George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“Charming weather, is it not?” said Max in his most fascinating tones, as he caressed one whisker, and placed boot number one a little farther out in front, so that the fit might be observed. “Pleasure of addressing Mrs Brandon, I presume?”

Mrs Brandon bowed.

“Ah! ya-as, bai Jove! mutual acquaintance, and all that. Heard the Lingons speak of you, and being riding this wa-a-ay, took the liberty—”

“Yes!” said Mrs Brandon rather sharply.

“Ya-as, just so, bai Jove!” said Max obtusely. “Took the liberty of giving you a call. Country’s ra-ather dull just now: don’t you find it so?”

“Not at all,” said Mrs Brandon, who was evidently highly amused.

“Just so! ya-as, bai Jove!—of course!” said Max. “Miss Bedford be down soon, I suppose? Hope you like her—most amiable girl.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Mrs Brandon.

“Ya-as, just so—of course!” drawled Max, who either could not or would not see the half-amused, half-contemptuous way in which his remarks were received. “Thought I’d call and see her,” he continued. “We all thought a deal of her; but she would go.”

“Indeed!” said Mrs Brandon.

“Ya-as,” drawled Max. “Fancy it was some annoyance she met with from young Vining: not that I wish to say anything—bai Jove, no!”

“I’m sure Miss Bedford will be delighted to hear of the kind interest you take in her,” said Mrs Brandon.

“O, I don’t know so much about that!” said Max; “but we were always very good friends.”

“You puppy!” muttered Mrs Brandon.

“Always liked her because of the interest she took in a sister of mine. Down soon, I suppose?”

“Who—Miss Bedford?” said Mrs Brandon.

“Ya-as,” drawled Max; “should like to have a quiet chat with her;” and he directed one of his most taking glances at the lady, who, all smiles and good-humour, had been studying his manners and dress in a way that Max set down for admiration, and presuming thereon, he grew every moment more confidential. “You see, when she was at home, Mrs Brandon, I felt a natural diffidence.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs Brandon.

“Natural diffidence—kind of drawing back, you know,” explained Max. “Didn’t seem the sort of thing, you see, to be too attentive to the governess; but—er—er—must own to a sort of weakness in that direction. Nature, you see—bai Jove!—and that sort of thing, for she is a dooced attractive girl.”

“Very,” said Mrs Brandon; and Max went on, for he was in his blind-rut mood—a rut in which he could run on for hours without ever seeing that he was being laughed at.

“Glad you think so—I am, bai Jove! Very kind of you too, to be so cordial and—”

“Pray do not imagine—” began Mrs Brandon.

“No, no. Don’t make any excuses, pray,” said Max, interrupting her. “You see, I’ve been candid, and I’ve no doubt that you’ll give me your permission to call frequently.—But is Miss Bedford coming down?”

Mrs Brandon did not reply; but still smiling pleasantly, she rose, rang the bell, and then resumed her seat.

“Bai Jove! don’t trouble yourself—I can wait,” said Max. “Ladies’ toilets do take a long while sometimes.”

Mrs Brandon smiled, and then rose again, as the hard-faced footman opened the door.

“Edward,” she said in the coolest and most cutting manner, “do you see this gentleman?”

“Yes, ma’am, I see him,” said the astonished servant.

“He has made a mistake in coming here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the footman.

“Show him to the door; and if ever he has the impertinence to call here again, either to ask for Miss Bedford or me, order him off the premises; and if he does not immediately go, send for the policeman.”

“Bai Jove!” drawled the astonished Max, “what does this mean?”

“You will show him out directly,” said Mrs Brandon, who would not turn her face in his direction, but continued to address the man; “and give him fully to understand what will be his fate if he should have the insolence to call any more.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Edward, trying to keep back a grin.

“Bai Jove, she’s mad!” ejaculated Max.

“Now then, sir; this way, please,” said the hard-faced footman, whose countenance, if stony before, was now adamantine.

“Hyar, I say, you—Mrs Brandon!” ejaculated Max, “what does this mean?”

“Air you coming, sir, or airn’t you?” said the footman angrily. Then, opening the door to its widest extent, he placed a chair against it, and advanced so fiercely towards the unwelcome visitor, that, to give him his due, more from dread of a disarrangement of his attire than fear of the man, he retreated round the table, stumbling once over a chair as he did so, and then in his confusion halting in the doorway. The next moment he was hurried into the great hall, and backed out by Edward, who, enjoying his task, proved himself to be the most uncompromising of footmen, and slightly exceeded his duty by slamming the hall-door after his discomfited guest with all his might, just as his mistress crossed and entered the drawing-room, where, pale and excited, Ella sat awaiting her.

“There, my child, that’s over!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon; and then, in spite of Ella’s troubled face, she leaned back in her chair, and burst into an uncontrolled fit of laughter, till, seeing how disturbed her companion looked, she sat up once more.

“I meant to have been angry, and given him a tremendous snubbing,” she said; “but, as he says, ‘bai Jove!’ it was impossible. Of all the consummate puppies I ever beheld, I think he is the quintessence. And he is so dense too, he seems to have not the slightest idea when you are laughing at him. There, my dear Ella, never wear that troubled face about the donkey. He is not worthy of a moment’s thought; and besides, he will never show his face here again.”

“I cannot help feeling troubled about him,” said Ella slowly, and as if she were telling her thoughts. “I fear him; and, dear Mrs Brandon, you do not know his character. It seems to me that that artificial glaze covers much that is gross, and unprincipled, and relentless. It has been my misfortune to have attracted his notice, and I never think of him without a shiver of dread. He seems to have cast a shadow across my path; and a dread of coming evil in some way connected with him—a strange undefined sense of peril—haunts me again and again.”

“There, there; what nonsense!” laughed Mrs Brandon merrily. “We’ll watch over you like dragons, and no one shall molest you; or, if it should come to the worst, we will set one chivalrous knight against the other—in plain English, Mr Charles Vining shall trounce, or call out and shoot, or do something to Mr Maximilian, the scented. Bah! he is in my nostrils now! But who is to be the next? Really, I am hard set to keep my little acquisition. How many more visitors of the masculine gender will there be, Miss Bedford?”

Ella looked at her so pitifully, that she directly ceased her light bantering tone, and changed the subject; while, perfectly astounded at the unexpected termination of his reception, Max Bray rode slowly home.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Mrs Brandon’s Receptions: Third Visitor.

Mrs Brandon’s was a genuine feeling of affection for the gentle motherless girl who strove so hard and not unsuccessfully to gain the love of her pupils. She had called herself a poor judge of human nature, and had doubtless erred with regard to Charley Vining; but her estimation of Ella Bedford’s worth, quickly as it was arrived at, was correct; and many an hour were her thoughts devoted to the best means of serving her protégée.

It need hardly be stated that Charley Vining too occupied no slight share of her thoughts—thoughts that now inclined in one, now in the other direction. They loved; that was evident. Both were young, true-hearted, handsome. They would make an admirable couple. Why should there not be an engagement? Then the balance was on the other side—of difference of position, the slighting treatment that might be met with from wealthy relations; and all at last ended with a sigh, as she told herself that the only way in which she could act was to be a watchful friend to her protégée, and to let matters shape themselves as they would, hoping always that the course they would take would be the best.

Meanwhile, during one of her walks with the children, Ella had a narrow escape from an encounter with Max Bray; and after staying within doors for a couple of days, she again had to hurry back; but this time not without his company for a part of the distance—a fact which Ella was not slow in announcing to her protectress, who bit her lip with annoyance, and tried to form some plan for putting a stop to these importunities; but, strangely enough, all Mrs Brandon’s plans ended with thoughts of Charley Vining—when she gave up.

The day at last came when, in accordance with the given consent, Charley was to call; and Mrs Brandon sat turning matters over in her mind as to what she should do—what plan she should adopt. The week had slipped away, and, in spite of her cogitation, she was still undecided. “What should she do?” she asked herself for the hundredth time. She had not even acquainted Ella with the fact that he was coming again; and in a few hours he would certainly be there, beseeching her to stand his friend.

“What should she do?” she asked herself again; and she was just about to send to request Ella to come to the drawing-room when a carriage drove up to the door, there was a peal at the bell, and directly after Mrs Brandon felt that matters had indeed now come to a crisis; for the footman came in and announced Sir Philip Vining.

“To see Miss Bedford, Edward?” she asked eagerly.

“No, ma’am; to see you.”

And this time, with no slight feeling of trepidation, Mrs Brandon requested that the visitor might be shown in there, and prepared herself for what she conceived would be an anxious scene.

The old baronet bowed with all a courtier’s grace, and then, taking the indicated seat, immediately opened the business upon which he had come.

“You are doubtless surprised at this call, Mrs Brandon,” he said, “for we are not acquaintances, and our homes are far removed; but I will be frank with you. You have a young lady here as governess—a Miss Bedford?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Brandon quietly, as she waited to see what course she ought to pursue.

“I come to ask your permission for an interview with that young lady,” said Sir Philip.

“It was unnecessary, Sir Philip Vining,” said Mrs Brandon, rising. “I will at once send Miss Bedford to you.”

“Stay, stay a little, I beg of you,” said Sir Philip; and Mrs Brandon resumed her seat. “I must tell you, in the first place, that my son—my only son—has formed a most unfortunate attachment in that quarter—an attachment which it seems to me will blight his prospects in life. Mind, madam,” he added hastily, “I make no attack upon the lady, who may be one of the most estimable of women; but it would grieve me sorely if such an alliance were to be formed. It may seem to be weak, but I have a certain pride in our old pedigree, and it is the earnest wish of my heart that my son should marry well.”

