THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA ENDOWED BY THE DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES PRii989 J8 1880a U 2 UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 10001729042 THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA LIBRARY PRESENTED BY THE WILLIAM A. WHITAKER FOUNDATION JUST AS I AM A NOVEL BY M. E. BRADDON, AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," ETC. COPYRIGHT EDITION. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LEIPZIG BERN HARD TAUCHNITZ 1880. The Right of Translation is reserved. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill http://www.archive.org/details/justasiamnovelOObrad CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. Page CHAPTER 1. Every Dog has his Day 7 — II. Father and Duighter . M — III. After Twenty Years . . . . 22 — IV. A Wilful Man must have his Way 3= — V. Dulcie asks Questions 4' — VI. "This Man kill- d my Father" 51 — VII. Morton'*- Womenkind . 58 — Vlli In the Assize Court 74 — IX Guilty . . . 91 — X. A Superior Woman . 107 — XI A Friendly Dinner 117 — XL At the Sugar-Loaves . 128 — XIII A Pie:' for th Prisoner 140 — XIV The Yellow Ribbon . *5° — XV Dora Blakr isks a Question 162 — XVI "I must be behind th' Age" 167 — XVII Come to Gtief 17s — XVIII Link hy Link 187 — XIX Blntr.hmardean Castl- 203 _ XX. A Fountain i>f But i Wat' rg an CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. Page CHAPTER XXI. Christmas at Tangley Manor .... 223 — XXII. "To the End of the World" 236 — XXIII. In Mr. Tomplin's Chambers 244 — XXIV. On the Wing 252 — XXV. Dulcie sacrifices Herself 262 — XXVI. Whistled down the Wind 271 — XXVII. Poor Lucy 282 — XXVIII. Shafto Jebb is sent for 300 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER I. EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY. An autumn evening, with a biting north wind, and the sun going down redly behind the oaks of Blatch- mardean Park. A winding road, with a coppice on one side, and a steep bank topped by a straggling hedge where the blackberry leaves are still green, while the hips and haws offer a feast for the birds, on the other. A desolate bit of road, remote from human habitation; no glimmer of fire-lit cottage window in the distance; no gray smoke-wreaths curling up above the wood. It is only a mile and a quarter from here to the village of Austhorpe, yet the belated traveller might fancy himself far from all possibility of shelter. A solitary figure cowering under the hedge, with a vagabond dog crouching close at its side, enhances rather than lessens the solitude of the scene. There is something desolate and dreaiy in that gaunt figure, clad in an old smock frock, patched with such various shades of stuff, as almost to rival Joseph's coat of 8 JUST AS I AM. many colours. The wayfarer is elderly and grim-look- ing. He has long grizzled hair, and a weather-beaten complexion, hollow cheeks, and haggard eyes. Every line in his rugged face tells of privation that has gone near to famine. The dog has the same gaunt frame and hungry look, as he sits watching his master gnaw- ing a mouldy crust which he has just extracted from the blue cotton handkerchief that holds all his worldly gear. The hungry master gnaws, and the hungry mongrel envies, wagging his poor stump of a tail ever and anon in mute supplication, once or twice bursting into a tremulous whine. His owner looks at him dubiously, out of a corner of his eye, and at last, with a reluctant air, relinquishes his grip upon the crust, and tosses the remaining fragment to the cur. "A bite for him, and a bite for me," growls the vagabond. "There ain't a jail in England where I shouldn't get a better supper than I can get as a free man. 'Liberty's sweet,' says some folks. Not for starving stomachs, says I. Liberty's bitter, when it only means you're free to starve and rot — as we are — eh, Tim?" Tim stands on end, and licks the wanderer's face. 11 is only a dog's tongue, but the most loving salute Humphrey Vargas is likely to get in this life. Vargas picks himself up stiffly, for he is sixty years old, and tired and footsore, from the bank where he has been sitting on a cushion of fallen leaves, and begins to look about him in the gray dusk. "Why, if it ain't the blessed spot!" he exclaims. "There's the pollard oak — and the pool just inside the hedge — and there's the path across the copse yonder EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY. Q to Blatchmardean. No mistake about it. This is the spot. Twenty year ago, to-day — twenty year ago — and it all comes back to me as if it was yesterday. I'm not much of a one to remember days and years, but I shall never forget that day, nor that year, nor this place." He clambered up the bank, and looked about him, peering through the dusk, across the meadows yonder, with their tangled hedges and tall timber — an old- fashioned picturesque landscape, neither improved nor disfigured by high farming. On the other side of the narrow road — for this village of Austhorpe was off the king's highway, a hamlet approached by rustic lanes — there w T as only the mysterious darkness of the wood. "I know that there pollarded oak, and I can swear to that there bit of water," said Vargas. "I've seen the place too often in my dreams to forget it when I'm awake. And now, come on, Tim. You and me are going to sleep under a roof to-night. Ah, lad, though I don't know about you. Maybe they'll refuse to take you in, old chap; but we'll try to work it, we'll tiy to work it, Tim." He shouldered his stick, and trudged on reso- lutely. "Hardly over a mile," he muttered to himself, "I can do that." The dog crawled by his side dead lame. Vargas would have been lamer than the cur but for that power of will which made the man a little higher than the dog. The lane was lonely enough for the first half-mile, then came a solitary cottage, on a knoll above the road-way, with its row of beehives against the darkling sky, and its cheerful fire-glow shining 10 JUST AS I AM. across the lane; then a couple of cottages together, little better than hovels, but suggestive of warmth and comfort to the wanderer who had no shelter; then more cottages, four in a row, substantial, respectable dwellings, with a century old date upon their rough- cast front, latticed casements, sloping thatched roofs, with a dormer window in each that looked like an eye under a penthouse brow. Here again was the com- fortable fire-glow shining through lattice and half-open door, a glimpse of rustic luxury inside — a neatly swept hearth, a singing kettle, a little round table with cups and saucers, all twinkling in the firelight, and a big brown loaf. Far away, at the end of a long lane of vanished years, Vargas saw the picture of just such a cottage interior, and himself coming home to it, a respectable member of society, earning his sixteen shillings a week manfully, and keeping a wife and five children. He remembered the flaxen heads and rosy cheeks in the ruddy light of the wood fire— the snugness of the cottage, at sixpence a week, with a patch of potato ground, and half-a-dozen apple trees behind it. "Was that contented, respectable chap me?" he asked himself wonderingly. Here are the lights of Austhorpe. Not many or brilliant. A feeble ray from the village shop — a glim- mer in the schoolhouse windows — a cheery light shin- ing through the red curtain at the " Sugar-Loaves Inn," where three wooden sugar-loaves, pendent from the sign-post in the road, are swinging in the north-east wind. A light yonder from the lodge window by the gate of Fairview, Sir Everard Courtenay's place. Vargas stood and looked up and down the village EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY. I I street — if that could be called a street which was verily a wide open road, with a farmhouse on one side, a few scattered cottages on the other, further on a pond, and half-a-dozen more cottages, culminating in a shop at a corner opposite the schoolhouse, and beyond that, facing down the road, which here turned off at a sharp angle, the village inn, with its three sugar-loaves groaning and creaking in the wind. The church, an old stone barn — which looked as if it had been begun without any definite idea, and abandoned by an architect who did not know how to finish it — stood apart in the midst of fields, and had altogether an accidental air. Vargas knew the place as well as he knew himself, though it was twenty years to-night since he had set foot on that quiet road. He saw that an old cottage or two which he remembered had tumbled down, or disappeared somehow, and that a couple of new cottages had been built. He saw the sugar-loaves swinging as they had swung above his head many a time on summer evenings when he had stood among the village quid- nuncs settling the fate of empires. The red curtain had faded a little, perhaps; there was a stout limb lopped from one of the three tall poplars; but the old house had the same air of thrift and prosperity as of yore. Humphrey Vargas explored the bottom of his breeches pockets with careful fingers, in the faint hope of finding a forgotten penny. But those pockets were positively empty. There was no delusion. Bite nor sup, save from charity or official relief, was not for Humphrey to-night. "I'll do it," he muttered to himself between his set 12 JUST AS I AM. teeth. "It's the last move left to me. I shall be locked up for life, but I shall have bread to eat, and a roof to cover me, and my poor old bones won't ache as they ache to-night. Yes," he ejaculated with an oath, "I'll do it." He went as far as the "Sugar-Loaves," crept close up to the window, and peeped in through a crack in the crimson curtain. A man was sitting by the fire smoking a long clay pipe. Two more sat apart at a table drinking beer. A creature who looked little better than a tramp lay asleep, stretched full-length upon a bench by the white-washed wall, but an empty plate and mug on the table beside him showed that he had patronized the house before he took his rest, and a well-filled bundle, which served as a pillow for his touzled head, indicated his claim to be considered a respectable member of society. The picture, humble as it was — a sanded floor, deal tables, kitchen fireplace — filled Vargas with envy. He went in at the open door. The landlord was sitting in his snug bar, reading yesterday's paper. "Who's the magistrate hereabouts, mate?" asked Vargas. "You'd better keep out of his way," answered the landlord. "He's a mark on tramps." "You just keep your advice till you're asked for it," growled Vargas. "I want to know the magis- trate's name, and where I can find him. That's all I want." "I suppose you are going to give yourself in charge," said the landlord ironically. "I am." EVERY DOG HAS HIS DAY. I 3 "You'd better go and tell that to the marines, my friend. Our magistrate is Sir Everard Courtenay, the owner of Fairview. You will see the lodge gate at the end of the street. There isn't a finer gentleman in the county, nor one that's kinder to his tenants and servants; but he's as hard as nails when it comes to such cattle as you." "I ain't afraid of him," answered Vargas. "Oh, I say, landlord, d'ye happen to know anyone as wants a dawg?" "That depends on circumstances. If the dog's a good bred 'un, handsome, and well edicated, and to be had for nothing, I might find you a customer." "The dog ain't handsome, but he's as true as steel," replied Vargas, "and you may have him for " he was going to say for nothing, but changed his mind — " for a mug of beer." And here he held Timothy aloft by the scruff of his neck, and exhibited the cur to the landlord and a friendly lounger. They both saluted Tim's perfections with a loud guffaw. "Thank you," said the landlord. "I appreciate the offer, but my conscience wouldn't let me rob you of such a valuable specimint. Keep him agen the next dog show; or p'r'aps the Prince o' Wales might like to continoo the breed." "You may chaff," growled Vargas, "but you don't know what you're refusing. There never was such a dog for sense and affection. He's the best house dog in England." "Did you ever try him?" asked the lounger, who con- sidered himself the village wit. "Had you ever a house?" 14 JUST AS I AM. "Yes," snapped Vargas, "but not so big a one as you ought to okipy." "Indeed!" "The county asylum's about the fit for you, seeing that natur has entitled you to a place in the idiot ward." "Thank you," said the lounger, with an air of saying something crushing. "If I was the heditor of a comic paper I should ask you to communicate again!" "Then you won't have the dawg, landlord?" pleaded Vargas, with a piteous look, first at Tim, and then at the prosperous over-fed host. "Not unless I had him stuffed for a scarecrow," said the landlord; "so now, my man, you'd better sheer off. Customers of your quality ain't in request at the Sugar-Loaves. Their favours is not solicited." The man muttered a curse, and turned on his heel. "Better in jail than out for such as me — better underground than above it." He crawled slowly back again, by the way he had come, to the other end of the village. CHAPTER II. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. Fairview was one of those places which suggest at a glance old-established respectability and a long line of ancestry, a race that has taken deep root in the soil. It was not a grand house, or a show house. It had a snug and even homely air, as of a house meant FATHER ANT) DAUCHTER. 1 5 to withstand the ravages of time and weather rather than to show off its architectural beauty under an Italian sky. It was a Tudor house, with heavy mul- lioned windows, huge central chimney stacks, and many gables. It was a long, low house, with a broad terrace in front of it, and below the terrace a stiff Italian garden, with a round pond and fountain in the middle, and beyond the garden a fair expanse of un- dulating green sward, richly timbered. The pond and the fountain were as old as the house and the gold fish that splashed about in the water were popularly supposed to be of the same date, and to have seen Queen Elizabeth, when she spent a night at Fairview, in one of her royal progresses. There were people of a radical turn of mind who disbelieved in Queen Elizabeth's visit to Fairview; but there was the old carved oak bedstead, which had been set up for her especial accommodation, and there were the cramoisy satin curtains, faded to a dull brick-dust hue, which. had sheltered her august person from the night air. Time had toned down every colour inside and out- side the good old house to mellowest half-tints. Brick and stone had assumed all those varying shades of purple and grey, red and brown, which time and the lichen tribe give to old houses. There had been no restoration or renovation, but all things had been kept in exquisite order from the beginning of time; for the Courtenays were one of the most respectable families in the county. Nobody had ever been able to say that the Courtenay estate was "dipped." No one had ever hinted at an undue felling of timber. The small park, or chase, as Sir Everard preferred to call it, could boast some of the finest trees within fifty miles. Th$ 1 6 JUST AS I AM. home farm was a model of advanced farming, every cow a picture, eveiy carthorse worthy of a prize medal. Even the pigs were the aristocracy of the porker tribe. The Courtenays were not among the wealthiest of the land, but they had never been poor. That was their great merit. From the time when Jasper Cour- tenay, the lawyer, chosen companion and favourite of Francis Bacon, bought the old monastic lands of Fair- view for a song, till this present day, there had been no reprobate or prodigal to tarnish the family shield or to diminish the estate. These Courtenays, a younger branch of a good old Devonian family tree, had thriven and nourished in their Daleshire home. They had married always respectably, sometimes profitably. They had affected the graver professions, and had won fame in the Senate and on the Bench, rather than in the more adventurous careers of soldier or sailor. They had been men of considerable culture, handing down a certain pride and stateliness of mind and mien from sire to son, as if it had been a tangible heritage. They had for the most part married late in life, and had not left large families. And now the race of the Fairview Courtenays had dwindled to two persons, Sir Everard Courtenay and his only child, Dulcibella, other- wise and always known as Dulcie. To-night, while the north-east wind was stripping off the ruddy beech leaves, and bending the long level branches of the cedars, the low-ceiled, panelled par- lour at the end of the house, looking out upon dark shrubberies, was the picture of homely old-fashioned comfort. It was Dulcie's room, the room where she had studied with governess and masters during the FATHER AND DAUGHTER. I 7 studious period of her life, and where she was now sovereign mistress, free to improve each shining hour, like the bees, or to waste her time, like the butterflies, just as inclination prompted. The old furniture had been enlivened by various modern luxuries and ele- gancies in accordance with Dulcie's taste. The black oak chimney-piece presented a kaleidoscopic variety of colour. Pots and pans, cups and saucers, and platters of Dulcie's painting or Dulcie's purchasing, gleamed from the sombre old woodwork, enriched with many a garland and festoon by the chisels of dead and gone carvers. There were two old ebony cabinets crowded with toys and crockery of Dulcie's collecting. The chair covers were of Dulcie's working, and blossomed all over with woodland and meadow flowers on a drab ground, for she was as dexterous with needle as with pencil. Here, in front of the broad square window, stood Dulcie's piano, a modern antique in ebony and brass, Sir Everard's last New Year's gift to a daughter for whom he deemed nothing too beautiful or too costly. Two pictures, and two only, adorned the dark, dull walls — one the portrait of Dulcie's mother, the other a striking likeness of Sir Everard Courtenay at nine and twenty years of age. He was now fifty. In front of the wide old fireplace, where the logs were burning merrily, stood a little gimcrack table, and on the table a silver kettle, and quaint Japanese tea service, all red and yellow. Dulcie had been making afternoon tea for her father and a visitor; and now tea was over, and her father was sitting in the big arm-chair on one side of the hearth, with the visitor opposite, while Dulcie herself sat on a low stool in front of the blaze, which glittered and sparkled Just as I aw. I. 2 1 8 JUST AS I AM. upon the pale gold of her wavy hair. She sat looking at the fire with her lovely blue eyes, the bluest and sweetest eyes that Morton Blake had ever looked upon. This was her twentieth birthday, but the girlishness of her slender form, and the childlike innocence of her countenance, gave the impression of extreme youth. A stranger would have thought Dulcie at most sixteen. Her life had been so sheltered and protected, so free from worldly care and all the hard bitter knowledge which worldly care brings with it, that the passing years had left no impression on the fair young face. .She was as frank and girlish in mind and manner as she had been seven years ago in her nursery. Time had brought her new graces and accomplishments without taking from her this supreme grace of child- like simplicity. This was her birthday, and she was spending it quietly and gravely, sitting at the feet of the father who idolized her, and whose love she returned in fullest measure. There was a reason why Dulcie's birthday should never be marked by festivity or re- joicing of any kind. It was the saddest day of the year for Sir Everard Courtenay, for close upon the stroke of midnight on that never-to-be-forgotten twentieth of October, and within an hour of her baby's birth, his young wife had died. They had been married little more than a year. Lady Courtenay had been one of the belles of the county, the daughter of a duke's younger son, and a bishop's portionless niece, with no fortune but her lovely face and richly gifted nature. Sir Everard had won her against a host of rivals, and he had been an adoring husband. And after little more than a year of FATHER AND DAUGHTER. ig wedded happiness, sunshine without a cloud, as those judged who had best known husband and wife, death had snatched her from him, and he had been left alone in a blank and desolate world, for at this time he counted the baby daughter as nothing. "He will marry again," said Society, as repre- sented by the parents of marriageable daughters. "So good-looking and in the prime of life. Of course he will marry again. It would be absolutely sinful if he didn't." Sir Everard disappointed Society, and especially the mothers of attractive daughters, by leaving England the day after his wife's funeral. He led a roving life in the wildest part of Europe for the next seven years, while Dulcibella was waxing lovely and sagacious under the care of a married aunt in a far away Welsh vicarage; and then he came home all of a sudden and went to look at his daughter. She was a childish image of his dead wife, and that set his wounded heart bleeding afresh; but she was so fair and so loving that he grew by degrees to find comfort in her innocent companionship, and after spending an idle summer among the Welsh hills, whip- ping romantic waters for trout, reading and brooding in fair solitudes, he said one day — "Dulcie, we'll go home, and you shall keep house for me, and make my life happy." He carried out this plan to the letter. The seven- year-old baby was practically mistress of Fairview. The life he lived was the life Dulcie liked. His garden, his stables, his hothouses, all were regulated to please that girlish fancy. The servants were referred to Dulcie for orders. Dulcie had a governess, and governed the governess. If the child had been of a 20 JUST AS I AM. selfish disposition she would have grown up an exe- crable tyrant. But as she had a nature of inexhaustible sweetness she only grew preternaturally grave and wise, with a childish old-fashionedness that was delightful. And so she grew, and flourished, and blossomed under her father's eye, growing nearer to his heart every day, learning every accomplishment that could minister to his pleasure, soothing him when he was weary, amusing him when he was inclined to be gay, reading to him, writing his letters when he was lazy, nursing him when he was ill, more devoted than one wife in a hundred or one daughter in a thousand. They lived very much by themselves, this father and daughter, mixing in county society only so far as they were obliged. Sir Everard liked to be alone, and Dulcie liked whatever he liked. They went abroad together every summer, and all the rest of the year they lived in the good old house, of which Dulcie never tired. The quiet winter evenings by the fireside, with book, or drawing board, work or music, never wearied her. To be with her father was perfect happiness, and who need seek variety in per- fect happiness? She and her father had the same tastes, the same inclinations. They both loved art and music, they both had a passion for books. There were books everywhere at Fairview — books in every variety of rich, and sombre, and delicate binding — Sir Everard and his daughter were connois- seurs in bindings — books in their homely cloth or paper covers, waiting promotion upon merits. Dulci- bella had read much and wisely for a young woman of twenty; but not all the books in the Bodleian would FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 21 ever have made Dulcie strong-minded or "blue." Cul- ture left her simple and natural as a child who has never learned its alphabet. Culture with Dulcie meant, verily, sweetness and light. Of late there had been one very constant visitor at Fairview, a visitor who now ranked almost as a member of the family. This was Morton Blake, of Tangley Manor, who had met Dulcibella two years ago at a flower show and fallen in love with her on the spot. At least this was what he told her six months afterwards, when after meeting her everywhere she went, and calling at Fairview as often as he de- cently could, he asked her to be his wife. Dulcie told her father of this offer, and confessed her willingness to accept it, as freely as she had told him her every thought and fancy hitherto; but for the first time in her life she found that indulgent father opposed to her. He would not hear of Morton Blake as a husband for his daughter. He had no specific objection to offer to the match. The man was fairly well born, very well bred, good looking, well off. Sir Everard could only say, "He is not the man I should choose for you. If you wish to please me you will not marry Morton Blake." For a daughter who so loved, and had been so beloved, this expression of a father's desire was enough. "Then I shall not marry him, dear father," she said, and she never more mentioned Blake's name, though he contrived to force himself upon her pre- sence several times, and urged his suit with passion and persistence. But the father saw his child's cheek grow pale, and her eye hollow. He saw a hundred signs and tokens, not willingly betrayed, of growing 22 JUST AS I AM. unhappiness; and one evening, when they had been sitting by the fire for a long time in pensive silence, he drew Dulcie on to his knee and turned the sweet sad face towards the lamplight. "My dearest pet, you are unhappy," he said. "It's nothing, papa. It will pass away." "My own dear love, answer me truly. Does the happiness of your life hang upon this marriage with Morton Blake?" She trembled slightly, and turned deadly pale, but she answered as honestly and fearlessly as she had answered her father's every question hitherto: "I'm afraid it does, father. I have tried to forget him; I have tried to put the thought of him out of my life. But I can't do it." "Then you shall marry him," said Sir Everard. CHAPTER III. AFTER TWENTY YEARS. "You shall marry him," said Sir Everard; so Mor- ton and Dulcibella were engaged; the fair, flower-like girl, and the dark-eyed, grave young man, full of the sense of life's duties and responsibilities; a man who from boyhood upwards had taken life earnestly, and had cared little for pleasure. "Strange," said the honourable Mrs. Aspinall, of Aspinall Towers, who was the leading voice in the chorus of county society. "I remember Mr. Blake's father being among Alice Rothney's admirers, but AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 2$ Lord George would not hear of such a thing, and the mother was equally opposed to it." "Poor Lady Courtenay," sighed Mrs. AspinalPs visitor, young Mrs. Kibble, a struggling curate's wife, who only knew of these great people by hearsay. "She was very lovely, was she not?" "Lovely," cried Mrs. Aspinall, "we don't see such beauty now-a-days. These young persons whose photo- graphs obtrude themselves upon us everywhere are mere dolls in comparison. Girls had very little help from dress in my time, Mrs. Kibble. There were no wrigglings and twistings of the figure, to show off the set of a train, no side glances under Devonshire hats, no twisting of a handsome throat to sniff a rose pinned on the shoulder, no posturing behind big fans. A young woman's gown was cut straight up and down like a flour sack, she had a bit of lace round her shoulders that was called a bertha, she had a camelia stuck in her hair, and she walked with her feet on the ground instead of balancin' herself upon a three- inch heel, a corn, and a bunion, as girls do now-a- days. Some young women wore pink, and some wore blue, and a great many more wore white. If there was a girl dressed in yaller people stared at her. And that was a ball-room." "How uninteresting," said Mrs. Kibble, who had been plotting and planning for the last week how to do up her cheap black silk with Nottingham lace in the exact style of Mrs. Aspinall's last confection from Worth. "And in such a gown as that Alice Rothney was the cynosure of every eye. Yes, Blake was desperately in love with her. He was a widower with three chil- 2\ JUST AS I AM. dren, belonging to the mercantile classes, only one generation removed from a foundry, not at all the kind of man that Lord George Rothney would be likely to approve of as a husband for his beautiful daughter. There were three daughters I believe, but neither of the sisters could compare with Alice." "Did the young lady care for him?" asked Mrs. Kibble, deeply interested, and gratified that Mrs. Aspinall should condescend to talk so much, her duty calls at the Towers being generally of an up-hill cha- racter. "Of course not. Alice was an arrant flirt, and knew her own value. She led on Blake, as she led others on, and then accepted Sir Everard Courtenay, and laughed at her admirers. She cared no more for breaking hearts than you care for breaking eggs when you make a pudden'," concluded Mrs. Aspinall, taking for granted that the curate's wife did make puddings. The Blakes belonged to the mercantile classes. This no doubt was the reason why Sir Everard Cour- tenay, who had much pride of race, had opposed his daughter's marriage with Morton. Geoffrey Blake, Morton's grandfather, had made his money at Black- ford, the big manufacturing town within thirty miles of Austhorpe. He had come up from the north, a penniless youth, with his clothes in a small deal box, and an invention for improving upon the existing method of smelting ore in his head. It had been hard work for him to get any one to hear of his new process, harder still to get it adopted, hardest of all to get it recognised as his, and to get rewarded for it. But there was a vein of doggedness in the Blake AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 25 family that made them conquerors in every struggle, and Geoffrey Blake pegged along the hard road of industrious poverty till he came to the Temple of Fortune. Once there the goddess treated him kindly. He died a millionaire, leaving two sons, the elder of whom inherited the bulk of his father's property, and carried on the ironworks, while the younger got forty thousand pounds in the funds, an estate called Tangley Manor, which was worth thirty thousand more, and turned country squire. This was Walter Blake, Morton's father. He mar- ried a rural dean's daughter, who died six years after their marriage, leaving him with three children. He led a steady, reputable life, and was popular in his district. He hunted and shot a great deal, and farmed a little, and visited everybody worth visiting in the county; and in the prime and heyday of life, when his son Morton was just ten years old, he was foully murdered one October evening in the lane leading to Austhorpe, as he rode home from the hunt. This direful event happened on the very day of Dulcie's birth: so Morton, as well as his sweetheart, had reason to regard the 20th of October as a melan- choly anniversary. This did not prevent the lovers being quietly happy together, as they sat by the fire, while the north wind rattled the casements and wrung groans as of re- monstrance from the rocking elm branches. "What a wintry night," exclaimed Dulcie. "I must put my warm cloaks in hand directly. If this weather is going to last the children will want them ever so long before Christmas." All the village children were under Dulcie's pro- 2b JUST AS I AM. tection. She made them cloaks and hoods for winter; she gave them smart hats and tippets for summer. She taught in the Sunday school, and gave grand entertainments of tea and buns on the lawn, where the cedars had been growing ever since John Evelyn's time. Children, and mothers, and old women, were all more or less in Dulcie's care. There was never sickness in the village without her knowing of it and ministering to the sufferer; seldom a coffin for which her fair hands did not weave a wreath of hot-house flowers. "Dulcie, Dulcie, how would this world get on with- out you?" said Morton, smiling at her earnestness. "I should be no more missed than a rain-drop that falls into the sea," answered Dulcie, "except by my father; and I suppose you would feel a want of some- thing for the first day or two." "That day or two would be all my life, Dulcie." She had edged her stool away from her father's feet, to Morton's, so they two were in a manner alone together, talking in subdued voices, while Sir Everard sat looking dreamily at the fire, absorbed in thought. There never was a happier picture of domestic life. The girl's fair head nestling closely against her lover's arm, as it lay on the velvet cushion of his chair; Morton's earnest face looking down at her — a face full of power, with marked features, an open brow, curly brown hair, and thoughtful gray eyes. The father, in his low, deep chair on the other side of the hearth, a man still in the prime and vigour of life, with a profile as delicately chiselled as a cameo, clear, olive com- plexion, eyes of a darkly luminous gray, hair and beard like Hamlet's father's, "a sable silvered," but eyebrows AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 2"] and lashes still black as night. The face was at once handsome and remarkable. The form of forehead and skull promised a nature rich in fine qualities, bene- volent, large-minded, intellectual. Dulcie might well be proud of such a father. The white hand with tapering fingers resting on the tawny velvet elbow of the chair would have been beautiful, even in a woman; yet it was a strong and muscular hand withal, and had pulled stroke on the Isis thirty years ago, and had been as true on the trigger of a rifle as the rugged paw of a Texan freebooter. These quiet evenings were ordinarily periods of perfect repose and happiness for Sir Everard Cour- tenay, but on this one day of the year he was always thoughtful, and sometimes moody and depressed. If he could by any means have been beguiled into for- getting the date until the day was over and done with, he might perchance have been spared the pain of sad memories; but modern civilization does not permit such oblivion. There, on his newspapers, on his letters, the date stared him in the face, and compelled him to remember. Dulcie was not unmindful of her father, even when she seemed most engrossed by her lover's conversation. She stole a little look at him now and then, and presently rose from her low seat and went softly to the piano. She knew that pathetic music had a soothing influence upon Sir Everard, even when his own thoughts were saddest. She played one of Chopin's dreamiest nocturnes — a melody which seemed the plaintive whisper of a tender regret— a mournful yet caressing strain, as of one who loved the very sorrow that consumed him. 28 JUST AS I AM. Music with Dulcie was a gift rather than an accom- plishment — there was soul in her fingers from the time she first touched the piano. Expression with her was thought and feeling, not a mechanical adjustment of finger tips, and mathematical gradation from loud to soft. She had been carefully taught and trained to interpret her favourite composers, but in whatever she played — Beethoven, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin — there was always something of Dulcie's very self, an individual soul interwoven with every phrase. She played on, passing from one nocturne to an- other, and then to the swelling chords of one of Beethoven's sonatas, while the shadows deepened in the room, and the logs dropped into ashes on the hearth. Presently the door was softly opened, and the butler came in. "There is a man in the office, Sir Everard, who wishes to see you on particular business. He has got a statement to make, he says." Sir Everard started up at the summons, thoroughly awakened out of his reverie. If there was one thing upon which he was more severe with himself than an- other it was in the strict performance of his magisterial duties. He was a man of culture, loving books and art, and all the fairest things in life, a man to whom petty sessions and rural politics must needs be an abomination; yet he loved order so well that he had willingly undertaken the office of magistrate, and once having put his hand to the plough, had never wavered. He was unerringly just, but he did not lean to the side of mercy, and the villagers thought him a Draco. "What kind of a man?" AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 2Q "Looks like a tramp, Sir Everard!" "What can he want? Parish relief, I suppose. He should go to the overseer." "So I told him, Sir Everard, thinking it might be that, but it isn't. He says he wants to give himself up." "Give himself up?" "Yes, Sir Everard, for a murder committed twenty years ago." Morton Blake started up, pale in the firelight. A man whose father had been murdered twenty years ago, on that very day, was not likely to hear such a statement calmly. "Twenty years ago?" he cried. "Why this man must be my father's murderer. Let me see him — let me— " "My dear Morton, don't agitate yourself," remon- strated Sir Everard quietly. "Believe me, there is no reason. I know so well what this kind of thing means. Some idle, drunken, poaching, rick-burning vagabond, who has run the gamut of rural crime and drunk away the better part of his brains, takes it into his head to make his name famous by handing himself over to justice for the one solitary crime of which he is not guilty. A night in the lock-up at Highclere will bring him to his senses, and to-morrow morning he will be whining his recantation." "But the date," exclaimed Morton, strongly agi- tated, "twenty years ago, this very day " "A mere coincidence," returned Sir Everard lightly. "I daresay this vagabond never heard of your poor father, living or dead. I'll soon get rid of the ruffian. Is the lamp lighted in the office, Scroope?" "Yes, Sir Everard, and there's a good fire." 30 JUST AS I AM. "You'll come back to us directly you've done with the man, won't you, papa?" pleaded Dulcie, accom- panying her father to the door. "Yes, dear, if you wish it." "I do very much wish it. If you dispose of your visitor quickly, we can have just a quarter of an hour's chat before the warning bell rings. You won't be too hard upon this poor ignorant creature, will you, dear father?" urged Dulcie, who had always her gentle prayer for infinite mercy to rogues and vagabonds. Sinners would have had an easy time of it if Miss Courtenay had sat in the magistrate's chair. Her father kissed her, and murmured a loving word or two, but promised nothing; and then Dulcie, with a regretful sigh that there should be so much sin and sorrow in the world, went back to the hearth where Morton stood looking down at the logs with fixed and gloomy brow. She laid her hand lightly on his shoulder, but he did not feel or did not heed the touch. "Dear Morton," she said, "I am sorry this should have moved you so deeply." "I am always moved when I think of my father's death. Do you suppose it was out of my mind on this day, at this hour, the very hour in which he was riding quietly homeward from the hunt — riding home- ward, but never to reach home alive? Do you think that I can forget, Dulcie — that I can ever forget how he died, and that his murderer has never been dis- covered? If I thought the man in your father's office at this moment had hand or part in that deed, I don't think the restraints of civilization would be strong AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 3 I enough to prevent me rushing to that room and flying at his throat like a bulldog." There was something of the bulldog in his look as he spoke, the gloomy, yet resolute eye, the powerful jaw, the appearance of reserved power, every muscle braced for a spring. "Ever since I can remember I have had one wish always uppermost in my mind, the desire to find my- self face to face with the man who killed my father. Great heaven, think that he may now, on this twentieth anniversary of the murder, be standing within fifty yards of me! Dulcie, why should I not go to your father's office? Why should I not hear what the scoundrel has to say?" "For a hundred reasons. First, because you are in a most unchristian state of mind." "Unchristian!" muttered Blake. "Is it unchristian to hate the man who murdered my father?" "And would be likely to do some act which you might repent all the rest of your life. You heard what my father said, Morton? Be sure he knows what he is talking about. He has had thirteen years' experience of these people. The man will not be able to deceive him. He will have justice, rigid justice; I know that too well, for I have so often had to plead for mercy in vain." "And I am to wait here for an indefinite time?" said Morton, turning from her with an impatient gesture, and walking up and down the room. "What, while a conversation which may be life or death for me is being carried on in my absence!" Never before had he spoken so roughly to Dulcie. The change startled her, as when the glow and glory 32 JUST AS I AM. of a summer day turns all at once to cloud and storm. Some girls in Dulcie's position would have resented the rudeness of the lover; she thought only of the son's devotion to a dead father. She stole to his side, and put her arm through his, and laid her head upon his shoulder. "You will not have long to wait, dear Morton. My father manages these people so well. Only be patient for a little while." CHAPTER IV. A WILFUL MAN MUST HAVE HIS WAY. The magistrate's office was a panelled room which had been a private chapel in the days when country gentlemen of some standing kept their chaplains. It was a large and lofty apartment, but had a look of gloom and a chilly atmosphere upon this October evening, despite the coal fire which burned in the large grate at one end of the room. The grate was recessed in a cavernous chimney, and the greater part of the heat went up to the autumn skies. Sir Everard's writing table stood in front of the hearth, furnished with a pair of shaded moderator lamps, which threw all their light on the table, and left the magistrate's face in shadow. Sir Everard loved a subdued light, and hated the glare of gas, or unshaded lamps of any kind. He had the eye of a hawk, and could see as well in this half light as most people can in the broad day. Humphrey Vargas stood a little way from the A WILFUL MAN MUST HAVE HIS WAY. 33 writing table, a gaunt, clumsy figure, his arms hanging at his sides, his broad hands clenching and unclench- ing themselves with a nervous movement, now and then. His dog crouched at his side. The footman had tried to prevent the entrance of that mongrel to the magistrate's room, but Vargas had insisted. "Where I goes my dog goes," he said. "You can't part us till you hang one on us." So there the dog was, quiet but watchful, evidently holding himself on the defensive, like a dog who knew he belonged to the criminal classes. "Well, sir," began the magistrate, seated in his roomy arm-chair — not a luxurious or effeminate chair, by any means, but the severest pollard oak and dark green morocco. "Well, sir, what have you to say to me?" "I want to give myself in charge." "Indeed! You are mighty conscientious all of a sudden. And pray which of your many crimes do you desire to expiate?" He looked at the man keenly, though he spoke lightly, supposing he had to deal with some drunken vagabond who was only half in earnest. To his sur- prise, however, this man did not look drunk. His gaunt frame and deeply sunken cheeks suggested starvation rather than riotous living. His eyes had a steady look, he stood firm upon his feet, and spoke like a man who had come there with a settled pur- pose. "I wants to give myself up for a murder I did twenty year ago — twenty year ago this blessed day — the murder of Muster Blake." Sir Everard looked at him long and steadily, Jm-t as I am. I. 3 34 JUST AS I AM. looked at him as if he would pluck out the heart of his mystery, penetrate to the very bottom of his soul. "Oh," he said at last, with startling coolness. "You are the man, are you? I thought the murderer would turn up sooner or later, but I did not suppose he would be self- accused. Come, sir, tell me your story, as plainly and as briefly as you can, and when I have written it down I shall read it over to you in the presence of a witness, and you must sign your name to it. Do you understand?" "Yes," answered Vargas unmoved. "Well, begin," said the magistrate, dipping a pen in the ink, and looking up at the self-accused with quiet intentness. "Well, Sir Everard, things had gone bad with me that year — everythink. My wife had died, and when she was gone I went wrong altogether. It was the drink, I suppose. Perhaps I'd been a little wild in my ways while she was alive, but it warn't anythink to talk about, and she kep' a home over my head, though we'd had our troubles too. But when she was in the churchyard yonder, where she's lying now," with a jerk of his head in the direction of the village, "I took to the pubs. They was the only places where I found warmth and company, and I wasted my wages on drink till the children was barefoot, and then, finding myself out of work one morning, and the little ones nigh upon starving, I give it up altogether and runned away." "Leaving your children to the workhouse?" "I couldn't have left 'em to a better home. The gals was brought up decently and sent to service, and the boys was taught trades. It's a deal more than I A WILFUL MAN MUST HAVE HIS WAY. 35 could ha' done for 'em. Well, Sir Everard, I turned my back upon my native place, and just turned waif and stray, doing an odd job of plastering here — for I'm a plasterer by trade — and a spell of haymakin' there, and a week or two at hop pickin' when the season came round, till somehow or other I worked my way back here, drifted like, strayed as a dog strays, for I didn't want to come. I'd no home to come to, no friend to give me a shelter, and I couldn't afford to show at the workus where my innercent orphans was ever so much better off without a father." Sir Everard had made the briefest note of this preliminary statement. The important disclosure was to come. "Well, sir, one October day I finds myself stand- ing under a sign-post in a wild bit of country, half wood, half heath, where three roads met. I'm blest if I knew until that moment, when I looked up and spied the name on the sign-post, how near I'd come to the old place. I knew I was in the county, and the hills and woods had the look of home somehow, but I didn't think I was half as near as I was. I seemed to come all over of a shiver when I found I was only six mile from the Union where those blessed kids was being brought up in the fear o' the Lord. I'd had no breakfast. I had ekzackerly three half- pence in my pocket, and a screw o' tobacco, and I knew I was a good two mile from any place where I could buy a penn'orth o' beer. It was a mild, still day, and the roads and lanes was mucky and soft, just the day for the scent to lie well. I'd seen the red coats in the distance on the slope of the hill, and I didn't want to meet none o' them, for the huntsman 3* 36 JUST AS I AM. would ha' known me, seem' as I had run with the hounds and opened gates in old times when I was a lad. "So I just crep into the wood hard by, and laid down in the holler of a old oak, where I was as warm as a toast among the moss and withered leaves, and where I laid and smoked my pipe for a couple of hours at a stretch to quiet my empty inside. I didn't come out till it was drawing towards dusk. I'd heard the hounds giving tongue, and the huntsman's cry more than once while I laid there, as they wound and beat about wood and heath, but I thought I could get quietly back to the coach road without meeting any one as would reckernise me in the dusk. I took a short cut across the fields, meanin' to get back to the high road a mile or so from Austhorpe on the way to Highclere, and keep clear of the village altogether. I'd been on the tramp above a week since I left Kent, and I'd slept under 'edges and 'ay stacks, and there was pains in every blessed bone o' my body that gnawed like rats. I had my bit of a bundle swung on a cudgel over my shoulder, and I trudged on somehow, while the crows went wheeling across the sky, which was turning yaller, though there hadn't been not one blessed glimmer of sunshine all day. Well, you see, sir, I trudged along the muddy road, and I was just in that kind o' temper when the devil gets a grip upon a man and can make him do ek- zackerly as he likes. I was hungry and thirsty and footsore; but what I felt more than hunger and thirst was a raging hate against them as wasn't, and never had been, nor never was likely to be famished and footsore and without a penny. Why should they have A WILFUL MAN MUST HAVE HIS WAY, 37 all the good things, and I all the bad things o' this life? I suppose I ain't the first man as has arst his- self that question, and I don't think I shall be the last; but I walks on, with such thoughts in my head, till I comes to the lane that leads from Austhorpe to Highclere, hard by Blatchmardean wood, and presently I hears the steady tramp of a horse's hoofs walking along the soft road; and I stands aside to let the rider go by, thinkin' he might be good for a sixpence. It's a gentleman in a red coat, and I begins my sorrerful tale, how I'd a sick wife and seven small children, and not a penny to buy bread — but before I gets half- way through I looks up into his face and rekernizes him for my old enemy, Muster Blake, him as turned me off his estate and out of house and home, for a bit of a mistake made by a lurcher dog as I used to keep, with regard to some pheasants as he set particklar store by. I knows him and he knows me. 'Get out o' my road, you vagabond,' he cries, 'I wouldn't give you sixpence to save you and all your brood from starving.' He looked mortal handsome in his red coat and striped velvet weskit, and there was his thick gold watch chain and seals, swinging as he moved, and shinin' in the yaller light o' the low sky in front of him. He looked a regular swell, he did. That 'ere watch and chain of his must be worth fifty pounds anywheres, I thought, and I dessay his purse is full o' sovereigns; for I knowed him to be one o' your fine, open-handed gentry, alius ready to give money to them as didn't want it. And Old Nick took me by the shoulders, and gave me a shove, as you may say, and whispered, 'Pull the proud beggar off his horse; pull him, into the mud, and brain him.' I looked round. 38 JUST AS I AM. There wasn't a mortal in sight. It was gettin' dark. I should be miles away before anybody knew anything. He was a strong man, on a strong horse. Could I do it? While I was hesitatin', the devil gives me another shove, and whispers, T'll help you/ and then I threw down my bundle, clutched holt of the bridle, and hit the hoss a crack o' the skull that brought him on his knees in the road, and before Muster Blake could re- cover from the shock of the hoss falling under him, he and I had closed with each other in a deadly struggle. He was bigger than me, stronger than me, a better man every way; but Old Nick kep' his word, and stood by me like a good un. Muster Blake had only his huntin' crop with a bamboo cane and a leather thong. He cut me a wonner across the face with the thong, but I came down on his bare head — for his hat was knocked off at the first go — with the knobby end of my cudgel. I heard his skull go crack, like a bit o' glass, and then he fell backwards into the muddy road, and I just dragged him quietly into the ditch and cleaned out his pockets. There was a- leather purse full of gold and silver, as I hoped, and his watch and chain, and a diamond ring on his little finger! and I felt I had done a good day's work. For, yer see, I didn't know for sure as I'd killed him. Even if that was his skull as I heard go crack , the doctors might lay a bit o' metal atop on it, and make a sound man of him again. I'd heard tell o' such things. So I tied the watch and chain and ring and money up in my fogle, and stuffed it all into my breeches pocket, and caught up my bundle on the end o' my cudgel, and made tracks for the Highclere road." A WILFUL MAN MUST HAVE HIS WAY. 39 "When and where did you dispose of the stolen property?" inquired Sir Everard, after a pause. "At Great Barford, six weeks after Muster Blake's death." "And I suppose this is all you have to tell me?" "Yes, sir, this yere's about all." Throughout this confession Sir Everard Courtenay had sat in a thoughtful attitude, with his left elbow on the table, and his forehead resting on his left hand, while with his right he jotted down an occasional note upon the paper before him. It was not possible for Vargas to see the impression made on the listener's mind by his narrative. "Come, now, my man," said the magistrate, look- ing up at him suddenly, with a frank friendliness, "you've told your story very well, and to some ears it might sound like the truth, but it doesn't to mine. I know what a curious machine the human mind is, and what strange twists it sometimes takes. Don't you think you'd better forget you've told me anything, ex- cept that you're hard up and want a night's lodg- ing?" "No," answered Vargas, in a surly tone, "I'm not going from my word. What you've took down there I'll stand by." "You will? Have you considered that it's a hang- ing matter? That you are offering yourself as a can- didate for the gallows?" "I don't feel sure as they'd hang a man — after twenty years." "You won't find the twenty years make any dif- ference." "Besides, it warn't altogether murder, yer see. When 40 JUST AS I AM. I hit him that crack over the skull I didn't know as it 'ud be his death." "I fear you will hardly find a Daleshire jury in- clined to draw such nice distinctions. Mr. Blake was a popular man, and feeling ran high about his murder. I would not give much for your life after that state- ment of yours has been read before twelve Daleshire- raen." "I'll risk it," said Vargas doggedly. "I don't be- lieve they'll hang me. If they do it'll be ending a life that ain't worth living. Come, get your witness, Sir Everard, I wants to sign that there deppysition." "You are an obstinate fool," exclaimed the baronet angrily. "And if I refuse to receive your statement I suppose you will go and make the same confession to some one else." "I shall go to Highclere as fast as my poor old legs will carry me — which is slow enough, lord knows — and give myself up to the magistrate there." "A wilful man must have his way," said Sir Ever- ard, ringing a bell which sounded loud and shrill in the outer office. "Your way is the gallows. Remember that I have warned you, and don't ask me to help you after to-night, for it will be out of my power to do so. Don't come and whine to me whem you've changed your mind." "I shan't change my mind," answered Vargas. "I ain't afraid o' that. But as you seem to wish to deal kind by a poor devil, Til arst you a favour. I've got a bit of a dog here. He ain't much to look at, but he'll keep your poultry yard clear o' rats. Give him a armful o' straw to lie on and a bit o' vitals to eat, and you'll be doin' it ten times over to me." DULCIE ASKS QUESTIONS. 4 1 "He shall be taken care of," answered Sir Everard. A man-servant appeared in answer to the bell. "Send for Jackson immediately, and take that dog to the stables. Tell Gilbert he is to be taken care of." "God bless you, Sir Everard," said Vargas, with moistening eyes. He took the cur up by the scruff of his neck, pressed his cold muzzle against his own dry lips, and handed him to the servant. "The constable will be here in ten minutes, if he happen to be at home when my messenger calls at his cottage," said Sir Everard, addressing himself to Vargas when the servant left the room. "You have just ten minutes for reflection and repentance. If you don't change your mind in that time you'll be booked. I'll leave you to reflect." He went away, leaving the self-accused at perfect liberty to make a bolt of it by the back door if he pleased. Never had Sir Everard treated a criminal so leniently. This was due to Dulcie's influence, no doubt. CHAPTER V. DULCIE ASKS QUESTIONS. Despite his promise, Sir Everard did not go back to the drawing-room immediately on leaving his office. He went straight to his study, a cosy room lined with books from floor to ceiling, where he generally spent his mornings. There was a shaded lamp burning on the small round table near the fire, and the red light of the logs was reflected cheerfully on the gay colours 42 JUST AS I AM. of the tiled hearth. Dark-green velvet curtains were drawn before the one wide window; everything sug- gested snugness and seclusion. Sir Everard sank, with a weary air, into his chair by the hearth, and lay back with closed eyes, resting from his labours. "What an obstinate fool the fellow is," he said to himself; "and how strange that this monomania of self-accusation should crop up as often as it does. Yet there's a part of his story that sounds true. The watch and chain were pledged at Great Barford. That fact came out at the time, and the police tried to follow up the clue, ineffectually." The warning bell rang while he sat thinking by the fire, and Sir Everard went upstairs to change his black velvet lounging jacket for evening clothes, leaving Vargas to his fate. Domestic life at Fairview could not be hindered in its quiet course because a self- accused criminal was anxious to deliver himself over to the law. Sir Everard's valet was in attendance in his dressing-room, a man of about five-and-thirty, tall, slim, with insignificant features, and a faded com- plexion, redeemed by clever-looking gray eyes; a very superior person altogether, and looked up to by the household. His master had picked him up at the gates of the Hotel des Invalides in Paris, where, in an impecunious interval, he was trying to earn a franc or two by acting as guide to inquiring-minded tourists. He was a man who had seen life under curious aspects. Starting as the scapegrace son of a country parson, he had cut short his university career by a boyish folly, and had then and there turned his back upon wh/it society calls respectability, and what he called Philis- DULCIE ASKS QUESTIONS. 43 tinism. He had dug a deepish hole in the paternal purse during his college days, but had made a manly stand against any further dependence upon his father. "I am not fit for anything but a wandering life, and I'd better be a waif and a stray abroad than a burden at home," he said. After arriving at this decision, he had enjoyed a varied career as courier, waiter, billiard- marker, in France and Switzerland, had acquired all sorts of odd out-of-the-way talents, and had finally found himself in Paris, without friends or credentials, face to face with starvation, when Sir Everard Cour- tenay heard his story, believed it, and took him into his service. • Never had master a better servant, or one who seemed more conscientious in the performance of his duties. "There is rather a queer character in my office, Stanton," said Sir Everard. "You'd better tell Scroope to keep his eye upon the plate-room, and tell them to let me know when the constable comes. I shan't want you." Everything necessary to the baronet's toilet had been put ready. The valet retired quietly, and Sir Everard began to dress. He. was somewhat slower than his wont in the pro- cess of dressing — dawdled and lingered a little, took things up and laid them down again, with a dreamy, irresolute air. Was not this a day full of sad memories? and those memories had been made more vivid by the tramp's confession. He could hardly think about Walter Blake's murder without recalling his wife's untimely death, which had happened on the same day. He was on his knees beside the deathbed when the news was brought to Fairview. 44 JUST AS I AM. At last all was done, quickly enough, though he had lingered, and Sir Everard went down to the drawing- room, passing Scroope in the hall as he went. "Jackson went to Highclere this afternoon. Sir Everard," said the butler. "Not expected home be- fore nine o'clock. Gilbert left word that he was to come here directly." "Very good; you can keep an eye on that man in my office, he may be a thief." "I've turned the key in the door, Sir Everard." "That is unnecessary. Go and unlock it at once, and give the fellow a meal of bread and meat: he looks half-starved." Morton Blake was sitting alone before the fire, when Sir Everard went into the drawing-room. "Well, sir," he cried, getting up quickly and going to meet his host, "you have kept me a long time in suspense. Was there any truth in my suspicion? Is this man my father's murderer?" "Pray restrain yourself, Morton. The man is in my opinion either mad, or a rogue who for some occult reason accuses himself of a crime he has not com- mitted." "Then he has confessed — he is the man," cried Morton hoarsely. "Let me see him — let me hear — " "My dear Morton, this is a business in which you have no right to interfere." "No right — no right! I, the victim's son?" "Absolutely none. You must wait till the law of the land shall avenge your father's death. If this man has spoken the truth — which I strongly doubt — and if he adhere to his statement by-and-by, the business will be easy enough, and you may have the satisfaction of DULCIE ASKS QUESTIONS. 45 seeing him hanged in Highclere jail, and may possibly be a happy man ever afterwards." "I shall be a more contented man, anyhow, when I know that my father's murderer has been punished," answered Morton resolutely. "Well, what is to be done next? The man is in your office, handcuffed, in custody, I suppose?" "Not yet. I am waiting till Jackson comes home from Highclere. Don't look so savage, Morton. The man is safe enough. He wishes to give himself into custody." "He may change his mind, and give you the slip." "No fear of that. I have told Scroope to look after him, and Scroope has locked him in." "Sensible of Scroope. What kind of creature is he— this devil?" "If I described him at all I should call him a poor devil." "Can't I see him — without his knowing it — so that I might identify him if he should escape? I want to have the man's image in my mind. The scoundrel who killed my father in his prime of life and vigour, with all the world smiling on him, and all the future full of hope. Can't I see him, Sir Everard?" "If you like to go round the house and look in at the office window you may see him plain enough, I dare say. The shutters were not shut when I was there. But there's the bell, and here's Dulcie. You'd better come to dinner." "No, no," answered Morton, painfully agitated. "I can't dine to-night. You must excuse me, Sir Everard. Dulcie!" — she was standing close at his side, pale, and watchful of his face, — "forgive me, dear. I must 46 JUST AS I AM. go. I will come back later in the evening, Sir Everard, and hear what has happened. You won't play me false in this, will you? I believe the man has told the truth. I believe that retribution is coming after twenty years. Don't take the matter lightly. Remem- ber, my father was your friend." "Am I likely to forget that? His face is in my mind to-night. But in a matter of this kind I must not let passion be my guide. However, I have happily very little to do here. I shall hand this fellow over to Jackson, the constable, and then my work is done. But you must be reasonable, Morton; affection must not make you unjust. Deeply as you must feel your father's death it could be no satisfaction to you to hang an innocent man." "Why do you take it for granted that this man is innocent?" Morton demanded impatiently. "Simply because he calls himself guilty. Real guilt rarely surrenders liberty and life uncompelled. I have not the least, doubt that, after having caused you all this painful agitation, and me a good deal of trouble, the fellow will make his recantation to-morrow before the Highclere magistrates." "Good-night," said Morton shortly. "Good-night, Dulcie." He scarcely touched the hand she gave him as he passed hurriedly from the room. "What a miserable birthday," thought poor Dulcie, as she and her father went across the hall to the dining-room. "My birthdays have always been sad, but this is the worst of all." The father and daughter sat opposite each other at the snug round table, with Morton's empty place DULCIE ASKS QUESTIONS. 47 between them. There had been no special invitation for to-day's dinner, but the place was always laid for him when he was in the house. Dulcie gave one sad little look at the vacant chair, and then made believe to go on with her dinner, eating hardly anything. The solemn Scroope moved to and fro, with his underling following up and supporting him, as it were; and the two servants ministering assiduously to the wants of two people, utterly without appetite or in- clination to eat, were an admirable example of domestic comedy in the "Much Ado about Nothing" line. From the clear soup to the wild duck Scroope abated no iota of ceremony. Dulcie was longing to be alone with her father, but Scroope lingered affectionately by her plate, with offers of lemon and cayenne. He insisted on her taking dessert, and when she had refused a bunch of purple grapes which might have tempted an anchorite, followed her up, persever- ingly, with preserved ginger. He was very particular about the temperature of Sir Everard's claret, and made a good deal of play with the jug before he could bring his mind to the necessity of leaving father and daughter alone. During dinner they had talked very little, and only of indifferent subjects. Dulcie's eyelids were heavy with unshed tears. Sir Everard was grave and absent- minded. But at last, to the girl's infinite relief, Scroope and his subordinate withdrew, the latter respectfully drawing the door after him with his foot, and father and daughter were alone. Sir Everard wheeled his chair round, and sat facing the fire; Dulcie crept round to the hearth, and 48 JUST AS I AM. took her favourite place on the fender stool at his feet, with her bright head resting on the arm of his chair. "Dearest father, I want you to tell me a great many things," she said coaxingly, yet seriously withal, and her face was full of earnestness, as she looked up at him. "There are some questions I can't ask Morton. Will it make you very sad if I talk about — the past?" "I am always sad when I think of the past, Dulcie. Whether you talk of it or no can make very little difference." "I want you to tell me about Morton's father. Was he a good man?" "He was a popular man, good looking, clever, open-handed. That kind of man is generally liked." "And you liked him?" "My dear, what a question. He was one of my oldest friends. We were at Rugby and at Cambridge together." "Yes, I know. But those friendships do not always last. You might have altered towards each other afterwards. I have sometimes fancied that there was a constraint in your manner when you talked to Morton about his father, or, rather, when Morton has mentioned his father, for I have seldom heard you speak of him of your own accord." "The terrible circumstances of his death make the subject a painful one." "Yes, I ought to have understood that. But I have noticed that people get accustomed to any idea, however dreadful, and end by talking of it familiarly, as if it were an everyday event." "I could never grow accustomed to the idea of Walter Blake's death." DULCIE ASKS QUESTIONS. 