George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

“May!—May!”

“It’s true. He strikes me, too; and I tell you I hate him.”

“May! Your husband, whom you have sworn to honour and love!”

“And I don’t either, and I never shall,” cried May sharply.

“You must, you must, May, my darling. There, there; you are flushed and excited with your head being so bad, and Frank was not so gentle as he might have been. He was vexed because you had turned ill.”

“Nasty, fretful wretch!”

“May!”

“I don’t care; he is,” cried the little foolish thing, looking wonderfully like an angry child as she spoke.

“Hush! I will not let you speak of your husband like that, May.”

“Husband! A contemptible little tipsy wretch who bought me of papa because I was pretty. I loathe him, I tell you. Papa ought to have been ashamed of himself for selling me as he did.”

“May! May! little sister!” said Claire, weeping silently as she drew her baby head to her bosom, and tried to stay the flow of bitter words that came.

“Horses and carriages, and servants and dresses, and nothing else but misery. I tell you—I don’t care! If he ever beats me again I’ll run away from him, that I will.”

“No, no, little passionate, tender heart,” said Claire lovingly. “You are ill and troubled to-night. There, there. You shall sleep quietly to-night under the old roof. Why, May dear, it seems like the dear old times, and you are the little girl again whom I am going to undress and put to bed. There, you are better now.”

“Old times? What, of misery and poverty and wretchedness, and having servants that you cannot pay, and struggling to keep up appearances, and all for what?”

“Oh, hush, hush, little May!” said Claire, holding her to her breast, and half sadly, half playfully, rocking herself to and fro.

“You don’t know what trouble is. You don’t know what it is to have your tenderest feelings torn. You never knew what it was to suffer as I have. I hate him.”

She could not see Claire’s ghastly face, nor the agonised twitching of the nerves about her lips which her sister was striving to master.

“No one knows what I have had to suffer,” she went on; “and it’s too hard—it’s too hard to bear. No one loves me, no one cares for me. It’s all misery and wretchedness, and—and I wish I was dead.”

“No, no, no, darling,” said Claire, as she drew the sobbing little thing closer to her breast; “don’t say that. I love you dearly, my own sister, and it breaks my heart to see you unhappy. But there, there, you are so weary and ill to-night that it makes everything look so black. I suffer too, darling, for your sake—for all our sakes, and now I will not scold you.”

“Scold me?” cried May, in affright.

“No, not one word; only pray to you to be careful of your dear, sweet little self. My darling, I am so proud of my beautiful little sister. You will not be frivolous again, and give me so much pain?”

“N-no,” sighed May, with her face buried in her sister’s breast.

“Frank—”

“Don’t—don’t speak of him.”

“Yes, yes; he is your husband, and you must try to win him over to you by gentleness, instead of being a little angry tyrant.”

“Clairy!”

“Yes, but you can be,” said Claire playfully, as she pressed her lips upon the soft, flossy hair. “I can remember how these little hands used to beat at me, and the little tearful eyes flash anger at me in the old times.”

Just then Denville entered the room softly, with a weary, dissatisfied air; but, as he stood in the doorway unnoticed, his whole aspect changed, and the tears stood in his eyes.

“God bless them!” he said fervently; and then, as he saw May raise her head, and look excitedly in her sister’s face, he stepped forward.

“Well, little bird,” he said, bending down to kiss May’s forehead, “back once more in the old nest?”

Claire looked searchingly at him as she rose from her knees; and then she sighed as she saw May fling herself into her father’s arms.

“There, there, I shall make the head ache again,” he said, with a calm, restful smile upon his lips, such as Claire had not seen for months.

“How he loves her!” she thought; and then another idea flashed through her breast. Suppose May knew!

“Claire, my child, is her room ready?”

“Yes; Morton’s room is prepared in case he came back. She will sleep there unless—May, will you come to me?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the little girlish thing, in a quick excited way. “No, no; I’ll be alone. Let me go now—at once.”

Claire fetched and gave her a lighted candle, finding her clinging passionately to her father, looking, as it seemed to the thoughtful woman, like some frightened child.

She kissed him hastily, and seemed to snatch the candle from her sister’s hand.

“Good-night, Claire,” she cried, holding up her face, and clinging tightly to her sister’s arm.

“I am going with you, dear—as I used to in the old times,” said Claire, smiling; and they left the room together.

“Without one word to me,” said Denville, as he stood with clasped hands gazing at the door. “Well, why should I be surprised? What must I be in her sight? Her father! Yes, but a monster without pity—utterly vile.”

He heaved a piteous sigh, as he sank into a chair.

“No,” he said to himself, “I will not influence her in any way. I will not stir. It would be too cruel. But if—if she should lean towards him—who knows?—women have accepted the wealth and position such as he offers. No, I will not stir.”

He sighed again, walked to the drawing-room window to see that the bar was across the shutter; and, this done, he turned hastily and gazed back into the room that had been Lady Teigne’s chamber, and as he did so the dew stood upon his forehead, for he seemed to see the bed with its dragged curtains, the empty casket on the floor, and by it the knife that he had picked up and hidden in his breast.

Yes, there it all was, and Claire standing gazing at him with that horrified look of suspicion in her beautiful face, as the thought came which had placed an icy barrier between them ever since. Yes, there she was, staring at him so wildly, and it was like a horrible nightmare, and—

“Father—are you ill?”

“Claire! Is it you? No, no; nothing the matter. Tired; wearied out. So long and anxious an evening. Good-night!”

She had come in to find him staring back into that room in a half cataleptic state; and the sight of his ghastly face brought all back to her. For a few moments she could not move, but at last, by an effort, she spoke, and he seemed to be snatched back by her voice into life and action.

“Good-night, father,” she said, trembling as she read the agonies of a conscious-stricken soul in his countenance, and she was moving towards the door, when, with an agonised cry, he turned to her.

“Claire, my child, must it be always so?” he cried, as he clasped his hands towards her as if in prayer.

“Father!” she said, in a voice almost inaudible from emotion.

“Claire, my child,” he moaned, as he sank upon his knees before her: “you do not know the burden I have to bear.”

She did what she had not done for months, as she stood trembling before him; laid one hand upon his head, while her lips parted as if to speak, but they only quivered and no words came.

At last, with a sobbing cry, she flung herself upon his neck, and he clasped her in his arms.

“Not to me, father,” she sobbed, “not to me; I am not your judge.”

“No,” he said softly, as he reverently kissed her brow; “you are not my judge.”

His lips parted to speak again, but he shook his head, while a sad smile came into and brightened his countenance.

“The load is lighter, Claire,” he said softly. “No, you are not my judge. If you were you would not condemn me unheard, and I cannot—dare not speak.”

He led her towards the door, and stood watching her as she passed upstairs and out of sight, turning her face to him once before she closed the door.

“The sweet pure angel and good genius of my home,” he said softly, with bent head, and with a calmer, more restful look in his countenance he went slowly to his own room.

All was soon dark and silent in the house so lately busy with the noise and buzz of many guests. Five minutes had not elapsed when the door was softly pushed open, and a slight little figure entered, and crossed to the window.

The noise made was very slight, as the swinging bar across the shutters was lifted and lowered, one of the shutters folded back, the fastening raised, and the window pushed ajar.

The figure stood in the semi-darkness in the attitude of one listening, and then drew back with a peculiar sigh as of one drawing in breath.

A couple of minutes passed, and then there was a scraping, rustling noise outside, the semi-darkness was deepened by a figure in the balcony, the window was drawn outwards, and a man passed in, whispering:

“May—sweet—are you there?”

A faintly uttered sigh was the response, and quick as thought the French window was closed, a step or two taken into the silent drawing-room, and May Burnett was tightly clasped in the arms of the nocturnal intruder.

“My darling!”

“No, no. Now one word, and you must go,” she whispered quickly. “I have done as I promised; now keep your word—to stay only one minute—say one word and go.”

“And I will keep it,” he cried, “my beautiful little love, my—Damnation!”

May started from his arms, for at that moment there was a thundering knock at the front door, and a violent drag at the bell.

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

For her Sister’s Sake.

“Oh, go—go quickly,” cried May excitedly. “It is my husband come back; what shall I do?”

“Stop!” cried Sir Harry. “Listen!”

“No, no; they are knocking again. My father will hear.”

“But—”

“No, no, you must not stay. Go,” she panted, and as she spoke, in her hurry and alarm, she pushed him towards the window.

“Confound it all!” he muttered, as he opened it softly. “Pray, pray be quick,” she cried. “Oh, do—do go.”

“Impossible!” he whispered back. “They would see. Hide me.”

“I can’t—I can’t.”

“You must. Somewhere here.”

“No, no! You must go. Oh, what shall I do? I am lost—undone.”

“Hush, little woman! Be calm,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know much about this house. Here, I will go downstairs.”

“But you cannot; the footman will see you.”

“Then, curse it all, hide me upstairs,” cried Sir Harry impatiently.

“My father—my sister—what shall I do!—Oh!”

That was all the visitor heard, and the faint cry that ended the sentence was drowned in a second tremendous peal at knocker and bell.

“Confound her! she’s gone. May! hist!—May!—Don’t leave me like this!”