He paused for a moment.

“I was aware of this,” said Mrs Brandon quietly.

“Indeed!” said Sir Philip. “But I need not be surprised: Miss Bedford has, perhaps, confided to you my son’s offer.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Brandon, “and so did your son.”

“He was here a week ago,” said Sir Philip. “Has he been since?”

“I expect him this afternoon to ask my cooperation; and I confess I am much troubled thereby.”

“Your cooperation,” said Sir Philip; “but I see, the lady is perhaps coy. Mrs Brandon, I must ask your aid on my side. This marriage is impossible—it would be an insane act, and can never take place. Will you ask that Miss Bedford may be sent here?”

“Will you see her alone?”

“No, no! I would rather you were present, Mrs Brandon. You know all; and perhaps, as a mother, you may be able to sympathise with another parent.”

“Sir Philip Vining, you are placing me in a most difficult position. How am I to divide sympathies that are with all of you? But I will ring. Let us have Ella here; and I tell you candidly that I am glad to be free from a responsibility that threatened to fix itself upon my shoulders.”

“Ask Miss Bedford to step this way,” said Mrs Brandon as the man appeared.

And five minutes after, very pale, but quite collected, Ella was ushered into the room.

Mrs Brandon advanced to meet her, and led her to Sir Philip, who saluted her gravely, and then placed for her a chair.

Then for a few minutes there was an embarrassed silence, broken at last by Sir Philip Vining.

“Miss Bedford,” he said, “I am an old and prejudiced man; proud of my wealth, proud of my estate, proud of my position in the county. I have, too, an only son, whose life and future are dearer to me than my own. For many years past my sole hope has been that he would form some attachment to a lady of his own rank in society; one who should be to him a loving wife—to me a daughter in whom I could feel pride.”

“Hear me out,” he continued, rising and standing before Ella, in almost a piteous and pleading attitude, while Mrs Brandon sank upon her knees by the fair girl’s side, and placing one hand around her, took Ella’s with the other.

“Hear me out,” said Sir Philip; “and forgive me if my words sound harsh and cruel. On an unfortunate day he beheld you—fair, beautiful, as was his sainted mother—a woman to be seen but to be loved; and though I came here hot and angered against you, I tell you frankly that I am weak and disarmed. Had it been some proud scheming woman, I could have acted; but I find you sweet, gentle, pure-hearted, and one who gains the good word and love of all with whom you come in contact. He tells me boldly that he loves you. I do not ask you if you love him. No one could know his frank honest heart without giving him their love. But I ask you, hoping that any affection you may bear him may be slight, to make some sacrifice for his sake—for my sake—the sake of an old man who will give you his blessing. You must esteem him, even if you do not love. Think, then, of his prospects—think of his position. You see I humble myself, for his sake, to plead to you—to implore that this may go no farther. I came as a last hope; for I find that he has sought you out—that he will be here again to-day.”

“He here to-day!” exclaimed Ella, starting, her wounds reopened by the cruel ordeal she was called upon to suffer. Then calmly rising, she stood before the old man, looking down at his feet, as, clearly and distinctly, she said, “Sir Philip Vining—his father!—I love him too well—with too pure a love—a love that I dare here avow to you—to wrong him either in thought or deed! I have told him it is impossible; I have avoided—I have fled from him. I have done all that woman can do to prove to him that we are separated by a gulf that cannot be crossed. I came here seeking rest and peace; but it was not to be: and in a few days I will go—go somewhere where he shall see me no more! You need not fear for me. I would not listen to him—I will not listen to him; and I thought that all that was at an end. It is nothing!” she said with a gasp, turning with a smile to Mrs Brandon. “I think I am weak. I wish to be alone. Sir Philip Vining will excuse me perhaps; but I have had much trouble lately. Thanks; I am better now!”

She tried to withdraw her hand; but Sir Philip took it, and raised it to his lips.

“Heaven bless you, my child!” he said, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I have wronged you bitterly in thought; but you must pardon me. I came, thinking to meet an ambitious aspiring woman; but I find an angel. Would to heaven that it could have been otherwise—or,” he muttered, “that this pride was humbled! I feel,” he continued aloud, “that I am playing a hard part; but you will forgive me.”

Ella turned her face towards him with a sad and weary smile, and then one arm was thrown over Mrs Brandon’s shoulder, the little head drooped down as droops some storm-beaten flower, and, as it touched Mrs Brandon’s breast, there was a faint gasping sigh, and Sir Philip started forward.

“You had better leave us, Sir Philip Vining,” said Mrs Brandon gravely; “the poor child has fainted.”

And pale, trembling, and looking years older, Sir Philip walked with tottering steps to the door, paused, looked round, came back, and then kneeling, pressed his lips twice upon Ella’s glossy hair, before, with a sigh, he tore himself away, and was rapidly driven off.

At that self-same hour, light-hearted and hopeful, Charley Vining mounted his favourite mare to ride over to Laneton.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

Kitchen Canvassing.

“Now do tell us, there’s a dear man,” said cook, alias Sarah Stock, to Edward, the hard-faced footman, as he sat in front of the kitchen fire at Copse Hall, gently rubbing his shins and ruminating; while the housemaid, with her workbox on the table, was pretending to be busy over some piece of useful needlework, though she was watching Edward the hard-faced with all her might.

For it was that cosy half-hour after supper when all was at peace in the mansion; when the late dinner things had all been washed up, the kitchen tidied, and cook had performed the operation which she called setting herself straight—a manifest impossibility, for she was a circular woman of at least sixteen stone weight. All the same, though, she had changed her dress, polished her face till it shone, and then crowned herself with a gorgeous corona of lace and bright-hued ribbons and net-work, an edifice which she called her cap. The cat sat and purred upon the round smooth centre of the bright steel fender, winked at the fire, twitched its ears, and purred and ruminated at intervals; for it was fast nearing the hour when it would be shown the door for the night; so that it was getting itself thoroughly warmed through. The firelight danced in the bright tin dish-covers hung upon the wall, and then gleamed off, and dodged about from bright stewpan to brass candlestick, and back again to the clean crockery and the dresser; the old Dutch clock swung its pendulum busily to and fro, as if labouring under the mistake that it had nearly done work for the day; and altogether the place looked bright and snug, and spoke of the approaching hour of rest, when cook, having tapped the fire playfully here and there, to the destruction of several golden caverns in the centre, and taking up an apparently interrupted conversation, said, as above:

“Now, do tell us, there’s a dear man;” when the housemaid gave her head a toss, as much as to say, “What indelicacy!—don’t think I endorse that expression!”

Then she smiled with a kind of pitying contempt, for, according to her notions, cook and Edward were courting; and of course, if he chose to prefer a great fat coarse woman like that, he had a right to. An the slim maiden of thirty-eight bridled and looked almost as hard-faced as Edward himself. For though cook called him a dear man, it almost seemed at first as if she were bantering him, till it was taken into consideration that every eye forms its own beauty. In fact, just then Edward looked more hard-faced and grim than ever.

“You will tell us all about it, now won’t you?” said cook, for Edward remained silent.

“’Tain’t likely,” said Edward at last.

“Why not?” said cook.

“There was two buttons off my shirt in the very worst places on Sunday morning.”

“I am sorry!” exclaimed cook.

“Don’t believe it!” said Edward; “and it’s mean and unfair. Didn’t you say, if I’d always get your coals in, you’d always see to my buttons and darn my stockings? And at this present moment there’s a hole as big as a shilling in them as I’ve got on.”

“But it shan’t never occur again, Eddard, if you’ll only tell us; for Mary and me is as interested as can be.”

“O, I don’t care about knowing, if Mr Edward don’t choose to tell,” said the housemaid, with a toss of her head.

“Who’s trying to pick a quarrel now?” retorted Edward; “when missus said we was always to be peaceful and orderly in the kitchen.”

“Not me, I’m sure,” said the housemaid. “I wouldn’t bemean myself to quarrel.”

“Now don’t, dear,” said cook; “Mr Eddard’s agoin’ to tell us all about it, and really, you know, if it ain’t for all the world like chapters out o’ that book as missus had from Mugie’s libery—the one you brought up out of the drawin’-room, and read of a night when we was in bed.”

“Stuff!” said the housemaid tartly.

“Now, don’t say so, dear,” said the cook, who was particularly suave for once in her life. “There she is, just like a herrowine, and a nice-looking one too.”

“Get out! call her good-looking?” said the housemaid.

“Well, ’taint to be denied as she has what some folks would call good looks. Then you see she’s pussycuted by one lover, and another loves her to distraction, and his father won’t hear of it; and first one comes and then another, and then the father, and frightens the poor dear into fits, and goes away fainting—no, I mean goes away leaving her fainting away, and wanting salts and burnt feathers, and all sorts. Why, it’s for all the world like a real story in a book, that it is; and I declare the way Mr Eddard has told us all about it has been beautiful.”

“There’s soft soap,” growled the hard-faced footman, smiling grimly.

“That it ain’t now, I’m sure,” said cook. “It really was beautiful, and almost as good as seeing or reading it all. I’m sure I never lived in a house before where there was such goings on. I declare that bit where you told us about how you took the dandy by the scruff of his neck, and says to him, ‘Now, out you go, or I’ll stuff you up the chimney!’ was as exciting as could be. And so it was where you dragged him across the hall, and pitched him neck and crop down the front steps. I could a’most see it; and we both of us did hear the door slam.”

“Mr Eddard,” who had been slightly adding to the history of Ella’s visitors, smiled a little here, and his face relaxed somewhat from its stern expression.