49 "That is because you are more sensitive than the common herd of people," answered his daughter lovingly. "Tell me, dear father, do you think the man in your office is really the murderer?" "My love, how can I tell? There are some points in his story which to my mind bear the stamp of im- probability. Yet, if it be found that he is the man who disposed of the murdered man's property, it will go hard with him to prove himself innocent, supposing that he should wish to get his neck out of the noose into which he has thrust it." "Should you be glad if he were found guilty, if it were proved to the satisfaction of everybody that he is the murderer?" asked Dulcie, intensely earnest. "Not glad, dear. Yet it is a good thing that the perpetrator of a great crime should be discovered, even after an interval of many years; that he should be so lashed and goaded by his own conscience as to give himself up to justice. Yes, it must be good. It may serve as a warning to many. Think how sharp the sting of conscience must be when it can goad a man to the surrender of liberty and life." "Poor creature," sighed Dulcie, full of pity even for the vilest of mankind. Young and inexperienced as she was, her mind and heart were large enough to comprehend and compassionate all sin and sorrow. "He must have been horribly tempted before he could commit such a crime. Was it starvation that drove him to it, do you think?" "His plea is something of that kind. Blake had treated him badly, it seems." "Revenge. That is a fearful passion," said Dulcie. "One you will never know, I hope, little one," Just as / am. /. 4 50 JUST AS I AM. answered her father tenderly. "And now, dear, we will talk no more about painful things. My poor Dulcie, what a sorrowful birthday!" "Not altogether sorrowful, dear father. To be with you is enough happiness for me." "Is it, Dulcie?" asked her father, bending down to look searchingly into the sweet, fair face, with frank blue eyes lifted lovingly to meet his own. "Are you sure of that? Yet if I were to ask you to give up Morton — if you and he were doomed to be parted — your heart would break. Have you not confessed as much as that?" "Does it seem inconsistent?" she asked. "Is it impossible to love two people intensely? You have given me to Morton; and I know you would never take your gift back. I am not afraid of injustice from you. But if such a thing were possible — if you stood on one side and Morton on the other — and I were called upon to choose between my father and my lover " "What would you do?" "I would cleave to you, father. I don't know which is the greater love, but I know which is the more sacred. You are more to me than all the world." "My darling!" cried Sir Everard, bending to kiss the earnest lips. 'THIS MAN KILLED MY FATHER." 5 1 CHAPTER VI. "THIS MAN KILLED MY FATHER." While the father and daughter sat together by the cheerful home fireside, exchanging confidences full of love and trustfulness, Morton Blake was pacing the shrubbery path alone, his soul at war with all the world. He went round to the back of the house where the lighted windows of the justice-room shone out upon the misty autumn night. There were no shutters or blinds to hide the scene within. Morton walked close up to the window, and looked in as at a stage play. There at a plain oaken table in the centre of the large, scantily furnished room, at some distance from Sir Everard's writing-table and arm-chair, sat the self- accused murderer, eating his supper of bread and meat. A joint and a big home-baked loaf had been set before him, and he had been left alone with the food, no one to measure or stint his meal. He was eating more like a savage beast than a human being; now tearing at a slice of meat, anon gnawing at a huge hunch of bread; his eyes shifting uneasily towards the door every other instant, as if he thought the whole thing were too good to be true, and expected mo- mentarily to be interrupted in his feast. "Wolf!" muttered Morton, scowling at him through the glass. "Could any man in his senses doubt this creature's capacity for murder? A mere ravenous beast, a body wanting to be fed, muscles and sinews, 4* 55 JUST AS I AM. and flesh and bone craving nutriment, a being without mind, or heart, or conscience; a creature that would as soon kill as breathe. Strange that remorse can have power over a soul so blunted and brutalized, a nature so gross and low." He stood as if rooted to the spot, watching every look, eveiy movement of the man inside. "This man killed my father," he said to himself. "This debased wretch, wanting only to eat and live, cut short that brave happy life in its flower, laid that handsome head in the dust, and made my boyhood desolate. For the sake of a handful of sovereigns and a few trinkets that noble life was sacrificed. Devil," he muttered between his set teeth, "I am sorry that the law must have you. I would rather my own right hand avenged my father's death." The man ate on with undiminished voracity; hack- ing the joint, mauling the big brown loaf, luxuriating in the plenitude of an unfamiliar luxury. Once, and once only, he paused in his banquet, and that was to look down at his knee, and then along the floor, and under the table wistfully, with a regretful sigh. "I wish Tim had been here," he said. "Wouldn't he ha' enjoyed hisself? But ee's well off, I'll warrant. That Sir Everard's a soft un, though folks calls him hard." There came a stage in the meal when even the starved wayfarer's hunger was appeased. The joint had shrunk to a bone, the noble loaf was reduced by half, and Humphrey Vargas leant back in his chair a contented man. True that he had surrendered his liberty, that fetters and jail were to be his portion, that a possible gallows loomed in the future. The "this man killed my father." 53 thought of these things troubled him but little. He had filled himself with bread and meat. For the first time in many months he had enjoyed an ample meal. The cautious butler had given him nothing but water to drink, obeying Sir Everard's order in the letter rather than the spirit. His master had said bread and meat, and he had given the man bread and meat, no more and no less. "I should ha' liked a sup o' gatter," sighed the tramp, "but I've blowed myself out pretty fair without it, and I ain't ungrateful. To-morrow, I suppose, it'll be skilly and soup; but that'll be a deal better than hips and haws, and bits o' mouldy pannam, stole out of a pigsty." Morton Blake walked away from the window, and strolled slowly round by a shrubberied walk to the broad terrace in front of the house. The moon had risen, and the mists of evening were floating away from garden and chase, and the wide landscape beyond. Fairview stood on high ground, and from the terrace Morton could see woodland and valley, the twinkling lights of a low-lying village, and yonder, far away to the left, on the edge of the horizon, the dimly-defined outline of the roofs and steeples of Highclere, the county town. The wind had gone down with the rising of the moon. The air was cold, but Morton was hardly sensible of its chilliness as he walked slowly up and down the terrace, or paused now and then to stand with folded arms looking across the Italian garden, the velvet lawns, and choice timber, to the vaguer world beyond, looking with fixed eyes, which saw no 54 JUST AS I AM. feature of the familiar scene. "How cold, and in- different they are," he said to himself. "It seems nothing to them that after all these years my father's murderer stands revealed, and retribution is at hand. Even Dulcie would sooner yonder wretch should go scot free than that he should expiate his crime. Yes, I believe she would be weak enough to feel sorry for him." Fot the first time in his life he was inclined to be angry with his betrothed — for the first time since he had known and loved her he felt their hopes and interests were divided. How sad she had looked when he left her just now. He seemed to himself hardly to have noticed that tender, pleading glance at the time: yet now that one particular look flashed upon his memory, and was as vividly present to his eye as a face in a picture, and that one picture the gem of the gallery. He turned towards the porch, tempted to go back to Dulcie. The lighted windows of her favourite room shone out upon the moonlit garden, with the cheerful glow of lamps and fire. He was in no mood for lover's talk, or music, or poetry, or art; but he wanted to see Dulcie again before the evening was over. The hall door was neither locked nor barred against him. He had only to turn the handle and go in; yet on the point of doing so he changed his mind, and went back to the shrubbery at the end of the house, and round again to the justice-room. When he looked through the window the prisoner was no longer alone. Sir Everard was standing by his writing table, with a paper in his hand, reading its contents aloud, while the local constable respectfully listened, and Vargas "this man killed my father." 55 stood aloof, twisting his flabby hat in his bony old hands, and quietly awaiting the next turn in that wheel of fortune which had rarely revolved in such a way as to bring him any good. Presently Vargas, at the magistrate's bidding, walked up to the table, and, with laborious effort, affixed his signature to the deposition that had just been read over to him. His sign manual was only a cross, but he took as much pains in producing it as if it had been the most perfect thing in autographs. "I've got a shay-cart at my place," said the con- stable, who was a bluff, rosy-cheeked rustic, "and I shall soon spin him over to Highclere. You haven't got nothink in the way of firearms or other weapons about you, have you, mate?" he inquired of Vargas, running his hand dexterously over the man's gaunt figure, as he spoke, to assure himself that there were no such implements of slaughter concealed under his scanty rags. "No," growled Vargas, "I can't see where a old scarecrow like me could hide a revolver or a blunder- buss. There ain't much room in my rotten old togs." The constable clapped a pair of handcuffs upon him with a business-like air, as if there were no malice in the proceeding, and then with a bow to Sir Everard led his prisoner away. "Thank God," exclaimed Morton, "my mind is easier now that's done." He ran quickly round to the front of the house, and then to the avenue along which the two men must come, and here in the shadow of the elm trunks he stood and waited for them. They passed him presently, the prisoner walking 56 JUST AS I AM. at a slow and dogged pace beside the guardian of the village peace, his head sunk on his breast, his fettered wrists hanging in front of him, his weary old shoulders stooping under the burden of a long life of penury, disrepute, and evil-doing; a creature too low for hatred, looked at from a philosopher's point of view. Morton Blake saw in him not the natural product of an im- perfect civilization, but only the murderer of a beloved father, and hated him with unmeasured wrath. He followed the constable and his companion to the village, waited while a Methuselah among ponies was harnessed to the shay-cart, and saw the official drive briskly along the monlit lane towards Highclere, with his prisoner sitting anyhow, a high-shouldered heap of degraded humanity, at his side. "They will pass the ditch where my father was found twenty years ago this very night," said Morton. He set off across the field to his own house, ponder- ing as he went along how he was to tell the story of to-night's business at home. Tangley Manor was just a mile and a half from Austhorpe, in the opposite direction to Highclere. It was a pleasant walk through country lanes, crossing the London road about half way from Austhorpe. The estate was large, the land some of the most fertile in the county, for old Geoffrey Blake had never bought a bad thing. There was a good deal of wood, which the purchaser had got for a song, but which gave dignity and beauty to the substantial modern mansion which he had built on the site of a picturesque old half-timbered farmhouse. The lighted windows of Tangley Manor House shone upon Morton with a comfortable look, as he "this man killed my father." 57 walked slowly across the common which lay between the gates and the coach-road. The house stood only a little way back from the common, a lawn and flower beds in front, shrubberies on each side. Encircling the garden and shrubberies there was a wood, where no axe had been heard, save for improvement, for the last fifty years. Old Geoffrey Blake had loved Tangley, and his son Walter, born in the newly-erected manor-house, had inherited his father's affection for every tree and eveiy acre. "Poor Aunt Dora!" sighed Morton, as he drew nearer the house. "She will feel it most. She loved him dearly, and mourned him more deeply than any of us, yes, even than I; for as time went by and I grew older I had all the distractions of Rugby and Cambridge, while she sat at home and mourned for him. How shall I tell her? — how re-open the old wound without giving her unspeakable pain? But she must know. The county papers will be full of this business, two days hence!" 58 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER VII. morton's womenkind. The drawing-room at Tangley Manor was as hand- some and as interesting as any room can be which has not been mellowed and sanctified by the passage of centuries. It was a spacious and lofty room, with a noble bay on one side, and three long French windows on the other. There was a fireplace at each end, the white marble mantel-pieces low and broad, giving ample space for the display of some exquisite speci- mens of modern Sevres, chosen by Geoffrey Blake during one of his holiday visits to Paris, a city which had possessed peculiar interest for his active and in- quiring mind. The furniture was in perfect taste, light in form and delicate in colour, simple as befitted a room that was designed rather for daily usage than for stately receptions. There were dwarf bookcases between the windows, and on each side of the fire- place; water-coloured drawings on the walls; ferns and flowers wherever space could be found for them. The room wore its most cheerful aspect to-night when Morton entered it, after his lonely walk by field, and lane, and common. Wood fires burned brightly in the two grates. Large moderator lamps, with co- loured shades, gave a warm, yet subdued light. Four ladies were seated near the fireplace at the further end of the room, in various attitudes, and variously employed. The middle-aged lady, sitting in a low, wide arm- chair with a lamp and a work-basket on the gipsy morton's womenkind. 59 table before her, was Walter Blake's maiden sister, Dorothy, better known in that house as Aunt Dora, the head of the household, respected and beloved by every member of the family, from Morton to the newest comer in the shape of a chubby-cheeked scullery-maid or a fortnight-old kitten. She was one of those women whose beauty in youth is open to question, but who are undeniably handsome in later life. As a girl Dorothy Blake's face had lacked colour and brightness; her manners had been wanting in animation. Girls with homelier features and more vivid complexions had been admired where Dorothy's pale and interesting countenance passed unnoticed. But at forty-five Miss Blake's clearly-chiselled features and delicate complexion, her slim and graceful figure, made her remarkable among middle-aged women. Her hair had grown gray before she was six-and- twenty. It had not bleached suddenly in a single night, but within one year of that night of horror on which Walter Blake's corpse was earned home to Tangley Manor his sister's dark brown hair had changed to gray. It was now of a silvery hue, which harmonized exquisitely with the pale fair skin and soft hazel eyes. Aunt Dora's gowns always fitted to perfection, and were always in the fashion; yet she never wore a gar- ment unbefitting her years. She was not the kind of woman to encase herself in a boating Jersey because the fashion book told her that Jerseys were universally worn. The young people of her acquaintance looked up to her as an authority on dress and manners, the arbiter of taste. She loved all beautiful things, pretty girls, delicate colours, flowers wild and exotic, ferns 60 JUST AS I AM. hedgerow or hothouse, handsome furniture, rich dress, thorough-bred horses. She had tastes wide enough to embrace all the delights of life, yet was not self-in- dulgent. She would leave the cosy chair beside the Gothic fireplace in her luxurious morning room to walk three or four miles through muddy lanes in the vilest weather, if by so doing she could give comfort to the afflicted in mind or body. She was the friend and adviser of all the wives, mothers, and daughters in the parish. On a corner of the fender stool in front of the fire- place sat Morton's eldest sister, Clementine, otherwise Tiny, a delicately-fashioned girl, who seemed never to have grown out of childhood, and who was a perpetual outrage to Horatia — her strong-minded younger sister — a tall, plump, well -filled -out young woman, who looked just as many years too old as Tiny looked too young for her age. The sisters were curiously different in character, tastes, and personal appearance; yet they contrived to be on excellent terms with each other, and only quarrelled in sport. Horatia was playing at chess with a girl who seemed younger than either of Morton's sisters; a girl with soft gray eyes, rippling brown hair, and features with no special claim to beauty, save that the rosy mobile lips were lovely in form and expression, and the teeth per- fect in shape and colour. This last was a young lady about whom Daleshire society troubled itself very little. She was rarely included in those invitations to garden parties and afternoon dances which were sent to the daughters of the house. She was known to be a humble dependent upon Miss Blake; a girl of obscure birth whom that lady had adopted fifteen years ago; an al- Morton's womenkind. 6i together estimable young person in her proper sphere — that sphere being, of course, one of usefulness and not of ornament — a girl born to carry comforts to the sick and poor, and whom one would be surprised to meet in the lanes or on the common without a basket on her arm; a girl who would be expected to like walking in wet weather, and always to wear thick boots and short petticoats; to be expert in every branch of decorative art, from the fitting-up of a baby-basket to the arrangement of a dinner-table; a girl who would be a marvel of handiness in all those small duties that make up the preparation for a grand party, who would work like a slave till the last moment before the arrival of the guests, and who would not feel the faintest de- sire to mingle with the festive throng. This was the kind of thing which Daleshire society expected from Elizabeth Hardman, of whose birth and connexions it was only vaguely stated that she belonged to factory people at Blackford, and ought, in the common course of events, herself to be making steel pens or brass buttons. Society, as represented by Mrs. Aspinall, of the Towers, looked with a disapproving eye on Aunt Dora's adoption of the orphan. "These things never turn out well for anybody con- cerned," said Mrs. Aspinall, with her superior air, as if she had been by when the foundations of the earth were laid, and had seen the stars marshalled into their places. "That girl will be a thorn in Dorothy Blake's side before we are many years older." Meanwhile Elizabeth Hardman was happy enough, though she was left out of everybody's lawn parties, and only knew what an afternoon dance was like from Tiny's vivid description. She was not a girl of wide 62 JUST AS I AM. ambitions. Her highest aspiration at present was to please Aunt Dora, and she was as entirely happy trudg- ing over the common with a well-filled basket on her arm, as she would have been at the finest assembly in Daleshire. Aunt Dora and the three girls looked up as Morton entered, all surprised at his return. "How early you are," exclaimed Tiny, throwing herself back against the marble pillar of the chimney- piece, and, stretching out her pretty little feet for the easier contemplation of a pair of picturesque buckled shoes and black silk stockings. "Did the spooning process seem a little flat this evening? We seldom see you till past eleven when you have been dining at Fairview." "I have not dined at Fairview." "Then where have you been dining, child?" asked Horatia, with her practical manner. "It must have been a very dull dinner or you would hardly have come away so early. If you don't want to be ignominiously checkmated in three more moves, Lizzie, you had better put a little more intention into your playing," added the younger Miss Blake severely. Lizzie Hardman detested chess and all other games of skill or chance, but had to play anything and every- thing when the Miss Blakes wanted an adversary. She was a capital person to play against, as she invariably lost the game. Just now her senses had fled from the board alto- gether, scared by that pale, set look in Morton's face, which indicated trouble of some kind. Aunt Dora was occupied with her knitting, and had only murmured a friendly welcome. Tiny was still gazing at her shoe- Morton's womenkind. 63 buckles, and thinking how nice it was to be born with a high instep. Horatia was absorbed in a profound scheme for checkmating her weak antagonist in three moves. "I haven't dined at all," said Morton, dropping into a chair near his aunt. "I have had some business to look after." "Not dined," cried Aunt Dora. "Ring the bell, Tiny; your brother must have some dinner. There was a pheasant sent away untouched. If you were to have that after a little soup, Morton." "Dear auntie, don't worry yourself about pheasants and soups," said her nephew, with a wearied air. "I am rather tired, but I've no appetite for dinner. I'll take a crust and a glass of wine presently." Tiny withdrew her gaze from her shoes to con- template humanity in the uninteresting form of a brother. They were very pretty eyes — blue and bright, and smiling like sunshiny weather. "You have quarrelled with Dulcie," she exclaimed. "Nothing less than that would explain your dilapidated condition." "Dulcie and I are not given to quarrelling," answered her brother curtly. "What, do you never fight desperately, in order to make friends again?" asked Tiny. "I thought that was one of the symptoms of spooning." "Clementine, your slang and flippancy are becoming more insufferable every hour," remarked Horatia, with her fingers hovering above a bishop. "Will you give me five minutes in your own room, Aunt Dora?" asked Morton in a low voice. Miss Blake laid down her knitting instantly, and rose to comply with his request. 64 JUST AS I AM. "Morton, how white you are looking!" she exclaimed. "Something has happened." "Yes, something has happened." "Nothing that concerns Dulcie?" Aunt Dora was very fond of Morton's sweetheart. "No, dearest auntie, Dulcie is right enough." Horatia and Clementine now began to perceive that something was amiss. Tiny rose from her low seat. Horatia left the game unfinished. "Morton, you are unnecessarily mysterious and alarming," she said disapprovingly. "Has anything dreadful happened? Is anybody ill? Is anybody dead? Has the Daleshire Bank broken?" "None of those things has happened. Aunt Dora will tell you all by-and-by," answered Morton gravely. "The event which has come to pass to-night is some- thing which ought to make us all glad; but it revives the sorrow of years gone by. You know what anni- versary this is." "I wish I didn't," exclaimed Tiny; "I have been trying industriously to forget it all day." "I never try to forget," said Horatia; "I consider it a duty to remember. It is a small thing for us to give our dead father some of our thoughts on this day." Aunt Dora's soft brown eyes were full of tears. She put her hand in Morton's, and went with him out of the room, and across the wide tesselated hall to her pretty nest at the back of the house. The fire burned low on the tiled hearth. There was a moderator lamp on the table, which Morton lighted before he sat down. The room was the brightest and prettiest in the house. Here, as in the drawing- Morton's womenkind. 65 room, there were books, and flowers, and water-coloured pictures, and old china; but here everything had a peculiar grace and interesting individuality. There were indications of a life at once artistic and industrious — a drawing board with an unfinished flower study on the table in the window, a large bee-hive work basket in a corner by the hearth, one little table devoted to account books and the common-place details of house- keeping, another to Aunt Dora's favourite poets and philosophers, from Chaucer to Tennyson, from Erasmus to De Quincey. Of all the pictures in the room there was one which caught the stranger's eye and arrested it. It was a portrait in water-colour, which hung above the chimney piece. The half-length figure of a man in the prime of life — a frank, handsome face, bright blue eyes, crisply curling auburn hair, a broad forehead, a candid mouth, — a face supremely attractive and lovable, suggestive of an existence that had never been shadowed by grief or care, a soul untainted by one base thought. This was the portrait of Walter Blake, painted two years before his death, at a time when he had recovered from the moderate amount of sorrow which he had felt for the loss of a somewhat uninteresting wife, never pas- sionately loved. The picture had been painted as a birthday gift for the sister who worshipped him. It was the only likeness for which Walter Blake had ever con- sented to sit. Morton looked up at the picture, as he took his seat beside the hearth. Never had the face seemed so life-like. "Tell me what has happened, Morton," said Dora Blake anxiously, but in no wise shaken from that Jus( as J am, I, 5 66 JUST AS I AM. abiding tranquility which was her greatest charm. "It is something that concerns my brother's death, is it not? Some discovery has been made." "Yes, there has been a discovery, and an important one. My father's murderer has given himself up to justice. He will sleep to-night in Highclere jail." Dorothea's pale face blanched to a death-like whiteness. "Great heaven," she exclaimed, "who — who — is the man?" All her calmness was gone — her lips trembled so much that she could hardly form the words she wanted to speak. "A wretched creature — a half-starved tramp— more like a wolf than a man." "Thank God," exclaimed Dorothea. "Thank God," echoed Morton. "I do with all my heart thank God that retribution has come at last; that we shall have blood for blood. A poor compensation, for who could set such a creature's existence against my father's valuable life?" "We are all of the same value in the sight of our Heavenly Father, Morton," answered Aunt Dora, in her grave, sweet tones. "In His sight we are all sinners. I am sorry for this unhappy creature whom remorse has driven to confess his crime." "Sorry! Sorry for the man who killed your brother?" cried Morton indignantly. "That may be Christianity, but it is a kind of Christianity I do not understand." "I am sorry for his sin and for the shameful death he will have to die!" "And I am glad, heartily glad, savagely glad, if morton's womenkend. 67 you like, Aunt Dora. I loved my father too well to be capable of this high-flown humanity of yours. I shall go to see the man hanged if the authorities will let me: and I shall feel happier when I see the drop fall and know that this one merciless villain has gone to his doom. Had he any mercy upon me when he killed my father?" "All our passions are merciless, Morton," answered his aunt, whose face and manner had recovered their customary repose. "God who sees and understands all our evil propensities alone knows how short the distance is between innocence and crime. This un- happy wretch may have been goaded by miseries that neither you nor I can understand. We, who have so many advantages and yet are so prone to fall, ought to be merciful to the outcasts who have never known the light." Morton rose impatiently, and began to pace the room, just as he had paced Dulcie's room a few hours before. "I cannot understand you," he said. "You seem to have no memory. Do you forget how my father's blood-bespattered corpse was brought home to this house? I was only ten years old, yet the feeling of that night, with all its horror and agony, are as vividly in my mind as if it were yesterday. I begin to think that no one loved my father as well as I did." "I loved him," answered Aunt Dora quietly. "You may believe that. I loved him as few brothers are loved. What would I not have done for him? What sacrifice would I have thought too great? My poor boy, you do not know what you are talking about." "Forgive me, dear auntie. I know you are all 5* 68 JUST AS I AM. goodness. But I am angry to-night with every one who does not feel this as deeply as I do. I was angry with Dulcie — with Sir Everard." "With Sir Everard!" exclaimed Aunt Dora. "Does he know ?" "It was to him the wretch declared his crime." "How did Sir Everard take the revelation?" "With provoking coolness. He seemed to think the man an impostor, accusing himself of a crime he had not committed." "Such things have happened," said his aunt thoughtfully. "Possibly; but this is no case of false accusation. The man was neither drunk nor mad — a brute, but a brute in the full possession of such senses as are given to brutes. Thank God he is in jail, hard and fast, by this time. There will be a trial; his crime will be brought home to him, and he will swing for it. Surely you must be glad of that, Aunt Dora?" She shook her head with a mournful gesture, and looked at Morton with eyes full of tears. "Will my dear brother rest any easier in his grave because of his murderer's doom? Will it make the thoughts of that cruel death — so awful , so sudden — a strong man cut down in his pride of manhood, full of thoughts and desires that belong to this world, with no time allowed him for one prayer, one act of faith and love — will that memory be any easier to bear, Morton, because the wretch who did the deed shall have paid the price of his crime? No, my dear boy, there is no satisfaction to me in the idea of human retribution. 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, saith Morton's womenkind. 69 the Lord.' I have never doubted that my brother's murderer would be punished for his crime." "But do you not see in this event of to-night the finger of Providence? Here is a wretch so goaded by remorse that he is driven to seek death as a relief from the burden of his sin." "There must be some remnant of good in the man," said Aunt Dora musingly. "Even for him there may be pardon if his repentance be sincere." "You would pray for him and with him, I sup- pose?" said her nephew with a sneer. "I would, Morton," she answered quietly; and then, seeing his angry look, she went up to him, and laid her hand gently on his shoulder — such a pretty slender hand, as delicate as a girl's. "Dear boy, you and I see things with different eyes. You are young and I am old. Time alone can teach the lesson of forbear- ance and patience under great injuries. And now, dear Morton, go and eat your supper, and try to get a good night's rest. You look worn and weary already, and you will have much excitement and anxiety to go through before this terrible business is finished. Good- night, dear boy; tell your sisters I shall not come back to the drawing-room." "Shall I tell them what has happened?" "Not to-night. I will tell them to-morrow. Let them rest in peace to-night." And so Dora Blake dismissed her nephew, and then went back to the hearth above which the dead man's picture hung. "What a frank, bright face it was, smiling down at her, full of the joy and pride of life! Great heaven, to see it thus, and to remember the ghastly face she 70 JUST AS I AM. had looked upon twenty years ago, the clotted hair, the lifeless form, bemired with duck- weed and clay, just as it had been dragged out of the ditch where the murderer had flung it. Dora Blake covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out that dreadful image which memory recalled so vividly. She sank shuddering into her chair by the fireside and gave full vent to the passionate grief she had repressed in Morton's presence. He had thought her cold and wanting in love for his dead father. His opinion would have been curiously different if he could have seen her now, the tears rolling down her pale cheeks, her slender form convulsed with sobs. She grew calm at last, and lay back in her chair exhausted, gazing dreamily at the low fire. "Thank God it is not as I thought!" she said to herself; "anything is better than that." Presently she rose and unlocked an escritoire, in which she kept all the sacred documents of her life — her diary, valued letters, mementoes of lost friends- all the story of the past, a history which she alone could decipher. She opened a drawer and took out a packet of letters, tied with a yellow ribbon, and from beneath the letters a crimson morocco miniature case. She came back to her chair by the fire, and sat some minutes in a reverie, with the case and the packet lying in her lap. Then, with a sigh, she drew the lamp nearer to her, and opened the miniature case. A Parisian photographer had given all the vivid- ness of life to one of the fairest faces that ever chal- lenged his skill. It was a perfect face, lovely alike in feature and expression — smiling, yet with a look of Morton's womenkind. 71 latent sadness, gentle, pleading. The face of a woman born to love, and to be beloved, rather than to dazzle or command; assuredly not the face of a coquette, yet hardly the highest type of womanhood. There was a faint suggestion of weakness in the sensitive lips, the small dimpled chin. It was a countenance of child- like innocence and purity, but with no promise of the grander virtues — heroism, fortitude, self-denial. Dora Blake sat gazing long at the lovely image, lost in a dream of the past. "How well I could have loved her, poor child," she sighed. "How happy we all might have been, if fate had so willed." Then, rousing herself from sad, regretful thoughts, she untied the yellow ribbon and looked slowly through the packet of letters. They were in a woman's hand, a small and delicate writing, with many a sentence underlined, as if to give intensity to words which in themselves were passionate. Miss Blake only looked at a page here and there, a line, a phrase, sighing as she read. What vehement, eager life there had been in the writer of those words; how heart and mind had gone with the hand; and yet within a year the hand had been dust, the passionate heart had been still for ever! "It is too sad a story," said Miss Blake, as she re- arranged the packet and tied the yellow ribbon round those faded letters — "the history of a broken heart." She replaced the packet and the photograph in her drawer, and locked the escritoire. Presently there came a gentle tap at the door. "Come in," said Miss Blake, a little vexed at being disturbed. 72 JUST AS I AM. The door was opened quietly, and Lizzie Hardman peeped in. "May I come in for a few minutes, auntie, just to say a word or two?" "Oh, is it you, child? Yes, you may come. I don't mind you." Lizzie crept softly to Aunt Dora's side and put her arm round her neck and kissed her, without a word. Everybody was fond of Aunt Dora, but her nieces used to protest that Lizzie's affectation was absurd in its demonstrative devotion. Yet Lizzie Hardman was by no means demonstrative in any other relation of life. Her love for her benefactress seemed the one only warm feeling in her nature. "She is extremely obliging, and will fetch and carry for us like a dog, and put up with our tempers in the sweetest way," said Horatia, "but, in spite of her sweetness, I don't believe she cares a straw for Clementine or me. Her idolatry of auntie is abso- lutely preposterous." "I don't see that, Horry," answered Tiny; "Aunt Dora is such a delicious creature. Nobody can help loving her." "Yet Aunt Dora might wear damp boots for a whole evening before you would run to fetch her slip- pers," retorted Horatia with some justice, for Tiny's weak point was selfishness. "Well, Lizzie, what do you want?" asked Miss Blake, after she had submitted to the girl's kiss. "I know something has happened. I was afraid you might be unhappy. Morton looked so pale — so terribly excited. Oh, auntie, is it anything very dread- ful, anything that will lead to unhappiness? He said Morton's womenkind. 73 we ought all to be glad: but his own manner was so strange." "How anxious you are about Morton." "And about you," said Lizzie, "you have been crying. I can see that. Let me go to your room with you, auntie dear, and read you to sleep. I know you will be giving way to sad memories if I don't." "Well, you shall come with me if you like, Lizzie. A few pages of Tennyson or Browning will be more soothing than my thoughts. Don't ask me any ques- tions. You will hear everything to-morrow." "I can wait," answered Lizzie. "Have the girls gone to bed?" "Half-an-hour ago. Morton had a little supper in the dining-room, very little, it was a mere pretence of eating, and then he went up to his room. He looks dreadfully ill." "He has had a shock." "Poor fellow! But it is nothing about Miss Cour- tenay." "No, she is unconcerned in the business." "That is a blessing," said Lizzie, as they went slowly up the broad staircase, to the lofty modern- looking corridor from which the bedrooms opened. 74 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER VIII. IN THE ASSIZE COURT. Humphrey Vargas had been six weeks in prison, and now the assizes were on at Highclere, and the self- accused murderer was to be judged. The county police had not been idle during the interval. They had hunted up witnesses, and traced out various details in the history of Walter Blake's death which tended to confirm the prisoner's statement, and to establish the fact of his guilt. Among the lower classes there had been some sympathy for the self-accused, after the Highclere magistrates had heard his confession and committed him for trial. The murder was brutal, and Mr. Blake, of Tangley Manor, had been one of the most popular men in the county. Among the gentry, therefore, the general feeling was that hanging would be only too light a punishment for the murderer; but the working classes dwelt on the fact of the man's surrender of himself after twenty years; his age and infirmities, his dire poverty, the manifold temptations to which a starving wretch is liable. Radical orators in roadside beershops improved the occasion by denouncing the luxury and self-indulgence of the rich. "Why, there wasn't a horse in Squire Blake's stable as wasn't better fed and better cared for than this pore crittur," said one of these village Hampdens, lashing himself into a fury. "Horses, indeed! I should like to know what working man's home can compare with a loose box in a hunting stable; what working IN THE ASSIZE COURT. 75 man's child has as comfortable quarters as a fox- hound pup? Ah!" cried the orator, thumping the table, "the rich man may lay field to field, and add house to house, but at the battle of Armageddon — " and here another thump on the table made the crockery mugs rattle, and closed the speech in sublime obscurity. The day had come at last when Humphrey Vargas was to stand in the dock, and the little county town of Highclere was in a state of unusual excitement. It was a queer little old-fashioned town, a century behind the times in almost everything, a picturesque little town, with a fine old Norman gateway at each end, narrow streets in which the greater part of the houses had been standing since the days of the Tudors — streets in which the levels had undergone all manner of changes, so that while in one street the houses were elevated ten or fifteen feet above the car- riage way, and were approached by a raised causeway, in other thoroughfares the basement floors were sunk several feet below the level of the pavement, and one descended into the house as into a vault. Daleshire could boast of larger towns and better towns than Highclere. There was Blackford, the great iron town; and there was Avonmore, an elegant modern settlement, where the wealthy Blackfordians retired from the smoke of foundries and the labour of money- making, to clear air and conifer- shaded gardens, and the relaxation of money-spending. There was Doldrum, the busy manufacturing town; famous for glasscloths, round towels, and lawn-mowing machines; where there were two fine churches, and a population of sixty thousand, which subsisted chiefly on pork pies. But 76 JUST AS I AM. superior in size and prosperity as these might be, Highclere had merits of its own, and ranked above them. Everything about it belonged to the Middle Ages — the church, the old gateways, the neighbouring castle, the grammar-school, the town hall, the pic- turesque old one-arch bridge that spanned the narrow river, the verdant water-meadows and willow-shaded streams that surrounded the town — all belonged to the England which is fast passing away: and people with a taste for the picturesque loved the stagnation of Highclere better than the commercial prosperity of dingy Blackford and pork-eating Doldrum, or the wealth and fashion of elegant Avonmore. The jail where Humphrey Vargas had been in close keeping ever since that October night, was a building hardly worthy of the dignity of Highclere. There was a portion of it that was of immemorial antiquity, and which archaeological societies visited and discoursed learnedly about; and there was a por- tion which was comparatively modern, having been built in the time of Queen Anne. Despite the pre- sent rage for all architecture of that Augustine era, it must be confessed that the modern side of Highclere jail was about as insignificant and paltry a piece of construction as ever was devised by a local architect for the disfigurement of his native town. It was a square block, having for its facade a flat wall, level with the street, and pierced with numerous narrow windows. An enthusiast might have pardoned the ugliness of the edifice, inasmuch as it was built of a dingy red brick, scantily relieved by stone tablets above the windows: but despite this unquestionable merit, Highclere jail was about the ugliest thing in IN THE ASSIZE COURT. 77 the town, and even the native mind took no pride or pleasure in it. The ancient portion of the prison was at the back of this modern erection, and was altogether curious and picturesque. It had once been an arsenal, and the massive walls were pierced with narrow loophole windows, which admitted only a glimmering light into the low cells. It was built on the rocky bank of a deep, narrow river, which rushed impetuously six feet below the foundations of the prison. Seen from the low ground on the other side of the stream, the build- ing looked more like a mediaeval stronghold than a nineteenth century prison. Within there was a quadrangle, in which the prisoners took their daily walks, and where execu- tions — happily rare in Highclere — were decently per- formed. The morning was gray and drizzly, and the old town looked as dull and gray as the weather, despite the unwonted excitement of a trial for murder. The court was to open at eleven, and at ten o'clock Morton Blake rode into the town, and put his horse up at the Peacock, the old coaching inn, where a range of empty stables testified to a departed pros- perity, but which still boasted an assembly room, a professed cook, gave decent dinners, accommodated the sprinkling of hunting men who preferred a quiet life and plenty of space for their horses to the liveli- ness and fashion of Avonmore, and was honourably known as the best hotel in Highclere. Morton gave his horse to the ostler, and walked away through the drizzling rain, without entering the 78 JUST AS I AM. inn. He looked pale and careworn. The last six weeks had been full of excitement and anxiety for him. He had been in constant communication with the county police, had followed all their movements with feverish intensity of feeling, and had even employed a London detective on his own account, unknown to the local police. The result of this double investiga- tion had been curiously disappointing. The county police had made numerous discoveries, and were con- vinced of the prisoner's guilt. The London detective, recommended as a man of exceptional intelligence and capacity, had done nothing save to throw cold water upon the entire business, and to express his doubt of the prisoner's guilt. Disgusted at so barren a result, Morton had dismissed the man in a huff, and pinned his faith upon local talent. And now the day had come upon which Humphrey Vargas was to be tried for his life by a jury of his own countrymen. Morton Blake walked past the assize court where the trial was to be held, past the prison, which lay nearer the gate of the town, under the old archway, with its heraldic griffins on each side of the gate, to the stone bridge which spanned the narrow river that went brawling and gurgling over its rocky bed to find a lower level and to spread and widen at its ease in the water meadows below. From this bridge Morton could see the back of the jail, and he stood for some time leaning against the parapet, and gazing at the old building, speculating as to which of yonder loopholes lighted Humphrey Vargas's cell. He knew that the prisoner was lodged in that part of the building, though he had paid no visit of mercy or curiosity to his cell. His feelings IN THE ASSIZE COURT. 79 were too intense to admit of his having any inter- course with the criminal. He went back to the town and entered the court by a side door, which admitted him into one of the official rooms. He was known to all the local func- tionaries, and was provided with a seat on the Bench, from which he could survey the whole of the pro- ceedings. The court-house was filling fast, for this trial of Humphrey Vargas was an event which had been awaited with interest and curiosity by everyone in the neighbourhood of Austhorpe. Gentry and com- monalty were alike concerned in seeing the issue of to-day's trial. Morton had scarcely taken his seat when Mrs. Aspinall, of the Towers, was ushered to a place near him, and came rustling to her seat, ex- haling odours of Ess bouquet, and exclaiming at the stuffiness of the atmosphere. Lord Blatchmardean and his son, Lord Beville, followed almost immediately, saluting Morton with friendly nods as they took their places, and seizing an early opportunity to shake hands with him, and murmur something vaguely sym- pathetic. The body of the old hall was full of people, a crowd which overflowed at the doorway and oozed down the stone steps into the lobbies. Everybody wanted to see the prisoner, to hear what course the trial would take. Would the man plead guilty, and the whole thing be over in a quarter of an hour; or would the evidence be sifted, and witnesses interro- gated in the usual way? Popular feeling was in favour of a long and careful trial, and there was con- siderable relief of mind when some one who was sup- posed to be an authority asserted that the high sheriff 80 JUST AS I AM. of the county had provided the prisoner with counsel, and that he had been instructed to plead not guilty, in order that he might have a fair trial. "There's Morton Blake," said a big, jovial-looking man, with a bald head, and large sandy whiskers, who had come late, yet had contrived to edge himself into one of the best places in the body of the hall on a raised bench just behind the table at which the counsel sat. "Looks pale and drawn, doesn't he? Takes this business very seriously to heart. And there's Mother Aspinall, grinning at the high sheriff, with those false teeth of hers, and posing herself like a fashionable beauty in a photograph. And there's Sir Everard Courtenay just come in, shaking hands with Morton, and looking like a man whose thoughts are a thousand miles away. And there's old Blatchmardean — regular old roarer — and his son Beville — fine up-standing young fellow, the best bred un in these parts." Thus Shafto Jebb, the surgeon of Highclere, who knew everybody present, and was as good as a chorus. He was a hunting man, and although his professional dealings had to do with the ills of humanity, his in- clinations pointed to the stable, and he was more horsey in his phraseology than the average veterinary surgeon. "He's a handsome young man, certainly," answered the gentleman to whom these remarks had been ad- dressed, Mr. Mawk, a mild young curate, of the ad- vanced Anglican school, who had charge of the rural parish of Austhorpe, while his fettered spirit panted for the freedom of Brighton or Maida Vale; "but I think Sir Everard Courtenay is even more aristocratic looking — what I should call the true patrician type." IN THE ASSIZE COURT. 8 1 "Too fine drawn for my taste," replied Jebb, "I don't care for your bookish men. I like a fellow who can go across country. Lord Beville is one of the finest riders in Daleshire." "Sir Everard used to hunt once, used he not?" "Twenty years ago. Yes, he was out on the day of Blake's murder. A very poor run, I remember, though some of us took some ticklish fences. It was early in the season, and the hedges were all blind." "You remember the day?" "Better than I remember the day before yesterday. I was a gay young bachelor, and could afford to keep four horses where I now keep two, and hadn't to work half so hard as I do now. Ah, those were glorious days." "Not very complimentary to Mrs. Jebb," simpered Mr. Mawk, the curate. "Mrs. Jebb is a good soul — no man ever had a better wife. But a man can only be young once, Mawk, and however well things may go with him in after life, he will always look back to the days of his youth with a sigh." "I suppose there is no question as to this man's guilt?" speculated Mr. Mawk, who was more interested in the proceedings of the court than in Shafto Jebb's opinions. "I'll tell you what I think about it when the trial's over," answered Jebb warily. "If I were to go into the witness-box I might be able to put some points in a new light; but I'm not a witness, and I don't want to be one." "What could you tell?" asked the curate eagerly. "Do you really know anything?" Just as I am. /. 6 82 JUST AS I AM. "I might elucidate a point," said Jebb. "But let it pass. Here comes the prisoner; looks a poor dough- hearted animal, doesn't he? How savagely Morton Blake eyes him. That young man is awfully vin- dictive." Every eye was now directed to the man in the dock; a haggard, broken-down creature, with bent shoulders, hollow cheeks, long, lean arms, grizzled unkempt hair — a man who looked as if he had been acquainted with starvation and houselessness for the greater part of his life. He looked round the court with a scared, half-dazzled expression, as of one sud- denly brought from darkness into light; and then, seeing eveiy eye gazing at him, eager, curious, and unpitying, he gave a shudder, and sank cowering down in a heap in the chair that had been provided for him. Then the jury were sworn, and the prisoner was arraigned. In answer to the usual interrogation he pleaded not guilty. And then the counsel • for the Crown, Mr. Canning Russell, Q.C., briefly stated the facts for the prosecution: how at seven o'clock on the evening of the twentieth of October, just twenty years ago, Mr. Blake, of Tangley Manor, had been found by some labourers, going home from their work, lying dead in a ditch in Austhorpe Lane, his skull fractured by some blunt instrument; how at the coroner's in- quest the medical evidence had shown that the fracture of the skull was the cause of death, and that the murderer must have dragged his victim's dead body into the ditch; how the watch, chain, and seals known to have been worn by Mr. Blake on this day, had been discovered three months afterwards at a pawnbroker's IN THE ASSIZE COURT. 83 in the market town of Great Barford in the next county; and how the pawnbroker who took them in pledge had been able, even after the lapse of twenty- years, to select Humphrey Vargas out of six men being exercised in the yard of the prison; how it would be proved to the satisfaction of the jury that the shape of the prisoner's feet, notably the position of the left foot, which turned inward when he walked, had been found to correspond exactly with the drawings taken of foot- marks in the path beside the ditch and in the field beyond it immediately after the murder; how a tramp who had been hop-picking in Kent with Vargas a fort- night prior to the murder, and had known him to be penniless at that time, had met him a week after the murder in Blackford, and had been treated by him at a public-house there, and had reason to know that he was then flush of money. The counsel for the prosecu- tion then went on to say how the police had traced the career of Humphrey Vargas since that time, in jail and out of jail, an altogether disreputable and criminal existence. Indeed, looking at the mode and manner of the man's life, his associates and surroundings, the wonder in most people's minds would be, not that he had committed one murder, but that he had not com- mitted many. The first witness called was one whose appearance in the box created considerable excitement in the court, an excitement which was subdued but uni- versal. There was a hush, a breathlessness, a sudden concentration of every one's attention, as Sir Everard Courtenay stepped into the witness-box and was sworn. "A remarkably handsome man," murmured Mrs. Aspinall, adjusting her binoculars on her aristocratic 6* 84 JUST AS I AM. nose, "and very young for his age — remarkably well preserved." Mrs. Aspinall, who had evaded the approach of gray hairs by dying her tresses a warm tawny tinge, which she called the Titian red, and had coated her wrinkles with a wash of bismuth, might have said with much more truth that Sir Everard looked young be- cause he was not preserved at all, having done nothing to disguise the progress of years, and looking hand- somer with his silvered hair and beard than any man ever looked with dyed hair or a wig. Sir Everard being interrogated told in fewest words how Humphrey Vargas had come to him on the even- ing of October the twentieth, and had voluntarily made the statement, which he, Sir Everard, had written down, and which the prisoner had afterwards signed in the presence of John Jackson, the constable. Mr. Tomplin, counsel for the prisoner, asked the witness if Vargas had been drinking when he made this statement. Sir Everard: No, the man was, to all appearance, perfectly sober. Mr. Tomplin: And there was nothing wild or ex- cited about his manner? Sir Everard: I should describe his manner as dogged rather than excited. I was at first inclined to pooh-pooh his statement, believing the whole thing to be a trumped-up business, and that he would recant next day. I afterwards warned him that it was a very serious matter, and that he was putting a rope round his neck. He was a miserable, half-starved looking creature, and I thought that he had been driven by IN THE ASSIZE COURT. 85 desperation to give himself in charge for an imaginary offence. Mr. Tomplin: Did he impress you as a man who was mentally weak? SirEverard: No. He spoke rationally enough, and he resolutely adhered to his first statement. Mr. Tomplin: You were a friend of the murdered man, I believe? Sir Everard: Yes, we were friends of long standing. Mr. Tomplin: And you rode by his side part of the way home from the hunt? Sir Everard: No. I was not among the gentlemen who rode homewards with him as far as the cross roads, after the kill. I went home earlier, and by a different way. Mr. Tomplin: When and where did you last see him? Sir Everard: On Giltspur Common, after a sharp run of twenty minutes or so, when the hounds were at fault, and we waited about a little. Mr. Tomplin: Did you speak to him? Sir Everard: Yes, we talked together for a few minutes. Mr. Tomplin: Was he in his usual health and spirits? Sir Everard looked at the judge with a bored ex- pression, as who should say that this kind of inter- rogation might go on all day, to no apparent end or aim. Mr. Tomplin was a youngish man, five-and-thirly at most, who had only lately begun to get briefs, and whose enthusiasm required to be kept in check. "Really now," said the judge, "I cannot quite see the drift of these questions. You cannot surely mean 86 JUST AS I AM. to suggest that Mr. Blake committed suicide? That a gentleman split his own skull with a cudgel, and then laid himself down in a ditch, after picking his own pockets." "No, my lord, but I wish to show that Mr. Blake may have had an enemy, that this murder, which startled all the country round, and which for twenty years has been a mystery, may have been prompted by stronger and more subtle passions than the sordid craving for gain. I should like the jury to hear some- thing of Mr. Blake's circumstances and surroundings before his death." Sir Everard, with a contemptuous smile : Mr. Blake was in his usual health, he appeared to be in parti- cularly good spirits, he conversed freely with his friends. Mr. Tomplin: Did you, who were his intimate friend, know of any domestic or social trouble in which he was involved at this time? Sir Everard: I should say that his domestic sur- roundings were rather enviable than otherwise. He had been some years a widower, he had three children to whom he was strongly attached, and his house was kept for him by his maiden sister, one of the most amiable women in Daleshire. Mr. Tomplin: Yet there might have been secret trouble. I am obliged to touch upon a most delicate subject, and I wish to approach it with all possible respect. Is it not a fact, Sir Everard, that Mr. Blake was one of Lady Courtenay's most ardent admirers? Sir Everard: When Lady Courtenay was Miss Alice Rothney she had numerous admirers. I believe Mr. Blake was among them. IN THE ASSIZE COURT. 87 Mr. Tomplin: But he conquered his passion when she married you. Do I understand that there was never any uncomfortable feeling between you and Mr. Blake after your marriage? Sir Everard: Mr. Blake and I were on friendly terms till the day of his death. I have told you that already. I shall be glad, sir, if you can keep my dead wife's name out of this inquiry. It can have no pos- sible bearing on the case. The judge here intervened, and ruled that the line which the cross-examination was taking was irrelevant, and must be pursued no further. Humphrey Vargas's deposition was now read, amidst breathless silence, and then John Dyke, a bricklayer's labourer, was sworn. Mr. Canning Russell: You were one of the men who found Mr. Blake's body. Will you tell the jury exactly what happened to you? John Dyke: Me and my mate, Joe Daffies, was going home after our day's work at Farmer Twycross's, at Austhorpe. We'd been workin' a bit late, for we was puttin' up a new brew-'us', and Muster Twycross was in a fantig to get it up in time for his October brewin', and he'd made it agreeable to us to work a hour or two overtime; so, as you see, it were after dark when we was agoin' home by Austhorpe Lane. There was a moon up, a newish sort of a moon, that didn't give much light, but just enough for us to see objicks in the road; and we was a joggin' along like, a bit slow, bein' as we was tired, when my mate sees somethin' in the ditch — just at the very identical mo- ment as my eye were caught by a smashed hat lying in a puddle on the other side o' the road, close to 88 JUST AS I AM. Blatchmardean Copse. "What's this here in the ditch," says he, scared like. "Is it a dog or a man?" and he plunges in without more ado, and me after him, and between us drags out something smothered with mud and weeds; it was a man sure enough. We thought at first as it might be somebody that had been over- come with liquor, and had fallen asleep on the bank, and rolled into the ditch promiscuous like, but when we got him out into the road, we could see his red coat and brass buttons, and his top boots, and we know'd it was a gent as had been huntin', which a few yards further on we finds his whip lying along- side the footpath. Well, we makes pretty sure as how he'd gone at the hedge and his hoss had throw'd him, and just landed him clean in the ditch. Anyway, he was dead, that was clear enough; so my mate ran back to Austhorpe to get help while I sat down beside the body. He comes back in less than a hour with the constable and another man, and a lantern, and a shutter to carry the body upon, and no sooner does the constable hold the lantern alongside the dead man's face than he sings out, "It's Squire Blake of Tangley Manor. Here's a dreadful piece of business — throw'd from his hoss and killed on the spot," for at first, you see, he thought azackly like us. Well, we up with the body and laid it on the shutter, and carried it home to Tangley Manor, where we was 'and- somely recompensed for our trouble. Mr. Russell: Your mate is dead I understand? John Dyke: Yes, sir, pore old Joe took and died seven year ago last Chrisselmas. There never was such a marther to skyatics as Joe were afore he was took. IN THE ASSIZE COURT. 89 Mr. Russell: That will do. The next witness was Dr. Brudenel, of Highclere, a formal old gentleman of a fast-expiring species, the ancient family practitioner. He gave his evidence in a lofty and grandiose manner, and used as many scientific and technical words as he could possibly employ, in order to inform the jury that Mr. Bake had died from the effects of wounds inflicted on the head by a blunt instrument, most probably a stake or cudgel. There had been three wounds, all of a severe cha- racter, and sufficient to account for death. There was no doubt in Dr. Brudenel's mind that the deceased expired almost immediately from the effects of one or all of those wounds, and that he was a dead man when he fell or was thrown into the ditch. In cross-examination Mr. Tomplin asked whether such wounds might not have been caused accidentally by a fall, if Mr. Blake had tried to jump the hedge into the road and had been flung violently out of his saddle. Dr. Brudenel: I have no hesitation in saying that it would be impossible for three such wounds to be inflicted accidentally. Nor have I any hesitation in saying that no hunting man would take such a jump as you suggest in cold blood, riding home after a day's sport. No judicious rider would take it at any time, as there is a drop of five feet into a hard road. Mr. Tomplin: You told us just now that, in your opinion, the wounds were inflicted by a cudgel or a stake. Now, would not a wound inflicted by a stake be of a very different character from that caused by a cudgel? QO JUST AS I AM. Dr. Brudenel: There would be a difference cer- tainly. Mr. Tomplin: A marked difference, would there not? Dr. Brudenel: The wound inflicted by a stake would be jagged. The flesh would be much abraded, supposing the edge of the stake to be sharp and pointed. The blow from a cudgel would cause a con- tused wound. Mr. Tomplin: Now, Dr. Brudenel, were not these wounds obviously caused by a stake? Dr. Brudenel : That was my impression at the time, an impression which was in some manner borne out by the subsequent discoveiy of a hole in a bank about a quarter of a mile from the scene of the murder, from which a stake had evidently been recently pulled up, apparently with violence or haste. Mr. Tomplin: Was the spot in question nearer Austhorpe than the scene of the murder? Dr. Brudenel: Nearer the Highclere Road. The counsel for the defence scored a point by Dr. Brudenel's evidence. Humphrey Vargas had described himself as striking Mr. Blake with a cudgel. This suggestion of a stake torn from a hedge near the scene of the murder introduced a new element of doubt into the case. GUILTY. Q 1 CHAPTER IX. GUILTY. The next witness was a man who had known Humphrey Vargas when he lived at Austhorpe, and who identified him as an agricultural labourer who had worked at one time for Mr. Blake, and had occu- pied a cottage on his estate. This man described how Vargas had offended Mr. Blake by poaching on the Tangley preserves, and how he and his wife had been turned out of their home, neck and crop, a day or two before the birth of his last child. The wife died within a week of her confinement, and Vargas had attributed her death to the agitation and discomfort caused by their sudden shift of quarters, from a decent weather-tight cottage to a wretched hovel in one of the lanes near Austhorpe. He had expressed himself strongly about Mr. Blake's conduct, and had shown himself vindictive. Soon after his wife's death he left Austhorpe, abandoning his young family to the care of the parish. The wife had been a steady, hardworking woman, but Vargas had been scampishly disposed at his best, not an habitual drunkard, but going on the drink at odd times, and inclined to be idle. Of this witness Mr. Tomplin declined to ask any questions. Then came the evidence of the Great Barford pawnbroker, at whose shop Vargas had pledged Mr. Blake's watch and chain, and who had been able to pick him out from among six men, and identify him, without a minute's hesitation. This witness was 0,2 JUST AS I AM. searchingly interrogated by Mr. Tomplin, who did all he could to shake his testimony, and to make him appear a twaddling old fool, but without suc- cess. After this followed the evidence of the late police constable of Austhorpe, a toothless old man who had been superannuated twelve years ago, but whose memory seemed unimpaired by time. He described how he had assisted at the tracing of footprints in the muddy road, hardened by a night's frost, which foot- prints had been since found to correspond with the form and size of the prisoner's feet with singular dis- tinctness. Here, again, the counsel for the defence tried the forensic art of ridicule, but with no more effect than in the case of the pawnbroker, save so far as the eliciting of some idle laughter from the groundlings. The next and last witness was the tramp, William Scaffers, otherwise Carrotty Bill, who deposed to being in Vargas's company in the hopfields, near Cobham, in Kent, and parting with him on the road to Dale- shire. He described how they had afterwards met by accident in Blackford, and how Vargas had then been flush of coin. "He'd done a job somewheres in the country as had put a few pounds in his pocket, he ses," pursued Mr. Scaffers, who discoursed as freely and as plea- santly in the witness-box as if he had been sitting by a taproom fire. His easy attitude, as he lolled with folded arms upon the front of the box, was calculated to assure the jury of his perfect candour and friendli- ness! He kept a bit of straw at one corner of his mouth, which he chewed occasionally, as if for refresh- GUILTY. 