He felt about for the door, but could not find it in his dread and confusion. Only one part of the room could he make out, and that was the window, by which flight was impossible without being seen.

“Little wretch!” he muttered. “What a fool I am! Where is the cursed door? There were three here somewhere. What the devil am I to do? Curse—”

He kicked against a chair, and nearly knocked it over, and then stumbled against a couch.

“The door must be here somewhere,” he muttered. “Yes, there.”

It was plain enough where the door was now, for a light shone beneath it, and the sides looked light, showing its shape, just as another peal came from knocker and bell.

He had just time to drop down behind the sofa when the door opened, and the Master of the Ceremonies appeared in his long dressing-gown, candle in hand, crossed the drawing-room, and, opening the farther door, went through, and it swung to, leaving the intruder once more in darkness.

He started up again as he heard the rattle of locks and bolts below, and made for the window, meaning to escape by it as soon as those who had alarmed the house had entered.

“Curse him! Mellersh left to watch,” he muttered, as voices were heard from below—loud and angry voices—mingled with those of remonstrance.

“I tell you we saw a man climb up and enter by the balcony,” came up; and in his alarm and horror the intruder knocked over an ornament now, as he made for the door that led to the bedrooms—his last chance of escaping unseen.

“Ah, there she is,” he said beneath his breath, as the door was made visible once more by the rays of light all round.

“Come up, then, and I will search the place,” came from below.

“Don’t be alarmed: I’m going to see,” said a voice outside the door leading to the upper staircase; and the next moment the door opened, and Claire, in her white dressing-gown, entered candle in hand.

“Sir Harry Payne!” she cried, as the light fell on the figure of the visitor.

“Hush! For heaven’s sake, quick! Hide me somewhere. Quick! Before it is too late.”

He had caught her by the arm and laid one hand upon her lips; and as she was trying to release herself, the other door opened, and Denville entered, closely followed by Frank Burnett and Richard Linnell.

“Claire! Sir Harry Payne!” cried the Master of the Ceremonies.

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Burnett, with a grin. “No murder this time, except reputation. I had made up my mind to come and stop to-night, as my wife’s here; but, after this, the sooner she’s out of this place the better. Here, call her, some of you. Where’s her room?”

Claire did not speak, but stood there, as if turned to stone, her eyes fixed upon the cold, stern face of Richard Linnell, as he stood back by the door.

“Sir Harry Payne, speak, I insist,” cried Denville fiercely. “What does this mean?”

“Hush, sir! Hush! pray, gentlemen. A little bit of gallantry, nothing more.”

“Sir!” cried Denville.

“Hush, sir, pray!” cried Sir Harry, who was white and trembling with dread. “No noise—the neighbours—the scandal. Perfectly innocent, I assure you. An assignation. I came to see Miss Denville here.”

Claire turned her eyes slowly from Richard Linnell, whose look seemed to wither her, and fixed them on the despicable scoundrel, who was screening her sister before her husband, but who would not meet her stern gaze.

“I thought as much,” said Burnett, with a sneer. “I tell you what—”

“Silence!” hissed a voice in his ear, and a broad, strong hand came down on his shoulder with a grip like a vice.

Claire saw it—the brave, true effort to defend her in her disgrace, and she lifted her eyes once more to Linnell’s. Then she let them close, and stood there silent, with the sweet little girlish innocent-looking face of her sister before her, as she stayed listening to the condemnation of husband and father—little May, her father’s darling—in her place. One word would save her, would clear her in the sight of the man who loved her, and of the father who stood sternly there; but she must condemn May to save herself, and she stood there as if convicted of the shameful act.

For she spoke no word, and her sister’s fame was saved.

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

A Staunch Friend.

“No, Miss Clode; I can be angry, and I can speak my own mind, but I’m not going to be so mean and shabby as to take my custom somewhere else, though it is so tempting; but what I say is this—don’t you never say a word to me again about that young lady, or I shall fly out.”

“I’m very sorry, ma’am, I’m sure, and you and Mr Barclay are such good customers, besides being my landlord and landlady.”

“Oh, there’s nothing in that, Miss Clode. You pay your rent to the day, and, as Mr Barclay says, it’s a business transaction.”

“Of course, it’s very painful to me, Mrs Barclay, and I shouldn’t have told you what I did, only you know you came and asked me what people were saying.”

“Well, so I did. Yes, you’re right, I did. But it isn’t true, Miss Clode. Miss Claire Denville is as good as gold, and people tell most horrible stories, and where you get to know so much I can’t think. But does everybody talk about it?”

“Yes, ma’am, everybody; and Mr and Mrs Burnett haven’t been there since.”

“I don’t care: I won’t believe it. And is it a fact that she goes regularly to Fisherman Miggles’s to see that little girl?”

“Yes, ma’am, regularly.”

“Then she has a good reason for it. There!”

“It’s a terrible blow for Mr Denville, of course, ma’am; and they say the young gentleman who has only just joined the dragoons is horribly put out, and challenged Sir Harry Payne, only the Colonel would not let them fight.”

“Dear—dear—dear! Poor Denville! he has nothing but misfortunes. I am sorry for him; I am indeed. Well, I must go; but mind this, Miss Clode: Claire Denville is a particular friend of mine, and no one shall say ill of her in my presence.”

There was a very strong resemblance to a ruffled hen, whose chickens had been looked at by a strange cat, in Mrs Barclay’s aspect as she left Miss Clode’s, while, at her aunt’s command, Annie, the bun-faced, moved a Berlin wool pattern on one side in the window so that she could command a view of the Parade from the bulging panes, and after watching there for a few minutes she said:

“She’s gone by, auntie.”

“Ah, with all her fuss, she daren’t keep up the acquaintance.”

“She has turned back and gone in, auntie.”

“Oh, very well, just as she likes; it is no business of mine.”

Annie, the innocent, was quite right, for Mrs Barclay had walked by the Denvilles’, and then stopped short, indignant with herself; turned back and given a good bold rap at the door, to which Isaac, who looked discontented and strange, replied, and said, before he was asked:

“Not at home.”

“Now don’t you talk nonsense to me, young man,” said Mrs Barclay, “because—”

“My master and mistress are—not—at—”

Isaac began to drag his works towards the last, for Mrs Barclay was rummaging in her reticule for a half-crown, but could only find a good old-fashioned crown, which she slipped into the footman’s hand.

To a man-servant who was beginning to look upon his arrears of wages as doubtful, a crown-piece was a coin not to be despised, and he took it and smiled.

“Mr Denville is out, I suppose, isn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I don’t want to see him, but just you go and ask Miss Claire to see me, and if she says no, you say I must see her. There!”

The result was that Mrs Barclay was shown into the drawing-room, where Claire rose to meet her with cold dignity, and pointed to a chair.

Instead of taking it, Mrs Barclay caught the girl in her arms, and gave her rapidly some half-dozen hearty kisses.

“There, my dear,” she said, “if every bit as I’ve heard was quite true, I should have come all the same; but as I don’t believe one single synnable of the pack o’ lies, I’ve come to see you. There!”

That there came like an expiration of the breath as she plumped herself down, and the next minute Claire was upon her knees, her arms round the wide waist, and her face buried in the extensive bosom, sobbing violently, and relieving herself in tears of the pressure that had been crushing her down ever since the troubles of that terrible night.

“That’s right, my darling: you cry—cry hard. A good cup o’ tea and a good cry’s the greatest blessings o’ Providence for us poor suffering women. No, no: you needn’t put a hankychy between. My Jo-si-ah never stints me in dresses, and you may spoil a dozen of ’em if that’ll do you any good.”

“Mrs Barclay—Mrs Barclay!”

“No, no, no: you’re going to take and try and explain and a lot more of it; but I won’t hear a word. I tell you I don’t believe nothing of what’s about. I said if Miss Claire Denville did this or that, she had good reason, being like the mother of that family, as even manages her poor father, so I don’t want to hear no lying scandal.”

“Heaven bless you!” sobbed Claire, kissing her.

“Ah, that’s nice,” said Mrs Barclay, smiling. “My little girl died, my dear, as would have been as old as you. Not like you, of course, but it seems as if she might have kissed me like that. I’m a very vulgar sort of woman, I know, my dear, well enough: and if I didn’t I soon should, with people sneering at me as they do. You ain’t sorry I came?”

“Sorry? I can never say how it has touched me.”

“I’m very glad of it, for I don’t want to know. And now, not another word about all that, for I know everything, and how all the people are cutting you and your poor pa. But never you mind, my dear. Lots of the people you knew were very fine-weather friends, such as run away as soon as a storm blows. You’ve got a clear conscience, so don’t you take on about it, but live it down.”

“I shall try to,” said Claire, with a smile—the first that had been seen on her face for days.

“It’s what I often say to my Jo-si-ah, though I haven’t got a clear conscience through Barclay’s money transactions, which ought to be on his, but as I keep his books, and know everything, they trouble me all the same. So everybody’s cutting you, eh?”

“Yes,” said Claire sadly.

