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diff --git a/old/69286-0.txt b/old/69286-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index fd3593c..0000000 --- a/old/69286-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4686 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Hampstead mystery, by Florence -Marryat - -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: The Hampstead mystery - a novel. Volume 1 (of 3) - -Author: Florence Marryat - -Release Date: November 1, 2022 [eBook #69286] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Carla Foust, Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY *** - - - - - -THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY. - - - - -_The Hampstead Mystery._ - -A Novel. - -BY - -FLORENCE MARRYAT, - - AUTHOR OF ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘VÉRONIQUE,’ ‘MY OWN - CHILD,’ ‘MY SISTER THE ACTRESS,’ ‘HOW LIKE - A WOMAN,’ ‘PARSON JONES,’ ETC., ETC. - -_IN THREE VOLUMES._ - -VOL. I. - -LONDON: - - F. V. WHITE & CO., - 14 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. - -1894. - - - - -_CONTENTS._ - - - PAGE - CHAPTER I., 1 - - CHAPTER II., 25 - - CHAPTER III., 46 - - CHAPTER IV., 75 - - CHAPTER V., 97 - - CHAPTER VI., 123 - - CHAPTER VII., 145 - - CHAPTER VIII., 171 - - CHAPTER IX., 198 - - CHAPTER X., 218 - - - - -THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY. - - - - -_The Hampstead Mystery._ - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -‘Once for all,’ exclaimed Mr Crampton, bringing down his broad fist -heavily upon the table, ‘once for all, I tell you, _I will not have -it_.’ - -At this terrible assertion, Mrs Crampton shivered as if she had been -struck, and Aunt Clem silently dissolved into tears. Henry Hindes, of -all the party, alone preserved his composure. He leaned back in his -chair, carefully trimming his filbert nails with a penknife, as if the -affair under discussion were not of the slightest moment. - -‘Of course you will not have it,’ he said after a pause to Mr Crampton, -‘no man in his senses would. Mr Frederick Walcheren has money and good -looks, but there his claims to admiration end. The first you do not -require for your daughter, and the second would have no weight with -anyone but a woman. To place against these supposed advantages, Mr -Walcheren is a young man of dissolute habits, and lavish expenditure. -You should hear what his cousin, Philip Walcheren, says of him.’ - -‘I want no one’s opinion but my own,’ replied Mr Crampton vehemently. -‘Jenny will have all my money by-and-by, and she shall marry no man -that will make ducks and drakes of it. Besides, he isn’t good enough -for her in any way. He thinks, I suppose, because his family have been -a set of idle scoundrels for centuries past, while my progenitors have -been working to support their children, that his is the better of the -two, but I don’t see it. Besides, if he were the heir to the Crown, -he shouldn’t have my daughter. He’s a Roman, that’s more than enough -for me. I’ll have no Papists in my family. I hate the whole crew, with -their cunning, underhand ways. If Jenny won’t give this Walcheren -fellow over, I’ll lock her up on bread and water till she comes to her -senses again.’ - -As neither of the ladies made any answer to this threat, Mr Hindes -interfered again. - -‘Surely,’ he said with an incredulous smile, ‘Miss Crampton will not -dream of opposing your wishes in this particular, when so much depends -upon her obedience. What can she see in this young man to attract her, -above others of his kind; she who has a crowd of admirers wherever she -goes, and is the acknowledged beauty of Hampstead? I believe, Crampton, -that you are alarming yourself without cause. Miss Crampton means -nothing serious. She is merely amusing herself with the sight of young -Walcheren’s infatuation for her.’ - -‘It’s more than that,’ returned the older man; ‘I’ve forbidden the -girl to dance with him when she meets him out, or to receive him here -during my absence. And now, her mother tells me, she met them riding -together yesterday afternoon, and has intercepted a letter from him -to Jenny, in which he writes as though they were promised to each -other. What am I to do? I can’t be always at my daughter’s elbow, and -her mother can’t go galloping all over the country after her. It is -disgraceful to think that a young lady of twenty can’t be trusted to -behave herself properly as soon as she is out of her parents’ sight!’ - -‘Don’t you think you are making rather a mountain out of a molehill?’ -inquired Henry Hindes, in the same calm way. ‘Doubtless, Miss Crampton -is young and thoughtless, and, if I may venture to say so--perhaps just -a wee bit spoilt; but is that any reason that you should suspect her -of impropriety? And, after all, is there anything wrong or unusual in -a lovely girl being followed and persecuted by her admirers? Perhaps, -if the truth were known, Miss Crampton might be as well pleased to get -rid of Mr Walcheren as you would be.’ - -At this juncture, Mrs Crampton took heart of grace to put in her oar. - -‘Oh, thank you, dear Mr Hindes!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am sure you are -right. That is, I feel certain that Jenny cares no more for Mr -Walcheren than for anyone else. She is a trifle wilful and does not -brook contradiction well--I acknowledge that--and perhaps papa and I -have spoilt her a little; she is such a darling, you know, that it is -very difficult not to spoil her--but she would never really oppose our -wishes. Papa has only to speak to her--’ - -‘Nonsense!’ interposed Mr Crampton gruffly. ‘I have spoken to her a -dozen times already, and she laughs in my face and disobeys me as soon -as my back is turned. But this business has gone far enough, and I mean -to put a stop to it. Where is the girl?’ he continued, turning to his -wife; ‘go and tell her I wish to speak to her at once!’ - -‘My dear, she has not risen yet. I do not suppose she is awake!’ - -‘And it is past eleven,’ said her husband. - -‘Yes; but remember how late she was up last night. I don’t think we -were home till past two o’clock.’ - -‘Whilst she was dancing with this young jackanapes, I conclude, and -letting him make eyes at her! Well! it is for the last time, I can tell -Miss Jenny that! If she disobeys me again, I’ll take her right away -from Hampstead, and she shall never see it till the fellow’s dead, or -married. No Papistical grandchildren for me! I can tell her that!’ - -‘Oh, Mr Crampton!’ cried his wife, with affected horror. - -‘Yes, it is “Oh! Mr Crampton,”’ repeated the old man angrily, mimicking -her thin tones, ‘and it’ll be “Oh! Mrs Crampton,” if you don’t take -care. It’s more than half your fault! You should look better after -your daughter, and then these unpleasantries wouldn’t happen. But you -let her have her own way in everything. She just rules you and Miss -Bostock, and then you leave me to rectify your errors. It isn’t fair on -either me or the child!’ - -Mrs Crampton and her sister, Miss Bostock, familiarly known as Aunt -Clem, were now weeping in concert. - -‘I am sure,’ sobbed the mother, ‘I’ve done everything in my power, -short of turning Mr Walcheren out of doors, to prevent his calling here -so often, because I knew you didn’t wish it, John. Last time he came -I would not order up tea, until Jenny made such a point of it that I -could not refuse. And when the dear child rides, or drives, you know it -is impossible for me to supervise her actions.’ - -‘You should go with her,’ grumbled her husband. - -‘Oh! dear! I wouldn’t sit behind those cobs of hers for all the world! -It frightens me to see her drive them. And she won’t come out in the -barouche with Aunt Clem and me. She laughs at the very idea. She is so -very high-spirited, you see. She must have her own way in everything!’ - -‘Well, go and fetch her here,’ said Mr Crampton shortly; ‘I must speak -to her before I go to town.’ - -‘But if she is not dressed, my dear,’ remonstrated his wife. - -‘Tell her to dress at once and come to me! Now, no nonsense, or I’ll -pull her out of bed myself.’ - -The two women flew from the room to prevent so awful a contingency, and -the men were left alone. They were partners in the well-known firm of -Messrs Hindes & Crampton, wool-staplers in the city. - -Henry Hindes, although much the younger of the two, was head of the -business, having inherited his share through the death of his father. -He was a man of about five or seven and thirty, smooth and solid -looking, but much more polished in manners and appearance than his -partner. His fair, thin hair was parted in the middle, and combed -close to his head. He possessed a powerful brain and a good knowledge -of business. His blue eyes, straight thick nose, and smiling mouth, -gave him a benevolent and cordial look, which made him a favourite in -society. He was always perfectly dressed, and was proud of his white -hands and filbert nails. - -People who wished to do business with the firm, always preferred to see -the senior partner to the junior, because the former was so _suave_ and -courteous, and the latter so rough and curt. - -But Mr Crampton was the tenderer-hearted man of the two, though he -did not show it so much. His private purse-strings were always open -to help a disabled workman, or to head a subscription for the widows -and orphans of those who were removed by death. He was a man of -strong views, however, and a somewhat obstinate temperament, and this -business of his daughter and Mr Frederick Walcheren had disturbed him -very much. A Scotchman by birth, and brought up as a Nonconformist, -he had a righteous horror of Popery, and everything connected with -it. On this account alone he had, from the first, discountenanced the -acquaintanceship of Mr Walcheren with his family; and to find that his -daughter had, in express opposition to his wishes, made an intimate -friend of the young man, wounded him in his tenderest point. He sat -very gloomy and silent after his wife and sister-in-law had left the -room, and Mr Hindes tried his utmost to make him regard the matter in a -more hopeful light. For years he had been as intimate in the domestic -circle of the Crampton family, as he was with his partner in the city, -and was regarded as their nearest friend by them all. - -‘This is a matter that only requires a few words of explanation to set -it right, Crampton,’ he remarked, ‘so it’s no use looking so black -about it. You must allow that you and your wife have rather given Miss -Jenny her own way, and naturally she clings to it. But she loves you -both too much to wilfully oppose you.’ - -‘I hope so, I hope so!’ replied the old man. ‘But spoilt children are -not always the most grateful, Hindes. I trust that Jenny may listen, as -you say, to reason, but I would rather appeal to the young man himself. -Perhaps, if he knew that we will never give our consent to her marrying -a Papist, he might see the advisability of giving up the pursuit.’ - -‘I will speak to him, if you empower me to do so,’ said Hindes, -eagerly. ‘He is sure to be at the Bouchers’ dance to-night. I did not -intend to go, but I believe Hannah wishes to do so, and the opportunity -will be an excellent one, particularly if Miss Crampton is to be there, -and carries out your prohibition with respect to dancing with him. He -will sulk and sit out, and I shall be able to give him a hint as to -your disapproval of his suit.’ - -‘Do so, Hindes, and I shall be exceedingly obliged to you,’ replied Mr -Crampton. ‘And, if that fails, we must take Jenny away, for, by hook or -by crook, I am determined to shake that young fellow off.’ - -‘Hannah is going with the little ones to Broadstairs next week. What do -you say to Miss Crampton accompanying her? You know how fond my wife is -of your daughter, and she would watch over her like a mother. At all -events, it is worth thinking of.’ - -‘It would be a capital plan,’ said Mr Crampton; ‘but why are you going?’ - -‘Because it is time one of us was at the office, my dear fellow; and, -since you are about to speak to your daughter on this subject, it is -just as well I should be out of the way. I shall see you later in the -afternoon, but don’t hurry on my account. And I shall not forget to -speak to Mr Walcheren this evening. I shall not spare him, I promise -you, but lay it on as thick as I know how, and, if he doesn’t like -it, he must do the other thing. By the way, I know the cousin, Philip -Walcheren, as well as their mutual director, Father Tasker, so, if -the young man won’t hear reason, I will appeal to them. There is one -convenience about these Papists, you can generally wield them through -their directors.’ - -‘Yes, the silly fools!’ said Crampton contemptuously. ‘They’re afraid -to say their lives are their own if the priests say they’re not. Pooh! -call them _men_. They’re more like a flock of silly sheep, who run -baa-ing after their shepherd.’ - -‘In that case,’ replied Mr Hindes, smiling, ‘I’m afraid Mr Frederick -Walcheren must be one of the lost sheep, for, from all I hear, he does -not trouble the church, nor the director of his conscience much. But -I’ll do my level best to bring him to hear reason in this instance. _Au -revoir._’ - -And, with a nod and a smile, he was gone. - -‘He’s a true friend,’ thought Mr Crampton to himself, as he took up the -_Times_, and tried to possess his soul in patience until the appearance -of his daughter. - -Meanwhile, Mrs Crampton and Miss Bostock were making their way, -timidly, towards the young lady’s bedroom. In the ante-chamber they -encountered her maid, employed in sewing. - -‘Is Miss Crampton awake yet, Ellen?’ demanded her mother. - -‘Oh! no, ma’am, I haven’t heard a sound of her, and she begged me -particularly not to call her till she rung. She was terrible tired, she -said, and didn’t wish to be disturbed.’ - -‘I’m sorry, Ellen, but I’m afraid I must wake her now. It’s past -eleven, and her papa particularly wishes to see her before he leaves -for the city,’ replied Mrs Crampton. - -‘Oh, dear! I’m sure I don’t know what she’ll say,’ remarked the maid, -as she re-applied herself to her work, and looked as if she was glad -the task had not fallen to her. - -The two ladies entered the adjoining bedroom on tip-toe, and as if -they feared the result of the least noise. It was one of the most -perfectly-arranged chambers a young girl could desire, and it was -pre-evident that its furnishings had been selected with the greatest -care, and for someone who was much loved and treasured. The walls -and chintzes were all of palest pink, the woodwork of white enamel, -and the hangings of lace. On the walls were hung a selection of -photographs, chiefly of dogs and horses, for Miss Crampton’s tastes -ran in that line, and the low, walnut-wood bookcase was filled with -the best authors. Everywhere were signs of profusion and luxury, for -the Cramptons were rich and spared no expense for this one beloved -child, who made all the joy of their lives. The toilet table was -covered with silver and cut glass, and on the mantelpiece stood a -handsome clock and candelabras of Sevres china; but the fairest sight -in all the room was Jenny Crampton herself, as she lay, flushed, -dishevelled and palpitating on her bed, one of the most beautiful -specimens of work that ever proceeded from the Creator’s hand. It was -difficult to believe that the two plain women who stood gazing at her -from the foot of the bed, could be her nearest blood relations. The -questions of hereditary resemblances and non-resemblances are amongst -the most anomalous in Nature. Whence did Jenny Crampton inherit her -perfect features and colouring? Her father was a type of the average -middle-class Englishman. He had a broad-set, muscular figure, with legs -too short for his size, a florid complexion, with thick bushy eyebrows, -a heavy nose, and a long upper lip. His small grey eyes were shrewd, -but honest and benevolent-looking, and his hands and feet were large -and coarse. His wife and her sister might have stood, with a little -caricaturing, for the Frenchman’s notion of an ‘English Mees.’ - -Mrs Crampton had the shapelier and more matured figure of the two, and -her soft brown eyes, attenuated nose, and weak drooping mouth, might -once have been styled pretty, but they both possessed the same tall, -flat frames, with sloping shoulders, long hands and feet, and limp, -lustreless hair. In what enchanted moment, then, had such progenitors -given life to such a lovely creature, as lay asleep upon the bed before -them? Her rounded dimpled arms were thrown restlessly above her head -(for it was summer weather), and were half hidden by the mass of light -chestnut hair, that strayed over her pillow. Her tints were those of a -maiden-blush rose. From her neck and shoulders to her flushed cheeks, -her skin was of one uniform texture, of a pale cream, just touched -with pink. Her lips were slightly parted as she slept and showed the -row of white teeth within. The lashes of her eyes lay thick and long -upon her cheeks; and those eyes, when open, formed, perhaps, the very -chief of her attractions. They were long, limpid eyes, of a light -hazel colour, and with the startled expression in them of a deer or -a child; eyes which made strangers think that Jenny Crampton was one -of the most innocent of God’s creatures upon earth, but which changed -considerably in expression when Jenny’s wishes were in any way crossed, -or her requests disregarded. From the time when she was a lovely little -child (the only one they had ever kept since its earliest infancy) -Mr and Mrs Crampton had learned to dread the clouding over of those -beautiful orbs, and the pouting of those pretty lips. It was in their -power to gratify every wish of their child, and so they gratified -themselves at the same time by avoiding anything so distressing to them -as her tears. Everyone had combined to spoil Jenny Crampton from her -babyhood, and by this time the young lady was pretty well beyond all -control. The father acceded to her every request, however unreasonable -or extravagant; and the mother and aunt only lived to worship her. -Even poor Aunt Clem, who was the standing butt for Jenny’s ridicule, -or the mark for her ill-humour, considered herself well repaid for all -her patience and endurance if the spoilt beauty gave her an occasional -hasty kiss (or rather peck) on her cheek, or her cap, or wherever it -might chance to fall, or honoured her by a request to tie her sash, -or do a commission for her. This was the sort of education the poor -girl had received to enable her to face the rebuffs of the world. But, -though her bringing-up had been very faulty, there was no mistake -about her beauty. Far or near, all round Hampstead and its environs, -there was not a girl who could vie in good looks with old Crampton’s -daughter, and, as her father was known to be a very wealthy man, Jenny -had more admirers than she could count on her ten fingers. But, of them -all, none had really appealed to her senses but Frederick Walcheren. -The Cramptons and Aunt Clem had a tough time before them. - -‘How lovely she is!’ sighed Miss Bostock, as an intuition of their -presence, even through her dreams, made Jenny turn restlessly and throw -herself into another becoming attitude on the other side of the bed. - -‘Yes! indeed, Clem; but I’m afraid I must rouse her,’ whispered Mrs -Crampton. ‘Papa is really vexed about this business, and, if she -doesn’t see him at once, I fear he may be more so. Jenny, my darling!’ -she continued, going round to the girl’s side and laying her hand -gently on her shoulder, ‘Jenny, dear love, wake up; there’s a dear! -Papa wants to see you before he goes into the city.’ - -‘Eh! what?’ said the girl drowsily, as she turned away, ‘it’s not time -to get up yet. I’m so sleepy.’ - -‘But, Jenny, love, try and rouse yourself,’ repeated her mother, rather -tremblingly, ‘your father wants you, dear. He won’t keep you long. You -need only put on a tea-gown and can come back and finish your toilet -afterwards. Come Jenny, make an effort, love, for papa won’t be denied.’ - -The girl opened her big hazel eyes then, and stared stupidly at her -aunt and mother. - -‘You here, mamma!’ she ejaculated, ‘and Aunt Clem! What on earth is the -matter? Is the house on fire?’ - -‘No! no! dear, of course not, but papa wants to speak to you for a -minute before he leaves home.’ - -‘Then he must wait till he comes back,’ replied Jenny, as she closed -her eyes again, ‘for I’m a great deal too sleepy to see anyone. Go -away, do! mamma, and leave me alone. It’s a shame to go waking me in -this way, when you know I was dancing up to three o’clock this morning.’ - -‘I know, darling, I know!’ said Mrs Crampton, almost weeping, ‘and I -wouldn’t have done it for the world, only papa insisted on it, and you -know what he is when he’s set on having his way. Jenny, my dear; do try -and rouse yourself a little, for papa says if you don’t go down and see -him, he will come up here and pull you out of bed himself.’ - -At this intelligence, Miss Crampton did see fit to open her eyes a -little wider, and sit up in bed. Perhaps her conscience warned her what -this unusual severity on the part of her father might portend, but she -looked exceedingly cross as she did so. - -‘I never heard such nonsense in all my life,’ she exclaimed, ‘what can -he have to say to me, that will not keep till dinner time? I can’t -be down for half an hour, at anyrate, so papa must wait my pleasure. -Where’s Ellen? She must come and help me dress! My goodness me, Aunt -Clem,’ she broke off suddenly, as she caught sight of that lady’s -sympathetic features regarding her wistfully from the foot of the bed, -‘don’t stand there goggling at me like a stork on one leg, or you’ll -drive me out of my senses. Go and call Ellen, do! If I’m to see papa, -someone must dress me. I don’t suppose he wants me to walk downstairs -in my night-dress, though he is in such a hurry.’ - -‘No! no! love, of course not!’ returned her mother, hastily. ‘Clem! -call Ellen, and tell her Jenny is going to get up. Now, darling! what -can I do to help you?’ - -‘Nothing,’ replied her daughter peevishly, ‘unless you will give papa -a dose of morphia to keep him quiet till I can dress myself. What _is_ -all this mystery about? Why can’t you say why the old gentleman is so -desirous of my company this morning. He is not in the habit of dragging -me out of bed, after a ball, at this unearthly hour.’ - -‘It is nearly twelve o’clock, my dear!’ said Mrs Crampton evasively. - -‘What of that? I ordered my trap to be round at four this afternoon, -and told Ellen particularly that she was not to come near me till I -rang. You know the Bouchers’ dance is on to-night, and a nice figure I -shall look at it if I do not have my sleep out first.’ - -‘Well, dear,’ replied her mother, soothingly, ‘you can come to bed -again, if you think fit, in the afternoon. You know _I_ wouldn’t have -disturbed you for all the world, but gentlemen are not always so -considerate. And your father insisted upon my doing so, so what could I -say?’ - -‘What’s the row about?’ repeated Jenny, as her maid began to brush out -and twist up her superabundant hair. - -But Mrs Crampton was too discreet to say all she knew before a servant. - -‘Oh! it’s nothing particular, my love, and your father had best tell -you himself. You needn’t be afraid, he loves you too dearly ever to -scold you, whatever you may do or say.’ - -‘Oh! I’m not afraid of the old man!’ rejoined the young lady; ‘only -he’d better not go too far with me. I can guess what all the fuss is -about, mamma, and I’ve got a will of my own, as well as he has. If -papa is going to lecture me about Mr--’ - -‘Now, dear, don’t mention any names,’ interposed Mrs Crampton quickly, -‘for it may only lead to mischief. Your papa must tell you his own -business, and I’m sure you’ll do all in your power to fall in with his -wishes.’ - -‘I’m not so sure of that,’ replied the young lady, with a _moue_. -‘Here, Ellen, give me my blue tea-gown! My hair will do very well, for -I shall most likely be in bed again in half an hour. Go down, whilst -I’m with Mr Crampton, and fetch me some chocolate and a piece of toast, -and let it be ready when I come back. Now! mamma, we’ll go and beard -the old lion in his den.’ - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Jenny looked, if possible, lovelier than usual as she tripped -downstairs beside her mother and her aunt. Her face was still flushed -from sleep, and her hair had been twisted up anyhow, whilst the pale -blue gown she wore accorded well with her rose-leaf complexion. Mrs -Crampton and Miss Bostock accompanied her in trembling dread of the -coming encounter, but the girl herself was perfectly confident and -fearless. As they reached the door of the library, where her father -awaited her, she caught sight of Aunt Clem’s visage and burst out -laughing. - -‘Oh, dear!’ she cried, ‘Aunt Clem, if you don’t put on some other kind -of face, you’ll kill me! When you assume that lugubrious expression, -you look so like a cow that I always expect to hear you low.’ - -‘Dearest child! that is not kind,’ remarked her mother, with mild -reproof. - -‘Oh! never mind, it doesn’t signify, I am sure dear Jenny doesn’t mean -it,’ interposed Aunt Clem, who had, nevertheless, winced under the -sarcasm. - -‘I did mean it, though,’ cried Jenny boldly; ‘one would think I was -going to be hanged to see your long faces. Well, papa!’ she continued, -as they entered the presence of Mr Crampton, ‘and what may you have -to say to me this morning? You’ll have to pay for dragging me out of -my bed in this outrageous manner, you know, and I sha’n’t be pacified -until you buy me that little Arab mare of Mr Winchers’. Is it a -bargain?’ - -She looked so saucy and so pretty as she said this, and perched herself -on her father’s knee, that Mr Crampton, in his pride and affection, -was very nearly granting her request without further protest. But -the remembrance of the Popish admirer intruded itself just in time to -prevent the folly. Nevertheless, he kissed his daughter’s blooming -cheek, and said,-- - -‘If you will be a good girl, and do exactly as I tell you, you shall -have a dozen Arab mares if they will please you, Jenny.’ - -‘All right, old gentleman! that’s a bargain. Now for the conditions.’ - -‘But we must speak seriously, my dear, for I am quite in earnest in -this matter. You have been encouraging a young man to come about here, -Jenny, of whose acquaintanceship you know I do not approve--I mean Mr -Frederick Walcheren. Now, I must have a stop put to it at once. He -never comes here again, nor will I allow you to meet him out of the -house, unless it should be by accident, nor to dance with him if you do -meet him. I hope you understand me plainly. I will not permit you to -know any of the Walcherens from this time forward. You must entirely -drop them. Nor shall your mother ask them to my house. And I shall -never remove this prohibition from you--_never_!’ - -‘Anything more?’ asked Jenny, shortly. - -A close observer might have seen and interpreted the change in her -countenance as she listened to her father’s mandate. Into the light -hazel eyes had crept a much darker shade, and the full lips had pouted -till they had become sullen. But all she said was ‘Anything more?’ - -‘I do not know that, as your father, I am in any way called upon to -give you my reasons, my dear, but, since you seem to ask for them, -I will. You appear to me to have shown a marked preference for Mr -Frederick Walcheren’s society, and, as it would be impossible for you -to marry him, it is best the affair should be put an end to at once.’ - -‘He has plenty of money,’ argued the young lady. - -‘I am aware of that, and the uses he has hitherto put his money to. He -is a gambler and a loose liver. But that is not the chief objection -to him in my eyes. His vices might be reformed, but not his religion. -Young creatures like yourself do not think of such things, but the -Walcherens are all Roman Catholics, and that fact puts an insuperable -barrier between them and us. I would never, under any circumstances, -give my consent to your marriage with a Papist. I would rather see you -in your grave, Jenny, and I cannot say more than that. If you have -entertained any such idea, you must dismiss it from your mind at once. -And in order that there may be no fear of such a thing--in order to -secure your happiness and safety, I insist upon your giving up the -acquaintanceship of this young man altogether. You must not ask him to -the house again, and, if he calls, your mother will order the servant -to say that she is not at home. If you meet him out, you have my -strict commands not to dance with him, or to talk more than the merest -politeness necessitates. If, notwithstanding these precautions, I find -Mr Walcheren is obstinately bent on thrusting himself where he is not -welcome, I shall take the law into my own hands, by carrying you away -from Hampstead to some place where it is impossible you can meet him. -Don’t think me harsh, Jenny, for, God knows, that is the last thing -I wish to be towards you, but I have spoken to you on this subject -several times before, and I find you have taken no heed, so you force -me to speak more plainly. Do you quite understand me now?’ - -‘Yes, I understand,’ said the girl sullenly. - -‘And you promise obedience?’ - -‘How can I do otherwise than obey?’ she broke out passionately. ‘The -house is yours, and you can do as you choose with it and those who -enter it. And Frederick Walcheren is not a man to thrust his company -where it is not wanted. All these accusations you bring against -him--what authority have you for them? He is to be condemned unheard, -and his religion is brought against him as a crime. If that is what -you call Christian, I’d rather be a Jew any day.’ - -The tone she had adopted made the old man angry. He was devotedly fond -and proud of her, but he had an obstinate temper, and would not brook -opposition to his wishes. - -‘Now, now, that’s enough!’ he answered. ‘My word is law here, and -I will stand no arguments about the matter. I don’t approve of the -man--that is sufficient! Neither shall my daughter know him. As for -condemning him unheard, that is all rubbish. Hindes knows his character -as well as I do. He says--’ - -‘Oh! then it is to Mr Hindes I owe this unpleasant interview,’ cried -Jenny. ‘What business has he to poke his nose into my affairs? He’s -always meddling in some way or another. Mr Hindes made you sell my -beautiful hunter, because he said it was not safe for me to ride; and -Mr Hindes prevented my accepting Lady Makewell’s invitation to the -Castle, on account of some absurd rumours he had heard of her former -life. But, if Mr Hindes thinks he is to be the judge of all my actions -and the ruler of my destinies, he is very much mistaken, and so I -will let him know before he is many days older. I won’t have any man -interfering with me in this way, and turning my own parents against me.’ - -‘Don’t be a fool!’ exclaimed Mr Crampton, roughly. ‘Hindes is the best -friend you have--that any of us have--and it would be a bad day for the -firm and the family, that saw our interests divided. I mentioned him as -an authority for the sort of life Mr Frederick Walcheren lives, but, -far from setting me against you, he has stood up for your good sense -and filial obedience all through the discussion of this unfortunate -affair. It is I alone--your father--who has come to the conclusion to -cut Mr Walcheren’s acquaintance, and now I demand your obedience to my -commands. Once and for all, your implicit obedience. Do you promise it -me?’ - -‘I have no alternative!’ said Jenny. - -‘All the same, I must have your promise given here, before your mother -and your aunt.’ - -‘Very well, then, I promise!’ replied the girl after a pause. - -‘That is all I require,’ said the old man; ‘and now, I suppose, I can -go about my business. But remember! if I ever catch you trying to -outwit me by any d--d subterfuges, I will take you away from Hampstead, -and you shall never see it again whilst that man is in it.’ - -He turned then, as if to leave the room, but, perceiving that both his -wife and her sister were in tears, he thought he might have spoken too -harshly to this child whom he so dearly loved, and came back again for -a moment. - -‘Kiss me, Jenny,’ he said; ‘I’m not angry with you, my girl, though I -may have seemed so, but it’s your happiness I have at heart and not my -own. There! there!’ with a sounding kiss on her cheek, ‘you won’t fret -about the matter, will you? and we’ll ride over together to Winchers’ -to-morrow and secure the little mare you’ve set your heart on. God -bless you, my dear!’ and, with another kiss, he left them to themselves. - -Jenny stood for a minute silent and motionless, then walked quickly -towards the door, as if to return to her own room. - -‘Jenny, my darling,’ pleaded her mother, ‘you see the force of your -dear father’s argument, don’t you?’ - -She went towards the girl as she spoke, and would have wound her arms -about her, but Jenny pushed her impatiently aside. - -‘Don’t bother me, mamma,’ she said, ‘you know how I hate a fuss. All -this worry is mostly your fault, you might have prevented it if you had -chosen.’ - -‘Oh! Jenny, my dear, how?’ - -‘Why, do you suppose I don’t know it has come of some repetition of -yours or Aunt Clem’s? How should papa, who is all day in the city, -and never goes with us anywhere in the evenings, have heard that I -danced more with Fred Walcheren than any other man, unless you had -told him? And I think it is beastly mean of you, too! Why can’t I -have my pleasure the same as other girls? I conclude you and papa made -love enough to each other when you were young, and yet you grudge me -a choice in the matter. I’m only to dance, and talk, and be agreeable -with such people as you select for me. It’s bitterly unfair.’ - -‘Oh, no, darling, don’t say that! Your dear father is only desirous -of one thing, to promote your welfare. And Mr Walcheren is very wild, -Jenny. He would not make you a good husband. Everybody says so.’ - -‘And so my happiness is to be sacrificed because “everybody” chooses to -tell lies of the man I like, and papa and you choose to believe them. -Well! I sha’n’t forget it in a hurry, I can tell you, mamma. And now, -please let me go to my room in peace. I suppose I may claim a right to -so much indulgence of my own wishes.’ - -‘My dear girl, when have any of your wishes been ungratified, unless -they were likely to prove hurtful to yourself. We should take a knife -away from a baby, my darling, however much it cried for it, for fear it -should cut itself.’ - -‘Thank you for comparing me to a baby, mamma, but I think you will find -I am not quite such a child as you imagine. Anyway, I am woman enough -to wish to be left alone to think over this matter by myself.’ - -And, without waiting for an answer, Jenny ran up the staircase, and -locked herself into her bedroom. - -The two ladies downstairs were left in a very uncomfortable condition. - -‘I hope,’ remarked Mrs Crampton to her sister, ‘I hope dear papa -did not go too far in what he said. Jenny is so high-spirited and -quick-tempered, that she might be tempted to do something wilful just -because she was crossed. And if she dances with Mr Walcheren at the -Bouchers’ to-night, I don’t know what her papa will say.’ - -‘Oh, she would never dare to do so, surely,’ replied Aunt Clem; ‘she -would never fly in John’s face in that manner! She is a little fond of -her own way sometimes, I admit, but she has a good heart, poor darling, -and says far more than she means. And John is right, Emma. Mr Walcheren -is a very wild young man, and it would never do for our Jenny to marry -him.’ - -‘Of course, John is right,’ acquiesced the wife; ‘but I wish Jenny -could see it in the same light. However, I will take care not to let -her out of my sight this evening, and then it will be impossible for Mr -Walcheren to get speech of her, without my overhearing what he may say.’ - -Meanwhile, Jenny, having reached the sanctuary of her own room, drank -off her chocolate hastily, and dismissed her maid who was in attendance. - -‘Is my bath ready, Ellen?’ she inquired; ‘that is right. Well! you can -go now and I will ring when I am ready to dress. Tell Brunell that I -will have the Ralli cart at one.’ - -‘Before luncheon, miss?’ said the maid. - -‘At one o’clock, sharp! And don’t go out of the way; I shall want you -in ten minutes.’ - -She turned the key of her door on the inside as the maid disappeared, -and, sitting down before her writing-table, drew out pen and paper, and -commenced to write a letter, which ran as follows:-- - - ‘DARLING,--There has been a row here this morning, and papa has - forbidden me ever to speak to you again. What are we to do? I shall be - at the Bouchers’ to-night, without fail. I must not dance with you, - but, if you will be in the picture gallery after the fourth dance, I - will contrive to speak to you. Oh, Fred, where is all this going to - end? They shall never make me give you up, if you remain of the same - mind, but open communication with you seems almost impossible. I can’t - write any more, my head and my heart are both in a whirl. Ever your - loving - - JENNY.’ - -She sealed this letter, and directed it to Frederick Walcheren, -Esq., 308 Nevern Mansions, Earl’s Court, London, and placed it on one -side. Her next concern was to see in what condition this unpleasant -excitement had left her. But she found no reason to complain. - -The exercise of her temper had made her cheeks rosier, and lent an -extra brightness to her eyes. She was glad of this--glad that she had -not given way to the weakness of tears, and swelled up her eyelids and -made her face look puffy. She might meet Frederick during her drive. He -spent most of his spare time in wandering about Hampstead in the hopes -of meeting her. But she seldom drove out until the afternoon. Still, -there was just the chance of a _rencontre_ with her lover, and for that -chance Jenny would have taken more trouble than this. - -When she came downstairs again, an hour later, dressed in a tailor-made -suit of light fawn tweed, with her jaunty little felt hat on her -head, and her hands in white doeskin driving-gloves, holding a -handsome ivory-handled whip, few people would have guessed the state -of excitement she was still in, she looked so fresh and lovely and -smiling. In the hall she encountered her mother, who had heard the -wheels of the Ralli cart draw up to the door. - -‘Out so early, my darling?’ Mrs Crampton said, kindly; ‘where are you -going to?’ - -‘For a drive,’ answered the girl curtly. - -‘But doesn’t it look a little like rain,’ continued her mother timidly, -for she was half afraid of her idol, particularly when the idol was put -out. - -‘I don’t care if it does,’ replied Jenny, in the same tone; ‘I’m not -made of sugar.’ - -‘But take an umbrella, darling,’ said her mother, anxiously, ‘and let -Brunell hold it over you, if it should be wet.’ - -But Miss Crampton rejected all her suggestions with scorn. - -‘If it thunders and lightens, and I get wet through and go into a -consumption, so much the better,’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘You and -papa between you have contrived to make me so supremely miserable, -that I don’t care what happens to me! In fact, the sooner I’m dead the -better; and I’ve a good mind to take a dose of prussic acid and end it -at once.’ - -This is a very usual threat of selfish and ill-tempered people, -particularly if they have loving and anxious hearts to deal with. To -Mrs Crampton, to whom the girl was everything in the world, Jenny’s -words seem full of bitter portent. - -‘Oh! my darling! my darling!’ she exclaimed, in a voice of the deepest -concern, ‘don’t say such terrible things, even in jest, for Heaven’s -sake! You will break my heart, Jenny, and your poor father would go mad -if he heard you speak in such an awful way. Why! we would cut off our -right hands to save you a moment’s trouble.’ - -‘Yes! it looks like it, doesn’t it?’ said the young lady, sarcastically. - -‘My dearest, don’t discuss the subject again. Wait a little and you -will see it perhaps in a different light. My head aches so, Jenny, I -am not fit to argue it with you, and you have been upset as well. Go -for a nice drive, and the fresh air will make your head clearer. But be -careful, my love, and don’t do anything rash! I’m half afraid of those -cobs, Jenny, they’re so fresh and spirited.’ - -‘Oh! you’re afraid of everything,’ replied her daughter in a tone of -contempt; ‘and as for Aunt Clem, she’s alarmed at her own shadow.’ - -‘I was never brought up to horses and dogs, as you have been, dear,’ -said Miss Bostock, who was standing near. - -‘No; nor to anything, I should think,’ replied her niece, as she -prepared to get into her Ralli cart. ‘I often think you and mamma must -have been born and reared on a desert island, you seem so utterly -ignorant of the things most people do.’ - -With which Miss Crampton gently touched her steeds with the lash of her -whip, and they went prancing down the drive as if they intended to -bolt, whilst her mother and aunt held their breath with anxiety, lest -the wilful driver should come to any harm. - -Jenny drove at a smart pace through the principal ways of Hampstead, -whilst the pedestrians whom she passed said to each other ‘There -goes the beautiful Miss Crampton,’ and she overheard some of their -remarks and flushed with pleasure at the notice she excited. For this -young lady’s besetting sin was an inordinate vanity of her personal -attractions, which she had cultivated to the exclusion of all the -Christian graces. She was a specimen of that most odious of all modern -innovations, the fast girl of the nineteenth century, and she was -vulgar in consequence, for all fast women are vulgar, and obnoxious -in the eyes of everybody but their male admirers. For when will men -be ever sensible enough to separate the value of personal beauty and -mental charm? Not while they have eyes to see. Once touch their senses, -and, for the time their infatuation lasts, you cannot convince them -but that the mind and soul of their goddess equal her body in charm. -Frederick Walcheren was infatuated with the beauty of this girl, and -he believed her disposition to be all that was good and lovable as -well. It appeared so to him, for, whenever they met, Jenny was in her -best temper, and ready to be pleased with everything. Had he even seen -her, as she had been on the present occasion, rude and impertinent to -her parents, cruelly sarcastic to her meek and unoffending aunt, and -obstinately resolved upon having her own way, he would still have taken -her part, declared her to be a suffering angel, and her father and -mother most unjust and tyrannical towards her. Shakespeare never wrote -a greater truism than when he made Rosalind declare that ‘Love is a -madness,’ a madness that blinds our vision, distorts our judgment, and -makes all things, not only apparently, but actually, different from -what they are; when the rose-coloured spectacles have been torn by -circumstance from our eyes, and we wonder we could ever have been such -egregious fools as to think that they were otherwise. - -Miss Crampton, then, with her heart on fire and her soul up in arms, -stopped at the first pillar-box she passed, and bade Brunell post the -letter which she gave him, the letter she had written in her bedroom -and which she knew would reach town before Mr Walcheren left it to meet -her at the house of their mutual friends, the Bouchers. - -And as she flew over the highway, one sentence kept revolving itself -over and over in her mind, and the burden of it was, ‘I will never give -him up, I will never give him up.’ - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -When Miss Crampton’s letter reached the hands of Mr Frederick -Walcheren, it was by the four o’clock post, and that gentleman was -lying on a couch in his apartments in Nevern Mansions. He was a -handsome man of about thirty, with dark eyes and hair, and classical -features, set in a pale, clear complexion. He was clean shorn, except -for a small, soft moustache, and the possessor of a tall, lithe figure. -He had an ample fortune, having inherited about two thousand a year -from an old Catholic godfather, who died when Frederick was quite an -infant, and who had expressed a wish in his will that his godson and -heir should enter the church, or, at all events, benefit the church by -founding some religious institution at his own death, with the fortune -he left in his charge. But the old gentleman could hardly have chosen a -worse guardian of his property. No embargo had been laid on the young -man spending his money as he chose, and his choice was to spend it on -himself and the companions whom he delighted to honour. His little -flat in Earl’s Court was only a _pied à terre_. His home may have been -said to exist at Epsom, Goodwood, Newmarket, or any one of the other -race-courses in England. He was also to be met periodically at Monte -Carlo or Paris. Occasionally he would take a fancy to run over to New -York or San Francisco, but, wherever he pitched his tent, one might be -sure there were plenty of opportunities for gambling and speculation. -Not but what Frederick Walcheren was a perfectly honourable man; but he -could not live (or he thought he could not live) without excitement of -some sort, and he loved the uncertainty and risk of betting and play. - -His money and his good looks had rendered him an easy prey to the -harpies of the other sex, and had landed him into one or two scrapes -with more respectable women. His cousin, Philip, had often had to -be the go-between and peacemaker with sundry fair damsels, who were -violently bent on a breach of promise case, or a horse-whipping through -means of their next friend. - -Mr Philip Walcheren was quite a different sort of character from his -cousin. Married, and the father of a family, a staunch Catholic, steady -and prosperous in his business as a solicitor, he was almost a pattern -man, and Frederick’s goings-on were a marvel and a misery to him. He -and his director, Father Tasker, were constantly talking over the other -man, and wondering by what means they could dissuade him from his -follies, and induce him to lead a more sober life. But, as yet, their -exhortations and entreaties had been of no avail. Frederick laughed -at their cautions, and pooh-poohed their predictions of a repentant -future. He meant to live his life, he told them, and asked for no one’s -pity or advice. He was in reality, what Mr Crampton and Henry Hindes -had called him, a dissolute and irreclaimable spendthrift, and not fit -to be the husband of any girl. - -Still, he was pleasant and fascinating, and the _beau sexe_ spoilt him, -to a woman. As he lay indolently on his couch this afternoon, turning -Jenny’s letter over and over in his hands, his thoughts were much the -same as hers had been, for of all the femininities he had ever met, and -trifled with, she was the only one who had seriously touched his heart. -Women as handsome as Jenny, and far more amiable, had been ready, -before now, to throw themselves at his feet, but they had had no power -to move him. But for this petulant, spoilt, and rather underbred, girl, -he would have laid down his life. Who can account for anomalies? Is -love--such love as has its origin in admiration--a spiritual passion, -or is it the force of two magnetisms that attract each to each, beyond -the power of the individual to oppose? From the strange choices we see -made in this world, it would seem so. Anyway, this is how Frederick -Walcheren felt for Jenny Crampton--that he would die sooner than give -her up. She seemed, in the short time they had known each other, to -have grown into his life--to have become part of it, indeed--so that he -could no longer imagine living without her. He kept saying to himself -all the while, just as she had done,--‘I will not give her up for any -man or woman upon earth. What do I care about the old wool-stapler -raving? Let him rave. I will carry her off before his very eyes. But -she shall be mine; in fact, she _is_ mine in heart and soul, and I defy -the whole world to separate us.’ - -And, just at that moment, there sounded a double knock on his outer -door, and his man appeared to usher in his cousin, Philip Walcheren -and Father Tasker. - -Frederick sprung to his feet. The instincts of a born Catholic were -still strong in him, and, though he never went to confession or mass, -he always showed a proper deference for the clergy. Added to which, -Father Tasker was an old friend of his family. - -‘How are you, Father,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to see you. Pray take the -arm-chair. Well, Philip! all right at home?’ - -‘Quite right, thank you, Frederick,’ replied his cousin; ‘I was on -my way to have a talk with you when I met Father Tasker, so we came -together.’ - -‘I’m delighted to see you both,’ said Frederick, ‘what can I give you? -I know that it is no use my offering the father a brandy-and-soda, but, -if you will not take one, Philip, my man shall get some tea ready in -half a minute.’ - -‘I don’t think we have time for either,’ replied Philip Walcheren. ‘I -have only about ten minutes to spare, and the Father honours me with -his company at dinner to-night, so I think Marion will be disappointed -if I deprive her of her five-o’clock tea gossip with him. She is, -doubtless, anxiously awaiting us now. But I felt I could not pass -another night without asking you, Frederick, if a rumour which I have -heard concerning you is true.’ - -‘What’s up now?’ demanded his cousin. - -‘I met young Fellows in the city this afternoon, Mrs Bouchers’ brother, -you know, and he told me that it is commonly said in Hampstead that you -are engaged, or about to be engaged, to Miss Crampton.’ - -‘What of it?’ said Frederick carelessly. - -‘Surely it is not true! Surely, with your antecedents, Frederick, you -are not thinking of marrying any respectable woman!’ - -‘Would you prefer my marrying a disreputable one, then, Philip?’ - -‘Most certainly not! What I mean is, that, under the circumstances, you -have no right to marry at all. How can you go up to God’s holy altar -with any woman, whilst that unfortunate girl down at Luton is even now -expiating the awful sin you led her into?’ - -‘Of course, it is quite impossible that it was she who led me instead -of the other way?’ said Frederick, interrogatively. - -‘Whosoever fault it may have been in the first instance, you know that -you are responsible now.’ - -‘And I am quite ready to meet my responsibilities. Do you want me to -marry the straw-plaiter down at Luton?’ - -‘No, no! I want you to do nothing but alter your mode of living, -Frederick, and try and be a decent member of society. It is terrible -to think how you go on, without care for yourself or others, without -a thought of God, or the future that lies before you. If poor Sir -Frederick Ascher had only foreseen the uses his money would have been -put to, he would have thought twice before he left it to you.’ - -‘Yes! but, luckily for me, he didn’t foresee, so I can do as I like -about it. Has Father Tasker a lecture in store for me as well?’ -inquired Frederick, turning to the priest. - -‘No! my son, we are not in the confessional, where I could wish we -met oftener; but I would like to remind you that, although your late -godfather made no actual conditions regarding the expenditure of -the fortune he left you, yet his wishes, that it should be devoted -to the church, were so strongly expressed, as almost to amount to a -demand, and I cannot believe that any blessing will follow a different -disposition of it.’ - -‘I have confessed to no intention of marrying, remember, but should I -ever do so, my wife will be my church, and I shall settle my money upon -her.’ - -But this was a blasphemy that neither Philip Walcheren nor the priest -could pass over in silence. - -‘Be careful, my son, be careful,’ cried the one, ‘lest the curse of -Heaven, and the church you despise, are both provoked against you.’ - -‘I cannot believe, Frederick, that you seriously mean what you say,’ -exclaimed his cousin. ‘The money is only yours for your lifetime, -and, if you do not dedicate it to the holy church at your death, -some fearful calamity will surely overtake you, or those to whom you -wrongfully give it.’ - -‘Nonsense!’ replied Frederick; ‘I suppose you both mean well, but I -would rather you understood me at once. As matters stand at present, -I have not the slightest intention of leaving my money to the church. -My godfather--peace to his ashes!--left it to me, and I recognise -but one authority in the matter, and that is the law, which is on my -side. I wonder, by the way, Philip, that you stick up so badly for the -stability of the profession by which you live!’ - -‘Every consideration must give way to the claims of the church, -Frederick!’ - -‘Well, I don’t agree with you. I think Mother Church has feathered her -own nest pretty well, considering her claims to humility and poverty. -In my idea, my own nest will have the prior claim on my indulgence!’ - -‘So you are really contemplating matrimony, Frederick,’ said Philip. ‘I -wonder you can dare to enter a church under the circumstances, lest the -walls and roof should fall in upon you.’ - -‘Perhaps I shall be married in a registrar’s office,’ responded -Frederick lightly; but the jest was so ill-timed that neither of his -hearers commented upon it. - -‘With the fact of that misguided female down at Luton, you are about to -commit a great sacrilege, my son, in taking the sacrament of matrimony -on yourself!’ remarked Father Tasker. - -‘Well, really, Father, I must say you and Philip are both rather hard -on me! You have been reproaching me for my loose style of living -for years past, and begging me to reform, and now, when you hear a -rumour--merely a rumour, remember--that I’m about to forsake the devil -and all his ways, and become a steady married man, like my good cousin -here, you attack me as if I had just formed a fresh _liaison_ instead. -Why shouldn’t I marry like a good boy, as well as Philip, who is, I -know, a pattern of propriety. Why shouldn’t I walk to mass every Sunday -morning, with a little boy by one hand and a little girl by the other? -It doesn’t seem as if I could please you anyway.’ - -‘You mistake both me and your cousin, my son,’ replied the priest. -‘It is not that we are not most anxious to see you turn over a new -leaf and lead a pure life, but marriage is assuredly a condition of -great temptation for a man situated as you are. It will bring cares -and expenses with it, and your mind will be filled with the thought -of providing for the future of your family. You have been brought up -to no profession, for your sainted mother had no idea that you would -be anything but a priest, and that your godfather’s fortune would go -as he wished it should do, to our holy church. But since you elected -otherwise, there is but one honest course for you to pursue, and that -is, to remain single, and preserve your money intact for the purpose -for which your godfather left it to you. Marriage will interfere with -this, therefore marriage is not for you!’ - -At this juncture Frederick’s temper got the better of his judgment. - -‘Then I’m d--d if the church shall have the money,’ he exclaimed -loudly; ‘all your advice, and precepts, and exhortations to a purer -life count for nothing; they are only made so you may hear yourselves -talk, and plume yourselves with the idea of how much better men you are -than myself. But this matter is in my own jurisdiction, thank goodness, -and I shall do exactly as I choose about it. I shall marry, or remain -single, as pleases me, but, whatever I may do, the church doesn’t get -my money, so you may put that thought out of your heads at once. I’ll -leave it to the Salvation Army, or the Home for Lost Dogs, first.’ - -He had thrown himself into a passion by this time, and he walked -quickly up and down his little room in order to cool his temper. -Philip Walcheren looked as if he expected the heavens to open and -strike his cousin dead for the utterance of such blasphemy, and the -priest rose and prepared to shake the dust of those apartments off his -feet. - -‘Mark my words,’ he said solemnly, as he turned to leave the room, ‘God -will not be mocked, Frederick Walcheren. He knows all our hearts, and -He will avenge himself. Good-morning.’ - -And with that Father Tasker disappeared. - -‘For shame!’ cried Philip, as he prepared to follow him, ‘for shame, -Frederick. You may have law on your side, but you have neither right -nor conscience. You have not told me whether the rumour I mentioned is -true or false, but, if it is true, and you have any such intention in -your head, pause, I beseech you, before you carry it into effect, or -some fearful calamity will follow it. You have defied our holy church, -and God will defend her rights. I shall not come again until you send -for me.’ - -And in another moment the room was clear. - -‘Here, Watson,’ called Frederick to his man, ‘bring me a -whisky-and-soda. I declare,’ he continued to himself, ‘if their twaddle -has not made me quite uncomfortable. What on earth did that old fool, -my godfather, mean by not making his will decisive one way or the -other? _I_ a priest, indeed! No. I mean to live a rather jollier life -than that comes to. And there is only one other decent alternative, to -marry the girl I love, and rear a family for the benefit of the State. -And how can I do that without money? It is ridiculous to think of.’ - -Still, with the superstitious ideas which the Catholic religion infuses -in all her followers, with the childish inbred fear of the priestly -power to save or damn, with the fear of purgatory and a fiery hell, and -becoming an outcast from salvation for ever, Frederick Walcheren did -not feel quite comfortable, though he tried to laugh the feeling off, -and was as resolute as before, that no power in heaven or earth should -separate him from Jenny Crampton. - -‘They are against us on every side,’ he thought, ‘but that fact will -only make me the more determined to have her. My beautiful darling! The -most beautiful woman, in my eyes, that I have ever met. Why, Father -Tasker himself couldn’t resist her, if she stood on one side and hell -on the other. What time is it, Watson? Six-thirty? By Jove! if I don’t -hurry up I shall get no dinner before I start for the Bouchers’.’ - -‘Going to Hampstead again to-night, sir?’ asked Watson, as he laid out -his master’s dress clothes upon the bed. - -How well our servants know where we go, and who we go to see, and what -we do it for. - -‘Yes,’ replied Frederick, ‘to Mrs Bouchers’ dance. You needn’t sit up -for me, Watson, for I shall be very late. Order the brougham to call -for me at Simpson’s at nine o’clock. I shall go on straight from there.’ - -He hurried into his dress clothes, for he was determined that nothing -should make him late that night, for fear he should miss the interview -in the picture gallery after the fourth dance. - -The picture gallery at the Bouchers’ was very seldom entered by any of -their dancing guests, being some way removed from the ballroom, but -both Jenny and Mr Walcheren, being intimate friends at the house, knew -it well. - -Frederick thought rightly that, since a prohibition had gone forth -against his dancing with the girl of his heart, it would be more -prudent if he did not put in an appearance to the ballroom till after -he had held the interview with Jenny. So, when he presented himself -at the house, between nine and ten o’clock, and had divested himself -of his crush hat and overcoat, he peeped into the dancing room to see -how far the evening had advanced. The number two had just been placed -above the bandstand, so he concluded he had at least half an hour to -wait before Jenny could join him, and turned away again to seek the -solitude of the picture gallery until the time of meeting had arrived. - -But he reckoned without his host. Henry Hindes, who had been one of the -earliest arrivals, and on the express look-out for Walcheren, spied -him as soon as he looked into the room, and, rising quietly, followed -him out. So, as soon as Frederick had reached the picture gallery, he -heard a step in his rear, and, turning with annoyance to see who had -discovered the retreat besides himself, met the outstretched hand and -smiling glance of Mr Hindes. Mr Walcheren could not fail to return his -civilities, but he was infinitely vexed. Of all the people he knew, he -would rather have encountered anyone than Mr Hindes. - -Not only because he was so intimately connected with the Cramptons, -and, undoubtedly, knew most of the family secrets, but also because -Frederick had conceived an unaccountable aversion for him. He did -not know _why_ himself. Henry Hindes had always been courteous and -polite to him, far more so, indeed, than Mr Crampton, who invariably -treated a Roman Catholic as if his religion were his own fault, and -he was sinning every day that he didn’t change it. Hindes, on the -contrary, had no scruples on the score of difference of faith, and no -right to object to the young man because he courted Jenny Crampton. -He had always spoken and behaved to him as one gentleman should to -another, and yet Walcheren hated him. Now, as he accepted his hand and -asked after his well-doing, he would have liked to strike him across -his smooth, smiling face instead. Mr Hindes, having no idea that the -young man was waiting to see Miss Crampton, had thought this would be -an excellent opportunity for him to fulfil the promise made to his -partner, and let Mr Walcheren know how utterly hopeless his suit was. - -‘How are you, Walcheren?’ he said, cordially, as he came up with him. -‘You don’t mean to tell me you are going to eschew dancing to-night, -when there are so many pretty girls doing “wallflowers”? I saw you look -into the ballroom and disappear again, and wondered if you had found -your way to a buffet and a whisky-and-soda. I shouldn’t mind following -you if you have, for the night is very warm and I am very thirsty.’ - -‘No, I had no such intention,’ answered Walcheren, in a tone of -annoyance. ‘I fancy it is rather too early for that game. I came in -here because I have a slight headache, and thought the cool and quiet -might charm it away before I encountered the heat and glare of the -ballroom.’ - -‘To be sure, and I daresay it will. This is a charming place, though -one cannot see much of the pictures by night. It is in semi-darkness. -I do not suppose the Bouchers intend their guests to use it on such an -occasion as this, or they would have it better lighted.’ - -‘Perhaps not,’ replied Walcheren. ‘But I am an old friend of the -family, and consider myself privileged to do as I like.’ - -‘Oh! I am not finding fault with your decision, my dear fellow; on the -contrary, I am very glad of the opportunity of a few words in private -with you. It is not often that my wife can drag me out to a dance, and, -to tell you the honest truth, I came here this evening expressly to see -you.’ - -‘To see _me_?’ echoed Walcheren in astonishment. ‘Why, what on earth -can you have to say to me?’ - -‘Nothing on my account, my dear friend, unless it were to tell you -(what I hope you know) that I have always been pleased to welcome you -to my house, and always shall be. But I am, as I think you are aware, -a very intimate friend of Mr and Mrs Crampton, who were, indeed, the -intimate friends also of my father before me, and who have known me -almost from a child.’ - -‘I know it,’ replied Frederick. ‘What of it?’ - -‘Mr Crampton sent for me before ten o’clock this morning, and I found -him in the greatest distress. His wife had intercepted a letter from -you to Miss Crampton, and the contents had terribly upset him.’ - -‘Passing over the fact that I consider it a breach of honour to pry -into the private correspondence of anybody, I am not aware that there -was anything in the letter alluded to that was calculated to upset Mr -Crampton,’ said Frederick. - -‘I don’t sanction the proceeding, my dear Walcheren; I am only telling -you the facts. The old gentleman was more than upset; he was terribly -angry, and he made his daughter give him a solemn promise not to see (of -her own free will), or speak, or write to you again.’ - -‘And pray, may I ask,’ cried Frederick Walcheren in a sudden fury, -‘what business it is of yours, Mr Hindes, to mention the subject to me?’ - -‘None at all, but I owe it to the entreaty of my friends. Both Mr and -Mrs Crampton have begged me to convey their wishes to you. They have -derived so much pleasure from your society as an acquaintance, and -think so highly of your intentions with regard to their daughter, that -they dreaded the task of telling you personally, that they can never -give their sanction to a marriage between you.’ - -‘Perhaps, as they told you so much, they were good enough to add their -reasons for so extraordinary a decision,’ exclaimed Walcheren, in a -tone of sarcasm. - -‘Certainly they did, and it is one with which you cannot find serious -fault. The objection is your religion. Mr Crampton will never allow -his daughter to inter-marry with a Catholic, and his decision is -irrevocable. Since your feelings for Miss Crampton cannot have gone -beyond admiration, considering the short time you have known her, -he thought it best you should hear his decision at once, before any -mischief is done on either side.’ - -‘And Miss Crampton’s feelings? Are they not to be taken into -consideration also?’ - -‘Most certainly! There is nothing on earth Mr Crampton cares for so -much as his only child! She is his heiress, as doubtless you know, but -he will leave her nothing if she marries against his wishes. He is very -obstinate when thwarted, and very unrelenting. And Miss Crampton would -hardly be so foolish as to give up her fortune, as well as her parents, -at one blow. Under these circumstances, I hope you will not take -offence, my dear Walcheren, if I ask you, in his name, to relinquish -your acquaintanceship with Miss Crampton, and to leave off visiting -at the house. It is an unpleasant task my friends have set me, but I -have done it for their sakes, and without any ulterior feeling against -yourself. I have not a daughter old enough to aspire to your hand,’ -said Henry Hindes, smiling, ‘but if I had, I am not sure that I should -deliver such a message to you on my own account!’ - -But Frederick Walcheren took no notice of this little sop for Cerberus. - -‘Have the Cramptons any other objection to me besides that of my -religion?’ he asked presently. - -‘Well! my dear fellow,’ replied Henry Hindes, dubiously, ‘rumours have -been conveyed to them of your life having been a little fast, not more -than that of other men of the world, I daresay, but these old people do -not regard such matters with the same eyes that you and I should do. -They have only mixed in a certain society, you see, and know little -of the sayings and doings of fashionable men and women. They have -very strict notions concerning propriety, and you cannot shake their -opinions on the subject. But the real objection is to your religion. -_That_ is insurmountable! They will never overlook it.’ - -‘It is most unfair,’ exclaimed Frederick; ‘how is a man to help what -his parents chose to make him? Besides, I have no religion at all! I -believe in nothing, not a God, nor a Hereafter, nor a Heaven, nor a -Hell! Will that suit them better?’ - -Mr Hindes laughed heartily at the idea. - -‘Pray don’t hint at such a thing, Walcheren,’ he said, ‘or they would -think you were the old gentleman himself! But we must really talk -seriously about this matter. Mr Crampton is obdurate, and will remain -so. He declares that unless you will give your promise not to interfere -with his daughter for the future, he will take her away from Hampstead -and out of your reach, and keep her there until one of you is married. -I am sure you are too much a gentleman and man of honour to upset a -whole family in that way, in order to gratify your spite against them. -For it will not lead to your being readmitted to the house, and Miss -Crampton will be strictly watched for the future.’ - -Frederick Walcheren was thinking very deeply on the matter, and his -thoughts ran thus, ‘I must overcome these people by diplomacy. If I -refuse to give this promise, I shall be watched so closely that I shall -never get speech of Jenny again; whereas, if I pretend to give in to -their demands, I shall throw them off their guard. And the first thing -I must do is to get rid of this fellow!’ Aloud he said,-- - -‘I am deeply grieved to hear of Mr Crampton’s decision, but I see the -wisdom of it. Naturally, I admire Miss Crampton very much, I wonder who -doesn’t, but, to tell truth, I anticipated a great deal of opposition -from my own family, if it ever came to anything serious. They are as -staunch for the old faith as ever Mr Crampton can be for his. Mixed -marriages are, after all, a mistake. I am glad, therefore, that you -have spoken so frankly and openly to me, and I thank you for it. Will -you tell Mr Crampton that I acquiesce in his decision, and willingly -give my promise not to intrude upon his daughter, or himself, again. -You have been a true friend to both of us, Hindes. Accept my hand on -it. And now I think I will just go home without running the risk of -encountering _la belle_ Jenny. It will please Mr Crampton if he hears -that I have done so. And my headache really unfits me for any violent -exercise. Good-night. Are you going back to the ballroom? If so, we -will walk to the front of the house together.’ - -‘Yes; I must go back to wait for my wife, who is enjoying herself -just like a girl. I shall not say a word to Miss Crampton of having -seen you. It will be better to let her think you have been prevented -attending the party.’ - -‘Most certainly, and assure Mr Crampton that he has nothing to fear -from me. Good-night again,’ and the two men parted at the hall door, -with a shake of the hand. - -Frederick Walcheren went forth into the darkness, whilst Henry Hindes, -congratulating himself on the diplomatic manner in which he had -executed his embassage, and the easy victory he had gained over the -enemy, re-entered the ballroom, and took his seat there, with the most -perfect assurance that all danger was over. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -But he did not quite know Frederick Walcheren. Perhaps, also, he did -not how know cunning Love makes a man. The younger man had assumed his -overcoat and hat, and gone forth at the hall door, as if he had but one -intention--to seek the railway station, since his brougham had returned -to town. But, once clear of the scrutiny of the servants, he skirted -the house on the left side, and passed from the front garden to the -back, which is easily done in most suburban houses. This brought him -on to a large lawn, from which the interior of the lighted ballroom -might be easily seen through the open windows. Also, by turning the -other corner of the mansion, he could, by pressing his face against -the glass, see if the picture gallery was occupied or not, though he -remained himself unseen. The windows of this room were also thrown -open, and Frederick waited at one of them until he saw the white-robed -figure of Jenny Crampton steal in, and glance furtively around as if in -search of him. - -‘Jenny, Jenny,’ he called softly, lest she should be followed by the -friend of the family, ‘Jenny, my love, come here, to this window.’ - -‘What is this?’ cried the girl as she perceived him; ‘why are you here? -Is anything wrong?’ - -‘Nothing is wrong whilst you love me,’ said Frederick, ‘but we are -watched, darling, so I have pretended to go home again. Have you the -pluck to join me in the garden? There are any number of arbours here -where we can talk undisturbed.’ - -‘Pluck,’ cried Jenny, jumping on the window sill, ‘of course I have. -Pluck enough to follow you over a precipice, if you wish me to do so.’ - -‘You angel. I will ask you to take no more dangerous leap than into my -arms. But were you seen? Did anyone follow you? We must not have an -open row.’ - -‘No, no one even saw me leave the ballroom, for I was at the buffet -with Captain Rawson, when number five dance struck up, so I told him to -go and find his partner and leave mine to seek me out. And as soon as -his back was turned I slipped out here.’ - -‘You dear girl! Give me your hand, then, and jump out; there is a -lovely seat under that acacia tree--but what will you say if your -mother asks where you have been?’ - -‘That I have been strolling in the garden with my partner. She will -think it was Captain Rawson; but she will not ask. She is used to my -vagaries, and lets me do just as I choose.’ - -‘But, darling, they won’t let you do that any longer, I’m afraid. I’ve -had a lecture as well as you, Jenny. Mr Hindes followed me to the -picture gallery just now, by your father’s request, and made me promise -I would give up all pretensions to your hand, and leave off visiting at -your house.’ - -‘And do you mean to keep your promise?’ inquired the girl, pouting. - -‘Not unless you tell me to do so, Jenny; I love you too much for that. -I only did it to prevent a row, for if Mr Crampton carried his threat -of taking you away from Hampstead into execution, I might find it very -difficult to have any communication with you again.’ - -‘But what is the good of my staying here if I am never to see you, -Fred?’ asked Jenny. - -‘That depends upon yourself, my darling; you can’t do it from your -father’s house, that’s certain.’ - -‘Who’s from, then?’ said Jenny. - -‘From mine, sweetheart! Don’t think me very bold, but, if you love me -as you say, you will marry me whether your parents give their consent -or not.’ - -‘So I will, if you will only tell me how, Fred.’ - -‘We must elope together, dearest; heaps of husbands and wives have done -it before us, and been none the worse. Your father says that if you -marry without his consent, he will leave you none of his money; that is -a thing you must take into serious consideration, before you give me -your answer. I have enough for both of us, still, you would be a richer -woman if you remained your father’s heiress; his fortune cannot be less -than ten thousand a year, whilst mine is only two thousand.’ - -‘What do I care for money in comparison with you, Fred?’ whispered -Jenny. - -‘That’s my own true girl,’ he answered, folding her closely to him, -‘and once you have made up your mind to marry me without your father’s -consent, the rest is easy enough. Tell me to get a licence, and to give -notice at the nearest registrar’s office to my place, and you have only -to arrange how you can join me, so as to give us a few hours’ start of -Mr Crampton, and I will have you out of his reach and power before the -day is over.’ - -‘To join you, dearest, is easily managed,’ replied the girl. ‘I must -take a few things with me, you know, Fred! To run away in the clothes -I stand up in, would be altogether too romantic for the nineteenth -century. But I can send a box to my dressmaker’s, under pretence of -wanting some dresses altered--no one interferes with my dress at -home--and then, when you let me know which day I am to be in town, I -will drive myself over, as if to go shopping; tell Brunell to put the -cobs up for a few hours, and call for me at Madame Costello’s at 5 -o’clock, and _apres ça, le deluge_!’ - -‘A deluge of love, my darling--a life of happiness, during which I -shall have but one thought--one aspiration--how I can best repay my -darling angel for the sacrifice she has made for me. And, perhaps, -after a time, your parents will come round. I cannot believe but that -they will forgive our temerity in the end, and all will be merry as a -marriage bell.’ - -‘Oh! poor mamma has nothing to do with it, Fred. I honestly believe she -would let me marry a crossing-sweeper if I had set my heart upon it. I -never remember her saying “No” to me since I was a baby. It is papa who -is making all the fuss, and he is as obstinate as a pig. He thinks it -is a sign of his own religion, to kick up such a dust about your being -a Catholic, but I say he only proves he is no Christian by it. What -can it signify if one is a Protestant or a Catholic? I am sure, for my -own part, I would as soon be one as the other, and preferably neither. -If you wish me to become a Catholic, Fred, I will to please you, but I -hope you won’t expect me to go to church and hear sermons, for if there -is one thing beyond another for which I long to get married, it is to -have my liberty in such matters. Papa and mamma have sickened me of -church-going. Aunt Clem, too, who is so very pious, has a face long -enough to turn the milk sour. It is not encouraging to a girl to go and -do likewise.’ - -Frederick Walcheren laughed as he kissed the speaker. - -‘My darling!’ he answered, ‘I daresay your people have warned you that -I am not a particularly good young man, but I can boast of one merit--I -have never pretended to be better than I am. My cousin, Philip, and his -great friend, Father Tasker, consider me a lost soul, but they cannot -say that I am a dishonest one. They have heard some rumour--how, Heaven -only knows--that I am very _épris_ in a certain quarter, and put in an -appearance at my rooms this afternoon to learn if it was true that I -contemplated matrimony. You may take your oath that I did not gratify -their curiosity. They want to get me into the church, so that they may -grab my money. They’ve been trying it on for years, but this fish won’t -bite!’ - -‘But, Fred, darling, would anything on earth ever make you go into the -church?’ inquired Jenny, rather anxiously. - -‘Nothing on earth,’ he replied, quickly; but, after a slight pause, -he added, ‘at least only _one_ thing, and that is too dreadful to -contemplate. If you were taken from me, my treasure--if anything -happened to you and I were left alone--I should be mad enough for -anything--even to go into a monastery, and sacrifice every farthing I -possess. What good would money be to me without my love?’ - -He pressed her closely to him as he spoke, and the two young faces -were laid against each other, and the two young forms seemed to melt -for a moment into one. But in another moment Jenny had sprung up to a -standing position. - -‘I must go, dear Fred,’ she exclaimed, ‘or they will miss me, and Mr -Hindes may be sent to find out where I am. Good-bye, good-bye, my -darling. How soon do you think I shall have your letter?’ - -‘The day after to-morrow, love! To-morrow morning I shall be in -Doctors’ Commons for the licence, and will wire you simply, “All right, -Costello.” Then, should the telegram fall into other hands, it will -be thought to come from the dressmaker. On receipt of this, you must -drive over on the following day to Madame Costello’s, and leave your -box there, and as soon as you have dismissed Brunell and the trap, I -will take you to the registrar’s office, and, when the knot is securely -tied, we will pick up the box and be off to Dover. Will that suit your -ladyship? Brunell will call for you at Costello’s at five o’clock, and, -after waiting about for a considerable time, will return to Hampstead -and give the alarm. By which time my wife and I will be enjoying our -dinner at the Castle Warden, and laughing over the adventures of our -wedding-day.’ - -‘Oh, Fred, it seems too good to come true,’ said the girl, with a -slight shiver. - -‘Nonsense, my dearest. It will come true, sure enough. But you are -cold, my pretty Jenny. I have been a selfish brute to keep you out -here so long. Let me take you back to the picture gallery. Or is it -wiser you should go alone? Good-night, then, and God bless you. Give me -one kiss, and don’t forget to meet me the day after you receive that -wire!’ - -‘As if I _could_ forget,’ replied the girl reproachfully, as she raised -her face for her lover’s embrace, and, with his assistance, re-entered -the picture gallery, and walked slowly back to the ballroom, to tell -her mother she had such a terrible fit of neuralgia, she would rather -return home at once. - -Mr and Mrs Hindes, who were seated near Mrs Crampton, were all -solicitude for her assumed indisposition, and Mr Hindes suggested -taking her for a turn in the fresh air to see if the change from the -heated ballroom would relieve her. Mrs Hindes, a tall, slight woman, -with dark eyes and hair, and a graceful figure, who was really attached -to Jenny, inquired with whom she had been dancing the last set, as she -had looked for her in vain. - -‘I have not been dancing at all,’ replied Jenny, boldly; ‘I have been -sitting in the picture gallery with Lord Craven, but my head gets worse -instead of better. Come along, mother, the carriage must be waiting for -us by this time, and I am tired to death. I want to get to bed.’ - -‘Certainly, my love,’ replied Mrs Crampton, with her usual lamb-like -acquiescence to all her daughter’s demands; ‘perhaps Mr Hindes will be -good enough to see us to the carriage.’ - -And Henry Hindes, who was convinced that Miss Crampton’s neuralgia was -due to Mr Walcheren’s defalcation, smiled inwardly, and conducted the -ladies to their barouche, with much satisfaction that he had conducted -the business he had taken on himself so successfully. - -When Jenny Crampton reached home and found herself in the seclusion of -her bedroom, she did not give way to any access of nervous agitation, -or feel any trepidation at the thoughts of the important step which -she had taken on herself. That might be all very well for a damsel of -romance of a hundred years ago, but it is not the way the young women -of the present day manage their affairs. They are too strong-minded, -to cry and shake and faint over the deeds they have put their sign and -seal to. Jenny had made an appeal to become the wife of Mr Walcheren -in a fair way, and her request had been denied her, for what she -considered a frivolous objection. She knew there was no chance of -altering her father’s decision, and having always been given her own -way since a child, she determined to take it now. She regretted having -to be married privately, but she saw no wrong in it. Her parents might -be sorry when they heard of it, but they had brought it on themselves. -She was not going to keep Frederick waiting for an indefinite period, -and perhaps lose him altogether, because her father did not like Roman -Catholics as well as he did Protestants. _She_ didn’t object to his -religion, and she was the principal party concerned, so the young lady -looked out the dresses she wished to take with her, and made her maid -Ellen pack them in the box to take to the dressmaker’s, and, when the -key was in her own hands, she unlocked it again and added the articles -of linen and jewellery that she needed, and managed the whole affair as -coolly as if she had been preparing for elopements all her life. On the -Friday--it was on a Thursday that she received the wire to tell her all -was right, and it was on a Friday that her ill-regulated marriage took -place--she dressed herself in her most becoming tailor-made costume, -and drove gaily off to town, with a wave of her hand and a crack of her -whip as a last adieu to the mother and aunt who loved her devotedly. -She had promised them privately that she would be back to luncheon, -unless her cousins, the Burtons, were at home again (which she did not -anticipate), and pressed her to stay the afternoon. - -‘But, Jenny, love!’ expostulated her mother, ‘don’t stay later than -two, even if they do! Pray be home before papa comes back from the -city. Remember how very particular he is about your driving in town by -yourself, and I’m afraid he may blame me, if he finds I have let you go -with only Brunell.’ - -‘My dear mother, as if Brunell were not a better protection for me than -fifty fat old men like papa. Now, don’t worry, there’s a good creature, -for I shall be back long before dinner time, but you know what Costello -is, and how difficult it is to get away from her. And perhaps I sha’n’t -go to the Burtons at all. So keep up your pecker, and don’t expect me -till you see me. Good-bye,’ and with a flourish she was off. - -She drove rapidly to Kensington, and, on arrival, directed her groom to -put up the cobs and get himself some dinner, and call for her at Mrs -Burton’s house in Cromwell Road at five o’clock. The man touched his -hat, the box was lifted out, and Miss Jenny entered the dressmaker’s -abode. - -‘Madame Costello,’ she commenced, ‘this is a box of things belonging -to my cousin, Miss Burton, which I am just going to take to her in -Cromwell Road. I have brought it here first that you may take out the -canvas dress you made for me, and which is just a trifle tight under -the arms. No, I have no time to have it fitted on, thank you. Tell the -dressmaker to let it out half an inch under both sleeves. That will be -quite sufficient.’ - -And, unlocking the box, the little diplomatist took out an old dress, -which she had laid at the top, and locked the rest of its contents up -again. Frederick Walcheren was waiting for her round the corner, she -had spied him as she drove up to the door. - -‘My cousin is waiting to take me on to Cromwell Road,’ she said to -Madame Costello, as she beckoned him to advance. ‘Ah, Fred,’ she -continued, ‘you must call a cab for me, for I have been obliged to send -the trap on to pick up papa, who wishes to join us. Have you one ready? -That’s right. Good-morning, Madame Costello. You needn’t hurry with the -alterations, for I shall not want that dress again just yet.’ - -And with that Miss Crampton entered the cab and was soon whirling away -to the registrar’s office. - -‘I never saw anything more neatly managed in my life,’ was her first -remark. ‘Mamma has reason not to expect me home till five or six. I -told Brunell not to call for me at Cromwell Road till five, so he can’t -be back in Hampstead till six or seven, and by that time--’ - -‘By that time you will be Mrs Frederick Walcheren past all recall,’ -said her lover, joyfully. - -But at that the girl seemed suddenly to lose her self-possession for -the first time. - -‘Oh! Fred,’ she cried, ‘what am I doing? Oh! do stop and let me out -before it is too late! I was mad to come! It is too wicked! My people -will never forgive me,’ and she struggled to loose herself from his -detaining clasp. - -‘Jenny, my dearest,’ he exclaimed, ‘be reasonable, for my sake, do! -It is too late to go back now. I have made every arrangement for our -staying at the Castle Warden Hotel. Besides, would you disappoint me in -so terrible a manner, after having passed your plighted word to be my -wife? I am sure you won’t! What should I do without you, Jenny? What -would you do without me? If we part now, it must be for ever! Don’t -make both our lives unhappy for a little want of courage.’ - -‘No, no, I must go on, I feel it! I cannot live without you, Fred. I -love you too dearly! Do just as you will with me!’ - -‘I had a little difficulty with the licence business yesterday,’ he -whispered, as they travelled onwards; ‘they wanted to have the written -consent of your guardians, or my assurance that you were of age, so I -swore you were. It was the only way out of it, my darling, and quite -justifiable, in my eyes, under the circumstances; but I thought I would -put you on your guard in case the registrar put any awkward questions -to you concerning it.’ - -‘It doesn’t signify,’ replied the girl in a dejected tone. Now that the -goal of her desires was so nearly reached, her high spirits seemed all -to have evaporated, and she was trembling and nervous. ‘I have had to -tell so many lies to manage the business, that one more or less cannot -make much difference.’ - -‘Jenny, my own girl, what has come over you?’ asked Walcheren in some -alarm. ‘Are you not well? Do you not love me as much as you thought you -did? Your mood is not complimentary, dearest, to the coming ceremony. -If you really repent the step you have taken, say so, and at all costs, -if it breaks my heart, I will get out of the cab and you shall return -to Madame Costello’s. Jenny, do you no longer wish to be my wife?’ - -But, at that awful alternative, Jenny’s sudden weakness evaporated and -she clung to her lover, as if all her hopes in this world and the next -centred in him. - -‘Yes! yes! yes!’ she exclaimed eagerly, ‘you are my life--my all. I -cannot live without you, or away from you. It is only a sudden fear -of the consequences of this step we are taking which terrified me. It -is gone now, dear Frederick, indeed it has. What fear could I have in -becoming your wife. You, whom I love beyond all other things. Only, my -poor parents, my poor, good mother, Fred. How I wish she had said, “God -bless you, Jenny,” as we parted. She has been such a kind mother to me, -and she will miss me so. She will have nothing to occupy her thoughts, -or her hands, poor mother, now I am gone. Do you think I shall ever see -them again, Fred?--my parents, and poor old Aunt Clem. Do you think my -father will keep them from me _all_ my life?’ - -She spoke so rapidly and excitedly, and she clung to him so tightly, -that Frederick Walcheren feared she was what the lower orders call -‘going off her head,’ and said all he could think of to soothe her. - -‘No! no! my darling girl, what can you be thinking of, to ask me such a -silly question? Of course, your father will come round in time. The old -gentleman is too fond and proud of you himself to hold out very long. -It is _I_ on whom he will pour out the vials of his wrath. Come, let me -dry those tears. We are almost at the registrar’s office now, and he -will think I am inveigling you into a marriage against your will if he -sees you crying. Perhaps he will take it for a case of abduction, and -order me to be locked up, until he has found out where you come from, -and if I have carried you off by force. And then there will be the old -gentleman to pay, and no pitch hot.’ - -Jenny laughed at the expression and let Frederick kiss away her tears, -and in another half hour, they walked out of the registrar’s office -together man and wife. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Henry Hindes’ house was the most remarkable in Hampstead. It was -called ‘The Old Hall,’ and was supposed to have been built more than -two hundred years before. It was situated within ten minutes’ walk -of Mr Crampton’s place, ‘The Cedars,’ but the two mansions belonged -to different eras of the world’s history. ‘The Cedars’ was fitted in -the most luxurious style. Everything that money could possibly buy, -or build up, had been added to it, to increase its convenience and -comfort. It revelled in glass houses, expensive out-buildings, swimming -and other baths, and all the luxuries of the prevailing season. But -everything about it was painfully new. Mr Crampton had purchased a -freehold of the ground, and built ‘The Cedars’ for himself, or rather -for the daughter who was to come after him. Often had he said to his -wife that when their Jenny married, they would find a smaller place -for themselves, and make ‘The Cedars’ part of her marriage portion. -Consequently, he had lavished money upon it, letting the builders and -upholsterers have their own way in everything, because it was only -so much more for Jenny, when she came, like a young queen, into the -property her father’s love had prepared for her. - -But ‘The Old Hall’ was a very different sort of dwelling-place. Henry -Hindes was a man of refined tastes and culture, a man who, before he -had come into his father’s business, had travelled much and seen the -world of art and science, and cultivated his mind, and raised his ideas -of beauty and workmanship. He hated business and all its details, and, -had it not been for his children’s sake, and the loss it would prove to -them, would have sold his share of it for whatever it might fetch, and -given up his life to the pursuit of his fancy. As it was, he refreshed -himself, in the intervals of less congenial work, by making his home as -beautiful as he could, but in a very different fashion from that of the -Cramptons. - -‘The Old Hall’ had low-roofed rooms, wainscotted with black oak, into -which he would not permit the innovation of gas, and ghostly corridors -that ran the whole length of the building, and stained glass windows -which let in very little light, and made the house dark and gloomy in -the eyes of such Philistines as could not appreciate medieval customs, -and the relics of barbarism which made the delight of its owner’s heart. - -He was the possessor, too, of an admirable collection of paintings, -mostly of grim and melancholy subjects, but valuable in their way, -and well in accordance with the mummies, sarcophagæ, curious gems and -stones, and other curiosities which he had gathered on his travels and -stored up in remembrance of them. His was a charming household, and -his collection of odds and ends were the only gloomy things in it. -His wife, Hannah Hindes, was a cultured and intelligent gentlewoman, -eminently fond of him, and regarding his powerful brain and capacity -for business with an admiration which bordered on reverence; and he -was the father of three handsome and healthy children, all of whom he -loved, and one of whom he idolised--to wit, Master Walter Hindes, his -only son, an infant of some two years old. - -To see Henry Hindes with this child in his fine old garden was to see -him at his best--he was so partial to floriculture, and such a student -of botany; though in this, as in other things, he would not allow -fashion to trample sweetness and commonsense under foot. In the large, -shady garden of ‘The Old Hall’ were to be found all sorts of flowers, -growing together in the same bed. No ribbon borders or collections of -prize begonias, or pelargoniums, of giant blossoms, or dwarfed bushes, -transformed it into the semblance of a nurseryman’s plot of ground; -but sweet-smelling herbs grew amongst the choicer plants, and high and -low bloomed side by side, as they used to do in the long ago. - -In the summer weather, Henry Hindes spent almost all his spare time -in his garden with his children, and was apparently quite happy with -his own thoughts and them. Hannah Hindes was a woman who never grated -on her husband’s finer sensibilities. She was loving, tender and -conscientious; but she seldom obtruded herself or her opinions on him, -and never in opposition to his own. She was always there when needed, -calm and intelligent, ready to give advice but not eager to thrust it -down one’s throat; a restful sort of woman for a man to come home to -after a hard and perhaps harassing day’s work. - -And she had in her turn an admirable husband, for Mr Hindes was -mild-tempered and indulgent; never found fault with anything his wife -did, or wished to do, and was always quick to think of her comfort and -that of her children. - -A few mornings after the dance at the Bouchers’, they were strolling -together under the shade of an avenue of elm trees, which formed the -approach to the house, and he was telling her of his interview with -Frederick Walcheren. One of the little girls, Elsie, was holding her -mother by the hand, whilst the other, Laura, was wandering in front -of them, and the son and heir, was perched on his father’s shoulder, -enjoying a ride. In the length and breadth of England, you could hardly -have found a more united, or happier family. - -‘I did not much relish the task, Hannah,’ he was saying to his wife, -‘when Mr Crampton entrusted it to me, for I anticipated a tough battle -with the young gentleman. A man does not particularly care to have a -stranger intermeddle with his love affairs--’ - -‘Oh! but Mr Walcheren could never look on you as a stranger,’ -interposed Mrs Hindes, ‘he must know how very intimate you are with -the family and that you have known dear Jenny almost since she was -born.’ - -‘Not quite that, Hannah,’ said her husband, wincing, for he did not -like to be reminded that he was ‘getting on,’ ‘but long enough, at -all events, to act as her father’s ambassador. Anyhow, I thought he -would resent my speaking to him, and perhaps cause a bit of a scandal; -but, to my surprise, he took it so quietly and so much as a matter of -course, that I begin to think he was never in earnest, and was rather -glad than otherwise, of an opportunity to withdraw without dishonour.’ - -‘Then he must be a scoundrel!’ replied Mrs Hindes, with unusual -vehemence for her gentle nature, ‘for I am witness that he behaved to -dear Jenny just as if he were in earnest. I have been with them often, -_you_ know, Henry, when there has been no one else by, and if ever a -man pretended to be in love with a woman, Mr Walcheren did!’ - -‘Anyone would “spoon” a little, with such a pretty girl, if she gave -him the opportunity, my dear,’ replied Mr Hindes, ‘and our dear Jenny -is a bit of a flirt, you must allow that. I wouldn’t trust her with a -grandfather, if I valued his peace of mind.’ - -‘I don’t know what you mean by “spoon,”’ said Mrs Hindes, who professed -to understand no modern slang, ‘but he looked at her and spoke to her -as if he loved her and wished her to love him, and, if he meant nothing -by it, all I can say is that he deserves a much worse reprimand than a -mere hint to cease his visits at the house. Why, he might have broken -darling Jenny’s heart!’ - -‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed her husband; ‘she doesn’t care for the -fellow!’ - -‘Who can say if she cares for him or not, Henry? Women don’t run about, -as a rule, telling everyone they meet of their predilections for -gentlemen who have not yet proposed for them.’ - -‘But, good God! do you mean to insinuate that the girl’s happiness is -likely to be affected by this business? You must be mistaken! Jenny -would never be such a fool as to risk losing all her father’s money for -the sake of the first young jackanapes who says he loves her!’ - -‘She may like the jackanapes better than the money, Henry. I don’t -think women stick at much where their hearts are concerned. Besides, -has not Mr Walcheren a fortune of his own?’ - -‘Perhaps--I don’t know--unless he has already made ducks and drakes of -it,’ replied Henry Hindes, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. -‘But Jenny has never thought of him seriously, I am sure of it! Her -father was telling me only yesterday, that her demeanour has not -changed in the least since he told her she must give him up, but is -as cheerful and lively as usual. That doesn’t look as if she was very -miserable over the loss, eh, Hannah?’ - -‘Perhaps she does not believe she shall lose him,’ observed his wife. - -‘What do you mean by that?’ - -‘Nothing particular, only Jenny may derive comfort from looking -forward to the time when she will be of age and able to please -herself. It seems unnatural to me that they should give each other up -so cheerfully, and it is not Jenny’s disposition either. You seem to -forget what a self-willed little mortal she is! And Mr Walcheren is so -good-looking too. I am sure Jenny has positively raved to me about his -beauty. And where will he find such another girl? I thought she looked -more like an angel than a woman at the Bouchers’ on Wednesday. So pure -and sweet and fresh in that white dress, and with those lovely eyes of -hers shining like two stars. Don’t you think she has the very loveliest -eyes in the world, Hal?’ - -‘Yes! yes! very pretty, certainly; but handsome is as handsome does, -Hannah, and I should be dreadfully grieved if I thought Jenny could be -capable of wilfully deceiving her parents. It would break their hearts. -If you fancy she may be (and you women know best about each other as a -rule), tell me so, and I will warn the Cramptons. It will be my duty to -do so, for they are the oldest friends I possess.’ - -Mrs Hindes was just about to answer her husband’s query, when they were -both startled by the appearance of Mr Crampton coming up the drive -towards them. There was evidently something unusual about his visit. In -the first place, the old man was walking, a most unheard of exertion -on his part, and, in the second, he would, in the ordinary course of -events, have met his partner in a few minutes in the train, as this -was Saturday, when they made a point of going to the City together, in -order to pay the workmen’s wages, and set things generally right for -the ensuing week. - -‘My dear Crampton! what on earth is the matter?’ cried Henry Hindes, -putting down his child, and hastening to his partner. - -Mr Crampton’s face, which was always of a fine roseate hue, was now -positively purple, and, from fast walking and agitation, he found it -impossible to articulate. Hannah feared he was going to have a fit, and -urged her husband to get him to the house before he attempted to tell -them what was amiss. Even when he was placed in a library chair, it was -some minutes before he could find breath to speak, and, meanwhile, the -distress pictured on his features was unmistakable. - -‘My dear friend,’ said Mr Hindes, with the greatest concern, ‘are you -ill? Is anything wrong at home? For God’s sake, speak, and put us out -of this terrible suspense!’ - -‘She’s gone, Hindes! she’s gone!’ gasped Mr Crampton at last. - -‘Gone? Who? Not Jenny?’ cried Mrs Hindes. - -The old man nodded his head. - -‘Not dead?’ said Hindes, turning as white as a sheet. - -‘No! No! Gone off with that scoundrel Walcheren,’ replied Mr Crampton, -who had somewhat recovered himself. ‘Didn’t you tell me that he -promised to give up all pretensions to her hand, and to leave off -visiting her or writing to her?’ - -‘He did, most emphatically!’ said Hindes. ‘I was just telling my wife -about it.’ - -‘And so did she--so did Jenny,’ continued the father, in a broken -voice; ‘and they were both lying to us, sir--both lying! She has left -us for him. She writes she is married to him--that it is of no use our -attempting any opposition, and we may keep our worthless money for -ourselves--and our broken hearts too, I suppose,’ he added, in a lower -tone. - -‘But it is impossible--there must be some mistake--how did it happen?’ -cried Henry Hindes, excitedly. - -‘Well, they must have managed to have some communication with each -other since Wednesday, for the girl joined him yesterday. My wife is -such a fool--God forgive me for calling her by such a name!--that she -never exercised the least supervision over the child, and yesterday -morning it seems that Jenny said she was going to her dressmaker’s, -and they let her set off alone with Brunell. She told him on reaching -town--this is the man’s story, remember--to put up the horses, and call -for her at the Burtons in Cromwell Road, at five o’clock. He was there -to his time, and waited outside for an hour, when a caretaker came to -the door and asked him what he was waiting for. On his telling her, she -said that no young lady had been there that day--that the family was -still out of town, and she didn’t know when they were likely to be home -again. On hearing that, Brunell drove to Madame Costello’s, but learned -there that Jenny had left directly he drove off in the morning, and -had not returned since. A gentleman, her cousin, the woman said, had -fetched her away in a cab. The man came back with this story, and you -may imagine the night we have had. My wife was sure it was all right, -but I knew the end from the beginning.’ - -‘Don’t despair, sir, until you are quite sure,’ said Hannah, with ready -sympathy. - -‘I _am_ sure, Mrs Hindes. We sat up all night, and the first post this -morning brought us that.’ - -He threw down a scribbled note on the table as he spoke, and Hannah -picked it up, for her husband seemed too paralysed at the calamity that -had overtaken his friends, to be able to do anything. The note ran -thus:-- - - ‘DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,--I could not give Frederick up, as you - desired me to do, because we love each other too much, so we were - married this morning at the Earl’s Court Registrar Office, where you - can see the entry if you doubt my word. Don’t be too angry with me. - Remember I am your only child.--Yours affectionately, - - JENNY WALCHEREN.’ - -‘That’s a nice letter for a man to receive, who has idolised his -child for twenty years, isn’t it, Mrs Hindes?’ asked Mr Crampton -sarcastically. ‘Remember she is my only child; indeed, I’m not likely -to forget it, I can tell Miss Jenny that. And I’ll never see her again, -not if I live another fifty years!’ - -‘Oh, don’t say that. You don’t know what may happen to alter your -mind,’ said Hannah, as she took the old man’s hand in hers and pressed -it warmly. ‘You love her dearly, and she loves you. Things will not -look so black when you are more used to them. After all, Mr Walcheren -comes of a good family, and--’ - -‘And is a Papist,’ interrupted Mr Crampton angrily, ‘a member of the -faith which I despise and abhor and contemn--the faith which will bring -my wretched daughter down to hell with himself. No, Mrs Hindes, my -dear; you mean kindly, but don’t talk to me of ever seeing this matter -in a better light.’ - -‘But she is under age,’ said Henry Hindes, speaking for the first -time. ‘How could he marry her without the written consent of her -guardians?’ - -‘By a lie, of course. He must have sworn she was of age. It came -natural to a Papist, no doubt. They’re made of lies, religion and all! -It’s a proper beginning for a life of deception and ingratitude.’ - -‘But if the licence has been obtained under false pretences, Crampton,’ -said Mr Hindes eagerly, ‘it may not yet be too late to set it aside. -It may be possible to force him to return your daughter to you, at all -events until she is of age. I don’t know the law accurately on this -point, but I can go to town at once and inquire, and if there is a -chance--if she could be returned to you--’ - -Mr Hindes’ urbanity seemed to have forsaken him at this juncture, for -he trembled so violently that his very teeth chattered. - -‘And do you suppose that I would take her back?’ cried Mr Crampton, -vehemently. ‘What! take the casket without the jewel! Receive my -daughter--no longer only my daughter, but that man’s plaything--in -her dishonoured home? Never! I will see her dead first! I will stand -by thankfully, and watch her coffin lowered into the ground, sooner -than acknowledge her again as my child. I have no child now. My Jenny, -in whom I took such pride, for whom I have made money and treasured -and garnered it up, is gone from me. She is no longer mine. She is -Walcheren’s wife. I have lost her more effectually than if she had been -taken from me by death, as her brothers and sisters were, and never, so -help me God! will I see her of my own free will, in this world again.’ - -He was fuming and raging in his despair, and Hannah Hindes motioned -to her husband, to do or say something to calm the old man. But Henry -Hindes remained as silent and motionless, as if he had been carved in -stone. Then she attempted the task herself. - -‘Dear Mr Crampton,’ she whispered, laying her gentle hand on -his knotted one, ‘surely you are going too far. This terrible -disappointment has come upon you too suddenly, but try to look at it in -a more reasonable light. Jenny has done very, very wrong; no one could -think otherwise, but you must not speak of her as if she were abandoned -to sin. She is honourably married, remember; and she is so young, that -perhaps she did not view the fault of rebelling against your authority -from so serious a point of view as we do. Mr Walcheren doubtless -persuaded her that it was only a venial error, which you would soon -forgive, for I cannot believe that she could ever forget your great -love for her, nor hers for you.’ - -She smoothed the old man’s palm with a motherly touch as she spoke, and -her soft voice and manner served in a measure to soothe his extreme -agitation. - -‘You are a good woman, Mrs Hindes, my dear,’ he replied, more calmly, -‘but my daughter must abide by the step she has taken, however this -fellow cajoled her into it. She knew well enough that I would never -give my consent to her marriage with a d--d Papist. She gave me her -solemn promise, too, to give up all communication with him. She lied to -me, Mrs Hindes, as the man lied to your husband, and I renounce them -both--I renounce them both! Henceforth, I have no child. Heaven took -five from me, and the devil’s got the last.’ - -And with that Mr Crampton drew forth a red silk handkerchief and buried -his face in it. - -‘But what is to be done?’ inquired Henry Hindes, ‘what is to be done?’ - -Hannah glanced round at him in astonishment. His full, deep voice -seemed all of a sudden to have become thin and squeaky. - -‘Mr Crampton seems to think that we can do nothing, dearest,’ she -answered. - -‘But some sort of reply must be sent to her letter,’ he continued, -‘or she may present herself at any moment in Hampstead. She is very -impetuous, you know, Crampton, and will not easily believe that you can -be seriously angry with her. We must prevent a scandal if possible. -You had better write to her, or see her once, just to come to an -understanding, that you may know what to expect, and she also.’ - -‘I will never see her, nor write to her again,’ said Mr Crampton. - -‘Henry, could _you_ not do so?’ asked his wife, pleadingly. ‘If Mr -Crampton consents to it, could you not first verify the marriage, and -then see poor Jenny, and tell her her father’s decision? Someone ought -surely to do it.’ - -‘Where does she write from?’ asked Mr Hindes. - -‘From the Castle Warden Hotel at Dover, whence they will probably cross -over to Paris. If you follow them it should be at once. Will you go? -Shall I get your portmanteau ready?’ - -She loved the girl, and cherished a secret hope that, through her -husband’s intervention, a reconciliation might be effected between the -daughter and her parents. - -‘I am at Mr Crampton’s service,’ said Mr Hindes. - -‘What do you expect to issue from the proceeding?’ asked the old man, -in a muffled voice. ‘I will never receive her back at “The Cedars.” -It is of no use giving her any false hopes, for my decision is -irrevocable. She is dead to me from this time forward.’ - -‘Will her mother consent to that, sir?’ - -‘If she does not she must join her daughter, for I will have no one who -associates with Papists in my house. I would as soon cherish a brood -of vipers. But I do not anticipate my wife being so ungrateful as to -desert me in this extremity.’ - -‘But if Jenny--if your daughter, on hearing your decision, and learning -that it is unalterable, should elect to give up her husband and return -to the protection of her parents--what then, sir?’ - -‘There is no chance of it,’ said the old man. - -‘I am not so sure of that. Our childhood’s affections are generally the -strongest. She may be repenting the step she has taken even now. If I -see her and find she wishes to come home again--what then?’ - -‘I do not say that, in such a case, I should absolutely refuse to -receive her, but it would be only on the very strictest conditions. -And you would let me know first? You would not bring me face to face -with her without any preparation, for, by the Lord, Hindes, I would not -trust myself to say what I might do in such a case.’ - -‘No,’ replied Hindes, ‘I promise you I will not act in any way without -your consent. But I will go down to Dover, and see if it is possible to -have an interview with her alone. If Mr Walcheren is present I have no -hopes of success.’ - -‘Don’t mention the fellow’s name!’ exclaimed Mr Crampton. ‘The very -sound of it makes me feel like a murderer. I can conceive at this -moment nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to squeeze the -last breath out of his vile body.’ - -He rose to leave then, tottering as if the fatal intelligence had added -twenty years to his existence. - -‘Don’t walk home. Let me order the carriage. It won’t be ten minutes, -and then it can take Henry to the station,’ said Hannah, kindly. - -‘Thank you, my dear,’ replied Mr Crampton, reseating himself. ‘I do not -really think I am equal to the exertion. To think that a rebellious -girl has the power to sap a man’s strength in this manner.’ - -‘The news has been a shock to all of us,’ returned Hannah. ‘My husband -looks almost as bad as you do. Henry, you must take something before -you start. Ring the bell and tell Simmonds to bring some brandy and -soda. Your face is positively ghastly. What shall I put up for you? -Shall you stay the night?’ - -‘No, I think not; but, perhaps, I may. Just a shirt and a brush and -comb, please, nothing more. I am so grieved for the Cramptons,’ said -her husband to her, in a lower tone, ‘so deeply, deeply grieved. This -will break their hearts. I shouldn’t wonder if it were the death of -both of them.’ - -‘Yes, yes; poor, dear, old people, they loved her so,’ rejoined Hannah, -with the tears in her eyes, ‘and we shall feel it terribly, too, Henry, -when we have time to realise that it is true.’ - -‘Oh! that’s all nonsense,’ said her husband, roughly. ‘It is of them we -have to think. What can it matter to us? Sooner or later she must have -married someone, and _we_ have no especial antipathy to Papists. But -there is no time to discuss the matter now. Do as I tell you, and let -me be off.’ - -And in another five minutes the two partners in the firm of Hindes & -Crampton were driving down the elm-tree road together. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Honeymoons are not always the blissful periods anticipated by those who -enter on them, but Frederick’s and Jenny’s promised to be an exception -to the rule. The girl was so lively and merry, so easily pleased with -all that surrounded her, and disposed to make so light of any little -_désagremens_, that she formed a delightful companion. And then, she -was so desperately in love with her husband, and he with her, that -they both thought, and perhaps rightly, that they had never known what -happiness was till then. Frederick especially, who had frittered away -his time and his affections on more girls than he could remember the -names of, could not understand how he could have been such a fool as -to waste his life in so frivolous a manner, when so much pleasure had -been within his grasp. The day after his marriage, when he was ready to -consider himself quite a Benedict of experience, he decided that there -was but one source of happiness, worth calling by the name, in this -world, and that was the whole and undivided love of a wife, whose heart -you felt to be entirely your own. - -It was a lovely day, and the two young people were sitting in a room -that looked upon the sea, watching the bright waves that were dashing -up against the harbour bar, and filling the air with their sweet, salt -flavour. Jenny, looking the very quintessence of youth and beauty, -attired in a flowing gown of white muslin and lace, with a knot of blue -ribbon in her sunny hair, was seated on her husband’s knee, playing -with his dark locks, and ever and anon pressing her ripe lips upon his -forehead. - -‘My darling, my darling!’ he said, in a fervour of admiration, ‘how -happy we are! Did you ever think we should be so exquisitely happy, -Jenny?’ - -‘No, Fred, I have never dreamed there could be such bliss in my life -before. It is like heaven to be here, all alone with you, and to feel -that we shall never, never part again, that we are all in all to one -another, and that no one can ever come between us, or separate us. I -have only one little regret, Fred, darling, and that is a very little -one.’ - -‘What is it, sweetheart?’ - -‘That father and mother are angry with me! If they had been kind about -you, I should be the very happiest girl alive. I think _I am_ that, -now, but if everything were right with the old people, I should be the -happiest in heaven or earth.’ - -‘My dear little wife, I don’t think you need trouble your sweet self -about that, they are sure to come round before long. Why you know they -couldn’t live without you. Naturally they are angry at present. We -have been very naughty, but we mean to be ever so good for the future, -so that they shall be quite proud of us. By the way, Jenny, did you -write that letter to your father?’ - -‘Certainly, and posted it yesterday. Oh! what a time it seems since we -were married. I can hardly believe it is only a day. It seems like a -year.’ - -‘That’s very complimentary to me, my darling; but you might have had an -answer to your letter by telegram this morning.’ - -‘So I might, but I daresay dear old papa is awfully enraged with me, -and is keeping me in suspense on purpose; but mamma is sure to write in -a day or two; I shall be glad to hear from them, Fred. I’d rather know -the worst at once.’ - -‘Why, what do you suppose the worst will be, you little silly? Who can -do you any real harm, now that you have me to protect you? Who could -wound you through the circle of my arms,’ exclaimed Frederick, as he -cast them around her. ‘I defy the world to take my angel from my -clasp; and so long as she has me and I have her, we shall be happy!’ - -The girl was silent for a few moments, whilst her husband was devouring -her with kisses, but when he released her, she said thoughtfully,-- - -‘Do you know who I doubt, Fred, though he has been our friend for -years, and papa thinks there is no one like him--Mr Hindes! He has -always been awfully good to me, and his wife is one of my dearest -friends, but still, somehow, he always seems to come between me and -anything I like. He is always advising papa about me, as if I belonged -to him as well. He made him exchange my dog-cart for a Ralli, because -he declared it was too dangerous for me to drive about in, and he -makes mamma take me home from parties before twelve o’clock, for fear -I should be overtired. I suppose he means it kindly, but I think it -is very officious of him, and I have told him so. And now, I fancy, -he will be advising my parents not to give in and forgive me too -soon--perhaps tell them not to forgive me at all,’ added Jenny, with -drooping head. - -‘Officious, indeed! I should call it d--d impertinence on his part,’ -acquiesced her husband, ‘and he wouldn’t try that game on twice with -me! To tell you the truth, little woman, I don’t like your Mr Hindes -any more than you do; he interfered in my affairs sufficiently by -informing me I was to make myself scarce, but I expect by this time -that he has found out his mistake. There is certainly something curious -about the fellow. One cannot find fault with his manner, which is most -courteous, and he seems well-informed into the bargain, and yet he has -a knack of saying the most unpleasant things in a pleasant way that I -ever came across. However, he will never worry you again, my Jenny, nor -cross your path, if you don’t wish him to do so.’ - -‘Oh! I have no wish to cut him, only I fancy he will influence papa -to hold out against us as long as possible. For the funny part about -him is, that although he has always been so kind to me, personally, -whenever he advises papa on my account, it is always something to give -me annoyance instead of pleasure. I really quite hated him at one time, -for so constantly opposing my wishes. I was always doing something -unladylike, or dangerous, or foolish, according to Mr Hindes’ account.’ - -‘Well, that’s over, at all events,’ replied Frederick, ‘neither Mr -Hindes, nor Mr Anybody else, shall ever interfere with my wife’s -pursuits. If I think she is endangering her precious safety, I shall -kiss her till she promises me to leave it off and be a good girl, but -nothing else shall come between us.’ - -‘I shall go on being bad, so that you may go on kissing me,’ said -Jenny, as she nestled closer to him. - -‘But what are we going to decide about to-morrow, little wife?’ asked -the young man, after an eloquent pause. ‘Is it to be Paris or not?’ - -‘Do the boats run to-morrow?’ asked Jenny, dubiously. - -‘I fancy so, but that is soon ascertained. They are sure to know -all about it in the hotel. The question is, do you prefer to cross -to-morrow or Monday?’ - -‘We are very happy here,’ said the girl, thoughtfully. - -‘Happy! my sweet! happy is not the word for it. We are in Paradise, at -least I know I am. But what made you make that remark?’ - -‘Because, if it is all the same to you, Fred, I would rather stay here -till Monday; then, if my father writes to me, or wishes to see me, I -shall have time to receive his letter or to receive him before we leave -England.’ - -‘Very well, dear, have your own way in everything. You will never find -me oppose your wishes. I am not so sanguine as you are about the old -people coming round so quickly--I fancy your dear papa has a will of -his own--still, it will be as well, perhaps, to stay a day or two in -England, to give them a chance of behaving like Christians. But what do -you feel like now doing now, eh?’ - -‘Kissing you,’ replied Jenny, suiting the action to the word. - -‘But we’ve been at that game for twenty-four mortal hours, my darling,’ -he cried, laughing, ‘and before long there will be nothing of us left. -Will you come for a walk?’ - -‘Dearest, I’m too tired.’ - -‘Well, if your ladyship will give me a little leave of absence, I will -go for a swim. It is just the day for it. I sha’n’t be long. Back for -luncheon, at all events.’ - -‘Oh! love, be careful,’ exclaimed Jenny, with startled eyes; ‘don’t do -anything rash. Think how precious you are to me!’ - -‘You dear goose,’ replied her husband, ‘why, swimming is one of the -things I do best. However, I will be careful, I promise you, now, and -always, that I have such a dear wife to care if I live or die.’ - -‘I suppose you will not want luncheon till three,’ said Jenny, for the -remains of breakfast were still on the table. - -‘No, three will do nicely, and then we will have a carriage and go for -a jolly drive over the cliffs.’ - -‘I wish I had my dear cobs here, and could drive you myself,’ said -Jenny, with a slight sigh. ‘I wonder if father will let me have my -cobs. They are my very own, for he gave them to me on my birthday.’ - -‘If he doesn’t, your husband will give you a pair that you will like -just as well.’ - -He came back as he spoke and embraced her fondly. - -‘Don’t regret anything you may have left behind you, my sweet,’ he -murmured, ‘remember, you cannot have them and me as well.’ - -‘I regret nothing and nobody,’ she answered, clinging to him, ‘you are -my world, dearest. In having you I have everything.’ - -The young man’s face glowed with delight, as he tore himself away from -his enchantress, and left the hotel to have his swim. - -For a little time after he had quitted her, Jenny tried to interest -herself with the newspapers and magazines which they had purchased -the day before. But she was naturally restless, and could not chain -her thoughts to anything. She read one or two short stories without -knowing what they were about, for her mind would keep wandering back -to Hampstead and all that was happening there. Every time a footfall -sounded near her room, she fancied it was the waiter bringing a -telegram from her father, or a message, perhaps, that he waited below -to speak to her. At last her nervous dread, lest he should arrive and -interview her without the protection of her husband, grew to such a -height that she felt as if she could not remain in the hotel without -Frederick, and put on her walking attire with the idea of going to -the beach and waiting for him there. But Dover was a strange place to -Jenny, and she had no idea which direction Frederick might have taken, -nor where the gentlemen bathed, nor if it would be proper for her to -go there if she did. Besides, did she not remember her husband saying -something about bathing from a boat, in which case he might be miles -away from the land. The green downs stretched out invitingly before -her; looking so much cooler and less glaring than the sandy beach -sprinkled over with nursemaids and children, so she turned her steps -in that direction. She carried a magazine in her hand, and she would -go and sit on the cliffs she thought, till three o’clock had struck -and Frederick had returned home again. A little chill feeling ran over -Jenny, as she took her seat on the sward close to the edge of the -cliffs whence she could see and hear the sparkling waves as they dashed -over the shingly beach, and she moved further inland with a shudder. - -‘What an awful thing it would be,’ she inwardly said, ‘if I were to -fall over those cliffs now--_now_, in the very hey-day of my youth and -happiness. To leave my Frederick just as I know what it is to love him; -just as I have taken the bold step to unite myself with him forever! -Yet others have done it; others, I suppose, with hopes as high as mine, -and with feelings as strong. Oh, it must have been terrible! terrible! -The very idea makes my flesh creep! I must be over-excited and nervous -to-day to think of such a silly thing!’ and she drew herself further -and further away from the edge of the cliff and tried to interest -herself in her book. - -It was about this time that Henry Hindes, pale and anxious as to the -issue of his errand, walked into the vestibule of the Castle Warden -Hotel and asked if Mrs Walcheren were at home. The porter having -referred to half-a-dozen waiters in turn, at first said ‘yes,’ but on -Mr Hindes sending up his name for admittance, the man returned to say -he had been mistaken, and neither Mr nor Mrs Walcheren were indoors. - -‘Is it only an excuse, or is the lady really not in?’ demanded Mr -Hindes. - -‘She is really not at home, sir,’ was the reply, ‘but I did not see her -go out; I suppose she went through the garden. Mr Walcheren went out -better than an hour ago, for I saw him pass through the hall myself.’ - -‘Do you know when they are likely to be in?’ next asked the visitor. - -‘I can’t say for certain, sir, but their lunch is ordered for three -o’clock.’ - -‘Very well; I will return at three.’ - -‘What name shall I say, sir?’ - -‘You need say no name. I will send it up on my return,’ said Henry -Hindes as he walked away. - -He was disappointed that he had not found Jenny at home and alone, yet -it was hardly natural that a young husband and wife should separate -on the very morning after their wedding-day. But we are all apt to be -unreasonable when our wishes are thwarted. However, he made up his -mind to call again at three o’clock. Whether alone or together, he -could not return to Hampstead without seeing Jenny, and delivering to -her the message with which her father had entrusted him. So he must -wile away the intervening hours as best he could. He stopped at the -bar to have a brandy-and-soda, not the first by several, that he had -taken that morning to build up his courage for the coming interview, -and sustain him under the shock which the news of her marriage had been -to him. And then he wandered forth into the town and took his way idly -up the very path to the cliffs that Jenny had trodden before him. He -had not walked, slowly and clumsily, for more than half an hour when -he came upon her, seated on the close-cropped herbage, with her eyes -fixed thoughtfully upon the water, and her book lying unheeded in her -lap. Henry Hindes’ heart gave a great leap and throb as he recognised -the lovely features, shaded by a broad chip hat, trimmed with field -flowers, and the graceful figure of the beauty of Hampstead. Here was -an opportunity, for which he had never hoped--to find her thus alone -and unoccupied, amidst the glories of Nature, with her attention free -to listen to his pleadings on her parents’ behalf. His involuntary -exclamation as he encountered her, caused Jenny to look round, and the -hot blush of shame that flooded her face at seeing him proved that she -was not dead to the knowledge that she had done something to blush for. - -‘Mr Hindes!’ she said, with a little gasp as if of fear, ‘what has -induced you to follow me?’ - -‘Nothing but the heartiest interest in your welfare, Jenny, you may -be sure of that! Did you think that we could hear the news of your -marriage at Hampstead without emotion? It paralysed us, Jenny! We could -not believe it without further proof--without your assurance that it -was undertaken of your own free will.’ - -‘My father is the proper person to put such questions to me,’ replied -Jenny, proudly. ‘If he wished them answered, why did he not come to -Dover himself, instead of sending you?’ - -‘Your father could not come if he wished it. Your letter has made him -so ill that he is not fit to leave home. I dread what the effects -of the shock may be on him. Remember, he is no longer a young man, -sixty-two on his last birthday, and you have robbed him of all he had -in life.’ - -‘I don’t see that,’ replied Jenny, with her old pertness, ‘I must have -married some day; I don’t suppose my father meant to keep me single all -my life, and in such a matter, people are generally left to choose for -themselves.’ - -‘Not when their choice is in direct opposition to their parents’ -wishes! However, you have elected to fly in their faces, and what’s -done can’t be undone. I visited the Earl’s Court Registrar’s Office -this morning, and found the ill news was, indeed, too true. It, -therefore, now only remains to be seen what remedy there is for so sad -a state of affairs, and if you are prepared to hear the proposal your -father has sent you by me.’ - -He had made as though he were about to throw himself on the grass -beside her, and, in order to avoid his doing so, Jenny rose and moved a -few paces forward. Henry Hindes had, therefore, no alternative but to -walk slowly by her side, and as she had turned her face from the town, -each step took them further from it. - -‘If you have anything unpleasant to tell me,’ she said, with a slight -laugh, ‘for goodness’ sake don’t make it public property. Let us go -further up the cliffs, where our voices will not reach any loiterers on -the beach below.’ - -‘You can hardly expect my message to be a very pleasant one, Jenny,’ -commenced Henry Hindes, as composedly as he knew how, ‘but it is -soon told. Mr Crampton refuses either to write to or see you, unless -you agree to his conditions. When he received your terrible news -this morning, I was afraid he would have a fit, it affected him so -dreadfully. As for your poor mother and aunt, they are, I hear, in -utter despair. You have changed a happy home, Jenny, into a house of -mourning.’ - -‘Well, they should have been more considerate of my feelings,’ said the -girl, in a low voice, but Mr Hindes could detect signs of softening in -it. - -‘They were considerate of them, they intended to be considerate of -them,’ exclaimed Henry Hindes, ‘they only told you the truth when they -said that Walcheren was not a fit man for you to marry, that he was a -gambler and an evil liver--that--’ - -‘Mr Hindes, you forget yourself,’ cried the girl with newly acquired -dignity, ‘when you said those things the other day, you were speaking -of an acquaintance, to-day you are maligning _my husband_!’ - -‘I cannot help it! Were he twenty times your husband, I must say what -is in my mind concerning him. You have had your own way too long, -Jenny, and now you have taken it to your ruin. But your father is -willing to receive you back as his daughter, on one condition, and that -is, that you leave this man who has led you into so grievous an error, -and return to the protection of your parents.’ - -Jenny gazed at him as if he had been a lunatic. - -‘Do I hear you rightly,’ she said, ‘or are you mad? Leave my husband, -whom I have just married, leave the man whom I love above all the -world, father and mother included, leave him all alone and go back to -Hampstead to live a widowed life with my people! Why, papa must have -been tipsy to propose such a thing. What had you been giving the old -gentleman to make him talk such nonsense? Surely you are dreaming and -have fancied it all.’ - -‘Dreaming!’ echoed Hindes, indignantly; ‘is it dreaming to see your -father’s agony, to hear of your mother’s tears? No, these things may be -play to you, Jenny, but they are death to them. I have repeated your -father’s words just as he told them to me. “I will never see her, nor -speak, nor write to her so long as life lasts,” he said, “and I will -never, under any circumstances, receive that man into my house; but, -if Jenny will give him up and come back to our protection, I will try -and forgive the past.” Jenny! think of what you are resigning before -you finally decide. Mr Crampton is much richer than you imagine. You -will inherit nothing short of fifteen to twenty thousand a year at his -death. And you were married illegally. Mr Walcheren took a false oath -about your age, and this may be set aside if you will only give your -consent to it. Why, Jenny, you have not been half clever enough! With -your beauty and prospective wealth, you should have married into the -aristocracy. Think twice about it. Give up this man who is not worthy -of you, and you will make twice as brilliant a marriage by-and-by.’ - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -The girl turned round upon him like a fury. - -‘How dare you,’ she cried, ‘make such an infamous proposal to me? I -don’t believe papa ever told you to say so. I don’t believe he would -have thought of such a thing if you had not put it into his head. You -are not telling me the truth, Mr Hindes. What spite have you against -me, that you are always trying to put a spoke in my wheel in this way. -You never propose anything for my pleasure, it is always something for -my pain. I believe you have taken a hatred to me, you go against me so -persistently.’ - -‘_I_--I hate you, Jenny!’ stammered Hindes. - -‘Yes, I feel sure you do, else why should you be forever urging papa -to do something to displease me. I have seen it for years past. Every -obstacle that has been thrown in my way has been by your advice. What -am I to you? Why can’t you let me and my affairs alone?’ - -‘Why can’t I let you alone? Why am I for ever interesting myself in -your affairs?’ he repeated after her. ‘Cannot you guess, Jenny; has no -glimmer of the truth reached your heart during all these years? Well, -then, I will tell you; it is because I love you.’ - -‘A nice way of loving,’ interposed the girl sarcastically. - -‘Yes! you may laugh, but it will not unmake the fact. I love you, -Jenny, as no one of your admirers has ever loved you yet, love you -with the fire and fervour of a disappointed man, of one who knows, and -has known for years past, that his love is of no avail, that it lives -without hope, but still lives, burning on--loving on--because it can -never die even if it would, because it would not die even if it could. -Oh! my darling! I have loved you for years. Just give me one look of -pity at last.’ - -But Jenny recoiled from him with a shudder of disgust. - -‘How dare you! how _dare_ you!’ she panted; ‘and you pretend to be my -friend, you, a married man. Oh! you have made me feel that I have sunk -low indeed.’ - -Her look of horror and her tone of contempt stung Hindes more than a -dozen lashes from her hand would have done. - -‘Married!’ he exclaimed; ‘what has that to do with a man’s feelings? Am -I blind, deaf, insensible, because I am married. And what about your -fine scoundrel over there? You imagine he loves you. Yet, what is he? -A married man, and worse than a married man, a thousand times over, -for he has left a poor girl who is, to all intents and purposes, his -wife, and a child who has the right to call him father, to break their -hearts, and perhaps to starve down at Luton, whilst he is philandering -after you. Ah! that has touched you, has it?’ he continued almost -savagely, as he saw Jenny’s cheeks flush. ‘Well! it is the solemn -truth, as I can prove to you. And she is not the only one either. Ask -Philip Walcheren! You are one of many, Jenny, though you may wear the -wedding-ring upon your finger.’ - -‘You lie!’ cried the girl vehemently; ‘I am sure you lie, and I will -tell my husband every word you say, and he shall punish you for them. -You want to frighten me, that is all--you are jealous of my great -happiness. I have always suspected you were double-faced, and now I -know it. And I hate you--I hate you. And I love my husband as much as I -hate you, and nothing shall ever separate us, try as hard as you may. -We will be together and together and together, until death.’ - -She turned, in all her beauty with a mocking smile upon her lovely -face, towards him as she spoke, and stepped backwards towards the edge -of the cliff. Henry Hindes’ first impulse was to catch her by the -wrist to prevent her falling over. But she wrenched it from his grasp. - -‘Don’t dare to touch me, you brute!’ she cried excitedly. ‘You want to -push me over the cliff now, I suppose!’ - -God! why did she say the word? Why did she put the idea into his -excited brain? It had never entered his head before. He had never -thought of her but in kindness. For years past, he had secretly -cherished her image, suffering himself to indulge in beatific -day-dreams of what his life might have been had Jenny been destined -to spend it by his side--had permitted himself to enjoy her presence, -to bask in her beauty, to be miserable when the thought crossed his -mind that some day he would be assuredly called upon to relinquish her -to another man, but never had he done less than love her. But now, as -he held her in his power, and she laughed derisively into his face, -whilst those words, ‘I hate you,’ still rung on the air, something -entered into Henry Hindes that had never been there before. A wild fury -that she should spurn him, her friend of years, and love Frederick -Walcheren--a mad despair that he would never possess her beauty, and -that another had the legal right to gloat over it night and day for -all time--whilst he stood apart, baffled and disappointed, and then a -desperate resolve to save her from further contamination and himself -from a life-longing, and the devil, which is in all of us, glared out -of his eyes, as with a single effort, hardly calculating what the -effects would be, acting more on the impulse of what he _would do_, -than of what he _was doing_, he pushed the girl violently from him and -sent her light body hurling over the stupendous abyss which separated -them from the beach below. - -It was done in a second, beyond power of recall. This moment Jenny was -standing before him in her mocking loveliness--and the next there was -only a void, and not even the impress of her footprints on the short -herbage where she had stood. - -Henry Hindes remained motionless for the space of half a minute, then -sunk down into a sitting position, and trembled as if he were taken -with an ague. He did not look over the cliff to see what had become -of his victim. He knew but too well! He had glanced over it before -he met her, and saw that it consisted of an unbroken line of chalk -cliffs, leading precipitately to the shingly shore. He knew what he -should see if he looked over, and he dared not look! He only sat there -and shook like an aspen leaf. The clammy perspiration rose upon his -face, and stood in great beads upon his brow, but he did not raise -his hand to wipe it away. He only remained dumb and motionless and -trembled. By-and-by some instinct warned him that he ought to move, -to go back to the town, and that it would not do for him to be found -sitting so close by. Upon this he tried to stand, but found he could -not, so turned round and crawled away, for some distance, on his hands -and knees. A fresh breeze had sprung up from the sea, and it revived -him sufficiently to enable him to stand upon his feet, and to commence -with a tottering step to find his way back again. As he did so, he -hardly believed that what had happened was real. He must have drunk -more than was good for him, he thought, and it was a bad dream that had -overtaken him. But a backward glance made the horrid truth too plain. -There was the barren cliff, deserted for the time being, whilst all -the world of Dover was occupied on the beach, with bathing or flirting -or play. There was the very spot where they had stood together on the -close grass, besprinkled with pink thrift and stunted daisies--the same -irregular edge where she had mocked him, whence he would have saved her -if she had let him, but where-- - -‘I must pull myself together!’ thought Henry Hindes, with a violent -shudder; ‘this is not the time or place for me to think about it! It -was an awful accident, but nothing more--I would not have injured her -for all the world, but it is an awkward time for it to have occurred, -and in my presence, too--and I must take measures not to have my name -implicated in the affair!’ - -He looked around with dimmed eyes as he argued with himself, but, -far or near, he could perceive no one and no thing, except a few -sheep grazing on the stunted herbage. Then he ventured near the -cliff--not with his eyes towards that point where she had fallen, but -turned the other way, and he saw it was quite deserted, the bathing -population being at the further end of the town. Not a soul was -on the beach, only a few boats were drawn up high and dry, whilst -several more were dancing on the blue waters, laden with fishing nets -or pleasure-seekers. The complete seclusion of the place imparted a -temporary confidence to him. - -‘For the children’s sake,’ he muttered to himself, as he took his way -downwards; ‘for Walter’s sake, and the others and Hannah, I must be -brave and calm and not betray myself. Let me see! what time is it? -Three o’clock! and I said I would return to the hotel about three. -Well! I mustn’t hurry, it will look bad! I will go into a restaurant -first and have my dinner!’ - -The thought of eating sickened him, but he persevered, and, entering -the principal restaurant in the town, ordered an expensive meal. But -when it was served he could not eat it. The food would have choked -him. Something seemed to have closed in his throat and prevented his -swallowing. - -Presently an idea struck him. Calling the waiter, he said,-- - -‘I have some business to talk over with a friend in this town, and, -as my time is short, I think it will facilitate matters if we dine -together. Lay another plate and tell them to keep the dinner back till -I return. I am going round to the hotel to fetch my friend. Keep the -champagne in ice. I shall not be absent more than a few minutes.’ - -He left the restaurant as he spoke, and re-entered the vestibule of -the Castle Warden Hotel. - -‘Has Mrs Walcheren returned yet?’ he inquired, in an unconcerned voice. - -‘No, sir; she has not. Mr Walcheren, he came home about half an hour -ago, but he went out again. I really can’t say when they’ll be back, -sir!’ - -Hindes took out his card and wrote on it in a very shaky hand:-- - - ‘I have called twice to-day to see you, with a message from home, and - hoped to have persuaded you to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant; - but my time is up, and I must return to town. Will write in a day or - two. - - H. H.’ - -‘Give this to Mrs Walcheren on her return, please,’ he said to the -waiter, and took his way, as best he could, back to the Tivoli. - -There he forced himself to eat a little and drink a good deal, and, -calling for the bill, gave the waiter a liberal tip, and departed in a -cab to the station. - -He had done all he could. He should tell the Cramptons, he had called -twice to interview Mrs Walcheren and been unsuccessful each time, and -he had waited about Dover till four o’clock. It was Saturday, and he -could not spend Sunday away from his wife and children. They would -surely say that he had done all that was necessary, and more than -they had required from him. He had tried to see her twice, and he had -failed; they must wait now until Jenny wrote to them herself. - -‘_Until Jenny wrote to them herself!_’ As the thought crossed his mind, -Henry Hindes sunk back into the corner of the railway carriage, in the -same comatose state in which he had been on the downs. The train flew -screeching through the evening air, on its way to London, but time and -place were alike unheeded by him. - -Had it been a dream--an unholy, lurid nightmare--or was it reality? - -When he reached ‘The Old Hall,’ it was nine o’clock. He told his wife -he had stayed to dine in town, but, in truth, he had been wandering -about the streets, hardly conscious of what he was doing, until the -time warned him that each hour he delayed would make it more difficult -to account for his prolonged absence. So he dragged himself home, and -the effort he made to look like a man who was rather disgusted for -having been foolish enough to take a lot of trouble for nothing, sat -upon him much as a clown’s paint would sit upon a corpse. Hannah was -naturally all sympathy for his disappointment and failure, and Hindes -was compelled to take refuge in gruffness, to elude her searching -inquiries. - -‘My dearest, how ill you look, and how tired you seem. This has been a -trying day for you, I am sure. So fond as you are of dear Jenny, too. -And did you really not see her?’ - -‘I have told you already half-a-dozen times, Hannah, that I called -twice at the Castle Warden Hotel to see her, but she was out each time, -so was he, so there was nothing to be done but to return home. I did -not relish the idea of wasting a Sunday in hanging about Dover, perhaps -with the same result, when I might be at home with you and the chicks.’ - -‘Dear Henry,’ said his wife, ‘you are always so considerate of us. -Still, for Jenny’s sake--if it were to lead to a reconciliation between -her and her parents, I would give you up for even a longer time than -that. You might have written her a letter, Henry, though.’ - -‘I _did_ write, just a scribble on my card, to say I had hoped to get -her to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant, when we could have -talked the unhappy matter over together; indeed, I had ordered lunch -for two, but she was not in and they couldn’t say when she would be in, -so I was obliged reluctantly to come back without seeing her. But I -don’t suppose it would have been of any use. What girl would give up -her lover the day after her wedding? It was a mad scheme, and quixotic -in me to set out on such an errand.’ - -‘No; don’t say that dear, for I am sure the old people will be glad -hereafter, to think that you did all you could to bring them together.’ - -Henry Hindes started. - -‘“Hereafter?”’ he echoed; ‘what do you mean by “hereafter?”’ - -‘Nothing, my dearest, only you surely do not think the Cramptons will -hold out for ever, do you? And, when they are reconciled to Jenny and -we are all happy again, I am sure they will be pleased to remember (and -so will she), that _you_ were the first to try and bring them together.’ - -‘Oh, yes, yes! I see!’ replied her husband, as he passed his -handkerchief over his brow. - -‘Poor Mrs Crampton and Miss Bostock were over here this afternoon,’ -continued Mrs Hindes. ‘They said they should go mad if they had no one -to talk to about it. I don’t think they are half so angry with Jenny as -her father is. Of course, they say she has been very naughty, and her -papa is quite right not to forgive her in a hurry, but they evidently -think in the long run, he will find he cannot live without her. “It -would be ridiculous,” Mrs Crampton said, “and most wicked if they -cast off their only child, however wrong she might be.” She is afraid -it will be a long time before Mr Crampton forgives Mr Walcheren or -consents to receive him at “The Cedars,” because of his being a Papist, -but as for their darling, she declared if papa did not ask her up next -week, she should go down to Dover to see her herself. I believe there -is a great deal more in the old lady than we have given her credit for, -Henry, and that she will have her own way in this matter, whatever her -husband may say. But you are not feeling well, dear, surely? I never -remember to have seen you look so white before. Are you sure that you -made a good dinner in town? Or will you have a brandy-and-soda? You -must have something, your looks quite frighten me.’ - -Mr Hindes pulled himself together and sat straight up on the sofa. - -‘Don’t be a fool,’ he began, but, seeing the consternation which his -rudeness evoked, he added, ‘don’t worry me, Hannah. This has been a -very fatiguing day, and, I may say, a very distressing one into the -bargain. I cannot look on this matter in the same bright light as you -do. Mrs Crampton may be very brave and determined, but she has her -match in her husband, and I never knew him to go from his word yet. -And the girl inherits her determination from him. I do not believe she -was from home when I called to-day. I believe I was denied on purpose. -They anticipated my errand, naturally, and declined to have a scene, -which there undoubtedly would have been if Mr Walcheren and I had been -brought in contact. I believe the young man to be a regular scoundrel, -and I should have told him so. After which, I suppose, I should never -have spoken to either of them again.’ - -‘Oh, I don’t believe Jenny would really quarrel with you, whatever -you said, Henry. She is too fond of you for that. She is an impetuous -little creature and says a great deal more than she means, but she has -often told me how highly she thinks of your friendship, and how she -felt sure that, whatever happened, _you_ would always stick by her and -help her out of all her scrapes.’ - -‘There, there, hold your tongue, that will do!’ exclaimed her husband, -as he rose and walked slowly towards the door. ‘I want to see my boy -before I sleep to-night,’ and he took his way, closely followed by his -wife, to the nursery. - -The two little girls were very pretty creatures, who combined the best -points in both father and mother, but the boy, by one of these freaks -of Nature which have been mentioned before, was like neither of them, -but rejoiced in a particularly ugly mug of his own invention. He lay -asleep in a magnificent cot which his father had had carved for him on -the occasion of his birth, covered with a finely embroidered quilt; his -black eyes were closed, but his little snub nose, swarthy complexion, -and wide mouth, formed a sorry contrast to the lace and linen which -enveloped them. No prince of the realm could have been more luxuriously -surrounded than was Master Walter Hindes. His sisters were lying in -their beds close by, their fair hair straying over their pillows, but -their father hardly glanced at them as he crossed the room and bent -over the carved cot at the further end. As he gazed at his sleeping -son and heir, all the stolid feelings of despair which had occupied -his mind during the day seemed to fade away and leave a wealth of -passionate love behind them. He stooped down closely and laid his face -against that of the slumbering child. - -‘My son, my son,’ he murmured, but as the words left his lips, though -heard by no one but himself, a vision of Jenny’s face rose before -him--of Jenny’s mocking face, as she stood on the edge of the precipice -and defied him--and, with a sudden impulse, he drew forth his silk -handkerchief and wiped his kiss off his child’s brow. - -‘What is that for, my dear?’ asked Mrs Hindes, with a low laugh. - -‘A fly--a gnat--’ he stammered, ‘it might disturb Wally in his sleep,’ -and he withdrew, at the same moment, from the child’s bed. - -‘Won’t you look at Elsie and Laurie?’ whispered the mother, as she -passed her arm through his, and pulled him gently towards the girls’ -bed. ‘They have been such good maids all day; I took them with me for -a drive to call on old Miss Buckstone this afternoon, and she was -delighted with them; she wants us to let them go and spend a whole day -with her.’ - -‘And not Wally?’ said Henry Hindes, quickly. - -‘Well, she did not ask Master Wally, and she would regret it, I fancy, -if she did. He is rather a handful away from home, dearest, you know, -and too much used to have his own way; we really must not spoil him so -much, or he may come to the same sad end as poor Jenny.’ - -‘What sad end? What do you mean by saying that?’ demanded Henry Hindes, -for the second time that evening. - -‘Why, marry without our consent, to be sure, Henry; what else could I -mean? Though I hope her marriage may have a happy ending after all. I -shall always believe in it and pray for it, until it comes to pass.’ - -‘Yes, yes, pray for it, Hannah,’ replied her husband. ‘I don’t believe -much in prayer myself, but if anybody should ever be heard, it is -you! You have been a good wife to me, my dear, I seem to see it more -plainly to-night than I have ever done before.’ - -‘Ah! that’s because of this trouble about poor Jenny; it has regularly -upset us all. Shall you go over and see the Cramptons to-night, Harry?’ - -‘No, no, I couldn’t. I have had enough bother already,’ replied Hindes, -shrinking from the idea. - -‘Of course, and perhaps they will not expect it; but you must write to -them, for they will be anxiously expecting to hear some news of your -journey.’ - -‘So they will,’ he answered, as if the idea had only just struck him; -‘well, I will not write, I will go,’ and he rose to get his hat and -stick, then suddenly turning to Hannah, he added,--‘it’s a fine night, -will you go with me?’ - -She looked surprised at the request, but answered readily,-- - -‘With pleasure, dear, if you will wait whilst I put on my hat and -mantle.’ - -The brief walk to ‘The Cedars’ was accomplished in silence, but, as -they reached the house, Hindes said to his wife,-- - -‘Don’t repeat anything I told you; leave me to tell my own story, I -want to save them as much pain as possible.’ - -They found the three old people sitting together and looking very -forlorn. Mr Crampton had recovered his temper of the morning, and was -seated in an arm-chair, huddled up behind his newspaper, and professed -to take no interest in the conversation that ensued. The two women flew -at Henry Hindes as soon as he appeared. - -‘Oh, dear Mr Hindes! did you see her? What news do you bring us? Do not -keep us in suspense; we implore you! Is she well? What did she say?’ - -‘My dear friends,’ he answered, with assumed jocularity; ‘one -at a time, if you please, and you must prepare yourselves for a -disappointment. I haven’t seen her at all! I called twice at the hotel -and they were out each time. What else could we expect? I’m afraid I -went down on a wild goose chase. Such a lovely day! Where should a -bride and bridegroom be but out of doors! I am afraid we must have -patience till next week. Then, if Mr Crampton wishes it, I will go down -again and make a second attempt to interview them.’ - -‘Oh, dear, dear; I _am_ disappointed,’ sighed Mrs Crampton; ‘for I feel -sure, if you had seen darling Jenny, that all would have been right!’ - -‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ interposed her husband. ‘How can anything be -right again since she has elected to marry that scoundrel? The jade has -made her own bed, and she may lie on it, and I hope it’ll be a deuced -hard one, too!’ - -‘Don’t say that,’ replied Henry Hindes, quickly; ‘if it should be hard -it is not _you_ that will make it so! I scribbled a line to her on my -card to say I had brought her a message from home, so, if I am not -very much mistaken, you will receive another letter from her before -long.’ - -‘Dear Mr Hindes, how can we ever thank you enough for the trouble you -have taken on our behalf,’ said Mrs Crampton, as she slid her slender -hand in his; ‘you are the truest and best friend we have. God bless -you!’ - -But he could not stand the gentle pressure of her hand, nor the -grateful intonation of her voice. - -‘Don’t speak about it, please!’ he answered, pulling his hand out -of hers almost roughly; ‘I wish--I wish I could have done more, -but--but--Come! Hannah!’ he exclaimed, interrupting himself; ‘we must -go home! It is late, and my two journeys have tired me. Good-night, Mrs -Crampton! Good-night to everybody! we must leave the further discussion -of the matter to another time,’ and, with a hasty nod all round, he -left the room. - -He did appear very tired when they reached their home, very exhausted -and overdone, but his condition did not tend to give him a good night’s -rest. On the contrary, long after Hannah had sunk into the dreamless -sleep which waits on a good conscience joined to a good digestion, her -unhappy husband lay wide awake staring into the darkness, and starting -at every shadow that lurked in the corners of the room. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Amongst Frederick Walcheren’s varied accomplishments, swimming held a -prominent position. From a child he had exercised this most useful of -all practices, until he was as much at home in the water as on land. -And on that fatal Saturday there was every inducement for him to spend -a long time in his favourite occupation. The day was transcendently -beautiful; the sea was sparkling with electricity and warm as a tepid -bath; and the beach was crowded with spectators, eager to watch and -applaud the various feats of natation which he performed. He was in -good temper with himself and the world, poor fellow! and anxious -to give them all the pleasure in his power. So he remained in the -warm, exhilarating water as long as possible, performing all sorts of -extraordinary dives and plunges and strange modes of swimming, whilst -the people on the shore were full of admiration for his skill. At last -he felt he had had about enough of it for the present, and dressed to -return to the hotel. As he descended the steps of his machine, a young -man of ordinary appearance, who was apparently waiting for him, came -forward. - -‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he began, ‘but, from witnessing your feats -of skill in the water, I presume you are a swimming master, and should -like to know your terms for a course of lessons.’ - -Frederick laughed heartily at the idea, but he was not snob enough to -be offended by the young man’s mistake. - -‘Indeed, I wish I were anything half so useful,’ he replied; ‘but I am -only an amateur like yourself. Swimming is not at all difficult; it -only requires pluck and practice. Anyone could attain my proficiency -if he cared to take the trouble.’ - -‘You’ll forgive me for mentioning it, sir?’ said the stranger, who -feared he might have offended him. - -‘With all my heart. There was no harm in asking,’ replied Frederick, as -he heard the town clock strike three, and hastened towards the hotel. -He reached it, almost running, and, going breathlessly upstairs, threw -open the door of their sitting-room. But Jenny was not there. A waiter -was employed putting the last touches to the luncheon-table, which was -evidently only waiting their return to be spread with the noonday meal. - -‘Where is Mrs Walcheren?’ inquired Frederick. - -‘I don’t know, sir,’ replied the stolid waiter, as he continued putting -out cruets and water bottles. - -Frederick ran up to their bedroom, which was on an upper floor, and -finding that also empty, put on his straw hat again and descended to -the vestibule. - -‘Has my wife--Mrs Walcheren, gone out?’ he asked of the porter. - -‘Well, sir, I really can’t say. There’s been a gentleman asking that -question here already, but I couldn’t give him no satisfaction. I -suppose the lady must be out, because we can’t find her nowhere, but -none of us see her pass through the hall, and I’ll take my oath she -hasn’t come in, for I’ve never left my post one minute. Perhaps she -went to the beach to you, sir.’ - -‘Oh, doubtless, but about the gentleman who called to see her, what was -his name?’ - -‘He didn’t leave no name, sir, but said he would call again.’ - -‘What was he like? Short and stout and middle-aged, with rather a red -complexion, eh?’ - -He concluded at once that it must have been Mr Crampton, who had -followed his daughter on the receipt of her letter that morning. - -‘Well, not very red in the face, sir, but stoutish certainly, and not -over tall.’ - -‘I know him,’ replied Frederick, thinking he did. ‘If he comes again -during my absence, ask him to walk upstairs and wait until we return.’ - -‘All right, sir.’ - -Of course it was Mr Crampton, he thought. It could be no one else, and -he must be by Jenny’s side when their encounter took place. If old -Crampton thought that, by right of his paternity, he would bully Jenny, -he was very much mistaken. He would have to answer to her husband -first. He went back to the beach, thinking he should find her amongst -all the nursemaids, children, serenaders and fruit-sellers, and was -prepared to meet her with a little scolding for exposing herself to -the heat of the day and the vulgarities of the Dover sands. But she -was not there. The beach was almost deserted now, for the babies and -their attendants had gone back to their lodgings to early dinner, -and the serenaders were performing in front of the ‘pubs,’ in hopes -of earning a meal. There would have been no difficulty in discerning -Jenny’s distinguished little figure on the long line of sand and -shingle, but it was evident she was not there. Where could the minx -have hidden herself? Frederick was a little inclined to feel cross, -although it _was_ the first day of their married life, because Jenny -had so decidedly said she would rather not go out that morning, and, -if she had not done so, he should not have left her to herself. Could -she have ventured into the town? She had come away so hurriedly, that -she might have found herself in want of some trifling article that she -had forgotten and gone to the shops to procure it. He turned his steps, -therefore, in that direction, but saw her nowhere in the streets. He -even asked one or two pedestrians if they had met a young lady in a -broad-brimmed hat trimmed with poppies and grasses, but they all shook -their heads. Frederick wandered about the streets for some time, and -then resolved to go back to the hotel. After all, Jenny was not a baby. -She had been well used to look after herself, and had a watch to tell -her the proper time to return. It was more than likely she was already -at the Castle Warden. His first inquiry on re-entering was naturally -for her. - -‘No, sir, the lady ain’t been in yet,’ was the disappointing reply, -‘but the gentleman as I spoke of, he came again and left his card.’ - -‘Where is it?’ said Frederick, eagerly, and was handed the one which -Henry Hindes had left behind him. - -‘Did you ask him to wait and see us?’ he inquired. - -‘Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I had gone for my dinner and didn’t -see the gentleman this time, but William tells me he seemed in a great -hurry like, and didn’t ask to wait, but said he had no time to come -again to-day, as he had to catch a train for London.’ - -‘Oh, very well, it is of no consequence,’ replied Frederick Walcheren -rather testily. ‘Tell them not to serve luncheon until Mrs Walcheren -returns. She cannot be many minutes now.’ - -But it was many many minutes before she came back to the hotel. -Frederick went upstairs to their sitting-room, and tried to occupy his -mind with newspapers, and persuade himself that he was not particularly -anxious for his wife’s return. But there is nothing more irritating -than to be kept in suspense, especially for a trifle. He could not help -wondering where Jenny had gone to, and why she had gone, and why the -dickens she hadn’t come back again! If the stranger who had inquired -for her had not left a proof that he was Mr Henry Hindes instead of Mr -Crampton, he should have almost fancied that she had been silly enough -to have been lured away again by her father. But that was folly! Jenny -was his wife; by love and by law. No one could ever take her from him -again unless that quibble about her age would be considered sufficient -to annul the marriage. But the next moment he laughed at the idea. Mr -Crampton would surely never be such a fool as to take advantage of -a loop-hole that would bring disgrace upon his daughter’s name! How -foolish he was to let so absurd an idea worry him! - -But why the deuce didn’t Jenny come back? It was now four o’clock. This -was carrying a joke too far. She couldn’t possibly have lost her way -in such a place as Dover. Besides, she wasn’t the sort of girl to lose -her way! Even if she had broken her leg, or done any unlikely thing of -that sort, she would have had the nous to call assistance, or send him -a message to say what was the matter. The only solution of the mystery -that he could think of, was that she had gone for a walk and wandered -so far away that she was too tired to walk home quicker. But why, in -that case, had she not procured some vehicle to convey her back again. -The more Frederick thought of it, the more puzzled he became. When five -o’clock struck, he went out of doors for the second time, and ran all -over the place, making inquiries of everybody he met. One girl said she -had seen a very pretty young lady at about one o’clock that afternoon, -walking towards the cliffs. She particularly noticed that she wore a -large chip hat with scarlet poppies in it, and a white dress. She had -a book in her hand, and she went up that way, continued his informant, -pointing in the direction of the grassy downs. Frederick thanked her -and commenced running off in the direction she had intimated. Of -course, he said to himself, the cool breezy downs would be far more -likely to attract Jenny than the hot beach. How foolish it was of him -not to have thought of that before! He walked rapidly straight ahead of -him for three or four miles, and then stopped to consider what he was -doing. Jenny was not there! He could see from end to end of the broad -wide expanse, and a sheep would have been visible to the naked eye. -What was the use of his rushing about in that aimless manner, after a -full-grown woman. Jenny was such a spoilt child, the Lord only knew -whether she might not be playing a practical joke on him all this time, -and hiding away for her own pleasure to see how much she could frighten -him. He had been far wiser to eat his luncheon in comfort and let the -young lady see that that sort of trick would not do with him. He was -beginning to feel a little angry and hurt by this time. It was not -good manners, to say the least of it--it showed a lack of good feeling -and good taste to make him look like a fool in the eyes of the hotel -servants, so soon after their wedding-day. He should give up the search -as a bad job, and return to the Castle Warden and rest. Without doubt, -she would come in for her dinner. - -He gained the hotel again, but still no news had been heard of the -missing lady. By this time every menial in the house knew that the -bride (for when can people ever hide the glaring fact that they were -married yesterday?) had played truant, designedly or otherwise, and -many were the conjectures as to her reason for making herself so -conspicuous. Meanwhile, Frederick Walcheren sat in his own apartments, -by turns angry, impatient, anxious and despairing. He hardly took heed -how the time went on. Every moment he expected to hear the sound of -Jenny’s footstep running up the staircase--to hear her merry voice -telling him the reason of her extraordinary absence--to feel her arms -round his neck and her lips pleading for forgiveness. But the hours -went on till seven and eight o’clock had struck, and still she was -not there. As the last hour sounded Frederick heard a low tap on his -door; he was not in the mood to see strangers or talk with them, but -he cried, ‘Come in!’ The door opened, and the landlord of the Castle -Warden entered and closed it securely behind him. - -‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he commenced, ‘but I am told that your lady -has not come home, and that you are rather uneasy about her.’ - -‘Well, I am, naturally,’ replied Frederick, ‘in fact, I don’t know -what the devil to think about her absence. It is most extraordinary! I -went out to bathe this morning, leaving Mrs Walcheren here, and when I -returned she was gone. No one saw her go out, nor can I hear any news -of her, except from a little girl, who says she met her walking in the -direction of the cliffs, about one o’clock this afternoon. I have been -all over the cliffs, and the town, and the beach, but can neither see -nor hear anything more. What should you advise me to do, Mr Cameron? I -am nearly distracted with anxiety.’ - -‘The lady was seen going towards the cliffs,’ said the landlord, -musingly, ‘our cliffs are not very safe for strangers. I hope there -has not been an accident.’ - -At this Frederick leapt from his seat as if he had been shot. - -‘My God! man,’ he cried, ‘what do you mean? You cannot think it -possible that--that--’ - -He tried to finish the sentence, but failed. - -‘Indeed, sir, I meant nothing but that we must look at all possible -contingencies if we are to find the young lady. It is a long time for -her to be away, and, if I mistake not (though I hope you will excuse my -mentioning it), the day after her wedding.’ - -‘Yes, yes; I don’t care who knows it,’ replied Frederick in a voice of -pain. ‘We were only married yesterday, that makes this all the more -mysterious and extraordinary; but how are we to ascertain the truth? -What am I to do?’ - -‘If you will allow me, sir, I will send some of the boatmen who know -the cliffs to search for Mrs Walcheren, and they will soon relieve -your suspense, for if she is there they will find her safe enough.’ - -‘By all means; I ought to have thought of it myself. Thank you, Mr -Cameron; pray send for the boatmen as soon as possible, and I will -accompany them.’ - -Mr Cameron looked dubious. - -‘If you will permit me, sir, to advise you, I should say stay here, in -case of your being wanted, or other news arriving.’ - -But Frederick was not to be persuaded. - -‘Stay here!’ he echoed; ‘what on earth should I do that for? My place -is with the men who are going to find her. She has lost her way, -probably, and is wandering about in the dark. Of course, I shall -accompany them.’ - -But the landlord kept his back firmly against the door, and prevented -the young man passing out. - -‘You will forgive me, sir, but you must not go--not just yet--not till -I have said something. I have been trying to break it to you, Mr -Walcheren, but I am afraid I have done it badly. They _have_ found her, -sir. She was found hours ago, and I came to tell you so.’ - -Frederick Walcheren stared at him, as if he thought he was mad. - -‘_Found!_’ he ejaculated, ‘and hours ago. What do you mean? Why has she -not come home then? Is she injured--hurt? Has any accident happened to -her?’ - -‘Yes, sir, there has indeed, and you must try and bear it like a man. -The lady has been hurt--badly--and she was found on the beach by two -boatmen at five o’clock, or thereabouts.’ - -‘Hurt! my darling. Oh! my God! this is hard,’ exclaimed Frederick, in -a voice of anguish. ‘But where is she? Why have they not brought her -here? Why did they not send for me?’ - -‘Well, sir, they did not know where the lady belonged at first, nor who -she was, so they carried her to the nearest public-house; “The Bottle -and Spurs,” which is half-way down the cliffs to the town.’ - -‘A public-house!’ cried Walcheren, indignantly; ‘how dared they take -a lady there? What was Mrs Walcheren about, to consent to it? Order a -carriage at once, if you please, Mr Cameron, and I will go and fetch -her home.’ - -The landlord fidgeted with the handle of the door. - -‘Well, you see, sir, I am not sure if the authorities will allow of her -removal. It’s the usual thing, under the circumstances, you see, and -sorry as I should be to disoblige you, I’m afraid my customers might -object to her being brought here. “The Bottle and Spurs” is a very -respectable house, sir, and everything will be done, I feel sure, as -can be done, to make things as little unpleasant for you as possible, -but the authorities--’ - -Still the unhappy man did not understand the extent of his calamity. He -sat down again and passed his hand wearily through his hair. - -‘What does it all mean?’ he muttered in a dazed manner. ‘At all -events order the carriage and send for the best doctor in the town to -accompany me.’ - -‘The doctor is here sir,’ replied the landlord, quickly, ‘ready to -speak to you. Dr M‘Coll, one of our most skilful practitioners.’ - -Then he opened the door, and called out, ‘Will you step up, doctor, -please, the gentleman is ready to see you,’ and in another minute -a middle-aged kindly-looking man entered the room and went up to -Walcheren’s side. - -‘Doctor!’ said Frederick faintly, ‘what is all this about? I don’t -understand it. Have you seen my wife? Is she much hurt?’ - -‘She is not suffering now, my dear sir,’ replied the doctor. - -‘Thank God for that. But why did you not bring her home? I have been in -such awful suspense all the afternoon.’ - -‘I am sure you must have been, but now I am going to take you to see -her. Here, Mr Cameron, a glass of brandy for Mr Walcheren. No! no soda -thanks. I want him to take it as it is.’ - -He held the liquor to Frederick’s lips, who drank it at a draught, and -put down the wine-glass with a deep sigh. - -‘You must nerve yourself to hear what I have to tell you,’ said Dr -M‘Coll firmly. ‘I told you your wife no longer suffered, it is because -she has gone beyond the reach of suffering. She had been dead for hours -before the boatmen found her.’ - -The young man sprung from his seat with the one word on his -lips--‘DEAD!’ He stared at his informant for a moment wildly, and then -sinking down on his chair again, threw his arms over his stricken face -and burst into a storm of tears. - -‘Leave him alone,’ whispered the doctor to the landlord; ‘they will -save his brain.’ But the next minute Frederick leapt up, and, seizing -Dr M‘Coll by the arm, exclaimed,-- - -‘Take me to her. Don’t let us lose a moment. Oh, my God! my darling, my -darling!’ - -He tore down the staircase as he spoke, closely followed by the -landlord and the doctor. The waiters and chambermaids, who were hanging -about the passages discussing the awful event that had occurred, made -way respectfully for him as he appeared, and looked after the bereaved -bridegroom with melancholy interest. But Frederick might have passed -through the ranks of a regiment at that moment without perceiving them. -There was but one idea in his brain--to get as quickly as he could to -the side of his beloved. He had heard distinctly what the doctor said, -but he did not realise that Jenny was dead--that she would never speak -to him, nor smile at him, nor kiss him any more. The drive to the -public-house was performed in mournful silence, and when they reached -it they were at once taken through the bar to a back room, where on -a table was placed, just as she had been found, all that was left -of sweet Jenny Walcheren. Her chip hat, so fresh and pretty in the -morning, was still attached to her hair, by a long pin with a butterfly -at the end of it, but it was crushed and forced back upon her head by -the awful fall she had sustained. Her white dress had been decently -composed about her young limbs; she might have almost have deceived -one into the belief that she was sleeping, except for the purple lips -which were drawn off the white teeth, and a dark blue bruise over the -right eye, where her temple had struck the cruel rocks. But Frederick -saw nothing but that he had regained his wife, and falling on her body, -covered it with kisses, imploring her by every fond entreaty he could -frame, to open her eyes once more and look at him, and to unclose her -bruised and livid lips and speak his name. At last his madness calmed -down a little, leaving a dull despair behind it, when he turned to the -doctor and said,-- - -‘Tell me, for mercy’s sake, how did it happen?’ - -‘We are as much in the dark as you are, my dear young friend,’ replied -Dr M‘Coll, ‘all we know is, that two Deal boatmen, Jackson and Barnes -by name, went to the lower beach after their boats, which are drawn up -there, at five this afternoon, and found the poor lady lying under the -cliffs, over which there is no doubt she must have fallen, but how, -there is nothing to tell. They did not know her name, so carried her -here and sent for me. But I could do nothing. She must have been dead -for two or three hours before I saw her. When I was convinced of that, -I set inquiries on foot, to find out who she was, and they soon led me -to the Castle Warden Hotel.’ - -‘It wasn’t easy to mistake her,’ interposed Mr Cameron, whose own eyes -were suspiciously red; ‘the prettiest bride, as everyone says, we have -had in the hotel for the last twelve month.’ - -‘Don’t, don’t,’ said Frederick, in a voice of the keenest pain. -‘Doctor, how shall we take her back? She shall not lie here! I must -take her to the hotel at once.’ - -‘My dear Mr Walcheren, even if that were admissible, it would not be -permitted. The body must not be touched until after the inquest, which, -unfortunately, cannot be held till Monday.’ - -‘She must lie here on this rough table, within sound of those rough -voices, for forty-eight hours? Oh, impossible! I will not allow it!’ - -‘My dear sir, you must allow it! It is the law! This poor young lady -has met her death in a mysterious manner, and, until the police have -evidence that it was an accident, they will not, in the cause of -justice, permit the body to be tampered with.’ - -‘An accident! but how could it be anything but an accident?’ said -Frederick, staring at the doctor. - -‘I have no doubt myself whatever in the matter; but the law must be -satisfied. Meanwhile, let me persuade you, Mr Walcheren, to return to -the hotel and try and calm yourself. You can do no good by remaining -here, and I will engage that every respect shall be paid to her -remains.’ - -‘_I_ go away,’ said Frederick, in a broken voice, ‘and leave her lying -here? Oh, no; you mistake me! It is impossible! If I may not take her -away yet, I shall stay by her till I can! Nothing shall persuade me to -leave her, my darling little wife!’ and he took one of her dead hands -and kissed it fondly as he spoke. - -‘If you are determined--’ began Dr M‘Coll. - -‘I am determined, and nothing will shake my determination. Here I -remain till they take my angel from me. But is an inquest imperative? -I cannot bear to think of it! It is such an indignity--such a public -insult! A body of strangers, men, too, whom I would not have allowed in -her presence whilst living, to be admitted to view her remains. I am -rich, doctor! Can no payment of money avert this outrage?’ - -‘Nothing can avert it, Mr Walcheren; but I will take care it is -conducted as quietly as possible. Remember, it is in the cause of -justice; and now, what can I do for you? Can I wire the sad news to any -of her relatives, or yours? You should have your own friends near you -in this trial.’ - -Frederick turned and seized the doctor’s hands as if he were a child, -clinging to him in his trouble. - -‘Advise me, tell me what to do,’ he said. ‘I am unfit to think for the -best. My head is all in a maze. Doctor, I must tell you the truth. This -was a runaway marriage. She was an only child, and her parents doated -on her. I dare not think what they will say. How am I to break it to -them? Ought I to go myself?’ - -‘I don’t think they would let you leave Dover until after the inquest, -Mr Walcheren, but your late wife’s relations should certainly be told -at once. If you wish it, to-morrow being a free day with me, I will go -and break the sad intelligence to them.’ - -‘It will greatly relieve me if you will. And every expense, you know -doctor--’ - -‘Yes, yes. We need not mention that at present. When you have strength -to write down the names and addresses, I will make my arrangements.’ - -‘And what about the gentleman who called twice to see Mrs Walcheren -to-day?’ inquired the landlord. ‘Is he a relation of hers?’ - -‘No, curse him!’ said Frederick unthinkingly. - -The doctor and the landlord glanced at one another. - -‘I have _his_ name and address on his card,’ whispered Mr Cameron -significantly to his companion. ‘I fancy he will be subpœnaed. He may -have seen the poor lady after she left the hotel.’ - -‘What are you whispering about?’ said Frederick irritably. - -‘Nothing, sir. I will speak to the people of the house. I know them -well, and they will see you have everything you may want.’ - -‘And I will communicate with you directly I return to Dover,’ added the -doctor. - -And so they left him to his vigil, with his hand clasping the hand of -his dead wife, and his face bowed down till it was lost in the folds of -her dress. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -The next morning Henry Hindes received a scrawl, in a hand which he -could not recognise as that of Mr Crampton’s, containing but three -words, ‘Come to me.’ - -He guessed at once what they meant. He had just returned from church -with his wife and elder children. He had not dared to refuse to go, for -he was a regular attendant there, and the omission would have looked -peculiar. So he had stood and knelt and sat through a service of two -mortal hours, whilst his eyes gazed into space and his mind was a -blank, and he only followed mechanically what the others said or did. - -He walked home with Hannah on his arm and Elsie and Laurie trotting -before them, for the Hindes were far too strict a family to have out -their horses on a Sunday, but all the while that acquaintances were -bowing and smiling and exchanging civilities with himself and his wife, -he was wondering how soon the news would reach Hampstead, and if it -would come by telegraph or post, or if Walcheren would send a special -messenger to break it to the old people at ‘The Cedars.’ And as soon as -he re-entered his own house, the note was handed to him with the fatal -words ‘Come to me!’ He knew then that the worst was known--that the -poor parents had been told of their bereavement, and that it was his -mission to fly to comfort them. - -‘What can be the matter?’ questioned Hannah. ‘Can they have already -heard from Jenny, or do you think it possible she can be in Hampstead? -Oh, Henry! if they meet, surely Mr Crampton cannot refuse to speak to -her!’ - -‘I know no more than you do,’ he answered, ‘but I suppose I must go! -The old man may have been taken ill. He looked bad enough for anything -yesterday evening.’ - -‘Oh! certainly, Henry dear, you must go at once, and you can take your -luncheon with them. But I shall be impatient to hear what he wants you -for. If Jenny should be there--oh, Henry, you _will_ let me know, won’t -you? for I should love to give the dear girl a kiss, and assure her of -my faithful friendship. You will send someone over to tell me, in that -case, won’t you, dearest?’ - -‘Yes, yes; of course I will,’ he answered, quickly, ‘but there is no -likelihood of such a thing. Good-bye, I had better be off at once.’ - -And so he left her. The scene he encountered at ‘The Cedars’ is easier -imagined than described. Mr Crampton received him in his library, in -the presence of his wife, and sister-in-law, and Dr M‘Coll. The old -man looked as if he had suddenly crumpled up. His features were drawn -and shrivelled, and his complexion the colour of parchment. His wife -was laid face downwards on a couch at the further end of the room, -stupefied with the shock of the news they had just heard, whilst Miss -Bostock sat by her, silent and motionless, with her hands hanging -passively on her lap. No one stirred except the doctor, as Henry -Hindes, white and trembling, but with the assumption of being at his -ease, entered the room. - -‘Well, my dear friend,’ he commenced cheerily, ‘what is it?’ - -Mr Crampton turned to the doctor, and muttered in a croaking voice, -‘Tell him.’ - -‘I have the misfortune to be the bearer of very bad news to Mr and -Mrs Crampton, sir,’ said Dr M‘Coll, in obedience to his instructions. -‘Their daughter, Mrs Walcheren, met with a terrible accident on the -Dover cliffs yesterday afternoon, and is, in fact--has not recovered -the injuries inflicted--is lying at this moment--dead!’ - -Henry Hindes’ face went crimson instead of pale. - -‘Dead, sir!’ he ejaculated slowly, as if he were choosing his words, -‘are you sure she is dead? An accident? How can you tell it was an -accident? Might not someone have done it on purpose--have pushed her -over?’ - -Then he paused, as if he thought he had been talking too fast, and -repeated his first question: ‘But are you sure that she will not -recover? She is very young, you know,’ after which, perceiving the -grief of all around him, he broke down, exclaiming, ‘Oh! Jenny dead! -Impossible! Impossible! Why, I went to see her only yesterday! She -can’t be dead! my dear, dear friend!’ seizing old Crampton’s hand; -‘don’t give way! It is impossible!’ - -‘You are only buoying this gentleman up with false hopes, sir,’ said Dr -M‘Coll. ‘There is no doubt of the truth of the news, distressing as it -may be, and I am commissioned by Mr Walcheren to break it to all whom -it may concern. As to your suggestion that it may be due to foul play, -there is nothing whatever to point to it, but it will cause the subject -of the inquiry at the inquest to-morrow. Your presence will, of course, -be necessary, also Mr Crampton’s. I understand, as you say yourself, -that you went down to Dover yesterday to see the unfortunate lady, so -that your testimony may be valuable to the coroner, and the marriage -having been, I am told, a little irregular, there is the more necessity -that everything should be made perfectly clear.’ - -‘An inquest!’ stammered Hindes. ‘But surely there is no need of our -undergoing such a painful ordeal? Why, it will nearly kill Mr Crampton. -My dear friend, you must not think of attending it.’ - -‘Not go?’ cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from the lethargy -into which he had temporarily fallen. ‘What are you saying, Hindes? Of -course we must go. Don’t you see how this has come about? That villain -has murdered her; he stole her from me first, and then he killed her. -Who else would have pushed her over the cliff? My poor butchered lamb! -my pretty Jenny! my beautiful, innocent daughter! Oh! but we will be -avenged on him, never fear; we’ll see him brought to justice and give a -hand to set him swinging. My poor child! my murdered darling! I can see -how the whole damnable trick was done!’ - -‘You must not heed what he says,’ whispered the doctor to Henry Hindes, -‘the shock has been too much for him, though I broke it as gently as -I could. You must get him to bed and give him a sleeping draught, but -don’t listen to any nonsense he may talk. There never was a clearer -case of misadventure. The poor girl went out on the cliffs alone and -fell over them. The coroner can bring in no other verdict.’ - -‘But why, then, need we attend?’ asked Hindes, with quivering lips; ‘it -will be a fearful trial for all of us. What do we need more than your -assurance of the calamity that has befallen?’ - -‘You may need nothing more, Mr Hindes, but the law needs your -deposition as to what you know of the matter.’ - -‘I know nothing--nothing--’ repeated Hindes. - -‘Then you can say so,’ answered Dr M‘Coll, shortly. - -‘No, we know nothing as yet,’ exclaimed Mr Crampton, eagerly, ‘but we -_will_ know it. We will not rest till we have got at the bottom of this -infamy. If ever a poor child was murdered, my girl has been.’ - -‘Papa, papa,’ wailed Mrs Crampton from the sofa, ‘don’t speak like -that, or you will break my heart.’ - -‘Ay, my poor woman,’ said her husband, ‘you’ve plenty of cause to -greet. They’ve taken your ewe lamb from you. You had but one left, and -the Lord let her be done to death, without stretching forth His hand -to save. And yet they say He cares for us! But the murderer shall be -brought to justice, never fear. I’ll see to that.’ - -‘Oh! if he goes on like this he’ll kill me,’ sobbed the tortured mother. - -‘Mr Crampton,’ interposed the doctor, ‘we all feel deeply for you in -this sore affliction, but you must not bring unmeaning accusations -against anyone. There is no question of how your poor daughter came by -her death. It was an unfortunate accident, nothing more.’ - -‘I know better, sir, I know better,’ replied Mr Crampton. ‘You can’t -deceive me. My lamb was murdered, and may God’s deepest curse rest--’ - -‘Oh! stop, stop,’ cried Henry Hindes, holding up his hand. ‘It is -terrible to hear you blaspheming in this manner, without the least -authority to do so. It will not ease your own pain, Crampton, and may -add to it hereafter. For your wife’s sake and your own, let me take you -to your room, where you can think over this terrible news in quiet. -Trust in God, Crampton, trust in God. There is nothing else to be done -in a time like the present.’ - -But the old man, usually so acquiescent in all that his partner said, -turned round on him, on this occasion, in a fury. - -‘Don’t preach to me, Hindes!’ he exclaimed, angrily. ‘It’s all very -well for you to talk of trusting in God, whilst your own kids are -safe at home, but lose five, my boy, lose five--three boys and two -girls--and set all your hopes and chances of happiness on the remaining -one, and have her murdered before your eyes, and then talk of trusting -in God. You’re a hypocrite, sir, a d--d hypocrite.’ - -‘Mr Crampton,’ said Henry Hindes, deeply wounded, ‘I never thought to -hear you speak to me like this.’ - -‘For shame, John, for shame!’ exclaimed his wife, rousing herself for -a moment. ‘What are you thinking of? Mr Hindes, too, who loved our -darling almost as if she had been his own child, and who has always -been so kind to her and us all.’ - -‘Ah, well, well,’ said the old man in a tired voice, ‘I suppose I was -wrong, and I ask your pardon for it, Hindes. But I don’t seem to quite -know what I am saying. My head keeps going round so. I suppose you -are right, and I should be better by myself for a few hours. Give me -your arm, and take me to my own room. I leave this gentleman in your -hands, Hindes. See that he is attended to, and arrange everything for -our going down to Dover. Good-morning, sir!’ and with that Mr Crampton -rose, and, leaning on the arm of his friend, quitted the apartment. - -There was a less difficult task with the women, whose sorrow was too -deep for words. Then Dr M‘Coll agreed with Mr Hindes that they had -better travel down to Dover by an early train on the morrow, as every -endeavour was being made to have the inquest on that day, on account -of the hot weather rendering it desirable to get the burial over as -quickly as possible. Hindes shuddered at the thought, but showed no -emotion beyond that which was evinced by his white face and silent -demeanour. Luncheon was then served for the doctor, and he departed to -interview Mr Philip Walcheren on the matter, when Henry Hindes was free -to return home. - -Here, as may be imagined, he had a difficult task before him, but he -felt freer, for, in the presence of his wife, who had loved Jenny -Crampton so dearly, he was not ashamed to break down himself, and give -some relief to his overcharged feelings. Hannah’s grief was extreme, -but she tried to curb it for the sake of her husband, who only rose in -her estimation for the tears and moans which he felt he might indulge -in at last. - -Both husband and wife had quite exhausted themselves with their -emotion, when a servant entered to announce that a constable desired to -speak to his master. Hannah could not help observing how vividly white -Henry became at this intimation. She could not understand it, unless -the sad events of the day had so undermined his usual intrepidity as to -make him start at shadows. - -‘Only a constable, Henry, dear,’ she repeated, seeing how he trembled. -‘It is probably something to do with this unhappy business! Will you -see him here?’ - -‘No! no!’ replied her husband, as he wiped the sweat from his -forehead, ‘not here! Let him wait, Johnson! I will be with him -presently--presently!’ - -Could anything have been discovered? he thought to himself, as he leant -against the form of his wife for support, and she passed her cambric -handkerchief across his wet hair. Was it possible he had dropped any -article belonging to him on the spot where he and Jenny had stood -together? Had this man come to tell him that he was suspected, and must -consider himself under arrest until the inquest had been held on the -morrow? - -He pushed Hannah’s kindly ministrations away and stood upright. - -‘I cannot see him in this condition,’ he said, alluding to his swollen -eyelids and stained cheeks. ‘I must go to my room first and smooth my -hair.’ - -He escaped by a back way as he spoke, and gaining his dressing-room, -arranged his toilet a little. Then he searched in a drawer for a bottle -of morphia, which he had been occasionally in the habit of taking to -induce sleep, for the condition of his mind regarding Jenny Crampton -had not been conducive to sound and restful repose. - -‘If I am taken away from here,’ he thought, ‘I will not reach Dover. -They shall see I know a trick worth two of that.’ - -He thrust the vial in his breast and descended to the hall to interview -the constable. But he had come on a very simple errand. He had received -information from the Dover police that the inquiry on the death of Mrs -Walcheren had been fixed for the morrow, and that Mr Hindes’ presence -would be necessary. - -‘You see, sir,’ said the man, fumbling with his papers, ‘we’re sorry -to trouble you, but as you went down to Dover to see the lady, it -is necessary the coroner should hear the why and the wherefore of -everything to come to a right understanding of the case. It’s a sad -thing, ain’t it, sir? A poor young creature done to death in a moment, -as you may say, and only married on the Friday.’ - -‘A frightful thing, indeed, constable!’ replied Hindes. - -‘The poor gentleman, they say, is almost out of his senses, as he well -may be,’ continued the policeman; ‘they can’t get him away from the -corpse, and he turns round like a madman on any one who proposes of it. -Perhaps so be you’re a relation, sir!’ - -‘No, no; only a friend,’ said Hindes, quickly. - -‘Well, he ought to have some friend by him now, if all they tell me is -true, for the shock seems to have unsettled his mind. The inquiry won’t -be till three o’clock to-morrow afternoon, sir, at the ‘Bottle and -Spurs’ public-house, where the poor lady lies. If you’re there, sir, -they’ll get it over at once, but if so be as you’re not there, the jury -will have to be called to attend another day.’ - -‘I shall be there,’ replied Henry Hindes, and then he went upstairs -again and replaced the vial in the drawer before he rejoined his wife. -‘Only a notice to attend this miserable inquest, my dear,’ he said in -explanation as he threw himself on a couch and buried his face in his -hands. - -‘Oh, Henry, how much I wish it were not necessary for you to go! I know -how bitterly you will feel it! To have to be questioned by a man who -cares nothing for our poor dear darling, and who will rake up all sorts -of things to wound you and make the remembrance still more bitter than -it is; but it is your duty, and you must go! Shall you see her, Harry?’ -she added, in a whisper. - -Her husband shuddered. - -‘I suppose so! That is, if I must!’ - -‘But you wouldn’t like our sweet Jenny to go to her grave without a -last look, dear, I am sure! And may I send some flowers to put over -her? Will you take them from me?’ - -‘No! no! for God’s sake, no!’ cried Hindes, covering his face again; ‘I -cannot enter into all these harrowing details like women can. I shall -go down and come away again as quickly as possible; the sight of the -poor child would kill me! I have no morbid inclination for gazing at -corpses, Hannah.’ - -‘But our poor Jenny,’ said his wife, regretfully; ‘it would seem to -me like refusing to look at Elsie or Laurie if they were taken from -us. Thank God they are not. Oh, poor Mrs Crampton,’ continued Hannah, -breaking down again; ‘what must she be feeling at this moment! How I -pity her with my whole, whole heart!’ - -Meanwhile, Philip Walcheren, having heard the news of Jenny’s death -from Dr M‘Coll, had hastened to the presence of Father Tasker. - -‘A judgment, a judgment, my dear father!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have just -heard the most terrible piece of news. Poor, misguided Frederick’s -young wife was killed yesterday by a fall over the cliffs at Dover!’ - -‘Heaven rest her soul!’ said the priest, crossing himself. ‘Who told -you of it?’ - -‘A medical man called M‘Coll, who came from Dover, at Frederick’s -request, to break the news to me. There is to be an inquest held on -the remains of the poor, young creature to-morrow, and Frederick would -like me to support him on the occasion. Can you manage to accompany me, -father? Your presence might have a great effect on my cousin.’ - -‘No, my son, I think not! You had better go alone! This is not a -time for exhortation or reproof. It is the time for affection and -kindness. Your poor cousin will, as you say, feel very desolate, and -as if Heaven had forsaken him. Let him find if he has lost a wife -he has found a brother. If ever we are to succeed in our plans for -him--if ever our hopes of persuading him to enter the Church are to -be realised, it is now--now, when he will feel as if the world had -given way beneath him. Go down to-night by all means and comfort him -as best you can. This marriage was entered into, you tell me, without -the consent of the lady’s parents. Possibly, they may be the more set -against him in consequence of this event, though it happened from no -fault of his own. Let him see that his misfortunes bind us more nearly -to him--make us more anxious that he should seek comfort where it is -only to be obtained--in the exercise of his religion. Heaven’s workings -are very mysterious, my son. I see already in this sad dispensation, -a glimmer of hope for your cousin’s future. Perhaps this, and nothing -else, would have made him regard your exhortations and my entreaties in -a proper light.’ - -‘God grant you may be right, father,’ answered Philip. ‘If I could see -Frederick fulfilling my good Aunt Alicia’s wishes, and his godfather’s -intentions, by entering our Holy Church, and dedicating his money to -her use, I should feel my life had not been wasted by devoting it to -such a purpose.’ - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Frederick was still bending over the dead body of his wife, when Philip -Walcheren entered the little back parlour of the ‘Bottle and Spurs’ -that evening. The landlady told him that he had not left the room since -the preceding night. - -‘Nor has bit nor sup passed his lips, sir, except a cup of coffee, -which I made expressly, and took to him this morning. Nor haven’t his -clothes been off, neither! I’m sure I don’t know what _is_ to become of -the poor gentleman at this rate. He seems just eat up with grief.’ - -‘I will go to him,’ said Philip, as he turned the handle of the door -and entered his cousin’s presence. - -Frederick was much in the same position he had at first assumed. He -occupied a chair by the side of the table on which the body of poor -Jenny lay--his hand clasped hers, and his head was bowed down on the -deal boards. - -‘Frederick--my dear Frederick,’ said Philip, gently. - -At the sound of his voice the bereaved husband roused himself, and made -a slight deprecatory gesture with his hand. - -‘Don’t speak to me--don’t reproach me,’ he answered, bitterly, ‘for I -cannot bear it.’ - -‘Far be it from me to reproach you, Frederick,’ replied his cousin -as he laid his hand on his; ‘on the contrary, I have come to comfort -you, as far as lies in my power, under the terrible calamity that has -befallen you.’ - -‘No one can comfort me, Philip.’ - -‘No one but our Heavenly Father, Frederick, and our Blessed Mother, who -is watching your sufferings even now, with eyes of divine compassion -and love.’ - -‘I don’t believe it,’ said the other, brusquely; ‘if she pitied me why -didn’t she prevent it? She could stand by and see the whole of my life -ruined at a blow. What pity is there in that? What good can her pity -do me after my love has been taken from me? Look at her, Philip,’ he -continued, uncovering the pretty, bruised face of the dead, over which -the livid hues of decomposition were already beginning to steal. ‘See -how lovely she was! How young! how innocent! And she loved me--she -loved me! And now it is all over; we are torn asunder for evermore. -Oh, God! it is too hard for mortal man to bear! They might have let me -enjoy a few months, a few weeks of happiness in her affection, but to -call her mine one day and to lose her the next--I shall kill myself. I -cannot live without her!’ - -‘Hush, my dear Frederick, hush!’ replied Philip, ‘God’s hand is very -heavy upon you, but you must not blaspheme. Was not this beautiful -creature His as well as yours? May He not do as He wills with His -own? No one denies the awful grief you are called upon to bear, but -you cannot lessen it by raving against the justice of the Almighty. -Rather bend with submission to His decree, my dear cousin, and live -your future life so as you may meet your wife again. You can think -of nothing now but your exceeding loss, but when you have time to -consider, you will realise that she is not really gone, only hidden -from your natural sight for a little while, and that, if you choose it, -you are bound to meet her again and to dwell with her for ever!’ - -This thought broke down the unhappy man. - -‘Oh! my Jenny, my Jenny!’ he sobbed, ‘is it possible you are looking -on your wretched husband now? that you pity and love him and will wait -for him at the eternal gates? Philip, Philip, is this a judgment on -me? I have been thinking ever since it happened of that unfortunate -girl, Rhoda Berry, at Luton! I cannot get her out of my head! All last -night I fancied I saw her grinning and rejoicing at my misfortune. Has -God done this out of anger for my sin? Has He made my sweet innocent -wife the scapegoat for my iniquity? Was it the blood of the other -woman, crying up from the eternal depths for vengeance, that caused my -angel to take a false step and meet with her death over those dreadful -cliffs? The idea has nearly driven me mad! Tell me it is not true!’ - -‘My dear cousin--my dear brother, for such you are in affection to -me--I cannot say that this loss has not been sent by the Almighty -Father to wake you to a sense of the sinful life you have been -leading. I should be false to my trust and to my belief were I to say -so. But for whatever reason it has been permitted, it has come in -love, Frederick, from a Father Who cannot see you ruin your hopes of -everlasting happiness, but would have the soul of your beloved wife, -and your own soul as well, in His keeping. My dear Fred, you must -know that you were wrong, not only to marry this poor child under the -existing circumstances, but to marry her without the consent of her -parents. Think of the trouble you have brought upon them, those poor -old people, who had no one to solace their age but this young creature -who lies before us. Frederick, my dear cousin, I know you don’t believe -in prayer, but let me pray for you and for _her_, that she may be -received into the ranks of those who shall be saved hereafter, even -though as by fire!’ - -‘Do you mean to say she is not happy now? That she has not already -entered into the joys of Heaven?’ asked Frederick anxiously. - -‘My dear cousin, you have surely not so far forgotten the precepts -of our Holy Church as to imagine that Heaven is obtained without -purgatory--bliss without self-sacrifice. This poor girl, however -innocent and blameless she may have seemed, will have her expiation -to pass through, as well as all of us. But we can pray for her, that -she may find relief. We can yield up our own wishes, our own pleasures, -that she may the sooner pass from purgatory to Paradise. Much will rest -with you. Your future life will make or mar her progress to the gates -of Heaven!’ - -‘It shall not mar it,’ replied Frederick, brokenly; ‘my life is worth -nothing to me now, and I will give it into your hands and Father -Tasker’s to do with as you think fit!’ - -Philip Walcheren smiled inwardly, not sardonically, for he was in -earnest if man ever was, but with sublime satisfaction that the -Almighty had seen fit to deliver the soul of this bruised reed into the -power of the Church. He had no doubt now but that his hopes for his -cousin’s future were assured, and the poisoned barb had gone home so -deeply that whilst the sting lasted he would be able to wield Frederick -as he chose. But he was too prudent to press the subject home at the -present moment. He contented himself with consoling his cousin to the -best of his ability, always keeping before him the power and influence -of the Blessed Mother of God, and her interest in the souls of young -girls, like the poor dead child before them, until the miserable -husband was almost supplicating the Virgin of his boyhood, then and -there, to save his darling from the pit his misdeeds had drawn her -into--he, who had not breathed a prayer for years past. - -Philip Walcheren stayed by him all through that night and until the -coroner’s jury assembled on the following afternoon. At the appointed -hour a noise, as of the trampling of many feet, sounded in the public -bar of the house, and Philip touched Frederick gently on the shoulder. - -‘Fred, dear old man, rouse yourself. Here are the coroner and jury -coming to view the body. And Mr Crampton and Mr Hindes wish to come in -first. Be brave, my dear cousin. It is a painful but necessary ordeal. -Stand apart a little and let your wife’s father have access to the -body. It is his right, you know.’ - -The young man stood up mechanically, and taking Philip’s arm staggered -to the other side of the room. Mr Crampton entered, leaning on Henry -Hindes. The latter was suffering the tortures of the damned. His eyes -were not still for a moment, and his whole frame shook and quivered. -The sight of the crushed and pallid corpse struck both men like a heavy -blow. Old Crampton gazed at it for a minute, muttering, ‘My God! My -God! can that be my Jenny?’ but Hindes said nothing, and kept his eyes -turned on Frederick Walcheren. Presently Mr Crampton’s followed suit, -and the sight appeared to rouse him into fury. - -‘Yes!’ he exclaimed, brandishing his stick, ‘there lies my murdered -child, and there stands her murderer.’ - -‘Crampton, Crampton, think what you are saying!’ cried Hindes, shaking -his friend’s arm, whilst Philip Walcheren said angrily, ‘If the effect -of this sad sight, which should draw two men in misfortune together, -is only to cause you to make malevolent and unjustifiable accusations, -sir, I shall be compelled, as my cousin’s friend, to request you to -leave the room. This lady may have been your daughter, but she was his -wife, and as such, no one has a right to intrude upon his grief.’ - -‘Ay, Ay! a wife he stole from me, sir--that he _stole_ from me, and -murdered!’ repeated the old man, shaking with rage. - -‘Gentlemen, I must beg you to clear the room,’ said the landlord at -this juncture. ‘The coroner and jury are coming in to view the body.’ - -His wife, entering at the same time, hustled them all into another -apartment, where they sat glaring at each other, until their time came -to be called to appear and give evidence. The coroner, a Mr Procter, -rather prided himself on his astuteness. He was for ever finding a -mountain in a molehill, for he hoped to mount the magisterial chair -some day, and his aim was to impress the public with his cleverness and -ingenuity. The first witnesses called were the two boatmen Jackson and -Barnes, who had found Jenny’s body lying at the bottom of the cliffs. - -‘It was five o’clock or nigh upon it, please yer honour,’ commenced the -spokesman, ‘as I and my mate here went to the lower beach to haul up -our boats.’ - -‘What do you call the “lower beach”?’ snapped Mr Procter, who was a -sandy-haired man, with a pimply face and red-rimmed eyes, ‘all the -beach is lower than the cliffs.’ - -‘Yes, yer honour; but we calls the beach below Dragon’s Foot the lower -beach, because so be, when the tide runs out--’ - -‘You are not here to tell us when the tide runs out, but to say how you -discovered the body of the deceased Jane Emily Walcheren,’ said the -coroner, consulting his papers. - -‘Yes, yer worship. Well! as I and my mate here was a-haulin’ up the -boats, I says to him, I says, “Bob,” I says, “what be that ’ere bundle -of white,” I says, “under the cliff?” “Blowed if I know,” he says, “it -looks like a sheet as has blowed over in drying,” he says.’ - -‘You are not here to tell the jury what your mate thought the body -looked like. You are to tell us how you found it.’ - -‘Yes, sir. Well, sir, we thought it was a sheet, you see, but when -we went to pick it up, we see it was a young woman. So we lifted her -atween us and carries her to this ’ere ’ouse, and then my mate he -fetches Dr M‘Coll. And that’s all, sir!’ - -‘Very good! Now, tell us, please, when you found the body was there no -one about?’ - -‘Not a soul as we see, my lord--I mean, yer worship--the beach was -empty from hend to hend.’ - -‘And the cliffs?’ - -‘Didn’t see a soul on the cliffs neither, yer worship.’ - -‘You met no one on your way here? You are sure!’ - -‘Quite sure, your honour! ’Twould be all over the town if we had!’ - -‘Very well! You can sit down. Call Dr M‘Coll!’ - -The doctor, having been sworn, deposed that he had been called to the -‘Bottle and Spurs’ at about six o’clock on Saturday night, to see the -deceased. She was then quite dead--had been dead for two or three -hours. There was a large bruise on the temple caused by her striking -against the rocks in her fall. That was of itself sufficient to have -caused death, but the spine was broken and the neck. The body was also -much bruised. There was no question but that the deceased had met her -death by falling over the cliffs. - -‘Now, Dr M‘Coll, I should like to put a few questions to you, if you -please,’ said Mr Procter, looking his very sharpest. ‘Is it your -opinion that the deceased must inevitably have fallen over the cliffs -of her own accord? Might she not have been blown over, or pushed over, -or thrown herself over by design?’ - -‘Certainly she might! It is impossible to say how she came to fall -over, but she _did_ fall over--that is beyond a question.’ - -‘Ah!’ said the coroner, with self-satisfaction, as if he had discovered -a very knotty point. ‘Then you consider death was due--’ - -‘To dislocation of the spine from a fall over the cliffs.’ - -‘That’s your opinion, is it?’ remarked the coroner, dubiously. - -‘Yes, sir, that’s my opinion,’ replied M‘Coll shortly, as he retired. - -The next witness was Crampton. He came tottering into the room, and -stood supporting himself on his silver-mounted cane. - -‘You are, I believe, the father of the deceased, Mr Crampton,’ began -the coroner, scrutinising the old man through his eye-glasses. - -‘I am, sir. She was my only child--the only one I had left.’ - -‘And she was married on the Friday preceding her death?’ - -‘She was, worse luck!’ - -‘Was her marriage undertaken with your consent, Mr Crampton?’ - -At this question, the old man became violently agitated. - -‘It was not, sir. She was stolen from me by a villain, who came to my -house under the disguise of friendship, and--’ - -Some one in the jury remarked that this was quite irrelevant to the -evidence on hand, but Mr Procter ordered him to be silent. - -‘This poor gentleman has sustained a double injury,’ he said. ‘Let him -tell his story in his own words.’ - -‘I have not much more to say, gentlemen,’ resumed Mr Crampton. ‘This -man, Frederick Walcheren, stole my daughter from me, and the next thing -I hear is that she is dead. It is not a long story, but it is a very -bitter one.’ - -‘And you have the full sympathy of the jury for it, Mr Crampton. I -believe your daughter was your heiress. Did you threaten to make any -alteration in your will if she went against your wishes?’ - -‘I did. I said that if she married this Walcheren, who is a Papist, she -shouldn’t have a halfpenny.’ - -‘Did you make the same intimation to Mr Walcheren?’ - -‘I think not, at least personally, but I suppose she did, for they ran -away together two days afterwards. And this is the end of it--this is -the end.’ - -‘You have recognised the deceased as your daughter?’ - -The father broke down. - -‘Oh, yes, sir, I have recognised her only too well. My poor pretty -darling. She was called the “Beauty of Hampstead,” sir, the “Beauty of -Hampstead.”’ - -‘Thank you, Mr Crampton, that will do. I am sorry to have troubled -you so far, but it was necessary. You can retire, sir. Call Mr Henry -Hindes.’ - -The witness entered the room, with a pallid face, compressed lips, as -if resolved that nothing should make him betray himself, and a stolid -demeanour which was wholly put on. The stakes were too high. He could -not afford to think or fear. All he had to do was to believe things -were _not so_, and to act accordingly. - -‘You look ill, Mr Hindes. Do you wish for a chair?’ - -‘Certainly not! But I am an old friend of the family. I have known the -deceased from a child.’ - -‘Ah! We will detain you as short a time as possible. You were in Dover, -Mr Hindes, on Saturday last, I believe. Will you tell the jury why you -came here?’ - -‘I came at the instigation, and with the knowledge, of my old friends -Mr and Mrs Crampton, to bring a message to their daughter, and to see -if I could effect a reconciliation between them.’ - -‘Between them and the young couple?’ - -‘No, not with Mr Walcheren--they steadfastly refused to see or speak -with Mr Walcheren--but with his wife, their daughter.’ - -‘How could a reconciliation be effected with one and not with the -other?’ - -‘Because Miss Crampton--the deceased--had married without the consent -of her people, and her father had cut her out of his will. But, as the -marriage was somewhat irregular--’ - -‘How was it irregular?’ - -‘Miss Crampton was not of age, and Mr Walcheren swore, when he procured -the licence, that she was!’ - -‘Oh! he did!’ said the coroner, making a note of the fact on his -papers; ‘and Mr Crampton cut the deceased out of his will in -consequence?’ - -‘He did so, or meant to do so, but he sent me here with a message to -the effect that if she would return home, and permit the marriage to be -annulled, he would receive her back, but on no other terms.’ - -‘And may I ask what the lady said when you delivered that message to -her?’ - -‘I never delivered it! I did not see her! I called twice at the Castle -Warden Hotel, but each time was told that she was out, so I returned to -town without seeing her!’ - -‘And you did not see Mr Walcheren either?’ - -‘I did not see Mr Walcheren either.’ - -‘Upon which you returned to town?’ - -‘Yes! I went up by the five-thirty train.’ - -‘One moment, Mr Hindes. Can you tell me if Mr Walcheren was aware of Mr -Crampton’s intention to cut his daughter out of his will _before_ this -marriage took place?’ - -‘I do not know! I was deputed once to make Mr Crampton’s wishes -relative to his daughter known to Mr Walcheren, and the risk may have -been mentioned, but he would not take it as a definite decision from -me. The chief objection always brought forward was to his religion. Mr -Crampton would not hear of his daughter marrying a Roman Catholic.’ - -‘Of course not! very natural!’ observed Mr Procter, who, like most -of the middle classes in England, was an ultra-Protestant, and only -connected Catholicism with monasteries, nunneries, fasting, confession -and the Grand Inquisition. - -‘That will do, Mr Hindes! you can stand down,’ said the coroner, with -a smile. The next witnesses examined were Mr Cameron, the landlord of -the Castle Warden, and the waiters and chambermaids, who had or had not -seen poor Jenny Walcheren leave the hotel on that fatal day. - -Then came a call for the last witness--the witness whom Mr Procter had -purposely reserved to the last. - -‘Tell Mr Frederick Walcheren he is required.’ - -But Philip Walcheren stepped forward instead. - -‘Are you the husband of the deceased, sir?’ - -‘No! I am his cousin. I have come to ask you if his presence and -testimony on this, the most trying occasion of his life, cannot be -dispensed with? He is half beside himself with grief. Picture to -yourself, gentlemen, a young husband bereft the very day after his -wedding of all that made his life happy. He is not in a fit state to -answer any questions, nor to have his inmost feelings submitted to -scrutiny. Besides, he knows no more than you do! He parted with his -poor wife in radiant health and spirits on Saturday morning, and never -saw her again until she lay on that table as you have seen her. The -doctor has given you his testimony that her death was the result of a -pure accident! Is it necessary, then, that my poor cousin should be -tortured by recalling in public the memories that are nearly driving -him out of his mind.’ - -‘It is absolutely necessary, Mr Walcheren,’ replied the coroner, ‘the -husband’s testimony may prove the most important of all. I cannot, in -the pursuit of my duty, excuse the presence of your cousin. Call Mr -Frederick Walcheren.’ - -And all eyes were turned eagerly towards the door, to watch the advent -of the greatest sufferer of all by this most hapless adventure. - - -END OF VOL. I. - - -COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. - -* * * * * - - - - -Transcriber's note - - -Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. The following -Printer errors have been changed: - - CHANGED FROM TO - Page 2: “by-and-bye” “by-and-by” - Page 21: “dinner-time” “dinner time” - Page 21: “half-an-hour” “half an hour” - Page 40 “unbrella” “umbrella” - Page 47: “anyone of the other” “any one of the other” - Page 49: “spend-thrift” “spendthrift” - Page 56: “Well, really, father” “Well, really, Father” - Page 57: “liason” “liaison” - Page 61: “six thirty” “six-thirty” - Page 67: “promise not see” “promise not to see” - Page 78: “prententions” “pretensions” - Page 80: “Brunnel” “Brunell” - Page 95: “think off” “think of” - Page 111: “Your’s” “Yours” - Page 132: “remains of breakfast was” “remains of the breakfast were” - Page 138: “paralysed us us” “paralysed us” - Page 155: “half-an-hour” “half an hour” - Page 161: “he begun” “he began” - Page 169: “out of her’s” “out of hers” - Page 202: “chosing his words” “choosing his words” - Page 210: “ividly white” “vividly white” - Page 210: “s probably something” “is probably something” - Page 227: “if the effect” “If the effect” - Page 228: “Proctor” “Procter” - Page 232: “Proctor” “Procter” - Page 238: “of hs” “of his” - -All other inconsistencies are as in the original. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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