“Lor’, what a nice clear fire!” said cook, who had detected the melting sign. “Let me hot you a sup of beer in a little stoopan, with a bit of nuckmeg and ginger, and a spoonful of sugar. Don’t say no, Eddard.”

“Yes, I shall,” said Edward, who was tightening up again. “I sha’n’t have none unless you two join with me.”

“Well, if it comes to that,” said cook, “sooner than you should go without, I’ll have the least taste in the world.”

The housemaid shook her head as if despising such excuses; but ten minutes after, when a mug of the hot sweet-scented compound was placed before her by cook, who winked at Edward as she did so, the lady of the dustpan and brush condescended to simper, and say, “O, the very idee!” Then she smiled, and at the end of another ten minutes the trio were all smiling as they sat with their feet on the fender, Edward regaling himself and his fellow-servants with an account of what had taken place during the afternoon.

“I should say it was as near as could be three o’clock,” said Edward punctiliously; “it might have been a little after, though I hadn’t heard it strike, or it might have been a little before: I ain’t certain. Anyhow, it was as near as could be to three o’clock when the front-door bell rings.

“‘Visitor for Miss Bedford,’ I says to myself, laughing like, and meaning it as a joke; for as we’d had one that day, I didn’t of course expect no more.”

“What time was it as Sir Philip Vining went away?” said cook, who was deeply interested.

“O, that was before lunch,” said Edward.

“To be sure, so it was,” said the housemaid.

“Well, I slips on my coat—for I was dusting the glasses over before going to lay the dinner-cloth—and up I goes.”

“And up you goes,” said cook; for Edward had paused to soften his hard face with a little more of the stewpan decoction.

“Yes, up I goes, to find it was Mr Charles Vining, looking as bright and happy as could be—quite another man to what he was when he come last week.

“‘Ah,’ I says to myself, ‘you don’t know about your governor being here afore lunch, young man, or you’d be laughing the other side of your mouth.’ But I says aloud:

“‘To see Miss Bedford, sir?’

“‘No, my man,’ he says; and he looked at me very curious and hesitating, as if he’d like to have said ‘yes.’

“‘Show me in to your mistress,’ he says.”

“Now it’s a-coming!” said cook, rocking herself to and fro with excitement, and rubbing her hands softly together.

“Now what’s a-coming, stoopid?” said Edward gruffly. “What d’ye mean?”

“I—I only meant that the interesting bit was now coming—the denowment, you know,” said cook humbly, and seeking to mollify the insulted narrator by emptying the little stewpan, cloves, bits of ginger, and all into his mug.

“If you’re so precious clever, you’d better tell it yourself,” growled Edward fiercely, “instead of keeping on interrupting like that. Who’s to go on, I should like to know?”

“O, I’m sure cook didn’t mean nothing, Mr Eddard,” said the interested housemaid. “Do go on!”

“What’s she want to say anything for, if she don’t mean anything then, eh?” grumbled Edward. “I hate such ways.”

Cook looked at housemaid, and slightly raised her hands, while the offended dignitary sipped and muttered, and muttered and sipped, and his audience waited, not daring to speak, lest they should miss the rest of the expected treat.

“I wouldn’t say another word if I hadn’t begun, that I wouldn’t!” growled the hard-faced one. “Now, then, where’d I got to?”

“‘Show me in to your mistress,’” exclaimed cook; when “Mr Eddard,” turning round upon her very sharply, she shrunk as it were into her shell, and nipped together her lips.

“I tell you what it is,” said Edward viciously; “if I’m to tell this here, I tells it, but I ain’t going to be driven wild with vexatious interruptions. Do you both want to know it, or don’t you?”

“O yes, please, Mr Eddard, we do indeed,” exclaimed the two domestics; “so please go on!”

Thus adjured, and apparently mollified by the respect paid to him, as much as by the stewpan essence, “Mr Eddard” continued: “Well, I shows him into the breakfast-room, and then goes in to missus, who had just come down from Miss Bedford’s room; and looking all white and troubled, she goes across the hall, and I opens the door for her, and up comes my gentleman with a rush, catches her hand in his, and kisses it.

“‘That’s making yourself at home anyhow, young man,’ I says to myself, backing-out of the room; and I can’t say how it happened, but the corner of the carpet got rucked up, so that I was ever so long before I could get the door shut, and they would keep talking, so that I couldn’t help hearing what they said.”

“And what did they say?” said cook.

“Ain’t I a-coming to it as fast as I can?” said Edward angrily. “What an outrageous hurry you always are in with everything, except getting the dinner ready in time!”

“Now don’t be cruel, Mr Eddard,” said the housemaid, tittering, when “Mr Eddard” himself condescended to laugh at what our Scotch brethren would call his own “wut,” to the great discomfiture of cook, who wanted to fire-up and give them a bit of her mind, but did not dare, for fear of losing the end of the coveted history. The consequence of her reticence, though, was that “Mr Eddard” grew exceedingly amiable, and went on with his account.

“That door being shut,” he said, with a grim smile, which was meant to be pleasant, but was the very reverse, “I didn’t want to go; for I put it to you now, under the circumstances, was it likely as he’d stay long?”

“Of course not!” said cook.

“Not likely!” said the housemaid.

“Well, then,” continued Edward, “where was the use of me going back to my pantry only to be called directly? So I took his hat and brushed it, and when I’d brushed it and set it down, I set to and brushed it again, and so on half a dozen times, while—it was very foolish of them if they didn’t want other people to hear—they kept on talking louder and louder.

“‘Mr Vining,’ says missus, ‘I must ask you as a gentleman to come no more.’

“‘But, in ’evin’s name,’ he says, ‘what have I done that you should turn upon me like this?’

“‘Nothing,’ says missus; ‘nothing at all. I pity you from the bottom of my heart, as much as I pity that sweet girl; but it cannot be. You must come here no more.’

“‘Are you a woman?’ he says. ‘Have you feeling? Can you form any idea of the pain your words are giving me?’

“‘Yes, yes, yes,’ says missus. ‘Mr Vining, why do you force me to speak? I do not wish to cause trouble, but you drive me to do so.’

“‘Speak, then,’ he says, quite in another voice, ‘unless you wish to drive me mad, or to something worse—’ There, I’m blessed,” continued Edward, breaking short off in his narrative, and pointing to the cook, “did you ever see such a woman? Why, what are you snivelling about?”

“I—I—I c-c-c-can’t help it, Eddard, when I think of what those poor things must be suffering,” sobbed cook, with a liberal application of her apron to her eyes.

“Suffer, indeed—such stuff!” said Edward.

“Ah, Eddard,” said cook, turning upon him a languishing look, “if I have saved up forty-seven pound ten in the savings bank, I’ve a heart still, and know what it is for it to bleed when some one says a hard word to me.”

The housemaid sniffed.

“I’m a going on,” said Edward, who was evidently moved by the culinary lady’s remarks.

“‘Drive you,’ says Mr Vining, ‘to speak! Why, stay!’ he says excitedly, as if a thought had struck him. ‘Why, yes; I’m sure of it. My father has been here to-day.’

“‘He has,’ says missus solemnly.

“‘It was cowardly and cruel!’ cries Mr Vining, quite shouting now, for his monkey was evidently up. ‘And pray, madam, what is the result of his visit? There, I can answer it myself: Miss Bedford refuses to see me; you decline to receive me into your house.’

“‘Mr Vining,’ says missus softly, and I could fancy that she took his hand, ‘I grieve for you, as I do for that suffering girl.’

“‘What!’ cries Mr Vining, ‘is she ill? Let me—let me see her—only once—for a minute, dear Mrs Brandon! Pray—on my knees I beg it of you! You cannot be so cruel, so hardhearted, as to refuse!’ And then I heard a loud sobbing wail as of a woman crying, and—There, I’m blest if I go on, if you will keep on snivelling. Why, blame the women, you’re both on you at it!”

“We—we—we—we—we’re—only a-blowin’ our noses,” sobbed the housemaid.

“Never see such noses!” growled Edward, who then continued:

“Well, directly after, as if in a passion, Mr Vining says:

“‘Mrs Brandon, this is cruel and harsh. I left you last week with my hopes raised; to-day you dash them to the ground.’

“‘Mr Vining—Mr Vining!’ she says softly.

“‘I tell you this,’ he says, shouting again; and hearing his words, you could almost see him stamping up and down the breakfast-room—‘I tell you this. Mrs Brandon: the ties of duty are strong, but the ties formed by the heart of a man newly-awakened to love are stronger. To win Ella Bedford, my own love, I will give all—time, hope, everything; I will leave no stone unturned—I will stop at nothing! I see that she has been coerced—that she has been, as it were, cruelly stolen from me by external pressure; and it shall be my task to win her back. I had hoped to have had you on my side; as it is, I must begin my battle by myself. I thank you for your patient hearing of my words; but before I go I tell you this—that till I learn that, by her own act, she gives herself to another, I will never cease from my pursuit.’

“The next minute he was in the hall, and I handed him his hat, brushed as he never had it brushed before; when, even then, upset as he was, he puts his hand in his pocket, and pushed something into my fist.

“‘Sixpence,’ I says to myself, as I shut the door after him, and him a-walking away like mad.”

“Sixpence!” echoed the cook.

“Sixpence!” squeaked the housemaid.

“Well, it did feel like it, sutternly,” said Edward; “but it was arf a suffrin’.”

“But what did he mean by never ceasing from the pursuit till she gave herself to another? Would she give herself to another?” said cook, who was very moist of eye.

