, and you will

-live and die as Kester St. George."

-

-She sank back with the exhaustion of speaking. Mechanically, and

-almost without knowing what he was doing, Kester again gave her a

-little brandy. Then he sat down; and Mother Mim, finding his hand

-close by, took possession of it again. He shuddered slightly, but did

-not withdraw it.

-

-Although Mother Mim had advanced no proofs in support of the strange

-story she had just told him, there was something in her tone which

-carried conviction to his inmost heart.

-

-"I must know more of this," he said, after a little while, speaking

-almost in a whisper.

-

-"How well I remember everything about it! It seems only like yesterday

-that it all happened," sighed the woman. "You--my own child, and

-he--the other one that was sent to me to nurse, were born within a few

-hours of one another. His father broke a blood-vessel about six weeks

-after the child was brought to me. The mother went with her husband to

-Italy to take care of him, and the child was left with me. A week or

-two afterwards he was taken suddenly ill, and died. Then the devil

-tempted me to put my own boy into the place of the lost heir. When

-Mrs. St. George came back from Italy she came to see her child, and

-you were shown to her as that child. She accepted you without a

-moment's suspicion. They let you stay with me till you were eight

-years old, and then they took you away and sent you to school. My

-husband and my sister were the only two beside myself who knew what

-had been done, and they both died years ago without saying a word. I

-shall join them in a few days, and then you alone will be the keeper

-of the secret. With you it will die, and on your tombstone they will

-write: 'Here lies the body of Kester St. George.'"

-

-She had told her story with great difficulty, and with frequent

-interruptions to gather strength and breath to finish it. She now lay

-back, utterly exhausted. Her eyes closed, her hand relaxed its hold on

-Kester's, her jaw dropped slightly, the thin white face grew thinner

-and whiter: it seemed as if Death, passing that way, had looked in

-unexpectedly, and had beckoned her to go with him. Kester rose

-quickly, and struck a match and lighted a fragment of candle that he

-found on the chimney-piece. His next impulse was to try and revive her

-with a little brandy, but he paused with the glass in his hand. Why

-try to revive her? Would it not be better for him, for her, for every

-one, if she were really dead? If such were the case, it would do away

-with all fear of her strange secret being ever divulged to any one

-else. Yes--in every way her death would be a welcome release.

-

-It was not without a tremor, it was not without a faster beating of

-the heart, that Kester took the bit of cracked looking-glass from the

-wall and held it to the woman's lips. His very life seemed to stand

-still for a moment or two while he waited for the result. It came. The

-glass clouded faintly. The woman was not dead. With a muttered curse

-Kester dashed the glass across the floor and put back the candle on

-the chimney-piece. Then he took up his hat. Where was the use of

-staying longer? She could tell him nothing more when she should have

-come to her senses than she had told him already: nothing, that is, of

-any consequence; and as for details, he did not want them--at least,

-not now. What he had been told already held food enough for thought

-for some time to come. He paused for a moment before going out.

-Was it really possible--was it really credible, that that haggard,

-sharp-featured woman was his mother?--that his father had been a

-coarse, common labouring man, a mere hedger and ditcher, who had lived

-and died in that mean hut, and that he himself, instead of being the

-Kester St. George he had always believed himself to be, was no other

-than the son of those two--the boy whose supposed death he remembered

-to have heard about when little more than a mere child?

-

-Fiercely and savagely he told himself again and again that such a

-thing could not be--that what Mother Mim had told him was nothing more

-than a pack of devil's lies--the invention of a brain weakened and

-distorted by illness and the clouds of coming death. It was high time

-to go. He put five sovereigns on the chimney-piece, went softly out,

-and shut the door behind him. The girl was sitting on the low mud-wall

-near the door, with the skirt of her dress drawn over her head as some

-protection from the bitter wind. Her black, glittering eyes took him

-in from head to foot as he walked up to her. "Go inside at once. She

-has fainted," said Kester. The girl nodded and went. Then Kester

-mounted his horse and rode slowly homeward through the chilly

-twilight. Bitterest thoughts held him as with a vice. When he came

-within sight of the chimneys of Park Newton, he gave a sigh of relief,

-and put spurs to his horse. "That is mine, and no power on earth shall

-take it from me," he muttered. "That and the money that comes with it.

-I am Kester St. George. Let those disprove who can!"

-

-A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room,

-smoking a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct

-taps at the door, which he recognized as the peculiar signal of Dobbs.

-It was nearly an hour past midnight, and in that early household every

-one had been long abed, or, at least, had retired long ago to their

-own rooms.

-

-Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by

-no means infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier

-hour than on the present occasion.

-

-"Come in, Dobbs," said Lionel. "You are later to-night than usual."

-

-"Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such

-an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago,

-that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master

-took to walking in his sleep."

-

-"Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my

-instructions."

-

-"Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast

-asleep."

-

-"In which direction did he go?"

-

-"He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and

-let himself out through the little glass door into the garden."

-

-"And then which way did he go?"

-

-"I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you."

-

-"Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to

-take?"

-

-"There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the Wizard's

-Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the place

-to which he has gone."

-

-"We must follow him, Dobbs."

-

-"Yes, sir."

-

-"We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him."

-

-"Yes, sir."

-

-"I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets

-back to the house?"

-

-"None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes

-quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and

-soberly as if he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does

-really wake up in the morning, he never seems to know anything about

-what has happened over-night. But we must make haste, sir, if we wish

-to overtake him."

-

-"I will be ready in one minute."

-

-Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap

-on his head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the

-open air.

-

-The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above

-the tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint old house in its

-white glory, but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in

-deepest shadow. Nowhere could they discern the figure of the man whom

-they had come out to follow; but the Wizard's Fountain was a good half

-mile from the Hall, so they struck at once into the nearest footway

-that led towards it. A few minutes' quick walking took them there.

-Lionel knew the place well. It had been a favourite haunt of his when

-living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks that preceded the

-murder. Very weird and solemn the whole place looked, as seen by

-moonlight at that still hour of the night.

-

-Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that

-particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows

-immediately over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted

-of beech, and oak, and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and

-fantastic: untended and uncared for--growing together year after year,

-whispering their leafy secrets to each other with every spring that

-came round, and standing shoulder to shoulder against the winds of

-winter: a hoary brotherhood of forest sages.

-

-The fountain itself, whatever it might have been in years long gone

-by, was now nothing more than a confused heap of huge stones,

-overgrown with lichens and creepers. From the midst of them, and from

-what had doubtless at one time been a representation in marble of the

-head of a leopard or other forest animal, but which now was almost

-worn past recognition, trickled a thin stream of coldest water; which,

-falling into a broken basin below, over-brimmed itself there, and was

-lost among the cracks and interstices in the masses of broken masonry

-that lay scattered around.

-

-"You had better, perhaps, wait here," said Lionel to Dobbs, as they

-halted for a moment at the entrance to the avenue.

-

-Dobbs did as he was bidden, and Lionel advanced alone, keeping well

-within the shade of the trees. When within a dozen yards of the

-fountain, he halted and waited. The low, ceaseless monotone of the

-falling water was the only sound that broke the moonlit silence.

-

-From out the dense shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the

-avenue, and as if he himself were part of that shadow, Kester St.

-George slowly emerged. In the middle of the avenue, and in the full

-light of the moon, he paused. His right hand was thrust into the bosom

-of his vest, as if he were hiding something there. Standing thus, he

-seemed, as it were, to shrink within himself. Still hugging that

-hidden something, he seemed to listen--to listen as if his very life

-depended on the act. Then, with a slow, creeping motion, as though his

-feet were weighted with lead, he stole towards the fountain. He

-reached it. He grasped the stonework with one hand, and then he turned

-to gaze, as though in dread of some hidden pursuer. Then slowly,

-almost reluctantly, he seemed to draw something from within his vest,

-and, while still gazing furtively around him, he thrust his arm, elbow

-deep, into a crevice in the masonry, let it rest there for a single

-moment, and then withdrew it. With the same furtively restless look,

-and ears that seemed to listen more intently than ever, he paused for

-an instant. Then he stole swiftly back across the moonlit avenue, and

-so vanished among the black shadows from whence he had come.

-

-So natural had been his actions, so unstudied his every movement, that

-it seemed impossible to believe that he was indeed asleep.

-

-Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by

-the fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a

-minute before. He had noted well the place. There, before him, was the

-very crevice into which Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same

-crevice was Lionel's arm now thrust--elbow deep--shoulder deep. His

-groping fingers soon laid hold of that which was hidden there. He drew

-out his arm quickly, and the something that he had found glittered

-steel-blue in the moonlight. With a cry of horror he dropped it, and

-it fell with a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering had

-recognized it in a moment as a dagger which he had last seen in the

-possession of Percy Osmond.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER III.

-MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.

-

-

-Mrs. McDermott had reached Pincote, and she did not fail to let every

-one know it. As the Squire had predicted, the moment she had taken off

-her waterproof, and changed her boots, she marched straight into the

-library, and asked for her money. It was with a feeling of profound

-satisfaction that her brother unlocked his bureau, and handed her a

-roll of notes representing five thousand seven hundred and fifty

-pounds. She counted the notes over twice, slowly and carefully.

-

-"What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?" she asked.

-

-"Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum."

-

-"I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least," she

-said ungraciously. "My man of business tells me that seven is quite a

-common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per

-cent. on real property, without any difficulty."

-

-"I should advise you to be careful what you are about," said the

-Squire, gravely. "Big profits, big risks; little profits, little

-risks."

-

-"I know perfectly well what I'm doing," said Mrs. McDermott, with a

-toss of her antiquated curls. "It's you slow, sleepy, country folks,

-who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances that come

-to people who keep their eyes wide open."

-

-The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned in spirit when

-he thought what his "golden chance" had done for him.

-

-"Let her buy her experience as I've bought mine," he said to himself.

-"From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for it."

-

-"Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?" he asked

-Jane, a day or two later.

-

-"No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to

-go by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one."

-

-"I hope not, with all my heart," sighed the Squire.

-

-Mrs. McDermott, in truth, was not a lady who ever troubled herself to

-make her presence agreeable to those with whom she might be staying.

-Consideration for the comfort of others was a thought that never

-entered her mind. From the day of her arrival at Pincote she began to

-interfere with the existing arrangements of the house; finding fault

-with everything: changing this, altering the other, and evidently

-determined to have her own way in all. The first thing she did was to

-find fault with her bedroom, although it was one of the pleasantest

-apartments in the house, and had been especially arranged by Jane

-herself with a view to her aunt's comfort. But it was not the best

-bedroom--the state bedroom, therefore Mrs. McDermott would have none

-of it. Into the state bedroom, a gloomy apartment fronting the north,

-which was never used above once or twice in half a dozen years, she

-migrated at once with all her belongings. Her next act, she being

-without a maid of her own at the time, was to induct one of the

-Pincote servants into that office, taking her altogether from her

-proper duties, and not permitting her to do a stroke of work for any

-one but herself. Then she talked her brother into allowing the dinner

-hour to be altered from six to half-past seven; so that, as the Squire

-grumbled to himself, the cloth was hardly removed before it was time

-to go to bed. Then the Squire must never appear at dinner without a

-dress coat, and a white tie--articles which, or late years, he had

-been tacitly allowed to dispense with when dining en famille. A white

-cravat especially was to him an abomination. He never could tie the

-knot properly, and after crumpling three or four, and throwing them

-across the room in a rage, Jane's services would generally have to be

-called into requisition as a last resource.

-

-One other infliction there was which the Squire found it very

-difficult to bear patiently. After dinner, when there was no

-particular company at Pincote, it was an understood thing that the

-Squire should have the dining-room to himself for half an hour, in

-order that he might enjoy the post-prandial snooze which long custom

-had made almost a necessity with him. But this was an arrangement that

-failed to meet with the approbation of Mrs. McDermott. She insisted

-that the Squire should either accompany the ladies, or, otherwise, she

-herself would keep him company in the dining-room; and woe be to him

-if he dared so much as close an eye for five seconds! It was "Where

-are your manners, sir? I'm thoroughly ashamed of you;" or else,

-"Falling asleep, sir, in the presence of a lady? a clodhopper could do

-no more than that!" till the Squire felt as if his life were being

-slowly tormented out of him.

-

-Nor did Jane fail to come in for a share of her aunt's strictures.

-Mrs. McDermott evidently looked upon her as little more than a child.

-Firstly, her hair was not arranged in accordance with her aunt's ideas

-of propriety in such matters, which, truth to say, belonged to a

-somewhat antiquated school. Then the girl was altogether too bright

-and sunny-looking, with her bows of ribbon and bits of lace showing

-daintily here and there. And she was too forward in introducing topics

-of conversation at meal-times, instead of allowing the introduction of

-appropriate themes to come from her elders and her betters. Then Jane

-was addicted to the heinous offence of laughing too heartily, and too

-often. Altogether her aunt saw in her much that stood in need of

-reformation. Jane bore everything with a sort of good-humoured

-indifference. "The time to speak is not come yet. I will see how much

-further she will go," she said to herself. But when the cook came to

-her one morning and said: "If you please, miss, Mrs. Dermott says that

-for the future I am to take my dinner orders from her," then Jane

-thought that the time to speak was drawing very near indeed.

-

-"Do as Mrs. McDermott tells you," she said quietly to the astonished

-cook.

-

-"Well, I never! I thought that the mistress had more spirit than

-that," said the woman as she went back to her duties in the kitchen.

-

-Next day brought the coachman. "Beg pardon, miss," he said, with a

-touch of his hair; "but Mrs. McDermott have given orders that the

-brougham and gray mare is to be ready for her every afternoon at three

-o'clock to the minute. I am to take the order, miss, I suppose?"

-

-"Quite right, John, till I give you orders to the contrary."

-

-Next came the gardener. "Very sorry, miss, but I shall have to give

-notice--I shall really."

-

-"Why, what's amiss now, Gibson?"

-

-"It's all Mrs. McDermott, miss; begging your pardon for saying so. Why

-will she pretend to understand gardening better than me that has been

-at it, man and boy, for fifty year? Why will she come finding fault

-with this, that, and the other, in a way that neither the Squire nor

-you, miss, ever thinks of doing? And she not only finds fault, but

-gives orders, ridiculous orders, about things she knows nothing of. I

-can't stand it, miss, I really can't."

-

-"Mrs. McDermott will give you no more orders, Gibson, after to-day.

-You can go back to your work with an easy mind."

-

-Jane waited till next morning, and then having ascertained that her

-aunt had again given orders to the cook respecting dinner, she walked

-straight into the breakfast-room where she knew that she should find

-Mrs. McDermott alone, and busy with her correspondence--for she was a

-great letter writer at that hour of the morning.

-

-"What a noisy girl you are," she said crossly, as her niece drew up a

-chair and sat down beside her. "I was just writing a few lines to dear

-Lady Clark when you came in in your usual brusque way and put all my

-ideas to flight."

-

-"They must be poor, timid, little ideas, aunt, to be so easily

-frightened away," said Jane.

-

-"Jane, there has been a flippant tone about you for the last day or

-two that I don't at all approve of. Flippancy in young people is

-easily acquired, but difficult to get rid of. The sooner you get rid

-of yours the better I shall be pleased."

-

-Jane rose from her chair and swept Mrs. McDermott a stately curtsey.

-"Is it not almost time, aunt," she said quietly, "that you gave up

-treating me, and talking to me, as if I were a child?"

-

-"If you are no longer a child in years, you are still very childish in

-many of your ways."

-

-"You are quite epigrammatic this morning, aunt."

-

-"Don't be impertinent, young lady."

-

-"I have no intention of being impertinent. But I have come to see you

-about the order for dinner which you gave the cook half an hour ago."

-

-"What about that?" asked Mrs. McDermott snappishly. "In what way does

-it concern you?"

-

-"It concerns me very materially indeed," answered Jane. "You have

-ordered several things for dinner that papa does not care about; some,

-in fact, that he never eats. Fried soles, for instance, and veal

-cutlets--articles he never touches. So I have told the cook to

-supplement your order with some turbot and a boiled fowl � la

-marquise. I have also told her that for the future she will receive

-from me every evening the menu for next day. Should my list contain

-nothing that you care about, the cook has orders to obtain specially

-for you any articles that you may wish to have."

-

-"Upon my word! what next?" was all that Mrs. McDermott could gasp out

-at the moment, so overcome was she with rage and surprise.

-

-"This next," said Jane. "From to-day the dinner hour will be altered

-back to six o'clock. Half-past seven suits neither papa nor me. Should

-the latter hour be a necessity with you, you can always have your

-dinner served at that time in your own room. But papa and I will dine

-at six."

-

-"I shall talk to your papa about this, and ascertain from his own lips

-whether I am to be dictated to and insulted by a chit like you."

-

-"That is just what I must forbid you to do," said Jane. "Papa's health

-has not been what it ought to be for a long time past.

-

-"Only a few weeks ago he had a slight stroke. Happily he soon recovered

-from it, but Dr. Davidson says that all exciting topics must be kept

-carefully from him. You know how little things will often excite him;

-and if you begin to worry him about any petty differences that may

-arise between you and me, you will do so at your peril, and must be

-satisfied to take whatever consequences may arise from your so doing."

-

-Mrs. McDermott stared at her niece in open-mouthed wonder.

-

-"Perhaps you have something more to say to me," she gasped out.

-

-"Yes, several things. Before ordering the brougham to be at your beck

-and call every day at three o'clock, it might, perhaps, be just as

-well to make sure that your brother is not likely to want it. He has

-taken to using it rather frequently of late."

-

-"Oh, indeed; I'll make due inquiry," was all that Mrs. McDermott could

-find to say.

-

-"And if I were you, I wouldn't go quite so often into the greenhouses,

-or near the men at work in the garden."

-

-"Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while

-you are about it."

-

-"Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an

-hour. He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot

-do without it. This is most imperative."

-

-"I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life."

-

-"Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no

-intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you

-when you come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here

-as papa's guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you

-comfortable. But there can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that

-mistress, at present, is your niece, Jane Culpepper."

-

-And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had

-bent over her, kissed her, and swept from the room.

-

-For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary state, at half-past

-seven, in her own room. But she found it so utterly wretched to have

-no one to talk to but her maid, that on the third day her resolution

-failed her; and when six o'clock came round she found herself in the

-dining-room, sitting next her brother, with something of the feeling

-of a school-girl who has been whipped and forgiven.

-

-Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid and

-stand-off-ish for several days to come. Towards the Squire she

-imperceptibly thawed, and the old familiar intimacy was gradually

-resumed between them. But between herself and Jane there was

-something--a restraint, a coldness--which no time could altogether

-remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that she had

-been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some

-great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then

-have afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise.

-

-It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed

-over to his sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to

-her. It was a great weight off his mind, and although he did not say

-much to Tom Bristow about it, he was none the less grateful in his

-secret heart. He was still as much at a loss as ever to understand by

-what occult means Tom had been able to raise the mortgage of six

-thousand pounds on Prior's Croft. He had hinted more than once that he

-should like to know the secret by means of which a result so

-remarkable had been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly

-impervious.

-

-Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six

-thousand pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said:

-"With regard to Prior's Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in

-the matter: perhaps you won't object to it a second time."

-

-"What is it, Bristow, what is it?" said the Squire, graciously. "I

-shall be glad to listen to anything you may have to say."

-

-"What I want you to do, sir," said Tom, "is to have some plans at once

-drawn up, and have the foundations laid of a number of houses--twenty

-to thirty at the least--on Prior's Croft."

-

-"I thought you crazy about the mortgage," said the Squire, with a

-twinkle in his eye. "Are you quite sure you are not crazy now?"

-

-"I am just as sane now as I was then."

-

-"But to build houses on Prior's Croft! Why, nobody would ever live in

-them. The place is altogether out of the way."

-

-"That has nothing whatever to do with the question. If you will only

-take my advice, sir, you will get the foundations down without an

-hour's unnecessary delay."

-

-"And where should I be at the end of a month, when the contractor came

-to me for the first instalment of his money?"

-

-"All that can be arranged for without difficulty. Your credit is sound

-in the market, and that is the one thing indispensable."

-

-"But what is to be the ultimate result of all these mysterious

-proceedings?"

-

-"Now you get me in a corner. But I must again crave your indulgence,

-and ask you to let the mystery remain a mystery a little while longer.

-If you have sufficient faith in me, why, take my advice. If not--you

-will simply be missing a chance of making an odd thousand or so."

-

-"And that is what I can by no means afford to do," said the Squire

-with emphasis.

-

-The result was that a week later some forty or fifty men were busily

-at work cutting the turf and digging the foundations for the score of

-grand new villas which Mr. Culpepper had decided on building at

-Prior's Croft.

-

-Everybody's verdict was that the Squire must be mad. New villas,

-indeed! Why there were hardly people enough in sleepy old Duxley to

-occupy the houses that fell vacant as the older inhabitants died off.

-

-"That may be," said the Squire, when this plea was urged on his

-notice; "but I mean to make my villas so handsome, so commodious, and

-so healthy, that a lot of the old rattletrap dens will at once be

-deserted, and I shall not have house-room for half the people who will

-want to become my tenants." So spoke the Squire, putting a brave face

-on the matter, but really as much in the dark as any one.

-

-But if there was one person more puzzled than another, that person was

-certainly Mr. Cope the banker. He had ascertained for a fact that

-within a few days of their interview--their very painful interview, he

-termed it to himself--his quondam friend had actually become the

-purchaser of Prior's Croft; and what was a still greater marvel, had

-actually paid down two thousand pounds in hard cash for it! And now

-the town's talk was of nothing but the grand villas which the Squire

-was going to build on his new purchase. Mr. Cope could hardly credit

-it all till he went and saw with his own eyes the men hard at work.

-Still, it was altogether incomprehensible to him. Could the Squire

-have merely been playing him a trick; have only been testing the

-strength of his friendship, when he came to him to borrow the five

-thousand pounds? No, that could hardly be; else why had his balance at

-the bank been allowed to dwindle to a mere nothing? Besides which, he

-knew from words that the Squire had let drop at different times, that

-he must have been speculating heavily. Could it be possible that his

-speculations had, after all, proved successful? If not, how account

-for this sudden flood of prosperity? For several days Mr. Cope failed

-to enjoy his dinner in the hearty way that was habitual with him: for

-several nights Mr. Cope's sleep failed to refresh him as it usually

-did.

-

-Although the Squire's heaviest burden had been lifted off his mind

-with the payment of his sister's money, he had by no means forgotten

-the loss of his daughter's dowry. And now that his mind was easy on

-one point, this lesser trouble began to assume a magnitude that it had

-not possessed before. He could not get rid of the thought that there

-was nothing but his own frail life between his daughter and all but

-absolute penury. A few hundred pounds Jane would undoubtedly have, but

-what would that be to a young lady brought up as she had been brought

-up? "Not enough," as the Squire put it in his homely way, "to find her

-in bread-and-cheese and cotton gowns."

-

-But what was to be done? Life assurance was out of the question. He

-was too old and too infirm. There was nothing much to be got out of

-the estate. It was true that he might thin the timber a little and

-make a few hundreds that way; but the heir-at-law had too shrewd an

-eye to his own ultimate interests to allow very much to be done in

-that line. Besides which, the Squire himself could not for very shame

-have impaired what was the chief beauty of the Pincote property--its

-magnificent array of timber.

-

-There was, perhaps, a little cheese-paring to be done in the way of

-cutting down domestic expenses. A couple of servants might be

-dispensed with indoors. The under-gardener and the stable-boy might be

-sent about their business. The gray mare and the brougham might be

-disposed of. The wine merchant's bill might be lightened a little; and

-fewer coals, perhaps, might be burnt in winter--and that was nearly

-all.

-

-But even such reductions as these, trifling though they were, could

-not be made secretly--could not be made, in fact, without becoming the

-talk of the whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire

-detested more than another, it was having his private affairs

-challenged and discussed by other people. And what, after all, would

-the saving amount to? How many years of such petty economy would be

-needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of the sum he had

-lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle, as he said to

-himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled, too, with

-asking the same questions over and over again, and still finding

-himself as far from a satisfactory answer as ever.

-

-There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it

-any real basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground

-which has already been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed

-estate--the piece of ground on which his new mansion was to have been

-built. Land, just now, was fetching good prices. Yes, he would

-certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in Jenny's name whatever money

-it might fetch--not that it would command a very high price, being a

-poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still it would be a nest egg,

-though only a little one, for a rainy day.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER IV.

-KNOCKLEY HOLT.

-

-

-About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The

-Squire would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without

-Tom's society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more

-and more disinclined either for going out himself or having company at

-home. Still he could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now

-and then; and Tom being either a good listener or a lively talker, as

-occasion might require, and having already rendered the Squire an

-important service, it seemed somehow to fall into the natural order of

-things that he should be invited three or four times a week to dine at

-Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott's arrival was he there less

-frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very lively

-company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to

-say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she

-overwhelmed her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty

-gossip about things that had little or no interest for him; but about

-which he was obliged to feign an interest, unless, as he himself

-expressed it, "he wanted to know the length of his sister's tongue."

-

-But when Tom was there the case was different. He acted as a sort of

-buffer between Mrs. McDermott and the Squire. By means of a few adroit

-questions, and a clever assumption of ignorance with regard to

-whatever topic Mrs. McDermott might be dilating on, he generally

-succeeded in drawing the full torrent of her conversation on his own

-devoted head, thereby affording the Squire a breathing space for which

-he was truly grateful. Sometimes, but not very often, Tom let the

-demon of mischief get the mastery of him. On such occasions he would

-lead Mrs. McDermott on by one artful question after another till she

-began to contradict herself and eat her own words, and ended by

-floundering helplessly in a sort of mental quagmire, and so

-relapsing into sulky silence, with a dim sense upon her that she had

-somehow been coaxed into making an exhibition of herself by that

-demure-looking young scamp of a Bristow, who seemed hand and glove

-with both her brother and her niece after a fashion that she neither

-liked nor understood.

-

-Yet was the love of hearing herself talk so ingrained in Mrs.

-McDermott's nature, that by the time of Tom's next visit to Pincote

-she was ready to fall into the same trap again, had he been inclined

-to lead her on.

-

-"Who is that young Bristow that you and Jane make such a pet of?" she

-asked her brother one day. "I don't seem to recollect any family of

-that name hereabouts."

-

-"Pet, indeed! Nobody makes a pet of him, as you call it," growled the

-Squire. "He's the son of the doctor who attended poor Charlotte in her

-last illness. He's a sharp young fellow who has got his head screwed

-on the right way, and he's been useful to me in one or two business

-matters, and may be so again; so there's no harm in asking him to

-dinner now and then."

-

-"Now and then with you seems to mean three or four times a week,"

-sneered Mrs. McDermott.

-

-"And what if it does?" retorted the Squire. "As long as I can call the

-house my own, I'll ask anybody I like to dinner, and as often as I

-like."

-

-"Only if I were you, I wouldn't forget that I'd a daughter who was

-just at a marriageable age."

-

-"Nor a sister who wouldn't object to a husband number two," chuckled

-the Squire.

-

-"Why not set your cap at young Bristow, eh, Fanny? You might do worse.

-He's young and not bad looking, and if he has no money of his own,

-he's just the right sort to look well after yours."

-

-Mrs. McDermott fanned herself indignantly. "You never were very

-refined, Titus," she said; "but you certainly get coarser every time I

-see you."

-

-Mr. Culpepper only chuckled to himself, and poked the fire vigorously.

-

-"I'll have that young Bristow out of this house before I'm three weeks

-older!" vowed the 'widow to herself. "The way he and Jane carry on

-together is simply disgusting, and yet that poor weak brother of mine

-can't see it."

-

-From that day forth she took to watching Tom and Jane more

-particularly than she had done before. Not satisfied with watching

-them herself, she induced her maid Emma to act as a spy on their

-actions. With her assistance, Mrs. McDermott was not long in gathering

-sufficient evidence to warrant her, as she thought, in seeking a

-private interview with her brother on the subject. "And high time

-too," she said grimly to herself. "That minx of a Jane is carrying on

-a fine game under the rose. The arrant little flirt! And as for that

-young Bristow--of course it's Jane's money that he's after. Titus must

-be as blind as a bat, or he would have seen it all long ago. I've no

-patience with him--none!"

-

-Having worked herself up to the requisite pitch, downstairs she

-bounced and burst into the Squire's private room--commonly called his

-study. She burst into the room, but halted suddenly the moment she had

-crossed the threshold. The Squire was there, but not alone. Tom

-Bristow was with him. The two were in deep consultation--so much she

-could see at a glance--bending towards each other over the little

-table, and speaking, as it seemed to her, almost in a whisper. The

-Squire turned with a gesture of impatience at the opening of the door.

-"Oh, is that you, Fanny?" he said. "I'll see you presently; I'm busy

-with Mr. Bristow, just now."

-

-She went out without a word, but her face flushed deeply, and an evil

-look came into her eyes. "That's the way you treat your only sister,

-Mr. Titus Culpepper, is it?" she muttered under her breath. "Not a

-penny of my money shall ever come to you or yours."

-

-Tom had walked over to Pincote that morning to see the Squire

-respecting the building going on at Prior's Croft. When their

-conference had come to an end, said the Squire to Tom: "You know that

-scrubby bit of ground of mine--Knockley Holt?"

-

-Tom started. "Yes, I know it very well," he said. "It is rather

-singular that you should be the first to speak about it; because it

-was partly about that very piece of ground that I am here this morning

-to see you."

-

-"Ay--ay--how's that?" said the Squire, suddenly brightening up from

-the apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of late.

-

-"Why, it doesn't seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that

-perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me have a lease of it."

-

-The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several

-weeks. "And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to

-ask your advice about it!"

-

-Tom's face flushed suddenly. "And do you really think of selling

-Knockley Holt?" he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the

-Squire's face more keenly than usual.

-

-"Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn't have said what I have

-said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to

-me than the land is ever likely to be. It won't fetch much I know, but

-then I didn't give much for it, and whoever may get it won't have much

-of a bargain."

-

-"Perhaps you wouldn't object to have me for a purchaser?"

-

-"You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I

-should want money down, and---- But I needn't say more about it."

-

-"If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve

-hundred pounds for it, cash down."

-

-The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at

-anything that Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a

-moment or two in blank amazement.

-

-"Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!" were his first words.

-"And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve

-hundred pounds?"

-

-"Oh, I'm worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds," said Tom,

-with a smile. "Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by one

-little stroke in cotton."

-

-"Well done, young one," said the Squire, heartily. "You are not such a

-fool as you look. And now take an old man's advice. Don't speculate

-any more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her cake. Don't

-tempt her again. Be content with what you've got, and speculate no

-more."

-

-"At any rate, I won't forget your advice, sir," said Tom. "I wonder,"

-he added to himself, "what he would think and say if he knew that it

-was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread and cheese."

-

-"And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?"

-

-"I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it."

-

-"Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do

-with it when you have got it?"

-

-"Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask

-me," said Tom, laughingly. "If I buy it, it will be entirely on

-speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a

-big success."

-

-"Well, well, that will be your look out," said the Squire,

-good-naturedly. "But, Bristow, it's not worth twelve hundred pounds,

-nor anything like that sum."

-

-"I think it is, sir--at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay

-that amount for it."

-

-"I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a

-clear thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied."

-

-"I have made you an offer, sir. It is for you to say whether you are

-willing to accept it."

-

-"Seeing that you offer me two hundred pounds more than I ever hoped to

-get, I'm not such an ass as to say, No. Only I think you are robbing

-yourself. I do indeed, Bristow; and that's what I don't like to see."

-

-"I think, sir, that I'm pretty well able to look after my own

-interests," said Tom, with a meaning smile. "Am I to consider that

-Knockley Holt is to become my property?"

-

-"Of course you are, boy--of course you are. But I must say that you

-are a little bit of a simpleton to give me twelve hundred when you

-might have it for a thousand."

-

-"An offer's an offer, and I'll abide by mine."

-

-"Then there's nothing more to be said: I'll see my lawyer about the

-deeds to-morrow."

-

-Tom shook hands with the Squire and went in search of Jane.

-

-"Perhaps I may come in now," said Mrs. McDermott five minutes later,

-as she opened the door of her brother's room.

-

-"Of course you may," said the Squire. "Young Bristow and I were

-talking over some business affairs before, that would have had no

-interest for you, and that you know nothing about."

-

-"It's about young Bristow, as you call him, that I have come to see

-you this morning."

-

-"Oh, indeed," said the Squire drily. Then he took off his spectacles,

-and rubbed them with his pocket handkerchief, and began to whistle a

-tune under his breath.

-

-Mrs. McDermott glared fiercely at him, and her voice took an added

-tone of asperity when she spoke again. "I suppose you are aware that

-your prot�g� is making violent love to your daughter, or else that

-your daughter is making violent love to him: I hardly know which it

-is!"

-

-"What!" thundered the Squire, as he started to his feet. "What is that

-you say, Fanny McDermott?"

-

-"Simply this: that there is a lot of lovemaking going on between Jane

-and Mr. Bristow. If it is done with your sanction, I have not another

-word to say. But if you tell me that you know nothing about it, I can

-only say that you must have been as blind as a bat and as stupid as an

-owl."

-

-"Thank you, Fanny--thank you," said the Squire sadly, as he sat down

-in his chair again. "I dare say I have been both blind and stupid; and

-if what you tell me is true, I must have been."

-

-"Miss Jane couldn't long deceive me," said the widow spitefully.

-

-"Miss Jane is too good a girl to deceive anybody."

-

-"Oh, in love matters we women hold that everything is fair. Deceit

-then becomes deceit no longer. We call it by a prettier name."

-

-Her brother was not heeding her: he was lost in his own thoughts.

-

-"The young vagabond!" he said at last. "So that's the way he's been

-hoodwinking me, is it? But I'll teach him: I'll have him know that I'm

-not to be made a fool of in that way. Make love to my daughter,

-indeed! I'll have him here to-morrow morning, and tell him a bit of my

-mind that will astonish him considerably."

-

-"Why wait till to-morrow? Why not send for him now?"

-

-"Because he left here a quarter of an hour ago.

-

-"Oh, you would not have far to send for him."

-

-"What do you mean?"

-

-"Simply that he and Jane are in the shrubbery together at the present

-moment."

-

-The Squire stared at her helplessly for a moment or two. "How do you

-know that?" he said at last, speaking very quietly.

-

-"Because my maid, who was returning from an errand, saw them walking

-there, arm in arm." She paused, as if expecting her brother to say

-something, but he did not speak. "I have not had my eyes shut, I

-assure you," she went on. "But in these matters women are always more

-quick-sighted than men. From the very first hour of my seeing them

-together I had my suspicions. All their walking and talking together

-couldn't be for nothing. All their hand-shakings and sly glances into

-each other's eyes couldn't be without a meaning."

-

-The Squire got up from his chair and rang the bell. A servant came in.

-"Ascertain whether Mr. Bristow is anywhere about the house or grounds;

-and, if he is, tell him that I should like to see him before he goes."

-

-Mrs. McDermott rose in some alarm. It was no part of her policy to be

-seen there by Tom. "I am glad  you have sent for him," she said. "I

-hope matters have not gone too far to be stopped without difficulty."

-

-He looked up in a little surprise. "There will be no difficulty. Why

-should there be?" he said.

-

-"No, of course not. As you say, why should there be? But I must now

-bid you good-morning for the present. There will be hardly any need, I

-think, for you to mention my name in the affair."

-

-"There will be no need to mention anybody's name. Good-morning."

-

-Mrs. McDermott went out and shut the door gently behind her. "Breaking

-fast, poor man," she said to herself. "He's not long for this world,

-I'm afraid. Well, I've the consolation of knowing that I've always

-done a sister's duty by him. I wonder what he'll die worth. Thousands,

-no doubt; and all to go to that proud minx of a Jane. We are not

-allowed to hate one another, or else I'm afraid I should hate that

-girl."

-

-She shook her fist at an imaginary Jane, went straight upstairs, and

-gave her maid a good blowing-up.

-

-Some three weeks had now come and gone since Tom, breaking for once

-through the restraint which had hitherto kept him back, did and said

-something which made Jane very happy. What he did was to draw her face

-down to his and kiss it: what he said was simply, "Good-night, my

-darling." Nothing more, but quite enough to be understood by her to

-whom the words were spoken. But since that evening not one syllable

-more of love had been breathed by Tom. For anything that had since

-passed between them Jane might have imagined that she had merely

-dreamt the words--that the speaking of them was nothing more than a

-fancy of her own lovesick brain.

-

-Under similar circumstances many young ladies would have considered

-themselves aggrieved, and would not have been deemed unreasonable in

-so thinking, But Jane had no intention whatever of adopting an

-injured tone even in her own inmost thoughts. She had never been in

-the habit of looking upon herself in the light of a victim, and she

-had no intention of beginning to do so now. Surprised--slightly

-surprised--she might be, but that was all. In Tom's manner towards

-her, in the way he looked at her, in the very tone of his voice, there

-was that indescribable something which gave her the sweet assurance

-that she was still loved as much as ever. Such being the case, she was

-well satisfied to wait. She felt that her lover's silence had a

-meaning, that he was not dumb without a reason. When the proper time

-should come he would speak, and to some purpose. Till then Eros should

-keep a finger on his lips, and speak only the language of the eyes.

-

-"So this is the way you treat me, is it, young man?" said the Squire,

-sternly, as Tom re-entered the room.

-

-"I beg your pardon, sir," said Tom, looking at him in sheer amazement.

-

-"Oh, don't pretend that you don't know what I mean."

-

-"It may seem stupid on my part, but I must really plead ignorance."

-

-"You worm yourself into my confidence till you get the run of the

-house, and can come and go as you like, and you finish up by making

-love to my daughter!"

-

-"It is no crime to love Miss Culpepper, I hope, sir. There are few

-people, I imagine, who could know her without loving her."

-

-"That's all very well, but you don't get over me in that way, young

-sir. What right have you to make love to my daughter? That's what I

-want to know."

-

-"I may love Miss Culpepper, but I have never told her so."

-

-"Do you mean to say that you have never asked her to marry you?"

-

-"Never, sir; on that point I give you my word of honour."

-

-"A good thing for you that you haven't. The sooner you get that love

-tomfoolery out of your head the better."

-

-"I promise you one thing, sir," said Tom; "if I ever do marry Miss

-Culpepper, it shall be with your full consent and good wishes."

-

-The Squire could not help chuckling. "In that case, my boy, you will

-never have her--not if you live to be as old as Methuselah."

-

-"Time will prove, sir."

-

-"And look ye here. There must be no more walks in the shrubbery, no

-more gallivanting together among the woods. Do you understand?"

-

-"Perfectly, sir. Your words could not be plainer."

-

-"I mean them to be plain. There seems to be no harm done so far, but

-it's time this nonsense was put a stop to. Miss Culpepper must marry

-in a very different sphere from yours."

-

-"Pardon the remark, sir, but you were quite willing to take Mr. Edward

-Cope as your son-in-law. Now, I consider myself quite as good a man as

-Mr. Cope--quite as eligible a suitor for your daughter's hand."

-

-"Then I don't. Besides, young Cope would never have had the chance of

-getting her if he hadn't been the son of my oldest friend; the son of

-the man to whose bravery I owe my life itself. Master Edward owes it

-to his father and not to himself that I ever sanctioned his engagement

-to Miss Culpepper."

-

-"I am indebted for this good turn to Mrs. McDermott," said Tom to

-himself, as he walked homeward through the park. "It will only have

-the effect of bringing matters to a climax a little earlier than I

-intended, but it will not alter my plans in the least."

-

-"Fanny has been exaggerating as usual," was the Squire's comment.

-"There was something in it, no doubt, and it's just as well to have

-crushed it in the bud; but I think it's hardly worth while to say

-anything to Jenny about it."

-

-A week later, the Squire happened to be riding on his white pony along

-the high road that fringed one side of Knockley Holt, when, to his

-intense astonishment, he heard the regular monotonous puffing and saw

-the smoke of a steam engine that was apparently hard at work behind a

-clump of larches in the distance. Riding up to the spot, he found some

-score or so of men all busily engaged. They were excavating a hole in

-the hill-side, filling-in stout timber supports as they got deeper

-down; the engine on the top being employed to hoist up the earth in

-big bucketfuls as fast as it was dug out.

-

-"What's all this about?" inquired the Squire of one of the men; "and

-who's gaffer here?"

-

-"Mr. Bristow, he be the gaffer, sur, and this hole be dug by his

-orders."

-

-"Oh, ho! that's it, is it? And how deep are you going to dig the hole,

-and what do you expect to find when you get to the bottom?"

-

-"I don't rightly know, sur, but I should think we be digging for

-water."

-

-"A likely tale that! What the dickens should anybody want water for

-when we haven't had a dry day for seven weeks?"

-

-"Our foreman did say, sur, as how Mr. Bristow was going to have a hole

-dug clean through, so as to make a short cut like to the other side of

-the world. Anyhow, it be mortal dry work."

-

-The Squire gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and rode off. "What queer

-crotchet has that young jackanapes got into his head now?" he muttered

-to himself. "It's just possible, though, that there may be a method in

-his madness."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER V.

-AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.

-

-

-"Hi! Jean, whose is this luggage?" cried Pierre Janvard one morning to

-his head waiter. He pointed at the same time to a large portmanteau

-which lay among a pile of other luggage in the hall of the Three

-Crowns Hotel, Bath.

-

-With that restless curiosity which was such a marked trait in his

-character, Janvard had a habit of peering about among the luggage of

-his guests, and even of prying stealthily about their bedrooms when he

-knew that their occupants were out of the way, and he himself safe

-from detection. It was not that he hoped to benefit himself in any

-way, or even to pick up any information that would be of value to him,

-by such a mode of proceeding; but it had been a habit with him from

-boyhood to do this kind of thing, and it was a habit that he could by

-no means overcome.

-

-Passing through the hall this morning, his eye had been attracted by a

-pile of luggage belonging to several fresh arrivals, and he at once

-began to peer among the labels. The second label that took his eye was

-inscribed, "Richard Dering, Esq., Passenger to Bath." Janvard stood

-aghast as he read the name. A crowd of direful memories rushed to his

-mind. For a moment or two he could not speak. Then he called Jean as

-above.

-

-"That portmanteau," answered Jean, "belongs to a gentleman who came in

-by the last train. He and another gentleman came together. They wanted

-a private sitting-room, and I put them into number twenty-nine."

-

-"Has the other gentleman any luggage?"

-

-"Yes, this large black bag belongs to him." Janvard stooped and read:

-"Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath." "Quite strange to me, that

-name," he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and

-shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.

-

-"They have ordered dinner, I suppose?"

-

-"Yes, sir."

-

-"Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?"

-

-"No, sir."

-

-"Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk

-about, and report it to me afterwards."

-

-"Yes, sir."

-

-Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind.

-Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel

-Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common

-enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to

-himself again and again.

-

-One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive

-to see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the

-slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any

-other quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these

-people, after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr.

-Kester St. George for instructions.

-

-He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his

-banker's passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing

-source of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in

-walked Mr. Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow.

-

-It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard's eyes

-rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his

-appearance. Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still.

-His thin lips quivered for a moment, and then his hands began to

-tremble slightly, so that in a little while he was obliged to take

-them off the table and bury them in his pockets.

-

-He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that

-other Mr. Dering whose face he remembered so well--whose face it was

-impossible that he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet

-strangely unlike: the same in many points, and yet in others most

-different. But the moment this dark-looking stranger opened his lips,

-it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back from the grave. A

-covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he beheld a

-man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before.

-

-"Your name is Janvard, I believe?" said Mr. Dering, with a slight bow.

-

-"Pierre Janvard at your service," answered the Frenchman,

-deferentially.

-

-"You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St.

-George?"

-

-"I had that honour."

-

-"My name is Dering--Richard Dering. It is probable that you never

-heard of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from

-India. I am cousin to Mr. Kester St. George."

-

-The Frenchman bowed. "I have no recollection of having heard

-monsieur's name mentioned by my late employer."

-

-"I suppose not. But my brother's name--Lionel Dering--must be well

-known to you."

-

-Janvard could not repress a slight start So that was the relationship,

-was it?

-

-"Ah, yes," he said. "I have seen Mr. Lionel Dering many times, and

-done several little services for him at one time or another."

-

-"You were one of the chief witnesses on the trial, if I recollect

-rightly?"

-

-Janvard coughed, to gain a moment's time. The conversation was taking

-a turn that he did not approve of. "I certainly was one of the

-witnesses on the trial," he said, with an air of deprecation. "But

-monsieur will understand that it was a misfortune which I had no means

-of avoiding. I could not help seeing what I did see, and they made me

-tell all about it."

-

-"Oh, we quite understand that," said Mr. Dering. "You were not to

-blame in any way. You could not do otherwise than as you did."

-

-Janvard smiled faintly, and bowed his gratification.

-

-"My friend here, Mr. Bristow, and myself, have come down to stay a

-week or two in your charming city. The doctors tell me there is

-something the matter with my spleen, and have recommended me to drink

-the Bath waters. Hearing casually that you were the proprietor of one

-of the most comfortable hotels in the place, and looking upon you

-somewhat in the light of a connection of the family, we thought that

-we could not do better than take up our quarters with you."

-

-Again Janvard smiled and bowed his gratification. "Monsieur may depend

-upon my using my utmost endeavours to make himself and his friend as

-comfortable as possible. Pardon my presumption, but may I venture to

-ask whether Mr. St. George was quite well when monsieur saw or heard

-from him last?"

-

-"My cousin was a little queer a short time ago, but I believe him to

-be well again by this time." Mr. Dering turned to go. "We have given

-your waiter instructions as to dinner," he said.

-

-"I hope my chef will succeed in pleasing you," said Janvard., with a

-smile. "He has the reputation of being second to none in the city."

-With the same smile on his face he followed them to the door and bowed

-them out, and, still smiling, watched them till they turned the corner

-of the street. "No danger there, I think," he said to himself. "None

-whatever. Still I must keep on the watch--always on the watch. I must

-look to their dinners myself, and leave them nothing to complain of.

-But I shall be very much pleased indeed when they call for their bill:

-very much pleased to see the last of them."

-

-Said Tom to Lionel, as they were walking arm-in-arm towards the

-pump-room: "Did you notice that magnificent ring which Janvard wore on

-the third finger of his left hand?"

-

-"I could not fail to notice it. I was thinking about it at the very

-moment you spoke."

-

-"I have not seen so splendid a ruby for a long time. The setting, too,

-is rather unique."

-

-"Yes, it was the peculiar setting that caused me to recognize it

-again."

-

-"That caused you to recognize it! You don't mean to say that you have

-ever seen the ring before?"

-

-"I certainly have seen it before."

-

-"Where?"

-

-"On the finger of Percy Osmond."

-

-Tom halted suddenly and stared at Lionel as if he could hardly believe

-the evidence of his ears.

-

-"I am stating nothing but the simple truth," continued Lionel. "The

-moment I saw the ring on Janvard's finger the thought flashed through

-me that I had certainly seen it somewhere before. All the time I was

-talking to Janvard I was trying to call that somewhere to mind, but it

-did not come to me till after we had left the hotel--not, in fact,

-till a minute before you spoke about it."

-

-"Are you sure you are not mistaken? There are many ruby rings in the

-world."

-

-"I don't for one moment think that I am mistaken," answered Lionel

-deliberately. "If the ring worn by Janvard be the one I mean, it has

-three initial letters engraved inside the hoop. What particular

-letters they are I cannot now recollect. I chanced to express my

-admiration of the ring one night in the billiard-room, and Osmond took

-it off his finger in order that I might examine it. It was then I saw

-the letters, but without noticing them with sufficient particularity

-to remember them again."

-

-"I always had an idea," said Tom, "that Janvard was in some way mixed

-up with the murder, and this would seem to prove it. He must have

-stolen the ring from Osmond's room either immediately before or

-immediately after the murder."

-

-"I must see that ring," said Lionel decisively. "It must come into my

-possession, if only for a minute or two, if only while I ascertain

-whether the initials are really there."

-

-"I don't think that there will be much difficulty about that," said

-Tom. "The fellow has no suspicion as to whom you really are, or as to

-the object of our visit to Bath. To admire the ring is the first step:

-to ask to look at it the second."

-

-A quarter of an hour later Lionel gripped Tom suddenly by the arm.

-"Bristow," he whispered, "I have just remembered something. Osmond had

-that ruby ring on his finger the night before he was murdered! I have

-a distinct recollection of seeing it on his hand when we were playing

-that last game of billiards together."

-

-"If this ring," said Tom, "prove to be the one you believe it to be,

-the finding of it will be another and a most important link in the

-chain of evidence."

-

-"Yes--almost, if not quite, the last one that we shall need," said

-Lionel.

-

-At dinner that evening Janvard in person took in the wine. The eyes of

-both Lionel and Tom fixed themselves instinctively on his left hand.

-The ring was no longer there.

-

-"Can he suspect anything?" asked Lionel of Tom, as soon as they were

-alone.

-

-"I think not," answered Tom. "The fellow is evidently uneasy, and will

-continue to be so as long as you stay under his roof But the very

-openness of our proceedings, and the frank way in which we have told

-him who we are, will go far to disarm any suspicions which he might

-otherwise have entertained."

-

-Two or three days passed quietly over. Lionel drank the waters with

-regularity, and he and Tom drove out frequently in the neighbourhood

-of King Bladud's beautiful city. Janvard always gave them a look in in

-the course of dinner to see that everything was to their satisfaction;

-but he still carefully abstained from wearing the ring.

-

-By-and-by there came a certain evening when Janvard failed to put in

-his usual appearance at the dinner table. Said Tom to the man who

-waited upon them: "Where is your master this evening? Not ill, I

-hope?"

-

-"Gone to a masonic banquet, sir," answered the man.

-

-"Then he won't be home till late, I'll wager."

-

-"Not till eleven or twelve, I dare say, sir.

-

-"Gone in full fig, of course?" said Tom, laughingly.

-

-"Yes, sir," answered the man with a grin.

-

-"Diamond studs and ruby ring, and everything complete, eh?" went on

-Tom.

-

-"I don't know about diamond studs, sir," said the man, "but he

-certainly had his ring on, for I saw it on his finger myself."

-

-"Now is our time," said Tom to Lionel, as soon as the man had left the

-room. "We may not have such an opportunity again."

-

-It was close upon midnight when Pierre Janvard, alighting from a fly

-at the door of his hotel, found his two lodgers standing on the steps

-smoking a last cigar before turning in for the night. In this there

-was nothing unusual--nothing to excite suspicion.

-

-"Hallo! Janvard, is that you?" cried Tom, assuming the tone and manner

-of a man who has taken a little too much wine. "I was just wondering

-what had become of you. This is my birthday: so you must come upstairs

-with us, and drink my health in some of your own wine."

-

-"Another time, sir, I shall be most happy; but to-night----"

-

-"But me no buts," cried Tom. "I'll have no excuses--none. Come along,

-Dering, and we'll crack another bottle of Janvard's Madeira. We'll

-poison mine host with his own tipple."

-

-He seized Janvard by the arm, and dragged him upstairs, trolling out

-the last popular air as he did so. Lionel followed leisurely.

-

-"You're a good sort, Janvard--a deuced good sort!" said Tom.

-

-"Monsieur is very kind," said Janvard, with a smile and a shrug; and

-then in obedience to a wave from Tom's hand, he sat down at table. Tom

-now began to fumble with a bottle and a corkscrew.

-

-"Allow me, monsieur," said Janvard, politely, as he relieved Tom of

-the articles in question, and proceeded to open the bottle with the

-ease of long practice.

-

-"That's a sweet thing in rings you've got on your finger," said Tom,

-admiringly.

-

-"Yes, it is rather a fine stone," said Janvard, dryly.

-

-"May I be allowed to examine it?" asked Tom, as he poured out the wine

-with a hand that was slightly unsteady.

-

-"I should be most happy to oblige monsieur," said Janvard, hastily,

-"but the ring fits me so tightly that I am afraid I should have some

-difficulty in getting it off my finger."

-

-"Hang it all, man, the least you can do is to try," cried Tom.

-

-The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little

-difficulty, and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom's fingers

-clutched it like a vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if

-to reclaim the ring; but it was too late, and he sat down without

-speaking.

-

-Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it

-towards the light. "A very pretty gem, indeed!" he said. "And worth

-something considerable in sovereigns, I should say."

-

-"Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?" asked Lionel gravely,

-as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from

-his seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom

-handed the ring across to Lionel.

-

-"A magnificent stone, indeed," said the latter, "but somewhat

-old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable

-in my eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop

-are three initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I

-read them aright they are M. K. L."

-

-"Yes, yes, monsieur," said Janvard, uneasily. "As you say, M. K. L.

-The initials of the friend who gave me the ring." He held out his

-hand, as if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to

-him, but Lionel took no notice of the action.

-

-"Three very curious initials, indeed," said Lionel, musingly. "One

-could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in mind

-of a curious coincidence--of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I

-once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and

-inside the hoop of my friend's ring were three initials. The initials

-in question were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved

-on your ring, Monsieur Janvard. Curious, is it not?"

-

-"Mille diables! I am betrayed!" cried Janvard, as he started from his

-seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him.

-The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.

-

-He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and

-looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom

-Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold,

-quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom's right

-hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard's ears were

-smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to

-the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The

-pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was

-beginning to desert him. He was trembling visibly.

-

-"Sit down, sir," said Lionel, sternly, "and refresh yourself with

-another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to

-you."

-

-The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders

-and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two

-glasses of wine rapidly one after another.

-

-"I am ready, monsieur," he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips,

-and made a ghastly effort to smile. "At your service."

-

-"What I want from you, and what you must give me," said Lionel, "is a

-full and particular account of how this ring came into your

-possession. It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the

-night he was murdered."

-

-"Ah ciel! how do you know that?"

-

-"It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it.

-But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was

-found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession."

-

-For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: "Who

-are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and

-threaten me in this way?"

-

-"I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine."

-

-"What if I refuse to answer them?"

-

-"In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than

-half an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger

-of Mr. Osmond the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought

-many a better man than you to the gallows: be careful that it does not

-land you there?"

-

-"If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the

-murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago."

-

-"What proof have you--what proof was there adduced at the trial, that

-Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or

-those of any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew

-from the first that he was innocent! If you yourself are not the

-murderer, you know the man who is."

-

-Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the

-floor. He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke,

-but it was in the same sullen tone that he had used before.

-

-"What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may

-know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?"

-

-"You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such

-promise. For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be

-the murderer of Percy Osmond."

-

-Janvard shuddered slightly. "I am not the murderer of Percy Osmond,"

-he said quietly.

-

-"Who, then, was the murderer?"

-

-"My late master--Mr. Kester St. George."

-

-There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although

-Janvard's words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel

-and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears

-with all the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there,

-Janvard was the one who seemed least concerned.

-

-Lionel was the first to speak. "This is a serious charge to make

-against a gentleman like Mr. St. George," he said.

-

-"I have made no charge against Mr. St. George," said Janvard. "It is

-you who have forced the confession from me."

-

-"You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement--to prove

-your words?"

-

-"I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you

-will not let me."

-

-"All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell me."

-

-"But, monsieur----" began Janvard, appealingly, and then he stopped.

-

-"You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use

-that power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time,

-understand me. I am no constable--no officer of the law--I am simply

-the brother of Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was

-accused and found guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I

-am, I have vowed that I will not rest night or day till I have

-discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. Such being the

-case, I tell you plainly that the best thing you can do is to make a

-full and frank confession of all that you know respecting this

-terrible business, leaving it for me afterwards to decide as to the

-use which I may find it requisite to make of your confession. Are you

-prepared to do what I ask of you?"

-

-Janvard's shoulders rose and fell again. "I cannot help myself," he

-said. "I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur."

-

-"Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh

-your memory."

-

-"Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that

-night are far too terrible to be forgotten." With a hand that still

-shook slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank

-it off at a draught. Then he continued: "On the night of the quarrel

-in the billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master,

-Mr. St. George. About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering

-it, my master put Mr. Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the

-worse for wine, with instructions to see him safely to bed. This I

-did, and then left him. As it happened, I had taken a violent fancy to

-Mr. Osmond's splendid ruby ring--the very ring monsieur has now in his

-possession--and that night I determined to make it my own. There were

-several new servants in the house, and nobody would suspect me of

-having taken it. Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and thrown it

-carelessly into his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into

-bed, afterwards putting his keys under his pillow.

-

-"When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made

-my way to Mr. Osmond's bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A

-night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in

-through the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the

-sleeper's face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with

-one hand clenched, and a frown on his face as if he were still

-threatening Mr. Dering. It was hardly the work of a minute to possess

-myself of the keys. In another minute the dressing-case was opened and

-the ring my own. Mr. Osmond's portmanteau stood invitingly open: what

-more natural than that I should desire to turn over its contents

-lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed by the simple

-curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the portmanteau,

-admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard the

-noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that

-afforded by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next

-moment I was safely hidden behind them.

-

-"The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the

-room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned

-in his sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from

-peeping out of my hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester

-St. George, standing over the sleeping man, with a look on his face

-that I had never seen there before. He stood thus for a full minute,

-and then he came round to the near side of the bed, and seemed to be

-looking for Mr. Osmond's keys. In a little while he saw them in the

-dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the other side

-of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found

-the right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond's writing-case. He opened the

-case, took out of it Mr. Osmond's cheque book, and from that he tore

-either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case

-when Mr. Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. 'Villain! what

-are you doing there?' he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But

-before he could set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his

-throat, and pinned him down almost as easily as if he had been a boy.

-What happened during the next minute I hardly know how to describe. It

-would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit of sleeping with a dagger

-under his pillow. At all events, there was one there on this

-particular night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his

-hand sought for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a

-sudden stab with it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master

-was too quick for him. There was an instant's struggle--a flash--a

-cry--and--you may guess the rest.

-

-"A murmur of horror escaped my lips. In another instant my master had

-sprung across the room and had torn away the curtains from before me.

-'You here!' he said. And for a few seconds I thought my fate would be

-the same as that of Mr. Osmond. But at last his hand dropped.

-'Janvard, you and I must be friends,' he said. 'From this night your

-interests are mine, and my interests are yours.' Then we left the room

-together. A terrible night, monsieur, as you may well believe."

-

-"You have accounted clearly enough for the murder, but you have not

-yet told us how it happened that Lionel Dering came to be accused of

-the crime."

-

-"That is the worst part of the story, sir. Whose thought it was first,

-whether Mr. St. George's or mine, to lay the murder at the door of Mr.

-Dering, I could not now tell you. It was a thought that seemed to come

-into the heads of both of us at the same moment. As monsieur knows, my

-master had no cause to love his cousin. He had every reason to hate

-him. Mr. Dering had got all the estates and property that ought to

-have been Mr. St. George's. But if Mr. Dering were to die without

-children, the estate would all come back to his cousin. Reason enough

-for wishing Mr. Dering dead.

-

-"We did not talk much about it, my master and I. We understood one

-another without many words. There were certain things to be done which

-Mr. St. George had not the nerve to do. I had the nerve to do them,

-and I did them. It was I who put Mr. Dering's stud under the bed. It

-was I who took his handkerchief, and----"

-

-"Enough!" said Lionel, with a shudder. "Surely no more devilish plot

-was ever hatched by Satan himself! You--you who sit so calmly there,

-had but to hold up your finger to save an innocent man from disgrace

-and death!"

-

-"What would monsieur have?" said Janvard, with another of his

-indescribable shrugs. "Mr. St. George was my master. I liked him, and

-I was, besides, to have a large sum of money given me to keep silence.

-Mr. Dering was a stranger to me. Voil� tout."

-

-"Janvard, you are one of the vilest wretches that ever disgraced the

-name of man!"

-

-"Monsieur s'amuse."

-

-"I shall at once proceed to put down in writing the heads of the

-confession which you have just made. You will sign the writing in

-question in the presence of Mr. Bristow as witness. You need be under

-no apprehension that any immediate harm will happen to you. As for Mr.

-St. George, I shall deal with him in my own time, and in my own way.

-There are, however, two points that I wish you to bear particularly in

-mind. Firstly, if, even by the vaguest hint, you dare to let Mr. St.

-George know that you have told me what you have told me to-night, it

-will be at your own proper peril, and you must be prepared to take the

-consequences that will immediately ensue. Secondly, you must hold

-yourself entirely at my service, and must come to me without delay

-whenever I may send for you, and wherever I may be. Do you clearly

-understand?"

-

-"Yes, sir. I understand."

-

-"For the present, then, I have done with you. Two hours later I will

-send for you again, in order that you may sign a certain paper which

-will be ready by that time. You may go."

-

-"But, monsieur----"

-

-"Not a word. Go."

-

-Tom held open the door for him, and Janvard passed out without another

-word.

-

-"At last, Dering! At last everything is made clear!" said Tom, as he

-crossed the room and laid his hand affectionately on Lionel's

-shoulder. "At last you can proclaim your innocence to the world."

-

-"Yes, my task is nearly done," said Lionel, sadly. "And I thank heaven

-in all sincerity that it is so. But the duty that I have still to

-perform is a terrible one. I almost feel as if now, at this, the

-eleventh hour, I could go no farther. I shrink in horror from the last

-and most terrible step of all. Hark! whose voice was that?"

-

-"I hear nothing save the moaning of the wind, and the low muttering of

-thunder far away among the hills."

-

-"It seemed to me that I heard the voice of Percy Osmond calling to me

-from the grave--the same voice that I have heard so often in my

-dreams."

-

-"How your hand burns, Dering! Shake off these wild fancies, I implore

-you," said Tom. "What a blinding flash was that!"

-

-"They are no wild fancies to me, but most dread realities. I tell you

-it is Osmond's voice that I hear. I know it but too well, 'Thou shalt

-avenge!' it says to me. Only three words: 'Thou shalt avenge!'"

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VI.

-TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.

-

-

-Nearly a fortnight elapsed after Tom's last interview with the Squire

-before he was again invited to Pincote, and after what had passed

-between himself and Mr. Culpepper he would not go there again without

-a special invitation. It is probable that the Squire would not have

-sent for him even at the end of a fortnight had he not grown so

-thoroughly tired of having to cope with Mrs. McDermott single-handed

-that he was ready to call in assistance from any quarter that promised

-relief. He knew that Tom would assist him if only a hint were given

-that he was wanted to do so. And Tom did relieve him; so that for the

-first time for many days the Squire really enjoyed his dinner.

-

-Notwithstanding all this, matters were so arranged between the Squire

-and Mrs. McDermott that no opportunity was given Tom of being alone

-with Jane even for five minutes. The first time this happened he

-thought that it might perhaps have arisen from mere accident. But the

-next time he went up to Pincote he saw too clearly what was intended

-to allow him to remain any longer in doubt. That night, after shaking

-hands with Tom at parting, Jane found in her palm a tiny note, the

-contents of which were three lines only. "Should you be shopping in

-Duxley either to-morrow or next day, I shall be at the toll-gate on

-the Snelsham road from twelve till one o'clock."

-

-Next day, at half-past twelve to the minute, Jane and her

-pony-carriage found themselves at the Snelsham toll-gate. There was

-Tom, sure enough, who got into the trap and took the reins. He turned

-presently into a byroad that led to nowhere in particular, and there

-earned the gratitude of Diamond by letting him lapse into a quiet walk

-which enabled him to take sly nibbles at the roadside grass as he

-crawled contentedly along.

-

-Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then Tom spoke. "Jane," he

-said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her

-Christian name, "Jane, your father has forbidden me to make love to

-you."

-

-It seemed as if Jane had nothing to say either for or against this

-statement. She only breathed a little more quickly, and a lovelier

-colour flushed her cheeks. But just then Diamond swerved towards a

-tempting tuft of grass. The carriage gave a slight jerk, and Tom

-fancied--but it might be nothing more than fancy--that, instinctively,

-Jane drew a little closer to him. And when Diamond had been punished

-by the slightest possible flick with the whip between his ears, and

-was again jogging peacefully on, Jane did not get farther away again,

-being, perhaps, still slightly nervous; and when Tom looked down there

-was a little gloved hand resting, light as a feather, on his arm. It

-was impossible to resist the temptation. Dispensing with the whip for

-a moment he lifted the little hand tenderly to his lips and kissed it.

-He was not repulsed.

-

-"Yes, dearest," he went on, "I am absolutely forbidden to make love to

-you. I can only imagine that your aunt has been talking to your father

-about us. Be that as it may, he has forbidden me to walk out with you,

-or even to see you alone. The reason why I asked you to meet me to-day

-was to tell you of these things."

-

-Still Jane kept silence. Only from the little hand, which had somehow

-found its way back on to his arm, there came the faintest possible

-pressure, hardly heavy enough to have crushed a butterfly.

-

-"I told him that I loved you," resumed Tom, "and he could not say that

-it was a crime to do so. But when I told him that I had never made

-love to you, or asked you to marry me, he seemed inclined to doubt my

-veracity. However, I set his mind at rest by giving him my word of

-honour that, even supposing you were willing to have me--a point

-respecting which I had very strong doubts indeed--I would not take

-you for my wife without first obtaining his full consent to do so."

-

-Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom's tone that his

-thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one

-to steal a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace

-into a still slower one, till at last he came to a dead stand.

-Admonished by a crack of the whip half a yard above his head that Tom

-was still wide awake, he put on a tremendous spurt--for him--which, as

-they were going down hill at the time, was not difficult. But no

-sooner had they reached a level bit of road again than the spurt toned

-itself down to the customary slow trot, with, however, an extra whisk

-of the tail now and then which seemed to imply: "Mark well what a

-fiery steed I could be if I only chose to exert myself."

-

-"All this but brings me to one point," said Tom: "that I have never

-yet told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to

-become my wife. To-day, then--here this very moment, I tell you that I

-do love you as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love;

-and here I ask you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir."

-

-"Dearest, you are not blind," he went on. "You must have seen, you

-must have known, for a long time past, that my heart--my love--were

-wholly yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has been a

-hope, a blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for

-longer than I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to

-you before, but there were certain reasons for my silence which it is

-not necessary to dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them,

-I will explain to you another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you

-feel as if you could ever learn to love me, whether you can ever care

-for me enough to become my wife. Speak to me, darling--whisper the one

-little word I burn to hear. Lift your eyes to mine, and let me read

-there that which will make me happy for life."

-

-Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone

-with the trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no

-one to overhear them save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be

-not listening a bit. For the second time he came to a stand-still, and

-this time his artfulness remained unreproved and unnoticed.

-

-Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried

-to see into their depths but could not. "You promised papa that you

-would not take me from him without his consent," she said, speaking in

-little more than a whisper. "That consent you will never obtain."

-

-"That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first."

-

-He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her

-ears. She looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their

-eyes met.

-

-"You don't know papa as well as I do--how obstinate he is--how full of

-whims and crotchets. No--no; I feel sure that he will never consent."

-

-"And I feel equally sure that he will. I have no fear on that

-score--none. But I will put the question to you in another way, in the

-short business-like way that comes most naturally to a man like me.

-Jane, dearest, if I can persuade your father to give you to me, will

-you be so given? Will you come to me and be my own--my wife--for

-ever?"

-

-Still no answer. Only imperceptibly she crept a little closer to his

-side--a very little. He took that for his answer. First one arm went

-round her and then the other. He drew her to his heart, he drew her to

-his lips; he kissed her and called her his own. And she? Well, painful

-though it be to write it, she never reproved him in the least, but

-seemed content to sit there with her head resting on his shoulder, and

-to suffer Love's sweet punishment of kisses in silence.

-

-It is on record that Diamond was the first to move.

-

-While standing there he had fallen into a snooze, and had dreamt that

-another pony had been put into his particular stall and was at that

-moment engaged in munching his particular truss of hay. Overcome by

-his feelings, he turned deliberately round, and started for home at a

-gentle trot. Thus disturbed, Tom and Jane came back to sublunary

-matters with a laugh, and a little confusion on Jane's part. Tom drove

-her back as far as the toll-gate and then shook hands and left her.

-Jane reached home as one in a blissful dream.

-

-Three days later Tom received a note in the Squire's own crabbed

-hand-writing, asking him to go up to Pincote as early as possible. He

-was evidently wanted for something out of the ordinary way. Wondering

-a little, he went. The Squire received him in high good humour and was

-not long in letting him know why he had sent for him.

-

-"I have had some fellows here from the railway company," he said.

-"They want to buy Prior's Croft."

-

-Tom's eyebrows went up a little. "I thought, sir, it would prove to be

-a profitable speculation by-and-by. Did they name any price?"

-

-"No, nothing was said as to price. They simply wanted to know whether

-I was willing to sell it."

-

-"And you told them that you were?"

-

-"I told them that I would take time to think about it. I didn't want

-to seem too eager, you know."

-

-"That's right, sir. Play with them a little before you finally hook

-them."

-

-"From what they said they want to build a station on the Croft."

-

-"Yes, a new passenger station, with plenty of siding accommodation."

-

-"Ah! you know something about it, do you?"

-

-"I know this much, sir, that the proposal of the new company to run a

-fresh line into Duxley has put the old company on their mettle. In

-place of the dirty ram-shackle station with which we have all had to

-be content for so many years, they are going to give us a new station,

-handsome and commodious; and Prior's Croft is the place named as the

-most probable site for the new terminus."

-

-"Hang me, if I don't believe you knew something of this all along!"

-said the Squire. "If not, how could you have raised that heavy

-mortgage for me?"

-

-There was a twinkle in Tom's eyes but he said nothing. Mr. Culpepper

-might have been still further surprised had he known that the six

-thousand pounds was Tom's own money, and that, although the mortgage

-was made out in another name, it was to Tom alone that he was

-indebted.

-

-"Have you made up your mind as to the price you intend to ask, sir?"

-

-"No, not yet. In fact, it was partly to consult you on that point that

-I sent for you."

-

-"Somewhere about nine thousand pounds, sir, I should think, would be a

-fair price."

-

-The Squire shook his head. "They will never give anything like so much

-as that."

-

-"I think they will, sir, if the affair is judiciously managed. How can

-they refuse in the face of a mortgage for six thousand pounds?"

-

-"There's something in that, certainly."

-

-"Then there are the villas--yet unbuilt it is true--but the plans of

-which are already drawn, and the foundations of some of which are

-already laid. You will require to be liberally remunerated for your

-disappointment and outlay in respect of them."

-

-"I see it all now. Splendid idea that of the villas."

-

-"Considering the matter in all its bearings, nine thousand pounds may

-be regarded as a very moderate sum."

-

-"I won't ask a penny less."

-

-"With it you will be able to clear off both the mortgage and the loan

-of two thousand, and will then have a thousand left for your expenses

-in connection with the villas."

-

-The Squire rubbed his hands. "I wish all my speculations had turned

-out as successful as this one," he said. "This one I owe to you,

-Bristow. You have done me a service that I can never forget."

-

-Tom rose to go. "Mrs. McDermott quite well, sir?" he said, with the

-most innocent air in the world.

-

-"If the way she eats and drinks is anything to go by, she was never

-better in her life. But if you take her own account, she's never

-well--a confirmed invalid she calls herself. I've no patience with the

-woman, though she is my sister. A day's hard scrubbing at the wash-tub

-every week would do her a world of good. If she would only pack up her

-trunks and go, how thankful I should be!"

-

-"If you wish her to shorten her visit at Pincote, I think you might

-easily persuade her to do so."

-

-"I'd give something to find out how. No, no, Bristow, you may depend

-that she's a fixture here for three or four months to come. She

-knows--no woman alive better--when she's in comfortable quarters."

-

-"If I had your sanction to do so, sir, I think that I could induce her

-to hasten her departure from Pincote."

-

-The Squire rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

-

-"You are a queer fellow, Bristow," he said, "and you have done some

-strange things, but to induce my sister to leave Pincote before she's

-ready to go will cap all that you've done yet."

-

-"I cannot of course induce her to leave Pincote till she is willing to

-go, but after a little quiet talk with me, it is possible that she may

-be willing, and even anxious, to get away as quickly as possible."

-

-The Squire shook his head. "You don't know Fanny McDermott as well as

-I do," he said.

-

-"Have I your permission to try the experiment?"

-

-"You have--and my devoutest wishes for your success. Only you must not

-compromise me in any way in the matter."

-

-"You may safely trust me not to do that. But you must give me an

-invitation to come and stay with you at Pincote for a week."

-

-"With all my heart."

-

-"I shall devote myself very assiduously to Mrs. McDermott, so that you

-must not be surprised if we seem to be very great friends in the

-course of a couple of days."

-

-"Do as you like, boy. I'll take no notice. But she's an old soldier,

-is Fan, and if for a single moment she suspects what you are after,

-she'll nail her colours to the mast, defy us all, and stop here for

-six months longer."

-

-"It is, of course, quite possible that I may fail," said Tom, "but

-somehow I hardly think that I shall."

-

-"We'll have a glass of sherry together and drink to your success.

-By-the-by, have you contrived yet to purge your brain of that

-lovesick tomfoolery?"

-

-"If, sir, you intend that phrase to apply to my feelings with regard

-to Miss Culpepper, I can only say that they are totally unchanged."

-

-"What an idiot you are in some things, Bristow!" said the Squire,

-crustily. "Remember this--I'll have no lovemaking here next week."

-

-"You need have no fear on that score, sir."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VII.

-EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.

-

-

-Tom and his portmanteau reached Pincote together a day or two after

-his last conversation with the Squire. Mrs. McDermott understood that

-Tom had been invited to spend a week there in order to assist her

-brother with his books and farm accounts. It seemed to her a very

-injudicious thing to do, but she did not say much about it. In truth,

-she was rather pleased than otherwise to have Tom there. It was

-dreadfully monotonous to have to spend one evening after another with

-no company save that of her brother and Jane. She was tired of her

-audience, and her audience were tired of her. Mr. Bristow, as she knew

-already, could talk well, was lively company, and, above all things;

-was an excellent listener. She had done her duty by her brother in

-warning him of what was going on between Mr. Bristow and her niece;

-if, after that, the Squire chose to let the two young people come

-together, it was not her place to dispute his right to do so.

-

-Tom was very attentive to her at dinner that day. Of Jane he took no

-notice beyond what the occasion absolutely demanded. Mrs. McDermott

-was agreeably surprised. "He has come to his senses at last, as I

-thought he would," she said to herself. "Grown tired of Jane's

-society, and no wonder. There's nothing in her."

-

-As soon as the cloth was removed, Jane excused herself on the score of

-a headache, and left the room. The Squire got into an easy-chair and

-settled himself down for a post-prandial nap. Tom moved his chair a

-little nearer that of the widow.

-

-"I have grieved to see you looking so far from well, Mrs. McDermott,"

-he said, as he poured himself out another glass of wine. "My father

-was a doctor, and I suppose I caught the habit from him of reading the

-signs of health or sickness in people's faces."

-

-Mrs. McDermott was visibly discomposed. She was a great coward with

-regard to her health, and Tom knew it.

-

-"Yes," she said, "I have not been well for some time past. But I was

-not aware that the traces of my indisposition were so plainly visible

-to others."

-

-"They are visible to me because, as I tell you, I am half a doctor

-both by birth and bringing up. You seem to me, Mrs. McDermott, pardon

-me for saying so--to have been fading--to have been going backward, as

-it were, almost from the day of your arrival at Pincote."

-

-Mrs. McDermott coughed and moved uneasily on her chair. "I have been a

-confirmed invalid for years," she said, querulously, "and yet no one

-will believe me when, I tell them so."

-

-"I can very readily believe it," said Tom, gravely. Then he lapsed

-into an ominous silence.

-

-"I--I did not know that I was looking any worse now than when I first

-came to Pincote," she said at last.

-

-"You seem to me to be much older-looking, much more careworn, with

-lines making their appearance round your eyes and mouth, such as I

-never noticed before. So, at least, it strikes me, but I may be, and I

-dare say I am, quite wrong."

-

-The widow seemed at a loss what to say. Tom's words had evidently

-rendered her very uneasy. "Then what would you advise me to do?" she

-said, after a time. "If you can detect the disease so readily, you

-should have no difficulty in specifying the remedy."

-

-"Ah, now I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth," said Tom, with

-a smile. "I am little more than a theorizer, you know; but I should

-have no hesitation in saying that your disorder is connected with the

-mind."

-

-"Gracious me, Mr. Bristow!"

-

-"Yes, Mrs. McDermott, my opinion is that you are suffering from an

-undue development of brain power."

-

-The widow looked puzzled. "I was always considered rather

-intellectual," she said, with a glance at her brother. But the Squire

-still slept.

-

-"You are very intellectual, madam; and that is just where the evil

-lies."

-

-"Excuse me, but I fail to follow you."

-

-"You are gifted with a very large and a very powerful brain," said

-Tom, with the utmost gravity. The Squire snorted suddenly in his

-sleep. The widow held up a warning finger. There was silence in the

-room till the Squire's gentle long-drawn snores announced that he was

-again happily fast asleep.

-

-"Very few of us are so specially gifted," resumed Tom. "But every

-special gift necessitates a special obligation in return. You, with

-your massive brain, must find that brain plenty of work to do--a

-sufficiency of congenial employment--otherwise it will inevitably turn

-upon itself, grow morbid and hypochondriacal, and slowly but surely

-deteriorate, till it ends by becoming--what I hardly like to say."

-

-"Really, Mr. Bristow, this conversation is to me most interesting,"

-said the widow. "Your views are thoroughly original, but, at the same

-time, I feel that they are perfectly correct."

-

-"The sphere of your intellectual activity is far too narrow and

-confined," resumed Tom; "your brain has not sufficient pabulum to keep

-it in a state of healthy activity. You want to mix more with the

-world--to mix more with clever people like yourself. It was never

-intended by nature that you should lose yourself among the narrow

-coteries of provincial life: the metropolis claims you: the world at

-large claims you. A conversationalist so brilliant, so incisive, with

-such an exhaustless fund of new ideas, can only hope to find her

-equals among the best circles of London or Parisian society."

-

-"How thoroughly you appreciate me, Mr. Bristow!" said the widow, all

-in a flutter of gratified vanity, as she edged her chair still closer

-to Tom. "It is as you say. I feel that I am lost here--that I am

-altogether out of my element. I stay here more as a matter of duty--of

-principle--than of anything else. Not that it is any gratification to

-me, as you may well imagine, to be buried alive in this dull hole. But

-my brother is getting old and infirm--breaking fast, I'm afraid, poor

-man," here the Squire gave a louder snore than common; "while Jane is

-little more than a foolish girl. They both need the guidance of a kind

-but firm hand. The interests of both demand a clear brain to look

-after them."

-

-"My dear madam, I agree with you in toto. Your Spartan views with

-regard to the duties of everyday life are mine exactly. But we must

-not forget that we have still another duty--that of carefully

-preserving our health, especially when our lives are invaluable to the

-epoch in which we live. You, my dear madam, are killing yourself by

-inches."

-

-"Oh, Mr. Bristow, not quite so bad as that, I hope!"

-

-"What I say, I say advisedly. I think that, without difficulty, I can

-specify a few symptoms of the cerebral disorder to which you are a

-victim. You will bear me out if what I say is correct."

-

-"Yes, yes; please go on."

-

-"You are a sufferer from sleeplessness to a certain extent. The body

-would fain rest, being tired and worn out, but the active brain will

-not allow it to do so. Am I right, Mrs. McDermott?"

-

-"I cannot dispute the accuracy of what you say."

-

-"Your nature being large and eminently sympathetic, but not finding

-sufficient vent for itself in the narrow circle to which it is

-condemned, busies itself, for lack of other aliment, with the concerns

-and daily doings of those around it, giving them the benefit of its

-vast experience and intuitive good sense; but being met sometimes with

-coldness instead of sympathy, it collapses, falls back upon itself,

-and becomes morbid for want of proper intellectual companionship. May

-I hope that you follow me?"

-

-"Yes--yes, perfectly," said the widow, but looking somewhat mystified,

-notwithstanding.

-

-"The brain thus thrown back upon itself engenders an irritability of

-the nerves, which is altogether abnormal. Fits of peevishness, of

-ill-temper, of causeless fault-finding, gradually supervene, till at

-length all natural amiability of disposition vanishes entirely, and

-there is nothing left but a wretched hypochondriac, a misery to

-himself and all around him."

-

-"Gracious me! Mr. Bristow, what a picture! But I hope you do not put

-me down as a misery to myself and all around me."

-

-"Far from it--very far from it--my dear Mrs.  McDermott. You are only

-in the premonitory stage at present. Let us hope that in your case,

-the later stages will not follow."

-

-"I hope not, with all my heart."

-

-"Of course, you have not yet been troubled with hearing voices?"

-

-"Hearing voices! Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bristow?"

-

-"One of the worst symptoms of the cerebral disorder, from the earlier

-stages of which you are now suffering, is that the patient hears

-voices--or fancies that he hears them, which is pretty much the same

-thing. Sometimes they are strange voices; sometimes they are the

-voices of relatives, or friends, no longer among the living. In short,

-to state the case as briefly as possible, the patient is haunted."

-

-"I declare, Mr. Bristow, that you quite frighten me!"

-

-"But there are no such symptoms as these about you at present, Mrs.

-McDermott. The moment you have the least experience of them--should

-such a misfortune ever overtake you--then take my advice, and seek the

-only remedy that can be of any real benefit to you."

-

-"And what may that be?"

-

-"Immediate change of scene--a change total and complete. Go abroad. Go

-to Italy; go to Egypt; go to Africa;--in short to any place where the

-change is a radical one. But I hope that in your case, such a

-necessity will never arise."

-

-"All this is most deeply interesting to me, Mr. Bristow, but at the

-same time it makes me very nervous. The very thought of being haunted

-in the way you mention is enough to keep me from sleeping for a week."

-

-At this moment Jane came into the room, and a few minutes later the

-Squire awoke. Tom had said all that he wanted to say, and he gave Mrs.

-McDermott no further opportunity for private conversation with him.

-

-Next day, too, Tom carefully avoided the widow. His object was to

-afford her ample time to think over what he had said. That day the

-vicar and his wife dined at Pincote, and Tom became immersed in local

-politics with the Squire and the Parson. Mrs. McDermott was anxious

-and uneasy. That evening she talked less than she had ever been known

-to do before.

-

-The rule at Pincote was to keep early hours. It was not much past ten

-o'clock when Mrs. McDermott left the drawing-room, and having obtained

-her bed candle, set out on her journey to her own room. Half way up

-the staircase stood Mr. Bristow. The night being warm and balmy for

-the time of year, the staircase window was still half open, and Tom

-stood there, gazing out into the moonlit garden. Mrs. McDermott

-stopped, and said a few gracious words to him. She would have liked to

-resume the conversation of the previous evening, but that was

-evidently neither the time nor the place to do so; so she said

-good-night, shook hands, and went on her way, leaving Tom still

-standing by the window. Higher up, close to the head of the stairs,

-stood a very large, old-fashioned case clock. As she was passing it

-Mrs. McDermott held up her candle to see the time. It was nearly

-twenty minutes past ten. But at the very moment of her noting this

-fact, there came three distinct taps from the inside of the case,

-and next instant from the same place came the sound of a hollow,

-ghost-like voice. "Fanny--Fanny--list! I want to speak to you," said

-the voice, in slow, solemn tones. But Mrs. McDermott did not wait to

-hear more. She screamed, dropped her candle, and staggered back

-against the opposite wall. Tom was by her side in a moment.

-

-"My dear Mrs. McDermott, whatever is the matter?" he said.

-

-"The voice! did you not hear the voice!" she gasped.

-

-"What voice? whose voice?" said Tom, with an arm round her waist.

-

-"A voice which spoke to me out of the clock!" she said, with a shiver.

-

-"Out of the clock?" said Tom. "We can soon see whether anybody's

-hidden there." Speaking thus, he withdrew his arm, and flung open the

-door of the clock. Enough light came from the lamp on the stairs to

-show that the old case was empty of everything, save the weights,

-chains, and pendulum of the clock.

-

-"Wherever else the voice may have come from, it is plain that it

-couldn't come from here," said Tom, as he proceeded to relight the

-widow's candle.

-

-"It came from there, I'm quite certain. There were three distinct raps

-from the inside as well."

-

-"Is it not possible that it may have been a mere hallucination on your

-part? You have not been well, you know, for some time past."

-

-"Whatever it may have been, it was very terrible," said Mrs.

-McDermott, drawing her skirts round her with a shudder. "I have not

-forgotten what you told me yesterday."

-

-"Allow me to accompany you as far as your room door," said Tom.

-

-"Thanks. I shall feel obliged by your doing so. You will say nothing

-of all this downstairs?"

-

-"I should not think of doing so."

-

-The following day Mr. Bristow was not at luncheon. There were one or

-two inquiries, but no one seemed to know exactly what had become of

-him. It was Mrs. McDermott's usual practice to retire to the library

-for an hour after luncheon--which room she generally had all to

-herself at such times--for the ostensible purpose of reading the

-newspapers, but, it may be, quite as much for the sake of a quiet

-sleep in the huge leathern chair that stood by the library fire. On

-going there as usual after luncheon to-day, what was the widow's

-surprise to find Mr. Bristow sitting there fast asleep, with the

-"Times" at his feet where it had dropped from his relaxed fingers.

-

-She stepped up to him on tiptoe and looked closely at him. "Rather

-nice-looking," she said to herself. "Shall I disturb him, or not?"

-

-Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on

-the table a little distance away. The temptation was too much for her.

-Still on tiptoe, she crossed to the table in order to examine them.

-But hardly had she stooped over the table when the same hollow voice

-that had sounded in her ears the previous night spoke to her again,

-and froze her to the spot where she was standing. "Fanny McDermott,

-you must get away from this house," said the voice. "If you stop here

-you will be a dead woman in three months!"

-

- She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her

-trembling lips did at last falter out the words: "Who are you?"

-

-The answer came. "I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time."

-

-Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to

-look round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep.

-She managed to reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence

-made the best of her way to her own room.

-

-Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one

-broad smile. "She's going at last," he said. "Off to-morrow like a

-shot. Just told me."

-

-"Then, with your permission, I won't dine with you this evening. I

-don't want to see her again."

-

-"But how on earth have you managed it?" asked the Squire.

-

-"By means of a little simple ventriloquism--nothing more. But I see

-her coming this way. I'm off." And off he went, leaving the Squire

-staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VIII.

-DIRTY JACK.

-

-

-There was one thing that puzzled both General St. George and Lionel

-Dering, and that was the persistent way in which Kester St. George

-stayed on at Park Newton. It had, in the first place, been a matter of

-some difficulty to get him to Park Newton at all, and for some time

-after his arrival it had been evident to all concerned that he had

-made up his mind that his stay there should be as brief as possible.

-But after that never-to-be-forgotten night when the noise of ghostly

-footsteps was heard in the nailed-up room--a circumstance which both

-his uncle and his cousin had made up their minds would drive him from

-the house for ever--he ceased to talk much about going away. Week

-passed after week and still he stayed on. Nor could his uncle, had he

-been desirous of doing so, which he certainly was not, have hinted to

-him, even in the most delicate possible way, that his room would be

-more welcome than his company, after the pressure which he had put

-upon him only a short time previously to induce him to remain.

-

-Nothing could have suited Lionel's plans better than that his cousin

-should continue to live on at Park Newton, but he was certainly

-puzzled to know what his reason could be for so doing; and, in such a

-case, to be puzzled was, to a certain extent, to be disquieted.

-

-But much as he would have liked to do so, Kester had a very good

-reason for not leaving Park Newton at present. He was, in fact, afraid

-to do so. After the affair of the footsteps he had decided that it

-would not be advisable to go away for a little while. It would never

-do for people to say that he had been driven away by the ghost of

-Percy Osmond. It was while thus lingering on from day to day that he

-had ridden over to see Mother Mim. One result of his interview was

-that he felt how utterly unsafe it would be for him to quit the

-neighbourhood till she was safely dead and buried. She might send for

-him at any moment, she might have other things to speak to him about

-which it behoved him to hear. She might change her mind at the last

-moment, and decide to tell to some other person what she had already

-told him; and when she should die, it would doubtless be to him that

-application would be made to bury her. All things considered, it was

-certainly unadvisable that he should leave Park Newton yet awhile.

-

-Day after day he waited with smothered impatience for some further

-tidings of Mother Mim. But day after day he waited in vain. Most men,

-under such circumstances, would have gone to the place and have made

-personal inquiries for themselves. This was precisely what Kester St.

-George told himself that he ought to do, but for all that he did not

-do it. He shrank, with a repugnance which he could not overcome, from

-the thought of any further contact with either Mother Mim or her

-surroundings. His tastes, if not refined, were fastidious, and a

-shudder of disgust ran through him as often as he remembered that if

-what Mother Mim had said were true--and there was something that rang

-terribly like truth in her words--then was she--that wretched

-creature--his mother, and the filthy hut in which she lay dying

-his sole home and heritage. He knew that for the sake of his own

-interest--of his own safety--he ought to go and see again this woman

-who called herself his mother, but three weeks had come and gone

-before he could screw his courage up to the pitch requisite to induce

-him to do so.

-

-But before this came about, Kester St. George had been left for the

-time being, with the exception of certain servants, the sole occupant

-of Park Newton. Lionel Dering had gone down to Bath to seek an

-interview with Pierre Janvard, with what result has been already seen.

-Two days after Lionel's departure, General St. George was called away

-by the sudden illness of an old Indian friend to whom he was most

-warmly attached. He left home expecting to be back in four or five

-days at the latest; whereas, as it fell out, he did not reach home

-again for several weeks.

-

-It was one day when thus left alone, and when the solitude was

-becoming utterly intolerable to him, that Kester made up his mind that

-he would no longer be a coward, but would go that very afternoon and

-see for himself whether Mother Mim were alive or dead. But even after

-he had thus determined that there should be no more delay on his part,

-he played fast and loose with himself as to whether he should go or

-not. Had there come to him any important letter or telegram demanding

-his presence fifty miles away, he would have caught at it as a

-drowning man catches at a straw. The veriest excuse would have

-sufficed for the putting off of his journey for at least one day. But

-the dull hours wore themselves away without relief or change of any

-kind for him, and when three o'clock came, having first dosed himself

-heavily with brandy, he rang the bell and ordered his horse to be

-brought round.

-

-What might not the next few hours bring to him? he asked himself as he

-rode down the avenue. They might perchance be pregnant with doom. Or

-death might already have lifted this last bitter burden from his life

-by sealing with his bony fingers the only lips that had power to do

-him harm.

-

-For nearly a fortnight past the weather had been remarkably mild,

-balmy, and open for the time of year. Everybody said how easily old

-winter was dying. But during the previous night there had come a

-bitter change. The wind had suddenly veered round to the north-east,

-and was still blowing steadily from that quarter. Steadily and

-bitterly it blew, chilling the hearts of man and beast with its icy

-breath, stopping the growth of grass and flowers, killing every

-faintest gleam of sunshine, and bringing back the reign of winter in

-its cruellest form.

-

-Heavy and lowering looked the sky, shrilly through the still bare

-branches whistled the ice-cold wind, as Kester St. George, deep in

-thought, rode slowly through the park. He buttoned his coat more

-closely around him, and pulled his hat more firmly over his brows as

-he turned out of the lodge gates, and setting his face full to the

-wind, urged his horse into a gallop, and was quickly lost to view down

-the winding road.

-

-It would not have taken him long to reach the edge of Burley Moor had

-not his horse suddenly fallen lame. For the last two miles of the

-distance his pace was reduced to a slow walk. This so annoyed Kester

-that he decided to leave his horse at a roadside tavern in the last

-hamlet he had to pass through, and to traverse the remainder of the

-distance on foot. A short three miles across the moor would take him

-to Mother Mim's cottage.

-

-To a man such as Kester a three miles' walk was a rather formidable

-undertaking--or, at least, it was an uncommon one. But there was no

-avoiding it on the present occasion, unless he gave up the object of

-his journey and went back home. But he could by no means bear the

-thought of doing that. In proportion with the hesitation and

-reluctance which he had previously shown, to ascertain either the best

-or the worst of the affair, was the anxiety which now possessed him to

-reach his journey's end. His imagination pictured all kinds of

-possible and impossible evils as likely to accrue to him, and he

-cursed himself again and again for his negligence in not making the

-journey long ago.

-

-Very bleak and cold was that walk across the desolate, lonely moor,

-but Kester St. George, buried in his own thoughts, hardly felt or

-heeded anything of it. All the sky was clouded and overcast, but far

-away to the north a still darker bank of cloud was creeping slowly up

-from the horizon.

-

-The wind blew in hollow fitful gusts. Any one learned in such lore

-would have said that a change of weather was imminent.

-

-When about half-way across the moor he halted for a moment to gather

-breath. On every side of him spread the dull treeless expanse. Nowhere

-was there another human being to be seen. He was utterly alone. "If a

-man crossing here were suddenly stricken with death," he muttered to

-himself, "what a place this would be to die in! His body might lie

-here for days--for weeks even--before it was found."

-

-At length Mother Mim's cottage was reached. Everything about it looked

-precisely the same as when he had seen it last. It seemed only like

-a few hours since he had left it. There, too, crouched on the low

-wall outside, with her skirt drawn over her head, was Mother Mim's

-grand-daughter, the girl with the black glittering eyes, looking as if

-she had never stirred from the spot since he was last there. She made

-no movement or sign of recognition when he walked up to her, but her

-eyes were full of a cold keen criticism of him, far beyond her age and

-appearance.

-

-"How is your grandmother?" said Kester, abruptly. He did not like

-being stared at as she stared at him.

-

-"She's dead."

-

-"Dead!" It was no more than he expected to hear, and yet he could not

-hear it altogether unmoved.

-

-"Ay, as dead as a door nail. And a good job too. It was time she

-went."

-

-"How long has she been dead?" asked Kester, ignoring the latter part

-of the girl's speech.

-

-"Just half an hour."

-

-Another surprise for Kester. He had expected to hear that she had been

-dead several days--a week perhaps. But only half an hour!

-

-"Who was with her when she died?" he asked, after a minute's pause.

-

-"Me and Dirty Jack."

-

-"Dirty Jack! who is he?"

-

-"Why Dirty Jack. Everybody knows him. He lives in Duxley, and has a

-wooden leg, and does writings for folk."

-

-"Does writings for folk!" A shiver ran through Kester. "And has he

-been doing anything for your grandmother?"

-

-"That he has. A lot."

-

-"A lot--about what?"

-

-"About you."

-

-"About me? Why about me?"

-

-"Oh, you never came near. Nobody never came near. Granny got tired of

-it. 'I'll have my revenge,' said she. So she sent for Dirty Jack, and

-he took it all down in writing."

-

-"Took it all down in writing about me?" She nodded her head in the

-affirmative. "If you know so much, no doubt you know what it was that

-he took down--eh?"

-

-"Oh, I know right enough."

-

-"Why not tell me?"

-

-"I know all about it, but I ain't a-going to split."

-

-Further persuasion on Kester's part had no other effect than to induce

-the girl to assert in still more emphatic terms that "she wasn't

-a-going to split."

-

-Evidently nothing more was to be got from her. But she had said enough

-already to confirm his worst fears. Mother Mim, out of spite for the

-neglect with which he had treated her, had made a confession at the

-last moment, similar in purport to what she had told him when last

-there. Such a confession--if not absolutely dangerous to him--she

-having assured him that none of the witnesses were now living--might

-be made a source of infinite annoyance to him. Such a story, once made

-public, might bring forth witnesses and evidence from twenty hitherto

-unsuspected quarters, and fetter him round, link by link, with a chain

-of evidence from which he might find it impossible to extricate

-himself. At every sacrifice, Mother Mim's confession must be destroyed

-or suppressed. Such were some of the thoughts that passed through

-Kester's mind as he stood there biting his nails. Again and again he

-cursed himself in that he had allowed any such confession to emanate

-from the dead woman, whose silence a little extra kindness on his part

-would have effectually secured.

-

-"And where is this Dirty Jack, as you call him?" he said, at last.

-

-"He's in there"--indicating the hut with a jerk of her head--"fast

-asleep."

-

-"Fast asleep in the same room with your grandmother?"

-

-"Why not? He had a bottle of whiskey with him which he kept sucking

-at. At last he got half screwy, and when all was over he said he would

-have a snooze by the fire and pull himself together a bit before going

-home."

-

-Kester said no more, but going up to the hut, opened the door and went

-in. On the pallet at the farther end lay the dead woman, her body

-faintly outlined through the sheet that had been drawn over her. A

-clear fire was burning in the broken grate, and close to it, on the

-only chair in the place, sat a man fast asleep. His hands were grimy,

-his linen was yellow, his hair was frowsy. He was a big bulky man,

-with a coarse, hard face, and was dressed in faded threadbare black.

-He had a wooden leg, which just now was thrust out towards the fire,

-and seemed as if it were basking in the comfortable blaze.

-

-On the chimney-piece was an empty spirit-bottle, and in a corner near

-at hand were deposited a broad-brimmed hat, greasy and much the worse

-for wear, and a formidable looking walking-stick.

-

-Such was the vision of loveliness that met the gaze of Kester St.

-George as he paused for a moment or two just inside the cottage door.

-Then he coughed and advanced a step or two. As he did so the man

-suddenly opened his eyes, got up quickly but awkwardly out of his

-chair, and laid his hand on something that was hidden in an inner

-pocket of his coat. "No, you don't!" he cried, with a wave of his

-hand. "No, you don't! None of your hanky-panky tricks here. They won't

-go down with Jack Skeggs, so you needn't try 'em on!"

-

-Kester stared at him in unconcealed disgust. It was evident that he

-was still under the partial influence of what he had been drinking.

-

-"Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?" asked Kester,

-sternly.

-

-"I am John Skeggs, Esquire, attorney-at-law, at your service. And who

-may you be, when you're at home? But there--I know who you are well

-enough. You are Mr. Kester St. George, of Park Newton. I have seen you

-before. I saw you on the day of the murder trial. You were one of the

-witnesses, and white enough you looked. Anybody who had a good look at

-you in the box that day would never be likely to forget your face

-again."

-

-Kester turned aside for a moment to hide the sudden nervous twitching

-of his lips.

-

-"I'm sorry the whiskey is done," said Mr. Skeggs with a regretful look

-at the empty bottle. "I should like you and I to have had a drain

-together. I suppose you don't do anything in this line?" From one

-pocket he produced an old clasp knife, and from the other a cake of

-leaf tobacco. Then he cut himself a plug and put it into his mouth.

-"When one friend fails me, then I fall back upon another," he said.

-"When I can't get whiskey I must have tobacco."

-

-There was no better known character in Duxley than Mr. Skeggs. "Dirty

-Jack," or "Drunken Jack," were the sobriquets by which he was

-generally known, and neither of those terms was applied to him without

-good and sufficient reason. There could be no doubt as to the man's

-shrewdness, ability, and knowledge of common law. He was a great

-favourite among the lower and the very lowest classes of Duxley

-society, who in their legal difficulties never thought of employing

-any other lawyer than Skeggs, the universal belief being that if

-anybody could pull them through, either by hook or crook, Dirty Jack

-was that man. And it is quite possible that Mr. Skeggs's clients were

-not far wrong in their belief.

-

-"No good stopping here any longer," said Skeggs, when he had put back

-his knife and tobacco into his pocket.

-

-"No, I suppose not," said Kester.

-

-"I suppose you will see that everything is done right and proper by

-our poor dear departed?"

-

-"Yes, I suppose there is no one to look to but me. She was my

-foster-mother, and very kind to me when I was a lad."

-

-"His foster-mother! Listen to that! His foster-mother! ha! ha!"

-sniggered Dirty Jack. Then laying a finger on one side his nose, and

-leering up at Kester with horrible familiarity, he added: "We know all

-about that little affair, Mr. St. George, and a very pretty romance it

-is."

-

-"Look you here, Mr. Skeggs, or whatever your dirty name may be," said

-Kester, sternly, "I'd advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head

-or it may be worse for you. I've thrashed bigger men than you in my

-time. Be careful, or I shall thrash you."

-

-"I like your pluck, on my soul I do!" said Skeggs, heartily. "If

-you're not genuine silver--and you know you ain't--you're a deuced

-good imitation of the real thing. Thoroughly well plated, that's what

-you are. Any one would take you to be a born gentleman, they would

-really. Which way are you going back?"

-

-Kester hesitated a moment. Should he quarrel with this man and set him

-at defiance, or should he not? Could he afford to quarrel with him?

-that was the question. Perhaps it would be as well to keep from doing

-so as long as possible.

-

-"I'm going to walk back across the moor as far as Sedgeley," said

-Kester.

-

-"Then I'll walk with you--though three miles is rather a big stretch

-to do with my game leg. I can get a gig from there that will take me

-home."

-

-Kester shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment. Skeggs took up his

-hat and stick, and proceeded to polish the former article with his

-sleeve.

-

-"Queer woman that," he said, with a jerk of his thumb towards the

-bed--"very queer. Hard as nails. With something heroic about her, to

-my mind--something that, under different circumstances, might have

-developed her into a remarkable woman. Well, that's the way with heaps

-of us. Circumstances are dead against us, and we are not strong enough

-to overmaster them; else should we smite the world with surprise, and

-genius would not be so scarce an article in the market as it is now."

-

-Kester stared. Was this the half-drunken blackguard who had been

-jeering at him but two minutes ago? "And yet, drunk he must be," added

-Kester to himself. "No fellow in his senses would talk such precious

-rot."

-

-"Your obedient servant, sir," said Skeggs, with a purposely

-exaggerated bow as he held open the door for Mr. St. George to pass

-out.

-

-The girl was still sitting on the wall with her skirt drawn over her

-head. Kester went up to her. "I will send some one along first thing

-to-morrow morning to see to the funeral and other matters," he said,

-"if you can manage till then."

-

-"Oh, I can manage right enough. Why not?" said the girl.

-

-"I thought that perhaps you might not care to be in the house by

-yourself all night."

-

-"Oh, I don't mind that."

-

-"Then you are not afraid?"

-

-"What's there to be frittened of? She's quiet enough now. I shall make

-up a jolly fire, and have a jolly supper, and then a jolly long sleep.

-And that's what I've not had for weeks. And I shall read the Dream

-Book. She can't keep that from me now. I know where it is. It's in the

-bed right under her. But I'll have it." She laughed and nodded her

-head, then putting a nut into her mouth she cracked it and began to

-pick out the kernel. Kester turned away.

-

-"Nell, my good girl," said Mr. Skeggs, insinuatingly, "just see

-whether there isn't such a thing as a drop of whiskey somewhere about

-the house. I've an awful pain in my chest."

-

-"There's no whiskey--not a drop--but I know where there's half a

-bottle of gin. Give me five shillings and I'll fetch it."

-

-"Five shillings for half a bottle of gin! Why, Nell, what a greedy

-young pig you must be!"

-

-"Don't have it then. Nobody axed you. I can drink it myself."

-

-"I'll give you three shillings for it. Come now."

-

-"Not a meg less than five will I take," said Nell, emphatically, as

-she cracked another nut.

-

-"Why, you young viper, have you no conscience at all?" he cried

-savagely. Then seeing that Nell took no further notice of him, he

-turned to Kester. "I find that I have no loose silver about me," he

-said. "Oblige me with the loan of a couple of half-crowns till we get

-to Sedgeley." Whenever Mr. Skeggs made a new acquaintance he always

-requested the loan of a couple of half-crowns before parting from him.

-But the half-crowns were never paid back until asked for, and asked

-for more than once.

-

-A few premonitory flakes of snow were darkening the air as Kester St.

-George and Mr. Skeggs started on their way back across Burley Moor,

-the latter with a thick comforter round his neck and the bottle of gin

-stowed carefully away in the tail pocket of his coat. The cold seemed

-more intense than ever, but the wind had fallen altogether.

-

-"We are going to have a rough night," said Skeggs as he stepped

-sturdily out. "We must contrive to get across the moor before the snow

-comes down very thick, or we shall stand a good chance of losing our

-way. Only the winter before last a pedlar and his wife were lost in

-the snow within a mile of here, and their bodies not found for a

-fortnight. This sudden change will play the devil with the young

-crops."

-

-Kester did not answer. Far different matters occupied his thoughts. In

-silence they walked on for a little while.

-

-"I suppose you could give a pretty good guess," said Skeggs at length,

-"at my reasons for asking you which way you were going to walk this

-afternoon?"

-

-"Indeed, no," said Kester with a shrug. "I have not the remotest idea,

-nor do I care to know. It was you who chose to accompany me. I did not

-thrust my company upon you."

-

-Skeggs laughed a little maliciously. "I don't think there's much good,

-Mr. Kester St. George, in you and I beating about the bush. I'm a

-plain man of business, and that reminds me,"--interrupting himself

-with a chuckle--"that when I once used those very words to a client of

-mine, he retorted by saying, 'You are more than a plain man of

-business, Mr. Skeggs, you are an ugly one.' I did my very utmost for

-that man, but he was hanged. Mais revenons. I am a plain man of

-business, and I intend to deal with this question in a business-like

-way. The simple point is: What is it worth your while to give me for

-the document I have buttoned up here?" tapping his chest with his left

-hand as he spoke.

-

-"I am at a loss to know to what document you refer," said Mr. St.

-George, coldly.

-

-"A very few words will tell you the contents of it, though, if I am

-rightly informed, you can give a pretty good guess already as to what

-they are likely to be. In this document it is asserted that you, sir,

-have no right to the name by which the world has known you for so long

-a time--that you have no right to the position you occupy, to the

-property you claim as yours. That you are, in fact, none other than

-the son of Mother Mim herself--of the woman who lies dead in yonder

-hut."

-

-Kester drew in his breath with something like a sigh. It was as he had

-feared. Mother Mim had told everything, and, of all people in the

-world, to the wretch now walking by his side. He braced his nerves for

-the coming encounter. "I have heard something before to-day of the

-rigmarole of which you speak," he said, haughtily; "but I need hardly

-tell you that the affair is nothing but a tissue of vilest lies from

-beginning to end."

-

-"I dare say it is," said Skeggs, good humouredly. "But it may be

-rather difficult for you to prove that it is so."

-

-"It will be still more difficult for you to prove that it is not so."

-

-"Oh! I am quite aware of all the difficulties both for and against--no

-man more so. You have got possession, and a hundred other points in

-your favour. Still, with what evidence I have already, and with what

-evidence  I can get elsewhere, I shall be able to make out a strong

-case--a very strong case against you in a court of justice."

-

-"Evidence elsewhere!" said Kester, disdainfully. "There is no such

-thing, unless you are clever enough to make the dead speak."

-

-"Even that has been done before now," said Skeggs quietly. "But in

-this case we have no need to go to the churchyard to collect our

-evidence. I have a living, breathing witness whom I can lay my hands

-on at a day's notice."

-

-"You lie," said Kester, emphatically.

-

-"I'll wash that down," said Skeggs, halting for a moment and

-proceeding to take a good pull at his bottle of gin. "If you so far

-forget yourself again, I shall begin to feel sure that you are not a

-St. George. What I told you was not a lie. There were four witnesses

-who had all a personal knowledge of a certain fact. Three of those

-witnesses are dead: the fourth still lives. Of the existence of this

-fourth witness Mother Mim never even hinted to you. It was her trump

-card, and she was far too cunning to let you see it."

-

-Kester walked on in silence. He felt that just then he had hardly a

-word to say. Was all that he had sacrificed so much for in other ways,

-all that he had run such tremendous risks for, to be torn from him by

-the machinations of a vile old hag, and the drunken, ribald scoundrel

-by his side? Through what strange ambushes, through what dusky

-by-paths, doth Fate oft-times overtake us! We look back along the

-broad highway we have been traversing, and seeing no black shadow

-dogging our footsteps, we go rejoicing on our way; when suddenly, from

-some near-at-hand shrub, is shot a poisoned arrow, and the sunlight

-fades from our eyes for ever.

-

-"And now, after this little skirmish," said Skeggs, "we come back to

-my first question: What can you afford to give me for the document in

-my pocket?"

-

-"Suppose I say that I will give you nothing--what then?" said Kester,

-sullenly.

-

-"Then I shall get my evidence together, work out my case on paper, and

-submit it to the heir-at-law."

-

-"And supposing the heir-at-law, acting under advice, were to decline

-having anything to do with your case, as you call it?"

-

-"He would be a fool to do that, because my case is anything but a weak

-one. I tell you this in confidence. But supposing he were to decline,

-then I should say to him: 'I am willing to conduct this case on my own

-account. If I fail, it shall not cost you a penny. If I succeed, you

-shall pay all expenses, and give me five thousand pounds.' That would

-fetch him, I think."

-

-"You have been assuming all along," said Kester, "that your case is

-based on fact. I assure you again that it is not--that it is nothing

-but a devilish lie from beginning to end."

-

-"Really, my dear sir, that has little or nothing to do with the

-matter. I dare say it is a lie. But it is my place to believe it to be

-the truth, and to make other people believe the same as I do. Here's

-your very good health, sir." Again Mr. Skeggs took a long pull and a

-strong pull at his bottle of gin.

-

-"Knowing what you know," said Kester, "and believing what you believe,

-are you yet willing to sell the document now in your possession?"

-

-"Of course I am. What else is all this jaw for?"

-

-"And don't you think you are a pretty sort of scoundrel to make me any

-such offer? Don't you think----"

-

-"Now look you here, Mr. St. George--if that is your name, which I very

-much doubt--don't let you and me begin to fling mud at one another,

-because that is a game at which I could lick you into fits. I have

-made you a fair offer. If we can't come to terms, there's no reason

-why we shouldn't part friendly."

-

-Once again Kester walked on in silence. The snow had been coming down

-more thickly for some time past, and already the dull gray moor began

-to look strange and unfamiliar, but neither of the two men gave more

-than a passing thought to the weather.

-

-"If you feel and know your case to be such a strong one," said Kester,

-at last, "why do you come to me at all? Why send a white flag into

-your enemy's camp? Why not fight him � l'outrance at once?"

-

-"Because I'm neither so young nor so pugnacious as I once was,"

-answered Skeggs. "I go in for peace and quiet nowadays. I don't want

-the bother and annoyance of a law-suit. I have no ill-feeling towards

-you, and if you will only make me a fair offer, I shall be the last

-man in the world to disturb you in any way. Gemini! how the snow comes

-down! We are only about half way yet. We shall have some difficulty in

-picking our road across."

-

-"I myself am as anxious as you can be, Mr. Skeggs, to be saved the

-trouble and annoyance of a law-suit, however sure I may feel that the

-result would be in my favour. But you must give me a little time to

-think this matter over. It is far too important to be decided at a

-moment's notice."

-

-"Time? To be sure. You can make up your mind in about a couple of

-days, I suppose. Shall I call upon you, or will you call upon me?"

-

-Hardly were the words out of Mr. Skeggs's mouth when his wooden leg

-sunk suddenly into a hidden hole in the pathway. Thrown forward by the

-shock, the lawyer came heavily to the ground, and at the same moment

-his leg snapped short off just below the knee.

-

-Kester took him by the shoulders and assisted him to assume a sitting

-posture on the footpath.

-

-Mr. Skeggs's first action was to pick up his broken limb and look at

-it with a sort of comical despair. "There goes a friend that has done

-me good service," he said; "but he might have lasted till he got me

-home, for all that. How the deuce am I to get home?" he asked, turning

-abruptly to Kester.

-

-Kester paused for a minute and looked round before answering. The snow

-was coming down faster than ever. The moor was being gradually turned

-into a huge white carpet. Already its zig-zag paths and winding

-footways were barely distinguishable from the treacherous bog which

-lay on every side of them. In an hour and a half it would be dark with

-a darkness that would be unrelieved by either moon or stars. If it

-kept on snowing all night at this rate the drift would be a couple of

-feet deep by morning. Skeggs's casual remark about the pedlar and his

-wife, unheeded at the time, now flashed vividly across Kester's mind.

-

-"You will have to wait here till I can get assistance," he said, in

-answer to his companion's question. "There is no help for it."

-

-"I suppose not," growled Skeggs. "Was ever anything so cursedly

-unfortunate?"

-

-"Sedgeley is the nearest place to this," said Kester. "There are

-plenty of men there who know the moor thoroughly. I will send half a

-dozen of them to your help."

-

-"How soon may I expect them here?"

-

-"In about three-quarters of an hour from now."

-

-"Ugh! I'm half frozen already. What shall I be in another hour?"

-

-"Oh, you'll pull through that easily enough. Your bottle is not empty

-yet."

-

-"Jove! I'd forgotten the bottle," said Skeggs, with animation.

-

-He took it out of his pocket, and held it up to the light. "Not more

-than a quartern left. Well, that's better than none at all."

-

-"Goodbye," said Kester, as he shook some of the snow off his hat.

-"You may look for help in less than an hour."

-

-"Goodbye, Mr. St. George," said Skeggs, looking very earnestly at him

-as he did so.

-

-"You won't forget to send the help, will you? because if you do

-forget, it will be nothing more nor less than wilful murder."

-

-Kester laughed a short grating laugh. "Fear nothing, Skeggs," he said.

-"I won't forget. About that other trifle, I will write you in two or

-three days. Again goodbye."

-

-Skeggs's face had turned very white. He could not speak. He took off

-his hat and waved it. Kester responded by a wave of his hand. Then

-turning on his heel he strode away through the snowy twilight. In

-three minutes he was lost to sight. Skeggs could no longer see him.

-Tears came into his eyes. "He'll send no help, not he. I shall die

-here like a dog. The snow will be my winding-sheet. If ever there was

-mischief in a man's eye, there was in his, as he bade me goodbye."

-

-Onward strode Kester St. George through the blinding snow. Altogether

-heedless of the weather was he just now. He had other things to think

-about. As instinctively as an Indian or a backwoodsman tracks his way

-across prairie or forest did he track his way across the moor, all

-hidden though the paths now were. He was a child of the moor. He had

-learned its secrets when a boy, and in his present emergency, reason

-and intellect must perforce give way to that blind instinct which was

-left him as a legacy of his youth.

-

-At length the last patch of moorland was crossed, and a few minutes

-later he found himself close by a well-remembered finger-post, where

-three roads met. One of these roads led to Sedgeley, which was but a

-short quarter of a mile away; another of them led to Duxley and Park

-Newton. At Sedgeley his horse was waiting for him. There, too, was to

-be had the help which he had so faithfully promised Skeggs that he

-would send. Leaning against the finger-post, he took a minute's rest

-before going any farther. Which road should he take? That was the

-question which at present he was turning over and over in his mind.

-Not long did he hesitate. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he made

-a wisp of it, and tied it round his throat. Then he turned up the

-collar of his coat. Then once again he shook the snow off his hat.

-Then plunging his hands deep in his pockets, and turning his back on

-the finger-post, he set out resolutely along the road that led towards

-Park Newton. Once, and once only did he pause, even for a moment,

-before reaching home. It was when he fancied that he heard, away in

-the far distance, a low, wild, melancholy cry--whether the cry of an

-animal or a man he could not tell--but none the less a cry for help.

-Whatever it was, it did not come again, and after that Kester pursued

-his way homeward steadily and without pause. It was quite dark long

-before he reached his own room.

-

-He changed his clothes and went down to dinner. Both his uncle and

-Richard Dering were away, and he dined alone, for which he was by no

-means sorry. Every half-hour or so he inquired as to the weather. They

-had nothing to tell him except that it was still snowing hard. The

-evening was one of slow torture, but at length it wore itself away. He

-went to bed about midnight. Dobbs's last report to him was that the

-weather was still unchanged. But several times during the night Dobbs

-heard his master pacing up and down his room, and had he been there he

-might, ever and again, have seen a haggard face peering out with eager

-eyes into the darkness.

-

-"Twelve inches of snow, sir, on the drive," was Dobbs's first news

-next morning. "They say there has not been a fall like it in these

-parts for a dozen years."

-

-The snow had ceased to fall hours before. By-and-by there came a few

-gleams of sunshine to brighten the scene, but the wind was still in

-the north, and all that day the weather kept bitterly cold. Soon after

-sunset, however, there was a change. Little by little the wind got

-round to the south-west. At ten o'clock Dobbs reported: "Snow going

-fast, sir. Regular thaw. Not be a bit left by breakfast-time."

-

-"Call me at four," said his master, "and have some coffee ready, and a

-horse brought round by four thirty."

-

-He was quite tired out by this time, and when he went to bed he felt

-sure that he should have four or five hours' sound sleep. But his

-sleep was several times disturbed by a strange dream: always the same

-thing repeated over and over again. He dreamt that he was standing

-under the finger-post on the edge of the moor. But the finger-post was

-neither more nor less than a gigantic skeleton, of which the

-outstretched arms formed the direction boards. On the bony palm of one

-outstretched arm, in letters of blood, was written the words: "To

-Sedgeley." Then as he read the words in his dream, again would sound

-in his ears the low, weird, melancholy cry which had arrested his

-steps for a moment as he walked home through the snow, and hearing the

-cry he would start up in bed and stare round him, and wonder for a

-moment where he was.

-

-Dobbs duly called his master at four, and at four thirty he mounted

-his horse and rode away. The roads were heavy and sloppy with the

-melting snow. The morning was intensely dark, but Kester knew the

-country thoroughly, and was never at a loss as to which turn he ought

-to take. Not one human being did he meet during the whole of his ride.

-But, indeed, his nearest friend would have passed him by in the dark

-without recognition. He wore an old shooting suit, with a Glengarry

-bonnet and a macintosh, and had a thick shawl wrapped round his throat

-and the lower part of his face.

-

-Day was just breaking as he reached the edge of the moor. He tethered

-his horse to the stump of an old tree behind a hedge. He had brought a

-powerful field-glass in his pocket. He scanned the moor carefully

-through it before proceeding farther on his quest. No living being was

-in sight anywhere. Satisfied of this, he set out without further

-delay, leaving his horse by itself to await his return. Not without a

-tremor--not without a faster beating of the heart--did he again set

-foot on the moor. A drizzling rain now began to fall, but Kester was

-not sorry for this. The worse the weather, the fewer the people who

-would be abroad in it. Onward he strode, keeping a wary eye about him

-as he went.

-

-At length he reached a curve in the path from whence he ought to be

-able to discern the bulky form of John Skeggs, Esq., if that gentleman

-was still where he had last seen him. He looked, but the morning was

-still heavy and dark: he could see nothing. Then he adjusted his

-glass, and looking through that he could just make out a heap--a

-bundle--a shapeless something. It required a powerful effort on his

-part to brace his nerves to the pitch requisite to carry him through

-the task he had still before him. He had filled a small flask with

-brandy, and he now drank some of it. Then he started again. A few

-minutes more and the end of his journey was reached.

-

-There lay Skeggs, on the very spot where he had left him, resting on

-his side, with one hand under his head, as if asleep. His hat had

-fallen off. On the ground near him were the empty bottle, his

-walking-stick, and his broken wooden leg. Numbed by the intense cold,

-he had fallen asleep while waiting for the help which was never to

-come, and had so died, frozen to death. Doubtless his death had been a

-painless one, but none the less, as he himself would have said, was

-Kester St. George his murderer.

-

-Gloved though he was, it was not without a feeling of indescribable

-loathing that Kester could bring himself to touch the body. But it was

-absolutely necessary to do so. The paper he had come in quest of was

-in the breast pocket of the dead man's coat. It did not take him long

-to find it. Having made sure that he had got the right document, he

-fastened it up in the breast pocket of his own coat. "Now I am safe!"

-he said to himself. Then he took off his gloves and buried them

-carefully under a large stone. Then with one last glance at the body,

-he slunk hurriedly away, cursing in his heart the daylight that was

-now creeping up so rapidly from the east. In the clear light of dawn

-the foul deed he had done looked a thousand times fouler than it had

-looked before.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER IX.

-WHAT TO DO NEXT?

-

-

-Not to every one among the children of men is given the power, the

-faculty, to act as comforter to others. To listen to another's sorrow,

-to be told the history of another's trouble, is one thing: to be able

-to give back comfort is another. That delicate intuitive sympathy with

-another's woe which draws away the sting even while listening to it,

-which makes that woe its own property as it were, which sheds balm

-round the sufferer in every word and look and touch: this is surely as

-much a special gift as the gift of song or the poet's fine phrenzy,

-and without it the world would be a much poorer place than it is.

-

-This rare gift of sympathy was possessed by Edith Dering in a

-pre-eminent degree. She was at once emotional and sympathetic. To

-Lionel in his dire trouble she was a comforter in the truest sense of

-the word. It was she who preserved his mental balance--the equipoise

-of his mind. But for her sweet offices he would have become a

-monomaniac or a misanthrope of the bitterest kind. Naturally she had

-him with her as much as possible, but still his home was of necessity

-at Park Newton. To the world he was simply Richard Dering, the

-unmarried nephew of General St. George. It would not do for him to be

-seen going to Fern Cottage sufficiently often to excite either scandal

-or suspicion. He could only visit there as the intimate friend of Mrs.

-Garside and her niece. Sometimes he took his uncle with him, sometimes

-Tom, in order to divert suspicion. For him to enter the garden gate of

-Fern Cottage was to cross the threshold of his earthly paradise. Edith

-and he had been married in the depth of a great trouble--troubles and

-danger had beset the path of their wedded life ever since. Owing,

-perhaps, to that very cause week by week, and month by month, their

-love seemed only to grow in depth and intensity. As yet it had lost

-nothing of its pristine charm and freshness. The gold-dust of romance

-lingered about it still. They were man and wife, they had been man and

-wife for months, but to the world at large they seemed nothing more

-than ordinary friends.

-

-But all Edith's care and watchful love could not lift her husband,

-except by fits and starts, out of those moods of glom and depression

-which seemed to be settling more closely down upon him day by day. As

-link after link was added to the chain of evidence, each one tending

-to incriminate his cousin still more deeply, his moods seemed to grow

-darker and more difficult of removal. With his cousin Lionel

-associated no more than was absolutely necessary. They rarely met each

-other till dinner-time, and then they met with nothing more than a

-simple "How do you do?" and in conversation they never got beyond some

-half-dozen of the barest commonplaces. Lionel always left the table as

-soon as the cloth was drawn.

-

-On Kester's side there was no love lost. That dark, stern-faced cousin

-was a perpetual menace to him, and he hated him accordingly. He hated

-him for his likeness to his dead and gone brother. He hated him

-because of the look in his eyes--so coldly scrutinizing, so searching,

-so immovable. He hated him because it was a look that he could in

-nowise give back. Try as he might, he could not face Lionel's steady

-gaze.

-

-For some two or three weeks after his return from Bath with Janvard's

-written confession, Lionel was perfectly quiescent. He took no further

-action whatever. He was, indeed, debating in his own mind what further

-action it behoved him to take. There was no need to seek for any

-further evidence, if, indeed, any more would have been forthcoming.

-All that he wanted he had now got; it was simply a question as to what

-use he should make of it. Day and night that was the question which

-presented itself before his mind: what use should he make of the

-knowledge in his possession? His mind was divided this way and that;

-day passed after day, and still he could by no means decide as to the

-course which it would be best for him to adopt. Of all this he said

-not a word to Edith: he could not have borne to discuss the question

-even with her; but it is possible that she surmised something of it.

-She knew that she had only to wait and everything would be told her.

-Perhaps to Bristow, who knew all the details of the case as well as he

-did, he might have said something as to the difficulty by which he was

-beset, but as it happened, Tom was not at home just then. Much of his

-time was spent by Lionel in long solitary walks far and wide through

-the country. He could think better when he was walking than when

-sitting quietly at home, he used to say; and, indeed, the country folk

-who encountered him often turned to look at him, as he stalked along,

-with his eyes set straight before him, gazing on vacancy, and with

-lips that moved rapidly as he whispered to himself of his dreadful

-secret.

-

-But, little by little, the need of counsel, of sympathy, grew more

-strongly upon him. He was still as much at a loss as ever as to the

-step which he ought to take next.

-

-"They shall decide for me," he said at last; "I will put myself into

-their hands: by their verdict I will abide."

-

-General St. George at this time was away from Park Newton. As has been

-already stated, he had been summoned to the sick-bed of a very old and

-valued friend. The illness was a long and tedious one, and at the

-request of his friend the General stayed on and kept him company.

-Truth to tell, he was by no means sorry to get away from Park Newton

-for awhile. Of late his position there had been anything but a

-pleasant one. The silent, deadly feud between his two nephews troubled

-him not a little. If Kester would only have gone away, then, so far,

-all would have been well. But having pressed him so earnestly to visit

-Park Newton, he could not, with any show of conscience, ask him to go

-till he was ready to do so of his own accord. Knowing what he knew,

-that Kester was all but proved to have been the murderer of Percy

-Osmond, he might well not care to live under the same roof with him,

-hiding his feelings under a mask, and, while pretending to know

-nothing, to be in reality cognisant of the whole dreadful story.

-Knowing what he knew, that Richard was none other than Lionel, and

-knowing the quest on which he was engaged, and that, sooner or later,

-the climax must come, he might well wish to be away from Park Newton

-when that most wretched day should dawn--a day which would prove the

-innocence of one nephew at the price of the other's guilt. Therefore

-did General St. George accept his old friend's invitation to stay with

-him for an indefinite length of time--till, in fact, Kester should

-have left Park Newton, or till the tangled knot of events should, in

-some other way, have unravelled itself.

-

-When, at length, Lionel had decided that he would take the advice of

-his friends as to what his future course should be, he was obliged to

-await Tom Bristow's return before it was possible to do anything.

-Then, when Tom did get back home, the General had to be written to.

-When he understood what he was wanted for, he agreed to come on

-certain conditions. He was to come to Fern Cottage, spend one night

-there, and go back to his friend's house next day. No one, except

-those assembled at the cottage, was to know anything of his journey.

-Above all, it was to be kept a profound secret from Kester St George.

-

-Thus it fell out that on a certain April evening there were assembled,

-in the parlour of the cottage, Edith, Mrs. Garside, General St.

-George, Tom Bristow, and Lionel. It was a very serious occasion, and

-they all felt it to be such.

-

-The General would sit close to Edith, whom he had not seen for a

-little while; and several times during the evening he took possession

-of one of her hands, and patted it affectionately between his own

-withered palms.

-

-"You are not looking quite so well, my dear, as when I saw you last,"

-had been his first words after kissing her. Her cheeks were, indeed,

-just beginning to look in the slightest degree hollow and worn, nor

-did her eyes look quite so bright as of old. The wonder was,

-considering all that she had gone through during the last twelve

-months, that she looked as fair and fresh as she did. Of Mrs. Garside,

-whom we have not seen for some little time, it may be said that she

-looked plumper and more matronly than ever. But then nothing could

-have kept Mrs. Garside from looking plump and matronly. She was one of

-those people off whom the troubles and anxieties of life slip as

-easily as water slips off a duck's back. Although she had a copious

-supply of tears at command, nothing ever troubled her deeply or for

-long, simply because there was no depth to be troubled. She was always

-cheerful, because she was shallow; and she was always kind-hearted so

-long as her kindness of heart did not involve any self-sacrifice on

-her part. "What a very pleasant person Mrs. Garside is," was the

-general verdict of society. And so she was--very pleasant. If her

-father had been hanged on a Monday for sheepstealing, by Tuesday she

-would have been as pleasant and cheerful as ever.

-

-But we must not be unjust to Mrs. Garside. She had one affection, and

-one only, her love for Edith. During all the days of Edith's

-tribulation, her aunt had never deserted her--had not even thought of

-deserting her; and now, for Edith's sake, she had buried herself alive

-in Fern Cottage, where her only excitement was a little mild shopping,

-now and then, in Duxley High Street, under the incognito of a thick

-veil, or a welcome visit once and again from Miss Culpepper. Under

-these depressing circumstances, it ought perhaps to be put down to the

-credit of Mrs. Garside, rather than to her discredit, that her

-cheerfulness was not one whit abated, and that her face was a picture

-of health and content.

-

-"I think you know why I have asked you to meet me here to-night,"

-began Lionel. "I want your advice: I want you to tell me what step I

-must take next. You know what the purpose of my life has been ever

-since the night I escaped from prison. You know how persistently I

-have pursued that purpose--that I have allowed nothing to deter me or

-turn me aside from it. The result is that there has grown under my

-hands a fatal array of evidence, all tending to implicate one man--all

-pointing with deadly accuracy to one person, and to one only, as the

-murderer of Percy Osmond. I have but to open my mouth, and the four

-walls of a prison would shut him round as fast as ever they shut round

-me; I have but to speak of half I know and that man would have to take

-his trial for Wilful Murder even as I took mine. But shall I do this

-thing? That is the question that I want you to help me to answer. So

-long as the chain of evidence remained incomplete, so long as certain

-links were wanting to it, I felt that my task was unfinished. But at

-last I have all that I need. There is nothing more to search for. My

-task, so far, is at an end. Knowing, then, what I know, and with such

-proofs in my possession, am I to stop here? Am I to rest content with

-what I have done, and go no step farther? Or am I to go through with

-it to the bitter end? What that end would involve you know as well as

-I could tell you."

-

-He ceased, and for a little while they all sat in silence. General St.

-George was the first to speak. "Lionel knows, and you all know, that

-from the very first he has had my heartfelt sympathy in this unhappy

-business. He has not had my sympathy only, he has had my help,

-although I have seen for a long time the point to which we were all

-tending, and the terrible consequences that must necessarily ensue. Me

-those consequences affect with peculiar force. One nephew can only be

-saved at the expense of the irretrievable ruin and disgrace of the

-other. It is not as though we had been searching in the dark, and had

-there found the bloodstained hand of a stranger. The hand we have so

-grasped is that of one of our own kin--one of ourselves. And that

-makes the dreadful part of the affair. Still, I would not have you

-misunderstand me. I am as closely bound to Lionel--my sympathy and

-help are his as much to-day as ever they were, and should he choose to

-go through with this business in the same way as he would go through

-with it in the case of an utter stranger, I shall be the last man in

-the world to blame him. More: I will march with him side by side,

-whatever be the goal to which his steps may lead him. Such

-unparalleled wrongs as his demand unparalleled reparation. For all

-that, however, it is still a most serious question whether there is

-not a possibility of effecting some kind of a compromise: whether

-there is not somewhere a door of escape open by means of which we may

-avert a catastrophe almost too terrible even to bear thinking about."

-

-"What is your opinion, Bristow?" said Lionel, turning to Tom. "What

-say you, my friend of friends?"

-

-"I have a certain diffidence in offering any opinion," said Tom,

-"simply on account of the relationship of the two persons chiefly

-involved. To tell the world all that you know, would, undoubtedly,

-bring about a family catastrophe of a most painful nature. It

-therefore seems to me that the members of that family, and they alone,

-should be empowered to offer an opinion on a question so delicate as

-the one now under consideration."

-

-"Not so," said Lionel, emphatically. "No one could have a better

-right, or even so great a right, to offer an opinion as you. But for

-you, I should not have been here to-night to ask for that opinion."

-

-"Nor I here but for you," interrupted Tom.

-

-"I will put my question to you in a different form," said Lionel; "and

-so put to you, I shall expect you to answer it in your usual clear and

-straightforward way. Bristow, if you were circumstanced exactly as I

-am now circumstanced, what would you do in my place?"

-

-"I would go through with the task I had taken in hand, let the

-consequences be what they might," said Tom, without a moment's

-hesitation. "Nothing should hold me back. I would clear my own name

-and my own fame, and let punishment fall where punishment is due. You

-are still young, Dering, and a fair career and a happy future may

-still be yours if you like to claim them."

-

-Tom's words were very emphatic, and for a little while no one spoke.

-"We have yet to hear what Edith has to say," said the General. "Her

-interests in the matter are second only to those of Lionel."

-

-"Yes, it is my wife's turn to speak next," said Lionel.

-

-"What my opinion is, you know well, dearest, and have known for a long

-time."

-

-"My uncle and Bristow would like to hear it from your own lips."

-

-"Uncle," began Edith, with a little blush, "whatever Lionel may

-ultimately decide to do will doubtless be for the best. The last wish

-I have in the world is to lead him or guide him in any way in

-opposition to his own convictions. But I have thought this: that it

-would be very terrible indeed to have to take part in a second

-tragedy--a tragedy that, in some of its features, would be far more

-dreadful than that first one, which none of us can ever forget. No one

-can know better than I know how grievously my husband has been sinned

-against. But nothing can altogether undo the wrong that has been done.

-Would it make my husband a happy man if, instead of being the accused,

-he should become the accuser? Let us for a few moments try to imagine

-that this second tragedy has been worked out in all its frightful

-consequences. That my husband has told everything. That he who is

-guilty has been duly punished. That Lionel's fair fame has been

-re-established, and that he and I are living at Park Newton as if

-nothing had ever happened to disturb the commonplace tenor of our

-lives. In such a case, would my husband be a happy man? No. I know him

-too well to believe it possible that he could ever be happy or

-contented. The image of that man--one of his own kith and kin, we must

-remember--would be for ever in his mind. He would be the prey of a

-remorse all the more bitter in that the world would hold him as

-without blame. But would he so hold himself? I think not--I am sure

-not. He would feel as if he had sought for and accepted the price of

-blood." Overcome by her emotion, she ceased.

-

-"I think in a great measure as you think, my dear," said the General.

-"What course do you propose that your husband should adopt?"

-

-"It is not for me to propose anything," answered Edith. "I can only

-suggest certain views of the question, and leave it for you and Lionel

-to adopt them or reject them, as may seem best to you."

-

-"Holding the proofs of his innocence in his hands as he does," said

-the General, "is it your wish that Lionel should sit down contented

-with what he has already achieved, and knowing that the real facts of

-his story are in the keeping of you and me, and two or three trusted

-friends, rest satisfied with that and ask for nothing more?"

-

-"No, I hardly go so far as that," said Edith, with a faint smile. "I

-think that the man who committed the crime should know that Lionel

-still lives, and that he holds in his hands the proof at once of his

-own innocence and of the other's guilt. Beyond that I say this: The

-world believes my husband to be dead: rather than re-open so terrible

-a wound, let the world continue so to believe. My husband and I can do

-without the world, as well as it can do without us. We have our mutual

-love, which nothing can deprive us of: against that the shafts of

-Fortune beat as vainly as hailstones against a castle wall. On this

-earth of ours are places sweet and fair without number. In one of

-them--not altogether dissevered from those ties of friendship which

-have already made our married life so beautiful--my husband and I could

-build up a new home, with no sad memories of the past to cling around

-it; and when this haunting shadow that now broods over his life shall

-have been brushed away for ever, then I think--I know--I feel sure

-that I can make him happy!" Her voice, her eyes, her whole manner were

-imbued with a sweet fervour that it was impossible to resist.

-

-Lionel crossed over and kissed her. "My darling!" he said. "But for

-your love and care I should long ago have been a madman."

-

-"You, my dear, have put into words," said the General, "the very ideas

-that for a long time have been floating about, half formed, in my own

-mind. Lionel, what have you to say to your wife's suggestions?"

-

-"Only this: that I have made up my mind to follow them. _He_ shall

-know that I am alive, and that I hold the proofs of his guilt, ready

-to produce them at a moment's notice, should I ever be compelled to do

-so. Beyond that, I will leave him in peace--to such peace as his own

-conscience will give him. The world believes Lionel Dering to be dead

-and buried. Dead and buried he shall still remain, and 'requiescat in

-pace' be written under his name."

-

-The General got up with tears in his eyes and shook Lionel warmly by

-the hand. "Good boy! good boy! You will not go without your reward,"

-was all that he could say.

-

-"The eighth of May will soon be here," said Lionel--"the anniversary

-of poor Osmond's murder. On that day he shall be told. But I shall

-tell him in my own fashion. On that day, uncle, you must promise to

-give me your company; and you yours, Tom. After that I shall trouble

-you no more."

-

-If Tom Bristow dissented from the conclusion thus come to, he said no

-word to that effect. There was one point, however, that struck his

-practical mind as having been altogether overlooked; and as soon as

-Edith and Mrs. Garside had left the room he did not fail to mention

-it.

