George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

“If you do get him away, Sir Harry Payne, let me know where he is gone. I may have a few words to say to Major Rockley.”

“I can’t tell what may supervene. There may be concussion of the brain,” said the surgeon. “Yes, he is coming to now. The bullet has only scored his head. It was a marvellous escape.”

“Blast!” muttered Major Rockley, as the news was conveyed to him. “Here, let’s be off back, I want my breakfast. Curse him, I’ve not done with him yet, Payne. There are other ways to touch the heart of a greenhorn like that, than with bullets. I’d got him dead as a hammer. My arm felt like steel, and my shot would have had him right in the chest if that piece of chalk had not struck me and jerked my arm. Come along.”

“Hadn’t I better go and see if I can be of any help?”

“Hadn’t you better go and nurse the scoundrel, and read to him a bit? Bah! Come along, man. He has his second, and they can fetch help from the fishermen’s cottages if they want it.”

Sir Harry followed him up the cliff steps and along the Down path without a word.

“So, I shall not want a post-chaise,” said Rockley, with a laugh. “No rushing up to town and hiding for a while in chambers in St. James’s, or running over to Boulogne. Good job, too. Save the money. I’m fearfully short. Why, man, you look white.”

“Do I? It’s cold. I’m glad that the affair has terminated so well.”

“Terminated?” cried the Major, grasping him by the arm, “It has only begun. I tell you there are other ways than bullets to touch a man’s heart, and I’ll pierce his, curse him! so that he shall rue the day he ever crossed my path.”

Sir Harry looked at him uneasily.

“Payne,” he continued, “I’m a firm friend to those who help me—and lend me money,” he added, with a laugh—“but I never forgive an insult, or a woman’s slight.”

Down on the beach, Colonel Mellersh was kneeling with the great drops of perspiration standing on his face, holding Richard Linnell’s hand, while the surgeon was looking on anxiously at the returning signs of knowledge of his position on his patient’s part.

The other principal and second had been gone some minutes when footsteps were heard, and James Bell and Fisherman Dick came quickly down the cliff.

“Is he much hurt, sir?” said the former, with real signs of trouble in his face.

“No, my man: you may tell the Major that it was a narrow escape.”

“Poor lad!” muttered the soldier, going down on one knee, and making Colonel Mellersh look at him with surprise, as he took one cold hand, to hold it between his own for a few moments.

“Can we carry him to my house, gen’lemen,” said Fisherman Dick roughly. “’Taint very far.”

“No, my man, no,” said the doctor; “he has only been stunned. Narrow escape, though. He’ll walk home.”

“Do you mean it, sir?” cried James Bell. “Beg pardon, sir. Only glad the Major won’t have to go. I’ll get back to barracks now. He’ll be wanting me.”

“All right, my man. Take those confounded pistols with you. There: be off.”

The soldier placed the pistols in the case, and, saluting both gentlemen, hurried away by the shore, while Fisherman Dick touched his hat again, and said in a whisper:

“I’ve got a drop of right Nantes sperrit at my cottage, gentlemen, if you can bring him in there.”

“No, no,” said the doctor. “There, he’s coming round fast now,” and he pointed to Linnell’s staring eyes.

The doctor was right. Half an hour later, with no worse trouble to combat than a fierce headache, and the wound smarting under its strapping, Richard Linnell was able to take the Colonel’s arm and walk home, a warning to other young men not to attempt to climb up the cliff to the Downs, and risk falling and cutting their heads!

For that was the version of Richard Linnell’s mishap that ran through the town.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

Miss Clode is Overcome.

It was a vain effort, for such an event was sure to be known to others besides the parties concerned.

Sent on a special mission by her aunt that morning, to see whether Mr Miggles had any fish, and with a basket to obtain a small bottle of a peculiar water that Fisherman Dick secretly supplied to a few friends whom he could trust, simple-faced Annie picked up some news.

“You don’t want any more brandy, aunty,” the girl had said; “there are two bottles not opened, and you said you wouldn’t have any more fish for ever so long.”

“Oh, Annie!” cried Miss Clode, “I thought you were beginning to be of a little use to me.”

The girl’s mouth opened wide, and her nose turned red; but directly after a cunning smile came in her face, and her eyes nearly closed.

“Oh, I say, aunty,” she said softly, “I know what you mean now. You mean go and make that an excuse for getting to know about pretty Miss Denville going to see about the little girl.”

“Worse and worse, Annie,” cried Miss Clode. “Don’t you understand that a still tongue makes a wise head?”

“Oh, yes, aunty, I know now;” and nodding her head very knowingly, Annie went off on her mission.

She returned very quickly, with a face quite scarlet with heat and excitement, full of the news she had picked up from Mrs Miggles, who had determined not to say a word of what she knew, and ended by telling all.

Miss Clode was in a state of excitement, for she had heard from a customer that young Mr Linnell, of the Parade, had fallen from the cliff that morning and cut his head, and the news turned the little woman pale, and she staggered and felt sick. When Annie came back she had recovered, but only ready on hearing her niece’s news to faint dead away and lie insensible, just as stout Mrs Barclay came in about a new account-book, and to purchase a couple of pounds’ worth of bill-stamps.

“Poor little woman!” cried Mrs Barclay sympathetically. “Here, don’t make a fuss, my dear; I’ll help you. Let’s get her on the sofa. It’s only fainting, and the smelling-salts will bring her round. That’s the way,” she panted and puffed as she helped to carry the slight little woman into the inner room. “Worse disasters at sea. Not so bad as Mr Linnell tumbling off the cliff this morning and cutting his head.”

“He didn’t tumble off the cliff,” said Annie, round-eyed and trembling with eagerness, as she whispered in Mrs Barclay’s ear.

“Oh, yes, he did, my dear.”

“No, he didn’t,” whispered Annie, as Miss Clode lay quite senseless. “Hearing about it all upset aunty.”

“Did it? What, his fall?”

“No, no, it wasn’t a fall; but I mustn’t say anything.”

“You don’t know anything,” said Mrs Barclay contemptuously.

“Oh yes, I do,” whispered Annie. “It’s very horrid. Major Rockley shot him in a duel this morning for horse-whipping him after Major Rockley had insulted Miss Denville. There!”

“Hush!” whispered Mrs Barclay, whose face was now as red as Annie’s. “Your aunt is coming to.”

“Don’t say I told you. She would be so cross.”

Mrs Barclay nodded; and, after saying a few comforting words to the sufferer as she came to, contented herself with buying the bill-stamps, and left the shop, while, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently, Miss Clode wrote a few hasty lines to Colonel Mellersh, and strictly enjoining her to hold her tongue, sent her niece off to deliver the note on the Parade.

Colonel Mellersh was not within, but Cora Dean and her mother were alighting from the pony-carriage, and Annie greeted them with a smile and a curtsey, which made Mrs Dean tap the girl on the shoulder with a formidable fan.

“Here, you come in, and walk upstairs. I want a word with you.”

“No, no, not now, mother,” said Cora hastily.

“Now, just you let me have my own way for once in my life, please, Betsy,” said Mrs Dean; and to avoid having words in the hall, where they could easily be overheard, Cora gave way, and in due time, to her intense delight, Annie was seated in one of Josiah Barclay’s gilded easy-chairs, with a piece of cake in her hand, and a glass of ginger wine before her.

“Which is quite good enough for her,” Mrs Dean had said to herself.

Cora had not taken off her things, but had gone to the window, to stand looking out, and biting her lips with shame and rage, as she heard her mother’s words to the girl.

“Trust me, ma’am?” Annie said, with her mouth half full of sweet Madeira cake, “that you may, ma’am, as much as you would aunty. Oh, yes, I’m sure aunty gave his lordship the notes, and he only laughed.”

Cora’s beautiful white teeth gritted together as, ill-bred as she was, she knew well enough that had she wished Lord Carboro’s openly-manifested admiration to ripen to her profit, her mother’s open invitations to him to call would have destroyed her chance.

Then she tried to shut her ears to what was going on, and stood there wondering whether Richard Linnell would go out while she stood there—why it was the house had been so quiet that morning, for she generally listened for an hour to him playing duets with his father.

Then she wondered rather bitterly whether he would ever care for her, and his coldly polite way be changed. He was always civil and pleasant, and chatted with her when they met, but that was all, and at times it mortified her, as she thought how beautiful she was, making her vow that she would be revenged upon him, while at other times all this made her sit down and sob by the hour together.

“Why should I trouble about him?” she was asking herself just then, as she gazed from the window, and ignored the low buzzing of Annie’s voice, which came huskily through Madeira cake, “I, who might accept almost any man I like. I’ve good looks, and money, and there are hundreds of men who would be only too glad of a smile. As for—”

“Mr Linnell, ma’am? Oh, yes, it’s quite true,” Annie was whispering, and the name sent a thrill through Cora.

“But he lives downstairs, girl, and we should have known.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I learn by heart—aunty makes me—where all the fashionable people live. I know Mr Linnell—two Mr Linnells—live downstairs. It’s in our visitor’s list, along with you, and Colonel Mellersh, and it’s quite true.”

What was quite true about Richard Linnell? If it was about Claire Denville, she would tear him from her; she would crush her. How dare she presume to think of her idol—the true, brave fellow who had dashed into the sea and saved her when she was drowning?

Poor Fisherman Dick, like many more, not being young and handsome, was forgotten after that ten-pound note.

Cora’s eyes flashed, her cheeks burned, and she looked as beautiful as an artist’s idea of Juno, listening now with all the concentration of her passionate nature.

“I oughtn’t to talk about it, ma’am, and I wouldn’t tell anyone but you,” Annie went on. “They said he fell over the cliff this morning and cut his head.”

Cora Dean saw blood upon a white forehead, and she clutched the back of a chair, for the room seemed to be turning, and she felt sick.

“But he didn’t, ma’am.”

“Isn’t he hurt, then?”

“Yes, ma’am, badly. I wonder you didn’t know. You see, he met Major Rockley—you know him, ma’am?—handsome dark gentleman with mustachios.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Mrs Dean, revelling in the bit of gossip. “Have some more cake.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Major Rockley was out walking with Miss Claire Denville out on the Downs—”

Cora’s faintness passed away, and the room ceased to glide round as her eyes brightened, and she felt as if she could have embraced that handsome roué, who always, bowed to her with such a look of insolent contempt.