93 ment, and he occasionally spat, in a gentlemanly manner, upon the floor of the box. "He stood sam for a pot o' pongelo," continued Mr. Scaffers, "and narchurly we got talkin'. He told me he meant to go across the 'erring pond and try his luck in Meriky as soon as the winter was over. I arst him if he'd got enough money to pay his passage, and he ses he has; and I ses that must ha' been a profitable job as he'd done in Daleshire; and he ses it were a bit o' luck, and no mistake, and he only wished he could be as lucky every month in the year, and then he wouldn't quarrel with fortune nor with nobody." Mr. Tomplin, in cross-examination, bore rather hardly upon the witness, but was able neither to shake Mr. Scaffer's testimony nor to disturb his equanimity. He was quite agreeable to answer any number of questions that might be put to him, and seemed to look upon the whole business as a pleasant chat, which gave free scope to his conversational powers. He ex- plained the meaning of various slang words, which had given colour and vividness to his phraseology. He told the jury that pongelo was a familiar name for half-and-half, and further explained that half-and- half was a mixture of ale and porter. Nothing could be more affable than his manner to the counsel, save perhaps those nods and winks with which he sought to establish an understanding between himself and the jury. "May I inquire how much of your life has been spent out of jail during the last twenty years?" asked Mr. Tomplin. "That's a pint of hetiquette for his honour to de- cide," answered the imperturbable Scaffers. "I should Q4 JUST AS I AM. call it a hunwarrantable invasion of a gentleman's private life." "That will do, sir; I think you have wasted the time of this Court quite long enough," said Mr. Tom- plin shortly. "I leave it to the jury's own powers to diskiver which of us two has been a fritterin' away their valu- able time since eleven o'clock this morning," answered Scaffers. This closed the case for the prosecution. Mr. Tomplin then began his defence. He started by admitting that he had a difficult task before him. Here was a man who stood before them self-accused of a terrible crime, whose own lips had given the chief evidence against him; a man who had of his own free will surrendered his liberty and invited the last punishment which the law could inflict. Yet in the face of this confession he should ask the jury to consider the case before them with minds un- prejudiced by the prisoner's own statement, and to examine that statement as if it had been the evidence of an independent witness. He asked them to con- sider that there was actually nothing in all they had heard to-day to connect the prisoner with the murder of Walter Blake, though there was certainly some ground for believing that he had become possessed of the murdered man's watch and chain, and had con- verted them for his own benefit. "You have been told by Dr. Brudenel," pursued Mr. Tomplin, "that in his opinion, both at the time of the inquest and at the present time, the wounds from which Mr. Blake died were inflicted by a sharp-edged, jagged piece of wood, such as a hedge-stake, and not GUILTY. 95 by the smooth knob of a cudgel. I ask you, gentlemen, to consider this point in the evidence; and I ask you still more closely to consider the palpable improba- bilities in the tale told by the prisoner. You are asked to believe that he, a half-starved tramp, footsore and weary, was able to stop Mr. Blake, a powerful man, mounted on a powerful horse; that he was able to drag him off his horse and so belabour him with a cudgel that he died. Does it not seem more reason- able to suppose, gentlemen, that the murderer of Mr. Blake was a man of his own age, of powerful frame, like his own, mounted as well as he was mounted, able to attack him upon equal terms; not a poor crawling hound whom the squire of Tangley could have swept out of his path as he would have spurned any four- footed cur that yelped and snapped at his horse's legs? Gentlemen, you have to look deeper than this starving wayfarer's hunger for the motive of this crime. You have to look for a great wrong and a desperate revenge. You have to look for one of those terrible domestic mysteries which underlie the smooth surface of society. You have to scrutinize the garbled page before you and to read between the lines. "And now, gentlemen, as for the motive of this confession — the motive which can impel a man, at large, unsuspected, free to breathe the air of heaven, to give up his liberty and imperil his life? I think you will find it easier to discover a motive, or motives, strong enough to induce an innocent man to accuse himself of a crime which he has not committed, than to reconcile the improbabilities in the prisoner's ac- count of a supposed murder. We all know of that 96 JUST AS I AM. thirst for notoriety which exists in some uneducated minds — a morbid desire to astonish — to be talked about and pointed at and thought famous, were it after the vilest fashion. Such a desire may have in- fluenced the prisoner when he leapt in a moment from the dull obscurity of want and houselessness to the distinction of a supposed murderer: a man to be in- terviewed by newspaper correspondents, and to have his portrait in the penny dreadfuls. Gentlemen, we make too much of our criminals. There is a Victoria Cross for crime, as there is for valour. A man springs into fame as surely by the commission of a monstrous crime as a general by winning a great battle. We have made a step towards civilization by doing away with public hangings; but we shall make a longer step into the light when we cease to gloat over the details of crime, and to award the glory of a wax-work apo- theosis to the thief and the assassin. The thirst for notoriety, gentlemen, is one obvious motive for such a confession; add to this the desperation of a wretch whose only freedom was the liberty to starve by the wayside or to rot in a ditch. Perhaps, had the work- house been more accessible, Humphrey Vargas would not have thrown himself into jail; but who would hesitate, as a mere question of personal comfort, be- tween the casual ward and the convict prison? Home- less, in rags, starving, Vargas saw but one certain refuge open to him, and that refuge was a jail. He had tasted its comforts before as a common felon; he pined for the more indulgent treatment given to a murderer. He reckoned on the chances against the extreme penalty of the law. He argued with himself that an old man moved by remorse, penitent, abject, GUILTY. 97 confessing to a crime committed twenty years ago, would be sure of lenient treatment. Mercy would in- tervene to modify the severity of the sentence. He risked the hazard of the die, and stands before you to-day, bearing on his countenance the stamp of his character, a product of our nineteenth century civiliza- tion, untaught, unfed, unclothed, uncared for, a crea- ture whose final hope on earth is the decent shelter of a jail." Mr. Canning Russell replied with sober brevity to the arguments for the defence. He said that a man who accused himself of a murder was, unless mad or drunk at the time of his confession, supposed to know his own mind. This man had been neither drunk nor mad. He had given a consecutive narrative, a nar- rative sustained by the evidence, medical and other- wise. Mr. Russell alluded with some contempt to the nice distinction between a wound from a stake and one caused by a bludgeon or cudgel. "Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "I do not believe the whole College of Surgeons would be able to tell one from the other." He dwelt on the identification of the prisoner by the pawnbroker to whom he had pledged Mr. Blake's watch and chain. This was conclusive evidence as to the robbery, and was it not too much for any reason- able mind to suppose that the robbery and the murder were two distinct crimes committed by two distinct criminals, each acting independently of the other? Surely the man who disposed of Mr. Blake's property must be the man who murdered him for the sake of that property. He had to remind the jury what very small gains had been the motive of murder in many Just as I am. J. 7 q8 JUST AS I AM. cases that must have come within their knowledge. As to the argument that a tramp, on foot, was no match for Mr. Blake on horseback, it had to be con- sidered that the tramp was a man who had led a rough out-of-door life, and belonged already, in a measure, to the criminal classes, a man whose thews and sinews were practised in deeds of violence, and further, that a gentleman, walking his horse home from the hunt, after a long day's hard riding, could hardly be in the full possession of his normal strength, but was in all likelihood exhausted and weary. Mr. Russell concluded, after briefly glancing at some further points in the defence, and then the judge summed up, briefly, severely, taking care to remind the jury that the fact of a crime having been com- mitted twenty years ago was no extenuating circum- stance, that the prisoner's remorse could in no wise lessen the enormity of his guilt; that if it seemed to them that he had done this deed of which he stood accused out of his own mouth, he must pay the penalty of his crime. His case had been carefully heard. He had been ably and exhaustively defended. They were not to be carried away by oratory. They were not even to be influenced by natural pity for a wretch so abject. Their duty was to arrive at their verdict upon the evidence they had heard, looking at plain facts in the sober light of common sense. The jury retired, and in less than twenty minutes returned to the box, and after the usual formalities the jury returned the verdict "guilty." Then came the solemn closing act of the day. The judge put on the black cap and addressed the prisoner. Coldly, gravely, he reminded the shivering wretch of GUILTY. 99 the magnitude of his crime, and told him what his fate was to be. There had been no recommendation to mercy from the jury. There was no hint of a possible commutation of the sentence from the judge. The short winter day had worn to its close before this climax was reached; wax candles had been lighted here and there, and the yellow flames were reflected on the black oak pannelling as in turbid water. The faces in the crowded court had all the same wan, strained look in the dim and unequal light. There were strange effects of light and shade, as in a picture by Rembrandt. The figures of the officials moving to and fro in the dusk had a goblin look. The judge projected a monstrous shadow of his wig and gown upon the ceiling. The dark crimson draperies looked black, as if the court had been draped for a funeral. Mrs. Aspinall shook out the sable tails on the edge of her mantle and gave a shuddering sigh. "I had no idea the trial of a poor common creature could be made so interesting," she said to Sir Everard Courtenay, who sat near her. "How wonderfully clever those counsel are, and how warmly they enter into it; just as if they really cared what became of the poor creature, don't you know? But I'm rather glad it's all over, as I ordered my carriage for four o'clock, and those poor chestnuts of mine must have been shivering for the last three-quarters of an hour. Would it be too much for me to ask you to see me through the crowd?" "I shall be delighted," said Sir Everard. "Your pretty little daughter ought to have been here to-day," observed the frivolous matron; "she has lost a treat." 7* IOO JUST AS I AM. "I should be very sorry for my daughter to see such a painful scene." "But really, now; it was all so quietly done, and those barristers are such gentlemanly creatures. There was nothing to offend the most sensitive mind." "Perhaps not; but I am glad Dulcie was out of it," replied Sir Everard gravely. "May I offer you my arm?" He led the lady to her carriage, which was waiting in front of the assize court. "Shall I drive you home?" asked Mrs. Aspinall, when she was seated in her snug brougham. "It won't be far out of my way to go through Austhorpe." "You are very good, but I have my horse here, and I must ride home as fast as I can to dress for the sheriff's dinner." "You are going to dine with Sir Nathaniel?" "Yes, I am to meet the judge and the leading counsel." "And you will have a delightful opportunity of talking over the trial. I quite envy you. Shall you ride home by Austhorpe Lane, past the scene of the murder?" "Naturally, since that is the shortest way and the best road." "Have you not a vague fear of seeing Walter Blake's ghost as you pass the spot to-night?" "I have passed the spot any time for the last twenty years, and have seen no ghost." "But this evening, when your mind is full of the poor man, might not imagination conjure up his image?" "I leave the enjoyment of a vivid imagination to GUILTY. IOI your more impressionable sex, Mrs. Aspinall. Mine is not lively enough to shape poor Blake's ghost out of the mists of evening." "'Shadows to-night have struck more terror to the soul of Richard than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers,' " quoted Mrs. Aspinall laughingly. "Are you made of sterner stuff than crook-backed Dick? But you have not his guilty conscience, and that makes all the difference. When are you going to bring Dulcie to dine with me?" "Whenever you like to ask us." "But that is always. You have a standing invita- tion to drive over and dine at the Towers in a friendly, impromptu way, and you never come. You are asked to formal dinners, and you have always some excuse for refusing. You are a positive hermit!" "I own to a love of my own fireside, but I like pleasant society also. May I bring Dulcie to-morrow, if you are going to be at home?" "I shall be charmed." "The usual quarter to eight, I suppose?" "Yes; good-night. I am so glad." They shook hands, and the brougham drove off, leaving Sir Everard standing in front of the assize court, the observed of the little crowd waiting to see the notabilities come out. He walked briskly off to the Peacock to get his horse, and found Morton Blake in the stable yard, on the same errand. "Well, Morton, are you satisfied now?" he asked. "Yes, I suppose I am satisfied; and yet I have a curious feeling of incompleteness in the whole thing, as if there were something yet wanting — as if we had reached only a preliminary stage in the discovery of 102 JUST AS I AM. the truth. Can there be anything behind, do you think, Sir Everard? Had this man an accomplice? Was he the tool of a greater villain?" "My dear Morton, the whole story seems obvious and commonplace to the last degree — a starving wretch by the way-side — brutalized by ignorance and want — ready to commit any crime in order to prolong his worthless life." "My mind has been troubled by the counsel's sug- gestions of a deeper motive — a mystery underlying the apparently commonplace story." "My dear fellow, the counsel was paid to talk. He had to set up some kind of defence, to suggest a doubt where there was no room for doubt. Having no case, and being a man of small experience, he indulged his oratorical powers at the expense of common sense. Shall we ride home together?" "If you please." Their horses had been brought out by this time. They mounted, and rode under the old archway, beneath which so many a stage coach had rattled and rumbled in the days before railways. They rode slowly through the narrow town to the wide high- road , bordered on each side by grassy strips of waste land, from which Austhorpe Lane diverged. They rode at a sharp trot after they left the town, and only pulled up their horses as they ap- proached Blatchmardean Copse , near the scene of the murder. "My dear Morton, it grieves me to see you so depressed," said Sir Everard, as they walked gently past the little wood. "All has been done that can be done. Justice is satisfied. Why should the loss GUILTY. 103 and sorrow of twenty years ago, the grief of your childhood, be suffered to cloud your manhood with gloom? It is hardly fair to my poor little Dulcie that you should so abandon your mind to one all- absorbing idea. She has had very little happiness from your society since her last sad birthday." "Yes, I know I am wrong," answered the younger man. "I have brooded too much upon the past. But now, as you say, justice will be done. I ought to be satisfied. I fancy that no son, whose father — a loving and beloved father — died as mine died, could ever completely put aside his grief for that loss. But I will not yield in an unmanly way to that morbid feeling. My father is avenged. That ought to be enough for me. I hope you understand that through all the trouble and excitement of the last six weeks my love for Dulcie has not been a jot the less real and true because I have kept myself aloof from her. I would not cloud her fair young life with my sorrow, and I could not take life lightly or pleasantly during that period of suspense. To-night I will put all trouble out of my mind, and will make myself happy in my darling's society." This was said with a manly frankness, of which Sir Everard could but approve. They had passed the scene of the murder while Morton was speaking, and his companion saw the young man's shrinking glance at the weedy ditch, the steep bank, and the pollard oak above it, whose bare branches stood sharply out against the gray evening sky, a perpetual sign to mark the fatal spot. What a happy evening that was for gentle Dulcie. She was near the gate waiting for her lather's coming, 104 JUST AS l AM - as the two men rode into the avenue, a graceful little figure in a furred jacket, with the pale gold of her hair just visible under a coquettish little fur hat. Morton alighted quickly, and was by her side before she had recovered from her surprise at see- ing him. "I thought you were never coming here any more," she said, it being something less than a week since his last visit. "I did not care to come often while I had trouble on my mind, Dulcie. But now it is all over, I am your slave again." "Is the poor man going to be hanged?" asked Dulcie. "Yes." "I am " she was going to say sorry, but checked herself, warned by Morton's angry glance, and slipped her hand lightly under his arm as they walked side by side to the house. "I am glad your suspense and trouble are over," she concluded. "We have only half-an-hour to spend with you, Dulcie," said Sir Everard. "I have to dress for the sheriff's dinner, and I dare say Morton is anxious to get home and tell his people the result of the trial." "I am never anxious to leave Dulcie," answered Morton, "but I have no doubt my womenkind are impatient for tidings." "I shall just have time to give you some tea," said Dulcie. "Poor things, how tired and worn out you must be! Did you get any luncheon?" "There was an interval for luncheon, but neither Morton nor I eat any." "Then you shall have some sandwiches. Our GUILTY. IO5 cook has a particular talent for sandwiches. She is almost as good as a German. I suppose you know that the Germans have a hundred and fifty different kinds of sandwiches, Morton?" "I blush to say that I was unaware of their pro- found art in that line." "Oh, they are a great people. The greatest Egyptologists, fiddle-players, and cooks in the world." "Provided always that you like German cookery," said Morton. Dulcie was in high spirits, delighted at getting her lover back again, forgetting for once in her life to be sorry for a woe that came within her ken. She gave Scroope her orders about the tea. It was to be some- thing sumptuous in the way of afternoon teas. There were to be sandwiches, and cake, and some of those gigantic Australian grapes which were just now in their highest beauty. There was a noble fire of logs in Dulcie's room , a blaze that lit up the pots and pans and dark oak walls, and Japanese cabinets, and high-art piano. The double octagon table was drawn near the hearth, the tea-tray was there already, an old silver circular tray, on a fringed crimson-and-white damask cloth. Everything that wasn't Japanese was early English, or at least as early as Queen Anne's time. Never did a room look prettier, or more comfortable on a cold winter evening. Morton went to his favourite chair in the corner screened by the projecting chimney-piece, and seated himself with an air of unqualified enjoyment. He forgot everything except that he was with Dulcie. Sir Everard sank into his deep arm-chair without 106 JUST AS I AM. a word. He left the young people to be happy after their own manner. But with Dulcie her father was always foremost. "How tired you look, dearest," she said, leaning over him and taking his hand, "and how feverish your hand is! Such a long day, and the ride home in the cold, have been too much for you." "Yes, dear, I am rather tired. The atmosphere of the court was horrible, enough to cloud any man's brain. No wonder there is a good deal of nonsense talked in law courts occasionally. The counsel are half asphyxiated. Don't look so anxious, Dulcie. I am only tired. There is nothing else amiss with me." "You had better not go to the dinner, father." "My love, the dinner will do me good. I want the reaction of lively society after the gloom of to- day." "Do you mean that the judge and the counsel will be lively, papa — the judge after having condemned a man to be hanged?" "Do you think they ought to be in mourning for him, Dulcie, or that the judge should wear the black cap at dinner?" "No, papa, but I cannot imagine any judge with proper feeling going into society and making merry after having doomed a man to death." "Poor Dulcie. The judges are made of harder stuff than little girls like you. They go into society, and eat and drink, and talk wisely or wittily, as the case may be; and I believe the hanging judges are generally the greatest bons-vivants" Dulcie sighed, and began to pour out the tea. Morton, who in her smiles had forgotten all his troubles, A SUPERIOR WOMAN. IO7 did ample justice to the German sandwiches and hot- house grapes, and drank numerous cups of tea — or perhaps, as the pretty Japanese cups were very small and shallow, it may be said that he drank one dish of tea in several instalments. Sir Everard would eat nothing. He lay back in his chair, silent, prostrate, after the excitement of the day. CHAPTER X. A SUPERIOR WOMAN. The honourable Mrs. Aspinall was a lady who had made the journey of life with a fixed determination of always taking the lead of her fellow-travellers. She had occupied the box seat on the coach, as it were, and had required an extra amount of attention from coachman and guard. She had such a boundless faith in her own superiority that she had finally suc- ceeded in making other people believe too. "This man will do great things," said Mirabeau of Robes- pierre, "because he believes in himself." Mrs. Aspi- nall's high estimation of her own merits had enabled her to reach the top of that particular tree on which she desired to perch; and, once having gained her place, she knew how to keep it. She was not the wealthiest or the most aristocratic woman in the county. She was neither the hand- somest nor the cleverest; but, by adopting a leading tone, by talking of herself always as if she were first and foremost, by the calm arrogance with which she put down other people and asserted her own opinions, 108 JUST AS I AM. she had contrived to achieve social leadership. She had invested herself with the regal mantle and put on the crown, and nobody had the courage, or perhaps the inclination, to pluck them off. Of the lady's here- ditary claim to distinction society knew very little. The honourable Thomas Aspinall, as a younger son of Lord Riverdale, was a sprig of nobility; but his wife Sir Bernard Burke described briefly as Calphurnia, younger daughter of Patrick O'Ryan , Esq., Holly Hill, County Cork. This might mean anything or nothing, said society, slavishly submitting to pretensions for which it could discover no adequate basis. The honourable Thomas had gone to his place in the family vault fifteen years ago, and Mrs. Aspinall had enjoyed all the privileges of unfettered widowhood ever since. She had no children to occupy her time and make her acquainted with care, to sponge upon her limited income and remind people of her age by their ridiculously rapid growth. She was free to live her own life, and her life was essentially selfish. She had not been unflattered by matrimonial offers during her long widowhood; but among her various suitors there had been no one able to give her a better posi- tion than she enjoyed as a widow: and the deaf adder was never more indifferent to the voice of the charmer than was Mrs. Aspinall to the pleading of a lover who had no substantial advantages to sustain his suit. Her income was not large, but it just sufficed, with careful management, for the lady's personal wants, and enabled her to head all those subscription lists which have a local importance, and are seen by every- body. She had the use for her life of Aspinall Towers, a roomy old house in a park of considerable extent, A SUPERIOR WOMAN. IO9 but sparsely timbered, the late Lord Riverdale having considerably denuded his various seats and manors of such useless excrescences as oaks, elms, and beeches. The house was big, and draughty, and cold. It had been last furnished early in the reign of George the Third, and the chairs and tables were all of that angular and spindle-legged character which is now ac- cepted as your only beauty in cabinet-maker's work. Mrs. Aspinall declared that everything had been made by the renowned Chippendale; and she rejoiced in- wardly at a revolution in taste which enabled her to be in the height of the fashion without putting her hand in her pocket to buy anything new. Even the faded colouring of her curtains and chair covers, a kind of pallid mouldiness which pervaded everything in the house, was artistic; and Mrs. Aspinall had the satisfaction of saving money, while she sneered at the glowing crimsons and peacock greens to be found in the mansions of the newly rich. On the morning after the trial Mrs. Aspinall began to busy herself at an early hour with her preparations for that friendly little dinner which Sir Everard Courtenay had promised to eat with her. Although essentially selfish and self-indulgent, she was not lazy. No idle person could have acquired the position she had taken upon herself, or maintained it upon her narrow means. She liked work. She had a tremendous stock of energy which had to be got rid of somehow. She found as much enjoyment in an active life, a per- petual moving to and fro — managing, calling, letter- writing — as women of lymphatic temper find in lolling in a soft nest beside the fire, reading a novel. To-day she had much to do in a few hours. She IIO JUST AS I AM. wanted this dinner of to-night to be as pleasant as it was possible for a dinner to be. She had been trying her hardest — and she was a woman of exceptional persistency — to get Sir Everard and his daughter to the Towers in a friendly, familiar way, and heretofore she had failed. Sir Everard had dined six years ago at one of her grand dinners. Dulcie had gone to one of her lawn parties, under Miss Blake's wing, and chiefly to please Morton; but here it had ended. In vain had Mrs. Aspinall plied the baronet and his daughter with every variety of invitation. Sir Everard pleaded that he rarely went anywhere, and had lost all relish for society. Dulcie urged in excuse for frequent refusals that she did not care to go out with- out her father. But now, in a yielding moment, Sir Everard had promised to come, and Calphurnia determined that having once given way he should give way again, until he became as wax in her hands. "A man like that would be worth listening to," the widow told herself, remembering those ineligible suitors whom she had dismissed so coolly. "I must have some one to meet them, Pawker," she said to a genteel drudge, who combined the offices of stillroom maid, needlewoman, and lady's maid, under the ladylike appellation of companion. Just fourteen years ago this long-suffering Pawker, then hovering between girlhood and womanhood, and with a fresh-coloured, pleasing appearance, had advertized her willingness to be generally useful in the character of companion to a lady of position, and her further willingness to accept a small salary, her chief object being to secure a comfortable home. Miss Pawker was A SUPERIOR WOMAN. 1 1 1 the eldest daughter of a struggling parson, and ft had of late been made clear to her that her presence in the family circle was regarded rather as a burden than as a blessing. Mrs. Aspinall answered the advertisement, and in- vited the young lady, whose paternal home was only ten miles on the other side of Blackford, to come to the Towers for a preliminary interview. There was not a word about railway expenses, but Miss Pawker was deeply moved by the address of Aspinall Towers, and the gorgeous blending of gold and colour in the lady's monogram. Louisa's greatest weakness was a worship of rank and style — a craving for the society of fashion- able people; and the name of Mrs. Aspinall was de- lightfully familiar to her in the local newspapers as one of the leaders of county fashion. She paid for her second-class return ticket willingly, though the purse from which the money came was but scantily furnished, and she made her difficult journey across country to Highclere, whence a fly, at the fearful ex- penditure of half-a-guinea, carried her to Aspinall Towers. It was a bleak, blowy October day, and though Louisa was awed by the grim gray towers, with their narrow windows an machicolated parapets, flanking a long gray house, and by the extent of the park through which she approached this stony mansion, she could but feel that the place altogether looked shivery, and that for every-day comfort the cosy little village vicarage, with its holly-hedged garden and single pad- dock, was a better place to live in. But Louisa panted for style, and here was a style far beyond anything to which her aspiring mind had soared. Those towers, I I 2 JUST AS I AM. this park, thrilled her. "It is positively ducal!" she exclaimed to herself, enraptured at the thought that it might be her lot to inhabit that mediaeval mansion. A crimson footman handed her over to a butler in irreproachable black, and by that functionary she was conducted to Mrs. Aspinall's morning room — a spacious apartment with pale salmon-coloured walls, and a white-and-salmon cornice of elaborate design — a room which would have looked warmer and more comfortable with a little more furniture in it. The intensely Chippendale chairs and tables had a pinched and shrunken appearance on this chilly morning. Mrs. Aspinall received the stranger with a kind of off-hand friendliness which struck Louisa as the essence of good breeding. "Come and sit by the fire," she said, "and put your feet on the fender. You look blue with cold." Louisa had been taught to consider it a social crime to put her foot on a fender. The home fenders had been sacred. But at Mrs. Aspinall's request she timidly rested the sole of her stout country-made boot on the edge of the brass fender, while that lady, seated opposite, perched her gold-rimmed binoculars on the bridge of her nose, and scrutinized Miss Pawker from head to foot. "Now, my dear, what can you do?" asked Mrs. Aspinall in a business-like tone, when she had finished her survey. "Are you accomplished — play, sing, speak French, Italian, German; paint flowers and land- scapes ?" "Oh, dear, no, madam," exclaimed Louisa, redden- ing and looking frightened. "If I were able to do all that I should have gone out as a finishing gover- A SUPERIOR WOMAN. I I 3 ness, and should have hoped to earn a hundred guineas a year." "I see. You have no accomplishments: and be- cause you can do nothing you think yourself the proper person to go out as companion to a lady of position." Louisa's blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Had she paid seven and elevenpence for her railway ticket, waited ever so long at those shelterless cross-country junctions, and finally expended ten shillings on a flyman who made it a favour to convey her to her destination, in order to be lectured by the honourable Mrs. Aspinall, and sent home with a sense of her own incapacity. "I hope," she faltered, "that although I am not universally accomplished I have the power to make myself useful and agreeable in a lady's household. My sisters and I were educated at home, and my father, a country vicar, could not afford us the ad- vantage of governess or masters. We learnt all my mother could teach us. It is only lately that I have thought of taking a situation, but I certainly fancied myself qualified for the post I seek. I can play a little, sing a little, know a little French, am a good hand at all kinds of plain and fancy needlework." "Can you turn a gown, and make a bonnet?" asked Mrs. Aspinall "I always make and remake my own gowns, and sometimes make my own bonnets." "I'm glad of that. I might now and then want you to be useful in that way. I have my own maid, of course, but as she has to assist in the housework I may want a little extra help now and then. I couldn't wear anything made by a country dressmaker, ynsi as I am. I. O I 1 4 JUST AS I AM. and when I don't care to order a gown straight from Worth I like to get one thrown together at home." "I should be always delighted to be useful," re- plied Miss Pawker, not foreseeing to what she was pledging herself. "So you say in your advertisement; but it's just as well to have these matters clearly understood. Do you like reading aloud?" "I am used to it." "That's better, as I shan't be afraid of tiring you when I want the Times and Post read to me of an evening. You are fond of flowers, I suppose?" "Passionately." "Then it will be an amusement to keep my jardi- nieres and window boxes in order, and to potter about with your garden scissors and the watering can in the conservatories." This sounded home-like and pleasant, almost like being treated as a daughter of the house. "That kind of work would delight me," said Miss Pawker. "I thought so. And then I should want you to give your attention to table decoration — the arrange- ment of a dessert, for instance. Butlers are so narrow- minded and clumsy. You and I could hit upon new ideas, and infuse a little poetry into the business." "I should be charmed to assist." "With regard to your meals," pursued Mrs. Aspinall, now contemplating the vicar's daughter dreamily, as she lay back in her chair, "I think it would be as well for you to dine when I take my luncheon, and take your tea and supper in a snug little sitting-room of your own, which I should contrive to spare you, A SUPERIOR WOMAN. I I 5 as I know you would appreciate the privilege of a private sitting-room. This would leave the evening free to both of us. If I wanted you to come and read or play to me, or chat with me, you could come. If I didn't, you could amuse yourself in your own way — write letters, or novels — most young ladies write novels, and it must be very amusing for them, and not too expensive, now the duty is taken off paper, so long as they don't publish them." All this was said with an agreeable familiarity that enchanted Miss Pawker. "And now there is the question of salary. If I were inclined to make bargains I should say that a young lady who is absolutely inexperienced ought not to expect any salary for the first two or three years of her engagement; but as I like to be good-natured to young people, I'll waive the question of inexperience, and you shall start with a small salary. Now, what is your idea of a small salary?" "I have thought that thirty pounds a year — " faltered Louisa. "Thirty pounds!" screamed Mrs. Aspinall. "My poor child, are you aware that in Great Britain and Ireland alone there are ever so many million surplus women? Do you know that feminine labour is a drug in the market; that if I were to advertise for a com- panion I should be inundated with applications from young ladies wanting to come to me for nothing? Pray, my dear, be reasonable! Twenty pounds a year, with the moderate use of my laundry, no frilled petti- coats or white muslin gowns, is the very utmost I could afford to give you." Louisa hesitated, and looked dubiously round at I 1 6 JUST AS I AM. the Chippendale furniture, the hot-house flowers in old Satsuma jars, the black- and-gold Japanese screen, the salmon-coloured walls. It was all very elegant, refined, aristocratic; but twenty pounds a year was a poor pittance; and that restriction about frilled petti- coats and muslin gowns was galling. Then she com- forted herself with the thought that she had only one frilled petticoat in her wardrobe; and then she re- flected how nice it would be to live with such a friendly, easy-tempered person as Mrs. Aspinall, and to see those machicolated battlements every time she looked out of the window, and to walk in that exten- sive park. She felt that it would be something to pass all at once into an aristocratic atmosphere, to be waited upon by a footman in crimson plush, instead of the red-elbowed housemaid at home. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Aspinall, breaking sharply on the girl's reverie, "will it do for you?" "Yes, if you please, madam. I think, if you feel that I can please you, I should like to come." "Of course you can please me. That is a matter within your own volition. If you are accommodating and industrious — a very early riser, by-the-bye, that is indispensable — and sweet-tempered, and quiet in all your ways, I am sure we shall get on. You may come to me early next week. I know all about your people, so there need be no worry about references. And now you shall have some tea and bread and butter before you go back to the station." So Louisa sat with her feet on the fender, and was regaled with strong tea and delicious home-made bread and butter, and unconsciously sold herself into bondage. She had now been with Mrs. Aspinall fourteen years; A FRIENDLY DINNER. 1 1 7 and yet she was not altogether unhappy. Mrs. Aspinall, though freely spoken of in the servants' hall as a Tartar, had never been positively unkind to Louisa Pawker. There was no motive for unkindness where the slave was so willing or so submissive. CHAPTER XI. A FRIENDLY DINNER. "We must have some one to meet them," repeated Mrs. Aspinall. "Morton Blake must come, of course, as he is engaged to Miss Courtenay. Write him a little note, Pawker, like a good soul, and say that he is to be here at a quarter to eight to meet his sweetheart, while I write to Lady Frances Grange. You'd better ring the bell first, or run down to the hall — that will be quicker — and tell John to order the groom to get ready to carry some letters immediately." Miss Pawker ran to execute this errand. She was always running up and downstairs to save the servants time or trouble, and was as lean and active as a middle- aged Mercury. "Dearest Fan," wrote Mrs. Aspinall, who had long ago assumed an affectionate authority over Lord Blatch- mardean's motherless daughter, as if she had been a godmother, or as if the girl had been committed to her care by a dying mother. "I want you and your brother to come and make yourselves eminently agreeable this evening. Sir Everard Courtenay and his daughter — and I hope his daughter's lover — are to dine here en famille. Come, dear, and look your brightest and I I 8 JUST AS I AM. prettiest, and sing your delicious French ballads, and be the life of the evening. I know there is a meet on to-day, and I daresay you and Lord Beville will be over half the county between this and dusk, but I will take no excuse for your non-appearance here at a quarter to eight." The groom went off with the letters on one of Mrs. Aspinall's gray cobs, and the lady and her companion began their preparations for the evening. Mrs. Aspinall was an early bird, and had despatched her invitations before nine o'clock, knowing that Lady Frances and her brother would leave Blatchmardean before ten. "Now, Pawker, my dear, you must exercise all your taste, and make my rooms lovely," said the lady. "The dinner table must be artistic and novel. Let there be a lowish mass of scarlet geraniums and white chrysanthemums in the middle, and a feathery fringe of ferns for a border. Then we will use the old Charles the Second engraved glass, which Mr. Aspinall's mother left me. Poor dear soul, it wasn't much, but it was kindly meant. The old Leeds dessert set will do. It has a homely look, yet is exquisitely artistic. Run down, and set about your preparations, my dear, and send me up Jolfish." £ Jolfish was cook and housekeeper, so-called for dignity, since Mrs. Aspinall was far too keen a marlager to let her housekeeping be done by any one but her- self. Jolfish was obese and slow, but a good cook, and passing honest. She had never wronged her mistress by so much as a basin of dripping, and it was well for Jolfish that she had not. "Now, my dear Jolfish," said Mrs. Aspinall, ever so sweetly, for the cook had her little tempers, and did A FRIENDLY DINNER. I I 9 not like dinner parties that came upon her unawares, or "unbeknownst," as she called it. "I want you to send me up the prettiest little dinner you ever served in your life." "When might it be, mum? Next week?" "No, Jolfish, this evening." "Lor, mum, what can I do for this evening? You ain't got no company this evening, have you, mum? I'd got my dinner all laid out in my mind. A filleted sole, and a dish of cutlets, with shampinions, and one of them grouse Lord Blatchmardean sent you." "That would have done charmingly, Jolfish, if I had been alone. But I want a nice little dinner for six." And then Mrs. Aspinall, who was a genius at the composition of a bill of fare, lightly sketched the ground-plan of a little dinner which would have satis- fied the ideas of a club-house chef, or a professional diner-out. Jolfish was as objective as she dared be; prophesied that there wouldn't be such a thing as turbot to be heard of at Highclere; that the price of fowls would be ruinous; or that the birds would be old and tough; that it was a fortnight too early for a turkey poult, and ridiculous to expect oysters. Her mistress over-ruled every objection, and dismissed Jolfish with a smile. "I shall want a deal of wine for all them gravies and the soup," said Mrs. Jolfish, lingering on the thres- hold. "Browse shall give you a bottle of cherry, and a tumbler of port, and be sure your clear soup tastes of something more than wine and water." I 20 JUST AS I AM. The cook hoped she had made clear soup before in her life, but as she expressed that aspiration in a murmur, Mrs. Aspinall affected not to hear it. Browse appeared an hour later, bearing two notes on a parcel-gilt salver. One from Morton Blake, "de- lighted," &c, the other from Lady Frances. "Yes, you most indefatigable woman, we'll come, since you make a point of it. But don't be angry if we both begin to look sleepy before the evening is half over, for we expect a big day with the South Daleshire. Yours always, "F. G." Mrs. Aspinall spent her morning cosily by the fire in her salmon-coloured sitting-room, writing letters, re- gulating her accounts, and reading the last fashionable autobiography. She was a woman who diligently im- proved her mind with new books. She read memoirs, travels, reviews, political essays on occasion, and even a little science. Her opinions and ideas were as new and fashionable as her gowns and bonnets, and she passed for a woman of some culture. But if you had asked her about De Quincey or Lamb, La Bruyere, Pascal, Montaigne, she would have rewarded you with a blank stare. She thought Byron an ephemeral versifier who had achieved a brief notoriety by the audacity of his opinions and the looseness of his morals. Miss Pawker appeared at luncheon after a morn- ing's elegant drudgery. She had decorated drawing- room, ante-room, and dinner table with every available flower, and had vanquished the surly old head gardener in more than one battle. She had washed the Charles the Second glass, and the Leeds dessert dishes, both A FRIENDLY DINNER. 121 too sacred to be trusted to meaner hands. She had given out table linen, and preserved fruits, and Parisian sweetmeats. She had brought forth crewel-work cushions, and antimacassars, which were too fresh and elegant for daily wear. And now she sat down to the luncheon, which was always her dinner, looking wan and tired, and inwardly wishing she were in the humblest lodg- ing of her own, rather than amidst the splendours of Aspinall Towers. "I should ask you to dine with us this evening, my dear," said Mrs. Aspinall amiably, "only we shall be six, and that is such a nice number for the oval table in the dining-room. If the table were only round the odd number would make no difference." "Dear Mrs. Aspinall, is doesn't matter," Louisa answered with a feeble smile, although she would have liked to dine with Lady Frances Grange, for that young lady had been cordial and pleasant to her on the rare occasions when they had met. But she was too familiar with what she called "Mrs. Aspinall's ways" not to know that this talk about the table was only an excuse. If there had been five she would not have been asked to be the sixth. If there had been nine she would not have been wanted to be the tenth. Her only chance of a place at the banquet was when a party of fifteen or sixteen had unluckily dwindled to thirteen, and then Mrs. Aspinall insisted on having Pawker, lest any super- stitious guest should feel uncomfortable. "You must come and take your tea with us, of course," said her patroness. "I shall be very pleased. Lady Frances is so pretty." "Pretty! An olive-skinned thing, and as thin as a 122 JUST AS I AM. whipping post. Dulcibella Courtenay is pretty, if you like. That is real beauty." "Lady Frances has such a distinguished air." "Naturally. Blue blood will show itself somehow," answered Mrs. Aspinall, in a tone which implied that her blood was of the deepest indigo. She spent the afternoon in making a round of visits. Royalty of her kind required to be maintained by frequent progresses among her people. She never suffered herself to be forgotten. She was indefatigable in making calls, and she had a bi-monthly afternoon, the first and third Saturday in the month, to which she insisted upon people coming. There were only tea and cakes and gossip, and occasionally a little feeble music, but Mrs. Aspinall's pale amber settees were generally crowded. At half-past seven Mrs. Aspinall was in her drawing- room, looking her handsomest. She was a fine-looking woman, of what is generally considered the aristocratic type, nose arched and knobby, nostrils large, eyes a cold gray, eyebrows a work of art; hair the Titian red, fluffy in texture, covering her high, narrow forehead with stray locks and tendrils which effectually veiled the wrinkles of seven and forty; teeth good and real; lips thin and a trifle acid in expression, but of a vivid rose which would have been exceptional in a girl of seventeen, and was startling in a waning beauty. To night Mrs. Aspinall wore a myrtle green velvet gown, with no adornment save drooping ruffles of old Mechlin lace, and an antique Venetian chatelaine of dull gold. She walked slowly up and down the long drawing- room, musing upon her expected guests — or rather A FRIENDLY DINNER. 123 upon one of them, for it was of one only whom she thought. "Why should he not marry?" she asked herself. "His daughter will be married before long, and then he will find that house of his horribly dull. He will either marry, or go off to the Continent and wander half over Europe, as he did after his wife's death. It would be far more sensible to marry — if he made a wise choice — and I think he is too clever a man to choose some frivolous girl, who would think she did him a favour by accepting him, and would compensate herself by making his life miserable." The drawing-room at Aspinall Manor was spacious and lofty; but it had none of that cheery homeliness which made the Tangley Manor drawing-room so pleasant. It was a pallid, cold-looking apartment, the walls white and gold, with large oval mirrors at inter- vals, and old crystal girandoles. The draperies and chair and sofa coverings were of amber satin, which time had robbed of its original brightness and warmth of tone. The Aubusson carpet was of faded drab, and blue, and cream, and gold, all blending into one pale, subdued tint. The long, straight windows, with their long, straight curtains, accentuated the loftiness of the room. There were broad amber settees against the walls, spindle-legged chairs of the genuine Louis Seize period, in gold and amber, two or three spindle-legged tables, round and oval, decorated with masks, goats' heads and festoons, a pair of buhl jardinieres filled with ferns and flowers, and all the rest of the room was empty space. It was a room especially adapted for stately receptions and large assemblies, and it was well for Mrs. Aspinall that she had a snug and cosy 124 J VST AS T AM - retreat from all this barren grandeur in the small ante- room through which her saloon was approached. Here, within walls whose tawny leather covering gave a look of warmth, there were low modern chairs of the puff species, gipsy tables, books, newspapers, and all the comforts of every-day life. "Sir Everard Courtenay, Miss Courtenay, Mr. Blake," announced Browse, the butler. Mrs. Aspinall received Sir Everard and his daughter with enthusiasm — it was so good, so kind, so nice of Dulcie and her father to come in this truly friendly way. To Morton she gave two fingers and a smiling nod. He was nothing to her. She had no daughters to marry, and a rich young parvenu more or less in the world could make no difference to her. But she had her views about Sir Everard — had cherished those views for a long time, and had striven in vain for the opportunity of carrying them to a successful issue. Now that Dulcie was going to be married it seemed to her that the opportunity had come. She was glad when, after a little trivial talk about the weather, Dulcie and Morton strayed through the curtained archway into the ante-room, with that curious knack of getting away from other people peculiar to engaged lovers. Mrs. Aspinall and Sir Everard were in front of the fireplace, she standing in her favourite attitude, with her foot on the low, brass fender, and the edge of her velvet gown drawn up a little, to show the rich lace upon her petticoat. She had a long, narrow foot and high instep — unmistakable mark of that blue blood on which she prided herself. A FRIENDLY DINNER. 125 "When is it to be, Sir Everard?" she asked, look- ing down at her green satin slipper. "When is what to be?" "Dulcie's marriage." Sir Everard gave a little start, as if it were a most unexpected question. "Her marriage! Not for a long time, I hope. She and Morton are engaged, but there has been no talk of fixing the time for their wedding. She is so young." "Twenty," said Mrs. Aspinall, with an insinuating air. "I was married at seventeen." She emphasized this with a sigh, as if that early marriage had not been altogether happy, as if there were still an empty chamber in her heart waiting for an eligible tenant. "A great deal too soon," said Sir Everard, with a provokingly matter-of-fact tone. "It was my father's doing. I had no voice in the matter." "I hope Dulcie will be in no hurry," said Sir Everard, not showing the faintest retrospective interest in Mrs. AspinalPs marriage. "I shall be wretched without her." "You will miss her very much, no doubt, but it is a loss you must have anticipated. And, altogether charming as she is, at her age Dulcie can be no com- panion for you." "Not a companion for me," cried Sir Everard. "She is my second self — my source of perpetual delight. She understands my every thought and feeling; she appreciates my favourite books as thoroughly as the subtlest of professional critics could do; she cheers me when I am dull; she soothes me when I am weary. 126 JUST AS I AM. Where should I find such another companion? No, Mrs. Aspinall, I am too old to make new friendships. When Dulcie leaves me my life will be desolate." Mrs. Aspinall's thin lips tightened a little, and her calculating gray eyes assumed a troubled look, but only for a few moments, and then she was able to smile her sweetest smile at the affectionate father. "Nothing in nature can be more beautiful than such an attachment," she said. "But for your own sake, dear Sir Evei^rd, I trust that new friendships — new ties — " "There can be none. New ties — impossible. I have but a remnant of life to live, and that must be spent with no better companions than my books." "A remnant of life; you are so young." "Fifty next January, Mrs. Aspinall; and I feel as if I had lived a century. But I did not come here to be gloomy. Dulcie and I will not be entirely parted, even when she is Mrs. Blake. I shall see her often, and in years to come her children will console, me for the loss of their mother. I must submit to the com- mon fate." "Lord Beville, Lady Frances Grange," announced Browse. Their entrance made an agreeable diversion. Lady Frances, called by her intimates Lady Fanny, and even Fan, was one of the liveliest young women in the county; a magnificent horsewoman, a charming singer, and with about as much education, outside those two accomplishments, as the average ballet-girl. She, like Dulcie, was motherless, and had been allowed to have her own way ever since she could remember, and had governed her good old governess, and reigned supreme A FRIENDLY DINNER. I 2 "J in a slip-shod household. But she had not made such good use of her liberty as Dulcie had done. She was not given to books, save of the lightest and most amusing order. She had just learnt enough English to write a decent letter, and enough French to sing a ballad in that language, and to understand and pro- nounce those phrases which crop up in British conver- sation. Beyond this, her governess had been a failure. But despite these shortcomings, Frances Grange was so winning and so sweet, that no one would have wished her other than she was. She was just pretty enough to be intensely fascinating. She had small, delicately-cut features, a brunette complexion, dark brown hair, worn short and curly like a boy's, so that there were no plaits or tails to tumble over her shoul- ders or be blown across her eyes in the hunting field. She had a slim and graceful figure, and, though tall among women, was a feather-weight on a powerful hunter. She dressed simply and well, without extra- vagance, talked as much slang as an Oxford under- graduate, and set the strict middle-aged section of society at defiance. Her chief friend was her brother, who resembled her mentally and morally, but not phy- sically, since he was a tawny-whiskered young athlete, of the true Saxon type, broad-nosed, blue-eyed, ruddy- cheeked. He adored Fanny; Fanny believed in him; and they were altogether a model brother and sister. The evening was as pleasant as Mrs. Aspinall could have desired. Yet things did not take the exact turn she had intended. Lady Frances contrived to absorb a good deal of Sir Everard's attention, with her lively sallies and rattling description of the day's sport; Dulcie and Morton were happy in their quiet way, 128 JUST AS I AM. sitting together in corners, but were intruded upon more than they cared about by Lord Beville, who in- sisted upon talking to Dulcie, and was inclined to ignore Mr. Blake's peculiar privileges as an accepted suitor. Mrs. Aspinall felt when all was over that her evening had been a success; but she made up her mind never again to invite Lady Frances to meet Sir Everard Courtenay. CHAPTER XII. AT THE SUGAR-LOAVES. The fields and hedgerows round Austhorpe were white with wintry rime, and all the trees were fairy- trees wreathed with hoar-frost. In pleasant contrast to this all-pervading whiteness, the lighted casements of cottages and homesteads shone out cheerily with ruddy fire-glow or yellow candle-light, brightening the arctic landscape, and comforting the wayfarer with the assurance of home and shelter near. The old ugly church, with its bare brick tower and blank ray- less windows, alone looked bleak and grim. Every- where else there was a twinkle of light, the gleam of a fire, blue smoke curling up through the clear night sky, the sense of a homely inhabited world. The brightest spot in the village, the very focus of comfort, and good cheer, and homeliness, and pleasant society, was the Three Sugar-Loaves Inn, a long, low, sub- stantial building, standing bravely out where two roads went off at right angles from the end of the broad village street. The proprietor of the Sugar -Loaves AT THE SUGAR-LOAVES. 120, farmed a few acres of fertile pasture, speculated in his small way in store cattle, was an amateur of pigs, fattened turkeys for the Christmas market, and sold butter all the year round; hence had arisen a spacious- ness and air of plenty about the inn and its surround- ings which the mere traffic in neat wines, beer, and spirits could scarcely have produced. The very look of the house inside and out, the warm, cosy rooms and sanded passages, the glowing kitchen and cool dairy, the barns, poultry houses, and pig-sties adjacent, suggested good cheer, and an almost Gargantuan plenty. Behind the bar was the parlour, a low room with a heavily-timbered ceiling, a wide fire-place, deeply re- cessed casement-windows looking into a garden where flowers and vegetables grew in homely propinquity, parsley and pinks, kail and cabbage roses, stocks and radishes jostling one another, in box -edged beds, screened and intersected by espaliers which were sup- posed to grow the biggest codling apples in the county. To-night the closely-drawn red moreen curtains shut out the view of the whitened beds, where only an occasional kail sprout perked its green crest above the rimy ground. All within was comfort and warmth — shining brown walls, and shining brown chairs and tables reflecting the crimson gleam of the fire, and the yellow flame of the tall candles in old brass candle- sticks. Gas had never invaded Austhorpe, and the landlord of the Sugar-Loaves set his face against paraffin and the whole family of oils. Candles were one of the outward and visible signs of those good old Tory principles which John Rhind of the Sugar-Loaves had inherited from his father and grandfather, together Just as X am. I. 9 I30 JUST AS I AM. with the brass candlesticks and the freehold of the inn; and he meant to burn candles to his dying day. John Rhind, as the possessor of his homestead and farm, looked upon himself as one of the landowners of the place. He was inwardly pleased when work- ing men or small boys addressed him as squire. He felt himself a bulwark of Church and State, he patronized Mr. Mawk, the curate, and he looked down upon the schoolmaster. His wife was the best-dressed woman in Austhorpe, after Miss Courtenay, and his daughter played the piano and worked in crewels all day long, like the finest lady in the land. This parlour at the "Three Sugar-Loaves" was the village club, and the chosen resort of all the best people in the parish of Austhorpe, and even some other parishes conterminous therewith; for there was no other inn within ten miles which afforded such solid comforts or enjoyed so wide a popularity. Here on this December night were assembled Shafto Jebb, the village doctor; Mr. Gomersall, fanner and church- warden, of Pear Tree Farm, a cosy old homestead, a mile and a half from Austhorpe; Mr. Upham, better known as Jack Upham, the solicitor, who had his office at Highclere, but who lived in a rustic bow-windowed cottage in Austhorpe Lane; and lastly William Wadd, Morton Blake's bailiff, gamekeeper, and factotum. The trial of Humphrey Vargas was but a week old, and it was still the staple of conversation at the "Three Sugar-Loaves." It had been discussed in all its bearings, yet no one had wearied of the subject. There was a strong human interest in it which made the theme agreeable to every mind. There was a dif- AT THE SUGAR-LOAVES. 131 ference of opinion, too, among the nightly guests of the parlour, which heightened the interest. There was a door of communication between the parlour and the bar, a door which was generally left open or ajar, for the convenience of prompt attendance on the part of the landlord, who waited in person on his parlour customers, deeming those convivial gentle- men the main-stay of his trade, and who very often joined in the conviviality, while his wife, a plump, comely personage, plied her needle by the neat little fireplace in the bar, and was pleased to hear her hus- band get the best of an argument, or put down a political opponent with the high-handed authority of a fine old pig-headed Conservatism. To-night, just as conversation in the parlour was loudest, Morton Blake, who but rarely was known to cross the threshold of the " Sugar-Loaves ," opened the front door, and came to the little half-door of the bar. "Why, Mr. " began John Rhind, surprised at the apparition, but Morton put his finger on his lips. He pointed significantly to the half-open door of com- munication, whereupon the landlord quietly closed it. "May I come in, and sit in your bar for a little while, Rhind?" said Morton. "Why, of course you can, sir; and welcome you are, too. Your father was never the stranger here that you are. Many a time has he sat in that chair, while he had his hunter's mouth washed out, after a hard day, and has taken his glass of beer as friendly as if he'd been one of the smock-frock farmers here- abouts. Not a bit of pride, sir— the genuine metal — and as fine a looking gentleman as ever wore shoe- leather." 132 JUST AS I AM. "I'm glad you liked him, Rhind. I'm always glad to hear him praised." "You've never heard anybody speak against him, I'll warrant." "No, thank God. He seems never to have made an enemy, in spite of that fellow's insinuations," pur- sued Morton thoughtfully, and with a darkening brow. "Meaning the prisoner's counsel, sir. Lord, don't you take no heed of what he said. They must in- sinooate some'at. They're paid to do it." "I don't want any one to know I'm here, Rhind." "All right, sir. I can keep that there door fast, and you can sit there snug till we shuts up, if you like." "But I want the door a little way open. I hear from Wadd that there's been a good deal of talk about the trial, and I want to hear what people say about it. They wouldn't talk freely before me, you see, and I can't trust to Wadd's report of their conversation. He muddles everything so. I want to hear with my own ears." "That's easy enough, sir," answered Rhind. "They was all full of it five minutes ago, when I took in fresh glasses. I'll just set the door ajar, and you may hear every syllable, and none o' them chaps need be any the wiser." "Guilty," replied Jack Upham, pursuing the argu- ment of the evening, after a replenishing of glasses all round, and a general filling of pipes. The farmer and the bailiff smoked clay churchwardens, the doctor carried a short, black-muzzled meerschaum in the breast pocket of his cut-away coat, the lawyer alone indulged in cigars. "Guilty," repeated Mr. Upham, AT THE ST T OAR-LOAVES. I 33 glaring defiance at Shafto Jebb. "Why, of course the fellow is guilty. Would any man put himself in such a fix who wasn't? A man doesn't put his neck into a noose without reason." "Did you never hear of a man losing temper with fortune and hanging himself because life didn't sit easy upon him?" argued the surgeon. "Did you never hear of suicides? I thought they were common enough. You can hardly take up a newspaper without reading of three or four cases which would have been called felo de se fifty years ago. Now-a-days we're more charitable, and call them temporary insanity. Now what I say is that this Vargas gave himself up in a fit of temporary insanity. A poor wretch like that, with a heart no bigger than a shrimp's, hasn't pluck enough to go and buy three penn'orth of rope and put it round his own neck. He'd rather give himself up to a policeman, and get the job done for him. It isn't the first time a man has confessed to a crime he never committed, and I don't suppose it'll be the last; but as sure as I am sitting here in this arm-chair, smoking this pipe, it wasn't Humphrey Vargas who murdered Walter Blake." The listener, sitting between the half-open door and the snug little fireplace in the bar, waited with contracted brows and set lips for what was coming next. "But look here now, Shafto," remonstrated Joe Gomersall, the churchwarden, who was one of Mr. Jebb's best customers, and therefore had a claim to speak with authority. "There's no use in launching out with such statements unless you are prepared to tell us what grounds you go upon." 134 just AS ! AM - "That's easily done. First and foremost, the con- fession made by Humphrey Vargas is a cock-and-bull story. Any fool can see that. If I'd had to defend him I should have made a much stronger point of that than his counsel did." "If he'd had Jebb for his counsel of course he'd have got off," said Upham, with a sneer. Shafto Jebb was one of those clever men whose self-conscious cleverness offends more than their good- nature pleases. "Secondly," continued Jebb, ignoring the inter- ruption, — "and this the prisoner's counsel ought to have found out, for it was known to the police at the times — the man who killed Walter Blake was on horse- back." "How do you know that?" asked Gomersall. "By the evidence of the hoof-prints on the road and bank. There was a frost the night after the murder — a light frost — but enough to harden eveiy footmark on the road. I was out with the constable and another man next morning, examining the scene of the murder. Well, gentlemen, Mr. Blake's horse had gone home, there was no doubt as to him. He'd rushed off like a mad thing in his fright, and made a dash right across Blatchmardean Copse; there were the traces of his flight through the brushwood and across the stream, and a bit of his bridle hanging on a low branch, plenty to show the way he took, and that he didn't lose much time about it was proved at the inquest, for a boy found him feeding on Tangley Common at half-past six, ever so long before anybody knew about the murder. But just where Blake was found there were traces of another horse's hoofs, as if AT THE SUGAR-LOAVES. I 35 one horseman had followed the other. Both stopped at the same point; there was nothing to show that the second horseman had gone on to Austhorpe; but on the clay bank, within a few yards of the spot where the murdered man was found there were traces to show that a horse had been jumped from the road to the bank, and across the hedge into the meadow beyond. It was a blind hedge, with a good deal of greenery about it, and the horse had gone crashing through a thick growth of blackberry bushes and oak saplings. In the field we lost all trace of him, for there were a couple of mares and foals grazing, and the marks on the grass were not distinct enough to show where the print had been made by an iron shoe, or where by the unshod hoof. There was a gate leading out of the field into an accommodation road, the kind of lane that an Irishman calls a boreen, but here the mud was so thick and the ground so broken we could trace nothing. How the horseman doubled and wound, or where he went, I can't say; but it's perfectly clear to me, and it was clear at the time to old Tom Purdy, the constable — but I suppose he's in his dotage now and has forgotten all about it — that there was a horseman with Walter Blake when he was murdered." The company were evidently impressed. Mr. Jebb had said a good deal upon previous evenings, but he had never stated his case plainly until now. "Why didn't you come forward and state this at the trial?" asked Upham. Shafto Jebb shrugged his shoulders. "The man had counsel to defend him," he said. I36 JtJST AS I AM. "I supposed that his counsel would have heard all that I could tell him." "You ought to make it known even now," said Gomersall. "I have thought of penning a letter to the Times" replied Jebb, "but I think it's hardly worth while. I have signed a memorial to the Home Secretary, and I don't think the poor devil will be hanged." Morton Blake started at this, and half rose from his seat. "Oh, there's a memorial, is there?" inquired the farmer. "Yes, the big-wigs have started it; Sir Nathaniel Ritherdon, Lord Blatchmardean, and Sir Everard Courtenay, and the rest of them. There'll be a com- mutation of the sentence, depend upon it — penal servitude for life — and as the fellow no doubt appro- priated the dead man's watch and purse, he will get no more than he deserves if he finishes his career at Portland." "I don't think Mr. Tomplin would have made much out of your hoof-prints, Jebb, if he had been ever so well posted," said Upham, the attorney, with a critical air. "On a day when thirty or forty men were out hunting, a jump more or less would count for very little." "But the hounds didn't run that way." "No, but some fellow tiying a short cut, you know " "Nonsense, man, the hunt was never within three miles of the spot. It wasn't the jump that was extra- ordinary, but the fact that the two horsemen rode to that spot together, that Blake was murdered on that AT THE SUGAR-LOAVES. 