George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

“Who redirected that letter?” he exclaimed.

Max smoked for a few moments in thoughtful silence, then, casting off all affectation, he said quietly:

“Would it not be better to change the subject, Vining? It is not every horse that wins. The favourite is a dangerous nag to place your money on, as you must know. We are old friends, Vining, and I am sorry to run counter to you. Say what you will, I shall not quarrel.”

“Who redirected that letter?” repeated Charley, again more fiercely.

“Bai Jove, Vining, this is going too far!” said Max in injured tones. “You have no right to come to a gentleman and ask him such questions.”

“Who redirected that letter?” Charley cried for the third time.

“Well there, then, if you will have it—I did,” said Max quietly.

“And any others?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“And by whose authority?”

“Bai Jove, it’s too bad!” exclaimed Max—“I will not say another word. I will not be cross-examined like this. You’ve made misery enough, Vining, bai Jove, you have! You throw over poor Laura in the most heartless way; you come between me and some one; and now, when matters are once more running smoothly, you come here more like a mad bull than anything. I don’t care; it’s the truth, and you can’t deny it!”

The moment was critical again; for blind with rage, Charley Vining seized Max by the throat, and placed his knee upon his chest as he lay back on the couch; but again the latter was equal to the position, and he did not attempt to free himself.

“Don’t be a brute, Vining!” he said quietly. “I’m not afraid of you; but you have double my strength.”

Charley started back as he was met by those cool collected words, and catching up his letter, he tore from the place, leaving Max with a quiet contented smile upon his face, smoking till he had finished his cigar, when he threw away the end, rose, rearranged his slightly disordered shirt-front, and rang for a cab, being driven to Austin’s Ticket-Office, where he secured seats for a concert to be held that night at Saint James’s Hall; returned, made a most elaborate toilet, and then, not knowing, but careless, whether or not he was watched, he made his way to Crescent Villas, dined there, and that same evening Charley Vining saw him seated beside Ella Bedford in the reserved scats at the great hall, while, pale and careworn in the balcony, the young man again and again saw Ella smile at something her companion uttered.

“I’ll not give up yet,” said Charley hoarsely. “I made a vow, and I’ll keep to it!”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.

(-?-).

“La Donna e Mobile,” hummed Charley again and again, as he sat in the smoking-room of his hotel. He had paid no heed to the concert, his eyes being fixed all the while upon Max and his two companions; but that air had been sung by one of the great artistes, and words and music had forced themselves upon him so that they seemed for hours after to be ringing in his ears.

“La Donna e Mobile.” Yes, it was all plain enough, and it was nothing new. He had made an impression at first, and she had seemed to love him—perhaps, after her fashion, had loved him—but woman’s love, he said, required feeding. The fuel absent, the flame must become extinct.

He laughed bitterly, and a waiter came up.

“Did you ask for something, sir?”

“No!” roared Charley savagely; and the man shrunk away.

“I’ll pester her no more,” he said; “let things take their course. I’ll go down home and see the poor old gentleman to-morrow. I may just as well, as hang about here torturing myself over a slow fire. I wonder how the mare looks. A good run or two would do me no end of good. I’ll pack up and run down to-morrow.”

Then he laughed bitterly, for he knew that he was playing at self-deceit; he felt that he could not stir from London—that he was, as it were, fixed, and without a desire to leave the spot where he could feel that she was near.

“No,” he said, after a while; “I’ll not give up yet. I made a vow, and I’ll keep it. She is not his yet. She may have been—she must have been—deceived. I have been condemned. No; she would not listen. I don’t know—there, I think I’m half mad!”

Just then his hand came in contact with a couple of letters which had been awaiting him on his return, and which one of the waiters had handed to him, to be thrust unnoticed into his pocket.

“Bills,” said the waiter, to one of his fellows. “How nice to be tradesman to those young swells! I s’pose some of them must pay, some time or other, or else people couldn’t live.”

“O yes,” said the other; “some of them pay, and those who will pay, have to pay for those who won’t.”

“Through the nose,” said number one with a wink.

“To be sure,” said his confrère; and then they laughed at one another, and winked again.

But the waiter was wrong: those were not bills; one being a long and affectionate letter from Sir Philip Vining, telling Charley that he would be in town the next day, and asking if it would be convenient for his son to meet him at the station. The other was from Laura Bray, saying that they had heard from Sir Philip that he would be in town the next day, and asking that he and Charley would dine in Harley-street, where was the Brays’ town house, on the next day but one.

The above was all formal, and written at mamma’s command, but Laura had added a postscript, asking that Charley would come for the sake of the old times when they were friends. Max would be away, and the party very small.

Then came a quiet reminder of the encounter, and a word to say that the writer had looked out day by day, in the expectation of receiving a call, while poor Nelly was au désespoir.

Charley smiled grimly as he read the letter over, and then carelessly thrust it back into the envelope with the bold address which waiter number one had kindly taken for a tradesman’s hand.

“Take the good the gods provide one,” said Charley with a bitter laugh, as he smoked furiously, and tossed down glass after glass of claret to allay the fevered rush of thought through his brain.

“I’ll go,” he said at last, “and see little Nell. Poor little wiry weedy Nell!—what a genuine, free-hearted, jolly little lass it is! But there, if I do, shell only make some reference to the past.”

Charley Vining’s thoughts came so fast that night, that they jostled and stumbled over one another in the most confused way imaginable, till once more, shining out like a star amidst the surrounding darkness, the light of Ella’s face seemed to slowly rise, and he sat there thinking of her till the waiters yawned with misery because he did not retire.

But he went at last; and Ella’s name was on his lips as he fell off into a heavy weary sleep, as it was the first word he uttered when waking.

The next day Sir Philip was in town, surprised and shocked to see the alteration in his son’s face; for Charley looked haggard and worn, and as if he had been engaged in a long career of dissipation. He laughed, though, when Sir Philip reverted to it, and seemed most assiduous in his endeavours to promote the old man’s comfort.

“About this dinner at the Brays’, Charley: I should like to go,” Sir Philip said—“that is, if you will go with me.”

“Do you particularly wish it, sir?” said Charley.

“It would give me much pleasure, if you have no other engagement.”

“Engagement!” said Charley, with a bitter laugh that shocked Sir Philip. “No, father, I have no engagements. I’ll go.”

“But, my dear boy, what have you been doing with yourself?—how do you pass your time?”

“Preparing myself for a private lunatic asylum, father,” said Charley, with a cynical laugh; and the old man felt a swelling in his throat as he thought of the alteration that had taken place since the morning of the memorable conversation in the library.

There was a something in Charley’s looks that troubled Sir Philip more than he cared to intimate: had the young man sternly refused to visit the Brays, or to accede to his wishes in any way, he would not have been surprised; but his strange looks, his bitter words, and ready acquiescence alarmed Sir Philip; and when, an hour after, Charley left the room, the old gentleman looked anxiously for his return, till, unable to bear the suspense any longer, he rang and summoned a waiter.

“Has my son gone out?” he asked.

“Think not, Sir Philip. I’ll make inquiry.”

Five anxious minutes passed, and then the man returned.

“No, Sir Philip, he went up to his bedroom.”

Pale and trembling, Sir Philip rose and hurried upstairs. He knew that Charley had had some more than usually bitter reverse, and a horrible dread had invaded the troubled father’s breast, so that when he reached his son’s room door, he feared to summon him; but at last he knocked, and waited for a few moments before he struck again upon the panels, this time more forcibly.

There was no reply.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.

Accident or Design?

Sir Philip Vining tried the door again and again, shaking it loudly, and repeating his son’s name; but there was no reply.

What should he do—summon assistance and have the room broken open? He dreaded calling for aid, to bring up the curious to gaze upon his anguish, and perhaps upon—

He seemed to check his thoughts there by a tremendous effort, and turning round, he gazed in both directions along the well-lit thickly-carpeted corridor.

There was no one in sight, neither could he hear a sound.

Then he tried to look through the keyhole of the door, but something arrested his vision. He knocked and called again and again, but there was not even the sound of breathing to be detected on the other side; and at last, roused to frenzy. Sir Philip turned the handle, and then dashed his shoulder with all his might against the panelling.

He was not strong, but the sudden sharp shock made the little bolt by which the door was secured give way, when, rushing in, Sir Philip hastily closed the door behind him, anxious even now to hide from the public eye any blur that might have fallen upon the Vinings’ name.

There was a small globe lamp burning upon the table, but the room seemed empty, and the bed was impressed; but on hurrying round to the foot, there on a couch lay Charley, his coat and vest thrown off, his collar and neckband unfastened, and his pale handsome face turned towards the light. His lips were just parted, and his leaden-hued eyelids barely closed; but upon Sir Philip throwing himself on his knees by the figure of his son, he could just detect a faint breathing, and upon hastily drawing his watch and holding it near his lips, the bright gold back was slightly dimmed.

“O, that it should have come to this!” groaned Sir Philip; and raising his clenched hand, for a moment it was as though he were about to call down Heaven’s bitterest curse upon the head of the gentle girl to whom he attributed all this pain and suffering. But as he did so, his hand fell again to his side, and the recollection of the fair, soft, pleading face he had last looked upon, with its gentle eyes and pale cheeks, and then the scene of her fainting when he tottered back to kiss her glossy hair—all came back most vividly, and he groaned aloud.

And then he seemed to awaken to the necessity for instant action, and running to the bell, he tore at it furiously.