“Then you cut them till they beg your pardon. And now, my dear, just one word from a simple plain woman, whose heart’s in the right place. If you want some one to confide in, or you want help of any kind, you know where Betsey Barclay lives, and that’s where there’s help, whether it’s a kind word, a cup o’ tea, or some one that you can put your arms round and cry upon, and whose purse is open to you, if you’ll excuse me for mentioning it.”

“Miss Dean, ma’am,” said Isaac, opening the door.

“Not at—”

“Which I thought you were receiving, ma’am,” said Isaac in defence.

Mrs Barclay rose to go, but Claire laid a hand upon her arm, and she resumed her seat as Cora Dean entered, elaborately dressed, and exchanged a most formal courtesy as the visitor rose once more.

Cora could not have explained her visit, even to herself. She hated Claire: she loved her. She was triumphant over her fall: she was sorry for her. She was certain that she would no longer find in her a rival, and in spite of this, she felt a curious sensation of soreness of heart.

She who had for a couple of years past been slighted by the fashionable folk of Saltinville, while Claire had been received everywhere, felt in the new flush of the success she had won a kind of triumph over an unfortunate sister, who would now, she knew, be socially ostracised; and in the plenitude of her own wealth of position she had told herself that she could afford to go and call upon the fallen rival, and, under the guise of politeness, see for herself how she bore her trouble, and assume a consolatory rôle that she told herself she did not feel.

But Cora Dean, ill-educated and badly brought up, violent in her passions and quick to dislike a rival, had a very kindly woman’s heart within her breast; and as soon as she had formally saluted Mrs Barclay, and had seen the sad, grave face that met hers, ready to suffer insult if it were offered in the guise of friendship, a change came over her, the tender heart leaped, and in full remembrance of their last parting, she advanced quickly and kissed Claire warmly.

There was no disguising the tears in her eyes, and they were infectious, for Mrs Barclay, whose feathers had been rising fast and her tongue sharpening into a point, heaved a tremendous sigh as she jumped up and exclaimed:

“It’s very little I know of you, Miss Dean, and—I’m a plain woman—I never thought I should like you; but if you wouldn’t mind, my dear!”

It was a kiss of peace, and Mrs Barclay added another that was very loud and very warm.

“And her saying that she had no friends,” she exclaimed. “Pooh!”

Claire darted a grateful look at both, and then began to wince and shrink as Mrs Barclay, in all well-meaning, went on talking from one to the other with the most voluble of tongues.

“I declare,” she cried, “as I said to my Jo-si-ah, there’s no end to the nasty scandals talked in this miserable town.”

“Pray say no more, Mrs Barclay,” cried Claire; “I am so grateful to you both for coming here, but—”

“I won’t say much, my dear, but I must tell Miss Dean, or I shan’t be able to bear myself. What we want here is a great high tide to come all over the place and wash it clean.”

“Why, we should be drowned, too, Mrs Barclay,” said Cora, laughing.

“I hope not, my dear, for I’m no lover of scandal; but do you know, they actually have had the impudence to say that my dear Claire here has been seen at her back door talking to a common soldier.”

Claire tried to control herself, but her eyes would stray to Cora Dean’s and rest there as if fascinated.

“When the reason is,” continued the visitor, as Claire was asking herself should she not boldly avow her connection, “the reason is that she has been seen talking to her brother, who is not a common soldier, but an officer. What do you think of that?”

Cora turned to her, smiled, and said:

“I can believe in the Saltinville people saying anything ill-natured for the sake of petty gossip. We had much to contend against when we came.”

“Of course, you had, my dear. Look at me, too: just because my poor Jo-si-ah does money business with some of the spendthrifts, and, of course, lets ’em pay for it, I’m made out to be the most greedy, miserly, wicked, drinking woman that ever breathed. I’m bad enough, I dare say, and between ourselves I do like a glass of hot port wine negus with plenty of nutmeg; but I am not so bad as they say, am I, my dear?”

“You are one of the truest-hearted women I know,” said Claire, taking her hand.

“There’s a character for me, my dear,” said Mrs Barclay, turning to Cora and nodding her head and laughing. “Ah, I must tell you that too,” she cried as the recollection came, “just because—”

“Mrs Barclay,” said Claire, rising, “pray spare me. I am not well; I have not been well lately, and—and—I know you will forgive me.”

“Forgive you, my dear?” cried Mrs Barclay. “Why, of course. It’s horribly thoughtless of me. There, good-bye. Are you coming, Miss Dean?”

Cora rose, feeling that she could not stay longer, and after a warm leave-taking, during which the two younger women mentally asked themselves whether they were friends or bitter enemies, Claire’s visitors withdrew and walked together along the parade.

The slightest touch set Mrs Barclay’s tongue going, and before they had gone far Cora was in full possession of the newly-retailed story about Claire’s visits to the fishermen’s huts.

“And do you believe this of her?” said Cora, with an eagerness that she could not conceal.

“Now, we’re just become friendly, my dear, and I should be sorry to say anything nasty, but I ask you do I look as if I believed it?”

“You look as if you were Claire Denville’s best friend,” said Cora diplomatically.

“And so I am,” replied Mrs Barclay proudly. “I can’t help people talking scandal. They glory in it. And, look here, my dear, it isn’t far from here, and if you don’t mind, we’ll go along the cliff to the very house and call.”

“Call!” said Cora in amaze.

“Yes; it’s at a fisherman’s, you know—Fisherman Dick’s—and we can get a pint or two of s’rimps for tea.”

The consequence was that Cora did walk along the cliff to Fisherman Dick’s cottage, and when Mrs Barclay reached her house an hour later her reticule bag was bulging so that the strings could not be drawn close, and the reason why was—shrimps.

On the other hand, Cora Dean had not filled her reticule with shrimps, but her mind with unpleasant little thoughts that made it bulge. Curious thoughts they were, too, and, like Mrs Barclay’s shrimps, all jumbled together, heads and tails, ups and downs. She felt then that she could not arrange them, but that there was a great sensation of triumph in her breast, and what she wanted to do most was to sit down and think—no easy task, for her brain was in a whirl.

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

A Stormy Scene.

“I’ve never dared to write to you before, Clairy. Frank watches me so; but, though I don’t come, I think lots about you, and I shall never forget what a dear, good thing you were that night. Good-bye. We must be separate for a bit, till that bother’s all forgotten, but don’t you fidget; I’m going to be so good now.”

Claire was reading the note that had come to her, she knew not how, for the second time, wondering how a woman—her sister—could be so utterly heartless; and, after leaving her to bear the brunt of Sir Harry Payne’s shameless accusation, treat it all as such a mere trifle.

Claire held the letter in her hand, with her spirits very low, and a bitter, despairing look was in her eyes as she sat gazing before her, thinking that no greater trouble could come to her now.

Richard Linnell had just passed the house, and though ever since the night of the “At Home,” she had shrunk away and rigidly kept from noticing him, the one pleasure she had longed for was to see the grave, wistful look he was in the habit of directing at the window. Now, he had gone by without raising his eyes.

It was the most cruel pang of all. He might have had faith in her, even if she had rejected his suit, and told him that it was hopeless in the extreme.

Her cheeks burned as she thought of Cora Dean with her Juno-like face and her manifest liking for Richard Linnell.

“What is it to me?” she said to herself; and her tears fell fast upon the letter she held in her hand, and she did not hear her father enter the drawing-room, nor see him glance quickly from her in the flesh to the sweetly innocent face of his favourite child, smiling down upon him from the young Italian artist’s canvas.

Then he caught sight of the letter, and saw that she was weeping.

An angry flash came into his eyes; the mincing dandyism gave place to a sharp angular rigidity, and stepping quickly across the intervening space that separated him from his child, he was about to take the note from her hands.

Claire uttered a faint cry of alarm, started from the sofa, and hastily thrust the folded paper into her pocket.

“That letter,” he said, stamping his foot, “give me that letter.”

“No, no, I cannot, father,” she cried, with a look of terror at his worn and excited face.

“I insist,” he cried. “I will not allow these clandestine correspondences to be carried on. Give me the letter.”

“Father, I cannot,” she said firmly.

“Am I to take it from you by force?” he cried. “Am I, a gentleman who has struggled all these years to make himself the model from which society is to take its stand, who has striven so hard for his children, to be disgraced by you?”

No answer.

“Heaven knows how I have struggled, and it seems that two of my children must have been born with some base blood in their veins, and to be for ever my disgrace.”

Claire raised her eyes to his full of pitying wonder.

“See how your—no, God help me!” he cried wildly, “I dare not utter his name. See how you have disgraced your married sister—lowered me in the eyes of society. I am almost ruined, and just at a time when I had succeeded in placing your brother well. And now, see here—see here!”

He tore a note from his breast, and held it out rustling in his trembling hand.

“Here—I will not punish you more by reading it aloud,” he said; “but it is from my own son.”

“From Fred?”

“Silence, woman!” cried Denville, with a wild look of agony in his eyes, and a ghastly pallor taking the place of the two feverish spots that had stood in his cheeks. “I have no such son. He is an outcast. I forbid you to mention his name again.”

He stood quivering with a curious passion, his lips moving, his eyes staring wildly, and he beat one hand with the open letter he held in the other.