-

-"What about the income of eleven thousand a year?" he said. "You are

-surely not going to let the whole of that slip through your fingers?"

-

-"Ah, by-the-by, that point never struck me," said the General. "No, it

-would be decidedly unjust both to yourself and your wife, Lionel, to

-give up the income as well as the position."

-

-"Now you are importing a mercenary tone into the affair that is

-utterly distasteful to me. It looks as if I were being bribed to keep

-silence."

-

-"That is sheer nonsense," said the General. "You have but to hold out

-your hand to take the whole."

-

-Lionel said no more, but went and sat down dejectedly on the sofa.

-

-"You and I must settle this matter between us," said the General to

-Tom. "It is most important. It shall be my place to see that whatever

-is agreed upon shall be duly carried out in the arrangement between

-the two men. I should think that if the income were divided it would

-be about as fair a thing as could be done. What say you?"

-

-"I agree with you entirely," said Tom. "The other one will have the

-name and position to keep up, and that can't be done for nothing."

-

-"Then it shall be so settled."

-

-"There is one other point that I think ought to be settled at the same

-time. Who is to have Park Newton after _his_ death? Lionel may have

-children. _He_ may marry and have children. But, in common justice,

-the estate ought to be secured on Dering's eldest child, whether the

-present possessor die with or without an heir."

-

-"Certainly, certainly. Good gracious me! a most valuable suggestion.

-Strange, now, that it never struck me. Yes, yes: Lionel's eldest child

-must have the estate. I will see that there is no possible mistake on

-that score."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER X.

-HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.

-

-

-After Mrs. McDermott's departure from Pincote, life there slipped back

-into its old quiet groove--into its old dull groove which was growing

-duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company:

-when any of his old friends called he was never at home to them; and

-on the score of ill health he declined every invitation that was sent

-to him. But it was not altogether on account of his health that these

-invitations were declined, because three or four times a week he would

-be seen somewhere about the country roads being driven out by Jane in

-the basket-carriage. There was another reason for this state of

-things--a reason to which his friends and neighbours were not slow in

-giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser: that is

-what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a

-miser was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his

-daughter's sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more

-ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme

-of domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous

-chapter, and the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to

-many people, seem miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality

-for which Pincote had heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he

-could not go much into society without giving return invitations. Now

-the four or five state dinners which he had been in the habit of

-giving every year were very elaborate and expensive affairs, and he no

-longer felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of spending

-so many pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom

-he cared little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount,

-trifling though it might seem, to that other trifling amount--only

-some few hundreds of pounds when all was told--which he had already

-managed to scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he

-should be gone from her side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be

-her home? "If I had only died a year ago," he would sometimes say to

-himself, "then Jenny would have had a handsome fortune to call her

-own. Now she's next door to being a pauper."

-

-Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank--not to

-Sugden's Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County--and he

-gloated over every five pounds added to the fund invested in his

-daughter's name as something more added to the nest-egg; and to be

-able to put away fifty pounds in a lump now afforded him far more

-genuine delight than the putting away of a thousand would have done

-six months previously.

-

-There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father

-respecting the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the

-Squire himself first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more

-anxious than he was that the topic should never be broached between

-them again. She guessed in part what his object might be when he began

-to cut down the house expenses at Pincote discharging some half dozen

-of his people; raising his farm rents where it was possible to do so;

-letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the park as

-pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his

-famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of

-his kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She

-guessed, but that was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his

-reasons for so doing, and she made no inquiry. The sphere of his

-enjoyment had now become a very limited one. If it gave him

-pleasure--and she could not doubt that it did--to live penuriously so

-as to be enabled to put away a few extra pounds per annum, she would

-not mar the edge of that pleasure by seeming even to notice what was

-going on, much less make any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on

-his part, had many a good chuckle in the solitude of his own room.

-"After I'm gone, she'll know what it all means," he would say to

-himself. "She's puzzled now--they are all puzzled. They call me a

-miser, do they? Let 'em call me what they like. Another twenty put

-away to-day. That makes----" and out would come his passbook and his

-spectacles.

-

-The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went

-into society compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his

-example. There were two or three houses to which, if she chose, she

-could still go without its being thought strange that there was no

-return invitation to Pincote; and there were two or three old school

-friends whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her own little room

-without their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay to

-dinner. But of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw

-little or nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she

-was far too deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.

-

-Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father's

-no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by

-no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott's warning words, nor Tom's frank

-confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of

-his intention to encourage Tom's visits to Pincote after the widow's

-abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next

-day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his

-appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been

-French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom's health in

-a bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when

-they parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front

-door, shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a

-sort of half intimation that some considerable time would probably

-elapse before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote

-again. In the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his

-sister, the Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home

-of an evening with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been

-content and happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so

-thinking he had overlooked one very important point. The Titus

-Culpepper of six months ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do

-gentleman, satisfied with himself and all the world, in tolerable

-health, and excited by the prospect of making a magnificent fortune

-without trouble or anxiety. The Titus Culpepper of to-day was a

-broken-down gambler--a gambler who had madly speculated with his

-daughter's fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down, too, was he in

-health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of all, a man who

-no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own thoughts, and

-who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour at a time. Of

-this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected nothing: how few

-of us do know of such changes! Other people may change--nay, do we not

-see them changing daily around us, and smile good-naturedly as we note

-how querulous and hard to please poor Jones has become of late? But

-that we--we--should so change, becoming a burden to ourselves and a

-trial to those around us, with our queer, cross-grained ways, our

-peevish, variable tempers, and our general belief that the sun shines

-less brightly, and that the world is less beautiful than it was a

-little while ago--that is altogether impossible. The change is always

-in others, never in our immaculate selves.

-

-The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men's company to

-that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all �sthetic. He

-liked to talk about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets;

-to talk a little about imperial politics--chiefly confined to

-blackguarding "the other side of the House"--and a great deal about

-local politics. He had been in the habit of talking by the hour

-together about paving, and lighting, and sewage, and the state of the

-highways: all useful matters without a doubt, but hardly topics

-calculated to interest a lady. Though he liked to have Jane play to

-him now and then--but never for more than ten minutes at any one

-time--he always designated it as "tinkling;" and as often as not, when

-he asked her to sing, he would say, "Now, Jenny, lass, give us a

-squall." But for all this, in former times Jane and he had got on very

-well together on the occasions when they had been without company at

-Pincote. He was moving about a good deal in the world at that time,

-mixing with various people, talking to and being talked to by

-different friends and acquaintances, and was at no loss for subjects

-to talk about, even though those subjects might not be particularly

-interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a capital listener, and

-could always give him a good commonplace answer, and that was all he

-craved--that and three-fourths of the talk to himself.

-

-Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but

-given up going into society, by which means he at once dried up the

-source from which he had been in the habit of obtaining his

-conversational ideas. When he came to dine alone with Jane he found

-himself with nothing to talk about. Under such circumstances there was

-nothing left for him but grumbling. But even grumbling becomes

-tiresome after a time, especially when the person to whom such

-complainings are addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you,

-and is incapable of being grumbled at herself.

-

-It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to

-Jane, "We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to

-see him about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner.

-So you had better drop him a line."

-

-The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was

-too stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man's

-lively company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next

-morning happened to be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself

-as she noted how anxious her father was lest the rain should keep Tom

-from coming. Jane knew that neither rain nor anything else would keep

-him away. "Papa is almost as anxious to see him as I am," she said to

-herself. "He thought that he could live without him: he now begins to

-find out his mistake."

-

-Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a

-hearty greeting, and took him into the study before he had an

-opportunity of seeing Jane. "I've heard nothing more from those

-railway people about the Croft," he said. "Penfold was here yesterday

-and wanted to know whether he was to go on with the villas--all the

-foundations are now in, you know. I hardly knew what instructions to

-give him."

-

-"If you were to ask me, sir," said Tom, "I should certainly say, let

-him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to

-know that the company must have the Croft--that they cannot possibly

-do without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to

-go to them and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to

-come to you; which, in a transaction of this nature, makes all the

-difference."

-

-"I don't think you are far wrong in your views," said Mr. Culpepper.

-"I'll turn over in my mind what you've said." Which meant that the

-Squire would certainly adopt Tom's advice.

-

-"No lovemaking, you know, Bristow," whispered the old man, with a dig

-in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.

-

-"You may trust me, sir," said Tom.

-

-"I'm not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty

-girl is in question."

-

-Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old

-man his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources

-in that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully

-introduced topics sufficed. The Squire's own long-winded remarks,

-unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made

-a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready

-with his "I quite agree with you, sir;" or his "Just so, sir;" or his

-"Those are my sentiments exactly, sir." To be able to talk for half an

-hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that

-interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly

-enjoyed.

-

-After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by

-himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the

-drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the

-dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though

-he might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of

-that illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly

-cautioned.

-

-As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into

-the drawing-room, and whispered, "None of your tomfoolery, remember."

-Five minutes later he was fast asleep.

-

-They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so

-they fell back upon chess. "There's to be no lovemaking, you know,

-Jenny," whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.

-

-"None, whatever," whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the

-head, and a demure smile.

-

-A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for

-any further conversation, except about the incidents of the game,

-which, truth to tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of

-studying the board, as a chess-player ought to do, Jane found her

-eyes, quite unconsciously to herself, studying the face of her

-opponent, while Tom's hand, wandering purposelessly about the board,

-frequently found itself taking hold of Jane's hand instead of a knight

-or a pawn; so that when at last the game did contrive to work itself

-out to an ineffective conclusion, they could hardly have said with

-certainty which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire woke

-up, smiling and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each

-other, and there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of

-chess. If he were content, they had no reason to be otherwise.

-

-After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as

-often as the latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of

-himself the old man's heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when

-it so happened that business took Tom away from home for two or three

-days, then the Squire grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane's tact

-and good temper were needed to make life at all endurable. She tried

-her best to persuade him to invite some of his old friends to come and

-see him, or go himself and call up on some of them, but in vain.

-Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would he have. He looked

-upon himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to economize in

-every possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a

-sensible fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony,

-or be at any extra expense--a man who was content with a chop and a

-rice pudding, and a glass of St. Julien. "He doesn't come here for

-what he gets to eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine.

-He finds that he can learn a good many things from me, and he's not

-above learning."

-

-All this time the works at Knockley Holt were being pushed busily

-forward, much to the bewilderment and aggravation of the good people

-of Duxley. They were aggravated, and they considered they had a right

-to be aggravated, because they could not understand, and had not

-been told, what it was that was intended to be done there. In a

-small town like Duxley, no inhabitant has a right to put before his

-fellow-citizens a problem which they find incapable of solution, and

-then when asked to solve it for them decline to do so. Such conduct

-merits the severest social reprehension.

-

-Surely next to the madness of building a row of villas on Prior's

-Croft, was the puzzling folly of digging a hole in Knockley Holt.

-After much discussion pro and con, amongst the townspeople--chiefly

-over sundry glasses of whiskey toddy, in sundry bar parlours, after

-business hours--it seemed to be settled that Culpepper's Hole, as some

-wag had christened it, could be intended for nothing else than an

-artesian well--though what was the exact nature of an artesian well it

-would have puzzled some of the Duxley wiseacres to tell, and why water

-should be bored for there, and to what uses it could be put when so

-obtained, they would have been still more at a loss to say. The Squire

-could not drive into Duxley without being tackled by one or another of

-his friends as to what he was about at Knockley Holt. But the old man

-would only wink and shake his head, and try to look wise, and say, "It

-doesn't do to blab everything nowadays, but between you and me and the

-post--this is in confidence, mind--I'm digging a tunnel to the

-Antipodes." Then he would chuckle and give the reins a shake, and

-Diamond would trot off with him, leaving his questioner angry or

-amused, as the case might be.

-

-It was not known to any one in Duxley, except the Squire's lawyer,

-that Knockley Holt was now the property of Tom Bristow. That the works

-there were under Tom's direction was a well-known fact, but he was

-merely looked upon as Mr. Culpepper's foreman in the matter. "Gets a

-couple of hundred or so a year for looking after the Squire's

-affairs," one wiseacre would remark to another. "If not, how does he

-live? Seems to have nothing to do when he's not at Pincote. A poor way

-of getting a living. Serve him right: he should have stopped with old

-Hoskyns when he had the chance, and not have thought he was going to

-set the Thames on fire with his six thousand pounds."

-

-No one could be possessed by a more burning desire than the Squire

-himself to know the meaning of the works at Knockley Holt, but having

-asked once and asked in vain, his pride would not allow him to make

-any further direct inquiry. Not a day passed on which he saw Tom, that

-he did not try, by one or two vague hints, to lead up to the subject,

-but when Tom turned the talk into another channel, then the old man

-would see that the time for him to be enlightened had not yet come.

-

-But it did come at last, and after what was, in reality, no very long

-waiting. On a certain afternoon--to be precise in our dates, it was

-the fifth of May--Tom walked over to Pincote, in search of the Squire.

-He found him in his study, wearying his brain over a column of

-figures, which would persist in coming to a different total every time

-it was added up. The first thing Tom did was to take the column of

-figures and bring it to a correct total. This done, his next act was

-to produce something from his pocket that was carefully wrapped up in

-a piece of brown paper. He pushed the parcel across the table to the

-Squire. "Will you oblige me, sir," he said, "by opening that paper,

-and giving me your opinion as to the contents?"

-

-"Why, bless my heart, this is neither more nor less than a lump of

-coal!" said the Squire, when he had opened the paper.

-

-"Exactly so, sir. As you say, this is neither more nor less than a

-lump of coal. But where do you think it came from?"

-

-"There you puzzle me. Though I don't know that it can matter much to

-me where it came from."

-

-"But it matters very much to you, sir. This lump of coal came from

-Knockley Holt."

-

-The Squire was rather dull of comprehension. "Well, what is there so

-wonderful about that?" he said. "I dare say it was stolen by some of

-those confounded gipsies, and left there when they moved."

-

-"What I mean is this, sir," answered Tom, with just a shade of

-impatience in his tone. "This piece of coal is but a specimen of a

-splendid seam which has been struck by my men at the bottom of the

-shaft at Knockley Holt."

-

-The Squire stared at him, and gave a long, low whistle. "Do you mean

-to say that you have found a bed of coal at the bottom of the hole you

-have been digging at Knockley Holt?"

-

-"That is precisely what I have found, sir, and it is precisely what I

-have been trying to find from the first."

-

-"I see it all now!" said the Squire. "What a lucky young scamp you

-are! But what on earth put it into your head to go looking for coal at

-Knockley Holt?"

-

-"I had a friend of mine, who is a very clever mining engineer, staying

-with me for a little while some time ago. But my friend is not only an

-engineer--he is a practical geologist as well. When out for a

-constitutional one day, we found ourselves at Knockley Holt. My friend

-was struck with its appearance--so different from that of the country

-around. 'Unless I am much mistaken, there is coal under here,' he

-said, 'and at no great distance from the surface either. The owner

-ought to think himself a lucky man--that is, if he knows the value of

-it.' Well, sir, not content with what my friend said, I paid a heavy

-fee and had one of the most eminent geologists of the day down from

-London to examine and report upon it. His report coincided exactly

-with my friend's opinion. You know the rest, sir. I came to you with a

-view of getting a lease of the ground, and found you desirous of

-selling it. I was only too glad to have the chance of buying it. I set

-a lot of men and a steam engine to work without a day's delay, and

-that lump of coal, sir, is the happy result."

-

-The Squire rubbed his spectacles for a moment or two without speaking.

-"Bristow, that's an old head of yours on those young shoulders," he

-said at last. "With all my heart congratulate you on your good

-fortune. I know no man who deserves it more than you do. Yes, Bristow,

-I congratulate you, though I can't help saying that I wish that I had

-had a friend to have told me what was told you before I let you have

-the ground. For want of such a friend I have lost a fortune."

-

-"That is just what I have come to see you about, sir," said Tom, as he

-rose and pushed back his chair. The Squire looked up at him in

-surprise. "Although I bought Knockley Holt from you as a speculation,

-I had a pretty good idea when I bought it as to what I should find

-below the surface. If I had not found what I expected, my bargain

-would have been a dear one; but having found what I expected, it is

-just the opposite. In fact, sir, you have lost a fortune, and I have

-found one."

-

-"I know it--I know it," groaned the Squire. "But you needn't twit me

-with it."

-

-"So far the speculation was a perfectly legitimate one, as

-speculations go nowadays. But that is not the sort of thing I wish

-to exist between you and me. You have been very kind to me in many

-ways, and I have much to thank you for. I could not bear to treat you

-in this matter as I should treat a stranger. I could not bear to think

-that I was making a fortune out of a piece of ground that but a few

-short weeks ago was your property. The money so made would seem to me

-to bring a curse with it, rather than a blessing. I should feel as if

-nothing would ever prosper with me afterwards. Sir, I will not have

-this coal mine. There are plenty of other channels open to me for

-making money. Here are the title deeds of the property. I give

-them back to you. You shall repay me the twelve hundred pounds

-purchase-money, and reimburse me for the expenses I have been put to

-in sinking the shaft. But as for the pit itself, I will have nothing

-to do with it."

-

-Tom had produced the title deeds from his pocket and had laid them on

-the table while speaking. He now pushed them across to the Squire.

-Then he took the deed of sale tore it across, and threw the fragments

-into the grate.

-

-It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished

-in the whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For

-a little while he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did

-speak, his words were not lacking in force.

-

-"Bristow, you are a confounded fool!" he said with emphasis.

-

-"I have been told that many times before."

-

-"You are a confounded fool--but you are a gentleman."

-

-Tom merely bowed.

-

-"You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after

-having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there--eh?"

-

-"I don't propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are the

-title deeds," pointing to the table. "There is the deed of sale,"

-pointing to the fire-grate.

-

-"And do you think, sir," said the Squire, with dignity, "that Titus

-Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity

-from one who is little more than a boy! Not so.--It would be

-impossible for me to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind

-The property is fairly and legally yours, and yours it must remain."

-

-"It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title

-deeds. Do with them as you will." He buttoned his coat, and took up

-his hat, and turned to leave the room.

-

-"Stop, Bristow, stop!" said the Squire, as he rose from his chair. Tom

-halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back

-to the table.

-

-Mr. Culpepper walked to the window and stood there looking out for

-full three minutes without uttering a word. Then he turned and

-beckoned Tom to go to him.

-

-"Bristow," he said, laying his hand affectionately on Tom's shoulder,

-"as I said before, you are a gentleman--a gentleman in mind and

-feeling. More than that a man cannot be, whether his family be old or

-new. You propose to do a certain thing which I can only accede to on

-one condition."

-

-"Name it, sir," said Tom briefly.

-

-"I cannot take Knockley Holt from you without giving you something

-like an equivalent in return. Now, I only possess one thing that you

-would care to receive at my hands--and that is the most precious thing

-I have on earth. Exchange is no robbery. I will agree to take back

-Knockley Holt from you, if you will take in exchange for it--my

-daughter Jane."

-

-"Oh! Mr. Culpepper."

-

-"That you love her, I know already, and I dare say the sly hussy is

-equally as fond of you. If such be the case, take her. I know no man

-who so thoroughly deserves her, or who has so much right to her as you

-have."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XI.

-THE EIGHTH OF MAY.

-

-

-The eighth of May had come round at last.

-

-Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George

-intended least to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell

-out, he could not well avoid doing so.

-

-After the death and burial of Mother Mim--the expenses of the

-last-named ceremony being defrayed out of Kester's pocket--it had been

-his intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so

-fell out that in the document purloined by him from the pocket of

-Skeggs when that individual lay dead on the moor, there was given the

-name of a certain person, still living, who could depose, of his own

-personal knowledge, to the truth of the facts as put down in the dying

-woman's confession. This person was the only witness to the facts

-there stated who was now alive. The name of the man in question was

-William Bendall, and the point that Kester had now to clear up was:

-Who was this William Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was

-no address given in the Confession, nor any hint as to the man's

-whereabouts; but Skeggs had doubtless known where he was to be found,

-and had, in fact, told Kester that he could put his hand on the man at

-a day's notice.

-

-With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it

-was impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn

-that Mother Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of

-a few days, and when the restraining power which had doubtless kept

-him silent should be removed for ever, what was to prevent him from

-telling all that he knew, or, at least, from giving such broad hints

-as to the information in his possession as might lead to inquiry--to

-many inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would care to

-encounter--unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven to

-bay?

-

-But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It

-behoved him, therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain

-cautious inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with

-the view of ascertaining what kind of a man he was, or whether there

-was any danger to be apprehended from him. And if so, how could the

-danger best be met?

-

-It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave

-Park Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at

-any hour should Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he

-stayed on at the old place, very much against his will in other

-respects. But, to a certain extent, his patience had already been

-rewarded. Mr. Bendall's address had been discovered, and Mr. Bendall

-himself had been found to be first cousin to Mother Mim, and a railway

-ganger by profession. But just at this time he was away from home--his

-home being at Swarkstone, a great centre of railway industry, about

-twenty miles from Duxley--he having been sent out to Russia in charge

-of a cargo of railway plant. He was now expected back in the course of

-a few days, and Kester determined not to leave the neighbourhood till

-he had found out for himself what manner of man he was.

-

-We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two

-days after Kester's visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg,

-so that the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen,

-and it was at once understood how he had come by his death. No one

-except the girl Nell had seen Kester St. George in his company, so, as

-it fell out, that gentleman's name was never even whispered in

-connexion with the affair.

-

-The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously

-discussed in his own mind, after Mother Mim's death. What to do with

-such a strange girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence.

-Did she really know anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she

-not? If anything, how much did she know, and to what use did she

-intend to put her knowledge? Kester had no opportunity of talking to

-her in private before the funeral, so he made an appointment with her

-for the morning following that event. She was to meet him at a certain

-milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o'clock. Kester was there to

-the minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all.

-Kester went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to

-Mother Mim's cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the

-old woman who had been looking after matters previously to the

-funeral: From her he ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two

-hours after her return from seeing the last of her grandmother, taking

-with her her new black frock and a few other things tied up in a

-bundle, and had given no hint as to where she was going, or whether it

-was her intention ever to come back.

-

-The girl's disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude

-to Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any

-sign of her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness

-gradually wore itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself

-that from that quarter at least there was no possible danger to be

-apprehended.

-

-But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester

-St. George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park

-Newton, not even though he could not have left it till the seventh,

-and had been compelled to come back to it on the ninth. He would have

-gone somewhere--anywhere if only for a dozen hours--if only from

-sunset till sunrise, had it in anyway been possible for him to do so.

-But it so happened that it was not possible for him to do so. On the

-fifth he received a letter from his uncle, which astonished him very

-much. General St. George was still staying at Salisbury with his sick

-friend, Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:

-

-

-"All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant,

-but for a few hours only. I don't know whether your cousin Richard has

-told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out

-to New Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him."

-

-

-"The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of life!"

-muttered Kester. "Of course, it's Master Richard's dodge to take him

-with him, so as to make sure of his money when he dies. Well, if I can

-only get rid of the young one, the old one may go with him, and

-welcome." Then he went on with his uncle's letter.

-

-

-"I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope

-to spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old

-place, and there are several things I wish to talk to you about.

-We--that is, Richard and I, leave by the eight o'clock train next

-morning direct for Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us.

-By this day next week, I shall have bidden a final farewell to dear

-Old England."

-

-

-"So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it," said Kester,

-as he folded up the letter. "I would give much if it was any other day

-than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But there's

-no help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company than to

-spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that."

-

-"Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there's no

-chance of any of his money coming to me," he said to himself later on.

-"That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I

-don't suppose he's got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I

-wouldn't mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for

-ever."

-

-The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often

-are. Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and

-away he started without telling any one where he was going. He was out

-all day, and did not get back till five o'clock, an hour after the

-arrival of his uncle, with whom had come Mr. Perrins, the family

-lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not seen for a long time. He

-was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester that his uncle

-had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving England,

-in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.

-

-"This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England," said Kester.

-

-"Yes, it is very sudden," replied the General. "It is not more than

-three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The reasons

-he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not

-blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel

-left us, I seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I

-presently made up my mind to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of

-living alone. I have only you and him--and you; Kester, are too much

-of a Bohemian, too much a citizen of the world--a wandering Arab who

-strikes his tent a dozen times a year--for me ever to think of staying

-with you. Dick is far more of an old fogey than you are, and he and

-I--I don't doubt--will get on very well together."

-

-"All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you."

-

-Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to

-dinner, for there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton,

-the octogenarian Vicar of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally

-during the course of the trial, but not since. The vicar he had known

-from boyhood.

-

-It was by Lionel's express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar

-had been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell

-Kester to-night should be told to them also. They were all, in a

-certain sense, friends of the family; they were all men of honour;

-with them his secret would be safe. In simple justice to himself, he

-felt that it was not enough that his uncle and Bristow should be the

-sole depositories of that secret. There ought to be at least two or

-three family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly trusted,

-and whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in

-exile.

-

-None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular

-reason why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had

-any suspicion that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom

-they all so sincerely mourned. They had simply been invited to a

-little dinner party given by General St. George on the eve of his

-departure from England for ever.

-

-The last to arrive at Park Newton--and he did not arrive till two

-minutes before dinner was served--was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven

-Miss Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking

-with Edith till the last minute.

-

-Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General

-introduced them to each other. Tom had seen Kester several times,

-knowing well who he was, but the latter had no recollection of having

-ever seen Tom.

-

-Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as

-to the particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin

-that which he had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had

-kept his own counsel, having spoken no word to any one. It was a

-subject on which even his wife felt that she could not question him.

-During the past week he had been even more silent and distrait than

-usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one subject, to the

-exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be aware of,

-what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious

-one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon

-her: that she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed

-for was that the fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come

-and go without any encounter between her husband and his cousin.

-Lionel and Tom were to ride across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at

-the close of the evening--Tom, in order that he might escort Jane back

-to Pincote: Lionel, because he should then have bidden the old house a

-last farewell, because he should then have done with the past for

-ever, and because he should then be ready to start with his wife for

-their new home on the other side of the world.

-

-"And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to

-reconsider your determination?" said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand

-in hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had

-gone into Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little

-parlour all to themselves.

-

-"I'm afraid not," answered Edith with a melancholy smile

-

-"It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight

-and clear--just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the

-world! Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it

-aloud on the housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which

-he deserves to pay. I would never banish myself from my native country

-for his sake; he is not worthy of such a sacrifice."

-

-"You must not talk like that," said Edith, with a little extra squeeze

-of Jane's hand; "but it is easy to see who has been inoculating you

-with his wild doctrines."

-

-"They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones," said

-Jane emphatically. "There's nothing wild about them; they are plain

-common sense."

-

-"There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow

-the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are

-about to do is best for all concerned."

-

-"I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in

-this way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you."

-

-"I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I'm

-afraid Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear

-transplanting to a foreign clime."

-

-"Yes, I suppose so," said Jane, with a little sigh. "Only I should so

-like to travel: I should so like a six months' voyage to somewhere."

-

-"The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel

-so."

-

-"You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand,

-some place within four or five days' journey, where one could run over

-for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous

-of you to go so far away."

-

-"When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the

-case. If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be

-the least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a

-perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable.

-He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his

-face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without

-fear of detection."

-

-"I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to

-you to get away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful

-associations--to hide yourself in some remote valley where no shadow

-of the past can darken your door; but it seems to me that you need

-not go quite so far away in order to do that."

-

-"It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it."

-

-"No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one

-would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for

-me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make

-it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that

-effect. But, New Zealand!"

-

-As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith's uneasiness increase, but

-she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had

-told her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to

-the time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share

-in the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she

-was unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might

-not even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her

-husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly

-chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be

-a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers

-of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait--wait--wait! If

-she went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the

-sound of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be

-possible to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance

-away. To and fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned

-leopardess. White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping

-and unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess

-of old, who sees in her mind's eye a vision of doom--a vision of

-things to come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched

-her in silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but

-there was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.

-

-"I can bear this no longer," said Edith, at last; "the room suffocates

-me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel." She

-snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside's, that lay on the sofa, and flung

-it over her head and shoulders.

-

-"Let me go with you," cried Jane, "I am almost as anxious as you are."

-

-"Hush! hush!" cried Edith, suddenly, "I hear them coming!"

-

-Hardly breathing, they all listened.

-

-"I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind," cried Mrs.

-Garside, after a few moments.

-

-"Nor I," said Jane.

-

-"I tell you they are coming," said Edith. "There are two of them.

-Listen! Surely you can hear them now!" She flung open the window as

-she spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard

-highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage

-door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the

-top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them.

-

-Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed

-by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was

-no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour.

-To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all

-of them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave.

-

-Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith's white arms

-were round his neck.

-

-"My darling: what is it?" she said. "What dreadful thing has

-happened?" He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something

-in her ear. She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms

-tightened suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.

-

-

-At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom

-and Mr. Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar,

-did their best to keep the conversation from flagging, but at times

-with only indifferent success. None of them could forget what day it

-was--could forget what took place that night twelve months ago, only a

-few yards from where they were sitting; and so remembering, who could

-wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless and the wines without flavour,

-that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to the imagination of

-more than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the room,

-invisible to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking

-when they drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing

-well all the time which one of the company would be the first to join

-it in that Land of Shadows to which it now belonged.

-

-Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke

-at all except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep

-up some show of conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no

-one but himself knew how irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel

-intend to do? Would there be a scene--a fracas--between the two

-cousins? What would be the end of the wretched business? How fervently

-he wished that the morrow was safely come, that he had seen that

-unhappy man's face for the last time, and that he, and Lionel, and

-Edith were fairly started on their long journey to the other side of

-the world!

-

-The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party

-would break up by ten o'clock at the latest. Not that it mattered

-greatly to either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton

-all night. But the vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in

-decent time, so that when he began to fidget and look at his watch,

-Lionel, who was only waiting for him to make a move, knew that it

-would be impossible to detain him much longer.

-

-"I must really ask you to excuse me, General," said the old man at

-last. "But I see that it is past ten o'clock, and quite time for gay

-young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps."

-

-"I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar," said Lionel.

-"I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my uncle's

-permission, we will all adjourn there."

-

-"You must not keep me long," said the vicar.

-

-"I will not," said Lionel. "But I know that you like to finish up your

-evening with a little caf� noir; and I have, besides, a picture which

-I want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much--a

-picture--which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all

-the other gentlemen who are here to-night."

-

-They all rose and made a move towards the door.

-

-"As I don't care for caf� noir, and don't understand pictures, you

-will perhaps excuse me," said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing

-himself to his uncle.

-

-"You had better go with us," said Lionel, turning to his cousin. "You

-are surely not going to be the first to break up the party."

-

-"I don't want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come

-back," answered Kester, doggedly.

-

-"You had better go with us," said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so

-that the others could not hear him.

-

-"Pray who made you dictator here?" said Kester haughtily. "I don't

-choose to go with you. That is enough."

-

-"You had better go with us," said Lionel for the third time. "If you

-still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go."

-

-"Afraid!" sneered Kester. "Of whom and what should I be afraid?"

-

-"That is best known to yourself."

-

-"Anyhow, I'm neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do."

-

-"If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are

-kept away by some abject fear."

-

-"Lead on.--I'll follow.--But mark my words, you and I will have this

-little matter out in the morning--alone."

-

-"Willingly."

-

-The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to

-those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and

-no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered:

-a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as

-possible.

-

-Lionel's sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided

-into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on

-the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.

-

-"Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes," said

-Lionel. "My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it

-to you." So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of

-the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.

-

-Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were

-bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now,

-as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his

-shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that

-one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. "Come!"

-was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little

-malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his

-heart there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to

-him; a dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating

-on some far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know

-that he was there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable

-bitterness, how utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human

-being anywhere who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret

-him--not one single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his

-grave.--But such thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away

-somehow. He rose and went to the table, poured himself out half a

-tumbler of brandy, and drank it off without water. "It puts fresh life

-into me as it goes down," he muttered to himself.

-

-He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden

-noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were

-being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they

-stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness.

-Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel--or, as most

-there took it to be, the voice of Richard--but Lionel himself was

-unseen.

-

-"Gentlemen," said the voice, "you all know what day this is. It is the

-eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered.

-About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed

-about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how

-the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have

-painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you."

-

-The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open.

-The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that

-every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed

-canvas, on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel

-Dering's Dream.

-

-The scene was Percy Osmond's bedroom, and the moment selected by the

-artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and

-Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while

-pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other

-hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent's heart. Peeping from

-behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of

-Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses

-takable.

-

-Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at

-the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely

-accused was one of themselves.

-

-"Now you see how the murder really happened--now you know who the

-murderer really was," said Lionel, speaking from some place in the

-farther room where he could not be seen. "This is no dream but a most

-dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs--ample

-proofs--of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy

-Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!"

-

-At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was

-still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right

-hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported

-himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face;

-his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one

-face to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to

-speak, but could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy.

-Tom interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it

-greedily and then he spoke.

-

-"What you have just been told," he said, "is nothing but a cruel,

-cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he

-hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar--because he dare

-not face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer--we all

-know that Lionel Dering----"

-

-"Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you

-to your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!"

-

-Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood

-Lionel, no longer disguised--the dye washed off his face, his hands,

-his hair--the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from

-the dead--his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at

-a glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair

-beard.

-

-For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue,

-glaring across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.

-

-One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so.

-That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his

-face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half

-round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.

-

-"He has fainted," said the General.

-

-"He is dead," said Tom.

-

-"Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this," said Lionel.

-"None whatever!"

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XII.

-GATHERED THREADS.

-

-

-The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering

-with two courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out

-his original intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving

-the world still to believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he

-could give himself up to justice, under his real name, and, his first

-trial never having been finished--take his stand at the bar again

-under the original charge, and with the proofs he had gathered in his

-possession, let his innocence of the crime imputed to him work itself

-out through a legitimate channel to a verdict of Not Guilty. This

-latter course was the only one open to him if he wished to clear

-himself in the eyes of the world from the stain of blood, or even if

-he wished to assume his own name and his position as the owner of Park

-Newton. But did he really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad,

-of burying himself and his wife in some far-away nook of the New

-World, had taken such hold on his imagination, that even now it had by

-no means lost its sweetness in his thoughts. Then, again, Kester

-having died without a will, if he--Lionel were to leave himself

-undeclared, the estate would go to General St. George, as next of kin,

-and after the old soldier's time it would go, in the natural course of

-events, to his brother Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give

-himself into custody and undergo the pain and annoyance of another

-term of imprisonment, and another trial--and they would be both

-painful and annoying, even though his innocence were proved at the end

-of them? Why not rather bind over to silence those few trusted friends

-to whom his secret was already known, and going abroad with Edith,

-spend the remainder of his days in happy obscurity. Why re-open that

-bloodstained page of family history, over which the world had of a

-surety gloated sufficiently already?

-

-But in this latter view he was opposed by everybody except his wife;

-by his uncle, by Tom, by the vicar, and by nobody more strongly than

-by Messrs. Perrins and Hoskyns. The cry from all was--take your trial;

-let your innocence be proved, as proved it must be, and assume the

-name and position that are rightfully yours. Edith, with her head

-resting on his shoulder, only said: "Do that which seems best to you

-in your own heart, dearest, and that alone. Whether you go or stay, my

-place is by your side--my love unalterable. Only to be with you--never

-to lose you again--is all I ask. Give me that: I crave for nothing

-more."

-

-Strange to say, the person who brought matters to a climax, and

-finally decided Lionel as to his future course of action, was the girl

-Nell, Mother Mim's plain-spoken grand-daughter. Through some channel

-or other she had heard of the death of Mr. St. George, and one day she

-marched up the steps at Park Newton, and rang the big bell, and asked,

-as bold as brass, to see the General. The General was one of the most

-accessible of men, and when told that the girl wanted to see him

-privately, he marched off at once to the library, and ordered her to

-be admitted.

-

-It was a strange story the girl had to tell--so strange that the

-General at first put her down as a common impostor. Fortunately Mr.

-Perrins happened to be still at Park Newton, and he at once called the

-shrewd old lawyer to his assistance.

-

-But Miss Nell was now taken with a stubborn fit, and refused either to

-say any more or to answer any more questions, till five pounds had

-been given her as an earnest of more to follow, in case her

-information should prove to be correct. The five pounds having been

-put into her hands, she told all that she knew freely enough, and

-answered every question that was put to her. Then she was dismissed

-for the time being, having first left an address where she might be

-found when wanted.

-

-Nell had told them how the body of Dirty Jack had been found dead on

-the moor, and the first point to ascertain was, what had become of the

-confession which was known to have been in his possession when he left

-Mother Mim's cottage? Had it been found on his person? If so, where

-was it now? It was rather singular that Mr. St. George should be the

-last person known to have been seen in the company of Skeggs. The

-second question was, where was Mr. Bendall to be found? Mr. Perrins

-set to work without delay to solve this latter problem, by engaging

-one of Mr. Hoskyns's confidential clerks to make the requisite

-inquiries for him. To the first question, the whereabouts of the

-confession, he determined to give his own personal attention. But

-before he had an opportunity of doing this, he found among the papers

-of Kester the very document itself--the original confession, duly

-witnessed by Skeggs and the girl Nell. A day or two later Mr. Bendall

-was also found, and--for a consideration--had no objection to tell all

-he knew of the affair. His evidence, and that given in the confession,

-tallied exactly. There could no longer be any moral doubt as to the

-fact of Kester St. George having been a son of Mother Mim.

-

-This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was

-still debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one

-weapon more in favour of the course they were desirous that he should

-pursue. If Kester St. George were not Lionel's cousin, if he were not

-related to the family in any way, there was less reason than ever why

-Lionel should not declare himself, why he should not give himself up,

-and let his own innocence be proved once and for ever, by proving the

-guilt of this other man.

-

-Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the

-others, and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer.

-Exactly a week after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well

-continue to call him) Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at

-Duxley, and gave himself up into the hands of the sergeant on duty.

-

-Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. "How can you be Mr.

-Dering?" he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with

-the superintendent's recollection of him. "I saw that gentleman lying

-dead in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could

-have sworn to him anywhere."

-

-"What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and

-not the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without

-recognizing me. At all events here I am, alive and well, and if you

-will kindly lock me up, I shall esteem it a favour."

-

-"I was never so sold in the whole course of my life," said Drayton.

-"But there's one comfort--Sergeant Whiffins was just as much sold as I

-was."

-

-At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial

-for the murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been

-carefully looked after by a private detective in the guise of a guest

-at his hotel, was admitted as evidence for the Crown, and without

-leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty was found by the jury. Never

-had such a scene been known in Duxley as was enacted that summer

-afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the Court-house

-a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by main

-force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of

-the crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company

-with two brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster.

-Lionel's arm had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he

-had shaken hands with a great multitude of his friends--and every man

-and boy prided himself upon being Mr. Dering's friend that day. As for

-the ladies, they had their own way of showing their sympathy with him.

-Half the children in the parish that came to light during the next

-twelve months were christened either Edith or Lionel.

-

-The post-mortem examination showed that heart disease of long standing

-was the proximate cause of Kester St. George's death. He was buried

-not in the family vault where the St. Georges for two centuries lay in

-silent state, but in the town cemetery. The grave was marked by a

-plain slab, on which was engraved simply the initials of the name he

-had always been known by, and the date of his death.

-

-"I warned him of it long ago," said Dr. Bolus to two or three fellows

-at Kester's old club, as he stood with his back to the fire and his

-coat tails thrown over his arms. "But whose warnings are sooner

-forgotten than a doctor's? By living away from London, and leading a

-perfectly quiet and temperate life, he might have been kept going for

-years. But, above all things, he should have avoided excitement of

-every kind."

-

-Lionel and Edith put off for a little while their long-talked-of tour

-in order that they might be present at the wedding of Tom and Jane.

-The ceremony took place in August. Tom and his bride went to Scotland

-for their honeymoon. Lionel and his wife started for Switzerland, en

-route for Italy, where they were to spend the ensuing winter.

-

-Of late the Squire had recovered his health wonderfully. He seemed to

-have grown ten years younger in a few weeks. In the working of that

-wonderful coal-shaft, and in the prospect of his making a far larger

-fortune for his daughter than the one he so foolishly lost, he found a

-perpetual source of healthy excitement, which, by keeping both his

-mind and body actively and legitimately employed, had an undoubted

-tendency to lengthen his life. Besides this, Tom had asked him to

-superintend the construction of his new house. It was just the sort of

-job that the Squire delighted in--to look sharply after a lot of

-working men, and while pretending that they were all in a league to

-cheat him, blowing them up heartily all round one half-hour, and

-treating them to unlimited beer the next.

-

-"I should like to see you in the Town Council, Bristow," said the

-Squire one day to his son-in-law.

-

-"Thank you, sir, all the same," said Tom, "but it's hardly good

-enough. There will be a general election before we are much older,

-when I mean, either by hook or by crook, to get into the House."

-

-"Bristow, you have the cheek of the Deuce himself," was all that the

-astonished Squire could say.

-

-It may just be remarked that Tom's ambition has since been gratified.

-He is now, and has been for some time, member for W----. He is clever,

-ambitious, and a tolerable orator, as oratory is reckoned nowadays.

-What may not such a man aspire to?

-

-Mr. Hoskyns is a frequent guest both of Tom and Lionel. Chatting with

-the former one day over the "walnuts and the wine," said the old man:

-"I have often puzzled my brain over that affair of Baldry's--that

-positive assertion of his that he saw and spoke to me one night in the

-Thornfield Road when I was most certainly not there. Have you ever

-thought about it since?"

-

-"Once or twice, I dare say, but I could have enlightened you at the

-time had I chosen to do so. It was I whom Baldry met. I had made

-myself up to resemble you, and previously to my visit to the prison in

-your character, I thought I would try the effect of my disguise upon

-somebody who had known you well for years. As it so happened, Baldry

-was the first of your acquaintances whom I encountered on my nocturnal

-ramble. The rest you know."

-

-"You young vagabond! And yet you have the audacity to call yourself a

-respectable member of society. Perhaps you can explain the mystery of

-the ghostly footsteps at Park Newton when poor Pearce, the butler, was

-frightened out of the small quantity of wit that he could lay claim

-to?"

-

-"That, too, I can explain. The ghostly footsteps, as it happened, were

-very corporeal footsteps, being those of none other than your humble

-servant."

-

-"But how did you get into the room? It had been nailed up months

-before."

-

-"The nailing up was more apparent than real. The nails were sham

-nails. The door could be unlocked at any time, and the room entered in

-the ordinary way."

-

-"But how about the cough--Mr. Osmond's peculiar cough?"

-

-"That was an imitation by me from lessons given me by Mr. Dering. It

-answered the purpose admirably for which it was intended."

-

-"To hear such sounds at midnight in a room where a man had been

-murdered was enough to shake the strongest nerves. I wonder you were

-not frightened yourself to be in the room."

-

-"That would have been ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of."

-

-"In any extraordinary circumstances I shall never believe the evidence

-of my own senses again."

-

-Mr. Cope was not long in perceiving that he had committed a grave

-error of judgment in refusing Mr. Culpepper the assistance he had

-asked for. There would be a splendid fortune for Jane after all. It

-was enough to make a man tear his hair with vexation--only Mr. Cope

-hadn't much hair to tear--to think what a golden chance he had let

-slip through his fingers. Edward was recalled at once on the slight

-chance that if a meeting could anyhow be brought about between him and

-Jane, the old flame might spring up with renewed ardour in the young

-lady's bosom, in which case she might insist upon her engagement with

-Edward being carried out. But Edward bore his disappointment very

-philosophically, and had not been three hours in Duxley before he

-found himself eating pastry, and being ministered to by Miss Moggs,

-who was still unmarried, and still as plump and smiling as ever.

-

-Three weeks later the good people of Duxley were treated to a

-delightful sensation. Mr. Cope, Junior, had run away with the daughter

-of Mr. Moggs, the confectioner, and Mr. Cope, Senior, had threatened

-to cut his son off with the well-known metaphorical shilling.

-

-The latest news of young Mr. Cope is, that he is living in furnished

-apartments in a cheap suburb of London. The late Miss Moggs, her

-plumpness notwithstanding, has developed into a Tartar. They have six

-children. Mr. Cope's income is exactly two hundred a-year, left him by

-his mother. His father will not give him a penny, and he is either too

-lazy, or too incompetent, to attempt to add to his means by a little

-honest work. He is very stout and very short of breath. When he has

-any money he spends his time in a neighbouring billiard-room, smoking

-a short pipe and drinking half-and-half, and watching other men play.

-When he has no money he stops at home and rocks the cradle, and

-listens to his wife's reproaches. Mrs. Cope vows that she will buy a

-mangle and make her husband turn it, and try whether she cannot shame

-him into work that way. And all this is the result of eating pastry

-and being waited upon by a pretty girl.

-

-After the trial was over, Nell, by means of some speciously-concocted

-tale, contrived to cozen General St. George out of twenty pounds. With

-this she disappeared, and was never either seen or heard of in Duxley

-or its neighbourhood again.

-

-During the time that Lionel and his wife were abroad the General went

-with his friend, Major Beauchamp, to Madeira, and wintered there.

-

-It had been Lionel's intention to stay abroad for about three years.

-But as it fell out, he and Edith were back at Park Newton by the end

-of twelve months, being brought thither by the expectation of an

-all-important event. Lionel has not since then left home for more than

-a month at a time. So full of painful memories was Park Newton to him,

-that it was only by Edith's persuasion that he was induced to settle

-there at all. But years have come and gone since then, and nothing

-would now induce him to live anywhere else. Whatever gloomy

-associations might otherwise have clung to the old house have been

-exorcised long ago by the merry laughter of children. It was difficult

-at first for the Echoes of that murder-haunted roof to bring

-themselves to mimic the soft syllables of childhood, but when one

-little stranger after another came to teach them, then their voices,

-rusty and creaky at first through long disuse, gradually won back to

-themselves a long-forgotten sweetness; and now the Echoes follow the

-children wherever they go, and all the grim old pile is musical with

-the laughter and songs and free joyous shouts of childhood. Many a

-time they have a bout together--the children and the Echoes--trying

-which of them can make the more noise; and then the children call to

-the Echoes and bid them come out of their hiding-places and show

-themselves in the dusky twilight; but the Echoes only laugh back their

-answer, and are ever too timid to let themselves be seen.

-

-Who, of all people in the world, should be the children's primest

-favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the

-nursery, and there he spends hours every day. He "keeps shop" with

-them, he plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring

-lion, their wild man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the

-old warrior, whose very name was once a word of terror among the

-lawless hill-tribes of the far East see him led about by one boy by

-means of a piece of string tied round his arm, and while another

-youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to watch him

-imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing

-bear. There can be no doubt on one point--that the old soldier enjoys

-himself quite as much as the children do.

-

-After his year's imprisonment was at an end--to which mitigated

-punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted

-as witness for the Crown--he and his sister went over to Switzerland,

-and opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist

-travel. There, not long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking,

-bowing, and rubbing his hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request

-that Monsieur Dering would do him the honour of stopping at his hotel.

-But Lionel would have nothing to do with him, and when Janvard could

-be made to comprehend this, his face became a study of mortification

-and surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently hurt. He

-never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so

-positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d'Or.

-

-In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a

-few things that change not. One of these is the friendship between

-Lionel and Tom, which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of

-other interests has power to alter in the least. When they both happen

-to be in Midlandshire at the same time, a week never passes without

-their seeing more or less of each other, and between their wives there

-is almost as firm a friendship as there is between themselves. Four

-people more united, more happy in each other's society, it would be

-impossible to find.

-

-It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that

-Edith and Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm

-together, for the sake of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow

-perpetually round the old house. They were sitting one day on the

-broad yellow sands, idling through the glowing afternoon, with their

-embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane's little girls happened to

-fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith's little boy was

-by her side in a moment.

-

-"Don't cry," he said, as he stooped and kissed her. "I will marry you

-when I grow to be a big man."

-

-The little girl's tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked

-up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.

-

-"Such a thing is by no means improbable," said Edith.

-

-"I shall not be a bit surprised if it really comes to pass," replied

-Jane.

-

-

-

-

-THE END.

-

-

-

-

------------------------------------

-BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

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-Project Gutenberg's In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3), by T. W. Speight

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most

-other parts of the world 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

-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have

-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

-

-Title: In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3)

-       A Novel

-

-Author: T. W. Speight

-

-Release Date: September 21, 2018 [EBook #57947]

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

-

-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, VOLUME 3 ***

-

-

-

-

-Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the

-Internet Web Archive

-

-

-

-

-

-

-</pre>

-

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<p class="hang1">Transcriber's Notes:<br>

-1. Page scan source: The Internet Web Archive<br>

-https://archive.org/details/indeadofnightnov03spei<br>

-(University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h3>IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.</h3>

-<br>

-<h4>A Novel.</h4>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4>IN THREE VOLUMES.</h4>

-

-<h4>VOL. III.</h4>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4>LONDON:<br>

-RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.<br>

-1874.</h4>

-

-<h5>(<i>All rights reserved</i>.)</h5>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<table cellpadding="10" style="width:90%; margin-left:5%; font-weight:bold">

-<colgroup>

-<col style="width:20%; vertical-align:top; text-align:right">

-<col style="width:80%; vertical-align:top; text-align:left">

-</colgroup>

-<tr>

-<td colspan="2"><h3>CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.</h3></td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td>CHAPTER</td>

-<td>&nbsp;</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_01" href="#div3_01">I.</a></td>

-<td>A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_02" href="#div3_02">II.</a></td>

-<td>IN THE SYCAMORE WALK</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_03" href="#div3_03">III.</a></td>

-<td>MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_04" href="#div3_04">IV.</a></td>

-<td>KNOCKLEY HOLT</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_05" href="#div3_05">V.</a></td>

-<td>AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_06" href="#div3_06">VI.</a></td>

-<td>TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_07" href="#div3_07">VII.</a></td>

-<td>EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_08" href="#div3_08">VIII.</a></td>

-<td>DIRTY JACK</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_09" href="#div3_09">IX.</a></td>

-<td>WHAT TO DO NEXT?</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_10" href="#div3_10">X.</a></td>

-<td>HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_11" href="#div3_11">XI.</a></td>

-<td>THE EIGHTH OF MAY.</td>

-</tr><tr>

-<td><a name="div3Ref_12" href="#div3_12">XII.</a></td>

-<td>GATHERED THREADS.</td>

-</tr></table>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h3>IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.</h3>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_01" href="#div3Ref_01">CHAPTER I.</a></h4>

-<h5>A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>Two hours after the receipt of Mrs. McDermott's second letter, Squire

-Culpepper was on his way to Sugden's bank. His heart was heavy, and

-his step slow. He had never had to borrow a farthing from any man--at

-least, never since he had come into the estate--and he felt the

-humiliation, as he himself called it, very bitterly. There was

-something of bitterness, too, in having to confess to his friend Cope

-how all his brilliant castles in the air had vanished utterly, leaving

-not a wrack behind.</p>

-

-<p>He could see, in imagination, the sneer that would creep over Cope's

-face as the latter asked him why he could not obtain a mortgage on

-his fine new mansion at Pincote; the mansion he had talked so much

-about--about which he had bored his friends; the mansion that

-was to have been built out of the Alcazar shares, but of which

-not even the foundation-stone would ever now be laid. Then, again,

-the Squire was far from certain as to the kind of reception which

-would be accorded him by the banker. Of late he had seemed cool, very

-cool--refrigerating almost. Once or twice, too, when he had called,

-Mr. Cope had been invisible: a Jupiter Tonans buried for the time

-being among a cloud of ledgers and dockets and transfers: not to be

-seen by any one save his own immediate satellites. The time had been,

-and not so very long ago, when he could walk unchallenged through the

-outer bank office, whoever else might be waiting, and so into the

-inner sanctum, and be sure of a welcome when he got there. But now he

-was sure to be intercepted by one or other of the clerks with a &quot;Will

-you please to take a seat for a moment while I see whether Mr. Cope is

-disengaged.&quot; The Squire groaned with inward rage as, leaning on his

-thick stick, he limped down Duxley High Street and thought of all

-these things.</p>

-

-<p>As he had surmised it would be, so it was on the present occasion. He

-had to sit down in the outer office, one of a row of six who were

-waiting Mr. Cope's time and pleasure to see them. &quot;He won't lend me

-the money,&quot; said the Squire to himself, as he sat there choking with

-secret mortification. &quot;He'll find some paltry excuse for refusing me.

-It's almost worth a man's while to tumble into trouble just to find

-out who are his friends and who are not.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>However, the banker did not keep him waiting more than five or six

-minutes. &quot;Mr. Cope will see you, sir,&quot; said a liveried messenger, who

-came up to him with a low bow; and into Mr. Cope's parlour the Squire

-was thereupon ushered.</p>

-

-<p>The two men met with a certain amount of restraint on either side.

-They shook hands as a matter of course, and made a few remarks about

-the weather; and then the banker began to play with his seals, and

-waited in bland silence to hear whatever the Squire might have to say

-to him.</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Culpepper fidgeted in his chair and cleared his throat. The

-crucial moment was come at last. &quot;I'm in a bit of a difficulty, Cope,&quot;

-he began, &quot;and I've come to you, as one of the oldest friends I have,

-to see whether you can help me out of it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I should have thought that Mr. Culpepper was one of the last people

-in the world to be troubled with difficulties of any kind,&quot; said the

-banker, in a tone of studied coldness.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Which shows how little you know about either Mr. Culpepper or his

-affairs,&quot; said the Squire, dryly.</p>

-

-<p>The banker coughed dubiously. &quot;In what way can I be of service to

-you?&quot; he said.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I want five thousand five hundred pounds by this day week, and I've

-come to you to help me to raise it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;In other words, you want to borrow five thousand five hundred

-pounds?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Exactly so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And what kind of security are you prepared to offer for a loan of

-such magnitude?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What security! Why, my I.O.U., of course.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Cope took a pinch of snuff slowly and deliberately before he spoke

-again. &quot;I am afraid the document in question could hardly be looked

-upon as a negotiable security.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And who the deuce wanted it to be considered as a negotiable

-security?&quot; burst out the Squire. &quot;Do you think I want everybody to

-know my private affairs?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Possibly not,&quot; said the banker, quietly. &quot;But, in transactions of

-this nature, it is a matter of simple business that the person who

-advances the money should have some equivalent security in return.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And is not my I.O.U. a good and equivalent security as between friend

-and friend?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh if you are going to put the case in that way, it becomes a

-different kind of transaction entirely,&quot; said the banker.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And how else did you think I was going to put the case, as you call

-it?&quot; asked the Squire, indignantly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Commercially, of course: as a pure matter of business between one man

-and another.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, ho that's it, is it?&quot; said the Squire, grimly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That's just it, Mr. Culpepper.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then friendship in such a case as this counts for nothing, and my

-I.O.U. might just as well never be written.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Let us be candid with each other,&quot; said the banker, blandly. &quot;You

-want the loan of a very considerable sum of money. Now, however much

-inclined I might be to lend you the amount out of my own private

-coffers, you will believe me when I say that I am not in a position to

-do so. I have no such amount of available capital in hand at present.

-But if you were to come to me with a good negotiable security, I could

-at once put you into the proper channel for obtaining what you want. A

-mortgage, for instance. What could be better than that? The estate, so

-far as I know, is unencumbered, and the sum you need could easily be

-raised on it on very easy terms.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I took an oath to my father on his deathbed that I would never raise

-a penny by mortgage on Pincote, and I never will.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If that is the case,&quot; said the banker, with a slight shrug of the

-shoulders, &quot;I am afraid that I hardly see in what way I can be of

-service to you.&quot; He coughed, and then he looked at his watch, an

-action which Mr. Culpepper did not fail to note and resent in his own

-mind.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am sorry I came,&quot; he said, bitterly. &quot;It seems to have been only a

-waste of your time and mine.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Don't speak of it,&quot; said the banker, with his little business laugh.

-&quot;In any case, you have learned one of the first and simplest lessons

-of commercial ethics.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have, indeed,&quot; answered the Squire, with a sigh. He rose to go.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And Miss Culpepper, is she quite well?&quot; said Mr. Cope; rising also.

-&quot;I have not had the pleasure of seeing her for some little time.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire faced fiercely round. &quot;Look you here, Horatio Cope,&quot; he

-said; &quot;you and I have been friends of many years' standing. Fast

-friends, I thought, whom no reverses of fortune would have separated.

-Finding myself in a little strait, I come to you for assistance. To

-whom else should I apply? It is idle to say that you could not help me

-out of my difficulty, were you willing to do so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No, believe me----&quot; interrupted the banker; but Mr. Culpepper went on

-without deigning to notice the interruption.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You have not chosen to do so, and there's an end of the matter, so

-far. Our friendship must cease from this day. You will not be sorry

-that it is so. The insults and slights you have put upon me of late

-have all had that end in view, and you are doubtless grateful that

-they have had the desired effect.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You judge me very hardly,&quot; said the banker.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I judge you from your own actions, and from them alone,&quot; said the

-Squire, sternly. &quot;Another point, and I have done. Your son was engaged

-to my daughter, with your full sanction and consent. That engagement,

-too, must come to an end.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;With all my heart,&quot; said the banker, quietly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;For some time past your son, acting, no doubt, on instructions from

-his father, has been gradually paving the way for something of this

-kind. There have been no letters from him for five weeks, and the last

-three or four that he sent were not more than as many lines each. No

-doubt he will feel grateful at being released from an engagement that

-had become odious to him; and on Miss Culpepper's side the release

-will be an equally happy one. She had learned long ago to estimate

-at his true value the man to whom she had so rashly pledged her hand.

-She had found out, to her bitter cost, that she had promised herself

-to a person who had neither the instincts nor the education of a

-gentleman--to an individual, in fact, who was little better than a

-common boor.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>This last thrust touched the banker to the quick. His face flushed

-deeply. He crossed the room and called down an India-rubber tube:

-&quot;What is the amount of Mr. Culpepper's balance?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Presently came the answer: &quot;Two eighty eleven five.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Two hundred and eighty pounds, eleven shillings, and five pence,&quot;

-said Mr. Cope, with a sneer. &quot;May I ask, sir, that you will take

-immediate steps for having this magnificent balance transferred to

-some other establishment.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I shall take my own time about doing that,&quot; said Mr. Culpepper.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What a pity that your new mansion was not finished in time--quite a

-castle it was to have been, was it not? A mortgage of five or six

-thousand could have been a matter of no difficulty then, you know. If

-I recollect rightly, all the furniture and decorations were to have

-come from London. Nothing in Duxley would have been good enough. I

-merely echo your own words.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire winced. &quot;I am rightly served,&quot; he muttered to himself.

-&quot;What can one expect from a man who swept out an office and cleaned his

-master's shoes?&quot; He rose to go. For all his bitterness, there was a

-little pathetic feeling at work in his heart. &quot;So ends a friendship of

-twenty years,&quot; was his thought. &quot;Goodbye, Cope,&quot; he said aloud as he

-moved towards the door.</p>

-

-<p>The banker, standing with his back to the fire, and looking straight

-at the opposite wall, neither stirred nor spoke, nor so much as turned

-his head to take a last look at his old friend. And so, without

-another word, the Squire passed out.</p>

-

-<p>A bleak north wind was blowing as the Squire stepped into the street.

-He paused for a moment to button his coat more closely around him. As

-he did so, a poor ragged wretch passed trembling by without saying a

-word. The Squire called the man back and gave him a shilling. &quot;My

-plight may be bad enough, but his is a thousand times worse,&quot; he said

-to himself as he walked down the street.</p>

-

-<p>Where to go, or what to do next, he did not know. He had gone to see

-Mr. Cope without any very great expectation of being able to obtain

-what he wanted, and yet, perhaps, not without some faint hope nestling

-at his heart that his friend would find him the money. But now he knew

-for a fact that nothing was to be got from that quarter, he felt a

-little chilled, a little lonely, a little lost as to what he should do

-next. That something must be done, he knew quite well, but he was at a

-nonplus as to what that something ought to be. To raise five thousand

-five hundred pounds at a few days' notice, with no better security to

-offer than a simple I.O.U., was by no means an easy matter, as the

-Squire was beginning to discover to his cost. &quot;Why not ask Sir Harry

-Cripps?&quot; he said to himself. But then he bethought himself that Sir

-Harry had a very expensive family, and that only six months ago he had

-given up his hunter, and dispensed with a couple of carriage-horses,

-and had talked of going on to the continent for four or five years.

-No: it was evident that Sir Harry Cripps could do nothing for him.</p>

-

-<p>In what other direction to turn he knew not. &quot;If poor Lionel Dering

-had only been alive, I could have gone to him with confidence,&quot; he

-thought. &quot;Why not try Kester St. George?&quot; was his next thought. &quot;No:

-Kester isn't one of the lending kind,&quot; he muttered, with a shake of

-the head. &quot;He's uncommonly close-fisted, is Kester. What he's got

-he'll stick to. No use trying there.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Next moment he nearly ran against General St. George, who was coming

-from an opposite direction. They started at sight of each other, then

-shook hands cordially. Their acquaintanceship dated only from the

-arrival of the General at Park Newton, but they had already learned to

-like and esteem one another.</p>

-

-<p>After the customary greetings and inquiries were over, said Mr.

-Culpepper to the General: &quot;Is your nephew Kester still stopping with

-you at Park Newton?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, he is still there,&quot; answered the General; &quot;though he has talked

-every day for the last month or more about going. Kester is one of

-those unaccountable fellows that you can never depend on. He may stay

-for another month, or he may take it into his head to go by the first

-train to-morrow.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I heard a little while ago that he was ill; but I suppose he is

-better again by this time?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes--quite recovered. He was laid up for three or four days, but he

-soon got all right again.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Your other nephew--George--Tom--Harry--what's his name--is he quite

-well?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You mean Richard--he who came from India? Yes, he is quite well.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;He's very like his poor brother, only darker, and--pardon me for

-saying so--not half so agreeable a young fellow.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Everybody seems to have liked poor Lionel.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Nobody could help liking him,&quot; said the Squire, with energy. &quot;I felt

-the loss of that poor boy almost as much as if he had been my own

-son.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Not a soul in the world had an ill word to say about him.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I wish that the same could be said of all of us,&quot; said the Squire.

-And so, after a few more words, they parted.</p>

-

-<p>As General St. George had told the Squire, Kester was still at Park

-Newton. The doctor who was called in to attend him after his sudden

-attack on the night that the footsteps were heard in the nailed-up

-room, prescribed a bottle or two of some harmless mixture, and a few

-days of complete rest and isolation. As Kester would neither allow

-himself to be examined, nor answer any questions, there was very

-little more that could be done for him.</p>

-

-<p>Kester's first impulse after his recovery--and a very strong impulse

-it was--was to quit Park Newton at once and for ever. Further

-reflection, however, convinced him that such a step would be unwise in

-the extreme. It would at once be said that he had been frightened away

-by the ghost, and that was a thing that he could by no means afford to

-have said of him. For it to get gossiped about that he had been driven

-from his own house by the ghost of Percy Osmond, might, in time, tend

-to breed suspicion; and from suspicion might spring inquiry, and that

-might ultimately lead to nobody knew what. No: he would stay on at

-Park Newton for weeks--for months even, if it suited him to do so. The

-incident of his sudden illness was a very untoward one: on that point

-there could be no doubt whatever; but not if he could anyhow help it

-should the faintest breath of suspicion spring therefrom.</p>

-

-<p>The Squire's troubles had faded into the background for a few minutes

-during his interview with General St. George, but they now rushed back

-upon him with, as it seemed, tenfold force. There was nothing left for

-him now but to go home, and yet he had never felt less inclined to do

-so in his life. He dreaded the long quiet evening, with no society but

-that of his daughter. Not that Jane was a dull companion, or anything

-like it; but he dreaded to encounter her pleading eyes, her pretty

-caressing ways, the lingering embrace she would give him when he

-entered the house, and her good-night kiss. He felt how all these

-things would tend to unman him, how they would merely serve to deepen

-the remorse which he felt already. If only he could meet with some one

-to take home with him!--he did not care much who it was--some one who

-would talk to him, and enliven the evening, and take off for a little

-while the edge of his trouble, and so help him to tide over the weary

-hours that intervened between now and the morrow, by which time

-something might happen--he knew not what--or some light be vouchsafed

-to him which would show him a way out of his difficulties.</p>

-

-<p>These, or something like these, were the thoughts that were floating

-hazily in his mind, when in the distance he spied Tom Bristow striding

-along at his usual energetic rate. The Squire being still very lame,

-wisely captured a passing butcher boy, and, with the promise of

-sixpence, bade him hurry after Tom, and not come back without him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You must come back with me to Pincote,&quot; he said, when the astonished

-Tom had been duly captured. &quot;I'll take no refusal. I've got a fit of

-mopes, and if you don't come and help to keep Jenny and me alive this

-evening, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live.&quot; So saying,

-the Squire linked his arm in Tom's, and turned his face towards

-Pincote; and nothing loath was Tom to go with him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I've done a fine thing this afternoon,&quot; said Mr. Culpepper, as they

-drove along in the basket-carriage, which had been waiting for him at

-the hotel. &quot;I've broken off Jenny's engagement with Edward Cope.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom's heart gave a great bound. &quot;Pardon me, sir, for saying so,&quot; he

-said as calmly as he could, &quot;but I never thought that Mr. Cope was in

-any way worthy of Miss Culpepper.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are right, boy. He was not worthy of her.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;From the first time of seeing them together, I felt how entirely

-unfitted was Mr. Cope to appreciate Miss Culpepper's manifold charms

-of heart and mind. A marriage between two such people would have been

-a most incongruous one.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Thank Heaven! it's broken now and for ever.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I've broken off your engagement to Edward Cope,&quot; whispered the Squire

-to Jane in the hall, as he kissed her. &quot;Are you glad or sorry, dear?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Glad--very, very glad, papa,&quot; she whispered back as she rained a

-score of kisses On his face. Then she began to cry, and with that she

-ran away to her own room till she could recover herself.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Women are queer cattle,&quot; said the Squire, turning to Tom, &quot;and I'll

-be hanged if I can ever make them out.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;From Miss Culpepper's manner, sir,&quot; said Tom, gravely, &quot;I should

-judge that you had told her something that pleased her very much

-indeed.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then what did she begin snivelling for?&quot; said the Squire, gruffly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why not tell him everything?&quot; said the Squire to himself, as he and

-Tom sat down in the drawing-room. &quot;He knows a good deal already,--why

-not tell him more? I know he can do nothing towards helping me to

-raise five thousand pounds, but it will do me good to talk to him. I

-must talk to somebody--and I feel sure my secret is quite safe with

-him. I'll tell him while Jenny's out of the room.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire coughed and hemmed, and poked the fire violently before he

-could find a word to say. &quot;Bristow,&quot; he burst out at last, &quot;I want to

-raise five thousand five hundred pounds in five days from now, and as

-I'm rather a bad hand at borrowing, I thought that you could, maybe,

-give me a hint as to how it could best be done. Cope would have

-advanced it for me in a moment, only that he happens to be rather

-short of funds just now, and I don't want to trouble any of my other

-friends if it can anyhow be managed without.&quot; He began to hum the air

-of an old drinking-song, and poked the fire again. &quot;Capital coals

-these,&quot; he added. &quot;And I got 'em cheap, too. The market went up three

-shillings a ton the very day after these were sent in.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Five thousand five hundred pounds is rather a large amount, sir,&quot;

-said Tom, slowly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Of course it's a large amount,&quot; said the Squire, testily. &quot;If it were

-only a paltry hundred or two I wouldn't trouble anybody. But never

-mind, Bristow--never mind. I didn't suppose that you could help me

-when I mentioned it; and, after all, it's a matter of very little

-consequence whether I raise the money or not.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I can only suggest one way, sir, by which the money could be raised

-in so short a time.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Eh!&quot; said the Squire, turning suddenly on him, and dropping the poker

-noisily in the grate. &quot;You don't mean to say that you can see how it's

-to be done!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I think I do, sir. Do you know the piece of ground called Prior's

-Croft?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Very well indeed. It belongs to Duckworth, the publican.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Between you and me, sir, Duckworth's hard up, and would be glad to

-sell the Croft if he could do it quietly and without its becoming

-generally known that he is short of money.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Well?&quot; said the Squire, a little impatiently. He could not understand

-what Tom was driving at.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I dare engage to say, sir, that you could have the Croft for two

-thousand pounds, cash down.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Confound it, man, what an idiot you must be!&quot; said the Squire

-fiercely, bringing his fist down on the table with a tremendous bang.

-&quot;Didn't I tell you that I wanted to borrow money, and not to spend it?

-In fact, as you know quite well, I've got none to spend.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Precisely so,&quot; said Tom, coolly. &quot;And that is the point to which I am

-coming, if you will hear me out.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire's only answer was to glare at him, as if in doubt whether

-he had not taken leave of his senses.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;As I said before, sir, Duckworth will take two thousand pounds for

-the Croft, cash down. Now I, sir, will engage to raise two thousand

-pounds for you by to-morrow, at noon, with which to buy the piece of

-ground in question. The purchase can be effected, and the necessary

-deeds made out and completed, by ten o'clock the following morning. If

-you will entrust those deeds into my possession, I will guarantee to

-effect a mortgage for six thousand pounds, in your name, on the

-Croft.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>If the Squire had looked suspicious with regard to Tom's sanity

-before, he now seemed to have no doubt whatever on the point. He

-quietly took up the poker again, as if he were afraid that Tom might

-spring at him unexpectedly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;So you could lend me two thousand pounds could you?&quot; said the Squire

-drily.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I did not say that, sir. I said that I could raise two thousand

-pounds for you, which is a very different matter from lending it out

-of my own pocket.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Humph! And who, sir, do you think would be such a consummate ass as

-to advance six thousand pounds on a plot of ground that had just been

-bought for two thousand?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Strange as such a transaction may seem to you, sir, I give you my

-word of honour that I should find no difficulty in carrying it out.

-Have I your permission to do so?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I suppose that the two thousand raised by you would have to be repaid

-out of the six thousand raised by mortgage, leaving me with a balance

-of four thousand in hand?&quot; said the Squire, without heeding Tom's

-question, a smile of incredulity playing round his mouth.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No, sir,&quot; answered Tom. &quot;The two thousand pounds could remain on

-interest at five per cent. for whatever term might suit your

-convenience. Again, sir, I ask, have I your permission to negotiate

-the transaction for you?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Culpepper gazed steadily for a moment or two into Tom's clear,

-cold eyes. There were no symptoms of insanity visible there, at any

-rate. &quot;And do you mean to tell me in sober seriousness,&quot; he said,

-&quot;that you can raise this money in the way you speak of?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;In sober seriousness, I mean to tell you that I can. Try me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I will try you,&quot; answered the Squire, impulsively. &quot;I will try you,

-boy. You are a strange fellow, and I begin to think that there's more

-in you than I ever thought there was. But here comes Jenny. Not a word

-more just now.&quot;</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_02" href="#div3Ref_02">CHAPTER II.</a></h4>

-<h5>IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>The Park Newton clocks, with more or less unanimity as to time, had

-just struck ten. It was a February night, clear and frosty, and Lionel

-Dering sat in his dressing-room in slippered ease, musing by

-firelight. He had turned out the lamp on purpose; it was too garish

-for his mood to-night. He was back again in thought at Gatehouse Farm.

-Again he saw the gray old cottage, with its moss-grown eaves--the

-cottage that was so ugly outside, but so cosy within. Again he saw the

-long low sandhills, where they stretched themselves out to meet the

-horizon, and, in fancy, heard again the low, monotonous plash of the

-waves, whose melancholy music, heard by day and night, had at one time

-been as familiar to him as the sound of his own voice. What a quiet,

-happy time that seemed as he now looked back to it--a time of soft

-shadows and mild sunshine, with a pensive charm that was all its own,

-and that was lost for ever in the hour which told him that he was a

-rich man! Riches! What had riches done for him? He groaned in spirit

-as he asked himself the question. He could have been happy with Edith

-in a garret--how happy none but himself could have told--had fortune

-compelled him to earn her bread and his own by the sweat of his strong

-right arm.</p>

-

-<p>His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. &quot;Come in,&quot; he

-called out mechanically; and in there came, almost without, a sound,

-Dobbs, body-servant to Kester St. George.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, Dobbs, is that you?&quot; said Lionel, a little wearily, as he turned

-his head and saw who it was.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir, I have made bold to intrude upon you for a few seconds,&quot;

-said Dobbs, with the utmost deference, as he slowly advanced into the

-room, rubbing the long lean fingers of one hand softly with the palm

-of the other. &quot;My master has not yet got back from Duxley, and there's

-nobody about just now.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Quite right, Dobbs,&quot; said Lionel. &quot;Anything fresh to report?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Nothing particularly fresh, sir, but I thought that you might perhaps

-like to see me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Very considerate of you, Dobbs, but I am not aware that I have

-anything of consequence to say to you to-night.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Thank you, sir,&quot; said Dobbs, with a faint smile and an extra rub of

-his fingers. &quot;Master's still very queer, sir. No appetite worth

-speaking about. Obliged to screw himself up with brandy in a morning

-before he can finish his toilet. Mutters and moans a good deal in his

-sleep, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Mutters in his sleep, does he?&quot; said Lionel. &quot;Have you any idea,

-Dobbs, what it is that he talks about?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I've tried my best to ascertain, sir, but without much success. I

-have listened and listened for hours, and very cold work it is, sir;

-but there's never more than a word now and a word then that one can

-make out. Nothing connected--nothing worth recollecting.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Does Mr. St. George still walk in his sleep?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;He does, sir, but not very often--not more than two or three times a

-month.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Keep your eyes open, Dobbs, and the very next time your master walks

-in his sleep come to me at once--never mind what hour it may be--and

-tell me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I won't fail to do so, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;In these sleep-walking rambles does Mr. St. George always confine

-himself to the house, or does he ever venture out into the park or

-grounds?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;He generally goes out of doors, sir, at such times. Three times out

-of four he goes as far as the Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk,

-stops there for a minute or two, and then walks back home. I have

-watched him several times.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk! What should take him

-there?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then you know the place, sir?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I know it well.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Can't say what fancy takes him there, sir. Perhaps he doesn't know

-hisself.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;In any case, let me know when he next walks in his sleep. I have no

-further instructions for you to-night, Dobbs.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Thank you, sir. I have the honour to wish you a very good night,

-sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Good-night, Dobbs. Keep your eyes open, and report everything to me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir, yes. You may trust me for doing that, sir.&quot; And Dobbs the

-obsequious bowed himself out.</p>

-

-<p>In his cousin's valet Lionel had found an instrument ready to his

-hand, but it was not till after long hesitation and doubt that he made

-up his mind to avail himself of it. The necessities of the case at

-length decided him to do so. No one appreciated the value of a bribe

-better than Dobbs, or worked harder or more conscientiously to deserve

-one. There was a crooked element in his character which made whatever

-money he might earn by indirect means, or by tortuous working, seem

-far sweeter to him than the honest wages of everyday life. Kester St.

-George was not the kind of man ever to try to attach his inferiors to

-himself by any tie of gratitude or kindness. At different times and in

-various ways he suffered for this indifference, although the present

-could hardly be considered as a case in point, seeing that it was not

-in the nature of Dobbs to resist a bribe in whatever shape it might

-offer itself, and that gratitude was one of those virtues which had

-altogether been omitted from his composition.</p>

-

-<p>Late one afternoon, a few days after the interview between Lionel and

-Dobbs, Kester St. George had his horse brought round, and rode out

-unattended, and without leaving word in what direction he was going,

-or at what hour he might be expected back. The day was dull and

-lowering, with fitful puffs of wind, that blew first from one point

-and then from another, and seemed the forerunners of a coming storm.

-Buried in his own thoughts, Kester paid no heed to the weather, but

-rode quickly forward till several miles of country had been crossed.

-By-and-by he diverged from the main road, and turned his horse's head

-into a tortuous and muddy lane, which, after half an hour's bad

-travelling, landed him on the verge of a wide stretch of brown

-treeless moor, than which no place could well have looked more

-desolate and cheerless under the gray monotony of the darkening

-February afternoon. Kester halted for awhile at the end of the lane to

-give his horse breathing time. Far as the eye could see, looking

-forward from the point where he was standing, all was bare and

-treeless, without one single sign of habitation or life.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Whatever else may be changed, either with me or the world,&quot; he

-muttered, &quot;the old moor remains just as it was the first day that I

-can remember it. It was horrible to me at first, but I learned to like

-it--to love it even, before I left it; and I love it now--to-day--with

-all its dreariness and monotony. It is like the face of an old friend.

-You may go away for twenty years, and when you come back you know that

-you will find on it just the same look that it wore when you went

-away. Not that I have ever cared to cultivate such friendships,&quot; he

-added, half regretfully. &quot;Well, the next best thing to having a good

-friend is to have a good enemy, and I can thank heaven for granting me

-several such.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>He touched his horse with the spur, and rode slowly forward, taking a

-narrow bridle path that led in an oblique direction across the moor.

-&quot;This ought to be the road if my memory serves me aright,&quot; he

-muttered, &quot;but they are all so much alike, and intersect each other so

-frequently, that it's far more easy to lose one's way than to know

-where one is.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I suppose I shall have the rough side of Mother Mim's tongue when I

-do find her,&quot; he went on. &quot;I've neglected her shamefully, without a

-doubt. But such ties as the one between her and me become tiresome in

-the long run. She ought to have died off long ago, but she's as tough

-as leather. Poor devils in this part of the country, that haven't a

-penny to bless themselves with, think nothing of living till they're a

-hundred. Is it a superfluity of ozone, or a want of brains, that keeps

-them alive so long?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>He rode steadily forward till he had nearly crossed one angle of the

-moor. At length, but not without some difficulty, he found the place

-he had come in search of. It was a rudely-built hut--cottage it could

-hardly be called--composed of mud, and turf, and great boulders all

-unhewn. Its roof of coarsest thatch was frayed and worn with the wind

-and rain of many winters. Its solitary door of old planks, roughly

-nailed together, opened full on to the moor.</p>

-

-<p>At the back was a patch of garden-ground, which was supposed to grow

-potatoes in the season, but which had never yet been known to grow any

-that were fit to eat. Mr. St. George looked round with a sneer as he

-dismounted.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And it was in this wretched den that I spent the first eight years of

-my existence!&quot; he muttered. &quot;And the woman whom this place calls its

-mistress was the first being whom I learned to love! And, faith, I'm

-rather doubtful whether I've ever loved anybody half so well since.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Putting his horse's bridle over a convenient hook, and dispensing with

-the ceremony of knocking, Kester St. George lifted the latch, pushed

-open the door, stooped his head, and went in. Inside the hut

-everything was in semi-darkness, and Kester stood for a minute with

-the door in his hand, striving to make out the objects before him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Come in and shut the door: I expected you,&quot; said a hollow voice from

-one corner of the room; and the one room, such as it was, comprised

-the whole hut.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Is that you, Mother Mim?&quot; asked Kester.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ay--who else should it be?&quot; answered the voice. &quot;But come in and shut

-the door. That cold wind gives me the shivers.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester did as he was told, and then made his way to a wretched pallet

-at the other end of the hut. Of furniture there was hardly any, and

-the aspect of the whole place was miserable in the extreme. Over the

-ashes of a wood fire crouched a girl of sixteen, ragged and unkempt,

-who stared at him with black, glittering eyes as he passed her. Next

-moment he was standing by the side of a ragged pallet, on which lay

-the figure of a woman who looked ill almost unto death.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why, mother, whatever has been the matter with you?&quot; asked Kester. &quot;A

-little bit out of sorts, eh? But you'll soon be all right again now.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, I shall soon be all right now--soon be quite well,&quot; answered the

-woman grimly. &quot;A black box and six feet of earth cure everything.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You mustn't talk in that way, mother,&quot; said Kester, as he sat down on

-the only chair in the place, and took one of the woman's lean, hot

-hands in his. &quot;You will live to plague us for many a year to come.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Kester St. George, this is the last time you and I will meet in this

-world.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I hope not, with all my heart,&quot; said Kester, feelingly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I know what I know, and I know that what I say is true,&quot; answered

-Mother Mim. &quot;You would not have come now if I had not worked a spell

-strong enough to bring you here even against your will. I worked it

-four nights ago, at midnight, when that young viper there&quot;--pointing a

-finger at the girl, who was still cowering over the ashes--&quot;was fast

-asleep, and there were no eyes to see but those of the cold stars. Ah!

-but it was horrible! and if it had not been that I felt I must see you

-before I died, I could never have gone through with it.&quot; She paused

-for a moment, as though overcome by some dreadful recollection. &quot;Then,

-when it was over, I crept back to bed, and waited quietly, knowing

-that now you could not choose but come.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I ought to have come and seen you long ago--I know it--I feel it,&quot;

-said Kester. &quot;But let bygones be bygones, and I give you my solemn

-promise never to neglect you again. I am rich now, mother, and you

-shall never want for anything as long as you live.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Too late--too late!&quot; sighed the woman. &quot;Yes, you're rich now, rich

-enough to bury me, and that's all I ask you to do.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Don't talk like that, mother,&quot; said Kester.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If you had only come to see me!&quot; said the woman. &quot;That was all I

-wanted. Just to see your face, and squeeze your hand, and have you to

-talk to me for a little while. I wanted none of your money--no, not a

-single shilling of it. It was only you I wanted.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester began to feel slightly bored. He squeezed Mother Mim's hand,

-and then dropped it, but he did not speak.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But you didn't come,&quot; moaned the woman, &quot;and you wouldn't have come

-now if I hadn't worked a charm to bring you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;There you wrong me,&quot; said Kester, decisively. &quot;Your charm, or spell,

-or whatever it may have been, had no effect in bringing me here. I

-came of my own free will.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Self-conceited, as you always were and always will be,&quot; muttered the

-woman. Then, half raising herself in bed, and addressing the girl, she

-cried: &quot;Nell, you hussy, just you hook it for a quarter of an hour.

-The gent and I have something to talk about.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The girl rose sullenly, went slowly out, and banged the door behind

-her.</p>

-

-<p>Kester wondered what was coming next. He had dropped the woman's hand,

-but she now held it out for him to take again. He took it, and she

-pressed his hand passionately to her lips three or four times.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If the great secret of my life is to be told at all on this side the

-grave, the time to tell it is now come. I always thought to die

-without revealing it, but somehow of late everything has seemed

-different to me, and I feel now as if I couldn't die easy without

-telling you.&quot; She paused for a minute, exhausted. There was some

-brandy on the chimney-piece, and Kester gave her a little. Again she

-took his hand and kissed it passionately.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You will, perhaps, curse me for what I am about to tell you,&quot; she

-went on, &quot;but whether you do so or not, so may Heaven help me if it is

-anything more than the simple truth! Kester St. George, you have no

-right to the name you bear--to the name the world knows you by!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester was so startled that for a moment or two he sat like one

-suddenly stricken dumb. &quot;Go on,&quot; he said at last. &quot;There's more to

-follow. I like boldness in lying as in everything else.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Again I swear that I am telling you no more than the solemn truth.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If I am not Kester St. George,&quot; he said with a sneer, &quot;perhaps you

-will kindly inform me who I really am.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are my son!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>He flung the woman's hand savagely from him, and sprang to his feet

-with an oath. &quot;Your son!&quot; he said. &quot;Ha! ha! ha! Your son, indeed!

-Since when have your senses quite left you, Mother Mim? A dark cell in

-Bedlam and a strait waistcoat would be your best physic.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am rightly punished,&quot; moaned the woman--&quot;rightly punished. I ought

-to have told you years ago--ay--before you ever grew to be a man. But

-I loved you so, and had such pride in you, that I couldn't bear the

-thought of telling you, and it's only now when I'm on my deathbed that

-the secret forces itself from me. But it will go no farther, never you

-fear that. No living soul but you will ever hear it from my lips; and

-you have only got to keep your own lips tightly shut, and you will

-live and die as Kester St. George.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>She sank back with the exhaustion of speaking. Mechanically, and

-almost without knowing what he was doing, Kester again gave her a

-little brandy. Then he sat down; and Mother Mim, finding his hand

-close by, took possession of it again. He shuddered slightly, but did

-not withdraw it.</p>

-

-<p>Although Mother Mim had advanced no proofs in support of the strange

-story she had just told him, there was something in her tone which

-carried conviction to his inmost heart.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I must know more of this,&quot; he said, after a little while, speaking

-almost in a whisper.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;How well I remember everything about it! It seems only like yesterday

-that it all happened,&quot; sighed the woman. &quot;You--my own child, and

-he--the other one that was sent to me to nurse, were born within a few

-hours of one another. His father broke a blood-vessel about six weeks

-after the child was brought to me. The mother went with her husband to

-Italy to take care of him, and the child was left with me. A week or

-two afterwards he was taken suddenly ill, and died. Then the devil

-tempted me to put my own boy into the place of the lost heir. When

-Mrs. St. George came back from Italy she came to see her child, and

-you were shown to her as that child. She accepted you without a

-moment's suspicion. They let you stay with me till you were eight

-years old, and then they took you away and sent you to school. My

-husband and my sister were the only two beside myself who knew what

-had been done, and they both died years ago without saying a word. I

-shall join them in a few days, and then you alone will be the keeper

-of the secret. With you it will die, and on your tombstone they will

-write: 'Here lies the body of Kester St. George.'&quot;</p>

-

-<p>She had told her story with great difficulty, and with frequent

-interruptions to gather strength and breath to finish it. She now lay

-back, utterly exhausted. Her eyes closed, her hand relaxed its hold on

-Kester's, her jaw dropped slightly, the thin white face grew thinner

-and whiter: it seemed as if Death, passing that way, had looked in

-unexpectedly, and had beckoned her to go with him. Kester rose

-quickly, and struck a match and lighted a fragment of candle that he

-found on the chimney-piece. His next impulse was to try and revive her

-with a little brandy, but he paused with the glass in his hand. Why

-try to revive her? Would it not be better for him, for her, for every

-one, if she were really dead? If such were the case, it would do away

-with all fear of her strange secret being ever divulged to any one

-else. Yes--in every way her death would be a welcome release.</p>

-

-<p>It was not without a tremor, it was not without a faster beating of

-the heart, that Kester took the bit of cracked looking-glass from the

-wall and held it to the woman's lips. His very life seemed to stand

-still for a moment or two while he waited for the result. It came. The

-glass clouded faintly. The woman was not dead. With a muttered curse

-Kester dashed the glass across the floor and put back the candle on

-the chimney-piece. Then he took up his hat. Where was the use of

-staying longer? She could tell him nothing more when she should have

-come to her senses than she had told him already: nothing, that is, of

-any consequence; and as for details, he did not want them--at least,

-not now. What he had been told already held food enough for thought

-for some time to come. He paused for a moment before going out.

-Was it really possible--was it really credible, that that haggard,

-sharp-featured woman was his mother?--that his father had been a

-coarse, common labouring man, a mere hedger and ditcher, who had lived

-and died in that mean hut, and that he himself, instead of being the

-Kester St. George he had always believed himself to be, was no other

-than the son of those two--the boy whose supposed death he remembered

-to have heard about when little more than a mere child?</p>

-

-<p>Fiercely and savagely he told himself again and again that such a

-thing could not be--that what Mother Mim had told him was nothing more

-than a pack of devil's lies--the invention of a brain weakened and

-distorted by illness and the clouds of coming death. It was high time

-to go. He put five sovereigns on the chimney-piece, went softly out,

-and shut the door behind him. The girl was sitting on the low mud-wall

-near the door, with the skirt of her dress drawn over her head as some

-protection from the bitter wind. Her black, glittering eyes took him

-in from head to foot as he walked up to her. &quot;Go inside at once. She

-has fainted,&quot; said Kester. The girl nodded and went. Then Kester

-mounted his horse and rode slowly homeward through the chilly

-twilight. Bitterest thoughts held him as with a vice. When he came

-within sight of the chimneys of Park Newton, he gave a sigh of relief,

-and put spurs to his horse. &quot;That is mine, and no power on earth shall

-take it from me,&quot; he muttered. &quot;That and the money that comes with it.

-I am Kester St. George. Let those disprove who can!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room,

-smoking a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct

-taps at the door, which he recognized as the peculiar signal of Dobbs.

-It was nearly an hour past midnight, and in that early household every

-one had been long abed, or, at least, had retired long ago to their

-own rooms.</p>

-

-<p>Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by

-no means infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier

-hour than on the present occasion.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Come in, Dobbs,&quot; said Lionel. &quot;You are later to-night than usual.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such

-an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago,

-that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master

-took to walking in his sleep.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my

-instructions.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast

-asleep.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;In which direction did he go?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and

-let himself out through the little glass door into the garden.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And then which way did he go?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to

-take?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the Wizard's

-Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the place

-to which he has gone.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;We must follow him, Dobbs.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets

-back to the house?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes

-quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and

-soberly as if he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does

-really wake up in the morning, he never seems to know anything about

-what has happened over-night. But we must make haste, sir, if we wish

-to overtake him.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I will be ready in one minute.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap

-on his head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the

-open air.</p>

-

-<p>The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above

-the tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint old house in its

-white glory, but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in

-deepest shadow. Nowhere could they discern the figure of the man whom

-they had come out to follow; but the Wizard's Fountain was a good half

-mile from the Hall, so they struck at once into the nearest footway

-that led towards it. A few minutes' quick walking took them there.

-Lionel knew the place well. It had been a favourite haunt of his when

-living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks that preceded the

-murder. Very weird and solemn the whole place looked, as seen by

-moonlight at that still hour of the night.</p>

-

-<p>Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that

-particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows

-immediately over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted

-of beech, and oak, and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and

-fantastic: untended and uncared for--growing together year after year,

-whispering their leafy secrets to each other with every spring that

-came round, and standing shoulder to shoulder against the winds of

-winter: a hoary brotherhood of forest sages.</p>

-

-<p>The fountain itself, whatever it might have been in years long gone

-by, was now nothing more than a confused heap of huge stones,

-overgrown with lichens and creepers. From the midst of them, and from

-what had doubtless at one time been a representation in marble of the

-head of a leopard or other forest animal, but which now was almost

-worn past recognition, trickled a thin stream of coldest water; which,

-falling into a broken basin below, over-brimmed itself there, and was

-lost among the cracks and interstices in the masses of broken masonry

-that lay scattered around.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You had better, perhaps, wait here,&quot; said Lionel to Dobbs, as they

-halted for a moment at the entrance to the avenue.</p>

-

-<p>Dobbs did as he was bidden, and Lionel advanced alone, keeping well

-within the shade of the trees. When within a dozen yards of the

-fountain, he halted and waited. The low, ceaseless monotone of the

-falling water was the only sound that broke the moonlit silence.</p>

-

-<p>From out the dense shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the

-avenue, and as if he himself were part of that shadow, Kester St.

-George slowly emerged. In the middle of the avenue, and in the full

-light of the moon, he paused. His right hand was thrust into the bosom

-of his vest, as if he were hiding something there. Standing thus, he

-seemed, as it were, to shrink within himself. Still hugging that

-hidden something, he seemed to listen--to listen as if his very life

-depended on the act. Then, with a slow, creeping motion, as though his

-feet were weighted with lead, he stole towards the fountain. He

-reached it. He grasped the stonework with one hand, and then he turned

-to gaze, as though in dread of some hidden pursuer. Then slowly,

-almost reluctantly, he seemed to draw something from within his vest,

-and, while still gazing furtively around him, he thrust his arm, elbow

-deep, into a crevice in the masonry, let it rest there for a single

-moment, and then withdrew it. With the same furtively restless look,

-and ears that seemed to listen more intently than ever, he paused for

-an instant. Then he stole swiftly back across the moonlit avenue, and

-so vanished among the black shadows from whence he had come.</p>

-

-<p>So natural had been his actions, so unstudied his every movement, that

-it seemed impossible to believe that he was indeed asleep.</p>

-

-<p>Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by

-the fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a

-minute before. He had noted well the place. There, before him, was the

-very crevice into which Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same

-crevice was Lionel's arm now thrust--elbow deep--shoulder deep. His

-groping fingers soon laid hold of that which was hidden there. He drew

-out his arm quickly, and the something that he had found glittered

-steel-blue in the moonlight. With a cry of horror he dropped it, and

-it fell with a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering had

-recognized it in a moment as a dagger which he had last seen in the

-possession of Percy Osmond.</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_03" href="#div3Ref_03">CHAPTER III.</a></h4>

-<h5>MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott had reached Pincote, and she did not fail to let every

-one know it. As the Squire had predicted, the moment she had taken off

-her waterproof, and changed her boots, she marched straight into the

-library, and asked for her money. It was with a feeling of profound

-satisfaction that her brother unlocked his bureau, and handed her a

-roll of notes representing five thousand seven hundred and fifty

-pounds. She counted the notes over twice, slowly and carefully.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?&quot; she asked.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least,&quot; she

-said ungraciously. &quot;My man of business tells me that seven is quite a

-common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per

-cent. on real property, without any difficulty.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I should advise you to be careful what you are about,&quot; said the

-Squire, gravely. &quot;Big profits, big risks; little profits, little

-risks.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I know perfectly well what I'm doing,&quot; said Mrs. McDermott, with a

-toss of her antiquated curls. &quot;It's you slow, sleepy, country folks,

-who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances that come

-to people who keep their eyes wide open.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned in spirit when

-he thought what his &quot;golden chance&quot; had done for him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Let her buy her experience as I've bought mine,&quot; he said to himself.

-&quot;From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?&quot; he asked

-Jane, a day or two later.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to

-go by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I hope not, with all my heart,&quot; sighed the Squire.</p>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott, in truth, was not a lady who ever troubled herself to

-make her presence agreeable to those with whom she might be staying.

-Consideration for the comfort of others was a thought that never

-entered her mind. From the day of her arrival at Pincote she began to

-interfere with the existing arrangements of the house; finding fault

-with everything: changing this, altering the other, and evidently

-determined to have her own way in all. The first thing she did was to

-find fault with her bedroom, although it was one of the pleasantest

-apartments in the house, and had been especially arranged by Jane

-herself with a view to her aunt's comfort. But it was not the best

-bedroom--the state bedroom, therefore Mrs. McDermott would have none

-of it. Into the state bedroom, a gloomy apartment fronting the north,

-which was never used above once or twice in half a dozen years, she

-migrated at once with all her belongings. Her next act, she being

-without a maid of her own at the time, was to induct one of the

-Pincote servants into that office, taking her altogether from her

-proper duties, and not permitting her to do a stroke of work for any

-one but herself. Then she talked her brother into allowing the dinner

-hour to be altered from six to half-past seven; so that, as the Squire

-grumbled to himself, the cloth was hardly removed before it was time

-to go to bed. Then the Squire must never appear at dinner without a

-dress coat, and a white tie--articles which, or late years, he had

-been tacitly allowed to dispense with when dining en famille. A white

-cravat especially was to him an abomination. He never could tie the

-knot properly, and after crumpling three or four, and throwing them

-across the room in a rage, Jane's services would generally have to be

-called into requisition as a last resource.</p>

-

-<p>One other infliction there was which the Squire found it very

-difficult to bear patiently. After dinner, when there was no

-particular company at Pincote, it was an understood thing that the

-Squire should have the dining-room to himself for half an hour, in

-order that he might enjoy the post-prandial snooze which long custom

-had made almost a necessity with him. But this was an arrangement that

-failed to meet with the approbation of Mrs. McDermott. She insisted

-that the Squire should either accompany the ladies, or, otherwise, she

-herself would keep him company in the dining-room; and woe be to him

-if he dared so much as close an eye for five seconds! It was &quot;Where

-are your manners, sir? I'm thoroughly ashamed of you;&quot; or else,

-&quot;Falling asleep, sir, in the presence of a lady? a clodhopper could do

-no more than that!&quot; till the Squire felt as if his life were being

-slowly tormented out of him.</p>

-

-<p>Nor did Jane fail to come in for a share of her aunt's strictures.

-Mrs. McDermott evidently looked upon her as little more than a child.

-Firstly, her hair was not arranged in accordance with her aunt's ideas

-of propriety in such matters, which, truth to say, belonged to a

-somewhat antiquated school. Then the girl was altogether too bright

-and sunny-looking, with her bows of ribbon and bits of lace showing

-daintily here and there. And she was too forward in introducing topics

-of conversation at meal-times, instead of allowing the introduction of

-appropriate themes to come from her elders and her betters. Then Jane

-was addicted to the heinous offence of laughing too heartily, and too

-often. Altogether her aunt saw in her much that stood in need of

-reformation. Jane bore everything with a sort of good-humoured

-indifference. &quot;The time to speak is not come yet. I will see how much

-further she will go,&quot; she said to herself. But when the cook came to

-her one morning and said: &quot;If you please, miss, Mrs. Dermott says that

-for the future I am to take my dinner orders from her,&quot; then Jane

-thought that the time to speak was drawing very near indeed.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Do as Mrs. McDermott tells you,&quot; she said quietly to the astonished

-cook.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Well, I never! I thought that the mistress had more spirit than

-that,&quot; said the woman as she went back to her duties in the kitchen.</p>

-

-<p>Next day brought the coachman. &quot;Beg pardon, miss,&quot; he said, with a

-touch of his hair; &quot;but Mrs. McDermott have given orders that the

-brougham and gray mare is to be ready for her every afternoon at three

-o'clock to the minute. I am to take the order, miss, I suppose?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Quite right, John, till I give you orders to the contrary.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Next came the gardener. &quot;Very sorry, miss, but I shall have to give

-notice--I shall really.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why, what's amiss now, Gibson?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It's all Mrs. McDermott, miss; begging your pardon for saying so. Why

-will she pretend to understand gardening better than me that has been

-at it, man and boy, for fifty year? Why will she come finding fault

-with this, that, and the other, in a way that neither the Squire nor

-you, miss, ever thinks of doing? And she not only finds fault, but

-gives orders, ridiculous orders, about things she knows nothing of. I

-can't stand it, miss, I really can't.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Mrs. McDermott will give you no more orders, Gibson, after to-day.

-You can go back to your work with an easy mind.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Jane waited till next morning, and then having ascertained that her

-aunt had again given orders to the cook respecting dinner, she walked

-straight into the breakfast-room where she knew that she should find

-Mrs. McDermott alone, and busy with her correspondence--for she was a

-great letter writer at that hour of the morning.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What a noisy girl you are,&quot; she said crossly, as her niece drew up a

-chair and sat down beside her. &quot;I was just writing a few lines to dear

-Lady Clark when you came in in your usual brusque way and put all my

-ideas to flight.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;They must be poor, timid, little ideas, aunt, to be so easily

-frightened away,&quot; said Jane.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Jane, there has been a flippant tone about you for the last day or

-two that I don't at all approve of. Flippancy in young people is

-easily acquired, but difficult to get rid of. The sooner you get rid

-of yours the better I shall be pleased.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Jane rose from her chair and swept Mrs. McDermott a stately curtsey.

-&quot;Is it not almost time, aunt,&quot; she said quietly, &quot;that you gave up

-treating me, and talking to me, as if I were a child?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If you are no longer a child in years, you are still very childish in

-many of your ways.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are quite epigrammatic this morning, aunt.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Don't be impertinent, young lady.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have no intention of being impertinent. But I have come to see you

-about the order for dinner which you gave the cook half an hour ago.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What about that?&quot; asked Mrs. McDermott snappishly. &quot;In what way does

-it concern you?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It concerns me very materially indeed,&quot; answered Jane. &quot;You have

-ordered several things for dinner that papa does not care about; some,

-in fact, that he never eats. Fried soles, for instance, and veal

-cutlets--articles he never touches. So I have told the cook to

-supplement your order with some turbot and a boiled fowl � la

-marquise. I have also told her that for the future she will receive

-from me every evening the menu for next day. Should my list contain

-nothing that you care about, the cook has orders to obtain specially

-for you any articles that you may wish to have.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Upon my word! what next?&quot; was all that Mrs. McDermott could gasp out

-at the moment, so overcome was she with rage and surprise.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;This next,&quot; said Jane. &quot;From to-day the dinner hour will be altered

-back to six o'clock. Half-past seven suits neither papa nor me. Should

-the latter hour be a necessity with you, you can always have your

-dinner served at that time in your own room. But papa and I will dine

-at six.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I shall talk to your papa about this, and ascertain from his own lips

-whether I am to be dictated to and insulted by a chit like you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That is just what I must forbid you to do,&quot; said Jane. &quot;Papa's health

-has not been what it ought to be for a long time past.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Only a few weeks ago he had a slight stroke. Happily he soon recovered

-from it, but Dr. Davidson says that all exciting topics must be kept

-carefully from him. You know how little things will often excite him;

-and if you begin to worry him about any petty differences that may

-arise between you and me, you will do so at your peril, and must be

-satisfied to take whatever consequences may arise from your so doing.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott stared at her niece in open-mouthed wonder.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Perhaps you have something more to say to me,&quot; she gasped out.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, several things. Before ordering the brougham to be at your beck

-and call every day at three o'clock, it might, perhaps, be just as

-well to make sure that your brother is not likely to want it. He has

-taken to using it rather frequently of late.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, indeed; I'll make due inquiry,&quot; was all that Mrs. McDermott could

-find to say.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And if I were you, I wouldn't go quite so often into the greenhouses,

-or near the men at work in the garden.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while

-you are about it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an

-hour. He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot

-do without it. This is most imperative.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no

-intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you

-when you come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here

-as papa's guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you

-comfortable. But there can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that

-mistress, at present, is your niece, Jane Culpepper.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had

-bent over her, kissed her, and swept from the room.</p>

-

-<p>For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary state, at half-past

-seven, in her own room. But she found it so utterly wretched to have

-no one to talk to but her maid, that on the third day her resolution

-failed her; and when six o'clock came round she found herself in the

-dining-room, sitting next her brother, with something of the feeling

-of a school-girl who has been whipped and forgiven.</p>

-

-<p>Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid and

-stand-off-ish for several days to come. Towards the Squire she

-imperceptibly thawed, and the old familiar intimacy was gradually

-resumed between them. But between herself and Jane there was

-something--a restraint, a coldness--which no time could altogether

-remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that she had

-been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some

-great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then

-have afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise.</p>

-

-<p>It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed

-over to his sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to

-her. It was a great weight off his mind, and although he did not say

-much to Tom Bristow about it, he was none the less grateful in his

-secret heart. He was still as much at a loss as ever to understand by

-what occult means Tom had been able to raise the mortgage of six

-thousand pounds on Prior's Croft. He had hinted more than once that he

-should like to know the secret by means of which a result so

-remarkable had been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly

-impervious.</p>

-

-<p>Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six

-thousand pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said:

-&quot;With regard to Prior's Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in

-the matter: perhaps you won't object to it a second time.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What is it, Bristow, what is it?&quot; said the Squire, graciously. &quot;I

-shall be glad to listen to anything you may have to say.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What I want you to do, sir,&quot; said Tom, &quot;is to have some plans at once

-drawn up, and have the foundations laid of a number of houses--twenty

-to thirty at the least--on Prior's Croft.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I thought you crazy about the mortgage,&quot; said the Squire, with a

-twinkle in his eye. &quot;Are you quite sure you are not crazy now?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am just as sane now as I was then.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But to build houses on Prior's Croft! Why, nobody would ever live in

-them. The place is altogether out of the way.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That has nothing whatever to do with the question. If you will only

-take my advice, sir, you will get the foundations down without an

-hour's unnecessary delay.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And where should I be at the end of a month, when the contractor came

-to me for the first instalment of his money?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;All that can be arranged for without difficulty. Your credit is sound

-in the market, and that is the one thing indispensable.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But what is to be the ultimate result of all these mysterious

-proceedings?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Now you get me in a corner. But I must again crave your indulgence,

-and ask you to let the mystery remain a mystery a little while longer.

-If you have sufficient faith in me, why, take my advice. If not--you

-will simply be missing a chance of making an odd thousand or so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And that is what I can by no means afford to do,&quot; said the Squire

-with emphasis.</p>

-

-<p>The result was that a week later some forty or fifty men were busily

-at work cutting the turf and digging the foundations for the score of

-grand new villas which Mr. Culpepper had decided on building at

-Prior's Croft.</p>

-

-<p>Everybody's verdict was that the Squire must be mad. New villas,

-indeed! Why there were hardly people enough in sleepy old Duxley to

-occupy the houses that fell vacant as the older inhabitants died off.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That may be,&quot; said the Squire, when this plea was urged on his

-notice; &quot;but I mean to make my villas so handsome, so commodious, and

-so healthy, that a lot of the old rattletrap dens will at once be

-deserted, and I shall not have house-room for half the people who will

-want to become my tenants.&quot; So spoke the Squire, putting a brave face

-on the matter, but really as much in the dark as any one.</p>

-

-<p>But if there was one person more puzzled than another, that person was

-certainly Mr. Cope the banker. He had ascertained for a fact that

-within a few days of their interview--their very painful interview, he

-termed it to himself--his quondam friend had actually become the

-purchaser of Prior's Croft; and what was a still greater marvel, had

-actually paid down two thousand pounds in hard cash for it! And now

-the town's talk was of nothing but the grand villas which the Squire

-was going to build on his new purchase. Mr. Cope could hardly credit

-it all till he went and saw with his own eyes the men hard at work.

-Still, it was altogether incomprehensible to him. Could the Squire

-have merely been playing him a trick; have only been testing the

-strength of his friendship, when he came to him to borrow the five

-thousand pounds? No, that could hardly be; else why had his balance at

-the bank been allowed to dwindle to a mere nothing? Besides which, he

-knew from words that the Squire had let drop at different times, that

-he must have been speculating heavily. Could it be possible that his

-speculations had, after all, proved successful? If not, how account

-for this sudden flood of prosperity? For several days Mr. Cope failed

-to enjoy his dinner in the hearty way that was habitual with him: for

-several nights Mr. Cope's sleep failed to refresh him as it usually

-did.</p>

-

-<p>Although the Squire's heaviest burden had been lifted off his mind

-with the payment of his sister's money, he had by no means forgotten

-the loss of his daughter's dowry. And now that his mind was easy on

-one point, this lesser trouble began to assume a magnitude that it had

-not possessed before. He could not get rid of the thought that there

-was nothing but his own frail life between his daughter and all but

-absolute penury. A few hundred pounds Jane would undoubtedly have, but

-what would that be to a young lady brought up as she had been brought

-up? &quot;Not enough,&quot; as the Squire put it in his homely way, &quot;to find her

-in bread-and-cheese and cotton gowns.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>But what was to be done? Life assurance was out of the question. He

-was too old and too infirm. There was nothing much to be got out of

-the estate. It was true that he might thin the timber a little and

-make a few hundreds that way; but the heir-at-law had too shrewd an

-eye to his own ultimate interests to allow very much to be done in

-that line. Besides which, the Squire himself could not for very shame

-have impaired what was the chief beauty of the Pincote property--its

-magnificent array of timber.</p>

-

-<p>There was, perhaps, a little cheese-paring to be done in the way of

-cutting down domestic expenses. A couple of servants might be

-dispensed with indoors. The under-gardener and the stable-boy might be

-sent about their business. The gray mare and the brougham might be

-disposed of. The wine merchant's bill might be lightened a little; and

-fewer coals, perhaps, might be burnt in winter--and that was nearly

-all.</p>

-

-<p>But even such reductions as these, trifling though they were, could

-not be made secretly--could not be made, in fact, without becoming the

-talk of the whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire

-detested more than another, it was having his private affairs

-challenged and discussed by other people. And what, after all, would

-the saving amount to? How many years of such petty economy would be

-needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of the sum he had

-lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle, as he said to

-himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled, too, with

-asking the same questions over and over again, and still finding

-himself as far from a satisfactory answer as ever.</p>

-

-<p>There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it

-any real basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground

-which has already been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed

-estate--the piece of ground on which his new mansion was to have been

-built. Land, just now, was fetching good prices. Yes, he would

-certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in Jenny's name whatever money

-it might fetch--not that it would command a very high price, being a

-poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still it would be a nest egg,

-though only a little one, for a rainy day.</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_04" href="#div3Ref_04">CHAPTER IV.</a></h4>

-<h5>KNOCKLEY HOLT.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The

-Squire would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without

-Tom's society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more

-and more disinclined either for going out himself or having company at

-home. Still he could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now

-and then; and Tom being either a good listener or a lively talker, as

-occasion might require, and having already rendered the Squire an

-important service, it seemed somehow to fall into the natural order of

-things that he should be invited three or four times a week to dine at

-Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott's arrival was he there less

-frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very lively

-company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to

-say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she

-overwhelmed her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty

-gossip about things that had little or no interest for him; but about

-which he was obliged to feign an interest, unless, as he himself

-expressed it, &quot;he wanted to know the length of his sister's tongue.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>But when Tom was there the case was different. He acted as a sort of

-buffer between Mrs. McDermott and the Squire. By means of a few adroit

-questions, and a clever assumption of ignorance with regard to

-whatever topic Mrs. McDermott might be dilating on, he generally

-succeeded in drawing the full torrent of her conversation on his own

-devoted head, thereby affording the Squire a breathing space for which

-he was truly grateful. Sometimes, but not very often, Tom let the

-demon of mischief get the mastery of him. On such occasions he would

-lead Mrs. McDermott on by one artful question after another till she

-began to contradict herself and eat her own words, and ended by

-floundering helplessly in a sort of mental quagmire, and so

-relapsing into sulky silence, with a dim sense upon her that she had

-somehow been coaxed into making an exhibition of herself by that

-demure-looking young scamp of a Bristow, who seemed hand and glove

-with both her brother and her niece after a fashion that she neither

-liked nor understood.</p>

-

-<p>Yet was the love of hearing herself talk so ingrained in Mrs.

-McDermott's nature, that by the time of Tom's next visit to Pincote

-she was ready to fall into the same trap again, had he been inclined

-to lead her on.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Who is that young Bristow that you and Jane make such a pet of?&quot; she

-asked her brother one day. &quot;I don't seem to recollect any family of

-that name hereabouts.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Pet, indeed! Nobody makes a pet of him, as you call it,&quot; growled the

-Squire. &quot;He's the son of the doctor who attended poor Charlotte in her

-last illness. He's a sharp young fellow who has got his head screwed

-on the right way, and he's been useful to me in one or two business

-matters, and may be so again; so there's no harm in asking him to

-dinner now and then.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Now and then with you seems to mean three or four times a week,&quot;

-sneered Mrs. McDermott.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And what if it does?&quot; retorted the Squire. &quot;As long as I can call the

-house my own, I'll ask anybody I like to dinner, and as often as I

-like.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Only if I were you, I wouldn't forget that I'd a daughter who was

-just at a marriageable age.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Nor a sister who wouldn't object to a husband number two,&quot; chuckled

-the Squire.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why not set your cap at young Bristow, eh, Fanny? You might do worse.

-He's young and not bad looking, and if he has no money of his own,

-he's just the right sort to look well after yours.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott fanned herself indignantly. &quot;You never were very

-refined, Titus,&quot; she said; &quot;but you certainly get coarser every time I

-see you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Culpepper only chuckled to himself, and poked the fire vigorously.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I'll have that young Bristow out of this house before I'm three weeks

-older!&quot; vowed the 'widow to herself. &quot;The way he and Jane carry on

-together is simply disgusting, and yet that poor weak brother of mine

-can't see it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>From that day forth she took to watching Tom and Jane more

-particularly than she had done before. Not satisfied with watching

-them herself, she induced her maid Emma to act as a spy on their

-actions. With her assistance, Mrs. McDermott was not long in gathering

-sufficient evidence to warrant her, as she thought, in seeking a

-private interview with her brother on the subject. &quot;And high time

-too,&quot; she said grimly to herself. &quot;That minx of a Jane is carrying on

-a fine game under the rose. The arrant little flirt! And as for that

-young Bristow--of course it's Jane's money that he's after. Titus must

-be as blind as a bat, or he would have seen it all long ago. I've no

-patience with him--none!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Having worked herself up to the requisite pitch, downstairs she

-bounced and burst into the Squire's private room--commonly called his

-study. She burst into the room, but halted suddenly the moment she had

-crossed the threshold. The Squire was there, but not alone. Tom

-Bristow was with him. The two were in deep consultation--so much she

-could see at a glance--bending towards each other over the little

-table, and speaking, as it seemed to her, almost in a whisper. The

-Squire turned with a gesture of impatience at the opening of the door.

-&quot;Oh, is that you, Fanny?&quot; he said. &quot;I'll see you presently; I'm busy

-with Mr. Bristow, just now.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>She went out without a word, but her face flushed deeply, and an evil

-look came into her eyes. &quot;That's the way you treat your only sister,

-Mr. Titus Culpepper, is it?&quot; she muttered under her breath. &quot;Not a

-penny of my money shall ever come to you or yours.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom had walked over to Pincote that morning to see the Squire

-respecting the building going on at Prior's Croft. When their

-conference had come to an end, said the Squire to Tom: &quot;You know that

-scrubby bit of ground of mine--Knockley Holt?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom started. &quot;Yes, I know it very well,&quot; he said. &quot;It is rather

-singular that you should be the first to speak about it; because it

-was partly about that very piece of ground that I am here this morning

-to see you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ay--ay--how's that?&quot; said the Squire, suddenly brightening up from

-the apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of late.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why, it doesn't seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that

-perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me have a lease of it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several

-weeks. &quot;And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to

-ask your advice about it!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom's face flushed suddenly. &quot;And do you really think of selling

-Knockley Holt?&quot; he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the

-Squire's face more keenly than usual.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn't have said what I have

-said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to

-me than the land is ever likely to be. It won't fetch much I know, but

-then I didn't give much for it, and whoever may get it won't have much

-of a bargain.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Perhaps you wouldn't object to have me for a purchaser?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I

-should want money down, and---- But I needn't say more about it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve

-hundred pounds for it, cash down.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at

-anything that Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a

-moment or two in blank amazement.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!&quot; were his first words.

-&quot;And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve

-hundred pounds?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, I'm worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds,&quot; said Tom,

-with a smile. &quot;Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by one

-little stroke in cotton.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Well done, young one,&quot; said the Squire, heartily. &quot;You are not such a

-fool as you look. And now take an old man's advice. Don't speculate

-any more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her cake. Don't

-tempt her again. Be content with what you've got, and speculate no

-more.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;At any rate, I won't forget your advice, sir,&quot; said Tom. &quot;I wonder,&quot;

-he added to himself, &quot;what he would think and say if he knew that it

-was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread and cheese.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do

-with it when you have got it?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask

-me,&quot; said Tom, laughingly. &quot;If I buy it, it will be entirely on

-speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a

-big success.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Well, well, that will be your look out,&quot; said the Squire,

-good-naturedly. &quot;But, Bristow, it's not worth twelve hundred pounds,

-nor anything like that sum.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I think it is, sir--at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay

-that amount for it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a

-clear thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have made you an offer, sir. It is for you to say whether you are

-willing to accept it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Seeing that you offer me two hundred pounds more than I ever hoped to

-get, I'm not such an ass as to say, No. Only I think you are robbing

-yourself. I do indeed, Bristow; and that's what I don't like to see.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I think, sir, that I'm pretty well able to look after my own

-interests,&quot; said Tom, with a meaning smile. &quot;Am I to consider that

-Knockley Holt is to become my property?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Of course you are, boy--of course you are. But I must say that you

-are a little bit of a simpleton to give me twelve hundred when you

-might have it for a thousand.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;An offer's an offer, and I'll abide by mine.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then there's nothing more to be said: I'll see my lawyer about the

-deeds to-morrow.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom shook hands with the Squire and went in search of Jane.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Perhaps I may come in now,&quot; said Mrs. McDermott five minutes later,

-as she opened the door of her brother's room.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Of course you may,&quot; said the Squire. &quot;Young Bristow and I were

-talking over some business affairs before, that would have had no

-interest for you, and that you know nothing about.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It's about young Bristow, as you call him, that I have come to see

-you this morning.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, indeed,&quot; said the Squire drily. Then he took off his spectacles,

-and rubbed them with his pocket handkerchief, and began to whistle a

-tune under his breath.</p>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott glared fiercely at him, and her voice took an added

-tone of asperity when she spoke again. &quot;I suppose you are aware that

-your prot�g� is making violent love to your daughter, or else that

-your daughter is making violent love to him: I hardly know which it

-is!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What!&quot; thundered the Squire, as he started to his feet. &quot;What is that

-you say, Fanny McDermott?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Simply this: that there is a lot of lovemaking going on between Jane

-and Mr. Bristow. If it is done with your sanction, I have not another

-word to say. But if you tell me that you know nothing about it, I can

-only say that you must have been as blind as a bat and as stupid as an

-owl.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Thank you, Fanny--thank you,&quot; said the Squire sadly, as he sat down

-in his chair again. &quot;I dare say I have been both blind and stupid; and

-if what you tell me is true, I must have been.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Miss Jane couldn't long deceive me,&quot; said the widow spitefully.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Miss Jane is too good a girl to deceive anybody.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, in love matters we women hold that everything is fair. Deceit

-then becomes deceit no longer. We call it by a prettier name.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Her brother was not heeding her: he was lost in his own thoughts.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The young vagabond!&quot; he said at last. &quot;So that's the way he's been

-hoodwinking me, is it? But I'll teach him: I'll have him know that I'm

-not to be made a fool of in that way. Make love to my daughter,

-indeed! I'll have him here to-morrow morning, and tell him a bit of my

-mind that will astonish him considerably.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why wait till to-morrow? Why not send for him now?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Because he left here a quarter of an hour ago.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, you would not have far to send for him.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What do you mean?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Simply that he and Jane are in the shrubbery together at the present

-moment.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire stared at her helplessly for a moment or two. &quot;How do you

-know that?&quot; he said at last, speaking very quietly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Because my maid, who was returning from an errand, saw them walking

-there, arm in arm.&quot; She paused, as if expecting her brother to say

-something, but he did not speak. &quot;I have not had my eyes shut, I

-assure you,&quot; she went on. &quot;But in these matters women are always more

-quick-sighted than men. From the very first hour of my seeing them

-together I had my suspicions. All their walking and talking together

-couldn't be for nothing. All their hand-shakings and sly glances into

-each other's eyes couldn't be without a meaning.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire got up from his chair and rang the bell. A servant came in.

-&quot;Ascertain whether Mr. Bristow is anywhere about the house or grounds;

-and, if he is, tell him that I should like to see him before he goes.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott rose in some alarm. It was no part of her policy to be

-seen there by Tom. &quot;I am glad you have sent for him,&quot; she said. &quot;I

-hope matters have not gone too far to be stopped without difficulty.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>He looked up in a little surprise. &quot;There will be no difficulty. Why

-should there be?&quot; he said.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No, of course not. As you say, why should there be? But I must now

-bid you good-morning for the present. There will be hardly any need, I

-think, for you to mention my name in the affair.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;There will be no need to mention anybody's name. Good-morning.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott went out and shut the door gently behind her. &quot;Breaking

-fast, poor man,&quot; she said to herself. &quot;He's not long for this world,

-I'm afraid. Well, I've the consolation of knowing that I've always

-done a sister's duty by him. I wonder what he'll die worth. Thousands,

-no doubt; and all to go to that proud minx of a Jane. We are not

-allowed to hate one another, or else I'm afraid I should hate that

-girl.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>She shook her fist at an imaginary Jane, went straight upstairs, and

-gave her maid a good blowing-up.</p>

-

-<p>Some three weeks had now come and gone since Tom, breaking for once

-through the restraint which had hitherto kept him back, did and said

-something which made Jane very happy. What he did was to draw her face

-down to his and kiss it: what he said was simply, &quot;Good-night, my

-darling.&quot; Nothing more, but quite enough to be understood by her to

-whom the words were spoken. But since that evening not one syllable

-more of love had been breathed by Tom. For anything that had since

-passed between them Jane might have imagined that she had merely

-dreamt the words--that the speaking of them was nothing more than a

-fancy of her own lovesick brain.</p>

-

-<p>Under similar circumstances many young ladies would have considered

-themselves aggrieved, and would not have been deemed unreasonable in

-so thinking, But Jane had no intention whatever of adopting an

-injured tone even in her own inmost thoughts. She had never been in

-the habit of looking upon herself in the light of a victim, and she

-had no intention of beginning to do so now. Surprised--slightly

-surprised--she might be, but that was all. In Tom's manner towards

-her, in the way he looked at her, in the very tone of his voice, there

-was that indescribable something which gave her the sweet assurance

-that she was still loved as much as ever. Such being the case, she was

-well satisfied to wait. She felt that her lover's silence had a

-meaning, that he was not dumb without a reason. When the proper time

-should come he would speak, and to some purpose. Till then Eros should

-keep a finger on his lips, and speak only the language of the eyes.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;So this is the way you treat me, is it, young man?&quot; said the Squire,

-sternly, as Tom re-entered the room.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I beg your pardon, sir,&quot; said Tom, looking at him in sheer amazement.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, don't pretend that you don't know what I mean.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It may seem stupid on my part, but I must really plead ignorance.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You worm yourself into my confidence till you get the run of the

-house, and can come and go as you like, and you finish up by making

-love to my daughter!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It is no crime to love Miss Culpepper, I hope, sir. There are few

-people, I imagine, who could know her without loving her.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That's all very well, but you don't get over me in that way, young

-sir. What right have you to make love to my daughter? That's what I

-want to know.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I may love Miss Culpepper, but I have never told her so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Do you mean to say that you have never asked her to marry you?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Never, sir; on that point I give you my word of honour.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;A good thing for you that you haven't. The sooner you get that love

-tomfoolery out of your head the better.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I promise you one thing, sir,&quot; said Tom; &quot;if I ever do marry Miss

-Culpepper, it shall be with your full consent and good wishes.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire could not help chuckling. &quot;In that case, my boy, you will

-never have her--not if you live to be as old as Methuselah.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Time will prove, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And look ye here. There must be no more walks in the shrubbery, no

-more gallivanting together among the woods. Do you understand?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Perfectly, sir. Your words could not be plainer.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I mean them to be plain. There seems to be no harm done so far, but

-it's time this nonsense was put a stop to. Miss Culpepper must marry

-in a very different sphere from yours.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Pardon the remark, sir, but you were quite willing to take Mr. Edward

-Cope as your son-in-law. Now, I consider myself quite as good a man as

-Mr. Cope--quite as eligible a suitor for your daughter's hand.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then I don't. Besides, young Cope would never have had the chance of

-getting her if he hadn't been the son of my oldest friend; the son of

-the man to whose bravery I owe my life itself. Master Edward owes it

-to his father and not to himself that I ever sanctioned his engagement

-to Miss Culpepper.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am indebted for this good turn to Mrs. McDermott,&quot; said Tom to

-himself, as he walked homeward through the park. &quot;It will only have

-the effect of bringing matters to a climax a little earlier than I

-intended, but it will not alter my plans in the least.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Fanny has been exaggerating as usual,&quot; was the Squire's comment.

-&quot;There was something in it, no doubt, and it's just as well to have

-crushed it in the bud; but I think it's hardly worth while to say

-anything to Jenny about it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>A week later, the Squire happened to be riding on his white pony along

-the high road that fringed one side of Knockley Holt, when, to his

-intense astonishment, he heard the regular monotonous puffing and saw

-the smoke of a steam engine that was apparently hard at work behind a

-clump of larches in the distance. Riding up to the spot, he found some

-score or so of men all busily engaged. They were excavating a hole in

-the hill-side, filling-in stout timber supports as they got deeper

-down; the engine on the top being employed to hoist up the earth in

-big bucketfuls as fast as it was dug out.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What's all this about?&quot; inquired the Squire of one of the men; &quot;and

-who's gaffer here?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Mr. Bristow, he be the gaffer, sur, and this hole be dug by his

-orders.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, ho! that's it, is it? And how deep are you going to dig the hole,

-and what do you expect to find when you get to the bottom?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I don't rightly know, sur, but I should think we be digging for

-water.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;A likely tale that! What the dickens should anybody want water for

-when we haven't had a dry day for seven weeks?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Our foreman did say, sur, as how Mr. Bristow was going to have a hole

-dug clean through, so as to make a short cut like to the other side of

-the world. Anyhow, it be mortal dry work.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and rode off. &quot;What queer

-crotchet has that young jackanapes got into his head now?&quot; he muttered

-to himself. &quot;It's just possible, though, that there may be a method in

-his madness.&quot;</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_05" href="#div3Ref_05">CHAPTER V.</a></h4>

-<h5>AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>&quot;Hi! Jean, whose is this luggage?&quot; cried Pierre Janvard one morning to

-his head waiter. He pointed at the same time to a large portmanteau

-which lay among a pile of other luggage in the hall of the Three

-Crowns Hotel, Bath.</p>

-

-<p>With that restless curiosity which was such a marked trait in his

-character, Janvard had a habit of peering about among the luggage of

-his guests, and even of prying stealthily about their bedrooms when he

-knew that their occupants were out of the way, and he himself safe

-from detection. It was not that he hoped to benefit himself in any

-way, or even to pick up any information that would be of value to him,

-by such a mode of proceeding; but it had been a habit with him from

-boyhood to do this kind of thing, and it was a habit that he could by

-no means overcome.</p>

-

-<p>Passing through the hall this morning, his eye had been attracted by a

-pile of luggage belonging to several fresh arrivals, and he at once

-began to peer among the labels. The second label that took his eye was

-inscribed, &quot;Richard Dering, Esq., Passenger to Bath.&quot; Janvard stood

-aghast as he read the name. A crowd of direful memories rushed to his

-mind. For a moment or two he could not speak. Then he called Jean as

-above.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That portmanteau,&quot; answered Jean, &quot;belongs to a gentleman who came in

-by the last train. He and another gentleman came together. They wanted

-a private sitting-room, and I put them into number twenty-nine.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Has the other gentleman any luggage?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, this large black bag belongs to him.&quot; Janvard stooped and read:

-&quot;Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath.&quot; &quot;Quite strange to me, that

-name,&quot; he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and

-shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;They have ordered dinner, I suppose?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk

-about, and report it to me afterwards.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind.

-Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel

-Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common

-enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to

-himself again and again.</p>

-

-<p>One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive

-to see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the

-slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any

-other quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these

-people, after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr.

-Kester St. George for instructions.</p>

-

-<p>He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his

-banker's passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing

-source of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in

-walked Mr. Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow.</p>

-

-<p>It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard's eyes

-rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his

-appearance. Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still.

-His thin lips quivered for a moment, and then his hands began to

-tremble slightly, so that in a little while he was obliged to take

-them off the table and bury them in his pockets.</p>

-

-<p>He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that

-other Mr. Dering whose face he remembered so well--whose face it was

-impossible that he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet

-strangely unlike: the same in many points, and yet in others most

-different. But the moment this dark-looking stranger opened his lips,

-it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back from the grave. A

-covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he beheld a

-man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Your name is Janvard, I believe?&quot; said Mr. Dering, with a slight bow.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Pierre Janvard at your service,&quot; answered the Frenchman,

-deferentially.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St.

-George?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I had that honour.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;My name is Dering--Richard Dering. It is probable that you never

-heard of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from

-India. I am cousin to Mr. Kester St. George.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Frenchman bowed. &quot;I have no recollection of having heard

-monsieur's name mentioned by my late employer.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I suppose not. But my brother's name--Lionel Dering--must be well

-known to you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Janvard could not repress a slight start So that was the relationship,

-was it?</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ah, yes,&quot; he said. &quot;I have seen Mr. Lionel Dering many times, and

-done several little services for him at one time or another.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You were one of the chief witnesses on the trial, if I recollect

-rightly?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Janvard coughed, to gain a moment's time. The conversation was taking

-a turn that he did not approve of. &quot;I certainly was one of the

-witnesses on the trial,&quot; he said, with an air of deprecation. &quot;But

-monsieur will understand that it was a misfortune which I had no means

-of avoiding. I could not help seeing what I did see, and they made me

-tell all about it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, we quite understand that,&quot; said Mr. Dering. &quot;You were not to

-blame in any way. You could not do otherwise than as you did.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Janvard smiled faintly, and bowed his gratification.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;My friend here, Mr. Bristow, and myself, have come down to stay a

-week or two in your charming city. The doctors tell me there is

-something the matter with my spleen, and have recommended me to drink

-the Bath waters. Hearing casually that you were the proprietor of one

-of the most comfortable hotels in the place, and looking upon you

-somewhat in the light of a connection of the family, we thought that

-we could not do better than take up our quarters with you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Again Janvard smiled and bowed his gratification. &quot;Monsieur may depend

-upon my using my utmost endeavours to make himself and his friend as

-comfortable as possible. Pardon my presumption, but may I venture to

-ask whether Mr. St. George was quite well when monsieur saw or heard

-from him last?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;My cousin was a little queer a short time ago, but I believe him to

-be well again by this time.&quot; Mr. Dering turned to go. &quot;We have given

-your waiter instructions as to dinner,&quot; he said.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I hope my chef will succeed in pleasing you,&quot; said Janvard., with a

-smile. &quot;He has the reputation of being second to none in the city.&quot;

-With the same smile on his face he followed them to the door and bowed

-them out, and, still smiling, watched them till they turned the corner

-of the street. &quot;No danger there, I think,&quot; he said to himself. &quot;None

-whatever. Still I must keep on the watch--always on the watch. I must

-look to their dinners myself, and leave them nothing to complain of.

-But I shall be very much pleased indeed when they call for their bill:

-very much pleased to see the last of them.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Said Tom to Lionel, as they were walking arm-in-arm towards the

-pump-room: &quot;Did you notice that magnificent ring which Janvard wore on

-the third finger of his left hand?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I could not fail to notice it. I was thinking about it at the very

-moment you spoke.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have not seen so splendid a ruby for a long time. The setting, too,

-is rather unique.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, it was the peculiar setting that caused me to recognize it

-again.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That caused you to recognize it! You don't mean to say that you have

-ever seen the ring before?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I certainly have seen it before.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Where?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;On the finger of Percy Osmond.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom halted suddenly and stared at Lionel as if he could hardly believe

-the evidence of his ears.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am stating nothing but the simple truth,&quot; continued Lionel. &quot;The

-moment I saw the ring on Janvard's finger the thought flashed through

-me that I had certainly seen it somewhere before. All the time I was

-talking to Janvard I was trying to call that somewhere to mind, but it

-did not come to me till after we had left the hotel--not, in fact,

-till a minute before you spoke about it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Are you sure you are not mistaken? There are many ruby rings in the

-world.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I don't for one moment think that I am mistaken,&quot; answered Lionel

-deliberately. &quot;If the ring worn by Janvard be the one I mean, it has

-three initial letters engraved inside the hoop. What particular

-letters they are I cannot now recollect. I chanced to express my

-admiration of the ring one night in the billiard-room, and Osmond took

-it off his finger in order that I might examine it. It was then I saw

-the letters, but without noticing them with sufficient particularity

-to remember them again.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I always had an idea,&quot; said Tom, &quot;that Janvard was in some way mixed

-up with the murder, and this would seem to prove it. He must have

-stolen the ring from Osmond's room either immediately before or

-immediately after the murder.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I must see that ring,&quot; said Lionel decisively. &quot;It must come into my

-possession, if only for a minute or two, if only while I ascertain

-whether the initials are really there.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I don't think that there will be much difficulty about that,&quot; said

-Tom. &quot;The fellow has no suspicion as to whom you really are, or as to

-the object of our visit to Bath. To admire the ring is the first step:

-to ask to look at it the second.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>A quarter of an hour later Lionel gripped Tom suddenly by the arm.

-&quot;Bristow,&quot; he whispered, &quot;I have just remembered something. Osmond had

-that ruby ring on his finger the night before he was murdered! I have

-a distinct recollection of seeing it on his hand when we were playing

-that last game of billiards together.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If this ring,&quot; said Tom, &quot;prove to be the one you believe it to be,

-the finding of it will be another and a most important link in the

-chain of evidence.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes--almost, if not quite, the last one that we shall need,&quot; said

-Lionel.</p>

-

-<p>At dinner that evening Janvard in person took in the wine. The eyes of

-both Lionel and Tom fixed themselves instinctively on his left hand.

-The ring was no longer there.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Can he suspect anything?&quot; asked Lionel of Tom, as soon as they were

-alone.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I think not,&quot; answered Tom. &quot;The fellow is evidently uneasy, and will

-continue to be so as long as you stay under his roof But the very

-openness of our proceedings, and the frank way in which we have told

-him who we are, will go far to disarm any suspicions which he might

-otherwise have entertained.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Two or three days passed quietly over. Lionel drank the waters with

-regularity, and he and Tom drove out frequently in the neighbourhood

-of King Bladud's beautiful city. Janvard always gave them a look in in

-the course of dinner to see that everything was to their satisfaction;

-but he still carefully abstained from wearing the ring.</p>

-

-<p>By-and-by there came a certain evening when Janvard failed to put in

-his usual appearance at the dinner table. Said Tom to the man who

-waited upon them: &quot;Where is your master this evening? Not ill, I

-hope?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Gone to a masonic banquet, sir,&quot; answered the man.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then he won't be home till late, I'll wager.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Not till eleven or twelve, I dare say, sir.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Gone in full fig, of course?&quot; said Tom, laughingly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir,&quot; answered the man with a grin.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Diamond studs and ruby ring, and everything complete, eh?&quot; went on

-Tom.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I don't know about diamond studs, sir,&quot; said the man, &quot;but he

-certainly had his ring on, for I saw it on his finger myself.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Now is our time,&quot; said Tom to Lionel, as soon as the man had left the

-room. &quot;We may not have such an opportunity again.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>It was close upon midnight when Pierre Janvard, alighting from a fly

-at the door of his hotel, found his two lodgers standing on the steps

-smoking a last cigar before turning in for the night. In this there

-was nothing unusual--nothing to excite suspicion.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Hallo! Janvard, is that you?&quot; cried Tom, assuming the tone and manner

-of a man who has taken a little too much wine. &quot;I was just wondering

-what had become of you. This is my birthday: so you must come upstairs

-with us, and drink my health in some of your own wine.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Another time, sir, I shall be most happy; but to-night----&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But me no buts,&quot; cried Tom. &quot;I'll have no excuses--none. Come along,

-Dering, and we'll crack another bottle of Janvard's Madeira. We'll

-poison mine host with his own tipple.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>He seized Janvard by the arm, and dragged him upstairs, trolling out

-the last popular air as he did so. Lionel followed leisurely.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You're a good sort, Janvard--a deuced good sort!&quot; said Tom.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Monsieur is very kind,&quot; said Janvard, with a smile and a shrug; and

-then in obedience to a wave from Tom's hand, he sat down at table. Tom

-now began to fumble with a bottle and a corkscrew.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Allow me, monsieur,&quot; said Janvard, politely, as he relieved Tom of

-the articles in question, and proceeded to open the bottle with the

-ease of long practice.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That's a sweet thing in rings you've got on your finger,&quot; said Tom,

-admiringly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, it is rather a fine stone,&quot; said Janvard, dryly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;May I be allowed to examine it?&quot; asked Tom, as he poured out the wine

-with a hand that was slightly unsteady.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I should be most happy to oblige monsieur,&quot; said Janvard, hastily,

-&quot;but the ring fits me so tightly that I am afraid I should have some

-difficulty in getting it off my finger.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Hang it all, man, the least you can do is to try,&quot; cried Tom.</p>

-

-<p>The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little

-difficulty, and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom's fingers

-clutched it like a vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if

-to reclaim the ring; but it was too late, and he sat down without

-speaking.</p>

-

-<p>Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it

-towards the light. &quot;A very pretty gem, indeed!&quot; he said. &quot;And worth

-something considerable in sovereigns, I should say.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?&quot; asked Lionel gravely,

-as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from

-his seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom

-handed the ring across to Lionel.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;A magnificent stone, indeed,&quot; said the latter, &quot;but somewhat

-old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable

-in my eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop

-are three initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I

-read them aright they are M. K. L.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, yes, monsieur,&quot; said Janvard, uneasily. &quot;As you say, M. K. L.