But there was pride still busy in the old man’s brain, in spite of the shock: the world must not know what was wrong; and hastily looking round, he saw upon the dressing-table, lying in company with the young man’s watch, with the thick gold chain carelessly thrown around it, a small graduated bottle—Time and Eternity, so it seemed, side by side.

Sir Philip was not surprised. He seemed to know intuitively what was coming. He had suspected it when downstairs, but in a more horrible manner; and as soon as he had thrust the bottle into his pocket, he shudderingly closed and locked the dressing-case upon the table, where, glittering and bright, lay amongst velvet several unused keen-bladed means of avoiding the pains and suffering of this world.

The next minute there was a knock at the bedroom-door, and the chamber-maid appeared.

“Quick!” exclaimed Sir Philip—“the nearest doctor directly. My son is dangerously ill!”

The woman hurried out, but returned directly.

“I have sent, sir. But can I do anything? Has he taken too much?”

“Too much! Too much what?” cried Sir Philip angrily, resenting the remark. “What do you mean, woman?”

“He has been taking it now for above a fortnight, sir,” said the maid. “Poor gentleman! he’s in trouble, I think, and takes it to quiet himself.”

“What?” cried Sir Philip, but this time with less anger in his tones.

“Morphy, I think it’s called, sir—a sort of spirits of laudanum; and I suppose it’s awful strong. Surely, poor gentleman, he ain’t over-done it!”

“Are you sure that he has been in the habit of taking it?” said Sir Philip.

“O, yes, sir. I’ve often seen the bottle on the dressing-table. ‘Morphy: to be used with great care,’ it said on the label. I don’t fancy he’s so bad as you think, sir.”

Sir Philip, still trembling with anxiety, knelt by his son’s couch, to be somewhat reassured by a deep sigh which the young man now drew; and five minutes after, the doctor came in, black, smooth, and silent—a very owl amongst men—bowed to Sir Philip, and then looked at his patient.

“How long has he been like this?”

“I found him so a quarter—half an hour since,” said Sir Philip. “He had left me an hour before that.”

“Humph!” said the doctor. “Any reason for thinking he would commit suicide?”

“H’m—no!” said Sir Philip, hesitating; “but he has, I fear, been suffering a great deal of mental pain.”

“Any bottle or packet about?” said the doctor—“bottle, I should say. No strong odour existent; but it seems like a narcotic poison at work.”

“I found this,” said Sir Philip, producing the little flask he had taken from the table.

“To be sure—exactly—graduated too! My dear sir, I don’t think there is any cause for alarm. He has evidently taken a strong dose; but, you see, here are ample instructions, and the bottle is nearly empty.”

“But he may have taken all that,” said Sir Philip anxiously.

“My dear sir,” said the doctor, “if he had taken one-eighth part, he would not be lying as you now see him. Depend upon it, that after a few hours he will wake calm and composed, when, if you are, as I suppose from the likeness,”—here the doctor bowed,—“his father, a little quiet advice would not be out of place. It is a bad sign for a fine young man like this to be resorting to such subtle agencies to procure rest. Depend upon it, his brain is in a sad state. I should advise change.”

“But do you not think that you had better wait?” said Sir Philip anxiously.

“I would do so with pleasure,” said the doctor; “but really, my dear sir, there is not the slightest necessity, and, besides, I am within easy call.”

The doctor departed softly, as he had arrived; and taking his seat by the couch, Sir Philip watched hour after hour, forgetful of his own fatigue, till towards morning, when Charley turned, sighed deeply, and then sat up to gaze anxiously in his father’s face.

“You here, dad?” he said lightly.

“My dear boy—at last!” cried Sir Philip. “You have alarmed me terribly! Why do you take that?” And he pointed to the bottle.

“To keep myself sane, father,” said Charley sadly—“because I have lain here night after night waiting for the sleep that would not come. I’ve smoked; I’ve drunk heavily; I’ve walked and ridden till so tired I could hardly stand; and then I’ve lain here through the long dreary nights, till I felt that I should lose my head altogether.”

The old gentleman rose and began to pace the room.

“But there,” cried Charley cheerfully, “I’ve kept you up too. So now go to your room, and I’ll turn over a new leaf, dad. Look here!”

As he spoke, he took up the little bottle from where it had been placed by the doctor, and threw it sharply into the grate, where it was smashed to atoms.

“There, I’ll be a coward no longer, sir! I’m going to begin a clean page of the book to-morrow. No more blots and random writing, but all ruled fair and straight. There, good-night, or, rather, good-morning! Breakfast at ten, mind!”

Sir Philip left the room, and Charley plunged his face into a basin of cold water before sitting down quietly to think; and as he thought, he turned over and over again his intentions for the future.

It did seem now certain that Max Bray had supplanted him—there could be hardly a doubt of it, but still there was that shade; and till he was certain he would still hold to his faith. He told himself that he was wanting in no way, that he had done all that man could do; but still he must have the final certainty before he would hide for ever in his breast the sharply-cut wound, and trust to time to do something towards alleviating his suffering.

Then he thought of Max Bray, and his brow lowered as he recalled his words, till those floated before his mind respecting Laura, and his treatment of her.

It was absurd, certainly, but the whole family must have supposed that he had intended to ask her hand. But he had never said word of love to her. What, though, of the lady? There was no doubt that Laura did love him, poor girl! perhaps very earnestly; and if so, he was sorry for her; for it was not his wish to give her pain.

Then once more he thought of Ella. Would she have accepted him, he would have set the world at defiance; but no—under the guise of a modest retirement, she had rejected him to accept Max Bray.

But was it so? No, no, no! He would not believe it. He would hold to his faith in her till the last came, and then he knew that he should be a changed man.

Once more he asked himself whether he had done all that man could do; and his heart honestly replied that he had—everything.

“Then my policy now is, to wait and see,” said Charley aloud, and with a bitterness in his tones that told how what he had seen rankled in his breast. Then, throwing himself on his bed, he said once more aloud, “It can’t be long now before I have some proof, and after that—”

He did not finish his sentence—he could not; for “after that” seemed to him to be such a weary blank, that he almost wondered whether he would be able to live through it all. And there he lay, sleepless now, awaiting the convincing proof; a proof that was to come sooner even than he anticipated.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.

Nelly’s Confidence.

The Brays’ mansion in Harley-street, and as grand a dinner as had been in the long, gaunt, dreary place for months past. Sir Philip and Charley had called the morning before, and Nelly had planted herself by Charley’s side, to keep there the whole time. Not that Laura seemed to mind; for she was gentle, slightly constrained, but there was a saddened suffering look in her countenance which lighted up whenever Charley said a few words.

For some reason she kept glancing at him with a troubled air—perhaps from some dread in connection with her plain avowals; but Charley was the quiet gentleman in every word and look; and before they left, all seemed to be quite at ease, so that the young man was almost angry with himself for feeling so quiet and happy during the half-hour or so the visit had lasted, besides which he had been merrily laughing two or three times with Nelly.

“Do, do, please!” Nelly had whispered; and those whispers had made Laura’s breast heave as she interpreted them to relate to Ella Bedford, whose name, however, had not been mentioned.

“I daren’t,” said Charley laughingly, in answer to Nelly’s appeal.

“O do—do—do!” whispered Nelly again. “You owe me ever so much for being your friend.”

Charley’s face darkened.

“Please I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Nelly gently; “don’t be angry with me,” for she had seen the cloud cross his countenance.

“I’m not angry, my child,” he said, smiling again.

“That’s right!” whispered Nelly. “I do love to see you laugh; it makes you look so handsome. I say, Charley, I do wish you had been my brother! But now, I say, do declare you won’t come unless they let me dine with you all. I am so sick of the schoolroom.”

Poor Nelly! Inadvertently she kept touching chords that thrilled in Charley Vining’s breast; but he beat back the feelings, and laughingly said aloud that he thought he should not be able to come.

“O, really,” shrieked Mrs Bray, “I shall be so disappointed!”

Laura looked pained, but she did not direct her eyes Vining-ward.

“I find that a particular old friend of mine is not coming to dinner,” said Charley, “and therefore I shall decline.”

“O, really, my dear Vining,” said Mr Bray, ceasing to warm the tails of his coat, “don’t say so; give us his name, and we’ll invite him at once.”

“’Tain’t a him at all,” cried the ungrammatical one, jumping up, laughing, and clapping her hands; “it’s a her, and it’s me; so there now—you must have me to dinner, after all. And why not, I should like to know. I’m only an inch shorter than pa.”

So Nelly dined with them that day, and Charley took her down, and sat between her and Laura, “behaving more jolly than ever he did before,” so Nelly vowed; while Laura could not but own to the quiet, staid, gentlemanly tact with which he avoided all the past; and trembling and hopeful, she watched him unseen the whole evening.

He did not, neither did she, seek a tête-à-tête; but at the first opportunity Nelly dragged him aside in one of the drawing-rooms, under the pretence of showing him pictures; and though Laura saw all, she did not stir.

“That’s pretty, ain’t it?” said Nelly. “I sketched that.” Then in a low voice, “You like me, Charley, don’t you?”

“Yes, very much, my child,” said Charley quietly. “Do you want me to do something for you?”

“No,” said Nelly; “I only want to say something.”

“Go on, then.”

“You will not be cross?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, my child,” said Charley sadly.