“Here!” he exclaimed at last, “from Morton—to say that, under the circumstances, he feels bound—for the sake of his own dignity and position in his regiment, to hold aloof from his home. The regiment will soon change quarters, and in time all this, he hopes, will be forgotten. Till then, all is to be at an end between us. This—from my own son.”

He began to pace the room nervously, thrusting back the letter; and then he turned upon Claire again.

“Not content, you still go on. Clandestine correspondence. Let me see who wrote that.”

“I cannot, father.”

“But I insist. Here, just when I had had your hand asked in marriage by one who is wealthy and noble, you disgrace us all by that shameless meeting. Give me the letter, I say.”

In his rage he caught her by the arms, and she struggled with him and fell upon her knees at his feet.

“Am I to use force?” he cried.

“For your own sake, no. Father, the letter is not what you think. For your own peace of mind, let it stay.”

His hands dropped to his sides at his daughter’s wild appeal, and the convulsed angry look once more gave place to the one of dread, as he drew back a step.

“Tell me,” he cried, still hesitating, “is it from that libertine, Sir Harry Payne?”

“No, no!”

“From Rockley?”

“No, father. How can you think me so degraded—so low!”

“Then—then—”

“Father, for pity’s sake!” she cried, as she crept to his knees and embraced them. “Can you not see how I am willing to bear everything to save you pain? Has there not been agony and suffering enough in this house? You cannot think—you cannot believe. Is it not better that we should let this rest?”

He raised his trembling hands to his lips in a nervous, excited way, looking searchingly and furtively by turns in his child’s piteous face. The rage in his own had died out, to give place to the look of terror; and, as Claire clung to him, he now and again glanced at the door, as if he would flee from her presence.

“No, no,” he said at last. “I was wrong. I will not see the letter. You have your secrets: I have mine. Claire, my child, there is a veil, drawn down by you, over that night’s work. I dare not lift it, I dare not look.”

“Once more, father,” she said, “had we not better let it rest? I am content; I make no murmur against my fate.”

“No,” he said, flashing out again into anger; “but—hush!—stop!—I must not,” he whispered hoarsely. “These strange fits. I cannot bear them.”

He threw back and shook his head excitedly.

“I should go mad—I should go mad.”

“Father!”

“There, I am calm again, my child. I am not myself sometimes. There—there—it is past.”

He bent over and raised her to his breast, where she laid her head, uttering a piteous sigh.

“Stricken,” he whispered; “stricken, my child. The workings of a terrible fate. Don’t reproach—don’t think ill of me, Claire. Some day the light may come—no, no,” he cried wildly; “better the darkness. I am so weak—so torn by the agony I have endured. So weak, so pitiful a man; but, with all this wretched vanity and struggle for place, my miserable heart has been so full of love for you all—for my little May.”

Claire shivered.

“No, no,” he cried excitedly. “Claire, my child, don’t speak. Hush! listen, my child. There have been cases where, in self-abnegation—the sins of others—have been borne—by the innocent—the innocent! Oh, my child, my child!”

His head dropped upon his daughter’s shoulder, and he burst into a fit of sobbing, the outpourings of a flood of anguish that he fought vainly to restrain.

“Father, dear father!” she whispered, as her arms tightened around him.

“Claire, my child—my child!”

“Yes,” she said, as she seemed to be growing stronger and more firm; “your child—not your judge. Father, I see my duty clearly now. Your help and comfort to the end.”

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

Peace and Sympathy.

“And I thought that there would be no more rest and comfort here, my child. Claire, one night—”

“No, no, dearest,” she cried, as she laid her soft white hand upon his lips; “the past cannot be recalled.”

“Only this little revelation,” he said, as he kissed the soft hand and held it to his cheek, “then the past shall be as dead with us. One night—since that night—I said to myself that I could bear no more, and I locked myself in my room; but something seemed to stay my hand—a something seemed to bid me live on, even in my pitiful, degraded state; and always—I cannot tell you how—your face seemed to be before my eyes. I tried to put it from me, but it was there. I fought against it, for I was enraged with you one minute, trembling with dread of what I dare not see the next; but still your face seemed to be there, my child, and I said at last that I would live it down or face it, if the dread time that haunts me always, as if lying in my path, should at last leap out.”

“Father!”

“My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until the burden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers in the battle of life. Claire, child, we must live.”

She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off look in her eyes.

“I am so old and broken,” he said musingly; “so helpless. For so many years my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life, or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known, to live in some simple fashion; but—I know nothing. I cannot work.”

“But I can, father,” she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. “I am young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me. Let us go.”

“Where, my child?” he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. “What work would you do—you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?”

“As a teacher—a governess,” she cried; but he shook his head, and began to tremble and draw her closer to him.

“No, no,” he said excitedly; “that would mean separation; and Claire,” he whispered, “I am so weak—so broken—that I must have your young spirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone—no, no, no, I dare not be left alone.”

“Hush, dear!” she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawing him to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered. “I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay. Nothing shall separate us now.”

“No, no.” He whispered the words. “I could not live without you, Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove useful yet. Yes, my child, I feel it—I know it. My work is not yet done. Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then.”

“Till then, father?”

“Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?”

“Father, I am your child.”

“Yes, yes,” he cried, resuming his old flippant air so suddenly that Claire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at him tremblingly. “I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, my dear, and those miserable, brainless butterflies will soon forget, and come to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, and the old fees will come once more.”

Claire sighed.

“Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it is braver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly you treat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marry well.”

She did not reply, and he went on excitedly:

“Now let me see what friends we have left. The Barclays stand firm as rocks. Those Deans, too—so vulgar, but quite as friendly as before. Mrs Pontardent.”

“Mrs Pontardent, father?”

“Yes, my dear, yes. Among so few, we must not be choosers. Remember old Hobson, you know. I know nothing against her but her tables. They gamble high; but where do they not? She has arranged for an evening, and I have promised her to go and take the management, and help her to receive her visitors—and—er—and—”

“She has asked you to bring me?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I could read it in your eyes, father,” said Claire. “Oh, it is impossible.”

“I will not press you, my child; but it is almost life to me, and it would be giving us a stepping-stone to recover our lost ground.”

“Do you wish me to go, father?”

“If—if—you would not mind very much, my dear,” he said hesitatingly. “It would be helping me.”

He kissed her hand and left her to her own thoughts. The tears flowed for a while, and then, with a sigh, Claire rose with a look of resignation on her countenance, as if she accepted her fate.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.

Private Instructions.

“Look here, Bell,” said Major Rockley, as he stood in his quarters, with his regimental servant before him; “you were drunk again last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are not ashamed of it?”

“Yes, sir, very much ashamed of it. It’s my weakness, sir.”

“Weakness, you scoundrel? It’s your blackguardly conduct. You have been under arrest so many times for this disgraceful behaviour, and I have such a black list against you, that if I lay it before Colonel Lascelles he will have you flogged.”

“But you won’t do that, sir.”

“Yes, I will, you scoundrel. No: I’ll give you another chance.”

“Thank you, sir; I was sure you would,” said the young man, flushing slightly, and with a strange look in his face.

“By the way, what time did Mr Denville come back to his quarters?”

“Two o’clock, sir.”

“With whom had he been?”

“Sir Matthew Bray, sir. Lady Drelincourt’s, I think.”

“Humph! Now, look here; can I trust you, Bell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’m going to give you a delicate bit of business to do for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you do it well, I shall give you a clean slate to begin again, and wipe off that last report.”

“Thankye, sir.”

“I cannot—at least I do not wish to—be seen in the business preparations, so I trust to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go directly then, to Moggridge’s, and arrange for a post-chaise and four to be at Prince’s Road to-night at—say eleven—no; half-past ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pick good fast horses. Pack a light valise with a change; put my pistols in the pockets of the carriage, and you will be there ready to see me off. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s—well, to be plain with you—a lady in the case.”

“I see, sir.”

“And, mind this; after we have started, you stay behind, and if there is any inquiry directly after, you volunteer information, and say we have taken the London Road. You understand?”

“Quite, sir.”

“There’s a sovereign for you. No: you’ll get drunk if I give it you now. I’ll give you five when I come back.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And mind, if I am wanted, I am unwell in bed. I want a good start.”

“I see, sir. You may depend on me. But what house, sir, in Prince’s Road?”

“You’ll see, blockhead. The one that is lighted up. Mrs Pontardent’s.”

Major Rockley’s regimental servant saluted, turned upon his heel, and went out muttering “Scoundrel!” between his teeth. “I wonder who the lady is?”

“I wouldn’t change places with you, my fine fellow,” he muttered, as he went across the parade ground; and, turning a corner, he came suddenly upon Sir Harry Payne, Sir Matthew Bray, and the new cornet, who flushed scarlet, as he saw the dragoon.

James Bell saluted, and was passing, but Sir Harry Payne stopped him, and Cornet Denville said hastily:

“I’ve left my cigar-case. Join you directly.”

He went away quickly, and Sir Harry Payne said:

“Where are you going, Bell?”

“Major’s washerwoman, sir,” said the dragoon promptly.