-The initials of the friend who gave me the ring.&quot; He held out his

-hand, as if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to

-him, but Lionel took no notice of the action.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Three very curious initials, indeed,&quot; said Lionel, musingly. &quot;One

-could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in mind

-of a curious coincidence--of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I

-once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and

-inside the hoop of my friend's ring were three initials. The initials

-in question were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved

-on your ring, Monsieur Janvard. Curious, is it not?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Mille diables! I am betrayed!&quot; cried Janvard, as he started from his

-seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him.

-The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.</p>

-

-<p>He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and

-looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom

-Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold,

-quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom's right

-hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard's ears were

-smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to

-the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The

-pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was

-beginning to desert him. He was trembling visibly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Sit down, sir,&quot; said Lionel, sternly, &quot;and refresh yourself with

-another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to

-you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders

-and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two

-glasses of wine rapidly one after another.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am ready, monsieur,&quot; he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips,

-and made a ghastly effort to smile. &quot;At your service.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What I want from you, and what you must give me,&quot; said Lionel, &quot;is a

-full and particular account of how this ring came into your

-possession. It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the

-night he was murdered.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ah ciel! how do you know that?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it.

-But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was

-found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: &quot;Who

-are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and

-threaten me in this way?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What if I refuse to answer them?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than

-half an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger

-of Mr. Osmond the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought

-many a better man than you to the gallows: be careful that it does not

-land you there?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the

-murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What proof have you--what proof was there adduced at the trial, that

-Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or

-those of any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew

-from the first that he was innocent! If you yourself are not the

-murderer, you know the man who is.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the

-floor. He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke,

-but it was in the same sullen tone that he had used before.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may

-know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such

-promise. For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be

-the murderer of Percy Osmond.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Janvard shuddered slightly. &quot;I am not the murderer of Percy Osmond,&quot;

-he said quietly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Who, then, was the murderer?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;My late master--Mr. Kester St. George.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although

-Janvard's words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel

-and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears

-with all the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there,

-Janvard was the one who seemed least concerned.</p>

-

-<p>Lionel was the first to speak. &quot;This is a serious charge to make

-against a gentleman like Mr. St. George,&quot; he said.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have made no charge against Mr. St. George,&quot; said Janvard. &quot;It is

-you who have forced the confession from me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement--to prove

-your words?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you

-will not let me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But, monsieur----&quot; began Janvard, appealingly, and then he stopped.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use

-that power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time,

-understand me. I am no constable--no officer of the law--I am simply

-the brother of Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was

-accused and found guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I

-am, I have vowed that I will not rest night or day till I have

-discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. Such being the

-case, I tell you plainly that the best thing you can do is to make a

-full and frank confession of all that you know respecting this

-terrible business, leaving it for me afterwards to decide as to the

-use which I may find it requisite to make of your confession. Are you

-prepared to do what I ask of you?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Janvard's shoulders rose and fell again. &quot;I cannot help myself,&quot; he

-said. &quot;I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh

-your memory.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that

-night are far too terrible to be forgotten.&quot; With a hand that still

-shook slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank

-it off at a draught. Then he continued: &quot;On the night of the quarrel

-in the billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master,

-Mr. St. George. About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering

-it, my master put Mr. Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the

-worse for wine, with instructions to see him safely to bed. This I

-did, and then left him. As it happened, I had taken a violent fancy to

-Mr. Osmond's splendid ruby ring--the very ring monsieur has now in his

-possession--and that night I determined to make it my own. There were

-several new servants in the house, and nobody would suspect me of

-having taken it. Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and thrown it

-carelessly into his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into

-bed, afterwards putting his keys under his pillow.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made

-my way to Mr. Osmond's bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A

-night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in

-through the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the

-sleeper's face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with

-one hand clenched, and a frown on his face as if he were still

-threatening Mr. Dering. It was hardly the work of a minute to possess

-myself of the keys. In another minute the dressing-case was opened and

-the ring my own. Mr. Osmond's portmanteau stood invitingly open: what

-more natural than that I should desire to turn over its contents

-lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed by the simple

-curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the portmanteau,

-admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard the

-noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that

-afforded by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next

-moment I was safely hidden behind them.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the

-room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned

-in his sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from

-peeping out of my hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester

-St. George, standing over the sleeping man, with a look on his face

-that I had never seen there before. He stood thus for a full minute,

-and then he came round to the near side of the bed, and seemed to be

-looking for Mr. Osmond's keys. In a little while he saw them in the

-dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the other side

-of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found

-the right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond's writing-case. He opened the

-case, took out of it Mr. Osmond's cheque book, and from that he tore

-either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case

-when Mr. Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. 'Villain! what

-are you doing there?' he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But

-before he could set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his

-throat, and pinned him down almost as easily as if he had been a boy.

-What happened during the next minute I hardly know how to describe. It

-would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit of sleeping with a dagger

-under his pillow. At all events, there was one there on this

-particular night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his

-hand sought for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a

-sudden stab with it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master

-was too quick for him. There was an instant's struggle--a flash--a

-cry--and--you may guess the rest.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;A murmur of horror escaped my lips. In another instant my master had

-sprung across the room and had torn away the curtains from before me.

-'You here!' he said. And for a few seconds I thought my fate would be

-the same as that of Mr. Osmond. But at last his hand dropped.

-'Janvard, you and I must be friends,' he said. 'From this night your

-interests are mine, and my interests are yours.' Then we left the room

-together. A terrible night, monsieur, as you may well believe.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You have accounted clearly enough for the murder, but you have not

-yet told us how it happened that Lionel Dering came to be accused of

-the crime.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That is the worst part of the story, sir. Whose thought it was first,

-whether Mr. St. George's or mine, to lay the murder at the door of Mr.

-Dering, I could not now tell you. It was a thought that seemed to come

-into the heads of both of us at the same moment. As monsieur knows, my

-master had no cause to love his cousin. He had every reason to hate

-him. Mr. Dering had got all the estates and property that ought to

-have been Mr. St. George's. But if Mr. Dering were to die without

-children, the estate would all come back to his cousin. Reason enough

-for wishing Mr. Dering dead.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;We did not talk much about it, my master and I. We understood one

-another without many words. There were certain things to be done which

-Mr. St. George had not the nerve to do. I had the nerve to do them,

-and I did them. It was I who put Mr. Dering's stud under the bed. It

-was I who took his handkerchief, and----&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Enough!&quot; said Lionel, with a shudder. &quot;Surely no more devilish plot

-was ever hatched by Satan himself! You--you who sit so calmly there,

-had but to hold up your finger to save an innocent man from disgrace

-and death!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What would monsieur have?&quot; said Janvard, with another of his

-indescribable shrugs. &quot;Mr. St. George was my master. I liked him, and

-I was, besides, to have a large sum of money given me to keep silence.

-Mr. Dering was a stranger to me. Voil� tout.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Janvard, you are one of the vilest wretches that ever disgraced the

-name of man!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Monsieur s'amuse.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I shall at once proceed to put down in writing the heads of the

-confession which you have just made. You will sign the writing in

-question in the presence of Mr. Bristow as witness. You need be under

-no apprehension that any immediate harm will happen to you. As for Mr.

-St. George, I shall deal with him in my own time, and in my own way.

-There are, however, two points that I wish you to bear particularly in

-mind. Firstly, if, even by the vaguest hint, you dare to let Mr. St.

-George know that you have told me what you have told me to-night, it

-will be at your own proper peril, and you must be prepared to take the

-consequences that will immediately ensue. Secondly, you must hold

-yourself entirely at my service, and must come to me without delay

-whenever I may send for you, and wherever I may be. Do you clearly

-understand?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, sir. I understand.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;For the present, then, I have done with you. Two hours later I will

-send for you again, in order that you may sign a certain paper which

-will be ready by that time. You may go.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But, monsieur----&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Not a word. Go.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom held open the door for him, and Janvard passed out without another

-word.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;At last, Dering! At last everything is made clear!&quot; said Tom, as he

-crossed the room and laid his hand affectionately on Lionel's

-shoulder. &quot;At last you can proclaim your innocence to the world.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, my task is nearly done,&quot; said Lionel, sadly. &quot;And I thank heaven

-in all sincerity that it is so. But the duty that I have still to

-perform is a terrible one. I almost feel as if now, at this, the

-eleventh hour, I could go no farther. I shrink in horror from the last

-and most terrible step of all. Hark! whose voice was that?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I hear nothing save the moaning of the wind, and the low muttering of

-thunder far away among the hills.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It seemed to me that I heard the voice of Percy Osmond calling to me

-from the grave--the same voice that I have heard so often in my

-dreams.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;How your hand burns, Dering! Shake off these wild fancies, I implore

-you,&quot; said Tom. &quot;What a blinding flash was that!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;They are no wild fancies to me, but most dread realities. I tell you

-it is Osmond's voice that I hear. I know it but too well, 'Thou shalt

-avenge!' it says to me. Only three words: 'Thou shalt avenge!'&quot;</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_06" href="#div3Ref_06">CHAPTER VI.</a></h4>

-<h5>TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>Nearly a fortnight elapsed after Tom's last interview with the Squire

-before he was again invited to Pincote, and after what had passed

-between himself and Mr. Culpepper he would not go there again without

-a special invitation. It is probable that the Squire would not have

-sent for him even at the end of a fortnight had he not grown so

-thoroughly tired of having to cope with Mrs. McDermott single-handed

-that he was ready to call in assistance from any quarter that promised

-relief. He knew that Tom would assist him if only a hint were given

-that he was wanted to do so. And Tom did relieve him; so that for the

-first time for many days the Squire really enjoyed his dinner.</p>

-

-<p>Notwithstanding all this, matters were so arranged between the Squire

-and Mrs. McDermott that no opportunity was given Tom of being alone

-with Jane even for five minutes. The first time this happened he

-thought that it might perhaps have arisen from mere accident. But the

-next time he went up to Pincote he saw too clearly what was intended

-to allow him to remain any longer in doubt. That night, after shaking

-hands with Tom at parting, Jane found in her palm a tiny note, the

-contents of which were three lines only. &quot;Should you be shopping in

-Duxley either to-morrow or next day, I shall be at the toll-gate on

-the Snelsham road from twelve till one o'clock.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Next day, at half-past twelve to the minute, Jane and her

-pony-carriage found themselves at the Snelsham toll-gate. There was

-Tom, sure enough, who got into the trap and took the reins. He turned

-presently into a byroad that led to nowhere in particular, and there

-earned the gratitude of Diamond by letting him lapse into a quiet walk

-which enabled him to take sly nibbles at the roadside grass as he

-crawled contentedly along.</p>

-

-<p>Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then Tom spoke. &quot;Jane,&quot; he

-said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her

-Christian name, &quot;Jane, your father has forbidden me to make love to

-you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>It seemed as if Jane had nothing to say either for or against this

-statement. She only breathed a little more quickly, and a lovelier

-colour flushed her cheeks. But just then Diamond swerved towards a

-tempting tuft of grass. The carriage gave a slight jerk, and Tom

-fancied--but it might be nothing more than fancy--that, instinctively,

-Jane drew a little closer to him. And when Diamond had been punished

-by the slightest possible flick with the whip between his ears, and

-was again jogging peacefully on, Jane did not get farther away again,

-being, perhaps, still slightly nervous; and when Tom looked down there

-was a little gloved hand resting, light as a feather, on his arm. It

-was impossible to resist the temptation. Dispensing with the whip for

-a moment he lifted the little hand tenderly to his lips and kissed it.

-He was not repulsed.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, dearest,&quot; he went on, &quot;I am absolutely forbidden to make love to

-you. I can only imagine that your aunt has been talking to your father

-about us. Be that as it may, he has forbidden me to walk out with you,

-or even to see you alone. The reason why I asked you to meet me to-day

-was to tell you of these things.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Still Jane kept silence. Only from the little hand, which had somehow

-found its way back on to his arm, there came the faintest possible

-pressure, hardly heavy enough to have crushed a butterfly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I told him that I loved you,&quot; resumed Tom, &quot;and he could not say that

-it was a crime to do so. But when I told him that I had never made

-love to you, or asked you to marry me, he seemed inclined to doubt my

-veracity. However, I set his mind at rest by giving him my word of

-honour that, even supposing you were willing to have me--a point

-respecting which I had very strong doubts indeed--I would not take

-you for my wife without first obtaining his full consent to do so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom's tone that his

-thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one

-to steal a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace

-into a still slower one, till at last he came to a dead stand.

-Admonished by a crack of the whip half a yard above his head that Tom

-was still wide awake, he put on a tremendous spurt--for him--which, as

-they were going down hill at the time, was not difficult. But no

-sooner had they reached a level bit of road again than the spurt toned

-itself down to the customary slow trot, with, however, an extra whisk

-of the tail now and then which seemed to imply: &quot;Mark well what a

-fiery steed I could be if I only chose to exert myself.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;All this but brings me to one point,&quot; said Tom: &quot;that I have never

-yet told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to

-become my wife. To-day, then--here this very moment, I tell you that I

-do love you as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love;

-and here I ask you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Dearest, you are not blind,&quot; he went on. &quot;You must have seen, you

-must have known, for a long time past, that my heart--my love--were

-wholly yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has been a

-hope, a blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for

-longer than I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to

-you before, but there were certain reasons for my silence which it is

-not necessary to dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them,

-I will explain to you another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you

-feel as if you could ever learn to love me, whether you can ever care

-for me enough to become my wife. Speak to me, darling--whisper the one

-little word I burn to hear. Lift your eyes to mine, and let me read

-there that which will make me happy for life.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone

-with the trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no

-one to overhear them save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be

-not listening a bit. For the second time he came to a stand-still, and

-this time his artfulness remained unreproved and unnoticed.</p>

-

-<p>Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried

-to see into their depths but could not. &quot;You promised papa that you

-would not take me from him without his consent,&quot; she said, speaking in

-little more than a whisper. &quot;That consent you will never obtain.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her

-ears. She looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their

-eyes met.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You don't know papa as well as I do--how obstinate he is--how full of

-whims and crotchets. No--no; I feel sure that he will never consent.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And I feel equally sure that he will. I have no fear on that

-score--none. But I will put the question to you in another way, in the

-short business-like way that comes most naturally to a man like me.

-Jane, dearest, if I can persuade your father to give you to me, will

-you be so given? Will you come to me and be my own--my wife--for

-ever?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Still no answer. Only imperceptibly she crept a little closer to his

-side--a very little. He took that for his answer. First one arm went

-round her and then the other. He drew her to his heart, he drew her to

-his lips; he kissed her and called her his own. And she? Well, painful

-though it be to write it, she never reproved him in the least, but

-seemed content to sit there with her head resting on his shoulder, and

-to suffer Love's sweet punishment of kisses in silence.</p>

-

-<p>It is on record that Diamond was the first to move.</p>

-

-<p>While standing there he had fallen into a snooze, and had dreamt that

-another pony had been put into his particular stall and was at that

-moment engaged in munching his particular truss of hay. Overcome by

-his feelings, he turned deliberately round, and started for home at a

-gentle trot. Thus disturbed, Tom and Jane came back to sublunary

-matters with a laugh, and a little confusion on Jane's part. Tom drove

-her back as far as the toll-gate and then shook hands and left her.

-Jane reached home as one in a blissful dream.</p>

-

-<p>Three days later Tom received a note in the Squire's own crabbed

-hand-writing, asking him to go up to Pincote as early as possible. He

-was evidently wanted for something out of the ordinary way. Wondering

-a little, he went. The Squire received him in high good humour and was

-not long in letting him know why he had sent for him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have had some fellows here from the railway company,&quot; he said.

-&quot;They want to buy Prior's Croft.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom's eyebrows went up a little. &quot;I thought, sir, it would prove to be

-a profitable speculation by-and-by. Did they name any price?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No, nothing was said as to price. They simply wanted to know whether

-I was willing to sell it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And you told them that you were?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I told them that I would take time to think about it. I didn't want

-to seem too eager, you know.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That's right, sir. Play with them a little before you finally hook

-them.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;From what they said they want to build a station on the Croft.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, a new passenger station, with plenty of siding accommodation.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ah! you know something about it, do you?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I know this much, sir, that the proposal of the new company to run a

-fresh line into Duxley has put the old company on their mettle. In

-place of the dirty ram-shackle station with which we have all had to

-be content for so many years, they are going to give us a new station,

-handsome and commodious; and Prior's Croft is the place named as the

-most probable site for the new terminus.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Hang me, if I don't believe you knew something of this all along!&quot;

-said the Squire. &quot;If not, how could you have raised that heavy

-mortgage for me?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>There was a twinkle in Tom's eyes but he said nothing. Mr. Culpepper

-might have been still further surprised had he known that the six

-thousand pounds was Tom's own money, and that, although the mortgage

-was made out in another name, it was to Tom alone that he was

-indebted.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Have you made up your mind as to the price you intend to ask, sir?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No, not yet. In fact, it was partly to consult you on that point that

-I sent for you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Somewhere about nine thousand pounds, sir, I should think, would be a

-fair price.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire shook his head. &quot;They will never give anything like so much

-as that.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I think they will, sir, if the affair is judiciously managed. How can

-they refuse in the face of a mortgage for six thousand pounds?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;There's something in that, certainly.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then there are the villas--yet unbuilt it is true--but the plans of

-which are already drawn, and the foundations of some of which are

-already laid. You will require to be liberally remunerated for your

-disappointment and outlay in respect of them.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I see it all now. Splendid idea that of the villas.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Considering the matter in all its bearings, nine thousand pounds may

-be regarded as a very moderate sum.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I won't ask a penny less.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;With it you will be able to clear off both the mortgage and the loan

-of two thousand, and will then have a thousand left for your expenses

-in connection with the villas.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire rubbed his hands. &quot;I wish all my speculations had turned

-out as successful as this one,&quot; he said. &quot;This one I owe to you,

-Bristow. You have done me a service that I can never forget.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom rose to go. &quot;Mrs. McDermott quite well, sir?&quot; he said, with the

-most innocent air in the world.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If the way she eats and drinks is anything to go by, she was never

-better in her life. But if you take her own account, she's never

-well--a confirmed invalid she calls herself. I've no patience with the

-woman, though she is my sister. A day's hard scrubbing at the wash-tub

-every week would do her a world of good. If she would only pack up her

-trunks and go, how thankful I should be!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If you wish her to shorten her visit at Pincote, I think you might

-easily persuade her to do so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I'd give something to find out how. No, no, Bristow, you may depend

-that she's a fixture here for three or four months to come. She

-knows--no woman alive better--when she's in comfortable quarters.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If I had your sanction to do so, sir, I think that I could induce her

-to hasten her departure from Pincote.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire rubbed his nose thoughtfully.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are a queer fellow, Bristow,&quot; he said, &quot;and you have done some

-strange things, but to induce my sister to leave Pincote before she's

-ready to go will cap all that you've done yet.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I cannot of course induce her to leave Pincote till she is willing to

-go, but after a little quiet talk with me, it is possible that she may

-be willing, and even anxious, to get away as quickly as possible.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire shook his head. &quot;You don't know Fanny McDermott as well as

-I do,&quot; he said.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Have I your permission to try the experiment?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You have--and my devoutest wishes for your success. Only you must not

-compromise me in any way in the matter.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You may safely trust me not to do that. But you must give me an

-invitation to come and stay with you at Pincote for a week.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;With all my heart.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I shall devote myself very assiduously to Mrs. McDermott, so that you

-must not be surprised if we seem to be very great friends in the

-course of a couple of days.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Do as you like, boy. I'll take no notice. But she's an old soldier,

-is Fan, and if for a single moment she suspects what you are after,

-she'll nail her colours to the mast, defy us all, and stop here for

-six months longer.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It is, of course, quite possible that I may fail,&quot; said Tom, &quot;but

-somehow I hardly think that I shall.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;We'll have a glass of sherry together and drink to your success.

-By-the-by, have you contrived yet to purge your brain of that

-lovesick tomfoolery?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If, sir, you intend that phrase to apply to my feelings with regard

-to Miss Culpepper, I can only say that they are totally unchanged.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What an idiot you are in some things, Bristow!&quot; said the Squire,

-crustily. &quot;Remember this--I'll have no lovemaking here next week.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You need have no fear on that score, sir.&quot;</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_07" href="#div3Ref_07">CHAPTER VII.</a></h4>

-<h5>EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>Tom and his portmanteau reached Pincote together a day or two after

-his last conversation with the Squire. Mrs. McDermott understood that

-Tom had been invited to spend a week there in order to assist her

-brother with his books and farm accounts. It seemed to her a very

-injudicious thing to do, but she did not say much about it. In truth,

-she was rather pleased than otherwise to have Tom there. It was

-dreadfully monotonous to have to spend one evening after another with

-no company save that of her brother and Jane. She was tired of her

-audience, and her audience were tired of her. Mr. Bristow, as she knew

-already, could talk well, was lively company, and, above all things;

-was an excellent listener. She had done her duty by her brother in

-warning him of what was going on between Mr. Bristow and her niece;

-if, after that, the Squire chose to let the two young people come

-together, it was not her place to dispute his right to do so.</p>

-

-<p>Tom was very attentive to her at dinner that day. Of Jane he took no

-notice beyond what the occasion absolutely demanded. Mrs. McDermott

-was agreeably surprised. &quot;He has come to his senses at last, as I

-thought he would,&quot; she said to herself. &quot;Grown tired of Jane's

-society, and no wonder. There's nothing in her.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>As soon as the cloth was removed, Jane excused herself on the score of

-a headache, and left the room. The Squire got into an easy-chair and

-settled himself down for a post-prandial nap. Tom moved his chair a

-little nearer that of the widow.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have grieved to see you looking so far from well, Mrs. McDermott,&quot;

-he said, as he poured himself out another glass of wine. &quot;My father

-was a doctor, and I suppose I caught the habit from him of reading the

-signs of health or sickness in people's faces.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott was visibly discomposed. She was a great coward with

-regard to her health, and Tom knew it.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes,&quot; she said, &quot;I have not been well for some time past. But I was

-not aware that the traces of my indisposition were so plainly visible

-to others.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;They are visible to me because, as I tell you, I am half a doctor

-both by birth and bringing up. You seem to me, Mrs. McDermott, pardon

-me for saying so--to have been fading--to have been going backward, as

-it were, almost from the day of your arrival at Pincote.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mrs. McDermott coughed and moved uneasily on her chair. &quot;I have been a

-confirmed invalid for years,&quot; she said, querulously, &quot;and yet no one

-will believe me when, I tell them so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I can very readily believe it,&quot; said Tom, gravely. Then he lapsed

-into an ominous silence.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I--I did not know that I was looking any worse now than when I first

-came to Pincote,&quot; she said at last.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You seem to me to be much older-looking, much more careworn, with

-lines making their appearance round your eyes and mouth, such as I

-never noticed before. So, at least, it strikes me, but I may be, and I

-dare say I am, quite wrong.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The widow seemed at a loss what to say. Tom's words had evidently

-rendered her very uneasy. &quot;Then what would you advise me to do?&quot; she

-said, after a time. &quot;If you can detect the disease so readily, you

-should have no difficulty in specifying the remedy.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ah, now I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth,&quot; said Tom, with

-a smile. &quot;I am little more than a theorizer, you know; but I should

-have no hesitation in saying that your disorder is connected with the

-mind.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Gracious me, Mr. Bristow!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, Mrs. McDermott, my opinion is that you are suffering from an

-undue development of brain power.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The widow looked puzzled. &quot;I was always considered rather

-intellectual,&quot; she said, with a glance at her brother. But the Squire

-still slept.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are very intellectual, madam; and that is just where the evil

-lies.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Excuse me, but I fail to follow you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are gifted with a very large and a very powerful brain,&quot; said

-Tom, with the utmost gravity. The Squire snorted suddenly in his

-sleep. The widow held up a warning finger. There was silence in the

-room till the Squire's gentle long-drawn snores announced that he was

-again happily fast asleep.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Very few of us are so specially gifted,&quot; resumed Tom. &quot;But every

-special gift necessitates a special obligation in return. You, with

-your massive brain, must find that brain plenty of work to do--a

-sufficiency of congenial employment--otherwise it will inevitably turn

-upon itself, grow morbid and hypochondriacal, and slowly but surely

-deteriorate, till it ends by becoming--what I hardly like to say.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Really, Mr. Bristow, this conversation is to me most interesting,&quot;

-said the widow. &quot;Your views are thoroughly original, but, at the same

-time, I feel that they are perfectly correct.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The sphere of your intellectual activity is far too narrow and

-confined,&quot; resumed Tom; &quot;your brain has not sufficient pabulum to keep

-it in a state of healthy activity. You want to mix more with the

-world--to mix more with clever people like yourself. It was never

-intended by nature that you should lose yourself among the narrow

-coteries of provincial life: the metropolis claims you: the world at

-large claims you. A conversationalist so brilliant, so incisive, with

-such an exhaustless fund of new ideas, can only hope to find her

-equals among the best circles of London or Parisian society.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;How thoroughly you appreciate me, Mr. Bristow!&quot; said the widow, all

-in a flutter of gratified vanity, as she edged her chair still closer

-to Tom. &quot;It is as you say. I feel that I am lost here--that I am

-altogether out of my element. I stay here more as a matter of duty--of

-principle--than of anything else. Not that it is any gratification to

-me, as you may well imagine, to be buried alive in this dull hole. But

-my brother is getting old and infirm--breaking fast, I'm afraid, poor

-man,&quot; here the Squire gave a louder snore than common; &quot;while Jane is

-little more than a foolish girl. They both need the guidance of a kind

-but firm hand. The interests of both demand a clear brain to look

-after them.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;My dear madam, I agree with you in toto. Your Spartan views with

-regard to the duties of everyday life are mine exactly. But we must

-not forget that we have still another duty--that of carefully

-preserving our health, especially when our lives are invaluable to the

-epoch in which we live. You, my dear madam, are killing yourself by

-inches.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, Mr. Bristow, not quite so bad as that, I hope!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What I say, I say advisedly. I think that, without difficulty, I can

-specify a few symptoms of the cerebral disorder to which you are a

-victim. You will bear me out if what I say is correct.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, yes; please go on.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are a sufferer from sleeplessness to a certain extent. The body

-would fain rest, being tired and worn out, but the active brain will

-not allow it to do so. Am I right, Mrs. McDermott?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I cannot dispute the accuracy of what you say.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Your nature being large and eminently sympathetic, but not finding

-sufficient vent for itself in the narrow circle to which it is

-condemned, busies itself, for lack of other aliment, with the concerns

-and daily doings of those around it, giving them the benefit of its

-vast experience and intuitive good sense; but being met sometimes with

-coldness instead of sympathy, it collapses, falls back upon itself,

-and becomes morbid for want of proper intellectual companionship. May

-I hope that you follow me?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes--yes, perfectly,&quot; said the widow, but looking somewhat mystified,

-notwithstanding.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The brain thus thrown back upon itself engenders an irritability of

-the nerves, which is altogether abnormal. Fits of peevishness, of

-ill-temper, of causeless fault-finding, gradually supervene, till at

-length all natural amiability of disposition vanishes entirely, and

-there is nothing left but a wretched hypochondriac, a misery to

-himself and all around him.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Gracious me! Mr. Bristow, what a picture! But I hope you do not put

-me down as a misery to myself and all around me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Far from it--very far from it--my dear Mrs. McDermott. You are only

-in the premonitory stage at present. Let us hope that in your case,

-the later stages will not follow.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I hope not, with all my heart.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Of course, you have not yet been troubled with hearing voices?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Hearing voices! Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bristow?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;One of the worst symptoms of the cerebral disorder, from the earlier

-stages of which you are now suffering, is that the patient hears

-voices--or fancies that he hears them, which is pretty much the same

-thing. Sometimes they are strange voices; sometimes they are the

-voices of relatives, or friends, no longer among the living. In short,

-to state the case as briefly as possible, the patient is haunted.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I declare, Mr. Bristow, that you quite frighten me!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But there are no such symptoms as these about you at present, Mrs.

-McDermott. The moment you have the least experience of them--should

-such a misfortune ever overtake you--then take my advice, and seek the

-only remedy that can be of any real benefit to you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And what may that be?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Immediate change of scene--a change total and complete. Go abroad. Go

-to Italy; go to Egypt; go to Africa;--in short to any place where the

-change is a radical one. But I hope that in your case, such a

-necessity will never arise.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;All this is most deeply interesting to me, Mr. Bristow, but at the

-same time it makes me very nervous. The very thought of being haunted

-in the way you mention is enough to keep me from sleeping for a week.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>At this moment Jane came into the room, and a few minutes later the

-Squire awoke. Tom had said all that he wanted to say, and he gave Mrs.

-McDermott no further opportunity for private conversation with him.</p>

-

-<p>Next day, too, Tom carefully avoided the widow. His object was to

-afford her ample time to think over what he had said. That day the

-vicar and his wife dined at Pincote, and Tom became immersed in local

-politics with the Squire and the Parson. Mrs. McDermott was anxious

-and uneasy. That evening she talked less than she had ever been known

-to do before.</p>

-

-<p>The rule at Pincote was to keep early hours. It was not much past ten

-o'clock when Mrs. McDermott left the drawing-room, and having obtained

-her bed candle, set out on her journey to her own room. Half way up

-the staircase stood Mr. Bristow. The night being warm and balmy for

-the time of year, the staircase window was still half open, and Tom

-stood there, gazing out into the moonlit garden. Mrs. McDermott

-stopped, and said a few gracious words to him. She would have liked to

-resume the conversation of the previous evening, but that was

-evidently neither the time nor the place to do so; so she said

-good-night, shook hands, and went on her way, leaving Tom still

-standing by the window. Higher up, close to the head of the stairs,

-stood a very large, old-fashioned case clock. As she was passing it

-Mrs. McDermott held up her candle to see the time. It was nearly

-twenty minutes past ten. But at the very moment of her noting this

-fact, there came three distinct taps from the inside of the case,

-and next instant from the same place came the sound of a hollow,

-ghost-like voice. &quot;Fanny--Fanny--list! I want to speak to you,&quot; said

-the voice, in slow, solemn tones. But Mrs. McDermott did not wait to

-hear more. She screamed, dropped her candle, and staggered back

-against the opposite wall. Tom was by her side in a moment.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;My dear Mrs. McDermott, whatever is the matter?&quot; he said.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The voice! did you not hear the voice!&quot; she gasped.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What voice? whose voice?&quot; said Tom, with an arm round her waist.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;A voice which spoke to me out of the clock!&quot; she said, with a shiver.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Out of the clock?&quot; said Tom. &quot;We can soon see whether anybody's

-hidden there.&quot; Speaking thus, he withdrew his arm, and flung open the

-door of the clock. Enough light came from the lamp on the stairs to

-show that the old case was empty of everything, save the weights,

-chains, and pendulum of the clock.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Wherever else the voice may have come from, it is plain that it

-couldn't come from here,&quot; said Tom, as he proceeded to relight the

-widow's candle.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It came from there, I'm quite certain. There were three distinct raps

-from the inside as well.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Is it not possible that it may have been a mere hallucination on your

-part? You have not been well, you know, for some time past.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Whatever it may have been, it was very terrible,&quot; said Mrs.

-McDermott, drawing her skirts round her with a shudder. &quot;I have not

-forgotten what you told me yesterday.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Allow me to accompany you as far as your room door,&quot; said Tom.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Thanks. I shall feel obliged by your doing so. You will say nothing

-of all this downstairs?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I should not think of doing so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The following day Mr. Bristow was not at luncheon. There were one or

-two inquiries, but no one seemed to know exactly what had become of

-him. It was Mrs. McDermott's usual practice to retire to the library

-for an hour after luncheon--which room she generally had all to

-herself at such times--for the ostensible purpose of reading the

-newspapers, but, it may be, quite as much for the sake of a quiet

-sleep in the huge leathern chair that stood by the library fire. On

-going there as usual after luncheon to-day, what was the widow's

-surprise to find Mr. Bristow sitting there fast asleep, with the

-&quot;Times&quot; at his feet where it had dropped from his relaxed fingers.</p>

-

-<p>She stepped up to him on tiptoe and looked closely at him. &quot;Rather

-nice-looking,&quot; she said to herself. &quot;Shall I disturb him, or not?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on

-the table a little distance away. The temptation was too much for her.

-Still on tiptoe, she crossed to the table in order to examine them.

-But hardly had she stooped over the table when the same hollow voice

-that had sounded in her ears the previous night spoke to her again,

-and froze her to the spot where she was standing. &quot;Fanny McDermott,

-you must get away from this house,&quot; said the voice. &quot;If you stop here

-you will be a dead woman in three months!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her

-trembling lips did at last falter out the words: &quot;Who are you?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The answer came. &quot;I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to

-look round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep.

-She managed to reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence

-made the best of her way to her own room.</p>

-

-<p>Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one

-broad smile. &quot;She's going at last,&quot; he said. &quot;Off to-morrow like a

-shot. Just told me.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then, with your permission, I won't dine with you this evening. I

-don't want to see her again.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But how on earth have you managed it?&quot; asked the Squire.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;By means of a little simple ventriloquism--nothing more. But I see

-her coming this way. I'm off.&quot; And off he went, leaving the Squire

-staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment.</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_08" href="#div3Ref_08">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h4>

-<h5>DIRTY JACK.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>There was one thing that puzzled both General St. George and Lionel

-Dering, and that was the persistent way in which Kester St. George

-stayed on at Park Newton. It had, in the first place, been a matter of

-some difficulty to get him to Park Newton at all, and for some time

-after his arrival it had been evident to all concerned that he had

-made up his mind that his stay there should be as brief as possible.

-But after that never-to-be-forgotten night when the noise of ghostly

-footsteps was heard in the nailed-up room--a circumstance which both

-his uncle and his cousin had made up their minds would drive him from

-the house for ever--he ceased to talk much about going away. Week

-passed after week and still he stayed on. Nor could his uncle, had he

-been desirous of doing so, which he certainly was not, have hinted to

-him, even in the most delicate possible way, that his room would be

-more welcome than his company, after the pressure which he had put

-upon him only a short time previously to induce him to remain.</p>

-

-<p>Nothing could have suited Lionel's plans better than that his cousin

-should continue to live on at Park Newton, but he was certainly

-puzzled to know what his reason could be for so doing; and, in such a

-case, to be puzzled was, to a certain extent, to be disquieted.</p>

-

-<p>But much as he would have liked to do so, Kester had a very good

-reason for not leaving Park Newton at present. He was, in fact, afraid

-to do so. After the affair of the footsteps he had decided that it

-would not be advisable to go away for a little while. It would never

-do for people to say that he had been driven away by the ghost of

-Percy Osmond. It was while thus lingering on from day to day that he

-had ridden over to see Mother Mim. One result of his interview was

-that he felt how utterly unsafe it would be for him to quit the

-neighbourhood till she was safely dead and buried. She might send for

-him at any moment, she might have other things to speak to him about

-which it behoved him to hear. She might change her mind at the last

-moment, and decide to tell to some other person what she had already

-told him; and when she should die, it would doubtless be to him that

-application would be made to bury her. All things considered, it was

-certainly unadvisable that he should leave Park Newton yet awhile.</p>

-

-<p>Day after day he waited with smothered impatience for some further

-tidings of Mother Mim. But day after day he waited in vain. Most men,

-under such circumstances, would have gone to the place and have made

-personal inquiries for themselves. This was precisely what Kester St.

-George told himself that he ought to do, but for all that he did not

-do it. He shrank, with a repugnance which he could not overcome, from

-the thought of any further contact with either Mother Mim or her

-surroundings. His tastes, if not refined, were fastidious, and a

-shudder of disgust ran through him as often as he remembered that if

-what Mother Mim had said were true--and there was something that rang

-terribly like truth in her words--then was she--that wretched

-creature--his mother, and the filthy hut in which she lay dying

-his sole home and heritage. He knew that for the sake of his own

-interest--of his own safety--he ought to go and see again this woman

-who called herself his mother, but three weeks had come and gone

-before he could screw his courage up to the pitch requisite to induce

-him to do so.</p>

-

-<p>But before this came about, Kester St. George had been left for the

-time being, with the exception of certain servants, the sole occupant

-of Park Newton. Lionel Dering had gone down to Bath to seek an

-interview with Pierre Janvard, with what result has been already seen.

-Two days after Lionel's departure, General St. George was called away

-by the sudden illness of an old Indian friend to whom he was most

-warmly attached. He left home expecting to be back in four or five

-days at the latest; whereas, as it fell out, he did not reach home

-again for several weeks.</p>

-

-<p>It was one day when thus left alone, and when the solitude was

-becoming utterly intolerable to him, that Kester made up his mind that

-he would no longer be a coward, but would go that very afternoon and

-see for himself whether Mother Mim were alive or dead. But even after

-he had thus determined that there should be no more delay on his part,

-he played fast and loose with himself as to whether he should go or

-not. Had there come to him any important letter or telegram demanding

-his presence fifty miles away, he would have caught at it as a

-drowning man catches at a straw. The veriest excuse would have

-sufficed for the putting off of his journey for at least one day. But

-the dull hours wore themselves away without relief or change of any

-kind for him, and when three o'clock came, having first dosed himself

-heavily with brandy, he rang the bell and ordered his horse to be

-brought round.</p>

-

-<p>What might not the next few hours bring to him? he asked himself as he

-rode down the avenue. They might perchance be pregnant with doom. Or

-death might already have lifted this last bitter burden from his life

-by sealing with his bony fingers the only lips that had power to do

-him harm.</p>

-

-<p>For nearly a fortnight past the weather had been remarkably mild,

-balmy, and open for the time of year. Everybody said how easily old

-winter was dying. But during the previous night there had come a

-bitter change. The wind had suddenly veered round to the north-east,

-and was still blowing steadily from that quarter. Steadily and

-bitterly it blew, chilling the hearts of man and beast with its icy

-breath, stopping the growth of grass and flowers, killing every

-faintest gleam of sunshine, and bringing back the reign of winter in

-its cruellest form.</p>

-

-<p>Heavy and lowering looked the sky, shrilly through the still bare

-branches whistled the ice-cold wind, as Kester St. George, deep in

-thought, rode slowly through the park. He buttoned his coat more

-closely around him, and pulled his hat more firmly over his brows as

-he turned out of the lodge gates, and setting his face full to the

-wind, urged his horse into a gallop, and was quickly lost to view down

-the winding road.</p>

-

-<p>It would not have taken him long to reach the edge of Burley Moor had

-not his horse suddenly fallen lame. For the last two miles of the

-distance his pace was reduced to a slow walk. This so annoyed Kester

-that he decided to leave his horse at a roadside tavern in the last

-hamlet he had to pass through, and to traverse the remainder of the

-distance on foot. A short three miles across the moor would take him

-to Mother Mim's cottage.</p>

-

-<p>To a man such as Kester a three miles' walk was a rather formidable

-undertaking--or, at least, it was an uncommon one. But there was no

-avoiding it on the present occasion, unless he gave up the object of

-his journey and went back home. But he could by no means bear the

-thought of doing that. In proportion with the hesitation and

-reluctance which he had previously shown, to ascertain either the best

-or the worst of the affair, was the anxiety which now possessed him to

-reach his journey's end. His imagination pictured all kinds of

-possible and impossible evils as likely to accrue to him, and he

-cursed himself again and again for his negligence in not making the

-journey long ago.</p>

-

-<p>Very bleak and cold was that walk across the desolate, lonely moor,

-but Kester St. George, buried in his own thoughts, hardly felt or

-heeded anything of it. All the sky was clouded and overcast, but far

-away to the north a still darker bank of cloud was creeping slowly up

-from the horizon.</p>

-

-<p>The wind blew in hollow fitful gusts. Any one learned in such lore

-would have said that a change of weather was imminent.</p>

-

-<p>When about half-way across the moor he halted for a moment to gather

-breath. On every side of him spread the dull treeless expanse. Nowhere

-was there another human being to be seen. He was utterly alone. &quot;If a

-man crossing here were suddenly stricken with death,&quot; he muttered to

-himself, &quot;what a place this would be to die in! His body might lie

-here for days--for weeks even--before it was found.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>At length Mother Mim's cottage was reached. Everything about it looked

-precisely the same as when he had seen it last. It seemed only like

-a few hours since he had left it. There, too, crouched on the low

-wall outside, with her skirt drawn over her head, was Mother Mim's

-grand-daughter, the girl with the black glittering eyes, looking as if

-she had never stirred from the spot since he was last there. She made

-no movement or sign of recognition when he walked up to her, but her

-eyes were full of a cold keen criticism of him, far beyond her age and

-appearance.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;How is your grandmother?&quot; said Kester, abruptly. He did not like

-being stared at as she stared at him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;She's dead.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Dead!&quot; It was no more than he expected to hear, and yet he could not

-hear it altogether unmoved.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ay, as dead as a door nail. And a good job too. It was time she

-went.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;How long has she been dead?&quot; asked Kester, ignoring the latter part

-of the girl's speech.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Just half an hour.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Another surprise for Kester. He had expected to hear that she had been

-dead several days--a week perhaps. But only half an hour!</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Who was with her when she died?&quot; he asked, after a minute's pause.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Me and Dirty Jack.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Dirty Jack! who is he?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why Dirty Jack. Everybody knows him. He lives in Duxley, and has a

-wooden leg, and does writings for folk.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Does writings for folk!&quot; A shiver ran through Kester. &quot;And has he

-been doing anything for your grandmother?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That he has. A lot.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;A lot--about what?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;About you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;About me? Why about me?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, you never came near. Nobody never came near. Granny got tired of

-it. 'I'll have my revenge,' said she. So she sent for Dirty Jack, and

-he took it all down in writing.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Took it all down in writing about me?&quot; She nodded her head in the

-affirmative. &quot;If you know so much, no doubt you know what it was that

-he took down--eh?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, I know right enough.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why not tell me?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I know all about it, but I ain't a-going to split.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Further persuasion on Kester's part had no other effect than to induce

-the girl to assert in still more emphatic terms that &quot;she wasn't

-a-going to split.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Evidently nothing more was to be got from her. But she had said enough

-already to confirm his worst fears. Mother Mim, out of spite for the

-neglect with which he had treated her, had made a confession at the

-last moment, similar in purport to what she had told him when last

-there. Such a confession--if not absolutely dangerous to him--she

-having assured him that none of the witnesses were now living--might

-be made a source of infinite annoyance to him. Such a story, once made

-public, might bring forth witnesses and evidence from twenty hitherto

-unsuspected quarters, and fetter him round, link by link, with a chain

-of evidence from which he might find it impossible to extricate

-himself. At every sacrifice, Mother Mim's confession must be destroyed

-or suppressed. Such were some of the thoughts that passed through

-Kester's mind as he stood there biting his nails. Again and again he

-cursed himself in that he had allowed any such confession to emanate

-from the dead woman, whose silence a little extra kindness on his part

-would have effectually secured.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And where is this Dirty Jack, as you call him?&quot; he said, at last.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;He's in there&quot;--indicating the hut with a jerk of her head--&quot;fast

-asleep.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Fast asleep in the same room with your grandmother?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why not? He had a bottle of whiskey with him which he kept sucking

-at. At last he got half screwy, and when all was over he said he would

-have a snooze by the fire and pull himself together a bit before going

-home.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester said no more, but going up to the hut, opened the door and went

-in. On the pallet at the farther end lay the dead woman, her body

-faintly outlined through the sheet that had been drawn over her. A

-clear fire was burning in the broken grate, and close to it, on the

-only chair in the place, sat a man fast asleep. His hands were grimy,

-his linen was yellow, his hair was frowsy. He was a big bulky man,

-with a coarse, hard face, and was dressed in faded threadbare black.

-He had a wooden leg, which just now was thrust out towards the fire,

-and seemed as if it were basking in the comfortable blaze.</p>

-

-<p>On the chimney-piece was an empty spirit-bottle, and in a corner near

-at hand were deposited a broad-brimmed hat, greasy and much the worse

-for wear, and a formidable looking walking-stick.</p>

-

-<p>Such was the vision of loveliness that met the gaze of Kester St.

-George as he paused for a moment or two just inside the cottage door.

-Then he coughed and advanced a step or two. As he did so the man

-suddenly opened his eyes, got up quickly but awkwardly out of his

-chair, and laid his hand on something that was hidden in an inner

-pocket of his coat. &quot;No, you don't!&quot; he cried, with a wave of his

-hand. &quot;No, you don't! None of your hanky-panky tricks here. They won't

-go down with Jack Skeggs, so you needn't try 'em on!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester stared at him in unconcealed disgust. It was evident that he

-was still under the partial influence of what he had been drinking.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?&quot; asked Kester,

-sternly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am John Skeggs, Esquire, attorney-at-law, at your service. And who

-may you be, when you're at home? But there--I know who you are well

-enough. You are Mr. Kester St. George, of Park Newton. I have seen you

-before. I saw you on the day of the murder trial. You were one of the

-witnesses, and white enough you looked. Anybody who had a good look at

-you in the box that day would never be likely to forget your face

-again.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester turned aside for a moment to hide the sudden nervous twitching

-of his lips.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I'm sorry the whiskey is done,&quot; said Mr. Skeggs with a regretful look

-at the empty bottle. &quot;I should like you and I to have had a drain

-together. I suppose you don't do anything in this line?&quot; From one

-pocket he produced an old clasp knife, and from the other a cake of

-leaf tobacco. Then he cut himself a plug and put it into his mouth.

-&quot;When one friend fails me, then I fall back upon another,&quot; he said.

-&quot;When I can't get whiskey I must have tobacco.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>There was no better known character in Duxley than Mr. Skeggs. &quot;Dirty

-Jack,&quot; or &quot;Drunken Jack,&quot; were the sobriquets by which he was

-generally known, and neither of those terms was applied to him without

-good and sufficient reason. There could be no doubt as to the man's

-shrewdness, ability, and knowledge of common law. He was a great

-favourite among the lower and the very lowest classes of Duxley

-society, who in their legal difficulties never thought of employing

-any other lawyer than Skeggs, the universal belief being that if

-anybody could pull them through, either by hook or crook, Dirty Jack

-was that man. And it is quite possible that Mr. Skeggs's clients were

-not far wrong in their belief.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No good stopping here any longer,&quot; said Skeggs, when he had put back

-his knife and tobacco into his pocket.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No, I suppose not,&quot; said Kester.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I suppose you will see that everything is done right and proper by

-our poor dear departed?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, I suppose there is no one to look to but me. She was my

-foster-mother, and very kind to me when I was a lad.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;His foster-mother! Listen to that! His foster-mother! ha! ha!&quot;

-sniggered Dirty Jack. Then laying a finger on one side his nose, and

-leering up at Kester with horrible familiarity, he added: &quot;We know all

-about that little affair, Mr. St. George, and a very pretty romance it

-is.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Look you here, Mr. Skeggs, or whatever your dirty name may be,&quot; said

-Kester, sternly, &quot;I'd advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head

-or it may be worse for you. I've thrashed bigger men than you in my

-time. Be careful, or I shall thrash you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I like your pluck, on my soul I do!&quot; said Skeggs, heartily. &quot;If

-you're not genuine silver--and you know you ain't--you're a deuced

-good imitation of the real thing. Thoroughly well plated, that's what

-you are. Any one would take you to be a born gentleman, they would

-really. Which way are you going back?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester hesitated a moment. Should he quarrel with this man and set him

-at defiance, or should he not? Could he afford to quarrel with him?

-that was the question. Perhaps it would be as well to keep from doing

-so as long as possible.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I'm going to walk back across the moor as far as Sedgeley,&quot; said

-Kester.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then I'll walk with you--though three miles is rather a big stretch

-to do with my game leg. I can get a gig from there that will take me

-home.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment. Skeggs took up his

-hat and stick, and proceeded to polish the former article with his

-sleeve.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Queer woman that,&quot; he said, with a jerk of his thumb towards the

-bed--&quot;very queer. Hard as nails. With something heroic about her, to

-my mind--something that, under different circumstances, might have

-developed her into a remarkable woman. Well, that's the way with heaps

-of us. Circumstances are dead against us, and we are not strong enough

-to overmaster them; else should we smite the world with surprise, and

-genius would not be so scarce an article in the market as it is now.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester stared. Was this the half-drunken blackguard who had been

-jeering at him but two minutes ago? &quot;And yet, drunk he must be,&quot; added

-Kester to himself. &quot;No fellow in his senses would talk such precious

-rot.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Your obedient servant, sir,&quot; said Skeggs, with a purposely

-exaggerated bow as he held open the door for Mr. St. George to pass

-out.</p>

-

-<p>The girl was still sitting on the wall with her skirt drawn over her

-head. Kester went up to her. &quot;I will send some one along first thing

-to-morrow morning to see to the funeral and other matters,&quot; he said,

-&quot;if you can manage till then.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, I can manage right enough. Why not?&quot; said the girl.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I thought that perhaps you might not care to be in the house by

-yourself all night.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, I don't mind that.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then you are not afraid?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What's there to be frittened of? She's quiet enough now. I shall make

-up a jolly fire, and have a jolly supper, and then a jolly long sleep.

-And that's what I've not had for weeks. And I shall read the Dream

-Book. She can't keep that from me now. I know where it is. It's in the

-bed right under her. But I'll have it.&quot; She laughed and nodded her

-head, then putting a nut into her mouth she cracked it and began to

-pick out the kernel. Kester turned away.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Nell, my good girl,&quot; said Mr. Skeggs, insinuatingly, &quot;just see

-whether there isn't such a thing as a drop of whiskey somewhere about

-the house. I've an awful pain in my chest.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;There's no whiskey--not a drop--but I know where there's half a

-bottle of gin. Give me five shillings and I'll fetch it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Five shillings for half a bottle of gin! Why, Nell, what a greedy

-young pig you must be!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Don't have it then. Nobody axed you. I can drink it myself.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I'll give you three shillings for it. Come now.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Not a meg less than five will I take,&quot; said Nell, emphatically, as

-she cracked another nut.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why, you young viper, have you no conscience at all?&quot; he cried

-savagely. Then seeing that Nell took no further notice of him, he

-turned to Kester. &quot;I find that I have no loose silver about me,&quot; he

-said. &quot;Oblige me with the loan of a couple of half-crowns till we get

-to Sedgeley.&quot; Whenever Mr. Skeggs made a new acquaintance he always

-requested the loan of a couple of half-crowns before parting from him.

-But the half-crowns were never paid back until asked for, and asked

-for more than once.</p>

-

-<p>A few premonitory flakes of snow were darkening the air as Kester St.

-George and Mr. Skeggs started on their way back across Burley Moor,

-the latter with a thick comforter round his neck and the bottle of gin

-stowed carefully away in the tail pocket of his coat. The cold seemed

-more intense than ever, but the wind had fallen altogether.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;We are going to have a rough night,&quot; said Skeggs as he stepped

-sturdily out. &quot;We must contrive to get across the moor before the snow

-comes down very thick, or we shall stand a good chance of losing our

-way. Only the winter before last a pedlar and his wife were lost in

-the snow within a mile of here, and their bodies not found for a

-fortnight. This sudden change will play the devil with the young

-crops.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester did not answer. Far different matters occupied his thoughts. In

-silence they walked on for a little while.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I suppose you could give a pretty good guess,&quot; said Skeggs at length,

-&quot;at my reasons for asking you which way you were going to walk this

-afternoon?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Indeed, no,&quot; said Kester with a shrug. &quot;I have not the remotest idea,

-nor do I care to know. It was you who chose to accompany me. I did not

-thrust my company upon you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Skeggs laughed a little maliciously. &quot;I don't think there's much good,

-Mr. Kester St. George, in you and I beating about the bush. I'm a

-plain man of business, and that reminds me,&quot;--interrupting himself

-with a chuckle--&quot;that when I once used those very words to a client of

-mine, he retorted by saying, 'You are more than a plain man of

-business, Mr. Skeggs, you are an ugly one.' I did my very utmost for

-that man, but he was hanged. Mais revenons. I am a plain man of

-business, and I intend to deal with this question in a business-like

-way. The simple point is: What is it worth your while to give me for

-the document I have buttoned up here?&quot; tapping his chest with his left

-hand as he spoke.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I am at a loss to know to what document you refer,&quot; said Mr. St.

-George, coldly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;A very few words will tell you the contents of it, though, if I am

-rightly informed, you can give a pretty good guess already as to what

-they are likely to be. In this document it is asserted that you, sir,

-have no right to the name by which the world has known you for so long

-a time--that you have no right to the position you occupy, to the

-property you claim as yours. That you are, in fact, none other than

-the son of Mother Mim herself--of the woman who lies dead in yonder

-hut.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester drew in his breath with something like a sigh. It was as he had

-feared. Mother Mim had told everything, and, of all people in the

-world, to the wretch now walking by his side. He braced his nerves for

-the coming encounter. &quot;I have heard something before to-day of the

-rigmarole of which you speak,&quot; he said, haughtily; &quot;but I need hardly

-tell you that the affair is nothing but a tissue of vilest lies from

-beginning to end.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I dare say it is,&quot; said Skeggs, good humouredly. &quot;But it may be

-rather difficult for you to prove that it is so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It will be still more difficult for you to prove that it is not so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh! I am quite aware of all the difficulties both for and against--no

-man more so. You have got possession, and a hundred other points in

-your favour. Still, with what evidence I have already, and with what

-evidence I can get elsewhere, I shall be able to make out a strong

-case--a very strong case against you in a court of justice.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Evidence elsewhere!&quot; said Kester, disdainfully. &quot;There is no such

-thing, unless you are clever enough to make the dead speak.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Even that has been done before now,&quot; said Skeggs quietly. &quot;But in

-this case we have no need to go to the churchyard to collect our

-evidence. I have a living, breathing witness whom I can lay my hands

-on at a day's notice.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You lie,&quot; said Kester, emphatically.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I'll wash that down,&quot; said Skeggs, halting for a moment and

-proceeding to take a good pull at his bottle of gin. &quot;If you so far

-forget yourself again, I shall begin to feel sure that you are not a

-St. George. What I told you was not a lie. There were four witnesses

-who had all a personal knowledge of a certain fact. Three of those

-witnesses are dead: the fourth still lives. Of the existence of this

-fourth witness Mother Mim never even hinted to you. It was her trump

-card, and she was far too cunning to let you see it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester walked on in silence. He felt that just then he had hardly a

-word to say. Was all that he had sacrificed so much for in other ways,

-all that he had run such tremendous risks for, to be torn from him by

-the machinations of a vile old hag, and the drunken, ribald scoundrel

-by his side? Through what strange ambushes, through what dusky

-by-paths, doth Fate oft-times overtake us! We look back along the

-broad highway we have been traversing, and seeing no black shadow

-dogging our footsteps, we go rejoicing on our way; when suddenly, from

-some near-at-hand shrub, is shot a poisoned arrow, and the sunlight

-fades from our eyes for ever.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And now, after this little skirmish,&quot; said Skeggs, &quot;we come back to

-my first question: What can you afford to give me for the document in

-my pocket?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Suppose I say that I will give you nothing--what then?&quot; said Kester,

-sullenly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then I shall get my evidence together, work out my case on paper, and

-submit it to the heir-at-law.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And supposing the heir-at-law, acting under advice, were to decline

-having anything to do with your case, as you call it?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;He would be a fool to do that, because my case is anything but a weak

-one. I tell you this in confidence. But supposing he were to decline,

-then I should say to him: 'I am willing to conduct this case on my own

-account. If I fail, it shall not cost you a penny. If I succeed, you

-shall pay all expenses, and give me five thousand pounds.' That would

-fetch him, I think.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You have been assuming all along,&quot; said Kester, &quot;that your case is

-based on fact. I assure you again that it is not--that it is nothing

-but a devilish lie from beginning to end.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Really, my dear sir, that has little or nothing to do with the

-matter. I dare say it is a lie. But it is my place to believe it to be

-the truth, and to make other people believe the same as I do. Here's

-your very good health, sir.&quot; Again Mr. Skeggs took a long pull and a

-strong pull at his bottle of gin.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Knowing what you know,&quot; said Kester, &quot;and believing what you believe,

-are you yet willing to sell the document now in your possession?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Of course I am. What else is all this jaw for?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And don't you think you are a pretty sort of scoundrel to make me any

-such offer? Don't you think----&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Now look you here, Mr. St. George--if that is your name, which I very

-much doubt--don't let you and me begin to fling mud at one another,

-because that is a game at which I could lick you into fits. I have

-made you a fair offer. If we can't come to terms, there's no reason

-why we shouldn't part friendly.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Once again Kester walked on in silence. The snow had been coming down

-more thickly for some time past, and already the dull gray moor began

-to look strange and unfamiliar, but neither of the two men gave more

-than a passing thought to the weather.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If you feel and know your case to be such a strong one,&quot; said Kester,

-at last, &quot;why do you come to me at all? Why send a white flag into

-your enemy's camp? Why not fight him � l'outrance at once?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Because I'm neither so young nor so pugnacious as I once was,&quot;

-answered Skeggs. &quot;I go in for peace and quiet nowadays. I don't want

-the bother and annoyance of a law-suit. I have no ill-feeling towards

-you, and if you will only make me a fair offer, I shall be the last

-man in the world to disturb you in any way. Gemini! how the snow comes

-down! We are only about half way yet. We shall have some difficulty in

-picking our road across.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I myself am as anxious as you can be, Mr. Skeggs, to be saved the

-trouble and annoyance of a law-suit, however sure I may feel that the

-result would be in my favour. But you must give me a little time to

-think this matter over. It is far too important to be decided at a

-moment's notice.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Time? To be sure. You can make up your mind in about a couple of

-days, I suppose. Shall I call upon you, or will you call upon me?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Hardly were the words out of Mr. Skeggs's mouth when his wooden leg

-sunk suddenly into a hidden hole in the pathway. Thrown forward by the

-shock, the lawyer came heavily to the ground, and at the same moment

-his leg snapped short off just below the knee.</p>

-

-<p>Kester took him by the shoulders and assisted him to assume a sitting

-posture on the footpath.</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Skeggs's first action was to pick up his broken limb and look at

-it with a sort of comical despair. &quot;There goes a friend that has done

-me good service,&quot; he said; &quot;but he might have lasted till he got me

-home, for all that. How the deuce am I to get home?&quot; he asked, turning

-abruptly to Kester.</p>

-

-<p>Kester paused for a minute and looked round before answering. The snow

-was coming down faster than ever. The moor was being gradually turned

-into a huge white carpet. Already its zig-zag paths and winding

-footways were barely distinguishable from the treacherous bog which

-lay on every side of them. In an hour and a half it would be dark with

-a darkness that would be unrelieved by either moon or stars. If it

-kept on snowing all night at this rate the drift would be a couple of

-feet deep by morning. Skeggs's casual remark about the pedlar and his

-wife, unheeded at the time, now flashed vividly across Kester's mind.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You will have to wait here till I can get assistance,&quot; he said, in

-answer to his companion's question. &quot;There is no help for it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I suppose not,&quot; growled Skeggs. &quot;Was ever anything so cursedly

-unfortunate?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Sedgeley is the nearest place to this,&quot; said Kester. &quot;There are

-plenty of men there who know the moor thoroughly. I will send half a

-dozen of them to your help.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;How soon may I expect them here?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;In about three-quarters of an hour from now.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ugh! I'm half frozen already. What shall I be in another hour?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh, you'll pull through that easily enough. Your bottle is not empty

-yet.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Jove! I'd forgotten the bottle,&quot; said Skeggs, with animation.</p>

-

-<p>He took it out of his pocket, and held it up to the light. &quot;Not more

-than a quartern left. Well, that's better than none at all.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Goodbye,&quot; said Kester, as he shook some of the snow off his hat.

-&quot;You may look for help in less than an hour.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Goodbye, Mr. St. George,&quot; said Skeggs, looking very earnestly at him

-as he did so.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You won't forget to send the help, will you? because if you do

-forget, it will be nothing more nor less than wilful murder.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester laughed a short grating laugh. &quot;Fear nothing, Skeggs,&quot; he said.

-&quot;I won't forget. About that other trifle, I will write you in two or

-three days. Again goodbye.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Skeggs's face had turned very white. He could not speak. He took off

-his hat and waved it. Kester responded by a wave of his hand. Then

-turning on his heel he strode away through the snowy twilight. In

-three minutes he was lost to sight. Skeggs could no longer see him.

-Tears came into his eyes. &quot;He'll send no help, not he. I shall die

-here like a dog. The snow will be my winding-sheet. If ever there was

-mischief in a man's eye, there was in his, as he bade me goodbye.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Onward strode Kester St. George through the blinding snow. Altogether

-heedless of the weather was he just now. He had other things to think

-about. As instinctively as an Indian or a backwoodsman tracks his way

-across prairie or forest did he track his way across the moor, all

-hidden though the paths now were. He was a child of the moor. He had

-learned its secrets when a boy, and in his present emergency, reason

-and intellect must perforce give way to that blind instinct which was

-left him as a legacy of his youth.</p>

-

-<p>At length the last patch of moorland was crossed, and a few minutes

-later he found himself close by a well-remembered finger-post, where

-three roads met. One of these roads led to Sedgeley, which was but a

-short quarter of a mile away; another of them led to Duxley and Park

-Newton. At Sedgeley his horse was waiting for him. There, too, was to

-be had the help which he had so faithfully promised Skeggs that he

-would send. Leaning against the finger-post, he took a minute's rest

-before going any farther. Which road should he take? That was the

-question which at present he was turning over and over in his mind.

-Not long did he hesitate. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he made

-a wisp of it, and tied it round his throat. Then he turned up the

-collar of his coat. Then once again he shook the snow off his hat.

-Then plunging his hands deep in his pockets, and turning his back on

-the finger-post, he set out resolutely along the road that led towards

-Park Newton. Once, and once only did he pause, even for a moment,

-before reaching home. It was when he fancied that he heard, away in

-the far distance, a low, wild, melancholy cry--whether the cry of an

-animal or a man he could not tell--but none the less a cry for help.

-Whatever it was, it did not come again, and after that Kester pursued

-his way homeward steadily and without pause. It was quite dark long

-before he reached his own room.</p>

-

-<p>He changed his clothes and went down to dinner. Both his uncle and

-Richard Dering were away, and he dined alone, for which he was by no

-means sorry. Every half-hour or so he inquired as to the weather. They

-had nothing to tell him except that it was still snowing hard. The

-evening was one of slow torture, but at length it wore itself away. He

-went to bed about midnight. Dobbs's last report to him was that the

-weather was still unchanged. But several times during the night Dobbs

-heard his master pacing up and down his room, and had he been there he

-might, ever and again, have seen a haggard face peering out with eager

-eyes into the darkness.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Twelve inches of snow, sir, on the drive,&quot; was Dobbs's first news

-next morning. &quot;They say there has not been a fall like it in these

-parts for a dozen years.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The snow had ceased to fall hours before. By-and-by there came a few

-gleams of sunshine to brighten the scene, but the wind was still in

-the north, and all that day the weather kept bitterly cold. Soon after

-sunset, however, there was a change. Little by little the wind got

-round to the south-west. At ten o'clock Dobbs reported: &quot;Snow going

-fast, sir. Regular thaw. Not be a bit left by breakfast-time.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Call me at four,&quot; said his master, &quot;and have some coffee ready, and a

-horse brought round by four thirty.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>He was quite tired out by this time, and when he went to bed he felt

-sure that he should have four or five hours' sound sleep. But his

-sleep was several times disturbed by a strange dream: always the same

-thing repeated over and over again. He dreamt that he was standing

-under the finger-post on the edge of the moor. But the finger-post was

-neither more nor less than a gigantic skeleton, of which the

-outstretched arms formed the direction boards. On the bony palm of one

-outstretched arm, in letters of blood, was written the words: &quot;To

-Sedgeley.&quot; Then as he read the words in his dream, again would sound

-in his ears the low, weird, melancholy cry which had arrested his

-steps for a moment as he walked home through the snow, and hearing the

-cry he would start up in bed and stare round him, and wonder for a

-moment where he was.</p>

-

-<p>Dobbs duly called his master at four, and at four thirty he mounted

-his horse and rode away. The roads were heavy and sloppy with the

-melting snow. The morning was intensely dark, but Kester knew the

-country thoroughly, and was never at a loss as to which turn he ought

-to take. Not one human being did he meet during the whole of his ride.

-But, indeed, his nearest friend would have passed him by in the dark

-without recognition. He wore an old shooting suit, with a Glengarry

-bonnet and a macintosh, and had a thick shawl wrapped round his throat

-and the lower part of his face.</p>

-

-<p>Day was just breaking as he reached the edge of the moor. He tethered

-his horse to the stump of an old tree behind a hedge. He had brought a

-powerful field-glass in his pocket. He scanned the moor carefully

-through it before proceeding farther on his quest. No living being was

-in sight anywhere. Satisfied of this, he set out without further

-delay, leaving his horse by itself to await his return. Not without a

-tremor--not without a faster beating of the heart--did he again set

-foot on the moor. A drizzling rain now began to fall, but Kester was

-not sorry for this. The worse the weather, the fewer the people who

-would be abroad in it. Onward he strode, keeping a wary eye about him

-as he went.</p>

-

-<p>At length he reached a curve in the path from whence he ought to be

-able to discern the bulky form of John Skeggs, Esq., if that gentleman

-was still where he had last seen him. He looked, but the morning was

-still heavy and dark: he could see nothing. Then he adjusted his

-glass, and looking through that he could just make out a heap--a

-bundle--a shapeless something. It required a powerful effort on his

-part to brace his nerves to the pitch requisite to carry him through

-the task he had still before him. He had filled a small flask with

-brandy, and he now drank some of it. Then he started again. A few

-minutes more and the end of his journey was reached.</p>

-

-<p>There lay Skeggs, on the very spot where he had left him, resting on

-his side, with one hand under his head, as if asleep. His hat had

-fallen off. On the ground near him were the empty bottle, his

-walking-stick, and his broken wooden leg. Numbed by the intense cold,

-he had fallen asleep while waiting for the help which was never to

-come, and had so died, frozen to death. Doubtless his death had been a

-painless one, but none the less, as he himself would have said, was

-Kester St. George his murderer.</p>

-

-<p>Gloved though he was, it was not without a feeling of indescribable

-loathing that Kester could bring himself to touch the body. But it was

-absolutely necessary to do so. The paper he had come in quest of was

-in the breast pocket of the dead man's coat. It did not take him long

-to find it. Having made sure that he had got the right document, he

-fastened it up in the breast pocket of his own coat. &quot;Now I am safe!&quot;

-he said to himself. Then he took off his gloves and buried them

-carefully under a large stone. Then with one last glance at the body,

-he slunk hurriedly away, cursing in his heart the daylight that was

-now creeping up so rapidly from the east. In the clear light of dawn

-the foul deed he had done looked a thousand times fouler than it had

-looked before.</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_09" href="#div3Ref_09">CHAPTER IX.</a></h4>

-<h5>WHAT TO DO NEXT?</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>Not to every one among the children of men is given the power, the

-faculty, to act as comforter to others. To listen to another's sorrow,

-to be told the history of another's trouble, is one thing: to be able

-to give back comfort is another. That delicate intuitive sympathy with

-another's woe which draws away the sting even while listening to it,

-which makes that woe its own property as it were, which sheds balm

-round the sufferer in every word and look and touch: this is surely as

-much a special gift as the gift of song or the poet's fine phrenzy,

-and without it the world would be a much poorer place than it is.</p>

-

-<p>This rare gift of sympathy was possessed by Edith Dering in a

-pre-eminent degree. She was at once emotional and sympathetic. To

-Lionel in his dire trouble she was a comforter in the truest sense of

-the word. It was she who preserved his mental balance--the equipoise

-of his mind. But for her sweet offices he would have become a

-monomaniac or a misanthrope of the bitterest kind. Naturally she had

-him with her as much as possible, but still his home was of necessity

-at Park Newton. To the world he was simply Richard Dering, the

-unmarried nephew of General St. George. It would not do for him to be

-seen going to Fern Cottage sufficiently often to excite either scandal

-or suspicion. He could only visit there as the intimate friend of Mrs.

-Garside and her niece. Sometimes he took his uncle with him, sometimes

-Tom, in order to divert suspicion. For him to enter the garden gate of

-Fern Cottage was to cross the threshold of his earthly paradise. Edith

-and he had been married in the depth of a great trouble--troubles and

-danger had beset the path of their wedded life ever since. Owing,

-perhaps, to that very cause week by week, and month by month, their

-love seemed only to grow in depth and intensity. As yet it had lost

-nothing of its pristine charm and freshness. The gold-dust of romance

-lingered about it still. They were man and wife, they had been man and

-wife for months, but to the world at large they seemed nothing more

-than ordinary friends.</p>

-

-<p>But all Edith's care and watchful love could not lift her husband,

-except by fits and starts, out of those moods of glom and depression

-which seemed to be settling more closely down upon him day by day. As

-link after link was added to the chain of evidence, each one tending

-to incriminate his cousin still more deeply, his moods seemed to grow

-darker and more difficult of removal. With his cousin Lionel

-associated no more than was absolutely necessary. They rarely met each

-other till dinner-time, and then they met with nothing more than a

-simple &quot;How do you do?&quot; and in conversation they never got beyond some

-half-dozen of the barest commonplaces. Lionel always left the table as

-soon as the cloth was drawn.</p>

-

-<p>On Kester's side there was no love lost. That dark, stern-faced cousin

-was a perpetual menace to him, and he hated him accordingly. He hated

-him for his likeness to his dead and gone brother. He hated him

-because of the look in his eyes--so coldly scrutinizing, so searching,

-so immovable. He hated him because it was a look that he could in

-nowise give back. Try as he might, he could not face Lionel's steady

-gaze.</p>

-

-<p>For some two or three weeks after his return from Bath with Janvard's

-written confession, Lionel was perfectly quiescent. He took no further

-action whatever. He was, indeed, debating in his own mind what further

-action it behoved him to take. There was no need to seek for any

-further evidence, if, indeed, any more would have been forthcoming.

-All that he wanted he had now got; it was simply a question as to what

-use he should make of it. Day and night that was the question which

-presented itself before his mind: what use should he make of the

-knowledge in his possession? His mind was divided this way and that;

-day passed after day, and still he could by no means decide as to the

-course which it would be best for him to adopt. Of all this he said

-not a word to Edith: he could not have borne to discuss the question

-even with her; but it is possible that she surmised something of it.

-She knew that she had only to wait and everything would be told her.

-Perhaps to Bristow, who knew all the details of the case as well as he

-did, he might have said something as to the difficulty by which he was

-beset, but as it happened, Tom was not at home just then. Much of his

-time was spent by Lionel in long solitary walks far and wide through

-the country. He could think better when he was walking than when

-sitting quietly at home, he used to say; and, indeed, the country folk

-who encountered him often turned to look at him, as he stalked along,

-with his eyes set straight before him, gazing on vacancy, and with

-lips that moved rapidly as he whispered to himself of his dreadful

-secret.</p>

-

-<p>But, little by little, the need of counsel, of sympathy, grew more

-strongly upon him. He was still as much at a loss as ever as to the

-step which he ought to take next.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;They shall decide for me,&quot; he said at last; &quot;I will put myself into

-their hands: by their verdict I will abide.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>General St. George at this time was away from Park Newton. As has been

-already stated, he had been summoned to the sick-bed of a very old and

-valued friend. The illness was a long and tedious one, and at the

-request of his friend the General stayed on and kept him company.

-Truth to tell, he was by no means sorry to get away from Park Newton

-for awhile. Of late his position there had been anything but a

-pleasant one. The silent, deadly feud between his two nephews troubled

-him not a little. If Kester would only have gone away, then, so far,

-all would have been well. But having pressed him so earnestly to visit

-Park Newton, he could not, with any show of conscience, ask him to go

-till he was ready to do so of his own accord. Knowing what he knew,

-that Kester was all but proved to have been the murderer of Percy

-Osmond, he might well not care to live under the same roof with him,

-hiding his feelings under a mask, and, while pretending to know

-nothing, to be in reality cognisant of the whole dreadful story.

-Knowing what he knew, that Richard was none other than Lionel, and

-knowing the quest on which he was engaged, and that, sooner or later,

-the climax must come, he might well wish to be away from Park Newton

-when that most wretched day should dawn--a day which would prove the

-innocence of one nephew at the price of the other's guilt. Therefore

-did General St. George accept his old friend's invitation to stay with

-him for an indefinite length of time--till, in fact, Kester should

-have left Park Newton, or till the tangled knot of events should, in

-some other way, have unravelled itself.</p>

-

-<p>When, at length, Lionel had decided that he would take the advice of

-his friends as to what his future course should be, he was obliged to

-await Tom Bristow's return before it was possible to do anything.

-Then, when Tom did get back home, the General had to be written to.

-When he understood what he was wanted for, he agreed to come on

-certain conditions. He was to come to Fern Cottage, spend one night

-there, and go back to his friend's house next day. No one, except

-those assembled at the cottage, was to know anything of his journey.

-Above all, it was to be kept a profound secret from Kester St George.</p>

-

-<p>Thus it fell out that on a certain April evening there were assembled,

-in the parlour of the cottage, Edith, Mrs. Garside, General St.

-George, Tom Bristow, and Lionel. It was a very serious occasion, and

-they all felt it to be such.</p>

-

-<p>The General would sit close to Edith, whom he had not seen for a

-little while; and several times during the evening he took possession

-of one of her hands, and patted it affectionately between his own

-withered palms.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are not looking quite so well, my dear, as when I saw you last,&quot;

-had been his first words after kissing her. Her cheeks were, indeed,

-just beginning to look in the slightest degree hollow and worn, nor

-did her eyes look quite so bright as of old. The wonder was,

-considering all that she had gone through during the last twelve

-months, that she looked as fair and fresh as she did. Of Mrs. Garside,

-whom we have not seen for some little time, it may be said that she

-looked plumper and more matronly than ever. But then nothing could

-have kept Mrs. Garside from looking plump and matronly. She was one of

-those people off whom the troubles and anxieties of life slip as

-easily as water slips off a duck's back. Although she had a copious

-supply of tears at command, nothing ever troubled her deeply or for

-long, simply because there was no depth to be troubled. She was always

-cheerful, because she was shallow; and she was always kind-hearted so

-long as her kindness of heart did not involve any self-sacrifice on

-her part. &quot;What a very pleasant person Mrs. Garside is,&quot; was the

-general verdict of society. And so she was--very pleasant. If her

-father had been hanged on a Monday for sheepstealing, by Tuesday she

-would have been as pleasant and cheerful as ever.</p>

-

-<p>But we must not be unjust to Mrs. Garside. She had one affection, and

-one only, her love for Edith. During all the days of Edith's

-tribulation, her aunt had never deserted her--had not even thought of

-deserting her; and now, for Edith's sake, she had buried herself alive

-in Fern Cottage, where her only excitement was a little mild shopping,

-now and then, in Duxley High Street, under the incognito of a thick

-veil, or a welcome visit once and again from Miss Culpepper. Under

-these depressing circumstances, it ought perhaps to be put down to the

-credit of Mrs. Garside, rather than to her discredit, that her

-cheerfulness was not one whit abated, and that her face was a picture

-of health and content.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I think you know why I have asked you to meet me here to-night,&quot;

-began Lionel. &quot;I want your advice: I want you to tell me what step I

-must take next. You know what the purpose of my life has been ever

-since the night I escaped from prison. You know how persistently I

-have pursued that purpose--that I have allowed nothing to deter me or

-turn me aside from it. The result is that there has grown under my

-hands a fatal array of evidence, all tending to implicate one man--all

-pointing with deadly accuracy to one person, and to one only, as the

-murderer of Percy Osmond. I have but to open my mouth, and the four

-walls of a prison would shut him round as fast as ever they shut round

-me; I have but to speak of half I know and that man would have to take

-his trial for Wilful Murder even as I took mine. But shall I do this

-thing? That is the question that I want you to help me to answer. So

-long as the chain of evidence remained incomplete, so long as certain

-links were wanting to it, I felt that my task was unfinished. But at

-last I have all that I need. There is nothing more to search for. My

-task, so far, is at an end. Knowing, then, what I know, and with such

-proofs in my possession, am I to stop here? Am I to rest content with

-what I have done, and go no step farther? Or am I to go through with

-it to the bitter end? What that end would involve you know as well as

-I could tell you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>He ceased, and for a little while they all sat in silence. General St.

-George was the first to speak. &quot;Lionel knows, and you all know, that

-from the very first he has had my heartfelt sympathy in this unhappy

-business. He has not had my sympathy only, he has had my help,

-although I have seen for a long time the point to which we were all

-tending, and the terrible consequences that must necessarily ensue. Me

-those consequences affect with peculiar force. One nephew can only be

-saved at the expense of the irretrievable ruin and disgrace of the

-other. It is not as though we had been searching in the dark, and had

-there found the bloodstained hand of a stranger. The hand we have so

-grasped is that of one of our own kin--one of ourselves. And that

-makes the dreadful part of the affair. Still, I would not have you

-misunderstand me. I am as closely bound to Lionel--my sympathy and

-help are his as much to-day as ever they were, and should he choose to

-go through with this business in the same way as he would go through

-with it in the case of an utter stranger, I shall be the last man in

-the world to blame him. More: I will march with him side by side,

-whatever be the goal to which his steps may lead him. Such

-unparalleled wrongs as his demand unparalleled reparation. For all

-that, however, it is still a most serious question whether there is

-not a possibility of effecting some kind of a compromise: whether

-there is not somewhere a door of escape open by means of which we may

-avert a catastrophe almost too terrible even to bear thinking about.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What is your opinion, Bristow?&quot; said Lionel, turning to Tom. &quot;What

-say you, my friend of friends?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have a certain diffidence in offering any opinion,&quot; said Tom,

-&quot;simply on account of the relationship of the two persons chiefly

-involved. To tell the world all that you know, would, undoubtedly,

-bring about a family catastrophe of a most painful nature. It

-therefore seems to me that the members of that family, and they alone,

-should be empowered to offer an opinion on a question so delicate as

-the one now under consideration.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Not so,&quot; said Lionel, emphatically. &quot;No one could have a better

-right, or even so great a right, to offer an opinion as you. But for

-you, I should not have been here to-night to ask for that opinion.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Nor I here but for you,&quot; interrupted Tom.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I will put my question to you in a different form,&quot; said Lionel; &quot;and

-so put to you, I shall expect you to answer it in your usual clear and

-straightforward way. Bristow, if you were circumstanced exactly as I

-am now circumstanced, what would you do in my place?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I would go through with the task I had taken in hand, let the

-consequences be what they might,&quot; said Tom, without a moment's

-hesitation. &quot;Nothing should hold me back. I would clear my own name

-and my own fame, and let punishment fall where punishment is due. You

-are still young, Dering, and a fair career and a happy future may

-still be yours if you like to claim them.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom's words were very emphatic, and for a little while no one spoke.

-&quot;We have yet to hear what Edith has to say,&quot; said the General. &quot;Her

-interests in the matter are second only to those of Lionel.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, it is my wife's turn to speak next,&quot; said Lionel.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What my opinion is, you know well, dearest, and have known for a long

-time.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;My uncle and Bristow would like to hear it from your own lips.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Uncle,&quot; began Edith, with a little blush, &quot;whatever Lionel may

-ultimately decide to do will doubtless be for the best. The last wish

-I have in the world is to lead him or guide him in any way in

-opposition to his own convictions. But I have thought this: that it

-would be very terrible indeed to have to take part in a second

-tragedy--a tragedy that, in some of its features, would be far more

-dreadful than that first one, which none of us can ever forget. No one

-can know better than I know how grievously my husband has been sinned

-against. But nothing can altogether undo the wrong that has been done.

-Would it make my husband a happy man if, instead of being the accused,

-he should become the accuser? Let us for a few moments try to imagine

-that this second tragedy has been worked out in all its frightful

-consequences. That my husband has told everything. That he who is

-guilty has been duly punished. That Lionel's fair fame has been

-re-established, and that he and I are living at Park Newton as if

-nothing had ever happened to disturb the commonplace tenor of our

-lives. In such a case, would my husband be a happy man? No. I know him

-too well to believe it possible that he could ever be happy or

-contented. The image of that man--one of his own kith and kin, we must

-remember--would be for ever in his mind. He would be the prey of a

-remorse all the more bitter in that the world would hold him as

-without blame. But would he so hold himself? I think not--I am sure

-not. He would feel as if he had sought for and accepted the price of

-blood.&quot; Overcome by her emotion, she ceased.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I think in a great measure as you think, my dear,&quot; said the General.

-&quot;What course do you propose that your husband should adopt?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It is not for me to propose anything,&quot; answered Edith. &quot;I can only

-suggest certain views of the question, and leave it for you and Lionel

-to adopt them or reject them, as may seem best to you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Holding the proofs of his innocence in his hands as he does,&quot; said

-the General, &quot;is it your wish that Lionel should sit down contented

-with what he has already achieved, and knowing that the real facts of

-his story are in the keeping of you and me, and two or three trusted

-friends, rest satisfied with that and ask for nothing more?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No, I hardly go so far as that,&quot; said Edith, with a faint smile. &quot;I

-think that the man who committed the crime should know that Lionel

-still lives, and that he holds in his hands the proof at once of his

-own innocence and of the other's guilt. Beyond that I say this: The

-world believes my husband to be dead: rather than re-open so terrible

-a wound, let the world continue so to believe. My husband and I can do

-without the world, as well as it can do without us. We have our mutual

-love, which nothing can deprive us of: against that the shafts of

-Fortune beat as vainly as hailstones against a castle wall. On this

-earth of ours are places sweet and fair without number. In one of

-them--not altogether dissevered from those ties of friendship which

-have already made our married life so beautiful--my husband and I could

-build up a new home, with no sad memories of the past to cling around

-it; and when this haunting shadow that now broods over his life shall

-have been brushed away for ever, then I think--I know--I feel sure

-that I can make him happy!&quot; Her voice, her eyes, her whole manner were

-imbued with a sweet fervour that it was impossible to resist.</p>

-

-<p>Lionel crossed over and kissed her. &quot;My darling!&quot; he said. &quot;But for

-your love and care I should long ago have been a madman.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You, my dear, have put into words,&quot; said the General, &quot;the very ideas

-that for a long time have been floating about, half formed, in my own

-mind. Lionel, what have you to say to your wife's suggestions?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Only this: that I have made up my mind to follow them. <i>He</i> shall

-know that I am alive, and that I hold the proofs of his guilt, ready

-to produce them at a moment's notice, should I ever be compelled to do

-so. Beyond that, I will leave him in peace--to such peace as his own

-conscience will give him. The world believes Lionel Dering to be dead

-and buried. Dead and buried he shall still remain, and 'requiescat in

-pace' be written under his name.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The General got up with tears in his eyes and shook Lionel warmly by

-the hand. &quot;Good boy! good boy! You will not go without your reward,&quot;

-was all that he could say.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The eighth of May will soon be here,&quot; said Lionel--&quot;the anniversary

-of poor Osmond's murder. On that day he shall be told. But I shall

-tell him in my own fashion. On that day, uncle, you must promise to

-give me your company; and you yours, Tom. After that I shall trouble

-you no more.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>If Tom Bristow dissented from the conclusion thus come to, he said no

-word to that effect. There was one point, however, that struck his

-practical mind as having been altogether overlooked; and as soon as

-Edith and Mrs. Garside had left the room he did not fail to mention

-it.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What about the income of eleven thousand a year?&quot; he said. &quot;You are

-surely not going to let the whole of that slip through your fingers?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Ah, by-the-by, that point never struck me,&quot; said the General. &quot;No, it

-would be decidedly unjust both to yourself and your wife, Lionel, to

-give up the income as well as the position.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Now you are importing a mercenary tone into the affair that is

-utterly distasteful to me. It looks as if I were being bribed to keep

-silence.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That is sheer nonsense,&quot; said the General. &quot;You have but to hold out

-your hand to take the whole.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Lionel said no more, but went and sat down dejectedly on the sofa.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You and I must settle this matter between us,&quot; said the General to

-Tom. &quot;It is most important. It shall be my place to see that whatever

-is agreed upon shall be duly carried out in the arrangement between

-the two men. I should think that if the income were divided it would

-be about as fair a thing as could be done. What say you?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I agree with you entirely,&quot; said Tom. &quot;The other one will have the

-name and position to keep up, and that can't be done for nothing.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Then it shall be so settled.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;There is one other point that I think ought to be settled at the same

-time. Who is to have Park Newton after <i>his</i> death? Lionel may have

-children. <i>He</i> may marry and have children. But, in common justice,

-the estate ought to be secured on Dering's eldest child, whether the

-present possessor die with or without an heir.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Certainly, certainly. Good gracious me! a most valuable suggestion.

-Strange, now, that it never struck me. Yes, yes: Lionel's eldest child

-must have the estate. I will see that there is no possible mistake on

-that score.&quot;</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_10" href="#div3Ref_10">CHAPTER X.</a></h4>

-<h5>HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>After Mrs. McDermott's departure from Pincote, life there slipped back

-into its old quiet groove--into its old dull groove which was growing

-duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company:

-when any of his old friends called he was never at home to them; and

-on the score of ill health he declined every invitation that was sent

-to him. But it was not altogether on account of his health that these

-invitations were declined, because three or four times a week he would

-be seen somewhere about the country roads being driven out by Jane in

-the basket-carriage. There was another reason for this state of

-things--a reason to which his friends and neighbours were not slow in

-giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser: that is

-what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a

-miser was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his

-daughter's sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more

-ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme

-of domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous

-chapter, and the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to

-many people, seem miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality

-for which Pincote had heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he

-could not go much into society without giving return invitations. Now

-the four or five state dinners which he had been in the habit of

-giving every year were very elaborate and expensive affairs, and he no

-longer felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of spending

-so many pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom

-he cared little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount,

-trifling though it might seem, to that other trifling amount--only

-some few hundreds of pounds when all was told--which he had already

-managed to scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he

-should be gone from her side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be

-her home? &quot;If I had only died a year ago,&quot; he would sometimes say to

-himself, &quot;then Jenny would have had a handsome fortune to call her

-own. Now she's next door to being a pauper.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank--not to

-Sugden's Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County--and he

-gloated over every five pounds added to the fund invested in his

-daughter's name as something more added to the nest-egg; and to be

-able to put away fifty pounds in a lump now afforded him far more

-genuine delight than the putting away of a thousand would have done

-six months previously.</p>

-

-<p>There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father

-respecting the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the

-Squire himself first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more

-anxious than he was that the topic should never be broached between

-them again. She guessed in part what his object might be when he began

-to cut down the house expenses at Pincote discharging some half dozen

-of his people; raising his farm rents where it was possible to do so;

-letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the park as

-pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his

-famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of

-his kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She

-guessed, but that was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his

-reasons for so doing, and she made no inquiry. The sphere of his

-enjoyment had now become a very limited one. If it gave him

-pleasure--and she could not doubt that it did--to live penuriously so

-as to be enabled to put away a few extra pounds per annum, she would

-not mar the edge of that pleasure by seeming even to notice what was

-going on, much less make any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on

-his part, had many a good chuckle in the solitude of his own room.

-&quot;After I'm gone, she'll know what it all means,&quot; he would say to

-himself. &quot;She's puzzled now--they are all puzzled. They call me a

-miser, do they? Let 'em call me what they like. Another twenty put

-away to-day. That makes----&quot; and out would come his passbook and his

-spectacles.</p>

-

-<p>The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went

-into society compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his

-example. There were two or three houses to which, if she chose, she

-could still go without its being thought strange that there was no

-return invitation to Pincote; and there were two or three old school

-friends whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her own little room

-without their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay to

-dinner. But of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw

-little or nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she

-was far too deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.</p>

-

-<p>Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father's

-no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by

-no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott's warning words, nor Tom's frank

-confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of

-his intention to encourage Tom's visits to Pincote after the widow's

-abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next

-day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his

-appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been

-French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom's health in

-a bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when

-they parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front

-door, shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a

-sort of half intimation that some considerable time would probably

-elapse before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote

-again. In the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his

-sister, the Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home

-of an evening with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been

-content and happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so

-thinking he had overlooked one very important point. The Titus

-Culpepper of six months ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do

-gentleman, satisfied with himself and all the world, in tolerable

-health, and excited by the prospect of making a magnificent fortune

-without trouble or anxiety. The Titus Culpepper of to-day was a

-broken-down gambler--a gambler who had madly speculated with his

-daughter's fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down, too, was he in

-health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of all, a man who

-no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own thoughts, and

-who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour at a time. Of

-this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected nothing: how few

-of us do know of such changes! Other people may change--nay, do we not

-see them changing daily around us, and smile good-naturedly as we note

-how querulous and hard to please poor Jones has become of late? But

-that we--we--should so change, becoming a burden to ourselves and a

-trial to those around us, with our queer, cross-grained ways, our

-peevish, variable tempers, and our general belief that the sun shines

-less brightly, and that the world is less beautiful than it was a

-little while ago--that is altogether impossible. The change is always

-in others, never in our immaculate selves.</p>

-

-<p>The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men's company to

-that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all �sthetic. He

-liked to talk about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets;

-to talk a little about imperial politics--chiefly confined to

-blackguarding &quot;the other side of the House&quot;--and a great deal about

-local politics. He had been in the habit of talking by the hour

-together about paving, and lighting, and sewage, and the state of the

-highways: all useful matters without a doubt, but hardly topics

-calculated to interest a lady. Though he liked to have Jane play to

-him now and then--but never for more than ten minutes at any one

-time--he always designated it as &quot;tinkling;&quot; and as often as not, when

-he asked her to sing, he would say, &quot;Now, Jenny, lass, give us a

-squall.&quot; But for all this, in former times Jane and he had got on very

-well together on the occasions when they had been without company at

-Pincote. He was moving about a good deal in the world at that time,

-mixing with various people, talking to and being talked to by

-different friends and acquaintances, and was at no loss for subjects

-to talk about, even though those subjects might not be particularly

-interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a capital listener, and

-could always give him a good commonplace answer, and that was all he

-craved--that and three-fourths of the talk to himself.</p>

-

-<p>Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but

-given up going into society, by which means he at once dried up the

-source from which he had been in the habit of obtaining his

-conversational ideas. When he came to dine alone with Jane he found

-himself with nothing to talk about. Under such circumstances there was

-nothing left for him but grumbling. But even grumbling becomes

-tiresome after a time, especially when the person to whom such

-complainings are addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you,

-and is incapable of being grumbled at herself.</p>

-

-<p>It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to

-Jane, &quot;We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to

-see him about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner.

-So you had better drop him a line.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was

-too stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man's

-lively company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next

-morning happened to be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself

-as she noted how anxious her father was lest the rain should keep Tom

-from coming. Jane knew that neither rain nor anything else would keep

-him away. &quot;Papa is almost as anxious to see him as I am,&quot; she said to

-herself. &quot;He thought that he could live without him: he now begins to

-find out his mistake.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a

-hearty greeting, and took him into the study before he had an

-opportunity of seeing Jane. &quot;I've heard nothing more from those

-railway people about the Croft,&quot; he said. &quot;Penfold was here yesterday

-and wanted to know whether he was to go on with the villas--all the

-foundations are now in, you know. I hardly knew what instructions to

-give him.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If you were to ask me, sir,&quot; said Tom, &quot;I should certainly say, let

-him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to

-know that the company must have the Croft--that they cannot possibly

-do without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to

-go to them and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to

-come to you; which, in a transaction of this nature, makes all the

-difference.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I don't think you are far wrong in your views,&quot; said Mr. Culpepper.

-&quot;I'll turn over in my mind what you've said.&quot; Which meant that the

-Squire would certainly adopt Tom's advice.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No lovemaking, you know, Bristow,&quot; whispered the old man, with a dig

-in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You may trust me, sir,&quot; said Tom.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I'm not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty

-girl is in question.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old

-man his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources

-in that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully

-introduced topics sufficed. The Squire's own long-winded remarks,

-unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made

-a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready

-with his &quot;I quite agree with you, sir;&quot; or his &quot;Just so, sir;&quot; or his

-&quot;Those are my sentiments exactly, sir.&quot; To be able to talk for half an

-hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that

-interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly

-enjoyed.</p>

-

-<p>After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by

-himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the

-drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the

-dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though

-he might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of

-that illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly

-cautioned.</p>

-

-<p>As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into

-the drawing-room, and whispered, &quot;None of your tomfoolery, remember.&quot;

-Five minutes later he was fast asleep.</p>

-

-<p>They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so

-they fell back upon chess. &quot;There's to be no lovemaking, you know,

-Jenny,&quot; whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;None, whatever,&quot; whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the

-head, and a demure smile.</p>

-

-<p>A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for

-any further conversation, except about the incidents of the game,

-which, truth to tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of

-studying the board, as a chess-player ought to do, Jane found her

-eyes, quite unconsciously to herself, studying the face of her

-opponent, while Tom's hand, wandering purposelessly about the board,

-frequently found itself taking hold of Jane's hand instead of a knight

-or a pawn; so that when at last the game did contrive to work itself

-out to an ineffective conclusion, they could hardly have said with

-certainty which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire woke

-up, smiling and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each

-other, and there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of

-chess. If he were content, they had no reason to be otherwise.</p>

-

-<p>After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as

-often as the latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of

-himself the old man's heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when

-it so happened that business took Tom away from home for two or three

-days, then the Squire grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane's tact

-and good temper were needed to make life at all endurable. She tried

-her best to persuade him to invite some of his old friends to come and

-see him, or go himself and call up on some of them, but in vain.

-Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would he have. He looked

-upon himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to economize in

-every possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a

-sensible fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony,

-or be at any extra expense--a man who was content with a chop and a

-rice pudding, and a glass of St. Julien. &quot;He doesn't come here for

-what he gets to eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine.

-He finds that he can learn a good many things from me, and he's not

-above learning.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>All this time the works at Knockley Holt were being pushed busily

-forward, much to the bewilderment and aggravation of the good people

-of Duxley. They were aggravated, and they considered they had a right

-to be aggravated, because they could not understand, and had not

-been told, what it was that was intended to be done there. In a

-small town like Duxley, no inhabitant has a right to put before his

-fellow-citizens a problem which they find incapable of solution, and

-then when asked to solve it for them decline to do so. Such conduct

-merits the severest social reprehension.</p>

-

-<p>Surely next to the madness of building a row of villas on Prior's

-Croft, was the puzzling folly of digging a hole in Knockley Holt.

-After much discussion pro and con, amongst the townspeople--chiefly

-over sundry glasses of whiskey toddy, in sundry bar parlours, after

-business hours--it seemed to be settled that Culpepper's Hole, as some

-wag had christened it, could be intended for nothing else than an

-artesian well--though what was the exact nature of an artesian well it

-would have puzzled some of the Duxley wiseacres to tell, and why water

-should be bored for there, and to what uses it could be put when so

-obtained, they would have been still more at a loss to say. The Squire

-could not drive into Duxley without being tackled by one or another of

-his friends as to what he was about at Knockley Holt. But the old man

-would only wink and shake his head, and try to look wise, and say, &quot;It

-doesn't do to blab everything nowadays, but between you and me and the

-post--this is in confidence, mind--I'm digging a tunnel to the

-Antipodes.&quot; Then he would chuckle and give the reins a shake, and

-Diamond would trot off with him, leaving his questioner angry or

-amused, as the case might be.</p>

-

-<p>It was not known to any one in Duxley, except the Squire's lawyer,

-that Knockley Holt was now the property of Tom Bristow. That the works

-there were under Tom's direction was a well-known fact, but he was

-merely looked upon as Mr. Culpepper's foreman in the matter. &quot;Gets a

-couple of hundred or so a year for looking after the Squire's

-affairs,&quot; one wiseacre would remark to another. &quot;If not, how does he

-live? Seems to have nothing to do when he's not at Pincote. A poor way

-of getting a living. Serve him right: he should have stopped with old

-Hoskyns when he had the chance, and not have thought he was going to

-set the Thames on fire with his six thousand pounds.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>No one could be possessed by a more burning desire than the Squire

-himself to know the meaning of the works at Knockley Holt, but having

-asked once and asked in vain, his pride would not allow him to make

-any further direct inquiry. Not a day passed on which he saw Tom, that

-he did not try, by one or two vague hints, to lead up to the subject,

-but when Tom turned the talk into another channel, then the old man

-would see that the time for him to be enlightened had not yet come.</p>

-

-<p>But it did come at last, and after what was, in reality, no very long

-waiting. On a certain afternoon--to be precise in our dates, it was

-the fifth of May--Tom walked over to Pincote, in search of the Squire.

-He found him in his study, wearying his brain over a column of

-figures, which would persist in coming to a different total every time

-it was added up. The first thing Tom did was to take the column of

-figures and bring it to a correct total. This done, his next act was

-to produce something from his pocket that was carefully wrapped up in

-a piece of brown paper. He pushed the parcel across the table to the

-Squire. &quot;Will you oblige me, sir,&quot; he said, &quot;by opening that paper,

-and giving me your opinion as to the contents?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Why, bless my heart, this is neither more nor less than a lump of

-coal!&quot; said the Squire, when he had opened the paper.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Exactly so, sir. As you say, this is neither more nor less than a

-lump of coal. But where do you think it came from?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;There you puzzle me. Though I don't know that it can matter much to

-me where it came from.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But it matters very much to you, sir. This lump of coal came from

-Knockley Holt.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire was rather dull of comprehension. &quot;Well, what is there so

-wonderful about that?&quot; he said. &quot;I dare say it was stolen by some of

-those confounded gipsies, and left there when they moved.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What I mean is this, sir,&quot; answered Tom, with just a shade of

-impatience in his tone. &quot;This piece of coal is but a specimen of a

-splendid seam which has been struck by my men at the bottom of the

-shaft at Knockley Holt.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire stared at him, and gave a long, low whistle. &quot;Do you mean

-to say that you have found a bed of coal at the bottom of the hole you

-have been digging at Knockley Holt?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That is precisely what I have found, sir, and it is precisely what I

-have been trying to find from the first.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I see it all now!&quot; said the Squire. &quot;What a lucky young scamp you

-are! But what on earth put it into your head to go looking for coal at

-Knockley Holt?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I had a friend of mine, who is a very clever mining engineer, staying

-with me for a little while some time ago. But my friend is not only an

-engineer--he is a practical geologist as well. When out for a

-constitutional one day, we found ourselves at Knockley Holt. My friend

-was struck with its appearance--so different from that of the country

-around. 'Unless I am much mistaken, there is coal under here,' he

-said, 'and at no great distance from the surface either. The owner

-ought to think himself a lucky man--that is, if he knows the value of

-it.' Well, sir, not content with what my friend said, I paid a heavy

-fee and had one of the most eminent geologists of the day down from

-London to examine and report upon it. His report coincided exactly

-with my friend's opinion. You know the rest, sir. I came to you with a

-view of getting a lease of the ground, and found you desirous of

-selling it. I was only too glad to have the chance of buying it. I set

-a lot of men and a steam engine to work without a day's delay, and

-that lump of coal, sir, is the happy result.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The Squire rubbed his spectacles for a moment or two without speaking.

-&quot;Bristow, that's an old head of yours on those young shoulders,&quot; he

-said at last. &quot;With all my heart congratulate you on your good

-fortune. I know no man who deserves it more than you do. Yes, Bristow,

-I congratulate you, though I can't help saying that I wish that I had

-had a friend to have told me what was told you before I let you have

-the ground. For want of such a friend I have lost a fortune.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That is just what I have come to see you about, sir,&quot; said Tom, as he

-rose and pushed back his chair. The Squire looked up at him in

-surprise. &quot;Although I bought Knockley Holt from you as a speculation,

-I had a pretty good idea when I bought it as to what I should find

-below the surface. If I had not found what I expected, my bargain

-would have been a dear one; but having found what I expected, it is

-just the opposite. In fact, sir, you have lost a fortune, and I have

-found one.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I know it--I know it,&quot; groaned the Squire. &quot;But you needn't twit me

-with it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;So far the speculation was a perfectly legitimate one, as

-speculations go nowadays. But that is not the sort of thing I wish

-to exist between you and me. You have been very kind to me in many

-ways, and I have much to thank you for. I could not bear to treat you

-in this matter as I should treat a stranger. I could not bear to think

-that I was making a fortune out of a piece of ground that but a few

-short weeks ago was your property. The money so made would seem to me

-to bring a curse with it, rather than a blessing. I should feel as if

-nothing would ever prosper with me afterwards. Sir, I will not have

-this coal mine. There are plenty of other channels open to me for

-making money. Here are the title deeds of the property. I give

-them back to you. You shall repay me the twelve hundred pounds

-purchase-money, and reimburse me for the expenses I have been put to

-in sinking the shaft. But as for the pit itself, I will have nothing

-to do with it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom had produced the title deeds from his pocket and had laid them on

-the table while speaking. He now pushed them across to the Squire.

-Then he took the deed of sale tore it across, and threw the fragments

-into the grate.</p>

-

-<p>It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished

-in the whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For

-a little while he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did

-speak, his words were not lacking in force.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Bristow, you are a confounded fool!&quot; he said with emphasis.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I have been told that many times before.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You are a confounded fool--but you are a gentleman.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Tom merely bowed.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after

-having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there--eh?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I don't propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are the

-title deeds,&quot; pointing to the table. &quot;There is the deed of sale,&quot;

-pointing to the fire-grate.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And do you think, sir,&quot; said the Squire, with dignity, &quot;that Titus

-Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity

-from one who is little more than a boy! Not so.--It would be

-impossible for me to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind

-The property is fairly and legally yours, and yours it must remain.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title

-deeds. Do with them as you will.&quot; He buttoned his coat, and took up

-his hat, and turned to leave the room.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Stop, Bristow, stop!&quot; said the Squire, as he rose from his chair. Tom

-halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back

-to the table.</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Culpepper walked to the window and stood there looking out for

-full three minutes without uttering a word. Then he turned and

-beckoned Tom to go to him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Bristow,&quot; he said, laying his hand affectionately on Tom's shoulder,

-&quot;as I said before, you are a gentleman--a gentleman in mind and

-feeling. More than that a man cannot be, whether his family be old or

-new. You propose to do a certain thing which I can only accede to on

-one condition.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Name it, sir,&quot; said Tom briefly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I cannot take Knockley Holt from you without giving you something

-like an equivalent in return. Now, I only possess one thing that you

-would care to receive at my hands--and that is the most precious thing

-I have on earth. Exchange is no robbery. I will agree to take back

-Knockley Holt from you, if you will take in exchange for it--my

-daughter Jane.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Oh! Mr. Culpepper.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That you love her, I know already, and I dare say the sly hussy is

-equally as fond of you. If such be the case, take her. I know no man

-who so thoroughly deserves her, or who has so much right to her as you

-have.&quot;</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_11" href="#div3Ref_11">CHAPTER XI.</a></h4>

-<h5>THE EIGHTH OF MAY.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>The eighth of May had come round at last.</p>

-

-<p>Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George

-intended least to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell

-out, he could not well avoid doing so.</p>

-

-<p>After the death and burial of Mother Mim--the expenses of the

-last-named ceremony being defrayed out of Kester's pocket--it had been

-his intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so

-fell out that in the document purloined by him from the pocket of

-Skeggs when that individual lay dead on the moor, there was given the

-name of a certain person, still living, who could depose, of his own

-personal knowledge, to the truth of the facts as put down in the dying

-woman's confession. This person was the only witness to the facts

-there stated who was now alive. The name of the man in question was

-William Bendall, and the point that Kester had now to clear up was:

-Who was this William Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was

-no address given in the Confession, nor any hint as to the man's

-whereabouts; but Skeggs had doubtless known where he was to be found,

-and had, in fact, told Kester that he could put his hand on the man at

-a day's notice.</p>

-

-<p>With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it

-was impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn

-that Mother Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of

-a few days, and when the restraining power which had doubtless kept

-him silent should be removed for ever, what was to prevent him from

-telling all that he knew, or, at least, from giving such broad hints

-as to the information in his possession as might lead to inquiry--to

-many inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would care to

-encounter--unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven to

-bay?</p>

-

-<p>But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It

-behoved him, therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain

-cautious inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with

-the view of ascertaining what kind of a man he was, or whether there

-was any danger to be apprehended from him. And if so, how could the

-danger best be met?</p>

-

-<p>It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave

-Park Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at

-any hour should Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he

-stayed on at the old place, very much against his will in other

-respects. But, to a certain extent, his patience had already been

-rewarded. Mr. Bendall's address had been discovered, and Mr. Bendall

-himself had been found to be first cousin to Mother Mim, and a railway

-ganger by profession. But just at this time he was away from home--his

-home being at Swarkstone, a great centre of railway industry, about

-twenty miles from Duxley--he having been sent out to Russia in charge

-of a cargo of railway plant. He was now expected back in the course of

-a few days, and Kester determined not to leave the neighbourhood till

-he had found out for himself what manner of man he was.</p>

-

-<p>We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two

-days after Kester's visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg,

-so that the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen,

-and it was at once understood how he had come by his death. No one

-except the girl Nell had seen Kester St. George in his company, so, as

-it fell out, that gentleman's name was never even whispered in

-connexion with the affair.</p>

-

-<p>The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously

-discussed in his own mind, after Mother Mim's death. What to do with

-such a strange girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence.

-Did she really know anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she

-not? If anything, how much did she know, and to what use did she

-intend to put her knowledge? Kester had no opportunity of talking to

-her in private before the funeral, so he made an appointment with her

-for the morning following that event. She was to meet him at a certain

-milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o'clock. Kester was there to

-the minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all.

-Kester went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to

-Mother Mim's cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the

-old woman who had been looking after matters previously to the

-funeral: From her he ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two

-hours after her return from seeing the last of her grandmother, taking

-with her her new black frock and a few other things tied up in a

-bundle, and had given no hint as to where she was going, or whether it

-was her intention ever to come back.</p>

-

-<p>The girl's disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude

-to Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any

-sign of her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness

-gradually wore itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself

-that from that quarter at least there was no possible danger to be

-apprehended.</p>

-

-<p>But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester

-St. George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park

-Newton, not even though he could not have left it till the seventh,

-and had been compelled to come back to it on the ninth. He would have

-gone somewhere--anywhere if only for a dozen hours--if only from

-sunset till sunrise, had it in anyway been possible for him to do so.

-But it so happened that it was not possible for him to do so. On the

-fifth he received a letter from his uncle, which astonished him very

-much. General St. George was still staying at Salisbury with his sick

-friend, Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:</p>

-<br>

-

-<p>&quot;All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant,

-but for a few hours only. I don't know whether your cousin Richard has

-told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out

-to New Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him.&quot;</p>

-<br>

-

-<p>&quot;The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of life!&quot;

-muttered Kester. &quot;Of course, it's Master Richard's dodge to take him

-with him, so as to make sure of his money when he dies. Well, if I can

-only get rid of the young one, the old one may go with him, and

-welcome.&quot; Then he went on with his uncle's letter.</p>

-<br>

-

-<p>&quot;I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope

-to spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old

-place, and there are several things I wish to talk to you about.

-We--that is, Richard and I, leave by the eight o'clock train next

-morning direct for Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us.

-By this day next week, I shall have bidden a final farewell to dear

-Old England.&quot;</p>

-<br>

-

-<p>&quot;So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it,&quot; said Kester,

-as he folded up the letter. &quot;I would give much if it was any other day

-than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But there's

-no help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company than to

-spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there's no

-chance of any of his money coming to me,&quot; he said to himself later on.

-&quot;That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I

-don't suppose he's got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I

-wouldn't mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for

-ever.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often

-are. Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and

-away he started without telling any one where he was going. He was out

-all day, and did not get back till five o'clock, an hour after the

-arrival of his uncle, with whom had come Mr. Perrins, the family

-lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not seen for a long time. He

-was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester that his uncle

-had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving England,

-in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England,&quot; said Kester.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, it is very sudden,&quot; replied the General. &quot;It is not more than

-three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The reasons

-he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not

-blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel

-left us, I seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I

-presently made up my mind to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of

-living alone. I have only you and him--and you; Kester, are too much

-of a Bohemian, too much a citizen of the world--a wandering Arab who

-strikes his tent a dozen times a year--for me ever to think of staying

-with you. Dick is far more of an old fogey than you are, and he and

-I--I don't doubt--will get on very well together.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to

-dinner, for there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton,

-the octogenarian Vicar of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally

-during the course of the trial, but not since. The vicar he had known

-from boyhood.</p>

-

-<p>It was by Lionel's express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar

-had been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell

-Kester to-night should be told to them also. They were all, in a

-certain sense, friends of the family; they were all men of honour;

-with them his secret would be safe. In simple justice to himself, he

-felt that it was not enough that his uncle and Bristow should be the

-sole depositories of that secret. There ought to be at least two or

-three family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly trusted,

-and whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in

-exile.</p>

-

-<p>None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular

-reason why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had

-any suspicion that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom

-they all so sincerely mourned. They had simply been invited to a

-little dinner party given by General St. George on the eve of his

-departure from England for ever.</p>

-

-<p>The last to arrive at Park Newton--and he did not arrive till two

-minutes before dinner was served--was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven

-Miss Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking

-with Edith till the last minute.</p>

-

-<p>Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General

-introduced them to each other. Tom had seen Kester several times,

-knowing well who he was, but the latter had no recollection of having

-ever seen Tom.</p>

-

-<p>Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as

-to the particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin

-that which he had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had

-kept his own counsel, having spoken no word to any one. It was a

-subject on which even his wife felt that she could not question him.

-During the past week he had been even more silent and distrait than

-usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one subject, to the

-exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be aware of,

-what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious

-one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon

-her: that she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed

-for was that the fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come

-and go without any encounter between her husband and his cousin.

-Lionel and Tom were to ride across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at

-the close of the evening--Tom, in order that he might escort Jane back

-to Pincote: Lionel, because he should then have bidden the old house a

-last farewell, because he should then have done with the past for

-ever, and because he should then be ready to start with his wife for

-their new home on the other side of the world.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to

-reconsider your determination?&quot; said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand

-in hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had

-gone into Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little

-parlour all to themselves.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I'm afraid not,&quot; answered Edith with a melancholy smile</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight

-and clear--just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the

-world! Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it

-aloud on the housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which

-he deserves to pay. I would never banish myself from my native country

-for his sake; he is not worthy of such a sacrifice.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You must not talk like that,&quot; said Edith, with a little extra squeeze

-of Jane's hand; &quot;but it is easy to see who has been inoculating you

-with his wild doctrines.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones,&quot; said

-Jane emphatically. &quot;There's nothing wild about them; they are plain

-common sense.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow

-the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are

-about to do is best for all concerned.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in

-this way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I'm

-afraid Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear

-transplanting to a foreign clime.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Yes, I suppose so,&quot; said Jane, with a little sigh. &quot;Only I should so

-like to travel: I should so like a six months' voyage to somewhere.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel

-so.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand,

-some place within four or five days' journey, where one could run over

-for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous

-of you to go so far away.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the

-case. If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be

-the least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a

-perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable.

-He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his

-face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without

-fear of detection.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to

-you to get away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful

-associations--to hide yourself in some remote valley where no shadow

-of the past can darken your door; but it seems to me that you need

-not go quite so far away in order to do that.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one

-would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for

-me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make

-it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that

-effect. But, New Zealand!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith's uneasiness increase, but

-she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had

-told her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to

-the time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share

-in the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she

-was unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might

-not even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her

-husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly

-chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be

-a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers

-of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait--wait--wait! If

-she went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the

-sound of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be

-possible to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance

-away. To and fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned

-leopardess. White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping

-and unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess

-of old, who sees in her mind's eye a vision of doom--a vision of

-things to come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched

-her in silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but

-there was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I can bear this no longer,&quot; said Edith, at last; &quot;the room suffocates

-me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel.&quot; She

-snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside's, that lay on the sofa, and flung

-it over her head and shoulders.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Let me go with you,&quot; cried Jane, &quot;I am almost as anxious as you are.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Hush! hush!&quot; cried Edith, suddenly, &quot;I hear them coming!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Hardly breathing, they all listened.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind,&quot; cried Mrs.

-Garside, after a few moments.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Nor I,&quot; said Jane.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I tell you they are coming,&quot; said Edith. &quot;There are two of them.

-Listen! Surely you can hear them now!&quot; She flung open the window as

-she spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard

-highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage

-door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the

-top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them.</p>

-

-<p>Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed

-by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was

-no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour.

-To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all

-of them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave.</p>

-

-<p>Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith's white arms

-were round his neck.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;My darling: what is it?&quot; she said. &quot;What dreadful thing has

-happened?&quot; He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something

-in her ear. She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms

-tightened suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.</p>

-<br>

-

-<p>At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom

-and Mr. Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar,

-did their best to keep the conversation from flagging, but at times

-with only indifferent success. None of them could forget what day it

-was--could forget what took place that night twelve months ago, only a

-few yards from where they were sitting; and so remembering, who could

-wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless and the wines without flavour,

-that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to the imagination of

-more than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the room,

-invisible to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking

-when they drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing

-well all the time which one of the company would be the first to join

-it in that Land of Shadows to which it now belonged.</p>

-

-<p>Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke

-at all except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep

-up some show of conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no

-one but himself knew how irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel

-intend to do? Would there be a scene--a fracas--between the two

-cousins? What would be the end of the wretched business? How fervently

-he wished that the morrow was safely come, that he had seen that

-unhappy man's face for the last time, and that he, and Lionel, and

-Edith were fairly started on their long journey to the other side of

-the world!</p>

-

-<p>The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party

-would break up by ten o'clock at the latest. Not that it mattered

-greatly to either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton

-all night. But the vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in

-decent time, so that when he began to fidget and look at his watch,

-Lionel, who was only waiting for him to make a move, knew that it

-would be impossible to detain him much longer.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I must really ask you to excuse me, General,&quot; said the old man at

-last. &quot;But I see that it is past ten o'clock, and quite time for gay

-young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar,&quot; said Lionel.

-&quot;I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my uncle's

-permission, we will all adjourn there.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You must not keep me long,&quot; said the vicar.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I will not,&quot; said Lionel. &quot;But I know that you like to finish up your

-evening with a little caf� noir; and I have, besides, a picture which

-I want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much--a

-picture--which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all

-the other gentlemen who are here to-night.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>They all rose and made a move towards the door.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;As I don't care for caf� noir, and don't understand pictures, you

-will perhaps excuse me,&quot; said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing

-himself to his uncle.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You had better go with us,&quot; said Lionel, turning to his cousin. &quot;You

-are surely not going to be the first to break up the party.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I don't want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come

-back,&quot; answered Kester, doggedly.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You had better go with us,&quot; said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so

-that the others could not hear him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Pray who made you dictator here?&quot; said Kester haughtily. &quot;I don't

-choose to go with you. That is enough.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You had better go with us,&quot; said Lionel for the third time. &quot;If you

-still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Afraid!&quot; sneered Kester. &quot;Of whom and what should I be afraid?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That is best known to yourself.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Anyhow, I'm neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are

-kept away by some abject fear.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Lead on.--I'll follow.--But mark my words, you and I will have this

-little matter out in the morning--alone.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Willingly.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to

-those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and

-no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered:

-a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as

-possible.</p>

-

-<p>Lionel's sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided

-into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on

-the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,&quot; said

-Lionel. &quot;My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it

-to you.&quot; So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of

-the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.</p>

-

-<p>Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were

-bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now,

-as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his

-shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that

-one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. &quot;Come!&quot;

-was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little

-malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his

-heart there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to

-him; a dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating

-on some far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know

-that he was there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable

-bitterness, how utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human

-being anywhere who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret

-him--not one single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his

-grave.--But such thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away

-somehow. He rose and went to the table, poured himself out half a

-tumbler of brandy, and drank it off without water. &quot;It puts fresh life

-into me as it goes down,&quot; he muttered to himself.</p>

-

-<p>He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden

-noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were

-being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they

-stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness.

-Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel--or, as most

-there took it to be, the voice of Richard--but Lionel himself was

-unseen.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Gentlemen,&quot; said the voice, &quot;you all know what day this is. It is the

-eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered.

-About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed

-about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how

-the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have

-painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open.

-The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that

-every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed

-canvas, on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel

-Dering's Dream.</p>

-

-<p>The scene was Percy Osmond's bedroom, and the moment selected by the

-artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and

-Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while

-pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other

-hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent's heart. Peeping from

-behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of

-Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses

-takable.</p>

-

-<p>Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at

-the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely

-accused was one of themselves.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Now you see how the murder really happened--now you know who the

-murderer really was,&quot; said Lionel, speaking from some place in the

-farther room where he could not be seen. &quot;This is no dream but a most

-dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs--ample

-proofs--of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy

-Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was

-still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right

-hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported

-himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face;

-his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one

-face to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to

-speak, but could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy.

-Tom interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it

-greedily and then he spoke.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What you have just been told,&quot; he said, &quot;is nothing but a cruel,

-cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he

-hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar--because he dare

-not face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer--we all

-know that Lionel Dering----&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you

-to your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood

-Lionel, no longer disguised--the dye washed off his face, his hands,

-his hair--the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from

-the dead--his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at

-a glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair

-beard.</p>

-

-<p>For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue,

-glaring across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.</p>

-

-<p>One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so.

-That one word was <i>Forgive</i>. Then a strange spasm passed across his

-face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half

-round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;He has fainted,&quot; said the General.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;He is dead,&quot; said Tom.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this,&quot; said Lionel.

-&quot;None whatever!&quot;</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4><a name="div3_12" href="#div3Ref_12">CHAPTER XII.</a></h4>

-<h5>GATHERED THREADS.</h5>

-<br>

-

-<p>The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering

-with two courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out

-his original intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving

-the world still to believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he

-could give himself up to justice, under his real name, and, his first

-trial never having been finished--take his stand at the bar again

-under the original charge, and with the proofs he had gathered in his

-possession, let his innocence of the crime imputed to him work itself

-out through a legitimate channel to a verdict of Not Guilty. This

-latter course was the only one open to him if he wished to clear

-himself in the eyes of the world from the stain of blood, or even if

-he wished to assume his own name and his position as the owner of Park

-Newton. But did he really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad,

-of burying himself and his wife in some far-away nook of the New

-World, had taken such hold on his imagination, that even now it had by

-no means lost its sweetness in his thoughts. Then, again, Kester

-having died without a will, if he--Lionel were to leave himself

-undeclared, the estate would go to General St. George, as next of kin,

-and after the old soldier's time it would go, in the natural course of

-events, to his brother Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give

-himself into custody and undergo the pain and annoyance of another

-term of imprisonment, and another trial--and they would be both

-painful and annoying, even though his innocence were proved at the end

-of them? Why not rather bind over to silence those few trusted friends

-to whom his secret was already known, and going abroad with Edith,

-spend the remainder of his days in happy obscurity. Why re-open that

-bloodstained page of family history, over which the world had of a

-surety gloated sufficiently already?</p>

-

-<p>But in this latter view he was opposed by everybody except his wife;

-by his uncle, by Tom, by the vicar, and by nobody more strongly than

-by Messrs. Perrins and Hoskyns. The cry from all was--take your trial;

-let your innocence be proved, as proved it must be, and assume the

-name and position that are rightfully yours. Edith, with her head

-resting on his shoulder, only said: &quot;Do that which seems best to you

-in your own heart, dearest, and that alone. Whether you go or stay, my

-place is by your side--my love unalterable. Only to be with you--never

-to lose you again--is all I ask. Give me that: I crave for nothing

-more.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Strange to say, the person who brought matters to a climax, and

-finally decided Lionel as to his future course of action, was the girl

-Nell, Mother Mim's plain-spoken grand-daughter. Through some channel

-or other she had heard of the death of Mr. St. George, and one day she

-marched up the steps at Park Newton, and rang the big bell, and asked,

-as bold as brass, to see the General. The General was one of the most

-accessible of men, and when told that the girl wanted to see him

-privately, he marched off at once to the library, and ordered her to

-be admitted.</p>

-

-<p>It was a strange story the girl had to tell--so strange that the

-General at first put her down as a common impostor. Fortunately Mr.

-Perrins happened to be still at Park Newton, and he at once called the

-shrewd old lawyer to his assistance.</p>

-

-<p>But Miss Nell was now taken with a stubborn fit, and refused either to

-say any more or to answer any more questions, till five pounds had

-been given her as an earnest of more to follow, in case her

-information should prove to be correct. The five pounds having been

-put into her hands, she told all that she knew freely enough, and

-answered every question that was put to her. Then she was dismissed

-for the time being, having first left an address where she might be

-found when wanted.</p>

-

-<p>Nell had told them how the body of Dirty Jack had been found dead on

-the moor, and the first point to ascertain was, what had become of the

-confession which was known to have been in his possession when he left

-Mother Mim's cottage? Had it been found on his person? If so, where

-was it now? It was rather singular that Mr. St. George should be the

-last person known to have been seen in the company of Skeggs. The

-second question was, where was Mr. Bendall to be found? Mr. Perrins

-set to work without delay to solve this latter problem, by engaging

-one of Mr. Hoskyns's confidential clerks to make the requisite

-inquiries for him. To the first question, the whereabouts of the

-confession, he determined to give his own personal attention. But

-before he had an opportunity of doing this, he found among the papers

-of Kester the very document itself--the original confession, duly

-witnessed by Skeggs and the girl Nell. A day or two later Mr. Bendall

-was also found, and--for a consideration--had no objection to tell all

-he knew of the affair. His evidence, and that given in the confession,

-tallied exactly. There could no longer be any moral doubt as to the

-fact of Kester St. George having been a son of Mother Mim.</p>

-

-<p>This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was

-still debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one

-weapon more in favour of the course they were desirous that he should

-pursue. If Kester St. George were not Lionel's cousin, if he were not

-related to the family in any way, there was less reason than ever why

-Lionel should not declare himself, why he should not give himself up,

-and let his own innocence be proved once and for ever, by proving the

-guilt of this other man.</p>

-

-<p>Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the

-others, and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer.

-Exactly a week after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well

-continue to call him) Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at

-Duxley, and gave himself up into the hands of the sergeant on duty.</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. &quot;How can you be Mr.

-Dering?&quot; he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with

-the superintendent's recollection of him. &quot;I saw that gentleman lying

-dead in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could

-have sworn to him anywhere.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and

-not the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without

-recognizing me. At all events here I am, alive and well, and if you

-will kindly lock me up, I shall esteem it a favour.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I was never so sold in the whole course of my life,&quot; said Drayton.

-&quot;But there's one comfort--Sergeant Whiffins was just as much sold as I

-was.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial

-for the murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been

-carefully looked after by a private detective in the guise of a guest

-at his hotel, was admitted as evidence for the Crown, and without

-leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty was found by the jury. Never

-had such a scene been known in Duxley as was enacted that summer

-afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the Court-house

-a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by main

-force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of

-the crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company

-with two brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster.

-Lionel's arm had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he

-had shaken hands with a great multitude of his friends--and every man

-and boy prided himself upon being Mr. Dering's friend that day. As for

-the ladies, they had their own way of showing their sympathy with him.

-Half the children in the parish that came to light during the next

-twelve months were christened either Edith or Lionel.</p>

-

-<p>The post-mortem examination showed that heart disease of long standing

-was the proximate cause of Kester St. George's death. He was buried

-not in the family vault where the St. Georges for two centuries lay in

-silent state, but in the town cemetery. The grave was marked by a

-plain slab, on which was engraved simply the initials of the name he

-had always been known by, and the date of his death.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I warned him of it long ago,&quot; said Dr. Bolus to two or three fellows

-at Kester's old club, as he stood with his back to the fire and his

-coat tails thrown over his arms. &quot;But whose warnings are sooner

-forgotten than a doctor's? By living away from London, and leading a

-perfectly quiet and temperate life, he might have been kept going for

-years. But, above all things, he should have avoided excitement of

-every kind.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Lionel and Edith put off for a little while their long-talked-of tour

-in order that they might be present at the wedding of Tom and Jane.

-The ceremony took place in August. Tom and his bride went to Scotland

-for their honeymoon. Lionel and his wife started for Switzerland, en

-route for Italy, where they were to spend the ensuing winter.</p>

-

-<p>Of late the Squire had recovered his health wonderfully. He seemed to

-have grown ten years younger in a few weeks. In the working of that

-wonderful coal-shaft, and in the prospect of his making a far larger

-fortune for his daughter than the one he so foolishly lost, he found a

-perpetual source of healthy excitement, which, by keeping both his

-mind and body actively and legitimately employed, had an undoubted

-tendency to lengthen his life. Besides this, Tom had asked him to

-superintend the construction of his new house. It was just the sort of

-job that the Squire delighted in--to look sharply after a lot of

-working men, and while pretending that they were all in a league to

-cheat him, blowing them up heartily all round one half-hour, and

-treating them to unlimited beer the next.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I should like to see you in the Town Council, Bristow,&quot; said the

-Squire one day to his son-in-law.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Thank you, sir, all the same,&quot; said Tom, &quot;but it's hardly good

-enough. There will be a general election before we are much older,

-when I mean, either by hook or by crook, to get into the House.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Bristow, you have the cheek of the Deuce himself,&quot; was all that the

-astonished Squire could say.</p>

-

-<p>It may just be remarked that Tom's ambition has since been gratified.

-He is now, and has been for some time, member for W----. He is clever,

-ambitious, and a tolerable orator, as oratory is reckoned nowadays.

-What may not such a man aspire to?</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Hoskyns is a frequent guest both of Tom and Lionel. Chatting with

-the former one day over the &quot;walnuts and the wine,&quot; said the old man:

-&quot;I have often puzzled my brain over that affair of Baldry's--that

-positive assertion of his that he saw and spoke to me one night in the

-Thornfield Road when I was most certainly not there. Have you ever

-thought about it since?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Once or twice, I dare say, but I could have enlightened you at the

-time had I chosen to do so. It was I whom Baldry met. I had made

-myself up to resemble you, and previously to my visit to the prison in

-your character, I thought I would try the effect of my disguise upon

-somebody who had known you well for years. As it so happened, Baldry

-was the first of your acquaintances whom I encountered on my nocturnal

-ramble. The rest you know.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;You young vagabond! And yet you have the audacity to call yourself a

-respectable member of society. Perhaps you can explain the mystery of

-the ghostly footsteps at Park Newton when poor Pearce, the butler, was

-frightened out of the small quantity of wit that he could lay claim

-to?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That, too, I can explain. The ghostly footsteps, as it happened, were

-very corporeal footsteps, being those of none other than your humble

-servant.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But how did you get into the room? It had been nailed up months

-before.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;The nailing up was more apparent than real. The nails were sham

-nails. The door could be unlocked at any time, and the room entered in

-the ordinary way.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;But how about the cough--Mr. Osmond's peculiar cough?&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That was an imitation by me from lessons given me by Mr. Dering. It

-answered the purpose admirably for which it was intended.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;To hear such sounds at midnight in a room where a man had been

-murdered was enough to shake the strongest nerves. I wonder you were

-not frightened yourself to be in the room.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;That would have been ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>&quot;In any extraordinary circumstances I shall never believe the evidence

-of my own senses again.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>Mr. Cope was not long in perceiving that he had committed a grave

-error of judgment in refusing Mr. Culpepper the assistance he had

-asked for. There would be a splendid fortune for Jane after all. It

-was enough to make a man tear his hair with vexation--only Mr. Cope

-hadn't much hair to tear--to think what a golden chance he had let

-slip through his fingers. Edward was recalled at once on the slight

-chance that if a meeting could anyhow be brought about between him and

-Jane, the old flame might spring up with renewed ardour in the young

-lady's bosom, in which case she might insist upon her engagement with

-Edward being carried out. But Edward bore his disappointment very

-philosophically, and had not been three hours in Duxley before he

-found himself eating pastry, and being ministered to by Miss Moggs,

-who was still unmarried, and still as plump and smiling as ever.</p>

-

-<p>Three weeks later the good people of Duxley were treated to a

-delightful sensation. Mr. Cope, Junior, had run away with the daughter

-of Mr. Moggs, the confectioner, and Mr. Cope, Senior, had threatened

-to cut his son off with the well-known metaphorical shilling.</p>

-

-<p>The latest news of young Mr. Cope is, that he is living in furnished

-apartments in a cheap suburb of London. The late Miss Moggs, her

-plumpness notwithstanding, has developed into a Tartar. They have six

-children. Mr. Cope's income is exactly two hundred a-year, left him by

-his mother. His father will not give him a penny, and he is either too

-lazy, or too incompetent, to attempt to add to his means by a little

-honest work. He is very stout and very short of breath. When he has

-any money he spends his time in a neighbouring billiard-room, smoking

-a short pipe and drinking half-and-half, and watching other men play.

-When he has no money he stops at home and rocks the cradle, and

-listens to his wife's reproaches. Mrs. Cope vows that she will buy a

-mangle and make her husband turn it, and try whether she cannot shame

-him into work that way. And all this is the result of eating pastry

-and being waited upon by a pretty girl.</p>

-

-<p>After the trial was over, Nell, by means of some speciously-concocted

-tale, contrived to cozen General St. George out of twenty pounds. With

-this she disappeared, and was never either seen or heard of in Duxley

-or its neighbourhood again.</p>

-

-<p>During the time that Lionel and his wife were abroad the General went

-with his friend, Major Beauchamp, to Madeira, and wintered there.</p>

-

-<p>It had been Lionel's intention to stay abroad for about three years.

-But as it fell out, he and Edith were back at Park Newton by the end

-of twelve months, being brought thither by the expectation of an

-all-important event. Lionel has not since then left home for more than

-a month at a time. So full of painful memories was Park Newton to him,

-that it was only by Edith's persuasion that he was induced to settle

-there at all. But years have come and gone since then, and nothing

-would now induce him to live anywhere else. Whatever gloomy

-associations might otherwise have clung to the old house have been

-exorcised long ago by the merry laughter of children. It was difficult

-at first for the Echoes of that murder-haunted roof to bring

-themselves to mimic the soft syllables of childhood, but when one

-little stranger after another came to teach them, then their voices,

-rusty and creaky at first through long disuse, gradually won back to

-themselves a long-forgotten sweetness; and now the Echoes follow the

-children wherever they go, and all the grim old pile is musical with

-the laughter and songs and free joyous shouts of childhood. Many a

-time they have a bout together--the children and the Echoes--trying

-which of them can make the more noise; and then the children call to

-the Echoes and bid them come out of their hiding-places and show

-themselves in the dusky twilight; but the Echoes only laugh back their

-answer, and are ever too timid to let themselves be seen.</p>

-

-<p>Who, of all people in the world, should be the children's primest

-favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the

-nursery, and there he spends hours every day. He &quot;keeps shop&quot; with

-them, he plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring

-lion, their wild man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the

-old warrior, whose very name was once a word of terror among the

-lawless hill-tribes of the far East see him led about by one boy by

-means of a piece of string tied round his arm, and while another

-youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to watch him

-imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing

-bear. There can be no doubt on one point--that the old soldier enjoys

-himself quite as much as the children do.</p>

-

-<p>After his year's imprisonment was at an end--to which mitigated

-punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted

-as witness for the Crown--he and his sister went over to Switzerland,

-and opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist

-travel. There, not long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking,

-bowing, and rubbing his hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request

-that Monsieur Dering would do him the honour of stopping at his hotel.