“It’s about that I wanted to talk to you,” said Nelly. “I don’t like seeing you so low and dumpy when you ought to be jolly and happy. You know you are miserable about some one that I got to love very—very much.”

Charley was silent; but his breath came thick and fast.

“And do you know, I’m sure that, if she had been left alone she would have been all that’s wise and good and dear? May I go on?”

“Yes,” said Charley, with quite a hiss.

“I thought you would like me to say anything, when you wouldn’t hear it from any one else. Do you know, Charley, you mustn’t be miserable about Miss B—any more? and if I wasn’t going to have Hugh Lingon when I get big—I mean old enough—I should ask you to let me love you, and try and comfort you, and make you happy. I do love you very much now, you know, but I mean the other way.”

She was silent for a few moments, while he went on turning over the pictures.

“Charley,” she then said earnestly, “I don’t think she has done right; but whether she’s been persuaded, or somebody’s told stories about you. Max goes to see her very often—nearly every day now—and she writes to him lots of letters. O Charley, dear Charley!” she half sobbed, “what have I done? Pray!—please don’t look like that! I thought telling you would make you leave off looking miserable, and ready to be happy again when you knew you couldn’t have her. But pray—pray don’t look like that!”

For the young man’s ghastly face had frightened her, as he stood gazing full in her eyes, crushing the while one of the drawings in his hand.

“How do you know that?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I heard Max tell Laury; and one day, when I went with her to his rooms, there was a whole heap of little narrow envelopes directed to him, and they were all in her handwriting. But please try and not fret, or I shall be so—so unhappy.”

Charley drew a deep long breath, and for the space of a good minute he stood there supporting himself by, and gazing blankly down at, the table, for a sharp pang had shot through him, and he felt giddy; but the next minute it passed off, as he muttered to himself:

“Not yet, not yet. I must have farther proof!”

Then, by an effort, he recovered himself, and leading Nelly to the piano, he sat by her while she sang. A few minutes after, he was by Laura’s side, talking to her quietly and gently, as he would have talked to any other lady.

And she knew the while what had passed in the farther drawing-room—knew as well as if she had listened; for she knew that Nelly had heard her brothers words, and, in spite of Nelly’s quickness, Laura had seen her looking at the letters that were in Ella’s handwriting.

Laura’s breast heaved as Charley sat beside her, and again she trembled, and her heart smote her as she saw how deeply that wound had been cut. But though she pitied, she was hopeful; for she said to herself, “The day must come when Max’s words will be true, and he will run to me for solace. The day must come! But when?”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Four.

Mr Whittrick Again.

During the rest of the evening at the Brays’ party Charley was lively and chatty. By an effort he seemed to have cast aside the feelings that oppressed him; and as they went back to the Bond-street hotel, Sir Philip felt quite hopeful, as it seemed to him that his son was indeed going to turn over the fresh leaf.

The next day Charley was off betimes to Branksome-street, where he was fortunate in getting an immediate interview with the great Mr Whittrick.

“You received my letter, posted two days since?” asked Charley.

“Same evening, sir,” said Mr Whittrick.

“You grant, I suppose, that it is as I said—Mr Maximilian Bray had been here before me?”

“My dear sir,” said Mr Whittrick, with a smile, “when a gentleman pays me certain fees for certain services, he has bought those services—they are his private property, and I have done with them—that is all finished. Do you understand? This is a private-inquiry office, and every client’s business is private. What I might divulge upon that pleasant old institution the rack, I can’t say—that being enough to make any man speak; but I believe I should do as many another man did.”

“What was that?” said Charley, smiling.

“Tell any lie the inquisitors wished,” said Mr Whittrick. “But as we have no rack nowadays, only moral thumbscrews, why, we are not forced to speak at all. No, sir; if there is such a person as Mr Maximilian Bray, or Cray, or Dray, or whatever his name is, and he came here on business, if we could, we did his business—we can’t always, you know—and there was an end of it; but if you want me to private inquire him, I’ll do it, just the same as if he came here and wanted me to private inquire you, I should do it—both together if it was necessary—though I don’t think I should say anything about visits here,” he said, with a slight twinkle of one of his dark eyes. “So now, my dear sir, what’s it to be? Shall we report to you upon this gentleman’s proceedings? Let me see,” he said, referring to the letter, “Bury-street, Saint James’s, isn’t it? Yes, quite right. Well, sir?”

“Yes,” said Charley; “and set about it at once.”

“How often, and how much, would you like to know?”

“How often!” cried Charley fiercely. “Every day—every hour if it is necessary. Write, send, telegraph to me. I want to know his every act and deed, till I tell you to leave off, if you can do it.”

“I think we can manage it, sir,” said Mr Whittrick, with a quiet smile. “Not quite so quickly as we did the last, though.”

“Then set about it at once,” said Charley. “It will be rather expensive work, sir,” said Mr Whittrick quietly.

Charley drew a blank cheque, signed by Sir Philip, from his pocket-book.

“What shall I fill this up for, Mr Whittrick?” said Charley.

“O, really, Mr Vining, I did not mean that,” said Mr Whittrick. “With some clients, of course, we make sure of the money before acting; but I am in your debt still. What I meant was, are you disposed to go to the expense of men, day after day, the whole of their time on your business?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Charley, taking pen and ink. “Shall I fill this up for a hundred pounds?”

“No,” said Mr Whittrick quietly: “fifty will do for the present. But stay—let me see: make it to bearer, sir—Mr Smith or bearer; it might not be pleasant to Sir Philip Vining to have it known at his banker’s that I am transacting family business. You see, sir, mine’s a very well-known name, and one that has been blown upon a good deal, and some people are rather fastidious about it. And to tell the truth, sir, I really am agent sometimes in rather unpleasant matters. Thank you—that will do, sir. You shall have some information to-night, and of course, under these circumstances, a great deal may seem very trivial; but you must not mind that, for sometimes very trivial acts turn out to be the most important in the end, while again noisy matters turn out empty bangs. I think we understand one another so far; but would you like a few attentions to be paid to the lady?”

“What?” said Charley abruptly.

“Would you like one of my agents to give an eye to Number 19 Crescent Villas, Regents-park, Mr Vining?”

“No,” said Charley sternly; “certainly not!”

“Very good, sir,” said Mr Whittrick, in his quiet way. “Have you any farther commands?”

“No,” said Charley, taking the hint, and rising; and the next minute he was face to face with Sir Philip Vining in the street.

For a few moments father and son stood quite taken aback at the suddenness of the encounter; but Charley was the first to recover from his surprise.

“There is only one house here, sir, that you would visit,” he said quietly; “and there is no necessity. You were going to Whittrick’s?”

Sir Philip bent his head.

“Let us go back to the hotel,” said Charley; and without a word they entered the cab Sir Philip had in waiting, and were driven back to Bond-street.

Not a word was spoken during the backward journey; but as soon as they were alone in their private room, Charley placed a chair for his father, and then seated himself opposite to him.

“You were going to have me watched, father,” he said calmly.

“My dear boy—my dear boy, it is for your own sake, and you drive me to it!” exclaimed Sir Philip.

“There is no need, father,” said Charley. “We will have no more estrangement. You have wronged me cruelly to gratify your pride, but—There,” he exclaimed hastily, “I said there was no need for my being watched. I will be open with you as the day: ask me anything you will, and I will answer you freely. To begin with: I have been there this morning for the purpose of having Max Bray watched: one proof—only one more proof, father—of what I am seeking for, and your wishes will be accomplished—there will be no fear of the Vinings’ escutcheon being lowered. One thing more,” he said hoarsely, and forcing his words from his lips, “and I have done; and we will return to Blandfield, where you shall help me to begin life again, father.”

“My dear Charley,” groaned the old man, “if I could but see you happy!”

The young man turned upon him a wistful mournful look before speaking.

“Let the past be now!” he said sternly. “It cannot be altered. Only leave me free for the present—don’t hamper me in any way.”

“But, Charley—”

The old gentleman whispered a few words in his son’s ear.

“No,” said Charley, shaking his head; “there will be none of that. If I were to knock Max Bray down,” he said, with scornful contempt, “he would send for a policeman. My dear father, you are thinking of your own days: men do not fight duels now in England. Let us go out now—this place seems to stifle me. But don’t be alarmed, sir; if I am beaten in the race, whether it be by fair running or a foul, I shall give up. I know that I have run the course in a manly straightforward manner, according to my own convictions, and as, father, I felt that I must. But the running is nearly over, sir, and I shall give you little more pain.”

“Charley, my dear boy—” began Sir Philip.

“Hush, father!” said Charley, checking him. “The time has nearly come for burying the past. Let us hope that some day the grass may grow green and pleasant-looking over its grave. At present, I see nothing but a black yawning pit—one which I shrink from approaching.”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.

Coming Round.

“From the Brays, Charley?” said Sir Philip, as they sat over their breakfast at Long’s about a month after the meeting in Branksome-street.

“Yes,” said Charley. “Mr Bray has taken a private box at Her Majesty’s for to-night, and will we have an early dinner with them and go?”

“My dear boy, I trust you will accept the invitation.”

“Do you wish me to, father?” said Charley.

“Yes, certainly,” cried Sir Philip; “but not in that dreadfully resigned spirit.”

“All right, sir!” said Charley, with a smile that he tried to make cheerful; and tossing the letter carelessly aside, he went on with his breakfast.

“You will write an answer, and send it by a commissionaire, of course?”