“Then you can call at River’s for me. Half a dozen pairs of white kid gloves. He knows my size. Shall he get you some, Matt?”

“No; not going.”

“Isn’t she going?”

“No.”

“Never mind; you’d better come. Denville’s pretty sister will be there.”

“Phew! Will she?” said Sir Matthew, whistling. “I say, mind what you’re about. There may be a row.”

“Not there. I shan’t notice her; and if I did, Denville’s all right. We’re the best of friends now.”

“But are you sure she’s coming?”

“Pontardent told me herself. She came round the old man.”

“Then I will come. Order me some gloves, Harry. I’ve no change.”

“You never do have any. Here! Tell them to send half a dozen pairs for Sir Matthew, and put them down to me. What’s the matter with your lip?”

“My lip, sir?”

“Yes; it’s bleeding.”

“Cracked, sir.”

“Yes: fevered. Drink too much. That will do. Nines, or tens—the gloves?”

“No, no: eights,” cried Sir Matthew; and the dragoon went on out of the barrack gates, with his face growing grey.

“This is being a soldier,” he muttered. “The scoundrel! If I thrash him till he can’t move, they’ll shoot me. But no, it can’t be. She’s too good a girl. Impossible. Besides, I shall be there.”

He went straight to the livery-stable keeper, and arranged for the best four horses he had, and gave the man a hint.

“Very private, you know.”

“Right, my lad. I know what the Major is. Here’s half-a-crown for you to get a glass.”

“Thank ye.”

James Bell pocketed the coin, and went off back to pack his master’s valise, and load the case of pistols ready to take to the chaise in the evening, after which he went to have one half-pint of ale, for he was suffering from a severe sensation of thirst, one that he often felt come on.

“Just one glass,” he said. “That’s all.”

James Bell partook of his one glass, but it was not all. Then he went back to see to the horses in his charge in a stable near the barracks—two belonging to the Major, and one of the Colonel’s.

The helper was there, and as the extra work would fall to his share that night, there was an excuse for giving him a glass of ale, of which he partook, nothing loth.

The message of Sir Harry Payne had been given, the clothes were packed up, the pistols ready. Yes, every thing had been done; and at last, when it was getting dark, James Bell, looking very stern and determined, and with a tendency to walk extremely straight, as if he were aiming at something right ahead, went off to Moggridge’s, placed the packed valise under the seat of the post-chaise, the pistols in the pockets, and then had a chat with the postboys, and—a glass of ale.

There was an hour yet to the time, so he strolled to the end of the yard, and thought he would just go as far as the stables to see if the helper had properly bedded down the horses; and this proving to be the case, and a shilling still remaining unspent of that half-crown, the dragoon suggested that a pot of the best ale should be fetched, and that they should drink it before he went.

The helper was worthy of his title, and fetched the ale, and then, one seated on a truss of straw, the other upon the corn-bin, the two men finished the ale between them, and just at the time that James Bell should have been at Mrs Pontardent’s gate, he was fast asleep in the stable.

That afternoon Mr Barclay was busy with his partner, when a visitor was announced, and as it was probably a call relating to money matters, Mrs Barclay left the room.

“Oh, it’s you, Moggridge,” said Barclay gruffly. “You don’t want money, I’m sure.”

“Thank ye, no, Mr Barclay, sir,” said the visitor, a closely shaven, sharp-faced man, with bow legs. “Things is moving, sir. I’m doing tidy;” and he went on chewing a piece of clover hay, which he had between his lips.

“What do you want then?”

“Well, you know what you said, sir, after the Hon. Tom Badgley went off that night, and dodged the sheriff’s officers; and you know what I promised you.”

“Who’s going now?”

“Major Rockley, sir.”

“The deuce! Alone?”

“No, sir. I think there’s a lady in the case.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know, sir. Take up at Mrs Pontardent’s party; half arter ten.”

“Thank ye, Moggridge. What’ll you take?”

“Well, sir, champagne’s a thing as don’t often come in my way, and—”

“Come along,” said Barclay, and Mr Moggridge’s desires were satisfied.

“Not a bolt!” said Barclay to himself. “Who’s the woman? Well, I don’t want him to go. If he goes off he won’t meet my bill. He must be stopped, but how?”

He stood thinking for a few minutes, and then sat down and wrote a letter which he took out, and picking a boy from the idlers on the cliff, sent it to its destination.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.

A Walk and a Drive.

Richard Linnell found a good deal of relief in his restless state of mind in taking long country walks, telling himself that he got away from his thoughts; but, on the contrary, he thought the more, and enjoyed his misery as some young men do whose love affairs go crooked.

He was about nine miles away from Saltinville on the day of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and rapidly increasing the distance, when he suddenly became aware of the sound of wheels behind in the road, and looking round as he gave place to the driver, he found that Cora Dean was checking her ponies.

“Confound her! she has followed me,” he said to himself, as she drew up by his side, quite alone, for the little seat generally occupied by the boy-groom was turned over and closed.

“This is unexpected, Mr Linnell,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I thought you were at home.”

“I felt sure you were,” he said, smiling.

“Why?”

The question was accompanied by a half resentful, half tender look, the first intended, the latter not.

“I expected that you would be busy with hair-dressers and dressmakers, preparing for to-night’s battle.”

“To-night’s battle?”

“Yes,” he said, in a bantering, reckless way that was new to him, “the battle with the beaux whom you are going to slay.”

He felt as if he could have bitten his tongue off the next moment, as he saw the look of pain she gave him.

“What have I done?” she said in a soft, low, half-passionate tone.

“Done! What do you mean?”

“Why do you take pleasure in laughing at me and mocking me?”

“Oh, nonsense!” he cried. “I was only speaking lightly.”

“Why should you speak lightly to me?” she said. “We have lived in the same house now for over a year, and, instead of being neighbours and friends, there always seems to be a great gap between us.”

“Why, what a sentimental view you take of things,” he said. “We shake hands when we meet. We smile at one another, and nod and chat.”

“Yes,” she said sadly, “we shake hands, we smile at each other, we nod and chat, but—”

She stopped and seemed to try and command herself; and, to his great relief, she spoke lightly as she said:

“I shall see you to-night, of course?”

“No; I thought you were going to a party.”

“Yes, but you will be there?”

“No,” he said gravely; “I am not going.”

“Not going!” she cried. “Why, you were asked.”

“How do you know?”

She turned crimson, and avoided his searching look.

“Did Mrs Pontardent tell you?”

“Yes, and you will go?”

“No,” he said; “I declined. Why was I asked—do you know?”

She darted an appealing look at him; and the haughty, self-assertive woman seemed to be completely changed.

“Don’t—don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I—I thought it would be so pleasant if you were going to be there.”

“You never asked that woman to invite me, Miss Dean?”

She did not speak, but her face began to work, her hands dropped in her lap, her head drooped upon her chest, and she wept bitterly.

“Oh, Miss Dean, for heaven’s sake don’t do that,” he said. “I hate to see a woman cry. I can’t bear it. Pray forgive me if I spoke harshly. I could not help feeling annoyed that you should have done this.”

“You ought to be grateful,” she cried passionately. “The woman you love so dearly will be there with gay Major Rockley—oh, Mr Linnell—Richard—for heaven’s sake forgive me. What have I said—what have I done?”

In her alarm at the start he gave, and at his ghastly face, she let fall the reins and caught at his arm, when the ponies, feeling their heads free, dashed off; but this brought Linnell back to the present, and with one bound he reached the rein, hung on to it, and was dragged along for a few yards, turning the ponies’ heads towards a steep bank by the side of the narrow unfrequented road. The result would have been that he would have been crushed between the chaise and the bank, but for Cora’s presence of mind in seizing the other rein and dragging at it with all her might.

As it was, he received a violent kick which turned him sick and faint, and when he came to, the ponies’ reins were secured to a tree in the hedge, and he was lying upon the grass, with Cora’s arm supporting his head, and her frightened face bending over him.

“What is it?” he cried sharply. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said softly. “Don’t move. How brave you are!”

He looked at her wonderingly, and then flushing once more, he recalled the whole scene, and what led to it.

“I was afraid you were hurt,” he said, trying to rise; but the giddy feeling came back, and he sank down again.

“You are hurt,” she cried. “What shall I do? Richard—dear Richard! He’s dying. Oh, my love—my love!”

“Hush!” he cried huskily, as she was raising his head in her arms; “for God’s sake don’t speak to me like that. There—there—you see I am better. The pony kicked me. It made my head swim. There,” he cried, rising to his knees, “you see it is all right. I quite frightened you.”

He stood up now and offered her his hand to rise; but she did not take it, for she covered her face with her hands and crouched lower and lower on her knees, sobbing wildly in a passion of grief, for his words had been as cold and distant as if they had been strangers.

“Miss Dean—Miss Dean—pray let me help you to your carriage,” he said; but she shrank from him.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried bitterly; “you made me love you—you made me disgrace myself like this, and now I am to be your laughing-stock and scorn.” She looked up at him with her eyes full of rage, which died out on the instant as she cried to him wildly, “I wish you had let me drown!”