137 spot, and that the second horseman, whoever he was, rode off across country from that spot." "How can any one tell that the two horsemen were together?" persisted the lawyer. "The footprints may have been made at separate times, and the fact of the horseman jumping the bank at that point may have been a simple coincidence; some farmer making a short cut home after the hunt." "I asked all the fellows who live out that way, and could hear of no one who had ridden across that field," answered Jebb. Jack Upham made very light of Mr. Jebb's piece of evidence. The two men always disagreed with each other upon principle. Each had a great idea of his own cleverness, and each thought the other wanted putting down. They were both members of Austhorpe Vestry, a narrow-minded village oligarchy, which be- lieved itself to hold as distinct a place in history as the Council of Ten. "And that's your only ground for believing Vargas innocent," said Upham sneeringly. "I don't say it's my only reason. It's one of my reasons." "Let us hear a few of the others." "Not to-night. I've no brief to defend Mr. Vargas, and I don't feel myself called upon to make any further statement of my reasons for believing him innocent. If a man of that stamp chooses to put a rope round his neck it isn't my business to take it off." "I vote we change the conversation," suggested Gomersall, who foresaw the danger of a wordy war between the lawyer and the doctor. "We've talked 138 JUST AS I AM. a precious deal too much about this Vargas. He's not an interesting character, and he isn't worth it. How are you off for pheasants this year, Wadd?" de- manded the farmer, turning to Mr. Blake's factoium, a stolid personage who enjoyed society, but rarely spoke unless he was spoken to. "Pretty well, thank you, furmer, but we should be just as well off if we hadn't any, except for Mrs. Cook. Mr. Blake don't take the interest in the covers as his father did. He don't care about breedin', and he ain't hot upon shootin'. He just takes up his gun in what I call a namatoorist sort of a way — dilly-taunty-like— and he's a fairish shot, I allow, but with none of the sperrit as his father had when he got in a warm corner, pepperin' away at the burds like mad. And he don't have the right sort of people at his place, neither, — none o' them wild blades that used to keep us all on the move and never went to bed at night till it was time to get up in the mornin'." "Times have changed, Wadd," said the lawyer. "So they have, Mr. Upham, but they ain't changed for the better. Harvests is bad, and beasts is dear, and a good bit of horse-flesh ain't to be had; and this here country is criss-crossed with railways to that de- gree that you can't go for a quiet ride without finding your horses shying away from a locomotive, or start a fox so that you mayn't have to chop him up in a tunnel. There's no improvement in anything except guns, and I like the old-fashioned sort best." "Well, gentlemen, the best of friends must part," said Jebb, as he refilled his pipe for the homeward walk. "My missus will be wanting her bit of supper, AT THE SUGAR-LOAVES. I 39 and she never sits down till I get home. Are you ready, Joe? We may as well walk together." Mr. Gomersall rose at his friend's bidding, and this was the signal for a general break-up. The dark- faced, dark-whiskered Upham, renowned for his clever- ness as a lawyer, but rather respected than liked, departed alone. Wadd rolled off towards Tangley, whistling as he went; while Gomersall and the doctor strode along the broad highway, with its frozen pond, and darkened schoolhouse, and low roofed cottages wrapped in night and silence. "Well, sir, you heerd 'em plain enough, didn't you?" asked the landlord cheerily, when the guests had made their departure, with loud leave-takings. "Yes, I heard them." "But there ain't much in it when all's heerd, be there, Mr. Blake? A power o' talk, but it don't come to a pint." "I've heard enough to make me feel uncomfort- able," said Morton. "Lord, now, Mr. Blake, don't say that. You didn't ought to give heed to a long-tongued fellow like Jebb, a man that must be talking. What business had he prying and spying about with the constable on the morning arter the murder? It weren't a medical case — it weren't his trade — but there's never a pie baked in Austhorpe that he mustn't have a finger in it. Don't you worry your mind, sir. The case is as plain as the nose on your face. The man who gave hisself up for the murder is the man who did it, and anybody that says he ain't must be a rank fool." Morton did not stop to argue the point. He took up his hat, thanked the landlord for his civility, T40 JUST AS I AM. wished Mr. Rhind good-night, and went away without another word. "A fine, handsome-looking young man, and civil spoken," said John Rhind, "but not a patch upon his father." CHAPTER XIII. A PLEA FOR THE PRISONER. Morton Blake sat alone in his study on the day after his evening visit to the Three Sugar-Loaves, trying to bring his mind to bear upon the pages of a Parliamentary report, but finding his thoughts in- clined to wander to last night's conversation in the inn parlour, and to vain speculations upon what he had heard. Wadd, the bailiff, had been right in his assertion that Morton was altogether different from his father. Walter Blake had been of an easier temper, pleasure-loving, fond of society, an ardent sportsman, with no aspiration beyond the enjoyment of the present hour, a man of warm feelings, quick impulses, winning manners; a man who could make himself popular in every society, and who had been admired and beloved in his own particular set. Beyond pleasing himself and giving such pleasure as he could to other people, without over-much trouble to himself, by open-handed, careless benevolence, and a sympathetic nature, Mor- ton's father had never aspired. He had taken life and all its responsibilities lightly, and had considered this world a place in which his chief mission was to be happy. Before he was twenty-one he had plighted A PLEA FOR THE PRISONER. 1 4 1 himself, in his usual impulsive manner, to Horatia Martin, the handsomest girl in the district, and before he was twenty-two, and had been six months married, he found that he had made one of those mistakes which with some men give an uncomfortable twist to a whole life -time. But Walter Blake, having found out his mistake, made the best of it. He was an ad- mirable husband, but he was very seldom at home be- tween breakfast and dinner. During dinner he made pretty speeches to his wife, who looked superb in evening dress, and did the honours of his house ad- mirably. After dinner the master of the house was generally to be found with his masculine guests in the billiard-room and the smoking-room. It will be seen, therefore, that Mrs. Blake did not get much of her husband's society. Bondage thus lightly worn hardly galled even Walter Blake's self-indulgent nature, and not even his most intimate friend discovered how little he cared for his wife. Morton was of a different temper, and for him life had another and more serious meaning. He inherited from his grandfather, Geoffrey Blake, something of that dogged and persevering spirit which had helped the penniless boy to fortune — something of the temper of those good old Puritan ancestors whose spotless repute in a lowly walk of life had been Geoffrey's proudest boast. Morton was ambitious. He was a strong politician. He hoped to sit in Parliament be- fore long. He had thought deeply upon the most stirring questions of the time. He was as strong a Liberal as his grandfather had been, and he had an intense sympathy with the lower classes, and a fiery I42 JUST AS I AM. indignation against all oppressive legislation. He had read much, and thought much, and was thoroughly posted in all those subjects which enable a man to converse on equal terms with the best men of his age. All his plans had been unsettled and thrown into abeyance by the events of the last six weeks. Every faculty of his mind had been concentrated upon one work and one subject. And even now, though he tried to persuade himself that all was over, that his father's cruel death was soon to be bloodily avenged, and that there was no further duty left for the son to perform, still his mind was unsatisfied, there were lingering doubts unsolved, and he sought in vain for rest, and the power to resume his old studies with something of the old interest that had hitherto made them pleasant to him. He closed the bulky volume, in which he had been reading a long debate upon the Poor Laws, with an impatient sigh. "It is no use," he said to himself, getting up and beginning to pace the room, as he always did when his mind was troubled. "I sit staring at the page while my thoughts are far away. What did that man mean by his hints and half-expressed suggestions in his cross-examination of Sir Everard? A social mystery? What mystery? And how could it concern Sir Everard? Why did the counsel suggest that there might have been a break in the friendship of Sir Everard and my father? Why did he ask if there had been any trouble about Lady Courtenay? No one ever hinted at such trouble or at any estrangement. What can have sug- gested such an idea to this scoundrel's advocate? I should like to see this Mr. Tomplin and have the A PLEA FOR THE PRISONER. 1 43 matter out with him. A man has no right to drop hints of this kind if he has no ground for them." After walking slowly up and down the room for some time he came to a standstill before the large square window looking across the lawn and shrubbery to Tangley Common, and stood there watching the gardener sweeping the whitened paths, and shovelling the fallen leaves into his barrow, in an absent-minded way, like a man who has given himself up to ab- solute idleness of mind and body. But his thoughts were busy all the while, brooding upon points in the evidence at the trial, or upon the story he had heard last night. "Who among all the men who were out hunting that day could have had a quarrel with my father, or any motive for murdering him?" he asked himself. "I must try back. I must question those who knew his life at that time. Aunt Dora, for instance. She lived with him for the last three years of his life, and they were devoted to each other. She must know everything. It isn't possible that he could have made an enemy without her knowledge. People who knew him have told me that he was the most open-hearted of men." He looked across the lawn at a figure that had just entered the gate, a figure that was strange to him. It was a youngish woman, neatly clad, with the air of a respectable servant, or small tradesman's wife. She was dressed in black, and as she passed in front of -the study window on her way to the hall door, Morton saw that her pale face had a distressed and anxious expression. Presently he heard voices in the hall, a woman's 144 JUST AS I AM. voice pleading, the authoritative tones of the butler answering. He opened his door and looked out. "I can only state my business to Mr. Blake him- self," said the woman, looking piteously in at the door, which the butler guarded with his bulky person, "and he would not know my name. Please say that a person in great trouble begs to see him." "Let her in, Andrew," said Morton, and then turn- ing to the woman, who entered eagerly, he said, "Come into my study, please, and tell me your busi- ness as briefly as you can. But if it is a case of dis- tress, would it not be better for you to see my aunt, Miss Blake? She is relieving officer to all the parish, and will be more ready to sympathize with you than I can be." "No, sir. I'd rather talk to you, please. This is a matter that concerns you." "Indeed," said Morton, surprised. She was a nice-looking woman, of about two or three-and-thirty, with an intelligent, face, bright gray eyes, and a resolute mouth — a woman who looked as if she could make her way through the world unaided, and would trouble no one with her needs or her sor- rows. She had an honest, outspoken air which Morton liked. "My name is Jane Barnard, sir," said she. "I am the eldest daughter of the miserable man who is to be hanged to-morrow week at Highclere." Morton's face grew black as thunder. "Then I can have nothing to say to you!" he ex- claimed harshly: "and I wonder at your audacity in coming here." "Oh, sir, don't say that," pleaded the woman; A PLEA FOR THE PRISONER. 1 45 "don't harden your heart against me at the first, sir. If I didn't know that my father is innocent of that fear- ful crime I would never have crossed your threshold." "The crime was brought home to him," said Morton. "The robbery, sir, but not the murder. My father has done many evil things, but he was never a shedder of blood. Oh, sir, I saw him yesterday for the first time since I was eleven years old— a poor, feeble, broken-down creature — yet with something in his poor, pinched old face that brought back the time when I was a child, and used to clamber on his knees. He swore to me that he never did that dreadful deed. He took the money from the poor dead corpse, but he never harmed your father." "It is worse than folly to come to me with such a story as this. The man is condemned out of his own mouth. Why should he take upon himself a crime he had not committed? If he wanted the shelter of a jail he would have confessed to the robbery only — supposing he were guiltless of the murder." "He was desperate, sir, miserable and down- trodden, a mere worm for every one to kick out of their path. He was old and weak, and he hadn't the pluck to take a rope and hang himself, and he knew if he gave himself over to the law an end would be made of him somehow. He didn't feel that he cared whether he was hanged or not. His life was a burden to him, and he wanted to get rid of it. That is what he tried to make me understand yesterday." "Well, he has got his wish," said Morton gloomily. "He will be hanged next week." "Oh, please God not, sir. Surely people will lift J list as 1 am. I. 10 I46 JUST AS I AM. up their voices to save such a feeble, wretched crea- ture from a ghastly death. His heart fails him now that he sees himself face to face with death, and he prays that the poor remnant of his life may be spared, although he may have to spend his last days in prison. And he bade me tell you, sir, that he begs your pardon humbly for having made a false statement about the murder. He thinks the devil must have driven him to tell those wicked lies which he told to Sir Everard Courtenay, and he prays you to help him if you can. And oh, sir, I entreat you to sign the memorial to the Home Secretary, and to do all you can to get the sentence commuted." "What, I am to intercede for the life of my father's murderer? When, after an interval of twenty years, justice is about to be done, I am to thrust myself in the way to prevent the carrying out of the sentence." "I tell you, sir, my father is innocent of that crime." "You tell me that he tells you so, and I answer that I don't believe him. Every murderer makes the same assertion; boldly, doggedly, asseverates his innocence; till he is at the foot of the scaffold and the game is lost, and then he coolly admits his guilt. Your father, after playing the braggadocio, and giving himself up in a heroic fashion, turns coward at the last and recants. He is not the less a murderer be- cause he is afraid of the gallows. I will not sign the memorial, and I shall consider any person who does sign it as something less than my friend." "Sir Everard Courtenay has signed it, sir. Indeed, I believe Sir Everard and Sir Nathaniel Ritherdon, the sheriff, were the gentlemen who started it." A PLEA FOR THE PRISONER. 1 47 "I am deeply offended with Sir Everard for his part in the matter. And now I must beg to conclude this interview. It is painful to me, and must be pain- ful to you." "I am not to be put aside, sir, because of a little pain. I have come all the way from America to help my father, and, God helping me, I will not leave a stone unturned in my effort to save him." "You have come from America on purpose, have you? Why, the man, by his own account, is a worth- less vagabond, who deserted his children and left them to rot in the workhouse." "He is our father, sir — our own flesh and blood — and when we were little children, and lived on this estate, he was good and kind to us. I know that he was the worse for drink sometimes, even then, and that poor mother used to be sorrowful and down- hearted about him, but he was fond of us all, and kind to us. It was only after your father turned us out of our home, and my mother died, that he went wrong altogether, and left us to be taken care of by the parish. He is my father, sir, with all his faults, and I mean to do my duty to him; and there's more than that for me to consider, sir. I have a good husband, and four dear children, in America, and I want to clear my father of this dreadful crime for their sakes. I don't want any one to be able to say that my father was hanged for murder, that my children have a murderer's blood in their veins. That would break my heart. My husband is a good, hard- working man, who has toiled to win a respectable place in the world — and he has won it, sir. He has a dry-goods store in Boston, and is looked up to as I48 JUST AS I AM. an honest tradesman; and we have as good a home, sir, as any woman need wish for, though 1 was only a servant girl when I went out to America, and though after poor mother's death I was brought up in High- clere Union till I was fourteen years old, when they got me a nursemaid's place at a small shopkeeper's in the town. And my brothers were apprenticed; and we've all done pretty well — some at home, some abroad- — thanks be to God." "How did you come to know of your father's situation?" "One of my brothers sent me a newspaper, sir. I made up my mind to come home at once, and see my unhappy father. I didn't believe he did it, even though he was his own accuser. My husband could not come with me without injuring his business, for he's not in a large way, and he has to work hard in the store himself, and he's liked, and looked up to. But he gave me all the money I wanted, and he'll send me more, as I want it. I hoped to have been here before the trial, but the steamer only reached Liverpool the day before yesterday." There was a pause before Morton made any reply. He was standing by the window, looking out towards the common, as he looked before, but seeing nothing. His brows were bent with a resolute expression, which gave little hope of any softening in his feelings towards the prisoner in Highclere jail. The woman stood a few paces from him, with clasped hands, watching his face piteously. "I am very sorry for you, and I respect your pur- pose," he said, "but you cannot expect me to help you. Not until you can bring before me evidence to A PLEA FOR THE PRISONER. 1 49 prove that another man was my father's murderer can I bring myself to believe in your father's innocence. He has accused himself; and he must take the con- sequences of his own act." "Oh, sir, you are pitiless. How can I produce new evidence within a week — I, a friendless woman in a country that is almost strange to me after eighteen years' absence? Where and how am I to find the real murderer? But I know my father is innocent. He never did a cruel act in his life; he was never cruel to poor dumb things that came in his way. He loved his dog as if it had been his child. He might be weak and easily led away, but never hard or cruel. He could not have beaten a man's brains out on the highway for the sake of a few pounds. I came to you, Mr. Blake, thinking that you would help me; that you who suffered the loss of your father years ago, by a violent end, would feel for my grief to-day. I did not think it would be any satisfaction to you to have an innocent man hanged." "Prove his innocence if you can," said Morton. "I'll try," she answered, and so left him, with a look that was almost sublime. I 50 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER XIV. THE YELLOW RIBBON. Tears were streaming down Jane Barnard's cheeks as she shut the door of Morton Blake's study, and turned to leave the house in which she had found so little comfort. Just at that moment Dora Blake came out of a room on the opposite side of the hall, and seeing the stranger's tearful face, went over to her and laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. "You are in trouble," she said softly. "Can I do anything to help you?" The sweet, low voice, the grave, dark eyes, so full of pity, melted Jane Barnard's heart. "Oh, madam," she said, "I am sure you are good and kind. If you are the Miss Blake I knew when I was a little girl, I know you are full of pity for poor folks. Yes, I am in great trouble, and I came to this house to find help, but I have found none." "Come to my room," said Aunt Dora, opening a door at the back of the hall , and taking the stranger into her snug retreat, where she gave her a chair by the fire, and took the opposite chair for herself. "You say I knew you when you were a child; you are a native of this parish then, I conclude?" "Yes, madam, I was born close by, and we lived on your brother's estate when I was a child. You used to come in to see my poor mother sometimes, and sit beside our fire and chat with her just as if you were friends and equals: not like some of the district ladies THE YELLOW RIBBON. I51 that go into poor folks' cottages at meal-time and grumble at what they see on the table, and sit down and read the Bible to a working man at his dinner without asking by your leave, or with your leave. I've heard mother say your visits were like sunshine, Miss Blake." "What was your mother's name?" " Vargas." "The name of the man who murdered my brother." "The man who is in gaol, and who is to die for that crime if nobody interferes to save him; but not the man who did it. No, dear lady, if I did not know and feel, as surely as I know and feel that there is a sun in the sky, that my father is innocent of that cruel murder, I would never have crossed this threshold to-day. I would not dare to look you in the face. I would crawl out of your presence like a beaten dog." "How can we believe a man innocent of a crime which he has confessed, which the strongest evidence has brought home to him?" Jane Barnard pleaded her father's cause with Miss Blake as she had pleaded with Morton, and Aunt Dora listened with grave attention to every word the woman said. She was asked to believe a thing which seemed on the face of it incredible. She was asked to re-open a question which she thought at rest for ever. It had been an infinite relief to her to see the mystery of her brother's death finally solved, as she thought, although her tender heart pitied the forlorn wretch who was to suffer for the crime. "How can I help you?" she asked at last. 152 JUST AS I AM. "You can help me in two ways, dear Miss Blake. First by signing the memorial which Sir Nathaniel Ritherdon and Sir Everard Courtenay have put in hand." "Sir Everard Courtenay!" exclaimed Dora Blake. "What, is he trying to save your father?" "He has signed the memorial. If you will sign it and induce your friends to sign it, the sentence may be commuted, my father's life may be spared. You can help me still further, still better, by aiding me with your memory of years gone by to the discovery of the real murderer." Miss Blake started. "You are mad to think of such a thing," she said. "If your father is not the murderer, who is to find the real criminal — who is to unravel a mystery which baffled the police when the crime was newly done, and evidence could more easily be had?" "A resolute mind and an earnest purpose may do much, Miss Blake. I want to clear my father's name for the sake of my husband and my children. James Barnard was better placed in the world than I was when he married me. He was the son of respectable parents, well educated, in business for himself, and I was only a domestic servant. He stooped low enough when he chose me for his wife, but I don't want him to be told that he married a woman whose father was hanged for murder. I have come across the sea to save my father's life, and to clear his name, if it is to be done by a woman's work, and I think I'd rather die than go back to Boston without having done it." "I will sign the memorial, and induce others to sign it if I can," said Miss Blake, after a silence of THE YELLOW RIBBON. I 53 some moments. "So far I am willing to help you; for it would be no comfort to me, in my life-long regret for my dear brother, to know that the man who killed him had died a shameful death. As for helping you to any discovery that could prove your father's inno- cence of the murder — there I can do nothing." "Are you sure of that, Miss Blake? Yet you must know many circumstances connected with your brother's death which are dark to me. If my father's story is true, and I firmly believe it, the man who killed Mr. Blake had but one motive, and that was to take his life. Surely you must know if your brother had an enemy vindictive enough to make such a crime pos- sible." "He had no such enemy," said Dora Blake quickly, and then her eye grew troubled, and she glanced in- voluntarily towards the escritoire from which she had taken the packet of old letters on the night of Vargas's confession. "He had no enemies," she repeated; "he was the kindest and most generous of men. He was not fault- less — we are none of us free from the taint of sin, we all need pardon — but he was kind, and frank, and open-handed." "Miss Blake, you are a good woman, but I know you are keeping something from me," said Mrs. Bar- nard, with an outspoken bluntness which savoured of her adopted country. "You have no right to say such a thing," faltered Dora. "Have I not a right to say what I mean? We always do in America. I don't want to offend you, Miss Blake, for I have a grateful remembrance of your 154 just AS i AM - goodness to my poor mother, even though your brother's harshness was the cause of her death." "My brother acted as any other landowner would have done under the circumstances. He turned your father off his estate for an offence that had been re- peated so often that even his indulgent temper was provoked to punish it. He could have no foreknowledge of the fatal effect upon your mother's health that was to follow her leaving the cottage. If she had come to me in her trouble I might have been able to help her." "But you won't help me in my trouble by speaking your mind freely," said Mrs. Barnard, with her shrewd gray eyes fixed on Dora Blake's pained face. "I have said all that can be said. I -will do all that can be done about the memorial. You must be content with the only aid I can give you." " So be it, Miss Blake. I am grateful for your kind- ness, even though you might have done more," answered Jane Barnard, rising and taking a card from a ' little leather bag that hung on her arm. "This is my hus- band's business card, and my address in England is on the back. I have taken a lodging at Highclere— just one bedroom on a second floor, over a tobacconist's shop, for I want to save all my money for the work I have to do. If you should have anything to tell me, please write to me at that address." "I will be sure to do so. Believe me, I am deeply sorry for you." "I am sure of that, Miss Blake, Good-day." Mrs. Barnard curtesied, and left the room as Aunt Dora rang the bell for the servant to see her out. When she was gone, Dora Blake sat by the fire for THE YELLOW RIBBON. 1 55 some time, lost in thought. Then she took her knitting out of a hanging pocket by the fire-place — a dainty thing of satin and point lace, made by Elizabeth's deft fingers — and began to knit. The needles flashed swiftly for a little while, and then Aunt Dora threw the work aside with an impatient sigh. "If this man should be innocent," she said to her- self, "and there should be any meaning in my old fear — God forbid! God forbid! The thought has haunted me through all these years; and now, just when I believed it was laid at rest for ever, this woman's persistence calls up the old phantom — revives the old doubt." She unlocked the escritoire, opened the secret drawer, and took out the packet of letters tied with yellow ribbon. Again she sat with the letters loose in her lap, looking them over as she had done that October night. She looked at the date of each letter till she came to the particular one she wanted, and then unfolded the paper with tremulous hands and read lines that were already familiar. It was the shortest of all the letters, written in a hand that indicated haste and agitation in the writer. The date was October the nineteenth. No year; no address. "He knows everything. Your letter of last night fell into his hands. I will tell you how, when we meet, though that matters very little. Oh, Walter, his anger was too terrible for words to describe. He was not loud or violent, but his passion withered and blighted me. He knows now, what he has long suspected, that I never loved him, that I loved you first, last, always, I56 JUST AS I AM. and shall love you to my dying day. He laughed me to scorn when I told him that we were not the guilty creatures he might think us. 'You are guilty of having lied to me from first to last,' he said, 'false wife, false friend. Would the measure of your guilt be fuller if you were' — and then came words I cannot write, and I think I must have fainted, for I remember nothing more till I found Lucy hanging over me with smelling salts and hartshorn, and the rain and wind blowing in across my face from the open window. "You had better hunt to-morrow as you intended. Perhaps he will write to you. Perhaps he may try to see you. Oh, my dearest, be patient, be forbearing, for my sake. Tell him that our only sin against him is that we loved each other before ever I saw his face, and have gone on loving each other ever since. Even in the midst of his anger, when his words were most cruel, I was sorry for him. Oh, Walter, can there be a greater crime than such a marriage as mine? What folly, what weakness, what wickedness is worse than that of a woman who lets herself be sold into loveless bondage. Yet my father and mother think themselves good and virtuous, and that they have done their duty to me. My broken heart cries out against such duty to-day. I dare not write more. My only chance of getting this letter conveyed to you is to send it by Lucy this instant. She is very good to me, and I think she is true. Yours in life and death." There was no signature. Dora Blake was still sitting with this letter in her hand, her eyes filling with tears as she read, when she started at the sound of a gay, light-hearted voice in the hall — a girlish voice talking bright, girlish talk. THE YELLOW RIBBON. 157 She replaced the letters in the escritoire with hur- ried, nervous hands, not stopping to tie the ribbon round them, or to put them back in the secret drawer, but throwing them in anyhow, and hastily locking the escritoire. She had but just turned the key when the door of her room was thrown open and her niece Cle- mentine came in, followed by Dulcie in her fur jacket and hat. "Dear Aunt Dora, I thought I was never going to see you again," said Dulcie, kissing Miss Blake on both cheeks, "so I ordered the pony carriage an hour after breakfast, and came over to ask what had be- come of you all." "We have been so agitated, so anxious," faltered Dora Blake, "about this dreadful trial." "Yes, naturally, poor darlings. But now that it's all over, and that the miserable wretch is going to be hanged — though I can't help hoping he won't be — surely we are all going to be happy again." "I hope so, Dulcie." "As to Morton, I have hardly known him since this terrible business began. I don't think he has given me a thought. If I had been his wife he could scarcely have shown me less attention: and it isn't fair that he should anticipate the indifference of matrimony, is it, auntie?" Dulcie had adopted Miss Blake as an aunt at the very beginning of her engagement, and made a strong point of her claims as a niece. "No, my pet. It is not fair," answered Dora, smiling at the bright face and pouting lips, yet with a pained feeling at her heart all the time, and grave 158 JUST AS I AM. doubt as to whether happiness were as near and as certain as Dulcie fancied. "Morton has made himself intensely disagreeable for the last six weeks, and now the trial is over he doesn't seem much better," protested Tiny. "He was hideously grumpy all breakfast time. He hadn't a word to throw at a dog." "Oh, what a pretty ribbon!" cried Dulcie, sud- denly descrying something on the floor. "What a funny old-fashioned colour!" It was the yellow ribbon that had been tied round the packet of letters, which Miss Blake had dropped in her confusion just now. Dulcie was on her knees upon the Persian rug, with the ribbon in her hand. "Where did it come from?" she asked ; "it looks half a century old. It reminds me of Miss Austen's novels, and the days when Bath was the centre of fashion, and when girls danced at the Assembly Rooms in white muslin frocks and coral necklaces." "It is an old ribbon that I found years ago," an- swered Miss Blake. "I used it to tie up some papers." "Such a ribbon ought never to have tied up any- •thing less romantic than love letters, auntie," said Dulcie, twisting the yellow satin round her fingers, and admiring its smooth texture. "People don't manufac- ture such satin as this now-a-days. They are not honest enough. Dear old relic of a departed age, when girls played the harpsichord and danced country dances! I hope you did not use it to tie up butchers' bills. You are so terribly business-like sometimes." "Tell us about the dinner at Mother AspinalPs," asked Tiny, who was appallingly disrespectful to her THE YELLOW K1BBON. 159 pastors and masters, and all people to whom she was called upon to do homage. "Was it good fun?" "Tiny, how can you speak of her like that?" re- monstrated Aunt Dora. "You don't approve of my calling her mother? But why not? Surely it's a venerable title, generally con- sidered almost a sacred name. If she were the superior of a convent she would be called Reverend Mother. Do tell us about the dinner. She is always asking Morton, and hardly ever asks us, which I call insult- ing. But no doubt she considers three women out of one family too great a trial; so she fobs us off with her annual garden party, and allows us to struggle in a crowd of nobodies for cold tea and warm ices. Was it fun, Dulcie?" "It was rather nice," answered Dulcie, dimpling with sudden smiles. "Morton was there, you know, and Lord Beville, and I am afraid he was rather more attentive to me than Morton quite liked. He would talk, don't you know, and he didn't seem to under- stand that Morton and I had any right to shut him out of our conversation. As for Mrs. Aspinall, she was intensely kind — so veiy effusive to me that she really put the oddest ideas into my mind." "What do you call odd ideas?" "I could not help thinking that she was rather anxious to fascinate papa, and that she would not at all object to be my stepmother." Tiny burst into a ringing laugh. "Not object indeed! Why, she would give her eyes, or at any rate her eyebrows — she could easily buy another pair — for such a chance. Artful old party! But you are not afraid of your pater being l6o JUST AS I AM. caught by her elderly wiles, are you, Dulcie? After having been twenty years a widower he is not very likely to marry again." "Oh, no," answered Dulcie, with a happy smile, "I have no fear of that. I sent the ponies round to the stables, auntie, for I thought perhaps you would not mind having me to lunch." "Mind having you!" echoed Miss Blake, taking the girl in her arms and kissing her tenderly, "my darling, your presence is like sunshine in the house. Mind having you, my pet! God grant that many of our future days may be spent together." This was said with deep feeling, with an unusual earnestness, which impressed Dulcie. It was almost as if there was some foreboding of evil in Dora Blake's mind as she breathed this prayer. "What does that horrid brother of mine mean by shutting himself up in his study all the morning?" ex- claimed Tiny. "He must have heard Dulcie's voice in the hall just now, unless love is deaf as well as blind? I'll go and unearth him." "Please don't," cried Dulcie; "I came to see Aunt Dora and you. I see Morton at home, you know." "That's all very well, but he mustn't be inatten- tive. There goes the gong for luncheon. Auntie dear, you are looking ever so pale and fagged this morning. Have you and Tibbs been worrying over the house ac- counts?" "No, dear, I never worry about accounts." "I know you are a model housekeeper, you sweet old auntie, liberal without wastefulness, indulgent but never lax," said Tiny. "I'm afraid when I've a house everything in it will run to seed in a dreadful way for THE YELLOW RIBBON. l6l want of being looked after. I so detest the details of domesticity." The three ladies found Morton in the hall ready to escort Dulcie to the pretty, bright-looking dining- room, where the luncheon table was all abloom with white and purple chrysanthemums, and where Horatia and Lizzie Hardman joined them at the social, un- ceremonious meal. Among so many there was plenty of conversation, but neither Dora Blake nor her nephew took an active part in it. The young ladies discussed their favourite subjects, novels, crewel-work, conservatories, dress, and the floating gossip of the neighbourhood. There was a general light-heartedness which made up for Mor- ton's silence and his aunt's abstracted manner. "Now, dearest auntie, I want you to take me round the gardens, and show me the hothouses," said Dulcie coaxingly, putting her arm through Miss Blake's as they rose from the table. "I have made up my mind for an afternoon's talk with you, and I shall only go home in time to give papa his tea." "There is nothing I should like better, my pet," answered Dora; "but this afternoon it is impossible. I have to drive to Highclere upon a matter of business. I must leave you to the three girls and Morton, who will be delighted to show you the houses — not that they contain anything very grand just now." "Business at Highclere, auntie!" said Tiny; "what can that be? I hope you are not going to visit that horrid man in the gaol, to hear him his catechism, or to teach him to sing a hymn. You are quite capable of it." "No, dear, I am not going to the gaol." Just as I am. /, II 1 62 JUST AS I AM. "For these and all Thy mercies — " murmured Tiny, as if she were saying grace. And then she wreathed her arm round Dulcie's waist, and appropriated her for the rest of the after- noon, allowing Morton to dance attendance upon them in and out of hothouses and greenhouses, and all over the spacious gardens. In Dulcie's company he managed to forget his perplexities, which had been increased by that unpleasant visit from Vargas's daughter. CHAPTER XV. DORA BLAKE ASKS A QUESTION. Miss Blake drove into Highclere, and stopped just outside that quaint old town at a handsome red-brick house, with a lawn and shrubbery in front of it. This was the house of Sir Nathaniel Ritherdon, a gentleman of good old family, who had married the only daughter and heiress of a wealthy Blackford manufacturer, and had fortified his position by an alliance which his rela- tions affected to despise. He was an elderly man, pompous but kindly, and very popular in the district. He had been one of Walter Blake's most intimate friends, and it seemed a natural thing for Dora to come to him in her trouble. For the first time in her life she asked for the master of the house instead of the mistress. "I want to see Sir Nathaniel on a matter of busi- ness," she said; "I shall be glad to see Lady Ritherdon afterwards." She was ushered at once into Sir Nathaniel's DORA BLAKE ASKS A QUESTION. 1 63 library — a room as portly, rubicund, and pompous as its owner. Tall mahogany bookcases, filled with for- midable folios and fat octavos in crimson russia, crim- son morocco armchairs, red and green Turkey carpet, crimson velvet curtains, crimson velvet mantelpiece, bronze clock ticking loud enough for a county jail, ruddy fire in shining steel grate. Sir Nathaniel's despatch box, big enough for a Prime Minister, open before him; Sir Nathaniel's presentation silver inkstand at his side; Sir Nathaniel himself indulging in a sur- reptitious nap. He started up at the entrance of Miss Blake, and looked about him for a moment or two, with a scared glance, like a guilty creature. "Hum — haw — my dear Miss Blake, this is a plea- sant surprise. I was so deeply absorbed in — aw — local cases that your name came upon me with — er — - like — er — a reminiscence of by-gone days. Sit down, nearer the fire, pray now " "My dear Sir Nathaniel, forgive me for saying so, but your room is like a tropical house. I'd rather sit as far from the fire as I can." "Do you really find the room warm? I was abso- lutely feeling chilly. But at my age the blood circu- lates feebly. Have you seen Lady Ritherdon? If not, let me send for her; she will be delighted at this visit." "I am going to see her presently; but I want first to have a little quiet talk with you." "If I can be of service to you in any way " "I believe you can, and to the cause of humanity. I hear that you have started a memorial to the Home Secretary in favour of Humphrey Vargas." n* 164 JUST AS I AM. "Well, really now, Miss Blake, I like to be con- scientious even in small matters, and, to speak by the card, I must tell you that it was not I who set this memorial on foot, though my signature heads the list. It was Sir Everard Courtenay's idea. He was urgent about the matter on the night after the trial — stayed behind when my other guests had gone, on purpose to talk to me about it. He takes a very merciful view of the case, bearing in mind such extenuating circum- stances as the man's age, his self-surrender, and so forth. Very good of him, isn't it? And yet Sir Everard has been thought rather a hard man — self-contained, wrapped up in his own sorrows, and his own immediate interests." "Yes, it is good in him," Miss Blake said slowly, looking down at the crimson hearth-rug with a thought- ful face. "And I know that you are good, Sir Nathaniel, so I have come to plead the cause of a poor woman who was with me to-day, Vargas's daughter." "The woman who has come over from America?" interrogated Sir Nathaniel. "Yes." "She has been with me this afternoon — an extra- ordinary woman, a little queer in her head, I'm afraid. She vehemently protests her father's innocence of the murder, and seems to believe it herself." "Then you know all I can tell you. It is on that poor woman's account I am here. 1 promised her that I would sign the memorial, and that I would do all in my power to promote its success. But my influence is so little. Now if you would take the matter in hand, Sir Nathaniel, success would be certain." Miss Blake knew that the high sheriff delighted in DORA BLAKE ASKS A QUESTION. 1 65 having something to be fussy about, some philanthropic or political excuse for making prosy speeches, and writing still prosier letters. "My dear lady," he responded with a gratified air, " for your sake I would adopt even a worse cause. The woman impressed me as a lunatic; but if you have taken her under your wing she shall have the shelter of mine : and whatever I can do to secure a favourable answer to the memorial shall be done. We are not over- fond of hanging now-a-days, thank Heaven. We accept capital punishment as a terrible necessity; but we are very glad to slip out of inflicting it when we can find a reasonable excuse for mercy." There was a silence of a minute or so, while Sir Nathaniel shut his despatch box, with the air of having done a hard day's work, and threw himself back in his red morocco chair, the hue of which exactly matched the port-winey tints in his own complexion. He saw that his visitor was deep in thought, and solaced himself with a pinch of snuff out of his massive gold box, while he politely awaited her next observation. "I think you were out hunting the day my brother was killed," she said at last. Sir Nathaniel was a little startled by the abrupt- ness of the remark. "Yes, poor fellow, I was with him. We rode to- gether for some time." "Did he seem in his usual spirits?" "Well, no, Miss Blake. That is a curious circum- stance, which my memory dwelt on afterwards. Poor Blake was not in his accustomed good spirits. You know what a jolly fellow he was, what a glorious fellow. 1 66 JUST AS I AM. Of course you do; nobody can know it better. Well, on that fatal day he seemed depressed, absent, out of sorts. He rode wild too, and didn't seem to care where he went. Superstitious people have a notion that a man about to die a sudden or violent death has a presentiment of his fate, even in the heyday of health and strength. And my recollection of poor Blake's manner on that day would go far to justify the notion." "You do not know of his having had a dispute of any kind — a quarrel, even — with any one who was out that day?" "A quarrel — Blake! The best-natured of men — a man whom everybody liked. Why, my dear Miss Blake, what could put such an idea into your head?" "One can never be sure. A man may be kind and open-hearted, and yet may make enemies. Sir Everard Courtenay said at the trial that my brother was in his usual spirits. Do you know if those two were riding together much during the day?" Sir Nathaniel looked thoughtful. He was called upon to remember the details of a day's sport twenty years old. True that the day had been fatal to one of his friends, and that events otherwise insignificant had been made remarkable by the tragic sequel of the sport. "Now you force me to carry back my memory to that particular occasion, it occurs to me that Blake and Sir Everard did not ride side by side once during the day's work. There was a good deal of waiting about; and it struck me, I remember, that Sir Everard and your brother were not quite so friendly as usual. They seemed to avoid each other, as if they didn't "I MUST BE BEHIND THE AGE." 167 care about meeting. Mind you, the thing may have been only my imagination, but it certainly did occur to me at the time. Good God! could that have been in the counsel's mind when he put such curious ques- tions to Sir Everard — could he know anything " "Mr. Blake," announced the butler at this moment. He had opened the door with well-bred noiselessness half-a-minute before he made this announcement, and Morton Blake had heard the latter part of Sir Natha- niel's speech. CHAPTER XVI. "I MUST BE BEHIND THE AGE." "You here, Morton!" exclaimed Miss Blake, rising with an agitated air at her nephew's entrance. "Yes, my dear aunt. How do you do, Sir Nathaniel? I heard my aunt was driving into Highclere, and I fancied she might be coming to see Lady Ritherdon." "I thought you would spend the rest of the after- noon with Dulcie," said his aunt. "Dulcie had had enough of the hothouses by four o'clock, so I put her into her pony carriage and rode over here. I want a little quiet talk with Sir Nathaniel when you've quite done with him." "Why should you not talk before me, Morton? I think I know what you want to talk about. It is a subject that concerns me as nearly as it does you. Cannot you trust me, Morton?" "I don't know. I feel sometimes as if I could trust no one — as if I were surrounded by smooth- 1 68 JUST AS I AM. faced traitors. What is the meaning of this memorial, Sir Nathaniel, and why have you signed it? Surely if that man is guilty he deserves to die. There was never a more brutal murder — there was never a fitter subject for the gallows." "He is old and broken down," faltered Sir Nathaniel. "Is that any reason he should be spared? What is his wretched remnant of existence when weighed against my father's prime of life — full of hope and gladness and benevolent thoughts and deeds? Blood for blood — a life for a life. That is the divine law, which Christ came to fulfil and not to destroy." "Christ forgave the penitent thief; and this man is penitent," pleaded Dora Blake. "The only pardon his penitence can deserve is a pardon beyond the grave. Sir Nathaniel, I want to know whether this memorial was your idea?" "It was not. Sir Everard Courtenay was the man who started it." "I thought as much. Sir Everard has taken a philanthropic view of this business from the outset. He has shown a scrupulous desire to avoid the shed- ding of blood." "My dear Blake, it is natural for you to feel strongly upon this subject, but you must consider that there is a growing prejudice against capital punishment." "I wish there was a growing prejudice . against murder," said Morton gloomily. "What was it that you feared might be in the counsel's mind when he asked Sir Everard those extraordinary questions about his wife?" Sir Nathaniel hesitated, and looked nervously at Miss Blake. "I MUST BE BEHIND THE AGE." 1 69 "Come, Sir Nathaniel, be frank with me. You were my father's friend." "Everybody who knew your father was his friend." "Yet the counsel suggested that he might have had a secret enemy, and the drift of his examination tended to show that Sir Everard Courtenay might have been that enemy. Sir Nathaniel, Aunt Dora, for God's sake do not try to keep me in the dark upon this subject if your knowledge can enlighten me. My father had been Lady Courtenay's suitor before her marriage. So much Sir Everard admitted. Do you know if there was any jealousy in Sir Everard's mind after his marriage? Do you know if he had any reason for resentment?" "I never heard such an idea hinted," said Sir Nathaniel decidedly. "So far as I know, Lady Cour- tenay's character was spotless." "What was it then that you feared might be in the counsel's mind when he questioned Sir Everard?" "It occurred to me during the hunt on the day before poor Blake's death that he and Sir Everard were not quite so friendly in their manner to each other as they had usually been. There was some- thing that looked like a tacit avoidance on both sides. Remember, Blake, this may have been only a fancy on my part." "Possibly. Yet it is a circumstance to be remem- bered." "Morton," cried Miss Blake, turning her pale, per- turbed face to her nephew with a look of tender en- treaty, "for Dulcie's sake, for your own, shut your mind against these vague suspicions. You cannot suppose that Sir Everard Courtenay, the man you have 170 JUST AS I AM. long known and respected, your father's old college friend, was in any manner implicated in that cruel murder?" "Why does he try to save the murderer's life?" "That is an act of common humanity." "I must be behind the age," said Morton bitterly. "I am sadly wanting in Christian-like compassion for my father's murderer. Come, Aunt Dora, Sir Nathaniel has frankly stated his opinion about Lady Courtenay. You were silent just now. Are you of the same opinion? Did you know anything in my father's lifetime of rela- tions between him and Lady Courtenay which would have been likely to disturb Sir Everard's peace?" "Nothing." "Then I am justified in believing that Mr. Tomplin's suggestions had no better foundation than a prurient imagination." "Assuredly. Mr. Tomplin could know nothing." "Thank God. For Dulcie's sake; yes, for Dulcie's sake ! Do you suppose I would willingly give my mind to any suspicion that involved her father? Yet doubts have forced themselves upon me — doubts that have made me miserable. Last night I heard it suggested that the man who murdered my father was on horse- back, a horseman who followed him after the hunt: and now to-day this woman comes to me with her assertion of her father's innocence, and with an air of truth about her that has impressed me in spite of my- self." "Such a belief is only natural in a daughter," said Miss Blake. "True: and Shafto Jebb's idea about the horse- man may be mere folly. He is the kind of man who "I MUST EE BEHIND THE AGE." 171 likes to originate some startling theory. I have been so worried about this matter that I'm afraid I left Dulcie rather hurriedly. I'll ride over to Fairview. Good-bye, Sir Nathaniel. Don't wait dinner for me, auntie." He left without waiting for another word, mounted his horse, and started at a sharp trot for Austhorpe, full of tender thoughts about Dulcie. He fancied that he had been careless, neglectful of her during her visit to the Manor-house, and he was eager to make amends. "My sweet Dulcie! And to think that my father once loved her mother. There seems a fatality in it. But I will not believe that my father could act dis- honourably; that, having tried his chance and lost it, he would give his rival cause for jealousy. No. Every- body tells me that he was frank and open-hearted, true as steel. Such a man could never have stooped to treachery." 172 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER XVII. COME TO GRIEF. It was the igth of December, two days before the Monday appointed for Humphrey Vargas's execution, and there had been as yet no commutation of the sentence. Very few people were thinking of the con- demned criminal on this clear winter morning, for there were pleasanter subjects for thought amongst the crowd on Tangley Common, where the South Daleshire Hunt met for the first time this season. There had been a hunt breakfast at the Manor House, and Andrew and his subordinates were now going about with tankards and decanters for the refreshment of those horsemen who had not availed themselves of their opportunities indoors. Between thirty and forty horsemen were gathered on the smooth stretch of sward in front of the Manor House railings, and the road before the house was crowded with carriages. The hounds were clustered on a grassy knoll apart, with huntsman and whipper-in keeping guard over their movements, while the master trotted here and there on his powerful chestnut, big with the business of the day. There were half-a-dozen ladies among the red and dark coats; a brace of farmer's daughters, rosy-cheeked, buxom; Mrs. Upham, the lawyer's wife, who, according to popular opinion, ought to have been at home minding her children, instead of scouring the country on her husband's gaunt gray gig-horse; Miss Morrison, a small squire's daughter, out with her father, a plethoric COME TO GRIEF. 1 73 sandy-whiskered man in a well-worn scarlet coat and mahogany tops; Mrs. Tilson Tudley, from Highclere, a half-pay major's wife; and lastly, on a perfect hunter, in a habit of perfect cut, with the neatest little chimney- pot hat and the newest thing in white ties, Lady Frances Grange, the finest horsewoman in that part of Daleshire. "How is it that the Blatchmardean people contrive to ride such good horses?" asked Mrs. Tilson Tudley of Mrs. Upham, with an envious glance at Lady Frances's thoroughbred brown. "I thought they were as poor as church mice." "So they are," answered Jack Upham, replying for his wife, who had as much as she could do to keep her ungainly gray from getting his hind legs into a concatenation with the hind legs of other horses, all shifting and wheeling and fidgeting in their eagerness for the fray. "They've precious little money for people in their position; but as Lord Blatchmardean never spends anything except upon his stables he contrives to cut a tidy figure there. He lets everything else at the castle run to seed." "I believe Lady Frances has hardly a second gown to her back," said Mrs. Tudley; "Lady Ritherdon told me that she was tired of seeing her in black net and yellow roses." "Yet she always looks well," said Upham; "she was out and away the best dancer at the hospital ball — among the girls," added the lawyer, reminded by a vindictive glance that the lady to whom he was talking prided herself particularly upon her waltzing. "It's a pity she can't get married," drawled Mrs. Tudley, languidly compassionate. 174 J^ 1 " AS 1 AM - "Can't!" exclaimed Mrs. Upham. "She's not much more than twenty, and she may never have seen any- body she cares about." "Oh, but don't you know girls in that rank are expected to marry young? A girl of that kind is brought up to make a good marriage, and if she doesn't do it in her second or third season she is stamped with failure. Now, Lady Fanny has had two seasons in London with her aunt, Lady Lufhngton, and nothing has come of it. I should put her down as a decided failure, though she really has very nice ways, and is rather good style." "Don't you think her pretty?" "No," said Mrs. Tudley decisively. "Too thin, too brown, too angular." "But surely she has fine eyes?" lf l didn't say she was hideous," retorted Mrs. Tudley, with acidity. She had met Lady Frances at the hospital ball, and at Lady Ritherdon's annual garden party r which was an omnium gatherum for half the county, and on the strength of these two public encounters affected, in her conversation with people of Mrs. Upham's class, to be in the Blatchmardean set; but the consciousness that she was out of it gave a subdued sourness to her tone whenever Lady Frances was talked about. That young lady and her brother, Lord Beville, had ridden into the Manor House shrubbery to talk to Dora Blake and her nieces. Lady Frances was bending from her saddle to say something confidential to Tiny, who was her particular favourite in the family. Morton was on the common with Sir Everard and his daughter, who had driven to the meet in a mail phaeton. COME TO GRIEF. I 75 "I wonder why Miss Courtenay doesn't hunt," specu- lated Frances, glancing across the laurels at the group on the common. "Her father keeps plenty of horses. She might as well enjoy her life." "I don't know that she would care about it," said Tiny, "and I know Morton wouldn't like it." "Oh, he doesn't like women to hunt, I suppose," said Lady Frances, reddening a little. "Can't bear hunting women. If it wasn't for that I should hunt. Butterfly jumps beautifully, and she's considered my particular property, don't you know? But when I gently suggested riding her to hounds Morton looked as black as thunder, and protested that no sister of his should ever unsex herself by scamper- ing over hedges and ditches, and cannoning at gates, amongst a herd of rough farmers and impertinent cockneys. Rather narrow-minded of him, isn't it?" "Well, it's hardly what I should have expected from an advanced Liberal; but I believe men who take a wide view in politics think themselves privileged to have narrow ideas about everything else. I wish you were coming with us, Tiny, all the same. Fm sure you would enjoy it." "Enjoy it? I should fancy myself in heaven! If ever I marry a nice, biddable man, I shall hunt four times a week." Lord Beville rode in to say that they were moving, and Lady Frances trotted gaily off by his side, but the gaiety was rather in the movement of her lively young horse than in her own face, which was grave and even troubled. They stopped to speak to Sir Everard and Dulcie, and to Morton, whose horse was drawn up beside the I76 JUST AS I AM. phaeton, and who seemed indifferent to the prospects of the day, in his delight at being with Dulcie. She was looking her fairest and brightest, as if something had happened to put her in particular good spirits. "We are going to draw Yarfield Gorse," said Morton. "You might drive a good way with us, Sir Everard." "Do, : papa," said Dulcie, so the phaeton followed among the horsemen, together with various pony chaises and family vehicles of the wagonette or inside-car species, which provoked some muttered animadversion from the hunting men. It was a lovely morning, clear, balmy, with a warm south-west wind gently stirring the last leaves upon the young trees, and bearing in its breath the perfume of distant pine-woods, and the fresh, cool odour of newly- ploughed uplands; the sunshine lit up the ragged hedges, where the blackberry leaves still hung, beautiful in their decay with every variety of tint, from green to bronze, from crimson to darkest purple, and where the haw- thorn berries glittered like jewels against their russet background. The narrow winding river yonder in the valley reflected the blue of a sky that was almost with- out a cloud. Every vestige of last week's frost had disappeared. Morton felt the influence of this genial atmosphere, the beauty of earth and sky. He was well mounted, and moderately fond of hunting — not an enthusiast like his father, but able to enjoy a good run in a pleasant country, with all nature smiling at him. A long day in a Scotch mist, over ground in which his horse sank to the shoulder, was not his idea of bliss, even though the scent lay well, and the run was popu- COME TO GRIEF. I 77 larly supposed to be the best of the season. To-day he was in excellent spirits. He had spent a good deal of his life with Dulcie during the last week, and he had made up his mind to be happy. Yet even to-day, the sight of Shafto Jebb pounding along on a mealy chestnut unpleasantly recalled that conversation which he had overheard at the Sugar-Loaves, and gave him an uncomfortable feeling. He was riding on a strip of turf beside the road, Lady Frances Grange and Lord Beville by his side. Morton and Frances were old friends. He and Beville had been together at Rugby, chums at school and at home, and Morton had been on the pleasantest terms at Blatchmardean ever since those old Rugby days. He was as much at his ease with Frances Grange as with his own sisters. Before his engagement to Dulcie he had been in the habit of spending a good deal of his leisure at Blatchmardean, playing billiards with Lord Beville, taking lessons in farming from the old earl, dawdling about the neglected gardens and shrub- beries with Frances. At home he was always full of work, but at Blatchmardean, where nobody had any turn for industry, he was contented to waste his time. Blatchmardean was his place of rest and recreation. Then came his engagement to Sir Everard Courtenay's daughter, and it seemed as if all those idle hours in the library — to which nobody had added a book for the last forty years — in the billiard-room, and in the picturesque old gardens, were over and done with for ever. He called at the castle now and then, just often enough to escape the charge of neglecting old friends, but he dawdled away life there no longer. All his leisure was devoted to Dulcie. Just as I am. I, 12 I78 JUST AS I AM. Neither Frances nor her brother resented this de- fection. They accepted it as an inevitable consequence of new ties, a new and absorbing affection. "Morton is terribly earnest," said Beville; "he never does anything by halves. I am glad neither you nor I take life as seriously as he does, Fan." Frances answered with a faint sigh. "Perhaps we are wrong and he is right. Life may be a much more solemn business than we think, and its seriousness may be brought home to our frivolous minds one day in some unpleasant manner." Beville could not bring himself to the consideration of a question so metaphysical. "I don't know about that," he said. "I hope we shall always manage to rub on somehow." Frances missed her old companion sorely at first, missed him always, indeed, for her friends at Blatch- mardean were not many. The earl did not encourage society of any kind. "We can just afford to keep ourselves," he said; "but we can't afford to be eaten out of house and home by other people." So there were no visitors coming to stay at the castle, no roster of guests, one set. departing as another set arrived. No clubable men came from afar to shoot Lord Blatchmardean's pheasants, or to smoke in the big stone hall which served for lounge and billiard- room. Two or three times in the season the earl would ask a neighbour to join him in his day's sport, but for the rest of the time he and Beville and the gamekeeper shot the birds, and enjoyed their pic-nic luncheons of bread and cheese and Bass with a relish which not every man can experience whose mid-day appetite is COME TO GRIEF. I 79 coaxed by Perigord pies and choice liqueurs. Some- times Frances was allowed to accompany her father and brother on their long tramps through boggy planta- tions, over deep beds of fallen leaves, and showed her- self as good a shot as either of them. Beville had taught her to handle a gun before she was twelve years old, just as he had taught her to ride, and to fence, and to play cricket, making her his companion in all things. It had happened, therefore, that Morton, being Beville's chosen chum, had become, in the common course of things, Lady Frances Grange's chief male friend — indeed, her only one — a little given to lectur- ing; but if a girl likes a man she likes to be lectured by him; not at all given to flattery; but Lady Frances detested compliments. He had been kind and atten- tive to her always, bringing her such books as she cared to read, such songs as she cared to sing, all of the lightest and airiest character. He had taken care that she was supplied with flowers and fruit from the ex- tensive hothouses at Tangley. He had made it a point with his womenkind that they should visit her, and invite her to their house, and make much of her. And then, just as the family at the Manor had made up their minds that Lady Frances Grange was to be Lady Frances Blake, Morton had fallen head over ears in love with Sir Everard Courtenay's daughter. His aunt Dorothea went so far as to tell him that she had always supposed Frances would be his wife. "My dearest aunt, what could put such an idea into your head?" he exclaimed, with a look of wonder which proclaimed his perfect innocence. "I like Fan immensely. I am just as fond of her as I am of my 12* l8o JUST AS I AM. sisters, but the notion of marrying her never came into my head." "All I hope is that it has never come into hers," replied Miss Blake gravely. "I used to wonder, cer- tainly, that you should choose a girl brought up as she has been, with such exclusively masculine surroundings — a girl whose tastes are all masculine. But she is graceful and attractive, and I thought " "You thought quite wrong, dear auntie, as you far- seeing women often do, when you speculate about other people's affairs," Morton answered lightly, and no more had ever been said upon the subject. Miss Blake and her nieces still called upon Lady Frances Grange, and invited her to the Manor House; and the friendship, without being absolutely en- thusiastic, went on pleasantly enough. Nothing in Frances's manner from first to last indi- cated that she felt she had any right to be offended at Morton's choice, or that she was so offended. She talked freely of Dulcie, and praised her warmly. "Your brother could not have made a better choice," she said to Clementine and Horatia. "You know that in a general way I detest girls — your sweet selves, of course, excepted — but I consider Dulcie simply perfect." And now carriages and horses had arrived at Yar- field Gorse, a wild bit of land on the slope of a hill crested with fir trees, and here the serious business of the day began. There was a good deal of cantering about and about in a seemingly purposeless manner, which the people in the carriages were able to see; a good deal of dismounting and tightening of girths, and COME TO GRIEF. Ibl a general getting ready for the fray, and then all in a moment there came the shrill cry, "Gone away," the hounds went leaping and tumbling over the hillocky ground like a flash of living light, and the field rushed helter-skelter after them in a hand gallop, with Lady Frances and Morton in the first flight. There was a narrow bit of plough, a hedge, and then a splendid stretch of pasture, where the quiet store cattle stood at gaze, wondering at the whoop and riot of the chase, as it sped by them and was gone. Perhaps as they settled down placidly to their grazing, they were half disposed to believe that the whole thing had been a vision — a phenomenal appear- ance in the air. "Stick by me," cried Frances, looking round at Morton, as she took the hedge. "I know every inch of the country. Isn't this glorious?" she asked, as they were galloping smoothly across the grass, neck and neck, with only the huntsman and a chosen few skimming along in front of them. Morton could not deny that it was so, though he had made up his mind long ago that hunting women were detestable, and had told Tiny so when she wished to ride Butterfly to hounds. The fresh, clear air, the open country, the sense of being borne along by an animal powerful enough to carry him to the end of the earth, or at least to the edge of the horizon yonder, where the distant woods made a line of purple against the clear blue sky— all these filled him with delight. He forgot that this girl by whose side he rode was not Dulcie, that it was in some measure a treason against Dulcie that he should be utterly happy in her com- pany; he forgot everything except the keen rapture of 1 82 JUST AS I AM. being carried across that level pasture to the gap yonder through which the hounds were just scram- bling. And though he had stigmatized hunting as an un- feminine pursuit, he could but own to himself that Frances Grange had never looked more exquisitely- girlish than at this moment, as her slight figure moved in sympathy with every movement of her horse, and the delicate oval of her cheek warmed with a flush of tenderest carmine, while her dark eyes sparkled with delight. "He's making for the water!" she cried, "and the bank's horridly risky! No matter — we can't lose them." "You'd better go round," remonstrated Morton, "there's a shallow ford lower down." "Go round!" she cried contemptuously; "we might as well go to London. I shall risk the dip yonder. You needn't come unless you like. What's become of Beville?" There was no one in front of them but the officials and the master, with about half a dozen of the hardest riders, amongst whom Frances could not distinguish her brother's figure. Behind them the field had scattered wide, some having found a gate in the corner of the pasture, while the rest had taken the hedge at different points. Beville, who was always well to the fore, could hardly be among these; but there was no time to wonder about him. Fox and hounds were on the other side of the narrow river, and a few of the horse- men were scrambling down the bank, while the prudent ones galloped off to find an easier passage. COME TO GRIEF. 