“No,” said Charley. “I’ll ride up there before lunch, and tell them. I want to see if my little maid Nelly has come back yet: she seems to make the Brays’ place more bearable when one goes there.”

Charley burst out laughing the next moment to see his father’s serious face.

“Well, really, my dear father,” he said, as he interpreted his look, “I how can you expect me to play the hypocrite?”

Sir Philip was troubled, but he said nothing; and soon after Charley retired to his own room, where, over a cigar, he sat turning about the various reports he had received from Branksome-street, wondering the while why none had come in the night before.

“Nothing of sufficient importance to send in, I suppose,” he muttered; and then he sat musing and thoughtful, reading here that Mr Maximilian Bray went to his office, dined out at Crescent Villas, went to Saint James’s Hall in the evening in company with Mrs M. and Miss B., returned to C.V., then back to lodgings; there, that Mrs M. and Miss B. called at Bury-street, and Mr Maximilian Bray accompanied them to the House of Commons.

Day after day the reports were of a similar nature, all tending to show that Max was a most constant visitor at Crescent Villas, but little more.

Charley sat so long that he had to give up his projected ride, and sent a messenger with a note to say that Sir Philip and he would dine with the Brays at six, and accompany them afterwards to the opera. They were punctual to their time; and Laura, handsomer than ever, and most tastefully dressed, greeted Charley shrinkingly, while, going up to Sir Philip, there was something very winning in the way in which she offered him her cheek, and the old gentleman saluted her.

“Nelly come back?” said Charley quietly, as he took Laura down to dinner.

“No,” said Laura; and as she spoke, there was a tremor in her arm. “I am to meet her to-morrow at Paddington-station. I thought perhaps—”

“I would go with you,” said Charley smilingly. “To be sure I will. What train?”

“Fifty-five minutes past four,” said Laura huskily.

“I’ll be with you,” said Charley, “at, say, four or half-past three. I want to see her again.”

Laura looked now pale, now flushed; and Sir Philip told her she had never appeared more handsome. Then, the dinner past, the carriage arrived, and they were driven to the Haymarket. Sir Philip had passed in with Mrs Bray, and Charley was handing out Laura, when he felt a slight touch on the arm, and a note was passed into his hand; but the bearer, unless it was the stolid policeman at his side, had disappeared.

In spite of himself, Charley uttered a faint ejaculation of surprise as he took the note, and then looked round for the giver; and this was not lost upon Laura, who directly became fearfully agitated, leaning heavily upon his arm, so that he was compelled to half carry her into the crush-room.

“It is nothing; I shall be better directly,” she whispered. “A sudden spasm—faintness; but it is going off fast;” and all the while she gazed in her companion’s face with a terrified aspect, as if trying to read therein something that was certainly not visible.

“Suppose I leave you five minutes with the attendant, and get you an ice or a cup of coffee?” said Charley.

“No, no!” exclaimed Laura; “do not go—”

But her words were too late: he had passed through the door, staying for a moment to read the note placed in his hands.

“Nothing last night. To-night Her Majesty’s Theatre. Stalls, Numbers. 24, 5, and 6. Mr M.B. and the ladies. Tickets procured at Andrews’s in Bond-street.”

A complete work of supererogation; for the next moment a voice speaking loudly made Charley shrink back, and press his crush-hat down over his eyes.

“Bai Jove, no! Capital time, I’m sure,” And the next moment Ella Bedford’s white-muslin skirt had swept against Charley as he stood stern and motionless as a statue.

Quite five minutes had elapsed after Ella had disappeared before Charley moved. His teeth had been set, and a feeling of rage, bitterness, and hatred combined, had surged up in his breast. Had he liked, he could have stretched forth his hand and touched her; but he did not stir. But he was himself again as he felt a trembling hand laid upon his arm, and a voice that he hardly knew said softly: “Had you forgotten me?”

“No,” said Charley earnestly, as, turning, he saw Laura at his elbow, very paler and with a strange shiver passing from time to time through her frame.

“Are you unwell?” he said kindly, as he drew her hand through his arm.

“No, no,” she exclaimed, brightening in an instant, as she leaned heavily upon that arm, and gazed almost imploringly in his face, her great dark eyes wearing a fascinating aspect that he had never seen there before; and thinking that he read all they would say, he turned frigid in an instant, and led her to the corridor, whence they were soon ushered into the private box.

But Charley Vining had not read those beseeching eyes. The interpretation was not for him then, or, in his mad anger, woman though she was, he would have dashed her to the ground, and fled from her as from something too hideous to live upon this earth. He did not read them then, for the key was not his; but, satisfied in his own mind that she was agitated on his account, he was coldly polite all through the first act.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Six.

Trembling.

Disturbed as Laura evidently was by some powerful motive, it was not long before her eye rested upon the occupants of the stalls immediately below, but two or three tiers nearer the stage. It almost seemed as if, as they sat side by side, she and Charley had seen them at the same moment; for involuntarily they both leaned forward, but only to draw back the next instant for eye to meet eye.

Surely enough, there was Max Bray seated between Mrs Marter and Ella Bedford, who, with their backs to them, had not seen the occupants of the private box. As for Mrs Bray, she had preferred a back seat, in which she was followed by Sir Philip, who insisted upon Charley taking the front, he caring very little now for the opera; while Mrs Bray found much more gratification in the ladies’ dresses than in what she called, in private, “a parcel of squalling,” and employed her lorgnette accordingly.

Laura’s next act was to glance round uneasily at Mamma Bray and Sir Philip; but there was nothing to fear there: their attention was taken up by the audience, and from their position it was impossible for them to see where Max and his companions were seated.

The next moment Laura’s eyes were directed towards Charley, as he sat sternly, fiercely looking down again, and then, softly, tremulously, and as if even the delicately-gloved hand deprecated what it was about to attempt, she laid that hand upon his stalwart arm, and he turned once more, frowning heavily, to encounter those great eyes, pitiful, imploring, swimming in tenderness. It seemed to him that it was pity for him, sorrow for the pain he was suffering; and as the frown passed from his brow, he returned her gaze till her eyes sank shrinkingly before his, and the great long dark lashes fell to curtain them from his sight.

But her hand still rested upon his arm, pressing it more and more tightly; and again her eyes were raised to his for him to read in them once more the same expression.

Yes, it must be pity, sorrow for him; and he read them so, as, forgetful of all—opera, the hundreds around, even those in the box with them—Laura came nearer and nearer to him, till he felt her soft breath upon his cheek as she whispered:

“Charley, I can bear this no longer. Will you take me home?”

They rose together, and Laura whispered a few words to Mrs Bray; the next minute they were in the corridor, and then what followed seemed to Charley like a dream—the coldness of air as they passed through swing—doors, the fastening of cloak and adjustment of hood, the descent of stairs, and the rattling of wheels; and then, with the recollection of what he had last seen—Ella Bedford’s face turned smilingly towards Max—Charley Vining was seated in a street cab, rattling over the stones, with Laura Bray still clinging to his arm, to utter his name once in a hoarse whisper, as, in spite of all he could do to prevent it, she flung herself on her knees in the rough straw, her rich evening dress forgotten, as she clung to his hand and pressed it to her burning forehead, kissed it, deluged it with her scalding tears, while, as he bent over her, he could feel that her sobs shook her frame as they burst from her labouring breast.

At length, partly by a few deeply-uttered words, partly by passing his arms round and lifting her, Charley Vining had the passionate girl at his side; but only for her to cling to him, sobbing fearfully, till they neared the house.

It was barely half-past nine, and as he handed her out, he would have parted from her; but she clung to his hand, and together they went up into the drawing-room, where, once more alone, Laura threw herself at his feet, clinging to him, sobbing hysterically, imploring him to forgive her, to be lenient to her; it was all for love of him—the love she had borne him so long without a tender word in return. She accused herself of want of womanly feeling, of baseness, of treachery, lashing herself with fierce words in her passion, till, moved by pity, maddened by despair and disappointment, Charley Vining began to feel that he was but weak—that he was but man, after all. The icy coldness gradually melted away, and he whispered first a few words, then one arm was passed round the kneeling form.

“Forgive me—forgive! It is all for the love of you!” sobbed Laura with a fierceness of emotion that startled him.

“Forgive you?” he said; “I have nothing to forgive.”

And then Ella, the past, all was forgotten, as his other arm drew her nearer to him as she knelt, and the next moment, with a wild sigh, Laura’s arms were tightly clasping his neck, and her face was buried in his breast. Then a click of the door-handle, a stream of light, and Laura was upon her feet, tall, proud, and defiant.

“Did you ring for candles, ma’am?” said the voice of the butler.

“Set them down,” was the reply; and the man withdrew.

Charley had risen too, and was standing by her side.

“Go, now,” she said, in a choking voice; “I can bear no more to-night. But tell me—O, tell me,” she cried, throwing herself at his feet, and clasping his knees—“tell me that you forgive me!”

“Forgive you, my poor girl?” said Charley softly, as he bent down to her, once more to pass his arms round her lithe form, when, with a bound, she was again nestling in his breast, but with her face turned towards his, and for a moment their lips met.

The next, Laura had hurried from the room; while, with every pulse in his frame beating furiously, Charley walked down to the hall, accepted the footman’s assistance with his coat, and then he made his way-out into the great deserted street, to walk staggering along like one who had drunk heavily of some potent liquor. But Charley Vining’s was a maddening sense. What had he done? He had not waited for the proof. He had been weak and vile in his own sight; and as he staggered along, he anathematised himself again and again, and, as if appealing to some great power, he called upon Ella to save him from the degradation of his heart.