He stood looking at her for a few moments, and then glanced along the winding lane; but they were quite alone. Then, taking her hand, he made her rise, for she submitted to his will without a trace of resistance.

“I am very sorry,” he said at last simply.

“Sorry!” she cried angrily. “Oh, why am I such a mad fool? Why did I betray myself like this?”

“Hush!” he said softly, as he held her hand between both of his; “listen to me. Do you think I have not seen for long enough that you are beautiful, and that—”

“How dare you?” she cried fiercely. “It is not true.”

“You must hear me,” he said; “and forgive my awkwardness for speaking as I do. You know my story so well: have I not always been steadfast to that love?”

She sobbed violently and tried to snatch away her hand, but he held it firmly.

“I have always tried to be to you as a friend. Heaven knows I would not have wounded you like this.”

“Yes,” she sobbed bitterly, “Heaven knows.”

“Why did you stab me with those cruel words?” he cried resentfully.

“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was mad. It makes me mad to see you go on worshipping her as you do. Does she make you love and hate her too, as she does me?”

“Hush—hush!” he said quickly. “I want to like and respect you, Cora Dean.”

“Like! Respect!” she cried, with a flash of her former rage. “Why have I degraded myself like this?”

“Do you not trust me?” he said gently, as he looked in her eyes. “Do you think I should be such a despicable coward as ever to whisper word of this to a soul? Come,” he said, with a frank smile, “we have both been unfortunate. Let us be friends.”

“Friends?” she cried. “No; a woman never forgives a slight like this. Do you think I could?”

“Yes,” he said, after a few moments’ pause. “You hate me, and are bitter against me now; but when you have grown calm you will respect me, I am sure. Cora,” he cried, with an outburst as excited as her own, “there is no such thing as love or truth on earth. I—Bah! What am I saying?” he cried, checking himself. “Come, we are friends. Let me help you to your place again.”

He offered his hand once more, but she struck it aside, and went to the ponies’ heads while he tried to forestall her, but had to catch at the side of the chaise to save himself a fall.

Her anger was gone on the instant as she saw his face contract with pain, and in a moment she was by his side.

“It is my turn to triumph,” she said in a deep, low tone. “Richard Linnell, you must trust to the woman you despise I shall have to drive you home.”

He tried to master the pain, but he could not; and, with a deprecating smile, he had to confess his weakness, and accept a seat back to Saltinville, for it was impossible to walk.

It was a triumph, Cora Dean saw, as she sat up proud and stately beside him; and she felt her heart glow as they reached the town, and scores of promenaders noted him seated by her side; but it was not a pleasant drive home, all the same.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.

Linnell Changes his Mind.

“Getting cured then, Dick?” said Colonel Mellersh grimly, as Richard limped into the room after finding a note in his own place, which his father said had been brought by a boy.

“Cured? Look, I am quite lame. One of Miss Dean’s ponies kicked me; but it will only be a bruise.”

“Humph! How convenient!” said the Colonel, with a grim look.

“Don’t laugh at me,” said Linnell quickly. “I could not help myself.”

“That’s what we all say when we fall victims to fascination.”

“Mellersh, pray stop this banter. You refused Mrs Pontardent’s invitation for yourself and me?”

“I did.”

“I want you to ask her pardon, and get the invitations for us. I must get there to-night.”

“Because Miss Cora Dean, your beautiful charioteer, will be there?”

“No!” fiercely.

“Why, then, most impressionable youth?”

“Because—must I tell you?”

“Yes, if you wish me to act,” said the Colonel sternly.

“Because Claire Denville will be there.”

“Good heavens! that old fop is never going to take that girl?”

“He is.”

“Pooh! What am I saying?” cried the Colonel, half laughingly. “Well, what of it? Why do you want to go?”

“Look.”

Linnell held out the note he had found in his room, and Mellersh read it.

“Rockley—post-horses—for the London Road. Who sent this, Dick?”

“I don’t know.”

“It may be a trick.”

“Who would trick me like that? And what for?”

Mellersh remained silent for a few minutes, and then he said gravely:

“Well, Dick, suppose it is so. Surely you are going to awake from this madness now?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does this letter mean? It is plain enough. Constant sapping has carried the fortress, and the lady has consented.”

“Don’t talk like that, Mellersh. For heaven’s sake, don’t take that cynical tone.”

“Why not, madman? I have heard tell that women often say no when they mean yes. A lady we know must have meant yes. Hang it, boy, what more proof do you want that the woman is unworthy of your love?”

“None,” said Linnell bitterly; “none, but I love her all the same.”

“Nonsense! Be a man.”

“I am a man,” cried Linnell furiously, “too much of a man to see the woman I love suffer for her weakness when I can stretch out a hand to save her. That hand I can stretch out, and I will. Now, will you help me?”

“To the death, Dick. I abhor your folly, but there is so much true chivalry in it that I’ll help you with all my heart.”

“I knew you would,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Write at once and get the invitations.”

“Pish!” said Mellersh contemptuously. “Don’t trouble yourself, my boy. I have only to walk in at Madame Pontardent’s door with any friend I like to take. Ah, I wonder how many hundred pounds I have won in that house!”

Linnell was walking up and down the room when the strains of music heard across the hall ceased; and directly after old Mr Linnell’s pleasant, grave head was thrust into the room.

“Another letter for you, Dick, my son. Just come.”

He held it out, nodded to both, and went back to his room, when the violin was heard again.

“Strange hand,” said Richard, opening it quickly.

“Good God!”

“What’s the matter?” cried Richard, as he heard his friend’s exclamation—saw his start.

“What has Miss Clode to say to you?” said Mellersh huskily.

“Miss Clode? This is not from Miss Clode. Look—no, I cannot show you,” cried Richard excitedly. “Yes, I will; I keep nothing from you.”

Mellersh glanced at the note which had been delivered by hand. It was anonymous, and only contained these words:

“If Mr Richard Linnell wishes for further proof of the unworthiness of a certain lady, let him visit Mrs Pontardent’s to-night.”

“That cannot be from Miss Clode,” said Richard, as he saw his friend’s face resume its cynical calm.

“Possibly not. Of course not. Why should she write to you? Well, Dick, we’ll go and see the affair to-night; but what do you mean to do?”

“Act according to circumstances. At any rate stop this wretched business.”

“Good,” said Mellersh. “I’m with you, Dick; but if it comes to a meeting this time, let me take the initiative. I should like to stand in front of Rockley some morning. The man irritates me, and I am in his debt.”

“What, money?”

“No; I want to pay back a few insults thrown at me over the tables now and then.”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.

An Exacting Guest.

Mrs Pontardent was a lady of a class who prospered well in the days when George the Third was king, and fashionable men considered it the correct thing to ruin themselves at cards wherever the tables were opened for the purpose. If you go to an auction sale now, in out-of-the-way places, there are sure to be card-tables in the catalogue; but if you furnish newly, your eyes rarely light upon green baize-lined tables exhibited for sale.

There were several at Mrs Pontardent’s handsomely-furnished detached house in Prince’s Road, where it stood back in fairly extensive grounds. In fact, it was, after Lord Carboro’s, one of the best houses close to Saltinville.

There were plenty of carriages waiting about in the road that night—so many along by the garden wall that Major Rockley found it necessary to alter his plans, for a post-chaise and four was likely to attract attention, and its postboys might be the objects of a good deal of ribald jest if they were close up with the servants of the private carriages.

To meet this difficulty, not being able to find his servant, he went round himself to the livery-stables, feed the postboys, and gave them instructions to wait in the back lane close by the door in the wall at the north side of the garden.

That door was only unlocked when the gardener was receiving fresh soil, plants or pots, or found it necessary to go out for a quiet refresher in the heat of the day; but after an interview and the offer of a golden key, the gardener thought it possible that the door might be left open that night.

Mrs Pontardent lived in style, and her rooms deserved the title of saloons, draped as they were with amber satin, and bright with wax candles, whose light was reflected from many girandoles.

The drawing-room windows opened on to a well-kept lawn; there were bosky walks; a terrace from which the glittering sea was visible; and in the saloons and about the garden a large and brilliant company was assembled.

The Barclays were there, for Barclay was everybody’s banker, and a necessity. The Deans arrived early, and Cora looked handsomer than ever. In fact, the officers of the dragoon regiment, as they saw her go up and speak to Claire, declared that they were the most perfect blonde and brunette that the world had ever seen. But then Mrs Pontardent’s wines were excellent, and it was acknowledged that it was a guest’s own fault if he did not have enough.

Tea, coffee, ices, and sandwiches at various buffets were spread as a matter of course, but the servants who waited there had a light time compared with that of the butler and his aid.

The Master of the Ceremonies had arrived early with his daughter, whom Mrs Pontardent kissed affectionately, and called “My dear child,” and then her father was obliged to leave her, as he had so many duties to perform, receiving guests and introducing them to the hostess as if it were a royal ball; getting couples ready for the dances that went on to the strains of a string band in a very languid way, and finding places for elderly ladies at the card-tables, as opportunity served.

As soon as she could, Claire found a refuge by the side of Mrs Barclay; but her hand was much sought after by dancers brought up from time to time by her father, and every time she trembled lest one of those present should offer himself as a partner.