-But Lionel would have nothing to do with him, and when Janvard could

-be made to comprehend this, his face became a study of mortification

-and surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently hurt. He

-never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so

-positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d'Or.</p>

-

-<p>In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a

-few things that change not. One of these is the friendship between

-Lionel and Tom, which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of

-other interests has power to alter in the least. When they both happen

-to be in Midlandshire at the same time, a week never passes without

-their seeing more or less of each other, and between their wives there

-is almost as firm a friendship as there is between themselves. Four

-people more united, more happy in each other's society, it would be

-impossible to find.</p>

-

-<p>It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that

-Edith and Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm

-together, for the sake of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow

-perpetually round the old house. They were sitting one day on the

-broad yellow sands, idling through the glowing afternoon, with their

-embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane's little girls happened to

-fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith's little boy was

-by her side in a moment.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Don't cry,&quot; he said, as he stooped and kissed her. &quot;I will marry you

-when I grow to be a big man.&quot;</p>

-

-<p>The little girl's tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked

-up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;Such a thing is by no means improbable,&quot; said Edith.</p>

-

-<p>&quot;I shall not be a bit surprised if it really comes to pass,&quot; replied

-Jane.</p>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<h4>THE END.</h4>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<hr class="W90">

-<h5>BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY</h5>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-<br>

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-<pre>

-

-

-

-

-

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+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of In the Dead of Night. Vol. III., by T. W. Speight</title>
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+
+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of In the Dead of Night. Volume 1 (of 3), by T. W. Speight</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world 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="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
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+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: In the Dead of Night. Volume 3 (of 3)<br />
+A Novel</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: T. W. Speight</div>
+<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 21, 2018 [eBook #57947]<br />
+[Most recently updated: May 19, 2021]</div>
+<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Bowen</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, VOLUME 3 ***</div>
+
+<h1>IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT</h1>
+
+<h3>A Novel.</h3>
+
+<h4>IN THREE VOLUMES.</h4>
+
+<h4>VOL. III.</h4>
+
+<h4>LONDON:<br />
+RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.<br />
+1874.</h4>
+
+<h5>(<i>All rights reserved</i>.)</h5>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h2>CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.</h2>
+
+<table summary="" style="">
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_01">CHAPTER I. A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_02">CHAPTER II. IN THE SYCAMORE WALK</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_03">CHAPTER III. MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_04">CHAPTER IV. KNOCKLEY HOLT</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_05">CHAPTER V. AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_06">CHAPTER VI. TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_07">CHAPTER VII. EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_08">CHAPTER VIII. DIRTY JACK</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_09">CHAPTER IX. WHAT TO DO NEXT?</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_10">CHAPTER X. HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_11">CHAPTER XI. THE EIGHTH OF MAY</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+<tr>
+<td> <a href="#div3_12">CHAPTER XII. GATHERED THREADS</a></td>
+</tr>
+
+</table>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.</h2>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br />
+A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Two hours after the receipt of Mrs. McDermott&rsquo;s second letter, Squire
+Culpepper was on his way to Sugden&rsquo;s bank. His heart was heavy, and his
+step slow. He had never had to borrow a farthing from any man&mdash;at least,
+never since he had come into the estate&mdash;and he felt the humiliation, as
+he himself called it, very bitterly. There was something of bitterness, too, in
+having to confess to his friend Cope how all his brilliant castles in the air
+had vanished utterly, leaving not a wrack behind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He could see, in imagination, the sneer that would creep over Cope&rsquo;s face
+as the latter asked him why he could not obtain a mortgage on his fine new
+mansion at Pincote; the mansion he had talked so much about&mdash;about which
+he had bored his friends; the mansion that was to have been built out of the
+Alcazar shares, but of which not even the foundation-stone would ever now be
+laid. Then, again, the Squire was far from certain as to the kind of reception
+which would be accorded him by the banker. Of late he had seemed cool, very
+cool&mdash;refrigerating almost. Once or twice, too, when he had called, Mr.
+Cope had been invisible: a Jupiter Tonans buried for the time being among a
+cloud of ledgers and dockets and transfers: not to be seen by any one save his
+own immediate satellites. The time had been, and not so very long ago, when he
+could walk unchallenged through the outer bank office, whoever else might be
+waiting, and so into the inner sanctum, and be sure of a welcome when he got
+there. But now he was sure to be intercepted by one or other of the clerks with
+a &ldquo;Will you please to take a seat for a moment while I see whether Mr.
+Cope is disengaged.&rdquo; The Squire groaned with inward rage as, leaning on
+his thick stick, he limped down Duxley High Street and thought of all these
+things.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As he had surmised it would be, so it was on the present occasion. He had to
+sit down in the outer office, one of a row of six who were waiting Mr.
+Cope&rsquo;s time and pleasure to see them. &ldquo;He won&rsquo;t lend me the
+money,&rdquo; said the Squire to himself, as he sat there choking with secret
+mortification. &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll find some paltry excuse for refusing me.
+It&rsquo;s almost worth a man&rsquo;s while to tumble into trouble just to find
+out who are his friends and who are not.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+However, the banker did not keep him waiting more than five or six minutes.
+&ldquo;Mr. Cope will see you, sir,&rdquo; said a liveried messenger, who came
+up to him with a low bow; and into Mr. Cope&rsquo;s parlour the Squire was
+thereupon ushered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The two men met with a certain amount of restraint on either side. They shook
+hands as a matter of course, and made a few remarks about the weather; and then
+the banker began to play with his seals, and waited in bland silence to hear
+whatever the Squire might have to say to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Culpepper fidgeted in his chair and cleared his throat. The crucial moment
+was come at last. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m in a bit of a difficulty, Cope,&rdquo; he
+began, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ve come to you, as one of the oldest friends I have,
+to see whether you can help me out of it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I should have thought that Mr. Culpepper was one of the last people in
+the world to be troubled with difficulties of any kind,&rdquo; said the banker,
+in a tone of studied coldness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Which shows how little you know about either Mr. Culpepper or his
+affairs,&rdquo; said the Squire, dryly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The banker coughed dubiously. &ldquo;In what way can I be of service to
+you?&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I want five thousand five hundred pounds by this day week, and
+I&rsquo;ve come to you to help me to raise it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In other words, you want to borrow five thousand five hundred
+pounds?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Exactly so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And what kind of security are you prepared to offer for a loan of such
+magnitude?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What security! Why, my I.O.U., of course.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Cope took a pinch of snuff slowly and deliberately before he spoke again.
+&ldquo;I am afraid the document in question could hardly be looked upon as a
+negotiable security.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And who the deuce wanted it to be considered as a negotiable
+security?&rdquo; burst out the Squire. &ldquo;Do you think I want everybody to
+know my private affairs?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Possibly not,&rdquo; said the banker, quietly. &ldquo;But, in
+transactions of this nature, it is a matter of simple business that the person
+who advances the money should have some equivalent security in return.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And is not my I.O.U. a good and equivalent security as between friend
+and friend?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh if you are going to put the case in that way, it becomes a different
+kind of transaction entirely,&rdquo; said the banker.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And how else did you think I was going to put the case, as you call
+it?&rdquo; asked the Squire, indignantly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Commercially, of course: as a pure matter of business between one man
+and another.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, ho that&rsquo;s it, is it?&rdquo; said the Squire, grimly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s just it, Mr. Culpepper.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then friendship in such a case as this counts for nothing, and my I.O.U.
+might just as well never be written.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Let us be candid with each other,&rdquo; said the banker, blandly.
+&ldquo;You want the loan of a very considerable sum of money. Now, however much
+inclined I might be to lend you the amount out of my own private coffers, you
+will believe me when I say that I am not in a position to do so. I have no such
+amount of available capital in hand at present. But if you were to come to me
+with a good negotiable security, I could at once put you into the proper
+channel for obtaining what you want. A mortgage, for instance. What could be
+better than that? The estate, so far as I know, is unencumbered, and the sum
+you need could easily be raised on it on very easy terms.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I took an oath to my father on his deathbed that I would never raise a
+penny by mortgage on Pincote, and I never will.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If that is the case,&rdquo; said the banker, with a slight shrug of the
+shoulders, &ldquo;I am afraid that I hardly see in what way I can be of service
+to you.&rdquo; He coughed, and then he looked at his watch, an action which Mr.
+Culpepper did not fail to note and resent in his own mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am sorry I came,&rdquo; he said, bitterly. &ldquo;It seems to have
+been only a waste of your time and mine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t speak of it,&rdquo; said the banker, with his little
+business laugh. &ldquo;In any case, you have learned one of the first and
+simplest lessons of commercial ethics.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have, indeed,&rdquo; answered the Squire, with a sigh. He rose to go.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And Miss Culpepper, is she quite well?&rdquo; said Mr. Cope; rising
+also. &ldquo;I have not had the pleasure of seeing her for some little
+time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire faced fiercely round. &ldquo;Look you here, Horatio Cope,&rdquo; he
+said; &ldquo;you and I have been friends of many years&rsquo; standing. Fast
+friends, I thought, whom no reverses of fortune would have separated. Finding
+myself in a little strait, I come to you for assistance. To whom else should I
+apply? It is idle to say that you could not help me out of my difficulty, were
+you willing to do so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, believe me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; interrupted the banker; but Mr.
+Culpepper went on without deigning to notice the interruption.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You have not chosen to do so, and there&rsquo;s an end of the matter, so
+far. Our friendship must cease from this day. You will not be sorry that it is
+so. The insults and slights you have put upon me of late have all had that end
+in view, and you are doubtless grateful that they have had the desired
+effect.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You judge me very hardly,&rdquo; said the banker.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I judge you from your own actions, and from them alone,&rdquo; said the
+Squire, sternly. &ldquo;Another point, and I have done. Your son was engaged to
+my daughter, with your full sanction and consent. That engagement, too, must
+come to an end.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;With all my heart,&rdquo; said the banker, quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;For some time past your son, acting, no doubt, on instructions from his
+father, has been gradually paving the way for something of this kind. There
+have been no letters from him for five weeks, and the last three or four that
+he sent were not more than as many lines each. No doubt he will feel grateful
+at being released from an engagement that had become odious to him; and on Miss
+Culpepper&rsquo;s side the release will be an equally happy one. She had
+learned long ago to estimate at his true value the man to whom she had so
+rashly pledged her hand. She had found out, to her bitter cost, that she had
+promised herself to a person who had neither the instincts nor the education of
+a gentleman&mdash;to an individual, in fact, who was little better than a
+common boor.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This last thrust touched the banker to the quick. His face flushed deeply. He
+crossed the room and called down an India-rubber tube: &ldquo;What is the
+amount of Mr. Culpepper&rsquo;s balance?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Presently came the answer: &ldquo;Two eighty eleven five.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Two hundred and eighty pounds, eleven shillings, and five pence,&rdquo;
+said Mr. Cope, with a sneer. &ldquo;May I ask, sir, that you will take
+immediate steps for having this magnificent balance transferred to some other
+establishment.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I shall take my own time about doing that,&rdquo; said Mr. Culpepper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What a pity that your new mansion was not finished in time&mdash;quite a
+castle it was to have been, was it not? A mortgage of five or six thousand
+could have been a matter of no difficulty then, you know. If I recollect
+rightly, all the furniture and decorations were to have come from London.
+Nothing in Duxley would have been good enough. I merely echo your own
+words.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire winced. &ldquo;I am rightly served,&rdquo; he muttered to himself.
+&ldquo;What can one expect from a man who swept out an office and cleaned his
+master&rsquo;s shoes?&rdquo; He rose to go. For all his bitterness, there was a
+little pathetic feeling at work in his heart. &ldquo;So ends a friendship of
+twenty years,&rdquo; was his thought. &ldquo;Goodbye, Cope,&rdquo; he said
+aloud as he moved towards the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The banker, standing with his back to the fire, and looking straight at the
+opposite wall, neither stirred nor spoke, nor so much as turned his head to
+take a last look at his old friend. And so, without another word, the Squire
+passed out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A bleak north wind was blowing as the Squire stepped into the street. He paused
+for a moment to button his coat more closely around him. As he did so, a poor
+ragged wretch passed trembling by without saying a word. The Squire called the
+man back and gave him a shilling. &ldquo;My plight may be bad enough, but his
+is a thousand times worse,&rdquo; he said to himself as he walked down the
+street.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where to go, or what to do next, he did not know. He had gone to see Mr. Cope
+without any very great expectation of being able to obtain what he wanted, and
+yet, perhaps, not without some faint hope nestling at his heart that his friend
+would find him the money. But now he knew for a fact that nothing was to be got
+from that quarter, he felt a little chilled, a little lonely, a little lost as
+to what he should do next. That something must be done, he knew quite well, but
+he was at a nonplus as to what that something ought to be. To raise five
+thousand five hundred pounds at a few days&rsquo; notice, with no better
+security to offer than a simple I.O.U., was by no means an easy matter, as the
+Squire was beginning to discover to his cost. &ldquo;Why not ask Sir Harry
+Cripps?&rdquo; he said to himself. But then he bethought himself that Sir Harry
+had a very expensive family, and that only six months ago he had given up his
+hunter, and dispensed with a couple of carriage-horses, and had talked of going
+on to the continent for four or five years. No: it was evident that Sir Harry
+Cripps could do nothing for him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In what other direction to turn he knew not. &ldquo;If poor Lionel Dering had
+only been alive, I could have gone to him with confidence,&rdquo; he thought.
+&ldquo;Why not try Kester St. George?&rdquo; was his next thought. &ldquo;No:
+Kester isn&rsquo;t one of the lending kind,&rdquo; he muttered, with a shake of
+the head. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s uncommonly close-fisted, is Kester. What he&rsquo;s
+got he&rsquo;ll stick to. No use trying there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Next moment he nearly ran against General St. George, who was coming from an
+opposite direction. They started at sight of each other, then shook hands
+cordially. Their acquaintanceship dated only from the arrival of the General at
+Park Newton, but they had already learned to like and esteem one another.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the customary greetings and inquiries were over, said Mr. Culpepper to
+the General: &ldquo;Is your nephew Kester still stopping with you at Park
+Newton?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, he is still there,&rdquo; answered the General; &ldquo;though he
+has talked every day for the last month or more about going. Kester is one of
+those unaccountable fellows that you can never depend on. He may stay for
+another month, or he may take it into his head to go by the first train
+to-morrow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I heard a little while ago that he was ill; but I suppose he is better
+again by this time?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes&mdash;quite recovered. He was laid up for three or four days, but he
+soon got all right again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your other nephew&mdash;George&mdash;Tom&mdash;Harry&mdash;what&rsquo;s
+his name&mdash;is he quite well?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You mean Richard&mdash;he who came from India? Yes, he is quite
+well.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;s very like his poor brother, only darker, and&mdash;pardon me
+for saying so&mdash;not half so agreeable a young fellow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Everybody seems to have liked poor Lionel.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nobody could help liking him,&rdquo; said the Squire, with energy.
+&ldquo;I felt the loss of that poor boy almost as much as if he had been my own
+son.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not a soul in the world had an ill word to say about him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I wish that the same could be said of all of us,&rdquo; said the Squire.
+And so, after a few more words, they parted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As General St. George had told the Squire, Kester was still at Park Newton. The
+doctor who was called in to attend him after his sudden attack on the night
+that the footsteps were heard in the nailed-up room, prescribed a bottle or two
+of some harmless mixture, and a few days of complete rest and isolation. As
+Kester would neither allow himself to be examined, nor answer any questions,
+there was very little more that could be done for him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester&rsquo;s first impulse after his recovery&mdash;and a very strong impulse
+it was&mdash;was to quit Park Newton at once and for ever. Further reflection,
+however, convinced him that such a step would be unwise in the extreme. It
+would at once be said that he had been frightened away by the ghost, and that
+was a thing that he could by no means afford to have said of him. For it to get
+gossiped about that he had been driven from his own house by the ghost of Percy
+Osmond, might, in time, tend to breed suspicion; and from suspicion might
+spring inquiry, and that might ultimately lead to nobody knew what. No: he
+would stay on at Park Newton for weeks&mdash;for months even, if it suited him
+to do so. The incident of his sudden illness was a very untoward one: on that
+point there could be no doubt whatever; but not if he could anyhow help it
+should the faintest breath of suspicion spring therefrom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire&rsquo;s troubles had faded into the background for a few minutes
+during his interview with General St. George, but they now rushed back upon him
+with, as it seemed, tenfold force. There was nothing left for him now but to go
+home, and yet he had never felt less inclined to do so in his life. He dreaded
+the long quiet evening, with no society but that of his daughter. Not that Jane
+was a dull companion, or anything like it; but he dreaded to encounter her
+pleading eyes, her pretty caressing ways, the lingering embrace she would give
+him when he entered the house, and her good-night kiss. He felt how all these
+things would tend to unman him, how they would merely serve to deepen the
+remorse which he felt already. If only he could meet with some one to take home
+with him!&mdash;he did not care much who it was&mdash;some one who would talk
+to him, and enliven the evening, and take off for a little while the edge of
+his trouble, and so help him to tide over the weary hours that intervened
+between now and the morrow, by which time something might happen&mdash;he knew
+not what&mdash;or some light be vouchsafed to him which would show him a way
+out of his difficulties.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These, or something like these, were the thoughts that were floating hazily in
+his mind, when in the distance he spied Tom Bristow striding along at his usual
+energetic rate. The Squire being still very lame, wisely captured a passing
+butcher boy, and, with the promise of sixpence, bade him hurry after Tom, and
+not come back without him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You must come back with me to Pincote,&rdquo; he said, when the
+astonished Tom had been duly captured. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll take no refusal.
+I&rsquo;ve got a fit of mopes, and if you don&rsquo;t come and help to keep
+Jenny and me alive this evening, I&rsquo;ll never speak to you again as long as
+I live.&rdquo; So saying, the Squire linked his arm in Tom&rsquo;s, and turned
+his face towards Pincote; and nothing loath was Tom to go with him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve done a fine thing this afternoon,&rdquo; said Mr. Culpepper,
+as they drove along in the basket-carriage, which had been waiting for him at
+the hotel. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve broken off Jenny&rsquo;s engagement with Edward
+Cope.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom&rsquo;s heart gave a great bound. &ldquo;Pardon me, sir, for saying
+so,&rdquo; he said as calmly as he could, &ldquo;but I never thought that Mr.
+Cope was in any way worthy of Miss Culpepper.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are right, boy. He was not worthy of her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;From the first time of seeing them together, I felt how entirely
+unfitted was Mr. Cope to appreciate Miss Culpepper&rsquo;s manifold charms of
+heart and mind. A marriage between two such people would have been a most
+incongruous one.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thank Heaven! it&rsquo;s broken now and for ever.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve broken off your engagement to Edward Cope,&rdquo; whispered
+the Squire to Jane in the hall, as he kissed her. &ldquo;Are you glad or sorry,
+dear?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Glad&mdash;very, very glad, papa,&rdquo; she whispered back as she
+rained a score of kisses on his face. Then she began to cry, and with that she
+ran away to her own room till she could recover herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Women are queer cattle,&rdquo; said the Squire, turning to Tom,
+&ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll be hanged if I can ever make them out.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;From Miss Culpepper&rsquo;s manner, sir,&rdquo; said Tom, gravely,
+&ldquo;I should judge that you had told her something that pleased her very
+much indeed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then what did she begin snivelling for?&rdquo; said the Squire, gruffly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why not tell him everything?&rdquo; said the Squire to himself, as he
+and Tom sat down in the drawing-room. &ldquo;He knows a good deal
+already,&mdash;why not tell him more? I know he can do nothing towards helping
+me to raise five thousand pounds, but it will do me good to talk to him. I must
+talk to somebody&mdash;and I feel sure my secret is quite safe with him.
+I&rsquo;ll tell him while Jenny&rsquo;s out of the room.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire coughed and hemmed, and poked the fire violently before he could
+find a word to say. &ldquo;Bristow,&rdquo; he burst out at last, &ldquo;I want
+to raise five thousand five hundred pounds in five days from now, and as
+I&rsquo;m rather a bad hand at borrowing, I thought that you could, maybe, give
+me a hint as to how it could best be done. Cope would have advanced it for me
+in a moment, only that he happens to be rather short of funds just now, and I
+don&rsquo;t want to trouble any of my other friends if it can anyhow be managed
+without.&rdquo; He began to hum the air of an old drinking-song, and poked the
+fire again. &ldquo;Capital coals these,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;And I got
+&rsquo;em cheap, too. The market went up three shillings a ton the very day
+after these were sent in.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Five thousand five hundred pounds is rather a large amount, sir,&rdquo;
+said Tom, slowly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course it&rsquo;s a large amount,&rdquo; said the Squire, testily.
+&ldquo;If it were only a paltry hundred or two I wouldn&rsquo;t trouble
+anybody. But never mind, Bristow&mdash;never mind. I didn&rsquo;t suppose that
+you could help me when I mentioned it; and, after all, it&rsquo;s a matter of
+very little consequence whether I raise the money or not.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can only suggest one way, sir, by which the money could be raised in
+so short a time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Eh!&rdquo; said the Squire, turning suddenly on him, and dropping the
+poker noisily in the grate. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean to say that you can see
+how it&rsquo;s to be done!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think I do, sir. Do you know the piece of ground called Prior&rsquo;s
+Croft?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Very well indeed. It belongs to Duckworth, the publican.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Between you and me, sir, Duckworth&rsquo;s hard up, and would be glad to
+sell the Croft if he could do it quietly and without its becoming generally
+known that he is short of money.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said the Squire, a little impatiently. He could not
+understand what Tom was driving at.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I dare engage to say, sir, that you could have the Croft for two
+thousand pounds, cash down.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Confound it, man, what an idiot you must be!&rdquo; said the Squire
+fiercely, bringing his fist down on the table with a tremendous bang.
+&ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t I tell you that I wanted to borrow money, and not to spend
+it? In fact, as you know quite well, I&rsquo;ve got none to spend.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Precisely so,&rdquo; said Tom, coolly. &ldquo;And that is the point to
+which I am coming, if you will hear me out.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire&rsquo;s only answer was to glare at him, as if in doubt whether he
+had not taken leave of his senses.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;As I said before, sir, Duckworth will take two thousand pounds for the
+Croft, cash down. Now I, sir, will engage to raise two thousand pounds for you
+by to-morrow, at noon, with which to buy the piece of ground in question. The
+purchase can be effected, and the necessary deeds made out and completed, by
+ten o&rsquo;clock the following morning. If you will entrust those deeds into
+my possession, I will guarantee to effect a mortgage for six thousand pounds,
+in your name, on the Croft.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If the Squire had looked suspicious with regard to Tom&rsquo;s sanity before,
+he now seemed to have no doubt whatever on the point. He quietly took up the
+poker again, as if he were afraid that Tom might spring at him unexpectedly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;So you could lend me two thousand pounds could you?&rdquo; said the
+Squire drily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I did not say that, sir. I said that I could raise two thousand pounds
+for you, which is a very different matter from lending it out of my own
+pocket.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Humph! And who, sir, do you think would be such a consummate ass as to
+advance six thousand pounds on a plot of ground that had just been bought for
+two thousand?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Strange as such a transaction may seem to you, sir, I give you my word
+of honour that I should find no difficulty in carrying it out. Have I your
+permission to do so?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose that the two thousand raised by you would have to be repaid
+out of the six thousand raised by mortgage, leaving me with a balance of four
+thousand in hand?&rdquo; said the Squire, without heeding Tom&rsquo;s question,
+a smile of incredulity playing round his mouth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; answered Tom. &ldquo;The two thousand pounds could
+remain on interest at five per cent. for whatever term might suit your
+convenience. Again, sir, I ask, have I your permission to negotiate the
+transaction for you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Culpepper gazed steadily for a moment or two into Tom&rsquo;s clear, cold
+eyes. There were no symptoms of insanity visible there, at any rate. &ldquo;And
+do you mean to tell me in sober seriousness,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that you
+can raise this money in the way you speak of?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In sober seriousness, I mean to tell you that I can. Try me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will try you,&rdquo; answered the Squire, impulsively. &ldquo;I will
+try you, boy. You are a strange fellow, and I begin to think that there&rsquo;s
+more in you than I ever thought there was. But here comes Jenny. Not a word
+more just now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br />
+IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The Park Newton clocks, with more or less unanimity as to time, had just struck
+ten. It was a February night, clear and frosty, and Lionel Dering sat in his
+dressing-room in slippered ease, musing by firelight. He had turned out the
+lamp on purpose; it was too garish for his mood to-night. He was back again in
+thought at Gatehouse Farm. Again he saw the gray old cottage, with its
+moss-grown eaves&mdash;the cottage that was so ugly outside, but so cosy
+within. Again he saw the long low sandhills, where they stretched themselves
+out to meet the horizon, and, in fancy, heard again the low, monotonous plash
+of the waves, whose melancholy music, heard by day and night, had at one time
+been as familiar to him as the sound of his own voice. What a quiet, happy time
+that seemed as he now looked back to it&mdash;a time of soft shadows and mild
+sunshine, with a pensive charm that was all its own, and that was lost for ever
+in the hour which told him that he was a rich man! Riches! What had riches done
+for him? He groaned in spirit as he asked himself the question. He could have
+been happy with Edith in a garret&mdash;how happy none but himself could have
+told&mdash;had fortune compelled him to earn her bread and his own by the sweat
+of his strong right arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; he
+called out mechanically; and in there came, almost without, a sound, Dobbs,
+body-servant to Kester St. George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, Dobbs, is that you?&rdquo; said Lionel, a little wearily, as he
+turned his head and saw who it was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir, I have made bold to intrude upon you for a few seconds,&rdquo;
+said Dobbs, with the utmost deference, as he slowly advanced into the room,
+rubbing the long lean fingers of one hand softly with the palm of the other.
+&ldquo;My master has not yet got back from Duxley, and there&rsquo;s nobody
+about just now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Quite right, Dobbs,&rdquo; said Lionel. &ldquo;Anything fresh to
+report?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nothing particularly fresh, sir, but I thought that you might perhaps
+like to see me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Very considerate of you, Dobbs, but I am not aware that I have anything
+of consequence to say to you to-night.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thank you, sir,&rdquo; said Dobbs, with a faint smile and an extra rub
+of his fingers. &ldquo;Master&rsquo;s still very queer, sir. No appetite worth
+speaking about. Obliged to screw himself up with brandy in a morning before he
+can finish his toilet. Mutters and moans a good deal in his sleep, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mutters in his sleep, does he?&rdquo; said Lionel. &ldquo;Have you any
+idea, Dobbs, what it is that he talks about?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ve tried my best to ascertain, sir, but without much success. I
+have listened and listened for hours, and very cold work it is, sir; but
+there&rsquo;s never more than a word now and a word then that one can make out.
+Nothing connected&mdash;nothing worth recollecting.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Does Mr. St. George still walk in his sleep?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He does, sir, but not very often&mdash;not more than two or three times
+a month.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Keep your eyes open, Dobbs, and the very next time your master walks in
+his sleep come to me at once&mdash;never mind what hour it may be&mdash;and
+tell me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I won&rsquo;t fail to do so, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In these sleep-walking rambles does Mr. St. George always confine
+himself to the house, or does he ever venture out into the park or
+grounds?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He generally goes out of doors, sir, at such times. Three times out of
+four he goes as far as the Wizard&rsquo;s Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk, stops
+there for a minute or two, and then walks back home. I have watched him several
+times.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Wizard&rsquo;s Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk! What should take him
+there?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then you know the place, sir?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know it well.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Can&rsquo;t say what fancy takes him there, sir. Perhaps he
+doesn&rsquo;t know hisself.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In any case, let me know when he next walks in his sleep. I have no
+further instructions for you to-night, Dobbs.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thank you, sir. I have the honour to wish you a very good night,
+sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Good-night, Dobbs. Keep your eyes open, and report everything to
+me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir, yes. You may trust me for doing that, sir.&rdquo; And Dobbs
+the obsequious bowed himself out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In his cousin&rsquo;s valet Lionel had found an instrument ready to his hand,
+but it was not till after long hesitation and doubt that he made up his mind to
+avail himself of it. The necessities of the case at length decided him to do
+so. No one appreciated the value of a bribe better than Dobbs, or worked harder
+or more conscientiously to deserve one. There was a crooked element in his
+character which made whatever money he might earn by indirect means, or by
+tortuous working, seem far sweeter to him than the honest wages of everyday
+life. Kester St. George was not the kind of man ever to try to attach his
+inferiors to himself by any tie of gratitude or kindness. At different times
+and in various ways he suffered for this indifference, although the present
+could hardly be considered as a case in point, seeing that it was not in the
+nature of Dobbs to resist a bribe in whatever shape it might offer itself, and
+that gratitude was one of those virtues which had altogether been omitted from
+his composition.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Late one afternoon, a few days after the interview between Lionel and Dobbs,
+Kester St. George had his horse brought round, and rode out unattended, and
+without leaving word in what direction he was going, or at what hour he might
+be expected back. The day was dull and lowering, with fitful puffs of wind,
+that blew first from one point and then from another, and seemed the
+forerunners of a coming storm. Buried in his own thoughts, Kester paid no heed
+to the weather, but rode quickly forward till several miles of country had been
+crossed. By-and-by he diverged from the main road, and turned his horse&rsquo;s
+head into a tortuous and muddy lane, which, after half an hour&rsquo;s bad
+travelling, landed him on the verge of a wide stretch of brown treeless moor,
+than which no place could well have looked more desolate and cheerless under
+the gray monotony of the darkening February afternoon. Kester halted for awhile
+at the end of the lane to give his horse breathing time. Far as the eye could
+see, looking forward from the point where he was standing, all was bare and
+treeless, without one single sign of habitation or life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Whatever else may be changed, either with me or the world,&rdquo; he
+muttered, &ldquo;the old moor remains just as it was the first day that I can
+remember it. It was horrible to me at first, but I learned to like it&mdash;to
+love it even, before I left it; and I love it now&mdash;to-day&mdash;with all
+its dreariness and monotony. It is like the face of an old friend. You may go
+away for twenty years, and when you come back you know that you will find on it
+just the same look that it wore when you went away. Not that I have ever cared
+to cultivate such friendships,&rdquo; he added, half regretfully. &ldquo;Well,
+the next best thing to having a good friend is to have a good enemy, and I can
+thank heaven for granting me several such.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He touched his horse with the spur, and rode slowly forward, taking a narrow
+bridle path that led in an oblique direction across the moor. &ldquo;This ought
+to be the road if my memory serves me aright,&rdquo; he muttered, &ldquo;but
+they are all so much alike, and intersect each other so frequently, that
+it&rsquo;s far more easy to lose one&rsquo;s way than to know where one
+is.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose I shall have the rough side of Mother Mim&rsquo;s tongue when
+I do find her,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve neglected her shamefully,
+without a doubt. But such ties as the one between her and me become tiresome in
+the long run. She ought to have died off long ago, but she&rsquo;s as tough as
+leather. Poor devils in this part of the country, that haven&rsquo;t a penny to
+bless themselves with, think nothing of living till they&rsquo;re a hundred. Is
+it a superfluity of ozone, or a want of brains, that keeps them alive so
+long?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He rode steadily forward till he had nearly crossed one angle of the moor. At
+length, but not without some difficulty, he found the place he had come in
+search of. It was a rudely-built hut&mdash;cottage it could hardly be
+called&mdash;composed of mud, and turf, and great boulders all unhewn. Its roof
+of coarsest thatch was frayed and worn with the wind and rain of many winters.
+Its solitary door of old planks, roughly nailed together, opened full on to the
+moor.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the back was a patch of garden-ground, which was supposed to grow potatoes
+in the season, but which had never yet been known to grow any that were fit to
+eat. Mr. St. George looked round with a sneer as he dismounted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And it was in this wretched den that I spent the first eight years of my
+existence!&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;And the woman whom this place calls its
+mistress was the first being whom I learned to love! And, faith, I&rsquo;m
+rather doubtful whether I&rsquo;ve ever loved anybody half so well
+since.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Putting his horse&rsquo;s bridle over a convenient hook, and dispensing with
+the ceremony of knocking, Kester St. George lifted the latch, pushed open the
+door, stooped his head, and went in. Inside the hut everything was in
+semi-darkness, and Kester stood for a minute with the door in his hand,
+striving to make out the objects before him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come in and shut the door: I expected you,&rdquo; said a hollow voice
+from one corner of the room; and the one room, such as it was, comprised the
+whole hut.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is that you, Mother Mim?&rdquo; asked Kester.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ay&mdash;who else should it be?&rdquo; answered the voice. &ldquo;But
+come in and shut the door. That cold wind gives me the shivers.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester did as he was told, and then made his way to a wretched pallet at the
+other end of the hut. Of furniture there was hardly any, and the aspect of the
+whole place was miserable in the extreme. Over the ashes of a wood fire
+crouched a girl of sixteen, ragged and unkempt, who stared at him with black,
+glittering eyes as he passed her. Next moment he was standing by the side of a
+ragged pallet, on which lay the figure of a woman who looked ill almost unto
+death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, mother, whatever has been the matter with you?&rdquo; asked Kester.
+&ldquo;A little bit out of sorts, eh? But you&rsquo;ll soon be all right again
+now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, I shall soon be all right now&mdash;soon be quite well,&rdquo;
+answered the woman grimly. &ldquo;A black box and six feet of earth cure
+everything.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You mustn&rsquo;t talk in that way, mother,&rdquo; said Kester, as he
+sat down on the only chair in the place, and took one of the woman&rsquo;s
+lean, hot hands in his. &ldquo;You will live to plague us for many a year to
+come.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Kester St. George, this is the last time you and I will meet in this
+world.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hope not, with all my heart,&rdquo; said Kester, feelingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know what I know, and I know that what I say is true,&rdquo; answered
+Mother Mim. &ldquo;You would not have come now if I had not worked a spell
+strong enough to bring you here even against your will. I worked it four nights
+ago, at midnight, when that young viper there&rdquo;&mdash;pointing a finger at
+the girl, who was still cowering over the ashes&mdash;&ldquo;was fast asleep,
+and there were no eyes to see but those of the cold stars. Ah! but it was
+horrible! and if it had not been that I felt I must see you before I died, I
+could never have gone through with it.&rdquo; She paused for a moment, as
+though overcome by some dreadful recollection. &ldquo;Then, when it was over, I
+crept back to bed, and waited quietly, knowing that now you could not choose
+but come.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I ought to have come and seen you long ago&mdash;I know it&mdash;I feel
+it,&rdquo; said Kester. &ldquo;But let bygones be bygones, and I give you my
+solemn promise never to neglect you again. I am rich now, mother, and you shall
+never want for anything as long as you live.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Too late&mdash;too late!&rdquo; sighed the woman. &ldquo;Yes,
+you&rsquo;re rich now, rich enough to bury me, and that&rsquo;s all I ask you
+to do.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t talk like that, mother,&rdquo; said Kester.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you had only come to see me!&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;That was
+all I wanted. Just to see your face, and squeeze your hand, and have you to
+talk to me for a little while. I wanted none of your money&mdash;no, not a
+single shilling of it. It was only you I wanted.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester began to feel slightly bored. He squeezed Mother Mim&rsquo;s hand, and
+then dropped it, but he did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But you didn&rsquo;t come,&rdquo; moaned the woman, &ldquo;and you
+wouldn&rsquo;t have come now if I hadn&rsquo;t worked a charm to bring
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There you wrong me,&rdquo; said Kester, decisively. &ldquo;Your charm,
+or spell, or whatever it may have been, had no effect in bringing me here. I
+came of my own free will.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Self-conceited, as you always were and always will be,&rdquo; muttered
+the woman. Then, half raising herself in bed, and addressing the girl, she
+cried: &ldquo;Nell, you hussy, just you hook it for a quarter of an hour. The
+gent and I have something to talk about.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl rose sullenly, went slowly out, and banged the door behind her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester wondered what was coming next. He had dropped the woman&rsquo;s hand,
+but she now held it out for him to take again. He took it, and she pressed his
+hand passionately to her lips three or four times.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If the great secret of my life is to be told at all on this side the
+grave, the time to tell it is now come. I always thought to die without
+revealing it, but somehow of late everything has seemed different to me, and I
+feel now as if I couldn&rsquo;t die easy without telling you.&rdquo; She paused
+for a minute, exhausted. There was some brandy on the chimney-piece, and Kester
+gave her a little. Again she took his hand and kissed it passionately.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You will, perhaps, curse me for what I am about to tell you,&rdquo; she
+went on, &ldquo;but whether you do so or not, so may Heaven help me if it is
+anything more than the simple truth! Kester St. George, you have no right to
+the name you bear&mdash;to the name the world knows you by!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester was so startled that for a moment or two he sat like one suddenly
+stricken dumb. &ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s more
+to follow. I like boldness in lying as in everything else.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Again I swear that I am telling you no more than the solemn
+truth.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If I am not Kester St. George,&rdquo; he said with a sneer,
+&ldquo;perhaps you will kindly inform me who I really am.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are my son!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He flung the woman&rsquo;s hand savagely from him, and sprang to his feet with
+an oath. &ldquo;Your son!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Ha! ha! ha! Your son, indeed!
+Since when have your senses quite left you, Mother Mim? A dark cell in Bedlam
+and a strait waistcoat would be your best physic.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am rightly punished,&rdquo; moaned the woman&mdash;&ldquo;rightly
+punished. I ought to have told you years ago&mdash;ay&mdash;before you ever
+grew to be a man. But I loved you so, and had such pride in you, that I
+couldn&rsquo;t bear the thought of telling you, and it&rsquo;s only now when
+I&rsquo;m on my deathbed that the secret forces itself from me. But it will go
+no farther, never you fear that. No living soul but you will ever hear it from
+my lips; and you have only got to keep your own lips tightly shut, and you will
+live and die as Kester St. George.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sank back with the exhaustion of speaking. Mechanically, and almost without
+knowing what he was doing, Kester again gave her a little brandy. Then he sat
+down; and Mother Mim, finding his hand close by, took possession of it again.
+He shuddered slightly, but did not withdraw it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although Mother Mim had advanced no proofs in support of the strange story she
+had just told him, there was something in her tone which carried conviction to
+his inmost heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I must know more of this,&rdquo; he said, after a little while, speaking
+almost in a whisper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How well I remember everything about it! It seems only like yesterday
+that it all happened,&rdquo; sighed the woman. &ldquo;You&mdash;my own child,
+and he&mdash;the other one that was sent to me to nurse, were born within a few
+hours of one another. His father broke a blood-vessel about six weeks after the
+child was brought to me. The mother went with her husband to Italy to take care
+of him, and the child was left with me. A week or two afterwards he was taken
+suddenly ill, and died. Then the devil tempted me to put my own boy into the
+place of the lost heir. When Mrs. St. George came back from Italy she came to
+see her child, and you were shown to her as that child. She accepted you
+without a moment&rsquo;s suspicion. They let you stay with me till you were
+eight years old, and then they took you away and sent you to school. My husband
+and my sister were the only two beside myself who knew what had been done, and
+they both died years ago without saying a word. I shall join them in a few
+days, and then you alone will be the keeper of the secret. With you it will
+die, and on your tombstone they will write: &lsquo;Here lies the body of Kester
+St. George.&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had told her story with great difficulty, and with frequent interruptions
+to gather strength and breath to finish it. She now lay back, utterly
+exhausted. Her eyes closed, her hand relaxed its hold on Kester&rsquo;s, her
+jaw dropped slightly, the thin white face grew thinner and whiter: it seemed as
+if Death, passing that way, had looked in unexpectedly, and had beckoned her to
+go with him. Kester rose quickly, and struck a match and lighted a fragment of
+candle that he found on the chimney-piece. His next impulse was to try and
+revive her with a little brandy, but he paused with the glass in his hand. Why
+try to revive her? Would it not be better for him, for her, for every one, if
+she were really dead? If such were the case, it would do away with all fear of
+her strange secret being ever divulged to any one else. Yes&mdash;in every way
+her death would be a welcome release.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was not without a tremor, it was not without a faster beating of the heart,
+that Kester took the bit of cracked looking-glass from the wall and held it to
+the woman&rsquo;s lips. His very life seemed to stand still for a moment or two
+while he waited for the result. It came. The glass clouded faintly. The woman
+was not dead. With a muttered curse Kester dashed the glass across the floor
+and put back the candle on the chimney-piece. Then he took up his hat. Where
+was the use of staying longer? She could tell him nothing more when she should
+have come to her senses than she had told him already: nothing, that is, of any
+consequence; and as for details, he did not want them&mdash;at least, not now.
+What he had been told already held food enough for thought for some time to
+come. He paused for a moment before going out. Was it really possible&mdash;was
+it really credible, that that haggard, sharp-featured woman was his
+mother?&mdash;that his father had been a coarse, common labouring man, a mere
+hedger and ditcher, who had lived and died in that mean hut, and that he
+himself, instead of being the Kester St. George he had always believed himself
+to be, was no other than the son of those two&mdash;the boy whose supposed
+death he remembered to have heard about when little more than a mere child?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Fiercely and savagely he told himself again and again that such a thing could
+not be&mdash;that what Mother Mim had told him was nothing more than a pack of
+devil&rsquo;s lies&mdash;the invention of a brain weakened and distorted by
+illness and the clouds of coming death. It was high time to go. He put five
+sovereigns on the chimney-piece, went softly out, and shut the door behind him.
+The girl was sitting on the low mud-wall near the door, with the skirt of her
+dress drawn over her head as some protection from the bitter wind. Her black,
+glittering eyes took him in from head to foot as he walked up to her. &ldquo;Go
+inside at once. She has fainted,&rdquo; said Kester. The girl nodded and went.
+Then Kester mounted his horse and rode slowly homeward through the chilly
+twilight. Bitterest thoughts held him as with a vice. When he came within sight
+of the chimneys of Park Newton, he gave a sigh of relief, and put spurs to his
+horse. &ldquo;That is mine, and no power on earth shall take it from me,&rdquo;
+he muttered. &ldquo;That and the money that comes with it. I am Kester St.
+George. Let those disprove who can!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room, smoking
+a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct taps at the
+door, which he recognized as the peculiar signal of Dobbs. It was nearly an
+hour past midnight, and in that early household every one had been long abed,
+or, at least, had retired long ago to their own rooms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by no means
+infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier hour than on the
+present occasion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come in, Dobbs,&rdquo; said Lionel. &ldquo;You are later to-night than
+usual.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such an
+hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago, that I was to
+let you know without fail the very next time my master took to walking in his
+sleep.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my
+instructions.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast
+asleep.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In which direction did he go?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and let
+himself out through the little glass door into the garden.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And then which way did he go?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to
+take?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the
+Wizard&rsquo;s Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the
+place to which he has gone.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We must follow him, Dobbs.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets back
+to the house?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes
+quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and soberly as if
+he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does really wake up in the
+morning, he never seems to know anything about what has happened over-night.
+But we must make haste, sir, if we wish to overtake him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will be ready in one minute.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap on his
+head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the open air.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above the
+tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint old house in its white glory,
+but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in deepest shadow. Nowhere
+could they discern the figure of the man whom they had come out to follow; but
+the Wizard&rsquo;s Fountain was a good half mile from the Hall, so they struck
+at once into the nearest footway that led towards it. A few minutes&rsquo;
+quick walking took them there. Lionel knew the place well. It had been a
+favourite haunt of his when living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks
+that preceded the murder. Very weird and solemn the whole place looked, as seen
+by moonlight at that still hour of the night.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that
+particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows immediately
+over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted of beech, and oak,
+and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and fantastic: untended and
+uncared for&mdash;growing together year after year, whispering their leafy
+secrets to each other with every spring that came round, and standing shoulder
+to shoulder against the winds of winter: a hoary brotherhood of forest sages.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The fountain itself, whatever it might have been in years long gone by, was now
+nothing more than a confused heap of huge stones, overgrown with lichens and
+creepers. From the midst of them, and from what had doubtless at one time been
+a representation in marble of the head of a leopard or other forest animal, but
+which now was almost worn past recognition, trickled a thin stream of coldest
+water; which, falling into a broken basin below, over-brimmed itself there, and
+was lost among the cracks and interstices in the masses of broken masonry that
+lay scattered around.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You had better, perhaps, wait here,&rdquo; said Lionel to Dobbs, as they
+halted for a moment at the entrance to the avenue.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dobbs did as he was bidden, and Lionel advanced alone, keeping well within the
+shade of the trees. When within a dozen yards of the fountain, he halted and
+waited. The low, ceaseless monotone of the falling water was the only sound
+that broke the moonlit silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From out the dense shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the avenue, and
+as if he himself were part of that shadow, Kester St. George slowly emerged. In
+the middle of the avenue, and in the full light of the moon, he paused. His
+right hand was thrust into the bosom of his vest, as if he were hiding
+something there. Standing thus, he seemed, as it were, to shrink within
+himself. Still hugging that hidden something, he seemed to listen&mdash;to
+listen as if his very life depended on the act. Then, with a slow, creeping
+motion, as though his feet were weighted with lead, he stole towards the
+fountain. He reached it. He grasped the stonework with one hand, and then he
+turned to gaze, as though in dread of some hidden pursuer. Then slowly, almost
+reluctantly, he seemed to draw something from within his vest, and, while still
+gazing furtively around him, he thrust his arm, elbow deep, into a crevice in
+the masonry, let it rest there for a single moment, and then withdrew it. With
+the same furtively restless look, and ears that seemed to listen more intently
+than ever, he paused for an instant. Then he stole swiftly back across the
+moonlit avenue, and so vanished among the black shadows from whence he had
+come.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So natural had been his actions, so unstudied his every movement, that it
+seemed impossible to believe that he was indeed asleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by the
+fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a minute before. He
+had noted well the place. There, before him, was the very crevice into which
+Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same crevice was Lionel&rsquo;s arm now
+thrust&mdash;elbow deep&mdash;shoulder deep. His groping fingers soon laid hold
+of that which was hidden there. He drew out his arm quickly, and the something
+that he had found glittered steel-blue in the moonlight. With a cry of horror
+he dropped it, and it fell with a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering
+had recognized it in a moment as a dagger which he had last seen in the
+possession of Percy Osmond.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br />
+MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott had reached Pincote, and she did not fail to let every one know
+it. As the Squire had predicted, the moment she had taken off her waterproof,
+and changed her boots, she marched straight into the library, and asked for her
+money. It was with a feeling of profound satisfaction that her brother unlocked
+his bureau, and handed her a roll of notes representing five thousand seven
+hundred and fifty pounds. She counted the notes over twice, slowly and
+carefully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?&rdquo; she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least,&rdquo; she
+said ungraciously. &ldquo;My man of business tells me that seven is quite a
+common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per cent. on real
+property, without any difficulty.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I should advise you to be careful what you are about,&rdquo; said the
+Squire, gravely. &ldquo;Big profits, big risks; little profits, little
+risks.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know perfectly well what I&rsquo;m doing,&rdquo; said Mrs. McDermott,
+with a toss of her antiquated curls. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s you slow, sleepy,
+country folks, who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances
+that come to people who keep their eyes wide open.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned in spirit when he
+thought what his &ldquo;golden chance&rdquo; had done for him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Let her buy her experience as I&rsquo;ve bought mine,&rdquo; he said to
+himself. &ldquo;From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for
+it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?&rdquo; he asked
+Jane, a day or two later.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to go
+by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hope not, with all my heart,&rdquo; sighed the Squire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott, in truth, was not a lady who ever troubled herself to make her
+presence agreeable to those with whom she might be staying. Consideration for
+the comfort of others was a thought that never entered her mind. From the day
+of her arrival at Pincote she began to interfere with the existing arrangements
+of the house; finding fault with everything: changing this, altering the other,
+and evidently determined to have her own way in all. The first thing she did
+was to find fault with her bedroom, although it was one of the pleasantest
+apartments in the house, and had been especially arranged by Jane herself with
+a view to her aunt&rsquo;s comfort. But it was not the best bedroom&mdash;the
+state bedroom, therefore Mrs. McDermott would have none of it. Into the state
+bedroom, a gloomy apartment fronting the north, which was never used above once
+or twice in half a dozen years, she migrated at once with all her belongings.
+Her next act, she being without a maid of her own at the time, was to induct
+one of the Pincote servants into that office, taking her altogether from her
+proper duties, and not permitting her to do a stroke of work for any one but
+herself. Then she talked her brother into allowing the dinner hour to be
+altered from six to half-past seven; so that, as the Squire grumbled to
+himself, the cloth was hardly removed before it was time to go to bed. Then the
+Squire must never appear at dinner without a dress coat, and a white
+tie&mdash;articles which, or late years, he had been tacitly allowed to
+dispense with when dining en famille. A white cravat especially was to him an
+abomination. He never could tie the knot properly, and after crumpling three or
+four, and throwing them across the room in a rage, Jane&rsquo;s services would
+generally have to be called into requisition as a last resource.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One other infliction there was which the Squire found it very difficult to bear
+patiently. After dinner, when there was no particular company at Pincote, it
+was an understood thing that the Squire should have the dining-room to himself
+for half an hour, in order that he might enjoy the post-prandial snooze which
+long custom had made almost a necessity with him. But this was an arrangement
+that failed to meet with the approbation of Mrs. McDermott. She insisted that
+the Squire should either accompany the ladies, or, otherwise, she herself would
+keep him company in the dining-room; and woe be to him if he dared so much as
+close an eye for five seconds! It was &ldquo;Where are your manners, sir?
+I&rsquo;m thoroughly ashamed of you;&rdquo; or else, &ldquo;Falling asleep,
+sir, in the presence of a lady? a clodhopper could do no more than that!&rdquo;
+till the Squire felt as if his life were being slowly tormented out of him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nor did Jane fail to come in for a share of her aunt&rsquo;s strictures. Mrs.
+McDermott evidently looked upon her as little more than a child. Firstly, her
+hair was not arranged in accordance with her aunt&rsquo;s ideas of propriety in
+such matters, which, truth to say, belonged to a somewhat antiquated school.
+Then the girl was altogether too bright and sunny-looking, with her bows of
+ribbon and bits of lace showing daintily here and there. And she was too
+forward in introducing topics of conversation at meal-times, instead of
+allowing the introduction of appropriate themes to come from her elders and her
+betters. Then Jane was addicted to the heinous offence of laughing too
+heartily, and too often. Altogether her aunt saw in her much that stood in need
+of reformation. Jane bore everything with a sort of good-humoured indifference.
+&ldquo;The time to speak is not come yet. I will see how much further she will
+go,&rdquo; she said to herself. But when the cook came to her one morning and
+said: &ldquo;If you please, miss, Mrs. Dermott says that for the future I am to
+take my dinner orders from her,&rdquo; then Jane thought that the time to speak
+was drawing very near indeed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do as Mrs. McDermott tells you,&rdquo; she said quietly to the
+astonished cook.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, I never! I thought that the mistress had more spirit than
+that,&rdquo; said the woman as she went back to her duties in the kitchen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Next day brought the coachman. &ldquo;Beg pardon, miss,&rdquo; he said, with a
+touch of his hair; &ldquo;but Mrs. McDermott have given orders that the
+brougham and gray mare is to be ready for her every afternoon at three
+o&rsquo;clock to the minute. I am to take the order, miss, I suppose?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Quite right, John, till I give you orders to the contrary.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Next came the gardener. &ldquo;Very sorry, miss, but I shall have to give
+notice&mdash;I shall really.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, what&rsquo;s amiss now, Gibson?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s all Mrs. McDermott, miss; begging your pardon for saying so.
+Why will she pretend to understand gardening better than me that has been at
+it, man and boy, for fifty year? Why will she come finding fault with this,
+that, and the other, in a way that neither the Squire nor you, miss, ever
+thinks of doing? And she not only finds fault, but gives orders, ridiculous
+orders, about things she knows nothing of. I can&rsquo;t stand it, miss, I
+really can&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mrs. McDermott will give you no more orders, Gibson, after to-day. You
+can go back to your work with an easy mind.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jane waited till next morning, and then having ascertained that her aunt had
+again given orders to the cook respecting dinner, she walked straight into the
+breakfast-room where she knew that she should find Mrs. McDermott alone, and
+busy with her correspondence&mdash;for she was a great letter writer at that
+hour of the morning.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What a noisy girl you are,&rdquo; she said crossly, as her niece drew up
+a chair and sat down beside her. &ldquo;I was just writing a few lines to dear
+Lady Clark when you came in in your usual brusque way and put all my ideas to
+flight.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They must be poor, timid, little ideas, aunt, to be so easily frightened
+away,&rdquo; said Jane.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Jane, there has been a flippant tone about you for the last day or two
+that I don&rsquo;t at all approve of. Flippancy in young people is easily
+acquired, but difficult to get rid of. The sooner you get rid of yours the
+better I shall be pleased.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jane rose from her chair and swept Mrs. McDermott a stately curtsey. &ldquo;Is
+it not almost time, aunt,&rdquo; she said quietly, &ldquo;that you gave up
+treating me, and talking to me, as if I were a child?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you are no longer a child in years, you are still very childish in
+many of your ways.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are quite epigrammatic this morning, aunt.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be impertinent, young lady.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have no intention of being impertinent. But I have come to see you
+about the order for dinner which you gave the cook half an hour ago.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What about that?&rdquo; asked Mrs. McDermott snappishly. &ldquo;In what
+way does it concern you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It concerns me very materially indeed,&rdquo; answered Jane. &ldquo;You
+have ordered several things for dinner that papa does not care about; some, in
+fact, that he never eats. Fried soles, for instance, and veal
+cutlets&mdash;articles he never touches. So I have told the cook to supplement
+your order with some turbot and a boiled fowl à la marquise. I have also told
+her that for the future she will receive from me every evening the menu for
+next day. Should my list contain nothing that you care about, the cook has
+orders to obtain specially for you any articles that you may wish to
+have.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Upon my word! what next?&rdquo; was all that Mrs. McDermott could gasp
+out at the moment, so overcome was she with rage and surprise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;This next,&rdquo; said Jane. &ldquo;From to-day the dinner hour will be
+altered back to six o&rsquo;clock. Half-past seven suits neither papa nor me.
+Should the latter hour be a necessity with you, you can always have your dinner
+served at that time in your own room. But papa and I will dine at six.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I shall talk to your papa about this, and ascertain from his own lips
+whether I am to be dictated to and insulted by a chit like you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is just what I must forbid you to do,&rdquo; said Jane.
+&ldquo;Papa&rsquo;s health has not been what it ought to be for a long time
+past.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Only a few weeks ago he had a slight stroke. Happily he soon recovered
+from it, but Dr. Davidson says that all exciting topics must be kept carefully
+from him. You know how little things will often excite him; and if you begin to
+worry him about any petty differences that may arise between you and me, you
+will do so at your peril, and must be satisfied to take whatever consequences
+may arise from your so doing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott stared at her niece in open-mouthed wonder.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Perhaps you have something more to say to me,&rdquo; she gasped out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, several things. Before ordering the brougham to be at your beck and
+call every day at three o&rsquo;clock, it might, perhaps, be just as well to
+make sure that your brother is not likely to want it. He has taken to using it
+rather frequently of late.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, indeed; I&rsquo;ll make due inquiry,&rdquo; was all that Mrs.
+McDermott could find to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And if I were you, I wouldn&rsquo;t go quite so often into the
+greenhouses, or near the men at work in the garden.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while you
+are about it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an hour.
+He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot do without it.
+This is most imperative.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no
+intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you when you
+come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here as papa&rsquo;s
+guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you comfortable. But there
+can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that mistress, at present, is your
+niece, Jane Culpepper.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had bent over
+her, kissed her, and swept from the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary state, at half-past seven, in her
+own room. But she found it so utterly wretched to have no one to talk to but
+her maid, that on the third day her resolution failed her; and when six
+o&rsquo;clock came round she found herself in the dining-room, sitting next her
+brother, with something of the feeling of a school-girl who has been whipped
+and forgiven.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid and stand-off-ish
+for several days to come. Towards the Squire she imperceptibly thawed, and the
+old familiar intimacy was gradually resumed between them. But between herself
+and Jane there was something&mdash;a restraint, a coldness&mdash;which no time
+could altogether remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that
+she had been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some
+great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then have
+afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed over to his
+sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to her. It was a great
+weight off his mind, and although he did not say much to Tom Bristow about it,
+he was none the less grateful in his secret heart. He was still as much at a
+loss as ever to understand by what occult means Tom had been able to raise the
+mortgage of six thousand pounds on Prior&rsquo;s Croft. He had hinted more than
+once that he should like to know the secret by means of which a result so
+remarkable had been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly
+impervious.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six thousand
+pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said: &ldquo;With
+regard to Prior&rsquo;s Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in the
+matter: perhaps you won&rsquo;t object to it a second time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What is it, Bristow, what is it?&rdquo; said the Squire, graciously.
+&ldquo;I shall be glad to listen to anything you may have to say.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What I want you to do, sir,&rdquo; said Tom, &ldquo;is to have some
+plans at once drawn up, and have the foundations laid of a number of
+houses&mdash;twenty to thirty at the least&mdash;on Prior&rsquo;s Croft.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I thought you crazy about the mortgage,&rdquo; said the Squire, with a
+twinkle in his eye. &ldquo;Are you quite sure you are not crazy now?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am just as sane now as I was then.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But to build houses on Prior&rsquo;s Croft! Why, nobody would ever live
+in them. The place is altogether out of the way.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That has nothing whatever to do with the question. If you will only take
+my advice, sir, you will get the foundations down without an hour&rsquo;s
+unnecessary delay.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And where should I be at the end of a month, when the contractor came to
+me for the first instalment of his money?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All that can be arranged for without difficulty. Your credit is sound in
+the market, and that is the one thing indispensable.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But what is to be the ultimate result of all these mysterious
+proceedings?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now you get me in a corner. But I must again crave your indulgence, and
+ask you to let the mystery remain a mystery a little while longer. If you have
+sufficient faith in me, why, take my advice. If not&mdash;you will simply be
+missing a chance of making an odd thousand or so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And that is what I can by no means afford to do,&rdquo; said the Squire
+with emphasis.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The result was that a week later some forty or fifty men were busily at work
+cutting the turf and digging the foundations for the score of grand new villas
+which Mr. Culpepper had decided on building at Prior&rsquo;s Croft.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Everybody&rsquo;s verdict was that the Squire must be mad. New villas, indeed!
+Why there were hardly people enough in sleepy old Duxley to occupy the houses
+that fell vacant as the older inhabitants died off.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That may be,&rdquo; said the Squire, when this plea was urged on his
+notice; &ldquo;but I mean to make my villas so handsome, so commodious, and so
+healthy, that a lot of the old rattletrap dens will at once be deserted, and I
+shall not have house-room for half the people who will want to become my
+tenants.&rdquo; So spoke the Squire, putting a brave face on the matter, but
+really as much in the dark as any one.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But if there was one person more puzzled than another, that person was
+certainly Mr. Cope the banker. He had ascertained for a fact that within a few
+days of their interview&mdash;their very painful interview, he termed it to
+himself&mdash;his quondam friend had actually become the purchaser of
+Prior&rsquo;s Croft; and what was a still greater marvel, had actually paid
+down two thousand pounds in hard cash for it! And now the town&rsquo;s talk was
+of nothing but the grand villas which the Squire was going to build on his new
+purchase. Mr. Cope could hardly credit it all till he went and saw with his own
+eyes the men hard at work. Still, it was altogether incomprehensible to him.
+Could the Squire have merely been playing him a trick; have only been testing
+the strength of his friendship, when he came to him to borrow the five thousand
+pounds? No, that could hardly be; else why had his balance at the bank been
+allowed to dwindle to a mere nothing? Besides which, he knew from words that
+the Squire had let drop at different times, that he must have been speculating
+heavily. Could it be possible that his speculations had, after all, proved
+successful? If not, how account for this sudden flood of prosperity? For
+several days Mr. Cope failed to enjoy his dinner in the hearty way that was
+habitual with him: for several nights Mr. Cope&rsquo;s sleep failed to refresh
+him as it usually did.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although the Squire&rsquo;s heaviest burden had been lifted off his mind with
+the payment of his sister&rsquo;s money, he had by no means forgotten the loss
+of his daughter&rsquo;s dowry. And now that his mind was easy on one point,
+this lesser trouble began to assume a magnitude that it had not possessed
+before. He could not get rid of the thought that there was nothing but his own
+frail life between his daughter and all but absolute penury. A few hundred
+pounds Jane would undoubtedly have, but what would that be to a young lady
+brought up as she had been brought up? &ldquo;Not enough,&rdquo; as the Squire
+put it in his homely way, &ldquo;to find her in bread-and-cheese and cotton
+gowns.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But what was to be done? Life assurance was out of the question. He was too old
+and too infirm. There was nothing much to be got out of the estate. It was true
+that he might thin the timber a little and make a few hundreds that way; but
+the heir-at-law had too shrewd an eye to his own ultimate interests to allow
+very much to be done in that line. Besides which, the Squire himself could not
+for very shame have impaired what was the chief beauty of the Pincote
+property&mdash;its magnificent array of timber.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was, perhaps, a little cheese-paring to be done in the way of cutting
+down domestic expenses. A couple of servants might be dispensed with indoors.
+The under-gardener and the stable-boy might be sent about their business. The
+gray mare and the brougham might be disposed of. The wine merchant&rsquo;s bill
+might be lightened a little; and fewer coals, perhaps, might be burnt in
+winter&mdash;and that was nearly all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But even such reductions as these, trifling though they were, could not be made
+secretly&mdash;could not be made, in fact, without becoming the talk of the
+whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire detested more than
+another, it was having his private affairs challenged and discussed by other
+people. And what, after all, would the saving amount to? How many years of such
+petty economy would be needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of
+the sum he had lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle, as he said to
+himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled, too, with asking the
+same questions over and over again, and still finding himself as far from a
+satisfactory answer as ever.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it any real
+basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground which has already
+been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed estate&mdash;the piece of
+ground on which his new mansion was to have been built. Land, just now, was
+fetching good prices. Yes, he would certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in
+Jenny&rsquo;s name whatever money it might fetch&mdash;not that it would
+command a very high price, being a poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still
+it would be a nest egg, though only a little one, for a rainy day.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br />
+KNOCKLEY HOLT.</h2>
+
+<p>
+About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The Squire
+would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without Tom&rsquo;s
+society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more and more
+disinclined either for going out himself or having company at home. Still he
+could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now and then; and Tom being
+either a good listener or a lively talker, as occasion might require, and
+having already rendered the Squire an important service, it seemed somehow to
+fall into the natural order of things that he should be invited three or four
+times a week to dine at Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott&rsquo;s arrival was
+he there less frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very
+lively company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to
+say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she overwhelmed
+her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty gossip about things
+that had little or no interest for him; but about which he was obliged to feign
+an interest, unless, as he himself expressed it, &ldquo;he wanted to know the
+length of his sister&rsquo;s tongue.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But when Tom was there the case was different. He acted as a sort of buffer
+between Mrs. McDermott and the Squire. By means of a few adroit questions, and
+a clever assumption of ignorance with regard to whatever topic Mrs. McDermott
+might be dilating on, he generally succeeded in drawing the full torrent of her
+conversation on his own devoted head, thereby affording the Squire a breathing
+space for which he was truly grateful. Sometimes, but not very often, Tom let
+the demon of mischief get the mastery of him. On such occasions he would lead
+Mrs. McDermott on by one artful question after another till she began to
+contradict herself and eat her own words, and ended by floundering helplessly
+in a sort of mental quagmire, and so relapsing into sulky silence, with a dim
+sense upon her that she had somehow been coaxed into making an exhibition of
+herself by that demure-looking young scamp of a Bristow, who seemed hand and
+glove with both her brother and her niece after a fashion that she neither
+liked nor understood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yet was the love of hearing herself talk so ingrained in Mrs. McDermott&rsquo;s
+nature, that by the time of Tom&rsquo;s next visit to Pincote she was ready to
+fall into the same trap again, had he been inclined to lead her on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who is that young Bristow that you and Jane make such a pet of?&rdquo;
+she asked her brother one day. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t seem to recollect any
+family of that name hereabouts.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pet, indeed! Nobody makes a pet of him, as you call it,&rdquo; growled
+the Squire. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s the son of the doctor who attended poor Charlotte
+in her last illness. He&rsquo;s a sharp young fellow who has got his head
+screwed on the right way, and he&rsquo;s been useful to me in one or two
+business matters, and may be so again; so there&rsquo;s no harm in asking him
+to dinner now and then.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now and then with you seems to mean three or four times a week,&rdquo;
+sneered Mrs. McDermott.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And what if it does?&rdquo; retorted the Squire. &ldquo;As long as I can
+call the house my own, I&rsquo;ll ask anybody I like to dinner, and as often as
+I like.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Only if I were you, I wouldn&rsquo;t forget that I&rsquo;d a daughter
+who was just at a marriageable age.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nor a sister who wouldn&rsquo;t object to a husband number two,&rdquo;
+chuckled the Squire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why not set your cap at young Bristow, eh, Fanny? You might do worse.
+He&rsquo;s young and not bad looking, and if he has no money of his own,
+he&rsquo;s just the right sort to look well after yours.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott fanned herself indignantly. &ldquo;You never were very refined,
+Titus,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but you certainly get coarser every time I see
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Culpepper only chuckled to himself, and poked the fire vigorously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have that young Bristow out of this house before I&rsquo;m
+three weeks older!&rdquo; vowed the &lsquo;widow to herself. &ldquo;The way he
+and Jane carry on together is simply disgusting, and yet that poor weak brother
+of mine can&rsquo;t see it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From that day forth she took to watching Tom and Jane more particularly than
+she had done before. Not satisfied with watching them herself, she induced her
+maid Emma to act as a spy on their actions. With her assistance, Mrs. McDermott
+was not long in gathering sufficient evidence to warrant her, as she thought,
+in seeking a private interview with her brother on the subject. &ldquo;And high
+time too,&rdquo; she said grimly to herself. &ldquo;That minx of a Jane is
+carrying on a fine game under the rose. The arrant little flirt! And as for
+that young Bristow&mdash;of course it&rsquo;s Jane&rsquo;s money that
+he&rsquo;s after. Titus must be as blind as a bat, or he would have seen it all
+long ago. I&rsquo;ve no patience with him&mdash;none!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Having worked herself up to the requisite pitch, downstairs she bounced and
+burst into the Squire&rsquo;s private room&mdash;commonly called his study. She
+burst into the room, but halted suddenly the moment she had crossed the
+threshold. The Squire was there, but not alone. Tom Bristow was with him. The
+two were in deep consultation&mdash;so much she could see at a
+glance&mdash;bending towards each other over the little table, and speaking, as
+it seemed to her, almost in a whisper. The Squire turned with a gesture of
+impatience at the opening of the door. &ldquo;Oh, is that you, Fanny?&rdquo; he
+said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll see you presently; I&rsquo;m busy with Mr. Bristow,
+just now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She went out without a word, but her face flushed deeply, and an evil look came
+into her eyes. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the way you treat your only sister, Mr.
+Titus Culpepper, is it?&rdquo; she muttered under her breath. &ldquo;Not a
+penny of my money shall ever come to you or yours.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom had walked over to Pincote that morning to see the Squire respecting the
+building going on at Prior&rsquo;s Croft. When their conference had come to an
+end, said the Squire to Tom: &ldquo;You know that scrubby bit of ground of
+mine&mdash;Knockley Holt?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom started. &ldquo;Yes, I know it very well,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It is
+rather singular that you should be the first to speak about it; because it was
+partly about that very piece of ground that I am here this morning to see
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ay&mdash;ay&mdash;how&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; said the Squire, suddenly
+brightening up from the apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of
+late.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, it doesn&rsquo;t seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that
+perhaps you wouldn&rsquo;t mind letting me have a lease of it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several weeks.
+&ldquo;And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to ask your
+advice about it!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom&rsquo;s face flushed suddenly. &ldquo;And do you really think of selling
+Knockley Holt?&rdquo; he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the
+Squire&rsquo;s face more keenly than usual.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn&rsquo;t have said what I
+have said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to me
+than the land is ever likely to be. It won&rsquo;t fetch much I know, but then
+I didn&rsquo;t give much for it, and whoever may get it won&rsquo;t have much
+of a bargain.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Perhaps you wouldn&rsquo;t object to have me for a purchaser?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I should
+want money down, and&mdash;&mdash; But I needn&rsquo;t say more about
+it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve
+hundred pounds for it, cash down.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at anything that
+Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a moment or two in blank
+amazement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!&rdquo; were his first words.
+&ldquo;And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve
+hundred pounds?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, I&rsquo;m worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds,&rdquo;
+said Tom, with a smile. &ldquo;Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by
+one little stroke in cotton.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well done, young one,&rdquo; said the Squire, heartily. &ldquo;You are
+not such a fool as you look. And now take an old man&rsquo;s advice.
+Don&rsquo;t speculate any more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her
+cake. Don&rsquo;t tempt her again. Be content with what you&rsquo;ve got, and
+speculate no more.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;At any rate, I won&rsquo;t forget your advice, sir,&rdquo; said Tom.
+&ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; he added to himself, &ldquo;what he would think and say
+if he knew that it was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread
+and cheese.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do
+with it when you have got it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask
+me,&rdquo; said Tom, laughingly. &ldquo;If I buy it, it will be entirely on
+speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a big
+success.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, well, that will be your look out,&rdquo; said the Squire,
+good-naturedly. &ldquo;But, Bristow, it&rsquo;s not worth twelve hundred
+pounds, nor anything like that sum.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think it is, sir&mdash;at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay
+that amount for it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a clear
+thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have made you an offer, sir. It is for you to say whether you are
+willing to accept it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Seeing that you offer me two hundred pounds more than I ever hoped to
+get, I&rsquo;m not such an ass as to say, No. Only I think you are robbing
+yourself. I do indeed, Bristow; and that&rsquo;s what I don&rsquo;t like to
+see.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think, sir, that I&rsquo;m pretty well able to look after my own
+interests,&rdquo; said Tom, with a meaning smile. &ldquo;Am I to consider that
+Knockley Holt is to become my property?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course you are, boy&mdash;of course you are. But I must say that you
+are a little bit of a simpleton to give me twelve hundred when you might have
+it for a thousand.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;An offer&rsquo;s an offer, and I&rsquo;ll abide by mine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then there&rsquo;s nothing more to be said: I&rsquo;ll see my lawyer
+about the deeds to-morrow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom shook hands with the Squire and went in search of Jane.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Perhaps I may come in now,&rdquo; said Mrs. McDermott five minutes
+later, as she opened the door of her brother&rsquo;s room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course you may,&rdquo; said the Squire. &ldquo;Young Bristow and I
+were talking over some business affairs before, that would have had no interest
+for you, and that you know nothing about.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It&rsquo;s about young Bristow, as you call him, that I have come to see
+you this morning.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, indeed,&rdquo; said the Squire drily. Then he took off his
+spectacles, and rubbed them with his pocket handkerchief, and began to whistle
+a tune under his breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott glared fiercely at him, and her voice took an added tone of
+asperity when she spoke again. &ldquo;I suppose you are aware that your protégé
+is making violent love to your daughter, or else that your daughter is making
+violent love to him: I hardly know which it is!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What!&rdquo; thundered the Squire, as he started to his feet.
+&ldquo;What is that you say, Fanny McDermott?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Simply this: that there is a lot of lovemaking going on between Jane and
+Mr. Bristow. If it is done with your sanction, I have not another word to say.
+But if you tell me that you know nothing about it, I can only say that you must
+have been as blind as a bat and as stupid as an owl.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thank you, Fanny&mdash;thank you,&rdquo; said the Squire sadly, as he
+sat down in his chair again. &ldquo;I dare say I have been both blind and
+stupid; and if what you tell me is true, I must have been.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Miss Jane couldn&rsquo;t long deceive me,&rdquo; said the widow
+spitefully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Miss Jane is too good a girl to deceive anybody.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, in love matters we women hold that everything is fair. Deceit then
+becomes deceit no longer. We call it by a prettier name.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her brother was not heeding her: he was lost in his own thoughts.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The young vagabond!&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;So that&rsquo;s the
+way he&rsquo;s been hoodwinking me, is it? But I&rsquo;ll teach him: I&rsquo;ll
+have him know that I&rsquo;m not to be made a fool of in that way. Make love to
+my daughter, indeed! I&rsquo;ll have him here to-morrow morning, and tell him a
+bit of my mind that will astonish him considerably.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why wait till to-morrow? Why not send for him now?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Because he left here a quarter of an hour ago.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, you would not have far to send for him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Simply that he and Jane are in the shrubbery together at the present
+moment.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire stared at her helplessly for a moment or two. &ldquo;How do you know
+that?&rdquo; he said at last, speaking very quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Because my maid, who was returning from an errand, saw them walking
+there, arm in arm.&rdquo; She paused, as if expecting her brother to say
+something, but he did not speak. &ldquo;I have not had my eyes shut, I assure
+you,&rdquo; she went on. &ldquo;But in these matters women are always more
+quick-sighted than men. From the very first hour of my seeing them together I
+had my suspicions. All their walking and talking together couldn&rsquo;t be for
+nothing. All their hand-shakings and sly glances into each other&rsquo;s eyes
+couldn&rsquo;t be without a meaning.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire got up from his chair and rang the bell. A servant came in.
+&ldquo;Ascertain whether Mr. Bristow is anywhere about the house or grounds;
+and, if he is, tell him that I should like to see him before he goes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott rose in some alarm. It was no part of her policy to be seen
+there by Tom. &ldquo;I am glad you have sent for him,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
+hope matters have not gone too far to be stopped without difficulty.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked up in a little surprise. &ldquo;There will be no difficulty. Why
+should there be?&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, of course not. As you say, why should there be? But I must now bid
+you good-morning for the present. There will be hardly any need, I think, for
+you to mention my name in the affair.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There will be no need to mention anybody&rsquo;s name.
+Good-morning.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott went out and shut the door gently behind her. &ldquo;Breaking
+fast, poor man,&rdquo; she said to herself. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s not long for this
+world, I&rsquo;m afraid. Well, I&rsquo;ve the consolation of knowing that
+I&rsquo;ve always done a sister&rsquo;s duty by him. I wonder what he&rsquo;ll
+die worth. Thousands, no doubt; and all to go to that proud minx of a Jane. We
+are not allowed to hate one another, or else I&rsquo;m afraid I should hate
+that girl.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shook her fist at an imaginary Jane, went straight upstairs, and gave her
+maid a good blowing-up.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Some three weeks had now come and gone since Tom, breaking for once through the
+restraint which had hitherto kept him back, did and said something which made
+Jane very happy. What he did was to draw her face down to his and kiss it: what
+he said was simply, &ldquo;Good-night, my darling.&rdquo; Nothing more, but
+quite enough to be understood by her to whom the words were spoken. But since
+that evening not one syllable more of love had been breathed by Tom. For
+anything that had since passed between them Jane might have imagined that she
+had merely dreamt the words&mdash;that the speaking of them was nothing more
+than a fancy of her own lovesick brain.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Under similar circumstances many young ladies would have considered themselves
+aggrieved, and would not have been deemed unreasonable in so thinking, But Jane
+had no intention whatever of adopting an injured tone even in her own inmost
+thoughts. She had never been in the habit of looking upon herself in the light
+of a victim, and she had no intention of beginning to do so now.
+Surprised&mdash;slightly surprised&mdash;she might be, but that was all. In
+Tom&rsquo;s manner towards her, in the way he looked at her, in the very tone
+of his voice, there was that indescribable something which gave her the sweet
+assurance that she was still loved as much as ever. Such being the case, she
+was well satisfied to wait. She felt that her lover&rsquo;s silence had a
+meaning, that he was not dumb without a reason. When the proper time should
+come he would speak, and to some purpose. Till then Eros should keep a finger
+on his lips, and speak only the language of the eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;So this is the way you treat me, is it, young man?&rdquo; said the
+Squire, sternly, as Tom re-entered the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I beg your pardon, sir,&rdquo; said Tom, looking at him in sheer
+amazement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t pretend that you don&rsquo;t know what I mean.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It may seem stupid on my part, but I must really plead ignorance.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You worm yourself into my confidence till you get the run of the house,
+and can come and go as you like, and you finish up by making love to my
+daughter!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is no crime to love Miss Culpepper, I hope, sir. There are few
+people, I imagine, who could know her without loving her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all very well, but you don&rsquo;t get over me in that way,
+young sir. What right have you to make love to my daughter? That&rsquo;s what I
+want to know.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I may love Miss Culpepper, but I have never told her so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do you mean to say that you have never asked her to marry you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Never, sir; on that point I give you my word of honour.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A good thing for you that you haven&rsquo;t. The sooner you get that
+love tomfoolery out of your head the better.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I promise you one thing, sir,&rdquo; said Tom; &ldquo;if I ever do marry
+Miss Culpepper, it shall be with your full consent and good wishes.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire could not help chuckling. &ldquo;In that case, my boy, you will
+never have her&mdash;not if you live to be as old as Methuselah.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Time will prove, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And look ye here. There must be no more walks in the shrubbery, no more
+gallivanting together among the woods. Do you understand?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Perfectly, sir. Your words could not be plainer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I mean them to be plain. There seems to be no harm done so far, but
+it&rsquo;s time this nonsense was put a stop to. Miss Culpepper must marry in a
+very different sphere from yours.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pardon the remark, sir, but you were quite willing to take Mr. Edward
+Cope as your son-in-law. Now, I consider myself quite as good a man as Mr.
+Cope&mdash;quite as eligible a suitor for your daughter&rsquo;s hand.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then I don&rsquo;t. Besides, young Cope would never have had the chance
+of getting her if he hadn&rsquo;t been the son of my oldest friend; the son of
+the man to whose bravery I owe my life itself. Master Edward owes it to his
+father and not to himself that I ever sanctioned his engagement to Miss
+Culpepper.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am indebted for this good turn to Mrs. McDermott,&rdquo; said Tom to
+himself, as he walked homeward through the park. &ldquo;It will only have the
+effect of bringing matters to a climax a little earlier than I intended, but it
+will not alter my plans in the least.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Fanny has been exaggerating as usual,&rdquo; was the Squire&rsquo;s
+comment. &ldquo;There was something in it, no doubt, and it&rsquo;s just as
+well to have crushed it in the bud; but I think it&rsquo;s hardly worth while
+to say anything to Jenny about it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A week later, the Squire happened to be riding on his white pony along the high
+road that fringed one side of Knockley Holt, when, to his intense astonishment,
+he heard the regular monotonous puffing and saw the smoke of a steam engine
+that was apparently hard at work behind a clump of larches in the distance.
+Riding up to the spot, he found some score or so of men all busily engaged.
+They were excavating a hole in the hill-side, filling-in stout timber supports
+as they got deeper down; the engine on the top being employed to hoist up the
+earth in big bucketfuls as fast as it was dug out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s all this about?&rdquo; inquired the Squire of one of the
+men; &ldquo;and who&rsquo;s gaffer here?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mr. Bristow, he be the gaffer, sur, and this hole be dug by his
+orders.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, ho! that&rsquo;s it, is it? And how deep are you going to dig the
+hole, and what do you expect to find when you get to the bottom?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t rightly know, sur, but I should think we be digging for
+water.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A likely tale that! What the dickens should anybody want water for when
+we haven&rsquo;t had a dry day for seven weeks?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Our foreman did say, sur, as how Mr. Bristow was going to have a hole
+dug clean through, so as to make a short cut like to the other side of the
+world. Anyhow, it be mortal dry work.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and rode off. &ldquo;What queer
+crotchet has that young jackanapes got into his head now?&rdquo; he muttered to
+himself. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s just possible, though, that there may be a method in
+his madness.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br />
+AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.</h2>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hi! Jean, whose is this luggage?&rdquo; cried Pierre Janvard one morning
+to his head waiter. He pointed at the same time to a large portmanteau which
+lay among a pile of other luggage in the hall of the Three Crowns Hotel, Bath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With that restless curiosity which was such a marked trait in his character,
+Janvard had a habit of peering about among the luggage of his guests, and even
+of prying stealthily about their bedrooms when he knew that their occupants
+were out of the way, and he himself safe from detection. It was not that he
+hoped to benefit himself in any way, or even to pick up any information that
+would be of value to him, by such a mode of proceeding; but it had been a habit
+with him from boyhood to do this kind of thing, and it was a habit that he
+could by no means overcome.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Passing through the hall this morning, his eye had been attracted by a pile of
+luggage belonging to several fresh arrivals, and he at once began to peer among
+the labels. The second label that took his eye was inscribed, &ldquo;Richard
+Dering, Esq., Passenger to Bath.&rdquo; Janvard stood aghast as he read the
+name. A crowd of direful memories rushed to his mind. For a moment or two he
+could not speak. Then he called Jean as above.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That portmanteau,&rdquo; answered Jean, &ldquo;belongs to a gentleman
+who came in by the last train. He and another gentleman came together. They
+wanted a private sitting-room, and I put them into number twenty-nine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Has the other gentleman any luggage?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, this large black bag belongs to him.&rdquo; Janvard stooped and
+read: &ldquo;Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath.&rdquo; &ldquo;Quite strange
+to me, that name,&rdquo; he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came,
+and shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They have ordered dinner, I suppose?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk about,
+and report it to me afterwards.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind. Was the
+fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel Dering, or was it
+merely one of those coincidences of name common enough in everyday life? These
+were the two questions that he put to himself again and again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive to see
+this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the slightest
+shadow of danger springing either from this or from any other quarter, it
+behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these people, after which, if
+requisite, he would at once write to Mr. Kester St. George for instructions.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his
+banker&rsquo;s passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing source
+of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in walked Mr.
+Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard&rsquo;s eyes
+rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his appearance.
+Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still. His thin lips quivered
+for a moment, and then his hands began to tremble slightly, so that in a little
+while he was obliged to take them off the table and bury them in his pockets.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that other Mr.
+Dering whose face he remembered so well&mdash;whose face it was impossible that
+he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet strangely unlike: the same in
+many points, and yet in others most different. But the moment this dark-looking
+stranger opened his lips, it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back
+from the grave. A covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he
+beheld a man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your name is Janvard, I believe?&rdquo; said Mr. Dering, with a slight
+bow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pierre Janvard at your service,&rdquo; answered the Frenchman,
+deferentially.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St.
+George?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I had that honour.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My name is Dering&mdash;Richard Dering. It is probable that you never
+heard of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from India. I am
+cousin to Mr. Kester St. George.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Frenchman bowed. &ldquo;I have no recollection of having heard
+monsieur&rsquo;s name mentioned by my late employer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose not. But my brother&rsquo;s name&mdash;Lionel
+Dering&mdash;must be well known to you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Janvard could not repress a slight start So that was the relationship, was it?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah, yes,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have seen Mr. Lionel Dering many
+times, and done several little services for him at one time or another.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You were one of the chief witnesses on the trial, if I recollect
+rightly?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Janvard coughed, to gain a moment&rsquo;s time. The conversation was taking a
+turn that he did not approve of. &ldquo;I certainly was one of the witnesses on
+the trial,&rdquo; he said, with an air of deprecation. &ldquo;But monsieur will
+understand that it was a misfortune which I had no means of avoiding. I could
+not help seeing what I did see, and they made me tell all about it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, we quite understand that,&rdquo; said Mr. Dering. &ldquo;You were
+not to blame in any way. You could not do otherwise than as you did.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Janvard smiled faintly, and bowed his gratification.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My friend here, Mr. Bristow, and myself, have come down to stay a week
+or two in your charming city. The doctors tell me there is something the matter
+with my spleen, and have recommended me to drink the Bath waters. Hearing
+casually that you were the proprietor of one of the most comfortable hotels in
+the place, and looking upon you somewhat in the light of a connection of the
+family, we thought that we could not do better than take up our quarters with
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again Janvard smiled and bowed his gratification. &ldquo;Monsieur may depend
+upon my using my utmost endeavours to make himself and his friend as
+comfortable as possible. Pardon my presumption, but may I venture to ask
+whether Mr. St. George was quite well when monsieur saw or heard from him
+last?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My cousin was a little queer a short time ago, but I believe him to be
+well again by this time.&rdquo; Mr. Dering turned to go. &ldquo;We have given
+your waiter instructions as to dinner,&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hope my chef will succeed in pleasing you,&rdquo; said Janvard., with
+a smile. &ldquo;He has the reputation of being second to none in the
+city.&rdquo; With the same smile on his face he followed them to the door and
+bowed them out, and, still smiling, watched them till they turned the corner of
+the street. &ldquo;No danger there, I think,&rdquo; he said to himself.
+&ldquo;None whatever. Still I must keep on the watch&mdash;always on the watch.
+I must look to their dinners myself, and leave them nothing to complain of. But
+I shall be very much pleased indeed when they call for their bill: very much
+pleased to see the last of them.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Said Tom to Lionel, as they were walking arm-in-arm towards the pump-room:
+&ldquo;Did you notice that magnificent ring which Janvard wore on the third
+finger of his left hand?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I could not fail to notice it. I was thinking about it at the very
+moment you spoke.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have not seen so splendid a ruby for a long time. The setting, too, is
+rather unique.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, it was the peculiar setting that caused me to recognize it
+again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That caused you to recognize it! You don&rsquo;t mean to say that you
+have ever seen the ring before?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I certainly have seen it before.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;On the finger of Percy Osmond.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom halted suddenly and stared at Lionel as if he could hardly believe the
+evidence of his ears.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am stating nothing but the simple truth,&rdquo; continued Lionel.
+&ldquo;The moment I saw the ring on Janvard&rsquo;s finger the thought flashed
+through me that I had certainly seen it somewhere before. All the time I was
+talking to Janvard I was trying to call that somewhere to mind, but it did not
+come to me till after we had left the hotel&mdash;not, in fact, till a minute
+before you spoke about it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Are you sure you are not mistaken? There are many ruby rings in the
+world.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t for one moment think that I am mistaken,&rdquo; answered
+Lionel deliberately. &ldquo;If the ring worn by Janvard be the one I mean, it
+has three initial letters engraved inside the hoop. What particular letters
+they are I cannot now recollect. I chanced to express my admiration of the ring
+one night in the billiard-room, and Osmond took it off his finger in order that
+I might examine it. It was then I saw the letters, but without noticing them
+with sufficient particularity to remember them again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I always had an idea,&rdquo; said Tom, &ldquo;that Janvard was in some
+way mixed up with the murder, and this would seem to prove it. He must have
+stolen the ring from Osmond&rsquo;s room either immediately before or
+immediately after the murder.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I must see that ring,&rdquo; said Lionel decisively. &ldquo;It must come
+into my possession, if only for a minute or two, if only while I ascertain
+whether the initials are really there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think that there will be much difficulty about
+that,&rdquo; said Tom. &ldquo;The fellow has no suspicion as to whom you really
+are, or as to the object of our visit to Bath. To admire the ring is the first
+step: to ask to look at it the second.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A quarter of an hour later Lionel gripped Tom suddenly by the arm.
+&ldquo;Bristow,&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;I have just remembered something.
+Osmond had that ruby ring on his finger the night before he was murdered! I
+have a distinct recollection of seeing it on his hand when we were playing that
+last game of billiards together.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If this ring,&rdquo; said Tom, &ldquo;prove to be the one you believe it
+to be, the finding of it will be another and a most important link in the chain
+of evidence.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes&mdash;almost, if not quite, the last one that we shall need,&rdquo;
+said Lionel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At dinner that evening Janvard in person took in the wine. The eyes of both
+Lionel and Tom fixed themselves instinctively on his left hand. The ring was no
+longer there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Can he suspect anything?&rdquo; asked Lionel of Tom, as soon as they
+were alone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think not,&rdquo; answered Tom. &ldquo;The fellow is evidently uneasy,
+and will continue to be so as long as you stay under his roof. But the very
+openness of our proceedings, and the frank way in which we have told him who we
+are, will go far to disarm any suspicions which he might otherwise have
+entertained.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two or three days passed quietly over. Lionel drank the waters with regularity,
+and he and Tom drove out frequently in the neighbourhood of King Bladud&rsquo;s
+beautiful city. Janvard always gave them a look in in the course of dinner to
+see that everything was to their satisfaction; but he still carefully abstained
+from wearing the ring.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+By-and-by there came a certain evening when Janvard failed to put in his usual
+appearance at the dinner table. Said Tom to the man who waited upon them:
+&ldquo;Where is your master this evening? Not ill, I hope?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gone to a masonic banquet, sir,&rdquo; answered the man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then he won&rsquo;t be home till late, I&rsquo;ll wager.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not till eleven or twelve, I dare say, sir.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gone in full fig, of course?&rdquo; said Tom, laughingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; answered the man with a grin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Diamond studs and ruby ring, and everything complete, eh?&rdquo; went on
+Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know about diamond studs, sir,&rdquo; said the man,
+&ldquo;but he certainly had his ring on, for I saw it on his finger
+myself.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now is our time,&rdquo; said Tom to Lionel, as soon as the man had left
+the room. &ldquo;We may not have such an opportunity again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was close upon midnight when Pierre Janvard, alighting from a fly at the
+door of his hotel, found his two lodgers standing on the steps smoking a last
+cigar before turning in for the night. In this there was nothing
+unusual&mdash;nothing to excite suspicion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hallo! Janvard, is that you?&rdquo; cried Tom, assuming the tone and
+manner of a man who has taken a little too much wine. &ldquo;I was just
+wondering what had become of you. This is my birthday: so you must come
+upstairs with us, and drink my health in some of your own wine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Another time, sir, I shall be most happy; but
+to-night&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But me no buts,&rdquo; cried Tom. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have no
+excuses&mdash;none. Come along, Dering, and we&rsquo;ll crack another bottle of
+Janvard&rsquo;s Madeira. We&rsquo;ll poison mine host with his own
+tipple.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He seized Janvard by the arm, and dragged him upstairs, trolling out the last
+popular air as he did so. Lionel followed leisurely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You&rsquo;re a good sort, Janvard&mdash;a deuced good sort!&rdquo; said
+Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Monsieur is very kind,&rdquo; said Janvard, with a smile and a shrug;
+and then in obedience to a wave from Tom&rsquo;s hand, he sat down at table.
+Tom now began to fumble with a bottle and a corkscrew.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Allow me, monsieur,&rdquo; said Janvard, politely, as he relieved Tom of
+the articles in question, and proceeded to open the bottle with the ease of
+long practice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s a sweet thing in rings you&rsquo;ve got on your
+finger,&rdquo; said Tom, admiringly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, it is rather a fine stone,&rdquo; said Janvard, dryly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;May I be allowed to examine it?&rdquo; asked Tom, as he poured out the
+wine with a hand that was slightly unsteady.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I should be most happy to oblige monsieur,&rdquo; said Janvard, hastily,
+&ldquo;but the ring fits me so tightly that I am afraid I should have some
+difficulty in getting it off my finger.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hang it all, man, the least you can do is to try,&rdquo; cried Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little difficulty,
+and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom&rsquo;s fingers clutched it like a
+vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if to reclaim the ring; but it
+was too late, and he sat down without speaking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it towards
+the light. &ldquo;A very pretty gem, indeed!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;And worth
+something considerable in sovereigns, I should say.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?&rdquo; asked Lionel
+gravely, as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from
+his seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom handed the
+ring across to Lionel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A magnificent stone, indeed,&rdquo; said the latter, &ldquo;but somewhat
+old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable in my
+eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop are three
+initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I read them aright
+they are M. K. L.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, yes, monsieur,&rdquo; said Janvard, uneasily. &ldquo;As you say, M.
+K. L. The initials of the friend who gave me the ring.&rdquo; He held out his
+hand, as if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to him, but
+Lionel took no notice of the action.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Three very curious initials, indeed,&rdquo; said Lionel, musingly.
+&ldquo;One could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in
+mind of a curious coincidence&mdash;of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I
+once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and inside the
+hoop of my friend&rsquo;s ring were three initials. The initials in question
+were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved on your ring, Monsieur
+Janvard. Curious, is it not?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mille diables! I am betrayed!&rdquo; cried Janvard, as he started from
+his seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him. The
+ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and looked
+towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom Bristow, no longer
+with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold, quiet, and collected as
+ever he had looked in his life. Tom&rsquo;s right hand was hidden in the bosom
+of his vest, and Janvard&rsquo;s ears were smitten by the ominous click of a
+revolver. His eyes wandered back to the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no
+hope for him there. The pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for
+once was beginning to desert him. He was trembling visibly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sit down, sir,&rdquo; said Lionel, sternly, &ldquo;and refresh yourself
+with another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to
+you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and sat
+down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two glasses of wine
+rapidly one after another.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am ready, monsieur,&rdquo; he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin
+lips, and made a ghastly effort to smile. &ldquo;At your service.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What I want from you, and what you must give me,&rdquo; said Lionel,
+&ldquo;is a full and particular account of how this ring came into your
+possession. It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the night he
+was murdered.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah ciel! how do you know that?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it.
+But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was found next
+morning. Tell me how it came into your possession.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: &ldquo;Who
+are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and threaten me
+in this way?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer
+mine.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What if I refuse to answer them?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than half
+an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger of Mr. Osmond
+the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought many a better man than
+you to the gallows: be careful that it does not land you there?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the
+murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What proof have you&mdash;what proof was there adduced at the trial,
+that Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or those of
+any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew from the first that
+he was innocent! If you yourself are not the murderer, you know the man who
+is.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the floor.
+He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke, but it was in the
+same sullen tone that he had used before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may
+know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such promise.
+For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be the murderer of
+Percy Osmond.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Janvard shuddered slightly. &ldquo;I am not the murderer of Percy
+Osmond,&rdquo; he said quietly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who, then, was the murderer?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My late master&mdash;Mr. Kester St. George.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although
+Janvard&rsquo;s words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel
+and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears with all
+the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there, Janvard was the
+one who seemed least concerned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lionel was the first to speak. &ldquo;This is a serious charge to make against
+a gentleman like Mr. St. George,&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have made no charge against Mr. St. George,&rdquo; said Janvard.
+&ldquo;It is you who have forced the confession from me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement&mdash;to prove
+your words?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you will
+not let me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell
+me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But, monsieur&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; began Janvard, appealingly, and then
+he stopped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use that
+power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time, understand me. I am no
+constable&mdash;no officer of the law&mdash;I am simply the brother of Lionel
+Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was accused and found guilty of a crime
+of which he was as innocent as I am, I have vowed that I will not rest night or
+day till I have discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. Such being
+the case, I tell you plainly that the best thing you can do is to make a full
+and frank confession of all that you know respecting this terrible business,
+leaving it for me afterwards to decide as to the use which I may find it
+requisite to make of your confession. Are you prepared to do what I ask of
+you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Janvard&rsquo;s shoulders rose and fell again. &ldquo;I cannot help
+myself,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have no choice but to comply with the wishes
+of monsieur.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh your
+memory.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that
+night are far too terrible to be forgotten.&rdquo; With a hand that still shook
+slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank it off at a
+draught. Then he continued: &ldquo;On the night of the quarrel in the
+billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master, Mr. St. George.
+About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering it, my master put Mr.
+Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the worse for wine, with instructions
+to see him safely to bed. This I did, and then left him. As it happened, I had
+taken a violent fancy to Mr. Osmond&rsquo;s splendid ruby ring&mdash;the very
+ring monsieur has now in his possession&mdash;and that night I determined to
+make it my own. There were several new servants in the house, and nobody would
+suspect me of having taken it. Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and
+thrown it carelessly into his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into
+bed, afterwards putting his keys under his pillow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made my
+way to Mr. Osmond&rsquo;s bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A
+night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in through
+the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the sleeper&rsquo;s
+face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with one hand clenched,
+and a frown on his face as if he were still threatening Mr. Dering. It was
+hardly the work of a minute to possess myself of the keys. In another minute
+the dressing-case was opened and the ring my own. Mr. Osmond&rsquo;s
+portmanteau stood invitingly open: what more natural than that I should desire
+to turn over its contents lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed
+by the simple curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the
+portmanteau, admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard
+the noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that afforded
+by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next moment I was safely
+hidden behind them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the
+room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned in his
+sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from peeping out of my
+hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester St. George, standing over
+the sleeping man, with a look on his face that I had never seen there before.
+He stood thus for a full minute, and then he came round to the near side of the
+bed, and seemed to be looking for Mr. Osmond&rsquo;s keys. In a little while he
+saw them in the dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the
+other side of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found
+the right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond&rsquo;s writing-case. He opened the
+case, took out of it Mr. Osmond&rsquo;s cheque book, and from that he tore
+either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case when Mr.
+Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. &lsquo;Villain! what are you doing
+there?&rsquo; he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But before he could
+set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his throat, and pinned him down
+almost as easily as if he had been a boy. What happened during the next minute
+I hardly know how to describe. It would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit
+of sleeping with a dagger under his pillow. At all events, there was one there
+on this particular night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his
+hand sought for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a sudden stab
+with it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master was too quick for him.
+There was an instant&rsquo;s struggle&mdash;a flash&mdash;a
+cry&mdash;and&mdash;you may guess the rest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A murmur of horror escaped my lips. In another instant my master had
+sprung across the room and had torn away the curtains from before me.
+&lsquo;You here!&rsquo; he said. And for a few seconds I thought my fate would
+be the same as that of Mr. Osmond. But at last his hand dropped.
+&lsquo;Janvard, you and I must be friends,&rsquo; he said. &lsquo;From this
+night your interests are mine, and my interests are yours.&rsquo; Then we left
+the room together. A terrible night, monsieur, as you may well believe.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You have accounted clearly enough for the murder, but you have not yet
+told us how it happened that Lionel Dering came to be accused of the
+crime.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is the worst part of the story, sir. Whose thought it was first,
+whether Mr. St. George&rsquo;s or mine, to lay the murder at the door of Mr.
+Dering, I could not now tell you. It was a thought that seemed to come into the
+heads of both of us at the same moment. As monsieur knows, my master had no
+cause to love his cousin. He had every reason to hate him. Mr. Dering had got
+all the estates and property that ought to have been Mr. St. George&rsquo;s.
+But if Mr. Dering were to die without children, the estate would all come back
+to his cousin. Reason enough for wishing Mr. Dering dead.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We did not talk much about it, my master and I. We understood one
+another without many words. There were certain things to be done which Mr. St.
+George had not the nerve to do. I had the nerve to do them, and I did them. It
+was I who put Mr. Dering&rsquo;s stud under the bed. It was I who took his
+handkerchief, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Enough!&rdquo; said Lionel, with a shudder. &ldquo;Surely no more
+devilish plot was ever hatched by Satan himself! You&mdash;you who sit so
+calmly there, had but to hold up your finger to save an innocent man from
+disgrace and death!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What would monsieur have?&rdquo; said Janvard, with another of his
+indescribable shrugs. &ldquo;Mr. St. George was my master. I liked him, and I
+was, besides, to have a large sum of money given me to keep silence. Mr. Dering
+was a stranger to me. Voilà tout.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Janvard, you are one of the vilest wretches that ever disgraced the name
+of man!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Monsieur s&rsquo;amuse.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I shall at once proceed to put down in writing the heads of the
+confession which you have just made. You will sign the writing in question in
+the presence of Mr. Bristow as witness. You need be under no apprehension that
+any immediate harm will happen to you. As for Mr. St. George, I shall deal with
+him in my own time, and in my own way. There are, however, two points that I
+wish you to bear particularly in mind. Firstly, if, even by the vaguest hint,
+you dare to let Mr. St. George know that you have told me what you have told me
+to-night, it will be at your own proper peril, and you must be prepared to take
+the consequences that will immediately ensue. Secondly, you must hold yourself
+entirely at my service, and must come to me without delay whenever I may send
+for you, and wherever I may be. Do you clearly understand?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir. I understand.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;For the present, then, I have done with you. Two hours later I will send
+for you again, in order that you may sign a certain paper which will be ready
+by that time. You may go.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But, monsieur&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not a word. Go.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom held open the door for him, and Janvard passed out without another word.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;At last, Dering! At last everything is made clear!&rdquo; said Tom, as
+he crossed the room and laid his hand affectionately on Lionel&rsquo;s
+shoulder. &ldquo;At last you can proclaim your innocence to the world.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, my task is nearly done,&rdquo; said Lionel, sadly. &ldquo;And I
+thank heaven in all sincerity that it is so. But the duty that I have still to
+perform is a terrible one. I almost feel as if now, at this, the eleventh hour,
+I could go no farther. I shrink in horror from the last and most terrible step
+of all. Hark! whose voice was that?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hear nothing save the moaning of the wind, and the low muttering of
+thunder far away among the hills.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It seemed to me that I heard the voice of Percy Osmond calling to me
+from the grave&mdash;the same voice that I have heard so often in my
+dreams.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How your hand burns, Dering! Shake off these wild fancies, I implore
+you,&rdquo; said Tom. &ldquo;What a blinding flash was that!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They are no wild fancies to me, but most dread realities. I tell you it
+is Osmond&rsquo;s voice that I hear. I know it but too well, &lsquo;Thou shalt
+avenge!&rsquo; it says to me. Only three words: &lsquo;Thou shalt
+avenge!&rsquo;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_06"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br />
+TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Nearly a fortnight elapsed after Tom&rsquo;s last interview with the Squire
+before he was again invited to Pincote, and after what had passed between
+himself and Mr. Culpepper he would not go there again without a special
+invitation. It is probable that the Squire would not have sent for him even at
+the end of a fortnight had he not grown so thoroughly tired of having to cope
+with Mrs. McDermott single-handed that he was ready to call in assistance from
+any quarter that promised relief. He knew that Tom would assist him if only a
+hint were given that he was wanted to do so. And Tom did relieve him; so that
+for the first time for many days the Squire really enjoyed his dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Notwithstanding all this, matters were so arranged between the Squire and Mrs.
+McDermott that no opportunity was given Tom of being alone with Jane even for
+five minutes. The first time this happened he thought that it might perhaps
+have arisen from mere accident. But the next time he went up to Pincote he saw
+too clearly what was intended to allow him to remain any longer in doubt. That
+night, after shaking hands with Tom at parting, Jane found in her palm a tiny
+note, the contents of which were three lines only. &ldquo;Should you be
+shopping in Duxley either to-morrow or next day, I shall be at the toll-gate on
+the Snelsham road from twelve till one o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Next day, at half-past twelve to the minute, Jane and her pony-carriage found
+themselves at the Snelsham toll-gate. There was Tom, sure enough, who got into
+the trap and took the reins. He turned presently into a byroad that led to
+nowhere in particular, and there earned the gratitude of Diamond by letting him
+lapse into a quiet walk which enabled him to take sly nibbles at the roadside
+grass as he crawled contentedly along.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then Tom spoke. &ldquo;Jane,&rdquo; he
+said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her Christian name,
+&ldquo;Jane, your father has forbidden me to make love to you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seemed as if Jane had nothing to say either for or against this statement.
+She only breathed a little more quickly, and a lovelier colour flushed her
+cheeks. But just then Diamond swerved towards a tempting tuft of grass. The
+carriage gave a slight jerk, and Tom fancied&mdash;but it might be nothing more
+than fancy&mdash;that, instinctively, Jane drew a little closer to him. And
+when Diamond had been punished by the slightest possible flick with the whip
+between his ears, and was again jogging peacefully on, Jane did not get farther
+away again, being, perhaps, still slightly nervous; and when Tom looked down
+there was a little gloved hand resting, light as a feather, on his arm. It was
+impossible to resist the temptation. Dispensing with the whip for a moment he
+lifted the little hand tenderly to his lips and kissed it. He was not repulsed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, dearest,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;I am absolutely forbidden to
+make love to you. I can only imagine that your aunt has been talking to your
+father about us. Be that as it may, he has forbidden me to walk out with you,
+or even to see you alone. The reason why I asked you to meet me to-day was to
+tell you of these things.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still Jane kept silence. Only from the little hand, which had somehow found its
+way back on to his arm, there came the faintest possible pressure, hardly heavy
+enough to have crushed a butterfly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I told him that I loved you,&rdquo; resumed Tom, &ldquo;and he could not
+say that it was a crime to do so. But when I told him that I had never made
+love to you, or asked you to marry me, he seemed inclined to doubt my veracity.
+However, I set his mind at rest by giving him my word of honour that, even
+supposing you were willing to have me&mdash;a point respecting which I had very
+strong doubts indeed&mdash;I would not take you for my wife without first
+obtaining his full consent to do so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom&rsquo;s tone that his
+thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one to steal
+a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace into a still slower
+one, till at last he came to a dead stand. Admonished by a crack of the whip
+half a yard above his head that Tom was still wide awake, he put on a
+tremendous spurt&mdash;for him&mdash;which, as they were going down hill at the
+time, was not difficult. But no sooner had they reached a level bit of road
+again than the spurt toned itself down to the customary slow trot, with,
+however, an extra whisk of the tail now and then which seemed to imply:
+&ldquo;Mark well what a fiery steed I could be if I only chose to exert
+myself.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All this but brings me to one point,&rdquo; said Tom: &ldquo;that I have
+never yet told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to become
+my wife. To-day, then&mdash;here this very moment, I tell you that I do love
+you as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love; and here I ask
+you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dearest, you are not blind,&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;You must have
+seen, you must have known, for a long time past, that my heart&mdash;my
+love&mdash;were wholly yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has
+been a hope, a blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for
+longer than I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to you before,
+but there were certain reasons for my silence which it is not necessary to
+dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them, I will explain to you
+another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you feel as if you could ever learn
+to love me, whether you can ever care for me enough to become my wife. Speak to
+me, darling&mdash;whisper the one little word I burn to hear. Lift your eyes to
+mine, and let me read there that which will make me happy for life.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone with the
+trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no one to overhear them
+save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be not listening a bit. For the
+second time he came to a stand-still, and this time his artfulness remained
+unreproved and unnoticed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried to see
+into their depths but could not. &ldquo;You promised papa that you would not
+take me from him without his consent,&rdquo; she said, speaking in little more
+than a whisper. &ldquo;That consent you will never obtain.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her ears. She
+looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their eyes met.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know papa as well as I do&mdash;how obstinate he
+is&mdash;how full of whims and crotchets. No&mdash;no; I feel sure that he will
+never consent.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And I feel equally sure that he will. I have no fear on that
+score&mdash;none. But I will put the question to you in another way, in the
+short business-like way that comes most naturally to a man like me. Jane,
+dearest, if I can persuade your father to give you to me, will you be so given?
+Will you come to me and be my own&mdash;my wife&mdash;for ever?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Still no answer. Only imperceptibly she crept a little closer to his
+side&mdash;a very little. He took that for his answer. First one arm went round
+her and then the other. He drew her to his heart, he drew her to his lips; he
+kissed her and called her his own. And she? Well, painful though it be to write
+it, she never reproved him in the least, but seemed content to sit there with
+her head resting on his shoulder, and to suffer Love&rsquo;s sweet punishment
+of kisses in silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is on record that Diamond was the first to move.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While standing there he had fallen into a snooze, and had dreamt that another
+pony had been put into his particular stall and was at that moment engaged in
+munching his particular truss of hay. Overcome by his feelings, he turned
+deliberately round, and started for home at a gentle trot. Thus disturbed, Tom
+and Jane came back to sublunary matters with a laugh, and a little confusion on
+Jane&rsquo;s part. Tom drove her back as far as the toll-gate and then shook
+hands and left her. Jane reached home as one in a blissful dream.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Three days later Tom received a note in the Squire&rsquo;s own crabbed
+hand-writing, asking him to go up to Pincote as early as possible. He was
+evidently wanted for something out of the ordinary way. Wondering a little, he
+went. The Squire received him in high good humour and was not long in letting
+him know why he had sent for him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have had some fellows here from the railway company,&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;They want to buy Prior&rsquo;s Croft.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom&rsquo;s eyebrows went up a little. &ldquo;I thought, sir, it would prove to
+be a profitable speculation by-and-by. Did they name any price?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, nothing was said as to price. They simply wanted to know whether I
+was willing to sell it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And you told them that you were?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I told them that I would take time to think about it. I didn&rsquo;t
+want to seem too eager, you know.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That&rsquo;s right, sir. Play with them a little before you finally hook
+them.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;From what they said they want to build a station on the Croft.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, a new passenger station, with plenty of siding
+accommodation.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah! you know something about it, do you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know this much, sir, that the proposal of the new company to run a
+fresh line into Duxley has put the old company on their mettle. In place of the
+dirty ram-shackle station with which we have all had to be content for so many
+years, they are going to give us a new station, handsome and commodious; and
+Prior&rsquo;s Croft is the place named as the most probable site for the new
+terminus.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hang me, if I don&rsquo;t believe you knew something of this all
+along!&rdquo; said the Squire. &ldquo;If not, how could you have raised that
+heavy mortgage for me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was a twinkle in Tom&rsquo;s eyes but he said nothing. Mr. Culpepper
+might have been still further surprised had he known that the six thousand
+pounds was Tom&rsquo;s own money, and that, although the mortgage was made out
+in another name, it was to Tom alone that he was indebted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have you made up your mind as to the price you intend to ask,
+sir?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, not yet. In fact, it was partly to consult you on that point that I
+sent for you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Somewhere about nine thousand pounds, sir, I should think, would be a
+fair price.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire shook his head. &ldquo;They will never give anything like so much as
+that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think they will, sir, if the affair is judiciously managed. How can
+they refuse in the face of a mortgage for six thousand pounds?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s something in that, certainly.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then there are the villas&mdash;yet unbuilt it is true&mdash;but the
+plans of which are already drawn, and the foundations of some of which are
+already laid. You will require to be liberally remunerated for your
+disappointment and outlay in respect of them.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I see it all now. Splendid idea that of the villas.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Considering the matter in all its bearings, nine thousand pounds may be
+regarded as a very moderate sum.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I won&rsquo;t ask a penny less.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;With it you will be able to clear off both the mortgage and the loan of
+two thousand, and will then have a thousand left for your expenses in
+connection with the villas.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire rubbed his hands. &ldquo;I wish all my speculations had turned out
+as successful as this one,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;This one I owe to you,
+Bristow. You have done me a service that I can never forget.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom rose to go. &ldquo;Mrs. McDermott quite well, sir?&rdquo; he said, with the
+most innocent air in the world.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If the way she eats and drinks is anything to go by, she was never
+better in her life. But if you take her own account, she&rsquo;s never
+well&mdash;a confirmed invalid she calls herself. I&rsquo;ve no patience with
+the woman, though she is my sister. A day&rsquo;s hard scrubbing at the
+wash-tub every week would do her a world of good. If she would only pack up her
+trunks and go, how thankful I should be!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you wish her to shorten her visit at Pincote, I think you might
+easily persuade her to do so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;d give something to find out how. No, no, Bristow, you may
+depend that she&rsquo;s a fixture here for three or four months to come. She
+knows&mdash;no woman alive better&mdash;when she&rsquo;s in comfortable
+quarters.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If I had your sanction to do so, sir, I think that I could induce her to
+hasten her departure from Pincote.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are a queer fellow, Bristow,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and you have
+done some strange things, but to induce my sister to leave Pincote before
+she&rsquo;s ready to go will cap all that you&rsquo;ve done yet.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I cannot of course induce her to leave Pincote till she is willing to
+go, but after a little quiet talk with me, it is possible that she may be
+willing, and even anxious, to get away as quickly as possible.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire shook his head. &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know Fanny McDermott as well
+as I do,&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have I your permission to try the experiment?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You have&mdash;and my devoutest wishes for your success. Only you must
+not compromise me in any way in the matter.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You may safely trust me not to do that. But you must give me an
+invitation to come and stay with you at Pincote for a week.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;With all my heart.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I shall devote myself very assiduously to Mrs. McDermott, so that you
+must not be surprised if we seem to be very great friends in the course of a
+couple of days.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Do as you like, boy. I&rsquo;ll take no notice. But she&rsquo;s an old
+soldier, is Fan, and if for a single moment she suspects what you are after,
+she&rsquo;ll nail her colours to the mast, defy us all, and stop here for six
+months longer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is, of course, quite possible that I may fail,&rdquo; said Tom,
+&ldquo;but somehow I hardly think that I shall.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We&rsquo;ll have a glass of sherry together and drink to your success.
+By-the-by, have you contrived yet to purge your brain of that lovesick
+tomfoolery?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If, sir, you intend that phrase to apply to my feelings with regard to
+Miss Culpepper, I can only say that they are totally unchanged.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What an idiot you are in some things, Bristow!&rdquo; said the Squire,
+crustily. &ldquo;Remember this&mdash;I&rsquo;ll have no lovemaking here next
+week.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You need have no fear on that score, sir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_07"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br />
+EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Tom and his portmanteau reached Pincote together a day or two after his last
+conversation with the Squire. Mrs. McDermott understood that Tom had been
+invited to spend a week there in order to assist her brother with his books and
+farm accounts. It seemed to her a very injudicious thing to do, but she did not
+say much about it. In truth, she was rather pleased than otherwise to have Tom
+there. It was dreadfully monotonous to have to spend one evening after another
+with no company save that of her brother and Jane. She was tired of her
+audience, and her audience were tired of her. Mr. Bristow, as she knew already,
+could talk well, was lively company, and, above all things; was an excellent
+listener. She had done her duty by her brother in warning him of what was going
+on between Mr. Bristow and her niece; if, after that, the Squire chose to let
+the two young people come together, it was not her place to dispute his right
+to do so.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom was very attentive to her at dinner that day. Of Jane he took no notice
+beyond what the occasion absolutely demanded. Mrs. McDermott was agreeably
+surprised. &ldquo;He has come to his senses at last, as I thought he
+would,&rdquo; she said to herself. &ldquo;Grown tired of Jane&rsquo;s society,
+and no wonder. There&rsquo;s nothing in her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As soon as the cloth was removed, Jane excused herself on the score of a
+headache, and left the room. The Squire got into an easy-chair and settled
+himself down for a post-prandial nap. Tom moved his chair a little nearer that
+of the widow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have grieved to see you looking so far from well, Mrs.
+McDermott,&rdquo; he said, as he poured himself out another glass of wine.
+&ldquo;My father was a doctor, and I suppose I caught the habit from him of
+reading the signs of health or sickness in people&rsquo;s faces.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott was visibly discomposed. She was a great coward with regard to
+her health, and Tom knew it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I have not been well for some time past.
+But I was not aware that the traces of my indisposition were so plainly visible
+to others.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They are visible to me because, as I tell you, I am half a doctor both
+by birth and bringing up. You seem to me, Mrs. McDermott, pardon me for saying
+so&mdash;to have been fading&mdash;to have been going backward, as it were,
+almost from the day of your arrival at Pincote.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. McDermott coughed and moved uneasily on her chair. &ldquo;I have been a
+confirmed invalid for years,&rdquo; she said, querulously, &ldquo;and yet no
+one will believe me when, I tell them so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can very readily believe it,&rdquo; said Tom, gravely. Then he lapsed
+into an ominous silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&mdash;I did not know that I was looking any worse now than when I
+first came to Pincote,&rdquo; she said at last.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You seem to me to be much older-looking, much more careworn, with lines
+making their appearance round your eyes and mouth, such as I never noticed
+before. So, at least, it strikes me, but I may be, and I dare say I am, quite
+wrong.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The widow seemed at a loss what to say. Tom&rsquo;s words had evidently
+rendered her very uneasy. &ldquo;Then what would you advise me to do?&rdquo;
+she said, after a time. &ldquo;If you can detect the disease so readily, you
+should have no difficulty in specifying the remedy.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah, now I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth,&rdquo; said Tom,
+with a smile. &ldquo;I am little more than a theorizer, you know; but I should
+have no hesitation in saying that your disorder is connected with the
+mind.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gracious me, Mr. Bristow!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, Mrs. McDermott, my opinion is that you are suffering from an undue
+development of brain power.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The widow looked puzzled. &ldquo;I was always considered rather
+intellectual,&rdquo; she said, with a glance at her brother. But the Squire
+still slept.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are very intellectual, madam; and that is just where the evil
+lies.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Excuse me, but I fail to follow you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are gifted with a very large and a very powerful brain,&rdquo; said
+Tom, with the utmost gravity. The Squire snorted suddenly in his sleep. The
+widow held up a warning finger. There was silence in the room till the
+Squire&rsquo;s gentle long-drawn snores announced that he was again happily
+fast asleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Very few of us are so specially gifted,&rdquo; resumed Tom. &ldquo;But
+every special gift necessitates a special obligation in return. You, with your
+massive brain, must find that brain plenty of work to do&mdash;a sufficiency of
+congenial employment&mdash;otherwise it will inevitably turn upon itself, grow
+morbid and hypochondriacal, and slowly but surely deteriorate, till it ends by
+becoming&mdash;what I hardly like to say.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Really, Mr. Bristow, this conversation is to me most interesting,&rdquo;
+said the widow. &ldquo;Your views are thoroughly original, but, at the same
+time, I feel that they are perfectly correct.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The sphere of your intellectual activity is far too narrow and
+confined,&rdquo; resumed Tom; &ldquo;your brain has not sufficient pabulum to
+keep it in a state of healthy activity. You want to mix more with the
+world&mdash;to mix more with clever people like yourself. It was never intended
+by nature that you should lose yourself among the narrow coteries of provincial
+life: the metropolis claims you: the world at large claims you. A
+conversationalist so brilliant, so incisive, with such an exhaustless fund of
+new ideas, can only hope to find her equals among the best circles of London or
+Parisian society.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How thoroughly you appreciate me, Mr. Bristow!&rdquo; said the widow,
+all in a flutter of gratified vanity, as she edged her chair still closer to
+Tom. &ldquo;It is as you say. I feel that I am lost here&mdash;that I am
+altogether out of my element. I stay here more as a matter of duty&mdash;of
+principle&mdash;than of anything else. Not that it is any gratification to me,
+as you may well imagine, to be buried alive in this dull hole. But my brother
+is getting old and infirm&mdash;breaking fast, I&rsquo;m afraid, poor
+man,&rdquo; here the Squire gave a louder snore than common; &ldquo;while Jane
+is little more than a foolish girl. They both need the guidance of a kind but
+firm hand. The interests of both demand a clear brain to look after
+them.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear madam, I agree with you in toto. Your Spartan views with regard
+to the duties of everyday life are mine exactly. But we must not forget that we
+have still another duty&mdash;that of carefully preserving our health,
+especially when our lives are invaluable to the epoch in which we live. You, my
+dear madam, are killing yourself by inches.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, Mr. Bristow, not quite so bad as that, I hope!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What I say, I say advisedly. I think that, without difficulty, I can
+specify a few symptoms of the cerebral disorder to which you are a victim. You
+will bear me out if what I say is correct.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, yes; please go on.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are a sufferer from sleeplessness to a certain extent. The body
+would fain rest, being tired and worn out, but the active brain will not allow
+it to do so. Am I right, Mrs. McDermott?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I cannot dispute the accuracy of what you say.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your nature being large and eminently sympathetic, but not finding
+sufficient vent for itself in the narrow circle to which it is condemned,
+busies itself, for lack of other aliment, with the concerns and daily doings of
+those around it, giving them the benefit of its vast experience and intuitive
+good sense; but being met sometimes with coldness instead of sympathy, it
+collapses, falls back upon itself, and becomes morbid for want of proper
+intellectual companionship. May I hope that you follow me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes&mdash;yes, perfectly,&rdquo; said the widow, but looking somewhat
+mystified, notwithstanding.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The brain thus thrown back upon itself engenders an irritability of the
+nerves, which is altogether abnormal. Fits of peevishness, of ill-temper, of
+causeless fault-finding, gradually supervene, till at length all natural
+amiability of disposition vanishes entirely, and there is nothing left but a
+wretched hypochondriac, a misery to himself and all around him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gracious me! Mr. Bristow, what a picture! But I hope you do not put me
+down as a misery to myself and all around me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Far from it&mdash;very far from it&mdash;my dear Mrs. McDermott. You are
+only in the premonitory stage at present. Let us hope that in your case, the
+later stages will not follow.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hope not, with all my heart.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course, you have not yet been troubled with hearing voices?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hearing voices! Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bristow?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;One of the worst symptoms of the cerebral disorder, from the earlier
+stages of which you are now suffering, is that the patient hears
+voices&mdash;or fancies that he hears them, which is pretty much the same
+thing. Sometimes they are strange voices; sometimes they are the voices of
+relatives, or friends, no longer among the living. In short, to state the case
+as briefly as possible, the patient is haunted.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I declare, Mr. Bristow, that you quite frighten me!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But there are no such symptoms as these about you at present, Mrs.
+McDermott. The moment you have the least experience of them&mdash;should such a
+misfortune ever overtake you&mdash;then take my advice, and seek the only
+remedy that can be of any real benefit to you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And what may that be?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Immediate change of scene&mdash;a change total and complete. Go abroad.
+Go to Italy; go to Egypt; go to Africa;&mdash;in short to any place where the
+change is a radical one. But I hope that in your case, such a necessity will
+never arise.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All this is most deeply interesting to me, Mr. Bristow, but at the same
+time it makes me very nervous. The very thought of being haunted in the way you
+mention is enough to keep me from sleeping for a week.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this moment Jane came into the room, and a few minutes later the Squire
+awoke. Tom had said all that he wanted to say, and he gave Mrs. McDermott no
+further opportunity for private conversation with him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Next day, too, Tom carefully avoided the widow. His object was to afford her
+ample time to think over what he had said. That day the vicar and his wife
+dined at Pincote, and Tom became immersed in local politics with the Squire and
+the Parson. Mrs. McDermott was anxious and uneasy. That evening she talked less
+than she had ever been known to do before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The rule at Pincote was to keep early hours. It was not much past ten
+o&rsquo;clock when Mrs. McDermott left the drawing-room, and having obtained
+her bed candle, set out on her journey to her own room. Half way up the
+staircase stood Mr. Bristow. The night being warm and balmy for the time of
+year, the staircase window was still half open, and Tom stood there, gazing out
+into the moonlit garden. Mrs. McDermott stopped, and said a few gracious words
+to him. She would have liked to resume the conversation of the previous
+evening, but that was evidently neither the time nor the place to do so; so she
+said good-night, shook hands, and went on her way, leaving Tom still standing
+by the window. Higher up, close to the head of the stairs, stood a very large,
+old-fashioned case clock. As she was passing it Mrs. McDermott held up her
+candle to see the time. It was nearly twenty minutes past ten. But at the very
+moment of her noting this fact, there came three distinct taps from the inside
+of the case, and next instant from the same place came the sound of a hollow,
+ghost-like voice. &ldquo;Fanny&mdash;Fanny&mdash;list! I want to speak to
+you,&rdquo; said the voice, in slow, solemn tones. But Mrs. McDermott did not
+wait to hear more. She screamed, dropped her candle, and staggered back against
+the opposite wall. Tom was by her side in a moment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My dear Mrs. McDermott, whatever is the matter?&rdquo; he said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The voice! did you not hear the voice!&rdquo; she gasped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What voice? whose voice?&rdquo; said Tom, with an arm round her waist.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A voice which spoke to me out of the clock!&rdquo; she said, with a
+shiver.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Out of the clock?&rdquo; said Tom. &ldquo;We can soon see whether
+anybody&rsquo;s hidden there.&rdquo; Speaking thus, he withdrew his arm, and
+flung open the door of the clock. Enough light came from the lamp on the stairs
+to show that the old case was empty of everything, save the weights, chains,
+and pendulum of the clock.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Wherever else the voice may have come from, it is plain that it
+couldn&rsquo;t come from here,&rdquo; said Tom, as he proceeded to relight the
+widow&rsquo;s candle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It came from there, I&rsquo;m quite certain. There were three distinct
+raps from the inside as well.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is it not possible that it may have been a mere hallucination on your
+part? You have not been well, you know, for some time past.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Whatever it may have been, it was very terrible,&rdquo; said Mrs.
+McDermott, drawing her skirts round her with a shudder. &ldquo;I have not
+forgotten what you told me yesterday.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Allow me to accompany you as far as your room door,&rdquo; said Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thanks. I shall feel obliged by your doing so. You will say nothing of
+all this downstairs?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I should not think of doing so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The following day Mr. Bristow was not at luncheon. There were one or two
+inquiries, but no one seemed to know exactly what had become of him. It was
+Mrs. McDermott&rsquo;s usual practice to retire to the library for an hour
+after luncheon&mdash;which room she generally had all to herself at such
+times&mdash;for the ostensible purpose of reading the newspapers, but, it may
+be, quite as much for the sake of a quiet sleep in the huge leathern chair that
+stood by the library fire. On going there as usual after luncheon to-day, what
+was the widow&rsquo;s surprise to find Mr. Bristow sitting there fast asleep,
+with the &ldquo;Times&rdquo; at his feet where it had dropped from his relaxed
+fingers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stepped up to him on tiptoe and looked closely at him. &ldquo;Rather
+nice-looking,&rdquo; she said to herself. &ldquo;Shall I disturb him, or
+not?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on the table a
+little distance away. The temptation was too much for her. Still on tiptoe, she
+crossed to the table in order to examine them. But hardly had she stooped over
+the table when the same hollow voice that had sounded in her ears the previous
+night spoke to her again, and froze her to the spot where she was standing.
+&ldquo;Fanny McDermott, you must get away from this house,&rdquo; said the
+voice. &ldquo;If you stop here you will be a dead woman in three months!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her trembling lips did
+at last falter out the words: &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The answer came. &ldquo;I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to look
+round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep. She managed to
+reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence made the best of her way
+to her own room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one broad
+smile. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s going at last,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Off to-morrow
+like a shot. Just told me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then, with your permission, I won&rsquo;t dine with you this evening. I
+don&rsquo;t want to see her again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But how on earth have you managed it?&rdquo; asked the Squire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;By means of a little simple ventriloquism&mdash;nothing more. But I see
+her coming this way. I&rsquo;m off.&rdquo; And off he went, leaving the Squire
+staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br />
+DIRTY JACK.</h2>
+
+<p>
+There was one thing that puzzled both General St. George and Lionel Dering, and
+that was the persistent way in which Kester St. George stayed on at Park
+Newton. It had, in the first place, been a matter of some difficulty to get him
+to Park Newton at all, and for some time after his arrival it had been evident
+to all concerned that he had made up his mind that his stay there should be as
+brief as possible. But after that never-to-be-forgotten night when the noise of
+ghostly footsteps was heard in the nailed-up room&mdash;a circumstance which
+both his uncle and his cousin had made up their minds would drive him from the
+house for ever&mdash;he ceased to talk much about going away. Week passed after
+week and still he stayed on. Nor could his uncle, had he been desirous of doing
+so, which he certainly was not, have hinted to him, even in the most delicate
+possible way, that his room would be more welcome than his company, after the
+pressure which he had put upon him only a short time previously to induce him
+to remain.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nothing could have suited Lionel&rsquo;s plans better than that his cousin
+should continue to live on at Park Newton, but he was certainly puzzled to know
+what his reason could be for so doing; and, in such a case, to be puzzled was,
+to a certain extent, to be disquieted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But much as he would have liked to do so, Kester had a very good reason for not
+leaving Park Newton at present. He was, in fact, afraid to do so. After the
+affair of the footsteps he had decided that it would not be advisable to go
+away for a little while. It would never do for people to say that he had been
+driven away by the ghost of Percy Osmond. It was while thus lingering on from
+day to day that he had ridden over to see Mother Mim. One result of his
+interview was that he felt how utterly unsafe it would be for him to quit the
+neighbourhood till she was safely dead and buried. She might send for him at
+any moment, she might have other things to speak to him about which it behoved
+him to hear. She might change her mind at the last moment, and decide to tell
+to some other person what she had already told him; and when she should die, it
+would doubtless be to him that application would be made to bury her. All
+things considered, it was certainly unadvisable that he should leave Park
+Newton yet awhile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Day after day he waited with smothered impatience for some further tidings of
+Mother Mim. But day after day he waited in vain. Most men, under such
+circumstances, would have gone to the place and have made personal inquiries
+for themselves. This was precisely what Kester St. George told himself that he
+ought to do, but for all that he did not do it. He shrank, with a repugnance
+which he could not overcome, from the thought of any further contact with
+either Mother Mim or her surroundings. His tastes, if not refined, were
+fastidious, and a shudder of disgust ran through him as often as he remembered
+that if what Mother Mim had said were true&mdash;and there was something that
+rang terribly like truth in her words&mdash;then was she&mdash;that wretched
+creature&mdash;his mother, and the filthy hut in which she lay dying his sole
+home and heritage. He knew that for the sake of his own interest&mdash;of his
+own safety&mdash;he ought to go and see again this woman who called herself his
+mother, but three weeks had come and gone before he could screw his courage up
+to the pitch requisite to induce him to do so.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But before this came about, Kester St. George had been left for the time being,
+with the exception of certain servants, the sole occupant of Park Newton.
+Lionel Dering had gone down to Bath to seek an interview with Pierre Janvard,
+with what result has been already seen. Two days after Lionel&rsquo;s
+departure, General St. George was called away by the sudden illness of an old
+Indian friend to whom he was most warmly attached. He left home expecting to be
+back in four or five days at the latest; whereas, as it fell out, he did not
+reach home again for several weeks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was one day when thus left alone, and when the solitude was becoming utterly
+intolerable to him, that Kester made up his mind that he would no longer be a
+coward, but would go that very afternoon and see for himself whether Mother Mim
+were alive or dead. But even after he had thus determined that there should be
+no more delay on his part, he played fast and loose with himself as to whether
+he should go or not. Had there come to him any important letter or telegram
+demanding his presence fifty miles away, he would have caught at it as a
+drowning man catches at a straw. The veriest excuse would have sufficed for the
+putting off of his journey for at least one day. But the dull hours wore
+themselves away without relief or change of any kind for him, and when three
+o&rsquo;clock came, having first dosed himself heavily with brandy, he rang the
+bell and ordered his horse to be brought round.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What might not the next few hours bring to him? he asked himself as he rode
+down the avenue. They might perchance be pregnant with doom. Or death might
+already have lifted this last bitter burden from his life by sealing with his
+bony fingers the only lips that had power to do him harm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For nearly a fortnight past the weather had been remarkably mild, balmy, and
+open for the time of year. Everybody said how easily old winter was dying. But
+during the previous night there had come a bitter change. The wind had suddenly
+veered round to the north-east, and was still blowing steadily from that
+quarter. Steadily and bitterly it blew, chilling the hearts of man and beast
+with its icy breath, stopping the growth of grass and flowers, killing every
+faintest gleam of sunshine, and bringing back the reign of winter in its
+cruellest form.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Heavy and lowering looked the sky, shrilly through the still bare branches
+whistled the ice-cold wind, as Kester St. George, deep in thought, rode slowly
+through the park. He buttoned his coat more closely around him, and pulled his
+hat more firmly over his brows as he turned out of the lodge gates, and setting
+his face full to the wind, urged his horse into a gallop, and was quickly lost
+to view down the winding road.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It would not have taken him long to reach the edge of Burley Moor had not his
+horse suddenly fallen lame. For the last two miles of the distance his pace was
+reduced to a slow walk. This so annoyed Kester that he decided to leave his
+horse at a roadside tavern in the last hamlet he had to pass through, and to
+traverse the remainder of the distance on foot. A short three miles across the
+moor would take him to Mother Mim&rsquo;s cottage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To a man such as Kester a three miles&rsquo; walk was a rather formidable
+undertaking&mdash;or, at least, it was an uncommon one. But there was no
+avoiding it on the present occasion, unless he gave up the object of his
+journey and went back home. But he could by no means bear the thought of doing
+that. In proportion with the hesitation and reluctance which he had previously
+shown, to ascertain either the best or the worst of the affair, was the anxiety
+which now possessed him to reach his journey&rsquo;s end. His imagination
+pictured all kinds of possible and impossible evils as likely to accrue to him,
+and he cursed himself again and again for his negligence in not making the
+journey long ago.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Very bleak and cold was that walk across the desolate, lonely moor, but Kester
+St. George, buried in his own thoughts, hardly felt or heeded anything of it.
+All the sky was clouded and overcast, but far away to the north a still darker
+bank of cloud was creeping slowly up from the horizon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The wind blew in hollow fitful gusts. Any one learned in such lore would have
+said that a change of weather was imminent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When about half-way across the moor he halted for a moment to gather breath. On
+every side of him spread the dull treeless expanse. Nowhere was there another
+human being to be seen. He was utterly alone. &ldquo;If a man crossing here
+were suddenly stricken with death,&rdquo; he muttered to himself, &ldquo;what a
+place this would be to die in! His body might lie here for days&mdash;for weeks
+even&mdash;before it was found.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At length Mother Mim&rsquo;s cottage was reached. Everything about it looked
+precisely the same as when he had seen it last. It seemed only like a few hours
+since he had left it. There, too, crouched on the low wall outside, with her
+skirt drawn over her head, was Mother Mim&rsquo;s grand-daughter, the girl with
+the black glittering eyes, looking as if she had never stirred from the spot
+since he was last there. She made no movement or sign of recognition when he
+walked up to her, but her eyes were full of a cold keen criticism of him, far
+beyond her age and appearance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How is your grandmother?&rdquo; said Kester, abruptly. He did not like
+being stared at as she stared at him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She&rsquo;s dead.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dead!&rdquo; It was no more than he expected to hear, and yet he could
+not hear it altogether unmoved.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ay, as dead as a door nail. And a good job too. It was time she
+went.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How long has she been dead?&rdquo; asked Kester, ignoring the latter
+part of the girl&rsquo;s speech.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Just half an hour.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Another surprise for Kester. He had expected to hear that she had been dead
+several days&mdash;a week perhaps. But only half an hour!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who was with her when she died?&rdquo; he asked, after a minute&rsquo;s
+pause.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Me and Dirty Jack.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Dirty Jack! who is he?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why Dirty Jack. Everybody knows him. He lives in Duxley, and has a
+wooden leg, and does writings for folk.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Does writings for folk!&rdquo; A shiver ran through Kester. &ldquo;And
+has he been doing anything for your grandmother?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That he has. A lot.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A lot&mdash;about what?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;About you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;About me? Why about me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, you never came near. Nobody never came near. Granny got tired of it.
+&lsquo;I&rsquo;ll have my revenge,&rsquo; said she. So she sent for Dirty Jack,
+and he took it all down in writing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Took it all down in writing about me?&rdquo; She nodded her head in the
+affirmative. &ldquo;If you know so much, no doubt you know what it was that he
+took down&mdash;eh?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, I know right enough.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why not tell me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know all about it, but I ain&rsquo;t a-going to split.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Further persuasion on Kester&rsquo;s part had no other effect than to induce
+the girl to assert in still more emphatic terms that &ldquo;she wasn&rsquo;t
+a-going to split.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Evidently nothing more was to be got from her. But she had said enough already
+to confirm his worst fears. Mother Mim, out of spite for the neglect with which
+he had treated her, had made a confession at the last moment, similar in
+purport to what she had told him when last there. Such a confession&mdash;if
+not absolutely dangerous to him&mdash;she having assured him that none of the
+witnesses were now living&mdash;might be made a source of infinite annoyance to
+him. Such a story, once made public, might bring forth witnesses and evidence
+from twenty hitherto unsuspected quarters, and fetter him round, link by link,
+with a chain of evidence from which he might find it impossible to extricate
+himself. At every sacrifice, Mother Mim&rsquo;s confession must be destroyed or
+suppressed. Such were some of the thoughts that passed through Kester&rsquo;s
+mind as he stood there biting his nails. Again and again he cursed himself in
+that he had allowed any such confession to emanate from the dead woman, whose
+silence a little extra kindness on his part would have effectually secured.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And where is this Dirty Jack, as you call him?&rdquo; he said, at last.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;s in there&rdquo;&mdash;indicating the hut with a jerk of her
+head&mdash;&ldquo;fast asleep.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Fast asleep in the same room with your grandmother?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why not? He had a bottle of whiskey with him which he kept sucking at.
+At last he got half screwy, and when all was over he said he would have a
+snooze by the fire and pull himself together a bit before going home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester said no more, but going up to the hut, opened the door and went in. On
+the pallet at the farther end lay the dead woman, her body faintly outlined
+through the sheet that had been drawn over her. A clear fire was burning in the
+broken grate, and close to it, on the only chair in the place, sat a man fast
+asleep. His hands were grimy, his linen was yellow, his hair was frowsy. He was
+a big bulky man, with a coarse, hard face, and was dressed in faded threadbare
+black. He had a wooden leg, which just now was thrust out towards the fire, and
+seemed as if it were basking in the comfortable blaze.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On the chimney-piece was an empty spirit-bottle, and in a corner near at hand
+were deposited a broad-brimmed hat, greasy and much the worse for wear, and a
+formidable looking walking-stick.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Such was the vision of loveliness that met the gaze of Kester St. George as he
+paused for a moment or two just inside the cottage door. Then he coughed and
+advanced a step or two. As he did so the man suddenly opened his eyes, got up
+quickly but awkwardly out of his chair, and laid his hand on something that was
+hidden in an inner pocket of his coat. &ldquo;No, you don&rsquo;t!&rdquo; he
+cried, with a wave of his hand. &ldquo;No, you don&rsquo;t! None of your
+hanky-panky tricks here. They won&rsquo;t go down with Jack Skeggs, so you
+needn&rsquo;t try &rsquo;em on!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester stared at him in unconcealed disgust. It was evident that he was still
+under the partial influence of what he had been drinking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?&rdquo; asked Kester,
+sternly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am John Skeggs, Esquire, attorney-at-law, at your service. And who may
+you be, when you&rsquo;re at home? But there&mdash;I know who you are well
+enough. You are Mr. Kester St. George, of Park Newton. I have seen you before.
+I saw you on the day of the murder trial. You were one of the witnesses, and
+white enough you looked. Anybody who had a good look at you in the box that day
+would never be likely to forget your face again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester turned aside for a moment to hide the sudden nervous twitching of his
+lips.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry the whiskey is done,&rdquo; said Mr. Skeggs with a
+regretful look at the empty bottle. &ldquo;I should like you and I to have had
+a drain together. I suppose you don&rsquo;t do anything in this line?&rdquo;
+From one pocket he produced an old clasp knife, and from the other a cake of
+leaf tobacco. Then he cut himself a plug and put it into his mouth. &ldquo;When
+one friend fails me, then I fall back upon another,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;When
+I can&rsquo;t get whiskey I must have tobacco.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was no better known character in Duxley than Mr. Skeggs. &ldquo;Dirty
+Jack,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Drunken Jack,&rdquo; were the sobriquets by which he was
+generally known, and neither of those terms was applied to him without good and
+sufficient reason. There could be no doubt as to the man&rsquo;s shrewdness,
+ability, and knowledge of common law. He was a great favourite among the lower
+and the very lowest classes of Duxley society, who in their legal difficulties
+never thought of employing any other lawyer than Skeggs, the universal belief
+being that if anybody could pull them through, either by hook or crook, Dirty
+Jack was that man. And it is quite possible that Mr. Skeggs&rsquo;s clients
+were not far wrong in their belief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No good stopping here any longer,&rdquo; said Skeggs, when he had put
+back his knife and tobacco into his pocket.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, I suppose not,&rdquo; said Kester.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose you will see that everything is done right and proper by our
+poor dear departed?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, I suppose there is no one to look to but me. She was my
+foster-mother, and very kind to me when I was a lad.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;His foster-mother! Listen to that! His foster-mother! ha! ha!&rdquo;
+sniggered Dirty Jack. Then laying a finger on one side his nose, and leering up
+at Kester with horrible familiarity, he added: &ldquo;We know all about that
+little affair, Mr. St. George, and a very pretty romance it is.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Look you here, Mr. Skeggs, or whatever your dirty name may be,&rdquo;
+said Kester, sternly, &ldquo;I&rsquo;d advise you to keep a civil tongue in
+your head or it may be worse for you. I&rsquo;ve thrashed bigger men than you
+in my time. Be careful, or I shall thrash you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I like your pluck, on my soul I do!&rdquo; said Skeggs, heartily.
+&ldquo;If you&rsquo;re not genuine silver&mdash;and you know you
+ain&rsquo;t&mdash;you&rsquo;re a deuced good imitation of the real thing.
+Thoroughly well plated, that&rsquo;s what you are. Any one would take you to be
+a born gentleman, they would really. Which way are you going back?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester hesitated a moment. Should he quarrel with this man and set him at
+defiance, or should he not? Could he afford to quarrel with him? that was the
+question. Perhaps it would be as well to keep from doing so as long as
+possible.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to walk back across the moor as far as Sedgeley,&rdquo;
+said Kester.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll walk with you&mdash;though three miles is rather a big
+stretch to do with my game leg. I can get a gig from there that will take me
+home.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment. Skeggs took up his hat and
+stick, and proceeded to polish the former article with his sleeve.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Queer woman that,&rdquo; he said, with a jerk of his thumb towards the
+bed&mdash;&ldquo;very queer. Hard as nails. With something heroic about her, to
+my mind&mdash;something that, under different circumstances, might have
+developed her into a remarkable woman. Well, that&rsquo;s the way with heaps of
+us. Circumstances are dead against us, and we are not strong enough to
+overmaster them; else should we smite the world with surprise, and genius would
+not be so scarce an article in the market as it is now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester stared. Was this the half-drunken blackguard who had been jeering at him
+but two minutes ago? &ldquo;And yet, drunk he must be,&rdquo; added Kester to
+himself. &ldquo;No fellow in his senses would talk such precious rot.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your obedient servant, sir,&rdquo; said Skeggs, with a purposely
+exaggerated bow as he held open the door for Mr. St. George to pass out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl was still sitting on the wall with her skirt drawn over her head.
+Kester went up to her. &ldquo;I will send some one along first thing to-morrow
+morning to see to the funeral and other matters,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;if you
+can manage till then.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, I can manage right enough. Why not?&rdquo; said the girl.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I thought that perhaps you might not care to be in the house by yourself
+all night.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t mind that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then you are not afraid?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What&rsquo;s there to be frittened of? She&rsquo;s quiet enough now. I
+shall make up a jolly fire, and have a jolly supper, and then a jolly long
+sleep. And that&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;ve not had for weeks. And I shall read the
+Dream Book. She can&rsquo;t keep that from me now. I know where it is.
+It&rsquo;s in the bed right under her. But I&rsquo;ll have it.&rdquo; She
+laughed and nodded her head, then putting a nut into her mouth she cracked it
+and began to pick out the kernel. Kester turned away.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nell, my good girl,&rdquo; said Mr. Skeggs, insinuatingly, &ldquo;just
+see whether there isn&rsquo;t such a thing as a drop of whiskey somewhere about
+the house. I&rsquo;ve an awful pain in my chest.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s no whiskey&mdash;not a drop&mdash;but I know where
+there&rsquo;s half a bottle of gin. Give me five shillings and I&rsquo;ll fetch
+it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Five shillings for half a bottle of gin! Why, Nell, what a greedy young
+pig you must be!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t have it then. Nobody axed you. I can drink it myself.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll give you three shillings for it. Come now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not a meg less than five will I take,&rdquo; said Nell, emphatically, as
+she cracked another nut.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, you young viper, have you no conscience at all?&rdquo; he cried
+savagely. Then seeing that Nell took no further notice of him, he turned to
+Kester. &ldquo;I find that I have no loose silver about me,&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;Oblige me with the loan of a couple of half-crowns till we get to
+Sedgeley.&rdquo; Whenever Mr. Skeggs made a new acquaintance he always
+requested the loan of a couple of half-crowns before parting from him. But the
+half-crowns were never paid back until asked for, and asked for more than once.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few premonitory flakes of snow were darkening the air as Kester St. George
+and Mr. Skeggs started on their way back across Burley Moor, the latter with a
+thick comforter round his neck and the bottle of gin stowed carefully away in
+the tail pocket of his coat. The cold seemed more intense than ever, but the
+wind had fallen altogether.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We are going to have a rough night,&rdquo; said Skeggs as he stepped
+sturdily out. &ldquo;We must contrive to get across the moor before the snow
+comes down very thick, or we shall stand a good chance of losing our way. Only
+the winter before last a pedlar and his wife were lost in the snow within a
+mile of here, and their bodies not found for a fortnight. This sudden change
+will play the devil with the young crops.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester did not answer. Far different matters occupied his thoughts. In silence
+they walked on for a little while.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose you could give a pretty good guess,&rdquo; said Skeggs at
+length, &ldquo;at my reasons for asking you which way you were going to walk
+this afternoon?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Indeed, no,&rdquo; said Kester with a shrug. &ldquo;I have not the
+remotest idea, nor do I care to know. It was you who chose to accompany me. I
+did not thrust my company upon you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Skeggs laughed a little maliciously. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think there&rsquo;s
+much good, Mr. Kester St. George, in you and I beating about the bush.
+I&rsquo;m a plain man of business, and that reminds
+me,&rdquo;&mdash;interrupting himself with a chuckle&mdash;&ldquo;that when I
+once used those very words to a client of mine, he retorted by saying,
+&lsquo;You are more than a plain man of business, Mr. Skeggs, you are an ugly
+one.&rsquo; I did my very utmost for that man, but he was hanged. Mais
+revenons. I am a plain man of business, and I intend to deal with this question
+in a business-like way. The simple point is: What is it worth your while to
+give me for the document I have buttoned up here?&rdquo; tapping his chest with
+his left hand as he spoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am at a loss to know to what document you refer,&rdquo; said Mr. St.
+George, coldly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A very few words will tell you the contents of it, though, if I am
+rightly informed, you can give a pretty good guess already as to what they are
+likely to be. In this document it is asserted that you, sir, have no right to
+the name by which the world has known you for so long a time&mdash;that you
+have no right to the position you occupy, to the property you claim as yours.
+That you are, in fact, none other than the son of Mother Mim herself&mdash;of
+the woman who lies dead in yonder hut.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester drew in his breath with something like a sigh. It was as he had feared.
+Mother Mim had told everything, and, of all people in the world, to the wretch
+now walking by his side. He braced his nerves for the coming encounter.
+&ldquo;I have heard something before to-day of the rigmarole of which you
+speak,&rdquo; he said, haughtily; &ldquo;but I need hardly tell you that the
+affair is nothing but a tissue of vilest lies from beginning to end.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I dare say it is,&rdquo; said Skeggs, good humouredly. &ldquo;But it may
+be rather difficult for you to prove that it is so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It will be still more difficult for you to prove that it is not
+so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh! I am quite aware of all the difficulties both for and
+against&mdash;no man more so. You have got possession, and a hundred other
+points in your favour. Still, with what evidence I have already, and with what
+evidence I can get elsewhere, I shall be able to make out a strong case&mdash;a
+very strong case against you in a court of justice.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Evidence elsewhere!&rdquo; said Kester, disdainfully. &ldquo;There is no
+such thing, unless you are clever enough to make the dead speak.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Even that has been done before now,&rdquo; said Skeggs quietly.
+&ldquo;But in this case we have no need to go to the churchyard to collect our
+evidence. I have a living, breathing witness whom I can lay my hands on at a
+day&rsquo;s notice.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You lie,&rdquo; said Kester, emphatically.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll wash that down,&rdquo; said Skeggs, halting for a moment and
+proceeding to take a good pull at his bottle of gin. &ldquo;If you so far
+forget yourself again, I shall begin to feel sure that you are not a St.
+George. What I told you was not a lie. There were four witnesses who had all a
+personal knowledge of a certain fact. Three of those witnesses are dead: the
+fourth still lives. Of the existence of this fourth witness Mother Mim never
+even hinted to you. It was her trump card, and she was far too cunning to let
+you see it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester walked on in silence. He felt that just then he had hardly a word to
+say. Was all that he had sacrificed so much for in other ways, all that he had
+run such tremendous risks for, to be torn from him by the machinations of a
+vile old hag, and the drunken, ribald scoundrel by his side? Through what
+strange ambushes, through what dusky by-paths, doth Fate oft-times overtake us!
+We look back along the broad highway we have been traversing, and seeing no
+black shadow dogging our footsteps, we go rejoicing on our way; when suddenly,
+from some near-at-hand shrub, is shot a poisoned arrow, and the sunlight fades
+from our eyes for ever.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And now, after this little skirmish,&rdquo; said Skeggs, &ldquo;we come
+back to my first question: What can you afford to give me for the document in
+my pocket?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Suppose I say that I will give you nothing&mdash;what then?&rdquo; said
+Kester, sullenly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then I shall get my evidence together, work out my case on paper, and
+submit it to the heir-at-law.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And supposing the heir-at-law, acting under advice, were to decline
+having anything to do with your case, as you call it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He would be a fool to do that, because my case is anything but a weak
+one. I tell you this in confidence. But supposing he were to decline, then I
+should say to him: &lsquo;I am willing to conduct this case on my own account.
+If I fail, it shall not cost you a penny. If I succeed, you shall pay all
+expenses, and give me five thousand pounds.&rsquo; That would fetch him, I
+think.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You have been assuming all along,&rdquo; said Kester, &ldquo;that your
+case is based on fact. I assure you again that it is not&mdash;that it is
+nothing but a devilish lie from beginning to end.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Really, my dear sir, that has little or nothing to do with the matter. I
+dare say it is a lie. But it is my place to believe it to be the truth, and to
+make other people believe the same as I do. Here&rsquo;s your very good health,
+sir.&rdquo; Again Mr. Skeggs took a long pull and a strong pull at his bottle
+of gin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Knowing what you know,&rdquo; said Kester, &ldquo;and believing what you
+believe, are you yet willing to sell the document now in your
+possession?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Of course I am. What else is all this jaw for?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And don&rsquo;t you think you are a pretty sort of scoundrel to make me
+any such offer? Don&rsquo;t you think&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now look you here, Mr. St. George&mdash;if that is your name, which I
+very much doubt&mdash;don&rsquo;t let you and me begin to fling mud at one
+another, because that is a game at which I could lick you into fits. I have
+made you a fair offer. If we can&rsquo;t come to terms, there&rsquo;s no reason
+why we shouldn&rsquo;t part friendly.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Once again Kester walked on in silence. The snow had been coming down more
+thickly for some time past, and already the dull gray moor began to look
+strange and unfamiliar, but neither of the two men gave more than a passing
+thought to the weather.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you feel and know your case to be such a strong one,&rdquo; said
+Kester, at last, &ldquo;why do you come to me at all? Why send a white flag
+into your enemy&rsquo;s camp? Why not fight him à l&rsquo;outrance at
+once?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Because I&rsquo;m neither so young nor so pugnacious as I once
+was,&rdquo; answered Skeggs. &ldquo;I go in for peace and quiet nowadays. I
+don&rsquo;t want the bother and annoyance of a law-suit. I have no ill-feeling
+towards you, and if you will only make me a fair offer, I shall be the last man
+in the world to disturb you in any way. Gemini! how the snow comes down! We are
+only about half way yet. We shall have some difficulty in picking our road
+across.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I myself am as anxious as you can be, Mr. Skeggs, to be saved the
+trouble and annoyance of a law-suit, however sure I may feel that the result
+would be in my favour. But you must give me a little time to think this matter
+over. It is far too important to be decided at a moment&rsquo;s notice.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Time? To be sure. You can make up your mind in about a couple of days, I
+suppose. Shall I call upon you, or will you call upon me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Hardly were the words out of Mr. Skeggs&rsquo;s mouth when his wooden leg sunk
+suddenly into a hidden hole in the pathway. Thrown forward by the shock, the
+lawyer came heavily to the ground, and at the same moment his leg snapped short
+off just below the knee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester took him by the shoulders and assisted him to assume a sitting posture
+on the footpath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Skeggs&rsquo;s first action was to pick up his broken limb and look at it
+with a sort of comical despair. &ldquo;There goes a friend that has done me
+good service,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but he might have lasted till he got me
+home, for all that. How the deuce am I to get home?&rdquo; he asked, turning
+abruptly to Kester.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester paused for a minute and looked round before answering. The snow was
+coming down faster than ever. The moor was being gradually turned into a huge
+white carpet. Already its zig-zag paths and winding footways were barely
+distinguishable from the treacherous bog which lay on every side of them. In an
+hour and a half it would be dark with a darkness that would be unrelieved by
+either moon or stars. If it kept on snowing all night at this rate the drift
+would be a couple of feet deep by morning. Skeggs&rsquo;s casual remark about
+the pedlar and his wife, unheeded at the time, now flashed vividly across
+Kester&rsquo;s mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You will have to wait here till I can get assistance,&rdquo; he said, in
+answer to his companion&rsquo;s question. &ldquo;There is no help for
+it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I suppose not,&rdquo; growled Skeggs. &ldquo;Was ever anything so
+cursedly unfortunate?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sedgeley is the nearest place to this,&rdquo; said Kester. &ldquo;There
+are plenty of men there who know the moor thoroughly. I will send half a dozen
+of them to your help.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How soon may I expect them here?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In about three-quarters of an hour from now.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ugh! I&rsquo;m half frozen already. What shall I be in another
+hour?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, you&rsquo;ll pull through that easily enough. Your bottle is not
+empty yet.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Jove! I&rsquo;d forgotten the bottle,&rdquo; said Skeggs, with
+animation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He took it out of his pocket, and held it up to the light. &ldquo;Not more than
+a quartern left. Well, that&rsquo;s better than none at all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Goodbye,&rdquo; said Kester, as he shook some of the snow off his hat.
+&ldquo;You may look for help in less than an hour.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Goodbye, Mr. St. George,&rdquo; said Skeggs, looking very earnestly at
+him as he did so.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You won&rsquo;t forget to send the help, will you? because if you do
+forget, it will be nothing more nor less than wilful murder.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester laughed a short grating laugh. &ldquo;Fear nothing, Skeggs,&rdquo; he
+said. &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t forget. About that other trifle, I will write you in
+two or three days. Again goodbye.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Skeggs&rsquo;s face had turned very white. He could not speak. He took off his
+hat and waved it. Kester responded by a wave of his hand. Then turning on his
+heel he strode away through the snowy twilight. In three minutes he was lost to
+sight. Skeggs could no longer see him. Tears came into his eyes.
+&ldquo;He&rsquo;ll send no help, not he. I shall die here like a dog. The snow
+will be my winding-sheet. If ever there was mischief in a man&rsquo;s eye,
+there was in his, as he bade me goodbye.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Onward strode Kester St. George through the blinding snow. Altogether heedless
+of the weather was he just now. He had other things to think about. As
+instinctively as an Indian or a backwoodsman tracks his way across prairie or
+forest did he track his way across the moor, all hidden though the paths now
+were. He was a child of the moor. He had learned its secrets when a boy, and in
+his present emergency, reason and intellect must perforce give way to that
+blind instinct which was left him as a legacy of his youth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At length the last patch of moorland was crossed, and a few minutes later he
+found himself close by a well-remembered finger-post, where three roads met.
+One of these roads led to Sedgeley, which was but a short quarter of a mile
+away; another of them led to Duxley and Park Newton. At Sedgeley his horse was
+waiting for him. There, too, was to be had the help which he had so faithfully
+promised Skeggs that he would send. Leaning against the finger-post, he took a
+minute&rsquo;s rest before going any farther. Which road should he take? That
+was the question which at present he was turning over and over in his mind. Not
+long did he hesitate. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he made a wisp of it,
+and tied it round his throat. Then he turned up the collar of his coat. Then
+once again he shook the snow off his hat. Then plunging his hands deep in his
+pockets, and turning his back on the finger-post, he set out resolutely along
+the road that led towards Park Newton. Once, and once only did he pause, even
+for a moment, before reaching home. It was when he fancied that he heard, away
+in the far distance, a low, wild, melancholy cry&mdash;whether the cry of an
+animal or a man he could not tell&mdash;but none the less a cry for help.
+Whatever it was, it did not come again, and after that Kester pursued his way
+homeward steadily and without pause. It was quite dark long before he reached
+his own room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He changed his clothes and went down to dinner. Both his uncle and Richard
+Dering were away, and he dined alone, for which he was by no means sorry. Every
+half-hour or so he inquired as to the weather. They had nothing to tell him
+except that it was still snowing hard. The evening was one of slow torture, but
+at length it wore itself away. He went to bed about midnight. Dobbs&rsquo;s
+last report to him was that the weather was still unchanged. But several times
+during the night Dobbs heard his master pacing up and down his room, and had he
+been there he might, ever and again, have seen a haggard face peering out with
+eager eyes into the darkness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Twelve inches of snow, sir, on the drive,&rdquo; was Dobbs&rsquo;s first
+news next morning. &ldquo;They say there has not been a fall like it in these
+parts for a dozen years.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The snow had ceased to fall hours before. By-and-by there came a few gleams of
+sunshine to brighten the scene, but the wind was still in the north, and all
+that day the weather kept bitterly cold. Soon after sunset, however, there was
+a change. Little by little the wind got round to the south-west. At ten
+o&rsquo;clock Dobbs reported: &ldquo;Snow going fast, sir. Regular thaw. Not be
+a bit left by breakfast-time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Call me at four,&rdquo; said his master, &ldquo;and have some coffee
+ready, and a horse brought round by four thirty.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was quite tired out by this time, and when he went to bed he felt sure that
+he should have four or five hours&rsquo; sound sleep. But his sleep was several
+times disturbed by a strange dream: always the same thing repeated over and
+over again. He dreamt that he was standing under the finger-post on the edge of
+the moor. But the finger-post was neither more nor less than a gigantic
+skeleton, of which the outstretched arms formed the direction boards. On the
+bony palm of one outstretched arm, in letters of blood, was written the words:
+&ldquo;To Sedgeley.&rdquo; Then as he read the words in his dream, again would
+sound in his ears the low, weird, melancholy cry which had arrested his steps
+for a moment as he walked home through the snow, and hearing the cry he would
+start up in bed and stare round him, and wonder for a moment where he was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dobbs duly called his master at four, and at four thirty he mounted his horse
+and rode away. The roads were heavy and sloppy with the melting snow. The
+morning was intensely dark, but Kester knew the country thoroughly, and was
+never at a loss as to which turn he ought to take. Not one human being did he
+meet during the whole of his ride. But, indeed, his nearest friend would have
+passed him by in the dark without recognition. He wore an old shooting suit,
+with a Glengarry bonnet and a macintosh, and had a thick shawl wrapped round
+his throat and the lower part of his face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Day was just breaking as he reached the edge of the moor. He tethered his horse
+to the stump of an old tree behind a hedge. He had brought a powerful
+field-glass in his pocket. He scanned the moor carefully through it before
+proceeding farther on his quest. No living being was in sight anywhere.
+Satisfied of this, he set out without further delay, leaving his horse by
+itself to await his return. Not without a tremor&mdash;not without a faster
+beating of the heart&mdash;did he again set foot on the moor. A drizzling rain
+now began to fall, but Kester was not sorry for this. The worse the weather,
+the fewer the people who would be abroad in it. Onward he strode, keeping a
+wary eye about him as he went.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At length he reached a curve in the path from whence he ought to be able to
+discern the bulky form of John Skeggs, Esq., if that gentleman was still where
+he had last seen him. He looked, but the morning was still heavy and dark: he
+could see nothing. Then he adjusted his glass, and looking through that he
+could just make out a heap&mdash;a bundle&mdash;a shapeless something. It
+required a powerful effort on his part to brace his nerves to the pitch
+requisite to carry him through the task he had still before him. He had filled
+a small flask with brandy, and he now drank some of it. Then he started again.
+A few minutes more and the end of his journey was reached.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There lay Skeggs, on the very spot where he had left him, resting on his side,
+with one hand under his head, as if asleep. His hat had fallen off. On the
+ground near him were the empty bottle, his walking-stick, and his broken wooden
+leg. Numbed by the intense cold, he had fallen asleep while waiting for the
+help which was never to come, and had so died, frozen to death. Doubtless his
+death had been a painless one, but none the less, as he himself would have
+said, was Kester St. George his murderer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Gloved though he was, it was not without a feeling of indescribable loathing
+that Kester could bring himself to touch the body. But it was absolutely
+necessary to do so. The paper he had come in quest of was in the breast pocket
+of the dead man&rsquo;s coat. It did not take him long to find it. Having made
+sure that he had got the right document, he fastened it up in the breast pocket
+of his own coat. &ldquo;Now I am safe!&rdquo; he said to himself. Then he took
+off his gloves and buried them carefully under a large stone. Then with one
+last glance at the body, he slunk hurriedly away, cursing in his heart the
+daylight that was now creeping up so rapidly from the east. In the clear light
+of dawn the foul deed he had done looked a thousand times fouler than it had
+looked before.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_09"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br />
+WHAT TO DO NEXT?</h2>
+
+<p>
+Not to every one among the children of men is given the power, the faculty, to
+act as comforter to others. To listen to another&rsquo;s sorrow, to be told the
+history of another&rsquo;s trouble, is one thing: to be able to give back
+comfort is another. That delicate intuitive sympathy with another&rsquo;s woe
+which draws away the sting even while listening to it, which makes that woe its
+own property as it were, which sheds balm round the sufferer in every word and
+look and touch: this is surely as much a special gift as the gift of song or
+the poet&rsquo;s fine phrenzy, and without it the world would be a much poorer
+place than it is.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This rare gift of sympathy was possessed by Edith Dering in a pre-eminent
+degree. She was at once emotional and sympathetic. To Lionel in his dire
+trouble she was a comforter in the truest sense of the word. It was she who
+preserved his mental balance&mdash;the equipoise of his mind. But for her sweet
+offices he would have become a monomaniac or a misanthrope of the bitterest
+kind. Naturally she had him with her as much as possible, but still his home
+was of necessity at Park Newton. To the world he was simply Richard Dering, the
+unmarried nephew of General St. George. It would not do for him to be seen
+going to Fern Cottage sufficiently often to excite either scandal or suspicion.
+He could only visit there as the intimate friend of Mrs. Garside and her niece.
+Sometimes he took his uncle with him, sometimes Tom, in order to divert
+suspicion. For him to enter the garden gate of Fern Cottage was to cross the
+threshold of his earthly paradise. Edith and he had been married in the depth
+of a great trouble&mdash;troubles and danger had beset the path of their wedded
+life ever since. Owing, perhaps, to that very cause week by week, and month by
+month, their love seemed only to grow in depth and intensity. As yet it had
+lost nothing of its pristine charm and freshness. The gold-dust of romance
+lingered about it still. They were man and wife, they had been man and wife for
+months, but to the world at large they seemed nothing more than ordinary
+friends.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But all Edith&rsquo;s care and watchful love could not lift her husband, except
+by fits and starts, out of those moods of gloom and depression which seemed to
+be settling more closely down upon him day by day. As link after link was added
+to the chain of evidence, each one tending to incriminate his cousin still more
+deeply, his moods seemed to grow darker and more difficult of removal. With his
+cousin Lionel associated no more than was absolutely necessary. They rarely met
+each other till dinner-time, and then they met with nothing more than a simple
+&ldquo;How do you do?&rdquo; and in conversation they never got beyond some
+half-dozen of the barest commonplaces. Lionel always left the table as soon as
+the cloth was drawn.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On Kester&rsquo;s side there was no love lost. That dark, stern-faced cousin
+was a perpetual menace to him, and he hated him accordingly. He hated him for
+his likeness to his dead and gone brother. He hated him because of the look in
+his eyes&mdash;so coldly scrutinizing, so searching, so immovable. He hated him
+because it was a look that he could in nowise give back. Try as he might, he
+could not face Lionel&rsquo;s steady gaze.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For some two or three weeks after his return from Bath with Janvard&rsquo;s
+written confession, Lionel was perfectly quiescent. He took no further action
+whatever. He was, indeed, debating in his own mind what further action it
+behoved him to take. There was no need to seek for any further evidence, if,
+indeed, any more would have been forthcoming. All that he wanted he had now
+got; it was simply a question as to what use he should make of it. Day and
+night that was the question which presented itself before his mind: what use
+should he make of the knowledge in his possession? His mind was divided this
+way and that; day passed after day, and still he could by no means decide as to
+the course which it would be best for him to adopt. Of all this he said not a
+word to Edith: he could not have borne to discuss the question even with her;
+but it is possible that she surmised something of it. She knew that she had
+only to wait and everything would be told her. Perhaps to Bristow, who knew all
+the details of the case as well as he did, he might have said something as to
+the difficulty by which he was beset, but as it happened, Tom was not at home
+just then. Much of his time was spent by Lionel in long solitary walks far and
+wide through the country. He could think better when he was walking than when
+sitting quietly at home, he used to say; and, indeed, the country folk who
+encountered him often turned to look at him, as he stalked along, with his eyes
+set straight before him, gazing on vacancy, and with lips that moved rapidly as
+he whispered to himself of his dreadful secret.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But, little by little, the need of counsel, of sympathy, grew more strongly
+upon him. He was still as much at a loss as ever as to the step which he ought
+to take next.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They shall decide for me,&rdquo; he said at last; &ldquo;I will put
+myself into their hands: by their verdict I will abide.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+General St. George at this time was away from Park Newton. As has been already
+stated, he had been summoned to the sick-bed of a very old and valued friend.
+The illness was a long and tedious one, and at the request of his friend the
+General stayed on and kept him company. Truth to tell, he was by no means sorry
+to get away from Park Newton for awhile. Of late his position there had been
+anything but a pleasant one. The silent, deadly feud between his two nephews
+troubled him not a little. If Kester would only have gone away, then, so far,
+all would have been well. But having pressed him so earnestly to visit Park
+Newton, he could not, with any show of conscience, ask him to go till he was
+ready to do so of his own accord. Knowing what he knew, that Kester was all but
+proved to have been the murderer of Percy Osmond, he might well not care to
+live under the same roof with him, hiding his feelings under a mask, and, while
+pretending to know nothing, to be in reality cognisant of the whole dreadful
+story. Knowing what he knew, that Richard was none other than Lionel, and
+knowing the quest on which he was engaged, and that, sooner or later, the
+climax must come, he might well wish to be away from Park Newton when that most
+wretched day should dawn&mdash;a day which would prove the innocence of one
+nephew at the price of the other&rsquo;s guilt. Therefore did General St.
+George accept his old friend&rsquo;s invitation to stay with him for an
+indefinite length of time&mdash;till, in fact, Kester should have left Park
+Newton, or till the tangled knot of events should, in some other way, have
+unravelled itself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When, at length, Lionel had decided that he would take the advice of his
+friends as to what his future course should be, he was obliged to await Tom
+Bristow&rsquo;s return before it was possible to do anything. Then, when Tom
+did get back home, the General had to be written to. When he understood what he
+was wanted for, he agreed to come on certain conditions. He was to come to Fern
+Cottage, spend one night there, and go back to his friend&rsquo;s house next
+day. No one, except those assembled at the cottage, was to know anything of his
+journey. Above all, it was to be kept a profound secret from Kester St George.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus it fell out that on a certain April evening there were assembled, in the
+parlour of the cottage, Edith, Mrs. Garside, General St. George, Tom Bristow,
+and Lionel. It was a very serious occasion, and they all felt it to be such.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The General would sit close to Edith, whom he had not seen for a little while;
+and several times during the evening he took possession of one of her hands,
+and patted it affectionately between his own withered palms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are not looking quite so well, my dear, as when I saw you
+last,&rdquo; had been his first words after kissing her. Her cheeks were,
+indeed, just beginning to look in the slightest degree hollow and worn, nor did
+her eyes look quite so bright as of old. The wonder was, considering all that
+she had gone through during the last twelve months, that she looked as fair and
+fresh as she did. Of Mrs. Garside, whom we have not seen for some little time,
+it may be said that she looked plumper and more matronly than ever. But then
+nothing could have kept Mrs. Garside from looking plump and matronly. She was
+one of those people off whom the troubles and anxieties of life slip as easily
+as water slips off a duck&rsquo;s back. Although she had a copious supply of
+tears at command, nothing ever troubled her deeply or for long, simply because
+there was no depth to be troubled. She was always cheerful, because she was
+shallow; and she was always kind-hearted so long as her kindness of heart did
+not involve any self-sacrifice on her part. &ldquo;What a very pleasant person
+Mrs. Garside is,&rdquo; was the general verdict of society. And so she
+was&mdash;very pleasant. If her father had been hanged on a Monday for
+sheepstealing, by Tuesday she would have been as pleasant and cheerful as ever.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But we must not be unjust to Mrs. Garside. She had one affection, and one only,
+her love for Edith. During all the days of Edith&rsquo;s tribulation, her aunt
+had never deserted her&mdash;had not even thought of deserting her; and now,
+for Edith&rsquo;s sake, she had buried herself alive in Fern Cottage, where her
+only excitement was a little mild shopping, now and then, in Duxley High
+Street, under the incognito of a thick veil, or a welcome visit once and again
+from Miss Culpepper. Under these depressing circumstances, it ought perhaps to
+be put down to the credit of Mrs. Garside, rather than to her discredit, that
+her cheerfulness was not one whit abated, and that her face was a picture of
+health and content.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think you know why I have asked you to meet me here to-night,&rdquo;
+began Lionel. &ldquo;I want your advice: I want you to tell me what step I must
+take next. You know what the purpose of my life has been ever since the night I
+escaped from prison. You know how persistently I have pursued that
+purpose&mdash;that I have allowed nothing to deter me or turn me aside from it.
+The result is that there has grown under my hands a fatal array of evidence,
+all tending to implicate one man&mdash;all pointing with deadly accuracy to one
+person, and to one only, as the murderer of Percy Osmond. I have but to open my
+mouth, and the four walls of a prison would shut him round as fast as ever they
+shut round me; I have but to speak of half I know and that man would have to
+take his trial for Wilful Murder even as I took mine. But shall I do this
+thing? That is the question that I want you to help me to answer. So long as
+the chain of evidence remained incomplete, so long as certain links were
+wanting to it, I felt that my task was unfinished. But at last I have all that
+I need. There is nothing more to search for. My task, so far, is at an end.
+Knowing, then, what I know, and with such proofs in my possession, am I to stop
+here? Am I to rest content with what I have done, and go no step farther? Or am
+I to go through with it to the bitter end? What that end would involve you know
+as well as I could tell you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He ceased, and for a little while they all sat in silence. General St. George
+was the first to speak. &ldquo;Lionel knows, and you all know, that from the
+very first he has had my heartfelt sympathy in this unhappy business. He has
+not had my sympathy only, he has had my help, although I have seen for a long
+time the point to which we were all tending, and the terrible consequences that
+must necessarily ensue. Me those consequences affect with peculiar force. One
+nephew can only be saved at the expense of the irretrievable ruin and disgrace
+of the other. It is not as though we had been searching in the dark, and had
+there found the bloodstained hand of a stranger. The hand we have so grasped is
+that of one of our own kin&mdash;one of ourselves. And that makes the dreadful
+part of the affair. Still, I would not have you misunderstand me. I am as
+closely bound to Lionel&mdash;my sympathy and help are his as much to-day as
+ever they were, and should he choose to go through with this business in the
+same way as he would go through with it in the case of an utter stranger, I
+shall be the last man in the world to blame him. More: I will march with him
+side by side, whatever be the goal to which his steps may lead him. Such
+unparalleled wrongs as his demand unparalleled reparation. For all that,
+however, it is still a most serious question whether there is not a possibility
+of effecting some kind of a compromise: whether there is not somewhere a door
+of escape open by means of which we may avert a catastrophe almost too terrible
+even to bear thinking about.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What is your opinion, Bristow?&rdquo; said Lionel, turning to Tom.
+&ldquo;What say you, my friend of friends?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have a certain diffidence in offering any opinion,&rdquo; said Tom,
+&ldquo;simply on account of the relationship of the two persons chiefly
+involved. To tell the world all that you know, would, undoubtedly, bring about
+a family catastrophe of a most painful nature. It therefore seems to me that
+the members of that family, and they alone, should be empowered to offer an
+opinion on a question so delicate as the one now under consideration.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; said Lionel, emphatically. &ldquo;No one could have a
+better right, or even so great a right, to offer an opinion as you. But for
+you, I should not have been here to-night to ask for that opinion.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nor I here but for you,&rdquo; interrupted Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will put my question to you in a different form,&rdquo; said Lionel;
+&ldquo;and so put to you, I shall expect you to answer it in your usual clear
+and straightforward way. Bristow, if you were circumstanced exactly as I am now
+circumstanced, what would you do in my place?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I would go through with the task I had taken in hand, let the
+consequences be what they might,&rdquo; said Tom, without a moment&rsquo;s
+hesitation. &ldquo;Nothing should hold me back. I would clear my own name and
+my own fame, and let punishment fall where punishment is due. You are still
+young, Dering, and a fair career and a happy future may still be yours if you
+like to claim them.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom&rsquo;s words were very emphatic, and for a little while no one spoke.
+&ldquo;We have yet to hear what Edith has to say,&rdquo; said the General.
+&ldquo;Her interests in the matter are second only to those of Lionel.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, it is my wife&rsquo;s turn to speak next,&rdquo; said Lionel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What my opinion is, you know well, dearest, and have known for a long
+time.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My uncle and Bristow would like to hear it from your own lips.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; began Edith, with a little blush, &ldquo;whatever Lionel
+may ultimately decide to do will doubtless be for the best. The last wish I
+have in the world is to lead him or guide him in any way in opposition to his
+own convictions. But I have thought this: that it would be very terrible indeed
+to have to take part in a second tragedy&mdash;a tragedy that, in some of its
+features, would be far more dreadful than that first one, which none of us can
+ever forget. No one can know better than I know how grievously my husband has
+been sinned against. But nothing can altogether undo the wrong that has been
+done. Would it make my husband a happy man if, instead of being the accused, he
+should become the accuser? Let us for a few moments try to imagine that this
+second tragedy has been worked out in all its frightful consequences. That my
+husband has told everything. That he who is guilty has been duly punished. That
+Lionel&rsquo;s fair fame has been re-established, and that he and I are living
+at Park Newton as if nothing had ever happened to disturb the commonplace tenor
+of our lives. In such a case, would my husband be a happy man? No. I know him
+too well to believe it possible that he could ever be happy or contented. The
+image of that man&mdash;one of his own kith and kin, we must
+remember&mdash;would be for ever in his mind. He would be the prey of a remorse
+all the more bitter in that the world would hold him as without blame. But
+would he so hold himself? I think not&mdash;I am sure not. He would feel as if
+he had sought for and accepted the price of blood.&rdquo; Overcome by her
+emotion, she ceased.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I think in a great measure as you think, my dear,&rdquo; said the
+General. &ldquo;What course do you propose that your husband should
+adopt?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It is not for me to propose anything,&rdquo; answered Edith. &ldquo;I
+can only suggest certain views of the question, and leave it for you and Lionel
+to adopt them or reject them, as may seem best to you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Holding the proofs of his innocence in his hands as he does,&rdquo; said
+the General, &ldquo;is it your wish that Lionel should sit down contented with
+what he has already achieved, and knowing that the real facts of his story are
+in the keeping of you and me, and two or three trusted friends, rest satisfied
+with that and ask for nothing more?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No, I hardly go so far as that,&rdquo; said Edith, with a faint smile.
+&ldquo;I think that the man who committed the crime should know that Lionel
+still lives, and that he holds in his hands the proof at once of his own
+innocence and of the other&rsquo;s guilt. Beyond that I say this: The world
+believes my husband to be dead: rather than re-open so terrible a wound, let
+the world continue so to believe. My husband and I can do without the world, as
+well as it can do without us. We have our mutual love, which nothing can
+deprive us of: against that the shafts of Fortune beat as vainly as hailstones
+against a castle wall. On this earth of ours are places sweet and fair without
+number. In one of them&mdash;not altogether dissevered from those ties of
+friendship which have already made our married life so beautiful&mdash;my
+husband and I could build up a new home, with no sad memories of the past to
+cling around it; and when this haunting shadow that now broods over his life
+shall have been brushed away for ever, then I think&mdash;I know&mdash;I feel
+sure that I can make him happy!&rdquo; Her voice, her eyes, her whole manner
+were imbued with a sweet fervour that it was impossible to resist.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lionel crossed over and kissed her. &ldquo;My darling!&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;But for your love and care I should long ago have been a madman.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You, my dear, have put into words,&rdquo; said the General, &ldquo;the
+very ideas that for a long time have been floating about, half formed, in my
+own mind. Lionel, what have you to say to your wife&rsquo;s suggestions?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Only this: that I have made up my mind to follow them. <i>He</i> shall
+know that I am alive, and that I hold the proofs of his guilt, ready to produce
+them at a moment&rsquo;s notice, should I ever be compelled to do so. Beyond
+that, I will leave him in peace&mdash;to such peace as his own conscience will
+give him. The world believes Lionel Dering to be dead and buried. Dead and
+buried he shall still remain, and &lsquo;requiescat in pace&rsquo; be written
+under his name.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The General got up with tears in his eyes and shook Lionel warmly by the hand.
+&ldquo;Good boy! good boy! You will not go without your reward,&rdquo; was all
+that he could say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The eighth of May will soon be here,&rdquo; said Lionel&mdash;&ldquo;the
+anniversary of poor Osmond&rsquo;s murder. On that day he shall be told. But I
+shall tell him in my own fashion. On that day, uncle, you must promise to give
+me your company; and you yours, Tom. After that I shall trouble you no
+more.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If Tom Bristow dissented from the conclusion thus come to, he said no word to
+that effect. There was one point, however, that struck his practical mind as
+having been altogether overlooked; and as soon as Edith and Mrs. Garside had
+left the room he did not fail to mention it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What about the income of eleven thousand a year?&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;You are surely not going to let the whole of that slip through your
+fingers?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ah, by-the-by, that point never struck me,&rdquo; said the General.
+&ldquo;No, it would be decidedly unjust both to yourself and your wife, Lionel,
+to give up the income as well as the position.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now you are importing a mercenary tone into the affair that is utterly
+distasteful to me. It looks as if I were being bribed to keep silence.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is sheer nonsense,&rdquo; said the General. &ldquo;You have but to
+hold out your hand to take the whole.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lionel said no more, but went and sat down dejectedly on the sofa.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You and I must settle this matter between us,&rdquo; said the General to
+Tom. &ldquo;It is most important. It shall be my place to see that whatever is
+agreed upon shall be duly carried out in the arrangement between the two men. I
+should think that if the income were divided it would be about as fair a thing
+as could be done. What say you?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I agree with you entirely,&rdquo; said Tom. &ldquo;The other one will
+have the name and position to keep up, and that can&rsquo;t be done for
+nothing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then it shall be so settled.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There is one other point that I think ought to be settled at the same
+time. Who is to have Park Newton after <i>his</i> death? Lionel may have
+children. <i>He</i> may marry and have children. But, in common justice, the
+estate ought to be secured on Dering&rsquo;s eldest child, whether the present
+possessor die with or without an heir.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Certainly, certainly. Good gracious me! a most valuable suggestion.
+Strange, now, that it never struck me. Yes, yes: Lionel&rsquo;s eldest child
+must have the estate. I will see that there is no possible mistake on that
+score.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_10"></a>CHAPTER X.<br />
+HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.</h2>
+
+<p>
+After Mrs. McDermott&rsquo;s departure from Pincote, life there slipped back
+into its old quiet groove&mdash;into its old dull groove which was growing
+duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company: when any of
+his old friends called he was never at home to them; and on the score of ill
+health he declined every invitation that was sent to him. But it was not
+altogether on account of his health that these invitations were declined,
+because three or four times a week he would be seen somewhere about the country
+roads being driven out by Jane in the basket-carriage. There was another reason
+for this state of things&mdash;a reason to which his friends and neighbours
+were not slow in giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser:
+that is what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a miser
+was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his
+daughter&rsquo;s sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more
+ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme of
+domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous chapter, and
+the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to many people, seem
+miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality for which Pincote had
+heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he could not go much into society
+without giving return invitations. Now the four or five state dinners which he
+had been in the habit of giving every year were very elaborate and expensive
+affairs, and he no longer felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of
+spending so many pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom
+he cared little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount, trifling
+though it might seem, to that other trifling amount&mdash;only some few
+hundreds of pounds when all was told&mdash;which he had already managed to
+scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he should be gone from her
+side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be her home? &ldquo;If I had only
+died a year ago,&rdquo; he would sometimes say to himself, &ldquo;then Jenny
+would have had a handsome fortune to call her own. Now she&rsquo;s next door to
+being a pauper.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank&mdash;not to
+Sugden&rsquo;s Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County&mdash;and he
+gloated over every five pounds added to the fund invested in his
+daughter&rsquo;s name as something more added to the nest-egg; and to be able
+to put away fifty pounds in a lump now afforded him far more genuine delight
+than the putting away of a thousand would have done six months previously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father respecting
+the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the Squire himself
+first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more anxious than he was that
+the topic should never be broached between them again. She guessed in part what
+his object might be when he began to cut down the house expenses at Pincote
+discharging some half dozen of his people; raising his farm rents where it was
+possible to do so; letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the
+park as pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his
+famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of his
+kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She guessed, but that
+was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his reasons for so doing, and
+she made no inquiry. The sphere of his enjoyment had now become a very limited
+one. If it gave him pleasure&mdash;and she could not doubt that it did&mdash;to
+live penuriously so as to be enabled to put away a few extra pounds per annum,
+she would not mar the edge of that pleasure by seeming even to notice what was
+going on, much less make any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on his
+part, had many a good chuckle in the solitude of his own room. &ldquo;After
+I&rsquo;m gone, she&rsquo;ll know what it all means,&rdquo; he would say to
+himself. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s puzzled now&mdash;they are all puzzled. They call
+me a miser, do they? Let &rsquo;em call me what they like. Another twenty put
+away to-day. That makes&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; and out would come his passbook
+and his spectacles.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went into society
+compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his example. There were two or
+three houses to which, if she chose, she could still go without its being
+thought strange that there was no return invitation to Pincote; and there were
+two or three old school friends whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her
+own little room without their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay
+to dinner. But of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw
+little or nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she was far
+too deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father&rsquo;s no-society
+rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by no means forgotten
+Mrs. McDermott&rsquo;s warning words, nor Tom&rsquo;s frank confession of his
+love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of his intention to encourage
+Tom&rsquo;s visits to Pincote after the widow&rsquo;s abrupt departure. In
+honour of that departure, there had been, next day, a little dinner of state,
+at which Mr. Culpepper had made his appearance in a dress coat and white
+cravat, at which there had been French side dishes, and at which the Squire had
+drunk Tom&rsquo;s health in a bumper of the very best port which his cellar
+contained. But when they parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to
+the front door, shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a
+sort of half intimation that some considerable time would probably elapse
+before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote again. In the
+first flush of his delight at having got rid of his sister, the Squire thought
+that he could be content and happy at home of an evening with no company save
+that of Jane, even as he had been content and happy long before he had known
+Tom Bristow. But in so thinking he had overlooked one very important point. The
+Titus Culpepper of six months ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do gentleman,
+satisfied with himself and all the world, in tolerable health, and excited by
+the prospect of making a magnificent fortune without trouble or anxiety. The
+Titus Culpepper of to-day was a broken-down gambler&mdash;a gambler who had
+madly speculated with his daughter&rsquo;s fortune, and had lost it.
+Broken-down, too, was he in health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign
+of all, a man who no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own
+thoughts, and who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour at a
+time. Of this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected nothing: how few
+of us do know of such changes! Other people may change&mdash;nay, do we not see
+them changing daily around us, and smile good-naturedly as we note how
+querulous and hard to please poor Jones has become of late? But that
+we&mdash;we&mdash;should so change, becoming a burden to ourselves and a trial
+to those around us, with our queer, cross-grained ways, our peevish, variable
+tempers, and our general belief that the sun shines less brightly, and that the
+world is less beautiful than it was a little while ago&mdash;that is altogether
+impossible. The change is always in others, never in our immaculate selves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men&rsquo;s company to
+that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all æsthetic. He liked to talk
+about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets; to talk a little about
+imperial politics&mdash;chiefly confined to blackguarding &ldquo;the other side
+of the House&rdquo;&mdash;and a great deal about local politics. He had been in
+the habit of talking by the hour together about paving, and lighting, and
+sewage, and the state of the highways: all useful matters without a doubt, but
+hardly topics calculated to interest a lady. Though he liked to have Jane play
+to him now and then&mdash;but never for more than ten minutes at any one
+time&mdash;he always designated it as &ldquo;tinkling;&rdquo; and as often as
+not, when he asked her to sing, he would say, &ldquo;Now, Jenny, lass, give us
+a squall.&rdquo; But for all this, in former times Jane and he had got on very
+well together on the occasions when they had been without company at Pincote.
+He was moving about a good deal in the world at that time, mixing with various
+people, talking to and being talked to by different friends and acquaintances,
+and was at no loss for subjects to talk about, even though those subjects might
+not be particularly interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a capital
+listener, and could always give him a good commonplace answer, and that was all
+he craved&mdash;that and three-fourths of the talk to himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but given up
+going into society, by which means he at once dried up the source from which he
+had been in the habit of obtaining his conversational ideas. When he came to
+dine alone with Jane he found himself with nothing to talk about. Under such
+circumstances there was nothing left for him but grumbling. But even grumbling
+becomes tiresome after a time, especially when the person to whom such
+complainings are addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you, and is
+incapable of being grumbled at herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to Jane,
+&ldquo;We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to see him
+about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner. So you had better
+drop him a line.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was too
+stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man&rsquo;s lively
+company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next morning happened to
+be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself as she noted how anxious her
+father was lest the rain should keep Tom from coming. Jane knew that neither
+rain nor anything else would keep him away. &ldquo;Papa is almost as anxious to
+see him as I am,&rdquo; she said to herself. &ldquo;He thought that he could
+live without him: he now begins to find out his mistake.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a hearty
+greeting, and took him into the study before he had an opportunity of seeing
+Jane. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard nothing more from those railway people about the
+Croft,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Penfold was here yesterday and wanted to know
+whether he was to go on with the villas&mdash;all the foundations are now in,
+you know. I hardly knew what instructions to give him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you were to ask me, sir,&rdquo; said Tom, &ldquo;I should certainly
+say, let him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to
+know that the company must have the Croft&mdash;that they cannot possibly do
+without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to go to them
+and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to come to you; which,
+in a transaction of this nature, makes all the difference.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think you are far wrong in your views,&rdquo; said Mr.
+Culpepper. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll turn over in my mind what you&rsquo;ve
+said.&rdquo; Which meant that the Squire would certainly adopt Tom&rsquo;s
+advice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No lovemaking, you know, Bristow,&rdquo; whispered the old man, with a
+dig in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You may trust me, sir,&rdquo; said Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a
+pretty girl is in question.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old man his
+fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources in that line were
+never put to the test. Three or four skilfully introduced topics sufficed. The
+Squire&rsquo;s own long-winded remarks, unknown to himself, filled up
+three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made a splendid listener. His attention
+never flagged. He was always ready with his &ldquo;I quite agree with you,
+sir;&rdquo; or his &ldquo;Just so, sir;&rdquo; or his &ldquo;Those are my
+sentiments exactly, sir.&rdquo; To be able to talk for half an hour at a time
+to an appreciative listener on some topic that interested him strongly was a
+treat that the Squire thoroughly enjoyed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by himself for
+half an hour, he would go with the young people to the drawing-room. He could
+have his snooze just as well there as in the dining-room, and he flattered
+himself that his presence, even though he might be asleep, would be a
+sufficient safeguard against any of that illicit lovemaking respecting which
+Bristow had been duly cautioned.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into the
+drawing-room, and whispered, &ldquo;None of your tomfoolery, remember.&rdquo;
+Five minutes later he was fast asleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so they
+fell back upon chess. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s to be no lovemaking, you know,
+Jenny,&rdquo; whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;None, whatever,&rdquo; whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the
+head, and a demure smile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for any
+further conversation, except about the incidents of the game, which, truth to
+tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of studying the board, as a
+chess-player ought to do, Jane found her eyes, quite unconsciously to herself,
+studying the face of her opponent, while Tom&rsquo;s hand, wandering
+purposelessly about the board, frequently found itself taking hold of
+Jane&rsquo;s hand instead of a knight or a pawn; so that when at last the game
+did contrive to work itself out to an ineffective conclusion, they could hardly
+have said with certainty which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire
+woke up, smiling and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each other,
+and there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of chess. If he were
+content, they had no reason to be otherwise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as often as the
+latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of himself the old
+man&rsquo;s heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when it so happened
+that business took Tom away from home for two or three days, then the Squire
+grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane&rsquo;s tact and good temper were
+needed to make life at all endurable. She tried her best to persuade him to
+invite some of his old friends to come and see him, or go himself and call up
+on some of them, but in vain. Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would
+he have. He looked upon himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to
+economize in every possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a
+sensible fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony, or be at
+any extra expense&mdash;a man who was content with a chop and a rice pudding,
+and a glass of St. Julien. &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t come here for what he gets
+to eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine. He finds that he can
+learn a good many things from me, and he&rsquo;s not above learning.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All this time the works at Knockley Holt were being pushed busily forward, much
+to the bewilderment and aggravation of the good people of Duxley. They were
+aggravated, and they considered they had a right to be aggravated, because they
+could not understand, and had not been told, what it was that was intended to
+be done there. In a small town like Duxley, no inhabitant has a right to put
+before his fellow-citizens a problem which they find incapable of solution, and
+then when asked to solve it for them decline to do so. Such conduct merits the
+severest social reprehension.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Surely next to the madness of building a row of villas on Prior&rsquo;s Croft,
+was the puzzling folly of digging a hole in Knockley Holt. After much
+discussion pro and con, amongst the townspeople&mdash;chiefly over sundry
+glasses of whiskey toddy, in sundry bar parlours, after business hours&mdash;it
+seemed to be settled that Culpepper&rsquo;s Hole, as some wag had christened
+it, could be intended for nothing else than an artesian well&mdash;though what
+was the exact nature of an artesian well it would have puzzled some of the
+Duxley wiseacres to tell, and why water should be bored for there, and to what
+uses it could be put when so obtained, they would have been still more at a
+loss to say. The Squire could not drive into Duxley without being tackled by
+one or another of his friends as to what he was about at Knockley Holt. But the
+old man would only wink and shake his head, and try to look wise, and say,
+&ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t do to blab everything nowadays, but between you and me
+and the post&mdash;this is in confidence, mind&mdash;I&rsquo;m digging a tunnel
+to the Antipodes.&rdquo; Then he would chuckle and give the reins a shake, and
+Diamond would trot off with him, leaving his questioner angry or amused, as the
+case might be.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was not known to any one in Duxley, except the Squire&rsquo;s lawyer, that
+Knockley Holt was now the property of Tom Bristow. That the works there were
+under Tom&rsquo;s direction was a well-known fact, but he was merely looked
+upon as Mr. Culpepper&rsquo;s foreman in the matter. &ldquo;Gets a couple of
+hundred or so a year for looking after the Squire&rsquo;s affairs,&rdquo; one
+wiseacre would remark to another. &ldquo;If not, how does he live? Seems to
+have nothing to do when he&rsquo;s not at Pincote. A poor way of getting a
+living. Serve him right: he should have stopped with old Hoskyns when he had
+the chance, and not have thought he was going to set the Thames on fire with
+his six thousand pounds.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+No one could be possessed by a more burning desire than the Squire himself to
+know the meaning of the works at Knockley Holt, but having asked once and asked
+in vain, his pride would not allow him to make any further direct inquiry. Not
+a day passed on which he saw Tom, that he did not try, by one or two vague
+hints, to lead up to the subject, but when Tom turned the talk into another
+channel, then the old man would see that the time for him to be enlightened had
+not yet come.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But it did come at last, and after what was, in reality, no very long waiting.
+On a certain afternoon&mdash;to be precise in our dates, it was the fifth of
+May&mdash;Tom walked over to Pincote, in search of the Squire. He found him in
+his study, wearying his brain over a column of figures, which would persist in
+coming to a different total every time it was added up. The first thing Tom did
+was to take the column of figures and bring it to a correct total. This done,
+his next act was to produce something from his pocket that was carefully
+wrapped up in a piece of brown paper. He pushed the parcel across the table to
+the Squire. &ldquo;Will you oblige me, sir,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;by opening
+that paper, and giving me your opinion as to the contents?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why, bless my heart, this is neither more nor less than a lump of
+coal!&rdquo; said the Squire, when he had opened the paper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Exactly so, sir. As you say, this is neither more nor less than a lump
+of coal. But where do you think it came from?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There you puzzle me. Though I don&rsquo;t know that it can matter much
+to me where it came from.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But it matters very much to you, sir. This lump of coal came from
+Knockley Holt.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire was rather dull of comprehension. &ldquo;Well, what is there so
+wonderful about that?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I dare say it was stolen by some
+of those confounded gipsies, and left there when they moved.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What I mean is this, sir,&rdquo; answered Tom, with just a shade of
+impatience in his tone. &ldquo;This piece of coal is but a specimen of a
+splendid seam which has been struck by my men at the bottom of the shaft at
+Knockley Holt.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire stared at him, and gave a long, low whistle. &ldquo;Do you mean to
+say that you have found a bed of coal at the bottom of the hole you have been
+digging at Knockley Holt?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is precisely what I have found, sir, and it is precisely what I
+have been trying to find from the first.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I see it all now!&rdquo; said the Squire. &ldquo;What a lucky young
+scamp you are! But what on earth put it into your head to go looking for coal
+at Knockley Holt?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I had a friend of mine, who is a very clever mining engineer, staying
+with me for a little while some time ago. But my friend is not only an
+engineer&mdash;he is a practical geologist as well. When out for a
+constitutional one day, we found ourselves at Knockley Holt. My friend was
+struck with its appearance&mdash;so different from that of the country around.
+&lsquo;Unless I am much mistaken, there is coal under here,&rsquo; he said,
+&lsquo;and at no great distance from the surface either. The owner ought to
+think himself a lucky man&mdash;that is, if he knows the value of it.&rsquo;
+Well, sir, not content with what my friend said, I paid a heavy fee and had one
+of the most eminent geologists of the day down from London to examine and
+report upon it. His report coincided exactly with my friend&rsquo;s opinion.
+You know the rest, sir. I came to you with a view of getting a lease of the
+ground, and found you desirous of selling it. I was only too glad to have the
+chance of buying it. I set a lot of men and a steam engine to work without a
+day&rsquo;s delay, and that lump of coal, sir, is the happy result.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Squire rubbed his spectacles for a moment or two without speaking.
+&ldquo;Bristow, that&rsquo;s an old head of yours on those young
+shoulders,&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;With all my heart congratulate you on
+your good fortune. I know no man who deserves it more than you do. Yes,
+Bristow, I congratulate you, though I can&rsquo;t help saying that I wish that
+I had had a friend to have told me what was told you before I let you have the
+ground. For want of such a friend I have lost a fortune.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is just what I have come to see you about, sir,&rdquo; said Tom, as
+he rose and pushed back his chair. The Squire looked up at him in surprise.
+&ldquo;Although I bought Knockley Holt from you as a speculation, I had a
+pretty good idea when I bought it as to what I should find below the surface.
+If I had not found what I expected, my bargain would have been a dear one; but
+having found what I expected, it is just the opposite. In fact, sir, you have
+lost a fortune, and I have found one.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know it&mdash;I know it,&rdquo; groaned the Squire. &ldquo;But you
+needn&rsquo;t twit me with it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;So far the speculation was a perfectly legitimate one, as speculations
+go nowadays. But that is not the sort of thing I wish to exist between you and
+me. You have been very kind to me in many ways, and I have much to thank you
+for. I could not bear to treat you in this matter as I should treat a stranger.
+I could not bear to think that I was making a fortune out of a piece of ground
+that but a few short weeks ago was your property. The money so made would seem
+to me to bring a curse with it, rather than a blessing. I should feel as if
+nothing would ever prosper with me afterwards. Sir, I will not have this coal
+mine. There are plenty of other channels open to me for making money. Here are
+the title deeds of the property. I give them back to you. You shall repay me
+the twelve hundred pounds purchase-money, and reimburse me for the expenses I
+have been put to in sinking the shaft. But as for the pit itself, I will have
+nothing to do with it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom had produced the title deeds from his pocket and had laid them on the table
+while speaking. He now pushed them across to the Squire. Then he took the deed
+of sale tore it across, and threw the fragments into the grate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished in the
+whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For a little while
+he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did speak, his words were
+not lacking in force.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bristow, you are a confounded fool!&rdquo; he said with emphasis.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have been told that many times before.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You are a confounded fool&mdash;but you are a gentleman.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom merely bowed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after
+having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there&mdash;eh?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are
+the title deeds,&rdquo; pointing to the table. &ldquo;There is the deed of
+sale,&rdquo; pointing to the fire-grate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And do you think, sir,&rdquo; said the Squire, with dignity, &ldquo;that
+Titus Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity from
+one who is little more than a boy! Not so.&mdash;It would be impossible for me
+to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind The property is fairly and
+legally yours, and yours it must remain.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title
+deeds. Do with them as you will.&rdquo; He buttoned his coat, and took up his
+hat, and turned to leave the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Stop, Bristow, stop!&rdquo; said the Squire, as he rose from his chair.
+Tom halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back to
+the table.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Culpepper walked to the window and stood there looking out for full three
+minutes without uttering a word. Then he turned and beckoned Tom to go to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bristow,&rdquo; he said, laying his hand affectionately on Tom&rsquo;s
+shoulder, &ldquo;as I said before, you are a gentleman&mdash;a gentleman in
+mind and feeling. More than that a man cannot be, whether his family be old or
+new. You propose to do a certain thing which I can only accede to on one
+condition.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Name it, sir,&rdquo; said Tom briefly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I cannot take Knockley Holt from you without giving you something like
+an equivalent in return. Now, I only possess one thing that you would care to
+receive at my hands&mdash;and that is the most precious thing I have on earth.
+Exchange is no robbery. I will agree to take back Knockley Holt from you, if
+you will take in exchange for it&mdash;my daughter Jane.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh! Mr. Culpepper.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That you love her, I know already, and I dare say the sly hussy is
+equally as fond of you. If such be the case, take her. I know no man who so
+thoroughly deserves her, or who has so much right to her as you have.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_11"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br />
+THE EIGHTH OF MAY.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The eighth of May had come round at last.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George intended least
+to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell out, he could not well
+avoid doing so.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the death and burial of Mother Mim&mdash;the expenses of the last-named
+ceremony being defrayed out of Kester&rsquo;s pocket&mdash;it had been his
+intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so fell out that in
+the document purloined by him from the pocket of Skeggs when that individual
+lay dead on the moor, there was given the name of a certain person, still
+living, who could depose, of his own personal knowledge, to the truth of the
+facts as put down in the dying woman&rsquo;s confession. This person was the
+only witness to the facts there stated who was now alive. The name of the man
+in question was William Bendall, and the point that Kester had now to clear up
+was: Who was this William Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was no
+address given in the Confession, nor any hint as to the man&rsquo;s
+whereabouts; but Skeggs had doubtless known where he was to be found, and had,
+in fact, told Kester that he could put his hand on the man at a day&rsquo;s
+notice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it was
+impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn that Mother
+Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of a few days, and when
+the restraining power which had doubtless kept him silent should be removed for
+ever, what was to prevent him from telling all that he knew, or, at least, from
+giving such broad hints as to the information in his possession as might lead
+to inquiry&mdash;to many inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would
+care to encounter&mdash;unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven
+to bay?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It behoved him,
+therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain cautious inquiries as to the
+whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with the view of ascertaining what kind of
+a man he was, or whether there was any danger to be apprehended from him. And
+if so, how could the danger best be met?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave Park
+Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at any hour should
+Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he stayed on at the old place,
+very much against his will in other respects. But, to a certain extent, his
+patience had already been rewarded. Mr. Bendall&rsquo;s address had been
+discovered, and Mr. Bendall himself had been found to be first cousin to Mother
+Mim, and a railway ganger by profession. But just at this time he was away from
+home&mdash;his home being at Swarkstone, a great centre of railway industry,
+about twenty miles from Duxley&mdash;he having been sent out to Russia in
+charge of a cargo of railway plant. He was now expected back in the course of a
+few days, and Kester determined not to leave the neighbourhood till he had
+found out for himself what manner of man he was.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two days
+after Kester&rsquo;s visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg, so that
+the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen, and it was at once
+understood how he had come by his death. No one except the girl Nell had seen
+Kester St. George in his company, so, as it fell out, that gentleman&rsquo;s
+name was never even whispered in connexion with the affair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously discussed
+in his own mind, after Mother Mim&rsquo;s death. What to do with such a strange
+girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence. Did she really know
+anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she not? If anything, how much
+did she know, and to what use did she intend to put her knowledge? Kester had
+no opportunity of talking to her in private before the funeral, so he made an
+appointment with her for the morning following that event. She was to meet him
+at a certain milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o&rsquo;clock. Kester was
+there to the minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all.
+Kester went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to Mother
+Mim&rsquo;s cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the old woman
+who had been looking after matters previously to the funeral: From her he
+ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two hours after her return from
+seeing the last of her grandmother, taking with her her new black frock and a
+few other things tied up in a bundle, and had given no hint as to where she was
+going, or whether it was her intention ever to come back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girl&rsquo;s disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude to
+Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any sign of
+her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness gradually wore
+itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself that from that quarter at
+least there was no possible danger to be apprehended.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester St.
+George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park Newton, not
+even though he could not have left it till the seventh, and had been compelled
+to come back to it on the ninth. He would have gone somewhere&mdash;anywhere if
+only for a dozen hours&mdash;if only from sunset till sunrise, had it in anyway
+been possible for him to do so. But it so happened that it was not possible for
+him to do so. On the fifth he received a letter from his uncle, which
+astonished him very much. General St. George was still staying at Salisbury
+with his sick friend, Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+&ldquo;All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant,
+but for a few hours only. I don&rsquo;t know whether your cousin Richard has
+told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out to New
+Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+
+<p class="p2">
+&ldquo;The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of
+life!&rdquo; muttered Kester. &ldquo;Of course, it&rsquo;s Master
+Richard&rsquo;s dodge to take him with him, so as to make sure of his money
+when he dies. Well, if I can only get rid of the young one, the old one may go
+with him, and welcome.&rdquo; Then he went on with his uncle&rsquo;s letter.
+</p>
+
+
+<p class="p2">
+&ldquo;I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope to
+spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old place, and
+there are several things I wish to talk to you about. We&mdash;that is, Richard
+and I, leave by the eight o&rsquo;clock train next morning direct for
+Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us. By this day next week, I
+shall have bidden a final farewell to dear Old England.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p class="p2">
+&ldquo;So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it,&rdquo; said
+Kester, as he folded up the letter. &ldquo;I would give much if it was any
+other day than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But
+there&rsquo;s no help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company
+than to spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there&rsquo;s
+no chance of any of his money coming to me,&rdquo; he said to himself later on.
+&ldquo;That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I
+don&rsquo;t suppose he&rsquo;s got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I
+wouldn&rsquo;t mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for
+ever.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often are.
+Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and away he started
+without telling any one where he was going. He was out all day, and did not get
+back till five o&rsquo;clock, an hour after the arrival of his uncle, with whom
+had come Mr. Perrins, the family lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not
+seen for a long time. He was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester
+that his uncle had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving
+England, in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England,&rdquo; said
+Kester.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, it is very sudden,&rdquo; replied the General. &ldquo;It is not
+more than three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The
+reasons he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not
+blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel left us, I
+seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I presently made up my mind
+to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of living alone. I have only you and
+him&mdash;and you; Kester, are too much of a Bohemian, too much a citizen of
+the world&mdash;a wandering Arab who strikes his tent a dozen times a
+year&mdash;for me ever to think of staying with you. Dick is far more of an old
+fogey than you are, and he and I&mdash;I don&rsquo;t doubt&mdash;will get on
+very well together.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to dinner, for
+there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton, the octogenarian Vicar
+of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally during the course of the trial,
+but not since. The vicar he had known from boyhood.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was by Lionel&rsquo;s express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar had
+been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell Kester to-night
+should be told to them also. They were all, in a certain sense, friends of the
+family; they were all men of honour; with them his secret would be safe. In
+simple justice to himself, he felt that it was not enough that his uncle and
+Bristow should be the sole depositories of that secret. There ought to be at
+least two or three family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly
+trusted, and whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in
+exile.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular reason
+why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had any suspicion
+that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom they all so sincerely
+mourned. They had simply been invited to a little dinner party given by General
+St. George on the eve of his departure from England for ever.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The last to arrive at Park Newton&mdash;and he did not arrive till two minutes
+before dinner was served&mdash;was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven Miss
+Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking with Edith till
+the last minute.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General introduced them to
+each other. Tom had seen Kester several times, knowing well who he was, but the
+latter had no recollection of having ever seen Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as to the
+particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin that which he
+had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had kept his own counsel,
+having spoken no word to any one. It was a subject on which even his wife felt
+that she could not question him. During the past week he had been even more
+silent and distrait than usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one
+subject, to the exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be
+aware of, what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious
+one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon her: that
+she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed for was that the
+fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come and go without any
+encounter between her husband and his cousin. Lionel and Tom were to ride
+across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at the close of the evening&mdash;Tom,
+in order that he might escort Jane back to Pincote: Lionel, because he should
+then have bidden the old house a last farewell, because he should then have
+done with the past for ever, and because he should then be ready to start with
+his wife for their new home on the other side of the world.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to
+reconsider your determination?&rdquo; said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand in
+hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had gone into
+Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little parlour all to
+themselves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid not,&rdquo; answered Edith with a melancholy smile
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight and
+clear&mdash;just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the world!
+Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it aloud on the
+housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which he deserves to pay. I
+would never banish myself from my native country for his sake; he is not worthy
+of such a sacrifice.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You must not talk like that,&rdquo; said Edith, with a little extra
+squeeze of Jane&rsquo;s hand; &ldquo;but it is easy to see who has been
+inoculating you with his wild doctrines.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones,&rdquo;
+said Jane emphatically. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing wild about them; they are
+plain common sense.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow
+the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are about to do
+is best for all concerned.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in this
+way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I&rsquo;m
+afraid Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear transplanting
+to a foreign clime.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, I suppose so,&rdquo; said Jane, with a little sigh. &ldquo;Only I
+should so like to travel: I should so like a six months&rsquo; voyage to
+somewhere.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel
+so.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand,
+some place within four or five days&rsquo; journey, where one could run over
+for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous of you to
+go so far away.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the case.
+If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be the least
+possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a perpetual disguise.
+This, in a little while, would become intolerable. He must go to a place where
+there will be no need for him to stain his face, or dye his hair, and where he
+can go about freely, and without fear of detection.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to you to get
+away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful associations&mdash;to hide
+yourself in some remote valley where no shadow of the past can darken your
+door; but it seems to me that you need not go quite so far away in order to do
+that.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one would
+recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for me to pay you
+a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make it a condition of
+marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that effect. But, New
+Zealand!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith&rsquo;s uneasiness increase, but
+she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had told her
+that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to the time of the
+clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share in the conversation with
+tolerable composure, but after that time she was unable to altogether control
+herself. What terrible scenes might not even then be enacting at Park Newton!
+To what danger might not her husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they
+three were idly chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it
+was to be a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers
+of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait&mdash;wait&mdash;wait! If
+she went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the sound of
+coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be possible to hear the
+horsemen while they were still some distance away. To and fro she paced the
+little room like an imprisoned leopardess. White-faced, eager-eyed, her long
+slender fingers clasping and unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like
+some priestess of old, who sees in her mind&rsquo;s eye a vision of
+doom&mdash;a vision of things to come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two
+women watched her in silence: her mood infected them: it could not be
+otherwise; but there was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and
+listen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can bear this no longer,&rdquo; said Edith, at last; &ldquo;the room
+suffocates me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet
+Lionel.&rdquo; She snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside&rsquo;s, that lay on the
+sofa, and flung it over her head and shoulders.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Let me go with you,&rdquo; cried Jane, &ldquo;I am almost as anxious as
+you are.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Hush! hush!&rdquo; cried Edith, suddenly, &ldquo;I hear them
+coming!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Hardly breathing, they all listened.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind,&rdquo; cried Mrs.
+Garside, after a few moments.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nor I,&rdquo; said Jane.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I tell you they are coming,&rdquo; said Edith. &ldquo;There are two of
+them. Listen! Surely you can hear them now!&rdquo; She flung open the window as
+she spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard highroad.
+A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage door. Martha Vince,
+candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the top of which the ladies
+stood waiting to receive them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed by Tom
+Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was no longer
+disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour. To see him thus
+sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all of them, he seemed like a
+man newly risen from the grave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith&rsquo;s white arms
+were round his neck.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My darling: what is it?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;What dreadful thing has
+happened?&rdquo; He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something in
+her ear. She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms tightened
+suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.
+</p>
+
+
+<p class="p2">
+At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom and Mr.
+Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar, did their best to
+keep the conversation from flagging, but at times with only indifferent
+success. None of them could forget what day it was&mdash;could forget what took
+place that night twelve months ago, only a few yards from where they were
+sitting; and so remembering, who could wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless
+and the wines without flavour, that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to
+the imagination of more than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the
+room, invisible to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking when
+they drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing well all the
+time which one of the company would be the first to join it in that Land of
+Shadows to which it now belonged.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke at all
+except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep up some show of
+conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no one but himself knew how
+irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel intend to do? Would there be a
+scene&mdash;a fracas&mdash;between the two cousins? What would be the end of
+the wretched business? How fervently he wished that the morrow was safely come,
+that he had seen that unhappy man&rsquo;s face for the last time, and that he,
+and Lionel, and Edith were fairly started on their long journey to the other
+side of the world!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party would
+break up by ten o&rsquo;clock at the latest. Not that it mattered greatly to
+either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton all night. But the
+vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in decent time, so that when he
+began to fidget and look at his watch, Lionel, who was only waiting for him to
+make a move, knew that it would be impossible to detain him much longer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I must really ask you to excuse me, General,&rdquo; said the old man at
+last. &ldquo;But I see that it is past ten o&rsquo;clock, and quite time for
+gay young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar,&rdquo; said
+Lionel. &ldquo;I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my
+uncle&rsquo;s permission, we will all adjourn there.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You must not keep me long,&rdquo; said the vicar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will not,&rdquo; said Lionel. &ldquo;But I know that you like to
+finish up your evening with a little café noir; and I have, besides, a picture
+which I want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much&mdash;a
+picture&mdash;which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all the
+other gentlemen who are here to-night.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They all rose and made a move towards the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;As I don&rsquo;t care for café noir, and don&rsquo;t understand
+pictures, you will perhaps excuse me,&rdquo; said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and
+addressing himself to his uncle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You had better go with us,&rdquo; said Lionel, turning to his cousin.
+&ldquo;You are surely not going to be the first to break up the party.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come
+back,&rdquo; answered Kester, doggedly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You had better go with us,&rdquo; said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking
+so that the others could not hear him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Pray who made you dictator here?&rdquo; said Kester haughtily. &ldquo;I
+don&rsquo;t choose to go with you. That is enough.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You had better go with us,&rdquo; said Lionel for the third time.
+&ldquo;If you still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to
+go.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Afraid!&rdquo; sneered Kester. &ldquo;Of whom and what should I be
+afraid?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is best known to yourself.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Anyhow, I&rsquo;m neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can
+do.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are kept
+away by some abject fear.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Lead on.&mdash;I&rsquo;ll follow.&mdash;But mark my words, you and I
+will have this little matter out in the morning&mdash;alone.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Willingly.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to those
+occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and no great
+distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered: a good and
+sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as possible.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lionel&rsquo;s sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided into
+two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on the table,
+together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,&rdquo; said
+Lionel. &ldquo;My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it to
+you.&rdquo; So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of the
+gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were bent on the
+floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now, as he was coming
+slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his shoulder, a ghostly voice
+had whispered in his ear. It was only that one little word that he had heard
+whispered oft-times before. &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; was all the voice said, but it
+was followed, this time, by a little malicious laugh, such as Kester had never
+heard before. Round his heart there was a cold, numb feeling, that was
+altogether strange to him; a dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a
+tide beating on some far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know
+that he was there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable bitterness, how
+utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human being anywhere who, if he
+were to die that moment, would really regret him&mdash;not one single creature
+who would drop a solitary tear over his grave.&mdash;But such thoughts were
+miserable; they must be driven away somehow. He rose and went to the table,
+poured himself out half a tumbler of brandy, and drank it off without water.
+&ldquo;It puts fresh life into me as it goes down,&rdquo; he muttered to
+himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden noise
+caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were being unbolted
+from the inner side. Then they were opened till they stood about half a yard
+apart, but as yet all within was in darkness. Then from out this darkness
+issued the voice of Lionel&mdash;or, as most there took it to be, the voice of
+Richard&mdash;but Lionel himself was unseen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said the voice, &ldquo;you all know what day this is.
+It is the eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered.
+About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed about it
+only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how the murder really
+was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have painted. What I have painted I am
+now going to show to you.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open. The
+farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that every minute
+detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed canvas, on which in colours
+the most vivid, was painted Lionel Dering&rsquo;s Dream.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The scene was Percy Osmond&rsquo;s bedroom, and the moment selected by the
+artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and Kester,
+the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while pinning Osmond down
+with one knee and one arm, has, with his other hand, forced the dagger deep
+into his opponent&rsquo;s heart. Peeping from behind the curtains could be seen
+the white, terror-stricken, face of Pierre Janvard. The figures were all
+life-size, and the likenesses takable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at the
+picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely accused was one
+of themselves.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Now you see how the murder really happened&mdash;now you know who the
+murderer really was,&rdquo; said Lionel, speaking from some place in the
+farther room where he could not be seen. &ldquo;This is no dream but a most
+dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs&mdash;ample
+proofs&mdash;of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy
+Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was still
+standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right hand was
+hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported himself against the
+table. A strange lividity had overspread his face; his lips twitched nervously.
+His frightened eyes wandered from one face to another of those who were now
+gazing on him. He tried to speak, but could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves
+on the brandy. Tom interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank
+it greedily and then he spoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What you have just been told,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is nothing but a
+cruel, cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he
+hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar&mdash;because he dare not
+face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer&mdash;we all know that
+Lionel Dering&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you to
+your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood Lionel, no
+longer disguised&mdash;the dye washed off his face, his hands, his
+hair&mdash;the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from the
+dead&mdash;his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at a
+glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair beard.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue, glaring across
+the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so. That one
+word was <i>Forgive</i>. Then a strange spasm passed across his face; he
+pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half round, fell back
+into the arms of the man nearest to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He has fainted,&rdquo; said the General.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He is dead,&rdquo; said Tom.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this,&rdquo; said Lionel.
+&ldquo;None whatever!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2><a name="div3_12"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br />
+GATHERED THREADS.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering with two
+courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out his original
+intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving the world still to
+believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he could give himself up to
+justice, under his real name, and, his first trial never having been
+finished&mdash;take his stand at the bar again under the original charge, and
+with the proofs he had gathered in his possession, let his innocence of the
+crime imputed to him work itself out through a legitimate channel to a verdict
+of Not Guilty. This latter course was the only one open to him if he wished to
+clear himself in the eyes of the world from the stain of blood, or even if he
+wished to assume his own name and his position as the owner of Park Newton. But
+did he really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad, of burying himself
+and his wife in some far-away nook of the New World, had taken such hold on his
+imagination, that even now it had by no means lost its sweetness in his
+thoughts. Then, again, Kester having died without a will, if he&mdash;Lionel
+were to leave himself undeclared, the estate would go to General St. George, as
+next of kin, and after the old soldier&rsquo;s time it would go, in the natural
+course of events, to his brother Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give
+himself into custody and undergo the pain and annoyance of another term of
+imprisonment, and another trial&mdash;and they would be both painful and
+annoying, even though his innocence were proved at the end of them? Why not
+rather bind over to silence those few trusted friends to whom his secret was
+already known, and going abroad with Edith, spend the remainder of his days in
+happy obscurity. Why re-open that bloodstained page of family history, over
+which the world had of a surety gloated sufficiently already?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But in this latter view he was opposed by everybody except his wife; by his
+uncle, by Tom, by the vicar, and by nobody more strongly than by Messrs.
+Perrins and Hoskyns. The cry from all was&mdash;take your trial; let your
+innocence be proved, as proved it must be, and assume the name and position
+that are rightfully yours. Edith, with her head resting on his shoulder, only
+said: &ldquo;Do that which seems best to you in your own heart, dearest, and
+that alone. Whether you go or stay, my place is by your side&mdash;my love
+unalterable. Only to be with you&mdash;never to lose you again&mdash;is all I
+ask. Give me that: I crave for nothing more.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Strange to say, the person who brought matters to a climax, and finally decided
+Lionel as to his future course of action, was the girl Nell, Mother Mim&rsquo;s
+plain-spoken grand-daughter. Through some channel or other she had heard of the
+death of Mr. St. George, and one day she marched up the steps at Park Newton,
+and rang the big bell, and asked, as bold as brass, to see the General. The
+General was one of the most accessible of men, and when told that the girl
+wanted to see him privately, he marched off at once to the library, and ordered
+her to be admitted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was a strange story the girl had to tell&mdash;so strange that the General
+at first put her down as a common impostor. Fortunately Mr. Perrins happened to
+be still at Park Newton, and he at once called the shrewd old lawyer to his
+assistance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Miss Nell was now taken with a stubborn fit, and refused either to say any
+more or to answer any more questions, till five pounds had been given her as an
+earnest of more to follow, in case her information should prove to be correct.
+The five pounds having been put into her hands, she told all that she knew
+freely enough, and answered every question that was put to her. Then she was
+dismissed for the time being, having first left an address where she might be
+found when wanted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nell had told them how the body of Dirty Jack had been found dead on the moor,
+and the first point to ascertain was, what had become of the confession which
+was known to have been in his possession when he left Mother Mim&rsquo;s
+cottage? Had it been found on his person? If so, where was it now? It was
+rather singular that Mr. St. George should be the last person known to have
+been seen in the company of Skeggs. The second question was, where was Mr.
+Bendall to be found? Mr. Perrins set to work without delay to solve this latter
+problem, by engaging one of Mr. Hoskyns&rsquo;s confidential clerks to make the
+requisite inquiries for him. To the first question, the whereabouts of the
+confession, he determined to give his own personal attention. But before he had
+an opportunity of doing this, he found among the papers of Kester the very
+document itself&mdash;the original confession, duly witnessed by Skeggs and the
+girl Nell. A day or two later Mr. Bendall was also found, and&mdash;for a
+consideration&mdash;had no objection to tell all he knew of the affair. His
+evidence, and that given in the confession, tallied exactly. There could no
+longer be any moral doubt as to the fact of Kester St. George having been a son
+of Mother Mim.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was still
+debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one weapon more in
+favour of the course they were desirous that he should pursue. If Kester St.
+George were not Lionel&rsquo;s cousin, if he were not related to the family in
+any way, there was less reason than ever why Lionel should not declare himself,
+why he should not give himself up, and let his own innocence be proved once and
+for ever, by proving the guilt of this other man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the others,
+and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer. Exactly a week
+after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well continue to call him)
+Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at Duxley, and gave himself up
+into the hands of the sergeant on duty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. &ldquo;How can you be Mr.
+Dering?&rdquo; he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with the
+superintendent&rsquo;s recollection of him. &ldquo;I saw that gentleman lying
+dead in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could have
+sworn to him anywhere.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and not
+the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without recognizing me. At all
+events here I am, alive and well, and if you will kindly lock me up, I shall
+esteem it a favour.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I was never so sold in the whole course of my life,&rdquo; said Drayton.
+&ldquo;But there&rsquo;s one comfort&mdash;Sergeant Whiffins was just as much
+sold as I was.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial for the
+murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been carefully looked after
+by a private detective in the guise of a guest at his hotel, was admitted as
+evidence for the Crown, and without leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty
+was found by the jury. Never had such a scene been known in Duxley as was
+enacted that summer afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the
+Court-house a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by
+main force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of the
+crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company with two
+brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster. Lionel&rsquo;s arm
+had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he had shaken hands with
+a great multitude of his friends&mdash;and every man and boy prided himself
+upon being Mr. Dering&rsquo;s friend that day. As for the ladies, they had
+their own way of showing their sympathy with him. Half the children in the
+parish that came to light during the next twelve months were christened either
+Edith or Lionel.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The post-mortem examination showed that heart disease of long standing was the
+proximate cause of Kester St. George&rsquo;s death. He was buried not in the
+family vault where the St. Georges for two centuries lay in silent state, but
+in the town cemetery. The grave was marked by a plain slab, on which was
+engraved simply the initials of the name he had always been known by, and the
+date of his death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I warned him of it long ago,&rdquo; said Dr. Bolus to two or three
+fellows at Kester&rsquo;s old club, as he stood with his back to the fire and
+his coat tails thrown over his arms. &ldquo;But whose warnings are sooner
+forgotten than a doctor&rsquo;s? By living away from London, and leading a
+perfectly quiet and temperate life, he might have been kept going for years.
+But, above all things, he should have avoided excitement of every kind.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lionel and Edith put off for a little while their long-talked-of tour in order
+that they might be present at the wedding of Tom and Jane. The ceremony took
+place in August. Tom and his bride went to Scotland for their honeymoon. Lionel
+and his wife started for Switzerland, en route for Italy, where they were to
+spend the ensuing winter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of late the Squire had recovered his health wonderfully. He seemed to have
+grown ten years younger in a few weeks. In the working of that wonderful
+coal-shaft, and in the prospect of his making a far larger fortune for his
+daughter than the one he so foolishly lost, he found a perpetual source of
+healthy excitement, which, by keeping both his mind and body actively and
+legitimately employed, had an undoubted tendency to lengthen his life. Besides
+this, Tom had asked him to superintend the construction of his new house. It
+was just the sort of job that the Squire delighted in&mdash;to look sharply
+after a lot of working men, and while pretending that they were all in a league
+to cheat him, blowing them up heartily all round one half-hour, and treating
+them to unlimited beer the next.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I should like to see you in the Town Council, Bristow,&rdquo; said the
+Squire one day to his son-in-law.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Thank you, sir, all the same,&rdquo; said Tom, &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s
+hardly good enough. There will be a general election before we are much older,
+when I mean, either by hook or by crook, to get into the House.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bristow, you have the cheek of the Deuce himself,&rdquo; was all that
+the astonished Squire could say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It may just be remarked that Tom&rsquo;s ambition has since been gratified. He
+is now, and has been for some time, member for W&mdash;&mdash;. He is clever,
+ambitious, and a tolerable orator, as oratory is reckoned nowadays. What may
+not such a man aspire to?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Hoskyns is a frequent guest both of Tom and Lionel. Chatting with the
+former one day over the &ldquo;walnuts and the wine,&rdquo; said the old man:
+&ldquo;I have often puzzled my brain over that affair of
+Baldry&rsquo;s&mdash;that positive assertion of his that he saw and spoke to me
+one night in the Thornfield Road when I was most certainly not there. Have you
+ever thought about it since?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Once or twice, I dare say, but I could have enlightened you at the time
+had I chosen to do so. It was I whom Baldry met. I had made myself up to
+resemble you, and previously to my visit to the prison in your character, I
+thought I would try the effect of my disguise upon somebody who had known you
+well for years. As it so happened, Baldry was the first of your acquaintances
+whom I encountered on my nocturnal ramble. The rest you know.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You young vagabond! And yet you have the audacity to call yourself a
+respectable member of society. Perhaps you can explain the mystery of the
+ghostly footsteps at Park Newton when poor Pearce, the butler, was frightened
+out of the small quantity of wit that he could lay claim to?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That, too, I can explain. The ghostly footsteps, as it happened, were
+very corporeal footsteps, being those of none other than your humble
+servant.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But how did you get into the room? It had been nailed up months
+before.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The nailing up was more apparent than real. The nails were sham nails.
+The door could be unlocked at any time, and the room entered in the ordinary
+way.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But how about the cough&mdash;Mr. Osmond&rsquo;s peculiar cough?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That was an imitation by me from lessons given me by Mr. Dering. It
+answered the purpose admirably for which it was intended.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;To hear such sounds at midnight in a room where a man had been murdered
+was enough to shake the strongest nerves. I wonder you were not frightened
+yourself to be in the room.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That would have been ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid
+of.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;In any extraordinary circumstances I shall never believe the evidence of
+my own senses again.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Cope was not long in perceiving that he had committed a grave error of
+judgment in refusing Mr. Culpepper the assistance he had asked for. There would
+be a splendid fortune for Jane after all. It was enough to make a man tear his
+hair with vexation&mdash;only Mr. Cope hadn&rsquo;t much hair to tear&mdash;to
+think what a golden chance he had let slip through his fingers. Edward was
+recalled at once on the slight chance that if a meeting could anyhow be brought
+about between him and Jane, the old flame might spring up with renewed ardour
+in the young lady&rsquo;s bosom, in which case she might insist upon her
+engagement with Edward being carried out. But Edward bore his disappointment
+very philosophically, and had not been three hours in Duxley before he found
+himself eating pastry, and being ministered to by Miss Moggs, who was still
+unmarried, and still as plump and smiling as ever.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Three weeks later the good people of Duxley were treated to a delightful
+sensation. Mr. Cope, Junior, had run away with the daughter of Mr. Moggs, the
+confectioner, and Mr. Cope, Senior, had threatened to cut his son off with the
+well-known metaphorical shilling.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The latest news of young Mr. Cope is, that he is living in furnished apartments
+in a cheap suburb of London. The late Miss Moggs, her plumpness
+notwithstanding, has developed into a Tartar. They have six children. Mr.
+Cope&rsquo;s income is exactly two hundred a-year, left him by his mother. His
+father will not give him a penny, and he is either too lazy, or too
+incompetent, to attempt to add to his means by a little honest work. He is very
+stout and very short of breath. When he has any money he spends his time in a
+neighbouring billiard-room, smoking a short pipe and drinking half-and-half,
+and watching other men play. When he has no money he stops at home and rocks
+the cradle, and listens to his wife&rsquo;s reproaches. Mrs. Cope vows that she
+will buy a mangle and make her husband turn it, and try whether she cannot
+shame him into work that way. And all this is the result of eating pastry and
+being waited upon by a pretty girl.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After the trial was over, Nell, by means of some speciously-concocted tale,
+contrived to cozen General St. George out of twenty pounds. With this she
+disappeared, and was never either seen or heard of in Duxley or its
+neighbourhood again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+During the time that Lionel and his wife were abroad the General went with his
+friend, Major Beauchamp, to Madeira, and wintered there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It had been Lionel&rsquo;s intention to stay abroad for about three years. But
+as it fell out, he and Edith were back at Park Newton by the end of twelve
+months, being brought thither by the expectation of an all-important event.
+Lionel has not since then left home for more than a month at a time. So full of
+painful memories was Park Newton to him, that it was only by Edith&rsquo;s
+persuasion that he was induced to settle there at all. But years have come and
+gone since then, and nothing would now induce him to live anywhere else.
+Whatever gloomy associations might otherwise have clung to the old house have
+been exorcised long ago by the merry laughter of children. It was difficult at
+first for the Echoes of that murder-haunted roof to bring themselves to mimic
+the soft syllables of childhood, but when one little stranger after another
+came to teach them, then their voices, rusty and creaky at first through long
+disuse, gradually won back to themselves a long-forgotten sweetness; and now
+the Echoes follow the children wherever they go, and all the grim old pile is
+musical with the laughter and songs and free joyous shouts of childhood. Many a
+time they have a bout together&mdash;the children and the Echoes&mdash;trying
+which of them can make the more noise; and then the children call to the Echoes
+and bid them come out of their hiding-places and show themselves in the dusky
+twilight; but the Echoes only laugh back their answer, and are ever too timid
+to let themselves be seen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Who, of all people in the world, should be the children&rsquo;s primest
+favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the nursery, and
+there he spends hours every day. He &ldquo;keeps shop&rdquo; with them, he
+plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring lion, their wild
+man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the old warrior, whose very
+name was once a word of terror among the lawless hill-tribes of the far East
+see him led about by one boy by means of a piece of string tied round his arm,
+and while another youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to
+watch him imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing
+bear. There can be no doubt on one point&mdash;that the old soldier enjoys
+himself quite as much as the children do.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After his year&rsquo;s imprisonment was at an end&mdash;to which mitigated
+punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted as
+witness for the Crown&mdash;he and his sister went over to Switzerland, and
+opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist travel. There, not
+long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking, bowing, and rubbing his
+hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request that Monsieur Dering would do him
+the honour of stopping at his hotel. But Lionel would have nothing to do with
+him, and when Janvard could be made to comprehend this, his face became a study
+of mortification and surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently
+hurt. He never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so
+positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d&rsquo;Or.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a few
+things that change not. One of these is the friendship between Lionel and Tom,
+which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of other interests has power to
+alter in the least. When they both happen to be in Midlandshire at the same
+time, a week never passes without their seeing more or less of each other, and
+between their wives there is almost as firm a friendship as there is between
+themselves. Four people more united, more happy in each other&rsquo;s society,
+it would be impossible to find.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that Edith and
+Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm together, for the sake
+of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow perpetually round the old house.
+They were sitting one day on the broad yellow sands, idling through the glowing
+afternoon, with their embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane&rsquo;s little
+girls happened to fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith&rsquo;s
+little boy was by her side in a moment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t cry,&rdquo; he said, as he stooped and kissed her. &ldquo;I
+will marry you when I grow to be a big man.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The little girl&rsquo;s tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked up.
+Their eyes met, and they both smiled.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Such a thing is by no means improbable,&rdquo; said Edith.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I shall not be a bit surprised if it really comes to pass,&rdquo;
+replied Jane.
+</p>
+
+<h4>THE END.</h4>
+
+<hr />
+
+<h5>BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY</h5>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
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diff --git a/old/57947-8.txt b/old/57947-8.txt
index c8ff139..e284e5b 100644
--- a/old/57947-8.txt
+++ b/old/57947-8.txt
@@ -1,6112 +1,6112 @@
-Project Gutenberg's In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3), by T. W. Speight