“No, I should say not—never!” said the housemaid.

And so said, mentally, Charley Vining as, disappointed and half maddened, he galloped homeward that afternoon; but the day came when, bitterly laughing to himself, he said otherwise, and hummed with aching heart the words of the old song:

“Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman’s fair?”

And then he turned over and over in his hand—what?

A wedding-ring!

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

More Passion and Little Progress.

“Bai Jove! she’s about the most skittish little filly I ever met with in the whole course of my experience,” muttered Max Bray; and then he went over mentally the many rebuffs he had encountered. Forbidden Mrs Brandon’s house, he had all the same gone over day after day to Laneton, for the purpose of impressing Ella with a sense of the value of his attentions; but still, though he displayed as much effrontery as a London rough, all went against him, and he found that, so far from meeting with a kindly greeting, his appearance was ever the signal for an immediate retreat.

“But you won’t tire me—bai Jove, you won’t!” said Max. “I’ve set my mind, and it will keep set.”

And still day after day he rode over to Laneton, till not a walk could Ella take without catching sight of his mincing step and gracefully-attired figure; while, in spite of every effort, there were times when she could not avoid his addresses, as he stubbornly persisted in walking by her side.

“Bai Jove! it’s of no use for you to harry and worry me,” drawled Max to Laura. “I’m getting on as fast as I can.”

“But are your visits having any effect?” said Laura eagerly.

“Well, I’ll be candid with you,” said Max. “Not so much as I could wish in one quarter; but, bai Jove! I’m doing you a good turn in the other direction. He’s as jealous as Othello—he is, bai Jove! He meets me now with a scowl like a stage villain, confound him! But he gets on no better there than I do.”

Max Bray was very decided in what he said; but though debarred from visiting, like himself, at Copse Hall, Charley Vining was under the impression that he did get on much better than friend Max. The very sight of Ella, even at a distance, was to him a pleasure; and in spite of many disappointments, he was never weary of his twenty-four-mile ride, counting himself a happier man when, by a lucky chance, he was able to catch a glimpse of Ella, if but for a minute. While upon the day when Max made the above remarks, Charley Vining had not only seen, but spoken to Ella—not only spoken to, but won from her—But stay—we are premature.

Weeks had passed since, exactly as had been described by Edward the hard-faced footman, Charley Vining had had an interview with Mrs Brandon, to learn that in future he must never call there, nor expect the slightest aid to be given to him, or even to have his suit countenanced; and then it was that, angry and determined, the young man had left, the house with the intention of leaving no stone unturned to win an answer to his love.

To this end, day after day he would watch the house, thinking nothing of the weary waiting hours, though it seemed that as little heed was paid to the distance by Max Bray, who now made no secret of his pursuit, carrying it on in open defiance of his rival—the two meeting constantly, but never speaking. In fact, Charley was rather glad of this; for after the last interview with Laura, it had seemed to him that he must be for the future upon unfriendly terms with the Bray family, though Laura, whenever they met, was more gentle and pleading than ever, although she must have seen that Charley shrank from her.

“Nil desperandum” seemed to be the motto adopted by all; and at length came the day when Charley’s heart leaped, for he told himself that his perseverance was to have its reward.

He had ridden over as was his custom, put up his horse at Laneton, and was then listlessly strolling towards Copse Hall, in the hope that he might be favoured by, at all events, a glimpse of Ella, when he turned from the road, leaped a stile, and took a path which led through the copse from which the Hall was named.

There was no especial reason for going that way, only that he was as likely to encounter Ella walking—which was not often—in one direction as another; so he made up his mind to go through the copse by the broad winding path which led round the back of the Hall, then to make his way into the lane by Croppley Magna, walk on and see the old lady who had received him into her house when he had his bad hunting fall, and then return to where his horse awaited him.

He had entered the copse, walking very slowly, and thinking deeply of the unsatisfactory state of affairs, when suddenly he was awakened from his musing by the sound of merry childlike laughter. A little girl dashed round a bend of the walk, closely followed by another, and then, passing him quickly, they were out of sight in an instant, just as, dreamy and thoughtful, Ella, with her head bent down, came round the bend of the path—came slowly on, nearer and nearer to where Charley stood, with palpitating heart; and the next moment, as she started from her reverie, it was with Charley holding her hand tightly in his.

“Ella!” he said, the word being as it were forced from his panting breast.

“Mr Vining!” she exclaimed softly, as for a moment she met his gaze, starting not from him, neither struggling to release her hands, but looking up at him with a soft pleading look, that seemed to say, “You know all that I have promised. Why do you persecute me?”

“Ella,” he said again, “at last!”

“Mr Vining,” she said wearily, “please loose my hands and let me return. This is folly; it is unjust to me and to Sir Philip Vining. You know what I have promised to him.”

“I know what was cruelly wrung from you,” he said bitterly; “but I cannot think that you will adhere to it. Ella, dearest Ella, do you doubt my love?”

She turned her eyes sadly to his for a moment, as he still held her a prisoner.

“You believe me, then! You know how earnest I am!” cried Charley.

“Yes—yes!” she answered, her face bearing still the same sad weary expression.

“Listen to me, then,” continued Charley, his words sounding deep and husky. “If we were what you would call equals in station—an utterly false position—if I were some poor penniless tutor or curate telling you of my love, pleading to you earnestly, showing you in every way how dear you were to me, would you then—could you then—return that love?”

There was a silence for a few moments, and then, in a weak unguarded moment, Ella raised her eyes once more to his, to gaze, in spite of herself, fondly and earnestly, as she faintly breathed the one word “Yes.”

The next moment she had repented; for he had clasped her in his arms, to kiss her fondly again and again, as frightened and struggling she strove to escape.

“Pray—pray, Mr Vining,” she sobbed; “this is cruel—it is unfair to me;” and then she upbraided herself for her weakness.

But the next moment he was walking by her side, holding one hand still captive, as he urged and pleaded with a love-awakened earnestness, while Ella thought of all she had promised to Sir Philip Vining, and upbraided herself bitterly for not leaving Copse Hall, though the blame, if any, was not hers, since Mrs Brandon had again and again refused to hear of her departure. At last she roused herself, and for the next five minutes it was another spirit that contended with that of Charles Vining.

“Mr Vining,” she said, as quietly but firmly she withdrew her hand; and he saw that, though deeply moved, there was a quiet determined will in existence—“Mr Vining, you tell me that you love me.”

“And you believe me,” cried Charley hastily.

“And I believe you,” said Ella steadily and hurriedly. “For the sake, then, of that love—for my sake and my future welfare in this world, leave me—try to see me no more—strive to forget all the past, and let these words of yours be to you as some sad dream.”

“If I forget all this—”

“Hush!” she exclaimed firmly; “and remember my prayer to you. I ask you to do all this for my sake—for the sake of the love you bear me. I have promised that I would meet you no more, and that promise I must keep.”

“Stop!” cried Charley angrily, for she had turned to go. “I love you well, as you know—too well to accede to what you ask—and I tell you now, as I have told those who have importuned me so to do, that I will never, so long as I can see the faintest spark of affection for me, give you up. I go now, Ella, to wait—to wait patiently, even if it be for years. If rumours, set afloat by interested people, meet your ears, credit nothing that tells of want of faith on my part to you. I will be patient, and wait till you are less cruel—till you relent towards me: for now you are to me, I may say, harsh. But recollect this: by your treatment you condemn me to a life of misery and wretchedness, for I can never again know peace. You wish me to leave you?”

“Yes,” said Ella hoarsely; and without another word, he turned and strode away, his brow knit, and the veins swollen and knotted; but had he turned then, in the midst of his hot anger and disappointment at what he called her cold heartless cruelty, he would have seen so pitiful, so longing a look in Ella’s eyes, that he would the next moment have been asking pardon at her feet.

But he did not turn; and the next moment the bend in the pathway hid him from her sight, as with a sigh that seemed to cut its way from her heart, she, too, slowly turned, pressed her hands together, and walked sadly back to Mrs Brandon’s, closely followed by her charge.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

For Another Campaign.

Three months had glided away with, at the end of that time, matters still in the same unsatisfactory state. There had been no open collision between Max Bray and his sturdy rival; but Laura had long since learned that, while Max persisted in his present course, there was no prospect for her to be even on friendly terms with Charley Vining. She had told her brother this; but he had angrily bade her be silent and wait, when all would be right in the end.

So Laura waited, to find that Charley now totally ignored her existence, spending his time either in sitting moodily in his own room, or else in riding over to Laneton.

But Max Bray was not idle: he literally haunted Laneton; so that at last Ella was quite confined to the house, and Mrs Brandon had looked grave.

Then came a visit from Sir Philip Vining, who again saw Ella, to part from her with a kind, gentle, fatherly farewell; and this was the result:

There were tears flowing fast at Copse Hall; for her few months’ stay at Mrs Brandon’s had been sufficient to endear Ella to all there.

Edward, the hard-faced, had confided to cook that he didn’t know how things would go now; while upon cook weeping, and drying her eyes with her apron, he told her that her conduct was “childish, and wus.”

The housemaid looked as if she had a violent cold in her head; while the children sobbed aloud; for the day had arrived when Ella Bedford was to leave Copse Hall; Mrs Brandon, though knowing well enough for some time past that such a course would be the better, yet only now having given her consent, and that too most unwillingly.

Ella Bedford was to leave Copse Hall, but only for a year. Mrs Brandon declared a twelvemonth would no doubt serve to alter the state of affairs, and then she could return.