“And then Mr Linnell came up and took Major Rockley’s whip away and beat him.”

Cora’s cheeks burned with jealous rage now. How dare Richard Linnell do that? And yet she liked him for it. He was so brave. But for Claire Denville! Her eyes flashed again.

“Then they met this morning, ma’am, down on the sands, and fought a real duel, and Major Rockley shot Mr Linnell.”

“It is not true!” cried Cora excitedly, and once more the room began to turn.

“Yes, ma’am, it’s quite true,” said Annie, with her mouth now full of cake.

Shot!—injured by Major Rockley! and she—she could not go down to him to wait upon him, and show him by her every act how she loved him.

A minute before she had been ready to bless Major Rockley. Now, curses were in her heart, as she thought of him raising his hand against Richard Linnell to strike him down.

“No, ma’am, he isn’t very bad,” Annie went on, in answer to a question of Mrs Dean.

“It can’t be true,” Cora said to herself, as her brain seemed to become a chaos of love, jealousy, hatred, and pride in the brave young fellow who had saved her life, and, civilian though he was, showed himself ready to meet such a notorious fire-eater as the Major.

Just then she gave a gasp, for she saw a stiff, military-looking man, whom she knew to be the regimental surgeon, come up to the door.

It was true, then; and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into an hysterical fit of sobbing.

But a thought came directly that gave her strength, and she felt joy and elation together as she said to herself:

“He found them together, and horsewhipped the Major. Well, so much the better. He can never think of Claire Denville again. If he did—”

She uttered a low unpleasant laugh, as Annie found that she must go back, for she could eat no more cake; and as soon as they were alone Mrs Dean exclaimed:

“Don’t, for goodness’ sake, laugh like that, my dear; it gives me the cold shivers all down my back. It’s just like Metalina in ‘The Haunted Vampire,’ where she takes an oath as she’ll kill her rival or perish in the attempt.”

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

Mrs Barclay is Puzzled.

“Oh, my dear, and do you know how they’re all a-talking about you?” cried Mrs Barclay, as she sat panting beneath the florid portrait of May Burnett in the MC’s shabby drawing-room.

Claire looked up appealingly in the pleasant, plump face, and her brow knit.

“You see, it all comes to me, my dear, and it worries me because I like you so.”

“You were always very kind to me, Mrs Barclay.”

“Not half so kind as I should like to be, my dear. I wanted to have you home when the mur—”

“Oh, hush!”

“Of course, my dear. That’s my way. So vulgar and thoughtless. Think of me now bringing that up to you who live here; and us sitting in the very next room.”

“Mrs Barclay!”

“Yes, I won’t say another word, my dear. Not that I believe in sperrits or anything of that kind. But you were saying about me being kind. Why, you won’t let me be, my dear. I’m sure the dresses I’d buy you, and the things I’d give you, if you’d let me, would make some of them stare.”

“But I could not let you, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, smiling.

“No; you’re so proud, my dear, that’s it. You see, Josiah lets me have so much for housekeeping, that I’ve always plenty to spare; and as to jewellery, why, I might wash in diamonds if I liked, but I don’t.”

“Let us be as usual, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, with more animation, “and never mind about what people say, or fashion, or dress, or any of the nonsense.”

“I’m sure I should like to be, my dear; but you being a motherless girl, I don’t like to hear people talking about you.”

Claire’s face grew flushed.

“Don’t look like that, Claire, my dear. I’m not cross with you, but when people talk about you being out walking with that horrid black Major Rockley, it hurts me.”

“I could not help it, Mrs Barclay,” said Claire.

“Then it’s all true, then, about young Mr Linnell horse-whipping him?”

“Yes, yes; but this is so cruel to me. He did beat him for insulting me.”

“Bless him then. I always liked him, my dear. How he must love you!”

“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Claire, in agony.

“I don’t see why. I’m sure he’s everything that’s good and brave; and you need not sob like that, my dear, for, from what I can hear, he isn’t very badly hurt.”

Claire started. A dread that had been hanging over her was beginning to assume form.

“But they say it’s a mercy that the Major’s bullet did not go an inch lower.”

“Bullet? The Major! They have had a meeting?”

“Yes, my dear. I thought you must know, and I came to talk to you about even speaking to—there—there, what a woman I am. I came to do good, and I’m doing nothing but harm. Now, she’s going to faint.”

“No, no!” cried Claire agitatedly; “it is nothing. I am not going to faint, Mrs Barclay, indeed. There, you see, I am quite calm now.”

“Yes, and I am sorry, my dear; but I am such a thoughtless woman. Barclay’s quite right; I haven’t no head at all.”

“No head?” said Claire, smiling, as she sat down close to her visitor and laid her hands upon her arm. “Perhaps it is because you have so much heart.”

“Heart, my dear! why—no; I declare I’m most afraid to speak, for fear of saying something that may hurt your feelings.”

“If you will not speak about—about—”

“Mr Linnell, my dear?”

“Yes, but only to tell me that he is not much hurt—you said so, did you not?” cried Claire.

“Yes, my dear; he’s not much hurt. But, Claire, my dear, wouldn’t it be better if you—so pretty and young as you are—did care very much for some one as nice and good as he is?”

“No, no,” cried Claire excitedly. “Pray, pray say no more. It is impossible.”

“Well, you know best, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay sadly; “and you want me to talk about something else. Well, I’ll talk about you, only you must not mind if I say something stupid. It’s my way.”

“I am sure you would not say anything to wound me,” said Claire, kissing her.

“Indeed I wouldn’t, my dear: and, do you know, ever since I found out how you people here were situated, through Mr Denville coming to see my Josiah, who is the real best of men, I seemed to take to you like. I went home and had a good cry after I’d been here the first time, and seen you managing your poor father, and your sister and brother so well.”

Claire’s brow grew troubled, but her visitor prattled on.

“You had another brother, hadn’t you, my dear, who couldn’t agree with your father like, and then went away?”

“Yes,” said Claire, bowing her head to hide her face.

“Ah, my Josiah told me so. Well, well, there’s troubles in every family, my dear; and so long as pa has got you he has not much cause for complaint.”

Claire looked up, trying to smile, but it was a sorry attempt; and soon after her guest rose, assuring her that she need not be uneasy about Mr Linnell.

“One word before I go, my dear, though, just as a secret. It isn’t that I’m curious, because I don’t care who it is marries, or whom they marry; but I’ve no girls of my own, and I do take an interest in you. Now, just in a whisper like. I am an old friend.”

“Yes, yes—indeed, you are. The only dear friend I have.”

“Then tell me now; put your lips close to my ear—it is to be Mr Linnell, is it not?”

“Never!” said Claire firmly.

“Oh, my! And I told you to whisper. I won’t believe it’s that horrible Major.”

“Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, putting her arms round her homely friend’s neck, “they say that every woman has her duty in life: mine is to watch over and help my father, and to be such protection as I can to my sister and brothers.”

“What, and not get married at all?” cried Mrs Barclay, in a tone of disappointment.

“And never be any man’s wife,” said Claire sadly. “Oh!”

“Stop one moment, Mrs Barclay,” whispered Claire, in a strangely hesitating manner, “you do like me, I know.”

“Indeed, I do, my dear, though I must say you disappoint me horribly.”

“Then I want you—whatever comes to pass—whatever people may say of me—to try and think the best of me.”

“Why, my darling!”

“Yes: I know you will; but your confidence may be sorely tried, and I want you to think well of me always. I cannot do all I wish, and—and—I cannot explain myself; only think the best you can of me. Good-bye, good-bye!”

“She is the strangest girl I ever did meet,” said Mrs Barclay, as she panted away in her thick silk and enormous open bonnet. “Think well of her, whatever comes to pass! Why, of course I will, poor girl!”

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

An Interested Patron.

“Well, Denville,” said Lord Carboro’, “I wanted to see you.”

“In what way can I serve your lordship?” said the MC, with his best bow.

“A pinch of your snuff.”

The pinch was taken, and the box snapped and returned.

“Your arm.”

Denville’s breast swelled as he offered his arm to the elderly beau, and a flush of hope rose into his cheeks. The sun must be coming out at last.

It was a pleasant thing to be seen walking along the Parade in so familiar a way with Lord Carboro’, and to his great delight Denville saw that the Parade was well filled.

He expected that this would be only a temporary condescension from the wealthy old nobleman; but Lord Carboro’ held on tightly, made a few very nasty remarks about some of the people they passed, and then said suddenly:

“Drelincourt has been asking me to interest myself with the Prince to get your boy a commission.”

“Indeed, my lord?”

“Yes, indeed. ’Nother pinch of snuff.”

The box—sniff—snuff—snap.

“Like to know what I said to her?”

“My lord, I am a father.”

“Yes, Denville, I know it. Well.”

The old man changed the conversation to make another remark or two about some visitors, and then said, suddenly returning to the subject:

“Drelincourt asked me to get the lad a commission.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You don’t think of letting that old harpy claw up the boy?”

“Oh, my lord!”

“Of course, it would be madness. I told her I’d see her ladyship made a mummy first.”

The MC’s heart sank.

“She means to marry fat Matt Bray. I hope she will. I said I’d see her ladyship made a mummy first, Denville; and—he, he, he! she showed real colour. It came up in her cheeks, all round the rouge. Poor old girl! she is as bad as her sister was: hates to hear about dying. Doosid awkward thing, old Teigne being killed in your house. I wonder who got her diamonds.”

Denville’s hands began to tremble, and the beads of perspiration to stand upon his forehead.

“Must all die some day, I suppose. Great nuisance to think about if the weather’s fine, Denville; but when it’s a cold, easterly wind, or one’s gout’s bad, I often feel as if I shouldn’t mind being tucked up comfortably. How do you feel about it, Denville? You’re not a chicken.”

“My lord, I feel sometimes as if, once I could see my boy settled, and my daughter well married, it would be a relief to lie down and take the long sleep,” said the MC solemnly.