But, though Major Rockley was there, and had spoken to her gravely once, and bowed on two other occasions as he passed her, he had made no other advance; and when Richard Linnell arrived he did not attempt to speak, but passed her arm-in-arm with Colonel Mellersh, bowing coldly, and giving her one stern, severe look that made her draw her breath once with a catch, and then feel a glow of resentment.

Cora came and sat down once by her side, to be by turns loving and spiteful, as if her temper was not under command; but they were soon separated, for Cora’s hand was also much sought after for the various dances.

The evening was less trying than Claire had anticipated. She had come prepared to meet with several slights from the ladies present, but, somehow, the only one who openly treated her with discourtesy was Lady Drelincourt, who gave her the cut direct in a most offensive way, as she passed on Morton Denville’s arm.

That was the unkindest act of all, for the boy had seen her, and was about to nod and smile, forgetful in the elation produced by several glasses of wine, of the cause of offence between them; but, taking his cue from the lady on his arm, he drew himself up stiffly and passed on.

The tears rose to Claire’s eyes, but she mastered her emotion, as she saw Major Rockley on the other side of the room, keenly observant of all that had passed; and to hide her grief she went on talking to the gentleman who had just solicited her hand for the next dance.

Richard Linnell passed her soon afterwards with Cora upon his arm, and a jealous pang shot through her; but it passed away, and she resigned herself to her position, as if she had suffered so many pangs of late that her senses were growing blunted, and suffering was becoming easier to her.

Morton Denville was dismissed soon after in favour of Sir Matthew Bray; and, in his boy-like excitement, looked elated one moment as the half-fledged officer of dragoons, annoyed and self-conscious the next, as he kept seeing his father bowing and mincing about the rooms, or caught sight of his sister, whom he shunned.

It was a miserable evening, he thought, and he wished he had not come.

Then he wondered whether he looked well, for he fancied that the Adjutant had smiled at him.

A minute later he was thinking that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and this enjoyment he found in a glass of Mrs Pontardent’s champagne.

The dancing went on; so did the flirting in the saloons and in the garden, which was brilliant in front of the windows, deliciously dark and love-inspiring down the shady walks, for there the strains of the band came in a sweetly subdued murmur that the young officers declared was intoxicating, a charge that was misapplied.

The play grew higher as the night wore on, the conversation and laughter louder, the dancing more spirited, and the party was at its height when Mrs Pontardent, in obedience to an oft-repeated look from Major Rockley, walked up to him slowly, and took his arm.

“My dear Major: what a look!” she said banteringly. “You met the handsome youth, and you shot him. After that you ought to be friends, whereas I saw you exchange a look with poor Mr Linnell that was only excelled by the one you gave Colonel Mellersh.”

“Damn Colonel Mellersh!” said Rockley savagely.

“By all means,” said the lady mockingly; “but not in my presence, please.”

“Don’t talk twaddle,” exclaimed Rockley, as they passed out of the drawing-room window and across the lawn.

It so happened that Cora Dean had been dancing with a handsome young resident of the place, and, after the dance, he had begged her to take a stroll with him out in the grounds.

“No, no,” she said, amused by the impression made upon his susceptible nature; “that means taking cold.”

“I assure you, no,” he exclaimed rather thickly. “It’s warm and delightful outside. Just one walk round.”

She was about to decline, when she caught Richard Linnell’s eyes fixed upon her and her companion, and, urged by a feeling of coquetry, and a desire to try and move him to speak to her, if it were only to reproach, she took the offered arm, and, throwing a lace scarf over her head, allowed her partner to lead where he would, and that was naturally down one of the darkest grass alleys of the grounds.

“Do you know, Miss Dean,” he began thickly, “I never saw a girl in all my life who—”

“Can we see the sea from the grounds here?” said Cora.

“Yes; lovely view,” he said. “Down here;” and he led her farther from the house. “There, you can see the sea from here, but who would wish to see the sea when he could gaze into the lovely eyes of the most—”

“Is not that an arbour?” said Cora, as they stood now in one of the darkest parts of the garden.

“Yes. Let’s sit down and have a talk, and—”

“Will you lead the way?” said Cora.

“Yes; give me your hand—eh—why—what dooce! She’s given me the slip. Oh, ’pon my soul, I’ll pay her for that.”

He started back towards the house, passing close by Cora, who had merely stepped behind a laurustinus, and who now went in the other direction, along a grass path at the back of the lawn.

Her white satin slippers made not the slightest sound, and she was about to walk straight across the lawn and out into the light, when a low, deep murmur reached her ear, and she recognised the voice.

“Major Rockley,” she said to herself. “Who is he with?”

Her jealous heart at once whispered “Claire!”

“If I could but bring Richard face to face with them now!” she thought, “he would turn to me after all.”

She hesitated, for the thought of the act being dishonourable struck her; but in her mental state, and with her defective education, she was not disposed to yield to fine notions of social honour; and, with her heart beating fast, she hurried softly along the grass, to find herself well within hearing of the speakers.

The words she heard were not those of love, for they were uttered more in anger. It was at times quite a quarrel changing to the tone of ordinary conversation.

Cora glanced behind her, to see the brightly lit-up house and hear the strains of music and the sounds of laughter and lively remark, while, by contrast with the glow in that direction, the bushes amid which she stood and into which she peered seemed to be the more obscure.

There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice said quickly:

“No, no; I cannot. You must not ask me, indeed.”

A curious feeling of disappointment came over Cora, for her plan was crushed on the instant. What were other people’s love affairs to her?

She was turning away with disgust, when the deep voice of the Major said quickly, and in a menacing way which rooted the listener to the spot:

“But I say you shall. One word from me, and you might have to leave Saltinville for good. I mean for your own good.”

“Oh, Rockley!”

“I don’t care; you make me mad. Here have I done you endless little services, helped you to live in the style you do; and the first little favour I ask of you, I am met with a flat refusal.”

“I don’t like to refuse you, but the girl is—”

“Well, you know what the girl is. Hang it all, Pont, should I ask you if it were not as I say—unless it were that rich heiress I am to carry off some day.”

“And the sooner the better.”

“Yes, yes; but time’s going. It’s now eleven, and I must strike while the iron’s hot.”

“But, Rockley—”

“More opposition? What the devil do you mean?”

“I don’t like to be mixed up with such an affair.”

“You will not be mixed up with it. No one will know but our two selves.”

“My conscience goes against such a trap.”

“Your conscience!” he hissed angrily.

“Well, and do you suppose I have none? The girl is too good. I like her. It is a shame, Rockley.”

Cora Dean’s heart beat as if it would suffocate her, while her mouth felt dry and her hands moist. She could hardly have moved to save her life. She knew what it was, she felt sure. It was a plot against Claire, and if it were—

Cora Dean did not finish her thought, but listened as Rockley spoke again.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Four.

Too Late.

“How long has the fair Pontardent taken to the nursing up of scruples?”

“Do you suppose a woman is all evil?” was the retort. “You men make us bad enough, but you cannot kill all the good. I say it is a shame.”

“A shame!” said Rockley derisively. “Ha, ha, ha! What a woman you are! You don’t know what has taken place. I tell you this; she is mine. All she wants is the excuse and opportunity that she finds to-night with me. The old man watches her like a hawk.”

“Is this really so, Rockley?”

“On my honour. I should not have done what I have if she were not willing. I’ve a chaise and four waiting outside the lower gate behind here.”

“You have?”

“It has been there this half hour, and we are only waiting for our opportunity. Now then, will you help me?”

“Well,” said Mrs Pontardent hesitating, “if it is that—”

“It is like that, I tell you; but she wants it to appear that she had no hand in it, to keep up the fiction. You see?”

“Yes,” said the woman, rather hoarsely; “but I don’t like it, Rockley.”

“Friends or enemies?—one word?” he said sternly.

“Friends,” she said quickly. “What am I to do?”

“Go back at once, and get hold of young Denville. He’s half-tipsy somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“Tell him he has shamefully neglected his sister, and that he is to take her out in the garden for a walk straight down the broad grass path, and beg her pardon.”

“But—”

“Not a word. Do what I say. The boy will obey you like a sheep dog.”

“And then?”

“What then? That is all.”

“But, Rockley, no violence.”

“Bah! Rubbish! Do as I bid you. I shall push the boy into a bush; that’s all.”

There was a dead silence.

“Must I do this, Rockley?”

“Yes, you must. Go at once. You shall not be mixed in the affair at all. No one can blame you, for the boy is too tipsy to recollect anything to-morrow. Now go.”

There was a rustle of a dress, and Cora had just time to draw out of sight as Mrs Pontardent passed her.

Cora heard her voice as she went by. It was almost like a sigh, but the words were articulate, and they were:

“God forgive me! It is too bad.”

What to do?

Cora stood motionless, her pulses beating furiously, and the blood surging to her brain, and seeming to keep her from thinking out some plan.

Major Rockley—the cruel, insolent libertine—had a post-chaise waiting; by a trick Claire was to be got out, and down the broad walk, led like a sheep to the slaughter by her weak, half-tipsy brother, and then carried off. The plan seemed to Cora devilish in its cunning, and the flush of her ardent blood intoxicated her with a strange feeling of excitement—a wild kind of joy.