“For I shall never be happy till I get you back again, child!” Mrs Brandon exclaimed. “And mind this, my love: I hope that you will be happy with Mrs Marter, who is a distant relative of my late husband; but, come what may in the future, there is always a home for you here. Write and say you are coming, or come without writing, and you shall always find a warm welcome. These are no unmeaning words, child, but the utterances of one whom you have made to feel sincerely attached to you.”

“I know that,” said Ella softly, as she clung to the motherly arm at her side.

“I would never have consented to your going, only I cannot help thinking that it may be for the best in the end; though really, now it has come to the point, I don’t know what I can have been thinking about, not to decide and leave here myself for a few months. But you promise me faithfully that you will write often, and that at any time, if there is any unpleasantry, you will acquaint me?”

“Yes,” said Ella, smiling sadly, “I promise.”

“I think you will find Mrs Marter kind to you; and I have said everything that I could.”

There was an affectionate leave-taking; and then, once more, Ella awoke to the fact that she was driven from the home where she had hoped to be at rest. But this time she bore up bravely, in the hope that the end of a year would again find her an occupant of Mrs Brandon’s pleasant home, where unvarying kindness and consideration had been her portion from the day when, low-spirited and desponding, she had first entered what seemed to be the gloomy portals of a prison.

She told herself that, with the battle of life to fight, she must not give way to despondency; and nerving herself for all that she might have to encounter, she sat back in the fly, glancing anxiously from side to side, to see if she were observed, and in spite of her efforts trembling excessively, lest at any moment a turn of the road should reveal the figure of Max Bray or Charley Vining. It did not matter which should appear, she felt equal dread of the encounter; but upon that occasion she was not called upon to summon up her often-tested resolution.

The station was reached in safety, her modest luggage labelled for London; and this time she had taken the precaution of having no farther address, to act as a clue for those who sought her.

The train sped on, and in due course, and without farther adventure, she reached the terminus, engaged a cab, when, breathing freely, under the impression that she had thoroughly escaped pursuit, she was soon being rattled over the stones of the great metropolis.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

A New Home.

Poor Ella! in her happy innocence she did not know that she was as surely leaving a trail by which she could be tracked, as did the child in the story, who sprinkled a few ashes behind her from time to time as she went through the wood. Poor girl! she did not even notice the railway company’s official, book in hand, taking the number of each cab, and asking the drivers where they were to set down.

No, she was free this time; but she said those words with a strange feeling of sadness as she leaned back. But the next minute she summoned resolution to her aid, and sat gazing from the window at the hurry and bustle around.

Crescent Villas, Regents-park, the residence of Mrs Saint Clair Marter, was Ella’s destination. By rights it was Mr Saint Clair Marter’s house, but his lady always spoke of it as her place; and as he dared not contradict her, so the matter rested.

Ella entered a pleasantly-furnished hall neatly floorclothed, and with groups of flowers and statuary, all in excellent taste. There was an air of luxury and refinement in the place, which was, however, totally spoiled by the tawdry livery of the footman, who muttered and grumbled a good deal about having to lift in the boxes, to the great amusement of cabby, who kindly advised him not to over-exert himself, for the reason that good people were very scarce.

But the door was closed at last, and the footman departed to announce the new-comer.

“Let her wait a bit!” said a sharp voice, as the door was held open; and the “bit” the young traveller had to wait was about three-quarters of an hour, for no earthly reason save that Mrs Saint Clair Marter wished, as she said, “to teach her her place.”

But at last there was the tinkling of a bell somewhere in the lower regions; the footman ascended, entered what Ella supposed to be the drawing-room, and then returned to say gruffly, “Now, miss, this way, please!”

And Ella was shown into the presence of her new mistress.

As a rule, no doubt, a young lady engaged to act as governess in a family would speak of the feminine head of that family as her employer, or the lady whose daughter she instructed. She might easily find some other term that would avoid that word which expresses the relation between hirer and servant; but Mrs Saint Clair Marter always spoke of herself as the mistress of the ladies she engaged to act as governess to her children, and therefore we say that Ella was shown into the presence of her new mistress.

Mrs Saint Clair Marter was a very diminutive lady, with a flat, countenance, and very frizzly fair hair. She gave a visitor the idea of having been a small negress carefully bleached or made “beautiful for ever;” while the first glance told that, had she really been a sufferer from the slave-trade, whatever others may have valued and sold her at, her purchase at her own valuation would have been a ruinous speculation. She was dressed in the height of ultra-fashion, and reclined upon a couch perfectly motionless, evidently for fear of making creases; for her dress was carefully spread out over the back and foot, with every fold and plait arranged as may be seen any day behind plate glass at the establishments of Messrs Grant and Gask, Marshall and Snellgrove, or Peter Robinson; and upon Ella’s entrance, Mrs Marter inspected her for full a minute through a large gold-rimmed eyeglass.

“Ah!” she said at last, with an expiration of the breath, and a look as if she had just made a discovery, “you are the young person recommended to me by Mrs Brandon?”

Ella bowed.

“Exactly. I have a good deal to say to you about the young ladies, but I’m afraid my memory will not allow me to recall it at present. I daresay, though, that I shall recollect a little from time to time.”

Ella remained standing; for Mrs Marter, doubtless from having to recall so much, entirely forgot to invite her dependent to a seat.

“I am very particular about my governesses, Miss Bedford,” said the lady; “and mind, I don’t at all approve of their making friends of, or associating with, the other servants. I expect, too, that the young person I have in the house to superintend my children’s education will rise early. The young ladies’ linen, of course, you will keep in order, and assist the nurse in dressing them of a morning. Let me see, I think Mrs Brandon said you understood German?”

“Yes,” said Ella quietly.

“And Italian?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

“French, and music, and singing, of course you know; but really I must make a point of examining you in these subjects, for the trouble one has with governesses is something terrible. They all profess to know so much, and all the while they know next to nothing. Where were you educated?”

“Principally at home,” said Ella patiently.

“At home!” exclaimed Mrs Marter. “Dear me; I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t think much of home education. I ought to have seen you and talked matters over; but I trusted entirely to Mrs Brandon, as you were so far off. However, I suppose we must see how you get on.”

“I will do my best to give you satisfaction,” said Ella meekly, though her heart sank the while she spoke.

“Yes, that’s what Miss Tuggly said; and before she had been here a week, she actually contradicted me to my face—before the young ladies, too. Ah! there’s another thing, too, I may as well say: Mr Marter likes to be read to of an evening, and you will have to do that, for my lungs are in such a state, that I cannot read half a page without a fit of coughing. And of course you will have to come into the drawing-room tidy; but mind, I don’t approve of dress, and governesses imitating their employers. I think it better to say these few words, so that there may be no unpleasantness after.”

Ella bowed again, and sought in her inward spirit for firmness to bear all that might fall to her lot during the next twelve months.

“You may go now, Miss Bedford,” said Mrs Marter, letting fall her great eyeglass with a loud rattling of gold chain; and Ella turned to leave.

The next instant she was summoned back.

“O! really, Miss Bedford,” exclaimed the lady, “that will never do! Just what I feared when you told me of your home education. Not the slightest deportment! Pray, how can you ever expect to teach young ladies, when you do not know how to leave a room decently yourself? Pray be careful for the future, whatever you do! A ladylike bearing is so essential, as you must be aware! There, you may go now. Thomas will show you to the schoolroom, and you may ask the upper housemaid to take you to your bedroom, which, by the way, I visit myself once a week. I say that as a hint respecting the way in which I expect it to be kept. That will do, Miss Bedford.”

Ella again turned to leave, but only to be staved once more.

“O, by the way, Miss Bedford, I have a great objection to my servants—I mean, to those in my employ—having followers; I mean visitors. Of course, upon some particular occasion, if I were asked, I should not say no to your mother and father visiting you; but what I mean, Miss Bedford, is that I do not allow young men followers.”

Ella’s face was now aflame, partly at the coarseness of the words, partly at the remembrance of the way in which she had been visited while at Mrs Brandon’s; and she trembled as she thought of the consequences of her retreat being discovered.

“I think that is all I have to say now,” said Mrs Marter. “But stay: the young ladies may as well be summoned before you go away. Have the goodness to ring that bell.”

Ella obeyed, and the result was the coming of the footman in drab and scarlet, with dirty stockings, and an imperfectly-powdered head—that is to say, it was snowy in front, and greasy and black in the rear.

“Let the young ladies know that I wish to see them directly, Thomas,” said the lady.

“Yes, mum,” said Thomas, who, on turning, winked at Ella, not from impertinence, but from an ignorant desire to be upon friendly terms.

Five minutes of utter silence now ensued, when there was a distant squeal, a rush of feet, then a noise as of some one falling downstairs, followed by a loud howl.

“Bless me—those children!” said Mrs Marter faintly; and directly after the young ladies came tumbling into the room.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

The Young Ladies.

Ella Bedford might well be excused for looking with astonished eyes at the three juveniles to whom she was expected to teach deportment in connection with music and language—British and foreign; for the first that presented herself was a square-shaped child of about six, very red-eyed and smudgy from the application of a pair of grubby fists to remove the tears not yet dry, evidently on account of the absence of a pocket-handkerchief, which absence was also plainly otherwise manifested.

Number two, about a year and a half older, was a young lady gifted with a perpetual sniff, in which she indulged as she stood and stared at the new governess, an operation she was abetted in by number three, a young lady of ten, with tousley hair, and an inclination to rub one ear with a bony bare shoulder, which was continually hitching itself out of the loose shoulder-straps, and rising up as its owner gave herself a writhe, and then lolled against the drawing-room table, which creaked audibly at the infliction.