“Denville,” said Lord Carboro’, after a pause, during which he held on tightly to his companion’s arm. “I’ve gone on for years calling you an artificial old humbug, with your deportment and niminy-piminy ways. I hadn’t the common sense to see that they were like my wig and stock, sir—put on. I beg your pardon, Denville. I do, sir: I beg your pardon. You’ve the right stuff in you after all, and, sir—I’m very proud to tell you that what I wouldn’t do for that old harpy, Drelincourt, I would do on my own account.”

“My lord!”

“Yes, sir; asked His Royal Highness, myself, and he said nothing would give him greater pleasure. Denville, your son has a commission in the Light Dragoons.”

“My lord, I—I—”

“Don’t, don’t, Denville,” said the old man, pressing his arm. “Hold up man, or some of these idiots will be seeing that you are moved. Take a pinch of snuff, man—of mine, and let’s walk out upon the Downs, out here beyond the fishermen’s cottages, and my sight isn’t what it was, or I should have said that was Miss Claire going into yon fisherman’s hut.”

“Impossible, my lord. Will you allow me to express my—”

“No, no, no. Not a word, Denville. Why, man, you are husky with emotion now, real emotion. Don’t say another word about it. Only make the boy do us justice.”

“He shall, my lord,” said the MC in a broken voice.

“And now, look here, Denville; I’m about one of the most selfish old fellows that ever breathed, and I want to see if I can’t have a little recompense for all my miseries and disappointments.”

“Yours, my lord?”

“Yes, sir, mine,” said the old beau. “Do you think because I’m rich I’m happy? Not a bit of it. I haven’t long to live though now, and I want to make the best of the time left.”

“My lord!”

“Hold your tongue and listen. I heard all about Rockley meeting Miss Claire and young Linnell thrashing him.”

“It was a most unfortunate affair, my lord.”

“I don’t know that either. Pity young Linnell couldn’t shoot and pop off that scoundrel Rockley. By the way, he looked daggers at me for getting your boy appointed to his regiment; but the boy shan’t disgrace the corps, if I find him money myself.”

Denville paused where they stood upon the Downs and gazed wonderingly at the old Earl.

“I make you stare, Denville. Well, I’ll be frank with you, and you shall be frank with me.”

The MC bowed and wiped his streaming face.

“Of course she does not care for Rockley.”

“Good heavens, my lord; no!”

“Nor for young Linnell?”

The MC hemmed twice before he spoke.

“I, too, will be frank with you, my lord,” he said. “It was in dead opposition to my wishes, but I’m afraid there was something between my daughter and Mr Richard Linnell.”

Lord Carboro’ looked at the speaker searchingly.

“It was an unspoken attachment, my lord, nothing more; and since that terrible event at my house—I am obliged to name it,” he said, with quivering lip—“whatever intimacy existed has been broken off.”

“Humph! Sure, Denville?”

“I have my daughter’s word, my lord. That duel set me thinking; and like another father, my lord, of whom we read, I bespoke her roundly.”

“Oh! come, Denville, don’t compare yourself to Polonius, man. He—he—he!”

“Only to that extent, my lord. As I say, I spoke to her, and she assured me that there was nothing whatever between her and Mr Linnell, but gratitude towards a gentleman who saved her from insult.”

“Denville, that Mellersh is his friend; he ought to have shown the boy how to shoot the scoundrel.”

The MC was trembling with excitement. He was between hope and dread, for he could not but divine what was coming, and in spite of the glittering future it held up to his view he shrank from it with fear.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

An Elderly Suitor.

“Gratitude, eh?” said Lord Carboro’ suddenly.

“Yes, my lord,” said the MC, who was perspiring profusely.

“Deuced dangerous thing, Denville. Are you sure?”

“My lord, I have my child’s word, and that is sacred.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Lord Carboro’, “you are right. Bless her! she is as sweet and true as she is beautiful. She stands alone here in her youthful dignity. Damme, Denville, I always look upon her as some beautiful Greek goddess, and I would have sooner gone to her funeral than seen that roué Rockley win her. I would, damme.”

“My lord, so would I,” said Denville huskily.

“And you would sooner go to her funeral than see her my wife, eh?” said the old beau abruptly.

“My lord, I did not say so.”

“Nor think it?”

Stuart Denville, MC of Saltinville, stood there out on the hazy Downs, trembling, obsequious, tossed by his emotions. It was so dazzling, this suggestion of an offer for his child’s hand. May had married a rich man; but for Claire, his beautiful child, to become the wife of a wealthy nobleman—to become Countess of Carboro’! It was such an exaltation—greater than his highest dreams. But before him stood that withered old man, scanning him with his sharp eyes, and ready to probe him with his bitterly venomed tongue. He, to be the husband of his beautiful child. It was sacrilege.

“We agreed to be quite frank,” said Lord Carboro’ sharply.

Denville drew a long breath, and biting his lip, called up before his mental vision the sweet soft face of his child wearing a new horror as he bore her this news, and trampling down, as it were, the great temptation, he cast off his mincing ways, his servile politeness, and in a quick, firm voice exclaimed:

“Will your lordship commence and set me the example? What do you mean?”

“Come, I like that, Denville. Spoken like a man. Well, I’ll be frank. I have long been thinking of your child, and watching her, and as I have watched her I have loved—no, that is absurd at my age—my liking for her has grown. I have put it off and it has come back, and I have put it off again as I have heard some bit of scandal, but she has always come out of it so spotless and well that I have grown more—well, infatuated.”

He paused for a minute, and then went on speaking earnestly.

“Then came that horror at your house, just as I had made up my mind to speak to you; and I said no: it was impossible; but the feeling grew. Yes, man, even at my age.”

Denville bowed, and drew himself up very stiffly.

“I waited, Denville, and was about to speak to you when this affair with Rockley and the duel took place, and I stopped at home and swore horribly; but the feeling still grew and grew, and as that has all passed away, I now ask you if you will give me your consent. I ask you as a gentleman, Denville, to address her and ask her if she will be my wife.”

Denville did not answer, for a tremendous struggle was going on within his breast, and it was hard to say which side would win.

“Hah!” said Lord Carboro’, speaking quickly; “you say I am very old. Granted. That I ought to think of my coffin instead of a wife. Granted. That I am an old fool; but there I join issue.”

Denville had raised his hands deprecatingly.

“I am not an old fool, Denville.”

“No, my lord, you are not.”

“I’ll tell you why. I have said to myself that if this beautiful young creature swore to be my faithful wife I could trust her. She would be a sweet companion for my declining years; and, God bless her! if she consented, I would repay her for the sacrifice. In a few years I should leave her young, rich, titled, and free to choose some more suitable companion than the old man she had tended to his grave.”

There were no marks lying on the ground as those two elderly men stood face to face alone on the short turf of the Downs; but it seemed as if they must have dropped a tear.

Neither spoke for some minutes, and then it was the Master of the Ceremonies.

“My lord,” he said firmly, “you have given me this commission for my son as a bribe.”

“No, no, Denville, I swear I have not.”

“Take it back, my lord, for what you ask is impossible.”

“Impossible?”

“Fate has been very hard to me, my lord, and the burden has been too heavy at times to bear; but I cannot do this thing. I love my child too well.”

They stood gazing out to sea for some minutes, and only the rushing of the wind was heard, or the wailing cry of the gulls, but at last Lord Carboro’ spoke.

“Denville, I did not know you,” he said gravely. “I thought I had to deal with a different man; but don’t let us be hasty. As to the commission, it is your boy’s, and may he deserve it. As to what we have said, let us wait. Don’t refuse me absolutely, and don’t say a word to Miss Denville. Give me leave to visit at your house, and let matters slide for a few months. Things may shape themselves so that you may change your mind; do you consent to this?”

“It would be like buoying your lordship up with false hopes.”

“That is my look-out, sir; do you consent?”

“I am your lordship’s obedient, humble servant.”

“You are the man I offer to make my father-in-law? Answer me, sir, like a man.”

“I consent.”

“That’s better. Denville, your hand. In future I shall know you as the man I have seen to-day. I never respected you one half so much before.”

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

James Bell’s Decision.

It was in honour of Morton Denville’s reception into the regiment that the Master of the Ceremonies received. There had been some difficulty in the matter, but on the very first night that the young man dined at the mess, when, urged by Major Rockley, his brother-officers had decided to send him to Coventry, it so happened that “a certain gentleman” was at Saltinville and had expressed his intention to Colonel Lascelles of looking in.

Consequently, it was decided not to transport the young subaltern to the Midlands that night; and as it happened His Royal Highness asked the Colonel who the tall youth was, ordered him to be introduced, and shook hands with the young man.

“Devilish gentlemanly fellow, your father, my lad. Always looks a gentleman, and carries a devilish good pinch of snuff. My compliments to him, and tell him I was glad to oblige Carboro’.”

“They were all as civil to me as could be, after that, Clairy,” said Morton, relating the meeting at home. “Even Rockley shook hands after dinner, when we’d had a lot of claret, and he apologised about being carried away, he called it, and said we were brother-officers now, and must be good friends. I don’t like him, though.”

Claire turned pale.

“I say, though, Clairy, I haven’t said a word to the dad, but what am I to do? I turned cold and hot, and queer as could be yesterday. Whom do you think I met?”

Claire knew what was coming, but she did not speak.

“Fred. I’d half forgotten about him, and he’s in my troop.”

“Did—did Fred speak, Morton?”

“No; he cut me dead, and of course he is James Bell in the regimental books; but, I say, isn’t it awkward? I can’t know him, you see, as my brother: what shall I do?”

“Fred has shown you,” said Claire huskily, as her troubles seemed to be on the increase. “I will try and persuade him to leave the regiment. We must buy him out.”

“Yes, to be sure,” cried the boy. “Oh, I say, what a clever old girl you are, Sis! Why, you’re better than a mother.”

Claire smiled sadly as he kissed her and left the house.

That night she wrote to Private James Bell about the difficulty—a long sisterly letter, offering to get the money to buy his discharge, and alluding to everything as tenderly as the subject would allow.