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most

-other parts of the world 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

-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have

-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.

-

-Title: In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3)

-       A Novel

-

-Author: T. W. Speight

-

-Release Date: September 21, 2018 [EBook #57947]

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

-

-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, VOLUME 3 ***

-

-

-

-

-Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the

-Internet Web Archive

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-Transcriber's Notes:

-

-     1. Page scan source: The Internet Web Archive

-        https://archive.org/details/indeadofnightnov03spei

-        (University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)

-

-

-

-

-

-

-IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

-

-

-

-A Novel.

-

-

-

-

-IN THREE VOLUMES.

-

-VOL. III.

-

-

-

-

-LONDON:

-RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.

-1874.

-

-(_All rights reserved_.)

-

-

-

-

-

-

-CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

-

-CHAPTER

-     I. A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.

-

-    II. IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.

-

-   III. MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.

-

-    IV. KNOCKLEY HOLT.

-

-     V. AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.

-

-    VI. TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.

-

-   VII. EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.

-

-  VIII. DIRTY JACK.

-

-    IX. WHAT TO DO NEXT?

-

-     X. HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.

-

-    XI. THE EIGHTH OF MAY.

-

-   XII. GATHERED THREADS.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER I.

-A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.

-

-

-Two hours after the receipt of Mrs. McDermott's second letter, Squire

-Culpepper was on his way to Sugden's bank. His heart was heavy, and

-his step slow. He had never had to borrow a farthing from any man--at

-least, never since he had come into the estate--and he felt the

-humiliation, as he himself called it, very bitterly. There was

-something of bitterness, too, in having to confess to his friend Cope

-how all his brilliant castles in the air had vanished utterly, leaving

-not a wrack behind.

-

-He could see, in imagination, the sneer that would creep over Cope's

-face as the latter asked him why he could not obtain a mortgage on

-his fine new mansion at Pincote; the mansion he had talked so much

-about--about which he had bored his friends; the mansion that

-was to have been built out of the Alcazar shares, but of which

-not even the foundation-stone would ever now be laid. Then, again,

-the Squire was far from certain as to the kind of reception which

-would be accorded him by the banker. Of late he had seemed cool, very

-cool--refrigerating almost. Once or twice, too, when he had called,

-Mr. Cope had been invisible: a Jupiter Tonans buried for the time

-being among a cloud of ledgers and dockets and transfers: not to be

-seen by any one save his own immediate satellites. The time had been,

-and not so very long ago, when he could walk unchallenged through the

-outer bank office, whoever else might be waiting, and so into the

-inner sanctum, and be sure of a welcome when he got there. But now he

-was sure to be intercepted by one or other of the clerks with a "Will

-you please to take a seat for a moment while I see whether Mr. Cope is

-disengaged." The Squire groaned with inward rage as, leaning on his

-thick stick, he limped down Duxley High Street and thought of all

-these things.

-

-As he had surmised it would be, so it was on the present occasion. He

-had to sit down in the outer office, one of a row of six who were

-waiting Mr. Cope's time and pleasure to see them. "He won't lend me

-the money," said the Squire to himself, as he sat there choking with

-secret mortification. "He'll find some paltry excuse for refusing me.

-It's almost worth a man's while to tumble into trouble just to find

-out who are his friends and who are not."

-

-However, the banker did not keep him waiting more than five or six

-minutes. "Mr. Cope will see you, sir," said a liveried messenger, who

-came up to him with a low bow; and into Mr. Cope's parlour the Squire

-was thereupon ushered.

-

-The two men met with a certain amount of restraint on either side.

-They shook hands as a matter of course, and made a few remarks about

-the weather; and then the banker began to play with his seals, and

-waited in bland silence to hear whatever the Squire might have to say

-to him.

-

-Mr. Culpepper fidgeted in his chair and cleared his throat. The

-crucial moment was come at last. "I'm in a bit of a difficulty, Cope,"

-he began, "and I've come to you, as one of the oldest friends I have,

-to see whether you can help me out of it."

-

-"I should have thought that Mr. Culpepper was one of the last people

-in the world to be troubled with difficulties of any kind," said the

-banker, in a tone of studied coldness.

-

-"Which shows how little you know about either Mr. Culpepper or his

-affairs," said the Squire, dryly.

-

-The banker coughed dubiously. "In what way can I be of service to

-you?" he said.

-

-"I want five thousand five hundred pounds by this day week, and I've

-come to you to help me to raise it."

-

-"In other words, you want to borrow five thousand five hundred

-pounds?"

-

-"Exactly so."

-

-"And what kind of security are you prepared to offer for a loan of

-such magnitude?"

-

-"What security! Why, my I.O.U., of course."

-

-Mr. Cope took a pinch of snuff slowly and deliberately before he spoke

-again. "I am afraid the document in question could hardly be looked

-upon as a negotiable security."

-

-"And who the deuce wanted it to be considered as a negotiable

-security?" burst out the Squire. "Do you think I want everybody to

-know my private affairs?"

-

-"Possibly not," said the banker, quietly. "But, in transactions of

-this nature, it is a matter of simple business that the person who

-advances the money should have some equivalent security in return."

-

-"And is not my I.O.U. a good and equivalent security as between friend

-and friend?"

-

-"Oh if you are going to put the case in that way, it becomes a

-different kind of transaction entirely," said the banker.

-

-"And how else did you think I was going to put the case, as you call

-it?" asked the Squire, indignantly.

-

-"Commercially, of course: as a pure matter of business between one man

-and another."

-

-"Oh, ho that's it, is it?" said the Squire, grimly.

-

-"That's just it, Mr. Culpepper."

-

-"Then friendship in such a case as this counts for nothing, and my

-I.O.U. might just as well never be written."

-

-"Let us be candid with each other," said the banker, blandly. "You

-want the loan of a very considerable sum of money. Now, however much

-inclined I might be to lend you the amount out of my own private

-coffers, you will believe me when I say that I am not in a position to

-do so. I have no such amount of available capital in hand at present.

-But if you were to come to me with a good negotiable security, I could

-at once put you into the proper channel for obtaining what you want. A

-mortgage, for instance. What could be better than that? The estate, so

-far as I know, is unencumbered, and the sum you need could easily be

-raised on it on very easy terms."

-

-"I took an oath to my father on his deathbed that I would never raise

-a penny by mortgage on Pincote, and I never will."

-

-"If that is the case," said the banker, with a slight shrug of the

-shoulders, "I am afraid that I hardly see in what way I can be of

-service to you." He coughed, and then he looked at his watch, an

-action which Mr. Culpepper did not fail to note and resent in his own

-mind.

-

-"I am sorry I came," he said, bitterly. "It seems to have been only a

-waste of your time and mine."

-

-"Don't speak of it," said the banker, with his little business laugh.

-"In any case, you have learned one of the first and simplest lessons

-of commercial ethics."

-

-"I have, indeed," answered the Squire, with a sigh. He rose to go.

-

-"And Miss Culpepper, is she quite well?" said Mr. Cope; rising also.

-"I have not had the pleasure of seeing her for some little time."

-

-The Squire faced fiercely round. "Look you here, Horatio Cope," he

-said; "you and I have been friends of many years' standing. Fast

-friends, I thought, whom no reverses of fortune would have separated.

-Finding myself in a little strait, I come to you for assistance. To

-whom else should I apply? It is idle to say that you could not help me

-out of my difficulty, were you willing to do so."

-

-"No, believe me----" interrupted the banker; but Mr. Culpepper went on

-without deigning to notice the interruption.

-

-"You have not chosen to do so, and there's an end of the matter, so

-far. Our friendship must cease from this day. You will not be sorry

-that it is so. The insults and slights you have put upon me of late

-have all had that end in view, and you are doubtless grateful that

-they have had the desired effect."

-

-"You judge me very hardly," said the banker.

-

-"I judge you from your own actions, and from them alone," said the

-Squire, sternly. "Another point, and I have done. Your son was engaged

-to my daughter, with your full sanction and consent. That engagement,

-too, must come to an end."

-

-"With all my heart," said the banker, quietly.

-

-"For some time past your son, acting, no doubt, on instructions from

-his father, has been gradually paving the way for something of this

-kind. There have been no letters from him for five weeks, and the last

-three or four that he sent were not more than as many lines each. No

-doubt he will feel grateful at being released from an engagement that

-had become odious to him; and on Miss Culpepper's side the release

-will be an equally happy one. She had learned long ago to estimate

-at his true value the man to whom she had so rashly pledged her hand.

-She had found out, to her bitter cost, that she had promised herself

-to a person who had neither the instincts nor the education of a

-gentleman--to an individual, in fact, who was little better than a

-common boor."

-

-This last thrust touched the banker to the quick. His face flushed

-deeply. He crossed the room and called down an India-rubber tube:

-"What is the amount of Mr. Culpepper's balance?"

-

-Presently came the answer: "Two eighty eleven five."

-

-"Two hundred and eighty pounds, eleven shillings, and five pence,"

-said Mr. Cope, with a sneer. "May I ask, sir, that you will take

-immediate steps for having this magnificent balance transferred to

-some other establishment."

-

-"I shall take my own time about doing that," said Mr. Culpepper.

-

-"What a pity that your new mansion was not finished in time--quite a

-castle it was to have been, was it not? A mortgage of five or six

-thousand could have been a matter of no difficulty then, you know. If

-I recollect rightly, all the furniture and decorations were to have

-come from London. Nothing in Duxley would have been good enough. I

-merely echo your own words."

-

-The Squire winced. "I am rightly served," he muttered to himself.

-"What can one expect from a man who swept out an office and cleaned his

-master's shoes?" He rose to go. For all his bitterness, there was a

-little pathetic feeling at work in his heart. "So ends a friendship of

-twenty years," was his thought. "Goodbye, Cope," he said aloud as he

-moved towards the door.

-

-The banker, standing with his back to the fire, and looking straight

-at the opposite wall, neither stirred nor spoke, nor so much as turned

-his head to take a last look at his old friend. And so, without

-another word, the Squire passed out.

-

-A bleak north wind was blowing as the Squire stepped into the street.

-He paused for a moment to button his coat more closely around him. As

-he did so, a poor ragged wretch passed trembling by without saying a

-word. The Squire called the man back and gave him a shilling. "My

-plight may be bad enough, but his is a thousand times worse," he said

-to himself as he walked down the street.

-

-Where to go, or what to do next, he did not know. He had gone to see

-Mr. Cope without any very great expectation of being able to obtain

-what he wanted, and yet, perhaps, not without some faint hope nestling

-at his heart that his friend would find him the money. But now he knew

-for a fact that nothing was to be got from that quarter, he felt a

-little chilled, a little lonely, a little lost as to what he should do

-next. That something must be done, he knew quite well, but he was at a

-nonplus as to what that something ought to be. To raise five thousand

-five hundred pounds at a few days' notice, with no better security to

-offer than a simple I.O.U., was by no means an easy matter, as the

-Squire was beginning to discover to his cost. "Why not ask Sir Harry

-Cripps?" he said to himself. But then he bethought himself that Sir

-Harry had a very expensive family, and that only six months ago he had

-given up his hunter, and dispensed with a couple of carriage-horses,

-and had talked of going on to the continent for four or five years.

-No: it was evident that Sir Harry Cripps could do nothing for him.

-

-In what other direction to turn he knew not. "If poor Lionel Dering

-had only been alive, I could have gone to him with confidence," he

-thought. "Why not try Kester St. George?" was his next thought. "No:

-Kester isn't one of the lending kind," he muttered, with a shake of

-the head. "He's uncommonly close-fisted, is Kester. What he's got

-he'll stick to. No use trying there."

-

-Next moment he nearly ran against General St. George, who was coming

-from an opposite direction. They started at sight of each other, then

-shook hands cordially. Their acquaintanceship dated only from the

-arrival of the General at Park Newton, but they had already learned to

-like and esteem one another.

-

-After the customary greetings and inquiries were over, said Mr.

-Culpepper to the General: "Is your nephew Kester still stopping with

-you at Park Newton?"

-

-"Yes, he is still there," answered the General; "though he has talked

-every day for the last month or more about going. Kester is one of

-those unaccountable fellows that you can never depend on. He may stay

-for another month, or he may take it into his head to go by the first

-train to-morrow."

-

-"I heard a little while ago that he was ill; but I suppose he is

-better again by this time?"

-

-"Yes--quite recovered. He was laid up for three or four days, but he

-soon got all right again."

-

-"Your other nephew--George--Tom--Harry--what's his name--is he quite

-well?"

-

-"You mean Richard--he who came from India? Yes, he is quite well."

-

-"He's very like his poor brother, only darker, and--pardon me for

-saying so--not half so agreeable a young fellow."

-

-"Everybody seems to have liked poor Lionel."

-

-"Nobody could help liking him," said the Squire, with energy. "I felt

-the loss of that poor boy almost as much as if he had been my own

-son."

-

-"Not a soul in the world had an ill word to say about him."

-

-"I wish that the same could be said of all of us," said the Squire.

-And so, after a few more words, they parted.

-

-As General St. George had told the Squire, Kester was still at Park

-Newton. The doctor who was called in to attend him after his sudden

-attack on the night that the footsteps were heard in the nailed-up

-room, prescribed a bottle or two of some harmless mixture, and a few

-days of complete rest and isolation. As Kester would neither allow

-himself to be examined, nor answer any questions, there was very

-little more that could be done for him.

-

-Kester's first impulse after his recovery--and a very strong impulse

-it was--was to quit Park Newton at once and for ever. Further

-reflection, however, convinced him that such a step would be unwise in

-the extreme. It would at once be said that he had been frightened away

-by the ghost, and that was a thing that he could by no means afford to

-have said of him. For it to get gossiped about that he had been driven

-from his own house by the ghost of Percy Osmond, might, in time, tend

-to breed suspicion; and from suspicion might spring inquiry, and that

-might ultimately lead to nobody knew what. No: he would stay on at

-Park Newton for weeks--for months even, if it suited him to do so. The

-incident of his sudden illness was a very untoward one: on that point

-there could be no doubt whatever; but not if he could anyhow help it

-should the faintest breath of suspicion spring therefrom.

-

-The Squire's troubles had faded into the background for a few minutes

-during his interview with General St. George, but they now rushed back

-upon him with, as it seemed, tenfold force. There was nothing left for

-him now but to go home, and yet he had never felt less inclined to do

-so in his life. He dreaded the long quiet evening, with no society but

-that of his daughter. Not that Jane was a dull companion, or anything

-like it; but he dreaded to encounter her pleading eyes, her pretty

-caressing ways, the lingering embrace she would give him when he

-entered the house, and her good-night kiss. He felt how all these

-things would tend to unman him, how they would merely serve to deepen

-the remorse which he felt already. If only he could meet with some one

-to take home with him!--he did not care much who it was--some one who

-would talk to him, and enliven the evening, and take off for a little

-while the edge of his trouble, and so help him to tide over the weary

-hours that intervened between now and the morrow, by which time

-something might happen--he knew not what--or some light be vouchsafed

-to him which would show him a way out of his difficulties.

-

-These, or something like these, were the thoughts that were floating

-hazily in his mind, when in the distance he spied Tom Bristow striding

-along at his usual energetic rate. The Squire being still very lame,

-wisely captured a passing butcher boy, and, with the promise of

-sixpence, bade him hurry after Tom, and not come back without him.

-

-"You must come back with me to Pincote," he said, when the astonished

-Tom had been duly captured. "I'll take no refusal. I've got a fit of

-mopes, and if you don't come and help to keep Jenny and me alive this

-evening, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live." So saying,

-the Squire linked his arm in Tom's, and turned his face towards

-Pincote; and nothing loath was Tom to go with him.

-

-"I've done a fine thing this afternoon," said Mr. Culpepper, as they

-drove along in the basket-carriage, which had been waiting for him at

-the hotel. "I've broken off Jenny's engagement with Edward Cope."

-

-Tom's heart gave a great bound. "Pardon me, sir, for saying so," he

-said as calmly as he could, "but I never thought that Mr. Cope was in

-any way worthy of Miss Culpepper."

-

-"You are right, boy. He was not worthy of her."

-

-"From the first time of seeing them together, I felt how entirely

-unfitted was Mr. Cope to appreciate Miss Culpepper's manifold charms

-of heart and mind. A marriage between two such people would have been

-a most incongruous one."

-

-"Thank Heaven! it's broken now and for ever."

-

-"I've broken off your engagement to Edward Cope," whispered the Squire

-to Jane in the hall, as he kissed her. "Are you glad or sorry, dear?"

-

-"Glad--very, very glad, papa," she whispered back as she rained a

-score of kisses On his face. Then she began to cry, and with that she

-ran away to her own room till she could recover herself.

-

-"Women are queer cattle," said the Squire, turning to Tom, "and I'll

-be hanged if I can ever make them out."

-

-"From Miss Culpepper's manner, sir," said Tom, gravely, "I should

-judge that you had told her something that pleased her very much

-indeed."

-

-"Then what did she begin snivelling for?" said the Squire, gruffly.

-

-"Why not tell him everything?" said the Squire to himself, as he and

-Tom sat down in the drawing-room. "He knows a good deal already,--why

-not tell him more? I know he can do nothing towards helping me to

-raise five thousand pounds, but it will do me good to talk to him. I

-must talk to somebody--and I feel sure my secret is quite safe with

-him. I'll tell him while Jenny's out of the room."

-

-The Squire coughed and hemmed, and poked the fire violently before he

-could find a word to say. "Bristow," he burst out at last, "I want to

-raise five thousand five hundred pounds in five days from now, and as

-I'm rather a bad hand at borrowing, I thought that you could, maybe,

-give me a hint as to how it could best be done. Cope would have

-advanced it for me in a moment, only that he happens to be rather

-short of funds just now, and I don't want to trouble any of my other

-friends if it can anyhow be managed without." He began to hum the air

-of an old drinking-song, and poked the fire again. "Capital coals

-these," he added. "And I got 'em cheap, too. The market went up three

-shillings a ton the very day after these were sent in."

-

-"Five thousand five hundred pounds is rather a large amount, sir,"

-said Tom, slowly.

-

-"Of course it's a large amount," said the Squire, testily. "If it were

-only a paltry hundred or two I wouldn't trouble anybody. But never

-mind, Bristow--never mind. I didn't suppose that you could help me

-when I mentioned it; and, after all, it's a matter of very little

-consequence whether I raise the money or not."

-

-"I can only suggest one way, sir, by which the money could be raised

-in so short a time."

-

-"Eh!" said the Squire, turning suddenly on him, and dropping the poker

-noisily in the grate. "You don't mean to say that you can see how it's

-to be done!"

-

-"I think I do, sir. Do you know the piece of ground called Prior's

-Croft?"

-

-"Very well indeed. It belongs to Duckworth, the publican."

-

-"Between you and me, sir, Duckworth's hard up, and would be glad to

-sell the Croft if he could do it quietly and without its becoming

-generally known that he is short of money."

-

-"Well?" said the Squire, a little impatiently. He could not understand

-what Tom was driving at.

-

-"I dare engage to say, sir, that you could have the Croft for two

-thousand pounds, cash down."

-

-"Confound it, man, what an idiot you must be!" said the Squire

-fiercely, bringing his fist down on the table with a tremendous bang.

-"Didn't I tell you that I wanted to borrow money, and not to spend it?

-In fact, as you know quite well, I've got none to spend."

-

-"Precisely so," said Tom, coolly. "And that is the point to which I am

-coming, if you will hear me out."

-

-The Squire's only answer was to glare at him, as if in doubt whether

-he had not taken leave of his senses.

-

-"As I said before, sir, Duckworth will take two thousand pounds for

-the Croft, cash down. Now I, sir, will engage to raise two thousand

-pounds for you by to-morrow, at noon, with which to buy the piece of

-ground in question. The purchase can be effected, and the necessary

-deeds made out and completed, by ten o'clock the following morning. If

-you will entrust those deeds into my possession, I will guarantee to

-effect a mortgage for six thousand pounds, in your name, on the

-Croft."

-

-If the Squire had looked suspicious with regard to Tom's sanity

-before, he now seemed to have no doubt whatever on the point. He

-quietly took up the poker again, as if he were afraid that Tom might

-spring at him unexpectedly.

-

-"So you could lend me two thousand pounds could you?" said the Squire

-drily.

-

-"I did not say that, sir. I said that I could raise two thousand

-pounds for you, which is a very different matter from lending it out

-of my own pocket."

-

-"Humph! And who, sir, do you think would be such a consummate ass as

-to advance six thousand pounds on a plot of ground that had just been

-bought for two thousand?"

-

-"Strange as such a transaction may seem to you, sir, I give you my

-word of honour that I should find no difficulty in carrying it out.

-Have I your permission to do so?"

-

-"I suppose that the two thousand raised by you would have to be repaid

-out of the six thousand raised by mortgage, leaving me with a balance

-of four thousand in hand?" said the Squire, without heeding Tom's

-question, a smile of incredulity playing round his mouth.

-

-"No, sir," answered Tom. "The two thousand pounds could remain on

-interest at five per cent. for whatever term might suit your

-convenience. Again, sir, I ask, have I your permission to negotiate

-the transaction for you?"

-

-Mr. Culpepper gazed steadily for a moment or two into Tom's clear,

-cold eyes. There were no symptoms of insanity visible there, at any

-rate. "And do you mean to tell me in sober seriousness," he said,

-"that you can raise this money in the way you speak of?"

-

-"In sober seriousness, I mean to tell you that I can. Try me."

-

-"I will try you," answered the Squire, impulsively. "I will try you,

-boy. You are a strange fellow, and I begin to think that there's more

-in you than I ever thought there was. But here comes Jenny. Not a word

-more just now."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER II.

-IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.

-

-

-The Park Newton clocks, with more or less unanimity as to time, had

-just struck ten. It was a February night, clear and frosty, and Lionel

-Dering sat in his dressing-room in slippered ease, musing by

-firelight. He had turned out the lamp on purpose; it was too garish

-for his mood to-night. He was back again in thought at Gatehouse Farm.

-Again he saw the gray old cottage, with its moss-grown eaves--the

-cottage that was so ugly outside, but so cosy within. Again he saw the

-long low sandhills, where they stretched themselves out to meet the

-horizon, and, in fancy, heard again the low, monotonous plash of the

-waves, whose melancholy music, heard by day and night, had at one time

-been as familiar to him as the sound of his own voice. What a quiet,

-happy time that seemed as he now looked back to it--a time of soft

-shadows and mild sunshine, with a pensive charm that was all its own,

-and that was lost for ever in the hour which told him that he was a

-rich man! Riches! What had riches done for him? He groaned in spirit

-as he asked himself the question. He could have been happy with Edith

-in a garret--how happy none but himself could have told--had fortune

-compelled him to earn her bread and his own by the sweat of his strong

-right arm.

-

-His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," he

-called out mechanically; and in there came, almost without, a sound,

-Dobbs, body-servant to Kester St. George.

-

-"Oh, Dobbs, is that you?" said Lionel, a little wearily, as he turned

-his head and saw who it was.

-

-"Yes, sir, I have made bold to intrude upon you for a few seconds,"

-said Dobbs, with the utmost deference, as he slowly advanced into the

-room, rubbing the long lean fingers of one hand softly with the palm

-of the other. "My master has not yet got back from Duxley, and there's

-nobody about just now."

-

-"Quite right, Dobbs," said Lionel. "Anything fresh to report?"

-

-"Nothing particularly fresh, sir, but I thought that you might perhaps

-like to see me."

-

-"Very considerate of you, Dobbs, but I am not aware that I have

-anything of consequence to say to you to-night."

-

-"Thank you, sir," said Dobbs, with a faint smile and an extra rub of

-his fingers. "Master's still very queer, sir. No appetite worth

-speaking about. Obliged to screw himself up with brandy in a morning

-before he can finish his toilet. Mutters and moans a good deal in his

-sleep, sir."

-

-"Mutters in his sleep, does he?" said Lionel. "Have you any idea,

-Dobbs, what it is that he talks about?"

-

-"I've tried my best to ascertain, sir, but without much success. I

-have listened and listened for hours, and very cold work it is, sir;

-but there's never more than a word now and a word then that one can

-make out. Nothing connected--nothing worth recollecting."

-

-"Does Mr. St. George still walk in his sleep?"

-

-"He does, sir, but not very often--not more than two or three times a

-month."

-

-"Keep your eyes open, Dobbs, and the very next time your master walks

-in his sleep come to me at once--never mind what hour it may be--and

-tell me."

-

-"I won't fail to do so, sir."

-

-"In these sleep-walking rambles does Mr. St. George always confine

-himself to the house, or does he ever venture out into the park or

-grounds?"

-

-"He generally goes out of doors, sir, at such times. Three times out

-of four he goes as far as the Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk,

-stops there for a minute or two, and then walks back home. I have

-watched him several times."

-

-"The Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk! What should take him

-there?"

-

-"Then you know the place, sir?"

-

-"I know it well."

-

-"Can't say what fancy takes him there, sir. Perhaps he doesn't know

-hisself."

-

-"In any case, let me know when he next walks in his sleep. I have no

-further instructions for you to-night, Dobbs."

-

-"Thank you, sir. I have the honour to wish you a very good night,

-sir."

-

-"Good-night, Dobbs. Keep your eyes open, and report everything to me."

-

-"Yes, sir, yes. You may trust me for doing that, sir." And Dobbs the

-obsequious bowed himself out.

-

-In his cousin's valet Lionel had found an instrument ready to his

-hand, but it was not till after long hesitation and doubt that he made

-up his mind to avail himself of it. The necessities of the case at

-length decided him to do so. No one appreciated the value of a bribe

-better than Dobbs, or worked harder or more conscientiously to deserve

-one. There was a crooked element in his character which made whatever

-money he might earn by indirect means, or by tortuous working, seem

-far sweeter to him than the honest wages of everyday life. Kester St.

-George was not the kind of man ever to try to attach his inferiors to

-himself by any tie of gratitude or kindness. At different times and in

-various ways he suffered for this indifference, although the present

-could hardly be considered as a case in point, seeing that it was not

-in the nature of Dobbs to resist a bribe in whatever shape it might

-offer itself, and that gratitude was one of those virtues which had

-altogether been omitted from his composition.

-

-Late one afternoon, a few days after the interview between Lionel and

-Dobbs, Kester St. George had his horse brought round, and rode out

-unattended, and without leaving word in what direction he was going,

-or at what hour he might be expected back. The day was dull and

-lowering, with fitful puffs of wind, that blew first from one point

-and then from another, and seemed the forerunners of a coming storm.

-Buried in his own thoughts, Kester paid no heed to the weather, but

-rode quickly forward till several miles of country had been crossed.

-By-and-by he diverged from the main road, and turned his horse's head

-into a tortuous and muddy lane, which, after half an hour's bad

-travelling, landed him on the verge of a wide stretch of brown

-treeless moor, than which no place could well have looked more

-desolate and cheerless under the gray monotony of the darkening

-February afternoon. Kester halted for awhile at the end of the lane to

-give his horse breathing time. Far as the eye could see, looking

-forward from the point where he was standing, all was bare and

-treeless, without one single sign of habitation or life.

-

-"Whatever else may be changed, either with me or the world," he

-muttered, "the old moor remains just as it was the first day that I

-can remember it. It was horrible to me at first, but I learned to like

-it--to love it even, before I left it; and I love it now--to-day--with

-all its dreariness and monotony. It is like the face of an old friend.

-You may go away for twenty years, and when you come back you know that

-you will find on it just the same look that it wore when you went

-away. Not that I have ever cared to cultivate such friendships," he

-added, half regretfully. "Well, the next best thing to having a good

-friend is to have a good enemy, and I can thank heaven for granting me

-several such."

-

-He touched his horse with the spur, and rode slowly forward, taking a

-narrow bridle path that led in an oblique direction across the moor.

-"This ought to be the road if my memory serves me aright," he

-muttered, "but they are all so much alike, and intersect each other so

-frequently, that it's far more easy to lose one's way than to know

-where one is."

-

-"I suppose I shall have the rough side of Mother Mim's tongue when I

-do find her," he went on. "I've neglected her shamefully, without a

-doubt. But such ties as the one between her and me become tiresome in

-the long run. She ought to have died off long ago, but she's as tough

-as leather. Poor devils in this part of the country, that haven't a

-penny to bless themselves with, think nothing of living till they're a

-hundred. Is it a superfluity of ozone, or a want of brains, that keeps

-them alive so long?"

-

-He rode steadily forward till he had nearly crossed one angle of the

-moor. At length, but not without some difficulty, he found the place

-he had come in search of. It was a rudely-built hut--cottage it could

-hardly be called--composed of mud, and turf, and great boulders all

-unhewn. Its roof of coarsest thatch was frayed and worn with the wind

-and rain of many winters. Its solitary door of old planks, roughly

-nailed together, opened full on to the moor.

-

-At the back was a patch of garden-ground, which was supposed to grow

-potatoes in the season, but which had never yet been known to grow any

-that were fit to eat. Mr. St. George looked round with a sneer as he

-dismounted.

-

-"And it was in this wretched den that I spent the first eight years of

-my existence!" he muttered. "And the woman whom this place calls its

-mistress was the first being whom I learned to love! And, faith, I'm

-rather doubtful whether I've ever loved anybody half so well since."

-

-Putting his horse's bridle over a convenient hook, and dispensing with

-the ceremony of knocking, Kester St. George lifted the latch, pushed

-open the door, stooped his head, and went in. Inside the hut

-everything was in semi-darkness, and Kester stood for a minute with

-the door in his hand, striving to make out the objects before him.

-

-"Come in and shut the door: I expected you," said a hollow voice from

-one corner of the room; and the one room, such as it was, comprised

-the whole hut.

-

-"Is that you, Mother Mim?" asked Kester.

-

-"Ay--who else should it be?" answered the voice. "But come in and shut

-the door. That cold wind gives me the shivers."

-

-Kester did as he was told, and then made his way to a wretched pallet

-at the other end of the hut. Of furniture there was hardly any, and

-the aspect of the whole place was miserable in the extreme. Over the

-ashes of a wood fire crouched a girl of sixteen, ragged and unkempt,

-who stared at him with black, glittering eyes as he passed her. Next

-moment he was standing by the side of a ragged pallet, on which lay

-the figure of a woman who looked ill almost unto death.

-

-"Why, mother, whatever has been the matter with you?" asked Kester. "A

-little bit out of sorts, eh? But you'll soon be all right again now."

-

-"Yes, I shall soon be all right now--soon be quite well," answered the

-woman grimly. "A black box and six feet of earth cure everything."

-

-"You mustn't talk in that way, mother," said Kester, as he sat down on

-the only chair in the place, and took one of the woman's lean, hot

-hands in his. "You will live to plague us for many a year to come."

-

-"Kester St. George, this is the last time you and I will meet in this

-world."

-

-"I hope not, with all my heart," said Kester, feelingly.

-

-"I know what I know, and I know that what I say is true," answered

-Mother Mim. "You would not have come now if I had not worked a spell

-strong enough to bring you here even against your will. I worked it

-four nights ago, at midnight, when that young viper there"--pointing a

-finger at the girl, who was still cowering over the ashes--"was fast

-asleep, and there were no eyes to see but those of the cold stars. Ah!

-but it was horrible! and if it had not been that I felt I must see you

-before I died, I could never have gone through with it." She paused

-for a moment, as though overcome by some dreadful recollection. "Then,

-when it was over, I crept back to bed, and waited quietly, knowing

-that now you could not choose but come."

-

-"I ought to have come and seen you long ago--I know it--I feel it,"

-said Kester. "But let bygones be bygones, and I give you my solemn

-promise never to neglect you again. I am rich now, mother, and you

-shall never want for anything as long as you live."

-

-"Too late--too late!" sighed the woman. "Yes, you're rich now, rich

-enough to bury me, and that's all I ask you to do."

-

-"Don't talk like that, mother," said Kester.

-

-"If you had only come to see me!" said the woman. "That was all I

-wanted. Just to see your face, and squeeze your hand, and have you to

-talk to me for a little while. I wanted none of your money--no, not a

-single shilling of it. It was only you I wanted."

-

-Kester began to feel slightly bored. He squeezed Mother Mim's hand,

-and then dropped it, but he did not speak.

-

-"But you didn't come," moaned the woman, "and you wouldn't have come

-now if I hadn't worked a charm to bring you."

-

-"There you wrong me," said Kester, decisively. "Your charm, or spell,

-or whatever it may have been, had no effect in bringing me here. I

-came of my own free will."

-

-"Self-conceited, as you always were and always will be," muttered the

-woman. Then, half raising herself in bed, and addressing the girl, she

-cried: "Nell, you hussy, just you hook it for a quarter of an hour.

-The gent and I have something to talk about."

-

-The girl rose sullenly, went slowly out, and banged the door behind

-her.

-

-Kester wondered what was coming next. He had dropped the woman's hand,

-but she now held it out for him to take again. He took it, and she

-pressed his hand passionately to her lips three or four times.

-

-"If the great secret of my life is to be told at all on this side the

-grave, the time to tell it is now come. I always thought to die

-without revealing it, but somehow of late everything has seemed

-different to me, and I feel now as if I couldn't die easy without

-telling you." She paused for a minute, exhausted. There was some

-brandy on the chimney-piece, and Kester gave her a little. Again she

-took his hand and kissed it passionately.

-

-"You will, perhaps, curse me for what I am about to tell you," she

-went on, "but whether you do so or not, so may Heaven help me if it is

-anything more than the simple truth! Kester St. George, you have no

-right to the name you bear--to the name the world knows you by!"

-

-Kester was so startled that for a moment or two he sat like one

-suddenly stricken dumb. "Go on," he said at last. "There's more to

-follow. I like boldness in lying as in everything else."

-

-"Again I swear that I am telling you no more than the solemn truth."

-

-"If I am not Kester St. George," he said with a sneer, "perhaps you

-will kindly inform me who I really am."

-

-"You are my son!"

-

-He flung the woman's hand savagely from him, and sprang to his feet

-with an oath. "Your son!" he said. "Ha! ha! ha! Your son, indeed!

-Since when have your senses quite left you, Mother Mim? A dark cell in

-Bedlam and a strait waistcoat would be your best physic."

-

-"I am rightly punished," moaned the woman--"rightly punished. I ought

-to have told you years ago--ay--before you ever grew to be a man. But

-I loved you so, and had such pride in you, that I couldn't bear the

-thought of telling you, and it's only now when I'm on my deathbed that

-the secret forces itself from me. But it will go no farther, never you

-fear that. No living soul but you will ever hear it from my lips; and

-you have only got to keep your own lips tightly shut, and you will

-live and die as Kester St. George."

-

-She sank back with the exhaustion of speaking. Mechanically, and

-almost without knowing what he was doing, Kester again gave her a

-little brandy. Then he sat down; and Mother Mim, finding his hand

-close by, took possession of it again. He shuddered slightly, but did

-not withdraw it.

-

-Although Mother Mim had advanced no proofs in support of the strange

-story she had just told him, there was something in her tone which

-carried conviction to his inmost heart.

-

-"I must know more of this," he said, after a little while, speaking

-almost in a whisper.

-

-"How well I remember everything about it! It seems only like yesterday

-that it all happened," sighed the woman. "You--my own child, and

-he--the other one that was sent to me to nurse, were born within a few

-hours of one another. His father broke a blood-vessel about six weeks

-after the child was brought to me. The mother went with her husband to

-Italy to take care of him, and the child was left with me. A week or

-two afterwards he was taken suddenly ill, and died. Then the devil

-tempted me to put my own boy into the place of the lost heir. When

-Mrs. St. George came back from Italy she came to see her child, and

-you were shown to her as that child. She accepted you without a

-moment's suspicion. They let you stay with me till you were eight

-years old, and then they took you away and sent you to school. My

-husband and my sister were the only two beside myself who knew what

-had been done, and they both died years ago without saying a word. I

-shall join them in a few days, and then you alone will be the keeper

-of the secret. With you it will die, and on your tombstone they will

-write: 'Here lies the body of Kester St. George.'"

-

-She had told her story with great difficulty, and with frequent

-interruptions to gather strength and breath to finish it. She now lay

-back, utterly exhausted. Her eyes closed, her hand relaxed its hold on

-Kester's, her jaw dropped slightly, the thin white face grew thinner

-and whiter: it seemed as if Death, passing that way, had looked in

-unexpectedly, and had beckoned her to go with him. Kester rose

-quickly, and struck a match and lighted a fragment of candle that he

-found on the chimney-piece. His next impulse was to try and revive her

-with a little brandy, but he paused with the glass in his hand. Why

-try to revive her? Would it not be better for him, for her, for every

-one, if she were really dead? If such were the case, it would do away

-with all fear of her strange secret being ever divulged to any one

-else. Yes--in every way her death would be a welcome release.

-

-It was not without a tremor, it was not without a faster beating of

-the heart, that Kester took the bit of cracked looking-glass from the

-wall and held it to the woman's lips. His very life seemed to stand

-still for a moment or two while he waited for the result. It came. The

-glass clouded faintly. The woman was not dead. With a muttered curse

-Kester dashed the glass across the floor and put back the candle on

-the chimney-piece. Then he took up his hat. Where was the use of

-staying longer? She could tell him nothing more when she should have

-come to her senses than she had told him already: nothing, that is, of

-any consequence; and as for details, he did not want them--at least,

-not now. What he had been told already held food enough for thought

-for some time to come. He paused for a moment before going out.

-Was it really possible--was it really credible, that that haggard,

-sharp-featured woman was his mother?--that his father had been a

-coarse, common labouring man, a mere hedger and ditcher, who had lived

-and died in that mean hut, and that he himself, instead of being the

-Kester St. George he had always believed himself to be, was no other

-than the son of those two--the boy whose supposed death he remembered

-to have heard about when little more than a mere child?

-

-Fiercely and savagely he told himself again and again that such a

-thing could not be--that what Mother Mim had told him was nothing more

-than a pack of devil's lies--the invention of a brain weakened and

-distorted by illness and the clouds of coming death. It was high time

-to go. He put five sovereigns on the chimney-piece, went softly out,

-and shut the door behind him. The girl was sitting on the low mud-wall

-near the door, with the skirt of her dress drawn over her head as some

-protection from the bitter wind. Her black, glittering eyes took him

-in from head to foot as he walked up to her. "Go inside at once. She

-has fainted," said Kester. The girl nodded and went. Then Kester

-mounted his horse and rode slowly homeward through the chilly

-twilight. Bitterest thoughts held him as with a vice. When he came

-within sight of the chimneys of Park Newton, he gave a sigh of relief,

-and put spurs to his horse. "That is mine, and no power on earth shall

-take it from me," he muttered. "That and the money that comes with it.

-I am Kester St. George. Let those disprove who can!"

-

-A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room,

-smoking a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct

-taps at the door, which he recognized as the peculiar signal of Dobbs.

-It was nearly an hour past midnight, and in that early household every

-one had been long abed, or, at least, had retired long ago to their

-own rooms.

-

-Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by

-no means infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier

-hour than on the present occasion.

-

-"Come in, Dobbs," said Lionel. "You are later to-night than usual."

-

-"Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such

-an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago,

-that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master

-took to walking in his sleep."

-

-"Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my

-instructions."

-

-"Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast

-asleep."

-

-"In which direction did he go?"

-

-"He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and

-let himself out through the little glass door into the garden."

-

-"And then which way did he go?"

-

-"I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you."

-

-"Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to

-take?"

-

-"There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the Wizard's

-Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the place

-to which he has gone."

-

-"We must follow him, Dobbs."

-

-"Yes, sir."

-

-"We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him."

-

-"Yes, sir."

-

-"I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets

-back to the house?"

-

-"None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes

-quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and

-soberly as if he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does

-really wake up in the morning, he never seems to know anything about

-what has happened over-night. But we must make haste, sir, if we wish

-to overtake him."

-

-"I will be ready in one minute."

-

-Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap

-on his head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the

-open air.

-

-The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above

-the tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint old house in its

-white glory, but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in

-deepest shadow. Nowhere could they discern the figure of the man whom

-they had come out to follow; but the Wizard's Fountain was a good half

-mile from the Hall, so they struck at once into the nearest footway

-that led towards it. A few minutes' quick walking took them there.

-Lionel knew the place well. It had been a favourite haunt of his when

-living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks that preceded the

-murder. Very weird and solemn the whole place looked, as seen by

-moonlight at that still hour of the night.

-

-Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that

-particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows

-immediately over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted

-of beech, and oak, and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and

-fantastic: untended and uncared for--growing together year after year,

-whispering their leafy secrets to each other with every spring that

-came round, and standing shoulder to shoulder against the winds of

-winter: a hoary brotherhood of forest sages.

-

-The fountain itself, whatever it might have been in years long gone

-by, was now nothing more than a confused heap of huge stones,

-overgrown with lichens and creepers. From the midst of them, and from

-what had doubtless at one time been a representation in marble of the

-head of a leopard or other forest animal, but which now was almost

-worn past recognition, trickled a thin stream of coldest water; which,

-falling into a broken basin below, over-brimmed itself there, and was

-lost among the cracks and interstices in the masses of broken masonry

-that lay scattered around.

-

-"You had better, perhaps, wait here," said Lionel to Dobbs, as they

-halted for a moment at the entrance to the avenue.

-

-Dobbs did as he was bidden, and Lionel advanced alone, keeping well

-within the shade of the trees. When within a dozen yards of the

-fountain, he halted and waited. The low, ceaseless monotone of the

-falling water was the only sound that broke the moonlit silence.

-

-From out the dense shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the

-avenue, and as if he himself were part of that shadow, Kester St.

-George slowly emerged. In the middle of the avenue, and in the full

-light of the moon, he paused. His right hand was thrust into the bosom

-of his vest, as if he were hiding something there. Standing thus, he

-seemed, as it were, to shrink within himself. Still hugging that

-hidden something, he seemed to listen--to listen as if his very life

-depended on the act. Then, with a slow, creeping motion, as though his

-feet were weighted with lead, he stole towards the fountain. He

-reached it. He grasped the stonework with one hand, and then he turned

-to gaze, as though in dread of some hidden pursuer. Then slowly,

-almost reluctantly, he seemed to draw something from within his vest,

-and, while still gazing furtively around him, he thrust his arm, elbow

-deep, into a crevice in the masonry, let it rest there for a single

-moment, and then withdrew it. With the same furtively restless look,

-and ears that seemed to listen more intently than ever, he paused for

-an instant. Then he stole swiftly back across the moonlit avenue, and

-so vanished among the black shadows from whence he had come.

-

-So natural had been his actions, so unstudied his every movement, that

-it seemed impossible to believe that he was indeed asleep.

-

-Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by

-the fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a

-minute before. He had noted well the place. There, before him, was the

-very crevice into which Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same

-crevice was Lionel's arm now thrust--elbow deep--shoulder deep. His

-groping fingers soon laid hold of that which was hidden there. He drew

-out his arm quickly, and the something that he had found glittered

-steel-blue in the moonlight. With a cry of horror he dropped it, and

-it fell with a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering had

-recognized it in a moment as a dagger which he had last seen in the

-possession of Percy Osmond.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER III.

-MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.

-

-

-Mrs. McDermott had reached Pincote, and she did not fail to let every

-one know it. As the Squire had predicted, the moment she had taken off

-her waterproof, and changed her boots, she marched straight into the

-library, and asked for her money. It was with a feeling of profound

-satisfaction that her brother unlocked his bureau, and handed her a

-roll of notes representing five thousand seven hundred and fifty

-pounds. She counted the notes over twice, slowly and carefully.

-

-"What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?" she asked.

-

-"Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum."

-

-"I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least," she

-said ungraciously. "My man of business tells me that seven is quite a

-common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per

-cent. on real property, without any difficulty."

-

-"I should advise you to be careful what you are about," said the

-Squire, gravely. "Big profits, big risks; little profits, little

-risks."

-

-"I know perfectly well what I'm doing," said Mrs. McDermott, with a

-toss of her antiquated curls. "It's you slow, sleepy, country folks,

-who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances that come

-to people who keep their eyes wide open."

-

-The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned in spirit when

-he thought what his "golden chance" had done for him.

-

-"Let her buy her experience as I've bought mine," he said to himself.

-"From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for it."

-

-"Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?" he asked

-Jane, a day or two later.

-

-"No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to

-go by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one."

-

-"I hope not, with all my heart," sighed the Squire.

-

-Mrs. McDermott, in truth, was not a lady who ever troubled herself to

-make her presence agreeable to those with whom she might be staying.

-Consideration for the comfort of others was a thought that never

-entered her mind. From the day of her arrival at Pincote she began to

-interfere with the existing arrangements of the house; finding fault

-with everything: changing this, altering the other, and evidently

-determined to have her own way in all. The first thing she did was to

-find fault with her bedroom, although it was one of the pleasantest

-apartments in the house, and had been especially arranged by Jane

-herself with a view to her aunt's comfort. But it was not the best

-bedroom--the state bedroom, therefore Mrs. McDermott would have none

-of it. Into the state bedroom, a gloomy apartment fronting the north,

-which was never used above once or twice in half a dozen years, she

-migrated at once with all her belongings. Her next act, she being

-without a maid of her own at the time, was to induct one of the

-Pincote servants into that office, taking her altogether from her

-proper duties, and not permitting her to do a stroke of work for any

-one but herself. Then she talked her brother into allowing the dinner

-hour to be altered from six to half-past seven; so that, as the Squire

-grumbled to himself, the cloth was hardly removed before it was time

-to go to bed. Then the Squire must never appear at dinner without a

-dress coat, and a white tie--articles which, or late years, he had

-been tacitly allowed to dispense with when dining en famille. A white

-cravat especially was to him an abomination. He never could tie the

-knot properly, and after crumpling three or four, and throwing them

-across the room in a rage, Jane's services would generally have to be

-called into requisition as a last resource.