“This, my dears,” said Mrs Marter, pointing at Ella with her gold eyeglass, and speaking in an imposing showman-like voice, as if she was exhibiting some new curiosity—“this, my dears, is Miss Bedford, your new governess. Eleonora, you may shake hands with her.”

Thus adjured, Eleonora, the eldest and tousley of head, gave her shoulder a hitch out of the straps, and sulkily held out a hand elegantly veined and marbled from the want of saponaceous applications.

“Alicia, you may shake hands with your new governess,” said Mrs Marter again, evidently addressing the second daughter, who did not move. “Alicia, did you hear me? Go and shake hands with your new instructress.”

“Sha’n’t?” said Alicia, twisting her feet about so as to loosen a shoe, and sniffing directly afterwards in a defiant manner.

“What do I hear?” exclaimed Mrs Marter. “Go correctly, and shake hands with Miss Bedford!”

“Shan’t!” said Alicia, tucking her hands behind her, and sniffing again abundantly, as she, to show her dislike to governesses in general, made what is termed “a face” at the new-comer—that is to say, she contracted the skin of her little snub nose, half-closed her eyes, and lolled out her tongue in a most prepossessing manner; though Ella, not being of the medical profession, could very well have dispensed with the last attention.

“Alicia, I’ve told you before that that is very coarse and vulgar,” said Mrs Marter mildly, for the young lady’s back being turned, she did not see the physiognomical contortions. “You must not say ‘sha’n’t!’ but, if you do not wish to shake hands with Miss Bedford: ‘I would rather not,’ or, ‘I do not wish to do so.’—Selina, my darling, you will do as mamma tells you—won’t you? Now, my love, you go and shake hands with your new governess.”

Ella took a step forward, and held out her hand, when mamma’s darling’s face contracted, and directly after she spat fiercely at the new-comer, and then ran howling behind the sofa.

“Naughty Seliny—naughty Seliny!” said Mrs Marter. “You see, Miss Bedford, you are strange to them yet. They will know you better soon.”

“I sha’n’t do no lessons,” said Alicia defiantly; “and I’ve burnt my book.”

“Fie, fie!” said Mrs Marter sweetly.

“Licy pushed me downstairs, mar,” said the darling behind the sofa.

“No, I didn’t,” shouted Alicia; “she tumbled.”

“There’s a big story!” cried Eleonora. “She put her hands on her back, mar, and pushed her as hard as she could—”

Smack!

“Boo—boo—bo—oh!”

Before Miss Eleonora had finished her sentence, her sweet sister had smitten her upon the mouth so sharply, that her lip bled, and she burst forth into a loud howl.

“There, my dears, I cannot have this to-day.—Miss Bedford, be kind enough to see them into the schoolroom.—There, it’s of no use, Selina; if you will not go, you must be carried.—There, for goodness’ sake, Miss Bedford, what are you thinking about? Take her up in your arms and carry her.”

Ella obeyed; for Miss Selina had refused to leave the room, clinging tightly to mamma’s skirts till she was carried off, fighting furiously, and slapping and scratching at her bearer’s face in such a way that, could Charley Vining have been a spectator, he would have been frantic.

“Never mind her scratching,” said the eldest girl; “she always does like that. This way.”

And in a few moments more Ella was able to deposit her precious charge in the schoolroom, where, set free, the sweet innocent revenged herself again by spitting, till the upper housemaid was summoned, and led Ella to her own room.

“I pity you, miss, I do,” said the woman kindly. “You’re no more fit to manage them young rips than nothing. They’re spoilt in the drawing-room, and encouraged in everything.”

“Thank you,” said Ella gently; “you mean kindly, I am sure; but pray say no more. Let me find it out by degrees.”

“Well, that’s best, certainly, miss,” said the woman, who eagerly assisted her to take off her things, and then hurried down to help get up the luggage; while Ella—did she break down and burst into weak tears?

No; smiling sadly, she determined to bear the burden that was to be hers, and nerved herself for the coming battle; so that when the housemaid returned and helped uncord the luggage, she was rewarded with a sweet and cheerful smile, which was repeated when she said she would go down and make Miss Bedford a cup of tea.

Ten minutes later, when, after coaxing the kettle to boil with a few pieces of bundle London fire-wood, she was making that infusion that is considered by the fair sex to be a balm and refreshment for every pain and fatigue, she expressed herself loudly to her fellow-servants, to the effect that “that was quite an angel they had got upstairs. But it’s my belief,” she added, “that the poor thing don’t know what she’s got to put up with.”

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

Change of Scene.

It was not until Ella had been gone a fortnight that Charley Vining learned the news of her departure; as it happened, upon the same day that it was brought home to Max Bray that his visits to Laneton were of no effect.

But he was shrewd, was Max Bray; and encountering Charley directly after, and reading his disappointment in his face, he assumed an air of perfect contentment himself, played with the ring upon his watch-chain, and passed his rival with a mocking smile.

Five minutes after, Charley was at Copse Hall face to face with Edward the hard, who encountered him with a shake of the head.

“Show me in to your mistress,” said Charley hoarsely; and it was done.

Mrs Brandon was seated working, but she rose, evidently much agitated, as her visitor entered to catch her hands in his, and look imploringly in her face.

“I have only just learned the news,” he said. “Dear Mrs Brandon, you know why I have come! Be pitiful! See how I suffer! Tell me where she is gone!”

“I cannot,” was the gentle reply, as, with a mother’s tenderness, Mrs Brandon pressed him back into a seat. “You forget that I have given my word to Sir Philip.”

Charley groaned bitterly.

“You are all against me!” he cried reproachfully. “You measure me by others. You do not know the depth of my feelings towards her. You all think that in a few days—a month—a year—all will be forgotten; but, Mrs Brandon, it grows upon me with the obstacles I encounter. But you will at least tell me to what part of England she has gone?”

Mrs Brandon shook her head.

“It was her wish—her express wish—that her retreat should not be known, Mr Vining; and, in addition to what I promised to your father, I must respect that wish.”

Charley looked sternly at her for a moment, and then rose, and without a word left the room; Mrs Brandon following him with a sympathising look, till the door closed upon him.

“I must be a boy—a simple boy!” muttered Charley fiercely; “for they treat me as such. My father, this Mrs Brandon, and even Max Bray laugh at me! But,” he muttered fiercely, “I may be a boy; but these bitternesses will soon make me a man—such a man as they do not dream of! Give her up? Yes, when I see her in Max Bray’s arms—not before!”

Then he laughed, almost lightly, at the utter impossibility of such a termination, and returned to Blandfield after vainly trying to obtain information at the Laneton station of Ella’s whereabouts. He could find that a young lady answering his description had taken a ticket for London; that was all; and in spite of his laugh of assurance, that was all the information that had so far been obtained by Max Bray.

But there are ways and means of finding all who play at hide and seek; England, as a rule, proving to be too small a place to conceal those who are diligently sought.

Max Bray knew that well enough; and returning to town, he sat tapping his white teeth as he made his plans; on the whole feeling very well satisfied at the change in the base of operations, since, in spite of his hippopotamus hide, he was beginning to be a little annoyed at the notice taken of his visits to Laneton. Old women were in the habit of thrusting their heads out of their cottage doors to watch him; servant-girls would titter; and on more than one countenance of the male sex there would often be a stolid grin.

It was satisfactory, then, on the whole, for London presented many advantages to a scheming mind; but the first thing to be found out was whether Ella were in London.

Max was seated in one of the windows of his club, as he ran over his arrangements; then rising, he ordered a cab, and drove away, ignorant of the fact that the hall boy was imitating his gestures for the benefit of the porter, who was convulsed with laughter.

That same day, without a word to Sir Philip, Charley started for town.

A week later, and, to his surprise, Charley Vining, who was staying at Long’s, involuntarily raised his hat as the Brays’ carriage passed him, with Mrs Bray and Laura on the back seat, Nelly and a stranger on the front. So introspective was Charley as he stood upon the hotel steps, that the carriage would have passed him unnoticed if a loud shrill voice had not shouted his name, when, starting and looking up, he saw Nelly, flushed and excited, leaning over the side of the barouche, as if ready to jump into his arms. But the carriage passed on; and though by a little exertion he might easily have overtaken it in the crowded street, beyond raising his hat, Charley made no movement.

Ten minutes after, an empty hansom passing, Charley hailed it, gave his orders, and was soon being spun along through the streets, thinking over the encounter he had just had, and wondering whether Sir Philip Vining would be the next to make his appearance.

“To see what I am doing!” said Charley bitterly. And then his thoughts reverted to the past, and he came to the conclusion that it does not fall to the lot of any of us to pass a life of uninterrupted happiness, such as his had been until he first set eyes upon Ella.

“Branksome-street, sir?” cried the driver through his little trap-door. “Number nineteen, sir?”

“How did you know that I wanted number nineteen?” said Charley pettishly; “I did not name a number.”

“Lor’ bless you, sir, this makes, I should think, a score of times I’ve been here in the course of a couple of years’ hansom-driving. I never come wunst when it was a growler I druv. You want number nineteen, sir—private-inkviry orfice—that’s what you want.”

“And how did you know that?” said Charley, who could not help feeling amused.

“How did I know that, sir?” grinned the man. “It’s a sort of instinkt, sir, as is only possessed by drivers of kebs. Here you are, sir—number nineteen. Up on the first floor for Mr Whittrick.”

Charley leaped out, ran up the stairs indicated; and directly after he was in the office of Mr Whittrick, of private-inquiry celebrity.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Private-Inquiry.