In due time a crisp short reply came back:

“Dear Claire,

“No, I shall not leave the regiment. I want to keep my eye on the Major. Tell Morton not to be afraid. I am only James Bell, and I shall never presume. I am too well disciplined for that. Take care of your dear self.

“Good-bye, F.”

Claire wept over the letter, and hid it with her treasures. The difficulty seemed to have passed away, and she felt lighter at heart.

She had to prepare too for the evening that the Master of the Ceremonies had determined to give, not because he could afford it, but nominally, as intimated, in honour of his son’s receiving a commission, more especially because Lord Carboro’ had wished it, and said that he should come.

With such a visitor to give éclat to the proceedings, the difficulty was how to arrange to issue invitations, for Denville, with throbbing breast, felt that no one would decline.

He was in a tremor for days, as he thought the matter over, and was swayed by his ambition and his true manhood, to and fro.

At times he raised his eyes to find that Claire was watching him, and her cold candid look made him shrink within himself, as he thought of the past, and he shivered in dread lest she should display that terrible repugnance again, instead of the sad, half despondent distance that had become her manner and her bearing towards him.

She never kissed him, but, when he took her hand, she suffered him to press his lips to her brow without flinching as she had at first, and he sighed and accepted his fate.

There had been times of late when the entanglement of his younger son’s position in the regiment, with an elder brother a private in the ranks, had half driven him mad, keeping him awake night after night; and Claire had lain weeping despairingly as she had heard him pace his room, but the horrible difficulty he had been anticipating did not seem to come home, and he waited for the Nemesis that would some day arrive, hoping that he might be allowed time to complete his plans before the bolt fell.

He sat one morning, deciding with Claire to whom invitations were to be issued. Lady Drelincourt would come of course, as Lord Carboro’ would be there, and several other notables had been invited.

“Then the officers of the regiment, of course.”

Claire half rose and looked in her father’s face.

“We must forget that, my child,” he said imploringly. “Major Rockley is a gentleman, and he has in some sort apologised to Morton. He told me so. To leave him out would be to insult him. He must be asked. His good sense will keep him away. You must ask Colonel Mellersh, too. He is a great friend of Colonel Lascelles.”

“You will ask Mr and Mrs Barclay, father?” said Claire.

“Oh, yes, we must. Dreadfully vulgar people, but it is a necessity.”

Claire sighed as she thought of what was behind Mrs Barclay’s vulgarity, and the note was written.

A couple of days passed, and everyone without exception had expressed his or her intention of being present, when, as he was on the Parade, Colonel Mellersh met the MC, and said:

“By the way, Denville, I want you to invite my young friend Linnell to your party.”

“I shall be charmed,” said Denville, with a smile, for he could not refuse; and in due course Richard Linnell received an invitation and replied.

A little farther on, Denville came upon Lady Drelincourt in her chair.

“Ah, Denville, bad man,” she said, tapping him with her folded fan. “I feel as if I could not come to your house. My poor dear sister!”

The houses on the Parade seemed to reel before the MC’s eyes.

“But one cannot grieve for ever. I shall come. Have you asked that wicked Rockley?”

Denville bowed.

“And Sir Matthew Bray?”

“All the officers whom duty will allow are coming.”

“That’s well; and now, Denville, you must send an imitation with apologies to Mrs Pontardent.”

“Lady Drelincourt!”

“I can’t help it. She wishes to come, and I have promised that she shall.”

The result was that Mrs Pontardent was invited, and in turn she expressed a wish that her dear friends the Deans, whom Mr Denville had introduced to her, should not be left out.

The Master of the Ceremonies had the deciding who should be in society, and who should not; and here he was making a stand when Lord Carboro’ came up—it was on the pier—and was appealed to by Mrs Pontardent.

“Oh, yes, Denville,” he said good-humouredly; “ask Mrs and Miss Dean.”

The Master of the Ceremonies ruled the roost, but he was everybody’s slave; and, in this case, the only way out of the difficulty after they had been neglected so long was to call with Claire and invite them personally.

“If you wish it, papa,” Claire said, when spoken to on the subject.

“I do not, my dear,” he replied, with a sigh. “My position compels it.”

They went trembling: Claire in agony lest she should encounter Richard Linnell; her father about the expenses into which he was drifting, for the tradespeople were giving him broad hints, especially the confectioner, that money must be forthcoming if the refreshments were to be supplied.

Cora Dean’s eyes flashed with pride and jealousy as the visitors were shown in, but she received Claire courteously, and the wonderfully different pair were left together by the open window, while Mrs Dean drew the Master of the Ceremonies aside.

“I am pleased, Mr Denville,” she whispered. “This is real good of you. I knew you would get us into society at last. Mrs Pontardent has been very kind, but she ain’t everybody. I wanted my Bet—my Cora—to meet my Lady Drelincourt and the other big ones. After this, of course, it’s all plain sailing, and we shall go on. I say, just look at ’em.”

Denville turned with a sigh towards the bay window where Claire and Cora were seated, talking quietly, but with eyes that seemed to fight and fence, as if each feared the other.

“You go into a many houses and don’t see such a pair as that.”

“Your daughter is a beautiful woman, Mrs Dean.”

“Lady,” said the latter correctively; “and so’s yours, only too cold and pale. And now, look here, Denville, as friends—I know what’s what.”

“Really, Mrs Dean, you puzzle me.”

“Hush! Don’t speak so loud. Look here, you’ve done me a thoroughly good turn, and I’m a warm woman, and not ungrateful. As I said before, I know what’s what—Parties ain’t done well for nothing, and expenses comes heavy sometimes. If you want to borrow thirty or forty pounds—there, stuff! you must have your fees. I’m going to put half a dozen five-pound notes under the chany ornament in the back room. You can look round and admire the rooms and get it.”

His spirit rebelled, but his breeches pocket gaped horribly, and wincing in spirit, he rose and went forward to talk to Cora in his society way, starting, in spite of himself, as he heard the chink of china on marble, while, after a time, he began in the most graceful way to gaze through his eyeglass at the pictures and china from Mr Barclay’s ample store, ending by securing the notes in the most nonchalant way.

After letting a sufficient time elapse, the Denvilles took their leave, and Mrs Dean broke out in ecstasy:

“There, Betsy, at last. You’ll be a real lady now.”

“Yes, mother,” said Cora dreamily.

“I say, Denville isn’t a bad one, only he has to be paid.”

“It’s the custom, mother.”

“Oh, yes. You know what ’Amlet says, as your poor father used to make jokes about, and call breeches; but I say, isn’t she a milk-and-water chit beside you, my gal? Didn’t you feel as if you ’ated her?”

“No, mother,” said Cora thoughtfully. “She’s different to what I expected. I don’t think she’ll live.”

“Don’t talk like that. Now, let’s see what about your noo dress.”

“And yours, mother?”

“Of course. And feathers.”

And as this conversation went on, Stuart Denville and his daughter Claire walked homeward, the latter with the gloom deepening, so it seemed, over her young life, the former with the six crisp notes riding lightly in his pocket, and the load of misery and shame growing heavier day by day.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

In Society.

It was a proud time for the MC, and he knew how it would be canvassed in Saltinville. All the principal people would have honoured his little home, and in the future he saw his fees and offerings doubled, and Claire well married—to Lord Carboro’. No, he could not say that, though the bait was glittering still before his eyes.

He was in the drawing-room waiting, with pretty May smiling out of her curls, hanging in her tawdry frame upon the wall; but Claire was not yet down.

If she would only forget that night and not avoid him as she did, how much less difficult this burden would be to bear.

He rang, and Isaac, in a new suit of livery, appeared.

“Send word to your mistress that it is time she was down, Isaac.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The cards on the tables?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the refreshments?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will ask Lady Drelincourt’s servant to stop and help wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the Earl of Carboro’s.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps it would be as well to keep Mr Burnett’s man also.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need say no more, Isaac, only that you will see that the tea and coffee are hot, and that the refreshments in the dining-room are ready in relays.”

“Yes, sir; everything shall be done, sir; and would you mind casting your eye over that, sir?”

“Certainly, I will do so, Isaac. Hem! An account, Isaac?”

“Yes, sir—wages, sir; and if you would make it convenient—”

“My good Isaac,” said the MC blandly, “as you must be aware, gentlemen are in the habit sometimes of taking rather long credit, and of often being in debt. I might cite to you His Royal Highness. But no one troubles thereon, because it is well known that sooner or later His Royal Highness will pay his debts.”

“Yes, sir; of course, sir; but wages, sir—”

“Are wanted, Isaac, of course. Now, my good Isaac, you must have seen how much occupied I have been of late. No: say no more now. I will look over your statement, and you shall be paid.”

A tremendous knock and ring cut short this little scene, and Denville wiped the dew from his face as he uttered a low sigh of relief.

“She will come down now.—Ah, my dear Mrs Barclay; my dear Barclay. Delighted to see you both.”

“I say, Denville, old fellow, you’re going it, eh?”

“My dear Barclay, a sheer necessity. You see how I have placed my son.”

“Umph! yes,” said the money-lender, with a chuckle; “but I’m no better off. You are. One less to keep, but at my expense.”

“But, my dear Barclay—”

“All, it’s all very well, but you came to me to find the money for his outfit.”

“Now, look here, Jo-si-ah,” cried Mrs Barclay, who was a wonder of satin, feathers, and jewellery, “Mr Denville has been kind enough to ask us to his party, and I will not have another word said about bills and money. I’ve come to enjoy myself, and I mean to. There!”

“Bless the woman!” sighed Denville.

“And where’s Miss Claire? Oh, here she is. Oh, my dear, how lovable you look in your plain pearl satin. Oh, I never did! Only oughtn’t you to have a necklace on? I say, take me to your room, and let me lend you mine.”

She placed her plump hand upon a magnificent ruby necklet that she wore, but Claire checked her.

“No, no, no, Mrs Barclay,” she whispered.

“Well, p’raps you’re right, my dear. Nothing wouldn’t make you look better.”

“Let me compliment you too, Miss Denville,” said Barclay in his brusque way; and, after a smile and a few words, he turned back to talk to his host.

“I say, Denville—why, it was in that back room that—why, you’ve made it into a back drawing-room.”

“For God’s sake, Barclay!”