“False!—false!—false to her! A coward—a scoundrel—a villain! Why was I made with such a weak and empty heart?”

Then he walked on faster and faster for long enough, not heeding where he went, but muttering still:

“Fate, fate, fate! And I have done all that mail can do. I must submit, and I love her not. Do I not hate her—or has she conquered?”

“Hadn’t you better take a cab, sir?” said a rough voice; and a policeman’s hand was laid upon his arm. “It’s too bad, r’aly, sir; but you gents will do it. Now, only think of coming into a place like this here, reg’lar lushy, and with diamond studs and gold watches and chains shining out in the light, and asking poor starving men to steal them!”

“I’m not drunk, my man,” cried Charley, himself again in a moment. “Thank you; get me a cab. Not a savoury locality!” and he glanced round at the dark lane and the ill-looking figures about.

“This way, then, sir,” said the man; and he led him into a wider thoroughfare, where, a cab being called, and the policeman substantially thanked, Charley Vining was driven to his hotel, his brain a very chaos of doubt, despondency, and rage at what he called his baseness and falseness to his vows.

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

In the Balance.

As if to show him how long he had been heedlessly wandering through the streets, Charley found Sir Philip quietly seated at the hotel on his return; and though his father carefully forbore to make any reference to the past, Charley fancied that he could detect a sense of elation on the old gentleman’s part—one which seemed to anger him more as his heart kept reproaching him for the evening’s lapse.

But Sir Philip made not the slightest reference to the events of the evening, not even remarking upon Laura’s indisposition; but there was an impressive way with which Sir Philip parted from his son that night, that Charley interpreted to mean satisfaction, and he frowned heavily as he sought his own room.

In spite of his troubled mind, without recourse to narcotics, the young man slept soundly and long, waking, though, with a strange heavy sense of oppression troubling him, as the thoughts of the past night’s events came upon him slowly one by one, till he was half maddened, hating himself for the part he had played, or, rather, for his weakness.

Then he recalled Ella’s quiet peaceful face as he saw her turn round to Max; and he asked himself why he should consider himself as in any way bound to her who refused to hold him by any ties. Morally he knew that he was quite free, and that, bitterly as he regretted the last night’s tête-à-tête with Laura Bray, he had shed sunshine upon her heart, and left her happy and exultant.

Then he remembered his promise to accompany her to the terminus at Paddington. He could not go—he would not go! But that was some hours distant yet, and for a while he felt that he need not trouble himself about it.

But what should he do? Write a long letter to Laura, telling her that she was to forgive his weakness of the past night, and bid her farewell for ever, while he made immediate arrangements for going abroad somewhere? Was it too late in life for him to get a commission? If he could, he would have to wait months perhaps, and he wanted to leave England at once. Africa seemed to present the field that would afford him the most variety and change. He would go there for a few years. He could soon make arrangements; and in the excitement of hunting, he would find the diversion he so much required.

But then about Laura? He recalled the scene at Lexville, where she had hung upon his arm and wept; and then the events of the past night flashed upon him, and he groaned as he told himself that he had been cowardly and weak—that as yet he had had no proof that Ella was lost to him for ever.

What was the last night’s scene, then?

He stamped upon the floor with impotent rage, and determined at last to forswear all ties. He went out directly after lunch to make preliminary inquiries respecting the means for leaving England. Paddington, Laura, Max, Miss Bedford, were driven from his mind, and he hurried along, but only to hear his name uttered as he passed an open carriage; and starting and turning round, there was Laura, flushed and happy-looking, sitting with her hands outstretched to him.

He could not help himself, though he called himself weak and folly-stricken, as he took her hand in his, watching the bright flush give way to a deadly pallor.

“How she loves me!” thought Charley, as he leaned on the side of the barouche; and it was from no vanity or conceit; he was too true-hearted and genuine, too honest and simple-minded. “Why should I make her unhappy, perhaps for life, when, by a sacrifice, I can send joy into her heart—into the heart of that loving old man? What have I to care for, what to live for, that I should hesitate?”

“Ella!” his conscience whispered; but the whisper was very faint; it was hardly heard amidst the tumult of contending thoughts. The African scheme was forgotten, and Charley Vining was in the balance. One vigorous pressure on either scale would carry the beam down. How was it to be?

How was it to be? The indicator was pointing directly upwards, each scale poised and motionless. Coldness, distant behaviour, returned letters, an evidently favoured rival—a man almost beneath contempt—misery for those who loved him, and more bitterness: all these in one scale; and in the other—

A passionate determined love, strong as his own, a woman pleading to him for what he had so long refused, warmth, tenderness, no rivalry, gratification to Sir Philip, and, above all, the knowledge that on the past night he had allowed himself to be betrayed into a warmth for which he had been blaming himself as though he had committed a grievous sin.

Which was the scale to go down, when Laura was in trembling tones, and, in a retiring way, asking him to take the seat by her side, for the time would soon be at hand for the visit to Paddington?

Her voice trembled audibly as she spoke, but the latter scale did not go fiercely down: the indicator only moved slightly in Laura’s favour, as, remembering his promise of the day before, Charley said he would go, and took his seat by her side. It was only a slight motion, and the faintest breath from Ella’s lips would have sent that scale up—up—up rapidly, till it kicked the beam.

But there was no breath there, though Charley’s heart still clung to Ella fondly. Laura’s scale wanted a strong impulse in her favour, and as, half triumphant, half sad, she felt Charley Vining take his place by her side, she flushed, then paled, and again and again a strange shiver of dread passed through her frame. Once even her teeth chattered, as if some fearful illness was attacking her. But the disease was only mental, and, seeking Charley’s hand, her own nestled in it—clung to it convulsively, as if she dreaded even now that she would lose him, when so very, very near the goal of her hopes, of her plotting and scheming; and yet she had not known of his anger against self, and the plans for going abroad; though had she known them, she could have trembled no more.

Laura’s scale was growing heavier; for Charley did not withdraw his hand, but let hers rest therein. It only wanted one addition either way now, for the weighing was just at hand—the scales were no longer evenly poised. Which was to sink boldly? The striking of the clock at five would decide it, and it was now four.

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

The Weighing.

If any one will take the trouble to refer to Bradshaw’s Guide—that fine piece of exercise for the brain—for the month in the year in which the events being recorded took place, he will find, in connection with the Great Western Railway service, that whereas the down express left Paddington at 4:50 p.m., there was an up train due at the platform at 4:55.

It was to meet this latter train that Mr Bray’s barouche was being rattled over the newly macadamised roads, with Charley Vining and Laura therein.

No one could have sat by Laura’s side for an instant without remarking her extreme agitation; and as Charley turned to gaze in her pleading face, he felt something like pity warming his breast towards her—her agitation was so genuine, and she had shown him the night before how earnest and passionate was her love.

Pity is said to be very nearly akin to love, and Charley’s pity was growing stronger. Why should he not take the good the gods provided him? She asked no more. But no; there was that one great proof wanted; and his words were quite cold and commonplace as he said to her, “You seem unwell. Do you not think it would be better to return home? Why, this poor little hand is quite chilly, and you shiver. You must have taken cold last night.”

“Cold? Last night? No, no,” she said hoarsely; and he felt the pressure upon his hand tighten. “We must meet Nelly, and I am quite well, Charley. I never felt more happy.”

He encountered her glance, but it awoke no response in his breast; and as he read her countenance, he saw there the tokens of a terrible agitation, and surely he may be excused for imagining himself the cause.

“At last!” said Charley impatiently, as he handed Laura out, trembling violently; but the next moment, though she was deathly pale, the agitation seemed to have passed away, and taking his arm, she held to it tightly.

“Ten minutes too soon,” said Charley. “Shall we go round to the waiting-room?”

“Yes, please,” cried Laura eagerly; and walking round, he stopped to read a waybill.

“Let me see,” he said; “this train leaves first. Ours comes in five minutes after.”

“Take me into the waiting-room,” said Laura anxiously. “It is cold out here.”

“I fear that you are going to be unwell,” he said, attending to her request.

“No; indeed, indeed I am quite well, dearest Charley,” she whispered, and an impatient frown crossed his brow; but he said no more, only half led, half followed her to a window looking out upon the platform, where there was the customary hurry previous to the departure of a train, when the first bell has rung. Porters running here and there with luggage, cool passengers, excited passengers, box- and wrapper-laden ladies’-maids seeking second-class carriages; footmen bearing fasces of umbrellas and walking-sticks; heavy swells seeking smoking-compartments; Smith’s boys shouting the evening papers; and as they gazed through the great plate-glass window of the waiting-room, the hurry and bustle seemed to have an interest for Charley he had never known before.

“We shall be in plenty of time when this train has gone,” said Laura; and she clung very tightly to his arm. “I long to see Nelly again. Don’t you think she improves?”

“Very much. I quite love that child!” said Charley with some animation. “She is so piquante, and fresh, and genuine!”

A sort of gasping sigh escaped from Laura’s breast, but he would not heed it.

And now the bustle was nearly over; the last bell had rung, the inspector had taken his last glance, the doors were banging, and the guard’s whistle was at his lips, when the inspector held up his hand, as there came the pattering of hastening feet on the platform.

“Bai Jove, portare, make haste, or we shall miss it!” cried a familiar voice.