-

-One other infliction there was which the Squire found it very

-difficult to bear patiently. After dinner, when there was no

-particular company at Pincote, it was an understood thing that the

-Squire should have the dining-room to himself for half an hour, in

-order that he might enjoy the post-prandial snooze which long custom

-had made almost a necessity with him. But this was an arrangement that

-failed to meet with the approbation of Mrs. McDermott. She insisted

-that the Squire should either accompany the ladies, or, otherwise, she

-herself would keep him company in the dining-room; and woe be to him

-if he dared so much as close an eye for five seconds! It was "Where

-are your manners, sir? I'm thoroughly ashamed of you;" or else,

-"Falling asleep, sir, in the presence of a lady? a clodhopper could do

-no more than that!" till the Squire felt as if his life were being

-slowly tormented out of him.

-

-Nor did Jane fail to come in for a share of her aunt's strictures.

-Mrs. McDermott evidently looked upon her as little more than a child.

-Firstly, her hair was not arranged in accordance with her aunt's ideas

-of propriety in such matters, which, truth to say, belonged to a

-somewhat antiquated school. Then the girl was altogether too bright

-and sunny-looking, with her bows of ribbon and bits of lace showing

-daintily here and there. And she was too forward in introducing topics

-of conversation at meal-times, instead of allowing the introduction of

-appropriate themes to come from her elders and her betters. Then Jane

-was addicted to the heinous offence of laughing too heartily, and too

-often. Altogether her aunt saw in her much that stood in need of

-reformation. Jane bore everything with a sort of good-humoured

-indifference. "The time to speak is not come yet. I will see how much

-further she will go," she said to herself. But when the cook came to

-her one morning and said: "If you please, miss, Mrs. Dermott says that

-for the future I am to take my dinner orders from her," then Jane

-thought that the time to speak was drawing very near indeed.

-

-"Do as Mrs. McDermott tells you," she said quietly to the astonished

-cook.

-

-"Well, I never! I thought that the mistress had more spirit than

-that," said the woman as she went back to her duties in the kitchen.

-

-Next day brought the coachman. "Beg pardon, miss," he said, with a

-touch of his hair; "but Mrs. McDermott have given orders that the

-brougham and gray mare is to be ready for her every afternoon at three

-o'clock to the minute. I am to take the order, miss, I suppose?"

-

-"Quite right, John, till I give you orders to the contrary."

-

-Next came the gardener. "Very sorry, miss, but I shall have to give

-notice--I shall really."

-

-"Why, what's amiss now, Gibson?"

-

-"It's all Mrs. McDermott, miss; begging your pardon for saying so. Why

-will she pretend to understand gardening better than me that has been

-at it, man and boy, for fifty year? Why will she come finding fault

-with this, that, and the other, in a way that neither the Squire nor

-you, miss, ever thinks of doing? And she not only finds fault, but

-gives orders, ridiculous orders, about things she knows nothing of. I

-can't stand it, miss, I really can't."

-

-"Mrs. McDermott will give you no more orders, Gibson, after to-day.

-You can go back to your work with an easy mind."

-

-Jane waited till next morning, and then having ascertained that her

-aunt had again given orders to the cook respecting dinner, she walked

-straight into the breakfast-room where she knew that she should find

-Mrs. McDermott alone, and busy with her correspondence--for she was a

-great letter writer at that hour of the morning.

-

-"What a noisy girl you are," she said crossly, as her niece drew up a

-chair and sat down beside her. "I was just writing a few lines to dear

-Lady Clark when you came in in your usual brusque way and put all my

-ideas to flight."

-

-"They must be poor, timid, little ideas, aunt, to be so easily

-frightened away," said Jane.

-

-"Jane, there has been a flippant tone about you for the last day or

-two that I don't at all approve of. Flippancy in young people is

-easily acquired, but difficult to get rid of. The sooner you get rid

-of yours the better I shall be pleased."

-

-Jane rose from her chair and swept Mrs. McDermott a stately curtsey.

-"Is it not almost time, aunt," she said quietly, "that you gave up

-treating me, and talking to me, as if I were a child?"

-

-"If you are no longer a child in years, you are still very childish in

-many of your ways."

-

-"You are quite epigrammatic this morning, aunt."

-

-"Don't be impertinent, young lady."

-

-"I have no intention of being impertinent. But I have come to see you

-about the order for dinner which you gave the cook half an hour ago."

-

-"What about that?" asked Mrs. McDermott snappishly. "In what way does

-it concern you?"

-

-"It concerns me very materially indeed," answered Jane. "You have

-ordered several things for dinner that papa does not care about; some,

-in fact, that he never eats. Fried soles, for instance, and veal

-cutlets--articles he never touches. So I have told the cook to

-supplement your order with some turbot and a boiled fowl � la

-marquise. I have also told her that for the future she will receive

-from me every evening the menu for next day. Should my list contain

-nothing that you care about, the cook has orders to obtain specially

-for you any articles that you may wish to have."

-

-"Upon my word! what next?" was all that Mrs. McDermott could gasp out

-at the moment, so overcome was she with rage and surprise.

-

-"This next," said Jane. "From to-day the dinner hour will be altered

-back to six o'clock. Half-past seven suits neither papa nor me. Should

-the latter hour be a necessity with you, you can always have your

-dinner served at that time in your own room. But papa and I will dine

-at six."

-

-"I shall talk to your papa about this, and ascertain from his own lips

-whether I am to be dictated to and insulted by a chit like you."

-

-"That is just what I must forbid you to do," said Jane. "Papa's health

-has not been what it ought to be for a long time past.

-

-"Only a few weeks ago he had a slight stroke. Happily he soon recovered

-from it, but Dr. Davidson says that all exciting topics must be kept

-carefully from him. You know how little things will often excite him;

-and if you begin to worry him about any petty differences that may

-arise between you and me, you will do so at your peril, and must be

-satisfied to take whatever consequences may arise from your so doing."

-

-Mrs. McDermott stared at her niece in open-mouthed wonder.

-

-"Perhaps you have something more to say to me," she gasped out.

-

-"Yes, several things. Before ordering the brougham to be at your beck

-and call every day at three o'clock, it might, perhaps, be just as

-well to make sure that your brother is not likely to want it. He has

-taken to using it rather frequently of late."

-

-"Oh, indeed; I'll make due inquiry," was all that Mrs. McDermott could

-find to say.

-

-"And if I were you, I wouldn't go quite so often into the greenhouses,

-or near the men at work in the garden."

-

-"Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while

-you are about it."

-

-"Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an

-hour. He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot

-do without it. This is most imperative."

-

-"I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life."

-

-"Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no

-intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you

-when you come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here

-as papa's guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you

-comfortable. But there can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that

-mistress, at present, is your niece, Jane Culpepper."

-

-And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had

-bent over her, kissed her, and swept from the room.

-

-For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary state, at half-past

-seven, in her own room. But she found it so utterly wretched to have

-no one to talk to but her maid, that on the third day her resolution

-failed her; and when six o'clock came round she found herself in the

-dining-room, sitting next her brother, with something of the feeling

-of a school-girl who has been whipped and forgiven.

-

-Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid and

-stand-off-ish for several days to come. Towards the Squire she

-imperceptibly thawed, and the old familiar intimacy was gradually

-resumed between them. But between herself and Jane there was

-something--a restraint, a coldness--which no time could altogether

-remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that she had

-been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some

-great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then

-have afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise.

-

-It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed

-over to his sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to

-her. It was a great weight off his mind, and although he did not say

-much to Tom Bristow about it, he was none the less grateful in his

-secret heart. He was still as much at a loss as ever to understand by

-what occult means Tom had been able to raise the mortgage of six

-thousand pounds on Prior's Croft. He had hinted more than once that he

-should like to know the secret by means of which a result so

-remarkable had been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly

-impervious.

-

-Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six

-thousand pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said:

-"With regard to Prior's Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in

-the matter: perhaps you won't object to it a second time."

-

-"What is it, Bristow, what is it?" said the Squire, graciously. "I

-shall be glad to listen to anything you may have to say."

-

-"What I want you to do, sir," said Tom, "is to have some plans at once

-drawn up, and have the foundations laid of a number of houses--twenty

-to thirty at the least--on Prior's Croft."

-

-"I thought you crazy about the mortgage," said the Squire, with a

-twinkle in his eye. "Are you quite sure you are not crazy now?"

-

-"I am just as sane now as I was then."

-

-"But to build houses on Prior's Croft! Why, nobody would ever live in

-them. The place is altogether out of the way."

-

-"That has nothing whatever to do with the question. If you will only

-take my advice, sir, you will get the foundations down without an

-hour's unnecessary delay."

-

-"And where should I be at the end of a month, when the contractor came

-to me for the first instalment of his money?"

-

-"All that can be arranged for without difficulty. Your credit is sound

-in the market, and that is the one thing indispensable."

-

-"But what is to be the ultimate result of all these mysterious

-proceedings?"

-

-"Now you get me in a corner. But I must again crave your indulgence,

-and ask you to let the mystery remain a mystery a little while longer.

-If you have sufficient faith in me, why, take my advice. If not--you

-will simply be missing a chance of making an odd thousand or so."

-

-"And that is what I can by no means afford to do," said the Squire

-with emphasis.

-

-The result was that a week later some forty or fifty men were busily

-at work cutting the turf and digging the foundations for the score of

-grand new villas which Mr. Culpepper had decided on building at

-Prior's Croft.

-

-Everybody's verdict was that the Squire must be mad. New villas,

-indeed! Why there were hardly people enough in sleepy old Duxley to

-occupy the houses that fell vacant as the older inhabitants died off.

-

-"That may be," said the Squire, when this plea was urged on his

-notice; "but I mean to make my villas so handsome, so commodious, and

-so healthy, that a lot of the old rattletrap dens will at once be

-deserted, and I shall not have house-room for half the people who will

-want to become my tenants." So spoke the Squire, putting a brave face

-on the matter, but really as much in the dark as any one.

-

-But if there was one person more puzzled than another, that person was

-certainly Mr. Cope the banker. He had ascertained for a fact that

-within a few days of their interview--their very painful interview, he

-termed it to himself--his quondam friend had actually become the

-purchaser of Prior's Croft; and what was a still greater marvel, had

-actually paid down two thousand pounds in hard cash for it! And now

-the town's talk was of nothing but the grand villas which the Squire

-was going to build on his new purchase. Mr. Cope could hardly credit

-it all till he went and saw with his own eyes the men hard at work.

-Still, it was altogether incomprehensible to him. Could the Squire

-have merely been playing him a trick; have only been testing the

-strength of his friendship, when he came to him to borrow the five

-thousand pounds? No, that could hardly be; else why had his balance at

-the bank been allowed to dwindle to a mere nothing? Besides which, he

-knew from words that the Squire had let drop at different times, that

-he must have been speculating heavily. Could it be possible that his

-speculations had, after all, proved successful? If not, how account

-for this sudden flood of prosperity? For several days Mr. Cope failed

-to enjoy his dinner in the hearty way that was habitual with him: for

-several nights Mr. Cope's sleep failed to refresh him as it usually

-did.

-

-Although the Squire's heaviest burden had been lifted off his mind

-with the payment of his sister's money, he had by no means forgotten

-the loss of his daughter's dowry. And now that his mind was easy on

-one point, this lesser trouble began to assume a magnitude that it had

-not possessed before. He could not get rid of the thought that there

-was nothing but his own frail life between his daughter and all but

-absolute penury. A few hundred pounds Jane would undoubtedly have, but

-what would that be to a young lady brought up as she had been brought

-up? "Not enough," as the Squire put it in his homely way, "to find her

-in bread-and-cheese and cotton gowns."

-

-But what was to be done? Life assurance was out of the question. He

-was too old and too infirm. There was nothing much to be got out of

-the estate. It was true that he might thin the timber a little and

-make a few hundreds that way; but the heir-at-law had too shrewd an

-eye to his own ultimate interests to allow very much to be done in

-that line. Besides which, the Squire himself could not for very shame

-have impaired what was the chief beauty of the Pincote property--its

-magnificent array of timber.

-

-There was, perhaps, a little cheese-paring to be done in the way of

-cutting down domestic expenses. A couple of servants might be

-dispensed with indoors. The under-gardener and the stable-boy might be

-sent about their business. The gray mare and the brougham might be

-disposed of. The wine merchant's bill might be lightened a little; and

-fewer coals, perhaps, might be burnt in winter--and that was nearly

-all.

-

-But even such reductions as these, trifling though they were, could

-not be made secretly--could not be made, in fact, without becoming the

-talk of the whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire

-detested more than another, it was having his private affairs

-challenged and discussed by other people. And what, after all, would

-the saving amount to? How many years of such petty economy would be

-needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of the sum he had

-lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle, as he said to

-himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled, too, with

-asking the same questions over and over again, and still finding

-himself as far from a satisfactory answer as ever.

-

-There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it

-any real basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground

-which has already been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed

-estate--the piece of ground on which his new mansion was to have been

-built. Land, just now, was fetching good prices. Yes, he would

-certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in Jenny's name whatever money

-it might fetch--not that it would command a very high price, being a

-poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still it would be a nest egg,

-though only a little one, for a rainy day.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER IV.

-KNOCKLEY HOLT.

-

-

-About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The

-Squire would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without

-Tom's society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more

-and more disinclined either for going out himself or having company at

-home. Still he could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now

-and then; and Tom being either a good listener or a lively talker, as

-occasion might require, and having already rendered the Squire an

-important service, it seemed somehow to fall into the natural order of

-things that he should be invited three or four times a week to dine at

-Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott's arrival was he there less

-frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very lively

-company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to

-say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she

-overwhelmed her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty

-gossip about things that had little or no interest for him; but about

-which he was obliged to feign an interest, unless, as he himself

-expressed it, "he wanted to know the length of his sister's tongue."

-

-But when Tom was there the case was different. He acted as a sort of

-buffer between Mrs. McDermott and the Squire. By means of a few adroit

-questions, and a clever assumption of ignorance with regard to

-whatever topic Mrs. McDermott might be dilating on, he generally

-succeeded in drawing the full torrent of her conversation on his own

-devoted head, thereby affording the Squire a breathing space for which

-he was truly grateful. Sometimes, but not very often, Tom let the

-demon of mischief get the mastery of him. On such occasions he would

-lead Mrs. McDermott on by one artful question after another till she

-began to contradict herself and eat her own words, and ended by

-floundering helplessly in a sort of mental quagmire, and so

-relapsing into sulky silence, with a dim sense upon her that she had

-somehow been coaxed into making an exhibition of herself by that

-demure-looking young scamp of a Bristow, who seemed hand and glove

-with both her brother and her niece after a fashion that she neither

-liked nor understood.

-

-Yet was the love of hearing herself talk so ingrained in Mrs.

-McDermott's nature, that by the time of Tom's next visit to Pincote

-she was ready to fall into the same trap again, had he been inclined

-to lead her on.

-

-"Who is that young Bristow that you and Jane make such a pet of?" she

-asked her brother one day. "I don't seem to recollect any family of

-that name hereabouts."

-

-"Pet, indeed! Nobody makes a pet of him, as you call it," growled the

-Squire. "He's the son of the doctor who attended poor Charlotte in her

-last illness. He's a sharp young fellow who has got his head screwed

-on the right way, and he's been useful to me in one or two business

-matters, and may be so again; so there's no harm in asking him to

-dinner now and then."

-

-"Now and then with you seems to mean three or four times a week,"

-sneered Mrs. McDermott.

-

-"And what if it does?" retorted the Squire. "As long as I can call the

-house my own, I'll ask anybody I like to dinner, and as often as I

-like."

-

-"Only if I were you, I wouldn't forget that I'd a daughter who was

-just at a marriageable age."

-

-"Nor a sister who wouldn't object to a husband number two," chuckled

-the Squire.

-

-"Why not set your cap at young Bristow, eh, Fanny? You might do worse.

-He's young and not bad looking, and if he has no money of his own,

-he's just the right sort to look well after yours."

-

-Mrs. McDermott fanned herself indignantly. "You never were very

-refined, Titus," she said; "but you certainly get coarser every time I

-see you."

-

-Mr. Culpepper only chuckled to himself, and poked the fire vigorously.

-

-"I'll have that young Bristow out of this house before I'm three weeks

-older!" vowed the 'widow to herself. "The way he and Jane carry on

-together is simply disgusting, and yet that poor weak brother of mine

-can't see it."

-

-From that day forth she took to watching Tom and Jane more

-particularly than she had done before. Not satisfied with watching

-them herself, she induced her maid Emma to act as a spy on their

-actions. With her assistance, Mrs. McDermott was not long in gathering

-sufficient evidence to warrant her, as she thought, in seeking a

-private interview with her brother on the subject. "And high time

-too," she said grimly to herself. "That minx of a Jane is carrying on

-a fine game under the rose. The arrant little flirt! And as for that

-young Bristow--of course it's Jane's money that he's after. Titus must

-be as blind as a bat, or he would have seen it all long ago. I've no

-patience with him--none!"

-

-Having worked herself up to the requisite pitch, downstairs she

-bounced and burst into the Squire's private room--commonly called his

-study. She burst into the room, but halted suddenly the moment she had

-crossed the threshold. The Squire was there, but not alone. Tom

-Bristow was with him. The two were in deep consultation--so much she

-could see at a glance--bending towards each other over the little

-table, and speaking, as it seemed to her, almost in a whisper. The

-Squire turned with a gesture of impatience at the opening of the door.

-"Oh, is that you, Fanny?" he said. "I'll see you presently; I'm busy

-with Mr. Bristow, just now."

-

-She went out without a word, but her face flushed deeply, and an evil

-look came into her eyes. "That's the way you treat your only sister,

-Mr. Titus Culpepper, is it?" she muttered under her breath. "Not a

-penny of my money shall ever come to you or yours."

-

-Tom had walked over to Pincote that morning to see the Squire

-respecting the building going on at Prior's Croft. When their

-conference had come to an end, said the Squire to Tom: "You know that

-scrubby bit of ground of mine--Knockley Holt?"

-

-Tom started. "Yes, I know it very well," he said. "It is rather

-singular that you should be the first to speak about it; because it

-was partly about that very piece of ground that I am here this morning

-to see you."

-

-"Ay--ay--how's that?" said the Squire, suddenly brightening up from

-the apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of late.

-

-"Why, it doesn't seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that

-perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me have a lease of it."

-

-The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several

-weeks. "And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to

-ask your advice about it!"

-

-Tom's face flushed suddenly. "And do you really think of selling

-Knockley Holt?" he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the

-Squire's face more keenly than usual.

-

-"Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn't have said what I have

-said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to

-me than the land is ever likely to be. It won't fetch much I know, but

-then I didn't give much for it, and whoever may get it won't have much

-of a bargain."

-

-"Perhaps you wouldn't object to have me for a purchaser?"

-

-"You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I

-should want money down, and---- But I needn't say more about it."

-

-"If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve

-hundred pounds for it, cash down."

-

-The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at

-anything that Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a

-moment or two in blank amazement.

-

-"Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!" were his first words.

-"And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve

-hundred pounds?"

-

-"Oh, I'm worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds," said Tom,

-with a smile. "Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by one

-little stroke in cotton."

-

-"Well done, young one," said the Squire, heartily. "You are not such a

-fool as you look. And now take an old man's advice. Don't speculate

-any more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her cake. Don't

-tempt her again. Be content with what you've got, and speculate no

-more."

-

-"At any rate, I won't forget your advice, sir," said Tom. "I wonder,"

-he added to himself, "what he would think and say if he knew that it

-was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread and cheese."

-

-"And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?"

-

-"I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it."

-

-"Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do

-with it when you have got it?"

-

-"Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask

-me," said Tom, laughingly. "If I buy it, it will be entirely on

-speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a

-big success."

-

-"Well, well, that will be your look out," said the Squire,

-good-naturedly. "But, Bristow, it's not worth twelve hundred pounds,

-nor anything like that sum."

-

-"I think it is, sir--at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay

-that amount for it."

-

-"I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a

-clear thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied."

-

-"I have made you an offer, sir. It is for you to say whether you are

-willing to accept it."

-

-"Seeing that you offer me two hundred pounds more than I ever hoped to

-get, I'm not such an ass as to say, No. Only I think you are robbing

-yourself. I do indeed, Bristow; and that's what I don't like to see."

-

-"I think, sir, that I'm pretty well able to look after my own

-interests," said Tom, with a meaning smile. "Am I to consider that

-Knockley Holt is to become my property?"

-

-"Of course you are, boy--of course you are. But I must say that you

-are a little bit of a simpleton to give me twelve hundred when you

-might have it for a thousand."

-

-"An offer's an offer, and I'll abide by mine."

-

-"Then there's nothing more to be said: I'll see my lawyer about the

-deeds to-morrow."

-

-Tom shook hands with the Squire and went in search of Jane.

-

-"Perhaps I may come in now," said Mrs. McDermott five minutes later,

-as she opened the door of her brother's room.

-

-"Of course you may," said the Squire. "Young Bristow and I were

-talking over some business affairs before, that would have had no

-interest for you, and that you know nothing about."

-

-"It's about young Bristow, as you call him, that I have come to see

-you this morning."

-

-"Oh, indeed," said the Squire drily. Then he took off his spectacles,

-and rubbed them with his pocket handkerchief, and began to whistle a

-tune under his breath.

-

-Mrs. McDermott glared fiercely at him, and her voice took an added

-tone of asperity when she spoke again. "I suppose you are aware that

-your prot�g� is making violent love to your daughter, or else that

-your daughter is making violent love to him: I hardly know which it

-is!"

-

-"What!" thundered the Squire, as he started to his feet. "What is that

-you say, Fanny McDermott?"

-

-"Simply this: that there is a lot of lovemaking going on between Jane

-and Mr. Bristow. If it is done with your sanction, I have not another

-word to say. But if you tell me that you know nothing about it, I can

-only say that you must have been as blind as a bat and as stupid as an

-owl."

-

-"Thank you, Fanny--thank you," said the Squire sadly, as he sat down

-in his chair again. "I dare say I have been both blind and stupid; and

-if what you tell me is true, I must have been."

-

-"Miss Jane couldn't long deceive me," said the widow spitefully.

-

-"Miss Jane is too good a girl to deceive anybody."

-

-"Oh, in love matters we women hold that everything is fair. Deceit

-then becomes deceit no longer. We call it by a prettier name."

-

-Her brother was not heeding her: he was lost in his own thoughts.

-

-"The young vagabond!" he said at last. "So that's the way he's been

-hoodwinking me, is it? But I'll teach him: I'll have him know that I'm

-not to be made a fool of in that way. Make love to my daughter,

-indeed! I'll have him here to-morrow morning, and tell him a bit of my

-mind that will astonish him considerably."

-

-"Why wait till to-morrow? Why not send for him now?"

-

-"Because he left here a quarter of an hour ago.

-

-"Oh, you would not have far to send for him."

-

-"What do you mean?"

-

-"Simply that he and Jane are in the shrubbery together at the present

-moment."

-

-The Squire stared at her helplessly for a moment or two. "How do you

-know that?" he said at last, speaking very quietly.

-

-"Because my maid, who was returning from an errand, saw them walking

-there, arm in arm." She paused, as if expecting her brother to say

-something, but he did not speak. "I have not had my eyes shut, I

-assure you," she went on. "But in these matters women are always more

-quick-sighted than men. From the very first hour of my seeing them

-together I had my suspicions. All their walking and talking together

-couldn't be for nothing. All their hand-shakings and sly glances into

-each other's eyes couldn't be without a meaning."

-

-The Squire got up from his chair and rang the bell. A servant came in.

-"Ascertain whether Mr. Bristow is anywhere about the house or grounds;

-and, if he is, tell him that I should like to see him before he goes."

-

-Mrs. McDermott rose in some alarm. It was no part of her policy to be

-seen there by Tom. "I am glad  you have sent for him," she said. "I

-hope matters have not gone too far to be stopped without difficulty."

-

-He looked up in a little surprise. "There will be no difficulty. Why

-should there be?" he said.

-

-"No, of course not. As you say, why should there be? But I must now

-bid you good-morning for the present. There will be hardly any need, I

-think, for you to mention my name in the affair."

-

-"There will be no need to mention anybody's name. Good-morning."

-

-Mrs. McDermott went out and shut the door gently behind her. "Breaking

-fast, poor man," she said to herself. "He's not long for this world,

-I'm afraid. Well, I've the consolation of knowing that I've always

-done a sister's duty by him. I wonder what he'll die worth. Thousands,

-no doubt; and all to go to that proud minx of a Jane. We are not

-allowed to hate one another, or else I'm afraid I should hate that

-girl."

-

-She shook her fist at an imaginary Jane, went straight upstairs, and

-gave her maid a good blowing-up.

-

-Some three weeks had now come and gone since Tom, breaking for once

-through the restraint which had hitherto kept him back, did and said

-something which made Jane very happy. What he did was to draw her face

-down to his and kiss it: what he said was simply, "Good-night, my

-darling." Nothing more, but quite enough to be understood by her to

-whom the words were spoken. But since that evening not one syllable

-more of love had been breathed by Tom. For anything that had since

-passed between them Jane might have imagined that she had merely

-dreamt the words--that the speaking of them was nothing more than a

-fancy of her own lovesick brain.

-

-Under similar circumstances many young ladies would have considered

-themselves aggrieved, and would not have been deemed unreasonable in

-so thinking, But Jane had no intention whatever of adopting an

-injured tone even in her own inmost thoughts. She had never been in

-the habit of looking upon herself in the light of a victim, and she

-had no intention of beginning to do so now. Surprised--slightly

-surprised--she might be, but that was all. In Tom's manner towards

-her, in the way he looked at her, in the very tone of his voice, there

-was that indescribable something which gave her the sweet assurance

-that she was still loved as much as ever. Such being the case, she was

-well satisfied to wait. She felt that her lover's silence had a

-meaning, that he was not dumb without a reason. When the proper time

-should come he would speak, and to some purpose. Till then Eros should

-keep a finger on his lips, and speak only the language of the eyes.

-

-"So this is the way you treat me, is it, young man?" said the Squire,

-sternly, as Tom re-entered the room.

-

-"I beg your pardon, sir," said Tom, looking at him in sheer amazement.

-

-"Oh, don't pretend that you don't know what I mean."

-

-"It may seem stupid on my part, but I must really plead ignorance."

-

-"You worm yourself into my confidence till you get the run of the

-house, and can come and go as you like, and you finish up by making

-love to my daughter!"

-

-"It is no crime to love Miss Culpepper, I hope, sir. There are few

-people, I imagine, who could know her without loving her."

-

-"That's all very well, but you don't get over me in that way, young

-sir. What right have you to make love to my daughter? That's what I

-want to know."

-

-"I may love Miss Culpepper, but I have never told her so."

-

-"Do you mean to say that you have never asked her to marry you?"

-

-"Never, sir; on that point I give you my word of honour."

-

-"A good thing for you that you haven't. The sooner you get that love

-tomfoolery out of your head the better."

-

-"I promise you one thing, sir," said Tom; "if I ever do marry Miss

-Culpepper, it shall be with your full consent and good wishes."

-

-The Squire could not help chuckling. "In that case, my boy, you will

-never have her--not if you live to be as old as Methuselah."

-

-"Time will prove, sir."

-

-"And look ye here. There must be no more walks in the shrubbery, no

-more gallivanting together among the woods. Do you understand?"

-

-"Perfectly, sir. Your words could not be plainer."

-

-"I mean them to be plain. There seems to be no harm done so far, but

-it's time this nonsense was put a stop to. Miss Culpepper must marry

-in a very different sphere from yours."

-

-"Pardon the remark, sir, but you were quite willing to take Mr. Edward

-Cope as your son-in-law. Now, I consider myself quite as good a man as

-Mr. Cope--quite as eligible a suitor for your daughter's hand."

-

-"Then I don't. Besides, young Cope would never have had the chance of

-getting her if he hadn't been the son of my oldest friend; the son of

-the man to whose bravery I owe my life itself. Master Edward owes it

-to his father and not to himself that I ever sanctioned his engagement

-to Miss Culpepper."

-

-"I am indebted for this good turn to Mrs. McDermott," said Tom to

-himself, as he walked homeward through the park. "It will only have

-the effect of bringing matters to a climax a little earlier than I

-intended, but it will not alter my plans in the least."

-

-"Fanny has been exaggerating as usual," was the Squire's comment.

-"There was something in it, no doubt, and it's just as well to have

-crushed it in the bud; but I think it's hardly worth while to say

-anything to Jenny about it."

-

-A week later, the Squire happened to be riding on his white pony along

-the high road that fringed one side of Knockley Holt, when, to his

-intense astonishment, he heard the regular monotonous puffing and saw

-the smoke of a steam engine that was apparently hard at work behind a

-clump of larches in the distance. Riding up to the spot, he found some

-score or so of men all busily engaged. They were excavating a hole in

-the hill-side, filling-in stout timber supports as they got deeper

-down; the engine on the top being employed to hoist up the earth in

-big bucketfuls as fast as it was dug out.

-

-"What's all this about?" inquired the Squire of one of the men; "and

-who's gaffer here?"

-

-"Mr. Bristow, he be the gaffer, sur, and this hole be dug by his

-orders."

-

-"Oh, ho! that's it, is it? And how deep are you going to dig the hole,

-and what do you expect to find when you get to the bottom?"

-

-"I don't rightly know, sur, but I should think we be digging for

-water."

-

-"A likely tale that! What the dickens should anybody want water for

-when we haven't had a dry day for seven weeks?"

-

-"Our foreman did say, sur, as how Mr. Bristow was going to have a hole

-dug clean through, so as to make a short cut like to the other side of

-the world. Anyhow, it be mortal dry work."

-

-The Squire gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and rode off. "What queer

-crotchet has that young jackanapes got into his head now?" he muttered

-to himself. "It's just possible, though, that there may be a method in

-his madness."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER V.

-AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.

-

-

-"Hi! Jean, whose is this luggage?" cried Pierre Janvard one morning to

-his head waiter. He pointed at the same time to a large portmanteau

-which lay among a pile of other luggage in the hall of the Three

-Crowns Hotel, Bath.

-

-With that restless curiosity which was such a marked trait in his

-character, Janvard had a habit of peering about among the luggage of

-his guests, and even of prying stealthily about their bedrooms when he

-knew that their occupants were out of the way, and he himself safe

-from detection. It was not that he hoped to benefit himself in any

-way, or even to pick up any information that would be of value to him,

-by such a mode of proceeding; but it had been a habit with him from

-boyhood to do this kind of thing, and it was a habit that he could by

-no means overcome.

-

-Passing through the hall this morning, his eye had been attracted by a

-pile of luggage belonging to several fresh arrivals, and he at once

-began to peer among the labels. The second label that took his eye was

-inscribed, "Richard Dering, Esq., Passenger to Bath." Janvard stood

-aghast as he read the name. A crowd of direful memories rushed to his

-mind. For a moment or two he could not speak. Then he called Jean as

-above.

-

-"That portmanteau," answered Jean, "belongs to a gentleman who came in

-by the last train. He and another gentleman came together. They wanted

-a private sitting-room, and I put them into number twenty-nine."

-

-"Has the other gentleman any luggage?"

-

-"Yes, this large black bag belongs to him." Janvard stooped and read:

-"Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath." "Quite strange to me, that

-name," he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and

-shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.

-

-"They have ordered dinner, I suppose?"

-

-"Yes, sir."

-

-"Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?"

-

-"No, sir."

-

-"Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk

-about, and report it to me afterwards."

-

-"Yes, sir."

-

-Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind.

-Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel

-Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common

-enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to

-himself again and again.

-

-One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive

-to see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the

-slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any

-other quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these

-people, after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr.

-Kester St. George for instructions.

-

-He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his

-banker's passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing

-source of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in

-walked Mr. Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow.

-

-It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard's eyes

-rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his

-appearance. Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still.

-His thin lips quivered for a moment, and then his hands began to

-tremble slightly, so that in a little while he was obliged to take

-them off the table and bury them in his pockets.

-

-He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that

-other Mr. Dering whose face he remembered so well--whose face it was

-impossible that he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet

-strangely unlike: the same in many points, and yet in others most

-different. But the moment this dark-looking stranger opened his lips,

-it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back from the grave. A

-covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he beheld a

-man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before.

-

-"Your name is Janvard, I believe?" said Mr. Dering, with a slight bow.

-

-"Pierre Janvard at your service," answered the Frenchman,

-deferentially.

-

-"You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St.

-George?"

-

-"I had that honour."

-

-"My name is Dering--Richard Dering. It is probable that you never

-heard of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from

-India. I am cousin to Mr. Kester St. George."

-

-The Frenchman bowed. "I have no recollection of having heard

-monsieur's name mentioned by my late employer."

-

-"I suppose not. But my brother's name--Lionel Dering--must be well

-known to you."

-

-Janvard could not repress a slight start So that was the relationship,

-was it?

-

-"Ah, yes," he said. "I have seen Mr. Lionel Dering many times, and

-done several little services for him at one time or another."

-

-"You were one of the chief witnesses on the trial, if I recollect

-rightly?"

-

-Janvard coughed, to gain a moment's time. The conversation was taking

-a turn that he did not approve of. "I certainly was one of the

-witnesses on the trial," he said, with an air of deprecation. "But

-monsieur will understand that it was a misfortune which I had no means

-of avoiding. I could not help seeing what I did see, and they made me

-tell all about it."

-

-"Oh, we quite understand that," said Mr. Dering. "You were not to

-blame in any way. You could not do otherwise than as you did."

-

-Janvard smiled faintly, and bowed his gratification.

-

-"My friend here, Mr. Bristow, and myself, have come down to stay a

-week or two in your charming city. The doctors tell me there is

-something the matter with my spleen, and have recommended me to drink

-the Bath waters. Hearing casually that you were the proprietor of one

-of the most comfortable hotels in the place, and looking upon you

-somewhat in the light of a connection of the family, we thought that

-we could not do better than take up our quarters with you."

-

-Again Janvard smiled and bowed his gratification. "Monsieur may depend

-upon my using my utmost endeavours to make himself and his friend as

-comfortable as possible. Pardon my presumption, but may I venture to

-ask whether Mr. St. George was quite well when monsieur saw or heard

-from him last?"

-

-"My cousin was a little queer a short time ago, but I believe him to

-be well again by this time." Mr. Dering turned to go. "We have given

-your waiter instructions as to dinner," he said.

-

-"I hope my chef will succeed in pleasing you," said Janvard., with a

-smile. "He has the reputation of being second to none in the city."

-With the same smile on his face he followed them to the door and bowed

-them out, and, still smiling, watched them till they turned the corner

-of the street. "No danger there, I think," he said to himself. "None

-whatever. Still I must keep on the watch--always on the watch. I must

-look to their dinners myself, and leave them nothing to complain of.

-But I shall be very much pleased indeed when they call for their bill:

-very much pleased to see the last of them."

-

-Said Tom to Lionel, as they were walking arm-in-arm towards the

-pump-room: "Did you notice that magnificent ring which Janvard wore on

-the third finger of his left hand?"

-

-"I could not fail to notice it. I was thinking about it at the very

-moment you spoke."

-

-"I have not seen so splendid a ruby for a long time. The setting, too,

-is rather unique."

-

-"Yes, it was the peculiar setting that caused me to recognize it

-again."

-

-"That caused you to recognize it! You don't mean to say that you have

-ever seen the ring before?"

-

-"I certainly have seen it before."

-

-"Where?"

-

-"On the finger of Percy Osmond."

-

-Tom halted suddenly and stared at Lionel as if he could hardly believe

-the evidence of his ears.

-

-"I am stating nothing but the simple truth," continued Lionel. "The

-moment I saw the ring on Janvard's finger the thought flashed through

-me that I had certainly seen it somewhere before. All the time I was

-talking to Janvard I was trying to call that somewhere to mind, but it

-did not come to me till after we had left the hotel--not, in fact,

-till a minute before you spoke about it."

-

-"Are you sure you are not mistaken? There are many ruby rings in the

-world."

-

-"I don't for one moment think that I am mistaken," answered Lionel

-deliberately. "If the ring worn by Janvard be the one I mean, it has

-three initial letters engraved inside the hoop. What particular

-letters they are I cannot now recollect. I chanced to express my

-admiration of the ring one night in the billiard-room, and Osmond took

-it off his finger in order that I might examine it. It was then I saw

-the letters, but without noticing them with sufficient particularity

-to remember them again."

-

-"I always had an idea," said Tom, "that Janvard was in some way mixed

-up with the murder, and this would seem to prove it. He must have

-stolen the ring from Osmond's room either immediately before or

-immediately after the murder."

-

-"I must see that ring," said Lionel decisively. "It must come into my

-possession, if only for a minute or two, if only while I ascertain

-whether the initials are really there."

-

-"I don't think that there will be much difficulty about that," said

-Tom. "The fellow has no suspicion as to whom you really are, or as to

-the object of our visit to Bath. To admire the ring is the first step:

-to ask to look at it the second."

-

-A quarter of an hour later Lionel gripped Tom suddenly by the arm.

-"Bristow," he whispered, "I have just remembered something. Osmond had

-that ruby ring on his finger the night before he was murdered! I have

-a distinct recollection of seeing it on his hand when we were playing

-that last game of billiards together."

-

-"If this ring," said Tom, "prove to be the one you believe it to be,

-the finding of it will be another and a most important link in the

-chain of evidence."

-

-"Yes--almost, if not quite, the last one that we shall need," said

-Lionel.

-

-At dinner that evening Janvard in person took in the wine. The eyes of

-both Lionel and Tom fixed themselves instinctively on his left hand.

-The ring was no longer there.

-

-"Can he suspect anything?" asked Lionel of Tom, as soon as they were

-alone.

-

-"I think not," answered Tom. "The fellow is evidently uneasy, and will

-continue to be so as long as you stay under his roof But the very

-openness of our proceedings, and the frank way in which we have told

-him who we are, will go far to disarm any suspicions which he might

-otherwise have entertained."

-

-Two or three days passed quietly over. Lionel drank the waters with

-regularity, and he and Tom drove out frequently in the neighbourhood

-of King Bladud's beautiful city. Janvard always gave them a look in in

-the course of dinner to see that everything was to their satisfaction;

-but he still carefully abstained from wearing the ring.

-

-By-and-by there came a certain evening when Janvard failed to put in

-his usual appearance at the dinner table. Said Tom to the man who

-waited upon them: "Where is your master this evening? Not ill, I

-hope?"

-

-"Gone to a masonic banquet, sir," answered the man.

-

-"Then he won't be home till late, I'll wager."

-

-"Not till eleven or twelve, I dare say, sir.

-

-"Gone in full fig, of course?" said Tom, laughingly.

-

-"Yes, sir," answered the man with a grin.

-

-"Diamond studs and ruby ring, and everything complete, eh?" went on

-Tom.

-

-"I don't know about diamond studs, sir," said the man, "but he

-certainly had his ring on, for I saw it on his finger myself."

-

-"Now is our time," said Tom to Lionel, as soon as the man had left the

-room. "We may not have such an opportunity again."

-

-It was close upon midnight when Pierre Janvard, alighting from a fly

-at the door of his hotel, found his two lodgers standing on the steps

-smoking a last cigar before turning in for the night. In this there

-was nothing unusual--nothing to excite suspicion.

-

-"Hallo! Janvard, is that you?" cried Tom, assuming the tone and manner

-of a man who has taken a little too much wine. "I was just wondering

-what had become of you. This is my birthday: so you must come upstairs

-with us, and drink my health in some of your own wine."

-

-"Another time, sir, I shall be most happy; but to-night----"

-

-"But me no buts," cried Tom. "I'll have no excuses--none. Come along,

-Dering, and we'll crack another bottle of Janvard's Madeira. We'll

-poison mine host with his own tipple."

-

-He seized Janvard by the arm, and dragged him upstairs, trolling out

-the last popular air as he did so. Lionel followed leisurely.

-

-"You're a good sort, Janvard--a deuced good sort!" said Tom.

-

-"Monsieur is very kind," said Janvard, with a smile and a shrug; and

-then in obedience to a wave from Tom's hand, he sat down at table. Tom

-now began to fumble with a bottle and a corkscrew.

-

-"Allow me, monsieur," said Janvard, politely, as he relieved Tom of

-the articles in question, and proceeded to open the bottle with the

-ease of long practice.

-

-"That's a sweet thing in rings you've got on your finger," said Tom,

-admiringly.

-

-"Yes, it is rather a fine stone," said Janvard, dryly.

-

-"May I be allowed to examine it?" asked Tom, as he poured out the wine

-with a hand that was slightly unsteady.

-

-"I should be most happy to oblige monsieur," said Janvard, hastily,

-"but the ring fits me so tightly that I am afraid I should have some

-difficulty in getting it off my finger."

-

-"Hang it all, man, the least you can do is to try," cried Tom.

-

-The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little

-difficulty, and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom's fingers

-clutched it like a vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if

-to reclaim the ring; but it was too late, and he sat down without

-speaking.

-

-Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it

-towards the light. "A very pretty gem, indeed!" he said. "And worth

-something considerable in sovereigns, I should say."

-

-"Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?" asked Lionel gravely,

-as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from

-his seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom

-handed the ring across to Lionel.

-

-"A magnificent stone, indeed," said the latter, "but somewhat

-old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable

-in my eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop

-are three initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I

-read them aright they are M. K. L."

-

-"Yes, yes, monsieur," said Janvard, uneasily. "As you say, M. K. L.

-The initials of the friend who gave me the ring." He held out his

-hand, as if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to

-him, but Lionel took no notice of the action.

-

-"Three very curious initials, indeed," said Lionel, musingly. "One

-could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in mind

-of a curious coincidence--of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I

-once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and

-inside the hoop of my friend's ring were three initials. The initials

-in question were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved

-on your ring, Monsieur Janvard. Curious, is it not?"

-

-"Mille diables! I am betrayed!" cried Janvard, as he started from his

-seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him.

-The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.

-

-He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and

-looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom

-Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold,

-quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom's right

-hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard's ears were

-smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to

-the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The

-pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was

-beginning to desert him. He was trembling visibly.

-

-"Sit down, sir," said Lionel, sternly, "and refresh yourself with

-another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to

-you."

-

-The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders

-and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two

-glasses of wine rapidly one after another.

-

-"I am ready, monsieur," he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips,

-and made a ghastly effort to smile. "At your service."

-

-"What I want from you, and what you must give me," said Lionel, "is a

-full and particular account of how this ring came into your

-possession. It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the

-night he was murdered."

-

-"Ah ciel! how do you know that?"

-

-"It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it.

-But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was

-found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession."

-

-For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: "Who

-are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and

-threaten me in this way?"

-

-"I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine."

-

-"What if I refuse to answer them?"

-

-"In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than

-half an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger

-of Mr. Osmond the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought

-many a better man than you to the gallows: be careful that it does not

-land you there?"

-

-"If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the

-murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago."

-

-"What proof have you--what proof was there adduced at the trial, that

-Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or

-those of any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew

-from the first that he was innocent! If you yourself are not the

-murderer, you know the man who is."

-

-Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the

-floor. He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke,

-but it was in the same sullen tone that he had used before.

-

-"What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may

-know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?"

-

-"You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such

-promise. For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be

-the murderer of Percy Osmond."

-

-Janvard shuddered slightly. "I am not the murderer of Percy Osmond,"

-he said quietly.

-

-"Who, then, was the murderer?"

-

-"My late master--Mr. Kester St. George."

-

-There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although

-Janvard's words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel

-and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears

-with all the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there,

-Janvard was the one who seemed least concerned.

-

-Lionel was the first to speak. "This is a serious charge to make

-against a gentleman like Mr. St. George," he said.

-

-"I have made no charge against Mr. St. George," said Janvard. "It is

-you who have forced the confession from me."

-

-"You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement--to prove

-your words?"

-

-"I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you

-will not let me."

-

-"All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell me."

-

-"But, monsieur----" began Janvard, appealingly, and then he stopped.

-

-"You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use

-that power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time,

-understand me. I am no constable--no officer of the law--I am simply

-the brother of Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was

-accused and found guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I

-am, I have vowed that I will not rest night or day till I have

-discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. Such being the

-case, I tell you plainly that the best thing you can do is to make a

-full and frank confession of all that you know respecting this

-terrible business, leaving it for me afterwards to decide as to the

-use which I may find it requisite to make of your confession. Are you

-prepared to do what I ask of you?"

-

-Janvard's shoulders rose and fell again. "I cannot help myself," he

-said. "I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur."

-

-"Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh

-your memory."

-

-"Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that

-night are far too terrible to be forgotten." With a hand that still

-shook slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank

-it off at a draught. Then he continued: "On the night of the quarrel

-in the billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master,

-Mr. St. George. About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering

-it, my master put Mr. Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the

-worse for wine, with instructions to see him safely to bed. This I

-did, and then left him. As it happened, I had taken a violent fancy to

-Mr. Osmond's splendid ruby ring--the very ring monsieur has now in his

-possession--and that night I determined to make it my own. There were

-several new servants in the house, and nobody would suspect me of

-having taken it. Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and thrown it

-carelessly into his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into

-bed, afterwards putting his keys under his pillow.

-

-"When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made

-my way to Mr. Osmond's bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A

-night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in

-through the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the

-sleeper's face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with

-one hand clenched, and a frown on his face as if he were still

-threatening Mr. Dering. It was hardly the work of a minute to possess

-myself of the keys. In another minute the dressing-case was opened and

-the ring my own. Mr. Osmond's portmanteau stood invitingly open: what

-more natural than that I should desire to turn over its contents

-lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed by the simple

-curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the portmanteau,

-admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard the

-noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that

-afforded by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next

-moment I was safely hidden behind them.

-

-"The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the

-room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned

-in his sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from

-peeping out of my hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester

-St. George, standing over the sleeping man, with a look on his face

-that I had never seen there before. He stood thus for a full minute,

-and then he came round to the near side of the bed, and seemed to be

-looking for Mr. Osmond's keys. In a little while he saw them in the

-dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the other side

-of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found

-the right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond's writing-case. He opened the

-case, took out of it Mr. Osmond's cheque book, and from that he tore

-either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case

-when Mr. Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. 'Villain! what

-are you doing there?' he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But

-before he could set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his

-throat, and pinned him down almost as easily as if he had been a boy.

-What happened during the next minute I hardly know how to describe. It

-would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit of sleeping with a dagger

-under his pillow. At all events, there was one there on this

-particular night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his

-hand sought for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a

-sudden stab with it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master

-was too quick for him. There was an instant's struggle--a flash--a

-cry--and--you may guess the rest.

-

-"A murmur of horror escaped my lips. In another instant my master had

-sprung across the room and had torn away the curtains from before me.

-'You here!' he said. And for a few seconds I thought my fate would be

-the same as that of Mr. Osmond. But at last his hand dropped.

-'Janvard, you and I must be friends,' he said. 'From this night your

-interests are mine, and my interests are yours.' Then we left the room

-together. A terrible night, monsieur, as you may well believe."

-

-"You have accounted clearly enough for the murder, but you have not

-yet told us how it happened that Lionel Dering came to be accused of

-the crime."

-

-"That is the worst part of the story, sir. Whose thought it was first,

-whether Mr. St. George's or mine, to lay the murder at the door of Mr.

-Dering, I could not now tell you. It was a thought that seemed to come

-into the heads of both of us at the same moment. As monsieur knows, my

-master had no cause to love his cousin. He had every reason to hate

-him. Mr. Dering had got all the estates and property that ought to

-have been Mr. St. George's. But if Mr. Dering were to die without

-children, the estate would all come back to his cousin. Reason enough

-for wishing Mr. Dering dead.

-

-"We did not talk much about it, my master and I. We understood one

-another without many words. There were certain things to be done which

-Mr. St. George had not the nerve to do. I had the nerve to do them,

-and I did them. It was I who put Mr. Dering's stud under the bed. It

-was I who took his handkerchief, and----"

-

-"Enough!" said Lionel, with a shudder. "Surely no more devilish plot

-was ever hatched by Satan himself! You--you who sit so calmly there,

-had but to hold up your finger to save an innocent man from disgrace

-and death!"

-

-"What would monsieur have?" said Janvard, with another of his

-indescribable shrugs. "Mr. St. George was my master. I liked him, and

-I was, besides, to have a large sum of money given me to keep silence.

-Mr. Dering was a stranger to me. Voil� tout."

-

-"Janvard, you are one of the vilest wretches that ever disgraced the

-name of man!"

-

-"Monsieur s'amuse."

-

-"I shall at once proceed to put down in writing the heads of the

-confession which you have just made. You will sign the writing in

-question in the presence of Mr. Bristow as witness. You need be under

-no apprehension that any immediate harm will happen to you. As for Mr.

-St. George, I shall deal with him in my own time, and in my own way.

-There are, however, two points that I wish you to bear particularly in

-mind. Firstly, if, even by the vaguest hint, you dare to let Mr. St.

-George know that you have told me what you have told me to-night, it

-will be at your own proper peril, and you must be prepared to take the

-consequences that will immediately ensue. Secondly, you must hold

-yourself entirely at my service, and must come to me without delay

-whenever I may send for you, and wherever I may be. Do you clearly

-understand?"

-

-"Yes, sir. I understand."

-

-"For the present, then, I have done with you. Two hours later I will

-send for you again, in order that you may sign a certain paper which

-will be ready by that time. You may go."

-

-"But, monsieur----"

-

-"Not a word. Go."

-

-Tom held open the door for him, and Janvard passed out without another

-word.

-

-"At last, Dering! At last everything is made clear!" said Tom, as he

-crossed the room and laid his hand affectionately on Lionel's

-shoulder. "At last you can proclaim your innocence to the world."

-

-"Yes, my task is nearly done," said Lionel, sadly. "And I thank heaven

-in all sincerity that it is so. But the duty that I have still to

-perform is a terrible one. I almost feel as if now, at this, the

-eleventh hour, I could go no farther. I shrink in horror from the last

-and most terrible step of all. Hark! whose voice was that?"

-

-"I hear nothing save the moaning of the wind, and the low muttering of

-thunder far away among the hills."

-

-"It seemed to me that I heard the voice of Percy Osmond calling to me

-from the grave--the same voice that I have heard so often in my

-dreams."

-

-"How your hand burns, Dering! Shake off these wild fancies, I implore

-you," said Tom. "What a blinding flash was that!"

-

-"They are no wild fancies to me, but most dread realities. I tell you

-it is Osmond's voice that I hear. I know it but too well, 'Thou shalt

-avenge!' it says to me. Only three words: 'Thou shalt avenge!'"

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VI.

-TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.

-

-

-Nearly a fortnight elapsed after Tom's last interview with the Squire

-before he was again invited to Pincote, and after what had passed

-between himself and Mr. Culpepper he would not go there again without

-a special invitation. It is probable that the Squire would not have

-sent for him even at the end of a fortnight had he not grown so

-thoroughly tired of having to cope with Mrs. McDermott single-handed

-that he was ready to call in assistance from any quarter that promised

-relief. He knew that Tom would assist him if only a hint were given

-that he was wanted to do so. And Tom did relieve him; so that for the

-first time for many days the Squire really enjoyed his dinner.

-

-Notwithstanding all this, matters were so arranged between the Squire

-and Mrs. McDermott that no opportunity was given Tom of being alone

-with Jane even for five minutes. The first time this happened he

-thought that it might perhaps have arisen from mere accident. But the

-next time he went up to Pincote he saw too clearly what was intended

-to allow him to remain any longer in doubt. That night, after shaking

-hands with Tom at parting, Jane found in her palm a tiny note, the

-contents of which were three lines only. "Should you be shopping in

-Duxley either to-morrow or next day, I shall be at the toll-gate on

-the Snelsham road from twelve till one o'clock."

-

-Next day, at half-past twelve to the minute, Jane and her

-pony-carriage found themselves at the Snelsham toll-gate. There was

-Tom, sure enough, who got into the trap and took the reins. He turned

-presently into a byroad that led to nowhere in particular, and there

-earned the gratitude of Diamond by letting him lapse into a quiet walk

-which enabled him to take sly nibbles at the roadside grass as he

-crawled contentedly along.

-

-Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then Tom spoke. "Jane," he

-said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her

-Christian name, "Jane, your father has forbidden me to make love to

-you."

-

-It seemed as if Jane had nothing to say either for or against this

-statement. She only breathed a little more quickly, and a lovelier

-colour flushed her cheeks. But just then Diamond swerved towards a

-tempting tuft of grass. The carriage gave a slight jerk, and Tom

-fancied--but it might be nothing more than fancy--that, instinctively,

-Jane drew a little closer to him. And when Diamond had been punished

-by the slightest possible flick with the whip between his ears, and

-was again jogging peacefully on, Jane did not get farther away again,

-being, perhaps, still slightly nervous; and when Tom looked down there

-was a little gloved hand resting, light as a feather, on his arm. It

-was impossible to resist the temptation. Dispensing with the whip for

-a moment he lifted the little hand tenderly to his lips and kissed it.

-He was not repulsed.

-

-"Yes, dearest," he went on, "I am absolutely forbidden to make love to

-you. I can only imagine that your aunt has been talking to your father

-about us. Be that as it may, he has forbidden me to walk out with you,

-or even to see you alone. The reason why I asked you to meet me to-day

-was to tell you of these things."

-

-Still Jane kept silence. Only from the little hand, which had somehow

-found its way back on to his arm, there came the faintest possible

-pressure, hardly heavy enough to have crushed a butterfly.

-

-"I told him that I loved you," resumed Tom, "and he could not say that

-it was a crime to do so. But when I told him that I had never made

-love to you, or asked you to marry me, he seemed inclined to doubt my

-veracity. However, I set his mind at rest by giving him my word of

-honour that, even supposing you were willing to have me--a point

-respecting which I had very strong doubts indeed--I would not take

-you for my wife without first obtaining his full consent to do so."

-

-Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom's tone that his

-thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one

-to steal a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace

-into a still slower one, till at last he came to a dead stand.

-Admonished by a crack of the whip half a yard above his head that Tom

-was still wide awake, he put on a tremendous spurt--for him--which, as

-they were going down hill at the time, was not difficult. But no

-sooner had they reached a level bit of road again than the spurt toned

-itself down to the customary slow trot, with, however, an extra whisk

-of the tail now and then which seemed to imply: "Mark well what a

-fiery steed I could be if I only chose to exert myself."

-

-"All this but brings me to one point," said Tom: "that I have never

-yet told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to

-become my wife. To-day, then--here this very moment, I tell you that I

-do love you as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love;

-and here I ask you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir."

-

-"Dearest, you are not blind," he went on. "You must have seen, you

-must have known, for a long time past, that my heart--my love--were

-wholly yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has been a

-hope, a blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for

-longer than I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to

-you before, but there were certain reasons for my silence which it is

-not necessary to dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them,

-I will explain to you another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you

-feel as if you could ever learn to love me, whether you can ever care

-for me enough to become my wife. Speak to me, darling--whisper the one

-little word I burn to hear. Lift your eyes to mine, and let me read

-there that which will make me happy for life."

-

-Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone

-with the trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no

-one to overhear them save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be

-not listening a bit. For the second time he came to a stand-still, and

-this time his artfulness remained unreproved and unnoticed.

-

-Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried

-to see into their depths but could not. "You promised papa that you

-would not take me from him without his consent," she said, speaking in

-little more than a whisper. "That consent you will never obtain."

-

-"That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first."

-

-He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her

-ears. She looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their

-eyes met.

-

-"You don't know papa as well as I do--how obstinate he is--how full of

-whims and crotchets. No--no; I feel sure that he will never consent."

-

-"And I feel equally sure that he will. I have no fear on that

-score--none. But I will put the question to you in another way, in the

-short business-like way that comes most naturally to a man like me.

-Jane, dearest, if I can persuade your father to give you to me, will

-you be so given? Will you come to me and be my own--my wife--for

-ever?"

-

-Still no answer. Only imperceptibly she crept a little closer to his

-side--a very little. He took that for his answer. First one arm went

-round her and then the other. He drew her to his heart, he drew her to

-his lips; he kissed her and called her his own. And she? Well, painful

-though it be to write it, she never reproved him in the least, but

-seemed content to sit there with her head resting on his shoulder, and

-to suffer Love's sweet punishment of kisses in silence.

-

-It is on record that Diamond was the first to move.

-

-While standing there he had fallen into a snooze, and had dreamt that

-another pony had been put into his particular stall and was at that

-moment engaged in munching his particular truss of hay. Overcome by

-his feelings, he turned deliberately round, and started for home at a

-gentle trot. Thus disturbed, Tom and Jane came back to sublunary

-matters with a laugh, and a little confusion on Jane's part. Tom drove

-her back as far as the toll-gate and then shook hands and left her.

-Jane reached home as one in a blissful dream.

-

-Three days later Tom received a note in the Squire's own crabbed

-hand-writing, asking him to go up to Pincote as early as possible. He

-was evidently wanted for something out of the ordinary way. Wondering

-a little, he went. The Squire received him in high good humour and was

-not long in letting him know why he had sent for him.

-

-"I have had some fellows here from the railway company," he said.

-"They want to buy Prior's Croft."

-

-Tom's eyebrows went up a little. "I thought, sir, it would prove to be

-a profitable speculation by-and-by. Did they name any price?"

-

-"No, nothing was said as to price. They simply wanted to know whether

-I was willing to sell it."

-

-"And you told them that you were?"

-

-"I told them that I would take time to think about it. I didn't want

-to seem too eager, you know."

-

-"That's right, sir. Play with them a little before you finally hook

-them."

-

-"From what they said they want to build a station on the Croft."

-

-"Yes, a new passenger station, with plenty of siding accommodation."

-

-"Ah! you know something about it, do you?"

-

-"I know this much, sir, that the proposal of the new company to run a

-fresh line into Duxley has put the old company on their mettle. In

-place of the dirty ram-shackle station with which we have all had to

-be content for so many years, they are going to give us a new station,

-handsome and commodious; and Prior's Croft is the place named as the

-most probable site for the new terminus."

-

-"Hang me, if I don't believe you knew something of this all along!"

-said the Squire. "If not, how could you have raised that heavy

-mortgage for me?"

-

-There was a twinkle in Tom's eyes but he said nothing. Mr. Culpepper

-might have been still further surprised had he known that the six

-thousand pounds was Tom's own money, and that, although the mortgage

-was made out in another name, it was to Tom alone that he was

-indebted.

-

-"Have you made up your mind as to the price you intend to ask, sir?"

-

-"No, not yet. In fact, it was partly to consult you on that point that

-I sent for you."

-

-"Somewhere about nine thousand pounds, sir, I should think, would be a

-fair price."

-

-The Squire shook his head. "They will never give anything like so much

-as that."

-

-"I think they will, sir, if the affair is judiciously managed. How can

-they refuse in the face of a mortgage for six thousand pounds?"

-

-"There's something in that, certainly."

-

-"Then there are the villas--yet unbuilt it is true--but the plans of

-which are already drawn, and the foundations of some of which are

-already laid. You will require to be liberally remunerated for your

-disappointment and outlay in respect of them."

-

-"I see it all now. Splendid idea that of the villas."

-

-"Considering the matter in all its bearings, nine thousand pounds may

-be regarded as a very moderate sum."

-

-"I won't ask a penny less."

-

-"With it you will be able to clear off both the mortgage and the loan

-of two thousand, and will then have a thousand left for your expenses

-in connection with the villas."

-

-The Squire rubbed his hands. "I wish all my speculations had turned

-out as successful as this one," he said. "This one I owe to you,

-Bristow. You have done me a service that I can never forget."

-

-Tom rose to go. "Mrs. McDermott quite well, sir?" he said, with the

-most innocent air in the world.

-

-"If the way she eats and drinks is anything to go by, she was never

-better in her life. But if you take her own account, she's never

-well--a confirmed invalid she calls herself. I've no patience with the

-woman, though she is my sister. A day's hard scrubbing at the wash-tub

-every week would do her a world of good. If she would only pack up her

-trunks and go, how thankful I should be!"

-

-"If you wish her to shorten her visit at Pincote, I think you might

-easily persuade her to do so."

-

-"I'd give something to find out how. No, no, Bristow, you may depend

-that she's a fixture here for three or four months to come. She

-knows--no woman alive better--when she's in comfortable quarters."

-

-"If I had your sanction to do so, sir, I think that I could induce her

-to hasten her departure from Pincote."

-

-The Squire rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

-

-"You are a queer fellow, Bristow," he said, "and you have done some

-strange things, but to induce my sister to leave Pincote before she's

-ready to go will cap all that you've done yet."

-

-"I cannot of course induce her to leave Pincote till she is willing to

-go, but after a little quiet talk with me, it is possible that she may

-be willing, and even anxious, to get away as quickly as possible."

-

-The Squire shook his head. "You don't know Fanny McDermott as well as

-I do," he said.

-

-"Have I your permission to try the experiment?"

-

-"You have--and my devoutest wishes for your success. Only you must not

-compromise me in any way in the matter."

-

-"You may safely trust me not to do that. But you must give me an

-invitation to come and stay with you at Pincote for a week."

-

-"With all my heart."

-

-"I shall devote myself very assiduously to Mrs. McDermott, so that you

-must not be surprised if we seem to be very great friends in the

-course of a couple of days."

-

-"Do as you like, boy. I'll take no notice. But she's an old soldier,

-is Fan, and if for a single moment she suspects what you are after,

-she'll nail her colours to the mast, defy us all, and stop here for

-six months longer."

-

-"It is, of course, quite possible that I may fail," said Tom, "but

-somehow I hardly think that I shall."

-

-"We'll have a glass of sherry together and drink to your success.

-By-the-by, have you contrived yet to purge your brain of that

-lovesick tomfoolery?"

-

-"If, sir, you intend that phrase to apply to my feelings with regard

-to Miss Culpepper, I can only say that they are totally unchanged."

-

-"What an idiot you are in some things, Bristow!" said the Squire,

-crustily. "Remember this--I'll have no lovemaking here next week."

-

-"You need have no fear on that score, sir."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VII.

-EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.

-

-

-Tom and his portmanteau reached Pincote together a day or two after

-his last conversation with the Squire. Mrs. McDermott understood that

-Tom had been invited to spend a week there in order to assist her

-brother with his books and farm accounts. It seemed to her a very

-injudicious thing to do, but she did not say much about it. In truth,

-she was rather pleased than otherwise to have Tom there. It was

-dreadfully monotonous to have to spend one evening after another with

-no company save that of her brother and Jane. She was tired of her

-audience, and her audience were tired of her. Mr. Bristow, as she knew

-already, could talk well, was lively company, and, above all things;

-was an excellent listener. She had done her duty by her brother in

-warning him of what was going on between Mr. Bristow and her niece;

-if, after that, the Squire chose to let the two young people come

-together, it was not her place to dispute his right to do so.

-

-Tom was very attentive to her at dinner that day. Of Jane he took no

-notice beyond what the occasion absolutely demanded. Mrs. McDermott

-was agreeably surprised. "He has come to his senses at last, as I

-thought he would," she said to herself. "Grown tired of Jane's

-society, and no wonder. There's nothing in her."

-

-As soon as the cloth was removed, Jane excused herself on the score of

-a headache, and left the room. The Squire got into an easy-chair and

-settled himself down for a post-prandial nap. Tom moved his chair a

-little nearer that of the widow.

-

-"I have grieved to see you looking so far from well, Mrs. McDermott,"

-he said, as he poured himself out another glass of wine. "My father

-was a doctor, and I suppose I caught the habit from him of reading the

-signs of health or sickness in people's faces."

-

-Mrs. McDermott was visibly discomposed. She was a great coward with

-regard to her health, and Tom knew it.

-

-"Yes," she said, "I have not been well for some time past. But I was

-not aware that the traces of my indisposition were so plainly visible

-to others."

-

-"They are visible to me because, as I tell you, I am half a doctor

-both by birth and bringing up. You seem to me, Mrs. McDermott, pardon

-me for saying so--to have been fading--to have been going backward, as

-it were, almost from the day of your arrival at Pincote."

-

-Mrs. McDermott coughed and moved uneasily on her chair. "I have been a

-confirmed invalid for years," she said, querulously, "and yet no one

-will believe me when, I tell them so."

-

-"I can very readily believe it," said Tom, gravely. Then he lapsed

-into an ominous silence.

-

-"I--I did not know that I was looking any worse now than when I first

-came to Pincote," she said at last.

-

-"You seem to me to be much older-looking, much more careworn, with

-lines making their appearance round your eyes and mouth, such as I

-never noticed before. So, at least, it strikes me, but I may be, and I

-dare say I am, quite wrong."

-

-The widow seemed at a loss what to say. Tom's words had evidently

-rendered her very uneasy. "Then what would you advise me to do?" she

-said, after a time. "If you can detect the disease so readily, you

-should have no difficulty in specifying the remedy."

-

-"Ah, now I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth," said Tom, with

-a smile. "I am little more than a theorizer, you know; but I should

-have no hesitation in saying that your disorder is connected with the

-mind."

-

-"Gracious me, Mr. Bristow!"

-

-"Yes, Mrs. McDermott, my opinion is that you are suffering from an

-undue development of brain power."

-

-The widow looked puzzled. "I was always considered rather

-intellectual," she said, with a glance at her brother. But the Squire

-still slept.

-

-"You are very intellectual, madam; and that is just where the evil

-lies."

-

-"Excuse me, but I fail to follow you."

-

-"You are gifted with a very large and a very powerful brain," said

-Tom, with the utmost gravity. The Squire snorted suddenly in his

-sleep. The widow held up a warning finger. There was silence in the

-room till the Squire's gentle long-drawn snores announced that he was

-again happily fast asleep.

-

-"Very few of us are so specially gifted," resumed Tom. "But every

-special gift necessitates a special obligation in return. You, with

-your massive brain, must find that brain plenty of work to do--a

-sufficiency of congenial employment--otherwise it will inevitably turn

-upon itself, grow morbid and hypochondriacal, and slowly but surely

-deteriorate, till it ends by becoming--what I hardly like to say."

-

-"Really, Mr. Bristow, this conversation is to me most interesting,"

-said the widow. "Your views are thoroughly original, but, at the same

-time, I feel that they are perfectly correct."

-

-"The sphere of your intellectual activity is far too narrow and

-confined," resumed Tom; "your brain has not sufficient pabulum to keep

-it in a state of healthy activity. You want to mix more with the

-world--to mix more with clever people like yourself. It was never

-intended by nature that you should lose yourself among the narrow

-coteries of provincial life: the metropolis claims you: the world at

-large claims you. A conversationalist so brilliant, so incisive, with

-such an exhaustless fund of new ideas, can only hope to find her

-equals among the best circles of London or Parisian society."

-

-"How thoroughly you appreciate me, Mr. Bristow!" said the widow, all

-in a flutter of gratified vanity, as she edged her chair still closer

-to Tom. "It is as you say. I feel that I am lost here--that I am

-altogether out of my element. I stay here more as a matter of duty--of

-principle--than of anything else. Not that it is any gratification to

-me, as you may well imagine, to be buried alive in this dull hole. But

-my brother is getting old and infirm--breaking fast, I'm afraid, poor

-man," here the Squire gave a louder snore than common; "while Jane is

-little more than a foolish girl. They both need the guidance of a kind

-but firm hand. The interests of both demand a clear brain to look

-after them."

-

-"My dear madam, I agree with you in toto. Your Spartan views with

-regard to the duties of everyday life are mine exactly. But we must

-not forget that we have still another duty--that of carefully

-preserving our health, especially when our lives are invaluable to the

-epoch in which we live. You, my dear madam, are killing yourself by

-inches."

-

-"Oh, Mr. Bristow, not quite so bad as that, I hope!"

-

-"What I say, I say advisedly. I think that, without difficulty, I can

-specify a few symptoms of the cerebral disorder to which you are a

-victim. You will bear me out if what I say is correct."

-

-"Yes, yes; please go on."

-

-"You are a sufferer from sleeplessness to a certain extent. The body

-would fain rest, being tired and worn out, but the active brain will

-not allow it to do so. Am I right, Mrs. McDermott?"

-

-"I cannot dispute the accuracy of what you say."

-

-"Your nature being large and eminently sympathetic, but not finding

-sufficient vent for itself in the narrow circle to which it is

-condemned, busies itself, for lack of other aliment, with the concerns

-and daily doings of those around it, giving them the benefit of its

-vast experience and intuitive good sense; but being met sometimes with

-coldness instead of sympathy, it collapses, falls back upon itself,

-and becomes morbid for want of proper intellectual companionship. May

-I hope that you follow me?"

-

-"Yes--yes, perfectly," said the widow, but looking somewhat mystified,

-notwithstanding.

-

-"The brain thus thrown back upon itself engenders an irritability of

-the nerves, which is altogether abnormal. Fits of peevishness, of

-ill-temper, of causeless fault-finding, gradually supervene, till at

-length all natural amiability of disposition vanishes entirely, and

-there is nothing left but a wretched hypochondriac, a misery to

-himself and all around him."

-

-"Gracious me! Mr. Bristow, what a picture! But I hope you do not put

-me down as a misery to myself and all around me."

-

-"Far from it--very far from it--my dear Mrs.  McDermott. You are only

-in the premonitory stage at present. Let us hope that in your case,

-the later stages will not follow."

-

-"I hope not, with all my heart."

-

-"Of course, you have not yet been troubled with hearing voices?"

-

-"Hearing voices! Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bristow?"

-

-"One of the worst symptoms of the cerebral disorder, from the earlier

-stages of which you are now suffering, is that the patient hears

-voices--or fancies that he hears them, which is pretty much the same

-thing. Sometimes they are strange voices; sometimes they are the

-voices of relatives, or friends, no longer among the living. In short,

-to state the case as briefly as possible, the patient is haunted."

-

-"I declare, Mr. Bristow, that you quite frighten me!"

-

-"But there are no such symptoms as these about you at present, Mrs.

-McDermott. The moment you have the least experience of them--should

-such a misfortune ever overtake you--then take my advice, and seek the

-only remedy that can be of any real benefit to you."

-

-"And what may that be?"

-

-"Immediate change of scene--a change total and complete. Go abroad. Go

-to Italy; go to Egypt; go to Africa;--in short to any place where the

-change is a radical one. But I hope that in your case, such a

-necessity will never arise."

-

-"All this is most deeply interesting to me, Mr. Bristow, but at the

-same time it makes me very nervous. The very thought of being haunted

-in the way you mention is enough to keep me from sleeping for a week."

-

-At this moment Jane came into the room, and a few minutes later the

-Squire awoke. Tom had said all that he wanted to say, and he gave Mrs.

-McDermott no further opportunity for private conversation with him.

-

-Next day, too, Tom carefully avoided the widow. His object was to

-afford her ample time to think over what he had said. That day the

-vicar and his wife dined at Pincote, and Tom became immersed in local

-politics with the Squire and the Parson. Mrs. McDermott was anxious

-and uneasy. That evening she talked less than she had ever been known

-to do before.

-

-The rule at Pincote was to keep early hours. It was not much past ten

-o'clock when Mrs. McDermott left the drawing-room, and having obtained

-her bed candle, set out on her journey to her own room. Half way up

-the staircase stood Mr. Bristow. The night being warm and balmy for

-the time of year, the staircase window was still half open, and Tom

-stood there, gazing out into the moonlit garden. Mrs. McDermott

-stopped, and said a few gracious words to him. She would have liked to

-resume the conversation of the previous evening, but that was

-evidently neither the time nor the place to do so; so she said

-good-night, shook hands, and went on her way, leaving Tom still

-standing by the window. Higher up, close to the head of the stairs,

-stood a very large, old-fashioned case clock. As she was passing it

-Mrs. McDermott held up her candle to see the time. It was nearly

-twenty minutes past ten. But at the very moment of her noting this

-fact, there came three distinct taps from the inside of the case,

-and next instant from the same place came the sound of a hollow,

-ghost-like voice. "Fanny--Fanny--list! I want to speak to you," said

-the voice, in slow, solemn tones. But Mrs. McDermott did not wait to

-hear more. She screamed, dropped her candle, and staggered back

-against the opposite wall. Tom was by her side in a moment.

-

-"My dear Mrs. McDermott, whatever is the matter?" he said.

-

-"The voice! did you not hear the voice!" she gasped.

-

-"What voice? whose voice?" said Tom, with an arm round her waist.

-

-"A voice which spoke to me out of the clock!" she said, with a shiver.

-

-"Out of the clock?" said Tom. "We can soon see whether anybody's

-hidden there." Speaking thus, he withdrew his arm, and flung open the

-door of the clock. Enough light came from the lamp on the stairs to

-show that the old case was empty of everything, save the weights,

-chains, and pendulum of the clock.

-

-"Wherever else the voice may have come from, it is plain that it

-couldn't come from here," said Tom, as he proceeded to relight the

-widow's candle.

-

-"It came from there, I'm quite certain. There were three distinct raps

-from the inside as well."

-

-"Is it not possible that it may have been a mere hallucination on your

-part? You have not been well, you know, for some time past."

-

-"Whatever it may have been, it was very terrible," said Mrs.

-McDermott, drawing her skirts round her with a shudder. "I have not

-forgotten what you told me yesterday."

-

-"Allow me to accompany you as far as your room door," said Tom.

-

-"Thanks. I shall feel obliged by your doing so. You will say nothing

-of all this downstairs?"

-

-"I should not think of doing so."

-

-The following day Mr. Bristow was not at luncheon. There were one or

-two inquiries, but no one seemed to know exactly what had become of

-him. It was Mrs. McDermott's usual practice to retire to the library

-for an hour after luncheon--which room she generally had all to

-herself at such times--for the ostensible purpose of reading the

-newspapers, but, it may be, quite as much for the sake of a quiet

-sleep in the huge leathern chair that stood by the library fire. On

-going there as usual after luncheon to-day, what was the widow's

-surprise to find Mr. Bristow sitting there fast asleep, with the

-"Times" at his feet where it had dropped from his relaxed fingers.

-

-She stepped up to him on tiptoe and looked closely at him. "Rather

-nice-looking," she said to herself. "Shall I disturb him, or not?"

-

-Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on

-the table a little distance away. The temptation was too much for her.

-Still on tiptoe, she crossed to the table in order to examine them.

-But hardly had she stooped over the table when the same hollow voice

-that had sounded in her ears the previous night spoke to her again,

-and froze her to the spot where she was standing. "Fanny McDermott,

-you must get away from this house," said the voice. "If you stop here

-you will be a dead woman in three months!"

-

- She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her

-trembling lips did at last falter out the words: "Who are you?"

-

-The answer came. "I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time."

-

-Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to

-look round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep.

-She managed to reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence

-made the best of her way to her own room.

-

-Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one

-broad smile. "She's going at last," he said. "Off to-morrow like a

-shot. Just told me."

-

-"Then, with your permission, I won't dine with you this evening. I

-don't want to see her again."

-

-"But how on earth have you managed it?" asked the Squire.

-

-"By means of a little simple ventriloquism--nothing more. But I see

-her coming this way. I'm off." And off he went, leaving the Squire

-staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VIII.

-DIRTY JACK.

-

-

-There was one thing that puzzled both General St. George and Lionel

-Dering, and that was the persistent way in which Kester St. George

-stayed on at Park Newton. It had, in the first place, been a matter of

-some difficulty to get him to Park Newton at all, and for some time

-after his arrival it had been evident to all concerned that he had

-made up his mind that his stay there should be as brief as possible.

-But after that never-to-be-forgotten night when the noise of ghostly

-footsteps was heard in the nailed-up room--a circumstance which both

-his uncle and his cousin had made up their minds would drive him from

-the house for ever--he ceased to talk much about going away. Week

-passed after week and still he stayed on. Nor could his uncle, had he

-been desirous of doing so, which he certainly was not, have hinted to

-him, even in the most delicate possible way, that his room would be

-more welcome than his company, after the pressure which he had put

-upon him only a short time previously to induce him to remain.

-

-Nothing could have suited Lionel's plans better than that his cousin

-should continue to live on at Park Newton, but he was certainly

-puzzled to know what his reason could be for so doing; and, in such a

-case, to be puzzled was, to a certain extent, to be disquieted.

-

-But much as he would have liked to do so, Kester had a very good

-reason for not leaving Park Newton at present. He was, in fact, afraid

-to do so. After the affair of the footsteps he had decided that it

-would not be advisable to go away for a little while. It would never

-do for people to say that he had been driven away by the ghost of

-Percy Osmond. It was while thus lingering on from day to day that he

-had ridden over to see Mother Mim. One result of his interview was

-that he felt how utterly unsafe it would be for him to quit the

-neighbourhood till she was safely dead and buried. She might send for

-him at any moment, she might have other things to speak to him about

-which it behoved him to hear. She might change her mind at the last

-moment, and decide to tell to some other person what she had already

-told him; and when she should die, it would doubtless be to him that

-application would be made to bury her. All things considered, it was

-certainly unadvisable that he should leave Park Newton yet awhile.

-

-Day after day he waited with smothered impatience for some further

-tidings of Mother Mim. But day after day he waited in vain. Most men,

-under such circumstances, would have gone to the place and have made

-personal inquiries for themselves. This was precisely what Kester St.

-George told himself that he ought to do, but for all that he did not

-do it. He shrank, with a repugnance which he could not overcome, from

-the thought of any further contact with either Mother Mim or her

-surroundings. His tastes, if not refined, were fastidious, and a

-shudder of disgust ran through him as often as he remembered that if

-what Mother Mim had said were true--and there was something that rang

-terribly like truth in her words--then was she--that wretched

-creature--his mother, and the filthy hut in which she lay dying

-his sole home and heritage. He knew that for the sake of his own

-interest--of his own safety--he ought to go and see again this woman

-who called herself his mother, but three weeks had come and gone

-before he could screw his courage up to the pitch requisite to induce

-him to do so.

-

-But before this came about, Kester St. George had been left for the

-time being, with the exception of certain servants, the sole occupant

-of Park Newton. Lionel Dering had gone down to Bath to seek an

-interview with Pierre Janvard, with what result has been already seen.

-Two days after Lionel's departure, General St. George was called away

-by the sudden illness of an old Indian friend to whom he was most

-warmly attached. He left home expecting to be back in four or five

-days at the latest; whereas, as it fell out, he did not reach home

-again for several weeks.

-

-It was one day when thus left alone, and when the solitude was

-becoming utterly intolerable to him, that Kester made up his mind that

-he would no longer be a coward, but would go that very afternoon and

-see for himself whether Mother Mim were alive or dead. But even after

-he had thus determined that there should be no more delay on his part,

-he played fast and loose with himself as to whether he should go or

-not. Had there come to him any important letter or telegram demanding

-his presence fifty miles away, he would have caught at it as a

-drowning man catches at a straw. The veriest excuse would have

-sufficed for the putting off of his journey for at least one day. But

-the dull hours wore themselves away without relief or change of any

-kind for him, and when three o'clock came, having first dosed himself

-heavily with brandy, he rang the bell and ordered his horse to be

-brought round.

-

-What might not the next few hours bring to him? he asked himself as he

-rode down the avenue. They might perchance be pregnant with doom. Or

-death might already have lifted this last bitter burden from his life

-by sealing with his bony fingers the only lips that had power to do

-him harm.

-

-For nearly a fortnight past the weather had been remarkably mild,

-balmy, and open for the time of year. Everybody said how easily old

-winter was dying. But during the previous night there had come a

-bitter change. The wind had suddenly veered round to the north-east,

-and was still blowing steadily from that quarter. Steadily and

-bitterly it blew, chilling the hearts of man and beast with its icy

-breath, stopping the growth of grass and flowers, killing every

-faintest gleam of sunshine, and bringing back the reign of winter in

-its cruellest form.

-

-Heavy and lowering looked the sky, shrilly through the still bare

-branches whistled the ice-cold wind, as Kester St. George, deep in

-thought, rode slowly through the park. He buttoned his coat more

-closely around him, and pulled his hat more firmly over his brows as

-he turned out of the lodge gates, and setting his face full to the

-wind, urged his horse into a gallop, and was quickly lost to view down

-the winding road.

-

-It would not have taken him long to reach the edge of Burley Moor had

-not his horse suddenly fallen lame. For the last two miles of the

-distance his pace was reduced to a slow walk. This so annoyed Kester

-that he decided to leave his horse at a roadside tavern in the last

-hamlet he had to pass through, and to traverse the remainder of the

-distance on foot. A short three miles across the moor would take him

-to Mother Mim's cottage.

-

-To a man such as Kester a three miles' walk was a rather formidable

-undertaking--or, at least, it was an uncommon one. But there was no

-avoiding it on the present occasion, unless he gave up the object of

-his journey and went back home. But he could by no means bear the

-thought of doing that. In proportion with the hesitation and

-reluctance which he had previously shown, to ascertain either the best

-or the worst of the affair, was the anxiety which now possessed him to

-reach his journey's end. His imagination pictured all kinds of

-possible and impossible evils as likely to accrue to him, and he

-cursed himself again and again for his negligence in not making the

-journey long ago.

-

-Very bleak and cold was that walk across the desolate, lonely moor,

-but Kester St. George, buried in his own thoughts, hardly felt or

-heeded anything of it. All the sky was clouded and overcast, but far

-away to the north a still darker bank of cloud was creeping slowly up

-from the horizon.

-

-The wind blew in hollow fitful gusts. Any one learned in such lore

-would have said that a change of weather was imminent.

-

-When about half-way across the moor he halted for a moment to gather

-breath. On every side of him spread the dull treeless expanse. Nowhere

-was there another human being to be seen. He was utterly alone. "If a

-man crossing here were suddenly stricken with death," he muttered to

-himself, "what a place this would be to die in! His body might lie

-here for days--for weeks even--before it was found."

-

-At length Mother Mim's cottage was reached. Everything about it looked

-precisely the same as when he had seen it last. It seemed only like

-a few hours since he had left it. There, too, crouched on the low

-wall outside, with her skirt drawn over her head, was Mother Mim's

-grand-daughter, the girl with the black glittering eyes, looking as if

-she had never stirred from the spot since he was last there. She made

-no movement or sign of recognition when he walked up to her, but her

-eyes were full of a cold keen criticism of him, far beyond her age and

-appearance.

-

-"How is your grandmother?" said Kester, abruptly. He did not like

-being stared at as she stared at him.

-

-"She's dead."

-

-"Dead!" It was no more than he expected to hear, and yet he could not

-hear it altogether unmoved.

-

-"Ay, as dead as a door nail. And a good job too. It was time she

-went."

-

-"How long has she been dead?" asked Kester, ignoring the latter part

-of the girl's speech.

-

-"Just half an hour."

-

-Another surprise for Kester. He had expected to hear that she had been

-dead several days--a week perhaps. But only half an hour!

-

-"Who was with her when she died?" he asked, after a minute's pause.

-

-"Me and Dirty Jack."

-

-"Dirty Jack! who is he?"

-

-"Why Dirty Jack. Everybody knows him. He lives in Duxley, and has a

-wooden leg, and does writings for folk."

-

-"Does writings for folk!" A shiver ran through Kester. "And has he

-been doing anything for your grandmother?"

-

-"That he has. A lot."

-

-"A lot--about what?"

-

-"About you."

-

-"About me? Why about me?"

-

-"Oh, you never came near. Nobody never came near. Granny got tired of

-it. 'I'll have my revenge,' said she. So she sent for Dirty Jack, and

-he took it all down in writing."

-

-"Took it all down in writing about me?" She nodded her head in the

-affirmative. "If you know so much, no doubt you know what it was that

-he took down--eh?"

-

-"Oh, I know right enough."

-

-"Why not tell me?"

-

-"I know all about it, but I ain't a-going to split."

-

-Further persuasion on Kester's part had no other effect than to induce

-the girl to assert in still more emphatic terms that "she wasn't

-a-going to split."

-

-Evidently nothing more was to be got from her. But she had said enough

-already to confirm his worst fears. Mother Mim, out of spite for the

-neglect with which he had treated her, had made a confession at the

-last moment, similar in purport to what she had told him when last

-there. Such a confession--if not absolutely dangerous to him--she

-having assured him that none of the witnesses were now living--might

-be made a source of infinite annoyance to him. Such a story, once made

-public, might bring forth witnesses and evidence from twenty hitherto

-unsuspected quarters, and fetter him round, link by link, with a chain

-of evidence from which he might find it impossible to extricate

-himself. At every sacrifice, Mother Mim's confession must be destroyed

-or suppressed. Such were some of the thoughts that passed through

-Kester's mind as he stood there biting his nails. Again and again he

-cursed himself in that he had allowed any such confession to emanate

-from the dead woman, whose silence a little extra kindness on his part

-would have effectually secured.

-

-"And where is this Dirty Jack, as you call him?" he said, at last.

-

-"He's in there"--indicating the hut with a jerk of her head--"fast

-asleep."

-

-"Fast asleep in the same room with your grandmother?"

-

-"Why not? He had a bottle of whiskey with him which he kept sucking

-at. At last he got half screwy, and when all was over he said he would

-have a snooze by the fire and pull himself together a bit before going

-home."

-

-Kester said no more, but going up to the hut, opened the door and went

-in. On the pallet at the farther end lay the dead woman, her body

-faintly outlined through the sheet that had been drawn over her. A

-clear fire was burning in the broken grate, and close to it, on the

-only chair in the place, sat a man fast asleep. His hands were grimy,

-his linen was yellow, his hair was frowsy. He was a big bulky man,

-with a coarse, hard face, and was dressed in faded threadbare black.

-He had a wooden leg, which just now was thrust out towards the fire,

-and seemed as if it were basking in the comfortable blaze.

-

-On the chimney-piece was an empty spirit-bottle, and in a corner near

-at hand were deposited a broad-brimmed hat, greasy and much the worse

-for wear, and a formidable looking walking-stick.

-

-Such was the vision of loveliness that met the gaze of Kester St.

-George as he paused for a moment or two just inside the cottage door.

-Then he coughed and advanced a step or two. As he did so the man

-suddenly opened his eyes, got up quickly but awkwardly out of his

-chair, and laid his hand on something that was hidden in an inner

-pocket of his coat. "No, you don't!" he cried, with a wave of his

-hand. "No, you don't! None of your hanky-panky tricks here. They won't

-go down with Jack Skeggs, so you needn't try 'em on!"

-

-Kester stared at him in unconcealed disgust. It was evident that he

-was still under the partial influence of what he had been drinking.

-

-"Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?" asked Kester,

-sternly.

-

-"I am John Skeggs, Esquire, attorney-at-law, at your service. And who

-may you be, when you're at home? But there--I know who you are well

-enough. You are Mr. Kester St. George, of Park Newton. I have seen you

-before. I saw you on the day of the murder trial. You were one of the

-witnesses, and white enough you looked. Anybody who had a good look at

-you in the box that day would never be likely to forget your face

-again."

-

-Kester turned aside for a moment to hide the sudden nervous twitching

-of his lips.

-

-"I'm sorry the whiskey is done," said Mr. Skeggs with a regretful look

-at the empty bottle. "I should like you and I to have had a drain

-together. I suppose you don't do anything in this line?" From one

-pocket he produced an old clasp knife, and from the other a cake of

-leaf tobacco. Then he cut himself a plug and put it into his mouth.

-"When one friend fails me, then I fall back upon another," he said.

-"When I can't get whiskey I must have tobacco."

-

-There was no better known character in Duxley than Mr. Skeggs. "Dirty

-Jack," or "Drunken Jack," were the sobriquets by which he was

-generally known, and neither of those terms was applied to him without

-good and sufficient reason. There could be no doubt as to the man's

-shrewdness, ability, and knowledge of common law. He was a great

-favourite among the lower and the very lowest classes of Duxley

-society, who in their legal difficulties never thought of employing

-any other lawyer than Skeggs, the universal belief being that if

-anybody could pull them through, either by hook or crook, Dirty Jack

-was that man. And it is quite possible that Mr. Skeggs's clients were

-not far wrong in their belief.

-

-"No good stopping here any longer," said Skeggs, when he had put back

-his knife and tobacco into his pocket.

-

-"No, I suppose not," said Kester.

-

-"I suppose you will see that everything is done right and proper by

-our poor dear departed?"

-

-"Yes, I suppose there is no one to look to but me. She was my

-foster-mother, and very kind to me when I was a lad."

-

-"His foster-mother! Listen to that! His foster-mother! ha! ha!"

-sniggered Dirty Jack. Then laying a finger on one side his nose, and

-leering up at Kester with horrible familiarity, he added: "We know all

-about that little affair, Mr. St. George, and a very pretty romance it

-is."

-

-"Look you here, Mr. Skeggs, or whatever your dirty name may be," said

-Kester, sternly, "I'd advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head

-or it may be worse for you. I've thrashed bigger men than you in my

-time. Be careful, or I shall thrash you."

-

-"I like your pluck, on my soul I do!" said Skeggs, heartily. "If

-you're not genuine silver--and you know you ain't--you're a deuced

-good imitation of the real thing. Thoroughly well plated, that's what

-you are. Any one would take you to be a born gentleman, they would

-really. Which way are you going back?"

-

-Kester hesitated a moment. Should he quarrel with this man and set him

-at defiance, or should he not? Could he afford to quarrel with him?

-that was the question. Perhaps it would be as well to keep from doing

-so as long as possible.

-

-"I'm going to walk back across the moor as far as Sedgeley," said

-Kester.

-

-"Then I'll walk with you--though three miles is rather a big stretch

-to do with my game leg. I can get a gig from there that will take me

-home."

-

-Kester shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment. Skeggs took up his

-hat and stick, and proceeded to polish the former article with his

-sleeve.

-

-"Queer woman that," he said, with a jerk of his thumb towards the

-bed--"very queer. Hard as nails. With something heroic about her, to

-my mind--something that, under different circumstances, might have

-developed her into a remarkable woman. Well, that's the way with heaps

-of us. Circumstances are dead against us, and we are not strong enough

-to overmaster them; else should we smite the world with surprise, and

-genius would not be so scarce an article in the market as it is now."

-

-Kester stared. Was this the half-drunken blackguard who had been

-jeering at him but two minutes ago? "And yet, drunk he must be," added

-Kester to himself. "No fellow in his senses would talk such precious

-rot."

-

-"Your obedient servant, sir," said Skeggs, with a purposely

-exaggerated bow as he held open the door for Mr. St. George to pass

-out.

-

-The girl was still sitting on the wall with her skirt drawn over her

-head. Kester went up to her. "I will send some one along first thing

-to-morrow morning to see to the funeral and other matters," he said,

-"if you can manage till then."

-

-"Oh, I can manage right enough. Why not?" said the girl.

-

-"I thought that perhaps you might not care to be in the house by

-yourself all night."

-

-"Oh, I don't mind that."

-

-"Then you are not afraid?"

-

-"What's there to be frittened of? She's quiet enough now. I shall make

-up a jolly fire, and have a jolly supper, and then a jolly long sleep.

-And that's what I've not had for weeks. And I shall read the Dream

-Book. She can't keep that from me now. I know where it is. It's in the

-bed right under her. But I'll have it." She laughed and nodded her

-head, then putting a nut into her mouth she cracked it and began to

-pick out the kernel. Kester turned away.

-

-"Nell, my good girl," said Mr. Skeggs, insinuatingly, "just see

-whether there isn't such a thing as a drop of whiskey somewhere about

-the house. I've an awful pain in my chest."

-

-"There's no whiskey--not a drop--but I know where there's half a

-bottle of gin. Give me five shillings and I'll fetch it."

-

-"Five shillings for half a bottle of gin! Why, Nell, what a greedy

-young pig you must be!"

-

-"Don't have it then. Nobody axed you. I can drink it myself."

-

-"I'll give you three shillings for it. Come now."

-

-"Not a meg less than five will I take," said Nell, emphatically, as

-she cracked another nut.

-

-"Why, you young viper, have you no conscience at all?" he cried

-savagely. Then seeing that Nell took no further notice of him, he

-turned to Kester. "I find that I have no loose silver about me," he

-said. "Oblige me with the loan of a couple of half-crowns till we get

-to Sedgeley." Whenever Mr. Skeggs made a new acquaintance he always

-requested the loan of a couple of half-crowns before parting from him.

-But the half-crowns were never paid back until asked for, and asked

-for more than once.

-

-A few premonitory flakes of snow were darkening the air as Kester St.

-George and Mr. Skeggs started on their way back across Burley Moor,

-the latter with a thick comforter round his neck and the bottle of gin

-stowed carefully away in the tail pocket of his coat. The cold seemed

-more intense than ever, but the wind had fallen altogether.

-

-"We are going to have a rough night," said Skeggs as he stepped

-sturdily out. "We must contrive to get across the moor before the snow

-comes down very thick, or we shall stand a good chance of losing our

-way. Only the winter before last a pedlar and his wife were lost in

-the snow within a mile of here, and their bodies not found for a

-fortnight. This sudden change will play the devil with the young

-crops."

-

-Kester did not answer. Far different matters occupied his thoughts. In

-silence they walked on for a little while.

-

-"I suppose you could give a pretty good guess," said Skeggs at length,

-"at my reasons for asking you which way you were going to walk this

-afternoon?"

-

-"Indeed, no," said Kester with a shrug. "I have not the remotest idea,

-nor do I care to know. It was you who chose to accompany me. I did not

-thrust my company upon you."

-

-Skeggs laughed a little maliciously. "I don't think there's much good,

-Mr. Kester St. George, in you and I beating about the bush. I'm a

-plain man of business, and that reminds me,"--interrupting himself

-with a chuckle--"that when I once used those very words to a client of

-mine, he retorted by saying, 'You are more than a plain man of

-business, Mr. Skeggs, you are an ugly one.' I did my very utmost for

-that man, but he was hanged. Mais revenons. I am a plain man of

-business, and I intend to deal with this question in a business-like

-way. The simple point is: What is it worth your while to give me for

-the document I have buttoned up here?" tapping his chest with his left

-hand as he spoke.

-

-"I am at a loss to know to what document you refer," said Mr. St.

-George, coldly.

-

-"A very few words will tell you the contents of it, though, if I am

-rightly informed, you can give a pretty good guess already as to what

-they are likely to be. In this document it is asserted that you, sir,

-have no right to the name by which the world has known you for so long

-a time--that you have no right to the position you occupy, to the

-property you claim as yours. That you are, in fact, none other than

-the son of Mother Mim herself--of the woman who lies dead in yonder

-hut."

-

-Kester drew in his breath with something like a sigh. It was as he had

-feared. Mother Mim had told everything, and, of all people in the

-world, to the wretch now walking by his side. He braced his nerves for

-the coming encounter. "I have heard something before to-day of the

-rigmarole of which you speak," he said, haughtily; "but I need hardly

-tell you that the affair is nothing but a tissue of vilest lies from

-beginning to end."

-

-"I dare say it is," said Skeggs, good humouredly. "But it may be

-rather difficult for you to prove that it is so."

-

-"It will be still more difficult for you to prove that it is not so."

-

-"Oh! I am quite aware of all the difficulties both for and against--no

-man more so. You have got possession, and a hundred other points in

-your favour. Still, with what evidence I have already, and with what

-evidence  I can get elsewhere, I shall be able to make out a strong

-case--a very strong case against you in a court of justice."

-

-"Evidence elsewhere!" said Kester, disdainfully. "There is no such

-thing, unless you are clever enough to make the dead speak."

-

-"Even that has been done before now," said Skeggs quietly. "But in

-this case we have no need to go to the churchyard to collect our

-evidence. I have a living, breathing witness whom I can lay my hands

-on at a day's notice."

-

-"You lie," said Kester, emphatically.

-

-"I'll wash that down," said Skeggs, halting for a moment and

-proceeding to take a good pull at his bottle of gin. "If you so far

-forget yourself again, I shall begin to feel sure that you are not a

-St. George. What I told you was not a lie. There were four witnesses

-who had all a personal knowledge of a certain fact. Three of those

-witnesses are dead: the fourth still lives. Of the existence of this

-fourth witness Mother Mim never even hinted to you. It was her trump

-card, and she was far too cunning to let you see it."

-

-Kester walked on in silence. He felt that just then he had hardly a

-word to say. Was all that he had sacrificed so much for in other ways,

-all that he had run such tremendous risks for, to be torn from him by

-the machinations of a vile old hag, and the drunken, ribald scoundrel

-by his side? Through what strange ambushes, through what dusky

-by-paths, doth Fate oft-times overtake us! We look back along the

-broad highway we have been traversing, and seeing no black shadow

-dogging our footsteps, we go rejoicing on our way; when suddenly, from

-some near-at-hand shrub, is shot a poisoned arrow, and the sunlight

-fades from our eyes for ever.

-

-"And now, after this little skirmish," said Skeggs, "we come back to

-my first question: What can you afford to give me for the document in

-my pocket?"

-

-"Suppose I say that I will give you nothing--what then?" said Kester,

-sullenly.

-

-"Then I shall get my evidence together, work out my case on paper, and

-submit it to the heir-at-law."

-

-"And supposing the heir-at-law, acting under advice, were to decline

-having anything to do with your case, as you call it?"

-

-"He would be a fool to do that, because my case is anything but a weak

-one. I tell you this in confidence. But supposing he were to decline,

-then I should say to him: 'I am willing to conduct this case on my own

-account. If I fail, it shall not cost you a penny. If I succeed, you

-shall pay all expenses, and give me five thousand pounds.' That would

-fetch him, I think."

-

-"You have been assuming all along," said Kester, "that your case is

-based on fact. I assure you again that it is not--that it is nothing

-but a devilish lie from beginning to end."

-

-"Really, my dear sir, that has little or nothing to do with the

-matter. I dare say it is a lie. But it is my place to believe it to be

-the truth, and to make other people believe the same as I do. Here's

-your very good health, sir." Again Mr. Skeggs took a long pull and a

-strong pull at his bottle of gin.

-

-"Knowing what you know," said Kester, "and believing what you believe,

-are you yet willing to sell the document now in your possession?"

-

-"Of course I am. What else is all this jaw for?"

-

-"And don't you think you are a pretty sort of scoundrel to make me any

-such offer? Don't you think----"

-

-"Now look you here, Mr. St. George--if that is your name, which I very

-much doubt--don't let you and me begin to fling mud at one another,

-because that is a game at which I could lick you into fits. I have

-made you a fair offer. If we can't come to terms, there's no reason

-why we shouldn't part friendly."

-

-Once again Kester walked on in silence. The snow had been coming down

-more thickly for some time past, and already the dull gray moor began

-to look strange and unfamiliar, but neither of the two men gave more

-than a passing thought to the weather.

-

-"If you feel and know your case to be such a strong one," said Kester,

-at last, "why do you come to me at all? Why send a white flag into

-your enemy's camp? Why not fight him � l'outrance at once?"

-

-"Because I'm neither so young nor so pugnacious as I once was,"

-answered Skeggs. "I go in for peace and quiet nowadays. I don't want

-the bother and annoyance of a law-suit. I have no ill-feeling towards

-you, and if you will only make me a fair offer, I shall be the last

-man in the world to disturb you in any way. Gemini! how the snow comes

-down! We are only about half way yet. We shall have some difficulty in

-picking our road across."

-

-"I myself am as anxious as you can be, Mr. Skeggs, to be saved the

-trouble and annoyance of a law-suit, however sure I may feel that the

-result would be in my favour. But you must give me a little time to

-think this matter over. It is far too important to be decided at a

-moment's notice."

-

-"Time? To be sure. You can make up your mind in about a couple of

-days, I suppose. Shall I call upon you, or will you call upon me?"

-

-Hardly were the words out of Mr. Skeggs's mouth when his wooden leg

-sunk suddenly into a hidden hole in the pathway. Thrown forward by the

-shock, the lawyer came heavily to the ground, and at the same moment

-his leg snapped short off just below the knee.

-

-Kester took him by the shoulders and assisted him to assume a sitting

-posture on the footpath.

-

-Mr. Skeggs's first action was to pick up his broken limb and look at

-it with a sort of comical despair. "There goes a friend that has done

-me good service," he said; "but he might have lasted till he got me

-home, for all that. How the deuce am I to get home?" he asked, turning

-abruptly to Kester.

-

-Kester paused for a minute and looked round before answering. The snow

-was coming down faster than ever. The moor was being gradually turned

-into a huge white carpet. Already its zig-zag paths and winding

-footways were barely distinguishable from the treacherous bog which

-lay on every side of them. In an hour and a half it would be dark with

-a darkness that would be unrelieved by either moon or stars. If it

-kept on snowing all night at this rate the drift would be a couple of

-feet deep by morning. Skeggs's casual remark about the pedlar and his

-wife, unheeded at the time, now flashed vividly across Kester's mind.

-

-"You will have to wait here till I can get assistance," he said, in

-answer to his companion's question. "There is no help for it."

-

-"I suppose not," growled Skeggs. "Was ever anything so cursedly

-unfortunate?"

-

-"Sedgeley is the nearest place to this," said Kester. "There are

-plenty of men there who know the moor thoroughly. I will send half a

-dozen of them to your help."

-

-"How soon may I expect them here?"

-

-"In about three-quarters of an hour from now."

-

-"Ugh! I'm half frozen already. What shall I be in another hour?"

-

-"Oh, you'll pull through that easily enough. Your bottle is not empty

-yet."

-

-"Jove! I'd forgotten the bottle," said Skeggs, with animation.

-

-He took it out of his pocket, and held it up to the light. "Not more

-than a quartern left. Well, that's better than none at all."

-

-"Goodbye," said Kester, as he shook some of the snow off his hat.

-"You may look for help in less than an hour."

-

-"Goodbye, Mr. St. George," said Skeggs, looking very earnestly at him

-as he did so.

-

-"You won't forget to send the help, will you? because if you do

-forget, it will be nothing more nor less than wilful murder."

-

-Kester laughed a short grating laugh. "Fear nothing, Skeggs," he said.

-"I won't forget. About that other trifle, I will write you in two or

-three days. Again goodbye."

-

-Skeggs's face had turned very white. He could not speak. He took off

-his hat and waved it. Kester responded by a wave of his hand. Then

-turning on his heel he strode away through the snowy twilight. In

-three minutes he was lost to sight. Skeggs could no longer see him.

-Tears came into his eyes. "He'll send no help, not he. I shall die

-here like a dog. The snow will be my winding-sheet. If ever there was

-mischief in a man's eye, there was in his, as he bade me goodbye."

-

-Onward strode Kester St. George through the blinding snow. Altogether

-heedless of the weather was he just now. He had other things to think

-about. As instinctively as an Indian or a backwoodsman tracks his way

-across prairie or forest did he track his way across the moor, all

-hidden though the paths now were. He was a child of the moor. He had

-learned its secrets when a boy, and in his present emergency, reason

-and intellect must perforce give way to that blind instinct which was

-left him as a legacy of his youth.

-

-At length the last patch of moorland was crossed, and a few minutes

-later he found himself close by a well-remembered finger-post, where

-three roads met. One of these roads led to Sedgeley, which was but a

-short quarter of a mile away; another of them led to Duxley and Park

-Newton. At Sedgeley his horse was waiting for him. There, too, was to

-be had the help which he had so faithfully promised Skeggs that he

-would send. Leaning against the finger-post, he took a minute's rest

-before going any farther. Which road should he take? That was the

-question which at present he was turning over and over in his mind.

-Not long did he hesitate. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he made

-a wisp of it, and tied it round his throat. Then he turned up the

-collar of his coat. Then once again he shook the snow off his hat.

-Then plunging his hands deep in his pockets, and turning his back on

-the finger-post, he set out resolutely along the road that led towards

-Park Newton. Once, and once only did he pause, even for a moment,

-before reaching home. It was when he fancied that he heard, away in

-the far distance, a low, wild, melancholy cry--whether the cry of an

-animal or a man he could not tell--but none the less a cry for help.

-Whatever it was, it did not come again, and after that Kester pursued

-his way homeward steadily and without pause. It was quite dark long

-before he reached his own room.

-

-He changed his clothes and went down to dinner. Both his uncle and

-Richard Dering were away, and he dined alone, for which he was by no

-means sorry. Every half-hour or so he inquired as to the weather. They

-had nothing to tell him except that it was still snowing hard. The

-evening was one of slow torture, but at length it wore itself away. He

-went to bed about midnight. Dobbs's last report to him was that the

-weather was still unchanged. But several times during the night Dobbs

-heard his master pacing up and down his room, and had he been there he

-might, ever and again, have seen a haggard face peering out with eager

-eyes into the darkness.

-

-"Twelve inches of snow, sir, on the drive," was Dobbs's first news

-next morning. "They say there has not been a fall like it in these

-parts for a dozen years."

-

-The snow had ceased to fall hours before. By-and-by there came a few

-gleams of sunshine to brighten the scene, but the wind was still in

-the north, and all that day the weather kept bitterly cold. Soon after

-sunset, however, there was a change. Little by little the wind got

-round to the south-west. At ten o'clock Dobbs reported: "Snow going

-fast, sir. Regular thaw. Not be a bit left by breakfast-time."

-

-"Call me at four," said his master, "and have some coffee ready, and a

-horse brought round by four thirty."

-

-He was quite tired out by this time, and when he went to bed he felt

-sure that he should have four or five hours' sound sleep. But his

-sleep was several times disturbed by a strange dream: always the same

-thing repeated over and over again. He dreamt that he was standing

-under the finger-post on the edge of the moor. But the finger-post was

-neither more nor less than a gigantic skeleton, of which the

-outstretched arms formed the direction boards. On the bony palm of one

-outstretched arm, in letters of blood, was written the words: "To

-Sedgeley." Then as he read the words in his dream, again would sound

-in his ears the low, weird, melancholy cry which had arrested his

-steps for a moment as he walked home through the snow, and hearing the

-cry he would start up in bed and stare round him, and wonder for a

-moment where he was.

-

-Dobbs duly called his master at four, and at four thirty he mounted

-his horse and rode away. The roads were heavy and sloppy with the

-melting snow. The morning was intensely dark, but Kester knew the

-country thoroughly, and was never at a loss as to which turn he ought

-to take. Not one human being did he meet during the whole of his ride.

-But, indeed, his nearest friend would have passed him by in the dark

-without recognition. He wore an old shooting suit, with a Glengarry

-bonnet and a macintosh, and had a thick shawl wrapped round his throat

-and the lower part of his face.

-

-Day was just breaking as he reached the edge of the moor. He tethered

-his horse to the stump of an old tree behind a hedge. He had brought a

-powerful field-glass in his pocket. He scanned the moor carefully

-through it before proceeding farther on his quest. No living being was

-in sight anywhere. Satisfied of this, he set out without further

-delay, leaving his horse by itself to await his return. Not without a

-tremor--not without a faster beating of the heart--did he again set

-foot on the moor. A drizzling rain now began to fall, but Kester was

-not sorry for this. The worse the weather, the fewer the people who

-would be abroad in it. Onward he strode, keeping a wary eye about him

-as he went.

-

-At length he reached a curve in the path from whence he ought to be

-able to discern the bulky form of John Skeggs, Esq., if that gentleman

-was still where he had last seen him. He looked, but the morning was

-still heavy and dark: he could see nothing. Then he adjusted his

-glass, and looking through that he could just make out a heap--a

-bundle--a shapeless something. It required a powerful effort on his

-part to brace his nerves to the pitch requisite to carry him through

-the task he had still before him. He had filled a small flask with

-brandy, and he now drank some of it. Then he started again. A few

-minutes more and the end of his journey was reached.

-

-There lay Skeggs, on the very spot where he had left him, resting on

-his side, with one hand under his head, as if asleep. His hat had

-fallen off. On the ground near him were the empty bottle, his

-walking-stick, and his broken wooden leg. Numbed by the intense cold,

-he had fallen asleep while waiting for the help which was never to

-come, and had so died, frozen to death. Doubtless his death had been a

-painless one, but none the less, as he himself would have said, was

-Kester St. George his murderer.

-

-Gloved though he was, it was not without a feeling of indescribable

-loathing that Kester could bring himself to touch the body. But it was

-absolutely necessary to do so. The paper he had come in quest of was

-in the breast pocket of the dead man's coat. It did not take him long

-to find it. Having made sure that he had got the right document, he

-fastened it up in the breast pocket of his own coat. "Now I am safe!"

-he said to himself. Then he took off his gloves and buried them

-carefully under a large stone. Then with one last glance at the body,

-he slunk hurriedly away, cursing in his heart the daylight that was

-now creeping up so rapidly from the east. In the clear light of dawn

-the foul deed he had done looked a thousand times fouler than it had

-looked before.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER IX.

-WHAT TO DO NEXT?

-

-

-Not to every one among the children of men is given the power, the

-faculty, to act as comforter to others. To listen to another's sorrow,

-to be told the history of another's trouble, is one thing: to be able

-to give back comfort is another. That delicate intuitive sympathy with

-another's woe which draws away the sting even while listening to it,

-which makes that woe its own property as it were, which sheds balm

-round the sufferer in every word and look and touch: this is surely as

-much a special gift as the gift of song or the poet's fine phrenzy,

-and without it the world would be a much poorer place than it is.

-

-This rare gift of sympathy was possessed by Edith Dering in a

-pre-eminent degree. She was at once emotional and sympathetic. To

-Lionel in his dire trouble she was a comforter in the truest sense of

-the word. It was she who preserved his mental balance--the equipoise

-of his mind. But for her sweet offices he would have become a

-monomaniac or a misanthrope of the bitterest kind. Naturally she had

-him with her as much as possible, but still his home was of necessity

-at Park Newton. To the world he was simply Richard Dering, the

-unmarried nephew of General St. George. It would not do for him to be

-seen going to Fern Cottage sufficiently often to excite either scandal

-or suspicion. He could only visit there as the intimate friend of Mrs.

-Garside and her niece. Sometimes he took his uncle with him, sometimes

-Tom, in order to divert suspicion. For him to enter the garden gate of

-Fern Cottage was to cross the threshold of his earthly paradise. Edith

-and he had been married in the depth of a great trouble--troubles and

-danger had beset the path of their wedded life ever since. Owing,

-perhaps, to that very cause week by week, and month by month, their

-love seemed only to grow in depth and intensity. As yet it had lost

-nothing of its pristine charm and freshness. The gold-dust of romance

-lingered about it still. They were man and wife, they had been man and

-wife for months, but to the world at large they seemed nothing more

-than ordinary friends.

-

-But all Edith's care and watchful love could not lift her husband,

-except by fits and starts, out of those moods of glom and depression

-which seemed to be settling more closely down upon him day by day. As

-link after link was added to the chain of evidence, each one tending

-to incriminate his cousin still more deeply, his moods seemed to grow

-darker and more difficult of removal. With his cousin Lionel

-associated no more than was absolutely necessary. They rarely met each

-other till dinner-time, and then they met with nothing more than a

-simple "How do you do?" and in conversation they never got beyond some

-half-dozen of the barest commonplaces. Lionel always left the table as

-soon as the cloth was drawn.

-

-On Kester's side there was no love lost. That dark, stern-faced cousin

-was a perpetual menace to him, and he hated him accordingly. He hated

-him for his likeness to his dead and gone brother. He hated him

-because of the look in his eyes--so coldly scrutinizing, so searching,

-so immovable. He hated him because it was a look that he could in

-nowise give back. Try as he might, he could not face Lionel's steady

-gaze.

-

-For some two or three weeks after his return from Bath with Janvard's

-written confession, Lionel was perfectly quiescent. He took no further

-action whatever. He was, indeed, debating in his own mind what further

-action it behoved him to take. There was no need to seek for any

-further evidence, if, indeed, any more would have been forthcoming.

-All that he wanted he had now got; it was simply a question as to what

-use he should make of it. Day and night that was the question which

-presented itself before his mind: what use should he make of the

-knowledge in his possession? His mind was divided this way and that;

-day passed after day, and still he could by no means decide as to the

-course which it would be best for him to adopt. Of all this he said

-not a word to Edith: he could not have borne to discuss the question

-even with her; but it is possible that she surmised something of it.

-She knew that she had only to wait and everything would be told her.

-Perhaps to Bristow, who knew all the details of the case as well as he

-did, he might have said something as to the difficulty by which he was

-beset, but as it happened, Tom was not at home just then. Much of his

-time was spent by Lionel in long solitary walks far and wide through

-the country. He could think better when he was walking than when

-sitting quietly at home, he used to say; and, indeed, the country folk

-who encountered him often turned to look at him, as he stalked along,

-with his eyes set straight before him, gazing on vacancy, and with

-lips that moved rapidly as he whispered to himself of his dreadful

-secret.

-

-But, little by little, the need of counsel, of sympathy, grew more

-strongly upon him. He was still as much at a loss as ever as to the

-step which he ought to take next.

-

-"They shall decide for me," he said at last; "I will put myself into

-their hands: by their verdict I will abide."

-

-General St. George at this time was away from Park Newton. As has been

-already stated, he had been summoned to the sick-bed of a very old and

-valued friend. The illness was a long and tedious one, and at the

-request of his friend the General stayed on and kept him company.

-Truth to tell, he was by no means sorry to get away from Park Newton

-for awhile. Of late his position there had been anything but a

-pleasant one. The silent, deadly feud between his two nephews troubled

-him not a little. If Kester would only have gone away, then, so far,

-all would have been well. But having pressed him so earnestly to visit

-Park Newton, he could not, with any show of conscience, ask him to go

-till he was ready to do so of his own accord. Knowing what he knew,

-that Kester was all but proved to have been the murderer of Percy

-Osmond, he might well not care to live under the same roof with him,

-hiding his feelings under a mask, and, while pretending to know

-nothing, to be in reality cognisant of the whole dreadful story.

-Knowing what he knew, that Richard was none other than Lionel, and

-knowing the quest on which he was engaged, and that, sooner or later,

-the climax must come, he might well wish to be away from Park Newton

-when that most wretched day should dawn--a day which would prove the

-innocence of one nephew at the price of the other's guilt. Therefore

-did General St. George accept his old friend's invitation to stay with

-him for an indefinite length of time--till, in fact, Kester should

-have left Park Newton, or till the tangled knot of events should, in

-some other way, have unravelled itself.

-

-When, at length, Lionel had decided that he would take the advice of

-his friends as to what his future course should be, he was obliged to

-await Tom Bristow's return before it was possible to do anything.

-Then, when Tom did get back home, the General had to be written to.

-When he understood what he was wanted for, he agreed to come on

-certain conditions. He was to come to Fern Cottage, spend one night

-there, and go back to his friend's house next day. No one, except

-those assembled at the cottage, was to know anything of his journey.

-Above all, it was to be kept a profound secret from Kester St George.

-

-Thus it fell out that on a certain April evening there were assembled,

-in the parlour of the cottage, Edith, Mrs. Garside, General St.

-George, Tom Bristow, and Lionel. It was a very serious occasion, and

-they all felt it to be such.

-

-The General would sit close to Edith, whom he had not seen for a

-little while; and several times during the evening he took possession

-of one of her hands, and patted it affectionately between his own

-withered palms.

-

-"You are not looking quite so well, my dear, as when I saw you last,"

-had been his first words after kissing her. Her cheeks were, indeed,

-just beginning to look in the slightest degree hollow and worn, nor

-did her eyes look quite so bright as of old. The wonder was,

-considering all that she had gone through during the last twelve

-months, that she looked as fair and fresh as she did. Of Mrs. Garside,

-whom we have not seen for some little time, it may be said that she

-looked plumper and more matronly than ever. But then nothing could

-have kept Mrs. Garside from looking plump and matronly. She was one of

-those people off whom the troubles and anxieties of life slip as

-easily as water slips off a duck's back. Although she had a copious

-supply of tears at command, nothing ever troubled her deeply or for

-long, simply because there was no depth to be troubled. She was always

-cheerful, because she was shallow; and she was always kind-hearted so

-long as her kindness of heart did not involve any self-sacrifice on

-her part. "What a very pleasant person Mrs. Garside is," was the

-general verdict of society. And so she was--very pleasant. If her

-father had been hanged on a Monday for sheepstealing, by Tuesday she

-would have been as pleasant and cheerful as ever.

-

-But we must not be unjust to Mrs. Garside. She had one affection, and

-one only, her love for Edith. During all the days of Edith's

-tribulation, her aunt had never deserted her--had not even thought of

-deserting her; and now, for Edith's sake, she had buried herself alive

-in Fern Cottage, where her only excitement was a little mild shopping,

-now and then, in Duxley High Street, under the incognito of a thick

-veil, or a welcome visit once and again from Miss Culpepper. Under

-these depressing circumstances, it ought perhaps to be put down to the

-credit of Mrs. Garside, rather than to her discredit, that her

-cheerfulness was not one whit abated, and that her face was a picture

-of health and content.

-

-"I think you know why I have asked you to meet me here to-night,"

-began Lionel. "I want your advice: I want you to tell me what step I

-must take next. You know what the purpose of my life has been ever

-since the night I escaped from prison. You know how persistently I

-have pursued that purpose--that I have allowed nothing to deter me or

-turn me aside from it. The result is that there has grown under my

-hands a fatal array of evidence, all tending to implicate one man--all

-pointing with deadly accuracy to one person, and to one only, as the

-murderer of Percy Osmond. I have but to open my mouth, and the four

-walls of a prison would shut him round as fast as ever they shut round

-me; I have but to speak of half I know and that man would have to take

-his trial for Wilful Murder even as I took mine. But shall I do this

-thing? That is the question that I want you to help me to answer. So

-long as the chain of evidence remained incomplete, so long as certain

-links were wanting to it, I felt that my task was unfinished. But at

-last I have all that I need. There is nothing more to search for. My

-task, so far, is at an end. Knowing, then, what I know, and with such

-proofs in my possession, am I to stop here? Am I to rest content with

-what I have done, and go no step farther? Or am I to go through with

-it to the bitter end? What that end would involve you know as well as

-I could tell you."

-

-He ceased, and for a little while they all sat in silence. General St.

-George was the first to speak. "Lionel knows, and you all know, that

-from the very first he has had my heartfelt sympathy in this unhappy

-business. He has not had my sympathy only, he has had my help,

-although I have seen for a long time the point to which we were all

-tending, and the terrible consequences that must necessarily ensue. Me

-those consequences affect with peculiar force. One nephew can only be

-saved at the expense of the irretrievable ruin and disgrace of the

-other. It is not as though we had been searching in the dark, and had

-there found the bloodstained hand of a stranger. The hand we have so

-grasped is that of one of our own kin--one of ourselves. And that

-makes the dreadful part of the affair. Still, I would not have you

-misunderstand me. I am as closely bound to Lionel--my sympathy and

-help are his as much to-day as ever they were, and should he choose to

-go through with this business in the same way as he would go through

-with it in the case of an utter stranger, I shall be the last man in

-the world to blame him. More: I will march with him side by side,

-whatever be the goal to which his steps may lead him. Such

-unparalleled wrongs as his demand unparalleled reparation. For all

-that, however, it is still a most serious question whether there is

-not a possibility of effecting some kind of a compromise: whether

-there is not somewhere a door of escape open by means of which we may

-avert a catastrophe almost too terrible even to bear thinking about."

-

-"What is your opinion, Bristow?" said Lionel, turning to Tom. "What

-say you, my friend of friends?"

-

-"I have a certain diffidence in offering any opinion," said Tom,

-"simply on account of the relationship of the two persons chiefly

-involved. To tell the world all that you know, would, undoubtedly,

-bring about a family catastrophe of a most painful nature. It

-therefore seems to me that the members of that family, and they alone,

-should be empowered to offer an opinion on a question so delicate as

-the one now under consideration."

-

-"Not so," said Lionel, emphatically. "No one could have a better

-right, or even so great a right, to offer an opinion as you. But for

-you, I should not have been here to-night to ask for that opinion."

-

-"Nor I here but for you," interrupted Tom.

-

-"I will put my question to you in a different form," said Lionel; "and

-so put to you, I shall expect you to answer it in your usual clear and

-straightforward way. Bristow, if you were circumstanced exactly as I

-am now circumstanced, what would you do in my place?"

-

-"I would go through with the task I had taken in hand, let the

-consequences be what they might," said Tom, without a moment's

-hesitation. "Nothing should hold me back. I would clear my own name

-and my own fame, and let punishment fall where punishment is due. You

-are still young, Dering, and a fair career and a happy future may

-still be yours if you like to claim them."

-

-Tom's words were very emphatic, and for a little while no one spoke.

-"We have yet to hear what Edith has to say," said the General. "Her

-interests in the matter are second only to those of Lionel."

-

-"Yes, it is my wife's turn to speak next," said Lionel.

-

-"What my opinion is, you know well, dearest, and have known for a long

-time."

-

-"My uncle and Bristow would like to hear it from your own lips."

-

-"Uncle," began Edith, with a little blush, "whatever Lionel may

-ultimately decide to do will doubtless be for the best. The last wish

-I have in the world is to lead him or guide him in any way in

-opposition to his own convictions. But I have thought this: that it

-would be very terrible indeed to have to take part in a second

-tragedy--a tragedy that, in some of its features, would be far more

-dreadful than that first one, which none of us can ever forget. No one

-can know better than I know how grievously my husband has been sinned

-against. But nothing can altogether undo the wrong that has been done.

-Would it make my husband a happy man if, instead of being the accused,

-he should become the accuser? Let us for a few moments try to imagine

-that this second tragedy has been worked out in all its frightful

-consequences. That my husband has told everything. That he who is

-guilty has been duly punished. That Lionel's fair fame has been

-re-established, and that he and I are living at Park Newton as if

-nothing had ever happened to disturb the commonplace tenor of our

-lives. In such a case, would my husband be a happy man? No. I know him

-too well to believe it possible that he could ever be happy or

-contented. The image of that man--one of his own kith and kin, we must

-remember--would be for ever in his mind. He would be the prey of a

-remorse all the more bitter in that the world would hold him as

-without blame. But would he so hold himself? I think not--I am sure

-not. He would feel as if he had sought for and accepted the price of

-blood." Overcome by her emotion, she ceased.

-

-"I think in a great measure as you think, my dear," said the General.

-"What course do you propose that your husband should adopt?"

-

-"It is not for me to propose anything," answered Edith. "I can only

-suggest certain views of the question, and leave it for you and Lionel

-to adopt them or reject them, as may seem best to you."

-

-"Holding the proofs of his innocence in his hands as he does," said

-the General, "is it your wish that Lionel should sit down contented

-with what he has already achieved, and knowing that the real facts of

-his story are in the keeping of you and me, and two or three trusted

-friends, rest satisfied with that and ask for nothing more?"

-

-"No, I hardly go so far as that," said Edith, with a faint smile. "I

-think that the man who committed the crime should know that Lionel

-still lives, and that he holds in his hands the proof at once of his

-own innocence and of the other's guilt. Beyond that I say this: The

-world believes my husband to be dead: rather than re-open so terrible

-a wound, let the world continue so to believe. My husband and I can do

-without the world, as well as it can do without us. We have our mutual

-love, which nothing can deprive us of: against that the shafts of

-Fortune beat as vainly as hailstones against a castle wall. On this

-earth of ours are places sweet and fair without number. In one of

-them--not altogether dissevered from those ties of friendship which

-have already made our married life so beautiful--my husband and I could

-build up a new home, with no sad memories of the past to cling around

-it; and when this haunting shadow that now broods over his life shall

-have been brushed away for ever, then I think--I know--I feel sure

-that I can make him happy!" Her voice, her eyes, her whole manner were

-imbued with a sweet fervour that it was impossible to resist.

-

-Lionel crossed over and kissed her. "My darling!" he said. "But for

-your love and care I should long ago have been a madman."

-

-"You, my dear, have put into words," said the General, "the very ideas

-that for a long time have been floating about, half formed, in my own

-mind. Lionel, what have you to say to your wife's suggestions?"

-

-"Only this: that I have made up my mind to follow them. _He_ shall

-know that I am alive, and that I hold the proofs of his guilt, ready

-to produce them at a moment's notice, should I ever be compelled to do

-so. Beyond that, I will leave him in peace--to such peace as his own

-conscience will give him. The world believes Lionel Dering to be dead

-and buried. Dead and buried he shall still remain, and 'requiescat in

-pace' be written under his name."

-

-The General got up with tears in his eyes and shook Lionel warmly by

-the hand. "Good boy! good boy! You will not go without your reward,"

-was all that he could say.

-

-"The eighth of May will soon be here," said Lionel--"the anniversary

-of poor Osmond's murder. On that day he shall be told. But I shall

-tell him in my own fashion. On that day, uncle, you must promise to

-give me your company; and you yours, Tom. After that I shall trouble

-you no more."

-

-If Tom Bristow dissented from the conclusion thus come to, he said no

-word to that effect. There was one point, however, that struck his

-practical mind as having been altogether overlooked; and as soon as

-Edith and Mrs. Garside had left the room he did not fail to mention

-it.

-

-"What about the income of eleven thousand a year?" he said. "You are

-surely not going to let the whole of that slip through your fingers?"

-

-"Ah, by-the-by, that point never struck me," said the General. "No, it

-would be decidedly unjust both to yourself and your wife, Lionel, to

-give up the income as well as the position."

-

-"Now you are importing a mercenary tone into the affair that is

-utterly distasteful to me. It looks as if I were being bribed to keep

-silence."

-

-"That is sheer nonsense," said the General. "You have but to hold out

-your hand to take the whole."

-

-Lionel said no more, but went and sat down dejectedly on the sofa.

-

-"You and I must settle this matter between us," said the General to

-Tom. "It is most important. It shall be my place to see that whatever

-is agreed upon shall be duly carried out in the arrangement between

-the two men. I should think that if the income were divided it would

-be about as fair a thing as could be done. What say you?"

-

-"I agree with you entirely," said Tom. "The other one will have the

-name and position to keep up, and that can't be done for nothing."

-

-"Then it shall be so settled."

-

-"There is one other point that I think ought to be settled at the same

-time. Who is to have Park Newton after _his_ death? Lionel may have

-children. _He_ may marry and have children. But, in common justice,

-the estate ought to be secured on Dering's eldest child, whether the

-present possessor die with or without an heir."

-

-"Certainly, certainly. Good gracious me! a most valuable suggestion.

-Strange, now, that it never struck me. Yes, yes: Lionel's eldest child

-must have the estate. I will see that there is no possible mistake on

-that score."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER X.

-HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.

-

-

-After Mrs. McDermott's departure from Pincote, life there slipped back

-into its old quiet groove--into its old dull groove which was growing

-duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company:

-when any of his old friends called he was never at home to them; and

-on the score of ill health he declined every invitation that was sent

-to him. But it was not altogether on account of his health that these

-invitations were declined, because three or four times a week he would

-be seen somewhere about the country roads being driven out by Jane in

-the basket-carriage. There was another reason for this state of

-things--a reason to which his friends and neighbours were not slow in

-giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser: that is

-what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a

-miser was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his

-daughter's sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more

-ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme

-of domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous

-chapter, and the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to

-many people, seem miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality

-for which Pincote had heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he

-could not go much into society without giving return invitations. Now

-the four or five state dinners which he had been in the habit of

-giving every year were very elaborate and expensive affairs, and he no

-longer felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of spending

-so many pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom

-he cared little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount,

-trifling though it might seem, to that other trifling amount--only

-some few hundreds of pounds when all was told--which he had already

-managed to scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he

-should be gone from her side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be

-her home? "If I had only died a year ago," he would sometimes say to

-himself, "then Jenny would have had a handsome fortune to call her

-own. Now she's next door to being a pauper."

-

-Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank--not to

-Sugden's Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County--and he

-gloated over every five pounds added to the fund invested in his

-daughter's name as something more added to the nest-egg; and to be

-able to put away fifty pounds in a lump now afforded him far more

-genuine delight than the putting away of a thousand would have done

-six months previously.

-

-There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father

-respecting the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the

-Squire himself first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more

-anxious than he was that the topic should never be broached between

-them again. She guessed in part what his object might be when he began

-to cut down the house expenses at Pincote discharging some half dozen

-of his people; raising his farm rents where it was possible to do so;

-letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the park as

-pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his

-famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of

-his kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She

-guessed, but that was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his

-reasons for so doing, and she made no inquiry. The sphere of his

-enjoyment had now become a very limited one. If it gave him

-pleasure--and she could not doubt that it did--to live penuriously so

-as to be enabled to put away a few extra pounds per annum, she would

-not mar the edge of that pleasure by seeming even to notice what was

-going on, much less make any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on

-his part, had many a good chuckle in the solitude of his own room.

-"After I'm gone, she'll know what it all means," he would say to

-himself. "She's puzzled now--they are all puzzled. They call me a

-miser, do they? Let 'em call me what they like. Another twenty put

-away to-day. That makes----" and out would come his passbook and his

-spectacles.

-

-The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went

-into society compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his

-example. There were two or three houses to which, if she chose, she

-could still go without its being thought strange that there was no

-return invitation to Pincote; and there were two or three old school

-friends whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her own little room

-without their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay to

-dinner. But of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw

-little or nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she

-was far too deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.

-

-Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father's

-no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by

-no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott's warning words, nor Tom's frank

-confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of

-his intention to encourage Tom's visits to Pincote after the widow's

-abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next

-day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his

-appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been

-French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom's health in

-a bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when

-they parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front

-door, shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a

-sort of half intimation that some considerable time would probably

-elapse before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote

-again. In the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his

-sister, the Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home

-of an evening with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been

-content and happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so

-thinking he had overlooked one very important point. The Titus

-Culpepper of six months ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do

-gentleman, satisfied with himself and all the world, in tolerable

-health, and excited by the prospect of making a magnificent fortune

-without trouble or anxiety. The Titus Culpepper of to-day was a

-broken-down gambler--a gambler who had madly speculated with his

-daughter's fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down, too, was he in

-health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of all, a man who

-no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own thoughts, and

-who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour at a time. Of

-this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected nothing: how few

-of us do know of such changes! Other people may change--nay, do we not

-see them changing daily around us, and smile good-naturedly as we note

-how querulous and hard to please poor Jones has become of late? But

-that we--we--should so change, becoming a burden to ourselves and a

-trial to those around us, with our queer, cross-grained ways, our

-peevish, variable tempers, and our general belief that the sun shines

-less brightly, and that the world is less beautiful than it was a

-little while ago--that is altogether impossible. The change is always

-in others, never in our immaculate selves.

-

-The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men's company to

-that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all �sthetic. He

-liked to talk about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets;

-to talk a little about imperial politics--chiefly confined to

-blackguarding "the other side of the House"--and a great deal about

-local politics. He had been in the habit of talking by the hour

-together about paving, and lighting, and sewage, and the state of the

-highways: all useful matters without a doubt, but hardly topics

-calculated to interest a lady. Though he liked to have Jane play to

-him now and then--but never for more than ten minutes at any one

-time--he always designated it as "tinkling;" and as often as not, when

-he asked her to sing, he would say, "Now, Jenny, lass, give us a

-squall." But for all this, in former times Jane and he had got on very

-well together on the occasions when they had been without company at

-Pincote. He was moving about a good deal in the world at that time,

-mixing with various people, talking to and being talked to by

-different friends and acquaintances, and was at no loss for subjects

-to talk about, even though those subjects might not be particularly

-interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a capital listener, and

-could always give him a good commonplace answer, and that was all he

-craved--that and three-fourths of the talk to himself.

-

-Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but

-given up going into society, by which means he at once dried up the

-source from which he had been in the habit of obtaining his

-conversational ideas. When he came to dine alone with Jane he found

-himself with nothing to talk about. Under such circumstances there was

-nothing left for him but grumbling. But even grumbling becomes

-tiresome after a time, especially when the person to whom such

-complainings are addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you,

-and is incapable of being grumbled at herself.

-

-It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to

-Jane, "We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to

-see him about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner.

-So you had better drop him a line."

-

-The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was

-too stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man's

-lively company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next

-morning happened to be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself

-as she noted how anxious her father was lest the rain should keep Tom

-from coming. Jane knew that neither rain nor anything else would keep

-him away. "Papa is almost as anxious to see him as I am," she said to

-herself. "He thought that he could live without him: he now begins to

-find out his mistake."

-

-Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a

-hearty greeting, and took him into the study before he had an

-opportunity of seeing Jane. "I've heard nothing more from those

-railway people about the Croft," he said. "Penfold was here yesterday

-and wanted to know whether he was to go on with the villas--all the

-foundations are now in, you know. I hardly knew what instructions to

-give him."

-

-"If you were to ask me, sir," said Tom, "I should certainly say, let

-him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to

-know that the company must have the Croft--that they cannot possibly

-do without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to

-go to them and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to

-come to you; which, in a transaction of this nature, makes all the

-difference."

-

-"I don't think you are far wrong in your views," said Mr. Culpepper.

-"I'll turn over in my mind what you've said." Which meant that the

-Squire would certainly adopt Tom's advice.

-

-"No lovemaking, you know, Bristow," whispered the old man, with a dig

-in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.

-

-"You may trust me, sir," said Tom.

-

-"I'm not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty

-girl is in question."

-

-Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old

-man his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources

-in that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully

-introduced topics sufficed. The Squire's own long-winded remarks,

-unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made

-a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready

-with his "I quite agree with you, sir;" or his "Just so, sir;" or his

-"Those are my sentiments exactly, sir." To be able to talk for half an

-hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that

-interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly

-enjoyed.

-

-After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by

-himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the

-drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the

-dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though

-he might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of

-that illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly

-cautioned.

-

-As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into

-the drawing-room, and whispered, "None of your tomfoolery, remember."

-Five minutes later he was fast asleep.

-

-They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so

-they fell back upon chess. "There's to be no lovemaking, you know,

-Jenny," whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.

-

-"None, whatever," whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the

-head, and a demure smile.

-

-A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for

-any further conversation, except about the incidents of the game,

-which, truth to tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of

-studying the board, as a chess-player ought to do, Jane found her

-eyes, quite unconsciously to herself, studying the face of her

-opponent, while Tom's hand, wandering purposelessly about the board,

-frequently found itself taking hold of Jane's hand instead of a knight

-or a pawn; so that when at last the game did contrive to work itself

-out to an ineffective conclusion, they could hardly have said with

-certainty which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire woke

-up, smiling and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each

-other, and there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of

-chess. If he were content, they had no reason to be otherwise.

-

-After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as

-often as the latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of

-himself the old man's heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when

-it so happened that business took Tom away from home for two or three

-days, then the Squire grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane's tact

-and good temper were needed to make life at all endurable. She tried

-her best to persuade him to invite some of his old friends to come and

-see him, or go himself and call up on some of them, but in vain.

-Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would he have. He looked

-upon himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to economize in

-every possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a

-sensible fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony,

-or be at any extra expense--a man who was content with a chop and a

-rice pudding, and a glass of St. Julien. "He doesn't come here for

-what he gets to eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine.

-He finds that he can learn a good many things from me, and he's not

-above learning."

-

-All this time the works at Knockley Holt were being pushed busily

-forward, much to the bewilderment and aggravation of the good people

-of Duxley. They were aggravated, and they considered they had a right

-to be aggravated, because they could not understand, and had not

-been told, what it was that was intended to be done there. In a

-small town like Duxley, no inhabitant has a right to put before his

-fellow-citizens a problem which they find incapable of solution, and

-then when asked to solve it for them decline to do so. Such conduct

-merits the severest social reprehension.

-

-Surely next to the madness of building a row of villas on Prior's

-Croft, was the puzzling folly of digging a hole in Knockley Holt.