Denville caught at his visitor’s arm, and looked at him in a ghastly way.

“Eh? Why, you look scared. Ah, well, it was stupid to mention it at a time like this. Mustn’t allude to it when they are all here, eh?”

“For heaven’s sake, no.”

“All right, I won’t. I say, Denville, what do you think of that?”

He drew a case from his pocket, opened it, and displayed a necklace of large single diamonds, the sight of which made the MC start and shiver.

“Magnificent!” he faltered.

“I should think they are. All choice picked stones, sir. Belonged to a Countess.”

“To a Countess?” said Denville, in a faltering voice.

“Yes, sir. I say, your bread’s beginning to be buttered thick. Look here.”

He drew out another case as they stood alone in the front room.

“There’s a set of pearls, sir. There’s lustre and regularity. Two fifty guineas, Denville.”

“But, my dear Barclay,” said the host, striving to recover his equanimity, “why have you brought those here?”

“Why have I brought ’em? Don’t you know? Well, I’ll tell you. Old Carboro’ wants to pay a delicate attention to a lady he admires, and he bade me bring two or three things here to choose from. I mean to sell old Drelincourt the one he does not take. Look, I’ve two more lots.”

“But, my dear Barclay, surely you will not attempt to sell or barter here—in my house,” said Denville piteously.

“Not try? Oh, won’t I, though! Why, my dear Denville, you don’t suppose I came to waste time, do you? Not I.”

There was an announcement here, and Denville had to hide the feeling of annoyance mingled with pleasure that came upon him, for there could be no doubt in his own mind for whom the jewels were intended.

How would Claire treat the offer?

The guests began to arrive fast now, and the shabbiness of the candle-decked room was soon turned into a suitably subdued setting to the rich dresses which Mrs Barclay scanned in turn, and decided were not so good as her own.

The incident about the jewels troubled Denville more and more, and he found himself glancing from time to time at the beautiful woman in her simple, pearl-tinted satin, who was doing the honours of his house so gracefully.

“Yes,” he sighed, “worthy to be a Countess, but—” He drew his breath hard. Poor as he was, it seemed too terrible a sacrifice.

Then the temptation came upon him very strongly again. Rich, admired, beautiful, an enviable position; and, once she was married, the terrible disclosure that would some day perhaps come would not affect her.

“Colonel Mellersh; Mr Richard Linnell,” announced Isaac; and a feeling of jealous anger against the young man he had been obliged to invite came over him, but had to be hidden by a smile as the two new-comers advanced to Claire.

Denville watched them keenly; but Claire’s face was as calm as if they had been total strangers. She gave them both a most courteous greeting. That was all.

“Lord Carboro’,” announced Isaac.

There was a little excitement here, as the wealthy old beau entered, looking very keen and sharp, but very old; and as Denville saw him take Claire’s hand, the feeling of elation was swept away by a cold, despairing chill. It was impossible.

And yet, as his lordship stood chatting to the beautiful girl, Denville noticed that there was a change in her. She seemed brighter and more animated. She smiled at the old man’s remarks, and once more the impossible seemed to be growing possible, for Claire was only a woman, after all.

Colonel Mellersh saw this too, and half sneeringly turned to Richard Linnell.

“There,” he said, “much good you’ve done by making me bring you. I believe your syren has captivated old Carboro’.”

“Just look at the old man,” whispered Mrs Barclay to her husband. “Why, I declare, he’s quite gallant.”

“Hold your tongue, and don’t you let it go, old woman. Here he is.”

“Pinch of your snuff, Barclay,” said the old dandy, coming up smiling. “My compliments to you, Mrs Barclay. You look charming.”

“Oh, my lord!” said Mrs Barclay, rising to curtsey, and saying to herself, “As if I didn’t know better than that.”

“I can’t think what you were about to marry such an ugly old scoundrel as Barclay here. Have you brought anything?”

He took Barclay’s arm, and they walked into the back drawing-room, where there were a couple of card-tables.

“Dick,” said Colonel Mellersh, “old Carboro’s going to borrow money, or else—by Jove, he’s getting a present from him for your beloved.”

“I thought you were my friend, Mellersh,” said Linnell, with his brow knitting.

“So I am. Look.”

“I am not a spy,” said Linnell coldly, and he turned away.

“What have you brought?” said Lord Carboro’.

“These diamonds, my lord, this string of pearls, and a large diamond bracelet. Look at these diamonds, my lord—”

“Don’t talk. I don’t want everybody to see. Lay them on the table. No: show me the pearls.”

“They are perfect, my lord, and—”

“Hold your tongue, man. That will do.”

“I’ll slip out this bracelet, my lord. No; I’ll go and give it to my wife. She shall put it on, and you can go and talk to her, and see how beautiful it is in design.”

“Hold your tongue, man. The pearls will do. How much?”

“Three hundred guineas, my lord. They are—”

“Bah! Robbery! I’ll give you two hundred down. Do you think I want credit?”

“But, my lord, I should lose heavily.”

“And a doosid good thing too, Barclay. You want bleeding. Am I to have them?”

“Two fifty, my lord, as you are so old a friend.”

“Two hundred—in an instant. Yes, or no?”

“Well, yes, my lord.”

“Give me another pinch of snuff, Barclay, and hold the pearls in your hand. Never mind the case. Thanks, that will do. Come for the money in the morning.”

The exchange was ingeniously effected, but Colonel Mellersh saw it, and his lips tightened as he glanced at Richard Linnell.

“He’s got the pearls, old woman,” said Barclay, going back to his wife where she sat fanning herself, and alone.

“How much?”

“Two hundred guineas.”

“Let’s see; you gave the Hon. Mrs Bedam fifty for ’em, didn’t you, Josiah?”

“Yes; but they’re worth a hundred, honestly.”

“And is he going to give ’em to Claire?”

“Don’t know. Wait.”

“Lady Drelincourt, Sir Matthew Bray, Colonel Lascelles,” announced Isaac; and, before the small talk was half over, he shouted again: “Sir Harry Payne, Major Rockley, Mr Morton Denville.”

Richard Linnell told himself that he was no spy, but he could not keep his eyes from the group, as the officers entered, and were received by Claire.

It was a crucial meeting, but she bore it well, bowing rather stiffly to Major Rockley as he advanced in a deprecating way; and he was evidently about to stay by her side, but Isaac announced:

“Mrs and Miss Dean.”

There was a little buzz of excitement.

“Mrs Pontardent.”

This lady meant to be before her protégées; but she was in time after all, and after a quiet, unaffected welcome from Claire, they formed a little group by themselves, about whom, like flies attracted by bright colours, the officers buzzed.

Mrs Pontardent was a tall, good-looking, lady-like woman, who patronised the Master of the Ceremonies when they spoke, and complimented him upon the appearance of “his little girl.”

“You must bring her to one of my evenings, Denville.”

He would have said “Impossible” had he dared. As it was, he said he should be charmed, and this set him thinking about how much money was won and lost there, when fresh arrivals took up his attention, and soon after Isaac announced:

“Mr and Mrs Frank Burnett.”

Claire uttered a sigh of relief as she shook hands with her sister and brother-in-law, the latter pairing off directly with one of the officers.

“Well,” said May eagerly, “is all right?”

“Yes, dear; but they want money, and I have none.”

“Oh, dear, money again! Well, I’ll see.”

“But, May dear, you must do something more.”

“What do you mean?”

“This task grows more difficult every day. You must really make some arrangements, or I shall be compromised.”

“Well, how shall I be? do you want me to be compromised? I declare you have no more feeling than a stone.”

“May—dear May!”

“It’s quite true. I’m disgraced by my family at every turn. What with brothers turning common soldiers, and horrors in the house, and—”

“My dear Mrs Burnett, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Sir Harry Payne, coming up with Lord Carboro’, who managed to cut in before Rockley, who was approaching Claire.

“Oh, what a wicked, wicked story-teller you are!” said May, with childish playfulness, as Sir Harry remained by her side, while Lord Carboro’ led off Claire. “You knew I was coming.”

“I did, I did,” he whispered passionately.

“Hush! Don’t go on like that. Everybody is watching us.”

“Then when will you give me a chance to see you alone?”

“Oh, I couldn’t think of such a thing.”

“May! dearest May.”

“Hush!”

The conversation was carried on in a low tone, and then May exclaimed:

“Oh, impossible!”

“It is not,” he said eagerly. “It is simplicity itself.”

He whispered again, and May Burnett shook her head.

“I implore you,” he whispered. “You know all I feel, but you are as hard and cold as you are beautiful. There, I swear if you do not consent, I’ll—”

“Pistols, or off the pier?” said May, with a provoking smile.

“Oh, you are maddening!” he exclaimed. “I believe you would like to see me lying dead.”

“Oh, no; I don’t like to see dead people,” she said mockingly.

“All these weary months, and not one short interview. You are playing with me. Curse him!”

“Curse whom?” said May coolly.

“That husband of yours. I’ll pick a quarrel with him next time we play cards and shoot him.”

“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!”

It was a sweetly innocent sounding little trill of laughter as ever passed from a provoking pouting rosebud of a mouth; and Claire heard it, and turned paler than ordinary, as she saw in whose company her sister was.

“You will excuse me now, Lord Carboro’,” she said. “I have my duties as hostess to attend to.”

“One moment,” he said, placing his back to the company, and gazing with a look of such reverence as he had not for long years felt for woman in the sweet face before him.

Claire looked up at him half wonderingly.

“I am a very old friend of your father, Miss Denville.”

“Oh, yes, my lord. I remember you when I was quite a little child.”

“And now,” he said, “I am getting to be an old man, and you have grown into a beautiful woman. Will you—do not be alarmed; no one can see—will you accept this little offering from so old a friend, and wear it for his sake?”

He held out the lustrous necklace as he spoke, believing that they were quite unseen; but it was not so, for Colonel Mellersh said softly to Linnell:

“There, Dick, what did I tell you?”

“Lord Carboro’,” said Claire, with quiet dignity, “I could only take so valuable a jewel from—from—”

“A very dear friend, my child. Let me be that friend.”

She looked at him searchingly, and then dropped her eyes, saying nothing, but drawing back with a slight gesture that was unmistakable, and glided away.