1 83 "There are a lot refusing," cried Morton; "you'd better come round." "Good-bye," retorted Frances, waving her hunting crop. Morton was not to be dismissed so cavalierly. He put his trust in Providence and a clever hunter, and followed Lady Frances. The stream, about four feet deep, ran at the bottom of a hollow, the steep bank made dangerous by brush- wood and mountain ashes and alders. There was hardly room for a horse to squeeze himself between the trees, and the clay bank was so rugged and treacherous that it needed a clever animal to keep his footing in the scramble down to the water. One man had had his ducking already, and was chasing his horse across the next field: but Frances did not ac- cept this gentleman's disaster as a warning, kindly in- tended by Providence, for she thought herself better than any member of the South Daleshire. "Some wretched stockbroker from London, I dare- say," she said to herself, as she steered her horse cautiously through the trees. He got down the bank cleverly enough, but for some inexplicable reason chose to take objection to the water, and made a frantic rush for the opposite side. Here again there were trees and brushwood, and caution was needful; but caution is unavailing with a horse gone suddenly mad. He made a wild bound out of the stream, dashed up the slippery bank, knocked his rider's head against a tree, and then rolled back into the water. "Please somebody see that my horse isn't hurt," cried Frances, as Morton pulled her out of her saddle, 184 JUST AS I AM. a dripping Diana, and then, stunned by the blow against the tree, she fainted in Mr. Blake's arms. Happily his horse was strong enough to cany them both up the bank, while Lady Frances's thoroughbred struggled up on the other side, very little the worse for his bad behaviour, and was caught by Beville's groom, who had just come quietly up on his master's second horse. The hounds were half over the next field by this time, and Morton was alone with Lady Frances, the groom looking at them with an air of respectful im- perturbability from the opposite bank, as who should say, "If she's dead I can't help it, and if she's alive I'm ready to obey orders. A hunting field is no place for the display of emotion." "I think we're out of it," Morton said to himself, as he pulled up his horse, and stood with Frances in his arms, waiting for her to come to herself. He remembered in the next moment that he had some brandy in his hunting flask, but before he could put the bottle to her lips, Lady Frances revived a little, opened her eyes, and looked dreamily about her. "Where are the hounds?" she asked, not imme- diately aware of her somewhat singular position upon somebody else's horse. "I'm afraid they're in the next county. Would you mind taking a little brandy? I'm sure you must be giddy and ill." "I feel as if I were in a merry-go-round," answered Lady Frances. "No, thank you; I couldn't possibly do it," as he offered his brandy flask. "Good gracious! Where's my horse?" "On the other side of the river. Don't be fright- COME TO GRIEF. I 85 ened — your groom has got him. The brute isn't hurt." "I'm glad of that. I don't mind being smashed a little myself, but I wouldn't have Primus hurt for all the world, or at least as much of it as I'm entitled to." "Primus! Is that his name?" "Facile primus. Beville christened him. I believe it's about all the Latin he knows." She slipped out of Morton's arms, and dropped lightly to the ground, looking as bright as if nothing had happened, though she was very pale, and her habit was streaming with water, and plastered with clay. "Are you sure Primus is all right, Brooks?" she called to the groom. "Yes, my lady, he's right enough, more shame for him." "Do you think we could catch them?" she asked Morton. "You are a better judge than I am, but I am sure you ought not to ride any further to-day." "Perhaps you are right. My head is a little pain- ful," she said, putting her hand to her forehead. I suppose it's the effect of the tree." "There's a farmhouse on the Blackford Road, not half a mile off," said Morton, who had dismounted before this. "If you will let me put you on my horse, and lead him there, your groom could go back to Blatchmardean and send a carriage for you." "That seems an awfully spoony thing to do," said Frances, "and it's rather too bad that I should keep you out of all the fun." "I don't care a straw about the fun. I only want to take care of you." 100 JUST AS I AM. She was feeling faint and sick, and inclined rather to lie down on the grass, and let the world go by her than to make any kind of effort. So she allowed Morton to settle the matter for her, whereupon he tied up one stirrup, shortened the other, and mounted the lady on his own horse. "We're going to Dawley's Farm," he called to the groom; "you can go back to Blatchmardean , and send a carriage to fetch your mistress." "What am I to do about Lord Belville's horse?" asked the groom. "Do the best you can." The man went away dispirited. He had been going across country in his best style, though he was supposed to have been nursing his master's second horse in such a manner as to deliver up an unex- hausted animal when the day's work was half over, and now he had to trot quietly back to Blatchmar- dean, leading the guilty Primus. LINK BY LINK. 1 87 CHAPTER XVIII. LINK BY LINK. Holbrook Farm, with its low gray homestead, on the Blackford Road, belonged to the Blatchmardean estate, which would have been a fine property had it not been encumbered with the mortgages of a spend- thrift race. The farmhouse, on this bright wintry day, had that air of unearthly quiet which such places are apt to wear in the early afternoon. Morton led his charge in at the wide gateway, and round the gravelled sweep to the moss-grown old porch. There was an old-fashioned garden in front of the house, more useful than ornamental, and in the rear there were barns and rickyards which dwarfed the low, irregular homestead. On one side spread level pastures, on the other there was an orchard, bounded by a ploughed field. Everything had a look of Sunday afternoon repose. The sound of the horse's hoofs plish-plashing on the soft road seemed almost a startling interruption of the all- pervading peace. "The place looks as if there was not a living creature within call," said Morton; "but I suppose we shall unearth somebody if we try very hard." He pulled an iron ring which hung from a rusty chain in the porch , and far away at the back of the premises there sounded the cling-clang of a hoarse and feeble bell. After waiting two or three minutes he repeated this operation, but without any effect 1 88 JUST AS I AM. whatever. So he bethought himself that his own lungs might be stronger than the decrepid old bell, and he gave a stentorian shout of "House!" This set a bass dog and a tenor dog barking in an excited duet, which momentarily increased in vehemence; whereupon came the sound of pattens clicking along a stone passage, and the door was opened by a ruddy- cheeked, plump, wholesome female, smelling of the dairy. "Did you please to ring, sir?" she inquired, and then seeing Lady Frances on the horse, she exclaimed, "Lord bless us and keep us, if it isn't my lord's daughter, looking as white as a curd." "Yes, it is I, Mrs. Dawley," answered Frances, slipping off her masculine saddle and alighting on the gravel path, where Morton supported her with one arm while he held the somewhat fidgety horse with the other. "I've had something in the way of a fall, as you may see from the state of my habit. I've come to ask for your hospitality until the carriage from Blatchmardean fetches me." "Lor, my lady, you're free and welcome to any- thing this house holds. You must have some dry clothes first thing, if you'll be so kind as to step upstairs with me. My gowns won't fit you, my lady, but dry things are better than wet things any day." Lady Frances hesitated, and looked down at her habit. "Do you think it matters?" she asked. I've had a ducking before to-day, and I dare say the carriage will be here in half-an-hour." "My dear Fanny, don't be foolish!" expostulated LINK BY LINK. 1 89 Morton. "Unless you have an ardent desire for an attack of pleurisy or rheumatic fever, you'd better accept this good woman's offer." "My clothes are homely, my lady, but they're clean," said Mrs. Dawley. "My good soul, do you suppose I don't know that? Well, if you don't mind the trouble of lending me a gown, I suppose I'd better get off this wet habit. I begin to feel rather shivery." "Phoebe," called the matron, whereat a red- haired damsel, with bare arms and canvas apron, issued from the back premises. "Just set a light to the fire in the best parlour, and put the kettle on in the kitchen. Perhaps you'll be so good as to step into the parlour, sir, while my lady changes her clothes." "With pleasure," answered Morton, "if you'll kindly allow somebody to take care of my horse." "Phcebe, just you run and call Bill to take the gentleman's horse round to the stable." Mrs. Dawley opened the door of a large, low sitting-room, and ushered in Morton, having already made up her mind that he was Lady Frances Grange's "young man." Had he not called her his dear Fanny, and assumed a tone of authority which no ordinary acquaintance would venture to use towards an earl's daughter? Upstairs in the lavender-scented, dimity-curtained bedroom Frances made her hasty toilet, laughing a good deal the while at the absurdity of the situation, though she was still so weak and giddy that it was as much as she could do to stand without Mrs. Dawley's help. With the aid of that hospitable I90 JUST AS I AM. matron she contrived to array herself in a starched white petticoat and a gaudy printed flannel morning gown, which Mrs. Dawley informed her had been her sitting-up dress after the birth of her last baby. "Dawley saw the stuff at the draper's in High- clere, one market day, and took a fancy to it because it was a cheerful pattern," she explained. Lady Frances smiled at her image in the glass, her pallid face made whiter by the orange, and blue, and red in the cheerful-patterned dressing-gown. There was a tasselled girdle with which she was able to tighten that ample garment round her slim waist. "I'll have your habit dried and brushed by the time you want to go home, my lady, so you needn't be afraid of having to go back to your pa looking an object," said the fanner's wife. "And now your lady- ship must have some refreshment, something warm and comforting. I should say that the best thing you could take would be half a tumbler of brandy and water, hot, sweet, and strong." "My dear soul, not for the world." "A glass of sherry wine negus, then?" "Please, if I am to have anything, let it be a cup of tea." "Of course, my lady, if your ladyship likes. Will you come down to the sitting-room and rest a bit on the sofa, or would you like to lay down on the spare bed and take a little nap?" "No, thank you, Mrs. Dawley, I feel too excited to sleep. I'm so vexed at having lost the run. I think I'd better go downstairs and tell Mr. Blake that he needn't stay. There's not the least need LINK BY LINK. I9I for him to stop now that I am in such comfortable quarters." "Lor, my lady, he'll stop, you may be sure. He won't want to go away," said Mrs. Dawley, with a grin that was like a burst of sunshine. Frances went slowly downstairs, holding the banister- rail as she went, and feeling very faint and totteiy. Morton was standing at the window, looking out at the wintry landscape. There was a cheerful fire of turf and wood in the capacious grate. The farm-house parlour, with its drab wainscot and gay chintz curtains, had a pleasant old-world aspect. Mrs. Dawley came bustling in with the tea-tray, and began to lay the table with a homespun cloth, on which she set forth her best teapot, her old Stafford- shire cups and saucers, a home-made loaf, a dish of golden-tinted butter, and a substantial cut-and-come- again plum cake. "Now, Morton, I want you to go about your busi- ness immediately," said Frances, settling herself in the roomy chintz-covered arm-chair by the fire. "Mrs. Dawley will take care of me till the carriage comes from Blatchmardean. If you ride cleverly you may manage to fall in with the hounds." "Thank you, Fanny, I know when I am well off," replied Morton, smiling at her. "I am not going to pound over half the county in a futile endeavour to come up with the hounds. I had much rather sit by this comfortable fire and enjoy a dish of Mrs. Dawley's tea." The farmer's wife, busy with the arrangement of her tea-table, heard this conversation, and made up 192 JUST AS I AM. her mind that Lady Frances's young man was all that a lover should be. "But it seems too absurd that you should waste your day in dancing attendance upon me," said Frances, sipping her tea, when Mrs. Dawley had replenished the bright wood fire, and left her visitors to them- selves. "I see nothing absurd in the matter, and it is rather advantageous to me. I have been out of gear for my ordinary pursuits of late, haven't been able to 'frame' to anything, as the Lancashire folks say; and it is a relief to me to waste a few hours in cheerful society." Frances remembered the time when he had spent the greater part of his leisure in her company, and wondered if it seemed strange to him to renew the old easy-going companionship, as if it were a dropped thread in the fabric of his life, which he was trying to take up again. "Why do you never bring Dulcie to see me.?" she asked. "I am not able to invite her in a formal way, for you know that my father sets his face against all ceremonious entertainments, for the simple reason that he can't afford them. We had to make our choice between stables and general society; and as we are all much fonder of horses than of the ruck of our fellow-creatures, we chose stables. But so far as five o'clock tea goes, I am allowed to be as hospitable as I like : and I believe Beville can always give his friends Apollinaris or St. Galmier. You might bring Dulcie to Blatchmardean now and then to waste an afternoon with me. I know that it is a dull, shabby old place." LINK BY LINK. 1 93 "It is a dear old place," protested Morton; "some of the happiest hours of my life were spent there." "You must not say that." "Yes, I must. Do you suppose a man does not know what happiness means until he falls in love? I may have found out another and more intense happi- ness since those days, but why should I not admit that those days were very happy?" Frances did not argue the point. She felt a curious gladness at the idea that he had once taken pleasure in her company — that those idle hours at Blatchmardean had been sweet to him, though perhaps not so sweet to him as they had been to her, nor yet so dear to look back upon. She was silent for a little while, watching the burning wood as it blazed and reddened, and crumbled away into white ashes. It seemed almost an emblem of life and love — a pas- sionate flame — the deep red glow of feeling— and then coldness and pallid ashes. "Do you remember how you used to lecture me in those juvenile days of mine?" asked Frances presently. "I am sure I deserved it, for I know I must have been an unmitigated hoyden." "If I did presume to lecture the process must have been beneficial, for I'm sure nobody could find fault with you now," said Morton, smiling at her as she lay back in her deep arm-chair, with the pretty boyish head reclining against the chintz cushion. "Now, Morton, if you talk like that I shall know that our friendship is at an end," she remonstrated. "If I am to believe that you retain the least vestige of your brotherly regard for your friend's sister you must Just as I am. I. 1 3 194 JUST AS I AM. go on lecturing. Tiny tells me that you strongly dis- approve of a woman hunting." "Tiny takes my particular objection for a general one. I certainly did object to the idea of Tiny riding Butterfly to hounds; partly out of regard for the mare, and, perhaps — " "Be truthful, now, Morton, or you will sink fathoms deep in my respect." "Perhaps a little because I think that a girl who has not been, as it were, born in the hunting field, may as well keep out of it altogether. But for a girl who rides as you do, and who has been brought up as you have — " "One-third in the nursery, and two-thirds in the stable and saddle-room. Yes, I understand, Morton — for me it is different. I am outside the pale." "How can you say such things, Fanny?" "How can I help thinking them, and what does it matter whether I say them or leave them unsaid? They are true. I must pay the penalty for having been brought up with a brother for my only companion — loving the sports he loves — caring for none of the things that other girls care for — having few feminine vanities, and fewer feminine virtues." "My dear Fanny, you must know, in your heart of hearts, that you are charming, and that there are plenty of men in the world who would rave about you ! " "Yes, but they are just the kind of men I should detest. I hope you don't suppose because I adore horses that I like horsey men. The quadruped is all that is admirable; but I draw the line at the biped." "And no doubt you will have your reward. Some man who is the very reverse of horsey — who never LINK BY LINK. 1 95 jumped so much as a gully — some grave young senator or enthusiastic scientist will fall over head and ears in love with my pretty Fanny, and wean her heart from stables and saddle-room." "When that bright particular star appears on my horizon I will let you know," answered Fanny. "If my poor Primus had broken his back to-day I don't think I should ever have hunted again," she went on musingly. "I never could have got over his death." Mrs. Dawley came in with more logs and more turf to replenish the fire. She had changed her gown in honour of her visitor, and had put on a smart cap. "I hope you are feeling better by this time, my lady," she said. "I am feeling as well as I ever felt in my life, except that I am dreadfully savage with myself for being out of what I know will be described to me as the very best run of the season. It always is when one isn't in it." "Lor, my lady, but you've had so many of 'em, one more or less can't count. You've got quite a pretty collection of foxes' tails hanging up in your boodwower, I'll be bound." "I never saw a fox's tail in my life, Mrs. Dawley," answered Frances gravely, "but when I was a child the huntsman gave me a brush or two. He left off doing so ages ago, when the business began to get monotonous. Now, please, sit down, and make yourself at home in your own parlour, and let us have a chat." "I'm sure I shall be too pleased, my lady, if I don't intrude." "My dear soul, how can you intrude in your own parlour?" i3* ig6 JUST AS I AM. "Circumstances alter cases, my lady, and I hope I know what's due to my lord's daughter." "If you are so ceremonious I shall think you have forgotten the days when Beville and I used to camp out on Ailsa Common, and used to come here for cream and eggs and butter for our gipsy tea." "I remember it all as well as if it was yesterday, my lady — two rare young pickles you was, begging your ladyship's pardon — regular young Turks." "Ah, I see you have not forgotten," said Frances. "Now do sit in that nice chair by the fire, and tell me all the news of the neighbourhood. What is there going on just now — courtships, marriages, deaths, and burials?" "Well, my lady, there ain't much," replied Mrs. Dawley, smoothing her black silk apron, and seating herself with ceremonious stiffness in the chair opposite Lady Frances, Morton having wheeled his own chair round to make room for her. "I did think we- should have had a funeral this side of Christmas, for Farmer Briarwood's asthma seemed as if it was coming to a head: but he do linger and linger, poor soul, and I shouldn't be surprised if he was to last till the March brewings. It's a dead-and-alive place, this, my lady, neighbours few and far between, you see; and there ain't much doing any time, except at harvest homes, and such like. The only thing folks have been talking about lately has been this trial for murder at High- clere." Frances was going to stop her, but Morton gave her a look and put his finger to his lips, as much as to say, "Let her go on." LINK BY LINK. 1 97 "Oh, your neighbours talk of the trial, do they?" he said, in an encouraging tone. "Yes, sir, they do. You see it's such a queer story altogether, a man giving himself up after twenty years. It's only natural folks should talk about it. My master was at the trial — he said you might have heard a pin drop, in particular when the lawyer was questioning Sir Everard Courtenay, asking him the most cutting questions about his poor dead wife, just as if he was the lowest day-labourer in the land, in- stead of one of the leading gentry. Them lawyers didn't ought to be allowed such licence, I say. It was a shame to bring Lady Courtenay's name into it, after she's been lying in her grave these twenty years." "You speak as if you felt a particular interest in Lady Courtenay," said Morton, intent upon the woman's every word. "Did you know her?" "No, sir, I can't say that I did; but I've seen her driving through Highclere on a market day when I used to go there to do my shopping. She was the prettiest woman I ever saw in my life; but there was something delicate, what you might call vanishing like, about her, as made one think she wasn't long for this world. I used to hear a great deal about her years ago when I was a young woman, and when she was Miss Alice Rothney; for my father kept the shop in the village next Templewood, Lord George Rothney's seat, and my first cousin, Lucy Stevens, was in service there. She was own maid to the three Miss Rothneys, and she had a pretty hard place, for Lord George wasn't rich, and didn't keep any more cats than could catch mice, I can tell you, my lady. Miss Alice was I98 JUST AS I AM. so fond of our Lucy that when she married Sir Everard Courtenay nothing would do but Lucy must go abroad with her as her maid, and she was with her till the poor young lady's death, which happened, as you must have heard, my lady, within a year of her mar- riage, and on the very night after Mr. Blake's murder. Ah! that was a black night for Austhorpe, and well might the church bell be set tolling at midnight. I've heard Austhorpe people speak of it many a time. It was a clear, frosty night, and the bell was heard for miles round, scaring the children and the old folks in their beds. There were some that woke up startled, thinking it was the end of the world, and the bell calling them to judgment!" Mrs. Dawley dwelt on these gloomy memories with a ghoulish gusto, as she sat blinking at the cheerful fire and enjoying the unusual luxury of repose in the middle of the afternoon. "Is your cousin still living?" inquired Morton. "Well, sir, she is, and when you've said that you've said all," returned Mrs. Dawley, "for a weaker, sicklier, more fretful creature to be alive you could hardly find between here and London. And yet she was a bright, pretty-looking girl enough when she was at Templewood. But after Lady Courtenay's death she took to wandering like, and went from place to place, a regular rolling stone, and then when she was thirty-three years of age and ought to have known better she took and married a young man in the musical line, and there they are starving genteely in a back street at Avonmore. He keeps a music shop, and tunes pianos, when he can get any to tune, and plays the cornet at concerts and balls, and even cir- LINK BY LINK. 1 99 cuses, when he can get employed; and she does a little millinery, and between them they might do pretty well, I dare say, if he wasn't wild and rackety in his ways, but as it is they just manage to keep the wolf from the door. My husband's very good, and lets me send poor Lucy a well-filled hamper once a quarter or so; and I don't suppose they ever have a real good satisfying dinner except when they get one of my legs of pork and a pair of my barn-door fowls." "What is the musical gentleman's name?" asked Morton, as if with a polite desire to keep up the con- versation. Frances had lapsed into a dreamy state, and sat looking idly at the fire. "His name is Green, sir, Charles Churchill Green; though it's my private opinion that he has no better right to call himself Churchill than I have to call my- self Nebuchadnezzar," answered Mrs. Dawley, bridling a little as she smoothed her apron, "and a precious deal he thinks of himself. As my husband says, in his witty way, you might turn a pretty penny if you could buy him at your price and sell him at his own. When he married our Lucy he pretended that his father was a gentleman of property in London, but Lucy found out afterwards that his property was a livery-yard in Lambeth, and that he'd been bankrupt three times. The airs this Churchill gives himself, all on the strength of a slim figure, a small foot, and rather a pretty talent for music! And he's such a flighty and flirty young fellow, that poor Lucy's life has been a misery to her ever since she married him. But, as my husband says, in his deep, far-seeing way, 'as you make your bed so you must lie upon it.'" 200 JUST AS I AM. "Does your cousin ever pay you a visit here?" "Well, no, she's never been since her marriage. First and foremost, if she was to leave Green to his own devices for a week or two she'd be miserable all the time, taking it into her head that he was going to elope with a countess, or something of that kind; for she thinks there never was such a man as that blessed husband of hers, and that the highest ladies in Avonmore are ready to fall in love with him; secondly, because Dawley don't like doleful people, and poor Lucy has been all in the miserables ever since she married. So you see, as it's my first duty to please my husband, I don't ask her, though I dare say our fine country air and good living would freshen her up a bit. Once in a way, when I've got a leisure day, and the gig-horse isn't wanted for the plough, I drive over to Avonmore and take a cup of tea with her, and hear her talk of her troubles, and I know that does her good." "Don't you think the carriage ought to have been here by this time?" asked Frances, to whom the con- versation had become somewhat uninteresting. "Brooks must have got to Blatchmardean an hour and a half ago, unless he absolutely crawled. I think I'd better put on my habit, Mrs. Dawley, if it's nearly dry." "I'm afraid it won't be anything like dry yet awhile, my lady," said the farmer's wife, "though it's hanging as near the kitchen fire as I could venture to put it." "Perhaps your people will have the sense to send you over some clothes," said Morton. "Brooks knew you had been in the water." "And Brooks is a nice fatherly man. Yes, I dare LINK BY LINK. 201 say they'll send me some dry garments, and I can take my habit home in a bundle. An ignominious close to an ignominious day, isn't it, Morton?" "You can afford to end ignominiously for once in your life. You have had a long career of triumphs." "Barren honours, worthless laurels!" exclaimed Frances, with a laugh that was half sad, half cynical. There came the sound of carriage wheels as she spoke , and she sprang out of her deep chair to run to the window. "Yes, here is the brougham, and my good old Moulty, I declare; and now, Morton, you may consider your duty at an end, so you can mount your horse, and ride away. I hope you don't hate me for having caused you to waste a day." "I never spent a day less wastefully," answered Morton gravely. "How solemn you look as you say that! Well, it is a very pretty compliment to Mrs. Dawley and me, especially Mrs. Dawley, for I'm sure she has done the best part of the talking. Here comes Miss Moulton with a carpet-bag; and now, if I may go up to your room once more, Mrs. Dawley, I'll get ready to go home." She ran out of the room , and almost tumbled into the arms of a stout, comfortable-looking, middle-aged woman, who had come to Blatchmardean eleven years ago as Lady Frances Grange's governess, and who stayed there now as the girl's guide, philosopher, and friend. She had striven conscientiously to teach so long as Frances would consent to be taught; she had tried to stock her pupil's mind with the most solid goods in the way of information; she had laboured 202 JUST AS I AM. assiduously to impart languages, and histories, and ologies, but all her efforts in the teaching line had been futile, and Fanny had hardly learnt anything from her governess except a sincere respect and love for that worthy person. "You dear! how good of you to come!" cried Frances. "Come upstairs, and I'll tell you my ad- ventures while I change my gown." "My darling, they told me you had been half drowned." "Only ducked, Curly, dear; drowned is far too dignified a word." She had surnamed her governess Curly on the strength of two bunches of old-fashioned ringlets which shaded Miss Moulton's plump cheeks. "Isn't the word a little vulgar?" "Of course, dear. Haven't I a natural leaning that way?" asked Frances gaily. Morton went out to look for his horse while Frances was dressing, and having ordered that animal to be in readiness for him, he walked up and down the gravel path in front of the house, waiting to hand Lady Frances into her carriage before he rode off. He was impatient to be gone, and it seemed to him that the lady was unduly long at her toilet. "Here is a leaf in the book of the past," he said to himself, reflecting upon what he had heard from Mrs. Dawley. BLATCHMARDEAN CASTLE. 203 CHAPTER XIX. BLATCHMARDEAN CASTLE. The visitor who came to Blatchmardean for the first time was apt to be reminded of the castle of the sleeping beauty in the wood. There was an air of neglect about everything, except the stable, which was suggestive of a century's slumber. There was the still- ness of a house in which every one was steeped in an after-dinner nap. There were more cobwebs than are generally permitted in the waking world. More dust lay in the disused reception rooms than was consistent with the dignity of a waking earl's household. The wide- spreading park that screened the castle from the out- side world had grown and thickened since the present Lord Blatchmardean had come into his own. He loved the old beeches that he had climbed and birdnested in as a boy; he loved the young oaks that he had seen planted; and sorely as he had sometimes needed the money those trees might have brought him, Lord Blatchmardean had been strictly conservative of the timber on his estate. He was indeed in all things a moderate man, living moderately, taking his pleasure in few and simple things, fond of his horse and dog and gun, loving to potter about the sixty or seventy acres which he reserved for his own cultivation, and fancying himself a shining light in modern agriculture. He was a harmless, well-meaning man, and had never been known to deal hardly with his children, seldom even to speak harshly to them. He had let 204 J UST AS l AM - them grow up very much as they liked, exacting little from them, and giving the least he could. He had just contrived to find the money for Beville's education at Rugby and Christchurch; but that young nobleman had not been able to indulge in any of those expensive follies which are, as it were, the rosebuds that Uni- versity youth gathers while it may, no matter how many thorns it may find sticking in its fingers after the rosebuds are faded. Beville and his sister were fond of their father in their own characteristic way — talking of him lightly as the Pater, the Sheik, the Ancient Mariner, or by any other title which a frivolous fancy suggested to them; but of that deep and serious love which goes hand in hand with reverence they had no idea. Such love as Dulcie felt for her father was not within the compass of these lighter natures. They were faithful to the old earl, after their fashion, and would have resented any disrespect offered to him by an outsider; and this familiar, easy-going affection be- ing Lord Blatchmardean's highest idea of filial piety, he was thoroughly satisfied with the tribute offered to him. He loved and praised his children, and had no eye for their faults and shortcomings. Beville was the dearest boy in the world, and the best shot in the shire; Fan sat her horse to perfection, and had the lightest hands that ever steered a fretful hunter across country. That either boy or girl needed higher accomplishments or a wider culture had never entered into Lord Blatchmardean's head. The sleepy old castle was a curious mixture of ancient splendour, neglect, forlornness, and modern comfort. There were spacious suites of rooms that had not been used for fifty years, and which the house- BLATCHMARDEAN CASTLE. 205 maids, reluctant, and yawning at their profitless work, visited at long intervals with their brooms and brushes, scaring spiders that had grown bloated in undisturbed plenty, and setting vagabond mice scrambling and scuffling in their warren behind the panelling — grand old rooms, in which stately banquets and receptions had been held in days gone by, and where, a few years ago, Beville and his sister had played hide-and-seek in the dusky winter afternoons. Seldom did any one, save the housekeeper and housemaids, or now and then an inquisitive tourist who forced his way into the house, enter those rooms now. Lord Blatchmardean and his son and daughter lived in a nest of quaint, low-ceiled parlours opening into an old Dutch garden, and had their bedchambers and private dens in the corresponding rooms on the floor above; leaving all the stately part of the house to the rats, and mice, and cobwebs, and housemaids, except the big central hall, which was used as a billiard-room and general lounge by Lady Frances and the two gentlemen, and served also as a smoking-room for Beville and the few friends whom he occasionally entertained at Blatchmardean. Shabby and faded though the house was, it was not without interest and picturesqueness. The fine stone hall, with its huge fire-place, the wide staircase leading to the echoing gallery above, the vaulted roof, whence hung ragged silken banners that told of days when Grange was a name known in the lists of chi- valry; the grim old portraits, the antique furniture, all had a charm that belongs to things that have a history. The contrast between the spacious splendour of the disused rooms and the cosy comfort and snugness of the garden parlours, had a piquant effect; and people 206 JUST AS I AM. who came to Blatchmardean for the first time, after being chilled and awed by deserted banquet halls, and mouldy withdrawing -rooms, were delighted with the sunny sitting-rooms facing south, papered with birds and butterflies, bright with chintz hangings and odds and ends of old china, and deliriously rococo cabinets and tea tables. Lady Frances and her governess had arranged the rooms between them, nine years ago, and it had been Miss Moulton's favourite task ever since to keep them in exquisite order; and this office of hers was by no means a sinecure as Frances was the most harum-scarum and untidy of girls, and left litter and confusion behind her wherever she went. "I wonder what would become of you all if I were not here," asked Miss Moulton, as she bustled about the little drawing-room, shutting up workboxes, tidying bookstands, and arranging writing tables. "I really think you and Lord Beville are the most littery young people in the world." "Littery instead of literary," cried Frances. "It's only a difference of a letter or two. What would be- come of us, Curly, if you were to go away? Why, in the first place we should expire of grief in less than a week, and in the second Blatchmardean would be a pigsty before the end of a fortnight. I am like Hamlet, don't you know, dear? I wasn't born to set things right." "You are not quoting correctly, Frances." "Of course not. I never do. I always adapt my quotations to suit my text. Is not that what they do in the newspapers?" Sarah Moulton shrugged her plump shoulders, and gave a little laugh. She was much too fond of BLATCHMARDEAN CASTLE. 2C7 Frances to be severe. As long as the lessons had lasted she had done her uttermost to be strict with her pupil. She had insisted on having the correct date of Julius Caesar's assassination — the right number of petals for each order of plants — the exact con- stituents of conglomerate — the precise place of old red sandstone in the geological scale. But now it was all over. On her eighteenth birthday Lady Frances had shut up her books and vowed that she would learn no more. She was finished — she was to make her curtsey at St. James's, under the wing of Lady Luffington, her maternal aunt, at the first drawing-room. "I am an emancipated young woman," she ex- claimed, "and I shall never learn any more." "I should be puzzled to know how much you have learned," said Miss Moulton. "Take it the other way, Curly sweet, and be con- tent with knowing how little. I never did take kindly to the Pierian spring, did I, dear? Perhaps I didn't drink deep enough to enjoy it." "And now I suppose I had better look out for a new situation," said Miss Moulton. "Sarah Moulton, alias Curly, alias Sally, alias the dearest woman in the world, how can you ask such a heartless question?" said Frances, with her arms round the good soul's neck. "Yes, I know I'm rumpling your collar, but I can't help it. How can you talk of leaving us? Don't you know you're a kind of adopted aunt, one of those indulgent maiden aunts one reads of in story books — that Beville adores you — as he ought, considering that you've spoiled him abominably — that the earl looks up to you as the prop of his house — now, Sally, it is quite too bad of you," 208 JUST AS I AM. "My darling," exclaimed Miss Moulton, betwixt laughing and crying, "you ought to know that I have no higher wish than to end my days with you." "Well, I hope I do know it, Moulty dear; but when you talked of a new situation you staggered me." "My love, I thought that if you were to leave off trying to improve your mind, I should be useless here." "Useless! Why, you are useful in a thousand ways. You are the keystone of our domestic arch. We should tumble to pieces without you." Thus it was that Miss Moulton remained at the castle after her pupil's education was nominally finished. In her conscientiousness she strove even now to cultivate Lady Frances's mind, ungrateful though the soil might be, and was perpetually scatter- ing intellectual seed, in the shape of stray scraps of information, which might or might not germinate in due season. Miss Moulton had felt deeply disappointed when Morton Blake announced his engagement to Dulcie. She had long cherished the hope of seeing her beloved pupil happily married to a man of high principles and respectable position in the county. Morton Blake, with his plebeian ancestry, and moderate estate, would not have been a brilliant match for the daughter of a wealthy earl; but he would have been an eligible husband for a girl whose father had as much as he could do to maintain his sorely-shrunken establishment, and to keep out of debt. Carefully as Frances had hidden the secrets of her wounded heart, even from the loving eye of her governess, Miss Moulton knew BLATCHMARDEAN CASTLE. 20Q that the heart had been wounded, that underneath the lightness, and even recklessness, of Fanny's character, there existed the capacity for deepest feeling. The good woman was angry with Morton for his coldness, his dulness — angry with him that he could have lived in closest friendship with so loyable a being, and yet have withheld his love. Little spurts of angry feeling flashed out of her now and then in her talk about Morton, whereupon Frances always took up the cudgels in his behalf. "I can't think why you are so hard upon him, Moulty," she would say. "I'm sure he is always respectful, and altogether nice in his manner to you." "My dear, the man is a gentleman. I am not going to deny that. But I shall always think that he made a convenience of Blatchmardean Castle — coming here two or three afternoons a week, and wasting your time idling about the gardens." "I should have wasted it for myself, Curly dear, if he hadn't done it for me." "And now that he is engaged to Miss Courtenay we are to consider ourselves honoured if he calls once a month." "I don't think he has any idea of honouring us, Curly love. Of course all his leisure now is devoted to Dulcie." "A man should be loyal to friendship even if he choose to fall in love. What Morton can have seen in Miss Courtenay I have never been able to fathom." "Haven't you really, my Moulty? Why, first and foremost he must have seen out and away the love- liest girl in this part of the world. And then Dulcie Just as I am. I. 1 4 2IO JUST AS I AM. is altogether sweet and lovable. She is accomplished, too — plays exquisitely, paints admirably, has read more books than I have ever seen the outside of. Why, Moulty, she is a pearl of girls, and you know it. I think Morton is very lucky to have won her." "Well, my love, if you are satisfied I suppose I ought to be content," said Miss Moulton with a sigh. Frances laughed, and ran off to the stable with her apron full of bread for the horses, and presently she stood leaning her cheek against the shoulder of her favourite brown, in the dusk of a large loose box, while some slow tears crept down her cheek. "Satisfied," she repeated to herself. "Yes, I am satisfied that the only man I ever cared for had never a thought for me; that after knowing every secret of my soul, except one, after being for five years my chief friend and counsellor, he could coolly turn his back upon me and give his love to another girl. It is hard to bear, and you make it a little harder for me, sometimes, Moulty, without knowing it." A FOUNTAIN OF BITTER WATERS. 2 I I CHAPTER XX. A FOUNTAIN OF BITTER WATERS. The first thing Morton heard when he went home from Dawley's farm that December afternoon was tjiat a favourable reply had been received from the Home Secretaiy. Humphrey Vargas's sentence had been commuted to penal servitude for life. "I suppose the philanthropists and humanitarians will be satisfied now," said Morton savagely, "Sir Everard Courtenay especially." He was to dine at Fairview that evening. He found Dulcie and her father in the morning-room; Sir Everard in his favourite chair by the fire, his book- table and reading-lamp by his side; Dulcie at the piano, playing one of Chopin's wailing waltzes, a strain as plaintive as the moaning of the wind through an ^Eolian harp. She left off playing, and rose to greet her lover, while Sir Everard looked up from his book to give Morton a friendly nod. "Was it a grand day's sport?" Dulcie asked as they sat side by side on the sofa in front of the fire. "You went off in dashing style. Had you a good run?" "I had no run at all," answered Morton; and then he gave a brief sketch of Lady Frances Grange's ad- venture. "Poor thing," cried Dulcie; "how dreadful! She might have been killed, might she not?" 14* 2 1 2 JUST AS I AM. "Yes, if her horse had rolled over her when he fell back into the water it might have been fatal. She was in great danger, no doubt." "Was she frightened?" "Not in the least. She doesn't know what fear means. But she was stunned by the blow against the tree, and was quite insensible when I dragged her off hef horse." "How good of you to take care of her!" "Good of me! Why, you would not have had me leave her to a groom, and go after the hounds?" "I suppose that is what an enthusiastic sportsman would have done," said Dulcie laughingly. "You forget that Morton and Lady Frances are friends of long standing," said Sir Everard. "He would hardly desert an old friend under such circum- stances. I dare say he found attendance upon the lady more agreeable than a run with the hounds." There was a sneer faintly perceptible in the baronet's tone. Dulcie looked from her father to her lover wonderingly, but said not a word. "I congratulate you on the success of your me- morial, Sir Everard," said Morton. "You must not call it my memorial. It was as much Sir Nathaniel's as mine, and I understand that even your aunt signed it." "But Sir Nathaniel told me it was you who ori- ginated the petition. It was you who took that man's position to heart." "Perhaps I knew better than any one what a beaten-down whelp the creature was, and how poor a revenge it would be to hang him. I don't believe his A FOUNTAIN OF BITTER WATERS. 2 I 3 death could have been any satisfaction to you, Mor- ton." "It would be no satisfaction to me to hang the wrong man," said Morton, "if that's what you mean. But it would be an ineffable satisfaction to me to see the right man swing for his crime. I take it that if you hadn't felt serious doubts as to this man's guilt you would not have been so eager to beg him off." "That was a question for the jury, and they de- cided it against him. My only feeling in the matter was that he is a miserable wretch, who scarcely knows the difference between right and wrong, and that his remnant of life might just as well be spared." "If you extend your mercy to that class of criminals, you will have occasion to memorialize the Home Secre- tary every week, for the hangman's chief duty is with that kind of sinner." "This man's case came within my ken, and ap- pealed to me in a peculiar manner. I hope, Morton, you will have the good sense to let this subject drop, and that you will not call upon me to justify myself any farther." This was the nearest approach to a coolness of feeling that there had ever been between Sir Everard and his future son-in-law since Morton had first been received at Fairview as Dulcie's accepted suitor. A look of distress clouded the fair girlish face as Dulcie turned appealingly to her father. "Don't be offended with Morton, dear papa," she said gently. "You know that this is a subject upon which he feels deeply." "No doubt. But I think we have had something 214 JUST AS I AM. too much of it. There are some subjects that will not bear to be talked about." Here Scroope announced dinner, and closed the conversation. Sir Everard gave his arm to his daughter, and Morton followed to the snug little dining-room, where the round table was bright with flowers and ferns, and quaint Venetian glass, and artistic old silver. At table the conversation became frivolous, in de- ference to Scroope and his underling. Sir Everard was for the most part silent, leaving the young people to talk of the things they cared about — the church — the choir — the last penny reading at the school-house — the New Year ball at Highclere — the At Home early in January, for which Mrs. Aspinall had issued cards, with the agreeable announcement, "Dancing," in the left-hand corner. "I suppose Lady Frances will go to the ball at Highclere," speculated Dulcie. "I haven't asked her if she is going, but I should think it likely. She is passionately fond of dancing. Why don't you go, Dulcie? I would get tickets for Tiny and Horatia, and my aunt could chaperon you all." "Papa does not approve of public balls," said Dulcie, with a deprecating glance at her father. "I approve of them immensely in the abstract, as a pleasant impetus to the trade of a quiet little county town, but I don't want to see my daughter spinning round a public assembly-room in the arms of any counterjumper whom the master of the ceremonies may introduce to her." "Oh, papa, there is a formidable list of patronesses; A FOUNTAIN OF BITTER WATERS. 215 tickets only by voucher. There's no possibility of a counterjumper at the Highclere ball." "Then there may be something worse than counter- jumpers — raffish hunting men, perhaps, who come from heaven knows where, and get their living heaven knows how. Any man who comes to Avonmore with three horses and a servant takes brevet rank as gentle- man." "Very well," said Morton. "We will none of us go to the ball. I suppose you have accepted for Mrs. Aspinall's At Home?" "Yes, papa has no objection to that." Dinner was over. Dulcie trifled with a cluster of grapes for five minutes, and then rose to leave the two gentlemen to their claret and conversation. Morton opened the door for her, and gently pressed the little hand that was nearest him as she passed into the hall. Then he went back to the hearth and seated himself opposite Sir Everard, who had wheeled his chair round to the fire. It was a blustrous night, the wind raving and whistling in the tops of the tall poplars, and making the long branches of the cedars creak and groan. A new moon rose high among black, ragged clouds, showing her pale face fitfully through a rent in the darkness. For some minutes the two men sat by the fire in silence, listening to the wind howling in the wide old chimney, where it seemed to rage more furiously than out of doors. Sir Everard was thoughtful, after his wont; he gazed dreamily at the burning logs, as if in the caverns and gulfs and rugged peaks and pro- montories of that picturesque fire he could read the stoiy of the past. That settled sadness which had 2l6 JUST AS I AM. been a part of his character ever since his wife's untimely death hung over him to-night like a cloud. He looked up suddenly, and saw Morton watching him with grave, intent eyes. "Why don't you fill your glass, Morton? That La Rose in the jug beside you is too good a wine to be treated so contemptuously." "May I give you some first?" "Do. I feel shivery and out of sorts to-night. The moaning of a wind like that is the most melancholy sound in nature." Morton filled the thin, bell-shaped glass before the baronet, but he took no wine himself. "You said just now, Sir Everard," he began gravely, "that there had been something too much said by me about the trial of that man yonder. Yet I think if you consider the matter you will see that an only son — losing a beloved father by a most foul crime when he was just old enough to know and love him and carry his image in his mind to the end of life — could hardly be expected to be temperate in his feelings towards that father's murderer. The lapse of years, which to the outside world may seem to lessen the wickedness of the crime, could have no influence upon the son who in all those years had waited and hoped for the day of retribution. Thus you will perceive on reflection that it is hardly strange I should feel somewhat disappointed at this man's escape, always supposing his story to be true." "I am quite able to understand your feeling," said Sir Everard, "but I think I should be doing you no kindness were I to encourage a morbid disposition to dwell upon the past. My own life has been so darkened A FOUNTAIN OF BITTER WATERS. 2l"J by grief that I would do much to save a young man, in whose welfare I am interested, from the weak in- dulgence of a vain regret. If you are to be Dulcie's husband you must make her life bright and happy, and to do that you must look forward, and not back- ward." "I hope to be able to do that. I hope to get this cloud out of my brain," said Morton. "Sir Everard, may I be frank with you?" "The franker the better." "For the last week — perhaps I had better say ever since the trial — my mind has been distracted by tortur- ing doubts. I have fought in vain against the diabolical suggestions that have forced themselves upon me. And now — now I sit opposite you here — your friend and guest, your future son-in-law, bound by every tie to honour and revere you — the truth must out. My misery of the last fortnight has been caused by the idea that you, once my father's bosom friend, know more of the circumstances of his death than you care to reveal- that you are hiding something from me, that you had some private reason for saving that man's life, that you " A passionate burst of sobs stopped his utterance. He turned his back upon Sir Everard and buried his face in the cushion of his chair. There was silence for some moments, while Morton sat with his face hidden, his whole frame shaken by the violence of his emotion. Sir Everard waited for the storm to pass. "Morton, I am inexpressibly grieved and distressed at this," he began calmly, in tones of friendly admoni- tion. "You have brooded upon this dreadful theme 2l8 JUST AS I AM. until your mind has lost its balance, and you see all things in a false light. What could I know of your father's murder which all the world that ever heard of that murder does not know? What motive could I have for hiding any knowledge of that kind? I, his friend! What secret alliance can you conceive between me and yonder vagabond? The whole fancy is midsummer madness. I am too sorry for you to be angry; but I warn you that I will marry my daughter to no man who is the victim of a monomania. If you cannot shut this folly out of your mind at once and for ever you are no husband for Dulcie." "Dulcie, my darling," murmured Morton, with his face still hidden in his clasped hands, "what would I not sacrifice for your sake!" "She asks no sacrifice from you, nor I for her," retorted Sir Everard proudly. "But the man to whom I give her must be sound in heart and mind." "Sir Everard, you have been forbearing with me so far," said Morton, lifting his head, and turning his pale, agitated face towards the baronet. "Perhaps you will bear with me a little further, and then this painful question may be at rest between us for ever. I have asked questions of others — my aunt and Sir Nathaniel Ritherdon — which I feel it would have been more manly to have asked, in the first instance, of you. I have heard from many people that you and my father were bosom friends, at school, at college, in after life. Was that so?" "Yes, we were close friends. Yes, he was very dear to me." "My aunt told me that at Cambridge you once A FOUNTAIN OF BITTER WATERS. 210. saved his life, at the risk of your own, when he was seized with cramp in a dangerous part of the river." "I would have done the same for any man in the same danger. I was a good swimmer — it was nothing. Do not speak of these things. They are painful to remember." "But I must speak of them. I want to understand. And after you left the University you were still friends?" "Fast friends." "So every one tells me," said Morton, rising and standing face to face with the baronet, who had risen from his chair, and was lounging with his back against the chimney-piece. "And now, Sir Everard, as you are a gentleman and a man of stainless honour, answer me this question. Were you and my father friends to the hour of his death?" Everard Courtenay faced him without flinching, the eyelids never quivered over the gray eyes, the firm, thin lips kept their inflexible line under the iron-gray moustache, the dark brows contracted ever so slightly with indignant pride, but that was all. "We never quarrelled," he answered coldly. "But your feelings towards him, your affection for him, your confidence in him? Were those unchanged to the last?" The gray eyes flashed sudden fire ; the face changed with a look of anger that was terrible, titanic almost — the rage of Jove himself, mighty to avenge and destroy. "Young man, your questions insult my honour, and outrage your father's memory. His good name is the best answer to them. I will not have the past ripped 220 JUST AS I AM. up to satisfy your unreasonable curiosity. I will submit to no cross-examination. You insulted me just now by the expression of doubts so absurd that I could not bring myself to resent them. But now, when you bring your dead father's honour into question, you go a step too far." "Forgive me, Sir Everard. I am grieved beyond measure to offend you, but think how little it is I ask — only to be sure that your love for my father knew no change; that he was your friend to the hour of his death." "And if I were to say yes, you would be satisfied. But I deny your right to question me upon a matter of feeling. I have told you that there was never any quarrel between your father and me." "Yet I am told that on that last fatal day there was a coolness; your manner to each other was not what it had been." "Your informers would have been better sportsmen if they had given their attention to the business in hand instead of watching their neighbours," answered Sir Everard. "A fox hunt is hardly a time for the development of friendship. Do people suppose that Mr. Blake and I ought to have ridden shoulder to shoulder all day because we were friends? If I re- member rightly, I was riding a fidgety little black mare, which had a rooted objection to poor Blake's big chestnut. That alone would have been a reason for my giving him a wide berth." Morton felt a touch of shame at this argument. It reduced Sir Nathaniel's suspicions to nothing, and was a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous. Perhaps A FOUNTAIN OF BITTER WATERS. 221 all the rest of Morton's suspicions were as baseless — could be answered as easily as this. "Will you forgive me, Sir Everard?" he said, with a penitent look. "Will you try to forget all I have said to-night — for Dulcie's sake?" "I will try — for Dulcie's sake." "I think I'll go to the morning- room to join her." "Do. I would rather be alone. You have awakened sad memories. You have let loose a fountain of bitter waters." "Forgive me," said Morton again. He went to rejoin Dulcie, who was sitting on a low chair, with a funny little work-table before her, and a huge workbasket at her side, making children's frocks for her annual distribution of warm clothing, which was to take place together with all manner of pleasant little ceremonies — -snapdragon, and a Christmas-tree for the children, and a copperful of elder wine for the grown- ups — on Christmas Eve. What happiness for Morton to sit beside the industrious little sempstress, to thread her needles with slow, clumsy fingers, and hold her reels of cotton, fondly imagining he was helping and not hindering her! Sir Everard left the dining-room directly after his guest, and went out through a lobby, where he stopped to put on his slouch hat and fur-lined coat, to the broad terrace in front of the house, where he paced up and down for an hour under the wild sky, watching the driving clouds and the sickly moon, and the black shadows of the cedar boughs drifting along the grass. The wild night seemed to suit his humour. When he was tired of the terrace, he wandered about the grounds, across the lawn, round the shrubberied walks, 222 JUST AS I AM. down by the lake, where a swan came out of the darkness and the rushes to hiss at him, angry at the unaccustomed footfall. Once, from the other side of the lake, in the widest part of the grounds, he stopped to look back at the house, where the Tudor windows of Dulcie's room, with stained glass in the upper mullions, shone, like the famous windows in Aladdin's palace — as if they had been set with many-coloured gems. "My star, my delight," murmured Sir Everard. "So long as I have you I am happy. And now my mind is made up. My dearest, I may grieve you, but it shall not be for long. A father's love shall make amends for all you lose." CHRISTMAS AT TANGLEY MANOR. 22$ CHAPTER XXI. CHRISTMAS AT TANGLEY MANOR. Dulcie's work was all finished early on Christmas Eve, and everything was ready for the entertainment of her various pensioners, which was to be held in the big official room where Humphrey Vargas had made his confession. The room looked bright and cheery enough to-night, hung with holly and laurel, and furnished with two long tables spread with a sumptuous tea; while on a cross table at the end of the room were laid out the gifts of clothing and other comfortable things, which Dulcie had collected or pro- vided for distribution; cosy cloaks and hoods for the small children, hats and jackets for the big girls; knitted wool waistcoats and comforters for the old men; gowns or petticoats for the old women; packets of tea; tobacco, in smart pouches, deftly made from odds and ends of Dulcie's silk gowns; here and there a bright cap-ribbon to give colour to the mass of warm linsey and duffle, or a scarlet cloak to relieve the grays and browns of the petticoats; taste and thoughtfulness perceptible in everything. And here was Dulcie, in her black velvet gown, flitting to and fro with cups of tea, and baskets of plum cake, talking to everybody, knowing eveiybody's name and everybody's domestic affairs, the ages of all the children, the ailments of all who had been ill, the prospects of all who were just going out to service, or 224 JUST AS ! AM - beginning life in any way; the griefs of all whose rusty black told of bereavement. Morton and his two sisters and Lizzie Hardman were working with her. Miss Blake presided over the urn and teapots, and poured out tea and coffee till her arm ached. It was altogether the happiest, brightest party at which Morton had ever assisted. He forgot all his troubles in the rapture of seeing how Dulcie was beloved, how like a ministering angel she moved hither and thither among the old and young, giving comfort and pleasure to all. People had come from far and near to Dulcie's tea-party. There was no dis- tinction as to parish. All Dora Blake's proteges were invited, as well as Dulcie's own particular people. There was only one cloud in Dulcie's sky, but that was so dark a shadow she hardly dared think about it, lest she should flag in her efforts to make others happy. Sir Everard had gone to London with his valet, on particular business; and for the first time since Dulcie had been his housekeeper he was to spend Christmas away from home. This was a big trouble for the loving daughter, who had associated every happiness in life with her father's presence, and to whom life seemed almost a blank when he was absent. She had spoken only the unexaggerated truth when she said that her father would always be first in her mind. No new tie could lessen that which years had woven round her heart, the sacred bond which had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength. "Christmas Day without papa will be too sad," she told Miss Blake, when she was explaining how some CHRISTMAS AT TANGLEY MANOR. 225 unavoidable piece of business had obliged Sir Everard to go to London. "My pet, you must spend your Christmas with us," said Aunt Dora; "and it will be very odd if we can't make you happy. Tell your maid to pack your port- manteau, and come home with us this evening, after you've dismissed these good people." "I don't know if papa would like me to leave home in his absence," faltered Dulcie. "My dearest child, you know he allows you to come to Tangley as often as you like. I'll assume all the responsibility of this visit. You shall have the room opening out of mine, and you shall be my special guest, and the apple of my eye. If Sir Everard wants to scold anybody when he comes home, he shall scold me." "I don't think he'll do that," answered Dulcie, smiling. "He honours and loves you, and thinks that everything you do is right. So if you really don't mind having me, dear auntie, I should dearly like to come. Next to being with papa it will be happiness to be with you." "Then that's settled," said Miss Blake. The Christmas-tree was in the servants' hall, a glorious sight for old and young eyes, shining with the light of innumerable coloured tapers, and hung with everything that the heart of man, woman, or child could desire — tobacco-boxes, dolls, nutmeg-graters, babies' socks, toys, cap-ribbons, sweetstuff, tea, coffee, in coloured paper packets, warm gloves, comforters, oranges, needle-books, rosy apples, silver thimbles, muffatees — a tree out of fairy-land. Everybody got something: and by some legerdemain of Dulcie's every- ynst as I am. 1. 