Waiting your turn in a dull cheerless room along with half a dozen more people who always seem oil to your water or vice versa, so as to insure non-mixing, is about one of the most unpleasant things in life. It is bad enough at the doctor’s, where you sit and wonder what is the matter with your neighbours right or left, and whether their complaints are infectious; but at a private-inquiry office at a busy time it is ten times worse. There is such a general disposition evinced by everybody to turn his back on everybody else; an act which the actor soon finds out to be an utter impossibility; for though he gets on very well with respect to two or three, he soon finds that, however clever a mathematician he may be, he cannot place himself in the required position; and, as a matter of course, he turns rusty, and resents the presence of the other waiters—waiters, of course not in the hotel and coffee-room sense of the term.

To do Charley Vining justice, he was as ill-tempered as any one present; but he refrained from showing it, and tried to tranquillise his mind into a state of wonderment as to the business of others present. Was there any one seeking the address of some daughter or sister very dear?—was any one moved by the tender passion? It did not seem like it, judging from the countenances around.

One lady of vinegary aspect was evidently in search of a husband who had vanished; while on the other side was a little squeezy mild man, who might have come on a similar errand respecting a wife. The gentleman in speckless black, with papers in his hand tied with red tape, looked legal, and took snuff or pounce frequently from a small box, which he tapped with considerable grace, so as to bring the dust from the corner into a heap in the centre. His mission was evidently respecting a legatee, heir-at-law, administrator, executor, or assign, whose presence was necessary for the completion of some deed, document, or preamble as aforesaid.

What a wheezy stout man wanted was doubtful; but it was evident that the quiet-looking unassuming man who came out softly from the inner sanctum, and in one glance took down and mentally recorded all who were present, had something to do with order as well as law.

And it was so, in fact; for the quiet unassuming man was Mr Orger, of the detective department of Great Scotland-yard, who, after a fortnight of unavailing search for some gentleman who was wanted, did not think it derogatory to his dignity to seek counsel—on the principle of two heads being better than one—from his old friend and fellow-inspector Mr Whittrick, of the detective force formerly, but now professionally engaged upon his own account.

Charley’s turn at last, just as he had come to the conclusion that he would wait no longer, but call another day, when there were not so many private inquirers.

Obeying a signal, he was shown into a well-furnished room with a couple of tables, at one of which, whose top was covered with papers, sat a very ordinary-looking man, in a black-velvet cap; at the other, which bore a telegraphic dial, were a couple of clerks busily writing.

“Perhaps you will step this way,” said the man of the black-velvet cap, mentally photographing his visitor the while; and Charley followed him to an inner room, where, taking the seat offered, he paid certain fees and stated his case.

“Young lady—deep mourning—fair—grey eyes—luxuriant hair,” muttered the private-inquiry high-priest, as he took notes during Charley’s explanations, trying hard to suppress a smile as he saw his client’s earnestness. “Came up from Laneton on the 9th, to the South Midland Terminus,” he continued.

“Well, Mr Vining?”

“Well,” said Charley, “I must have her address found!”

“The information you give is very meagre, sir,” said Mr Whittrick quietly.

“It is, I know,” said Charley impetuously: “but I must have that address.

“Here,” he exclaimed, drawing out his porte-monnaie and placing a couple of crisp new ten-pound notes upon the table, “do not stand for expense. That is all I have with me; but tell me what you require, and you shall have it.”

“Thanks, sir,” said Mr Whittrick quietly, as he transferred the notes to his pocket-book, after entering the transaction and the numbers in a book. “But you give us the credit of great powers, sir.”

“Well,” said Charley, “you have great powers: telegraphy and a cordon of spies, I have no doubt. All you require is something to set the mechanism at work, and I tell you frankly I am ready to supply that something liberally.”

“You would not consider those two notes ill spent for a little certain information, I suppose, sir?”

“No, nor double!” said Charley hastily.

“Good,” said Mr Whittrick; and rising, he took a whistle from the mouth of a speaking-tube in the wall, whispered a few words, and then applied his ear.

The answer came in half a minute; and then he gave some other order, replugged the tube, and sitting down, made some remark touching the present ministry.

“But I am keeping you,” said Charley, who took the remark as an intimation that he might go. “Tell me when I may come again?” he said, rising.

“Stop a bit—stop a bit, Mr Vining: I never like doing things in a hurry. Let’s economise time; and we can now you are here,” said Mr Whittrick. “It may save my sending to Long’s Hotel, and wasting time, and men, and cab-hire, and perhaps not then to find you. I shall have a reply directly to a question I have asked. And, besides, you have entirely omitted to give me the young lady’s age and name.—Ah, Smith, that will do,” he said, as a clerk entered the room with a sheet of paper.

The clerk left the room; and then, after running through the manuscript note, Mr Whittrick took out a double eyeglass, rubbed it leisurely, and then fixed it by its spring upon the bridge of his nose.

“You’d be surprised, Mr Vining,” he said, “what a deal of difficulty I have to get clerks who write a plain legible hand. I’m a terrible scrawler myself; but then my writing has to keep up with my thoughts, and has to struggle hard, with the certainty of failure always before it. But my clerks are well paid to do nothing else but copy; and really at times, either from hurry or carelessness, their stuff is almost undecipherable. But let me see; I think I have managed this, though.”

“Is that anything relating to my search?” said Charley excitedly.

“Stop a minute, my dear sir, and we’ll see,” said Mr Whittrick; and then he held the slip of paper in his hand as if about to read aloud.

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

Second-Hand.

At the last words uttered by Mr Whittrick, Charley Vining started forward, and gazed at the speaker as if he would have devoured the ordinary-looking slip of paper rustling before him. It was with the greatest difficulty that he refrained from snatching the memorandum from its holder; for in every respect save one, Mr Whittrick, of the black-velvet cap, was outwardly an excessively slow man. He had crawled to the speaking-tube and crawled back, and when he took the slip of paper from the clerk, it was as if the effort was too much for him—so much, in fact, that he had hard work to wipe his double eyeglasses.

But we said that there was an exception, and this lay in Mr Whittrick’s eyes, which gave a sharpness to his whole appearance, as they twinkled and darted and played as it were, while they displayed the activity of their owner’s brains.

But, apparently satisfied that if he kept him waiting half an hour longer, Charley Vining would not say anything that would be of service for information of any kind, Mr Whittrick commenced reading:

“9th instant. Miss Ella Bedford, age about twenty; fair; grey eyes; thick braided hair—not false; height about five feet two; dressed in deep mourning; arrived by forty-five, a.m., train from Laneton. Robert Wilks, porter, Number 93, called four-wheeled cab, V.R. 09876, John Round driver. Luggage: canvas-covered box, black enamelled bag, and leather wallet, not addressed. Set down at 19 Crescent Villas, Regent’s-park—Mr Saint Clair Marter’s. Cab man paid. No farther communication; but footman averse to taking in luggage, whether from idleness or particular reasons not known; shall know shortly, if necessary. Cab returned to terminus.”

“Let me see,” continued Mr Whittrick, turning the paper on the other side. “No, that is all we know at present;” and he looked at Charley, who, mute with astonishment, was staring hard at him.

“Why, good heavens! how did you know that?” he cried. “That is all I wanted to know.”

“At present—at present!” said Mr Whittrick, with a smile.

“But I expected days of waiting and anxiety,” cried Charley, eagerly seizing the paper.

“Possibly,” said Mr Whittrick; “but there are times, you see, when we are speedy in our movements.”

“But I am astounded!” cried Charley. “You make me almost to believe in magicians.”

Mr Whittrick smiled deprecatingly and shrugged his shoulders.

“How did you obtain the information?” cried Charley.

“My dear sir,” said Mr Whittrick, “that is my profession. If you go to a doctor and he gives you a prescription which cures you, do you ask him how he discovered his drugs? Of course not. You came to me for assistance, and showed me that you were ready to pay liberally for that assistance, and, of course, I set to work instanter.”

“But is that—are you sure—that Miss—that the young lady is there?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr Whittrick; “some time has passed since then. But I am ready to make affidavit that she was there. Now then, sir, what can I do for you next?”

“Nothing more,” said Charley; “I am quite satisfied.”

“Do I understand you to say you consider my efforts sufficient?”

“Quite,” said Charley.

“Very good, my dear sir,” said Mr Whittrick; “then all I can say is, that it has been a most satisfactory interview for both parties; only recollect that you may want me again, and that you have paid me so liberally, that there is a large balance in your favour, which I am ready to devote to you at a moment’s notice.”

“You would rather not inform me how you obtained that information, I presume?” said Charley, turning on the threshold, to display to the high-priest of private-inquiry a thoroughly mystified countenance.

“Quite out of the question,” said Mr Whittrick, smiling; and the next minute Charley was bowed out, to descend the stairs, taking no heed of the scowls of those who had been kept waiting during the long interview.

“Where to next, sir?” said a voice; and Charley started to find that the cabman, who had not been paid, was naturally enough waiting the return of his fare.

“19 Crescent Villas, Regents-park,” said Charley abstractedly; but the next moment he had altered his mind, and changed his order for Long’s Hotel, where he arrived elate, but confused, so utterly incomprehensible seemed the power of the private inquirer.

Light came through at last, and seemed to cut through his brain with a sharp pang. It was all plain enough now: another had been seeking information, even as he had sought it, and the news he had obtained was only second-hand. But who had been beforehand with him, while he had been wasting time with his own ineffectual unassisted efforts?

There was no need for much consideration. The reply to his question was quick enough in arriving, burdened too with bitterness: and the answer was—

“Max Bray!”