“The mentor is not always right, Colonel Mellersh,” said Richard Linnell quietly. “I feel as if I had been playing the spy, but I do not regret it, from the effect it must have on you.”

“Egad, she’s a very queen,” said Lord Carboro’, as he quietly took out his snuff-box, and dropped the necklet into his pocket. “By George, sir, I never thought there was such a woman in the world.”

The conversation was at its height, and Claire twice over managed to intercept Sir Harry when he was approaching her sister, but only to be snubbed for her pains by May. She was conscious that Rockley was seeking an opportunity to approach her, but she gave him none, her position as hostess giving her plenty of chances for avoiding those she did not wish to meet, in attending and introducing others.

“Hang the girl! she’s a regular sorceress,” said Colonel Mellersh to himself. “She’ll end by charming me. I want a game at cards, and if I leave Dick, he’ll be hanging on to her strings directly.”

“Well, mother, are you satisfied?” said Cora, as the evening went by.

“Satisfied? Oh, I don’t mind, my dear, so long as you get on. And you are, you know, sitting here among the big people, I say, Cory, I am proud of you.”

“That’s right, mother.”

“But I say, what did Colonel Mellersh say to you as he went to the card-table?”

“Asked me, as any gentleman would, whether he should take me down to have some refreshment.”

“Well, that was kind and neighbourly. I rather like him, but I do wish you wouldn’t encourage that young Linnell so.”

“Mother!”

“There, I’ve done. I won’t say another word. Don’t fly out at me here. Now, that is a man to admire.”

“What, Mr Richard Linnell?”

“No: stuff, Cory. You know who I mean—that Major Rockley. I couldn’t hear a word he said to you. I wouldn’t, for I don’t like to stand in your way. I say, Cory, he’ll be a Colonel and a General some day. Why not him?”

“Would you like to know what he said to me, mother?”

“Yes; he did quite make love to you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Hah, I thought so.”

Mrs Dean’s rings crackled as she rubbed her hands, and metaphorically hugged herself.

“That comes of getting into good society, Cora. Ladies drop into engagements without having to look after the gentlemen. You see, they are so brought together like. That Denville puts a sort of stamp on you like, and then you’re in society, and handsome Majors come and throw themselves at your feet.”

“Yes,” said Cora, speaking through her teeth, “and insult you, and dare to speak to you as if you were some beautiful toy brought and set up for their amusement.”

“Cory!”

“I tell you that every word he spoke to me in his mocking gallant way was an insult, and made my fingers tingle and my face burn. Mother, I’ve found out that there are two classes of men in the world.”

“Oh, my gracious! now she’s off again,” sighed Mrs Dean.

“There are those who naturally honour and respect woman with all the manly chivalry of their nature, and those who look upon her as a being several degrees lower than themselves. Mother, that man made me feel to-night as if I could kill him.”

“Oh dear; oh dear!” sighed Mrs Dean in a whisper to her daughter, “if this is coming into society, and you are going on talking in that savage way, we had better stop at home. I expect you snubbed the Major in that orty way of yours, and he has gone after that chit of Denville’s.”

“Where? Has he mother?” cried Cora, in an excited whisper.

“Yes; he is bending over her and making big eyes at her. I say, he is a handsome man, Cory, and if I know anything, he’s regularly took with her.”

“Are you sure, mother?”

“Sure? Just as if I couldn’t tell in a moment. You might get him away from her if you liked, I dare say. Look at that.”

She drew back a little that her child might see where Rockley was speaking in a markedly deferential manner to Claire; and Cora’s colour went and came, and her bosom heaved in unison.

“Bless your ’art, Cory, I ain’t lived to my age without picking up a little. Why, since I’ve been sitting here to-night I’ve picked up no end, and if I was a scandalous old woman I could make any amount of mischief.”

Cora did not answer, for just then Lord Carboro’ came up.

“Let me take you down to have a jelly, Miss Dean,” he said.

Cora looked up at him and was about to refuse; but there was such a quiet, respectful look in the old man’s eyes that she took his arm.

“I’ll come and fetch you afterwards, Mrs Dean,” he said and they crossed the room.

“There,” said Mrs Dean. “Now I’m a happy woman. It might be after all. Countess—not a Shakespeare countess or duchess for six nights only, as it says in the bills, but altogether. Hah, I paid for this party, and I don’t grudge the money, and Denville’s made himself a friend. I was going to say to my gal: there’s that Sir Matthew Bray making up to old Lady Drelincourt, and that Sir Harry Payne to Mrs Burnett, and Major Rockley to Claire Denville, and young Linnell as jealous as can be. And now, to top off with and finish the scene, Lord Carboro’ comes and takes off my Cora. Well, we’re in society at last.”

“Look here, old woman, this bracelet case is banging against my leg horribly, and if I have two things old Drelincourt will hesitate between them and take neither. If I’ve only one she may take it. I think I can get her alone now. Here, slip this into your pocket.”

“Oh, but Jo-si-ah, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, stupid; you’ve got lots of room. Here, I want to clear my expenses to-night.”

“Why, you have, Jo-si-ah.”

“Pooh! That’s nothing. Here, catch hold.”

He slipped the case into his wife’s hand, and she took it and passed it under a fold of her satin dress.

Barclay strolled away to try and get hold of Lady Drelincourt, and just then Denville came up.

“My dear Mrs Barclay,” he said, “you have been sitting all alone so long, and I could not get to you, and poor Claire is so busy.”

“Oh, don’t you mind me, Mr Denville. I’m nobody.”

“But you must be faint.”

“Well, since you put it like that, Mr Denville, I really have got such a dreadful feeling of sinking inside me that if it was only a sangwidge and a glass of sherry, I’d say bless you.”

“Come then, my dear madam,” said Denville. “This way.”

She rose and took the offered arm, and Lord Carboro’ smiled as the florid little woman went by him. Then he drew back by a curtain, and began taking snuff and watching Claire, as she now stood still, and he saw her meet Linnell’s eyes just as Rockley, who had been watching his opportunity, was going up to her.

Linnell looked at her with eyes that said, “May I come?” and he read that long, calm, trustful gaze to say “Yes.”

“Very nicely done. In a sweet maidenly way,” said Lord Carboro’. “How cleverly a woman can do that sort of thing, making one man a shield against another. By George! she is a queen—a woman of whom a man might be proud.”

Rockley went scowling back, and threw himself on the seat where Mrs Barclay had been; and from where he stood Lord Carboro’ looked at him sneeringly.

“Old, worn out, withered as I am, handsome Rockley, if Claire Denville became my wife, I shouldn’t care a snap for you. Ugh! why, I must be standing just where old Teigne was smothered. How horrible! Pish, what matters! Why should I care, when her dear sister is laughing and showing her false teeth there just where the foot of the bedstead used to be. Sweet girlish creature; she’s ogling that fat dragoon, and she’ll marry him if she can.”

He took another pinch of snuff.

“Hallo!” he muttered, “Payne after that little strawberry cream of a woman. We shall have a scandal there, as sure as fate, and—good girl, she sees through her and cuts the enemy out. Claire, my dear, you are indeed a little queen among women. I’ve never given you half the credit you deserve, and—damme!—never!—yes—no—yes!—the scoundrel! Well, that comes of reckless play. Curse it all, there must not be such a scandal as this. Where’s Denville?”

He looked round, but the Master of the Ceremonies had not returned with Mrs Barclay.

Everybody was fully engaged, laughing, flirting, or card-playing. Assignations were being made; money was changing hands, and the candles were burning down and guttering at the sides, as Lord Carboro’ exclaimed:

“Hang it! I did not think he could stoop to be such a scoundrel as that!”

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Major Rockley’s Mistake.

“Now, Barclay, you are a wicked flatterer,” said Lady Drelincourt, as she sat out in the balcony, with the money-lender leaning over her after leading her there and placing a chair.

“I shall risk being rude in my rough way,” said Barclay in a low voice, “and repeat my words. I said those lustrous diamonds would look perfect on your ladyship’s beautiful throat.”

“Now, you don’t mean it, Barclay. I am not so young as I was, and my throat is not beautiful now.”

“There, I’m a plain man,” said Barclay; “I’ve no time for fine sayings and polished phrases, and what I say is this: I know your ladyship must be forty.”

“Yes, Barclay, I am,” said Lady Drelincourt, with a sigh.

“I’m fifty-five,” he said, “and what I say is, how a woman with a skin like yours can utter such deprecatory sentiments is a puzzle. Why, half the women here would be proud of such a skin. Look how they paint. Pah!”

“They do, Barclay; they do. Are the diamonds of good water?”

“Look,” he said, holding them before him.

“No, no; some one in the room will see.”

“I’ll take care of that, my lady. Look at them. I daren’t tell you whom they once belonged to, but they came to me through accidents at the gaming-table. They are perfect in match and size. Lady Drelincourt, you would not be doing yourself justice if you did not buy them. I wish I dare clasp them on.”

“No, no; not now. How much did you say?”

“I am giving them away at four hundred guineas, Lady Drelincourt.”

“Oh, but that’s a terrible price, Barclay!”

“They will be worth more in a year or two, Lady Drelincourt.”

“Oh, but I could not spare so much money.”

“Pooh! what of that! If your ladyship likes the diamonds—”

“I do like them, Barclay.”

“I should be happy to give your ladyship what credit you require.”

“Really, this is very naughty of me, Barclay; it is, indeed, but I suppose I must have them. There, slip them into my hand. You can send me the case to-morrow.”

“I will, my lady. You’ll never regret the purchase, and I am delighted that they will be worn by the queen of Saltinville society.”

“Go away, flatterer, and tell Sir Matthew Bray to bring me my salts. I left them on the chimney-piece.”

“I fly,” said Barclay; and he went through the rooms to perform his commission, Sir Matthew hurrying to get to her ladyship’s side, while Barclay turned to meet his wife who was just returning with their host.

“Hallo!”

“Oh, I am so much better now, Jo-si-ah. I was so faint.”

“Ah, Denville, I want a word with you,” said Lord Carboro’, coming up box in hand.