“This way, sir,” was the reply; and an official trotted by with a black portmanteau on his shoulder and a bag in his hand; and Charley started as if he had received a fatal stab, for directly following, clinging to Max Bray’s arm, shawled and muffled, and pale as ashes, Ella Bedford passed the window.

“Max!” exclaimed Laura excitedly, while, as Charley made a movement to reach the door, she clung to his arm. “Dearest Charley,” she whispered in low impassioned tones, “my own love, my dear life, do not leave me! pray, pray do not leave! I love you dearly, more dearly than ever, and my heart bleeds for you—truly—faithfully!” She could say no more, for her emotion choked her utterance; but she clung to him wildly, as he stood, now pale and motionless as a statue, gazing through the window. And in those brief moments what had he seen?

Ella handed into a first-class compartment, Max following her, while her pale face was directly opposite to Charley, and only a couple of carriage-lengths distant. Then came the bang of the door, the piping whistle, the shriek of the engine, then the rapidly increasing panting snorts as of impatience to be off; the carriages glided by; and where Ella Bedford’s face had been the moment before, was first one and then another, strangers all; then the guards own, then blankness—a blankness that seemed to have made its way to his soul, till looking down he became aware of the stony face gazing up into his, the wild eyes, the parted lips, and the arms clinging to him so tightly.

His face softened as he gazed down at her, and then a sigh tore its way from his breast; a sigh that seemed to bear with it the image of a pale sweet face; and from that moment it was to Charley Vining as if he had been transformed into another man.

“My poor girl!” he said softly, more than pityingly, as he drew her arm closer to his breast.

“Charley!” she sighed gently; but there were volumes in that one word; and had they been alone, she would have thrown herself upon his breast, where she felt now she might cling. Then her eyes closed, a faint hysterical sob passed her lips, and she smiled, as if from a sense of ineffable satisfaction, as she felt his strong arms supporting her—that he was bearing her towards the inner room; and then all was blank.

Ten minutes after, Laura unclosed her eyes, to find herself upon a couch, with Nelly and Charley at her side; and starting up, she rested upon one elbow. Then she fixed her eyes upon the latter, and caught at his hand.

“You will not leave me?” she gasped hoarsely.

“No!” he whispered almost tenderly. “I feared that you were unwell.” And he passed his hand across her damp brow, smoothing back the raven hair; and Laura sank back, her eyes closed and a smile upon her lip, drawing with her his hand, which she held tightly in both hers; for, saving Nelly, they were now alone.

A quarter of an hour passed in silence, and then Charley Vining said gently:

“Do you think you can bear to be moved?”

“Yes,” she said, rising eagerly and fixing her eyes upon his, “if you are with me. But,” she said, leaning towards him and whispering, “do not be angry; only tell me, to set me at rest—tell me that you will not—Max—dear Charley, you know what I mean.”

“Follow Max—your brother?” said Charley sternly; “no!”

The next minute Laura was leaning upon his arm, and they sought the carriage, Nelly taking Charley’s other arm, and whispering to him as he turned towards her with a sad smile on his lip, “I’m so sorry, Charley, and yet so glad, and I don’t know how I feel; but tell me, is it to be brother Charley?”

“Hush!” said the other sternly, as they reached the carriage.

Had he not been so preoccupied, Charley Vining would have seen that a strange man, rather shabbily-dressed, was close beside him, vainly attempting to gain his attention; for, after handing Laura and her sister into the barouche, he was about to leave them to return alone; but the imploring look of dread in Laura’s eyes stayed him, and yielding to her outstretched hand, he leaped in and took his place opposite.

Upon reaching Harley-street the strange man seemed to be there before them, and Charley would again have left, but Laura begged him to go with her upstairs; and seeing how pale and disturbed she was, he accompanied her to the drawing-room.

“There!—need I tell you on my honour,” he said, taking her hand gently, “you need be under no fear.”

“And—and, Charley,” she said appealingly, “you will not judge me harshly?”

“Judge you harshly?” he said; “no.” And as she held out her hands to him, he took her gently to his breast and kissed her.

“Do you know how happy you have made me?” she whispered, clinging to him and gazing up in his pale honest face.

“No,” he said in the same tone; “but I fear I have pained you sorely.”

“Charley!”

“Laura!”

There was no other sound heard in that room but those softly uttered words; and when, a minute or two after, Mrs Bray quietly opened the door unobserved, she stepped back again on the points of her toes smiling with a satisfied air, and posted herself as a sentinel upon the stairs.

And all this while that strange man was impatiently watching the windows from the other side of the street.

“Couldn’t get to see you before, sir,” said a voice, as Charley Vining left Mr Bray’s house in Harley-street. “Perhaps you’ll run over that while I follow you and wait for farther orders.”

Charley started, and looked up to see that a rather shabbily-dressed man was walking away from him, after placing a note in his hands.

“Mr M.B. went to Crescent Villas at nine this morning, stayed ten minutes, returned to Bury-street, left Bury-street at three in a cab with a black portmanteau, and was driven to the front of the Colosseum. Waited an hour, and was then joined by Miss E.B. carrying a small black bag—very pale, and evidently been crying. Mr M.B. said aloud, ‘At last!’ as he handed her into the cab. Driven rapidly to Paddington-station. Took first-class tickets to Penzance, and left by 4:50 express. Are we to follow?”

So read Charley Vining, the letters at times swimming before his eyes. He glanced round, and the bearer was a dozen yards in his rear. But he waved him back. A quarter of an hour ago, and he had told himself that he was free; but the suggestion at the end of the letter whispered him that some links of his old chains still clung around. But no; he would not have them followed. Why should he? What was it to him? But for his infatuation, he might have known to what all was tending. It was nothing to him now; but a sigh that was almost a sob escaped from his breast, as, once more turning, he waited till the man was alongside.

“Tell Mr Whittrick he need take no farther steps,” said Charley in a voice that he hardly knew for his own; and touching his hat, without another word, the man glided off, disappearing round the corner of the next street so rapidly, that when, upon second thoughts, Charley would have set him another task, and hurried after him with that intention, he was out of sight.

Five minutes after, Charley was in a cab and on his way to Crescent Villas; where, after a little parley, he was now admitted to the presence of Mrs Marter, red-eyed, furious, and ready, apparently, to make an onslaught upon the first person who offended her.

Before he had been there long, the rapid flow of the angry woman’s words told of how, by cunning, flattering, and attention, Max Bray had gained a footing in the house; the weak vain woman believing that his visits were all upon her account, and willingly accepting the presence of Ella as a blind. Her only sin was a love of flattery, attention, and Max Bray’s escorts to the various places of amusement; but now the veil had dropped from her eyes, and she spoke.

“It has all been planned for long enough,” she exclaimed passionately, “and they have gone off together.” And then she burst forth into a furious tirade against deceit, forgetful entirely of how she was hoist with her own petard.

Charley could hear no more, but hurried away, confused, doubting, heart-sick. What faith could he place in any one again? He had gone to Crescent Villas in the hope that he was, after all, wrong; that there was some mistake which might be cleared up; and according to this woman the idol of his heart had been a monster of treachery and deceit.

He was ready to make any allowance for the mad passion of a woman who found that she had been made the tool of the designing; but, after all, what could he say to his wounded heart after the scenes he had witnessed? What right had he now to trouble himself, though—what was it to him? There was nothing to palliate what he had seen; and now he must begin life afresh. What he had to do was to draw a line across the mental diary of his life—a thick black mark between the present and the bygone—and at that line he told himself his thoughts must always stay; for upon that past he could not bear to dwell.

Forgive her? He had nothing to forgive. She had always told him, from the first, that it could not be; while he had blindly and impetuously rushed on to his heart’s destruction.

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

Beginning Again.

And how about Laura? Well, she loved him, and it was his father’s wish. He had committed himself to it now, too; and if he were to marry, why not her as well as any other woman?

So mused Charley Vining, weakly enough; but he is here held up as no model—simply as a weak erring man, whose passions had been deeply moved. He had been, as it were, in a fearful life-storm, to be left tossing, dismasted, and helpless, now that a calm had come. Here, too, was the friendly consort offering her aid to lead him into port—the port that he had hoped to enter gallantly, with ensign flowing. But now, as this was impossible, he would let matters take their course.

He met Sir Philip Vining at dinner; and though the old gentleman studiously avoided all allusion thereto, yet he marked the change in his son, and was inwardly delighted thereby.

“Father,” said Charley, as they sat over their wine, “I’m about tired of town. When shall we go back home—home—home?” he said, repeating the word. “How pleasant that seems to sound!”

“My dear boy, when you like; to-morrow, Charley, if you wish.” And the old gentleman spoke earnestly, for of late his heart had pricked him sorely; and had his son now brought Ella to his side and said, “Father, I shall never love another; this must be my wife,” he would have struggled with himself, and then given up and blessed them. But now it seemed that there was a change; the attentions to Laura had been marked; and, hushing his conscience, the old man told himself that matters would soon come right after all, and he spoke cheerfully.

“Well, let’s go back to-morrow, then,” said Charley. “I want to see the old place again.”

“You are not ill, Charley—you don’t feel in need of advice?”

“Ill?” said Charley, “not at all! I want a change, and to see the old place.”