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

At Crescent Villas.

Keeping to her determination, Ella wrote cheerfully to Mrs Brandon, making the best of everything, and then devoted herself energetically to the task of trying to shape the rugged children in her charge. The days glided by, and ever striving to be hopeful she toiled on, driving away all thoughts of the past, and rejoicing in her freedom from persecution.

But her rejoicings were but short-lived; for one day, upon returning from a walk, there, once more, was Max Bray to meet her, and salute her with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance, just in front of the windows of Mrs Saint Clair Marter’s house, and at a time, too, when that lady herself was gazing from a window.

Ella crimsoned with vexation, and escaping as quickly as possible, she entered the house, to learn from Thomas that there had been “a gent to see her; but as she was out, missus had seen him instead.”

How was it all to end? she asked herself, as, angry now, she hurried to her room, expecting momentarily a summons to the presence of Mrs Marter.

But it did not come; and it was with beating heart that she descended to the drawing-room in the evening. Had there come a message soon after she returned, it would have been when, driven as it were to bay, she would have had spirit to defend herself; but now she was tremulous and weak, and as she took her place and began to read, her voice shook so that she was afraid it would attract attention.

“By the way, Miss Bedford—” said Mrs Marter suddenly.

It was coming, then, at last, and in an instant Ella saw herself once more driven to seek a home—saw herself harried and persecuted at situation after situation; and it was with a faint giddy sensation, making everything look confused and indistinct, that she listened to Mrs Marter’s words, and tried to find words to reply.

“By the way, Miss Bedford, as you are aware, a gentleman called this afternoon while you were absent with the young ladies. I have always said that I would never encourage anything of the kind; but when a gentleman of good family comes to me, and in a proper way, I must say that I feel disposed to be lenient. I must say, though, that I consider you a very fortunate girl; and though this has come upon me very suddenly, yet I shall not be harsh; and if your conduct continues satisfactory, I shall give you every encouragement.”

Ella was astounded: the words were so thoroughly opposed to those she had expected, that for a few moments she could not speak, and her silence was immediately interpreted to mean modest confusion.

“I did know some branches of the Bray family at one time,” continued Mrs Marter, “and Mr Maximilian puts me very much in mind of them. I must say that I very greatly approve of your choice, for he is a most gentlemanly man: there is so much the tone of one accustomed to good society. Really I cannot help congratulating you.”

“Indeed, indeed, madam—” exclaimed Ella earnestly.

“Hush, child, hush. I will not hear a word. I have said all that need be said upon the subject, except that I have given Mr Maximilian Bray my full consent to his calling here as frequently as he likes.”

Again Ella essayed to speak, but only to be checked, and almost ordered to go on with her reading, which was kept up for two hours, till Mrs Marter and her lord were both comfortably asleep, when the reader was left alone with her thoughts.

Two days passed, and then she was summoned to the drawing-room to meet Mr Maximilian Bray. In the interim she had twice approached the subject—the first time to be checked good-humouredly, the second time to be told that her conduct was bold and forward, words which effectually sealed her lips for the future; while it was with a feeling of hot indignation that she descended to the drawing-room, to find Mrs Marter laughing at some remark just made by the exquisite, who rose on Ella’s entrance to salute her in a quiet, respectful, friendly way, that she told herself it would be folly to resent. Then, chattering quietly, more to Mrs Marter than herself, his behaviour was sufficient to make Mrs Marter at his departure praise him earnestly, but at the same time refuse to hear a word in return.

What did it mean? Was Mrs Marter siding with him? What, then, should she do? It seemed nothing so long as such visits as those were paid.

From twice in a week Max’s visits grew to three, and soon to one a day; but always towards her there was a quiet gentlemanly reserve, and once, and once only, when they were left alone for a minute, did Max say words that gave her cause for thought.

“Nice woman, Mrs Marter,” said Max quietly, “only she keeps twitting me with my frequent visits. She will have they are for an end, while really, Miss Bedford, my sole end now is a little friendly feeling. O, here she comes back. Can’t you give us a little music? I do find it so dull here in town!—Just asking Miss Bedford to give us a little music, Mrs Marter,” said Max, raising his voice as that lady re-entered the room.

“O, yes, of course,” said Mrs Marter; and Ella was obliged to go to the piano.

She could not help wondering at times whether Charley Vining had ever tried to find out her address, a strange thrill passing through her frame at the thought; but the next moment she had crushed that thought out, and was sternly occupied over some task in connection with her duties.

At one time she thought of telling Mrs Brandon of Max’s visits, but as they seemed to grow daily more and more addressed to the lady of the house, there seemed to be no necessity; for there were days when hardly half-a-dozen words passed between her and Max during a visit, and she had not worldly wisdom enough to see that Max Bray was awaiting the time when it would suit him best to make his spring.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.

A Rival Encounter.

The day following his visit to Branksome-street, Charley made his way to Crescent Villas, and sent up his card to Mrs Marter.

The footman returned at the end of a few minutes to say that Mrs Marter was not at home.

Was Miss Bedford at home?

Thomas did not know, but he would go and see; which he did, to return shaking his head.

Charley said he would call again, which he did, with precisely the same result.

Nothing daunted, he repeated his calls, till it was perfectly evident that neither Mrs Marter nor Ella would see him; and he was coming away knit of brow one day, when he started with anger on seeing a cab trundle by with Max Bray as its occupant.

It was most repugnant to his feelings to play the spy; but in despite of himself he followed the cab till he saw it stop at Crescent Villas, and Max spring out, run up the steps and ring, to be the next minute admitted, the cab being driven off.

One hour, two hours, three hours, did Charley Vining wait, when, it being evident that Max was dining there, he returned to his hotel; and then, in a state of mental anguish that he could not control, he wrote a long and earnest letter to Ella, imploring her to see him, telling of his sufferings, and of how he had been refused entrance again and again.

He waited three days and there was no response, when he wrote again—a bitter angry letter this time, to have it returned to him unopened by the next post, the direction, he felt sure, being in Max Bray’s handwriting.

Maddened now by the jealous feelings that assailed him, he watched the house till he saw that Max Bray was a constant visitor. Then came a night when a brougham was at the door, and he saw Max hand down two ladies, one of whom was Ella. Then taking his place, the door of the brougham was closed, and it was driven off.

“Follow that fly,” said Charley to a cabman; and the man drew up at last by the Piazza in the Haymarket, and Charley leaped out just in time to see Max disappearing in the stall-entrance of Her Majesty’s Theatre, Mrs Marter upon one arm, Ella upon the other.

Dressed as he was, it was with some difficulty that Charley secured a place where he could, unobserved, watch the movements of the party. Max’s quiet gentlemanly attentions were directed to both alike, the passing of the book of the words, the seeking places, and lastly the replacing of the opera-cloak upon Ella’s gracefully rounded shoulders.

They passed close to him where he stood muffled up and with flashing eyes, Ella’s cloak brushing his coat on the way to the brougham; and then they were driven off.

He wrote again after a sleepless night, telling of what he had seen, and imploring Ella to send him if but a line to assure him that his suspicions were false. “I have fought against them till it seems to me that it would require more than human strength,” he said naïvely, “while now I feel almost driven to believe.”

The same result: the letter returned unopened, and redirected in a hand that he was certain was Max Bray’s.

Furious now with rage, he took a cab and drove to Max’s lodgings in Bury-street, Saint James’s, to arrive in time to see two ladies descend the steps—one of whom was Ella—Max handing them into a waiting brougham, and kissing his hand as they were driven off.

“Ah, Charley Vining, how do?” he exclaimed, smiling pleasantly as he encountered the fierce angry face at his side. “Bai Jove, what a stranger you are! Haven’t set eyes on you for months.”

“I want a few words with you, Max,” said Charley harshly.

“Many as you like. Bai Jove, I don’t care how much any one talks to me, so long as they don’t want me to talk to them! Come upstairs.”

Charley followed him into his sybaritish bachelor rooms, where Max threw himself on a couch.

“Cigar or pipe, Vining—which will you have? I’ve some capital Saint Julien, and a decent bottle or two of hock. Which shall it be? Bai Jove, man, what’s the matter? Anything upset you?”

“Max Bray,” said Charley, striding up to the sofa and towering over its occupant, “I want to know who those ladies were that you handed into that brougham.”

“Bai Jove, mai dear fellow, what an uncouth kind of catechism! And suppose I don’t choose to tell you?”

“Curse you! I’ll wring it out of you!” cried Charley fiercely.

“No, bai Jove, you won’t do anything of the kind,” said Max coolly. “Gentlemen don’t act like confounded cads. Why, man alive, I did not say I would not tell you. I’m open as the day. Do you want to know?”

Charley made an impatient gesture.

“Well, bai Jove, if you must know, one is a friend of mine, Mrs Marter, of Regent’s-park.”

“And the other?” said Charley hoarsely.

“The other,” said Max, quietly lighting a cigar, “is another lady friend of mine—one Miss Bedford.”

Max must have seen those clutching fingers that moved as if about to seize him by the throat; but he did not shrink, he did not waver for an instant, but lit his cigar unmoved, and then sank luxuriously back upon the couch to smoke and stare nonchalantly in his visitor’s face.

That cool matter-of-fact way staggered and disarmed Charley. Had he seen the slightest sign of cowardice, he would have seized Max, and shaken him savagely; but that cool insolence seemed to the stricken man to tell of success and safety of position—the sense of being able to deal pityingly with an unfortunate rival; and it was in altered tones that Charley tore a letter from his breast, and threw it upon the table.