“I say, old lady,” whispered Barclay, “got that bracelet safe?”

“Oh, yes, that’s all right; but you can’t have it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s right down at the very bottom of my pocket, where there’s no getting at it at all. But you don’t want it now?”

“No. I’ve sold the diamond necklace.”

“No!”

“I have, to that old hag, Drelincourt.”

“Did she pay you?”

“No; but we’ve got deeds worth four times as much, and I shall charge her interest until she pays.”

“Then you’ve had a splendid night, Jo-si-ah.”

“Glorious!” he said, rubbing his hands.

“Then I want a rubber of whist, and I shall see if I can’t win a few guineas myself.”

“All right. I’ll get you to a table.”

“Denville, old fellow,” said Lord Carboro’, chatting with his host and taking snuff from the box given by the Prince, “I’ve a bad habit of seeing everything that goes on around me.”

“Your lordship is most observant.”

“I’m sorry to say I am; and whether we become relatives or not, Denville, I take an interest in you and your belongings.”

The Master of the Ceremonies looked up in alarm.

“Take a bit of good advice, Denville.”

“My lord!”

“And keep a tighter rein over your daughter.”

“Your lordship’s opinions seem to change easily,” said Denville bitterly. “The other day my daughter Claire—”

“Pooh! Absurd, man! Stop. She is perfect. A princess could not have been a more charming hostess. I did not mean her. Look there!”

“Mrs Burnett with Sir Harry Payne?”

“Yes; the fellow’s a blackguard. The little woman married a fool—”

“My lord!”

“Who neglects her for drink and play. Don’t be offended, Denville. I am your friend. You have had scandal enough in your family; you must have no more.”

Denville drew a long breath.

“Your lordship is right; but you must not misunderstand my dear child.”

“Pretty, sweet, young, and most impressionable, Denville. Constant dropping will wear a stone. Don’t let the water drop on it any more.”

“My lord, you may trust me.”

“Stop, Denville. Another thing in confidence. You must get it back, treating it all as an error.”

“My lord, you alarm me. Get it back?”

“I can’t help it, Denville. Do you know that sometimes dashing fellows, ruined by play, have gone on the road mounted and masked, and, pistol in hand, have robbed?”

“Yes, my lord. But we have no highwaymen here.”

“Don’t be too sure. Did you know that Barclay, at my wish, brought some jewellery?”

“Yes, but not at my wish, my lord! I felt aggrieved—insulted.”

“Forgive him and me. It was at my request. I wanted to make an offering—a string of pearls—to your daughter; and, like the sweet true lady she is, she has refused to accept them.”

Denville flushed and turned pale as he glanced proudly at his child, where she stood talking to Colonel Mellersh.

“I saw Barclay give his wife a case with a diamond bracelet in it, to hold while he went to old Drelincourt.”

“Yes, my lord. What of that?”

“Mrs Barclay did not put it in her pocket, but let it slip down on the carpet.”

“Where was she seated, my lord?”

“Never mind; the diamond bracelet was found.”

“Thank goodness!” gasped Denville.

“By Major Rockley.”

“Who gave it back?”

“No; who has pocketed it, and will keep it; while Barclay will most likely credit you.”

“Impossible, my lord!”

“Possible, Denville. I tell you there must be no more robberies here. Hang it, man, stand up.”

“A sudden giddiness, my lord. I am better now. I will get the jewels back. But, one moment, my lord, are you really quite sure?”

“I am certain.”

“But Major Rockley may mean—”

“Hush, Denville. What do you know of handsome Rockley? Do you think he will give the jewels back if he can get them away? Act; at once.”

“Suppose he is wrong,” said Denville to himself, as he went off on his painful task. “What an insult to an officer—the Prince’s friend.”

“I dare not do it,” he said after a pause. “It must be some mistake. Such an act would be the work of a common thief. He must be wrong.”

He shrank from his task, but he felt that it must be done, for how could he let it go forth that there had been another diamond robbery from his house. It was impossible.

As he hesitated he caught sight of Lord Carboro’ watching him. Barclay too was there, evidently about to speak to him, and he felt that he must. Better to offend Major Rockley than have another scandal.

He mingled among his guests with a word here and there, sending some downstairs, and interfering in a tête-à-tête between May and Sir Harry Payne, who had at last won a promise from the giddy little creature to whom he was paying court. He then went up to Rockley, snuff-box in hand, and addressed him as he was leaning against the chimney-piece.

“I’m afraid our little reunion has no charms for you, Major Rockley,” he said.

“On the contrary, my dear Denville, I am delighted.”

“But you have had no refreshment. Pray come down.”

“Without a lady?”

“Yes, without a lady. Or, no, I will speak now, and you can go afterwards. A little mistake, Major Rockley. You’ll pardon me; a little mistake.”

His heart sank as he spoke, and he trembled almost guiltily at the task he had in hand.

The Major’s dark eyes flashed as he scowled at him.

“If you mean, sir, that by addressing—”

“No, no, Major Rockley; a little mistake. You thought you dropped your snuff-box.”

“I thought I dropped my snuff-box, sir? Are you mad?”

“You’ll pardon me, Major Rockley, no. You made a mistake; it is my duty to see the matter right. You imagined that you dropped your snuff-box, and you picked it up, when you were seated a little while ago.”

“Well, sir?”

If Lord Carboro’ had made a mistake, how dare he meet that man again?

“You do not seem to understand me, Major Rockley. The case you picked up was not a snuff-box, but contained jewels belonging to one of my guests.”

“I did not know your guests carried their jewels in cases, Mr Denville,” said the Major, with a forced laugh. “They seem to be wearing them.”

“It is so easy to make a mistake, Major Rockley,” continued the MC, on finding that it was more simple to attack than he had expected.

“I never make mistakes, sir,” said the Major haughtily.

“I should not have spoken to you like this, sir, if the act had not been seen,” said Denville, angrily now.

“Act? Seen? Good heavens, sir! Do you take me for a thief?” said Rockley, in a hoarse whisper. “Do you think—why—confound! I am astounded!”

He had been angrily thrusting a hand into first one and then another pocket, bringing out a snuff-box, then a handkerchief, and lastly the little morocco case.

“That must be it, Major Rockley,” said the MC coldly; and their eyes met with a curiously long stare.

“As you say, Mr Denville, mistakes are so easily made. I am in your debt for this—I shall never forget it. You will excuse me now, I am sure. The little matter has agitated me more than I should care to own.”

The MC bowed.

“Seen, you said, I think? Was it you who saw me pick up that case—by accident?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you oblige me with the name of the person?”

“It is not necessary,” said Denville. “I am master of the ceremonies, sir, of my own house. This affair, I may tell you, will be kept private by us both.”

Major Rockley bowed and turned to gaze round the room, to see if he could select Denville’s informant; but there was no one whom he felt ready to blame but Richard Linnell—Barclay he knew it could not be—or was it that handsome Cora Dean?

He turned again close by the door, and tried to catch Claire Denville’s eyes; but she was talking gravely to Linnell, so, half bowing to Denville, he said quietly:

“Thank you for excusing me. Of course, I rely upon the discretion of yourself and friend. Adieu.”

“Adieu,” and he left with curses and deadly threats in his breast.

“Had man ever such luck!” he hissed, as he strode by the house, glancing up at the well-lit balcony and drawing-room, from which he turned with an involuntary shudder. “Curse the old idiot, but I’ll serve him out for this presently. I wonder whether the old dancing-master cares for his girl and boy? Well,” he added, with a peculiar smile, “we shall soon see.”

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

At the Card-Table.

“Friends?” Richard Linnell was saying, as he stood looking earnestly at Claire. “Nothing more?”

“No,” she said, in a low, sad voice; “always, come what may, your grateful friend.”

She turned to her sister, who was watching her, and met her with:

“Claire dear, you’re going mad. That man hasn’t a penny.”

“Well?” said Claire gravely. “And you are encouraging him.”

“As you are encouraging Sir Harry Payne? No, May; you are mistaken.”

“I declare if you are going to insult me I will not stay,” cried May, turning scarlet. “It is disgraceful. It is cruel. If I could only find Frank—”

Just then a loud burst of angry voices came from one of the card-tables. It was eleven o’clock; there had been refreshments; the room was very hot, and the play, for ladies, high; and now the voice of the Master of the Ceremonies was heard in protest.

“Ladies—ladies—I beg—I must request—”

“Order my carriage directly, Sir Matthew. It serves me right for coming to such a place,” cried Lady Drelincourt.

“Yes; you had no business here,” cried Mrs Barclay.

“And mixing with such low people,” cried Lady Drelincourt.

“Low people? Better be low than not honest.”

“Oh! oh!—Denville, are you going to allow this insult to my face—from such a woman as that?” cried Lady Drelincourt.

“Hush, ladies! Pray—pray!” cried Denville.

“Hold your tongue and come away, old lady,” said Barclay, in a croaking whisper.

“I won’t, Jo-si-ah; not till she pays me my four guineas, I declare,” cried Mrs Barclay aloud. “She’s been doing nothing but cheat and rook ever since I sat down to play.”

“Sir Matthew Bray, my carriage.”

“And gone on shameful, and pretending it was all mistakes. I declare it’s abominable.”

“Ladies—ladies!”

“Will you be quiet, old girl? Hold your tongue.”

“I will not, Josiah,” cried Mrs Barclay, who, like many good-tempered, amiable women, took a great deal to make her angry, but when she was really excited, was not to be suppressed. “What I say is—”

“Oh—oh—oh—oh!”

A series of wild, hysterical cries from a couch in the front room, and Claire ran gladly from the painful scene to where her sister was in a violent hysterical fit, which, with the exit of Lady Drelincourt on Sir Matthew Bray’s arm, after a withering glance round, quite stopped Mrs Barclay’s vituperative attack.

“Think of that now,” cried the latter lady. “Me again. I ought not to come out.”

“That you oughtn’t,” growled Barclay. “Next thing will be you’ve lost that bracelet.”

“Nonsense, Josiah. Let me help you, Claire dear. I am so sorry, but that wretched cheating old woman was either kicking me under the table in mistake for that Sir Matthew Bray, or else cheating. I am so—so sorry. It’s ’sterricks, that’s what it is.”