“By the way, Charley, Bray called here to-day; he wanted me to dine there again, but I declined, as you said you would be back. I said, though, that I would go up in the evening. We are discussing the drainage question of Holt Moors. You will not mind my leaving you. I thought, too, that perhaps—”

“I would go too,” said Charley smilingly. “Well, yes, I’ve no objection; little Nell is come back. Do you know, dad,” he said cheerfully, “I should like to give that girl a nice little well-broken mare? She would ride splendidly. Couldn’t we pick up something before we go down, and let it be for a surprise? A nice little thing that would hunt well, without pulling the child’s arms off.”

“My dear Charley, you give me great pleasure, you do indeed. We’ll see about it first thing in the morning. My dear boy,” exclaimed the old man, rising, and crossing to his son’s chair to rest his hands upon his broad shoulder, “Heaven bless you, my dear boy! Are the old times coming back?”

“I hope so, father,” said Charley, smiling; but there was something very sad in his tone.

“Not in that way, my dear boy,” said the old man tenderly. “Indeed, indeed, Charley, my every act and desire has been for your good.”

“Father,” said Charley sternly, “do you see that?” And he made a mark on the white cloth.

“My dear boy, yes.”

“That must divide the past from the present. All on that side is to be forgotten. Let it be as if dead. Now for the clean blank page of the future.”

He held out his hand, which was eagerly taken by Sir Philip, and then they were silent for some time; when, in quite changed tones, Charley said, looking at his watch, “Eight o’clock, dad! Shall I ring for a cab?”

Sir Philip did not speak; he only bowed his head, and then wringing his son’s hand, he left the room.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

Of What are Men’s hearts Composed?

“Hooray, here’s Charley Vining!” cried Nelly, as Sir Philip and his son entered the Brays’ drawing-room; and bounding over the carpet, she ran up, and caught the latter by the hand; but as Charley shook both her thin hands warmly, he glanced across the room to where Laura was standing, flushed and happy.

“Are you better?” he said, as he crossed over.

“Better? yes,” she said softly; “and so happy!”

There was such a look of intensified joy in Laura’s face, that as he took his seat beside her, Charley Vining smiled pleasantly. He was accepting his fate.

And why not, he asked himself, when, with all their eccentricities, the family seemed ready to worship him? Sir Philip and Mr Bray had no sooner taken their places in a corner of the lesser drawing-room, and commenced their discussion upon the projected improvements, than Mrs Bray crossed over to where Charley was seated, and probably for the first time in her life forbore to shriek, and, leaning over him, actually whispered, as she stooped and kissed him on the forehead.

“Bless you, Vining! you have made us all so happy! But I have not said a word to him.”

Charley felt disposed to frown; but there was a genuine mother’s tear left upon his forehead, and he pressed Mrs Bray’s hand as she left him, carrying off Nelly at the same time.

It was all settled, then; it was to be. And why not? Let it be so, then. Some people said there was no fate in these things; what, then, was this, if it were not fate?

But he accepted it all, asking himself the while, could the gentle tremulous woman at his side be the Laura of old? How she drank in his every glance, eagerly listening for each word! Could he, as he had said he would, thoroughly dismiss the past, life might, after all, be endurable.

So he reasoned, as the evening passed away.

They had had tea, and Nelly had been sent to the piano to play piece after piece, not one of which was listened to, for those present were intent upon their own affairs. Charley talked in a low voice to Laura, Mrs Bray dozed in an easy-chair, and Nelly kept to her music.

Meanwhile the question of draining Holt Moors had been discussed and rediscussed. Farming matters had been talked over, and the state of Blandfield Park; Mr Bray strongly advising a particular breed of sheep for keeping the grass short and lawnlike, giving his opinions freely, and at the same time listening with deference to those of his old friend.

At last, during a pause, Sir Philip caught Mr Bray’s eye, and nodded towards the other room.

“That’s a picture, Bray!” he said. “Ah,” said Mr Bray, as he gazed for a few moments at where—a noble-looking couple—Charley and Laura sat together in the soft light shed by the lamps, “I wish, Vining, I had had such a son. It seems hard to speak against one’s own flesh and blood, but my Max—”

He did not finish his sentence, but shrugged his shoulders, laughing pleasantly, as tall thin Nelly came and rested her weak loose body against his shoulder, before laying her cheek against his bald head, afterwards polishing the shiny white hemisphere with her little hand, rubbing it round and round, round and round; while, apparently approving thereof, Papa Bray drew his child upon his knee, and went on talking.

But suddenly he ceased; for, rising, and with her hand in his, and one arm round her waist, Charley Vining walked with Laura towards where the old men sat, and Nelly, with the tears in her eyes, glided away to the seat just vacated.

“Mr Bray—father,” said Charley quietly, as he stopped in front of them, “Laura has promised to be my wife: have you any objection?”

The next moment Sir Philip Vining had folded Laura in his arms, kissing her lovingly, as Mr Bray caught Charley’s hands in his, shaking them warmly.

“My dear boy,” he exclaimed, “you make me very proud—happiest day of my life!”

“Charley, my son,” said Sir Philip, stretching out one hand to take his son’s, and speaking in a voice that showed how he was moved, “thank you, thank you; you have made me very happy.”

Half an hour after, they were leave-taking; and as Charley kissed Nelly and bade her warmly “good-night,” there was a tear left upon his lips.

“What, little one!” he said gaily, “in trouble? What is it? You don’t think I’ve jilted you, do you?”

“Don’t talk stuff, Charley!” she said gravely. “I’m very happy; but I feel like marble—just as if there were dark veins running all through me.”

“Marble? veins?” said Charley in a puzzled tone.

“Yes; dark veins, like sorrowful thoughts; for though I’m very glad that you are going to be my own dear brother—and something like a brother too!—I can’t help feeling sorry about my poor Miss Bedford.”

Charley started from her as if he had been stung; but no one but Nelly noticed it. Five minutes after, Sir Philip and he were in the Brays’ carriage, and on their way home, for Mr Bray had insisted upon their having it in place of a cab.

There was no farther talk of going back to Blandfield Court till the Brays left town next week, and to all intents and purposes the Vinings lived in Harley-street. But Charley found time for a visit to Mr Whittrick, to see if there was any payment due.

“Happy to attend upon you, if you require my services again, Mr Vining,” he said, as he pocketed a cheque; and then he bowed his client out.

It was that same morning that, returning to lunch in Harley-street, Charley found Laura seated frowningly over a note, which she made as if to conceal upon his entrance; but directly after, as if blushing for her weakness, she stood up, holding the letter in her hand.

“Am I to be jealous?” he said laughingly, as he saluted her.

“I was afraid it might hurt your feelings, Charley,” she said, as her arms were resting on his shoulder. “Can you bear to hear its contents? It is from Max.”

“Yes,” said Charley moodily, and with the veins in his forehead swelling.

“He asks me to try and mediate—to try and make you think less angrily of him.”

“Where is he?” said Charley abruptly.

“I do not know,” said Laura. “Somewhere in the west of England. The postmark is Plymouth.”

“Laura,” said Charley sternly, “I cannot forgive him. Max and I must never meet! Don’t look so serious—I cannot help it. I am, I know, hard and unrelenting—But there, no tears! Why, you are trembling. I am not angry.”

“No, no; I know you are not,” she whispered, nestling closer to him. “You must not be. I shall be so glad to get down to the old place again.”

“And I as well,” said Charley.

And, probably in deference to their wishes, both families started on the following day for their country seats.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Preparing the Rivets.

“Con-gratulate you, my dear Vining! do, indeed,” said Hugh Lingon, coming up to Charley in the hunting-field, when he had been home about a fortnight.

“What about?” said Charley, who had attended every meet, and tried his best to break his neck as he rode straight, taking everything that came in his way.

“What about?” said Lingon. “Why, about your coming marriage, to be sure. Haven’t seen you before, or I should have given you a word or two. Rather too bad of Laura Bray, though.”

“What was?” said Charley very impatiently.

“Why, making such a pair of tongs of me, with which to fish for her hot roast chestnut—meaning you, of course, Charley,” said Lingon, with a laugh.

“Don’t be a fool!” said Charley gruffly.

“Not if I can help it,” said Lingon good-humouredly. “But you know how I was made a fool of, and then pitched over at any time, when your sultanship thought proper to be attentive.”

“Long time finding a fox this morning,” said Charley impatiently, as he turned his horse along by the side of a spinney. But Hugh Lingon was not to be shaken off, and trotting up to his side, fat and good-tempered, he talked on.

“I should have expected that you’d have given up all this sort of thing now, old fellow,” said Lingon; “but I suppose you are having your run out before the knot is tied. I say, though, how well Laura looks!”

“Does she?” said Charley absently; and it was very evident from his quiet abstracted manner, that he was thinking upon other matters.

“Does she! Ah, I think so. But mind you, I’ve an idea that Nelly will grow into a handsomer woman altogether. I like Nelly,” he added simply.

“So do I,” said Charley, starting from his reverie. “She’s a lovable girl.”

“I say, young man,” exclaimed Lingon, “that won’t do; you can’t have them both.”

“Pish!” exclaimed Charley, putting the spurs to his mare. “There, I’m going on. Good-morning, Lingon.”

“But I’m going your way, Charley,” cried the other, spurring up alongside. “Don’t be in such a hurry, man! It isn’t often one sees you now. I want to know when it’s to be. Our girls are sure to ask me, for they’re all red-hot about it.”

“When what’s to be?” said Charley, with a wondering gaze.