-After much discussion pro and con, amongst the townspeople--chiefly

-over sundry glasses of whiskey toddy, in sundry bar parlours, after

-business hours--it seemed to be settled that Culpepper's Hole, as some

-wag had christened it, could be intended for nothing else than an

-artesian well--though what was the exact nature of an artesian well it

-would have puzzled some of the Duxley wiseacres to tell, and why water

-should be bored for there, and to what uses it could be put when so

-obtained, they would have been still more at a loss to say. The Squire

-could not drive into Duxley without being tackled by one or another of

-his friends as to what he was about at Knockley Holt. But the old man

-would only wink and shake his head, and try to look wise, and say, "It

-doesn't do to blab everything nowadays, but between you and me and the

-post--this is in confidence, mind--I'm digging a tunnel to the

-Antipodes." Then he would chuckle and give the reins a shake, and

-Diamond would trot off with him, leaving his questioner angry or

-amused, as the case might be.

-

-It was not known to any one in Duxley, except the Squire's lawyer,

-that Knockley Holt was now the property of Tom Bristow. That the works

-there were under Tom's direction was a well-known fact, but he was

-merely looked upon as Mr. Culpepper's foreman in the matter. "Gets a

-couple of hundred or so a year for looking after the Squire's

-affairs," one wiseacre would remark to another. "If not, how does he

-live? Seems to have nothing to do when he's not at Pincote. A poor way

-of getting a living. Serve him right: he should have stopped with old

-Hoskyns when he had the chance, and not have thought he was going to

-set the Thames on fire with his six thousand pounds."

-

-No one could be possessed by a more burning desire than the Squire

-himself to know the meaning of the works at Knockley Holt, but having

-asked once and asked in vain, his pride would not allow him to make

-any further direct inquiry. Not a day passed on which he saw Tom, that

-he did not try, by one or two vague hints, to lead up to the subject,

-but when Tom turned the talk into another channel, then the old man

-would see that the time for him to be enlightened had not yet come.

-

-But it did come at last, and after what was, in reality, no very long

-waiting. On a certain afternoon--to be precise in our dates, it was

-the fifth of May--Tom walked over to Pincote, in search of the Squire.

-He found him in his study, wearying his brain over a column of

-figures, which would persist in coming to a different total every time

-it was added up. The first thing Tom did was to take the column of

-figures and bring it to a correct total. This done, his next act was

-to produce something from his pocket that was carefully wrapped up in

-a piece of brown paper. He pushed the parcel across the table to the

-Squire. "Will you oblige me, sir," he said, "by opening that paper,

-and giving me your opinion as to the contents?"

-

-"Why, bless my heart, this is neither more nor less than a lump of

-coal!" said the Squire, when he had opened the paper.

-

-"Exactly so, sir. As you say, this is neither more nor less than a

-lump of coal. But where do you think it came from?"

-

-"There you puzzle me. Though I don't know that it can matter much to

-me where it came from."

-

-"But it matters very much to you, sir. This lump of coal came from

-Knockley Holt."

-

-The Squire was rather dull of comprehension. "Well, what is there so

-wonderful about that?" he said. "I dare say it was stolen by some of

-those confounded gipsies, and left there when they moved."

-

-"What I mean is this, sir," answered Tom, with just a shade of

-impatience in his tone. "This piece of coal is but a specimen of a

-splendid seam which has been struck by my men at the bottom of the

-shaft at Knockley Holt."

-

-The Squire stared at him, and gave a long, low whistle. "Do you mean

-to say that you have found a bed of coal at the bottom of the hole you

-have been digging at Knockley Holt?"

-

-"That is precisely what I have found, sir, and it is precisely what I

-have been trying to find from the first."

-

-"I see it all now!" said the Squire. "What a lucky young scamp you

-are! But what on earth put it into your head to go looking for coal at

-Knockley Holt?"

-

-"I had a friend of mine, who is a very clever mining engineer, staying

-with me for a little while some time ago. But my friend is not only an

-engineer--he is a practical geologist as well. When out for a

-constitutional one day, we found ourselves at Knockley Holt. My friend

-was struck with its appearance--so different from that of the country

-around. 'Unless I am much mistaken, there is coal under here,' he

-said, 'and at no great distance from the surface either. The owner

-ought to think himself a lucky man--that is, if he knows the value of

-it.' Well, sir, not content with what my friend said, I paid a heavy

-fee and had one of the most eminent geologists of the day down from

-London to examine and report upon it. His report coincided exactly

-with my friend's opinion. You know the rest, sir. I came to you with a

-view of getting a lease of the ground, and found you desirous of

-selling it. I was only too glad to have the chance of buying it. I set

-a lot of men and a steam engine to work without a day's delay, and

-that lump of coal, sir, is the happy result."

-

-The Squire rubbed his spectacles for a moment or two without speaking.

-"Bristow, that's an old head of yours on those young shoulders," he

-said at last. "With all my heart congratulate you on your good

-fortune. I know no man who deserves it more than you do. Yes, Bristow,

-I congratulate you, though I can't help saying that I wish that I had

-had a friend to have told me what was told you before I let you have

-the ground. For want of such a friend I have lost a fortune."

-

-"That is just what I have come to see you about, sir," said Tom, as he

-rose and pushed back his chair. The Squire looked up at him in

-surprise. "Although I bought Knockley Holt from you as a speculation,

-I had a pretty good idea when I bought it as to what I should find

-below the surface. If I had not found what I expected, my bargain

-would have been a dear one; but having found what I expected, it is

-just the opposite. In fact, sir, you have lost a fortune, and I have

-found one."

-

-"I know it--I know it," groaned the Squire. "But you needn't twit me

-with it."

-

-"So far the speculation was a perfectly legitimate one, as

-speculations go nowadays. But that is not the sort of thing I wish

-to exist between you and me. You have been very kind to me in many

-ways, and I have much to thank you for. I could not bear to treat you

-in this matter as I should treat a stranger. I could not bear to think

-that I was making a fortune out of a piece of ground that but a few

-short weeks ago was your property. The money so made would seem to me

-to bring a curse with it, rather than a blessing. I should feel as if

-nothing would ever prosper with me afterwards. Sir, I will not have

-this coal mine. There are plenty of other channels open to me for

-making money. Here are the title deeds of the property. I give

-them back to you. You shall repay me the twelve hundred pounds

-purchase-money, and reimburse me for the expenses I have been put to

-in sinking the shaft. But as for the pit itself, I will have nothing

-to do with it."

-

-Tom had produced the title deeds from his pocket and had laid them on

-the table while speaking. He now pushed them across to the Squire.

-Then he took the deed of sale tore it across, and threw the fragments

-into the grate.

-

-It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished

-in the whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For

-a little while he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did

-speak, his words were not lacking in force.

-

-"Bristow, you are a confounded fool!" he said with emphasis.

-

-"I have been told that many times before."

-

-"You are a confounded fool--but you are a gentleman."

-

-Tom merely bowed.

-

-"You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after

-having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there--eh?"

-

-"I don't propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are the

-title deeds," pointing to the table. "There is the deed of sale,"

-pointing to the fire-grate.

-

-"And do you think, sir," said the Squire, with dignity, "that Titus

-Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity

-from one who is little more than a boy! Not so.--It would be

-impossible for me to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind

-The property is fairly and legally yours, and yours it must remain."

-

-"It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title

-deeds. Do with them as you will." He buttoned his coat, and took up

-his hat, and turned to leave the room.

-

-"Stop, Bristow, stop!" said the Squire, as he rose from his chair. Tom

-halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back

-to the table.

-

-Mr. Culpepper walked to the window and stood there looking out for

-full three minutes without uttering a word. Then he turned and

-beckoned Tom to go to him.

-

-"Bristow," he said, laying his hand affectionately on Tom's shoulder,

-"as I said before, you are a gentleman--a gentleman in mind and

-feeling. More than that a man cannot be, whether his family be old or

-new. You propose to do a certain thing which I can only accede to on

-one condition."

-

-"Name it, sir," said Tom briefly.

-

-"I cannot take Knockley Holt from you without giving you something

-like an equivalent in return. Now, I only possess one thing that you

-would care to receive at my hands--and that is the most precious thing

-I have on earth. Exchange is no robbery. I will agree to take back

-Knockley Holt from you, if you will take in exchange for it--my

-daughter Jane."

-

-"Oh! Mr. Culpepper."

-

-"That you love her, I know already, and I dare say the sly hussy is

-equally as fond of you. If such be the case, take her. I know no man

-who so thoroughly deserves her, or who has so much right to her as you

-have."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XI.

-THE EIGHTH OF MAY.

-

-

-The eighth of May had come round at last.

-

-Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George

-intended least to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell

-out, he could not well avoid doing so.

-

-After the death and burial of Mother Mim--the expenses of the

-last-named ceremony being defrayed out of Kester's pocket--it had been

-his intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so

-fell out that in the document purloined by him from the pocket of

-Skeggs when that individual lay dead on the moor, there was given the

-name of a certain person, still living, who could depose, of his own

-personal knowledge, to the truth of the facts as put down in the dying

-woman's confession. This person was the only witness to the facts

-there stated who was now alive. The name of the man in question was

-William Bendall, and the point that Kester had now to clear up was:

-Who was this William Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was

-no address given in the Confession, nor any hint as to the man's

-whereabouts; but Skeggs had doubtless known where he was to be found,

-and had, in fact, told Kester that he could put his hand on the man at

-a day's notice.

-

-With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it

-was impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn

-that Mother Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of

-a few days, and when the restraining power which had doubtless kept

-him silent should be removed for ever, what was to prevent him from

-telling all that he knew, or, at least, from giving such broad hints

-as to the information in his possession as might lead to inquiry--to

-many inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would care to

-encounter--unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven to

-bay?

-

-But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It

-behoved him, therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain

-cautious inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with

-the view of ascertaining what kind of a man he was, or whether there

-was any danger to be apprehended from him. And if so, how could the

-danger best be met?

-

-It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave

-Park Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at

-any hour should Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he

-stayed on at the old place, very much against his will in other

-respects. But, to a certain extent, his patience had already been

-rewarded. Mr. Bendall's address had been discovered, and Mr. Bendall

-himself had been found to be first cousin to Mother Mim, and a railway

-ganger by profession. But just at this time he was away from home--his

-home being at Swarkstone, a great centre of railway industry, about

-twenty miles from Duxley--he having been sent out to Russia in charge

-of a cargo of railway plant. He was now expected back in the course of

-a few days, and Kester determined not to leave the neighbourhood till

-he had found out for himself what manner of man he was.

-

-We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two

-days after Kester's visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg,

-so that the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen,

-and it was at once understood how he had come by his death. No one

-except the girl Nell had seen Kester St. George in his company, so, as

-it fell out, that gentleman's name was never even whispered in

-connexion with the affair.

-

-The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously

-discussed in his own mind, after Mother Mim's death. What to do with

-such a strange girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence.

-Did she really know anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she

-not? If anything, how much did she know, and to what use did she

-intend to put her knowledge? Kester had no opportunity of talking to

-her in private before the funeral, so he made an appointment with her

-for the morning following that event. She was to meet him at a certain

-milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o'clock. Kester was there to

-the minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all.

-Kester went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to

-Mother Mim's cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the

-old woman who had been looking after matters previously to the

-funeral: From her he ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two

-hours after her return from seeing the last of her grandmother, taking

-with her her new black frock and a few other things tied up in a

-bundle, and had given no hint as to where she was going, or whether it

-was her intention ever to come back.

-

-The girl's disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude

-to Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any

-sign of her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness

-gradually wore itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself

-that from that quarter at least there was no possible danger to be

-apprehended.

-

-But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester

-St. George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park

-Newton, not even though he could not have left it till the seventh,

-and had been compelled to come back to it on the ninth. He would have

-gone somewhere--anywhere if only for a dozen hours--if only from

-sunset till sunrise, had it in anyway been possible for him to do so.

-But it so happened that it was not possible for him to do so. On the

-fifth he received a letter from his uncle, which astonished him very

-much. General St. George was still staying at Salisbury with his sick

-friend, Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:

-

-

-"All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant,

-but for a few hours only. I don't know whether your cousin Richard has

-told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out

-to New Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him."

-

-

-"The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of life!"

-muttered Kester. "Of course, it's Master Richard's dodge to take him

-with him, so as to make sure of his money when he dies. Well, if I can

-only get rid of the young one, the old one may go with him, and

-welcome." Then he went on with his uncle's letter.

-

-

-"I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope

-to spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old

-place, and there are several things I wish to talk to you about.

-We--that is, Richard and I, leave by the eight o'clock train next

-morning direct for Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us.

-By this day next week, I shall have bidden a final farewell to dear

-Old England."

-

-

-"So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it," said Kester,

-as he folded up the letter. "I would give much if it was any other day

-than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But there's

-no help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company than to

-spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that."

-

-"Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there's no

-chance of any of his money coming to me," he said to himself later on.

-"That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I

-don't suppose he's got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I

-wouldn't mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for

-ever."

-

-The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often

-are. Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and

-away he started without telling any one where he was going. He was out

-all day, and did not get back till five o'clock, an hour after the

-arrival of his uncle, with whom had come Mr. Perrins, the family

-lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not seen for a long time. He

-was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester that his uncle

-had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving England,

-in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.

-

-"This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England," said Kester.

-

-"Yes, it is very sudden," replied the General. "It is not more than

-three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The reasons

-he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not

-blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel

-left us, I seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I

-presently made up my mind to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of

-living alone. I have only you and him--and you; Kester, are too much

-of a Bohemian, too much a citizen of the world--a wandering Arab who

-strikes his tent a dozen times a year--for me ever to think of staying

-with you. Dick is far more of an old fogey than you are, and he and

-I--I don't doubt--will get on very well together."

-

-"All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you."

-

-Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to

-dinner, for there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton,

-the octogenarian Vicar of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally

-during the course of the trial, but not since. The vicar he had known

-from boyhood.

-

-It was by Lionel's express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar

-had been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell

-Kester to-night should be told to them also. They were all, in a

-certain sense, friends of the family; they were all men of honour;

-with them his secret would be safe. In simple justice to himself, he

-felt that it was not enough that his uncle and Bristow should be the

-sole depositories of that secret. There ought to be at least two or

-three family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly trusted,

-and whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in

-exile.

-

-None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular

-reason why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had

-any suspicion that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom

-they all so sincerely mourned. They had simply been invited to a

-little dinner party given by General St. George on the eve of his

-departure from England for ever.

-

-The last to arrive at Park Newton--and he did not arrive till two

-minutes before dinner was served--was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven

-Miss Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking

-with Edith till the last minute.

-

-Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General

-introduced them to each other. Tom had seen Kester several times,

-knowing well who he was, but the latter had no recollection of having

-ever seen Tom.

-

-Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as

-to the particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin

-that which he had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had

-kept his own counsel, having spoken no word to any one. It was a

-subject on which even his wife felt that she could not question him.

-During the past week he had been even more silent and distrait than

-usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one subject, to the

-exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be aware of,

-what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious

-one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon

-her: that she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed

-for was that the fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come

-and go without any encounter between her husband and his cousin.

-Lionel and Tom were to ride across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at

-the close of the evening--Tom, in order that he might escort Jane back

-to Pincote: Lionel, because he should then have bidden the old house a

-last farewell, because he should then have done with the past for

-ever, and because he should then be ready to start with his wife for

-their new home on the other side of the world.

-

-"And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to

-reconsider your determination?" said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand

-in hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had

-gone into Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little

-parlour all to themselves.

-

-"I'm afraid not," answered Edith with a melancholy smile

-

-"It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight

-and clear--just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the

-world! Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it

-aloud on the housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which

-he deserves to pay. I would never banish myself from my native country

-for his sake; he is not worthy of such a sacrifice."

-

-"You must not talk like that," said Edith, with a little extra squeeze

-of Jane's hand; "but it is easy to see who has been inoculating you

-with his wild doctrines."

-

-"They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones," said

-Jane emphatically. "There's nothing wild about them; they are plain

-common sense."

-

-"There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow

-the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are

-about to do is best for all concerned."

-

-"I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in

-this way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you."

-

-"I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I'm

-afraid Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear

-transplanting to a foreign clime."

-

-"Yes, I suppose so," said Jane, with a little sigh. "Only I should so

-like to travel: I should so like a six months' voyage to somewhere."

-

-"The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel

-so."

-

-"You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand,

-some place within four or five days' journey, where one could run over

-for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous

-of you to go so far away."

-

-"When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the

-case. If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be

-the least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a

-perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable.

-He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his

-face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without

-fear of detection."

-

-"I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to

-you to get away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful

-associations--to hide yourself in some remote valley where no shadow

-of the past can darken your door; but it seems to me that you need

-not go quite so far away in order to do that."

-

-"It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it."

-

-"No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one

-would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for

-me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make

-it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that

-effect. But, New Zealand!"

-

-As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith's uneasiness increase, but

-she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had

-told her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to

-the time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share

-in the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she

-was unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might

-not even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her

-husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly

-chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be

-a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers

-of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait--wait--wait! If

-she went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the

-sound of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be

-possible to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance

-away. To and fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned

-leopardess. White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping

-and unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess

-of old, who sees in her mind's eye a vision of doom--a vision of

-things to come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched

-her in silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but

-there was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.

-

-"I can bear this no longer," said Edith, at last; "the room suffocates

-me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel." She

-snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside's, that lay on the sofa, and flung

-it over her head and shoulders.

-

-"Let me go with you," cried Jane, "I am almost as anxious as you are."

-

-"Hush! hush!" cried Edith, suddenly, "I hear them coming!"

-

-Hardly breathing, they all listened.

-

-"I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind," cried Mrs.

-Garside, after a few moments.

-

-"Nor I," said Jane.

-

-"I tell you they are coming," said Edith. "There are two of them.

-Listen! Surely you can hear them now!" She flung open the window as

-she spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard

-highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage

-door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the

-top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them.

-

-Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed

-by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was

-no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour.

-To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all

-of them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave.

-

-Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith's white arms

-were round his neck.

-

-"My darling: what is it?" she said. "What dreadful thing has

-happened?" He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something

-in her ear. She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms

-tightened suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.

-

-

-At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom

-and Mr. Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar,

-did their best to keep the conversation from flagging, but at times

-with only indifferent success. None of them could forget what day it

-was--could forget what took place that night twelve months ago, only a

-few yards from where they were sitting; and so remembering, who could

-wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless and the wines without flavour,

-that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to the imagination of

-more than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the room,

-invisible to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking

-when they drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing

-well all the time which one of the company would be the first to join

-it in that Land of Shadows to which it now belonged.

-

-Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke

-at all except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep

-up some show of conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no

-one but himself knew how irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel

-intend to do? Would there be a scene--a fracas--between the two

-cousins? What would be the end of the wretched business? How fervently

-he wished that the morrow was safely come, that he had seen that

-unhappy man's face for the last time, and that he, and Lionel, and

-Edith were fairly started on their long journey to the other side of

-the world!

-

-The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party

-would break up by ten o'clock at the latest. Not that it mattered

-greatly to either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton

-all night. But the vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in

-decent time, so that when he began to fidget and look at his watch,

-Lionel, who was only waiting for him to make a move, knew that it

-would be impossible to detain him much longer.

-

-"I must really ask you to excuse me, General," said the old man at

-last. "But I see that it is past ten o'clock, and quite time for gay

-young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps."

-

-"I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar," said Lionel.

-"I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my uncle's

-permission, we will all adjourn there."

-

-"You must not keep me long," said the vicar.

-

-"I will not," said Lionel. "But I know that you like to finish up your

-evening with a little caf� noir; and I have, besides, a picture which

-I want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much--a

-picture--which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all

-the other gentlemen who are here to-night."

-

-They all rose and made a move towards the door.

-

-"As I don't care for caf� noir, and don't understand pictures, you

-will perhaps excuse me," said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing

-himself to his uncle.

-

-"You had better go with us," said Lionel, turning to his cousin. "You

-are surely not going to be the first to break up the party."

-

-"I don't want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come

-back," answered Kester, doggedly.

-

-"You had better go with us," said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so

-that the others could not hear him.

-

-"Pray who made you dictator here?" said Kester haughtily. "I don't

-choose to go with you. That is enough."

-

-"You had better go with us," said Lionel for the third time. "If you

-still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go."

-

-"Afraid!" sneered Kester. "Of whom and what should I be afraid?"

-

-"That is best known to yourself."

-

-"Anyhow, I'm neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do."

-

-"If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are

-kept away by some abject fear."

-

-"Lead on.--I'll follow.--But mark my words, you and I will have this

-little matter out in the morning--alone."

-

-"Willingly."

-

-The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to

-those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and

-no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered:

-a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as

-possible.

-

-Lionel's sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided

-into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on

-the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.

-

-"Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes," said

-Lionel. "My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it

-to you." So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of

-the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.

-

-Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were

-bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now,

-as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his

-shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that

-one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. "Come!"

-was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little

-malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his

-heart there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to

-him; a dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating

-on some far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know

-that he was there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable

-bitterness, how utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human

-being anywhere who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret

-him--not one single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his

-grave.--But such thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away

-somehow. He rose and went to the table, poured himself out half a

-tumbler of brandy, and drank it off without water. "It puts fresh life

-into me as it goes down," he muttered to himself.

-

-He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden

-noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were

-being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they

-stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness.

-Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel--or, as most

-there took it to be, the voice of Richard--but Lionel himself was

-unseen.

-

-"Gentlemen," said the voice, "you all know what day this is. It is the

-eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered.

-About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed

-about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how

-the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have

-painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you."

-

-The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open.

-The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that

-every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed

-canvas, on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel

-Dering's Dream.

-

-The scene was Percy Osmond's bedroom, and the moment selected by the

-artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and

-Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while

-pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other

-hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent's heart. Peeping from

-behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of

-Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses

-takable.

-

-Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at

-the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely

-accused was one of themselves.

-

-"Now you see how the murder really happened--now you know who the

-murderer really was," said Lionel, speaking from some place in the

-farther room where he could not be seen. "This is no dream but a most

-dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs--ample

-proofs--of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy

-Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!"

-

-At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was

-still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right

-hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported

-himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face;

-his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one

-face to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to

-speak, but could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy.

-Tom interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it

-greedily and then he spoke.

-

-"What you have just been told," he said, "is nothing but a cruel,

-cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he

-hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar--because he dare

-not face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer--we all

-know that Lionel Dering----"

-

-"Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you

-to your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!"

-

-Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood

-Lionel, no longer disguised--the dye washed off his face, his hands,

-his hair--the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from

-the dead--his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at

-a glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair

-beard.

-

-For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue,

-glaring across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.

-

-One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so.

-That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his

-face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half

-round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.

-

-"He has fainted," said the General.

-

-"He is dead," said Tom.

-

-"Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this," said Lionel.

-"None whatever!"

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XII.

-GATHERED THREADS.

-

-

-The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering

-with two courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out

-his original intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving

-the world still to believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he

-could give himself up to justice, under his real name, and, his first

-trial never having been finished--take his stand at the bar again

-under the original charge, and with the proofs he had gathered in his

-possession, let his innocence of the crime imputed to him work itself

-out through a legitimate channel to a verdict of Not Guilty. This

-latter course was the only one open to him if he wished to clear

-himself in the eyes of the world from the stain of blood, or even if

-he wished to assume his own name and his position as the owner of Park

-Newton. But did he really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad,

-of burying himself and his wife in some far-away nook of the New

-World, had taken such hold on his imagination, that even now it had by

-no means lost its sweetness in his thoughts. Then, again, Kester

-having died without a will, if he--Lionel were to leave himself

-undeclared, the estate would go to General St. George, as next of kin,

-and after the old soldier's time it would go, in the natural course of

-events, to his brother Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give

-himself into custody and undergo the pain and annoyance of another

-term of imprisonment, and another trial--and they would be both

-painful and annoying, even though his innocence were proved at the end

-of them? Why not rather bind over to silence those few trusted friends

-to whom his secret was already known, and going abroad with Edith,

-spend the remainder of his days in happy obscurity. Why re-open that

-bloodstained page of family history, over which the world had of a

-surety gloated sufficiently already?

-

-But in this latter view he was opposed by everybody except his wife;

-by his uncle, by Tom, by the vicar, and by nobody more strongly than

-by Messrs. Perrins and Hoskyns. The cry from all was--take your trial;

-let your innocence be proved, as proved it must be, and assume the

-name and position that are rightfully yours. Edith, with her head

-resting on his shoulder, only said: "Do that which seems best to you

-in your own heart, dearest, and that alone. Whether you go or stay, my

-place is by your side--my love unalterable. Only to be with you--never

-to lose you again--is all I ask. Give me that: I crave for nothing

-more."

-

-Strange to say, the person who brought matters to a climax, and

-finally decided Lionel as to his future course of action, was the girl

-Nell, Mother Mim's plain-spoken grand-daughter. Through some channel

-or other she had heard of the death of Mr. St. George, and one day she

-marched up the steps at Park Newton, and rang the big bell, and asked,

-as bold as brass, to see the General. The General was one of the most

-accessible of men, and when told that the girl wanted to see him

-privately, he marched off at once to the library, and ordered her to

-be admitted.

-

-It was a strange story the girl had to tell--so strange that the

-General at first put her down as a common impostor. Fortunately Mr.

-Perrins happened to be still at Park Newton, and he at once called the

-shrewd old lawyer to his assistance.

-

-But Miss Nell was now taken with a stubborn fit, and refused either to

-say any more or to answer any more questions, till five pounds had

-been given her as an earnest of more to follow, in case her

-information should prove to be correct. The five pounds having been

-put into her hands, she told all that she knew freely enough, and

-answered every question that was put to her. Then she was dismissed

-for the time being, having first left an address where she might be

-found when wanted.

-

-Nell had told them how the body of Dirty Jack had been found dead on

-the moor, and the first point to ascertain was, what had become of the

-confession which was known to have been in his possession when he left

-Mother Mim's cottage? Had it been found on his person? If so, where

-was it now? It was rather singular that Mr. St. George should be the

-last person known to have been seen in the company of Skeggs. The

-second question was, where was Mr. Bendall to be found? Mr. Perrins

-set to work without delay to solve this latter problem, by engaging

-one of Mr. Hoskyns's confidential clerks to make the requisite

-inquiries for him. To the first question, the whereabouts of the

-confession, he determined to give his own personal attention. But

-before he had an opportunity of doing this, he found among the papers

-of Kester the very document itself--the original confession, duly

-witnessed by Skeggs and the girl Nell. A day or two later Mr. Bendall

-was also found, and--for a consideration--had no objection to tell all

-he knew of the affair. His evidence, and that given in the confession,

-tallied exactly. There could no longer be any moral doubt as to the

-fact of Kester St. George having been a son of Mother Mim.

-

-This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was

-still debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one

-weapon more in favour of the course they were desirous that he should

-pursue. If Kester St. George were not Lionel's cousin, if he were not

-related to the family in any way, there was less reason than ever why

-Lionel should not declare himself, why he should not give himself up,

-and let his own innocence be proved once and for ever, by proving the

-guilt of this other man.

-

-Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the

-others, and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer.

-Exactly a week after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well

-continue to call him) Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at

-Duxley, and gave himself up into the hands of the sergeant on duty.

-

-Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. "How can you be Mr.

-Dering?" he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with

-the superintendent's recollection of him. "I saw that gentleman lying

-dead in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could

-have sworn to him anywhere."

-

-"What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and

-not the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without

-recognizing me. At all events here I am, alive and well, and if you

-will kindly lock me up, I shall esteem it a favour."

-

-"I was never so sold in the whole course of my life," said Drayton.

-"But there's one comfort--Sergeant Whiffins was just as much sold as I

-was."

-

-At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial

-for the murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been

-carefully looked after by a private detective in the guise of a guest

-at his hotel, was admitted as evidence for the Crown, and without

-leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty was found by the jury. Never

-had such a scene been known in Duxley as was enacted that summer

-afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the Court-house

-a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by main

-force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of

-the crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company

-with two brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster.

-Lionel's arm had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he

-had shaken hands with a great multitude of his friends--and every man

-and boy prided himself upon being Mr. Dering's friend that day. As for

-the ladies, they had their own way of showing their sympathy with him.

-Half the children in the parish that came to light during the next

-twelve months were christened either Edith or Lionel.

-

-The post-mortem examination showed that heart disease of long standing

-was the proximate cause of Kester St. George's death. He was buried

-not in the family vault where the St. Georges for two centuries lay in

-silent state, but in the town cemetery. The grave was marked by a

-plain slab, on which was engraved simply the initials of the name he

-had always been known by, and the date of his death.

-

-"I warned him of it long ago," said Dr. Bolus to two or three fellows

-at Kester's old club, as he stood with his back to the fire and his

-coat tails thrown over his arms. "But whose warnings are sooner

-forgotten than a doctor's? By living away from London, and leading a

-perfectly quiet and temperate life, he might have been kept going for

-years. But, above all things, he should have avoided excitement of

-every kind."

-

-Lionel and Edith put off for a little while their long-talked-of tour

-in order that they might be present at the wedding of Tom and Jane.

-The ceremony took place in August. Tom and his bride went to Scotland

-for their honeymoon. Lionel and his wife started for Switzerland, en

-route for Italy, where they were to spend the ensuing winter.

-

-Of late the Squire had recovered his health wonderfully. He seemed to

-have grown ten years younger in a few weeks. In the working of that

-wonderful coal-shaft, and in the prospect of his making a far larger

-fortune for his daughter than the one he so foolishly lost, he found a

-perpetual source of healthy excitement, which, by keeping both his

-mind and body actively and legitimately employed, had an undoubted

-tendency to lengthen his life. Besides this, Tom had asked him to

-superintend the construction of his new house. It was just the sort of

-job that the Squire delighted in--to look sharply after a lot of

-working men, and while pretending that they were all in a league to

-cheat him, blowing them up heartily all round one half-hour, and

-treating them to unlimited beer the next.

-

-"I should like to see you in the Town Council, Bristow," said the

-Squire one day to his son-in-law.

-

-"Thank you, sir, all the same," said Tom, "but it's hardly good

-enough. There will be a general election before we are much older,

-when I mean, either by hook or by crook, to get into the House."

-

-"Bristow, you have the cheek of the Deuce himself," was all that the

-astonished Squire could say.

-

-It may just be remarked that Tom's ambition has since been gratified.

-He is now, and has been for some time, member for W----. He is clever,

-ambitious, and a tolerable orator, as oratory is reckoned nowadays.

-What may not such a man aspire to?

-

-Mr. Hoskyns is a frequent guest both of Tom and Lionel. Chatting with

-the former one day over the "walnuts and the wine," said the old man:

-"I have often puzzled my brain over that affair of Baldry's--that

-positive assertion of his that he saw and spoke to me one night in the

-Thornfield Road when I was most certainly not there. Have you ever

-thought about it since?"

-

-"Once or twice, I dare say, but I could have enlightened you at the

-time had I chosen to do so. It was I whom Baldry met. I had made

-myself up to resemble you, and previously to my visit to the prison in

-your character, I thought I would try the effect of my disguise upon

-somebody who had known you well for years. As it so happened, Baldry

-was the first of your acquaintances whom I encountered on my nocturnal

-ramble. The rest you know."

-

-"You young vagabond! And yet you have the audacity to call yourself a

-respectable member of society. Perhaps you can explain the mystery of

-the ghostly footsteps at Park Newton when poor Pearce, the butler, was

-frightened out of the small quantity of wit that he could lay claim

-to?"

-

-"That, too, I can explain. The ghostly footsteps, as it happened, were

-very corporeal footsteps, being those of none other than your humble

-servant."

-

-"But how did you get into the room? It had been nailed up months

-before."

-

-"The nailing up was more apparent than real. The nails were sham

-nails. The door could be unlocked at any time, and the room entered in

-the ordinary way."

-

-"But how about the cough--Mr. Osmond's peculiar cough?"

-

-"That was an imitation by me from lessons given me by Mr. Dering. It

-answered the purpose admirably for which it was intended."

-

-"To hear such sounds at midnight in a room where a man had been

-murdered was enough to shake the strongest nerves. I wonder you were

-not frightened yourself to be in the room."

-

-"That would have been ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of."

-

-"In any extraordinary circumstances I shall never believe the evidence

-of my own senses again."

-

-Mr. Cope was not long in perceiving that he had committed a grave

-error of judgment in refusing Mr. Culpepper the assistance he had

-asked for. There would be a splendid fortune for Jane after all. It

-was enough to make a man tear his hair with vexation--only Mr. Cope

-hadn't much hair to tear--to think what a golden chance he had let

-slip through his fingers. Edward was recalled at once on the slight

-chance that if a meeting could anyhow be brought about between him and

-Jane, the old flame might spring up with renewed ardour in the young

-lady's bosom, in which case she might insist upon her engagement with

-Edward being carried out. But Edward bore his disappointment very

-philosophically, and had not been three hours in Duxley before he

-found himself eating pastry, and being ministered to by Miss Moggs,

-who was still unmarried, and still as plump and smiling as ever.

-

-Three weeks later the good people of Duxley were treated to a

-delightful sensation. Mr. Cope, Junior, had run away with the daughter

-of Mr. Moggs, the confectioner, and Mr. Cope, Senior, had threatened

-to cut his son off with the well-known metaphorical shilling.

-

-The latest news of young Mr. Cope is, that he is living in furnished

-apartments in a cheap suburb of London. The late Miss Moggs, her

-plumpness notwithstanding, has developed into a Tartar. They have six

-children. Mr. Cope's income is exactly two hundred a-year, left him by

-his mother. His father will not give him a penny, and he is either too

-lazy, or too incompetent, to attempt to add to his means by a little

-honest work. He is very stout and very short of breath. When he has

-any money he spends his time in a neighbouring billiard-room, smoking

-a short pipe and drinking half-and-half, and watching other men play.

-When he has no money he stops at home and rocks the cradle, and

-listens to his wife's reproaches. Mrs. Cope vows that she will buy a

-mangle and make her husband turn it, and try whether she cannot shame

-him into work that way. And all this is the result of eating pastry

-and being waited upon by a pretty girl.

-

-After the trial was over, Nell, by means of some speciously-concocted

-tale, contrived to cozen General St. George out of twenty pounds. With

-this she disappeared, and was never either seen or heard of in Duxley

-or its neighbourhood again.

-

-During the time that Lionel and his wife were abroad the General went

-with his friend, Major Beauchamp, to Madeira, and wintered there.

-

-It had been Lionel's intention to stay abroad for about three years.

-But as it fell out, he and Edith were back at Park Newton by the end

-of twelve months, being brought thither by the expectation of an

-all-important event. Lionel has not since then left home for more than

-a month at a time. So full of painful memories was Park Newton to him,

-that it was only by Edith's persuasion that he was induced to settle

-there at all. But years have come and gone since then, and nothing

-would now induce him to live anywhere else. Whatever gloomy

-associations might otherwise have clung to the old house have been

-exorcised long ago by the merry laughter of children. It was difficult

-at first for the Echoes of that murder-haunted roof to bring

-themselves to mimic the soft syllables of childhood, but when one

-little stranger after another came to teach them, then their voices,

-rusty and creaky at first through long disuse, gradually won back to

-themselves a long-forgotten sweetness; and now the Echoes follow the

-children wherever they go, and all the grim old pile is musical with

-the laughter and songs and free joyous shouts of childhood. Many a

-time they have a bout together--the children and the Echoes--trying

-which of them can make the more noise; and then the children call to

-the Echoes and bid them come out of their hiding-places and show

-themselves in the dusky twilight; but the Echoes only laugh back their

-answer, and are ever too timid to let themselves be seen.

-

-Who, of all people in the world, should be the children's primest

-favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the

-nursery, and there he spends hours every day. He "keeps shop" with

-them, he plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring

-lion, their wild man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the

-old warrior, whose very name was once a word of terror among the

-lawless hill-tribes of the far East see him led about by one boy by

-means of a piece of string tied round his arm, and while another

-youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to watch him

-imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing

-bear. There can be no doubt on one point--that the old soldier enjoys

-himself quite as much as the children do.

-

-After his year's imprisonment was at an end--to which mitigated

-punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted

-as witness for the Crown--he and his sister went over to Switzerland,

-and opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist

-travel. There, not long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking,

-bowing, and rubbing his hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request

-that Monsieur Dering would do him the honour of stopping at his hotel.

-But Lionel would have nothing to do with him, and when Janvard could

-be made to comprehend this, his face became a study of mortification

-and surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently hurt. He

-never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so

-positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d'Or.

-

-In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a

-few things that change not. One of these is the friendship between

-Lionel and Tom, which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of

-other interests has power to alter in the least. When they both happen

-to be in Midlandshire at the same time, a week never passes without

-their seeing more or less of each other, and between their wives there

-is almost as firm a friendship as there is between themselves. Four

-people more united, more happy in each other's society, it would be

-impossible to find.

-

-It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that

-Edith and Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm

-together, for the sake of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow

-perpetually round the old house. They were sitting one day on the

-broad yellow sands, idling through the glowing afternoon, with their

-embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane's little girls happened to

-fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith's little boy was

-by her side in a moment.

-

-"Don't cry," he said, as he stooped and kissed her. "I will marry you

-when I grow to be a big man."

-

-The little girl's tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked

-up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.

-

-"Such a thing is by no means improbable," said Edith.

-

-"I shall not be a bit surprised if it really comes to pass," replied

-Jane.

-

-

-

-

-THE END.