“Yes, that’s what it is,” said Mrs Dean; “and if I might say a word, I should tell Mr Denville that he couldn’t do better than behave like Lady Macbeth.”

“Oh, mother!” whispered Cora impatiently.

“Now what’s the good of you ‘oh mothering’ me, my dear? What could be better than for Mr Denville to say to his guests, ‘Don’t be on the order of your going, but go at once’?”

“Miss Dean,” said Sir Harry, “your mamma speaks the words of wisdom. It is the wisest thing. Come, gentlemen, we can be of no service here. By Jove, she does it to perfection.”

Mrs Dean’s words broke up the party, and the visitors had nearly all gone, when, in answer to cold bathing and smelling-salts, Mrs Burnett began to recover; and just then Frank Burnett, who had been, no one but Isaac knew where, came up to make a fresh scene as he threw himself upon his knees beside the couch, imploring in maudlin tones his darling May to speak and tell him what it was.

“Oh, my head, my head!” sobbed the stricken wife. “My head, my head!”

“You’d better let her be, Mr Burnett, sir,” said Mrs Barclay. “It’s my belief that quiet’s the thing.”

“Yes, and we’ll go,” said Mrs Dean. “Good-night, Miss Denville. Good-night, Mr Denville, and thank you so much. Come, Cora, love.”

Cora Dean glanced at Richard Linnell and Mellersh as she advanced to say good-night; for they were going to the same house, and it was possible, as the distance was short, that they would see them home.

“Good-night, Mr Denville,” she said.

“We will say good-night too,” said Mellersh, “unless we can be of any use.”

“Oh, no,” said their host. “She will soon be better—a mere trifle.”

“Yes, please let me be,” said Mrs Burnett. “I shall soon be better now.”

“Good-night,” said Cora, holding out her hand to the woman she told herself she hated with all her heart.

But it was in a spirit of triumph, for Richard Linnell was going to walk home with her.

“Good-night,” said Claire, smiling in her face with a calm ingenuous look. “I am glad we have met.”

How it came about they neither of them knew, but it was Claire’s seeking; she was suffering so from that heart hunger—that painful searching for the love and sympathy of some woman of her age, while Cora Dean’s handsome face was so near to her, and she kissed her as one sister might another.

“Well, I never,” muttered Mrs Dean as she went down the stairs. “Think of that, and you as don’t like her.”

The next minute Cora Dean and her mother were walking along the Parade with Linnell and Mellersh on either side, chatting about the evening.

“One cigar, Dick, before we go to bed,” said Mellersh, when they had been sitting together in his room for some time, after parting from their upstairs neighbours.

“I’m willing,” said Linnell, “for I feel as if I could not sleep.”

They lit their cigars, let themselves out, strolled down to the edge of the water, walked along by it in front of the Parade, and went upon the cliff again, to go back silently along the path till they neared the house where they had passed the evening, walking very slowly, and ending by stopping to lean over the cliff rails and gaze out to sea.

How long this had lasted they did not know, but all at once, as Mellersh turned, he gripped Richard Linnell by the arm and pointed.

Linnell saw it at the same moment: the figure of a man climbing over a balcony; and as they watched they could just see the gleam of one of the windows as it was evidently opened and he passed in.

“Dick!” whispered Mellersh; “what does that mean?”

“The same as the night that poor old woman was slain. Quick! Come on!”

“Stop!” said Mellersh. “Here’s another!”

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Mrs Burnett’s Seizure.

“I think we had better go too,” said Mrs Barclay at last. “But are you quite sure we can do no good?”

“No: indeed no, Mrs Barclay; and I am so much obliged to you for staying,” replied Claire.

“It was the least I could do, my dear, after making all that miserable rumpus about a few paltry guineas. Your papa will never forgive me.”

“Indeed, there is nothing to forgive, my dear Mrs Barclay. It was natural that you should be indignant,” said Denville politely.

“Thank you very much for saying so, but it’s always the way if I go out, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s something else wrong,” cried Mrs Barclay piteously. “I’m a most unfortunate creature.”

“There, put on your things and let’s go,” said Barclay huffily. “Give me that case. I’ll carry it now, or you’ll lose that.”

Mrs Barclay began to thrust her hand into her pocket, and Denville was talking to his son-in-law at the other end of the room, while Claire bent over and kissed her sister.

“Are you better now, dear?”

“No-o! Oh, my head!—my head!”

“My darling!” cried Burnett, coming back and bringing with him a strong smell of cigars and bad wine.

“Don’t, Frank. Don’t you see how ill I am?”

“Yes, yes, my own, but the carriage is waiting. Let me help you down, and let’s go home.”

“Oh! My gracious! Oh!” shrieked Mrs Barclay.

“Oh!—oh!—oh!—oh!” sobbed May Burnett, again in a worse fit than before.

“Now you’ve done it again,” cried Barclay angrily. “There never was such a woman. Here, come along home.”

“The case—the bracelet, Jo-si-ah!”

“Well. What about it?”

“I knew something would happen. I felt it coming.”

“Stop! Where’s that diamond bracelet, woman?”

“It’s gone, Jo-si-ah. I’ve lost it. It’s gone.”

“A two hundred pound bracelet, and gone!” roared Barclay. “Eh, what? Thank ye, Denville. How did you come by it?”

Denville, who was standing in a graceful attitude, smilingly offering the case, explained that Mrs Barclay had let it fall beneath the seat when she thought that she was placing it in her pocket.

“Oh, Mr Denville,” cried Mrs Barclay, “you are a dear good man!”

“Denville! Thank ye!” said Barclay, shaking hands. “You might have stuck to that, and I should have been no wiser. I shan’t forget this. Good-night, old man, good-night.”

“Coarse, but very kindly,” said Denville, after Mrs Barclay had made Claire’s face wet with tears and kisses, and he had seen the pair to the door.

“Yes,” said Burnett; “they’re a rough couple. Come, May, no nonsense. Get up. I’m not going to have my horses kept waiting all night.”

May made an effort to rise, but sank back, sobbing hysterically:

“My head!—my head!”

“Here, give her some brandy, Claire,” cried Burnett.

“No, no, no. It makes it worse.”

“Well, it will be better to-morrow. Come along.”

“No, no, I cannot bear it. Oh, my head!—my head!”

“Let me bathe it with the eau de Cologne,” said Claire tenderly.

“No, no. I cannot bear it.”

“Then come home,” cried Burnett.

“No, no,” moaned his wife. “I’m so ill—so ill. Papa—couldn’t I stay here to-night—my own old little room?”

“Yes, yes, my darling,” said Denville tenderly.

“I am so ill, papa. My head throbs so if I move it.”

“Let her stay, Frank,” said Claire sympathisingly.

“Not I. What! go home without her? I’ll be hanged if I do!” cried Burnett pettishly. “She’ll be all right as soon as she gets out into the air. Now, May, jump up.”

He caught her by the arm, but May uttered a wail.

“Frank, dear, you are cruel,” said Claire.

“You mind your own business,” said the irritable little fellow sharply. “She has got to come home with me.”

“I—I—I can’t, Frank. I am so ill.”

“Nonsense! Sick headache. I often have them. You’ve taken too much wine.”

“She has not had any, Frank,” said Claire indignantly.

“Then she ought to have had some. That’s the reason. You hold your tongue. Now, madam, jump up.”

The MC had stood looking on, with his face working, but saying no word till now that Burnett caught his wife roughly by both hands and tried to pull her to her feet.

“Stop!” he cried firmly. “Really, Frank Burnett, you are ungentle in the extreme.”

“Here, I know what I’m doing,” he retorted. “She’s my wife.”

“And she’s my daughter, sir,” cried Denville haughtily; “and while I am by no half-tipsy man shall insult her.”

“Half-tipsy? Who’s half-tipsy? This is the result of coming here, sir.”

“Where I have been on thorns for the last two hours, lest my guests should see what a state you were in.”

“State? What do you mean?”

“I will not expose you more before your young wife,” said Denville quietly. “We are both angry, and had better say good-night. May, do you feel well enough to go home?”

“No; oh no, papa.”

“You hear, Frank Burnett. Claire, you can easily get her bedroom ready.”

“Look here, I shan’t stay,” cried Burnett. “I shan’t stay here.”

“Well, go home then. We will take care of her, you may depend.”

“It’s all nonsense. She shall come home.”

“My child is not well enough to go home,” retorted Denville.

“Frank dear, don’t be obstinate, for May’s sake,” said Claire. “There, go home, dear. I’ll get her to bed soon, and she’ll be better in the morning.”

Burnett looked from one to the other with his teeth set, and was about to burst out into an angry tirade; but he met the firm, cold gaze of his father-in-law fixed upon him, and it was irresistible. It literally looked him down; and, with an impatient curse, he left the house and banged the door.

Directly after they heard the rattle of carriage-wheels, and May uttered a sigh of relief as she watched the MC walk round the room extinguishing the candles.

“Oh, papa dear,” she sobbed, “he does behave so badly to me!”

“My child!” said Denville sadly, as he bent down and kissed her. “You are weary and excited to-night. Pray say no more.”

He left the room, and went downstairs to bid the servants leave everything till morning, and go to bed; and as the door closed Claire knelt down beside her sister, and laid her hand upon her burning forehead.

“That’s nice,” sighed May; and then she sat up suddenly, glanced round, and flung her arms round Claire’s neck to hide her face in her breast, and burst into a passionate fit of sobbing.

“Oh, hush, hush, May, my darling,” whispered Claire tenderly, as she kissed and caressed the pretty little head, which was jerked up again in an angry, spasmodic way.

“You saw—you heard,” she cried, with her face flushed and her eyes flashing, as she talked in a quick, low, excited manner. “You blamed me for loving poor Louis. Why, he was all that was gentle and kind. He loved me in his fierce Italian way, and he was so jealous that he would have killed me if I had given him cause. But so tender and loving; while this nasty, hateful little Frank—”

“May: oh, hush!”

“I won’t hush. I hate him. I despise him. A mean, shabby, spiteful little wretch! You saw him to-night. He pinched me, and wrung my wrists. He often hurts me.”