“O, come, I say, now, that’s a good un!” laughed Hugh Lingon, till his fat face was full of creases and rolls, some of which threatened to close his little twinkling eyes. “Going to be married, and got it all settled, and not know the day! Ha, ha, ha! Charley Vining, that is a good one! I do like that!” And he gave his friend a hearty slap on the back. “Come, I say, tell us, old fellow!”

“This day month, I believe—there!” said Charley viciously; and again he essayed to leave his friend behind.

“By the way, Charley,” said Hugh, continuing alongside, “I want you to do me a favour.”

He spoke so earnestly, that the other drew rein and turned to him.

“What is it?” he said.

“Well, I hardly like to ask you, but just now I’m in a fix.”

“Well, but what is it? How do you mean?” said Charley.

“Well, you see, I’m short of money, and I’m a good deal bothered; for I’d promised to pay my tailor, and now I can’t do it.”

“How much do you want?” said Charley quietly. “I’ve none here; but I’ll draw you a cheque when I get home.”

“O! I’m much obliged—I am, ’pon my word!” said Lingon. “Don’t I wish, though, that I could draw cheques, and come that sort of thing! I’m quite ashamed to ask you. But it isn’t my fault; for you see I had the money, and was going to send it, when who should pop down but Max Bray, and ask me to lend it to him—five-and-twenty pounds, you know. He wanted fifty; but of course that was out of my reach altogether. I lent him all I had, though; for he said that he should only want it for two days, when he’d be sure and send it back. Nelly’s brother, too, you see, so that I couldn’t well refuse him.”

Hugh Lingon did not see the black angry look upon Charley’s face, and he went on.

“He went to the governor after he left me, and got fifty pounds out of him; so I found out this morning when I went into the study to see if I could raise the wind myself, for I had an awful dunning letter from my tailor for breakfast, and there was the governor in no end of a rage—put on that grand magisterial air of his, and begins to talk to me like he does to the clodhoppers who have been having a drunk and a fight. And, lo and behold, it comes out that Mr Max promised to send his back the next day without fail; and the governor swears he’ll make old Bray pay up, if Max doesn’t answer his last letter, for he has written three, and had no reply. The last one he read me the copy of—all about ungentlemanly dishonourable behaviour, and so on. I believe the old chap would like to commit him for obtaining money under false pretences. But, I say, don’t run away, Charley. I may come and have the cheque, mayn’t I? for it’s of no use to try the governor again till Max Bray has paid up.”

“Yes, yes; come when you like!” cried Charley, turning and breasting his mare at a high hedge on the left, which the gallant beast cleared, but with hardly an inch to spare; and then they went crashing through the copse, and were out of sight in a minute.

“Well, that’s one way of giving a fellow the go-by!” muttered Hugh Lingon. “Why? I wouldn’t try that leap for five hundred pounds! nor would any one else who had the least regard for his neck. What did he fire-up about as soon as I mentioned Max Bray’s name? By Jove, though, as Max says, he don’t seem highly delighted about his good fortune!”

Other people made the same remark about Charley Vining, and also noticed how hard he hunted, riding in the most reckless way imaginable, but always seeming to escape free of harm, when more cautious riders met with the customary croppers, bruises, contusions, and broken limbs.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

Had She Won?

It was one of the things generally known in the neighbourhood of Blandfield, that Sir Philip Vining gave up the Court to his son, who, in a very short time, was to confer upon it a new mistress in the shape of Laura Bray.

Every one said that it was an admirable match; and old ladies, who had set themselves up for prophets, laughed and nodded together, and reminded one another of how they had always said so. That croquet-party at the Court was not for nothing, they knew!

Then came a round of congratulatory calls, and a general disposition amongst the callers to declare that they had never heard of anything that had given them more pleasure.

“Really,” they said, “it was exquisite, and just the thing that was wanted to make the Lexville circle complete. For, you see, Sir Philip was indeed most charming, but he gave so few dinner-parties!”

“But what Charles Vining could see in that great, tall, coarse woman, when there were my nice quiet gentle girls, I don’t know. But there, every eye forms its own beauty!”

So said Mrs Lingon; and, in fact, allowing for a little variety, so said every mother of marriageable daughters; but all the same, at the end of a fortnight Laura Bray was to be Mrs Charles, and in future Lady Vining, always allowing, of course, that nothing occurred to put off the wedding, that every one declared to be, on the whole, rather hurried.

There was certainly, too, a little disappointment felt by some of the marriageable young ladies; but that was soon mastered: for there was to be the wedding, after all, if they were not to be the principals in the thrilling ceremony; and also, after all, there was not one of them who might not be asked to act as bridesmaid.

It was the theme of discussion throughout the district. Even gentlemen had their say, as they hoped that Vining wouldn’t be so shabby as to cut off his subs. to the hounds, even if he had no more idea of hunting. While, as for the ladies, they knew to an inch how many yards of white gros-de-Naples there would be in Laura’s wedding-dress; how many breadths there would be in the skirt; and that Miss Bray had decided not to have it gored.

“And quite right too,” said some with a titter, “with such a figure as she has!”

“Don’t you think Laura Bray looks quite yellow and thin?” said the elder Miss Lingon, who was certainly neither yellow nor thin, but very plump, fair, and dumplingy.

“O, decidedly!” said her sister. “She looks anxious and worried, too.”

“Well, no wonder,” said the elder Miss Lingon, with a sigh. “Any stupid would know that it is a most anxious and trying time for her. She is about to take a step which—”

“There’s not much fear of your taking, Miss Fan,” said her sister spitefully. “And how you should know anything about its being an anxious time, I’m sure I don’t know, without you read it in a book.”

The elder Miss Lingon tossed her head.

“But I know why she’s anxious,” said the second Miss Lingon. “Hugh told me. It’s because he will hunt so recklessly now.”

“I don’t believe that’s it. All gentlemen hunt,” said the other.

“You can believe what you like,” was the snappish answer. And there the matter dropped, as each lady waited anxiously for the request that should make her a bridesmaid.

But, all the same, Laura did look thin and anxious. Not that Charley Vining was wanting in attention, for he was constantly at the Elms; but there was a great dread always oppressing her, that the wedding would not take place. Each day that passed without adventure, she reckoned as so much gained; and though Miss l’Aiguille was engaged with her staff especially on Miss Bray’s account, and dresses for bride and bridesmaids were in rapid progress, yet would Laura start at the slightest sound, and tremble as every letter came to the house.

She counted the days and the hours that must intervene, and mentally checked them off as they passed away. She clung nervously to Charley as he left her at night, and seemed loth to let him leave her, though he smiled at her anxiety and tried to seem happy, but all the while there was an aching void in his heart, as he told himself that he was about to be guilty of a wrongful act.

And still the time glided on. A few more days, and Laura told herself that she could be at rest.

“At rest?” She shivered as she repeated the words, and then tried to look pleased at the rich presents sent by Sir Philip Vining, or brought to her by Charley himself to swell the bridal trousseau.

But she could not conceal the agitation she felt; for ever, by night and day, thrown athwart the light of her understanding was the dark shadow of a peril to come—a peril coming as surely as day would succeed unto night.

Costly preparations at Blandfield Court; painters and decorators busy; fresh carpets here, and fresh carpets there; Laura fetched over by Sir Philip to give her opinion upon this, her consent to that, or to choose something else. The old gentleman seemed never happy save when he was superintending some fresh arrangement that should add to the pleasure and comfort of his fixture daughter-in-law. He was almost angry at times on seeing how little interest was taken in such matters by his son; but ever ready with an excuse, he set it down to Charley’s renewed pleasure in the sports of the field.

Laura did not complain, although Nelly, but for her youth, might have been taken for the favoured one, since she was constantly Charley’s companion, to the great astonishment of Hugh Lingon. For the little well-broken mare had been purchased, and had come down to Blandfield, where, one day when Nelly was over with her sister, Charley proposed a ride, the horses were brought round, and Nelly’s rough black pony sent back, to her utter astonishment; while, when informed that the graceful little creature that stood arching its neck, and softly pawing at the gravel, was her own, Nelly’s joy knew no bounds, as, in turns, she literally smothered Sir Philip and Charley with kisses.

It was not from mortification at being so unceremoniously left that Laura turned pale; but, in her nervous state, it seemed that the danger she apprehended—the peril that should stay the wedding—might come from any direction, and that a delay of a month, a fortnight, or even of a week, might be fatal to her prospects; for might not Charley alter his mind? or—no, there was no fear of that now. But might not this prove a danger that should delay that which she so ardently prayed for? Nelly might meet with an accident, and be brought back half-killed.

There was certainly some foundation for Laura’s fears; for had Miss Nelly been left to herself, in her wild exhilaration she would most probably have come to grief; in fact she tried her best to get thrown; but there was ever a strong hand ready to be laid upon her rein, so that, in spite of Laura’s forebodings, she was brought back in safety.

Laura counted: six days—five days—four days—three days before—two days before—one day before the wedding; and all this time Max Bray might have been forgotten, for his name was never once mentioned at the Elms. Hugh Lingon, though, on making an excuse for not having repaid Charley’s loan, mentioned having felt sure that he had seen Max in London, but that he had been unable to overtake him before he disappeared, but that, after all, he was not sure.

That news slightly disturbed Charley, and he winced as he thought upon the probable future fate of Ella Bedford; his brow contracted too, as he seemed to see a pale face appealing to him for help, and he shuddered slightly as he drove away the thoughts.