1 5 226 JUST AS I AM. body seemed to get just the exact article which he or she most ardently desired. Then they all hurry back to the Justice-room, whence the cups and saucers and long tables have vanished as if by magic, leaving a clear floor for the climax of the evening's enjoyment, Sir Roger de Coverley, danced by old and young, down to the little three-year-olds that can just toddle. A brace of fiddlers, and a young man who thinks he can play the cornet- a-piston, are established in a corner by the fireplace. Negus and hot elder wine, with freshly-filled baskets of plum-cake, are handed round to restore the vital forces which have been exhausted by the feverish excitement of the Christmas-tree. There is a pause of ten minutes or so for refreshments; and then the two fiddlers strike an opening chord, the young man with the cornet gives a feeble blast in a wrong key, and, with a great stamping of feet and a good deal of hard breathing, the dance begins, Dulcie and Morton leading, Lizzie Hardman bringing up the rear with a waddling three- year-old in a Rob Roy frock and socks to correspond. Tiny and Horatia prefer to stand and look on, but Aunt Dora is dancing arduously, her partner a gigantic waggoner in a gorgeously-braided smock frock and broAvn leather leggings. Sir Roger lasts about three quarters of an hour, and after more negus and elder wine the happy guests depart, but not till they have deafened everybody with three loud cheers in honour of Dulcie. "Give it mouth, boys," cries the huge waggoner, waving his mighty arm;" "another and another, boys, and a little one in for Miss Blake and the other ladies." CHRISTMAS AT TANGLEV MANOR. 22 7 Then, with much scraping of feet and ducking of heads in the doorway, Dulcie's Christmas visitors take their leave, and there is more noise of merry voices and glad laughter in the village of Austhorpe as they go their homeward way than will be heard again on this side of harvest home. Christmas Day at Tangley was not altogether sad for Dulcie, even though, as she told Aunt Dora with her eyes full of tears, it was the first Christmas Day she had spent away from her father since she was eight years old. Everybody conspired to make her forget this woful fact. She drove with Morton and the girls to the old parish church at Highclere, for morning service, and the solemn cathedral chants, the fine old organ, thrilled and delighted her. The service seemed as splendid to Dulcie as all the glories of Westminster Abbey would appear to a more experienced church-goer: so striking was the contrast to the village choir and feeble harmonium at Austhorpe. After morning church they drove through the wintry woods, lightly powdered with rime, to Blatchmardean Castle, to see if Lady Frances Grange were any the worse for her ducking in Twamley brook, and the Earl insisted that they should stay to luncheon. "Provided you can all eat cold mutton," he said cheerily. "I know there was a haunch for dinner last night, and I dare say it Avill appear at luncheon. It was off one of my finest ewes, and I think a slice of cold roast mutton with a little hot pickle is not half a bad thing." There were curry, and a chicken pie, as well as the cold haunch, and the luncheon party was alto- gether as pleasant and cheerful as it could be — with 15* 228 JUST AS I AM. all the charm of an unpremeditated entertainment. Everybody talked of his or her favourite subject. Lord Blatchmardean had a great deal to tell Morton about his latest experiments in feeding sheep — the wonder- ful success of which was to be perceived in the flavour of the cold haunch. Frances told Tiny her mortifying experiences of the other day, and expatiated on Mor- ton's goodness in sacrificing his own sport for her comfort. Lord Beville sat next Dulcie, and had a great deal to say to her — as he always had when they met, seeming intensely interested in everything which interested her— even to the most feminine trivialities. "Why don't you drive over to see my sister some- times?" he asked. "You say you would like to play billiards as well as she does. There's our table at your service; and Fan or I would only be too delighted to give you a lesson. She's one of the best players in Daleshire, don't you know?" "So Morton has told me," said Dulcie, smiling at his fervid good-nature. "It's very kind of you to make such an offer, but I really don't know that I have any ambition about billiards. I have felt rather humiliated sometimes when people have asked me to join in a game, and I have been obliged to confess that I hardly know how to handle a cue. But I don't think I should ever be able to devote much time to billiards. We have no table at home; and I can't bear to be often away from my father." "And yet you will leave him altogether before long," said Beville, looking more serious than the nature of the conversation might seem to warrant. "Is not that rather inconsistent?" "I suppose it is," faltered Dulcie; "but even when CHRISTMAS AT TANGLEY MANOR. 2 29 I am married I hope to spend at least half my life with my father. Tangley is not far from Fairview. I shall still be able to take care of papa, and he will be with us at the Manor House a great deal, I hope." " Sir Everard and Morton get on very well together, I suppose," speculated Beville. "Morton is devoted to my father." "And your father likes him?" "Oh yes, as much as I think papa would ever like any young man. You see, my dearest father has lived a lonely life since he lost my mother. He has lived with his books, not caring much for society, not inter- esting himself in politics, or in the outside world. Now Morton is all energy and activity of mind, deeply inter- ested in the questions of the day." "I understand — a man of action, while your father is a man of thought. No; there cannot be much sym- pathy between them," said Lord Beville decidedly, as if he were glad to have the question settled. "Morton is going into Parliament, I hear." "I hope so." "Then you will have to spend nearly half of every year in London, and that will separate you and Sir Everard." "I hope papa may go to London with us. Why do you try to make me unhappy, Lord Beville?" "Could I be so diabolical as to do that? I think not. But you remember the story of the fox who had lost his tail?" "Yes, he wanted all the other foxes to cut off their tails!" "Precisely. That is human nature as well as 2$0 JUST AS I AM. vulpine nature. Suppose now that I were very un- happy myself?" "I should be sorry to suppose that," answered Dulcie, smiling at him as if the suggestion were a joke; "but even if you were, I don't think you would be so unkind as to wish to make me unhappy too." "Don't be too sure of that. You don't know what evil moods I am subject to sometimes." Morton had got himself released from Lord Blatch- mardean and the agricultural question by this time, and, luncheon being ended, he was able to come round to Dulcie's side of the table, having wondered very much what Beville and his betrothed had been talking about so seriously. But before he could say a word to Dulcie Lady Frances carried her off to the stables to feed the horses with the fragments of the feast, in the shape of bread and apples. "That's the way all my ribstones and russets go," remonstrated the Earl, who was almost as proud of his apples as of his sheep. Clementine asked Lady Frances and her brother to drive over to Tangley in the evening with Miss Moulton, to join in some Christmas games, provided the Earl would not mind being left alone on the festive occasion; to which Lord Blatchmardean replied cheerily that he was never less alone than when alone, adding, rather inconsistently, that he would have his steward in to talk over the latest farming operations. "That fellow MacTaggart is always up to his eyes in work," he said. "He quite snubs me if I stop him in the fields of a morning to ask him how things are going on; but I dare say over a glass of toddy he will be more communicative." CHRISTMAS AT TANGLEY MANOR. 2$l So the young people being free to accept Clemen- tine's invitation it was settled they were to drive over early in the evening. The Tangley dinner was to be at five o'clock, to give the servants a long evening for snap-dragon and mistletoe; whereby Aunt Dora and the young people were ready for their guests at seven, and all the jardinieres and coffee-tables were wheeled away from the centre of the floor, leaving room and verge enough for such juvenile sports as Tiny and Lizzie Hardman delighted in, and the grave Horatia blandly tolerated. Beville and Frances were tremendously strong at these festal games, suggesting many new ideas, starting dumb charades, and speaking charades, comic tableaux vivants, a goose game, and a dancing-bear game, and a huntsman's game, and a sneezing game, and all manner of ridiculous diversions, in which Miss Moulton and Aunt Dora assisted with exemplary good-humour. Then on the edge of midnight Tiny asked Lizzie Hardman to play a waltz, a request with which that young person immediately complied, playing the Blue Danube with such swing and perfect accent that before they had time to think about it Dulcie and Beville were floating along a stream of melody, in dream-like revolutions, smooth as leaves gliding down a swift- running river. Morton stood looking on for a minute or so, admiring the pose of Dulcie's slender figure, the grace of the bright girlish head. He might have stood and gazed thus till the dance had ended perhaps had it not been for Lady Frances. "Well," she said, looking at him with a smile of bewitching impertinence, "has that melody no inspira- tion for you?" 2 $2 JUST AS I AM. "It inspires me to solicit the privilege of a waltz with you," answered Morton promptly, and in the next minute they were revolving with the other pair. Frances Grange was an exquisite waltzer. It was one of her rare accomplishments — it was a natural gift. She had won the enthusiastic praise of the famous Madame Adelaide, whose pupil she had been for one brief course of lessons when she was in London for her first season, under Lady Luffington's wing. "That girl is a born dancer," cried Madame Ade- laide. "You others crawl about like beetles, spiders, all that there is of the most ignoble. This one can dance — it is the poetry of motion. Go then, little cat, you want none of my lessons. You dance like daffo- dils, or running waters. It is the good God who has taught thee." To waltz with Frances was to forget for the moment that there was any other girl in existence, or that life held any higher delight than circling dreamily to a drawling German melody. "Are you tired?" asked Morton, when they had out-waltzed the other two for about five minutes. "I don't know what it means to be tired of waltzing: but perhaps Miss Hardman is tired of playing." They were near enough to the piano for Lizzie to hear the suggestion. "Not in the least," she said, changing to the Manola, with its languid sweetness, and ground-swell of passion. Lord Beville started again, this time with Clemen- tine, while Dulcie seated herself by the piano, where she could talk to Lizzie Hardman. CHRISTMAS AT TANGLEY MANOR. 2j3 Lizzie's honest gray eyes were following those two dancers in whom she was most interested, Morton and Lady Frances. She and Morton had danced many a waltz together on summer evenings, when all the windows were open to the cool, sweet night, and the vesper carol of thrush or blackbird mingled with the music of the waltz. But these had been evenings when there was no one else for Morton to dance with except his sisters; and he had a theory that neither Tiny's nor Horatia's step corresponded with his. To- night Lizzie was out of it all: and it seemed to her, as she sat at the piano, that her mission in life was to pipe to other people's dancing. Lord Beville and Clementine began to flag pre- sently, and they both dropped into seats near Dulcie, in the snug corner behind the piano. "How well Morton and Fan step together!" said Beville, speaking of the dancers as if they were horses, "but that's only natural. Fan broke him in." Dulcie looked puzzled. "She taught him to waltz — it was about the only accomplishment she could teach him. They used to practise in the great saloon at Blatchmardean, to the terror of all the rats and mice behind the panelling." "Your sister waltzes exquisitely," said Dulcie, look- ing on with a faint thrill of jealousy as Morton and Frances floated down the room, circling perpetually, like phantom dancers in a German legend. "Good mover! Picks up her feet nicely, doesn't she?" said Beville, with his horsey air. Lizzie struck a sudden crashing chord, and the waltzers stopped in a startled way, like mechanical figures whose machinery had gone wrong. 234 J UST AS l AM - "I thought you were going on for ever, Morton," she said. "I beg your pardon, Lizzie, upon my word it was too bad," answered Morton, "but I could not allow Lady Frances to crow over me, though she was my instructor in the art of walzing." "You never told me that before," said Dulcie presently, when she and Morton had strayed into a conservatory all abloom with snowdrops and Parma violets, Christmas roses, and lilies of the valley. "Never told you what, dearest?" "That Lady Frances taught you to waltz." "What a terrible omission!" he exclaimed, smiling down at her, as she stood trifling with the long leaves of a cluster of lilies of the valley. "Why, dear child, Fanny Grange and I have been like brother and sister for the last ten years. She taught me to waltz; and I'm afraid she taught me to ride, for I know I was a tremendous muff in the hunting-field till she took me under her wing." "I wonder " faltered Dulcie. "What do you wonder, my loveliest?" "Why you did not fall in love with Lady Frances instead of with me." "That's a curious question, and I can only give you the answer Tom Jones gave his mistress." "What was that?" "Look in the glass, Dulcie, and you will see why I love you better than any one else in the world; why I never can be inconstant to you." "Only for that, Morton! only for some fancied prettiness you can see in me more than in other CHRISTMAS AT TANGLEY MANOR. 235 people! That is such a poor reason. Disease or affliction might change me to-morrow." "But the change would not alter my love, Dulcie. It was born of your beauty, but it has grown up in my heart now, and is a part of my nature. Nothing can lessen it." "I like to believe you," answered Dulcie softly, looking up at him with innocent blue eyes, beaming purest love. 236 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER XXII. "TO THE END OF THE WORLD." Dulcie went back to Fairview directly after an early breakfast next day. Her father had promised to return to-day, and no argument could prevail upon her to linger for another hour at Tangley, albeit Morton and his sisters represented to her that Sir Everard could not possibly be at home till the after- noon. "I am not sure of that," said Dulcie; "he may have travelled by a night train." "He would hardly do that unless there were some urgency in the case," argued Aunt Dora. "Isn't it urgent for him to come back to me?" cried Dulcie indignantly. "Does he not know that I am miserable without him? Oh, dear auntie, I beg ten thousand pardons," she exclaimed, conscious of having been rude to her hostess, you know how happy you have made me here; but I could not exist much longer without my father. Nothing could fill that blank." Morton looked grave. "If this girl were called upon to choose between her father and me I know which of us would go by the board," he said to himself. Dulcie's pony carriage was at the door at nine o'clock. She had given particular orders about it when she left home on Christmas Eve. She was ready "TO THE END OF THE WORLD." 2^1 dressed in her fur jacket and hat. Her portmanteau had been brought down. There was a great deal of kissing to be gone through with Aunt Dora and the three girls, Lizzie Hardman coming in for an honest share of the kisses, though she was only a penniless dependant; and then Dulcie pulled on her fur driving gloves and ran off to the carriage. "I suppose I may be permitted to drive home with you," said Morton, taking the seat by her side; and away went the ponies, at a sharp trot, along the frost-bound road. Morton was dismissed at the door of Fairview, after a delightful twenty minutes' drive through the crisp wintry air. "Mayn't I come in and play a game of chess with you?" he asked, lingering on the threshold. "Chess at half-past nine in the morning!" ex- claimed Dulcie. "Ridiculous! I am going to be desperately busy." "Don't you know that this is Boxing Day, and a general holiday?" "Yes, for poor people who work hard all the year round, and who want an appointed day now and then to get tipsy upon. I have a hundred things to do. Besides, papa may come home at any moment, and he may be tired, or he may want to be alone." "I see," said Morton, rather moodily. "I count for nothing when your father is in question. Well, I suppose I may come in the evening?" "Yes, dear. Papa will have rested by that time, and will be charmed to see you." "I don't know much about that; but if you are charmed, that is enough for me." 238 JUST AS I AM. So they kissed and parted, and Dulcie ran off to her household duties, which were light but numerous. She ransacked all the greenhouses and adorned the rooms in which her father lived with freshest ferns and flowers, gay smiling blossoms which should seem to welcome him home. She was very exact in her orders about the dinner, and had a consultation with Scroope as to which particular hock and claret should be brought up from the cellar for this evening's consumption. "Your master will be tired after his journey," she said. "He must have something especially good." When all these duties had been performed there was still a great deal of the day to be got. rid of, and the hours seemed all the longer because of that eager expectation of her father's momentary return, which kept Dulcie on the alert for every sound of wheels on the road outside Fairview. Sometimes she seated herself at the piano with the intention of practising for a couple of hours at a stretch; but in the middle of a dreamy nocturne her thoughts wandered off, her hands dropped listlessly from the keys, and she went to the window to look across the rise and fall of lawn and shrubberies to one distant point at which, through a break in the trees, she could see any vehicle passing along the road. "I wonder why papa went to town so suddenly," she thought, over and over again; "and why he did not tell me what his business was about." So the day wore heavily on, and then came twi- light, and the quaint little tea-table was set out in front of the fire; and then, just as Dulcie was growing "to the end of the world. 239 tearful at the thought that this pleasantest hour of all the winter day was going to slip past without bringing her father, the welcome sound of wheels was heard in the avenue, and she ran out bareheaded to greet the traveller. The coachman pulled up his horse at sight of the fair head, with wind-tossed hair, and Sir Everard got out of the brougham within fifty yards of the house. Dulcie slipped her arm through his, and walked by his side to the hall. Even in that dim light she could see that he looked haggard and worn. "Dear father, how tired you must be!" she mur- mured in soothing tones. "Yes, I am a little tired, and I have been a good deal worried." "Come to your nest by the fire, dearest, and let me give you some tea." "A woman's panacea. If it would only cure all our ills!" said Sir Everard. "If it were like the water of Lethe , now, Dulcie , and could give us ever- lasting forgetfulness ! " They were in the morning-room by this time, in the cheerful glow of the fire, Dulcie helping her father to take off his fur-lined coat. "Dear father," she exclaimed, "you would not like to forget everything?" "Everything, Dulcie, just for the sake of forgetting one thing," answered Sir Everard wearily. "But no," he went on in a lighter tone, "I should not like to forget my sweet young daughter, and all her goodness to me." "Goodness?" questioned Dulcie; "you mean grati- 24O JUST AS I AM. tude, papa. And now tell me all about this London business. Was it very tiresome?" "It was worse than tiresome, Dulcie," he answered gravely, "for I fear that it will grieve you. But we'll talk about it presently. Give me my cup of tea, and tell me how you amused yourself while I was away." Dulcie hereupon busied herself about her teapot, while she gave her father a brief sketch of what had happened during his absence. "I had no idea Morton and Lady Frances Grange were such friends," she said, when she had told him about the impromptu dance. "Nor I, till the other day," answered Sir Everard. "Don't you think her very pretty?" asked Dulcie thoughtfully. "I should call her distinguished -looking, rather than pretty. There is an originality about her, a fascinating audacity. I can quite understand any young man falling in love with her. Indeed, I wonder she has not made a good match before now." "It is strange, is it not, papa?" said Dulcie, with an unconscious sigh. "Perhaps there is some one whom she likes very much, but who does not care for her?" "Perhaps. A question of that kind offers an illimitable field for speculation." "And now, dear father, about this London business? Why should it grieve me? I don't think it can, so long as it has nothing to do with you." "My dearest, unfortunately this has to do with me." Dulcie looked at him earnestly, her delicate bloom paling a little. "It is the loss of money, then," she said. "You "to the end of the world." 241 have had some misfortune. We are going to be poor. Oh, dearest father, that won't grieve me, so long as I can make you happy, so long as I can comfort you." "No, Dulcie, it is no money loss which troubles me. I think both you and I could bear that. The Fates do not touch us there." "What is it then, papa?" She was on her knees beside his chair, her loving hands clasping his, the firelight shining on her pale, eager face, her tender blue eyes, and parted lips. "Darling, I think you know that for a longish time, though I have made light of it always, I have not been very strong or altogether in good health." The pale cheeks grew deathly white, the light died out of the widening gaze. "Father! father!" she cried, with a choking sob. "For a long time — certainly for the last three years — I have felt that my prime of life was over. I have lost all pleasure in active exercise, and anything in the shape of exertion has become a fatigue to me. For a long time — for more than three years — it has been in my mind that there was something organically wrong, and that I ought to consult some authority in the particular kind of disorder with which I believed my- self affected." "Yes," said Dulcie breathlessly, her eyes fixed on her father's face. "The other day I had an attack of my old chronic pain in the side. It was a little sharper than usual, and it told me the time had come when I must face the inevitable. If this thing was to be fatal, it was best I should know it." "Father!" 'Just as I ant. I, I & 242 JUST AS I AM. It was a cry of despair which came from her irr spite of herself — a wild appeal to him with outstretched hands and shrinking figure — warding off the horror he was going to tell: as if it had been some dreadful engine that was slowly bearing down upon her to crush her to death, and she saw the doom, and could not escape it. "My dearest, this thing must come to us all in our time, in some form or other. The same dark night awaits all. We must all tread the same path. At its worst it means death, and — my darling, don't look at me with those agonized eyes — for me the doom may approach slowly, gently. We may have years to spend together yet." "Father, will you tell me the truth quite plainly? You saw a doctor in London?" "Yes, one of the greatest men in that big city." "And he told you that you have a fatal disease?" "He only confirmed my own suspicion. Heart and lungs are both affected, and have been for a long time. My life cannot be a long one; but the thread may be spun a little longer yet, in spite of the Fates; if I am careful." "We will be careful," cried Dulcie; "we will be so careful that a few months hence when you go to the physician he will tell you there is nothing the matter — your daughter's care has cured you. What are we to do, dear father? tell me everything." "I fear you will hardly care to assist in my cure, Dulcie, when you know the conditions attaching to it." "What are they?" "First and foremost, I am never again to spend a winter in England, unless I am resigned to spend the "to the end of the world." 243 latter half of it in my grave. Dr. Randal recommends me to start at once for the south of France, possibly to cross to Algiers." "Yes, papa. When are we to go? To-morrow?" "Think, Dulcie! It is a long way from Morton. Will you go with me?" "To the end of the world," she answered, hiding her tears upon his breast. i6< 244 J 1751 " AS l AM> CHAPTER XXIII. IN MR. TOMPLIN'S CHAMBERS. Boxing Day was over, and the industrious classes were straggling back to the work-a-day world with its dull round of labour, feeling slightly the worse in health and spirits, and considerably the worse in pocket, for the Christmas holidays. London, with its surrounding belt of dingy suburbs, wore its dullest aspect as Jane Barnard, seated in a corner of a third- class carriage, surveyed this almost unknown world with curious eyes which let nothing escape them. "I don't see much to boast of in the old country," she said to herself, as she looked across a shabby wilderness of roofs and chimneys, broken here and there by some tall shaft which vomited clouds of black smoke that made a darkness in the air. The narrow streets; the straggling neighbourhoods badly begun, and never to be finished; the dirty window-curtains in smoky windows; the littered pens at the back of the houses, which had been intended for gardens; all these seemed to the eye of Jane Barnard unspeakably hideous. The rural beauty of Daleshire had appeared small and mean in contrast with the broad rivers and mighty hills of her adopted country; but these London outskirts were uglier than anything she had ever seen, and she pitied the people who had to live in these squalid homes, under this dull smoke-cur- tained sky. IN MR. TOMPLIN'S CHAMBERS. 245 Mrs. Barnard had left Highclere by the earliest train, and hoped to return there at night. She had brought a hand-bag containing her night-gear, in case of being obliged to stay in London, being altogether a provident and practical little woman. She had a quiet courage and resolution which enabled her to face diffi- culties that would have daunted a weaker spirit. A stranger in London, ignorant of the ways of the town, without a friend to help her, she set about her work as calmly and as briskly as if the business that lay before her were the easiest thing in the world. She found herself landed in Euston Square, and she had to make her way to the Temple. She was chary of spending money, and she was an excellent walker, so finding, on inquiry from a policeman, that her destination was within two miles, she walked off through the streets and squares, Strand-wards, look- ing about her as she went, with those bright, pene- trating eyes of hers, but never pausing on her way, save to make an inquiry where the route appeared doubtful. This part of London struck her as more agreeable. The streets and squares had a respectable, old- established air. Everything was dingy and smoke- dried; but here there were shining windows, and newly whitened stoops, as Mrs. Barnard called the doorsteps. Here there were, at least, prosperity and cleanliness, though the brightness and blue sky of America were missing. But by-and-by, when Jane Barnard found herself in the Temple, just as St. Dunstan's clock was chim- ing noon, she looked about her almost awe-stricken by the ancient air of the place — the old church, the old 246 JUST AS I AM. hall, the grave old Queen Anne houses, the fountain, the distant glimpse of garden and river. This was a kind of thing neither New York nor Boston could show. This was the growth of centuries, a page out of history, printed in brick and stone; and Mrs. Barnard began to feel proud of the mother country. She found her way to Elm Court, and, painted on the jamb of one of the doors, discovered the name she wanted — Fourth floor — Mr. Tomplin — Mr. Green — Mr. Collander. "I only hope I shall find him at home," she said to herself. The fourth floor seemed a long way towards the skies; for the stairs were bad, and the ascent labo- rious; but the little woman tripped up the four double flights lightly and briskly, and gave a sigh of relief as she drew breath before Mr. Tomplin's door— a black door, with Mr. Tomplin's name painted upon it in white letters. "Come in," said a voice, in answer to her knock, and on opening the door she found herself, face to face with a gentleman who was eating his breakfast at a table loaded and littered with papers and books of all kinds. There was only the smallest pretence of a lobby or passage between the outer door and this sanctum of law and domesticity; but Mr. Tomplin did not seem abashed at being discovered breakfasting, though the hour was late and the whole thing had a dissipated air. He seemed a little surprised at the sex of his visitor, and that was all. "Come in, if you please," he said, rising to receive her, "and take a chair by the fire. Cold morning, IN MR. TOMPLIN'S CHAMBERS. 247 isn't it? I'm afraid you'll find the room smell of bacon," he said apologetically, with a glance at the Dutch oven in the fender. "I've just been toasting some. Shall I open the window?" "Not on my account, if you please, sir. I am very sorry to have disturbed you at your breakfast." "Don't mention it. I ought not to be breakfast- ing so late, but the fact is, I was at a dance last night. They called it 'small and early,' but that's a matter of opinion. There were nearly a hundred people, and the dancing went on till four o'clock this morning." "I'm afraid, sir, that I have taken a great liberty in calling upon you," began Mrs. Barnard, in a low, serious voice. "I feel that I have no right to come here, except the right which one human being in dis- tress has to ask for help from another. I am the daughter of that wretched man whom you defended at Highclere Assizes, and in whose innocence you believed when everybody else was against him." Mr. Tomplin smiled as he dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee. "My dear soul," he said, in a pleasant, friendly way, "I am heartily glad your father's sentence has been commuted, if it were only for your sake. But why do you suppose I am a believer in his innocence?" "You defended him, sir," answered Jane naively. "My dear madam, I should have defended the most double-dyed villain that ever figured in the New- gate Calendar. That is my profession. However, in this case I was certainly inclined to believe your father's story, incredible as it seemed that a man who had only committed a robbery should plead guilty to 248 JUST AS I AM. a murder. The man's manner impressed me. It was just conceivable to me that there might be a state of mind in which a man would thrust his neck into the public halter rather than string himself up with a rope of his own purchasing — a state of mind akin to lunacy, but just short of it. A queer case altogether it seemed, and I tried to do my best with it; particularly as it was the first murder case in which I was ever con- cerned, and I naturally felt interested in it," added Mr. Tomplin cheerfully, as he stirred his coffee. "You spoke nobly, sir, and like a man who had knowledge of the truth. I think you must know who the real murderer was," said Jane Barnard, "though perhaps you did not know enough to accuse him openly. In your examination of Sir Everard Courtenay it was evident you had some secret knowledge. I was told by a man who was in the court that day that Sir Everard turned deadly pale when you questioned him." "He did not relish my allusion to his wife. That was a random shot which seemed to hit the bull's- eye," replied Mr. Tomplin lightly, as he eat his bacon and dry toast. "But you must have had some knowledge, sir, which prompted that question?" urged Jane Barnard. "Very little. My brief was almost a blank. I saw your father, and he could tell me nothing except that he found Mr. Blake's body in a ditch, saw the glimmer of his watch-chain, took watch and chain, and emptied the dead man's pockets. This occurred after dusk, between six and seven o'clock, as your father believes. I had hardly an idea as to what line of defence to take the afternoon before the trial, but IN MR. TOMPLIN'S CHAMBERS. 249 in the coffee-room at the 'Peacock' that evening I fell in with a talkative local doctor— a Mr. Jebb I think he was called — who had a great deal to say- about the Blake murder, chiefly by insinuation and innuendo. It was he who suggested that Blake might have had an enemy — that there might have been jealousy. I had the greatest difficulty in getting at what he meant, for although the man wanted to talk he was desperately afraid of committing himself; but at last I got at the fact that Blake had been in love with Lady Courtenay, when she was Miss Rothney, and that it was just possible Sir Everard might have been jealous of him. 'Did you ever hear that he was jealous?' I asked. 'Did it ever come to your knowledge that there were any unpleasant scenes, or any quarrel between Sir Everard and Blake?' 'Never,' says this Jebb. 'I attended Lady Courtenay in her last illness, and I can vouch for it that Sir Everard was a devoted husband.' 'And you never knew of any quarrel between him and Blake?' I asked. 'Never,' says he. 'Then, my dear fellow,' says I, 'all your in- sinuations end in smoke.' Mr. Jebb just shrugs his shoulders and smiles blandly. 'A man must talk about something,' he says, 'he can't be dumb. That's the distinction between him and the brute creation.' I felt inclined to tell the man he was a humbug; but I made use of his suggestion, vague as it was, and fired my random shots, which, as you say, seem to have hit rather hard." "And you know nothing of the real murderer?" "Nothing. And, my dear madam, why worry your- self about the matter any further? Your father's sen- tence has been commuted. The penalty he now suffers 250 JUST AS I AM. is no more than would have been the natural punish- ment of the robbery of which he freely admits his guilt. He has no ground for complaint." "No," she answered. "He is satisfied, poor soul. I don't think he will have to bear his punishment very long. But I have four children in America, Mr. Tomplin, whose father is one of the best and truest men that ever lived. Are my sons and daughters to be told by-and-by that their grandfather was a mur- derer? Is my good husband to bear such a stigma as that upon his wife's name? All our friends in Boston know my maiden name. They will all have read about the trial at Highclere. I have come from America to clear my father's name, if I can." "I fear you have come upon a useless errand," answered the barrister kindly. "The question of Mr. Blake's murder has been set at rest for ever by your father's trial and condemnation. A jury has found him guilty. The commutation of the sentence is merely an act of mercy upon the part of the Crown." "But if it could be proved that another man com- mitted the murder — if another man could be brought to confess his guilt ?" "There is a great deal in such an if as that," re- plied Mr. Tomplin, smiling at her earnestness. "And you cannot help me in any way, sir? You can give me no hint — no clue?" "Unfortunately, none. I am sorry you have had your journey for nothing." "Hardly that, sir. It is something to learn how little you knew when you cross-examined Sir Everard Courtenay, because you see, sir, I had been building my hopes on a rotten foundation. But there must IN MR. TOMPLIN'S CHAMBERS. 25 I have been something in his mind, or he would not have flinched at your questions." "I don't know that. A man might be sensitive about his dead wife's name. I felt myself a ruffian and a cad while I asked those questions; but it was necessary to do something. I hope you believe that I did my best for your father." "I am sure of that, sir. I thank you for having received me so kindly. Good-day." "Good-day to you, and I wish your project were a more hopeful one," answered Mr. Tomplin. Mrs. Barnard left him as quietly as she had entered. She walked back to the station, finding her way easily enough this time, had a little over an hour to wait for a train, and was back at Highclere soon after dusk. 252 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER XXIV. ON THE WING. Morton's surprise at hearing that Sir Everard and his daughter were on the point of starting for the South was as great as it was unpleasant. His first impulse when Dulcie told him where she was going was to go with her, but Sir Everard interfered. "Not for the world, my dear Morton," he said; "your prospects must not be blighted because I have a weak chest. The Highclere election will be on early in February, and you have made up your mind to stand. You will have plenty of work to do in the meantime if you want to get in; for from all I hear there will be a pretty sharp contest on the Liberal side, and you, as a new man, will have to fight your hardest. No, Morton, you look after your political interests while Dulcie and I ramble along the Riviera and cross over to Algiers for a quiet month or so among the Moors. We shall be back, if all go well, with the swallows." "That is a long time for me to look fonvard to, sir," answered Morton, pale and grave, with a glance of mournful tenderness at Dulcie, who stood by her father's side, her hand clasped in her lover's, her heart aching with a divided love. "How am I to live without Dulcie all through three dreary months?" "You managed to exist without her a good many years," said the baronet, with a touch of cynicism. ON THE WING. 253 "Because I did not know the world contained such a pearl; but knowing her, having won her, how am I to bear my life without her? Let me give up this election and come with you, Sir Everard. It will be like a foretaste of our honeymoon." "Such joys should never be anticipated. I have admired and sympathized with your ambition, Morton. It places you apart from and above the ruck of young men. I should despise you if you could surrender your hopes so lightly, and I think before you had been away from England a week you would despise yourself." "If I did I should at least be happy." "No, Morton; self-contempt and happiness are in- compatible. You would be wretched." "You must not come with us, Morton; indeed you must not," said Dulcie. "I should hate myself if for my sake you sacrificed your noble ambition." She looked at him with fond, admiring eyes, as if he were a hero and a martyr — as if, until he arose with the desire to legislate for his country, nobody had ever hoped, or cared, or striven for the welfare of mankind. So, after some further argument, it was decided that Morton was only to go with the travellers as far as Paris, and that he was to spend the next month in preparing the ground for his election. The day after Sir Everard's return from London was Saturday, and it was on Sunday evening that this conversation took place, as father and daughter sat by the fire in Dulcie's morning-room, with Morton in his accustomed seat on the opposite side of the hearth. He had come over to Fairview directly after dinner, leaving 254 J 1157 AS l AM - his womankind to drive to evening service at High- clere. They were tremendous church-goers, and never missed a service that they could manage to attend. The lovers parted mournfully that evening, between ten and eleven, in the windy avenue, Dulcie having wrapped herself in her cloak, at Morton's request, and accompanied him as far as the gate. "How little I thought this was hanging over me when we were so happy together on Christmas night!" said Morton discontentedly. "When we were so happy," echoed Dulcie, pouting a little. "You mean when you and Lady Frances Grange were so happy together. I was not honoured with much of your society." "Dulcie, can you be jealous?" cried Morton, amazed. "I think I could if I tried very hard," faltered Dulcie. "My darling, such a thought is unworthy of you. As for poor little Fan," he went on, speaking of Lady Frances as if she were a favourite dog, "she and I have a kind of adopted sister-and-brotherhood which is more familiar than friendship. She trusts me wholly, as I trust her, and she knows that there is only one woman in the world I love, or ever can love. But don't let us waste the precious moments talking non- sense, Dulcie. I want to know more about this sudden indisposition of your father." "It is not sudden, Morton. Poor papa has been suffering at intervals for years. He would not tell me anything about it for fear he should grieve me, but careful as he has been to hide his pain from me, I know that he has suffered. He has had days of ex- treme depression; sleepless nights. I have been watch- ON THE WING. 255 ful of him, and have felt many a pang of fear, but I have tried to hide my anxiety. And now the London doctor has told him that he has a mortal malady. His life can only be prolonged by extreme care. Can you blame me, Morton, if I wish to do all that love can do to cherish and comfort him?" "No, dearest, I cannot blame you; but I wish you were my wife." "Why?" "Because in that case either I should go with you, or you would not go at all." "But you are going with us as far as Paris." "A fig for Paris. What is that beggarly stage of the journey? Four-and-twenty hours at most, and stretched to that only by dawdling a little at the Lord Warden. It is a contemptible boon to be allowed to escort you to Paris." "If you are disagreeable you shall stay at Tangley." The church clock struck eleven, and they parted, half in playfulness and half in sorrow. The travellers were to start early the following afternoon by the High- clere express. Dulcie devoted the morning to wander- ing about the house, looking fondly at those home treasures she was to leave for a time. Then she went to her own room, and put in order drawers and ward- robes which had been disordered in the hurry of pack- ing. Her maid had had as much as she could do to get everything ready in time for this sudden journey. She and Sir Everard's valet were to accompany the travellers. Nothing could be more marked than the contrast between the two servants, Emma Pew, a simple- minded ruddy-cheeked rustic, and Stanton, a man of the world, a soldier of fortune, speaking half a dozen 256 JUST AS I AM. Continental languages, as much at home in any corner of Europe as at Austhorpe, ready for any adventure. To him the idea of starting for Algeria was delight, to Emma it was a source of fear and dread. Some one had officiously informed her that Algiers was on the coast of Africa, and the very name of the dark con- tinent had inspired horror and aversion. "Isn't Africa a dreadful place, Mr. Stanton?" she asked, "a savage sandy country, where there's nothing but poisonous swamps, and niggers, and lions climbing up trees — or perhaps it is the travellers that climb to get out of the way of the lions." "Oh, Algiers isn't half a bad place," answered Stanton, in his easy way; "capital climate, fine sea, picturesque costumes, decent hotels; and as to lions — well, yes, I dare say we might have a chance of seeing a lion hunt." This was enough for Emma Pew. From this mo- ment lions roamed up and down the streets of Algiers in the fancy picture of that city which her distempered imagination set before her. And now Emma had done her work, and all Dulcie's belongings were packed and in the hall ready to be carried off to the station; and, having done her duty, Miss Pew, much disturbed and excited by the journey before her, had gone off to employ her last leisure hours in Daleshire in taking leave of her parents, aunts, uncles, sisters, and cousins. Thus Dulcie was left alone in rooms which already had a deserted look. Her bedroom was the same which her mother had occupied in her brief span of married life, a lovely room with wide square windows overlooking the lawns and shrubberies, the low-lying lake and the wide ex- ON THE. WING. 257 panse of landscape beyond. At one end of the room there was an oriel, fronting south, and in this sunny window was Dulcie's favourite seat. Here she had a little table with an easel; here she painted flowers or fruit with a delicacy of touch and tone rare in an amateur hand; here she worked, or read, or wrote, through many a busy morning. It was the room in which she had been born, in which her mother had died. Sir Everard had removed himself to the furthest end of the house after his wife's death, and had never since that hour entered this room save once when Dulcie was ill. But for Dulcie there was no terror in this chamber where death had come — where the young and lovely wife had lain in her last slumber. It was hallowed rather by that sad memory. She loved to look at the objects on which her mother's eye had rested, to sit in the low tapestried arm-chair which had been her mother's favourite seat, to handle the old china cups and saucers on the mantelpiece, the duo- decimo volumes of classic prose and poetry on the hanging book-shelves by the bed, knowing that her mother's touch had rested on them. To-day she moved slowly about the room, looking wistfully at familiar objects, wondering idly when she would see them again. Presently she paused, half in absence of mind, before an old Japanese cabinet, and began to pull out the drawers one by one, looking list- lessly at their contents. In one she saw a few old letters of her own, notes of invitation, programmes of concerts at Highclere, rubbish of all kinds; in another there were shells, in another some withered flowers gathered a year or two ago in her Alpine rambles, in another wom-out paint-brushes, and half-empty colour- fust as I am. /, 17 258 JUST AS I AM, tubes. Another, and this she handled reverently, had been undisturbed since her mother's death. She had laid a folded sheet of tissue-paper over the contents, trifling as they were, the mere jetsam and flotsam of daily life. To-day, in sheer idleness of mind, she lifted the paper, and began to rearrange the trifles which her loving hands had carefully covered years ago, when first she took possession of her mother's room. What frivolous relics of a departed life they were, yet how suggestive of youth and elegant pleasures! — a broken fan of delicately carved ivory and painted vellum, graces and sylphs disporting in a world of flowers, a long white glove, embroidered with gold, still bearing the impress of the little hand that had worn it; a Dijon rose, which still exhaled the faint suggestion of a long-departed sweetness; two or three pieces of rare old lace, yellow with age; a few letters, closely written and crossed, from married sisters; a handful of dead violets; and, lastly, something which filled Dulcie with wonder, simple as the thing was in itself. A yellow ribbon, the very colour and texture of that old-fashioned ribbon which Dulcie had found on the hearth-rug in Dora Blake's sitting-room. She sat with the ribbon in her hand, about a yard in length, not soiled or worn, but with folds that showed that it had been tied, perhaps as a loop for that broken fan. Yes, it was exactly the same ribbon; there could be no doubt of it. Either Dora Blake must have got her piece from Lady Courtenay, or Lady Courtenay must have got hers from Aunt Dora. "Unless there was a rage for this kind of ribbon at that time," thought Dulcie, "but that can hardly be, ON THE WING. 259 for I am sure this ribbon is more than twenty years old. It is the sort of thing our great-grandmothers wore. Well, it is a small mystery to worry one's brain about. Miss Blake must have given a piece to mamma, or mamma to Miss Blake. That is certain." She remembered Aunt Dora's somewhat confused and troubled manner when she had talked about the yellow ribbon. Could such a trifle as that involve some sorrowful memory — some association full of pain and sadness? Vain to sit wondering there. Dulcie lifted the ribbon to her lips before she put it back in the drawer. "Poor little ribbon, stray leaflet from the past. I am sure you are half a century old. You had curious, half-tender associations for my dear mother, I dare say, when she wore you to tie up a bunch of roses, or as a loop for her fan. You may have belonged to some maiden aunt, a famous belle, perhaps, who died in her youth — or to some dear old indulgent grand- mamma, who wore yellow ribbons in her cap. For me your history is a blank, as mysterious as the life of Cheops." She closed the drawer and locked the cabinet, and then resumed her progress through the rooms, till it was time for luncheon, after which hurried meal the carriage came to the door, and Morton arrived with his travelling bag. It was a pleasant journey for Dulcie and Morton, in spite of the parting that lay before them at the end of the way. For these two it was happiness to be together. Sir Everard seemed more cheerful when he had turned his back upon Fairview. He talked about the coming election, discussed Morton's hopes, 17* 260 JUST AS I AM. and gave him some good advice, which the young man fully appreciated. They stayed a couple of days in Paris to please Morton, went the round of churches and galleries which all had seen before, but which Dulcie was delighted to see in her lover's society; drove in the wintry Bois; saw all the world of fashion and beauty; wasted a good deal of money at Boissiers, buying artistic caskets and dainty satin boxes filled with sugar- plums; dined at the last restaurant a la mode; and wound up with a delightful evening at Moliere's classic theatre, where the elegant Favart and the seductive Delaunay played an idyllic drama by De Musset. Those two days were full of delight for Morton. They were only too brief, and then on the evening of the second he drove with Sir Everard and his daughter to the Lyons station, and saw them seated in the train which was to carry them to the South. "I shall come to you directly the election is over," he said, "if you have not returned before then." "My dear fellow, Parliament will meet by the time the election is over, and you will have your senatorial duties to attend to," replied Sir Everard. Morton stood by the carriage door, with Dulcie's hand clasped in his, till the last moment. It was their first parting. They looked at each other with pale, pained faces, tearless but despairing. Then came the guards bustling along, authoritative, military of aspect; then the rush and turmoil of people who could not find places; then a shriek, a whistle— their clinging hands parted — and Dulcie was gone. Morton went gloomily back to the shabby, half-built boulevard out- side the big station. ON THE WING. 26 I "What a horrid place Paris is for a man to be alone in!" he said to himself, as he walked back to the Bristol. "I shall be off at seven to-morrow morning." He was at Tangley by eleven o'clock on the fol- lowing night, moody and out of spirits, feeling that all the delight and hopefulness of his life was gone. "How fondly, how intensely she loves him!" he said to himself, thinking of Dulcie and her father. "Would to God that I could trust him as she trusts him — that I could honour him as she honours him. Yes, for her sake I would be blind, if heaven would grant me the gift of blindness. But I cannot forget how he shrank from answering my question that night — how he put me off with generalities , with indignant assertions that evaded the point at issue." 262 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER XXV. DULCIE SACRIFICES HERSELF. It was early in February, and all along the sunlit Riviera the world was waking to the first faint breath of spring. A sapphire sky reflected itself in a sapphire sea, and save for a murderous cold wind now and then, the sojourner in that southern world might flatter himself that he had cheated time out of a winter. Sir Everard and his daughter had been roving along the seaboard, stopping a few days here and a week there, and hurrying off impatiently from another place at the whim of the invalid, who was curiously restless and difficult to please. He missed his library, and the quiet life of Fairview, which perhaps was more congenial to his meditative character than any other kind of life, albeit he had never seemed quite happy even at Fairview. Dulcie bore with his whims, and soothed his rest- less spirits with inexhaustible patience. Every other hope and wish in her mind had given place to the one ardent desire to* spin out the weak thread of her father's days — to sweeten the remnant of his life. She bore without a murmur her separation from Morton, dearly as she loved him, and although it seemed to her as if all the brightness and youth were taken out of her life now that he and she were parted. The key-note of her existence was not gladness, but resignation. DULCIE SACRIFICES HERSELF. 263 Her father's health seemed to improve after they reached the South, but his spirits were variable, and that restlessness which Dulcie noticed soon after they left Paris — that utter weariness of soul which made the shortest winter day too long — was almost worse than physical pain or weakness. Nothing they saw in their shifting from place to place interested or amused him. He avoided society as much as possible, and most of all avoided his own countrymen, who were to be found in possession of the hotels wherever they went. "If we could only find some quiet place where you and I could be alone together with nature and our favourite books!" he said to Dulcie; and in quest of this tranquil retreat they travelled backwards and forwards along the sea-coast, in a vague, purposeless way which would have been dispiriting to a business- like tourist. At last, a little way inland from Marseilles, out of the beat of the common run of travellers, Sir Everard found a spot that pleased him. It was a little town on the side of a sandy hill, crested with pines. A few villas were scattered among the pine trees. The air was exhilarating, and there was a distant view of the Mediterranean. It was something like Bournemouth, before Bournemouth became a popular watering-place. Sir Everard hired one of the white-walled villas near the top of the hill, a small low house, sheltered on the landward side by a thick grove of pines, its front windows overlooking a wide sweep of blue water. "Here we will stay till we cross to Algiers," said 264 JUST AS I AM. Sir Everard, and he seemed in no hurry to visit the African shore. He ordered a piano from Marseilles, and a big case of new books from Paris, and settled himself down to his old studious and meditative life, with something of the old repose. Dulcie was delighted. The mornings were warm enough for them to sit out of doors among the pine trees; the sun was some- times so hot at noontide as to necessitate the use of Dulcie's biggest parasol. "I really think we have succeeded in running away from the winter, papa," she said gaily. "You ought to buy this villa, and then we could come here every year." "The world is wide, my darling. Why should we anchor ourselves to one spot? We may winter in Egypt next year." "And then Morton will be with us, will he not, papa?" hazarded Dulcie, blushing. "I suppose I shall be married before this year is ended? You know, dearest, I don't mean my marriage to separate me from you. I shall be your daughter all the same, and obedient to you in all things. Morton will be your adopted son." "You do not know what you are talking about, Dulcie," answered her father impatiently. "The kind of thing you propose is not possible. Other daughters have talked like you, time out of mind, and it has all ended in nothing. When Desdemona marries she follows her Moor to Cyprus, and poor old Brabantio is deserted." "I think in the play, papa, that is Brabantio's fault. It was he who flung off his daughter." DULCIE SACRIFICES HERSELF. 265 It was on the evening after this conversation that Dulcie and her father were sitting side by side in the verandah, watching the moonlit waves, and the yellow lights of the little town twinkling under a purple sky. The post had come in half an hour ago. There had been several letters for Sir Everard, but none for Dulcie. He had been silent and gloomy since the reading of his letters, and his daughter feared that one of them must have brought ill news of some kind. Whatever it might be, she waited patiently for him to reveal his trouble, feeling that it was wiser to leave him undisturbed till he chose to speak. She was at his side, ready to be his confidant if he needed her sympathy. They had sat almost in silence for nearly half an hour, when Sir Everard laid his hand gently on his daughter's shoulder and drew her nearer to him. "Dulcie," he said softly, "are you happy with me?" "Quite happy, dear father." "And this retired, studious life, hidden from the world, unambitious, uneventful, pleases and satisfies you?" "I can imagine no pleasanter kind of life." "That is well," he answered, and then relapsed into silence for some minutes. "My darling," he began after that long pause, "I think you know that I love you. I think you will believe, however inconsistent my conduct may seem, that I love you as truly and as dearly as father ever loved daughter since this world was created." "Yes, papa, I have perfect faith in your love," she answered, trembling a little. 266 JUST AS I AM. "And yet I am going to distress you. I am going to ask you to sacrifice something very dear to your heart." "Sacrifice is the proof of love, dear father," she answered gently. "I am prepared to make any sacrifice for your sake." "I want you to give up Morton." "Father!" she exclaimed with a faint cry, as if of physical pain. "Yes, I thought it was that," she said quietly. "There are reasons why your union with him could never bring happiness either to him or to you. I felt this when he first proposed for you, and I set my face against such an engagement, as you know. In an evil hour, seeing that your heart was concerned in the matter, I weakly yielded. But I have felt ever since that I have done wrong. I have felt more firmly convinced as time went by that the engagement must result in misery." "But why, father? for what reason? I am ready to obey you. I am willing to make any sacrifice for your sake. Yes, even to part from him who is dearer to me than anything on earth except yourself. You shall always be first. I have told you that. But pray do not treat me like a child. If there is some good reason why Morton and I cannot be happy together, let me know it, and understand it, and I will accept my fate." "Unfortunately I cannot tell you my reason. You must take it on trust." "And did this same reason influence you when you first refused to sanction our engagement?" "In part, yes." DULCIE SACRIFICES HERSELF. 267 "Oh, father, why did you yield then? I could easier have borne to give him up then than now. Every hour we have spent together has made him nearer and dearer to me, until he has become a part of my life. It would have been better for me if you had been cruel then, if you had been blind to my silent regret, and let the sorrow wear itself out. Perhaps it would have worn itself out in time; though I fancied it was going to be the sorrow of a lifetime." "All fancy, dear child," answered Sir Everard soothingly. "Hearts are not so easily broken. Steel yourself to endure the agony of a sudden wrench, and a year hence you will wonder that this sacrifice could have cost so much." "You say that! Yet you have never forgotten my mother." Sir Everard started, like one who feels a sudden touch upon an old wound — a touch that thrills through every nerve. "That was different," he answered huskily. "She was my wife, my own. We had one short year of bliss, and then came — ruin. No man could forget such a blow as that. But a girl's first lover is like a child's first doll — dearer than anything else in the world, till she gets a new one." "Father!" cried Dulcie, with a sob. "Yes, I know I must seem hard and cruel, but I have your welfare at heart, darling. This marriage could not make you happy. There is that in Morton's character which must result in misery to you." "He is noble-minded, conscientious, truthful — full of thought for others." 268 JUST AS I AM. > "You cannot read him as I read him, or know him as I know him. But I will urge this question no further. If you have made up your mind to marry him, in opposition to my most urgent desire, let the engagement go on. But if you want to make me happy you must give up Morton Blake." "You know that I would lay down my life for your happiness. But this is so strange, so sudden. You give me no reason, or only a vague reason, for such an act. My mind is utterly bewildered." "Take a week to think about it," said Sir Everard, quietly. "That looks like disobedience." "My love, I will not so think of it. I know that I must seem to you inconsistent, arbitrary, cruel even. But, as I live, Dulcie, the grief I would have you endure for my sake to-day, will save you a more terrible grief in the future. I should have foreseen this earlier. I have been weak, blameworthy. I am a sinner, and I need all your charity, all your patience." "You are the best and dearest of men," sobbed Dulcie, with her tearful face hidden upon his breast. "How could I hope to have you and Morton? It would be too much for heaven to grant to one woman." Then, after a pause, she lifted her head, and looked in her father's face with an almost childlike simplicity. "Papa, if I give him up, do you think he will marry Lady Frances?" "I think it is not improbable." "That will make my life harder to bear. That will be very bitter." Not another word was said about Morton, either by DULCIE SACRIFICES HERSELF. 