-

-

-

-

------------------------------------

-BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

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+Project Gutenberg's In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3), by T. W. Speight
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+other parts of the world 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
+www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
+to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
+
+Title: In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3)
+       A Novel
+
+Author: T. W. Speight
+
+Release Date: September 21, 2018 [EBook #57947]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, VOLUME 3 ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
+Internet Web Archive
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Notes:
+
+     1. Page scan source: The Internet Web Archive
+        https://archive.org/details/indeadofnightnov03spei
+        (University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
+
+
+
+A Novel.
+
+
+
+
+IN THREE VOLUMES.
+
+VOL. III.
+
+
+
+
+LONDON:
+RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.
+1874.
+
+(_All rights reserved_.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
+
+CHAPTER
+     I. A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.
+
+    II. IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.
+
+   III. MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.
+
+    IV. KNOCKLEY HOLT.
+
+     V. AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.
+
+    VI. TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.
+
+   VII. EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.
+
+  VIII. DIRTY JACK.
+
+    IX. WHAT TO DO NEXT?
+
+     X. HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.
+
+    XI. THE EIGHTH OF MAY.
+
+   XII. GATHERED THREADS.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+A WAY OUT OF THE DIFFICULTY.
+
+
+Two hours after the receipt of Mrs. McDermott's second letter, Squire
+Culpepper was on his way to Sugden's bank. His heart was heavy, and
+his step slow. He had never had to borrow a farthing from any man--at
+least, never since he had come into the estate--and he felt the
+humiliation, as he himself called it, very bitterly. There was
+something of bitterness, too, in having to confess to his friend Cope
+how all his brilliant castles in the air had vanished utterly, leaving
+not a wrack behind.
+
+He could see, in imagination, the sneer that would creep over Cope's
+face as the latter asked him why he could not obtain a mortgage on
+his fine new mansion at Pincote; the mansion he had talked so much
+about--about which he had bored his friends; the mansion that
+was to have been built out of the Alcazar shares, but of which
+not even the foundation-stone would ever now be laid. Then, again,
+the Squire was far from certain as to the kind of reception which
+would be accorded him by the banker. Of late he had seemed cool, very
+cool--refrigerating almost. Once or twice, too, when he had called,
+Mr. Cope had been invisible: a Jupiter Tonans buried for the time
+being among a cloud of ledgers and dockets and transfers: not to be
+seen by any one save his own immediate satellites. The time had been,
+and not so very long ago, when he could walk unchallenged through the
+outer bank office, whoever else might be waiting, and so into the
+inner sanctum, and be sure of a welcome when he got there. But now he
+was sure to be intercepted by one or other of the clerks with a "Will
+you please to take a seat for a moment while I see whether Mr. Cope is
+disengaged." The Squire groaned with inward rage as, leaning on his
+thick stick, he limped down Duxley High Street and thought of all
+these things.
+
+As he had surmised it would be, so it was on the present occasion. He
+had to sit down in the outer office, one of a row of six who were
+waiting Mr. Cope's time and pleasure to see them. "He won't lend me
+the money," said the Squire to himself, as he sat there choking with
+secret mortification. "He'll find some paltry excuse for refusing me.
+It's almost worth a man's while to tumble into trouble just to find
+out who are his friends and who are not."
+
+However, the banker did not keep him waiting more than five or six
+minutes. "Mr. Cope will see you, sir," said a liveried messenger, who
+came up to him with a low bow; and into Mr. Cope's parlour the Squire
+was thereupon ushered.
+
+The two men met with a certain amount of restraint on either side.
+They shook hands as a matter of course, and made a few remarks about
+the weather; and then the banker began to play with his seals, and
+waited in bland silence to hear whatever the Squire might have to say
+to him.
+
+Mr. Culpepper fidgeted in his chair and cleared his throat. The
+crucial moment was come at last. "I'm in a bit of a difficulty, Cope,"
+he began, "and I've come to you, as one of the oldest friends I have,
+to see whether you can help me out of it."
+
+"I should have thought that Mr. Culpepper was one of the last people
+in the world to be troubled with difficulties of any kind," said the
+banker, in a tone of studied coldness.
+
+"Which shows how little you know about either Mr. Culpepper or his
+affairs," said the Squire, dryly.
+
+The banker coughed dubiously. "In what way can I be of service to
+you?" he said.
+
+"I want five thousand five hundred pounds by this day week, and I've
+come to you to help me to raise it."
+
+"In other words, you want to borrow five thousand five hundred
+pounds?"
+
+"Exactly so."
+
+"And what kind of security are you prepared to offer for a loan of
+such magnitude?"
+
+"What security! Why, my I.O.U., of course."
+
+Mr. Cope took a pinch of snuff slowly and deliberately before he spoke
+again. "I am afraid the document in question could hardly be looked
+upon as a negotiable security."
+
+"And who the deuce wanted it to be considered as a negotiable
+security?" burst out the Squire. "Do you think I want everybody to
+know my private affairs?"
+
+"Possibly not," said the banker, quietly. "But, in transactions of
+this nature, it is a matter of simple business that the person who
+advances the money should have some equivalent security in return."
+
+"And is not my I.O.U. a good and equivalent security as between friend
+and friend?"
+
+"Oh if you are going to put the case in that way, it becomes a
+different kind of transaction entirely," said the banker.
+
+"And how else did you think I was going to put the case, as you call
+it?" asked the Squire, indignantly.
+
+"Commercially, of course: as a pure matter of business between one man
+and another."
+
+"Oh, ho that's it, is it?" said the Squire, grimly.
+
+"That's just it, Mr. Culpepper."
+
+"Then friendship in such a case as this counts for nothing, and my
+I.O.U. might just as well never be written."
+
+"Let us be candid with each other," said the banker, blandly. "You
+want the loan of a very considerable sum of money. Now, however much
+inclined I might be to lend you the amount out of my own private
+coffers, you will believe me when I say that I am not in a position to
+do so. I have no such amount of available capital in hand at present.
+But if you were to come to me with a good negotiable security, I could
+at once put you into the proper channel for obtaining what you want. A
+mortgage, for instance. What could be better than that? The estate, so
+far as I know, is unencumbered, and the sum you need could easily be
+raised on it on very easy terms."
+
+"I took an oath to my father on his deathbed that I would never raise
+a penny by mortgage on Pincote, and I never will."
+
+"If that is the case," said the banker, with a slight shrug of the
+shoulders, "I am afraid that I hardly see in what way I can be of
+service to you." He coughed, and then he looked at his watch, an
+action which Mr. Culpepper did not fail to note and resent in his own
+mind.
+
+"I am sorry I came," he said, bitterly. "It seems to have been only a
+waste of your time and mine."
+
+"Don't speak of it," said the banker, with his little business laugh.
+"In any case, you have learned one of the first and simplest lessons
+of commercial ethics."
+
+"I have, indeed," answered the Squire, with a sigh. He rose to go.
+
+"And Miss Culpepper, is she quite well?" said Mr. Cope; rising also.
+"I have not had the pleasure of seeing her for some little time."
+
+The Squire faced fiercely round. "Look you here, Horatio Cope," he
+said; "you and I have been friends of many years' standing. Fast
+friends, I thought, whom no reverses of fortune would have separated.
+Finding myself in a little strait, I come to you for assistance. To
+whom else should I apply? It is idle to say that you could not help me
+out of my difficulty, were you willing to do so."
+
+"No, believe me----" interrupted the banker; but Mr. Culpepper went on
+without deigning to notice the interruption.
+
+"You have not chosen to do so, and there's an end of the matter, so
+far. Our friendship must cease from this day. You will not be sorry
+that it is so. The insults and slights you have put upon me of late
+have all had that end in view, and you are doubtless grateful that
+they have had the desired effect."
+
+"You judge me very hardly," said the banker.
+
+"I judge you from your own actions, and from them alone," said the
+Squire, sternly. "Another point, and I have done. Your son was engaged
+to my daughter, with your full sanction and consent. That engagement,
+too, must come to an end."
+
+"With all my heart," said the banker, quietly.
+
+"For some time past your son, acting, no doubt, on instructions from
+his father, has been gradually paving the way for something of this
+kind. There have been no letters from him for five weeks, and the last
+three or four that he sent were not more than as many lines each. No
+doubt he will feel grateful at being released from an engagement that
+had become odious to him; and on Miss Culpepper's side the release
+will be an equally happy one. She had learned long ago to estimate
+at his true value the man to whom she had so rashly pledged her hand.
+She had found out, to her bitter cost, that she had promised herself
+to a person who had neither the instincts nor the education of a
+gentleman--to an individual, in fact, who was little better than a
+common boor."
+
+This last thrust touched the banker to the quick. His face flushed
+deeply. He crossed the room and called down an India-rubber tube:
+"What is the amount of Mr. Culpepper's balance?"
+
+Presently came the answer: "Two eighty eleven five."
+
+"Two hundred and eighty pounds, eleven shillings, and five pence,"
+said Mr. Cope, with a sneer. "May I ask, sir, that you will take
+immediate steps for having this magnificent balance transferred to
+some other establishment."
+
+"I shall take my own time about doing that," said Mr. Culpepper.
+
+"What a pity that your new mansion was not finished in time--quite a
+castle it was to have been, was it not? A mortgage of five or six
+thousand could have been a matter of no difficulty then, you know. If
+I recollect rightly, all the furniture and decorations were to have
+come from London. Nothing in Duxley would have been good enough. I
+merely echo your own words."
+
+The Squire winced. "I am rightly served," he muttered to himself.
+"What can one expect from a man who swept out an office and cleaned his
+master's shoes?" He rose to go. For all his bitterness, there was a
+little pathetic feeling at work in his heart. "So ends a friendship of
+twenty years," was his thought. "Goodbye, Cope," he said aloud as he
+moved towards the door.
+
+The banker, standing with his back to the fire, and looking straight
+at the opposite wall, neither stirred nor spoke, nor so much as turned
+his head to take a last look at his old friend. And so, without
+another word, the Squire passed out.
+
+A bleak north wind was blowing as the Squire stepped into the street.
+He paused for a moment to button his coat more closely around him. As
+he did so, a poor ragged wretch passed trembling by without saying a
+word. The Squire called the man back and gave him a shilling. "My
+plight may be bad enough, but his is a thousand times worse," he said
+to himself as he walked down the street.
+
+Where to go, or what to do next, he did not know. He had gone to see
+Mr. Cope without any very great expectation of being able to obtain
+what he wanted, and yet, perhaps, not without some faint hope nestling
+at his heart that his friend would find him the money. But now he knew
+for a fact that nothing was to be got from that quarter, he felt a
+little chilled, a little lonely, a little lost as to what he should do
+next. That something must be done, he knew quite well, but he was at a
+nonplus as to what that something ought to be. To raise five thousand
+five hundred pounds at a few days' notice, with no better security to
+offer than a simple I.O.U., was by no means an easy matter, as the
+Squire was beginning to discover to his cost. "Why not ask Sir Harry
+Cripps?" he said to himself. But then he bethought himself that Sir
+Harry had a very expensive family, and that only six months ago he had
+given up his hunter, and dispensed with a couple of carriage-horses,
+and had talked of going on to the continent for four or five years.
+No: it was evident that Sir Harry Cripps could do nothing for him.
+
+In what other direction to turn he knew not. "If poor Lionel Dering
+had only been alive, I could have gone to him with confidence," he
+thought. "Why not try Kester St. George?" was his next thought. "No:
+Kester isn't one of the lending kind," he muttered, with a shake of
+the head. "He's uncommonly close-fisted, is Kester. What he's got
+he'll stick to. No use trying there."
+
+Next moment he nearly ran against General St. George, who was coming
+from an opposite direction. They started at sight of each other, then
+shook hands cordially. Their acquaintanceship dated only from the
+arrival of the General at Park Newton, but they had already learned to
+like and esteem one another.
+
+After the customary greetings and inquiries were over, said Mr.
+Culpepper to the General: "Is your nephew Kester still stopping with
+you at Park Newton?"
+
+"Yes, he is still there," answered the General; "though he has talked
+every day for the last month or more about going. Kester is one of
+those unaccountable fellows that you can never depend on. He may stay
+for another month, or he may take it into his head to go by the first
+train to-morrow."
+
+"I heard a little while ago that he was ill; but I suppose he is
+better again by this time?"
+
+"Yes--quite recovered. He was laid up for three or four days, but he
+soon got all right again."
+
+"Your other nephew--George--Tom--Harry--what's his name--is he quite
+well?"
+
+"You mean Richard--he who came from India? Yes, he is quite well."
+
+"He's very like his poor brother, only darker, and--pardon me for
+saying so--not half so agreeable a young fellow."
+
+"Everybody seems to have liked poor Lionel."
+
+"Nobody could help liking him," said the Squire, with energy. "I felt
+the loss of that poor boy almost as much as if he had been my own
+son."
+
+"Not a soul in the world had an ill word to say about him."
+
+"I wish that the same could be said of all of us," said the Squire.
+And so, after a few more words, they parted.
+
+As General St. George had told the Squire, Kester was still at Park
+Newton. The doctor who was called in to attend him after his sudden
+attack on the night that the footsteps were heard in the nailed-up
+room, prescribed a bottle or two of some harmless mixture, and a few
+days of complete rest and isolation. As Kester would neither allow
+himself to be examined, nor answer any questions, there was very
+little more that could be done for him.
+
+Kester's first impulse after his recovery--and a very strong impulse
+it was--was to quit Park Newton at once and for ever. Further
+reflection, however, convinced him that such a step would be unwise in
+the extreme. It would at once be said that he had been frightened away
+by the ghost, and that was a thing that he could by no means afford to
+have said of him. For it to get gossiped about that he had been driven
+from his own house by the ghost of Percy Osmond, might, in time, tend
+to breed suspicion; and from suspicion might spring inquiry, and that
+might ultimately lead to nobody knew what. No: he would stay on at
+Park Newton for weeks--for months even, if it suited him to do so. The
+incident of his sudden illness was a very untoward one: on that point
+there could be no doubt whatever; but not if he could anyhow help it
+should the faintest breath of suspicion spring therefrom.
+
+The Squire's troubles had faded into the background for a few minutes
+during his interview with General St. George, but they now rushed back
+upon him with, as it seemed, tenfold force. There was nothing left for
+him now but to go home, and yet he had never felt less inclined to do
+so in his life. He dreaded the long quiet evening, with no society but
+that of his daughter. Not that Jane was a dull companion, or anything
+like it; but he dreaded to encounter her pleading eyes, her pretty
+caressing ways, the lingering embrace she would give him when he
+entered the house, and her good-night kiss. He felt how all these
+things would tend to unman him, how they would merely serve to deepen
+the remorse which he felt already. If only he could meet with some one
+to take home with him!--he did not care much who it was--some one who
+would talk to him, and enliven the evening, and take off for a little
+while the edge of his trouble, and so help him to tide over the weary
+hours that intervened between now and the morrow, by which time
+something might happen--he knew not what--or some light be vouchsafed
+to him which would show him a way out of his difficulties.
+
+These, or something like these, were the thoughts that were floating
+hazily in his mind, when in the distance he spied Tom Bristow striding
+along at his usual energetic rate. The Squire being still very lame,
+wisely captured a passing butcher boy, and, with the promise of
+sixpence, bade him hurry after Tom, and not come back without him.
+
+"You must come back with me to Pincote," he said, when the astonished
+Tom had been duly captured. "I'll take no refusal. I've got a fit of
+mopes, and if you don't come and help to keep Jenny and me alive this
+evening, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live." So saying,
+the Squire linked his arm in Tom's, and turned his face towards
+Pincote; and nothing loath was Tom to go with him.
+
+"I've done a fine thing this afternoon," said Mr. Culpepper, as they
+drove along in the basket-carriage, which had been waiting for him at
+the hotel. "I've broken off Jenny's engagement with Edward Cope."
+
+Tom's heart gave a great bound. "Pardon me, sir, for saying so," he
+said as calmly as he could, "but I never thought that Mr. Cope was in
+any way worthy of Miss Culpepper."
+
+"You are right, boy. He was not worthy of her."
+
+"From the first time of seeing them together, I felt how entirely
+unfitted was Mr. Cope to appreciate Miss Culpepper's manifold charms
+of heart and mind. A marriage between two such people would have been
+a most incongruous one."
+
+"Thank Heaven! it's broken now and for ever."
+
+"I've broken off your engagement to Edward Cope," whispered the Squire
+to Jane in the hall, as he kissed her. "Are you glad or sorry, dear?"
+
+"Glad--very, very glad, papa," she whispered back as she rained a
+score of kisses On his face. Then she began to cry, and with that she
+ran away to her own room till she could recover herself.
+
+"Women are queer cattle," said the Squire, turning to Tom, "and I'll
+be hanged if I can ever make them out."
+
+"From Miss Culpepper's manner, sir," said Tom, gravely, "I should
+judge that you had told her something that pleased her very much
+indeed."
+
+"Then what did she begin snivelling for?" said the Squire, gruffly.
+
+"Why not tell him everything?" said the Squire to himself, as he and
+Tom sat down in the drawing-room. "He knows a good deal already,--why
+not tell him more? I know he can do nothing towards helping me to
+raise five thousand pounds, but it will do me good to talk to him. I
+must talk to somebody--and I feel sure my secret is quite safe with
+him. I'll tell him while Jenny's out of the room."
+
+The Squire coughed and hemmed, and poked the fire violently before he
+could find a word to say. "Bristow," he burst out at last, "I want to
+raise five thousand five hundred pounds in five days from now, and as
+I'm rather a bad hand at borrowing, I thought that you could, maybe,
+give me a hint as to how it could best be done. Cope would have
+advanced it for me in a moment, only that he happens to be rather
+short of funds just now, and I don't want to trouble any of my other
+friends if it can anyhow be managed without." He began to hum the air
+of an old drinking-song, and poked the fire again. "Capital coals
+these," he added. "And I got 'em cheap, too. The market went up three
+shillings a ton the very day after these were sent in."
+
+"Five thousand five hundred pounds is rather a large amount, sir,"
+said Tom, slowly.
+
+"Of course it's a large amount," said the Squire, testily. "If it were
+only a paltry hundred or two I wouldn't trouble anybody. But never
+mind, Bristow--never mind. I didn't suppose that you could help me
+when I mentioned it; and, after all, it's a matter of very little
+consequence whether I raise the money or not."
+
+"I can only suggest one way, sir, by which the money could be raised
+in so short a time."
+
+"Eh!" said the Squire, turning suddenly on him, and dropping the poker
+noisily in the grate. "You don't mean to say that you can see how it's
+to be done!"
+
+"I think I do, sir. Do you know the piece of ground called Prior's
+Croft?"
+
+"Very well indeed. It belongs to Duckworth, the publican."
+
+"Between you and me, sir, Duckworth's hard up, and would be glad to
+sell the Croft if he could do it quietly and without its becoming
+generally known that he is short of money."
+
+"Well?" said the Squire, a little impatiently. He could not understand
+what Tom was driving at.
+
+"I dare engage to say, sir, that you could have the Croft for two
+thousand pounds, cash down."
+
+"Confound it, man, what an idiot you must be!" said the Squire
+fiercely, bringing his fist down on the table with a tremendous bang.
+"Didn't I tell you that I wanted to borrow money, and not to spend it?
+In fact, as you know quite well, I've got none to spend."
+
+"Precisely so," said Tom, coolly. "And that is the point to which I am
+coming, if you will hear me out."
+
+The Squire's only answer was to glare at him, as if in doubt whether
+he had not taken leave of his senses.
+
+"As I said before, sir, Duckworth will take two thousand pounds for
+the Croft, cash down. Now I, sir, will engage to raise two thousand
+pounds for you by to-morrow, at noon, with which to buy the piece of
+ground in question. The purchase can be effected, and the necessary
+deeds made out and completed, by ten o'clock the following morning. If
+you will entrust those deeds into my possession, I will guarantee to
+effect a mortgage for six thousand pounds, in your name, on the
+Croft."
+
+If the Squire had looked suspicious with regard to Tom's sanity
+before, he now seemed to have no doubt whatever on the point. He
+quietly took up the poker again, as if he were afraid that Tom might
+spring at him unexpectedly.
+
+"So you could lend me two thousand pounds could you?" said the Squire
+drily.
+
+"I did not say that, sir. I said that I could raise two thousand
+pounds for you, which is a very different matter from lending it out
+of my own pocket."
+
+"Humph! And who, sir, do you think would be such a consummate ass as
+to advance six thousand pounds on a plot of ground that had just been
+bought for two thousand?"
+
+"Strange as such a transaction may seem to you, sir, I give you my
+word of honour that I should find no difficulty in carrying it out.
+Have I your permission to do so?"
+
+"I suppose that the two thousand raised by you would have to be repaid
+out of the six thousand raised by mortgage, leaving me with a balance
+of four thousand in hand?" said the Squire, without heeding Tom's
+question, a smile of incredulity playing round his mouth.
+
+"No, sir," answered Tom. "The two thousand pounds could remain on
+interest at five per cent. for whatever term might suit your
+convenience. Again, sir, I ask, have I your permission to negotiate
+the transaction for you?"
+
+Mr. Culpepper gazed steadily for a moment or two into Tom's clear,
+cold eyes. There were no symptoms of insanity visible there, at any
+rate. "And do you mean to tell me in sober seriousness," he said,
+"that you can raise this money in the way you speak of?"
+
+"In sober seriousness, I mean to tell you that I can. Try me."
+
+"I will try you," answered the Squire, impulsively. "I will try you,
+boy. You are a strange fellow, and I begin to think that there's more
+in you than I ever thought there was. But here comes Jenny. Not a word
+more just now."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+IN THE SYCAMORE WALK.
+
+
+The Park Newton clocks, with more or less unanimity as to time, had
+just struck ten. It was a February night, clear and frosty, and Lionel
+Dering sat in his dressing-room in slippered ease, musing by
+firelight. He had turned out the lamp on purpose; it was too garish
+for his mood to-night. He was back again in thought at Gatehouse Farm.
+Again he saw the gray old cottage, with its moss-grown eaves--the
+cottage that was so ugly outside, but so cosy within. Again he saw the
+long low sandhills, where they stretched themselves out to meet the
+horizon, and, in fancy, heard again the low, monotonous plash of the
+waves, whose melancholy music, heard by day and night, had at one time
+been as familiar to him as the sound of his own voice. What a quiet,
+happy time that seemed as he now looked back to it--a time of soft
+shadows and mild sunshine, with a pensive charm that was all its own,
+and that was lost for ever in the hour which told him that he was a
+rich man! Riches! What had riches done for him? He groaned in spirit
+as he asked himself the question. He could have been happy with Edith
+in a garret--how happy none but himself could have told--had fortune
+compelled him to earn her bread and his own by the sweat of his strong
+right arm.
+
+His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," he
+called out mechanically; and in there came, almost without, a sound,
+Dobbs, body-servant to Kester St. George.
+
+"Oh, Dobbs, is that you?" said Lionel, a little wearily, as he turned
+his head and saw who it was.
+
+"Yes, sir, I have made bold to intrude upon you for a few seconds,"
+said Dobbs, with the utmost deference, as he slowly advanced into the
+room, rubbing the long lean fingers of one hand softly with the palm
+of the other. "My master has not yet got back from Duxley, and there's
+nobody about just now."
+
+"Quite right, Dobbs," said Lionel. "Anything fresh to report?"
+
+"Nothing particularly fresh, sir, but I thought that you might perhaps
+like to see me."
+
+"Very considerate of you, Dobbs, but I am not aware that I have
+anything of consequence to say to you to-night."
+
+"Thank you, sir," said Dobbs, with a faint smile and an extra rub of
+his fingers. "Master's still very queer, sir. No appetite worth
+speaking about. Obliged to screw himself up with brandy in a morning
+before he can finish his toilet. Mutters and moans a good deal in his
+sleep, sir."
+
+"Mutters in his sleep, does he?" said Lionel. "Have you any idea,
+Dobbs, what it is that he talks about?"
+
+"I've tried my best to ascertain, sir, but without much success. I
+have listened and listened for hours, and very cold work it is, sir;
+but there's never more than a word now and a word then that one can
+make out. Nothing connected--nothing worth recollecting."
+
+"Does Mr. St. George still walk in his sleep?"
+
+"He does, sir, but not very often--not more than two or three times a
+month."
+
+"Keep your eyes open, Dobbs, and the very next time your master walks
+in his sleep come to me at once--never mind what hour it may be--and
+tell me."
+
+"I won't fail to do so, sir."
+
+"In these sleep-walking rambles does Mr. St. George always confine
+himself to the house, or does he ever venture out into the park or
+grounds?"
+
+"He generally goes out of doors, sir, at such times. Three times out
+of four he goes as far as the Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk,
+stops there for a minute or two, and then walks back home. I have
+watched him several times."
+
+"The Wizard's Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk! What should take him
+there?"
+
+"Then you know the place, sir?"
+
+"I know it well."
+
+"Can't say what fancy takes him there, sir. Perhaps he doesn't know
+hisself."
+
+"In any case, let me know when he next walks in his sleep. I have no
+further instructions for you to-night, Dobbs."
+
+"Thank you, sir. I have the honour to wish you a very good night,
+sir."
+
+"Good-night, Dobbs. Keep your eyes open, and report everything to me."
+
+"Yes, sir, yes. You may trust me for doing that, sir." And Dobbs the
+obsequious bowed himself out.
+
+In his cousin's valet Lionel had found an instrument ready to his
+hand, but it was not till after long hesitation and doubt that he made
+up his mind to avail himself of it. The necessities of the case at
+length decided him to do so. No one appreciated the value of a bribe
+better than Dobbs, or worked harder or more conscientiously to deserve
+one. There was a crooked element in his character which made whatever
+money he might earn by indirect means, or by tortuous working, seem
+far sweeter to him than the honest wages of everyday life. Kester St.
+George was not the kind of man ever to try to attach his inferiors to
+himself by any tie of gratitude or kindness. At different times and in
+various ways he suffered for this indifference, although the present
+could hardly be considered as a case in point, seeing that it was not
+in the nature of Dobbs to resist a bribe in whatever shape it might
+offer itself, and that gratitude was one of those virtues which had
+altogether been omitted from his composition.
+
+Late one afternoon, a few days after the interview between Lionel and
+Dobbs, Kester St. George had his horse brought round, and rode out
+unattended, and without leaving word in what direction he was going,
+or at what hour he might be expected back. The day was dull and
+lowering, with fitful puffs of wind, that blew first from one point
+and then from another, and seemed the forerunners of a coming storm.
+Buried in his own thoughts, Kester paid no heed to the weather, but
+rode quickly forward till several miles of country had been crossed.
+By-and-by he diverged from the main road, and turned his horse's head
+into a tortuous and muddy lane, which, after half an hour's bad
+travelling, landed him on the verge of a wide stretch of brown
+treeless moor, than which no place could well have looked more
+desolate and cheerless under the gray monotony of the darkening
+February afternoon. Kester halted for awhile at the end of the lane to
+give his horse breathing time. Far as the eye could see, looking
+forward from the point where he was standing, all was bare and
+treeless, without one single sign of habitation or life.
+
+"Whatever else may be changed, either with me or the world," he
+muttered, "the old moor remains just as it was the first day that I
+can remember it. It was horrible to me at first, but I learned to like
+it--to love it even, before I left it; and I love it now--to-day--with
+all its dreariness and monotony. It is like the face of an old friend.
+You may go away for twenty years, and when you come back you know that
+you will find on it just the same look that it wore when you went
+away. Not that I have ever cared to cultivate such friendships," he
+added, half regretfully. "Well, the next best thing to having a good
+friend is to have a good enemy, and I can thank heaven for granting me
+several such."
+
+He touched his horse with the spur, and rode slowly forward, taking a
+narrow bridle path that led in an oblique direction across the moor.
+"This ought to be the road if my memory serves me aright," he
+muttered, "but they are all so much alike, and intersect each other so
+frequently, that it's far more easy to lose one's way than to know
+where one is."
+
+"I suppose I shall have the rough side of Mother Mim's tongue when I
+do find her," he went on. "I've neglected her shamefully, without a
+doubt. But such ties as the one between her and me become tiresome in
+the long run. She ought to have died off long ago, but she's as tough
+as leather. Poor devils in this part of the country, that haven't a
+penny to bless themselves with, think nothing of living till they're a
+hundred. Is it a superfluity of ozone, or a want of brains, that keeps
+them alive so long?"
+
+He rode steadily forward till he had nearly crossed one angle of the
+moor. At length, but not without some difficulty, he found the place
+he had come in search of. It was a rudely-built hut--cottage it could
+hardly be called--composed of mud, and turf, and great boulders all
+unhewn. Its roof of coarsest thatch was frayed and worn with the wind
+and rain of many winters. Its solitary door of old planks, roughly
+nailed together, opened full on to the moor.
+
+At the back was a patch of garden-ground, which was supposed to grow
+potatoes in the season, but which had never yet been known to grow any
+that were fit to eat. Mr. St. George looked round with a sneer as he
+dismounted.
+
+"And it was in this wretched den that I spent the first eight years of
+my existence!" he muttered. "And the woman whom this place calls its
+mistress was the first being whom I learned to love! And, faith, I'm
+rather doubtful whether I've ever loved anybody half so well since."
+
+Putting his horse's bridle over a convenient hook, and dispensing with
+the ceremony of knocking, Kester St. George lifted the latch, pushed
+open the door, stooped his head, and went in. Inside the hut
+everything was in semi-darkness, and Kester stood for a minute with
+the door in his hand, striving to make out the objects before him.
+
+"Come in and shut the door: I expected you," said a hollow voice from
+one corner of the room; and the one room, such as it was, comprised
+the whole hut.
+
+"Is that you, Mother Mim?" asked Kester.
+
+"Ay--who else should it be?" answered the voice. "But come in and shut
+the door. That cold wind gives me the shivers."
+
+Kester did as he was told, and then made his way to a wretched pallet
+at the other end of the hut. Of furniture there was hardly any, and
+the aspect of the whole place was miserable in the extreme. Over the
+ashes of a wood fire crouched a girl of sixteen, ragged and unkempt,
+who stared at him with black, glittering eyes as he passed her. Next
+moment he was standing by the side of a ragged pallet, on which lay
+the figure of a woman who looked ill almost unto death.
+
+"Why, mother, whatever has been the matter with you?" asked Kester. "A
+little bit out of sorts, eh? But you'll soon be all right again now."
+
+"Yes, I shall soon be all right now--soon be quite well," answered the
+woman grimly. "A black box and six feet of earth cure everything."
+
+"You mustn't talk in that way, mother," said Kester, as he sat down on
+the only chair in the place, and took one of the woman's lean, hot
+hands in his. "You will live to plague us for many a year to come."
+
+"Kester St. George, this is the last time you and I will meet in this
+world."
+
+"I hope not, with all my heart," said Kester, feelingly.
+
+"I know what I know, and I know that what I say is true," answered
+Mother Mim. "You would not have come now if I had not worked a spell
+strong enough to bring you here even against your will. I worked it
+four nights ago, at midnight, when that young viper there"--pointing a
+finger at the girl, who was still cowering over the ashes--"was fast
+asleep, and there were no eyes to see but those of the cold stars. Ah!
+but it was horrible! and if it had not been that I felt I must see you
+before I died, I could never have gone through with it." She paused
+for a moment, as though overcome by some dreadful recollection. "Then,
+when it was over, I crept back to bed, and waited quietly, knowing
+that now you could not choose but come."
+
+"I ought to have come and seen you long ago--I know it--I feel it,"
+said Kester. "But let bygones be bygones, and I give you my solemn
+promise never to neglect you again. I am rich now, mother, and you
+shall never want for anything as long as you live."
+
+"Too late--too late!" sighed the woman. "Yes, you're rich now, rich
+enough to bury me, and that's all I ask you to do."
+
+"Don't talk like that, mother," said Kester.
+
+"If you had only come to see me!" said the woman. "That was all I
+wanted. Just to see your face, and squeeze your hand, and have you to
+talk to me for a little while. I wanted none of your money--no, not a
+single shilling of it. It was only you I wanted."
+
+Kester began to feel slightly bored. He squeezed Mother Mim's hand,
+and then dropped it, but he did not speak.
+
+"But you didn't come," moaned the woman, "and you wouldn't have come
+now if I hadn't worked a charm to bring you."
+
+"There you wrong me," said Kester, decisively. "Your charm, or spell,
+or whatever it may have been, had no effect in bringing me here. I
+came of my own free will."
+
+"Self-conceited, as you always were and always will be," muttered the
+woman. Then, half raising herself in bed, and addressing the girl, she
+cried: "Nell, you hussy, just you hook it for a quarter of an hour.
+The gent and I have something to talk about."
+
+The girl rose sullenly, went slowly out, and banged the door behind
+her.
+
+Kester wondered what was coming next. He had dropped the woman's hand,
+but she now held it out for him to take again. He took it, and she
+pressed his hand passionately to her lips three or four times.
+
+"If the great secret of my life is to be told at all on this side the
+grave, the time to tell it is now come. I always thought to die
+without revealing it, but somehow of late everything has seemed
+different to me, and I feel now as if I couldn't die easy without
+telling you." She paused for a minute, exhausted. There was some
+brandy on the chimney-piece, and Kester gave her a little. Again she
+took his hand and kissed it passionately.
+
+"You will, perhaps, curse me for what I am about to tell you," she
+went on, "but whether you do so or not, so may Heaven help me if it is
+anything more than the simple truth! Kester St. George, you have no
+right to the name you bear--to the name the world knows you by!"
+
+Kester was so startled that for a moment or two he sat like one
+suddenly stricken dumb. "Go on," he said at last. "There's more to
+follow. I like boldness in lying as in everything else."
+
+"Again I swear that I am telling you no more than the solemn truth."
+
+"If I am not Kester St. George," he said with a sneer, "perhaps you
+will kindly inform me who I really am."
+
+"You are my son!"
+
+He flung the woman's hand savagely from him, and sprang to his feet
+with an oath. "Your son!" he said. "Ha! ha! ha! Your son, indeed!
+Since when have your senses quite left you, Mother Mim? A dark cell in
+Bedlam and a strait waistcoat would be your best physic."
+
+"I am rightly punished," moaned the woman--"rightly punished. I ought
+to have told you years ago--ay--before you ever grew to be a man. But
+I loved you so, and had such pride in you, that I couldn't bear the
+thought of telling you, and it's only now when I'm on my deathbed that
+the secret forces itself from me. But it will go no farther, never you
+fear that. No living soul but you will ever hear it from my lips; and
+you have only got to keep your own lips tightly shut, and you will
+live and die as Kester St. George."
+
+She sank back with the exhaustion of speaking. Mechanically, and
+almost without knowing what he was doing, Kester again gave her a
+little brandy. Then he sat down; and Mother Mim, finding his hand
+close by, took possession of it again. He shuddered slightly, but did
+not withdraw it.
+
+Although Mother Mim had advanced no proofs in support of the strange
+story she had just told him, there was something in her tone which
+carried conviction to his inmost heart.
+
+"I must know more of this," he said, after a little while, speaking
+almost in a whisper.
+
+"How well I remember everything about it! It seems only like yesterday
+that it all happened," sighed the woman. "You--my own child, and
+he--the other one that was sent to me to nurse, were born within a few
+hours of one another. His father broke a blood-vessel about six weeks
+after the child was brought to me. The mother went with her husband to
+Italy to take care of him, and the child was left with me. A week or
+two afterwards he was taken suddenly ill, and died. Then the devil
+tempted me to put my own boy into the place of the lost heir. When
+Mrs. St. George came back from Italy she came to see her child, and
+you were shown to her as that child. She accepted you without a
+moment's suspicion. They let you stay with me till you were eight
+years old, and then they took you away and sent you to school. My
+husband and my sister were the only two beside myself who knew what
+had been done, and they both died years ago without saying a word. I
+shall join them in a few days, and then you alone will be the keeper
+of the secret. With you it will die, and on your tombstone they will
+write: 'Here lies the body of Kester St. George.'"
+
+She had told her story with great difficulty, and with frequent
+interruptions to gather strength and breath to finish it. She now lay
+back, utterly exhausted. Her eyes closed, her hand relaxed its hold on
+Kester's, her jaw dropped slightly, the thin white face grew thinner
+and whiter: it seemed as if Death, passing that way, had looked in
+unexpectedly, and had beckoned her to go with him. Kester rose
+quickly, and struck a match and lighted a fragment of candle that he
+found on the chimney-piece. His next impulse was to try and revive her
+with a little brandy, but he paused with the glass in his hand. Why
+try to revive her? Would it not be better for him, for her, for every
+one, if she were really dead? If such were the case, it would do away
+with all fear of her strange secret being ever divulged to any one
+else. Yes--in every way her death would be a welcome release.
+
+It was not without a tremor, it was not without a faster beating of
+the heart, that Kester took the bit of cracked looking-glass from the
+wall and held it to the woman's lips. His very life seemed to stand
+still for a moment or two while he waited for the result. It came. The
+glass clouded faintly. The woman was not dead. With a muttered curse
+Kester dashed the glass across the floor and put back the candle on
+the chimney-piece. Then he took up his hat. Where was the use of
+staying longer? She could tell him nothing more when she should have
+come to her senses than she had told him already: nothing, that is, of
+any consequence; and as for details, he did not want them--at least,
+not now. What he had been told already held food enough for thought
+for some time to come. He paused for a moment before going out.
+Was it really possible--was it really credible, that that haggard,
+sharp-featured woman was his mother?--that his father had been a
+coarse, common labouring man, a mere hedger and ditcher, who had lived
+and died in that mean hut, and that he himself, instead of being the
+Kester St. George he had always believed himself to be, was no other
+than the son of those two--the boy whose supposed death he remembered
+to have heard about when little more than a mere child?
+
+Fiercely and savagely he told himself again and again that such a
+thing could not be--that what Mother Mim had told him was nothing more
+than a pack of devil's lies--the invention of a brain weakened and
+distorted by illness and the clouds of coming death. It was high time
+to go. He put five sovereigns on the chimney-piece, went softly out,
+and shut the door behind him. The girl was sitting on the low mud-wall
+near the door, with the skirt of her dress drawn over her head as some
+protection from the bitter wind. Her black, glittering eyes took him
+in from head to foot as he walked up to her. "Go inside at once. She
+has fainted," said Kester. The girl nodded and went. Then Kester
+mounted his horse and rode slowly homeward through the chilly
+twilight. Bitterest thoughts held him as with a vice. When he came
+within sight of the chimneys of Park Newton, he gave a sigh of relief,
+and put spurs to his horse. "That is mine, and no power on earth shall
+take it from me," he muttered. "That and the money that comes with it.
+I am Kester St. George. Let those disprove who can!"
+
+A few nights later, as Lionel Dering was sitting in his dressing-room,
+smoking a last cigar before turning in, there came three low, distinct
+taps at the door, which he recognized as the peculiar signal of Dobbs.
+It was nearly an hour past midnight, and in that early household every
+one had been long abed, or, at least, had retired long ago to their
+own rooms.
+
+Lionel opened the door, and Dobbs slid softly in. Such visits were by
+no means infrequent, but they were usually paid at a somewhat earlier
+hour than on the present occasion.
+
+"Come in, Dobbs," said Lionel. "You are later to-night than usual."
+
+"Yes, sir, I am, and I must ask you to pardon me for intruding at such
+an hour; but, if you remember, sir, you told me, a little while ago,
+that I was to let you know without fail the very next time my master
+took to walking in his sleep."
+
+"Quite right, Dobbs. I am glad that you have not forgotten my
+instructions."
+
+"Well, sir, Mr. St. George left his rooms, a few minutes ago, fast
+asleep."
+
+"In which direction did he go?"
+
+"He went down the side staircase, and through the conservatory, and
+let himself out through the little glass door into the garden."
+
+"And then which way did he go?"
+
+"I did not follow him any farther, but ran at once to tell you."
+
+"Have you any idea as to what direction he would be most likely to
+take?"
+
+"There is little doubt, sir, but that he has gone towards the Wizard's
+Fountain, in the Sycamore Walk. Three times already, that is the place
+to which he has gone."
+
+"We must follow him, Dobbs."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"We must watch him, but be careful not to disturb him."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"I suppose there is little or no fear of his waking before he gets
+back to the house?"
+
+"None whatever, sir, as far as my experience goes. As a rule, he goes
+quietly back to his own rooms, undresses himself as quietly and
+soberly as if he was wide awake, and gets into bed; and when he does
+really wake up in the morning, he never seems to know anything about
+what has happened over-night. But we must make haste, sir, if we wish
+to overtake him."
+
+"I will be ready in one minute."
+
+Lionel wrapped a warm furred cloak about him, and put a travelling-cap
+on his head. Three minutes later he and Dobbs stood together in the
+open air.
+
+The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The moon was just rising above
+the tree-tops, bathing the upper part of the quaint old house in its
+white glory, but as yet the shrubbery and the garden-paths lay in
+deepest shadow. Nowhere could they discern the figure of the man whom
+they had come out to follow; but the Wizard's Fountain was a good half
+mile from the Hall, so they struck at once into the nearest footway
+that led towards it. A few minutes' quick walking took them there.
+Lionel knew the place well. It had been a favourite haunt of his when
+living at Park Newton during the few happy weeks that preceded the
+murder. Very weird and solemn the whole place looked, as seen by
+moonlight at that still hour of the night.
+
+Although known as the Sycamore Walk, there were only two trees of that
+particular kind growing there, and they threw their antique shadows
+immediately over the fountain itself. The rest of the avenue consisted
+of beech, and oak, and elm. But all the trees were huge, and old, and
+fantastic: untended and uncared for--growing together year after year,
+whispering their leafy secrets to each other with every spring that
+came round, and standing shoulder to shoulder against the winds of
+winter: a hoary brotherhood of forest sages.
+
+The fountain itself, whatever it might have been in years long gone
+by, was now nothing more than a confused heap of huge stones,
+overgrown with lichens and creepers. From the midst of them, and from
+what had doubtless at one time been a representation in marble of the
+head of a leopard or other forest animal, but which now was almost
+worn past recognition, trickled a thin stream of coldest water; which,
+falling into a broken basin below, over-brimmed itself there, and was
+lost among the cracks and interstices in the masses of broken masonry
+that lay scattered around.
+
+"You had better, perhaps, wait here," said Lionel to Dobbs, as they
+halted for a moment at the entrance to the avenue.
+
+Dobbs did as he was bidden, and Lionel advanced alone, keeping well
+within the shade of the trees. When within a dozen yards of the
+fountain, he halted and waited. The low, ceaseless monotone of the
+falling water was the only sound that broke the moonlit silence.
+
+From out the dense shadow of the trees on the opposite side of the
+avenue, and as if he himself were part of that shadow, Kester St.
+George slowly emerged. In the middle of the avenue, and in the full
+light of the moon, he paused. His right hand was thrust into the bosom
+of his vest, as if he were hiding something there. Standing thus, he
+seemed, as it were, to shrink within himself. Still hugging that
+hidden something, he seemed to listen--to listen as if his very life
+depended on the act. Then, with a slow, creeping motion, as though his
+feet were weighted with lead, he stole towards the fountain. He
+reached it. He grasped the stonework with one hand, and then he turned
+to gaze, as though in dread of some hidden pursuer. Then slowly,
+almost reluctantly, he seemed to draw something from within his vest,
+and, while still gazing furtively around him, he thrust his arm, elbow
+deep, into a crevice in the masonry, let it rest there for a single
+moment, and then withdrew it. With the same furtively restless look,
+and ears that seemed to listen more intently than ever, he paused for
+an instant. Then he stole swiftly back across the moonlit avenue, and
+so vanished among the black shadows from whence he had come.
+
+So natural had been his actions, so unstudied his every movement, that
+it seemed impossible to believe that he was indeed asleep.
+
+Hardly had Kester St. George disappeared before Lionel Dering was by
+the fountain, on the very spot where his cousin had stood half a
+minute before. He had noted well the place. There, before him, was the
+very crevice into which Kester had thrust his arm. Into that same
+crevice was Lionel's arm now thrust--elbow deep--shoulder deep. His
+groping fingers soon laid hold of that which was hidden there. He drew
+out his arm quickly, and the something that he had found glittered
+steel-blue in the moonlight. With a cry of horror he dropped it, and
+it fell with a dull clash among the stones. Lionel Dering had
+recognized it in a moment as a dagger which he had last seen in the
+possession of Percy Osmond.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+MISS CULPEPPER SPEAKS HER MIND.
+
+
+Mrs. McDermott had reached Pincote, and she did not fail to let every
+one know it. As the Squire had predicted, the moment she had taken off
+her waterproof, and changed her boots, she marched straight into the
+library, and asked for her money. It was with a feeling of profound
+satisfaction that her brother unlocked his bureau, and handed her a
+roll of notes representing five thousand seven hundred and fifty
+pounds. She counted the notes over twice, slowly and carefully.
+
+"What are the seven hundred and fifty pounds for?" she asked.
+
+"Interest for three years at five per cent. per annum."
+
+"I thought you would have got me seven per cent. at the least," she
+said ungraciously. "My man of business tells me that seven is quite a
+common thing nowadays. He says that he can get me nine or ten per
+cent. on real property, without any difficulty."
+
+"I should advise you to be careful what you are about," said the
+Squire, gravely. "Big profits, big risks; little profits, little
+risks."
+
+"I know perfectly well what I'm doing," said Mrs. McDermott, with a
+toss of her antiquated curls. "It's you slow, sleepy, country folks,
+who crawl behind the times, and miss half the golden chances that come
+to people who keep their eyes wide open."
+
+The Squire shook his head, but said no more. He groaned in spirit when
+he thought what his "golden chance" had done for him.
+
+"Let her buy her experience as I've bought mine," he said to himself.
+"From a girl she was always pig-headed: let her pay for it."
+
+"Have you any idea how long your aunt is likely to stay?" he asked
+Jane, a day or two later.
+
+"No idea whatever, papa. If the quantity of her luggage is anything to
+go by, I should say that her stay is likely to be a long one."
+
+"I hope not, with all my heart," sighed the Squire.
+
+Mrs. McDermott, in truth, was not a lady who ever troubled herself to
+make her presence agreeable to those with whom she might be staying.
+Consideration for the comfort of others was a thought that never
+entered her mind. From the day of her arrival at Pincote she began to
+interfere with the existing arrangements of the house; finding fault
+with everything: changing this, altering the other, and evidently
+determined to have her own way in all. The first thing she did was to
+find fault with her bedroom, although it was one of the pleasantest
+apartments in the house, and had been especially arranged by Jane
+herself with a view to her aunt's comfort. But it was not the best
+bedroom--the state bedroom, therefore Mrs. McDermott would have none
+of it. Into the state bedroom, a gloomy apartment fronting the north,
+which was never used above once or twice in half a dozen years, she
+migrated at once with all her belongings. Her next act, she being
+without a maid of her own at the time, was to induct one of the
+Pincote servants into that office, taking her altogether from her
+proper duties, and not permitting her to do a stroke of work for any
+one but herself. Then she talked her brother into allowing the dinner
+hour to be altered from six to half-past seven; so that, as the Squire
+grumbled to himself, the cloth was hardly removed before it was time
+to go to bed. Then the Squire must never appear at dinner without a
+dress coat, and a white tie--articles which, or late years, he had
+been tacitly allowed to dispense with when dining en famille. A white
+cravat especially was to him an abomination. He never could tie the
+knot properly, and after crumpling three or four, and throwing them
+across the room in a rage, Jane's services would generally have to be
+called into requisition as a last resource.
+
+One other infliction there was which the Squire found it very
+difficult to bear patiently. After dinner, when there was no
+particular company at Pincote, it was an understood thing that the
+Squire should have the dining-room to himself for half an hour, in
+order that he might enjoy the post-prandial snooze which long custom
+had made almost a necessity with him. But this was an arrangement that
+failed to meet with the approbation of Mrs. McDermott. She insisted
+that the Squire should either accompany the ladies, or, otherwise, she
+herself would keep him company in the dining-room; and woe be to him
+if he dared so much as close an eye for five seconds! It was "Where
+are your manners, sir? I'm thoroughly ashamed of you;" or else,
+"Falling asleep, sir, in the presence of a lady? a clodhopper could do
+no more than that!" till the Squire felt as if his life were being
+slowly tormented out of him.
+
+Nor did Jane fail to come in for a share of her aunt's strictures.
+Mrs. McDermott evidently looked upon her as little more than a child.
+Firstly, her hair was not arranged in accordance with her aunt's ideas
+of propriety in such matters, which, truth to say, belonged to a
+somewhat antiquated school. Then the girl was altogether too bright
+and sunny-looking, with her bows of ribbon and bits of lace showing
+daintily here and there. And she was too forward in introducing topics
+of conversation at meal-times, instead of allowing the introduction of
+appropriate themes to come from her elders and her betters. Then Jane
+was addicted to the heinous offence of laughing too heartily, and too
+often. Altogether her aunt saw in her much that stood in need of
+reformation. Jane bore everything with a sort of good-humoured
+indifference. "The time to speak is not come yet. I will see how much
+further she will go," she said to herself. But when the cook came to
+her one morning and said: "If you please, miss, Mrs. Dermott says that
+for the future I am to take my dinner orders from her," then Jane
+thought that the time to speak was drawing very near indeed.
+
+"Do as Mrs. McDermott tells you," she said quietly to the astonished
+cook.
+
+"Well, I never! I thought that the mistress had more spirit than
+that," said the woman as she went back to her duties in the kitchen.
+
+Next day brought the coachman. "Beg pardon, miss," he said, with a
+touch of his hair; "but Mrs. McDermott have given orders that the
+brougham and gray mare is to be ready for her every afternoon at three
+o'clock to the minute. I am to take the order, miss, I suppose?"
+
+"Quite right, John, till I give you orders to the contrary."
+
+Next came the gardener. "Very sorry, miss, but I shall have to give
+notice--I shall really."
+
+"Why, what's amiss now, Gibson?"
+
+"It's all Mrs. McDermott, miss; begging your pardon for saying so. Why
+will she pretend to understand gardening better than me that has been
+at it, man and boy, for fifty year? Why will she come finding fault
+with this, that, and the other, in a way that neither the Squire nor
+you, miss, ever thinks of doing? And she not only finds fault, but
+gives orders, ridiculous orders, about things she knows nothing of. I
+can't stand it, miss, I really can't."
+
+"Mrs. McDermott will give you no more orders, Gibson, after to-day.
+You can go back to your work with an easy mind."
+
+Jane waited till next morning, and then having ascertained that her
+aunt had again given orders to the cook respecting dinner, she walked
+straight into the breakfast-room where she knew that she should find
+Mrs. McDermott alone, and busy with her correspondence--for she was a
+great letter writer at that hour of the morning.
+
+"What a noisy girl you are," she said crossly, as her niece drew up a
+chair and sat down beside her. "I was just writing a few lines to dear
+Lady Clark when you came in in your usual brusque way and put all my
+ideas to flight."
+
+"They must be poor, timid, little ideas, aunt, to be so easily
+frightened away," said Jane.
+
+"Jane, there has been a flippant tone about you for the last day or
+two that I don't at all approve of. Flippancy in young people is
+easily acquired, but difficult to get rid of. The sooner you get rid
+of yours the better I shall be pleased."
+
+Jane rose from her chair and swept Mrs. McDermott a stately curtsey.
+"Is it not almost time, aunt," she said quietly, "that you gave up
+treating me, and talking to me, as if I were a child?"
+
+"If you are no longer a child in years, you are still very childish in
+many of your ways."
+
+"You are quite epigrammatic this morning, aunt."
+
+"Don't be impertinent, young lady."
+
+"I have no intention of being impertinent. But I have come to see you
+about the order for dinner which you gave the cook half an hour ago."
+
+"What about that?" asked Mrs. McDermott snappishly. "In what way does
+it concern you?"
+
+"It concerns me very materially indeed," answered Jane. "You have
+ordered several things for dinner that papa does not care about; some,
+in fact, that he never eats. Fried soles, for instance, and veal
+cutlets--articles he never touches. So I have told the cook to
+supplement your order with some turbot and a boiled fowl � la
+marquise. I have also told her that for the future she will receive
+from me every evening the menu for next day. Should my list contain
+nothing that you care about, the cook has orders to obtain specially
+for you any articles that you may wish to have."
+
+"Upon my word! what next?" was all that Mrs. McDermott could gasp out
+at the moment, so overcome was she with rage and surprise.
+
+"This next," said Jane. "From to-day the dinner hour will be altered
+back to six o'clock. Half-past seven suits neither papa nor me. Should
+the latter hour be a necessity with you, you can always have your
+dinner served at that time in your own room. But papa and I will dine
+at six."
+
+"I shall talk to your papa about this, and ascertain from his own lips
+whether I am to be dictated to and insulted by a chit like you."
+
+"That is just what I must forbid you to do," said Jane. "Papa's health
+has not been what it ought to be for a long time past.
+
+"Only a few weeks ago he had a slight stroke. Happily he soon recovered
+from it, but Dr. Davidson says that all exciting topics must be kept
+carefully from him. You know how little things will often excite him;
+and if you begin to worry him about any petty differences that may
+arise between you and me, you will do so at your peril, and must be
+satisfied to take whatever consequences may arise from your so doing."
+
+Mrs. McDermott stared at her niece in open-mouthed wonder.
+
+"Perhaps you have something more to say to me," she gasped out.
+
+"Yes, several things. Before ordering the brougham to be at your beck
+and call every day at three o'clock, it might, perhaps, be just as
+well to make sure that your brother is not likely to want it. He has
+taken to using it rather frequently of late."
+
+"Oh, indeed; I'll make due inquiry," was all that Mrs. McDermott could
+find to say.
+
+"And if I were you, I wouldn't go quite so often into the greenhouses,
+or near the men at work in the garden."
+
+"Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while
+you are about it."
+
+"Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an
+hour. He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot
+do without it. This is most imperative."
+
+"I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life."
+
+"Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no
+intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you
+when you come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here
+as papa's guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you
+comfortable. But there can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that
+mistress, at present, is your niece, Jane Culpepper."
+
+And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had
+bent over her, kissed her, and swept from the room.
+
+For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary state, at half-past
+seven, in her own room. But she found it so utterly wretched to have
+no one to talk to but her maid, that on the third day her resolution
+failed her; and when six o'clock came round she found herself in the
+dining-room, sitting next her brother, with something of the feeling
+of a school-girl who has been whipped and forgiven.
+
+Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid and
+stand-off-ish for several days to come. Towards the Squire she
+imperceptibly thawed, and the old familiar intimacy was gradually
+resumed between them. But between herself and Jane there was
+something--a restraint, a coldness--which no time could altogether
+remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that she had
+been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some
+great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then
+have afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise.
+
+It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed
+over to his sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to
+her. It was a great weight off his mind, and although he did not say
+much to Tom Bristow about it, he was none the less grateful in his
+secret heart. He was still as much at a loss as ever to understand by
+what occult means Tom had been able to raise the mortgage of six
+thousand pounds on Prior's Croft. He had hinted more than once that he
+should like to know the secret by means of which a result so
+remarkable had been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly
+impervious.
+
+Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six
+thousand pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said:
+"With regard to Prior's Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in
+the matter: perhaps you won't object to it a second time."
+
+"What is it, Bristow, what is it?" said the Squire, graciously. "I
+shall be glad to listen to anything you may have to say."
+
+"What I want you to do, sir," said Tom, "is to have some plans at once
+drawn up, and have the foundations laid of a number of houses--twenty
+to thirty at the least--on Prior's Croft."
+
+"I thought you crazy about the mortgage," said the Squire, with a
+twinkle in his eye. "Are you quite sure you are not crazy now?"
+
+"I am just as sane now as I was then."
+
+"But to build houses on Prior's Croft! Why, nobody would ever live in
+them. The place is altogether out of the way."
+
+"That has nothing whatever to do with the question. If you will only
+take my advice, sir, you will get the foundations down without an
+hour's unnecessary delay."
+
+"And where should I be at the end of a month, when the contractor came
+to me for the first instalment of his money?"
+
+"All that can be arranged for without difficulty. Your credit is sound
+in the market, and that is the one thing indispensable."
+
+"But what is to be the ultimate result of all these mysterious
+proceedings?"
+
+"Now you get me in a corner. But I must again crave your indulgence,
+and ask you to let the mystery remain a mystery a little while longer.
+If you have sufficient faith in me, why, take my advice. If not--you
+will simply be missing a chance of making an odd thousand or so."
+
+"And that is what I can by no means afford to do," said the Squire
+with emphasis.
+
+The result was that a week later some forty or fifty men were busily
+at work cutting the turf and digging the foundations for the score of
+grand new villas which Mr. Culpepper had decided on building at
+Prior's Croft.
+
+Everybody's verdict was that the Squire must be mad. New villas,
+indeed! Why there were hardly people enough in sleepy old Duxley to
+occupy the houses that fell vacant as the older inhabitants died off.
+
+"That may be," said the Squire, when this plea was urged on his
+notice; "but I mean to make my villas so handsome, so commodious, and
+so healthy, that a lot of the old rattletrap dens will at once be
+deserted, and I shall not have house-room for half the people who will
+want to become my tenants." So spoke the Squire, putting a brave face
+on the matter, but really as much in the dark as any one.
+
+But if there was one person more puzzled than another, that person was
+certainly Mr. Cope the banker. He had ascertained for a fact that
+within a few days of their interview--their very painful interview, he
+termed it to himself--his quondam friend had actually become the
+purchaser of Prior's Croft; and what was a still greater marvel, had
+actually paid down two thousand pounds in hard cash for it! And now
+the town's talk was of nothing but the grand villas which the Squire
+was going to build on his new purchase. Mr. Cope could hardly credit
+it all till he went and saw with his own eyes the men hard at work.
+Still, it was altogether incomprehensible to him. Could the Squire
+have merely been playing him a trick; have only been testing the
+strength of his friendship, when he came to him to borrow the five
+thousand pounds? No, that could hardly be; else why had his balance at
+the bank been allowed to dwindle to a mere nothing? Besides which, he
+knew from words that the Squire had let drop at different times, that
+he must have been speculating heavily. Could it be possible that his
+speculations had, after all, proved successful? If not, how account
+for this sudden flood of prosperity? For several days Mr. Cope failed
+to enjoy his dinner in the hearty way that was habitual with him: for
+several nights Mr. Cope's sleep failed to refresh him as it usually
+did.
+
+Although the Squire's heaviest burden had been lifted off his mind
+with the payment of his sister's money, he had by no means forgotten
+the loss of his daughter's dowry. And now that his mind was easy on
+one point, this lesser trouble began to assume a magnitude that it had
+not possessed before. He could not get rid of the thought that there
+was nothing but his own frail life between his daughter and all but
+absolute penury. A few hundred pounds Jane would undoubtedly have, but
+what would that be to a young lady brought up as she had been brought
+up? "Not enough," as the Squire put it in his homely way, "to find her
+in bread-and-cheese and cotton gowns."
+
+But what was to be done? Life assurance was out of the question. He
+was too old and too infirm. There was nothing much to be got out of
+the estate. It was true that he might thin the timber a little and
+make a few hundreds that way; but the heir-at-law had too shrewd an
+eye to his own ultimate interests to allow very much to be done in
+that line. Besides which, the Squire himself could not for very shame
+have impaired what was the chief beauty of the Pincote property--its
+magnificent array of timber.
+
+There was, perhaps, a little cheese-paring to be done in the way of
+cutting down domestic expenses. A couple of servants might be
+dispensed with indoors. The under-gardener and the stable-boy might be
+sent about their business. The gray mare and the brougham might be
+disposed of. The wine merchant's bill might be lightened a little; and
+fewer coals, perhaps, might be burnt in winter--and that was nearly
+all.
+
+But even such reductions as these, trifling though they were, could
+not be made secretly--could not be made, in fact, without becoming the
+talk of the whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire
+detested more than another, it was having his private affairs
+challenged and discussed by other people. And what, after all, would
+the saving amount to? How many years of such petty economy would be
+needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of the sum he had
+lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle, as he said to
+himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled, too, with
+asking the same questions over and over again, and still finding
+himself as far from a satisfactory answer as ever.
+
+There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it
+any real basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground
+which has already been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed
+estate--the piece of ground on which his new mansion was to have been
+built. Land, just now, was fetching good prices. Yes, he would
+certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in Jenny's name whatever money
+it might fetch--not that it would command a very high price, being a
+poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still it would be a nest egg,
+though only a little one, for a rainy day.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+KNOCKLEY HOLT.
+
+
+About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The
+Squire would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without
+Tom's society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more
+and more disinclined either for going out himself or having company at
+home. Still he could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now
+and then; and Tom being either a good listener or a lively talker, as
+occasion might require, and having already rendered the Squire an
+important service, it seemed somehow to fall into the natural order of
+things that he should be invited three or four times a week to dine at
+Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott's arrival was he there less
+frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very lively
+company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to
+say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she
+overwhelmed her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty
+gossip about things that had little or no interest for him; but about
+which he was obliged to feign an interest, unless, as he himself
+expressed it, "he wanted to know the length of his sister's tongue."
+
+But when Tom was there the case was different. He acted as a sort of
+buffer between Mrs. McDermott and the Squire. By means of a few adroit
+questions, and a clever assumption of ignorance with regard to
+whatever topic Mrs. McDermott might be dilating on, he generally
+succeeded in drawing the full torrent of her conversation on his own
+devoted head, thereby affording the Squire a breathing space for which
+he was truly grateful. Sometimes, but not very often, Tom let the
+demon of mischief get the mastery of him. On such occasions he would
+lead Mrs. McDermott on by one artful question after another till she
+began to contradict herself and eat her own words, and ended by
+floundering helplessly in a sort of mental quagmire, and so
+relapsing into sulky silence, with a dim sense upon her that she had
+somehow been coaxed into making an exhibition of herself by that
+demure-looking young scamp of a Bristow, who seemed hand and glove
+with both her brother and her niece after a fashion that she neither
+liked nor understood.
+
+Yet was the love of hearing herself talk so ingrained in Mrs.
+McDermott's nature, that by the time of Tom's next visit to Pincote
+she was ready to fall into the same trap again, had he been inclined
+to lead her on.
+
+"Who is that young Bristow that you and Jane make such a pet of?" she
+asked her brother one day. "I don't seem to recollect any family of
+that name hereabouts."
+
+"Pet, indeed! Nobody makes a pet of him, as you call it," growled the
+Squire. "He's the son of the doctor who attended poor Charlotte in her
+last illness. He's a sharp young fellow who has got his head screwed
+on the right way, and he's been useful to me in one or two business
+matters, and may be so again; so there's no harm in asking him to
+dinner now and then."
+
+"Now and then with you seems to mean three or four times a week,"
+sneered Mrs. McDermott.
+
+"And what if it does?" retorted the Squire. "As long as I can call the
+house my own, I'll ask anybody I like to dinner, and as often as I
+like."
+
+"Only if I were you, I wouldn't forget that I'd a daughter who was
+just at a marriageable age."
+
+"Nor a sister who wouldn't object to a husband number two," chuckled
+the Squire.
+
+"Why not set your cap at young Bristow, eh, Fanny? You might do worse.
+He's young and not bad looking, and if he has no money of his own,
+he's just the right sort to look well after yours."
+
+Mrs. McDermott fanned herself indignantly. "You never were very
+refined, Titus," she said; "but you certainly get coarser every time I
+see you."
+
+Mr. Culpepper only chuckled to himself, and poked the fire vigorously.
+
+"I'll have that young Bristow out of this house before I'm three weeks
+older!" vowed the 'widow to herself. "The way he and Jane carry on
+together is simply disgusting, and yet that poor weak brother of mine
+can't see it."
+
+From that day forth she took to watching Tom and Jane more
+particularly than she had done before. Not satisfied with watching
+them herself, she induced her maid Emma to act as a spy on their
+actions. With her assistance, Mrs. McDermott was not long in gathering
+sufficient evidence to warrant her, as she thought, in seeking a
+private interview with her brother on the subject. "And high time
+too," she said grimly to herself. "That minx of a Jane is carrying on
+a fine game under the rose. The arrant little flirt! And as for that
+young Bristow--of course it's Jane's money that he's after. Titus must
+be as blind as a bat, or he would have seen it all long ago. I've no
+patience with him--none!"
+
+Having worked herself up to the requisite pitch, downstairs she
+bounced and burst into the Squire's private room--commonly called his
+study. She burst into the room, but halted suddenly the moment she had
+crossed the threshold. The Squire was there, but not alone. Tom
+Bristow was with him. The two were in deep consultation--so much she
+could see at a glance--bending towards each other over the little
+table, and speaking, as it seemed to her, almost in a whisper. The
+Squire turned with a gesture of impatience at the opening of the door.
+"Oh, is that you, Fanny?" he said. "I'll see you presently; I'm busy
+with Mr. Bristow, just now."
+
+She went out without a word, but her face flushed deeply, and an evil
+look came into her eyes. "That's the way you treat your only sister,
+Mr. Titus Culpepper, is it?" she muttered under her breath. "Not a
+penny of my money shall ever come to you or yours."
+
+Tom had walked over to Pincote that morning to see the Squire
+respecting the building going on at Prior's Croft. When their
+conference had come to an end, said the Squire to Tom: "You know that
+scrubby bit of ground of mine--Knockley Holt?"
+
+Tom started. "Yes, I know it very well," he said. "It is rather
+singular that you should be the first to speak about it; because it
+was partly about that very piece of ground that I am here this morning
+to see you."
+
+"Ay--ay--how's that?" said the Squire, suddenly brightening up from
+the apathy that had begun to creep over him so often of late.
+
+"Why, it doesn't seem to be of much use to you, and I thought that
+perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me have a lease of it."
+
+The Squire laughed heartily: a thing he had not done for several
+weeks. "And I had just made up my mind to sell it, and was going to
+ask your advice about it!"
+
+Tom's face flushed suddenly. "And do you really think of selling
+Knockley Holt?" he asked, with his keen bright eyes bent on the
+Squire's face more keenly than usual.
+
+"Of course I think of selling it, or I shouldn't have said what I have
+said. As things have gone with me, the money would be more useful to
+me than the land is ever likely to be. It won't fetch much I know, but
+then I didn't give much for it, and whoever may get it won't have much
+of a bargain."
+
+"Perhaps you wouldn't object to have me for a purchaser?"
+
+"You! You buy Knockley Holt? Why, man alive, you must know that I
+should want money down, and---- But I needn't say more about it."
+
+"If you choose to sell Knockley Holt to me, I will give you twelve
+hundred pounds for it, cash down."
+
+The Squire was getting into the way of not being astonished at
+anything that Tom might say, but he did look across at him for a
+moment or two in blank amazement.
+
+"Well, you are a queer fish, and no mistake!" were his first words.
+"And pray, my young shaver, how come you to be possessed of twelve
+hundred pounds?"
+
+"Oh, I'm worth a little more than twelve hundred pounds," said Tom,
+with a smile. "Why, only the other week I cleared a thousand by one
+little stroke in cotton."
+
+"Well done, young one," said the Squire, heartily. "You are not such a
+fool as you look. And now take an old man's advice. Don't speculate
+any more. Fortune has given you one little slice of her cake. Don't
+tempt her again. Be content with what you've got, and speculate no
+more."
+
+"At any rate, I won't forget your advice, sir," said Tom. "I wonder,"
+he added to himself, "what he would think and say if he knew that it
+was by speculation, pure and simple, that I earn my bread and cheese."
+
+"And so you would really like to buy Knockley Holt, eh?"
+
+"I should indeed, if you are determined to sell it."
+
+"Oh, I shall sell it, sure enough. But may I ask what you intend to do
+with it when you have got it?"
+
+"Ah, sir, that is just one of those questions which you must not ask
+me," said Tom, laughingly. "If I buy it, it will be entirely on
+speculation. It may turn out a dismal failure: it may prove to be a
+big success."
+
+"Well, well, that will be your look out," said the Squire,
+good-naturedly. "But, Bristow, it's not worth twelve hundred pounds,
+nor anything like that sum."
+
+"I think it is, sir--at least to me, and I am quite prepared to pay
+that amount for it."
+
+"I only gave nine fifty for it; and I thought that if I could get a
+clear thousand I should have every reason to be perfectly satisfied."
+
+"I have made you an offer, sir. It is for you to say whether you are
+willing to accept it."
+
+"Seeing that you offer me two hundred pounds more than I ever hoped to
+get, I'm not such an ass as to say, No. Only I think you are robbing
+yourself. I do indeed, Bristow; and that's what I don't like to see."
+
+"I think, sir, that I'm pretty well able to look after my own
+interests," said Tom, with a meaning smile. "Am I to consider that
+Knockley Holt is to become my property?"
+
+"Of course you are, boy--of course you are. But I must say that you
+are a little bit of a simpleton to give me twelve hundred when you
+might have it for a thousand."
+
+"An offer's an offer, and I'll abide by mine."
+
+"Then there's nothing more to be said: I'll see my lawyer about the
+deeds to-morrow."
+
+Tom shook hands with the Squire and went in search of Jane.
+
+"Perhaps I may come in now," said Mrs. McDermott five minutes later,
+as she opened the door of her brother's room.
+
+"Of course you may," said the Squire. "Young Bristow and I were
+talking over some business affairs before, that would have had no
+interest for you, and that you know nothing about."
+
+"It's about young Bristow, as you call him, that I have come to see
+you this morning."
+
+"Oh, indeed," said the Squire drily. Then he took off his spectacles,
+and rubbed them with his pocket handkerchief, and began to whistle a
+tune under his breath.
+
+Mrs. McDermott glared fiercely at him, and her voice took an added
+tone of asperity when she spoke again. "I suppose you are aware that
+your prot�g� is making violent love to your daughter, or else that
+your daughter is making violent love to him: I hardly know which it
+is!"
+
+"What!" thundered the Squire, as he started to his feet. "What is that
+you say, Fanny McDermott?"
+
+"Simply this: that there is a lot of lovemaking going on between Jane
+and Mr. Bristow. If it is done with your sanction, I have not another
+word to say. But if you tell me that you know nothing about it, I can
+only say that you must have been as blind as a bat and as stupid as an
+owl."
+
+"Thank you, Fanny--thank you," said the Squire sadly, as he sat down
+in his chair again. "I dare say I have been both blind and stupid; and
+if what you tell me is true, I must have been."
+
+"Miss Jane couldn't long deceive me," said the widow spitefully.
+
+"Miss Jane is too good a girl to deceive anybody."
+
+"Oh, in love matters we women hold that everything is fair. Deceit
+then becomes deceit no longer. We call it by a prettier name."
+
+Her brother was not heeding her: he was lost in his own thoughts.
+
+"The young vagabond!" he said at last. "So that's the way he's been
+hoodwinking me, is it? But I'll teach him: I'll have him know that I'm
+not to be made a fool of in that way. Make love to my daughter,
+indeed! I'll have him here to-morrow morning, and tell him a bit of my
+mind that will astonish him considerably."
+
+"Why wait till to-morrow? Why not send for him now?"
+
+"Because he left here a quarter of an hour ago.
+
+"Oh, you would not have far to send for him."
+
+"What do you mean?"
+
+"Simply that he and Jane are in the shrubbery together at the present
+moment."
+
+The Squire stared at her helplessly for a moment or two. "How do you
+know that?" he said at last, speaking very quietly.
+
+"Because my maid, who was returning from an errand, saw them walking
+there, arm in arm." She paused, as if expecting her brother to say
+something, but he did not speak. "I have not had my eyes shut, I
+assure you," she went on. "But in these matters women are always more
+quick-sighted than men. From the very first hour of my seeing them
+together I had my suspicions. All their walking and talking together
+couldn't be for nothing. All their hand-shakings and sly glances into
+each other's eyes couldn't be without a meaning."
+
+The Squire got up from his chair and rang the bell. A servant came in.
+"Ascertain whether Mr. Bristow is anywhere about the house or grounds;
+and, if he is, tell him that I should like to see him before he goes."
+
+Mrs. McDermott rose in some alarm. It was no part of her policy to be
+seen there by Tom. "I am glad  you have sent for him," she said. "I
+hope matters have not gone too far to be stopped without difficulty."
+
+He looked up in a little surprise. "There will be no difficulty. Why
+should there be?" he said.
+
+"No, of course not. As you say, why should there be? But I must now
+bid you good-morning for the present. There will be hardly any need, I
+think, for you to mention my name in the affair."
+
+"There will be no need to mention anybody's name. Good-morning."
+
+Mrs. McDermott went out and shut the door gently behind her. "Breaking
+fast, poor man," she said to herself. "He's not long for this world,
+I'm afraid. Well, I've the consolation of knowing that I've always
+done a sister's duty by him. I wonder what he'll die worth. Thousands,
+no doubt; and all to go to that proud minx of a Jane. We are not
+allowed to hate one another, or else I'm afraid I should hate that
+girl."
+
+She shook her fist at an imaginary Jane, went straight upstairs, and
+gave her maid a good blowing-up.
+
+Some three weeks had now come and gone since Tom, breaking for once
+through the restraint which had hitherto kept him back, did and said
+something which made Jane very happy. What he did was to draw her face
+down to his and kiss it: what he said was simply, "Good-night, my
+darling." Nothing more, but quite enough to be understood by her to
+whom the words were spoken. But since that evening not one syllable
+more of love had been breathed by Tom. For anything that had since
+passed between them Jane might have imagined that she had merely
+dreamt the words--that the speaking of them was nothing more than a
+fancy of her own lovesick brain.
+
+Under similar circumstances many young ladies would have considered
+themselves aggrieved, and would not have been deemed unreasonable in
+so thinking, But Jane had no intention whatever of adopting an
+injured tone even in her own inmost thoughts. She had never been in
+the habit of looking upon herself in the light of a victim, and she
+had no intention of beginning to do so now. Surprised--slightly
+surprised--she might be, but that was all. In Tom's manner towards
+her, in the way he looked at her, in the very tone of his voice, there
+was that indescribable something which gave her the sweet assurance
+that she was still loved as much as ever. Such being the case, she was
+well satisfied to wait. She felt that her lover's silence had a
+meaning, that he was not dumb without a reason. When the proper time
+should come he would speak, and to some purpose. Till then Eros should
+keep a finger on his lips, and speak only the language of the eyes.
+
+"So this is the way you treat me, is it, young man?" said the Squire,
+sternly, as Tom re-entered the room.
+
+"I beg your pardon, sir," said Tom, looking at him in sheer amazement.
+
+"Oh, don't pretend that you don't know what I mean."
+
+"It may seem stupid on my part, but I must really plead ignorance."
+
+"You worm yourself into my confidence till you get the run of the
+house, and can come and go as you like, and you finish up by making
+love to my daughter!"
+
+"It is no crime to love Miss Culpepper, I hope, sir. There are few
+people, I imagine, who could know her without loving her."
+
+"That's all very well, but you don't get over me in that way, young
+sir. What right have you to make love to my daughter? That's what I
+want to know."
+
+"I may love Miss Culpepper, but I have never told her so."
+
+"Do you mean to say that you have never asked her to marry you?"
+
+"Never, sir; on that point I give you my word of honour."
+
+"A good thing for you that you haven't. The sooner you get that love
+tomfoolery out of your head the better."
+
+"I promise you one thing, sir," said Tom; "if I ever do marry Miss
+Culpepper, it shall be with your full consent and good wishes."
+
+The Squire could not help chuckling. "In that case, my boy, you will
+never have her--not if you live to be as old as Methuselah."
+
+"Time will prove, sir."
+
+"And look ye here. There must be no more walks in the shrubbery, no
+more gallivanting together among the woods. Do you understand?"
+
+"Perfectly, sir. Your words could not be plainer."
+
+"I mean them to be plain. There seems to be no harm done so far, but
+it's time this nonsense was put a stop to. Miss Culpepper must marry
+in a very different sphere from yours."
+
+"Pardon the remark, sir, but you were quite willing to take Mr. Edward
+Cope as your son-in-law. Now, I consider myself quite as good a man as
+Mr. Cope--quite as eligible a suitor for your daughter's hand."
+
+"Then I don't. Besides, young Cope would never have had the chance of
+getting her if he hadn't been the son of my oldest friend; the son of
+the man to whose bravery I owe my life itself. Master Edward owes it
+to his father and not to himself that I ever sanctioned his engagement
+to Miss Culpepper."
+
+"I am indebted for this good turn to Mrs. McDermott," said Tom to
+himself, as he walked homeward through the park. "It will only have
+the effect of bringing matters to a climax a little earlier than I
+intended, but it will not alter my plans in the least."
+
+"Fanny has been exaggerating as usual," was the Squire's comment.
+"There was something in it, no doubt, and it's just as well to have
+crushed it in the bud; but I think it's hardly worth while to say
+anything to Jenny about it."
+
+A week later, the Squire happened to be riding on his white pony along
+the high road that fringed one side of Knockley Holt, when, to his
+intense astonishment, he heard the regular monotonous puffing and saw
+the smoke of a steam engine that was apparently hard at work behind a
+clump of larches in the distance. Riding up to the spot, he found some
+score or so of men all busily engaged. They were excavating a hole in
+the hill-side, filling-in stout timber supports as they got deeper
+down; the engine on the top being employed to hoist up the earth in
+big bucketfuls as fast as it was dug out.
+
+"What's all this about?" inquired the Squire of one of the men; "and
+who's gaffer here?"
+
+"Mr. Bristow, he be the gaffer, sur, and this hole be dug by his
+orders."
+
+"Oh, ho! that's it, is it? And how deep are you going to dig the hole,
+and what do you expect to find when you get to the bottom?"
+
+"I don't rightly know, sur, but I should think we be digging for
+water."
+
+"A likely tale that! What the dickens should anybody want water for
+when we haven't had a dry day for seven weeks?"
+
+"Our foreman did say, sur, as how Mr. Bristow was going to have a hole
+dug clean through, so as to make a short cut like to the other side of
+the world. Anyhow, it be mortal dry work."
+
+The Squire gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, and rode off. "What queer
+crotchet has that young jackanapes got into his head now?" he muttered
+to himself. "It's just possible, though, that there may be a method in
+his madness."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.
+
+
+"Hi! Jean, whose is this luggage?" cried Pierre Janvard one morning to
+his head waiter. He pointed at the same time to a large portmanteau
+which lay among a pile of other luggage in the hall of the Three
+Crowns Hotel, Bath.
+
+With that restless curiosity which was such a marked trait in his
+character, Janvard had a habit of peering about among the luggage of
+his guests, and even of prying stealthily about their bedrooms when he
+knew that their occupants were out of the way, and he himself safe
+from detection. It was not that he hoped to benefit himself in any
+way, or even to pick up any information that would be of value to him,
+by such a mode of proceeding; but it had been a habit with him from
+boyhood to do this kind of thing, and it was a habit that he could by
+no means overcome.
+
+Passing through the hall this morning, his eye had been attracted by a
+pile of luggage belonging to several fresh arrivals, and he at once
+began to peer among the labels. The second label that took his eye was
+inscribed, "Richard Dering, Esq., Passenger to Bath." Janvard stood
+aghast as he read the name. A crowd of direful memories rushed to his
+mind. For a moment or two he could not speak. Then he called Jean as
+above.
+
+"That portmanteau," answered Jean, "belongs to a gentleman who came in
+by the last train. He and another gentleman came together. They wanted
+a private sitting-room, and I put them into number twenty-nine."
+
+"Has the other gentleman any luggage?"
+
+"Yes, this large black bag belongs to him." Janvard stooped and read:
+"Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath." "Quite strange to me, that
+name," he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and
+shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.
+
+"They have ordered dinner, I suppose?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk
+about, and report it to me afterwards."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind.
+Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel
+Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common
+enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to
+himself again and again.
+
+One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive
+to see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the
+slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any
+other quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these
+people, after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr.
+Kester St. George for instructions.
+
+He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his
+banker's passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing
+source of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in
+walked Mr. Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow.
+
+It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard's eyes
+rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his
+appearance. Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still.
+His thin lips quivered for a moment, and then his hands began to
+tremble slightly, so that in a little while he was obliged to take
+them off the table and bury them in his pockets.
+
+He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that
+other Mr. Dering whose face he remembered so well--whose face it was
+impossible that he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet
+strangely unlike: the same in many points, and yet in others most
+different. But the moment this dark-looking stranger opened his lips,
+it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back from the grave. A
+covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he beheld a
+man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before.
+
+"Your name is Janvard, I believe?" said Mr. Dering, with a slight bow.
+
+"Pierre Janvard at your service," answered the Frenchman,
+deferentially.
+
+"You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St.
+George?"
+
+"I had that honour."
+
+"My name is Dering--Richard Dering. It is probable that you never
+heard of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from
+India. I am cousin to Mr. Kester St. George."
+
+The Frenchman bowed. "I have no recollection of having heard
+monsieur's name mentioned by my late employer."
+
+"I suppose not. But my brother's name--Lionel Dering--must be well
+known to you."
+
+Janvard could not repress a slight start So that was the relationship,
+was it?
+
+"Ah, yes," he said. "I have seen Mr. Lionel Dering many times, and
+done several little services for him at one time or another."
+
+"You were one of the chief witnesses on the trial, if I recollect
+rightly?"
+
+Janvard coughed, to gain a moment's time. The conversation was taking
+a turn that he did not approve of. "I certainly was one of the
+witnesses on the trial," he said, with an air of deprecation. "But
+monsieur will understand that it was a misfortune which I had no means
+of avoiding. I could not help seeing what I did see, and they made me
+tell all about it."
+
+"Oh, we quite understand that," said Mr. Dering. "You were not to
+blame in any way. You could not do otherwise than as you did."
+
+Janvard smiled faintly, and bowed his gratification.
+
+"My friend here, Mr. Bristow, and myself, have come down to stay a
+week or two in your charming city. The doctors tell me there is
+something the matter with my spleen, and have recommended me to drink
+the Bath waters. Hearing casually that you were the proprietor of one
+of the most comfortable hotels in the place, and looking upon you
+somewhat in the light of a connection of the family, we thought that
+we could not do better than take up our quarters with you."
+
+Again Janvard smiled and bowed his gratification. "Monsieur may depend
+upon my using my utmost endeavours to make himself and his friend as
+comfortable as possible. Pardon my presumption, but may I venture to
+ask whether Mr. St. George was quite well when monsieur saw or heard
+from him last?"
+
+"My cousin was a little queer a short time ago, but I believe him to
+be well again by this time." Mr. Dering turned to go. "We have given
+your waiter instructions as to dinner," he said.
+
+"I hope my chef will succeed in pleasing you," said Janvard., with a
+smile. "He has the reputation of being second to none in the city."
+With the same smile on his face he followed them to the door and bowed
+them out, and, still smiling, watched them till they turned the corner
+of the street. "No danger there, I think," he said to himself. "None
+whatever. Still I must keep on the watch--always on the watch. I must
+look to their dinners myself, and leave them nothing to complain of.
+But I shall be very much pleased indeed when they call for their bill:
+very much pleased to see the last of them."
+
+Said Tom to Lionel, as they were walking arm-in-arm towards the
+pump-room: "Did you notice that magnificent ring which Janvard wore on
+the third finger of his left hand?"
+
+"I could not fail to notice it. I was thinking about it at the very
+moment you spoke."
+
+"I have not seen so splendid a ruby for a long time. The setting, too,
+is rather unique."
+
+"Yes, it was the peculiar setting that caused me to recognize it
+again."
+
+"That caused you to recognize it! You don't mean to say that you have
+ever seen the ring before?"
+
+"I certainly have seen it before."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"On the finger of Percy Osmond."
+
+Tom halted suddenly and stared at Lionel as if he could hardly believe
+the evidence of his ears.
+
+"I am stating nothing but the simple truth," continued Lionel. "The
+moment I saw the ring on Janvard's finger the thought flashed through
+me that I had certainly seen it somewhere before. All the time I was
+talking to Janvard I was trying to call that somewhere to mind, but it
+did not come to me till after we had left the hotel--not, in fact,
+till a minute before you spoke about it."
+
+"Are you sure you are not mistaken? There are many ruby rings in the
+world."
+
+"I don't for one moment think that I am mistaken," answered Lionel
+deliberately. "If the ring worn by Janvard be the one I mean, it has
+three initial letters engraved inside the hoop. What particular
+letters they are I cannot now recollect. I chanced to express my
+admiration of the ring one night in the billiard-room, and Osmond took
+it off his finger in order that I might examine it. It was then I saw
+the letters, but without noticing them with sufficient particularity
+to remember them again."
+
+"I always had an idea," said Tom, "that Janvard was in some way mixed
+up with the murder, and this would seem to prove it. He must have
+stolen the ring from Osmond's room either immediately before or
+immediately after the murder."
+
+"I must see that ring," said Lionel decisively. "It must come into my
+possession, if only for a minute or two, if only while I ascertain
+whether the initials are really there."
+
+"I don't think that there will be much difficulty about that," said
+Tom. "The fellow has no suspicion as to whom you really are, or as to
+the object of our visit to Bath. To admire the ring is the first step:
+to ask to look at it the second."
+
+A quarter of an hour later Lionel gripped Tom suddenly by the arm.
+"Bristow," he whispered, "I have just remembered something. Osmond had
+that ruby ring on his finger the night before he was murdered! I have
+a distinct recollection of seeing it on his hand when we were playing
+that last game of billiards together."
+
+"If this ring," said Tom, "prove to be the one you believe it to be,
+the finding of it will be another and a most important link in the
+chain of evidence."
+
+"Yes--almost, if not quite, the last one that we shall need," said
+Lionel.
+
+At dinner that evening Janvard in person took in the wine. The eyes of
+both Lionel and Tom fixed themselves instinctively on his left hand.
+The ring was no longer there.
+
+"Can he suspect anything?" asked Lionel of Tom, as soon as they were
+alone.
+
+"I think not," answered Tom. "The fellow is evidently uneasy, and will
+continue to be so as long as you stay under his roof But the very
+openness of our proceedings, and the frank way in which we have told
+him who we are, will go far to disarm any suspicions which he might
+otherwise have entertained."
+
+Two or three days passed quietly over. Lionel drank the waters with
+regularity, and he and Tom drove out frequently in the neighbourhood
+of King Bladud's beautiful city. Janvard always gave them a look in in
+the course of dinner to see that everything was to their satisfaction;
+but he still carefully abstained from wearing the ring.
+
+By-and-by there came a certain evening when Janvard failed to put in
+his usual appearance at the dinner table. Said Tom to the man who
+waited upon them: "Where is your master this evening? Not ill, I
+hope?"
+
+"Gone to a masonic banquet, sir," answered the man.
+
+"Then he won't be home till late, I'll wager."
+
+"Not till eleven or twelve, I dare say, sir.
+
+"Gone in full fig, of course?" said Tom, laughingly.
+
+"Yes, sir," answered the man with a grin.
+
+"Diamond studs and ruby ring, and everything complete, eh?" went on
+Tom.
+
+"I don't know about diamond studs, sir," said the man, "but he
+certainly had his ring on, for I saw it on his finger myself."
+
+"Now is our time," said Tom to Lionel, as soon as the man had left the
+room. "We may not have such an opportunity again."
+
+It was close upon midnight when Pierre Janvard, alighting from a fly
+at the door of his hotel, found his two lodgers standing on the steps
+smoking a last cigar before turning in for the night. In this there
+was nothing unusual--nothing to excite suspicion.
+
+"Hallo! Janvard, is that you?" cried Tom, assuming the tone and manner
+of a man who has taken a little too much wine. "I was just wondering
+what had become of you. This is my birthday: so you must come upstairs
+with us, and drink my health in some of your own wine."
+
+"Another time, sir, I shall be most happy; but to-night----"
+
+"But me no buts," cried Tom. "I'll have no excuses--none. Come along,
+Dering, and we'll crack another bottle of Janvard's Madeira. We'll
+poison mine host with his own tipple."
+
+He seized Janvard by the arm, and dragged him upstairs, trolling out
+the last popular air as he did so. Lionel followed leisurely.
+
+"You're a good sort, Janvard--a deuced good sort!" said Tom.
+
+"Monsieur is very kind," said Janvard, with a smile and a shrug; and
+then in obedience to a wave from Tom's hand, he sat down at table. Tom
+now began to fumble with a bottle and a corkscrew.
+
+"Allow me, monsieur," said Janvard, politely, as he relieved Tom of
+the articles in question, and proceeded to open the bottle with the
+ease of long practice.
+
+"That's a sweet thing in rings you've got on your finger," said Tom,
+admiringly.
+
+"Yes, it is rather a fine stone," said Janvard, dryly.
+
+"May I be allowed to examine it?" asked Tom, as he poured out the wine
+with a hand that was slightly unsteady.
+
+"I should be most happy to oblige monsieur," said Janvard, hastily,
+"but the ring fits me so tightly that I am afraid I should have some
+difficulty in getting it off my finger."
+
+"Hang it all, man, the least you can do is to try," cried Tom.
+
+The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little
+difficulty, and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom's fingers
+clutched it like a vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if
+to reclaim the ring; but it was too late, and he sat down without
+speaking.
+
+Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it
+towards the light. "A very pretty gem, indeed!" he said. "And worth
+something considerable in sovereigns, I should say."
+
+"Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?" asked Lionel gravely,
+as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from
+his seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom
+handed the ring across to Lionel.
+
+"A magnificent stone, indeed," said the latter, "but somewhat
+old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable
+in my eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop
+are three initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I
+read them aright they are M. K. L."
+
+"Yes, yes, monsieur," said Janvard, uneasily. "As you say, M. K. L.
+The initials of the friend who gave me the ring." He held out his
+hand, as if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to
+him, but Lionel took no notice of the action.
+
+"Three very curious initials, indeed," said Lionel, musingly. "One
+could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in mind
+of a curious coincidence--of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I
+once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and
+inside the hoop of my friend's ring were three initials. The initials
+in question were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved
+on your ring, Monsieur Janvard. Curious, is it not?"
+
+"Mille diables! I am betrayed!" cried Janvard, as he started from his
+seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him.
+The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.
+
+He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and
+looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom
+Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold,
+quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom's right
+hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard's ears were
+smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to
+the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The
+pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was
+beginning to desert him. He was trembling visibly.
+
+"Sit down, sir," said Lionel, sternly, "and refresh yourself with
+another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to
+you."
+
+The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders
+and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two
+glasses of wine rapidly one after another.
+
+"I am ready, monsieur," he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips,
+and made a ghastly effort to smile. "At your service."
+
+"What I want from you, and what you must give me," said Lionel, "is a
+full and particular account of how this ring came into your
+possession. It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the
+night he was murdered."
+
+"Ah ciel! how do you know that?"
+
+"It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it.
+But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was
+found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession."
+
+For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: "Who
+are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and
+threaten me in this way?"
+
+"I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine."
+
+"What if I refuse to answer them?"
+
+"In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than
+half an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger
+of Mr. Osmond the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought
+many a better man than you to the gallows: be careful that it does not
+land you there?"
+
+"If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the
+murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago."
+
+"What proof have you--what proof was there adduced at the trial, that
+Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or
+those of any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew
+from the first that he was innocent! If you yourself are not the
+murderer, you know the man who is."
+
+Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the
+floor. He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke,
+but it was in the same sullen tone that he had used before.
+
+"What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may
+know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?"
+
+"You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such
+promise. For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be
+the murderer of Percy Osmond."
+
+Janvard shuddered slightly. "I am not the murderer of Percy Osmond,"
+he said quietly.
+
+"Who, then, was the murderer?"
+
+"My late master--Mr. Kester St. George."
+
+There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although
+Janvard's words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel
+and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears
+with all the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there,
+Janvard was the one who seemed least concerned.
+
+Lionel was the first to speak. "This is a serious charge to make
+against a gentleman like Mr. St. George," he said.
+
+"I have made no charge against Mr. St. George," said Janvard. "It is
+you who have forced the confession from me."
+
+"You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement--to prove
+your words?"
+
+"I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you
+will not let me."
+
+"All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell me."
+
+"But, monsieur----" began Janvard, appealingly, and then he stopped.
+
+"You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use
+that power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time,
+understand me. I am no constable--no officer of the law--I am simply
+the brother of Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was
+accused and found guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I
+am, I have vowed that I will not rest night or day till I have
+discovered the murderer and brought him to justice. Such being the
+case, I tell you plainly that the best thing you can do is to make a
+full and frank confession of all that you know respecting this
+terrible business, leaving it for me afterwards to decide as to the
+use which I may find it requisite to make of your confession. Are you
+prepared to do what I ask of you?"
+
+Janvard's shoulders rose and fell again. "I cannot help myself," he
+said. "I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur."
+
+"Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh
+your memory."
+
+"Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that
+night are far too terrible to be forgotten." With a hand that still
+shook slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank
+it off at a draught. Then he continued: "On the night of the quarrel
+in the billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master,
+Mr. St. George. About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering
+it, my master put Mr. Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the
+worse for wine, with instructions to see him safely to bed. This I
+did, and then left him. As it happened, I had taken a violent fancy to
+Mr. Osmond's splendid ruby ring--the very ring monsieur has now in his
+possession--and that night I determined to make it my own. There were
+several new servants in the house, and nobody would suspect me of
+having taken it. Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and thrown it
+carelessly into his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into
+bed, afterwards putting his keys under his pillow.
+
+"When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made
+my way to Mr. Osmond's bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A
+night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in
+through the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the
+sleeper's face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with
+one hand clenched, and a frown on his face as if he were still
+threatening Mr. Dering. It was hardly the work of a minute to possess
+myself of the keys. In another minute the dressing-case was opened and
+the ring my own. Mr. Osmond's portmanteau stood invitingly open: what
+more natural than that I should desire to turn over its contents
+lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed by the simple
+curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the portmanteau,
+admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard the
+noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that
+afforded by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next
+moment I was safely hidden behind them.
+
+"The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the
+room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned
+in his sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from
+peeping out of my hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester
+St. George, standing over the sleeping man, with a look on his face
+that I had never seen there before. He stood thus for a full minute,
+and then he came round to the near side of the bed, and seemed to be
+looking for Mr. Osmond's keys. In a little while he saw them in the
+dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the other side
+of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found
+the right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond's writing-case. He opened the
+case, took out of it Mr. Osmond's cheque book, and from that he tore
+either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case
+when Mr. Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. 'Villain! what
+are you doing there?' he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But
+before he could set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his
+throat, and pinned him down almost as easily as if he had been a boy.
+What happened during the next minute I hardly know how to describe. It
+would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit of sleeping with a dagger
+under his pillow. At all events, there was one there on this
+particular night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his
+hand sought for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a
+sudden stab with it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master
+was too quick for him. There was an instant's struggle--a flash--a
+cry--and--you may guess the rest.
+
+"A murmur of horror escaped my lips. In another instant my master had
+sprung across the room and had torn away the curtains from before me.
+'You here!' he said. And for a few seconds I thought my fate would be
+the same as that of Mr. Osmond. But at last his hand dropped.
+'Janvard, you and I must be friends,' he said. 'From this night your
+interests are mine, and my interests are yours.' Then we left the room
+together. A terrible night, monsieur, as you may well believe."
+
+"You have accounted clearly enough for the murder, but you have not
+yet told us how it happened that Lionel Dering came to be accused of
+the crime."
+
+"That is the worst part of the story, sir. Whose thought it was first,
+whether Mr. St. George's or mine, to lay the murder at the door of Mr.
+Dering, I could not now tell you. It was a thought that seemed to come
+into the heads of both of us at the same moment. As monsieur knows, my
+master had no cause to love his cousin. He had every reason to hate
+him. Mr. Dering had got all the estates and property that ought to
+have been Mr. St. George's. But if Mr. Dering were to die without
+children, the estate would all come back to his cousin. Reason enough
+for wishing Mr. Dering dead.
+
+"We did not talk much about it, my master and I. We understood one
+another without many words. There were certain things to be done which
+Mr. St. George had not the nerve to do. I had the nerve to do them,
+and I did them. It was I who put Mr. Dering's stud under the bed. It
+was I who took his handkerchief, and----"
+
+"Enough!" said Lionel, with a shudder. "Surely no more devilish plot
+was ever hatched by Satan himself! You--you who sit so calmly there,
+had but to hold up your finger to save an innocent man from disgrace
+and death!"
+
+"What would monsieur have?" said Janvard, with another of his
+indescribable shrugs. "Mr. St. George was my master. I liked him, and
+I was, besides, to have a large sum of money given me to keep silence.
+Mr. Dering was a stranger to me. Voil� tout."
+
+"Janvard, you are one of the vilest wretches that ever disgraced the
+name of man!"
+
+"Monsieur s'amuse."
+
+"I shall at once proceed to put down in writing the heads of the
+confession which you have just made. You will sign the writing in
+question in the presence of Mr. Bristow as witness. You need be under
+no apprehension that any immediate harm will happen to you. As for Mr.
+St. George, I shall deal with him in my own time, and in my own way.
+There are, however, two points that I wish you to bear particularly in
+mind. Firstly, if, even by the vaguest hint, you dare to let Mr. St.
+George know that you have told me what you have told me to-night, it
+will be at your own proper peril, and you must be prepared to take the
+consequences that will immediately ensue. Secondly, you must hold
+yourself entirely at my service, and must come to me without delay
+whenever I may send for you, and wherever I may be. Do you clearly
+understand?"
+
+"Yes, sir. I understand."
+
+"For the present, then, I have done with you. Two hours later I will
+send for you again, in order that you may sign a certain paper which
+will be ready by that time. You may go."
+
+"But, monsieur----"
+
+"Not a word. Go."
+
+Tom held open the door for him, and Janvard passed out without another
+word.
+
+"At last, Dering! At last everything is made clear!" said Tom, as he
+crossed the room and laid his hand affectionately on Lionel's
+shoulder. "At last you can proclaim your innocence to the world."
+
+"Yes, my task is nearly done," said Lionel, sadly. "And I thank heaven
+in all sincerity that it is so. But the duty that I have still to
+perform is a terrible one. I almost feel as if now, at this, the
+eleventh hour, I could go no farther. I shrink in horror from the last
+and most terrible step of all. Hark! whose voice was that?"
+
+"I hear nothing save the moaning of the wind, and the low muttering of
+thunder far away among the hills."
+
+"It seemed to me that I heard the voice of Percy Osmond calling to me
+from the grave--the same voice that I have heard so often in my
+dreams."
+
+"How your hand burns, Dering! Shake off these wild fancies, I implore
+you," said Tom. "What a blinding flash was that!"
+
+"They are no wild fancies to me, but most dread realities. I tell you
+it is Osmond's voice that I hear. I know it but too well, 'Thou shalt
+avenge!' it says to me. Only three words: 'Thou shalt avenge!'"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+TOM FINDS HIS TONGUE.
+
+
+Nearly a fortnight elapsed after Tom's last interview with the Squire
+before he was again invited to Pincote, and after what had passed
+between himself and Mr. Culpepper he would not go there again without
+a special invitation. It is probable that the Squire would not have
+sent for him even at the end of a fortnight had he not grown so
+thoroughly tired of having to cope with Mrs. McDermott single-handed
+that he was ready to call in assistance from any quarter that promised
+relief. He knew that Tom would assist him if only a hint were given
+that he was wanted to do so. And Tom did relieve him; so that for the
+first time for many days the Squire really enjoyed his dinner.
+
+Notwithstanding all this, matters were so arranged between the Squire
+and Mrs. McDermott that no opportunity was given Tom of being alone
+with Jane even for five minutes. The first time this happened he
+thought that it might perhaps have arisen from mere accident. But the
+next time he went up to Pincote he saw too clearly what was intended
+to allow him to remain any longer in doubt. That night, after shaking
+hands with Tom at parting, Jane found in her palm a tiny note, the
+contents of which were three lines only. "Should you be shopping in
+Duxley either to-morrow or next day, I shall be at the toll-gate on
+the Snelsham road from twelve till one o'clock."
+
+Next day, at half-past twelve to the minute, Jane and her
+pony-carriage found themselves at the Snelsham toll-gate. There was
+Tom, sure enough, who got into the trap and took the reins. He turned
+presently into a byroad that led to nowhere in particular, and there
+earned the gratitude of Diamond by letting him lapse into a quiet walk
+which enabled him to take sly nibbles at the roadside grass as he
+crawled contentedly along.
+
+Two or three minutes passed in silence. Then Tom spoke. "Jane," he
+said, and it was the first time he had ever called her by her
+Christian name, "Jane, your father has forbidden me to make love to
+you."
+
+It seemed as if Jane had nothing to say either for or against this
+statement. She only breathed a little more quickly, and a lovelier
+colour flushed her cheeks. But just then Diamond swerved towards a
+tempting tuft of grass. The carriage gave a slight jerk, and Tom
+fancied--but it might be nothing more than fancy--that, instinctively,
+Jane drew a little closer to him. And when Diamond had been punished
+by the slightest possible flick with the whip between his ears, and
+was again jogging peacefully on, Jane did not get farther away again,
+being, perhaps, still slightly nervous; and when Tom looked down there
+was a little gloved hand resting, light as a feather, on his arm. It
+was impossible to resist the temptation. Dispensing with the whip for
+a moment he lifted the little hand tenderly to his lips and kissed it.
+He was not repulsed.
+
+"Yes, dearest," he went on, "I am absolutely forbidden to make love to
+you. I can only imagine that your aunt has been talking to your father
+about us. Be that as it may, he has forbidden me to walk out with you,
+or even to see you alone. The reason why I asked you to meet me to-day
+was to tell you of these things."
+
+Still Jane kept silence. Only from the little hand, which had somehow
+found its way back on to his arm, there came the faintest possible
+pressure, hardly heavy enough to have crushed a butterfly.
+
+"I told him that I loved you," resumed Tom, "and he could not say that
+it was a crime to do so. But when I told him that I had never made
+love to you, or asked you to marry me, he seemed inclined to doubt my
+veracity. However, I set his mind at rest by giving him my word of
+honour that, even supposing you were willing to have me--a point
+respecting which I had very strong doubts indeed--I would not take
+you for my wife without first obtaining his full consent to do so."
+
+Here Diamond, judging from the earnestness of Tom's tone that his
+thoughts were otherwhere, and deeming the opportunity a favourable one
+to steal a little breathing-time, gradually slackened his slow pace
+into a still slower one, till at last he came to a dead stand.
+Admonished by a crack of the whip half a yard above his head that Tom
+was still wide awake, he put on a tremendous spurt--for him--which, as
+they were going down hill at the time, was not difficult. But no
+sooner had they reached a level bit of road again than the spurt toned
+itself down to the customary slow trot, with, however, an extra whisk
+of the tail now and then which seemed to imply: "Mark well what a
+fiery steed I could be if I only chose to exert myself."
+
+"All this but brings me to one point," said Tom: "that I have never
+yet told you that I loved you, that I have never yet asked you to
+become my wife. To-day, then--here this very moment, I tell you that I
+do love you as truly and sincerely as it is possible for man to love;
+and here I ask you to become my wife. Get along, Diamond, do, sir."
+
+"Dearest, you are not blind," he went on. "You must have seen, you
+must have known, for a long time past, that my heart--my love--were
+wholly yours; and that I might one day win you for my own has been a
+hope, a blissful dream, that has haunted me and charmed my life for
+longer than I can tell. I ought, perhaps, to have spoken of this to
+you before, but there were certain reasons for my silence which it is
+not necessary to dilate upon now, but which, if you care to hear them,
+I will explain to you another time. Here, then, I ask you whether you
+feel as if you could ever learn to love me, whether you can ever care
+for me enough to become my wife. Speak to me, darling--whisper the one
+little word I burn to hear. Lift your eyes to mine, and let me read
+there that which will make me happy for life."
+
+Except these two, there was no human being visible. They were alone
+with the trees, and the birds, and the sailing clouds. There was no
+one to overhear them save that sly old Diamond, and he pretended to be
+not listening a bit. For the second time he came to a stand-still, and
+this time his artfulness remained unreproved and unnoticed.
+
+Jane trembled a little, but her eyes were still cast down. Tom tried
+to see into their depths but could not. "You promised papa that you
+would not take me from him without his consent," she said, speaking in
+little more than a whisper. "That consent you will never obtain."
+
+"That consent I shall obtain if you will only give me yours first."
+
+He spoke firmly and unhesitatingly. Jane could hardly believe her
+ears. She looked up at him in sheer surprise. For the first time their
+eyes met.
+
+"You don't know papa as well as I do--how obstinate he is--how full of
+whims and crotchets. No--no; I feel sure that he will never consent."
+
+"And I feel equally sure that he will. I have no fear on that
+score--none. But I will put the question to you in another way, in the
+short business-like way that comes most naturally to a man like me.
+Jane, dearest, if I can persuade your father to give you to me, will
+you be so given? Will you come to me and be my own--my wife--for
+ever?"
+
+Still no answer. Only imperceptibly she crept a little closer to his
+side--a very little. He took that for his answer. First one arm went
+round her and then the other. He drew her to his heart, he drew her to
+his lips; he kissed her and called her his own. And she? Well, painful
+though it be to write it, she never reproved him in the least, but
+seemed content to sit there with her head resting on his shoulder, and
+to suffer Love's sweet punishment of kisses in silence.
+
+It is on record that Diamond was the first to move.
+
+While standing there he had fallen into a snooze, and had dreamt that
+another pony had been put into his particular stall and was at that
+moment engaged in munching his particular truss of hay. Overcome by
+his feelings, he turned deliberately round, and started for home at a
+gentle trot. Thus disturbed, Tom and Jane came back to sublunary
+matters with a laugh, and a little confusion on Jane's part. Tom drove
+her back as far as the toll-gate and then shook hands and left her.
+Jane reached home as one in a blissful dream.
+
+Three days later Tom received a note in the Squire's own crabbed
+hand-writing, asking him to go up to Pincote as early as possible. He
+was evidently wanted for something out of the ordinary way. Wondering
+a little, he went. The Squire received him in high good humour and was
+not long in letting him know why he had sent for him.
+
+"I have had some fellows here from the railway company," he said.
+"They want to buy Prior's Croft."
+
+Tom's eyebrows went up a little. "I thought, sir, it would prove to be
+a profitable speculation by-and-by. Did they name any price?"
+
+"No, nothing was said as to price. They simply wanted to know whether
+I was willing to sell it."
+
+"And you told them that you were?"
+
+"I told them that I would take time to think about it. I didn't want
+to seem too eager, you know."
+
+"That's right, sir. Play with them a little before you finally hook
+them."
+
+"From what they said they want to build a station on the Croft."
+
+"Yes, a new passenger station, with plenty of siding accommodation."
+
+"Ah! you know something about it, do you?"
+
+"I know this much, sir, that the proposal of the new company to run a
+fresh line into Duxley has put the old company on their mettle. In
+place of the dirty ram-shackle station with which we have all had to
+be content for so many years, they are going to give us a new station,
+handsome and commodious; and Prior's Croft is the place named as the
+most probable site for the new terminus."
+
+"Hang me, if I don't believe you knew something of this all along!"
+said the Squire. "If not, how could you have raised that heavy
+mortgage for me?"
+
+There was a twinkle in Tom's eyes but he said nothing. Mr. Culpepper
+might have been still further surprised had he known that the six
+thousand pounds was Tom's own money, and that, although the mortgage
+was made out in another name, it was to Tom alone that he was
+indebted.
+
+"Have you made up your mind as to the price you intend to ask, sir?"
+
+"No, not yet. In fact, it was partly to consult you on that point that
+I sent for you."
+
+"Somewhere about nine thousand pounds, sir, I should think, would be a
+fair price."
+
+The Squire shook his head. "They will never give anything like so much
+as that."
+
+"I think they will, sir, if the affair is judiciously managed. How can
+they refuse in the face of a mortgage for six thousand pounds?"
+
+"There's something in that, certainly."
+
+"Then there are the villas--yet unbuilt it is true--but the plans of
+which are already drawn, and the foundations of some of which are
+already laid. You will require to be liberally remunerated for your
+disappointment and outlay in respect of them."
+
+"I see it all now. Splendid idea that of the villas."
+
+"Considering the matter in all its bearings, nine thousand pounds may
+be regarded as a very moderate sum."
+
+"I won't ask a penny less."
+
+"With it you will be able to clear off both the mortgage and the loan
+of two thousand, and will then have a thousand left for your expenses
+in connection with the villas."
+
+The Squire rubbed his hands. "I wish all my speculations had turned
+out as successful as this one," he said. "This one I owe to you,
+Bristow. You have done me a service that I can never forget."
+
+Tom rose to go. "Mrs. McDermott quite well, sir?" he said, with the
+most innocent air in the world.
+
+"If the way she eats and drinks is anything to go by, she was never
+better in her life. But if you take her own account, she's never
+well--a confirmed invalid she calls herself. I've no patience with the
+woman, though she is my sister. A day's hard scrubbing at the wash-tub
+every week would do her a world of good. If she would only pack up her
+trunks and go, how thankful I should be!"
+
+"If you wish her to shorten her visit at Pincote, I think you might
+easily persuade her to do so."
+
+"I'd give something to find out how. No, no, Bristow, you may depend
+that she's a fixture here for three or four months to come. She
+knows--no woman alive better--when she's in comfortable quarters."
+
+"If I had your sanction to do so, sir, I think that I could induce her
+to hasten her departure from Pincote."
+
+The Squire rubbed his nose thoughtfully.
+
+"You are a queer fellow, Bristow," he said, "and you have done some
+strange things, but to induce my sister to leave Pincote before she's
+ready to go will cap all that you've done yet."
+
+"I cannot of course induce her to leave Pincote till she is willing to
+go, but after a little quiet talk with me, it is possible that she may
+be willing, and even anxious, to get away as quickly as possible."
+
+The Squire shook his head. "You don't know Fanny McDermott as well as
+I do," he said.
+
+"Have I your permission to try the experiment?"
+
+"You have--and my devoutest wishes for your success. Only you must not
+compromise me in any way in the matter."
+
+"You may safely trust me not to do that. But you must give me an
+invitation to come and stay with you at Pincote for a week."
+
+"With all my heart."
+
+"I shall devote myself very assiduously to Mrs. McDermott, so that you
+must not be surprised if we seem to be very great friends in the
+course of a couple of days."
+
+"Do as you like, boy. I'll take no notice. But she's an old soldier,
+is Fan, and if for a single moment she suspects what you are after,
+she'll nail her colours to the mast, defy us all, and stop here for
+six months longer."
+
+"It is, of course, quite possible that I may fail," said Tom, "but
+somehow I hardly think that I shall."
+
+"We'll have a glass of sherry together and drink to your success.
+By-the-by, have you contrived yet to purge your brain of that
+lovesick tomfoolery?"
+
+"If, sir, you intend that phrase to apply to my feelings with regard
+to Miss Culpepper, I can only say that they are totally unchanged."
+
+"What an idiot you are in some things, Bristow!" said the Squire,
+crustily. "Remember this--I'll have no lovemaking here next week."
+
+"You need have no fear on that score, sir."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+EXIT MRS. MCDERMOTT.
+
+
+Tom and his portmanteau reached Pincote together a day or two after
+his last conversation with the Squire. Mrs. McDermott understood that
+Tom had been invited to spend a week there in order to assist her
+brother with his books and farm accounts. It seemed to her a very
+injudicious thing to do, but she did not say much about it. In truth,
+she was rather pleased than otherwise to have Tom there. It was
+dreadfully monotonous to have to spend one evening after another with
+no company save that of her brother and Jane. She was tired of her
+audience, and her audience were tired of her. Mr. Bristow, as she knew
+already, could talk well, was lively company, and, above all things;
+was an excellent listener. She had done her duty by her brother in
+warning him of what was going on between Mr. Bristow and her niece;
+if, after that, the Squire chose to let the two young people come
+together, it was not her place to dispute his right to do so.
+
+Tom was very attentive to her at dinner that day. Of Jane he took no
+notice beyond what the occasion absolutely demanded. Mrs. McDermott
+was agreeably surprised. "He has come to his senses at last, as I
+thought he would," she said to herself. "Grown tired of Jane's
+society, and no wonder. There's nothing in her."
+
+As soon as the cloth was removed, Jane excused herself on the score of
+a headache, and left the room. The Squire got into an easy-chair and
+settled himself down for a post-prandial nap. Tom moved his chair a
+little nearer that of the widow.
+
+"I have grieved to see you looking so far from well, Mrs. McDermott,"
+he said, as he poured himself out another glass of wine. "My father
+was a doctor, and I suppose I caught the habit from him of reading the
+signs of health or sickness in people's faces."
+
+Mrs. McDermott was visibly discomposed. She was a great coward with
+regard to her health, and Tom knew it.
+
+"Yes," she said, "I have not been well for some time past. But I was
+not aware that the traces of my indisposition were so plainly visible
+to others."
+
+"They are visible to me because, as I tell you, I am half a doctor
+both by birth and bringing up. You seem to me, Mrs. McDermott, pardon
+me for saying so--to have been fading--to have been going backward, as
+it were, almost from the day of your arrival at Pincote."
+
+Mrs. McDermott coughed and moved uneasily on her chair. "I have been a
+confirmed invalid for years," she said, querulously, "and yet no one
+will believe me when, I tell them so."
+
+"I can very readily believe it," said Tom, gravely. Then he lapsed
+into an ominous silence.
+
+"I--I did not know that I was looking any worse now than when I first
+came to Pincote," she said at last.
+
+"You seem to me to be much older-looking, much more careworn, with
+lines making their appearance round your eyes and mouth, such as I
+never noticed before. So, at least, it strikes me, but I may be, and I
+dare say I am, quite wrong."
+
+The widow seemed at a loss what to say. Tom's words had evidently
+rendered her very uneasy. "Then what would you advise me to do?" she
+said, after a time. "If you can detect the disease so readily, you
+should have no difficulty in specifying the remedy."
+
+"Ah, now I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth," said Tom, with
+a smile. "I am little more than a theorizer, you know; but I should
+have no hesitation in saying that your disorder is connected with the
+mind."
+
+"Gracious me, Mr. Bristow!"
+
+"Yes, Mrs. McDermott, my opinion is that you are suffering from an
+undue development of brain power."
+
+The widow looked puzzled. "I was always considered rather
+intellectual," she said, with a glance at her brother. But the Squire
+still slept.
+
+"You are very intellectual, madam; and that is just where the evil
+lies."
+
+"Excuse me, but I fail to follow you."
+
+"You are gifted with a very large and a very powerful brain," said
+Tom, with the utmost gravity. The Squire snorted suddenly in his
+sleep. The widow held up a warning finger. There was silence in the
+room till the Squire's gentle long-drawn snores announced that he was
+again happily fast asleep.
+
+"Very few of us are so specially gifted," resumed Tom. "But every
+special gift necessitates a special obligation in return. You, with
+your massive brain, must find that brain plenty of work to do--a
+sufficiency of congenial employment--otherwise it will inevitably turn
+upon itself, grow morbid and hypochondriacal, and slowly but surely
+deteriorate, till it ends by becoming--what I hardly like to say."
+
+"Really, Mr. Bristow, this conversation is to me most interesting,"
+said the widow. "Your views are thoroughly original, but, at the same
+time, I feel that they are perfectly correct."
+
+"The sphere of your intellectual activity is far too narrow and
+confined," resumed Tom; "your brain has not sufficient pabulum to keep
+it in a state of healthy activity. You want to mix more with the
+world--to mix more with clever people like yourself. It was never
+intended by nature that you should lose yourself among the narrow
+coteries of provincial life: the metropolis claims you: the world at
+large claims you. A conversationalist so brilliant, so incisive, with
+such an exhaustless fund of new ideas, can only hope to find her
+equals among the best circles of London or Parisian society."
+
+"How thoroughly you appreciate me, Mr. Bristow!" said the widow, all
+in a flutter of gratified vanity, as she edged her chair still closer
+to Tom. "It is as you say. I feel that I am lost here--that I am
+altogether out of my element. I stay here more as a matter of duty--of
+principle--than of anything else. Not that it is any gratification to
+me, as you may well imagine, to be buried alive in this dull hole. But
+my brother is getting old and infirm--breaking fast, I'm afraid, poor
+man," here the Squire gave a louder snore than common; "while Jane is
+little more than a foolish girl. They both need the guidance of a kind
+but firm hand. The interests of both demand a clear brain to look
+after them."
+
+"My dear madam, I agree with you in toto. Your Spartan views with
+regard to the duties of everyday life are mine exactly. But we must
+not forget that we have still another duty--that of carefully
+preserving our health, especially when our lives are invaluable to the
+epoch in which we live. You, my dear madam, are killing yourself by
+inches."
+
+"Oh, Mr. Bristow, not quite so bad as that, I hope!"
+
+"What I say, I say advisedly. I think that, without difficulty, I can
+specify a few symptoms of the cerebral disorder to which you are a
+victim. You will bear me out if what I say is correct."
+
+"Yes, yes; please go on."
+
+"You are a sufferer from sleeplessness to a certain extent. The body
+would fain rest, being tired and worn out, but the active brain will
+not allow it to do so. Am I right, Mrs. McDermott?"
+
+"I cannot dispute the accuracy of what you say."
+
+"Your nature being large and eminently sympathetic, but not finding
+sufficient vent for itself in the narrow circle to which it is
+condemned, busies itself, for lack of other aliment, with the concerns
+and daily doings of those around it, giving them the benefit of its
+vast experience and intuitive good sense; but being met sometimes with
+coldness instead of sympathy, it collapses, falls back upon itself,
+and becomes morbid for want of proper intellectual companionship. May
+I hope that you follow me?"
+
+"Yes--yes, perfectly," said the widow, but looking somewhat mystified,
+notwithstanding.
+
+"The brain thus thrown back upon itself engenders an irritability of
+the nerves, which is altogether abnormal. Fits of peevishness, of
+ill-temper, of causeless fault-finding, gradually supervene, till at
+length all natural amiability of disposition vanishes entirely, and
+there is nothing left but a wretched hypochondriac, a misery to
+himself and all around him."
+
+"Gracious me! Mr. Bristow, what a picture! But I hope you do not put
+me down as a misery to myself and all around me."
+
+"Far from it--very far from it--my dear Mrs.  McDermott. You are only
+in the premonitory stage at present. Let us hope that in your case,
+the later stages will not follow."
+
+"I hope not, with all my heart."
+
+"Of course, you have not yet been troubled with hearing voices?"
+
+"Hearing voices! Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bristow?"
+
+"One of the worst symptoms of the cerebral disorder, from the earlier
+stages of which you are now suffering, is that the patient hears
+voices--or fancies that he hears them, which is pretty much the same
+thing. Sometimes they are strange voices; sometimes they are the
+voices of relatives, or friends, no longer among the living. In short,
+to state the case as briefly as possible, the patient is haunted."
+
+"I declare, Mr. Bristow, that you quite frighten me!"
+
+"But there are no such symptoms as these about you at present, Mrs.
+McDermott. The moment you have the least experience of them--should
+such a misfortune ever overtake you--then take my advice, and seek the
+only remedy that can be of any real benefit to you."
+
+"And what may that be?"
+
+"Immediate change of scene--a change total and complete. Go abroad. Go
+to Italy; go to Egypt; go to Africa;--in short to any place where the
+change is a radical one. But I hope that in your case, such a
+necessity will never arise."
+
+"All this is most deeply interesting to me, Mr. Bristow, but at the
+same time it makes me very nervous. The very thought of being haunted
+in the way you mention is enough to keep me from sleeping for a week."
+
+At this moment Jane came into the room, and a few minutes later the
+Squire awoke. Tom had said all that he wanted to say, and he gave Mrs.
+McDermott no further opportunity for private conversation with him.
+
+Next day, too, Tom carefully avoided the widow. His object was to
+afford her ample time to think over what he had said. That day the
+vicar and his wife dined at Pincote, and Tom became immersed in local
+politics with the Squire and the Parson. Mrs. McDermott was anxious
+and uneasy. That evening she talked less than she had ever been known
+to do before.
+
+The rule at Pincote was to keep early hours. It was not much past ten
+o'clock when Mrs. McDermott left the drawing-room, and having obtained
+her bed candle, set out on her journey to her own room. Half way up
+the staircase stood Mr. Bristow. The night being warm and balmy for
+the time of year, the staircase window was still half open, and Tom
+stood there, gazing out into the moonlit garden. Mrs. McDermott
+stopped, and said a few gracious words to him. She would have liked to
+resume the conversation of the previous evening, but that was
+evidently neither the time nor the place to do so; so she said
+good-night, shook hands, and went on her way, leaving Tom still
+standing by the window. Higher up, close to the head of the stairs,
+stood a very large, old-fashioned case clock. As she was passing it
+Mrs. McDermott held up her candle to see the time. It was nearly
+twenty minutes past ten. But at the very moment of her noting this
+fact, there came three distinct taps from the inside of the case,
+and next instant from the same place came the sound of a hollow,
+ghost-like voice. "Fanny--Fanny--list! I want to speak to you," said
+the voice, in slow, solemn tones. But Mrs. McDermott did not wait to
+hear more. She screamed, dropped her candle, and staggered back
+against the opposite wall. Tom was by her side in a moment.
+
+"My dear Mrs. McDermott, whatever is the matter?" he said.
+
+"The voice! did you not hear the voice!" she gasped.
+
+"What voice? whose voice?" said Tom, with an arm round her waist.
+
+"A voice which spoke to me out of the clock!" she said, with a shiver.
+
+"Out of the clock?" said Tom. "We can soon see whether anybody's
+hidden there." Speaking thus, he withdrew his arm, and flung open the
+door of the clock. Enough light came from the lamp on the stairs to
+show that the old case was empty of everything, save the weights,
+chains, and pendulum of the clock.
+
+"Wherever else the voice may have come from, it is plain that it
+couldn't come from here," said Tom, as he proceeded to relight the
+widow's candle.
+
+"It came from there, I'm quite certain. There were three distinct raps
+from the inside as well."
+
+"Is it not possible that it may have been a mere hallucination on your
+part? You have not been well, you know, for some time past."
+
+"Whatever it may have been, it was very terrible," said Mrs.
+McDermott, drawing her skirts round her with a shudder. "I have not
+forgotten what you told me yesterday."
+
+"Allow me to accompany you as far as your room door," said Tom.
+
+"Thanks. I shall feel obliged by your doing so. You will say nothing
+of all this downstairs?"
+
+"I should not think of doing so."
+
+The following day Mr. Bristow was not at luncheon. There were one or
+two inquiries, but no one seemed to know exactly what had become of
+him. It was Mrs. McDermott's usual practice to retire to the library
+for an hour after luncheon--which room she generally had all to
+herself at such times--for the ostensible purpose of reading the
+newspapers, but, it may be, quite as much for the sake of a quiet
+sleep in the huge leathern chair that stood by the library fire. On
+going there as usual after luncheon to-day, what was the widow's
+surprise to find Mr. Bristow sitting there fast asleep, with the
+"Times" at his feet where it had dropped from his relaxed fingers.
+
+She stepped up to him on tiptoe and looked closely at him. "Rather
+nice-looking," she said to herself. "Shall I disturb him, or not?"
+
+Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on
+the table a little distance away. The temptation was too much for her.
+Still on tiptoe, she crossed to the table in order to examine them.
+But hardly had she stooped over the table when the same hollow voice
+that had sounded in her ears the previous night spoke to her again,
+and froze her to the spot where she was standing. "Fanny McDermott,
+you must get away from this house," said the voice. "If you stop here
+you will be a dead woman in three months!"
+
+ She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her
+trembling lips did at last falter out the words: "Who are you?"
+
+The answer came. "I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time."
+
+Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to
+look round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep.
+She managed to reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence
+made the best of her way to her own room.
+
+Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one
+broad smile. "She's going at last," he said. "Off to-morrow like a
+shot. Just told me."
+
+"Then, with your permission, I won't dine with you this evening. I
+don't want to see her again."
+
+"But how on earth have you managed it?" asked the Squire.
+
+"By means of a little simple ventriloquism--nothing more. But I see
+her coming this way. I'm off." And off he went, leaving the Squire
+staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+DIRTY JACK.
+
+
+There was one thing that puzzled both General St. George and Lionel
+Dering, and that was the persistent way in which Kester St. George
+stayed on at Park Newton. It had, in the first place, been a matter of
+some difficulty to get him to Park Newton at all, and for some time
+after his arrival it had been evident to all concerned that he had
+made up his mind that his stay there should be as brief as possible.
+But after that never-to-be-forgotten night when the noise of ghostly
+footsteps was heard in the nailed-up room--a circumstance which both
+his uncle and his cousin had made up their minds would drive him from
+the house for ever--he ceased to talk much about going away. Week
+passed after week and still he stayed on. Nor could his uncle, had he
+been desirous of doing so, which he certainly was not, have hinted to
+him, even in the most delicate possible way, that his room would be
+more welcome than his company, after the pressure which he had put
+upon him only a short time previously to induce him to remain.
+
+Nothing could have suited Lionel's plans better than that his cousin
+should continue to live on at Park Newton, but he was certainly
+puzzled to know what his reason could be for so doing; and, in such a
+case, to be puzzled was, to a certain extent, to be disquieted.
+
+But much as he would have liked to do so, Kester had a very good
+reason for not leaving Park Newton at present. He was, in fact, afraid
+to do so. After the affair of the footsteps he had decided that it
+would not be advisable to go away for a little while. It would never
+do for people to say that he had been driven away by the ghost of
+Percy Osmond. It was while thus lingering on from day to day that he
+had ridden over to see Mother Mim. One result of his interview was
+that he felt how utterly unsafe it would be for him to quit the
+neighbourhood till she was safely dead and buried. She might send for
+him at any moment, she might have other things to speak to him about
+which it behoved him to hear. She might change her mind at the last
+moment, and decide to tell to some other person what she had already
+told him; and when she should die, it would doubtless be to him that
+application would be made to bury her. All things considered, it was
+certainly unadvisable that he should leave Park Newton yet awhile.
+
+Day after day he waited with smothered impatience for some further
+tidings of Mother Mim. But day after day he waited in vain. Most men,
+under such circumstances, would have gone to the place and have made
+personal inquiries for themselves. This was precisely what Kester St.
+George told himself that he ought to do, but for all that he did not
+do it. He shrank, with a repugnance which he could not overcome, from
+the thought of any further contact with either Mother Mim or her
+surroundings. His tastes, if not refined, were fastidious, and a
+shudder of disgust ran through him as often as he remembered that if
+what Mother Mim had said were true--and there was something that rang
+terribly like truth in her words--then was she--that wretched
+creature--his mother, and the filthy hut in which she lay dying
+his sole home and heritage. He knew that for the sake of his own
+interest--of his own safety--he ought to go and see again this woman
+who called herself his mother, but three weeks had come and gone
+before he could screw his courage up to the pitch requisite to induce
+him to do so.
+
+But before this came about, Kester St. George had been left for the
+time being, with the exception of certain servants, the sole occupant
+of Park Newton. Lionel Dering had gone down to Bath to seek an
+interview with Pierre Janvard, with what result has been already seen.
+Two days after Lionel's departure, General St. George was called away
+by the sudden illness of an old Indian friend to whom he was most
+warmly attached. He left home expecting to be back in four or five
+days at the latest; whereas, as it fell out, he did not reach home
+again for several weeks.
+
+It was one day when thus left alone, and when the solitude was
+becoming utterly intolerable to him, that Kester made up his mind that
+he would no longer be a coward, but would go that very afternoon and
+see for himself whether Mother Mim were alive or dead. But even after
+he had thus determined that there should be no more delay on his part,
+he played fast and loose with himself as to whether he should go or
+not. Had there come to him any important letter or telegram demanding
+his presence fifty miles away, he would have caught at it as a
+drowning man catches at a straw. The veriest excuse would have
+sufficed for the putting off of his journey for at least one day. But
+the dull hours wore themselves away without relief or change of any
+kind for him, and when three o'clock came, having first dosed himself
+heavily with brandy, he rang the bell and ordered his horse to be
+brought round.
+
+What might not the next few hours bring to him? he asked himself as he
+rode down the avenue. They might perchance be pregnant with doom. Or
+death might already have lifted this last bitter burden from his life
+by sealing with his bony fingers the only lips that had power to do
+him harm.
+
+For nearly a fortnight past the weather had been remarkably mild,
+balmy, and open for the time of year. Everybody said how easily old
+winter was dying. But during the previous night there had come a
+bitter change. The wind had suddenly veered round to the north-east,
+and was still blowing steadily from that quarter. Steadily and
+bitterly it blew, chilling the hearts of man and beast with its icy
+breath, stopping the growth of grass and flowers, killing every
+faintest gleam of sunshine, and bringing back the reign of winter in
+its cruellest form.
+
+Heavy and lowering looked the sky, shrilly through the still bare
+branches whistled the ice-cold wind, as Kester St. George, deep in
+thought, rode slowly through the park. He buttoned his coat more
+closely around him, and pulled his hat more firmly over his brows as
+he turned out of the lodge gates, and setting his face full to the
+wind, urged his horse into a gallop, and was quickly lost to view down
+the winding road.
+
+It would not have taken him long to reach the edge of Burley Moor had
+not his horse suddenly fallen lame. For the last two miles of the
+distance his pace was reduced to a slow walk. This so annoyed Kester
+that he decided to leave his horse at a roadside tavern in the last
+hamlet he had to pass through, and to traverse the remainder of the
+distance on foot. A short three miles across the moor would take him
+to Mother Mim's cottage.
+
+To a man such as Kester a three miles' walk was a rather formidable
+undertaking--or, at least, it was an uncommon one. But there was no
+avoiding it on the present occasion, unless he gave up the object of
+his journey and went back home. But he could by no means bear the
+thought of doing that. In proportion with the hesitation and
+reluctance which he had previously shown, to ascertain either the best
+or the worst of the affair, was the anxiety which now possessed him to
+reach his journey's end. His imagination pictured all kinds of
+possible and impossible evils as likely to accrue to him, and he
+cursed himself again and again for his negligence in not making the
+journey long ago.
+
+Very bleak and cold was that walk across the desolate, lonely moor,
+but Kester St. George, buried in his own thoughts, hardly felt or
+heeded anything of it. All the sky was clouded and overcast, but far
+away to the north a still darker bank of cloud was creeping slowly up
+from the horizon.
+
+The wind blew in hollow fitful gusts. Any one learned in such lore
+would have said that a change of weather was imminent.
+
+When about half-way across the moor he halted for a moment to gather
+breath. On every side of him spread the dull treeless expanse. Nowhere
+was there another human being to be seen. He was utterly alone. "If a
+man crossing here were suddenly stricken with death," he muttered to
+himself, "what a place this would be to die in! His body might lie
+here for days--for weeks even--before it was found."
+
+At length Mother Mim's cottage was reached. Everything about it looked
+precisely the same as when he had seen it last. It seemed only like
+a few hours since he had left it. There, too, crouched on the low
+wall outside, with her skirt drawn over her head, was Mother Mim's
+grand-daughter, the girl with the black glittering eyes, looking as if
+she had never stirred from the spot since he was last there. She made
+no movement or sign of recognition when he walked up to her, but her
+eyes were full of a cold keen criticism of him, far beyond her age and
+appearance.
+
+"How is your grandmother?" said Kester, abruptly. He did not like
+being stared at as she stared at him.
+
+"She's dead."
+
+"Dead!" It was no more than he expected to hear, and yet he could not
+hear it altogether unmoved.
+
+"Ay, as dead as a door nail. And a good job too. It was time she
+went."
+
+"How long has she been dead?" asked Kester, ignoring the latter part
+of the girl's speech.
+
+"Just half an hour."
+
+Another surprise for Kester. He had expected to hear that she had been
+dead several days--a week perhaps. But only half an hour!
+
+"Who was with her when she died?" he asked, after a minute's pause.
+
+"Me and Dirty Jack."
+
+"Dirty Jack! who is he?"
+
+"Why Dirty Jack. Everybody knows him. He lives in Duxley, and has a
+wooden leg, and does writings for folk."
+
+"Does writings for folk!" A shiver ran through Kester. "And has he
+been doing anything for your grandmother?"
+
+"That he has. A lot."
+
+"A lot--about what?"
+
+"About you."
+
+"About me? Why about me?"
+
+"Oh, you never came near. Nobody never came near. Granny got tired of
+it. 'I'll have my revenge,' said she. So she sent for Dirty Jack, and
+he took it all down in writing."
+
+"Took it all down in writing about me?" She nodded her head in the
+affirmative. "If you know so much, no doubt you know what it was that
+he took down--eh?"
+
+"Oh, I know right enough."
+
+"Why not tell me?"
+
+"I know all about it, but I ain't a-going to split."
+
+Further persuasion on Kester's part had no other effect than to induce
+the girl to assert in still more emphatic terms that "she wasn't
+a-going to split."
+
+Evidently nothing more was to be got from her. But she had said enough
+already to confirm his worst fears. Mother Mim, out of spite for the
+neglect with which he had treated her, had made a confession at the
+last moment, similar in purport to what she had told him when last
+there. Such a confession--if not absolutely dangerous to him--she
+having assured him that none of the witnesses were now living--might
+be made a source of infinite annoyance to him. Such a story, once made
+public, might bring forth witnesses and evidence from twenty hitherto
+unsuspected quarters, and fetter him round, link by link, with a chain
+of evidence from which he might find it impossible to extricate
+himself. At every sacrifice, Mother Mim's confession must be destroyed
+or suppressed. Such were some of the thoughts that passed through
+Kester's mind as he stood there biting his nails. Again and again he
+cursed himself in that he had allowed any such confession to emanate
+from the dead woman, whose silence a little extra kindness on his part
+would have effectually secured.
+
+"And where is this Dirty Jack, as you call him?" he said, at last.
+
+"He's in there"--indicating the hut with a jerk of her head--"fast
+asleep."
+
+"Fast asleep in the same room with your grandmother?"
+
+"Why not? He had a bottle of whiskey with him which he kept sucking
+at. At last he got half screwy, and when all was over he said he would
+have a snooze by the fire and pull himself together a bit before going
+home."
+
+Kester said no more, but going up to the hut, opened the door and went
+in. On the pallet at the farther end lay the dead woman, her body
+faintly outlined through the sheet that had been drawn over her. A
+clear fire was burning in the broken grate, and close to it, on the
+only chair in the place, sat a man fast asleep. His hands were grimy,
+his linen was yellow, his hair was frowsy. He was a big bulky man,
+with a coarse, hard face, and was dressed in faded threadbare black.
+He had a wooden leg, which just now was thrust out towards the fire,
+and seemed as if it were basking in the comfortable blaze.
+
+On the chimney-piece was an empty spirit-bottle, and in a corner near
+at hand were deposited a broad-brimmed hat, greasy and much the worse
+for wear, and a formidable looking walking-stick.
+
+Such was the vision of loveliness that met the gaze of Kester St.
+George as he paused for a moment or two just inside the cottage door.
+Then he coughed and advanced a step or two. As he did so the man
+suddenly opened his eyes, got up quickly but awkwardly out of his
+chair, and laid his hand on something that was hidden in an inner
+pocket of his coat. "No, you don't!" he cried, with a wave of his
+hand. "No, you don't! None of your hanky-panky tricks here. They won't
+go down with Jack Skeggs, so you needn't try 'em on!"
+
+Kester stared at him in unconcealed disgust. It was evident that he
+was still under the partial influence of what he had been drinking.
+
+"Who are you, sir, and what are you doing here?" asked Kester,
+sternly.
+
+"I am John Skeggs, Esquire, attorney-at-law, at your service. And who
+may you be, when you're at home? But there--I know who you are well
+enough. You are Mr. Kester St. George, of Park Newton. I have seen you
+before. I saw you on the day of the murder trial. You were one of the
+witnesses, and white enough you looked. Anybody who had a good look at
+you in the box that day would never be likely to forget your face
+again."
+
+Kester turned aside for a moment to hide the sudden nervous twitching
+of his lips.
+
+"I'm sorry the whiskey is done," said Mr. Skeggs with a regretful look
+at the empty bottle. "I should like you and I to have had a drain
+together. I suppose you don't do anything in this line?" From one
+pocket he produced an old clasp knife, and from the other a cake of
+leaf tobacco. Then he cut himself a plug and put it into his mouth.
+"When one friend fails me, then I fall back upon another," he said.
+"When I can't get whiskey I must have tobacco."
+
+There was no better known character in Duxley than Mr. Skeggs. "Dirty
+Jack," or "Drunken Jack," were the sobriquets by which he was
+generally known, and neither of those terms was applied to him without
+good and sufficient reason. There could be no doubt as to the man's
+shrewdness, ability, and knowledge of common law. He was a great
+favourite among the lower and the very lowest classes of Duxley
+society, who in their legal difficulties never thought of employing
+any other lawyer than Skeggs, the universal belief being that if
+anybody could pull them through, either by hook or crook, Dirty Jack
+was that man. And it is quite possible that Mr. Skeggs's clients were
+not far wrong in their belief.
+
+"No good stopping here any longer," said Skeggs, when he had put back
+his knife and tobacco into his pocket.
+
+"No, I suppose not," said Kester.
+
+"I suppose you will see that everything is done right and proper by
+our poor dear departed?"
+
+"Yes, I suppose there is no one to look to but me. She was my
+foster-mother, and very kind to me when I was a lad."
+
+"His foster-mother! Listen to that! His foster-mother! ha! ha!"
+sniggered Dirty Jack. Then laying a finger on one side his nose, and
+leering up at Kester with horrible familiarity, he added: "We know all
+about that little affair, Mr. St. George, and a very pretty romance it
+is."
+
+"Look you here, Mr. Skeggs, or whatever your dirty name may be," said
+Kester, sternly, "I'd advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head
+or it may be worse for you. I've thrashed bigger men than you in my
+time. Be careful, or I shall thrash you."
+
+"I like your pluck, on my soul I do!" said Skeggs, heartily. "If
+you're not genuine silver--and you know you ain't--you're a deuced
+good imitation of the real thing. Thoroughly well plated, that's what
+you are. Any one would take you to be a born gentleman, they would
+really. Which way are you going back?"
+
+Kester hesitated a moment. Should he quarrel with this man and set him
+at defiance, or should he not? Could he afford to quarrel with him?
+that was the question. Perhaps it would be as well to keep from doing
+so as long as possible.
+
+"I'm going to walk back across the moor as far as Sedgeley," said
+Kester.
+
+"Then I'll walk with you--though three miles is rather a big stretch
+to do with my game leg. I can get a gig from there that will take me
+home."
+
+Kester shrugged his shoulders, but made no comment. Skeggs took up his
+hat and stick, and proceeded to polish the former article with his
+sleeve.
+
+"Queer woman that," he said, with a jerk of his thumb towards the
+bed--"very queer. Hard as nails. With something heroic about her, to
+my mind--something that, under different circumstances, might have
+developed her into a remarkable woman. Well, that's the way with heaps
+of us. Circumstances are dead against us, and we are not strong enough
+to overmaster them; else should we smite the world with surprise, and
+genius would not be so scarce an article in the market as it is now."
+
+Kester stared. Was this the half-drunken blackguard who had been
+jeering at him but two minutes ago? "And yet, drunk he must be," added
+Kester to himself. "No fellow in his senses would talk such precious
+rot."
+
+"Your obedient servant, sir," said Skeggs, with a purposely
+exaggerated bow as he held open the door for Mr. St. George to pass
+out.
+
+The girl was still sitting on the wall with her skirt drawn over her
+head. Kester went up to her. "I will send some one along first thing
+to-morrow morning to see to the funeral and other matters," he said,
+"if you can manage till then."
+
+"Oh, I can manage right enough. Why not?" said the girl.
+
+"I thought that perhaps you might not care to be in the house by
+yourself all night."
+
+"Oh, I don't mind that."
+
+"Then you are not afraid?"
+
+"What's there to be frittened of? She's quiet enough now. I shall make
+up a jolly fire, and have a jolly supper, and then a jolly long sleep.
+And that's what I've not had for weeks. And I shall read the Dream
+Book. She can't keep that from me now. I know where it is. It's in the
+bed right under her. But I'll have it." She laughed and nodded her
+head, then putting a nut into her mouth she cracked it and began to
+pick out the kernel. Kester turned away.
+
+"Nell, my good girl," said Mr. Skeggs, insinuatingly, "just see
+whether there isn't such a thing as a drop of whiskey somewhere about
+the house. I've an awful pain in my chest."
+
+"There's no whiskey--not a drop--but I know where there's half a
+bottle of gin. Give me five shillings and I'll fetch it."
+
+"Five shillings for half a bottle of gin! Why, Nell, what a greedy
+young pig you must be!"
+
+"Don't have it then. Nobody axed you. I can drink it myself."
+
+"I'll give you three shillings for it. Come now."
+
+"Not a meg less than five will I take," said Nell, emphatically, as
+she cracked another nut.
+
+"Why, you young viper, have you no conscience at all?" he cried
+savagely. Then seeing that Nell took no further notice of him, he
+turned to Kester. "I find that I have no loose silver about me," he
+said. "Oblige me with the loan of a couple of half-crowns till we get
+to Sedgeley." Whenever Mr. Skeggs made a new acquaintance he always
+requested the loan of a couple of half-crowns before parting from him.
+But the half-crowns were never paid back until asked for, and asked
+for more than once.
+
+A few premonitory flakes of snow were darkening the air as Kester St.
+George and Mr. Skeggs started on their way back across Burley Moor,
+the latter with a thick comforter round his neck and the bottle of gin
+stowed carefully away in the tail pocket of his coat. The cold seemed
+more intense than ever, but the wind had fallen altogether.
+
+"We are going to have a rough night," said Skeggs as he stepped
+sturdily out. "We must contrive to get across the moor before the snow
+comes down very thick, or we shall stand a good chance of losing our
+way. Only the winter before last a pedlar and his wife were lost in
+the snow within a mile of here, and their bodies not found for a
+fortnight. This sudden change will play the devil with the young
+crops."
+
+Kester did not answer. Far different matters occupied his thoughts. In
+silence they walked on for a little while.
+
+"I suppose you could give a pretty good guess," said Skeggs at length,
+"at my reasons for asking you which way you were going to walk this
+afternoon?"
+
+"Indeed, no," said Kester with a shrug. "I have not the remotest idea,
+nor do I care to know. It was you who chose to accompany me. I did not
+thrust my company upon you."
+
+Skeggs laughed a little maliciously. "I don't think there's much good,
+Mr. Kester St. George, in you and I beating about the bush. I'm a
+plain man of business, and that reminds me,"--interrupting himself
+with a chuckle--"that when I once used those very words to a client of
+mine, he retorted by saying, 'You are more than a plain man of
+business, Mr. Skeggs, you are an ugly one.' I did my very utmost for
+that man, but he was hanged. Mais revenons. I am a plain man of
+business, and I intend to deal with this question in a business-like
+way. The simple point is: What is it worth your while to give me for
+the document I have buttoned up here?" tapping his chest with his left
+hand as he spoke.
+
+"I am at a loss to know to what document you refer," said Mr. St.
+George, coldly.
+
+"A very few words will tell you the contents of it, though, if I am
+rightly informed, you can give a pretty good guess already as to what
+they are likely to be. In this document it is asserted that you, sir,
+have no right to the name by which the world has known you for so long
+a time--that you have no right to the position you occupy, to the
+property you claim as yours. That you are, in fact, none other than
+the son of Mother Mim herself--of the woman who lies dead in yonder
+hut."
+
+Kester drew in his breath with something like a sigh. It was as he had
+feared. Mother Mim had told everything, and, of all people in the
+world, to the wretch now walking by his side. He braced his nerves for
+the coming encounter. "I have heard something before to-day of the
+rigmarole of which you speak," he said, haughtily; "but I need hardly
+tell you that the affair is nothing but a tissue of vilest lies from
+beginning to end."
+
+"I dare say it is," said Skeggs, good humouredly. "But it may be
+rather difficult for you to prove that it is so."
+
+"It will be still more difficult for you to prove that it is not so."
+
+"Oh! I am quite aware of all the difficulties both for and against--no
+man more so. You have got possession, and a hundred other points in
+your favour. Still, with what evidence I have already, and with what
+evidence  I can get elsewhere, I shall be able to make out a strong
+case--a very strong case against you in a court of justice."
+
+"Evidence elsewhere!" said Kester, disdainfully. "There is no such
+thing, unless you are clever enough to make the dead speak."
+
+"Even that has been done before now," said Skeggs quietly. "But in
+this case we have no need to go to the churchyard to collect our
+evidence. I have a living, breathing witness whom I can lay my hands
+on at a day's notice."
+
+"You lie," said Kester, emphatically.
+
+"I'll wash that down," said Skeggs, halting for a moment and
+proceeding to take a good pull at his bottle of gin. "If you so far
+forget yourself again, I shall begin to feel sure that you are not a
+St. George. What I told you was not a lie. There were four witnesses
+who had all a personal knowledge of a certain fact. Three of those
+witnesses are dead: the fourth still lives. Of the existence of this
+fourth witness Mother Mim never even hinted to you. It was her trump
+card, and she was far too cunning to let you see it."
+
+Kester walked on in silence. He felt that just then he had hardly a
+word to say. Was all that he had sacrificed so much for in other ways,
+all that he had run such tremendous risks for, to be torn from him by
+the machinations of a vile old hag, and the drunken, ribald scoundrel
+by his side? Through what strange ambushes, through what dusky
+by-paths, doth Fate oft-times overtake us! We look back along the
+broad highway we have been traversing, and seeing no black shadow
+dogging our footsteps, we go rejoicing on our way; when suddenly, from
+some near-at-hand shrub, is shot a poisoned arrow, and the sunlight
+fades from our eyes for ever.
+
+"And now, after this little skirmish," said Skeggs, "we come back to
+my first question: What can you afford to give me for the document in
+my pocket?"
+
+"Suppose I say that I will give you nothing--what then?" said Kester,
+sullenly.
+
+"Then I shall get my evidence together, work out my case on paper, and
+submit it to the heir-at-law."
+
+"And supposing the heir-at-law, acting under advice, were to decline
+having anything to do with your case, as you call it?"
+
+"He would be a fool to do that, because my case is anything but a weak
+one. I tell you this in confidence. But supposing he were to decline,
+then I should say to him: 'I am willing to conduct this case on my own
+account. If I fail, it shall not cost you a penny. If I succeed, you
+shall pay all expenses, and give me five thousand pounds.' That would
+fetch him, I think."
+
+"You have been assuming all along," said Kester, "that your case is
+based on fact. I assure you again that it is not--that it is nothing
+but a devilish lie from beginning to end."
+
+"Really, my dear sir, that has little or nothing to do with the
+matter. I dare say it is a lie. But it is my place to believe it to be
+the truth, and to make other people believe the same as I do. Here's
+your very good health, sir." Again Mr. Skeggs took a long pull and a
+strong pull at his bottle of gin.
+
+"Knowing what you know," said Kester, "and believing what you believe,
+are you yet willing to sell the document now in your possession?"
+
+"Of course I am. What else is all this jaw for?"
+
+"And don't you think you are a pretty sort of scoundrel to make me any
+such offer? Don't you think----"
+
+"Now look you here, Mr. St. George--if that is your name, which I very
+much doubt--don't let you and me begin to fling mud at one another,
+because that is a game at which I could lick you into fits. I have
+made you a fair offer. If we can't come to terms, there's no reason
+why we shouldn't part friendly."
+
+Once again Kester walked on in silence. The snow had been coming down
+more thickly for some time past, and already the dull gray moor began
+to look strange and unfamiliar, but neither of the two men gave more
+than a passing thought to the weather.
+
+"If you feel and know your case to be such a strong one," said Kester,
+at last, "why do you come to me at all? Why send a white flag into
+your enemy's camp? Why not fight him � l'outrance at once?"
+
+"Because I'm neither so young nor so pugnacious as I once was,"
+answered Skeggs. "I go in for peace and quiet nowadays. I don't want
+the bother and annoyance of a law-suit. I have no ill-feeling towards
+you, and if you will only make me a fair offer, I shall be the last
+man in the world to disturb you in any way. Gemini! how the snow comes
+down! We are only about half way yet. We shall have some difficulty in
+picking our road across."
+
+"I myself am as anxious as you can be, Mr. Skeggs, to be saved the
+trouble and annoyance of a law-suit, however sure I may feel that the
+result would be in my favour. But you must give me a little time to
+think this matter over. It is far too important to be decided at a
+moment's notice."
+
+"Time? To be sure. You can make up your mind in about a couple of
+days, I suppose. Shall I call upon you, or will you call upon me?"
+
+Hardly were the words out of Mr. Skeggs's mouth when his wooden leg
+sunk suddenly into a hidden hole in the pathway. Thrown forward by the
+shock, the lawyer came heavily to the ground, and at the same moment
+his leg snapped short off just below the knee.
+
+Kester took him by the shoulders and assisted him to assume a sitting
+posture on the footpath.
+
+Mr. Skeggs's first action was to pick up his broken limb and look at
+it with a sort of comical despair. "There goes a friend that has done
+me good service," he said; "but he might have lasted till he got me
+home, for all that. How the deuce am I to get home?" he asked, turning
+abruptly to Kester.
+
+Kester paused for a minute and looked round before answering. The snow
+was coming down faster than ever. The moor was being gradually turned
+into a huge white carpet. Already its zig-zag paths and winding
+footways were barely distinguishable from the treacherous bog which
+lay on every side of them. In an hour and a half it would be dark with
+a darkness that would be unrelieved by either moon or stars. If it
+kept on snowing all night at this rate the drift would be a couple of
+feet deep by morning. Skeggs's casual remark about the pedlar and his
+wife, unheeded at the time, now flashed vividly across Kester's mind.
+
+"You will have to wait here till I can get assistance," he said, in
+answer to his companion's question. "There is no help for it."
+
+"I suppose not," growled Skeggs. "Was ever anything so cursedly
+unfortunate?"
+
+"Sedgeley is the nearest place to this," said Kester. "There are
+plenty of men there who know the moor thoroughly. I will send half a
+dozen of them to your help."
+
+"How soon may I expect them here?"
+
+"In about three-quarters of an hour from now."
+
+"Ugh! I'm half frozen already. What shall I be in another hour?"
+
+"Oh, you'll pull through that easily enough. Your bottle is not empty
+yet."
+
+"Jove! I'd forgotten the bottle," said Skeggs, with animation.
+
+He took it out of his pocket, and held it up to the light. "Not more
+than a quartern left. Well, that's better than none at all."
+
+"Goodbye," said Kester, as he shook some of the snow off his hat.
+"You may look for help in less than an hour."
+
+"Goodbye, Mr. St. George," said Skeggs, looking very earnestly at him
+as he did so.
+
+"You won't forget to send the help, will you? because if you do
+forget, it will be nothing more nor less than wilful murder."
+
+Kester laughed a short grating laugh. "Fear nothing, Skeggs," he said.
+"I won't forget. About that other trifle, I will write you in two or
+three days. Again goodbye."
+
+Skeggs's face had turned very white. He could not speak. He took off
+his hat and waved it. Kester responded by a wave of his hand. Then
+turning on his heel he strode away through the snowy twilight. In
+three minutes he was lost to sight. Skeggs could no longer see him.
+Tears came into his eyes. "He'll send no help, not he. I shall die
+here like a dog. The snow will be my winding-sheet. If ever there was
+mischief in a man's eye, there was in his, as he bade me goodbye."
+
+Onward strode Kester St. George through the blinding snow. Altogether
+heedless of the weather was he just now. He had other things to think
+about. As instinctively as an Indian or a backwoodsman tracks his way
+across prairie or forest did he track his way across the moor, all
+hidden though the paths now were. He was a child of the moor. He had
+learned its secrets when a boy, and in his present emergency, reason
+and intellect must perforce give way to that blind instinct which was
+left him as a legacy of his youth.
+
+At length the last patch of moorland was crossed, and a few minutes
+later he found himself close by a well-remembered finger-post, where
+three roads met. One of these roads led to Sedgeley, which was but a
+short quarter of a mile away; another of them led to Duxley and Park
+Newton. At Sedgeley his horse was waiting for him. There, too, was to
+be had the help which he had so faithfully promised Skeggs that he
+would send. Leaning against the finger-post, he took a minute's rest
+before going any farther. Which road should he take? That was the
+question which at present he was turning over and over in his mind.
+Not long did he hesitate. Taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he made
+a wisp of it, and tied it round his throat. Then he turned up the
+collar of his coat. Then once again he shook the snow off his hat.
+Then plunging his hands deep in his pockets, and turning his back on
+the finger-post, he set out resolutely along the road that led towards
+Park Newton. Once, and once only did he pause, even for a moment,
+before reaching home. It was when he fancied that he heard, away in
+the far distance, a low, wild, melancholy cry--whether the cry of an
+animal or a man he could not tell--but none the less a cry for help.
+Whatever it was, it did not come again, and after that Kester pursued
+his way homeward steadily and without pause. It was quite dark long
+before he reached his own room.
+
+He changed his clothes and went down to dinner. Both his uncle and
+Richard Dering were away, and he dined alone, for which he was by no
+means sorry. Every half-hour or so he inquired as to the weather. They
+had nothing to tell him except that it was still snowing hard. The
+evening was one of slow torture, but at length it wore itself away. He
+went to bed about midnight. Dobbs's last report to him was that the
+weather was still unchanged. But several times during the night Dobbs
+heard his master pacing up and down his room, and had he been there he
+might, ever and again, have seen a haggard face peering out with eager
+eyes into the darkness.
+
+"Twelve inches of snow, sir, on the drive," was Dobbs's first news
+next morning. "They say there has not been a fall like it in these
+parts for a dozen years."
+
+The snow had ceased to fall hours before. By-and-by there came a few
+gleams of sunshine to brighten the scene, but the wind was still in
+the north, and all that day the weather kept bitterly cold. Soon after
+sunset, however, there was a change. Little by little the wind got
+round to the south-west. At ten o'clock Dobbs reported: "Snow going
+fast, sir. Regular thaw. Not be a bit left by breakfast-time."
+
+"Call me at four," said his master, "and have some coffee ready, and a
+horse brought round by four thirty."
+
+He was quite tired out by this time, and when he went to bed he felt
+sure that he should have four or five hours' sound sleep. But his
+sleep was several times disturbed by a strange dream: always the same
+thing repeated over and over again. He dreamt that he was standing
+under the finger-post on the edge of the moor. But the finger-post was
+neither more nor less than a gigantic skeleton, of which the
+outstretched arms formed the direction boards. On the bony palm of one
+outstretched arm, in letters of blood, was written the words: "To
+Sedgeley." Then as he read the words in his dream, again would sound
+in his ears the low, weird, melancholy cry which had arrested his
+steps for a moment as he walked home through the snow, and hearing the
+cry he would start up in bed and stare round him, and wonder for a
+moment where he was.
+
+Dobbs duly called his master at four, and at four thirty he mounted
+his horse and rode away. The roads were heavy and sloppy with the
+melting snow. The morning was intensely dark, but Kester knew the
+country thoroughly, and was never at a loss as to which turn he ought
+to take. Not one human being did he meet during the whole of his ride.
+But, indeed, his nearest friend would have passed him by in the dark
+without recognition. He wore an old shooting suit, with a Glengarry
+bonnet and a macintosh, and had a thick shawl wrapped round his throat
+and the lower part of his face.
+
+Day was just breaking as he reached the edge of the moor. He tethered
+his horse to the stump of an old tree behind a hedge. He had brought a
+powerful field-glass in his pocket. He scanned the moor carefully
+through it before proceeding farther on his quest. No living being was
+in sight anywhere. Satisfied of this, he set out without further
+delay, leaving his horse by itself to await his return. Not without a
+tremor--not without a faster beating of the heart--did he again set
+foot on the moor. A drizzling rain now began to fall, but Kester was
+not sorry for this. The worse the weather, the fewer the people who
+would be abroad in it. Onward he strode, keeping a wary eye about him
+as he went.
+
+At length he reached a curve in the path from whence he ought to be
+able to discern the bulky form of John Skeggs, Esq., if that gentleman
+was still where he had last seen him. He looked, but the morning was
+still heavy and dark: he could see nothing. Then he adjusted his
+glass, and looking through that he could just make out a heap--a
+bundle--a shapeless something. It required a powerful effort on his
+part to brace his nerves to the pitch requisite to carry him through
+the task he had still before him. He had filled a small flask with
+brandy, and he now drank some of it. Then he started again. A few
+minutes more and the end of his journey was reached.
+
+There lay Skeggs, on the very spot where he had left him, resting on
+his side, with one hand under his head, as if asleep. His hat had
+fallen off. On the ground near him were the empty bottle, his
+walking-stick, and his broken wooden leg. Numbed by the intense cold,
+he had fallen asleep while waiting for the help which was never to
+come, and had so died, frozen to death. Doubtless his death had been a
+painless one, but none the less, as he himself would have said, was
+Kester St. George his murderer.
+
+Gloved though he was, it was not without a feeling of indescribable
+loathing that Kester could bring himself to touch the body. But it was
+absolutely necessary to do so. The paper he had come in quest of was
+in the breast pocket of the dead man's coat. It did not take him long
+to find it. Having made sure that he had got the right document, he
+fastened it up in the breast pocket of his own coat. "Now I am safe!"
+he said to himself. Then he took off his gloves and buried them
+carefully under a large stone. Then with one last glance at the body,
+he slunk hurriedly away, cursing in his heart the daylight that was
+now creeping up so rapidly from the east. In the clear light of dawn
+the foul deed he had done looked a thousand times fouler than it had
+looked before.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+WHAT TO DO NEXT?
+
+
+Not to every one among the children of men is given the power, the
+faculty, to act as comforter to others. To listen to another's sorrow,
+to be told the history of another's trouble, is one thing: to be able
+to give back comfort is another. That delicate intuitive sympathy with
+another's woe which draws away the sting even while listening to it,
+which makes that woe its own property as it were, which sheds balm
+round the sufferer in every word and look and touch: this is surely as
+much a special gift as the gift of song or the poet's fine phrenzy,
+and without it the world would be a much poorer place than it is.
+
+This rare gift of sympathy was possessed by Edith Dering in a
+pre-eminent degree. She was at once emotional and sympathetic. To
+Lionel in his dire trouble she was a comforter in the truest sense of
+the word. It was she who preserved his mental balance--the equipoise
+of his mind. But for her sweet offices he would have become a
+monomaniac or a misanthrope of the bitterest kind. Naturally she had
+him with her as much as possible, but still his home was of necessity
+at Park Newton. To the world he was simply Richard Dering, the
+unmarried nephew of General St. George. It would not do for him to be
+seen going to Fern Cottage sufficiently often to excite either scandal
+or suspicion. He could only visit there as the intimate friend of Mrs.
+Garside and her niece. Sometimes he took his uncle with him, sometimes
+Tom, in order to divert suspicion. For him to enter the garden gate of
+Fern Cottage was to cross the threshold of his earthly paradise. Edith
+and he had been married in the depth of a great trouble--troubles and
+danger had beset the path of their wedded life ever since. Owing,
+perhaps, to that very cause week by week, and month by month, their
+love seemed only to grow in depth and intensity. As yet it had lost
+nothing of its pristine charm and freshness. The gold-dust of romance
+lingered about it still. They were man and wife, they had been man and
+wife for months, but to the world at large they seemed nothing more
+than ordinary friends.
+
+But all Edith's care and watchful love could not lift her husband,
+except by fits and starts, out of those moods of glom and depression
+which seemed to be settling more closely down upon him day by day. As
+link after link was added to the chain of evidence, each one tending
+to incriminate his cousin still more deeply, his moods seemed to grow
+darker and more difficult of removal. With his cousin Lionel
+associated no more than was absolutely necessary. They rarely met each
+other till dinner-time, and then they met with nothing more than a
+simple "How do you do?" and in conversation they never got beyond some
+half-dozen of the barest commonplaces. Lionel always left the table as
+soon as the cloth was drawn.
+
+On Kester's side there was no love lost. That dark, stern-faced cousin
+was a perpetual menace to him, and he hated him accordingly. He hated
+him for his likeness to his dead and gone brother. He hated him
+because of the look in his eyes--so coldly scrutinizing, so searching,
+so immovable. He hated him because it was a look that he could in
+nowise give back. Try as he might, he could not face Lionel's steady
+gaze.
+
+For some two or three weeks after his return from Bath with Janvard's
+written confession, Lionel was perfectly quiescent. He took no further
+action whatever. He was, indeed, debating in his own mind what further
+action it behoved him to take. There was no need to seek for any
+further evidence, if, indeed, any more would have been forthcoming.
+All that he wanted he had now got; it was simply a question as to what
+use he should make of it. Day and night that was the question which
+presented itself before his mind: what use should he make of the
+knowledge in his possession? His mind was divided this way and that;
+day passed after day, and still he could by no means decide as to the
+course which it would be best for him to adopt. Of all this he said
+not a word to Edith: he could not have borne to discuss the question
+even with her; but it is possible that she surmised something of it.
+She knew that she had only to wait and everything would be told her.
+Perhaps to Bristow, who knew all the details of the case as well as he
+did, he might have said something as to the difficulty by which he was
+beset, but as it happened, Tom was not at home just then. Much of his
+time was spent by Lionel in long solitary walks far and wide through
+the country. He could think better when he was walking than when
+sitting quietly at home, he used to say; and, indeed, the country folk
+who encountered him often turned to look at him, as he stalked along,
+with his eyes set straight before him, gazing on vacancy, and with
+lips that moved rapidly as he whispered to himself of his dreadful
+secret.
+
+But, little by little, the need of counsel, of sympathy, grew more
+strongly upon him. He was still as much at a loss as ever as to the
+step which he ought to take next.
+
+"They shall decide for me," he said at last; "I will put myself into
+their hands: by their verdict I will abide."
+
+General St. George at this time was away from Park Newton. As has been
+already stated, he had been summoned to the sick-bed of a very old and
+valued friend. The illness was a long and tedious one, and at the
+request of his friend the General stayed on and kept him company.
+Truth to tell, he was by no means sorry to get away from Park Newton
+for awhile. Of late his position there had been anything but a
+pleasant one. The silent, deadly feud between his two nephews troubled
+him not a little. If Kester would only have gone away, then, so far,
+all would have been well. But having pressed him so earnestly to visit
+Park Newton, he could not, with any show of conscience, ask him to go
+till he was ready to do so of his own accord. Knowing what he knew,
+that Kester was all but proved to have been the murderer of Percy
+Osmond, he might well not care to live under the same roof with him,
+hiding his feelings under a mask, and, while pretending to know
+nothing, to be in reality cognisant of the whole dreadful story.
+Knowing what he knew, that Richard was none other than Lionel, and
+knowing the quest on which he was engaged, and that, sooner or later,
+the climax must come, he might well wish to be away from Park Newton
+when that most wretched day should dawn--a day which would prove the
+innocence of one nephew at the price of the other's guilt. Therefore
+did General St. George accept his old friend's invitation to stay with
+him for an indefinite length of time--till, in fact, Kester should
+have left Park Newton, or till the tangled knot of events should, in
+some other way, have unravelled itself.
+
+When, at length, Lionel had decided that he would take the advice of
+his friends as to what his future course should be, he was obliged to
+await Tom Bristow's return before it was possible to do anything.
+Then, when Tom did get back home, the General had to be written to.
+When he understood what he was wanted for, he agreed to come on
+certain conditions. He was to come to Fern Cottage, spend one night
+there, and go back to his friend's house next day. No one, except
+those assembled at the cottage, was to know anything of his journey.
+Above all, it was to be kept a profound secret from Kester St George.
+
+Thus it fell out that on a certain April evening there were assembled,
+in the parlour of the cottage, Edith, Mrs. Garside, General St.
+George, Tom Bristow, and Lionel. It was a very serious occasion, and
+they all felt it to be such.
+
+The General would sit close to Edith, whom he had not seen for a
+little while; and several times during the evening he took possession
+of one of her hands, and patted it affectionately between his own
+withered palms.
+
+"You are not looking quite so well, my dear, as when I saw you last,"
+had been his first words after kissing her. Her cheeks were, indeed,
+just beginning to look in the slightest degree hollow and worn, nor
+did her eyes look quite so bright as of old. The wonder was,
+considering all that she had gone through during the last twelve
+months, that she looked as fair and fresh as she did. Of Mrs. Garside,
+whom we have not seen for some little time, it may be said that she
+looked plumper and more matronly than ever. But then nothing could
+have kept Mrs. Garside from looking plump and matronly. She was one of
+those people off whom the troubles and anxieties of life slip as
+easily as water slips off a duck's back. Although she had a copious
+supply of tears at command, nothing ever troubled her deeply or for
+long, simply because there was no depth to be troubled. She was always
+cheerful, because she was shallow; and she was always kind-hearted so
+long as her kindness of heart did not involve any self-sacrifice on
+her part. "What a very pleasant person Mrs. Garside is," was the
+general verdict of society. And so she was--very pleasant. If her
+father had been hanged on a Monday for sheepstealing, by Tuesday she
+would have been as pleasant and cheerful as ever.
+
+But we must not be unjust to Mrs. Garside. She had one affection, and
+one only, her love for Edith. During all the days of Edith's
+tribulation, her aunt had never deserted her--had not even thought of
+deserting her; and now, for Edith's sake, she had buried herself alive
+in Fern Cottage, where her only excitement was a little mild shopping,
+now and then, in Duxley High Street, under the incognito of a thick
+veil, or a welcome visit once and again from Miss Culpepper. Under
+these depressing circumstances, it ought perhaps to be put down to the
+credit of Mrs. Garside, rather than to her discredit, that her
+cheerfulness was not one whit abated, and that her face was a picture
+of health and content.
+
+"I think you know why I have asked you to meet me here to-night,"
+began Lionel. "I want your advice: I want you to tell me what step I
+must take next. You know what the purpose of my life has been ever
+since the night I escaped from prison. You know how persistently I
+have pursued that purpose--that I have allowed nothing to deter me or
+turn me aside from it. The result is that there has grown under my
+hands a fatal array of evidence, all tending to implicate one man--all
+pointing with deadly accuracy to one person, and to one only, as the
+murderer of Percy Osmond. I have but to open my mouth, and the four
+walls of a prison would shut him round as fast as ever they shut round
+me; I have but to speak of half I know and that man would have to take
+his trial for Wilful Murder even as I took mine. But shall I do this
+thing? That is the question that I want you to help me to answer. So
+long as the chain of evidence remained incomplete, so long as certain
+links were wanting to it, I felt that my task was unfinished. But at
+last I have all that I need. There is nothing more to search for. My
+task, so far, is at an end. Knowing, then, what I know, and with such
+proofs in my possession, am I to stop here? Am I to rest content with
+what I have done, and go no step farther? Or am I to go through with
+it to the bitter end? What that end would involve you know as well as
+I could tell you."
+
+He ceased, and for a little while they all sat in silence. General St.
+George was the first to speak. "Lionel knows, and you all know, that
+from the very first he has had my heartfelt sympathy in this unhappy
+business. He has not had my sympathy only, he has had my help,
+although I have seen for a long time the point to which we were all
+tending, and the terrible consequences that must necessarily ensue. Me
+those consequences affect with peculiar force. One nephew can only be
+saved at the expense of the irretrievable ruin and disgrace of the
+other. It is not as though we had been searching in the dark, and had
+there found the bloodstained hand of a stranger. The hand we have so
+grasped is that of one of our own kin--one of ourselves. And that
+makes the dreadful part of the affair. Still, I would not have you
+misunderstand me. I am as closely bound to Lionel--my sympathy and
+help are his as much to-day as ever they were, and should he choose to
+go through with this business in the same way as he would go through
+with it in the case of an utter stranger, I shall be the last man in
+the world to blame him. More: I will march with him side by side,
+whatever be the goal to which his steps may lead him. Such
+unparalleled wrongs as his demand unparalleled reparation. For all
+that, however, it is still a most serious question whether there is
+not a possibility of effecting some kind of a compromise: whether
+there is not somewhere a door of escape open by means of which we may
+avert a catastrophe almost too terrible even to bear thinking about."
+
+"What is your opinion, Bristow?" said Lionel, turning to Tom. "What
+say you, my friend of friends?"
+
+"I have a certain diffidence in offering any opinion," said Tom,
+"simply on account of the relationship of the two persons chiefly
+involved. To tell the world all that you know, would, undoubtedly,
+bring about a family catastrophe of a most painful nature. It
+therefore seems to me that the members of that family, and they alone,
+should be empowered to offer an opinion on a question so delicate as
+the one now under consideration."
+
+"Not so," said Lionel, emphatically. "No one could have a better
+right, or even so great a right, to offer an opinion as you. But for
+you, I should not have been here to-night to ask for that opinion."
+
+"Nor I here but for you," interrupted Tom.
+
+"I will put my question to you in a different form," said Lionel; "and
+so put to you, I shall expect you to answer it in your usual clear and
+straightforward way. Bristow, if you were circumstanced exactly as I
+am now circumstanced, what would you do in my place?"
+
+"I would go through with the task I had taken in hand, let the
+consequences be what they might," said Tom, without a moment's
+hesitation. "Nothing should hold me back. I would clear my own name
+and my own fame, and let punishment fall where punishment is due. You
+are still young, Dering, and a fair career and a happy future may
+still be yours if you like to claim them."
+
+Tom's words were very emphatic, and for a little while no one spoke.
+"We have yet to hear what Edith has to say," said the General. "Her
+interests in the matter are second only to those of Lionel."
+
+"Yes, it is my wife's turn to speak next," said Lionel.
+
+"What my opinion is, you know well, dearest, and have known for a long
+time."
+
+"My uncle and Bristow would like to hear it from your own lips."
+
+"Uncle," began Edith, with a little blush, "whatever Lionel may
+ultimately decide to do will doubtless be for the best. The last wish
+I have in the world is to lead him or guide him in any way in
+opposition to his own convictions. But I have thought this: that it
+would be very terrible indeed to have to take part in a second
+tragedy--a tragedy that, in some of its features, would be far more
+dreadful than that first one, which none of us can ever forget. No one
+can know better than I know how grievously my husband has been sinned
+against. But nothing can altogether undo the wrong that has been done.
+Would it make my husband a happy man if, instead of being the accused,
+he should become the accuser? Let us for a few moments try to imagine
+that this second tragedy has been worked out in all its frightful
+consequences. That my husband has told everything. That he who is
+guilty has been duly punished. That Lionel's fair fame has been
+re-established, and that he and I are living at Park Newton as if
+nothing had ever happened to disturb the commonplace tenor of our
+lives. In such a case, would my husband be a happy man? No. I know him
+too well to believe it possible that he could ever be happy or
+contented. The image of that man--one of his own kith and kin, we must
+remember--would be for ever in his mind. He would be the prey of a
+remorse all the more bitter in that the world would hold him as
+without blame. But would he so hold himself? I think not--I am sure
+not. He would feel as if he had sought for and accepted the price of
+blood." Overcome by her emotion, she ceased.
+
+"I think in a great measure as you think, my dear," said the General.
+"What course do you propose that your husband should adopt?"
+
+"It is not for me to propose anything," answered Edith. "I can only
+suggest certain views of the question, and leave it for you and Lionel
+to adopt them or reject them, as may seem best to you."
+
+"Holding the proofs of his innocence in his hands as he does," said
+the General, "is it your wish that Lionel should sit down contented
+with what he has already achieved, and knowing that the real facts of
+his story are in the keeping of you and me, and two or three trusted
+friends, rest satisfied with that and ask for nothing more?"
+
+"No, I hardly go so far as that," said Edith, with a faint smile. "I
+think that the man who committed the crime should know that Lionel
+still lives, and that he holds in his hands the proof at once of his
+own innocence and of the other's guilt. Beyond that I say this: The
+world believes my husband to be dead: rather than re-open so terrible
+a wound, let the world continue so to believe. My husband and I can do
+without the world, as well as it can do without us. We have our mutual
+love, which nothing can deprive us of: against that the shafts of
+Fortune beat as vainly as hailstones against a castle wall. On this
+earth of ours are places sweet and fair without number. In one of
+them--not altogether dissevered from those ties of friendship which
+have already made our married life so beautiful--my husband and I could
+build up a new home, with no sad memories of the past to cling around
+it; and when this haunting shadow that now broods over his life shall
+have been brushed away for ever, then I think--I know--I feel sure
+that I can make him happy!" Her voice, her eyes, her whole manner were
+imbued with a sweet fervour that it was impossible to resist.
+
+Lionel crossed over and kissed her. "My darling!" he said. "But for
+your love and care I should long ago have been a madman."
+
+"You, my dear, have put into words," said the General, "the very ideas
+that for a long time have been floating about, half formed, in my own
+mind. Lionel, what have you to say to your wife's suggestions?"
+
+"Only this: that I have made up my mind to follow them. _He_ shall
+know that I am alive, and that I hold the proofs of his guilt, ready
+to produce them at a moment's notice, should I ever be compelled to do
+so. Beyond that, I will leave him in peace--to such peace as his own
+conscience will give him. The world believes Lionel Dering to be dead
+and buried. Dead and buried he shall still remain, and 'requiescat in
+pace' be written under his name."
+
+The General got up with tears in his eyes and shook Lionel warmly by
+the hand. "Good boy! good boy! You will not go without your reward,"
+was all that he could say.
+
+"The eighth of May will soon be here," said Lionel--"the anniversary
+of poor Osmond's murder. On that day he shall be told. But I shall
+tell him in my own fashion. On that day, uncle, you must promise to
+give me your company; and you yours, Tom. After that I shall trouble
+you no more."
+
+If Tom Bristow dissented from the conclusion thus come to, he said no
+word to that effect. There was one point, however, that struck his
+practical mind as having been altogether overlooked; and as soon as
+Edith and Mrs. Garside had left the room he did not fail to mention
+it.
+
+"What about the income of eleven thousand a year?" he said. "You are
+surely not going to let the whole of that slip through your fingers?"
+
+"Ah, by-the-by, that point never struck me," said the General. "No, it
+would be decidedly unjust both to yourself and your wife, Lionel, to
+give up the income as well as the position."
+
+"Now you are importing a mercenary tone into the affair that is
+utterly distasteful to me. It looks as if I were being bribed to keep
+silence."
+
+"That is sheer nonsense," said the General. "You have but to hold out
+your hand to take the whole."
+
+Lionel said no more, but went and sat down dejectedly on the sofa.
+
+"You and I must settle this matter between us," said the General to
+Tom. "It is most important. It shall be my place to see that whatever
+is agreed upon shall be duly carried out in the arrangement between
+the two men. I should think that if the income were divided it would
+be about as fair a thing as could be done. What say you?"
+
+"I agree with you entirely," said Tom. "The other one will have the
+name and position to keep up, and that can't be done for nothing."
+
+"Then it shall be so settled."
+
+"There is one other point that I think ought to be settled at the same
+time. Who is to have Park Newton after _his_ death? Lionel may have
+children. _He_ may marry and have children. But, in common justice,
+the estate ought to be secured on Dering's eldest child, whether the
+present possessor die with or without an heir."
+
+"Certainly, certainly. Good gracious me! a most valuable suggestion.
+Strange, now, that it never struck me. Yes, yes: Lionel's eldest child
+must have the estate. I will see that there is no possible mistake on
+that score."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+HOW TOM WINS HIS WIFE.
+
+
+After Mrs. McDermott's departure from Pincote, life there slipped back
+into its old quiet groove--into its old dull groove which was growing
+duller day by day. The Squire had altogether ceased to see company:
+when any of his old friends called he was never at home to them; and
+on the score of ill health he declined every invitation that was sent
+to him. But it was not altogether on account of his health that these
+invitations were declined, because three or four times a week he would
+be seen somewhere about the country roads being driven out by Jane in
+the basket-carriage. There was another reason for this state of
+things--a reason to which his friends and neighbours were not slow in
+giving a name. The Squire in his old age was becoming a miser: that is
+what the said friends and neighbours averred. But to dub him as a
+miser was altogether unjust: he was simply becoming penurious for his
+daughter's sake, as many other men are penurious for ends much more
+ignoble. He had, in fact, decided upon carrying out that modest scheme
+of domestic retrenchment of which mention has been made in a previous
+chapter, and the mode of living adopted by him now did undoubtedly, to
+many people, seem miserly in comparison with that lavish hospitality
+for which Pincote had heretofore been noted. The Squire knew that he
+could not go much into society without giving return invitations. Now
+the four or five state dinners which he had been in the habit of
+giving every year were very elaborate and expensive affairs, and he no
+longer felt himself justified in keeping them up. Instead of spending
+so many pounds per annum in entertaining a number of people for whom
+he cared little or nothing, would it not be better to add the amount,
+trifling though it might seem, to that other trifling amount--only
+some few hundreds of pounds when all was told--which he had already
+managed to scrape together as a little nest-egg for Jane when he
+should be gone from her side for ever, and Pincote could no longer be
+her home? "If I had only died a year ago," he would sometimes say to
+himself, "then Jenny would have had a handsome fortune to call her
+own. Now she's next door to being a pauper."
+
+Half his journeys into Duxley nowadays were to the bank--not to
+Sugden's Bank, we may be sure, but to the Town and County--and he
+gloated over every five pounds added to the fund invested in his
+daughter's name as something more added to the nest-egg; and to be
+able to put away fifty pounds in a lump now afforded him far more
+genuine delight than the putting away of a thousand would have done
+six months previously.
+
+There had been little or no conversation between Jane and her father
+respecting the loss of her fortune since that memorable night when the
+Squire himself first heard the fatal tidings, and Jane was far more
+anxious than he was that the topic should never be broached between
+them again. She guessed in part what his object might be when he began
+to cut down the house expenses at Pincote discharging some half dozen
+of his people; raising his farm rents where it was possible to do so;
+letting out the whole, instead of a portion only, of the park as
+pasturage for sheep; selling some of his horses, and the whole of his
+famous cellar of wines; besides arranging for part of the produce of
+his kitchen garden to be taken by a greengrocer at Duxley. She
+guessed, but that was all. Her father said nothing definite as to his
+reasons for so doing, and she made no inquiry. The sphere of his
+enjoyment had now become a very limited one. If it gave him
+pleasure--and she could not doubt that it did--to live penuriously so
+as to be enabled to put away a few extra pounds per annum, she would
+not mar the edge of that pleasure by seeming even to notice what was
+going on, much less make any inquiry as to its meaning. The Squire, on
+his part, had many a good chuckle in the solitude of his own room.
+"After I'm gone, she'll know what it all means," he would say to
+himself. "She's puzzled now--they are all puzzled. They call me a
+miser, do they? Let 'em call me what they like. Another twenty put
+away to-day. That makes----" and out would come his passbook and his
+spectacles.
+
+The fact that the Squire no longer either received company or went
+into society compelled Jane, in a great measure, to follow his
+example. There were two or three houses to which, if she chose, she
+could still go without its being thought strange that there was no
+return invitation to Pincote; and there were two or three old school
+friends whom she could invite to a cup of tea in her own little room
+without their feeling offended that they were not asked to stay to
+dinner. But of society, in the general sense of the term, Jane now saw
+little or nothing. To her this was no source of regret. Just now she
+was far too deeply in love to care very much for company of any kind.
+
+Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father's
+no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by
+no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott's warning words, nor Tom's frank
+confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of
+his intention to encourage Tom's visits to Pincote after the widow's
+abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next
+day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his
+appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been
+French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom's health in
+a bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when
+they parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front
+door, shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a
+sort of half intimation that some considerable time would probably
+elapse before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote
+again. In the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his
+sister, the Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home
+of an evening with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been
+content and happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so
+thinking he had overlooked one very important point. The Titus
+Culpepper of six months ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do
+gentleman, satisfied with himself and all the world, in tolerable
+health, and excited by the prospect of making a magnificent fortune
+without trouble or anxiety. The Titus Culpepper of to-day was a
+broken-down gambler--a gambler who had madly speculated with his
+daughter's fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down, too, was he in
+health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of all, a man who
+no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own thoughts, and
+who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour at a time. Of
+this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected nothing: how few
+of us do know of such changes! Other people may change--nay, do we not
+see them changing daily around us, and smile good-naturedly as we note
+how querulous and hard to please poor Jones has become of late? But
+that we--we--should so change, becoming a burden to ourselves and a
+trial to those around us, with our queer, cross-grained ways, our
+peevish, variable tempers, and our general belief that the sun shines
+less brightly, and that the world is less beautiful than it was a
+little while ago--that is altogether impossible. The change is always
+in others, never in our immaculate selves.
+
+The Squire was a man who, all his life, had preferred men's company to
+that of the opposite sex. His tastes were not at all �sthetic. He
+liked to talk about cattle, and crops, and the state of the markets;
+to talk a little about imperial politics--chiefly confined to
+blackguarding "the other side of the House"--and a great deal about
+local politics. He had been in the habit of talking by the hour
+together about paving, and lighting, and sewage, and the state of the
+highways: all useful matters without a doubt, but hardly topics
+calculated to interest a lady. Though he liked to have Jane play to
+him now and then--but never for more than ten minutes at any one
+time--he always designated it as "tinkling;" and as often as not, when
+he asked her to sing, he would say, "Now, Jenny, lass, give us a
+squall." But for all this, in former times Jane and he had got on very
+well together on the occasions when they had been without company at
+Pincote. He was moving about a good deal in the world at that time,
+mixing with various people, talking to and being talked to by
+different friends and acquaintances, and was at no loss for subjects
+to talk about, even though those subjects might not be particularly
+interesting to his daughter. But Jane made a capital listener, and
+could always give him a good commonplace answer, and that was all he
+craved--that and three-fourths of the talk to himself.
+
+Of late, however, as we have already seen, the Squire had all but
+given up going into society, by which means he at once dried up the
+source from which he had been in the habit of obtaining his
+conversational ideas. When he came to dine alone with Jane he found
+himself with nothing to talk about. Under such circumstances there was
+nothing left for him but grumbling. But even grumbling becomes
+tiresome after a time, especially when the person to whom such
+complainings are addressed never takes the trouble to contradict you,
+and is incapable of being grumbled at herself.
+
+It was after one of these tedious evenings that the Squire said to
+Jane, "We may as well have Bristow up to-morrow, I think. I want to
+see him about one or two things, and he may as well stop for dinner.
+So you had better drop him a line."
+
+The Squire had nothing of any importance to see Tom about, but he was
+too stubborn to own, even to himself, that it was the young man's
+lively company that he was secretly longing for. The weather next
+morning happened to be very bad, and Jane smiled demurely to herself
+as she noted how anxious her father was lest the rain should keep Tom
+from coming. Jane knew that neither rain nor anything else would keep
+him away. "Papa is almost as anxious to see him as I am," she said to
+herself. "He thought that he could live without him: he now begins to
+find out his mistake."
+
+Sure enough, Tom did not fail to be there. The Squire gave him a
+hearty greeting, and took him into the study before he had an
+opportunity of seeing Jane. "I've heard nothing more from those
+railway people about the Croft," he said. "Penfold was here yesterday
+and wanted to know whether he was to go on with the villas--all the
+foundations are now in, you know. I hardly knew what instructions to
+give him."
+
+"If you were to ask me, sir," said Tom, "I should certainly say, let
+him begin to run up the carcases as quickly as possible. I happen to
+know that the company must have the Croft--that they cannot possibly
+do without it. They are only hanging fire awhile, hoping to get you to
+go to them and make them an offer, instead of their being compelled to
+come to you; which, in a transaction of this nature, makes all the
+difference."
+
+"I don't think you are far wrong in your views," said Mr. Culpepper.
+"I'll turn over in my mind what you've said." Which meant that the
+Squire would certainly adopt Tom's advice.
+
+"No lovemaking, you know, Bristow," whispered the old man, with a dig
+in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.
+
+"You may trust me, sir," said Tom.
+
+"I'm not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty
+girl is in question."
+
+Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old
+man his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources
+in that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully
+introduced topics sufficed. The Squire's own long-winded remarks,
+unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made
+a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready
+with his "I quite agree with you, sir;" or his "Just so, sir;" or his
+"Those are my sentiments exactly, sir." To be able to talk for half an
+hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that
+interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly
+enjoyed.
+
+After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by
+himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the
+drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the
+dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though
+he might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of
+that illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly
+cautioned.
+
+As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into
+the drawing-room, and whispered, "None of your tomfoolery, remember."
+Five minutes later he was fast asleep.
+
+They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so
+they fell back upon chess. "There's to be no lovemaking, you know,
+Jenny," whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.
+
+"None, whatever," whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the
+head, and a demure smile.
+
+A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for
+any further conversation, except about the incidents of the game,
+which, truth to tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of
+studying the board, as a chess-player ought to do, Jane found her
+eyes, quite unconsciously to herself, studying the face of her
+opponent, while Tom's hand, wandering purposelessly about the board,
+frequently found itself taking hold of Jane's hand instead of a knight
+or a pawn; so that when at last the game did contrive to work itself
+out to an ineffective conclusion, they could hardly have said with
+certainty which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire woke
+up, smiling and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each
+other, and there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of
+chess. If he were content, they had no reason to be otherwise.
+
+After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as
+often as the latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of
+himself the old man's heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when
+it so happened that business took Tom away from home for two or three
+days, then the Squire grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane's tact
+and good temper were needed to make life at all endurable. She tried
+her best to persuade him to invite some of his old friends to come and
+see him, or go himself and call up on some of them, but in vain.
+Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would he have. He looked
+upon himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to economize in
+every possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a
+sensible fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony,
+or be at any extra expense--a man who was content with a chop and a
+rice pudding, and a glass of St. Julien. "He doesn't come here for
+what he gets to eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine.
+He finds that he can learn a good many things from me, and he's not
+above learning."
+
+All this time the works at Knockley Holt were being pushed busily
+forward, much to the bewilderment and aggravation of the good people
+of Duxley. They were aggravated, and they considered they had a right
+to be aggravated, because they could not understand, and had not
+been told, what it was that was intended to be done there. In a
+small town like Duxley, no inhabitant has a right to put before his
+fellow-citizens a problem which they find incapable of solution, and
+then when asked to solve it for them decline to do so. Such conduct
+merits the severest social reprehension.
+
+Surely next to the madness of building a row of villas on Prior's
+Croft, was the puzzling folly of digging a hole in Knockley Holt.
+After much discussion pro and con, amongst the townspeople--chiefly
+over sundry glasses of whiskey toddy, in sundry bar parlours, after
+business hours--it seemed to be settled that Culpepper's Hole, as some
+wag had christened it, could be intended for nothing else than an
+artesian well--though what was the exact nature of an artesian well it
+would have puzzled some of the Duxley wiseacres to tell, and why water
+should be bored for there, and to what uses it could be put when so
+obtained, they would have been still more at a loss to say. The Squire
+could not drive into Duxley without being tackled by one or another of
+his friends as to what he was about at Knockley Holt. But the old man
+would only wink and shake his head, and try to look wise, and say, "It
+doesn't do to blab everything nowadays, but between you and me and the
+post--this is in confidence, mind--I'm digging a tunnel to the
+Antipodes." Then he would chuckle and give the reins a shake, and
+Diamond would trot off with him, leaving his questioner angry or
+amused, as the case might be.
+
+It was not known to any one in Duxley, except the Squire's lawyer,
+that Knockley Holt was now the property of Tom Bristow. That the works
+there were under Tom's direction was a well-known fact, but he was
+merely looked upon as Mr. Culpepper's foreman in the matter. "Gets a
+couple of hundred or so a year for looking after the Squire's
+affairs," one wiseacre would remark to another. "If not, how does he
+live? Seems to have nothing to do when he's not at Pincote. A poor way
+of getting a living. Serve him right: he should have stopped with old
+Hoskyns when he had the chance, and not have thought he was going to
+set the Thames on fire with his six thousand pounds."
+
+No one could be possessed by a more burning desire than the Squire
+himself to know the meaning of the works at Knockley Holt, but having
+asked once and asked in vain, his pride would not allow him to make
+any further direct inquiry. Not a day passed on which he saw Tom, that
+he did not try, by one or two vague hints, to lead up to the subject,
+but when Tom turned the talk into another channel, then the old man
+would see that the time for him to be enlightened had not yet come.
+
+But it did come at last, and after what was, in reality, no very long
+waiting. On a certain afternoon--to be precise in our dates, it was
+the fifth of May--Tom walked over to Pincote, in search of the Squire.
+He found him in his study, wearying his brain over a column of
+figures, which would persist in coming to a different total every time
+it was added up. The first thing Tom did was to take the column of
+figures and bring it to a correct total. This done, his next act was
+to produce something from his pocket that was carefully wrapped up in
+a piece of brown paper. He pushed the parcel across the table to the
+Squire. "Will you oblige me, sir," he said, "by opening that paper,
+and giving me your opinion as to the contents?"
+
+"Why, bless my heart, this is neither more nor less than a lump of
+coal!" said the Squire, when he had opened the paper.
+
+"Exactly so, sir. As you say, this is neither more nor less than a
+lump of coal. But where do you think it came from?"
+
+"There you puzzle me. Though I don't know that it can matter much to
+me where it came from."
+
+"But it matters very much to you, sir. This lump of coal came from
+Knockley Holt."
+
+The Squire was rather dull of comprehension. "Well, what is there so
+wonderful about that?" he said. "I dare say it was stolen by some of
+those confounded gipsies, and left there when they moved."
+
+"What I mean is this, sir," answered Tom, with just a shade of
+impatience in his tone. "This piece of coal is but a specimen of a
+splendid seam which has been struck by my men at the bottom of the
+shaft at Knockley Holt."
+
+The Squire stared at him, and gave a long, low whistle. "Do you mean
+to say that you have found a bed of coal at the bottom of the hole you
+have been digging at Knockley Holt?"
+
+"That is precisely what I have found, sir, and it is precisely what I
+have been trying to find from the first."
+
+"I see it all now!" said the Squire. "What a lucky young scamp you
+are! But what on earth put it into your head to go looking for coal at
+Knockley Holt?"
+
+"I had a friend of mine, who is a very clever mining engineer, staying
+with me for a little while some time ago. But my friend is not only an
+engineer--he is a practical geologist as well. When out for a
+constitutional one day, we found ourselves at Knockley Holt. My friend
+was struck with its appearance--so different from that of the country
+around. 'Unless I am much mistaken, there is coal under here,' he
+said, 'and at no great distance from the surface either. The owner
+ought to think himself a lucky man--that is, if he knows the value of
+it.' Well, sir, not content with what my friend said, I paid a heavy
+fee and had one of the most eminent geologists of the day down from
+London to examine and report upon it. His report coincided exactly
+with my friend's opinion. You know the rest, sir. I came to you with a
+view of getting a lease of the ground, and found you desirous of
+selling it. I was only too glad to have the chance of buying it. I set
+a lot of men and a steam engine to work without a day's delay, and
+that lump of coal, sir, is the happy result."
+
+The Squire rubbed his spectacles for a moment or two without speaking.
+"Bristow, that's an old head of yours on those young shoulders," he
+said at last. "With all my heart congratulate you on your good
+fortune. I know no man who deserves it more than you do. Yes, Bristow,
+I congratulate you, though I can't help saying that I wish that I had
+had a friend to have told me what was told you before I let you have
+the ground. For want of such a friend I have lost a fortune."
+
+"That is just what I have come to see you about, sir," said Tom, as he
+rose and pushed back his chair. The Squire looked up at him in
+surprise. "Although I bought Knockley Holt from you as a speculation,
+I had a pretty good idea when I bought it as to what I should find
+below the surface. If I had not found what I expected, my bargain
+would have been a dear one; but having found what I expected, it is
+just the opposite. In fact, sir, you have lost a fortune, and I have
+found one."
+
+"I know it--I know it," groaned the Squire. "But you needn't twit me
+with it."
+
+"So far the speculation was a perfectly legitimate one, as
+speculations go nowadays. But that is not the sort of thing I wish
+to exist between you and me. You have been very kind to me in many
+ways, and I have much to thank you for. I could not bear to treat you
+in this matter as I should treat a stranger. I could not bear to think
+that I was making a fortune out of a piece of ground that but a few
+short weeks ago was your property. The money so made would seem to me
+to bring a curse with it, rather than a blessing. I should feel as if
+nothing would ever prosper with me afterwards. Sir, I will not have
+this coal mine. There are plenty of other channels open to me for
+making money. Here are the title deeds of the property. I give
+them back to you. You shall repay me the twelve hundred pounds
+purchase-money, and reimburse me for the expenses I have been put to
+in sinking the shaft. But as for the pit itself, I will have nothing
+to do with it."
+
+Tom had produced the title deeds from his pocket and had laid them on
+the table while speaking. He now pushed them across to the Squire.
+Then he took the deed of sale tore it across, and threw the fragments
+into the grate.
+
+It is doubtful whether Titus Culpepper had ever been more astonished
+in the whole course of his life than he was at the present moment. For
+a little while he seemed utterly at a loss for words, but when he did
+speak, his words were not lacking in force.
+
+"Bristow, you are a confounded fool!" he said with emphasis.
+
+"I have been told that many times before."
+
+"You are a confounded fool--but you are a gentleman."
+
+Tom merely bowed.
+
+"You propose to give me back the title deeds of Knockley Holt, after
+having found what may literally be termed a gold mine there--eh?"
+
+"I don't propose to do it, sir. I have done it already. There are the
+title deeds," pointing to the table. "There is the deed of sale,"
+pointing to the fire-grate.
+
+"And do you think, sir," said the Squire, with dignity, "that Titus
+Culpepper is the man to accept such a romantic piece of generosity
+from one who is little more than a boy! Not so.--It would be
+impossible for me to forgive myself, were I to do anything of the kind
+The property is fairly and legally yours, and yours it must remain."
+
+"It shall not, sir! By heaven! I will not have it. There are the title
+deeds. Do with them as you will." He buttoned his coat, and took up
+his hat, and turned to leave the room.
+
+"Stop, Bristow, stop!" said the Squire, as he rose from his chair. Tom
+halted with the handle of the door in his hand, but he did not go back
+to the table.
+
+Mr. Culpepper walked to the window and stood there looking out for
+full three minutes without uttering a word. Then he turned and
+beckoned Tom to go to him.
+
+"Bristow," he said, laying his hand affectionately on Tom's shoulder,
+"as I said before, you are a gentleman--a gentleman in mind and
+feeling. More than that a man cannot be, whether his family be old or
+new. You propose to do a certain thing which I can only accede to on
+one condition."
+
+"Name it, sir," said Tom briefly.
+
+"I cannot take Knockley Holt from you without giving you something
+like an equivalent in return. Now, I only possess one thing that you
+would care to receive at my hands--and that is the most precious thing
+I have on earth. Exchange is no robbery. I will agree to take back
+Knockley Holt from you, if you will take in exchange for it--my
+daughter Jane."
+
+"Oh! Mr. Culpepper."
+
+"That you love her, I know already, and I dare say the sly hussy is
+equally as fond of you. If such be the case, take her. I know no man
+who so thoroughly deserves her, or who has so much right to her as you
+have."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+THE EIGHTH OF MAY.
+
+
+The eighth of May had come round at last.
+
+Of all days in the year this was the one that Kester St. George
+intended least to spend at Park Newton, but, as circumstances fell
+out, he could not well avoid doing so.
+
+After the death and burial of Mother Mim--the expenses of the
+last-named ceremony being defrayed out of Kester's pocket--it had been
+his intention to leave Park Newton at once and for ever. But it so
+fell out that in the document purloined by him from the pocket of
+Skeggs when that individual lay dead on the moor, there was given the
+name of a certain person, still living, who could depose, of his own
+personal knowledge, to the truth of the facts as put down in the dying
+woman's confession. This person was the only witness to the facts
+there stated who was now alive. The name of the man in question was
+William Bendall, and the point that Kester had now to clear up was:
+Who was this William Bendall, and where was he to be found? There was
+no address given in the Confession, nor any hint as to the man's
+whereabouts; but Skeggs had doubtless known where he was to be found,
+and had, in fact, told Kester that he could put his hand on the man at
+a day's notice.
+
+With such a sword as this hanging over his head, Kester felt that it
+was impossible for him to leave Park Newton. When the man should learn
+that Mother Mim was dead, which he probably would do in the course of
+a few days, and when the restraining power which had doubtless kept
+him silent should be removed for ever, what was to prevent him from
+telling all that he knew, or, at least, from giving such broad hints
+as to the information in his possession as might lead to inquiry--to
+many inquiries, perchance: to far more than Kester would care to
+encounter--unless he should ever be so unfortunate as to be driven to
+bay?
+
+But, as yet, he was not driven to bay, nor anything like it. It
+behoved him, therefore, or so it seemed to him, to make certain
+cautious inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mr. William Bendall, with
+the view of ascertaining what kind of a man he was, or whether there
+was any danger to be apprehended from him. And if so, how could the
+danger best be met?
+
+It was quite evident that it would be unadvisable for Kester to leave
+Park Newton while these inquiries were afoot. He might be wanted at
+any hour should Mr. Bendall, when found, prove intractable; so he
+stayed on at the old place, very much against his will in other
+respects. But, to a certain extent, his patience had already been
+rewarded. Mr. Bendall's address had been discovered, and Mr. Bendall
+himself had been found to be first cousin to Mother Mim, and a railway
+ganger by profession. But just at this time he was away from home--his
+home being at Swarkstone, a great centre of railway industry, about
+twenty miles from Duxley--he having been sent out to Russia in charge
+of a cargo of railway plant. He was now expected back in the course of
+a few days, and Kester determined not to leave the neighbourhood till
+he had found out for himself what manner of man he was.
+
+We may here finally dispose of Skeggs. His body was not found till two
+days after Kester's visit to it. There, too, was found his broken leg,
+so that the nature of the accident he had met with was clearly seen,
+and it was at once understood how he had come by his death. No one
+except the girl Nell had seen Kester St. George in his company, so, as
+it fell out, that gentleman's name was never even whispered in
+connexion with the affair.
+
+The future of Nell had been a point that Mr. St. George had anxiously
+discussed in his own mind, after Mother Mim's death. What to do with
+such a strange girl he knew not, nor how best to secure her silence.
+Did she really know anything, as she asserted that she did, or did she
+not? If anything, how much did she know, and to what use did she
+intend to put her knowledge? Kester had no opportunity of talking to
+her in private before the funeral, so he made an appointment with her
+for the morning following that event. She was to meet him at a certain
+milestone on the Duxley Road at eleven o'clock. Kester was there to
+the minute. But Miss Nell was not there, nor did she come at all.
+Kester went back home in a fume, and after luncheon he rode over to
+Mother Mim's cottage without once slackening rein. There he found the
+old woman who had been looking after matters previously to the
+funeral: From her he ascertained that Nell had disappeared about two
+hours after her return from seeing the last of her grandmother, taking
+with her her new black frock and a few other things tied up in a
+bundle, and had given no hint as to where she was going, or whether it
+was her intention ever to come back.
+
+The girl's disappearance had been a source of considerable disquietude
+to Kester for several days, but as time passed on without bringing any
+sign of her, or any information as to where she was, his uneasiness
+gradually wore itself away, till he came at last to persuade himself
+that from that quarter at least there was no possible danger to be
+apprehended.
+
+But had it not been for another and a much more potent reason, Kester
+St. George would certainly not have spent the eighth of May at Park
+Newton, not even though he could not have left it till the seventh,
+and had been compelled to come back to it on the ninth. He would have
+gone somewhere--anywhere if only for a dozen hours--if only from
+sunset till sunrise, had it in anyway been possible for him to do so.
+But it so happened that it was not possible for him to do so. On the
+fifth he received a letter from his uncle, which astonished him very
+much. General St. George was still staying at Salisbury with his sick
+friend, Major Beauchamp. He wrote as under:
+
+
+"All being well, I shall be back at Park Newton on the eighth instant,
+but for a few hours only. I don't know whether your cousin Richard has
+told you that he is tired of England, and has decided upon going out
+to New Zealand, and that he has persuaded me to go with him."
+
+
+"The old fool! To think of going to New Zealand at his time of life!"
+muttered Kester. "Of course, it's Master Richard's dodge to take him
+with him, so as to make sure of his money when he dies. Well, if I can
+only get rid of the young one, the old one may go with him, and
+welcome." Then he went on with his uncle's letter.
+
+
+"I shall reach Park Newton on the eighth, about four P.M., when I hope
+to spend the evening with you. It will be my last evening at the old
+place, and there are several things I wish to talk to you about.
+We--that is, Richard and I, leave by the eight o'clock train next
+morning direct for Gravesend, where the ship will be waiting for us.
+By this day next week, I shall have bidden a final farewell to dear
+Old England."
+
+
+"So deucedly sudden. I hardly know what to make of it," said Kester,
+as he folded up the letter. "I would give much if it was any other day
+than the eighth. I never thought to spend that day here. But there's
+no help for it. Well, it will be better to spend it in company than to
+spend it here alone. Nothing could have persuaded me to do that."
+
+"Yes, if the old boy goes to the other side of the world, there's no
+chance of any of his money coming to me," he said to himself later on.
+"That scowling cousin of mine will come in for the lot. Poor devil! I
+don't suppose he's got enough of his own to pay his passage out. I
+wouldn't mind giving a thousand pounds myself to be rid of him for
+ever."
+
+The eighth dawned at last, cold and dull as English May days so often
+are. Breakfast was hardly over before Kester ordered his horse, and
+away he started without telling any one where he was going. He was out
+all day, and did not get back till five o'clock, an hour after the
+arrival of his uncle, with whom had come Mr. Perrins, the family
+lawyer. Him Kester knew of old, but had not seen for a long time. He
+was rather surprised to see him, but it struck Kester that his uncle
+had probably some private arrangements to make before leaving England,
+in which the aid of Mr. Perrins might be required.
+
+"This is very sudden, uncle, about your leaving England," said Kester.
+
+"Yes, it is very sudden," replied the General. "It is not more than
+three weeks since Dick told me that he intended to go out. The reasons
+he gave me for coming to that conclusion were such that I could not
+blame him. I have no son of my own, and, somehow, since poor Lionel
+left us, I seem to cling to that boy; and so it fell out, that I
+presently made up my mind to go with him. I cannot bear the idea of
+living alone. I have only you and him--and you; Kester, are too much
+of a Bohemian, too much a citizen of the world--a wandering Arab who
+strikes his tent a dozen times a year--for me ever to think of staying
+with you. Dick is far more of an old fogey than you are, and he and
+I--I don't doubt--will get on very well together."
+
+"All the same, uncle, I shall be deucedly sorry to lose you."
+
+Kester was destined to be still more surprised when he came down to
+dinner, for there he found Mr. Hoskyns and the Reverend Mr. Wharton,
+the octogenarian Vicar of Duxley. Mr. Hoskyns he had seen incidentally
+during the course of the trial, but not since. The vicar he had known
+from boyhood.
+
+It was by Lionel's express desire that the two lawyers and the vicar
+had been invited to-day to Park Newton. What he was going to tell
+Kester to-night should be told to them also. They were all, in a
+certain sense, friends of the family; they were all men of honour;
+with them his secret would be safe. In simple justice to himself, he
+felt that it was not enough that his uncle and Bristow should be the
+sole depositories of that secret. There ought to be at least two or
+three family friends to whose custody it might be implicitly trusted,
+and whose good wishes and friendship would be sweet to him even in
+exile.
+
+None of the three gentlemen had any suspicion as to the one particular
+reason why they had been invited to Park Newton: not one of them had
+any suspicion that Richard Dering was none other than the Lionel whom
+they all so sincerely mourned. They had simply been invited to a
+little dinner party given by General St. George on the eve of his
+departure from England for ever.
+
+The last to arrive at Park Newton--and he did not arrive till two
+minutes before dinner was served--was Mr. Tom Bristow. He had driven
+Miss Culpepper from Pincote to Fern Cottage, and had stayed talking
+with Edith till the last minute.
+
+Tom was an entire stranger to Kester St. George. The General
+introduced them to each other. Tom had seen Kester several times,
+knowing well who he was, but the latter had no recollection of having
+ever seen Tom.
+
+Neither the General, nor Tom, nor even Edith herself, had any idea as
+to the particular mode which Lionel would adopt for telling his cousin
+that which he had made up his mind to tell him. On that point he had
+kept his own counsel, having spoken no word to any one. It was a
+subject on which even his wife felt that she could not question him.
+During the past week he had been even more silent and distrait than
+usual. His thoughts were evidently occupied with one subject, to the
+exclusion of all others. He seemed hardly to notice, or be aware of,
+what was going on around him. For Edith the time was a very anxious
+one. All the preparations for the approaching voyage devolved upon
+her: that she did not mind in the least; what she prayed and longed
+for was that the fatal eighth might come and go in peace: might come
+and go without any encounter between her husband and his cousin.
+Lionel and Tom were to ride across from Park Newton to Fern Cottage at
+the close of the evening--Tom, in order that he might escort Jane back
+to Pincote: Lionel, because he should then have bidden the old house a
+last farewell, because he should then have done with the past for
+ever, and because he should then be ready to start with his wife for
+their new home on the other side of the world.
+
+"And will nothing that any of us can say or do, persuade you to
+reconsider your determination?" said Jane to Edith, as they sat, hand
+in hand, after Tom had gone forward to Park Newton. Mrs. Garside had
+gone into Duxley to make some final purchases, and they had the little
+parlour all to themselves.
+
+"I'm afraid not," answered Edith with a melancholy smile
+
+"It seems so hard to lose you, just when everything is made straight
+and clear--just as your husband is able to prove his innocence to the
+world! Yes, and were I in his place I would prove it. I would cry it
+aloud on the housetops, and let that other one pay the penalty which
+he deserves to pay. I would never banish myself from my native country
+for his sake; he is not worthy of such a sacrifice."
+
+"You must not talk like that," said Edith, with a little extra squeeze
+of Jane's hand; "but it is easy to see who has been inoculating you
+with his wild doctrines."
+
+"They are my own original sentiments, and not second-hand ones," said
+Jane emphatically. "There's nothing wild about them; they are plain
+common sense."
+
+"There could be no happiness for either Lionel or me were we to follow
+the course suggested by you. Depend upon it, Jane, that what we are
+about to do is best for all concerned."
+
+"I will never believe that it is good for me to lose my friends in
+this way. Do you know, I feel almost tempted to go with you."
+
+"I wish, with all my heart, that you were going with us; but I'm
+afraid Mr. Culpepper is too deeply rooted in English soil to bear
+transplanting to a foreign clime."
+
+"Yes, I suppose so," said Jane, with a little sigh. "Only I should so
+like to travel: I should so like a six months' voyage to somewhere."
+
+"The voyage is just what I dread, only it would not do to tell Lionel
+so."
+
+"You might have fixed on some place a little nearer than New Zealand,
+some place within four or five days' journey, where one could run over
+for a little holiday now and then and see you. It is very ridiculous
+of you to go so far away."
+
+"When you say that, dear, you forget certain peculiarities of the
+case. If Lionel were to settle down at any place where there would be
+the least possibility of his being recognized, it would necessitate a
+perpetual disguise. This, in a little while, would become intolerable.
+He must go to a place where there will be no need for him to stain his
+face, or dye his hair, and where he can go about freely, and without
+fear of detection."
+
+"I can quite understand what an immense relief it must be to
+you to get away from this neighbourhood, with all its painful
+associations--to hide yourself in some remote valley where no shadow
+of the past can darken your door; but it seems to me that you need
+not go quite so far away in order to do that."
+
+"It will be all for the best, dear, depend upon it."
+
+"No; I cannot see it. If you had only gone to America, now! No one
+would recognize Mr. Dering there, and it would not be too far away for
+me to pay you a visit once every now and again. In fact, I should make
+it a condition of marrying Tom, that he gave me a promise to that
+effect. But, New Zealand!"
+
+As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith's uneasiness increase, but
+she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had
+told her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to
+the time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share
+in the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she
+was unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might
+not even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her
+husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly
+chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be
+a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers
+of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait--wait--wait! If
+she went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the
+sound of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be
+possible to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance
+away. To and fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned
+leopardess. White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping
+and unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess
+of old, who sees in her mind's eye a vision of doom--a vision of
+things to come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched
+her in silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but
+there was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen.
+
+"I can bear this no longer," said Edith, at last; "the room suffocates
+me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel." She
+snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside's, that lay on the sofa, and flung
+it over her head and shoulders.
+
+"Let me go with you," cried Jane, "I am almost as anxious as you are."
+
+"Hush! hush!" cried Edith, suddenly, "I hear them coming!"
+
+Hardly breathing, they all listened.
+
+"I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind," cried Mrs.
+Garside, after a few moments.
+
+"Nor I," said Jane.
+
+"I tell you they are coming," said Edith. "There are two of them.
+Listen! Surely you can hear them now!" She flung open the window as
+she spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard
+highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage
+door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the
+top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them.
+
+Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed
+by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was
+no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour.
+To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all
+of them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave.
+
+Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith's white arms
+were round his neck.
+
+"My darling: what is it?" she said. "What dreadful thing has
+happened?" He stooped his head still lower, and whispered something
+in her ear. She stared up into his face for a moment, then his arms
+tightened suddenly round her, and they all saw that she had fainted.
+
+
+At Park Newton the evening wore itself slowly and gloomily away. Tom
+and Mr. Hoskyns, assisted occasionally by Mr. Perrins and the vicar,
+did their best to keep the conversation from flagging, but at times
+with only indifferent success. None of them could forget what day it
+was--could forget what took place that night twelve months ago, only a
+few yards from where they were sitting; and so remembering, who could
+wonder that the dinner seemed tasteless and the wines without flavour,
+that the lights seemed to burn low, and that to the imagination of
+more than one there a shrouded figure was with them in the room,
+invisible to mortal eyes, but none the less surely there, drinking
+when they drank, pledging a health when they pledged one, and knowing
+well all the time which one of the company would be the first to join
+it in that Land of Shadows to which it now belonged.
+
+Kester was altogether gloomy and preoccupied, and Lionel hardly spoke
+at all except when spoken to. General St. George was obliged to keep
+up some show of conversation out of compliment to his guests; but no
+one but himself knew how irksome it was to do so. What did Lionel
+intend to do? Would there be a scene--a fracas--between the two
+cousins? What would be the end of the wretched business? How fervently
+he wished that the morrow was safely come, that he had seen that
+unhappy man's face for the last time, and that he, and Lionel, and
+Edith were fairly started on their long journey to the other side of
+the world!
+
+The vicar and the two men of law had naturally expected that the party
+would break up by ten o'clock at the latest. Not that it mattered
+greatly to either Perrins or Hoskyns, who were to stay at Park Newton
+all night. But the vicar was an old man, and anxious to get home in
+decent time, so that when he began to fidget and look at his watch,
+Lionel, who was only waiting for him to make a move, knew that it
+would be impossible to detain him much longer.
+
+"I must really ask you to excuse me, General," said the old man at
+last. "But I see that it is past ten o'clock, and quite time for gay
+young sparks like me to be thinking of their night-caps."
+
+"I hope you are not particular to a few minutes, vicar," said Lionel.
+"I have ordered coffee to be served in my room, and, with my uncle's
+permission, we will all adjourn there."
+
+"You must not keep me long," said the vicar.
+
+"I will not," said Lionel. "But I know that you like to finish up your
+evening with a little caf� noir; and I have, besides, a picture which
+I want to show you, and which I think will interest you very much--a
+picture--which I want to show not only to you, Dr. Wharton, but to all
+the other gentlemen who are here to-night."
+
+They all rose and made a move towards the door.
+
+"As I don't care for caf� noir, and don't understand pictures, you
+will perhaps excuse me," said Kester, ignoring Lionel, and addressing
+himself to his uncle.
+
+"You had better go with us," said Lionel, turning to his cousin. "You
+are surely not going to be the first to break up the party."
+
+"I don't want to break up the party. I will wait here till you come
+back," answered Kester, doggedly.
+
+"You had better go with us," said Lionel, meaningly, but speaking so
+that the others could not hear him.
+
+"Pray who made you dictator here?" said Kester haughtily. "I don't
+choose to go with you. That is enough."
+
+"You had better go with us," said Lionel for the third time. "If you
+still decline, I can only assume that you are afraid to go."
+
+"Afraid!" sneered Kester. "Of whom and what should I be afraid?"
+
+"That is best known to yourself."
+
+"Anyhow, I'm neither afraid of you nor of anything that you can do."
+
+"If you decline going to my rooms, I can only conclude that you are
+kept away by some abject fear."
+
+"Lead on.--I'll follow.--But mark my words, you and I will have this
+little matter out in the morning--alone."
+
+"Willingly."
+
+The rooms occupied by Lionel were in the opposite wing of the house to
+those occupied by Kester. They were, in fact, in the same wing as, and
+no great distance from, the room where Percy Osmond had been murdered:
+a good and sufficient reason why Kester should get as far away as
+possible.
+
+Lionel's sitting-room was a good-sized apartment, but it was divided
+into two by large folding doors, now closed. A moderator lamp stood on
+the table, together with coffee, cognac, and cigars.
+
+"Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes," said
+Lionel. "My picture requires a little preparation before I can show it
+to you." So speaking he left the room. There was no servant. Each of
+the gentlemen, Kester excepted, helped himself to a cup of coffee.
+
+Kester seated himself apart on a chair near the door. His eyes were
+bent on the floor. He played absently with his watch-guard. Just now,
+as he was coming slowly upstairs, a shadowy hand had been laid on his
+shoulder, a ghostly voice had whispered in his ear. It was only that
+one little word that he had heard whispered oft-times before. "Come!"
+was all the voice said, but it was followed, this time, by a little
+malicious laugh, such as Kester had never heard before. Round his
+heart there was a cold, numb feeling, that was altogether strange to
+him; a dull singing in his ears like the faint echo of a tide beating
+on some far-away shore. No one spoke to him. No one seemed to know
+that he was there. He felt at that moment, with an unspeakable
+bitterness, how utterly alone he was in the world. There was no human
+being anywhere who, if he were to die that moment, would really regret
+him--not one single creature who would drop a solitary tear over his
+grave.--But such thoughts were miserable; they must be driven away
+somehow. He rose and went to the table, poured himself out half a
+tumbler of brandy, and drank it off without water. "It puts fresh life
+into me as it goes down," he muttered to himself.
+
+He was in the act of replacing the glass on the table when a sudden
+noise caused all eyes to turn in one direction. The folding doors were
+being unbolted from the inner side. Then they were opened till they
+stood about half a yard apart, but as yet all within was in darkness.
+Then from out this darkness issued the voice of Lionel--or, as most
+there took it to be, the voice of Richard--but Lionel himself was
+unseen.
+
+"Gentlemen," said the voice, "you all know what day this is. It is the
+eighth of May. Twelve months ago to-night Percy Osmond was murdered.
+About that crime I have often thought and often dreamed. I dreamed
+about it only a little while ago, and in my dream I seemed to see how
+the murder really was done. What I then saw in my sleep, I have
+painted. What I have painted I am now going to show to you."
+
+The folding doors were closed for a minute, and then flung wide open.
+The farther room was now a blaze of light. Facing this light, so that
+every minute detail could be plainly seen, was a large unframed
+canvas, on which in colours the most vivid, was painted Lionel
+Dering's Dream.
+
+The scene was Percy Osmond's bedroom, and the moment selected by the
+artist was the one when, after the brief struggle between Osmond and
+Kester, the latter has obtained possession of the dagger, and while
+pinning Osmond down with one knee and one arm, has, with his other
+hand, forced the dagger deep into his opponent's heart. Peeping from
+behind the curtains could be seen the white, terror-stricken, face of
+Pierre Janvard. The figures were all life-size, and the likenesses
+takable.
+
+Awe-struck they crowded round the folding doors, and gazed silently at
+the picture, forgetting for the moment that the man thus strangely
+accused was one of themselves.
+
+"Now you see how the murder really happened--now you know who the
+murderer really was," said Lionel, speaking from some place in the
+farther room where he could not be seen. "This is no dream but a most
+dread reality that you see pictured before you. I have proofs--ample
+proofs--of the truth of that which I now state. The murderer of Percy
+Osmond stands among you. Kester St. George is that man!"
+
+At these words, every eye was turned instinctively on Kester. He was
+still standing at the table where he had put down his glass. His right
+hand was hidden in his waistcoat. With his left hand he supported
+himself against the table. A strange lividity had overspread his face;
+his lips twitched nervously. His frightened eyes wandered from one
+face to another of those who were now gazing on him. He tried to
+speak, but could not. Then his eyes fixed themselves on the brandy.
+Tom interpreted the look and poured some into a glass. He drank it
+greedily and then he spoke.
+
+"What you have just been told," he said, "is nothing but a cruel,
+cowardly; devilish lie! Where is this man who accuses me? Why does he
+hide himself? He hides himself because he is a liar--because he dare
+not face either you or me. We all know who was the murderer--we all
+know that Lionel Dering----"
+
+"Lionel Dering is here to answer for himself. It is he who tells you
+to your face that you are the murderer of Percy Osmond!"
+
+Yes, there, framed by the archway, full in the blaze of light, stood
+Lionel, no longer disguised--the dye washed off his face, his hands,
+his hair--the Lionel that they all remembered so well come back from
+the dead--his own dear self, and none but he, as they could all see at
+a glance, and yet looking strangely different without his long fair
+beard.
+
+For a full minute Kester St. George stood as rigid as a statue,
+glaring across the room at the man whom he had so bitterly wronged.
+
+One word his lips tried to form, but only half succeeded in doing so.
+That one word was _Forgive_. Then a strange spasm passed across his
+face; he pressed his hand to his left side, and turning suddenly half
+round, fell back into the arms of the man nearest to him.
+
+"He has fainted," said the General.
+
+"He is dead," said Tom.
+
+"Heaven knows, I had no thought of knowledge of this," said Lionel.
+"None whatever!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+GATHERED THREADS.
+
+
+The terribly sudden death of Kester St. George, left Lionel Dering
+with two courses to choose between. On the one hand he could carry out
+his original intention of going abroad, under an assumed name, leaving
+the world still to believe that he was dead. On the other hand, he
+could give himself up to justice, under his real name, and, his first
+trial never having been finished--take his stand at the bar again
+under the original charge, and with the proofs he had gathered in his
+possession, let his innocence of the crime imputed to him work itself
+out through a legitimate channel to a verdict of Not Guilty. This
+latter course was the only one open to him if he wished to clear
+himself in the eyes of the world from the stain of blood, or even if
+he wished to assume his own name and his position as the owner of Park
+Newton. But did he really wish this thing? That idea of going abroad,
+of burying himself and his wife in some far-away nook of the New
+World, had taken such hold on his imagination, that even now it had by
+no means lost its sweetness in his thoughts. Then, again, Kester
+having died without a will, if he--Lionel were to leave himself
+undeclared, the estate would go to General St. George, as next of kin,
+and after the old soldier's time it would go, in the natural course of
+events, to his brother Richard. Why, then, declare himself? why give
+himself into custody and undergo the pain and annoyance of another
+term of imprisonment, and another trial--and they would be both
+painful and annoying, even though his innocence were proved at the end
+of them? Why not rather bind over to silence those few trusted friends
+to whom his secret was already known, and going abroad with Edith,
+spend the remainder of his days in happy obscurity. Why re-open that
+bloodstained page of family history, over which the world had of a
+surety gloated sufficiently already?
+
+But in this latter view he was opposed by everybody except his wife;
+by his uncle, by Tom, by the vicar, and by nobody more strongly than
+by Messrs. Perrins and Hoskyns. The cry from all was--take your trial;
+let your innocence be proved, as proved it must be, and assume the
+name and position that are rightfully yours. Edith, with her head
+resting on his shoulder, only said: "Do that which seems best to you
+in your own heart, dearest, and that alone. Whether you go or stay, my
+place is by your side--my love unalterable. Only to be with you--never
+to lose you again--is all I ask. Give me that: I crave for nothing
+more."
+
+Strange to say, the person who brought matters to a climax, and
+finally decided Lionel as to his future course of action, was the girl
+Nell, Mother Mim's plain-spoken grand-daughter. Through some channel
+or other she had heard of the death of Mr. St. George, and one day she
+marched up the steps at Park Newton, and rang the big bell, and asked,
+as bold as brass, to see the General. The General was one of the most
+accessible of men, and when told that the girl wanted to see him
+privately, he marched off at once to the library, and ordered her to
+be admitted.
+
+It was a strange story the girl had to tell--so strange that the
+General at first put her down as a common impostor. Fortunately Mr.
+Perrins happened to be still at Park Newton, and he at once called the
+shrewd old lawyer to his assistance.
+
+But Miss Nell was now taken with a stubborn fit, and refused either to
+say any more or to answer any more questions, till five pounds had
+been given her as an earnest of more to follow, in case her
+information should prove to be correct. The five pounds having been
+put into her hands, she told all that she knew freely enough, and
+answered every question that was put to her. Then she was dismissed
+for the time being, having first left an address where she might be
+found when wanted.
+
+Nell had told them how the body of Dirty Jack had been found dead on
+the moor, and the first point to ascertain was, what had become of the
+confession which was known to have been in his possession when he left
+Mother Mim's cottage? Had it been found on his person? If so, where
+was it now? It was rather singular that Mr. St. George should be the
+last person known to have been seen in the company of Skeggs. The
+second question was, where was Mr. Bendall to be found? Mr. Perrins
+set to work without delay to solve this latter problem, by engaging
+one of Mr. Hoskyns's confidential clerks to make the requisite
+inquiries for him. To the first question, the whereabouts of the
+confession, he determined to give his own personal attention. But
+before he had an opportunity of doing this, he found among the papers
+of Kester the very document itself--the original confession, duly
+witnessed by Skeggs and the girl Nell. A day or two later Mr. Bendall
+was also found, and--for a consideration--had no objection to tell all
+he knew of the affair. His evidence, and that given in the confession,
+tallied exactly. There could no longer be any moral doubt as to the
+fact of Kester St. George having been a son of Mother Mim.
+
+This revelation was not without its effect on the question Lionel was
+still debating in his own mind. It armed his uncle and Tom with one
+weapon more in favour of the course they were desirous that he should
+pursue. If Kester St. George were not Lionel's cousin, if he were not
+related to the family in any way, there was less reason than ever why
+Lionel should not declare himself, why he should not give himself up,
+and let his own innocence be proved once and for ever, by proving the
+guilt of this other man.
+
+Even Edith at last added her persuasions to those of his uncle and the
+others, and when this became the case Lionel could hold out no longer.
+Exactly a week after the death of Kester St. George (as we may as well
+continue to call him) Lionel Dering walked into the police-station at
+Duxley, and gave himself up into the hands of the sergeant on duty.
+
+Mr. Drayton was astounded, as well he might be. "How can you be Mr.
+Dering?" he said. Lionel being now close-shaved, did not tally with
+the superintendent's recollection of him. "I saw that gentleman lying
+dead in his coffin in the church of San Michele, in Italy, and I could
+have sworn to him anywhere."
+
+"What you saw, Mr. Drayton, was a cleverly-executed waxen effigy, and
+not the man himself. Me you did see and talk to, but without
+recognizing me. At all events here I am, alive and well, and if you
+will kindly lock me up, I shall esteem it a favour."
+
+"I was never so sold in the whole course of my life," said Drayton.
+"But there's one comfort--Sergeant Whiffins was just as much sold as I
+was."
+
+At the ensuing summer assizes Lionel Dering was again put on his trial
+for the murder of Percy Osmond. Janvard, whose safety had been
+carefully looked after by a private detective in the guise of a guest
+at his hotel, was admitted as evidence for the Crown, and without
+leaving their box a verdict of Not Guilty was found by the jury. Never
+had such a scene been known in Duxley as was enacted that summer
+afternoon, when Lionel Dering walked down the steps of the Court-house
+a free man. A landau was in waiting, into which he was lifted by main
+force. No horses were needed, or would have been allowed. Relays of
+the crowd dragged the carriage all the way to Park Newton, in company
+with two brass bands, and all the flags that the town could muster.
+Lionel's arm had never ached so much as it did that evening, after he
+had shaken hands with a great multitude of his friends--and every man
+and boy prided himself upon being Mr. Dering's friend that day. As for
+the ladies, they had their own way of showing their sympathy with him.
+Half the children in the parish that came to light during the next
+twelve months were christened either Edith or Lionel.
+
+The post-mortem examination showed that heart disease of long standing
+was the proximate cause of Kester St. George's death. He was buried
+not in the family vault where the St. Georges for two centuries lay in
+silent state, but in the town cemetery. The grave was marked by a
+plain slab, on which was engraved simply the initials of the name he
+had always been known by, and the date of his death.
+
+"I warned him of it long ago," said Dr. Bolus to two or three fellows
+at Kester's old club, as he stood with his back to the fire and his
+coat tails thrown over his arms. "But whose warnings are sooner
+forgotten than a doctor's? By living away from London, and leading a
+perfectly quiet and temperate life, he might have been kept going for
+years. But, above all things, he should have avoided excitement of
+every kind."
+
+Lionel and Edith put off for a little while their long-talked-of tour
+in order that they might be present at the wedding of Tom and Jane.
+The ceremony took place in August. Tom and his bride went to Scotland
+for their honeymoon. Lionel and his wife started for Switzerland, en
+route for Italy, where they were to spend the ensuing winter.
+
+Of late the Squire had recovered his health wonderfully. He seemed to
+have grown ten years younger in a few weeks. In the working of that
+wonderful coal-shaft, and in the prospect of his making a far larger
+fortune for his daughter than the one he so foolishly lost, he found a
+perpetual source of healthy excitement, which, by keeping both his
+mind and body actively and legitimately employed, had an undoubted
+tendency to lengthen his life. Besides this, Tom had asked him to
+superintend the construction of his new house. It was just the sort of
+job that the Squire delighted in--to look sharply after a lot of
+working men, and while pretending that they were all in a league to
+cheat him, blowing them up heartily all round one half-hour, and
+treating them to unlimited beer the next.
+
+"I should like to see you in the Town Council, Bristow," said the
+Squire one day to his son-in-law.
+
+"Thank you, sir, all the same," said Tom, "but it's hardly good
+enough. There will be a general election before we are much older,
+when I mean, either by hook or by crook, to get into the House."
+
+"Bristow, you have the cheek of the Deuce himself," was all that the
+astonished Squire could say.
+
+It may just be remarked that Tom's ambition has since been gratified.
+He is now, and has been for some time, member for W----. He is clever,
+ambitious, and a tolerable orator, as oratory is reckoned nowadays.
+What may not such a man aspire to?
+
+Mr. Hoskyns is a frequent guest both of Tom and Lionel. Chatting with
+the former one day over the "walnuts and the wine," said the old man:
+"I have often puzzled my brain over that affair of Baldry's--that
+positive assertion of his that he saw and spoke to me one night in the
+Thornfield Road when I was most certainly not there. Have you ever
+thought about it since?"
+
+"Once or twice, I dare say, but I could have enlightened you at the
+time had I chosen to do so. It was I whom Baldry met. I had made
+myself up to resemble you, and previously to my visit to the prison in
+your character, I thought I would try the effect of my disguise upon
+somebody who had known you well for years. As it so happened, Baldry
+was the first of your acquaintances whom I encountered on my nocturnal
+ramble. The rest you know."
+
+"You young vagabond! And yet you have the audacity to call yourself a
+respectable member of society. Perhaps you can explain the mystery of
+the ghostly footsteps at Park Newton when poor Pearce, the butler, was
+frightened out of the small quantity of wit that he could lay claim
+to?"
+
+"That, too, I can explain. The ghostly footsteps, as it happened, were
+very corporeal footsteps, being those of none other than your humble
+servant."
+
+"But how did you get into the room? It had been nailed up months
+before."
+
+"The nailing up was more apparent than real. The nails were sham
+nails. The door could be unlocked at any time, and the room entered in
+the ordinary way."
+
+"But how about the cough--Mr. Osmond's peculiar cough?"
+
+"That was an imitation by me from lessons given me by Mr. Dering. It
+answered the purpose admirably for which it was intended."
+
+"To hear such sounds at midnight in a room where a man had been
+murdered was enough to shake the strongest nerves. I wonder you were
+not frightened yourself to be in the room."
+
+"That would have been ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of."
+
+"In any extraordinary circumstances I shall never believe the evidence
+of my own senses again."
+
+Mr. Cope was not long in perceiving that he had committed a grave
+error of judgment in refusing Mr. Culpepper the assistance he had
+asked for. There would be a splendid fortune for Jane after all. It
+was enough to make a man tear his hair with vexation--only Mr. Cope
+hadn't much hair to tear--to think what a golden chance he had let
+slip through his fingers. Edward was recalled at once on the slight
+chance that if a meeting could anyhow be brought about between him and
+Jane, the old flame might spring up with renewed ardour in the young
+lady's bosom, in which case she might insist upon her engagement with
+Edward being carried out. But Edward bore his disappointment very
+philosophically, and had not been three hours in Duxley before he
+found himself eating pastry, and being ministered to by Miss Moggs,
+who was still unmarried, and still as plump and smiling as ever.
+
+Three weeks later the good people of Duxley were treated to a
+delightful sensation. Mr. Cope, Junior, had run away with the daughter
+of Mr. Moggs, the confectioner, and Mr. Cope, Senior, had threatened
+to cut his son off with the well-known metaphorical shilling.
+
+The latest news of young Mr. Cope is, that he is living in furnished
+apartments in a cheap suburb of London. The late Miss Moggs, her
+plumpness notwithstanding, has developed into a Tartar. They have six
+children. Mr. Cope's income is exactly two hundred a-year, left him by
+his mother. His father will not give him a penny, and he is either too
+lazy, or too incompetent, to attempt to add to his means by a little
+honest work. He is very stout and very short of breath. When he has
+any money he spends his time in a neighbouring billiard-room, smoking
+a short pipe and drinking half-and-half, and watching other men play.
+When he has no money he stops at home and rocks the cradle, and
+listens to his wife's reproaches. Mrs. Cope vows that she will buy a
+mangle and make her husband turn it, and try whether she cannot shame
+him into work that way. And all this is the result of eating pastry
+and being waited upon by a pretty girl.
+
+After the trial was over, Nell, by means of some speciously-concocted
+tale, contrived to cozen General St. George out of twenty pounds. With
+this she disappeared, and was never either seen or heard of in Duxley
+or its neighbourhood again.
+
+During the time that Lionel and his wife were abroad the General went
+with his friend, Major Beauchamp, to Madeira, and wintered there.
+
+It had been Lionel's intention to stay abroad for about three years.
+But as it fell out, he and Edith were back at Park Newton by the end
+of twelve months, being brought thither by the expectation of an
+all-important event. Lionel has not since then left home for more than
+a month at a time. So full of painful memories was Park Newton to him,
+that it was only by Edith's persuasion that he was induced to settle
+there at all. But years have come and gone since then, and nothing
+would now induce him to live anywhere else. Whatever gloomy
+associations might otherwise have clung to the old house have been
+exorcised long ago by the merry laughter of children. It was difficult
+at first for the Echoes of that murder-haunted roof to bring
+themselves to mimic the soft syllables of childhood, but when one
+little stranger after another came to teach them, then their voices,
+rusty and creaky at first through long disuse, gradually won back to
+themselves a long-forgotten sweetness; and now the Echoes follow the
+children wherever they go, and all the grim old pile is musical with
+the laughter and songs and free joyous shouts of childhood. Many a
+time they have a bout together--the children and the Echoes--trying
+which of them can make the more noise; and then the children call to
+the Echoes and bid them come out of their hiding-places and show
+themselves in the dusky twilight; but the Echoes only laugh back their
+answer, and are ever too timid to let themselves be seen.
+
+Who, of all people in the world, should be the children's primest
+favourite and slave but General St. George? His heart is in the
+nursery, and there he spends hours every day. He "keeps shop" with
+them, he plays at soldiers with them, he is their horse, their roaring
+lion, their wild man of the woods. It is certainly amusing to see the
+old warrior, whose very name was once a word of terror among the
+lawless hill-tribes of the far East see him led about by one boy by
+means of a piece of string tied round his arm, and while another
+youthful scapegrace deafens you with the noise of a drum, to watch him
+imitate, with dangling paws, the uncouth gracefulness of a dancing
+bear. There can be no doubt on one point--that the old soldier enjoys
+himself quite as much as the children do.
+
+After his year's imprisonment was at an end--to which mitigated
+punishment Janvard was condemned, in consideration of his having acted
+as witness for the Crown--he and his sister went over to Switzerland,
+and opened an hotel there at one of the chief centres of tourist
+travel. There, not long ago, he was encountered by Lionel. Smirking,
+bowing, and rubbing his hands, Janvard went up to him, with a request
+that Monsieur Dering would do him the honour of stopping at his hotel.
+But Lionel would have nothing to do with him, and when Janvard could
+be made to comprehend this, his face became a study of mortification
+and surprise. His feelings, such as they were, were evidently hurt. He
+never could be made to understand why Monsieur Dering had refused so
+positively to take up his quarters at the Lion d'Or.
+
+In a world that is full of permutation and change, there are happily a
+few things that change not. One of these is the friendship between
+Lionel and Tom, which neither time nor absence, nor the growth of
+other interests has power to alter in the least. When they both happen
+to be in Midlandshire at the same time, a week never passes without
+their seeing more or less of each other, and between their wives there
+is almost as firm a friendship as there is between themselves. Four
+people more united, more happy in each other's society, it would be
+impossible to find.
+
+It was only last summer, during the long spell of hot weather, that
+Edith and Jane, with their youngsters, went over to Gatehouse Farm
+together, for the sake of the fresh sea breezes that seem to blow
+perpetually round the old house. They were sitting one day on the
+broad yellow sands, idling through the glowing afternoon, with their
+embroidery and a novel, when one of Jane's little girls happened to
+fall and hurt her finger. She began to cry, and Edith's little boy was
+by her side in a moment.
+
+"Don't cry," he said, as he stooped and kissed her. "I will marry you
+when I grow to be a big man."
+
+The little girl's tears at once ceased to flow. The two ladies looked
+up. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.
+
+"Such a thing is by no means improbable," said Edith.
+
+"I shall not be a bit surprised if it really comes to pass," replied
+Jane.
+
+
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+-----------------------------------
+BILLING, PRINTER, GUILDFORD, SURREY
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Dead of Night.  Volume 3 (of 3), by 
+T. W. Speight
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