269 Sir Everard or his daughter. This confirmed an idea that had flashed across Dulcie's mind when Sir Everard began to speak about her renunciation of Morton. She loved her father with such perfect trustfulness that she could not believe him capable of wantonly grieving her. He would not have asked her to make this sacrifice without some good and sufficient reason, and it might be that he withheld that reason rather than wound her womanly pride by telling her that Morton was false or fickle. She had felt a few faint pangs of jealousy that Christmas night at Tangley, when Morton and Frances were waltzing, with the air of people to whom it was natural to be together. Many a careless familiarity of Frances Grange's had struck her on that Christmas Day. Every word she said to Morton revealed a long and intimate acquaintance — the friendly association of years; while an undefinable something in the lady's tone and manner hinted at a warmer feeling than friendship. Brooding upon these past impressions, and even exaggerating them in the light of her new-born fears, Dulcie gradually convinced herself that her father knew more of Morton's sentiments than he cared to tell her. She remembered that curious change in her lover's manner which had wounded and alarmed her during the period before the trial at Highclere. She remembered his fitful spirits, his intervals of silence and moodiness — all accounted for at the time by his anxiety as to the result of the trial. Looking back at his conduct now, she told herself that this trouble of mind might have marked the gradual arising of a change of feeling, the slow awakening 270 JUST AS I AM. to the consciousness that Frances Grange — endeared by old associations — had a stronger hold upon his heart than the girl whom he had chosen for his wife. Always doubtful of her own merits, it seemed to Dulcie that Lady Frances was fascinating enough to lure any lover away from such an insignificant little person as herself. Yet the thought of Morton's inconstancy stung her to the quick, and it needed all her courage and all her pride to bear the blow. Dulcie played to her father, and read to him, and walked with him, and drove with him in the usual way; smiled at him, even, when he was inclined to be cheerful, but the sweet young face had a pale, rigid look, that went to Sir Everard's heart. He suffered almost as acutely as she did. One morning, in something less than a week after that conversation in the verandah, Dulcie came to her father as he sat writing letters in the sunny little room which he had made his study. "Papa, will you please write me the draft of a letter to Morton, telling him that he and I are to part?" she asked meekly. "I don't know how to say it." Sir Everard wrote the letter, and Dulcie copied it, adding a few lines of her own, and brought it to him ready for the mid-day mail. WHISTLED DOWN THE WIND. 27 I CHAPTER XXVI. WHISTLED DOWN THE WIND. February was over, and the Highclere election had begun in the cold and rain of a severe March. The Conservative interest was strong in the old county town, and Morton Blake found that he had a hard fight before him. He was not a popular man in his neighbourhood. He was respected and liked by his equals; they knew his sterling qualities; but that lower section of society which sees a landed proprietor only from the outside did not care about Morton Blake. They knew him only as a young man of reserved manners, who never drank or played billiards at the "Peacock;" who was rarely seen at local race meetings, and took no part in local cricket matches. Middle- aged people who remembered his father took delight in disparaging the son. His liberal opinions went against him among people who were always praising the days that were gone, and who considered free trade the ruin of England. If he had been a good old Tory, and had clamoured for the revival of the sliding scale, he would have had plenty of supporters among the farmers and burgesses of Southern Daleshire. But opinions which would have won him friends at Black- ford only made him enemies at Highclere. Education for the million, and coffee taverns, and national thrift, and even a cheap loaf were questions of no interest to a town which had grown up and nourished upon ignor- 272 JUST AS I AM. ance, beer, and high prices. Then he had Sir Nathaniel Ritherdon for his opponent, a man who spent a great deal of money in the town, who was known to be a sworn foe to all co-operative associations, whose opinions were so mildly commonplace, and whose utterances were so amiably vague that he pleased everybody. Morton fought his battle honestly and well. He was a fine speaker, expressing himself with a vigorous directness which won praise even from those who objected to his politics as dangerous and revolu- tionary. He had a noble voice — deep, resonant — and he knew how to use it. He had a handsome, intelligent face and a good figure, and he was admired as a fine specimen of the English Radical. But as a Radical he was feared, and his electioneering tactics were some- what too bold and independent to succeed with an old- fashioned borough like Highclere, where, with the ad- vance of civilization, direct and open bribery had only given place to indirect corruption. His agent plainly told Morton that the line he was taking was not the road to success; whereupon Morton replied that he would stand or fall as an honest man should. "Then I'm sorry to say I think you'll fall," answered the agent. "Mind, I'm not the man to counsel anything like bribery; but there's such a thing as being too squeamish in electioneering matters. The code of honour is a trifle wider, you see, in a business of that kind than " "I never heard of but one code of honour, and I shall regulate my conduct by that," said Morton. "Obstinate fool," thought the agent. "Is it mean- ness, or rustic prejudice, I wonder, that influences him?" WHISTLED DOWN THE WIND. \ 273 Then he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders, — "I take it that your object is to get into Parliament, and that the mode and manner of your getting there is a detail which you could afford to leave in the hands of a trustworthy agent. Yours is not the first craft that I've navigated through some ugly shoals." "I wouldn't go to heaven if I had to get there by a dirty road," retorted Morton. The result was exactly as the agent had anticipated. Sir Nathaniel spent two thousand pounds upon bill- sticking, beer, and indirect bribery, and came in at the head of the poll; Morton spent nine hundred upon stationery, postage stamps, agents' fees, and the hire of a room in which to give utterance to his opinions, and his name was lowest in the list. An intelligent minority had voted for him as an earnest politician and an original thinker; but the masses were true to the old candidate, who knew the way to their hearts. Morton went home to Tangley after the election, sorely depressed and disappointed. His agent had told him that he would fail; but his belief in the goodness and honesty of his fellow-men had been stronger than his belief in the agent's acumen. He had seen a crowded audience thrill as he spoke; he had seen the glow of enthusiasm in men's faces; he had heard the accent of truth in their loud cheers. He knew that he had touched the hearts of the best among the electors, that he had shown them his mind, convinced them of his earnestness. And yet the majority preferred to be represented by a twaddling old gentleman, who spoke once or twice in a session, and then delivered himself of truisms which had been old-fashioned, or obsolete, Just as I am. I. 1 8 274 J UST AS l AM - in the days when Samuel Johnson was a parliamentary reporter. At home Morton found unlimited sympathy. His aunt consoled him with quiet sweetness; his sisters were loudly indignant, but not without reproachful- ness. "If you had let us give more garden parties last summer, such an insult could never have been offered to the family," protested Tiny. "If you had taken more interest in the bazaar in aid of the restoration of the frescoes in the chancel of St. Mary's, all the church people would have voted for you," said Horatia, who was enthusiastic about things ecclesiastical. "I hope you will never again stand for Highclere," said Lizzie Hardman, pale with indignation. "The stupid people are not worthy of you. At Blackford you would be appreciated. My uncle and my brother were delighted with your speeches. I sent them the Highclere paper with the report of the meetings at which you spoke. They are only working people, and perhaps I ought not to talk about their opinions here. But they are warm politicians." "My dear Lizzie, I am very glad to be appreciated by them," Morton answered kindly. He had turned with a touch of weariness from his sisters' reproaches, and even from his aunt's consola- tions, but these remarks of Lizzie's had a soothing effect. It was something to be understood even by brawny-armed workers at Blackford. Was it not pre- cisely this class whose interests he had most at heart, the rugged sons of toil, from whose ranks his grand- father had risen?" WHISTLED DOWN THE WIND. 275 Among his women-kind he bore himself bravely, too proud to let any one see how deeply he was dis- appointed, how ardently he had hoped for a different result. He made light of the matter when Tiny and Horatia harped upon the iniquity of elections in general, and the shameless ingratitude of the electors of High- clere in particular. "I'm sure the money we have spent in that town would make a golden obelisk as big as Cleopatra's Needle, if it could all be melted down," said Tiny petulantly; "and noiv I hope you will let us belong to the Civil Service Co-operative Stores, and get our Berlin wool and things at wholesale prices." Morton went to smoke his cigar on the common directly after dinner in order to escape such sympathy as this. Bleak and moonless as the night was, it was pleasanter to him to ramble among these black furze bushes by the narrow sandy paths which he had known from a child, than to sit in the drawing-room and hear his sisters bewail his failure. He was alto- gether depressed and out of spirits. A week had gone by without bringing him any letter from Dulcie, who until now had written every other day. He began to fear that she was ill, or that Sir Everard was worse — dying, perhaps — and his daughter alone with him in a strange country. "There is one comfort in my failure," he said to himself. "There is nothing to tie me to England now. I shall start for Marseilles to-morrow morning, and surprise Dulcie in her villa among the pine trees." After a long walk about the common he went home, wonderfully cheered at the prospect of a speedy 276 JUST AS I AM. meeting with Dulcie. He went straight to his dressing- room, and packed his portmanteau, being at all times supremely independent of service. He consulted Brad- shaw, found that there was no possibility of starting before the night mail from Dover, and then, some time after midnight, went to bed, with very little hope of sleeping. In this he was agreeably disappointed, for, worn out with the excitement and the fatigue of the day, he slept heartily and long, and on waking found the wintry sun shining in at his window, and half a dozen letters on the table by his bed. Among them there was the long-looked-for letter from Dulcie, a poor thin letter, instead of the usual three or four sheets of foreign paper. A withered violet dropped from the envelope as he tore it open. "An emblem of my disappointed hopes," said Morton , thinking of yesterday's failure. This was Dulcie's letter: — "My dear Morton, — After serious and. painful consideration my father has resolved upon withdraw- ing his consent to our marriage. He has reasons of his own which he does not think fit to tell me, and I, as in duty bound, submit to his decision. If he were to tell me to lay my head upon the block, blindfold, I would do it; and in the same spirit of blind obedience to his will I write this letter. "I hope you will forgive me if this act of mine should give you any pain; but I have some. reasons of my own for believing that the rupture of our engage- ment will be rather a relief to you than a regret. "I have packed all the presents you so generously WHISTLED DOWN THE WIND. 277 gave me in a box, to be sent by rail — except the pretty vellum-bound "In Memoriam," which I venture to keep as a souvenir of our friendship. "Your always faithful friend, "DULCIBELLA COURTENAV." Even the signature of this brief letter had an awful look. She had never so signed herself before. "Your own Dulcie," "Your loving Dulcie," "Your fondest, truest Dulcie." This had been the style of thing for the last year — and now, with a grand nourish of her pen, bold and free as if the hand that wrote had never trembled or faltered for a moment, appeared this formal signature, which looked formidable enough for a death-warrant — "Dulcibella Courtenay." The first two sentences in the letter were her father's composition. The rest was her own. Morton could not tell that the brief, formal note had been wrung from a breaking heart. He only felt the cruelty of the stroke. He was coldly, curtly dis- missed; and that was all. "She could hardly write less if she were sending away a servant," he said to himself. And then, re-reading the letter, and seeing that the act was Sir Everard's, and that Dulcie was only the instrument, a horrible idea flashed upon him. "Why, this is his retaliation for the doubts I ven- tured to express that last night at Fairview," he said to himself. "I remember his livid look of anger — the passion with which he repelled my questions. Oh, there can be no longer a doubt. It was he whose horse's hoofs were printed on the spot where my father fell; it was he — false friend — jealous husband — who 2~3 JUST AS I AM. struck that deadly blow, and not the cur who aes rotting in Portland Prison. My hideous fear — the horror I have struggled to shut out of my mind — was not a baseless apprehension. I accept my release. Yes, Dulcie, you are right. It is a relief to me to be free. Dearly as I love you, my sweet one, it is better that I should be free to avenge my father's murder. That is my first duty. Would Orestes have stopped to make love and take a wife when once his task was set for him — when once he knew what fate had given him to do? Oh, my poor, pretty Ophelia, I will take back my gifts, the pledges of a happy love. Such bliss was never meant for you and me. For me life has sterner claims and harder duties. For you — oh, my love, my love, what is to become of you if I pursue the purpose that is in my mind? Is your gentle heart to be broken?" He read the letter again, and saw Sir Everard's hand in it. Could Dulcie, who had so innocently revealed to him the singleness of her heart, the depth of her love, could she thus whistle him down the wind? No; the letter had been wrung from her bleed- ing heart. That curt dismissal, so coldly worded, was doubtless the result of a bitter struggle. It was to bring about this separation that Sir Everard had taken his daughter away. Even the story of his ill-health was perhaps a pretence invented to this end. Morton answered Dulcie's letter with even greater brevity than her own. "Dearest, — I accept your decree, but I shall love you to the end of my life. Whatever may happen, even if it be my fate to bring you sorrow, remember WHISTLED DOWN THE WIND. 279 and believe this always — I love, have loved, and shall love you only. "Morton. "P.S. — God bless you for keeping the little Tenny- son." "So ends an old song," he said to himself. He avoided making an appearance at the family breakfast-table by pleading the press of important business, letters that must be written in time for the mid-day post; knowing that the too penetrating eyes of his aunt and sisters, to say nothing of Lizzie Hard- man's steadfast gaze, would read his agitation in his pale, troubled face. "I don't mean to tell them anything yet awhile," he said to himself. Perhaps that one particular detail in all the cir- cumstances of his grief which a man most dreads and abhors in such a case is the overwhelming sympathy of his feminine acquaintances. This morning Morton would have thought Alexander Selkirk in his desert island the most enviable character on the face of the globe. His aunt Dora brought the breakfast-tray to the library, and stood beside his chair, and bent over him, and laid her soft, cool hand on his burning forehead. "My dearest boy, you are in a fever," she ex- claimed. "You must have had a sleepless night?" "No, auntie, I slept wonderfully well." "Yet you look so pale and haggard. My poor boy, I'm afraid you feel this disappointment more than I thought you did from your manner last night." "Well, I am naturally a little provoked at a dumb 280 JUST AS I AM. dog like good pompous old Sir Nathaniel being pre- ferred to an energetic young man with ideas of his own. But I shall soon get over it, auntie. I have had a good deal of worry and work, you know, in the last three weeks, and that has exhausted me." "I see you had a letter from Dulcie this morning," said Miss Blake, one of whose many duties was the opening of the post-bag, "but not the usual budget. I hope Sir Everard is no worse." "No, he is about the same." "And Dulcie, is she quite well?" "Oh yes; she is pretty well." "Sweet child! How I miss her! She is such a loving little soul. Try to get a little more sleep, Mor- ton, when you have finished your letters. You look tired to death." "Really, dear aunt, there is nothing amiss with me. And when I have written my letters I am going off on a short journey. I have some business to do at Avon- more, and I shall not be home till nearly midnight. Don't let anybody except Andrew sit up for me, that's a dear good auntie." "At Avonmore! What can you possibly have to do at Avonmore?" "Nothing very particular; but I am glad to have something to occupy me this afternoon, as it will put the election out of my head." "That is an advantage, certainly. But pray don't tire yourself at Avonmore." "No fear of that. I shall drive over to Highclere in the dog-cart, and Sims can put up there and bring me back at night. And now, best of aunts, if I am to write my letters " WHISTLED DOWN THE WIND. 201 "I must leave you to yourself. Yes, I understand. Give my fondest love to Dulcie." "That letter was written before I came downstairs. Shall I put your message on the envelope, to be spelt out by all the postmen between here and Provence?" "Well, I think not. I shall write to my pet this afternoon. If I were to tell her how ill and wretched you look this morning she'd be miserable." "Tell her I am well and happy," said Morton, with a curious laugh. "There is nothing like putting a good face upon things." Morton's letters were only an excuse for being alone. He wrote a few lines to his parliamentary agent, enclosing a cheque — for even failure is expen- sive; wrote with friendly brevity to Sir Nathaniel, con- gratulating him on his triumph; and then he flung himself into his arm-chair, and sat with his elbows on his knees, brooding upon the past and forecasting the future. His path was dark, and beset with difficulty. He could hardly take a step forward which would not hasten the coming of sorrow to the girl he loved. Yet to stand still, or to go back, seemed to him impossible. 252 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER XXVII. POOR LUCY. Avonmore is one of the genteelest towns in England. There is positively nothing common or unclean in it. It manufactures nothing, it gives employment to nobody, it knows nothing of the working classes, it has no outer fringe of shabby streets and labouring-men's cottages. It is a pure and perfect chrysolite set in the garden- land of England, a land of green pastures, watered by a picturesque but weedy river that never turned a mill or served any useful purpose in its life, but which glides along its serpentine course placidly, between willow-shaded banks. The High Street is as broad as Regent Street, and sparkles with shops which only appeal to the wealthy. The two chief hotels are as elegantly luxurious and as expensive as Claridge's. The gentle slopes which the natives call hills are dotted with white-walled villas, girdled with exquisitely kept gardens, rich in monkey-trees, deodaras, Wellingtonias, and all the aristocracy of foreign timber. "The finest society in England is to be had at Avonmore," said Mr. Churchill Green, as he finished his hashed mutton, and turned his chair to the fire in the untidy little back parlour behind his shop, "but it is an infernally stagnant hole for a man to earn his living in." His wife sat in a low chair in the opposite corner of the hearth nursing her last baby. A sickly mother POOR LUCY. 283 with hollow, hectic cheeks and a dry, hacking cough; a flabby-looking infant, dribbling in an imbecile manner over a soiled and crumpled pinafore. "I don't know how it is for other people," replied Mrs. Green mournfully; "some of them seem to get on well enough, and even to make their fortunes, but it doesn't answer with us. Perhaps if you were to stick closer to business, Churchill— — " "Closer to business," echoed Mr. Green scornfully; "will my closeness bring customers? If I were to be as close as an oyster, would that fill my shop? Didn't I stay at home and sit yawning over the Telegraph be- hind that blessed counter all yesterday afternoon? and what are we the richer for my self-denial?" "Two young ladies came, Churchill." "Yes, and after turning over three portfolios of songs and waltzes decided there was nothing they cared about, and walked out of the shop without spend- ing sixpence. I wish I dealt in cheeses, or eel pies, or rags and bones, or pigs' trotters," cried Churchill savagely, "for then I might find an appreciative public." "I have often advised you to try some other busi- ness," said the wife, with meek reproachfulness, the kind of half-resigned, half-complaining, and wholly miserable tone which irritates a husband's nerves like the perpetual dropping of water — a small nuisance, but horrible from its continuity. "Oh, hang it all," exclaimed Churchill, as he knocked the ashes out of his blackened meerschaum, "I couldn't stand an ungentlemanly trade if it were to bring in thousands." Lucy Green gave a little whimpering sigh as she 284 JUST AS I AM. bent over the sickly baby, and lifted the limp little hand to her lips. "I wouldn't care what the trade was if it gave us good food and decent clothes, Charley," she said. She always called her husband Charley when she was most in earnest. "I'm sure I felt as bad as if somebody was putting a knife into me this afternoon, when I saw those children going to school in patched clothes and worn-out boots. What's the good of waiting for concert engagements that don't come? If it wasn't for a circus now and then, and a piano or two to tune, you wouldn't earn a five-pound note in a twelvemonth. It ; s only the kindness of- — my friends" — she faltered a little here, and looked furtively at her husband, whose face had clouded over with a sudden scowl— "it's only their kindness keeps us from starvation." "Perhaps if your friends were a little less mysterious in their benevolence I might feel more grateful," re- torted Mr. Green. "But it isn't a pleasant idea for a husband that his wife gets her money from nobody knows whom." "The money seems as welcome to you as to me, Charley. You always help to spend it." "I suppose I have a right to live, Lucy." "Nobody denies that, Churchill. Don't I slave to put a decent dinner on the table, and feed the poor children on bread and treacle half the week, so that you may have a little bit of hot supper when you come home tired of a night? But it does seem hard upon us all when you go and spend money in a tavern parlour rather than make yourself happy at home." "Happy!" echoed Green, with a contemptuous POOR LUCY. 285 survey of the shabby room and the faded wife. "A fine place for a man to be happy in — a chorus of squalling brats, varied by a solo from a grumbling wife. If it were not for the relief I get from a little pleasant society of an evening I should cut my throat." "I don't think I shall be here to trouble you very much longer," said Lucy, looking at him with eyes that were slowly filling with tears. The look was pathetic, but the husband had seen it so often that it had lost its power to move him. "And if you don't give any more thought to the poor children when I am gone than you do now, they won't be very long a burden upon you, for with their weakly constitutions they need all a father's care." "They need a father's purse, my girl, and mine's empty," answered Green, putting away his pipe and rising to depart. He settled his collar, and arranged his hair before the shabby little glass over the mantelpiece; and then, feeling that he had not been quite so kind as he might have been to the weak piece of humanity which he had wedded, he bent down and gave his wife a gentle pat on the shoulder with one hand, while he offered the forefinger of the other to his baby, who clutched at it convulsively and examined it with a frowning intentness, as if the paternal finger were a natural curiosity seen for the first time. "Cheer up, old girl," said Green; "a creaking door always hangs longest on its hinges. You'll go on creaking for many a year to come, I'll be bound." "I don't think so, Charley. My chest's awfully bad, and the pain in my side gets worse every day." "It's all on account of these villainous east winds. 286 JUST AS I AM. You'll pick up directly there's a change in the weather. Ta ta." "Where are you going, Churchill, in such a hurry?" "To the station. There's a concert at Blackford this evening, and a new contralto I've set my heart on hearing. I shall go third class. Three bob there and back, and I shall be home before one in the morning. Don't sit up for me, Lucy; but just have a bit of some- thing hot on the kitchen hob, as per usual." He was gone before she could remonstrate. She sat rocking the baby on her knees, while a few slow tears rolled down her wasted cheeks. "Three shillings for railway fare, and something for his tea at Blackford, even if he gets into the con- cert all for nothing," she murmured dolefully. "Five shillings would buy Mattie a pair of boots, and the poor child's feet are on the ground. God help me, I was so proud of Churchill's musical genius when I married him; and now I hate the name of concerts, and organs, and oratorios, and the whole lot of it." The bell hanging on the shop door gave a jingling ring, and Lucy Green started up in an agitated manner, hurriedly deposited the flabby bundle of infant life in the cradle, and hastened into the shop. A gentleman was standing in front of the counter, looking about him thoughtfully. "Did you wish to see our newest music, sir?" asked Mrs. Green, summoning up her most cheerful smile, and trying to look like a prosperous tradesman's wife, painfully conscious all the while of her faded gown and untidy hair, which the baby had been claw- ing a few minutes ago. "I am not a customer, madam," answered the POOR LUCY. 287 stranger with grave politeness. "I wish to have a little private conversation with you, if you will allow me. I believe you are Mrs. Green?" "Yes, sir." "I am known — slightly — to your relation Mrs. Dawley, of Holbrook Farm." "Indeed, sir. Then I'm sure you're welcome," ex- claimed Lucy, brightening. "Mrs. Dawley is my aunt, and the best of aunts. How was she looking, sir, when you last saw her?" "Glorious. I met her in Highclere market-place only a week ago, and she looked blooming and hearty." "Dear old Highclere," said Mrs. Green regretfully. "How I love that place! It isn't as fashionable or as handsome a town as this, I know, but it's nearer my old home, and I knew it when I was a light-hearted girl, without a care. That makes the difference, you see, sir. Will you please to step into the parlour, sir, and make yourself at home? It's a poor place, for we're limited as to room, you see, everything being sacrificed to the shop, and with children about one can never keep a room tidy." "Pray don't apologize," said Morton Blake. "I dare say you would rather have disorder with the children, than order without them." "Yes, indeed, sir, I should be sorry to lose one, though it's a wearing life." Her hollow cough gave emphasis to the remark. It was a life that seemed likely to wear into death before she was much older. 288 JUST AS I AM. "I want to talk to you about the past, when you were in service at Templewood." "Ah, sir, those were the happiest days of my life. Seeing me now, you'd never believe what a giddy, flighty young creature I was then. But what interest can that time have to you, sir?" "A great deal. I am hunting up details of family history in order to work out a law case in which I am interested. You understand?" "Not exactly, sir," answered Mrs. Green with a puzzled look; "but you must bear in mind that I've no head for business. Green is always telling me that." Morton had invented this pretext as he came along, feeling that it would be necessary to allege some motive for his inquiries. "You were with Miss Alice Rothney before her marriage, I believe?" he said. "Yes, sir, I was own maid to Miss Alice and her sisters. Ah, she was a sweet young lady, poor flower, cut off in her bloom and beauty." Her eyes filled with tears, and she turned away her head with a choking sob as she felt in her pocket for her handkerchief, fumbling nervously in her agi- tation. "You were very fond of her, I see," said Morton kindly. "Fond of her! I loved her as if she had been my own flesh and blood. She was a kind mistress to me, and I was true and faithful to her. Yes, God knows I would have gone through fire and water to serve her!" POOR LUCY. 289 "Was she happy in her married life?" asked Mor- ton, intensely interested. It seemed to him that he was on the right track. Mrs. Green was inclined to be communicative. The floodgates of memory were open, and all would be easy. But at this question she became suddenly on her guard. She drew herself up, tightened her lips, dried her tears, and became as it were a woman of marble. "She had the best of husbands, sir, and the most devoted." "But that does not always ensure happiness. She may have had a previous attachment. She may have been unhappy in her memory of a former lover." "If it were so, sir, it wouldn't be my place to talk about it, especially with a stranger. I was true to my lady in life, and I wish to be true to her in death." "I would not for the world assail your fidelity. But there is a reason why the details of Lady Courtenay's married life and of her death are deeply interesting to me. It is no idle curiosity that moves me. Be as- sured of that. It is in the cause of truth and justice that I ask these questions." Lucy Green looked at him with a scared expres- sion, pale to the lips. "You, from your association with the neighbour- hood, must have been interested in the trial at High- clere last December," continued Morton. "Tell me frankly, now, do you think the man who was con- demned for the murder of Walter Blake was the real murderer?" J 11st as I am. I. 19 2 QO JUST AS I AM. She never took her eyes from his face. The pale lips assumed a purple tinge, the hectic flush came and went upon the sunken cheeks. "This woman is in the secret," thought Morton. "What strange questions you ask!" she faltered; "and what could that man's guilt or innocence have to do with Lady Courtenay?" "Perhaps a great deal. Walter Blake had been Lady Courtenay's suitor before her marriage. It is possible that a husband's jealousy — ■ — " "You have no right to say such things. You have no right to speak against the dead," exclaimed Lucy, tremulous with anger. "I was true to my lady while she was alive. Do you think I am going to be false to her now to gratify your malice? Why do you come here to rip up the secrets of the past? — if there were any secrets in her life — which there were not. Nobody ever slandered her while she was alive. Is she to be made light of after she has been lying in her grave twenty years?" "Pray do not agitate yourself," said Morton gently. "I have not said a word against Lady Courtenay. It Walter Blake loved her, it is a reason why I should honour her memory. But I believe that Sir Everard Courtenay had a hand in Walter Blake's murder, and I believe that you could help me to discover the secret of his guilt." "Sir Everard Courtenay!" cried Lucy, with a laugh that had too hysterical a sound for genuine mirthful- ness or genuine scorn. "Why, he and Mr. Blake were old friends — old schoolfellows. Mr. Blake was as much at home at Fairview as Sir Everard himself." POOR LUCY. 29I "What if that friendship was suddenly broken — if some act or word, innocent of all evil, per- haps — on the part of the wife awakened the husband's jealousy " " Oh, you are leading me on now about Sir Everard, as you led me on about Lady Courtenay. But you are wasting time and trouble. I have no secrets to tell , and if I had I would not speak one word against a good master, who was always kind and generous to me — yes, always generous," she repeated, lapsing from hysterical laughter to hysterical tears. "He has been a good friend to me in my trouble; with four children, and a husband who squanders more than he earns, what would become of me, do you think, if I hadn't a friend? and yet you, a stranger to me, come here and try to make me turn against him." She had risen in her agitation and had moved about the room, stooping over the cradle to arrange the baby's coverlet, with a wan hand that fluttered like a withered leaf in the faint evening wind. Morton had risen too, and had changed his place, so that he now stood with his face turned to the bright winter light, streaming through a window that looked north- ward. "Why do you distress yourself, Mrs. Green?" he said, watching her intently. "If there is nothing to conceal, or nothing to tell, what need of this agita- tion? But if you are keeping the secret of a crime — bribed perhaps to be silent — you are doing a wicked act, and no good can come to you or your children from the help which is given you as hush- money." 19* 20,2 JUST AS I AM. "How dare you tell me I take hush-money?" she cried, trembling in every limb, and looking him straight in the face for the first time since they had shifted their position. "How dare you insult " She stopped suddenly, with a faint shriek, and clasped her hands before her eyes, as if to shut him from her sight. "My God," she cried, "Walter Blake's face!" She sank into the nearest chair, cowering and shuddering as if she had seen a ghost. "Oh, my poor Miss Alice, my poor Miss Alice! He was so good and brave and true, and loved her so dearly." Then she began to sob, big tears rolling down her wasted cheeks. "Why do you come here to torment me, like a spirit from the dead?" she cried. "You have no right to torture me like this." "Yes, I have the right to use every means in my power to search out the secret of Walter Blake's murder," answered Morton sternly, "for he was my father." She rose again and came over to him, and looked him in the face earnestly, with piteous eyes, as if in- deed he were a shadowy wanderer from the land where all things are forgotten. "Yes, it is his face," she murmured. "I ought to have known it from the first. But I hardly saw you till just now. You sat with your back to the light, and I was so upset by what you said — and my sight has grown weaker every day since I've nursed my last baby. I ought to have guessed who you were POOR I,UCY. 2Q3 at once. Your voice is like his, loo — perhaps that's the reason I was so upset — for I'm a poor nervous creature." "Can you help me to bring his guilt home to my father's murderer?" asked Morton, waving away all her agitated protestations with a tone and look that indicated intentness of purpose. "No. What should I know of the murder? I was with my poor dying mistress all that day. I never stirred outside Fairview — I hardly left her room." "And you know nothing — you can recall no sus- picious circumstance? You can give me no clue?" " Nothing — no — no." "You mean you will not." "No, I say I cannot — I know nothing. Why do you not believe what all the world believes— that the man who confessed to the crime was the man who did it?" "Because I have the strongest reasons for think- ing otherwise — yes, good and sufficient ground for believing that Sir Everard's was the hand that struck the blow." "You must be mad," said Lucy, with her gaze still fixed on his face, as if drawn to it irresistibly by some influence of memory, love, or fear, stronger than her will. "Sir Everard, a gentleman, lift his hand against his own friend! Impossible. Ah, Mr. Blake, Mr. Blake, why did you come here? My poor heart, how it beats! and the blood seems seething and bub- bling in my poor weak head. Why do you bring up the past? I can't bear it — I can't bear it." 294 just AS l AM - She flung herself back into the chair, from which she had risen restlessly a minute before, and burst into passionate tears. Never had Morton seen a woman sob so bitterly, and the sight wrung his heart. "My good soul, I am truly sorry," he exclaimed, laying his hand gently, almost tenderly, upon her shoulder. "Pray do not distress yourself in this way. If you have no knowledge of my father's death, if you are withholding nothing from me, there can be no cause for this agitation." "Yes, there can," she cried passionately. "There is another cause. Cannot you understand? How dull you are! I knew your father so well, I saw him so often, when he came to Templewood courting Miss Alice. Oh, my God, his face rises before me now, as if it was only yesterday that he was standing by the holly hedge which shut off the kitchen-garden from the shrubbery, talking to me about my young mistress. He used to make a friend of me, and give me messages and little notes for her, for she was hardly out of the nursery at that time, and Lady George kept her very close. It used to please Mr. Blake to talk to me about her, for I could tell him all she said about him, and what he called her pretty ways. Of course it never occurred to him that any harm could come to me from all this talk. You fine gentlemen think that because we are servants we are not flesh and blood, that we have no hearts to feel, or fancies to be led astray. But though I was a lady's-maid I was a woman, and I grew to care more for him than I ought to have cared, and I was miserable about him, and took no pleasure in life except when he was near me, and my heart POOR LUCY. 2Q5 was gnawed with jealousy; and many a time when he has given me a letter for Miss Alice I have covered it with kisses, and carried it about in my bosom for hours before I gave it to her, and I've been tempted to destroy it in my jealous pain. Yet I was true to my lady through all, and never turned against her, or wavered in my love for her." She said all this with her wasted hands spread be- fore her wasted face, her speech broken every now and then by a stifled sob. Now she let fall her hands, and looked at Morton once more, her face crimson with shame. "Why do I tell you this now that he has been in his grave twenty years?" she asked. "Heaven knows why. I have never told a creature before to-day; he never guessed it. I was not a bold, flirting girl, like some, and I would have died rather than betray my- self to him. But you are his son. It seems to me almost as if you were himself, risen from the dead. And you wanted to know why I was so upset, and I have told you, and there's an end of it." This was said with an air that was half weary, half defiant. The air of one who was very tired of the burden of this life, and destined very soon to cast off the burden for ever. "I am sorry for you with all my soul," said Morton. "I honour you for having loved him, and for having so faithfully kept the secret of that love. You can the better understand how I, his only son, who loved him passionately, am bent upon avenging his death." This renewed her tears. 296 JUST AS I AM. "Don't talk to me about his death," she pleaded. "I can't bear it." He stood looking down at her thoughtfully for some minutes, while she sat struggling with her tears, and wiping them off her wan cheeks, sorely inclined to be hysterical, but conquering her agitation heroically. He felt profound pity for her weakness, physical and mental. He saw such signs of disease in her pallid face and shrunken form as could but move him to compassion. Yet he felt that, weak as she was, she had got the better of him, conquering his strength of will by her very weakness. He felt assured that she had some knowledge of circumstances bearing on his father's death, and that she was wilfully keeping that know- ledge from him. Throughout the interview there had been a remorseful consciousness of wrong-doing in her manner. It was not grief for the dead alone which drew from her such passionate tokens of distress. There was guilt as well. "You seem to be in a weak state of health," he said kindly, when she had grown calmer and had taken the baby from his cradle, as if in the hope of finding some comfort in that feeble morsel of humanity, which she pressed tenderly to her breast, bending down to kiss the flabby little face, smiling into the blue eyes that stared wonderingly at her. "Yes, I have had a hacking cough ever since last September, and I have been very low. Poor mother died in a decline, and my eldest sister went off last year just in the same way, and I suppose it will be my turn next. I shouldn't much mind if it wasn't for these poor children; but it's hard to leave them. Churchill POOR LUCY. 297 means well, poor fellow; but he's wrapt Up in music, and singing, and such like. He'll go twenty miles to hear a new church organ, or a new singer. He can't take care of the children as I do." "Please God you may be spared for some years yet. You seem to have rather a hard life here. The shop to mind " "Churchill is at home sometimes," answered the wife with a deprecating air, "but I do mind the shop mostly." "And the children to take care of " "Yes, it is a hard life to any one that's out of health," assented Lucy with a sigh. "Don't you think if you were to come into the fresh countiy air, among fields and woods, and have a comfortable cottage to live in, and a nice little servant to look after the children and wait upon you, you might get better?" "Lor', sir, you might as well ask me if I thought I should get better in Paradise! Of course I should, but it's impossible." "Not at all. If you like to come to Tangley I'll give you one of the cottages on my estate, with a nice bit of garden, and I'll find an honest girl to nurse you and your children; and my aunt, who is about the best woman in the world, will take care that you want for nothing, till you get well and strong and are able to come back to your husband." "Oh, sir," she said, clasping her hands raptur- ously, "how generous and noble you are! Yes, you are indeed his son — like him who was the kindest of men." 2g8 JUST AS I AM. "Let it be a settled thing then. I will have some furniture put into a cottage to-morrow — we have always plenty of chairs and tables and old bedsteads in the lumber-room at the manor, — and I will get my aunt to arrange everything. All you have to do is to get your husband's consent to your leaving him to take care of himself for a month or two." "I don't think he'll much mind, sir," answered Lucy. "He has often said he would like to give me a change of air if he could afford it, and it worries him, poor fellow, to hear my cough, and to know he can do nothing towards curing it. He has grumbled at my aunt Dawley because she hasn't asked me to go and stay at the farm; but then you see, sir, my aunt has her husband to study, and sick people are bad com- pany. And even if she were to invite me to the farm she wouldn't have the children, and I should have to be parted from them, poor innocents." "You will be happier with your children round you, I am sure. Here is a trifle for the expenses of the journey." He slipped a five-pound note into her hand. "I'll write to you to-morrow to say how soon the cottage can be ready; and you can settle every- thing with Mr. Green in the meantime." "Oh, sir, I don't know how to thank you. You are too good. You are like your father. I can't say more than that." "I don't want any thanks. Good-bye, until I see you at Tangley;" and with this brief leave-taking Mor- ton took up his hat and departed. There had been no thought of self-interest in his kindness to Lucy. His heart had been touched by POOR LUCY. 2Q9 her distress, and still more so by the deep feeling she had shown in reference to his father. But after he had left her, and was on his way home, it occurred to him that whatever knowledge she had withheld from him to-day as a stranger, she might possibly impart at some future time, when she had learnt to regard him as her benefactor and friend. JOO JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER XXVIII. SHAFTO JEBB IS SENT FOR. Jane Barnard went back to Highclere sorely de- pressed by the failure of her mission. Her chief hope had been in the counsel who had defended her father, and whose defence had hinted at a knowledge of suspicious facts bearing on the murder. To find him as ignorant as herself was a sore disappointment. Her next endeavour must be to discover whether Shafto Jebb, who had furnished the hint on which Mr. Tomplin had framed his cross-examination of Sir Everard Courtenay, knew any more than he had pre- tended to know that evening in the coffee-room at the "Peacock." A man of that kind might know a good deal, and, in his self-importance, hint at secrets which he dared not betray, lest in so doing he should hazard his professional position. Or he might know nothing, and from sheer boastfulness pretend to the possession of some terrible secret. "There was an old Dr. Jebb at Austhorpe that poor mother used to go to for medicine," reflected Jane. "I wonder whether this one is his son? I might go and see him about the pain in my shoulder." She went to bed that night in very low spirits. This business of clearing her father's name, which she had undertaken with so much energy and determina- tion, began to seem hopeless. The poor old father was lying in Portland prison, a condemned murderer. Pen- SHAFTO JEBB IS SENT FOR. 301 tonville and Millbank had both been full at the time of his respite, so he had been drafted straight to Port- land. The mystery of Walter Blake's death was ex- plained to the satisfaction of everybody. How was she, a friendless woman, to induce the world to reverse the sentence that had been passed upon a self-accused criminal? And now, being an economical little woman, Mrs. Barnard began to worry herself about the money she was wasting upon this seemingly hopeless enterprise. She had spent thirty pounds already out of the fifty which her husband had given her when she left home. She had crossed in a Cunard steamer in the hope of being in time for the trial; but she had insisted, much against her husband's wish, on coming as a second- class passenger. "It'll be comfortable enough for me," she said when he remonstrated with her. "I don't mind rough- ing it. I came over in an emigrant ship, you know, dear, and was seven weeks on the sea. What should I do among a lot of simpering saloon passengers, thinking of nothing but eating and drinking and dress- ing? I'd rather be among homely people who have got their troubles, and are obliged to be careful of their money." The same desire to spare her husband's purse had influenced Mrs. Barnard in her choice of the second- floor bedroom over a tobacconist's, in one of the nar- rowest streets in Highclere. For this attic chamber, which was neat and clean and airy, she gave the large sum of four shillings a week, in which rent was in- cluded the right to boil her kettle or cook a chop, or a steak, or a rasher on the kitchen fire. She lived as 302 JUST AS I AM. such unselfish women can live, on tea and bread and butter, with such inexpensive relishes or substitutes for dinner as her fancy suggested. At this rate of ex- penditure the twenty pounds in hand would last a long time. Yet Jane Barnard had an uneasy sense of wast- ing her husband's hardly-earned money, and she had already asked her landlady to try to get her some plain needlework to do. Disheartened as she was by the result of her jour- ney to London, she wrote to her husband in a hopeful strain, lest he too should lose heart and insist on her immediate return. He had been opposed to her com- ing, and it had been only her intense desire that had prevailed over his dislike to the journey. To own her- self baffled and beaten would be too painful to Jane Barnard's proud spirit; for this little woman, who had been reared and educated in a workhouse, and had graduated in the rough school of domestic service, was gifted with an indomitable spirit, and a mind not to be ruled by time or space. About a week after her interview with Mr. Tomplin, she walked over to Austhorpe one mild gray afternoon, passing with a shudder by the pollard oak, and Blatch- mardean copse. Austhorpe looked the quietest place in the universe on this winter afternoon. The south-west wind had breathed across the frosty fields, and melted the snow of last week, save here and there where it lay white under a hedge, or on a northward-facing bank. The scattered cottages, set far apart on the wide high road leading to nowhere, stood out sharply against the sun- less afternoon sky. The old church stood afar off among its tombstones, surrounded with level meadows, where SHAJTO JEBD IS SENT FOR. 303 the cattle grazed complacently, unconscious of any ecclesiastical influence. Before inquiring for Mr. Jebb's surgery, Mrs. Barnard went to look at Fairview, the one important house in the village. The lodge gate was shut, so she walked along the path by the park paling which bounded the grounds, to get a glimpse at the mansion as she best might. It was so shut in by a fine belt of timber that she had to walk a good way before she came to the point at which the house was visible from the road. Then, looking at the old Tudor mansion through a break in the trees, Jane Barnard saw all the windows closely shuttered, as if the house were empty. The sight moved her curiously. Did it mean absence — or death? She was so eager to know this, that she ran back to the lodge entrance as fast as her feet could carry her. She rang the bell, and was answered, after an interval of some minutes, by a lodge keeper, who looked indignant at being disturbed in his afternoon nap. "Are the family away?" she asked. "Yes. You ought to know that by the look o' the place, and not come startling folks, pulling that there bell like mad. What do you want?" "I wished to see Sir Everard Courtenay." "Well, you're just three days too late. Sir Everard and Miss Courtenay left three days ago for the south of France, and maybe they're going to Alljeers." "Wasn't it very sudden?" "Well, it was sudden, if you must needs know. Sir Everard went away for his health. Our winter is too cold for him. Perhaps you'd better go up to the house and state your business to the housekeeper, and 304 JUST AS I AM. she'll let Sir Everard know about it when she sends him his letters, if it's anything particular." "No, it's not very particular. I'll wait till he conies home. Does he go abroad every winter?" "He has been away travelling of an autumn pretty often. But this is the first winter he has gone ab- road." "Good afternoon," said Jane, whereupon the man stared at her through the rails of the gate, gave her a surly nod, and went back to finish his nap. "This looks like running away," thought Mrs. Barnard. "Why should he go abroad this winter above every other winter? I wonder whether it was Mr. Jebb who recommended him to go on account of his health?" She now set herself to discover the village surgeon's abode. It was in a lane that ran at right angles with the broad village street, not far from the Three Sugar- Loaves, and within the shadow of school -house and church. It was not a bad old house, but it had been sorely neglected for the last half-century. In its .palmy days it had been the habitation of a prosperous farmer; but with the advance of enlightenment the farmer had taken it into his head that the old Homestead was not good enough for him, and had built himself a lordly dwelling-house in a better situation, whereupon the Homestead had been rented by old Dr. Jebb, and from that time forward had sunk gradually to decay. All that Dr. Jebb's profession had ever done for him had been to feed and clothe himself and his numerous offspring, until those fledgelings were old enough to be flung out of the family nest, and pick up their own subsistence in the highways and byways of life. On SHAFTO JEBD IS SENT FOR. 305 the death of the original Jebb — who, without having taken the superior degree, had been always called doctor — his practice had descended to his eldest son, together with the household furniture, and the pestles, mortars and gallipots in the surgery; and on the strength of this inheritance the jovial Shafto had married, and filled the shabby, worn-out old house with a progeny as numerous as the previous generation which had occupied it. He was a man who took life lightly and though Mrs. Jebb had aspirations after better things, in the shape of paint and paper, curtains and carpets, the surgeon opined that what had been good enough for his father and mother was good enough for him: a comforting doctrine to a man who never had any spare cash wherewith to improve and embellish his surround- ings. "It's very dreadful," sighed poor Mrs. Jebb. "The rain comes in through the nursery ceiling to such an extent that I expect to get up some morning and find those poor children drowned in their beds. I always have to put an umbrella up over Percy's crib in stormy weather; and as for the stable, the roof is in such a weak state that I do believe it will tumble down and bury the gray mare some day, while you're out of the way." "The stable does want a little repair, certainly," said Shafto, who was more careful of the mare than of his children. He expected them to grow and thrive, as he had grown and thriven, like the birds of the air. The house had a certain air of homely comfort , in spite of its shabbiness and dilapidation. The Jebbs lived on the fat of the land, and kept good fires, and Just as 1 am. I. 20 306 JUST AS I AM. were altogether inclined to take life pleasantly. They were hospitable to a ridiculous degree — in the idea of their less liberal neighbours, the Uphams, for instance, who entertained their friends with a formal dinner two or three times a year, and never gave meat or drink to anybody between whiles. Mrs. Jebb was a meek, motherly woman, who was always cooking when she was not mending, and who considered Shafto one of the greatest men of his age, on an intellectual level with Gladstone and Disraeli, only Fate had hindered his coming to the front. She was too meek of spirit to give utterance to this opinion to any one except her own children; but to them she asserted the fact dogmatically. "If your father had only had an opening, he would have been Prime Minister before now," she told them. Meek as Mrs. Jebb was, she was frequently involved in difficulties and discordances with her servants. She could only afford to keep two, and there was a great deal of work to be done by these two. Perhaps that difficulty might have been got over if Mrs. Jebb had not helped them. Her assistance turned the scale, and made war where peace might have been. It is a fact in domestic history, that servants never stay long in a house where the mistress helps in the work. Essayists of the male sex may write fiercely against the fashionable lady who reads a novel when she might be washing the breakfast-things; or who gads about to afternoon tea drinkings when she should be helping to cook the dinner. The fact remains, that the only households of whose machinery the wheels go round smoothly, are the houses in which the mistress SHAFTO JEBB IS SENT FOR. 307 interferes in no overt manner with the duties of her servants. Mrs. Jebb helped the domestics from morning till night, and in so doing she was continually behind the scenes, and saw a great many things which it would have been better for her to have left unseen, and deprived her servants of those stray scraps of liberty and leisure which would have sweetened toil and bondage: the hour loitered away at the shifty dinner, with such comfortable gossip and idle laughter as make the best sauce to cold mutton; the half-hour at tea, with elbows on table, and saucer balanced on out- spread hand; the friendly dropping in of sister or cousin; the love-letter written before supper; — Mrs. Jebb's servants found no such leisure moments or un- observed pleasures in their lives; and after two or three months' drudgery they discovered that the work was too heavy for them, and gave their mistress warn- ing; at which Mrs. Jebb, although she was accustomed to the calamity, usually shed tears, and declared that she couldn't have believed this last Ann, or Jane, or Mary, would have turned out as ungrateful as the rest. "The fact is, you're too kind to them," said Shafto. "You pamper and pet them till they don't know what they're doing. Why, it was only last summer I saw them eating cold salmon." "It was only the tail and the fins, Shafto. I made salmon cutlets of all the fish that was left, for your breakfast." "And very good those cutlets are," said the surgeon. "I think you fry fish better and better every day." 20* 308 JUST AS I AM. "I take a pleasure in it," answered Mrs. Jebb, with mild delight at her husband's compliment. On this January afternoon, when Jane Barnard came to the Homestead, Mrs. Jebb was in her usual difficulty. Sarah, her nurse and confidential servant, had given warning, and the warning was to expire in a few days, yet Mrs. Jebb had found no substitute for the deserter. "Don't throw out your dirty water before you're sure of clean," said Shafto, who was fond of proverbs and aphorisms; but the dirty water had a will of its own, and had made up its mind to go, and there was no clean water forthcoming. Emily Jebb had shed some furtive tears this afternoon, while she busied herself with the composi- tion of a curry, a dish which her husband loved. He had his own views and theories as to the concoction of this savoury meat — he made his own curry-powder, and believed that he had discovered a mixture superior to anything that had ever been achieved by the Rajahs of Ind. Mrs. Barnard knocked modestly at the surgery door, feeling that she had no right to approach the parish surgeon in his domestic character; but Mr.. Jebb was miles away on his afternoon round, and the door was opened by his eldest daughter, a tall slip of a girl, in very short petticoats, who had been lying on the surgery rug, reading "Robinson Crusoe." "Pa's not at home," she said curtly. "Ma is, if you want to see her. You haven't come about the nurse's place, have you?" SHAFTO JEBB IS SENT FOR. 300. "No, miss. I wanted to consult your father about my health." "Pa will be at home to his dinner at six — we have tea and pa has dinner," interjected Miss Jebb, who was of a communicative temper, and had an abrupt and somewhat breathless way of speaking. "I thought you might have come after the nurse's situation." Mrs. Barnard looked thoughtful. She saw a pos- sible opportunity in this suggestion. "Is Mrs. Jebb in want of a nurse?" she asked. "Yes, we want one dreadfully," answered the eager girl, with youthful candour. "Sally has behaved most ungratefully. We liked her so much, you know, and we were very good with her, except Ethie. Ethie has a bad temper, you know — she has broken chilblains, and ma says that's the reason — and Sally gave ma warning one day, all of a sudden, and she's going the day after to-morrow, and I shall have to nurse the baby and keep all the others quiet till we get a new nurse, and I hate the thought of it. Perhaps you know of some one who might suit ma?" speculated the damsel, staring at Mrs. Barnard with big round eyes. "I think I do know of some one who might suit, for a short time, at any rate. Could I see your mamma?" "Ma's busy in the kitchen, and I know she's doing something very particular," answered Florence Jebb, to whose mind her father's dinner was among the leading facts in life, "but I think she'd see you. Please come into the breakfast-room." The damsel left Robinson Crusoe sprawling wide 310 JUST AS I AM. open on the hearth-rug, in company with a lively kitten and a disabled doll, and led the way up a little stair into the breakfast-room. It was breakfast-room, dinner, tea, and supper- room too, and smelt strongly of meals; but there was a cheery fire in the old-fashioned grate, there was a bright little copper kettle singing on the hob, there was a roomy, luxurious easy chair beside the fire ready for the surgeon, whose slippers lay in a snug corner close by. Altogether the room, shabby as it was, had a comfortable look, and even the sleek tabby cat stretched before the fire suggested the placid ease of home. Here Mrs. Barnard waited while Miss Jebb went in quest of her mother. "If I were to take the nurse's place for a month or so it would save me board and lodging, and I should be likely to hear all that Mr. Jebb had to tell," Jane said to herself; "and as to hard work, I don't mind that a bit." Mrs. Jebb came in, flushed with the heat of the fire, and the anxiety of a true artist. "My daughter tells me you know of a nurse who might suit me," she said. "Yes, madam; I thought, if you wouldn't mind taking a person for a short time, while you are looking about you, as one may say, I should be very glad of the situation myself. But I could hardly stay more than a month or six weeks. I came over from America on business, and I shall have to go back to my house and family in about that time." "You seem a very respectable person, and — well — yes," hesitated Mrs. Jebb, who, being of a procrastinat- SHAFTO JERR IS SENT FOR. 3 I t lag temper, had delayed looking for a new nurse till the old one was on the eve of departure, and now knew not where to find one. Yes, I think perhaps we might manage — it would be a convenience for a time — and I should be able to suit myself better if I had leisure to look about me. Are you an American?" "No, ma'am; I went out to America when I was nineteen, and married and settled there." "Does your husband approve of your being away from him?" "Yes, ma'am. At least he doesn't mind it, know- ing that I had' important business in England. My business is not finished yet, or I should go back to him. I might have to ask for a day, perhaps, once or twice, while I was in your service." " Oh, you could have that, of course. I am always glad to oblige my servants, if they are obliging to me. You understand children, I suppose?" "I was nursemaid before I was fifteen, ma'am; and I have brought up my own dear children." Various questions followed, as to whether the applicant could do plain needlework, a little dress- making now and then, trim the children's bonnets, was willing to make herself generally useful, and so on. "I can turn my hand to pretty well anything, ma'am, from trimming a bonnet to cooking a dinner; but I must tell you that I can't offer any reference, unless it is to the person in whose house I have lodged three weeks, and that's not a long character. I'm quite a stranger in England." "You look very respectable," said Mrs. jebb medi- tatively. "I don't think I should mind running the 312 JUST AS I AM. risk. But Mr. Jebb mustn't know it. He's so veiy particular." It is always well to hold up one member of the family as an embodied code of law, severe as that of Mede and Persian. Shafto Jebb was one of the easiest of men, save in matters of meat and drink; but Mrs. Jebb had a diplomatic way of talking of him as if he were a tyrant of unappeasable ferocity. So it was settled that Mrs. Barnard should come to the Homestead with bag and baggage next even- ing, by which time Sarah the deserter would have gone forth to seek her fortune elsewhere, and the nursery would have been scrubbed and dusted in honour of the new-comer. "I hope you'll take to the children," said Mrs. Jebb. "They're rather self-willed, but they have warm, loving hearts." "I'm not afraid, ma'am. I can always get on with children." "You haven't told me your name." "Barnard, ma'am. Jane Barnard." Mrs. Barnard went back to Highclere, well pleased with her afternoon's work. To live at Austhorpe, in domestic service, unobserved, unsuspected, as an un- employed stranger might be, would give her excellent opportunities of finding out much that she wanted to know. If there were any dark secret in the past life of Sir Everard Courtenay she would be likely to get some inkling of it here, where his life had been spent, where he was the one important person in the place, and must needs have been always the object of closest scrutiny. Tangley, too, was very near, and she would be able to know what course Morton Blake was taking. SHAFTO JEBH IS SENT FOR. 313 Then, again, the idea of spending a few weeks near the place of her birth was pleasant to her, anxious as she was to accomplish her mission, and to go back to her husband and children. Thus it was with a cheer- ful spirit that she took up her abode in Mr. Jebb's household. She found the habits of the surgeon's family peculiarly favourable to her object. The general use- fulness to which she had pledged herself included waiting at table while Mr. Jebb dined; and as the jovial surgeon was loquacious at his meals, and was one of those reckless, blustering talkers who rarely pause to consider what heed the listeners may be tak- ing of their talk, Jane Barnard was in a fair way to hear his real opinions upon all subjects. It was Mr. Jebb's custom to dine surrounded by his olive-branches, every one of whom, down to the cantankerous baby, he honestly loved; but this family gathering did not prevent the bread-winner dining daintily, and on exclusive fare. His little dinner was distinct and separate from the general meal. Wife and children dined at one o'clock; and for them the evening banquet was a compromise between tea and supper. Mrs. Jebb managed the tea-tray at one end of the table, while the other end was neatly set forth with Mr. Jebb's particular bottled ale, his plate of soup, his little bit of fish, his curry, or bird, or sweet- bread to follow. He was a man who boasted that he wanted very little; and who frankly owned that he required that little to be of the best quality. Mrs. Jebb had made it the study of her life to satisfy her lord, and she had no haunting idea that her existence had been wasted because its chief occupation had 314 JUST AS I AM. been in the kitchen. The children made their even- ing meal of such savoury odds and ends as a careful housekeeper could afford to give them, eked out by bread and jam, a homely plum cake, of satisfying solidity, water-cresses, or the occasional shrimp. "What sort of a day have you had, Shafto?" asked Mrs. Jebb, one February evening, when her lord had approved her last intellectual effort, in the shape of a filleted sole with mushroom sauce. "So, so. Sir Nathaniel sent for me this morning. The election has put him off his feed — too much ex- citement for an old one like him — though there's plenty of pace in the old fellow yet. I gave him a ball and threw him out of work for a day or two." Shafto had a way of speaking of his patients as if they were horses, to which his wife and family were accustomed. "No talk of Sir Everard and Miss Courtenay's re- turn, I suppose?" said Mrs. Jebb. "Not likely. If he went abroad for his health he ought not to come back till May." "If he went for his health — why of course that was the reason he went, wasn't it?" asked Mrs. Jebb, her curiosity aroused by that significant "if." "Well, I don't know. One can't always get at a man's real meaning. The whole thing was so sudden. I never heard Sir Everard complain. He seemed dull and out of spirits sometimes, and was fonder of sitting by the fire in his library poring over stupid old books than a healthy middle-aged man ought to be. But I never knew there was anything amiss with him. Yet I'm supposed to be the family doctor. And one fine morning he rushes up to London, sees a physician, SHAFTO JEBB IS SENT FOR. 3 I 5 and comes home and says he has been ordered to the south of Europe — or Algiers even — on account of his lungs. I call it an insult to his local adviser to act in such a way. But there's more behind it all than anybody knows." "What can there be?" asked Mrs. Jebb, leaning over her tea-tray and looking intently at her husband, as he coquetted with the last morsel of his sweetbread, and mopped up the gravy with a bit of bread. "My dear, I'm not going to talk," said Mr. Jebb; and then for once in a way he appeared to be con- scious that the youthful mind is not a stranger to curiosity, for he glanced at the clustering heads of his household gathered about a dish of "winkles," and murmured, "Little pitchers — you know, my dear." The nurse was standing at the sideboard cutting bread and butter, and of her presence neither Mr. Jebb nor his wife took any heed. As a stranger from the other side of the Atlantic she could have no possible interest in local gossip. "Tell me by-and-by, dear," said Mrs. Jebb meekly. Whenever Shafto said he was not going to talk, it was a sure sign that he was longing to impart his ideas to a sympathetic mind. Mrs. Jebb occupied herself in filling the cups which her children thrust into the tea-tray, each clamorous to have his or her claim allowed. "I've only had one cup, ma," remonstrated Florence. "Percy has had two; and I believe Algie has had three." "That's another of Flo's crumpers," cried Algernon, with his mouth full, and his chin anointed with jam, like a classical comedian smeared with the lees of 3 l6 JUST AS I AM. wine. "What do you expect will happen to you if you tell such out-and-outers as that?" "If I stuffed myself with strawberry jam on the top of winkles to the extent you do, I should expect to have a fit," retorted Florence. Jane Barnard laid a soothing hand on Flo's sharp shoulder, and offered her a tempting crust from the new loaf. "You're disturbing your pa and ma, dear," she whispered. "I'll take care you get a good cup of tea." Mrs. Barnard had been at the Homestead three weeks, and had already acquired a great influence over the children, who were not altogether bad chil- dren, although they had been dragged up anyhow, and were scampish in their ideas and behaviour. "I'll tell you what," volunteered Mr. Jebb, leaning back in his chair and picking his teeth in a leisurely manner, as if it were the next best thing to dining. "I don't mind going so far as to say that a certain marriage will never come off." "What marriage?" "How dull you are, Emily! M. B. and D. C, of course." "What, Dulcie? Dulcie not marry Morton?" cried Mrs. Jebb. "Why, it would break both of their hearts. I've seen them together times and often, you know, Shafto, for she always asks me to tea when I call upon her, and she always returns my call. And though it's a great effort to put on one's best gown and bonnet and go out like a lady to pay a visit, I like to do it now and then, because it reminds me that I am a lady, however I may slave at the house- work." SHAFTO JEBB IS SENT FOR. 317 "I call it fiddle-faddle," interjected the surgeon contemptuously. "If you go out you should go for a good country walk. That would freshen you up a bit." "Not half so much as a nice cup of tea and a little friendly talk in Miss Courtenay's' pretty morning- room. Everything is so elegant there — the books, the china, the furniture. I feel as if I were in a new world. And oh, Shafto, I'm sure they adore each other; and if the marriage were to be broken off I be- lieve it would be the death of her." " 'Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love,' " quoted Shafto, who had picked up a score or so of Shakespearian saws from other people, and passed for a Shakespearian scholar without ever having read so much as a single scene in a single play. "I should be very sorry if the young lady were to fret. I vaccinated her, and I've attended her ever since Sir Everard brought her back to Fairview — measles, scarlatina, chicken-pox, whooping-cough — I've brought her through them all beautifully, — so you can't suppose I'm not interested in her welfare. Still I say that marriage will never come off. There's an antagonism between the two men, Sir E. and M. B. They may smother it for a time, but sooner or later it will break out in a big blaze, like a fire that has been ever so long smouldering. I saw M.'s face the day of the trial — saw him watch Sir E. while the prisoner's counsel was cross-examining him, and there was mis- chief in it. Yes, Mrs. Jebb, there was mischief. That marriage will never come off, or if it does there'll be misery for somebody. I've seen what dometic misery means — silent — secret. A beautiful home — every luxury 318 JUST AS I AM. that wealth can buy — a position in the county — youth — beauty — pride of race. But the trail of the serpent was over it all. That's where it is, Mrs. Jebb. The trail was there — the slimy, silvery track that showed where the snake had been." The cook, an unusual apparition in that room, burst suddenly in, breathless, her cap half blown off her head. "Please, sir, you are to go to Tangley Manor directly minute. Mr. Blake's took ill, and the ladies think it's brain fever." "Didn't I say so?" exclaimed Mr. Jebb, looking at his wife with an air of gloomy triumph, as he put his toothpick in his pocket and rose to go. And although he had said nothing of the kind, Mrs. Jebb looked upon him as a prophet. END OF VOL. I. PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. JUST AS I AM A N O V E L KY M. E. BRADDON, AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," ETC. COPYRIGHT EDITION. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1SS0. The Right of Translation is reserved. CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. Page CHAPTER I. Was Life worth Living? 7 — II. Who can minister to a Mind Diseased? ... 17 — III. " That would be too Horrible " 28 — IV. Never Again ........ 44 — V. In Tangley Wood 5° — VI. An Earnest Man °3 — VII. "I do not understand you, Morton" . ... 81 — VIII. The Man called Tinker 91 — IX. I must bide my Time 100 — X. Tinker breaks his Tryst 116 — XL Drifting Apart 123 — XII. The End of all Things 135 — XIII. "That would be an Unholy Alliance" ... 144 — XIV. "Is he still the Master of your Heart?" ... 163 — XV. Morton's Brilliant Idea 17° — XVI. A Paragon of Cobs 178 — XVII. " What is the Key to the Enigma ?" . rc-8 — XVIII. A Land of Chimnies and Smoke 212 — XIX. From Darkness into Light 220 _ XX. In the Besom of her Family 23c O CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. Page CHAPTER XXI. " I will never Live under his Roof" . . . 2,0 — XXII. "There was no Thought of Fair Play then" 250 — XXIII. Lizzie's Failure ....... 239 — XXIV. Thicker than Water 282 — XXV. "The Rest is Silence" ...... 295 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER I. WAS LIFE WORTH LIVING? Morton Blakc had told himself that it was best that he and Dulcie should be parted. He had made up his mind long ago that his chief duty in life was to avenge his father's death. The bringing home of his murdered father's body, that father from whom he had parted so blithely at the lodge gate in the gray autumn morning; the father whose strong arms had lifted him in front of the saddle for a few minutes' trot on the stout hunter; the father against whose broad chest his childish cheek had been lovingly laid for a parting hug before the firm, strong hand dropped him lightly upon the turf beside the open gate. The child, awakened by the confusion and horror of the household, had run down in his night-shirt, barefooted, to the hall, in time to see the corpse brought across the threshold. The impression made by that awful scene upon a mind naturally intense and concentrative had become a part of the boy's being, and had strengthened as the years went by. 8 JUST AS I AM. Thus it was that from the moment dark doubts of Sir Everard Courtenay entered his mind, Morton had been unhappy in his relations with Dulcie; loving her with his heart and soul, yet feeling that to his love he was sacrificing duty. He had tried to stifle his doubts. He had prayed that he might become blind, rather than make any discovery which should alienate him from the girl he loved. But her father had taken the initiative, and the tie which the lover could not have broken was sundered. He remembered now how strongly Sir Everard had opposed his suit in the first instance, and how he had only yielded when he saw that to be in- flexible might be to break his daughter's heart. Was not this opposition, for which there was no ground in the social position or moral character of the lover, another link in the chain of evidence which Morton had been putting together, reluctantly, despairingly, knowing that the destruction of his own happiness must be the result, if that horrible suspicion which had slowly gathered strength in his mind should prove true? He had told himself that it was a good thing for his engagement to Dulcie to be broken; but he had not known how deeply his love for her was rooted in his heart, or how empty of all delight his life would be without her. He had borne their temporary separa- tion better than he had supposed he could have done; simply because the work and excitement of the election had left him no time for thought. But now that the election was over, and that he had resigned himself to a life-long severance from Dulcie, he found how hard it was to exist without her. For some weeks WAS LIFE WORTH LIVING? 9 after his interview with Lucy Green he lived as in a dreary dream, keeping himself aloof from his family, shutting himself in his study on pretence of business, and taking long, lonely walks after dark, when he was sure of meeting no one who knew him, and thus could avoid all that friendly every-day talk which jars so painfully upon a mind given over to one all-absorbing grief. And now the natural result of such a life had overtaken him, and he was prostrate with a fever which was rather mental than physical, and which sorely puzzled that rough-and-ready practitioner, Mr. Shafto Jebb, though he was careful to conceal his per- plexity from the anxious women at Tangley Manor. Morton had told no one that his engagement with Dulcie was ended. He had shrunk from the idea of being pitied and sympathized with, as he would have shrunk from physical torture. But his aunt shrewdly suspected the cause of his depression. She had of late observed that the post-bag had brought no letters from Dulcie, nor conveyed Morton's customary budget for the foreign post. There was something wrong, evidently, thought tender-hearted Dora Blake; but when she tried, in the gentlest way, to approach the subject, Morton met her inquiries with such gloomy reserve that she dared not go further. Prolonged sleeplessness, over-exertion in all kinds of bad weather, and an utter distaste for food, had brought him to such a state of weakness that he lay like a log; sometimes remaining for hours silent, apathetic, inert; at other times wildly delirious. The brain was evidently affected, but to what extent Shafto Jebb could not discover. Insomnia was the most dif- 10 JUST AS I AM. ficult feature of the disease. Want of appetite might be overcome by the forcible administration of nourish- ment; but no opiate that Mr. Jebb tried could give sleep. Laudanum, morphia, and chloral were given vainly, or worse than vainly, for they excited and stimulated the brain which they were intended to soothe. Dora Blake begged that a London physician, one of the most famous in the land, might be sent for; and Mr. Jebb consented to be enlightened by the highest scientific authority; but when the great author- ity appeared he had very little to communicate in return for his large fee. He assured Miss Blake that Mr. Jebb had been treating the patient with the utmost discretion. The chloral had been perhaps tried a little too persistently, seeing that the effect had been injurious rather than beneficial. The patient's mind had evidently been greatly distressed. There had been some disturbing cause at work, possibly for some time. Perfect repose was absolutely necessary: and the patient's constitution, which had sunk to a very low point under the mental strain, must be built up again. The great authority made a strong point of this re- building of the constitution. The issue of the case would depend upon care and nursing rather than upon active medical treatment, he said. From what he had the pleasure of knowing of Mr. Jebb — he had never heard of the man's existence until the previous day — he was sure that gentleman would exercise unremitting watchfulness until a happy result was obtained. If it should be deemed advisable for him to see the patient again, say in about a week or ten days, no marked improvement having taken place meanwhile, he would WAS LIFE WORTH LIVING? I I be happy to come; but, as Mr. Jebb was well aware, his practice was of a nature which made such journeys difficult. The physician took a little of the luncheon which had been prepared for him, and then went back to the carriage which was waiting to convey him to Highclere station. He had brought very little com- fort to Dora Blake's mind, beyond the assurance that Mr. Jebb was doing what was right, the case being precisely one of those in which hardly anything can be done. She went back to the darkened room where Morton lay tormented with delirious fancies: now arguing with his electors; now in court at the trial of Humphrey Vargas; now at a college wine party, disputing about some passage in Horace; now, raving about Dulcie; always incoherent and disjointed in his talk. While his aunt was engaged with the physician he had not been alone. The rule of the household was that he should never be left. His dressing-room had been ap- propriated to the preparation of nourishment, and here his old nurse, now a useful servant in the household, kept watch over stewpans of beef tea, and jars of in- valid turtle, jelly, arrowroot, and other spoon food which was forced at intervals upon the unwilling patient. Here too were kept medicine bottles and all the litter of a sick room, leaving Morton's own com- fortable chamber cool and neat and airy. Lizzie Hard- man was sitting at work near the one window which was not curtained. She was an excellent nurse, quiet yet quick, watchful but never demonstrative. She did not argue with the patient in his delirium, or try to rouse him when he lay mute and motionless, with dull 12 JUST AS I AM. eyes staring at the wall. Whatever anxiety she might feel, she had always the same placid manner in the sick room, moving with the lightest step, and with soft garments that never flapped or rustled: whereas both Tiny and Horatia seemed all ribbons and flounces, and were more restless than the patient himself — now bending over him to offer him lemonade when he had not the least inclination to drink, anon dabbing his forehead with eau de Cologne when the chief desire of his enfeebled mind was to be let alone, and the lightest touch of a strong, healthy hand was like a blow from a blacksmith's hammer. "I am sure you must be tired, Lizzie," said Dora, in her low, gentle voice, looking down at her protegee as she sat working a counterpane in crewels, a labour which promised to last as long as Penelope's, but to show a brilliant result when finished. "You have been sitting here since six this morning." "I am not at all tired, dear auntie, but I insist upon your going to lie down. You were up all night." "I feel too uneasy to sleep, Lizzie. What is the use of lying down?" "You will be resting, at any rate. And you really must try to sleep, or we shall have you as ill as poor Morton. Was the London doctor very hope- ful?" Lizzie did not look up from her work as she asked the question, but her sensitive lips trembled a little, and her face was pale with anxiety. "Yes, he seems to think the dear boy's recovery is only a matter of time and care. We are to be very watchful. The patient is extremely weak. That's where the peril lies. Has he taken his turtle soup?" WAS LIFE WORTH LIVING? I 3 "Only a spoonful or two. He has such a dislike to that, and indeed to almost everything. Poor old nurse is in despair." For several weeks Morton remained in this state, the delirium and sleeplessness continuing. The Lon- don physician was summoned again, and on this second occasion was less hopeful. Shafto Jebb went on in his jog-trot way, feeling the patient's pulse three times a day, and urging the administration of nourishment which the patient refused to take. In all that weary time Morton had been nursed by the women of his household. Mr. Jebb had suggested a professional nurse, but Miss Blake had set her face against hireling help. There was old Rebecca, who had nursed Walter Blake and his children after him, and had lived at Tangley ever since the estate had belonged to the Blake family, ready and willing to watch the patient by day and night, were it needful, and skilled in all the arts of sick nursing. There was Miss Blake herself; and lastly there was Lizzie Hard- man, the cleverest and quietest of nurses a sick man could desire. Throughout the long period of his delirium Morton had seemed to feel comfort in Lizzie's presence. He had turned to her rather than to his aunt, as if her hand and voice had a more soothing power. One evening towards the end of April, when Miss Blake had gone to her room, fairly worn out with an- xiety, and when old Rebecca was dozing over her pipkins and tea-kettle by the fire in the dressing-room, Lizzie sat alone at her needlework by Morton's bed, while he lay looking at the wall, apathetic, silent, the image of despair. 14 JUST AS I AM. The tears were slowly streaming down Lizzie's cheeks as she sat there, a quiet figure, seemingly ab- sorbed in womanly work. To-day Mr. Jebb had for the first time confessed himself uneasy as to the result of Morton's illness. The young man's strength was ebbing day by day, and that recuperative effort which the surgeon had expected from nature had not yet been made. "Unless he makes a desperate rally within the next few days I'm afraid we shall lose him," said the surgeon. Lizzie had heard this, and she sat by her old playfellow's bed, praying silently, while the slow teai - s stole down her pale cheeks, wan with long watching. She had been thinking what could be done to save him, as he lay there helpless, hopeless, dying. She and Aunt Dora had spent many a sad hour in talking of him and speculating about him during that dismal time, and they had come to the conclusion that some breach with Dulcie was at the root of this illness. How the severance had arisen neither Miss Blake nor Lizzie could imagine, but that the tie had been broken they both felt convinced, knowing no way else to account for Morton's despair. To-day Lizzie had heard news that had startled her, and she was now meditating upon a desperate step. "I would do anything to save his life," she said to herself, — "anything." And then she looked at the haggard face, the wild eyes staring at vacancy, and her heart sank within her. Must he pass from mad- ness to death? Would that be the end of his bright young life, so full of promise, of power, and energy for all good deeds? WAS LIFE WORTH LIVING? I 5 Throughout his illness he had seemed to under- stand her better than he understood any one else, to talk more rationally to her than to others. Presently she knelt beside the bed, and took his wasted hand in hers, and spoke to him in a low, grave voice, slowly and deliberately. "Would you like to see Dulcie?" The wild eyes fixed themselves suddenly upon the questioner's face. The name acted like a spell. It was the first time that name had been pronounced in Morton's hearing since the beginning of his illness. His burning hand clutched Lizzie Hardman's wrist, his eager eyes scrutinized her face. "You are making a fool of me," he said angrily. "You think I am mad and that you can cheat me, but you can't. Dulcie is in Algeria." "She is at Fairview. If you will promise to be a more obedient patient, and to do all the doctor tells you, I will bring her to see you within the next twenty- four hours." "Has she come back? Are you sure of that?" "She came back this afternoon. Sir Everard has been ill — is very ill now, I believe— and he had a fancy for coming back to Fairview. If you will do all I ask you, if you will exercise self-command, and try to get better, I will bring her to see you to-morrow evening." "She would not come. She and I are parted for ever. There is a reason — a horrible reason — why she can never be my wife." Lizzie thought that this was mere raving — one of the hallucinations of fever. "She will come to see you when she knows you l6 JUST AS I AM. are ill. You may have quarrelled, but she cannot have ceased altogether to care for you since last Christmas. I saw you together then, remember, and I know there was love enough and to spare on both sides." "Love is not all in this world," said Morton moodily. And then, after a silence of some minutes, he asked: — "Has she really come home? You never told me a lie, Lizzie, yet I'm afraid to trust you. When a man is ill and off his head he is treated like a child — everybody fools him. Has Dulcie come back?" "She has, upon my honour." "Then I will eat anything — drink anything — endure anything — only to see her dear face- — only to clasp her hand." He took a few spoonfuls of egg and brandy, and a little invalid turtle between that time and midnight; and, lulled and comforted by the hope of seeing Dulcie, he slept for an hour or so in the night, Lizzie watching by him till the bright spring dawn, while Miss Blake slept the sleep of bodily and mental ex- haustion. WHO CAN MINISTER TO A MIND DISEASED? I 7 CHAPTER II. WHO CAN MINISTER TO A MTND DISEASED? Sir Everard Courtenay had returned to his own house a greater invalid than when he left it. He had tried one spot after another upon the shores of the Mediterranean; he had crossed to Algiers; he had visited the monastery of La Trappe, where he was curiously interested in the inscriptions on the walls, and where he made inquiries as to the mode of life in that living tomb. But no advantages of southern climate, no fresh sea breezes could bring vigour to his frame, or brightness to his eye; nor did frequent change of scene, with all the varying incidents of travel, dispel the settled gloom that hung over his spirits. One day, he told his daughter suddenly that he was going to take her home by easy stages, through Italy and the Mont Cenis tunnel. "I want to set my house in order before I die," he said. "Dear father, why do you talk like that?" ex- claimed Dulcie, clinging to him tenderly. "You are better, are you not?" "Do you think I am better, Dulcie?" he asked, looking at her with grave, questioning eyes. "I hoped that the milder climate, the change from place to place — - — " faltered Dulcie. "Would prolong my life. Yes, that is just what Just as I am. II. 2 I 8 JUST AS I AM. the London doctor hoped — or made believe to hope. Yet I find this miserable frame of mine no stronger because I have dragged it all along the southern coast. I find no more delight in life under African skies than in the quiet lanes round Austhorpe. But we will not stop long at Fairview — you would not like it perhaps, now " "I should be very miserable there," said Dulcie, her eyes filling with tears. "My pet, my darling, you shall not stay. If you would like me to leave you in Florence, I could come back to you in a few weeks. I have friends there who would take charge of you." "No, papa, I will not be parted from you. The duty, the only delight of my life is to be with you ! " They sailed for Naples next morning and travelled at a leisurely pace through Italy, seeing all that was worth seeing between Naples and Turin, Sir Everard hoping that Dulcie's mind might be diverted by the variety of scenes through which she passed. But neither Africa nor Italy, with all their romantic associations, had power over Dulcie's mind, or could make her forget Morton Blake and the happy, simple life at Fairview, before the beginning of sorrow. And now they had bent their steps homeward Morton was continually in her mind. She was wondering what she should hear of him when she returned. Perhaps people would tell her that he was engaged to Lady Frances Grange, and she would have to endure their sympathy on account of his fickleness. In any case she would have to bear a great deal. Eveiybody would be astonished at the rupture of an engagement which had been an established fact in the village, WHO CAN MINISTER TO A MIND DISEASED? 1 9 a fact known to the smallest urchin at the parish schools. "I hope he does care for Lady Frances," she said to herself sadly. "Anything would be better than the idea that I had made his life unhappy." Yet she could not picture him to herself as Fanny Grange's lover without a bitter pang of jealousy. They reached Fairview late in the afternoon, weaiy with the journey from Turin, whence they had travelled with only a few hours' rest in Paris. There were only servants to receive them, and Dulcie would have died rather than ask any questions about Morton. Sir Everard heard of Morton's illness from Philip Stanton within an hour of his return, and he at once warned Dulcie's maid, Emma Pew, to say not one word to her mistress on the subject. "Miss Courtenay is so tender-hearted," said Sir Everard, "that, although everything is at an end between her and Mr. Blake, she would make herself unhappy if she knew of his illness." "But they say the doctors have given him over, sir. If he dies my mistress is sure to hear of it." "No doubt some officious fool will make haste to give her the information. But, in the meantime, it is better she should know nothing." Sir Everard ordered his phaeton soon after break- fast next day, and drove alone to Blatchmardean Castle, where he had a mission to fulfil. He had been thinking much of his daughter and his daughter's happiness, since they had started on the long home- ' ward journey. It had been his unhappy fate to come 1 between her and the man to whom she had given her 1 fresh young heart, and he was now eager to devise 20 JUST AS I AM. some means by which she might be beguiled into finding new gladness and delight in life. "She is so young and childlike — so full of fresh- ness and simplicity. Surely all her capacity for loving cannot be exhausted by this one girlish attachment," he argued with himself. "I think I know of some one who could love her as truly as ever Morton Blake loved her, if she would but give him fair play." This idea had been more or less in his mind ever since the cancelment of Dulcie's engagement, and this was his chief purpose in coming back to Fairview. He had seen Lord Beville and Dulcie together, and he had seen enough to convince him that Beville would have gladly taken Morton's place, He had talked to Beville of his daughter's engage- ment on one occasion, and the young man, naturally frank and outspoken, had made no secret of his warm admiration of Dulcie. Sir Everard had observed him the night they all dined together at Aspina-11 Towers, and what he had seen then had confirmed him in his idea that Beville was capable of a warm and lasting attachment, light and careless though the young man's nature seemed. And now it was Sir Everard's most ardent desire to see his daughter married — to see her married to a man who would honour and cherish her — but not to Morton Blake, staunch and true though Morton Blake was. "If Beville could only win her I should die happy," he said to himself, having made up his mind that for him death was not far off. "If I could see her an honoured wife, the mistress of a fine old ancestral home, surrounded by new ties, new friends, new WHO CAN MINISTER TO A MIND DISEASED? 21 interests, and protected by a devoted and chivalrous husband, I should go my way in peace; but to leave her without a friend in the world, robbed by my act of her chosen lover, depending upon me alone for love and protection, that is too bitter." It was a bright spring morning, and the haw- thorns in Blatchmardean Park were all bursting into leaf, the larches showed green against a background of Scotch firs, and the chestnut buds were opening on the sunward side of the trees. Sir Everard looked about him thoughtfully as he drove through the park. He had looked of late upon scenes of striking loveli- ness, mountain and sea, fertile valley and wide winding river, classic city and time-honoured cathedral : yet this simple English beauty of wood and meadow seemed to him fairer and sweeter than the richer growth of a more luxuriant nature, and touched him nearer than the glory of historic cities. Amidst such simple surroundings he had been born and bred, and his joys and sorrows were all associated with the little world within a twenty mile radius of Highclere. At the castle he asked to see Lady Frances Grange. He was told that she was in the garden, and while the white-haired old butler was giving him this in- formation Miss Moulton came out of the little drawing- room, where she had been filling old Japanese bowls with ferns and daffodils, and was loud in her astonish- ment at seeing him. "Sir Everard! This is a surprise. We all thought you were in Algeria. I hope you have benefited by | the change. But you are not looking as well as your friends would wish to see you." "We came from Turin veiy rapidly, and I am a 2 2 JUST AS I AM. little tired with the journey. Is your pupil to be seen this morning, Miss Moulton? I know I am un- conscionably early, but I have come to ask Lady Frances a favour." "I am sure she will be pleased to see you. She is roaming about the gardens, I believe — in the wilder- ness, perhaps. That is her favourite resort on a fine morning. Shall I go with you, or will you try to find her for yourself?" "I won't trouble you. I think I shall be able to find her," answered Sir Everard courteously; "and when I have told her what I want her to do for me I will come back and ask your aid in the matter." He went across the broad gravel sweep in front of the castle and away to the wilderness, which skirted one side of the park, screening kitchen gardens and stables from the eye of the stranger. Miss Moulton watched his retreating figure with friendly interest. "What a fine-looking man he is, and how nobly he carries himself!" she thought. "If I were a girl, that is just the kind of man I should fall in love with, though he is nearer fifty than forty. But it is a pity he always has that unhappy look, like a man' borne down by the weight of secret care. I put it all down to hypochondria. When a man has a handsome in- come and nothing in the world to trouble him, he takes to reading medical books, and imagines himself the victim of some obscure disease. If God doesn't give us real troubles to bear, we tax our poor little minds to invent sham ones." Providence, which had not been lavish in its WHO CAN MINISTER TO A MIND DISEASED? 2$ favours to Sarah Moulton, had given her at least the comfort of adversity's sweet milk, philosophy. She was always ready to philosophize upon any turn of fortune, and her philosophy was happily of the bright and cheerful order, tending to make the best of things, and ready to believe that other people's burdens were quite as big as — and often bigger than — her own. Out of this view of Fate came a contentedness and serenity of temper that made stout, homely- visage d Sarah Moulton delightful. The wilderness was a pleasant place on a fine April morning, a land of yellow daffodils and blue periwinkle, overshadowed by larches and Scotch firs, with here a chestnut, and there a walnut, and anon a cluster of wild cherry trees, or a grand old beech, under which the never-to-be-heard-the-last-of Tityrus might have taken his rest. The ground was green with ivy, moss, and the feathery foliage of the wood anemone, save were last year's leaves lay in patches of ruddy brown. White anemone cups, veined with rose-colour, and bright blue dog-violets were dotted about amidst the greenery. A narrow sandy track, well trodden by Frances Grange and her dogs, meandered through the wilderness, and after following this foot- path for some distance, Sir Everard found the young lady sitting on the rugged root of an ancient oak, reading, with a red setter, a liver and white spaniel, ' and a veteran fox-hound, long cast out of the pack, for her companions. She started to her feet at sight of Sir Everard, and blushed rosy red with surprise, a glow of colour which gave new beauty to the clear nut-brown skin, and new lustre to the dark hazel eyes. 24 JUST AS I AM. "I thought — we all thought you were in Algiers," she exclaimed, as they shook hands. "I left Algiers three weeks ago. I did not find myself gaining so much health or strength from my exile that it was worth while to keep my daughter any longer separated from all her friends — not that she has many friends, even at Austhorpe, poor child. We have lived too lonely a life for that." "I dare say she is very glad to come home?" answered Frances. "She must have felt the separa- tion from Morton. Was it not a terrible shock to her to find him so ill?" "As yet she knows nothing of his illness." "Indeed!" "No. I want to spare her the pain of that knowledge if I can. To that end I kept back a letter which Dora Blake wrote to Dulcie while we were at Algiers, though Miss Blake, no doubt from consideration for my poor girl, affected to make light of Morton's illness." "Was it not rather cruel of you to keep Dulcie in the dark? And will it not make the blow harder for her to bear, if Morton should die?" asked Frances. Her voice trembled a little as she spoke of this possibility. "I hope not. I hope she will be resigned even 'to that sorrow. It could make the calamity no less were her mind to be prepared for it by the slow tortures of anticipation. I am going to be quite frank and open with you, Lady Frances, for I want to win your friendship, if possible your affection, for my motherless girl." "I have always been inclined to love her," an- WHO CAN MINISTER TO A MIND DISEASED? 25 swered Frances, "but I think she has held me a little at a distance, or we should have been more intimate than we are. Perhaps it was poor Morton's fault." "Mi - . Blake will have no further influence upon my daughter's life. Her engagement has been broken at my desire." Frances paled a little at this shock. "You cannot mean it," she faltered. "I do mean it. The thing has been done some time." "You will break both their hearts. Now I can understand the reason of Morton's strange illness. The doctors have said that mental distress was the cause. Yet his family could not imagine why he should be unhappy." "Hearts are not so easily broken," said Sir Everard. "I am sorry to hear of Morton's illness, but I should put it down to the fatigue and worry of the election, rather than to his regret at parting with Dulcie. She, who is all tenderness, has borne the separation with resignation. Possibly were she to hear of his illness, and imagine that the rupture with her had caused it, her peace of mind might be seriously disturbed, and this is what I am most anxious to avoid. And now, Lady Frances, I fling myself upon your generosity. I want you to help to heal my dear girl's wounded heart, and to guard it from fresh wounds. Will you come to Fairview and be a companion — a sister to her till the cloud has passed? I will do my utmost to make your visit pleasant to you; and if you would like Miss Moul- ton to come with you, Dulcie and I will be delighted to receive her." Frances looked thoughtful, wondering a little at 26 JUST AS I AM. this sudden confidence upon the part of Sir Everard. She had always liked him and admired him. The grave dignity of his manner, that thoughtfulness and reserve which made him so unlike the ordinary country squire, had impressed her with an idea of his superi- ority. He was her beau ideal of an intellectual man, a thinker and dreamer, as contrasted with that common rustic type of which she saw so much, the man who gives his mind to agriculture and field sports, and spends all his spare capital on steam ploughs and hunters. She was deeply flattered by his desire that she should be his daughter's friend. "You take me by surprise, Sir Everard," she fal- tered. "I am inferior to Dulcie in almost everything. She is so accomplished and well-read. I am so hope- lessly ignorant. My delight is in animals and out- door amusements; she loves her books and piano and the seclusion of her own rooms. How can I ever be a companion for her?" "The very contrast between you will be good for both. If she can interest you in her books and various accomplishments, that bright intellect of yours will speedily make up for lost time. And it will be highly advantageous for her health and spirits if you can in- terest her in living creatures and open-air amusements. She has lived too much indoors, and with the ideas of the dead for her chief companions. She has grown, like myself, too much of a dreamer and a thinker. I cannot infuse brightness and gaiety into her life, be- cause my own life has long been darkened by the shadow of an unforgettable grief. But you can cheer and gladden her. You can teach her to look forward and not backward." WHO CAN MINISTER TO A MIND DISEASED? 2"] "Do you really wish me to try?" asked Frances, looking at him earnestly with bright, candid eyes. "With all my heart." "Then I will come to Fairview at once; to-day, if you like." "You cannot come too soon." "Always supposing that papa and Miss Moulton are agreeable." "Will you not bring Miss Moulton?" "I think not. She is a dear thing, but she had better stay at home and take care of the Sheik." "Is that his lordship?" "Yes, Beville and I generally call him the Sheik. Will you come with me and see if we can find him? He seldom says no to any wish of mine — so it's almost a formula to ask — but still I always do ask. I like to show my reverence for authority. Gellert — Nellie — ■ Sancho — go home." This was addressed to the dogs, who scampered off through the underwood, leaving Sir Everard and Lady Frances to follow at their lei- sure. 28 JUST AS I AM. CHAPTER III. "THAT WOULD BE TOO HORRIBLE." Lord Blatchmardean was discovered after some trouble in an upland field, contemplating the per- formance of a steam plough which had been lent him by a well-to-do tenant. He was surprised to see Sir Everard in company with Lady Frances, and was hearty in his congratulations on the baronet's return to his native soil. "There's no place like old England after all," said the earl; "the smell of the newly-turned earth on a spring morning is better than all your southern climates and mineral waters. But you are not looking so well as I had hoped to see you after your travels, "Sir Everard. You look fagged, sir, fagged! People will overdo it when they go abroad." "I have been giving my daughter a hurried view of Italy as we came home," answered Sir Everard, "and I dare say we both worked a little too hard." "Sad news this about Morton Blake," said the earl. "Is he so very ill?" "I'm afraid there's very little chance of his coming round again, from what Jebb told me yesterday. He won't eat, and he can't sleep, and about the only thing he seems able or inclined to do is to die. But perhaps now Miss Courtenay has come home, she may be able to mend matters?" "I'm afraid not," said Sir Everard, and then he "that would be too horrible." 29 explained what had happened between Morton and Dulcie, and made his request about Lady Frances. "What! rob me of Fan! That's rather hard lines. Who's to sing to me of an evening, and who's to beat me at billiards, while she's away? I shall miss her dreadfully; but I dare say the change might do her good. Blatchmardean is a dull old hole for any girl to live in, and Fan has refused Lady Luffmgton's offer of another season in Clarges Street. She doesn't care for London society. Do you want to go to Fairview, Fan?" "I should like to be with Dulcie for a few days, especially as she is in trouble," replied Lady Frances. "So be it then, Fan. Go and cheer her up a little. I'll ride over to-morrow morning and see how you take to the new pasture. Don't keep her too long, Sir Everard; she is the chief delight of an old man's life." "After steam ploughs and new varieties of mangle, papa. When am I to come, Sir Everard?" "I should like to drive you home with me at once?" "And Moulty can send my portmanteau after me. May I go, papa?" "You may do what you always do, Fan, exactly what you like." "Best of Sheiks, adieu." She gave his lordship a hug, and then bounded lightly across the heavy ground, just as the steam plough came snorting and tugging towards her, as if maliciously intent upon running her down. Miss Moulton was infinitely surprised when her pupil came rushing into the snug little morning-room where that indefatigable lady was at work darning 30 JUST AS I AM. house-linen, to announce that she was going to start immediately on a few days' visit to Fairview. Lady Frances and Miss Courtenay had been toler- ably intimate for the last two years, but they had never stayed under each other's roofs, they had never exchanged confidences of any kind; and now it seemed strange that Frances should be eager to bear Dulcie company. As yet, Miss Moulton knew nothing of the change that had taken place in Dulcie's relations with Morton. "I am off this instant with Sir Everard. You and Betsy will pack my trunk, won't you, dear? You know what I shall want better than I know myself, because I always forget things. Good-bye, you dear old soul; take care of the pater and of your dearest self, though that is the last individual you ever think of." And so Frances rattled out of the room, took her neat little felt hat and warm jacket from their place in the hall, kissed her old governess half-a-dozen times, and then stepped lightly to her place in the high phaeton. "I feel awfully grand," she exclaimed, as they drove along the avenue. "Papa never drives such a trap as this. He has only a rakish little Newport Pagnell, and the big family ark, which my grandfather and grand- mother used to drive in — a chariot with lemon-coloured panels, and moth-eaten damask cushions. I believe it's rather a chosen resort for the Sheik's particular breed of cochin chinas, and that most of our eggs are laid there." Frances stole a look at her silent companion, blushing a little at her own loquacity. What a grave and thoughtful face it was, indicative of a self-con- "THAT would be too horrible." 31 tained nature — a mind which would jealously guard the secret of its joys and sorrows! It was a face full of interest for a youthful observer, for it was fraught with meanings that youth cannot fathom, and had all the charm of mystery. Dulcie was surprised at her visitor's arrival, but received her with gentle courtesy. Of all companions her father could have chosen for her, perhaps Lady Frances Grange was the least welcome; not because of any objection that she had to Frances herself; but on account of her conviction that Morton had cared for Frances in the past and was very likely to care for her still more in the future. Sir Everard went off to his library, and left the two girls together in Dulcie's morning-room. They were sitting side by side on the sofa, Dulcie's hands fidgeting nervously with a piece of crewel work, Frances watching her pale, sad face. The effort which she was continually making to appear cheerful in her father's presence, left her dull and apathetic when she was out of his sight. "My dear Dulcie," said Frances, putting her arm round the girl's slim waist, "you are not looking so cheerful as I should wish." "I have not much reason to be cheerful," Dulcie answered rather moodily. "I suppose papa has told you that my engagement with Morton is broken?" "He has told me and I am infinitely surprised." "I wonder that you should be surprised," said Dulcie. "Indeed! but why should I not be surprised?" "Because it struck me that you might have some clue to papa's reasons for wishing me to break the engagement." 32 JUST AS I AM. "Dulcie, what can you mean? Come, child, I am a very outspoken individual, not given to beating about bushes when I can go straight to a point. Has any- body led you to suppose that Morton has ever wavered in his constancy to you? Can you believe that he is capable of being false?" "Falsehood is a hard word," faltered Dulcie. "No, I could never believe him capable of falsehood or meanness; but his feelings might undergo a change. He might find that he had been mistaken, that a senti- ment which he had believed a lasting affection was only a passing fancy, and that his real love had been unconsciously given elsewhere." "You don't think that he ever cared for me, I hope," said Frances bluntly. "I have thought that it might be so." "Then you have been egregiously mistaken! What a foolish little thing you are! And was it for this idiotic reason you broke with him?" "No. It was my dear father's wish that our en- gagement should come to an end. He refused to give me any reason: but I fancied, somehow, that he thought Morton cared more for you than for me." "You are an obedient daughter," exclaimed Frances somewhat contemptuously. "Then to gratify a whim of your father's you spoiled Morten's happiness and your own. I should like to see my dear old Sheik asking such a sacrifice from me, if I cared for any one as you must have cared for Morton." "My father is all the world to me," said Dulcie tenderly. "He and I have been all in all to each other ever since I was seven years old." "Then you never ought to have engaged yourself "that would be too horrible." 33 to Morton," said Frances severely. And then she relented, and drew Dulcie's golden head on to her shoulder, and tenderly caressed the bright hair. "My pet, I did not come here to scold you, but to comfort you," she said lovingly, "but it is always best to know what we are talking about. The idea of you being jealous of poor looked-down-upon me! Don't you know that Morton has always treated me with the sublime contempt with which young men generally regard their sisters? I have not a taste nor an inclina- tion that is not discordant to him. He hates slang, and detests horsey girls; and I am both slangy and horsey. However, I have no doubt you did right in pleasing your father, who idolizes you, and I know that time will bring consolation for your grief at part- ing with poor Morton." "I don't believe I shall ever feel less sorry than I do to-day," said Dulcie, with conviction. "Oh, yes, you will; trust my experience for that. Women have a wonderful capacity for getting over a grief of that kind." "How do you know?" "Because I had a little trouble of my own, once upon a time, and I think I have mastered it." "You are so brave and bright. Tell me all about it," urged Dulcie, looking up at her affectionately. She had never known what it was to have a com- panion and confidante of her own sex. Her only friend, her only adviser, had been her father. And now, for the first time in her life, she found that there was comfort in girlish sympathy and girlish friendship. "No, dearest. It was all foolishness. I had rather not talk about it. The wound is not so completely Just as I am. II. 3 34 JUST AS I AM. healed that I can bear to touch it carelessly just yet. Let us talk about other things. What a sweet room this is — so bright and womanly — full of china and flowers, and all womanly things! And what a lovely piano!" "That was a New Year's gift from papa." "Privileged young person, to have a father with power and inclination to give such gifts. So far as inclination goes, my father would load me with benefits, but he never has any spare cash. What an interesting man Sir Everard is!" "Is he not? I am so glad you like him. He is all goodness and thoughtfulness for others; yet people do not always understand, or even like him. He is too reserved in his manners to please everybody." "I don't care a straw for the kind of man who pleases everybody. That order of being would never interest me as your father does. He gives me the im- pression that he has known some great sorrow-, and has never entirely recovered from the shock." "You have heard his story, have you not? It was my poor mother's sudden death which overshadowed his life. He wandered about, alone, upon the Con- tinent for years, and it was only seven years after mamma's death that he brought me back to Fairview. I had been brought up by my aunt in Wales, and had not seen my father once during all that time. I think the very idea of me was hateful to him in those days. It was only later that he began to find out there was some comfort in having a daughter. From that time forward my chief duty has been to cheer and console him." "And to that duty you are willing to sacrifice your "that would be too horrible." 35 own happiness? Well, Dulcie, my dear, you are a good girl, and I will never incite you to rebellion." The two girls passed the morning together happily. Dulcie took Frances on a tour of exploration round the gardens and stables and poultry yard, where every- thing was new to herself after nearly four months' absence. They looked at hothouses and greenhouses, and had long confabulations with the head gardener, who was a man of taste, and had always some small improvement to suggest to Miss Courtenay. Then came a ramble through the house, during which Dulcie chose the prettiest spare room for her visitor — a room with an old Tudor window wreathed with Australian clematis and yellow jessamine. Then came luncheon, at which meal Sir Everard rarely appeared, so the two girls had the dining-room to themselves, and then Dulcie proposed a drive in her pony carnage. "If you don't care about driving very much, I think I'd rather loaf about the garden with you, or hear you play Chopin on that delicious piano," said Frances artfully. "I don't care in the least about driving; I only want to amuse you." "Then let us stay at home by all mftans," decided Frances. She considered herself in some measure the guardian of Dulcie's peace. Sir Everard had told her that he wished to keep the knowledge of Morton's illness from his daughter. Were they to drive through the village they would be almost sure to meet Shafto Jebb, or Mr. Mawk, the curate, or some other gossip, who would inevitably condole with Dulcie about her lover's illness. 36 JUST AS I AM. The only safety was in keeping within the four walls of Fairview, where the servants had been warned to say not a word to their mistress. They went back to the morning-room, and Frances seated herself in luxurious idleness on the fleecy white rug in front of the wood fire. "Now play away to your heart's content, Dulcie dear, while I abandon myself to dreams of all that might have been, had life been utterly different. Even the most matter-of-fact people are sentimental once in a way, and Chopin always sets me dreaming." "What shall I play, Lady Frances?" "If you call me Lady Frances I shall go home this afternoon. Call me Fan. It sounds rather like the name of an asthmatic Blenheim spaniel, but all the people who care for me call me by it." "Morton used to call you Fan, I remember," said Dulcie. "My dearest, Morton cares for me just as much as he cares for his horse or his dog. He is used to me. We have ridden, and danced, and played billiards to- gether; and before he knew you Blatchmardean was the chosen resort of his idle hours." "Did you see much of him while we were away?" faltered Dulcie. "Very little. He was busy with his election, don't you know?" answered Frances hurriedly, dreading lest the next question should be an inquiry about Morton's health and spirits. "I think, dearest, we had better not talk of him. It is only fostering your unhappi- ness." "Then I will play to you — and think of him," an- swered Dulcie softly. "that would be too horrible." 37 She played the saddest minor strains of her favourite composer, while Frances Grange sat looking at the burning logs and thinking what a tangled skein life was altogether. Why had Sir Everard insisted upon the rupture of an engagement which for nearly a year he had seemed to approve? The whole thing appeared arbitrary and unkind to the last degree. "Yet I cannot believe him ungenerous or unkind," she thought, remembering the grave beauty of that thoughtful face whose meaning she had so vainly tried to penetrate. What a noble heart that must be which could be steadfast for twenty years to the memory of a lost love! How many men in Sir Everard's position would have married after a year of two of widowhood ! These considerations gave the thoughtful recluse of fifty a curious interest in Frances Grange's mind. Dulcie played for an hour or more, and then the two girls put on their hats and jackets, and wandered out into the garden again. It was a mild, sunshiny afternoon, and the view from the terrace looked lovely in the clear light. They walked up and down for some time talking, and they were just turning to go back to the house when Dulcie saw a figure approach- ing them along the avenue that led from the lodge gate. "Surely it is Miss Hardman," she exclaimed. "What an odd thing for her to call alone!" "You had better not see her," said Frances hastily. "Sir Everard would not like it." "Why should he mind? It can make no difference. Yes, I shall certainly see her. She is a dear, good, true-hearted girl. And I shall hear all about Morton 38 JUST AS I AM. and Aunt Dora. My auntie, I used to call her; think- ing that she would be really my aunt before long. Oh, Fanny, I can't tell you how fond I am of her, or how good she has been to me. And now she must think me false and ungrateful." "Why should she think that? She must know that you only obey your father." "But she cannot tell what pain and grief that obedience cost me. She may think that I can throw Morton off without a pang. I dread meeting even Lizzie Hardman." "Then run indoors as fast as you can, and leave me to explain matters to her. She will easily under- stand that you don't care to meet any one from Tang- ley," urged Frances, feeling that this was the last chance of warding off those evil tidings which Dulcie was sure to hear from Miss Hardman. "No, I would not be uncivil to her for the world." Lizzie was close to them by this time. She held out her hand to Dulcie, but there was a coldness in her greeting quite unlike her old manner to Morton's betrothed. "Of course, you have heard?" she said. "Heard what? If it is about Morton you are talk- ing, I have heard nothing." "What, nobody has told you that he is at death's door — that for once in a way a broken heart is likely to prove fatal?" Dulcie turned pale as death, and clung to Frances as if she would have fallen to the ground without her support. "How cruel of you to bounce out your information upon her like that," exclaimed Frances indignantly. "that would be too horrible." 39 "Somebody must tell her the truth. She has been cruel to Morton. She has trifled with him and broken his heart. Why should she not be told that he is dying? It is no harder for her than for others." "Not dying," gasped Dulcie. "For God's sake don't say that he is dying." "He is so near death that it will need almost a miracle to save him. He was so fond of you that per- haps the very sight of you will bring him back to life. Will you come to him?" "Yes," answered Dulcie, without a thought of father or duty. "Dulcie," remonstrated Frances, feeling that her position was becoming momentarily more critical, "you forget your promise to Sir Everard." "I promised my father that I would not marry Morton, not that I would not see him. I will come this instant, Lizzie. You must explain everything to papa, Fanny." "I would not face him in his anger for worlds. Dulcie, you must not do anything so rash," remon- strated Frances. "If you want to save his life, come at once," pleaded Lizzie. "I left the pony carriage at the lodge. You are dressed — come at once. I promised Morton he should see you to-day." "What good can it do?" expostulated Lady Frances. "Perhaps none. He may die before to-night. But he would like to see her, and I think she would like to see him before he goes." "Before he goes. Then you think he is dying?" cried Dulcie. "The doctors seem to have very little hope. Yet 40 JUST AS I AM. I believe he is just a shade better to-day, and that the improvement has arisen from the hope of seeing you." "Why not wait to ask your father's permission?" urged Frances. "And risk a refusal. No, there is no time for waiting. Come," said Lizzie. "I will drive you back when you have seen him." "And then I can explain everything to my father," said Dulcie. "I shall be back in time for dinner. You must give papa his cup of tea, Frances dear, and beg him to forgive me." "I would as soon face a lion in his wrath," thought Frances. They had been walking towards the lodge during this conversation. There stood Aunt Dora's basket carriage and sturdy gray pony, a boy in pepper-and- salt in attendance upon him. Lizzie jumped in and took the reins, Dulcie seated herself by her side, the boy sprang to his place be- hind, and away spun the pony towards Tangley at a capital pace, like a pony that knew a good deal de- pended upon him. "How long has he been ill?" asked Dulcie in a low voice. "For many weeks. From the time of the election he seemed out of spirits, and he kept aloof from us all. We thought that his failure worried him, and that he would get over it all the better if he were left to himself. But as time went on he got into a very low way. He could not sleep — he was always roam- ing about — wrote and read late into the night — led an irregular, rambling kind of life. Then he broke "THAT WOULD BE TOO HORRIBLE. 41 down altogether, took to his bed, and began to be alarmingly delirious. It seemed to be a kind of brain fever; but even the London physician could hardly give us any definite explanation of the illness, or what had caused it. All we could do was to nurse him carefully, and we have done that," said Lizzie, with tears in her eyes. "It has been a terrible time for us all, and God only knows how it is to end." A quarter of an hour's rapid driving brought them to Tangley Manor. "You shall not see any one except Morton unless you like," said Lizzie thoughtfully, as she drove in through the stable gates, which were at the side of the house, screened from all the windows by the thick growth of shrubberies and fine old trees. "Miss Blake is lying down in her own room — the two girls will be in the drawing-room — they are almost worn out with anxiety and suspense, poor things, and think it hard that they are not allowed to help in the nursing. But Mr. Jebb thought it better that Aunt Dora, the old nurse, and I should take entire charge of Morton." "I shall be very glad to escape seeing them," an- swered Dulcie. "I should feel like a criminal in their sight; and yet Heaven knows I am not to blame." "We'll slip up to Morton's room," said Lizzie, when they had alighted at a little side door. "There is no one with him but old Becky." They went in through a lobby, and ran lightly up the servants' staircase, which brought them to the corridor that led to Morton's room. Silently, softly, Lizzie Hardman led Dulcie to the sick room. It was in semi-darkness. The old nurse was nodding by the fire, Morton was talking to himself in a strange 42 JUST AS I AM. rambling way, as the door opened; but quietly as Lizzie opened it, he lifted himself suddenly in his bed, and called out, "Dulcie, my Dulcie, come to me." In the next instant he was sobbing on her shoulder, clinging to her with his wasted arms. "Oh, my love, my love, how changed you are!" sighed Dulcie, looking tenderly down at the hollow cheeks, the ghastly, pinched face. "Your work, Dulcie. You thought it was nothing to fling me off; but to me it made all the difference between joy and despair. Life was not worth living without you." And then he fell back on the pillow exhausted, and his mind began to wander again. He talked ramblingly — in broken sentences — and Dulcie caught only the words "his daughter — better to be parted — treason against the dead." She sat by his bed, holding his shrunken hand in hers, sometimes bending down to kiss it tenderly, raining tears upon it. Her soul was rising up in re- bellion against her father all the while. For the first time in her life she felt herself in revolt against him. Why had he parted her from Morton? To what end was all this misery? When he imposed this parting upon her she had believed, trusting entirely in her father's goodness, that he knew Morton to be in some manner unworthy of her affection — that he had spared her the humiliating knowledge of her lover's incon- stancy. But here was Morton constant even to death. For what end, save to gratify an unjustifiable caprice of her father's, had he been brought to the edge of the grave? "that would be too horrible." 43 "How they must all hate me!" Dulcie said to herself. The old nurse had retired to the adjoining room. Lizzie sat, half hidden, in the big arm-chair by the fire. There was no sound save the dropping of the ashes on the hearth, and those occasional murmurs of disjointed speech from Morton. Dulcie sat by him for an hour, his hand clasped in hers almost all the time. Once he looked up at her with a smile strangely unlike his own, as it seemed to her, and murmured, "It is good of you to come; it is very sweet to see you once more, if only for a little while, my darling. Fate has parted us, Dulcie. Your father was right; he showed his sound judgment. It seems cruel, doesn't it? sorely hard upon you and me. Yet it was just and right. It is the one act in his. life which I cannot blame." Was this delirium? Dulcie asked herself; or did her lover really mean that he approved of Sir Everard's conduct in cancelling their engagement? His speech implied that there was some reason why he and she should be parted, and that her father had acted wisely and honourably in recognising that reason. Yet what possible cause for their severance could there be so long as Morton was true? and of his truth and con- stancy there could be little doubt. She dared not question him in his weak state, lest she should agitate him. She could only sit quietly by his side, wondering at his strange words, and in- clined to think that they were only a portion of that delirious speech which, as Lizzie had told her, had been one of the most alarming features of his illness, continuing so long that the doctors had begun to fear 44 JUST AS I AM. the patient's brain must be permanently injured. For some time Morton lay motionless and silent, as if un- conscious of Dulcie's presence. Then he suddenly turned his face to the wall, with a groan of bitterest anguish. "The son of the murdered and the daughter of the murderer — that would be too horrible," he cried. CHAPTER IV. NEVER AGAIN. Lady Frances went back to the house sorely per- plexed in mind. She felt as if she had broken faith with Sir Everard. He had, in a manner, confided his daughter to her care, and she had shown herself use- less as a guardian. "I dread to tell him what has happened," she" said to herself. "I feel sure that serious face of his can look awfully severe. And I am to give him his tea, Dulcie said. Tea, forsooth! As if such a man as that were to be tamed by tea! It's more likely he will give me my congt." She went back to the morning-room, where a fresh log had been put upon the fire, and where Scroope was busy setting out the octagon tea-table, with its bright china, and quaint silver pot and kettle. "Will Miss Courtenay make tea, my lady, or shall I?" asked Scroope. "Miss Courtenay has gone out. You had better make the tea, please, as you know how your master likes it." NEVER AGAIN. 45 "Yes, my lady," answered Scroope, looking intensely astonished. Frances seated herself in a low basket chair, took up a book, and pretended to be engrossed in its con- tents. It was a volume of Tennyson's Idylls, and although Lady Frances Grange read three or four pages about the quest of the Holy Grail, she had not the faintest idea what the Grail was, or why any one wanted to find it. Her mind was troubled about Dulcie and Dulcie's father. Yet she looked the image of studiousness as she sat poring over her book, a neat little figure, simply clad in a dark blue cloth dress, over a velvet petticoat, from the hem of which peeped out a slender foot in its substantial well-made boot. Lady Frances never had many gowns or many boots, but all that she wore was of the best and neatest, and generally in the latest fashion. "A girl who has only one gown at a time can easily keep abreast with fashion," she told her richer acquaintance. "It is you young women who go in for twenty gowns a year who are always behind the times. You are burdened with a heap of clothes that want wearing out." Scroope made the tea, gave a last glance at the table to see if its arrangements were up to that high standard which a butler who has a very easy place feels ought to be reached by him, and then withdrew. Lady Frances flung her book face downwards on the rug directly he was gone. "It's useless trying to read," she exclaimed petu- lantly. "I never was good at understanding Tennyson, and to-day I feel as if my head were stuffed with cotton wool instead of brains." Sir Everard came in at this moment. 46 JUST AS I AM. "Well, Dulcie, are you ready to give me my tea?" he asked; and then seeing that Lady Frances was alone, he came up to the hearth. He looked at her for a moment or so with grave admiration. The bright head, with its boyish curls; the graceful figure; the piquant, animated face, might win an admiring glance even from the most pre- occupied of men. He looked from that blushing, per- plexed face to the book on the hearth-rug, and then bent to pick up the volume. "The Laureate does not appear to have pleased you, Lady Frances," he said gravely. "Forgive me for having used Dulcie's book so badly. But I was awfully worried, and the Holy Grail made me savage. Oh, Sir Everard, I'm afraid you will be dreadfully angry with me; and yet I am not to blame. Dulcie has gone to see Morton Blake." And then she went on to describe what had hap- pened. "I am sorry my daughter had not more self- respect," he said, with deep disapproval. "But if he is at the point of death — if her presence could comfort him — perhaps save his life." "That is all folly. If a man is dying, the creature he loves best in this world cannot prolong his life by so much as an hour. My daughter has degraded her- self and me by this ridiculous proceeding. I wonder at her folly." "Do not be hard upon her, Sir Everard. Consider that only a few months ago she looked upon Morton Blake as her future husband. Remember how happy she was in that engagement." NEVER AGAIN. 47 "Oh, I see, you are on her side. You think I have used her cruelly," exclaimed Sir Everard, gloomily. "I do." "Child, you do not know what you are talking about. There is that in Morton's character which would have made his marriage with Dulcie a life-long misery for both. I know that, and he knows it too. Did he urge me to alter my determination? No. He submitted uncomplainingly to the cancelment of his engagement, because he knew that I had acted wisely in breaking it." "I cannot understand you," faltered Frances. "The whole matter is a mystery to me. I have known Morton intimately for years. I have looked up to him, and admired him, as an elder brother and I have never discovered any point in his character that was not admirable. And now you tell me that he is no fit husband for Dulcie; that he would make her life miserable." "Be content to believe in the fact, without wanting to know why it is so," answered Sir Everard quietly. "And now, as Dulcie is away, perhaps you will do me the honour to give me some tea." "Pray forgive me, I am very neglectful," faltered Frances. "You are all that is sweet and womanly. But you mustn't let her be tempted to visit Morton again," said Sir Everard, who seemed to have recovered his good- humour. Frances breathed more freely, and as her host be- gan to talk of other things, of her father and his farm, her brother, and his views of life, his pursuits and ambitions, her spirits revived, and she talked freely 48 JUST AS I AM. forgetting Dulcie's troubles and everything else in the world except that she was in the society of a remark- ably interesting man. They talked a great deal of Beville, in whose tastes and inclinations Sir Everard seemed warmly interested. "He is not without ambition, I suppose?" he said, after Frances had described her brother's love of hunting and shooting, fishing and coursing, polo and lawn tennis. "A man's whole mind cannot be given up to amusements." "Well, no, I suppose not. But Beville is very young, you see. He was only three-and-twenty last October, and I don't think that he takes a very serious view of life. That will come, I dare say, later." "It is to be hoped so. He would not like to be buried alive in Daleshire all his days, I should think." "Buried alive in such a hunting country! Why, where could he be better off?" "Well, there is such a thing as a public career for a young man — there is such a place as the House of Commons." "Elections are so expensive," said Frances, with a careless shrug. "Besides, the Sheik could never do without Beville. They are devoted to each other. You have no idea what a united family we are. Our poverty has drawn us closer together." "But if Beville had plenty of money " "I suppose you mean if he were to marry an heiress," said Frances naively. "People have made that suggestion to me before; but Beville detests heiresses. He will marry for love or not at all." "Would it not be possible for him to find a love- able heiress?" NEVER AGAIN. 49 "I don't know," faltered Frances, blushing vehe- mently. "Poor Beville! Don't ask me anything more about him, please! There are subjects that must be sacred. As to his ambition, I am afraid that has never been roused yet. He is very fond of Blatchmardean, and pulls heartily with the Pater in all his efforts to free the estate. But as for Parliament — a public life — that kind of thing is out of his line. He is always in the first flight, he has won no end of cups at long jumps, and hammer-throwing, and polo; though he has never been a pot-hunter, don't you know?" said Lady Frances gravely. "A pot-hunter? What in heaven's name is that?" "A man who goes in for athletics for the sake of winning prizes." "I understand. The phrase is expressive." "But hardly elegant from a lady's lips, you would say," returned Frances, laughing. Just then the door opened and Dulcie came in. She was deadly pale, and she crept to the hearth and dropped into her usual chair in a curiously listless, half- mechanical way, saying not a word to her father or Lady Frances. "My poor pet, how weary and white and cold you look!" exclaimed Frances. "Let me give you some warm tea. Your father is not angry, dearest. Don't look at him in that frightened way." Dulcie was looking up at her father with a coun- tenance that expressed a strange, vague terror, gazing at him as she has never gazed before. "No, my love, I am not angry," said Sir Everard. "Your friend has pleaded for you very sweetly, and you know it is not in my nature to be angry with my Just as I am. II. 4 5