It was all for her. Claire away—carried off, or eloped with Rockley, Richard Linnell would rage for a week, and then forget her. Poor fellow! How he had struggled to hide that limp, and how handsome he looked. How she loved him—her idol—who had saved her life. He would be hers now, hers alone, and there would be no handsome, sweet-voiced rival in the way to win him to think always of her soft, grey, loving eyes—so gentle, so appealing in their gaze, that they seemed to be looking out of the darkness at her now.

Yes, there they were so firm and true—so softly appealing, and yet so full of womanly dignity that, as she hated her, so at the same time she loved.

“And in perhaps half an hour she would be away—on the road to London—in the Major’s arms.”

“And Richard Linnell will be free to love me, and me alone?”

She said it aloud, and then tore at her throat, for a thought came that made the blood surge up and nearly suffocate her.

“Why, he would curse me if he knew, and loathe me to his dying day.”

She took a few hasty steps forward, and then staggered and stopped short.

“I must have been mad!” she panted. “Am I so bad as that?”

She hurried towards the house, and narrowly missed her late partner as she reached one of the windows.

Thank heaven! she was not too late. There sat Claire where she had left her. No: it was some other lady.

She hurried in as quickly as she could without exciting notice.

Where was Claire?

She went from room to room, but she was not visible.

Where was Richard Linnell?

Nowhere to be seen.

If she could find Colonel Mellersh, or Mr Barclay—but no; there was not a soul she knew, and from different parts of the room men were approaching her, evidently to ask her to dance.

She escaped into another saloon, and there was Denville.

She took a few steps towards him, but he hurried away as if to attend to a call from their hostess, who was smiling at the end of the room. The next moment Cora saw her take the arm of the Master of the Ceremonies and go through a farther door.

Impossible to speak to him now. It was as if Mrs Pontardent had divined the reason of her coming, and was fighting against her with all her might.

Another gentleman approached, but she shrank away nervously, expecting each moment to see again her companion of the dark walk.

All at once, to her great joy, she caught sight of Mrs Barclay, looking in colour like a full-blown cabbage-rose, and exhaling scent.

She hurried up to the plump pink dame, to be saluted with:

“Ah, my dear, how handsome you do look to-night!”

“Where’s Claire Denville?” cried Cora huskily.

“Claire, my dear? Oh, she was with me ever so long, but she has just gone down the grounds.”

A spasm seemed to shoot through Cora Dean as she said to herself: “Too late!”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.

Mellersh is Convinced.

“Well, Dick,” said Mellersh, as he sought Linnell out, after a stroll round the rooms in search of Cora Dean, “how long are you going to keep yourself on the gridiron?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Then I shall not try to explain.”

“Have you seen anything?”

“N-no.”

“Don’t hesitate, man; you have?”

“No, Dick, no. Of course, I’ve seen a certain young lady, and I’ve seen Rockley hanging about.”

“Well, that proves nothing, does it?”

“My dear Dick, why should I waste my breath on a man in your condition?”

“My condition, you wretched old cynic? You never knew what it was to love.”

“Wrong. I have loved, and I am in love now.”

“You? You?”

“Yes, my boy, and with a woman who cares for somebody else; but I don’t go stalking about like a tragedy hero, and rolling my eyes and cursing the whole world. If I cannot have the moon, I shall not cry for it.”

“Hist! There goes Rockley.”

“Well, let him go.”

Richard Linnell made no reply, but quietly followed the Major.

“I mustn’t let them meet without me there,” thought Mellersh. “The scoundrel might hit him badly next time.”

He strode off after Richard Linnell, but missed him, and it was quite half an hour before they met again.

“I have been about the gate,” said Richard hoarsely. “There is no post-chaise there.”

“Then it is a hoax.”

“No; I cannot think that it is. Rockley is yonder, and he is watching about in a curious, restless way that means something.”

“Where is he?”

“Over there by the saloon window.”

“Oh, my dear Dick, I am hungry for a good hand at whist, and to win a little Philistine gold, and here you keep me hanging about after you, looking for a mare’s nest.”

“I can’t stop,” said Linnell. “Where shall I find you if I want you?”

“Here, on this seat, under this bush, smoking a cigar. No; I’ll stick by you, my lad.”

They went off together, and, going straight up to the window pointed out by Linnell, found that Rockley was not there.

“I left him there, I’ll swear,” said Linnell savagely. “No, don’t let us separate; I may want you.”

“Quite right; and I may want you,” replied Mellersh.

They walked hastily round, looking in at window after window, but there was no sign of Rockley. The throng of guests were dancing, playing, or conversing, and the scene was very brilliant; but the tall, dark officer of the dragoons was the only one of his party that they could not see.

“Mellersh,” exclaimed Linnell suddenly, “with all my watchfulness, I seem to have failed.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Claire!”

“Claire? Why, I saw her seated on that rout-chair five minutes ago.”

“Yes; but she has gone.”

“Quick, then—down to the gate! We must see them there.”

“Unless they have passed through,” said Linnell, with a groan. “I ought not to have left the entrance.”

“Don’t talk,” said Mellersh, almost savagely now, he seemed so moved from his ordinary calm. “I don’t want to think you are right, Dick, but I begin to be suspicious at last.”

They hurried down to the gate, where a knot of servants were chatting, the lights from the carriage-lamps glistening in polished panels and windows, and throwing up the gay liveries of the belaced footmen waiting.

“Has any one passed through here lately?” said Mellersh sharply.

“No, sir,” was chorused.

“Not a lady and gentleman?”

“No, sir—yes, about half an hour ago Colonel Lascelles and the doctor at the barracks went out together.”

“But no lady and gentleman separately or together?”

“No, sir.”

“No carriage?”

“No, sir,” said the footman who had acted as spokesman.

“Only wish they would,” grumbled a coachman from his box close by the gate.

“We are in time,” said Mellersh, and Linnell breathed more freely as he took up a position in the shade of a great clump of evergreens just inside the gate.

“Have you any plan?” said Mellersh, after a few minutes’ waiting, during which time the servants, gathered in a knot, were at first quiet, as if resenting the presence of the two gentlemen. Then their conversation began again, and the watchers were forgotten.

“Plan? Yes,” said Linnell. “I shall take her from him, and not leave her until she is in her father’s care.”

“Humph! That means mischief, Dick.”

“Yes; for him, Mellersh. I shall end by killing that man.”

Mellersh was silent, and the minutes glided by.

“I can’t bear this,” said Linnell at last. “I feel as if there is something wrong—that he has succeeded in getting her away. Mellersh! man! why don’t you speak? Here, come this way.”

Mellersh followed as his companion walked to the gate.

“Is there a servant of Mrs Pontardent’s here?”

“Yes, sir,” said a man holding a lantern, “I am.”

“Is there any other entrance to these grounds?”

“No, sir,” said the man sharply, and Linnell’s heart beat with joy. “Leastwise, sir, only the garden gate.”

“Garden gate?”

“Yes, sir; at the bottom of the broad walk.”

“Here—which way?”

“Right up through the grounds, sir; or along outside here, till you come to the lane that goes round by the back. But it’s always kept locked.”

“Stop here, Mellersh, while I go round and see,” whispered Linnell. “If I shout, come to me.”

“Yes; go on. It is not likely.”

They went outside together, past the wondering group of servants, and then separating, Linnell was starting off when Mellersh ran to him.

“No blows, Dick,” he whispered, “Be content with separating them.”

Linnell nodded, and was starting again when a man ran up out of the darkness, and caught Mellersh hastily by the arm.

“Seen a post-chaise about here, sir?”

“Post-chaise, my man?”

“Yes, sir—four horses—was to have been waiting hereabouts. Lower down. Haven’t heard one pass?”

“No,” said Linnell quickly; “but what post-chaise? Whose? Speak man!”

“Who are you?” said the man roughly.

“Never mind who I am,” cried Linnell. “Tell me who was that post-chaise waiting for?”

The man shook him off with an oath, and was starting again on his search, when about fifty yards away there was the tramp of horses, the rattle and bump of wheels; and then, as by one consent, the three men ran towards the spot, they caught a faint glimpse of a yellow chaise turning into the main road; then there was the cracking of the postboys’ whips, and away it went over the hard road at a canter.

“Too late!” groaned the man, as he ran on, closely followed by Linnell and Mellersh.

“Too late!” groaned Linnell; but he ran on, passing the man, who raced after him, though, and for about a quarter of a mile they kept almost together, till, panting with breathlessness and despair, and feeling the utter hopelessness of overtaking the chaise on foot, Linnell turned fiercely on the runner and grasped him by the throat.

“You scoundrel!” he panted. “You knew of this. Who’s in that chaise?”

“Curse you! don’t stop me. Can’t you see I’m too late?” cried the man savagely.

“Linnell! Are you mad?” cried Mellersh, coming up.

“Linnell!—are you Linnell?—Richard Linnell?” panted the man, ceasing his struggles.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Don’t waste time, man,” groaned the other. “We must stop them at any cost. Did you see them go? Who is it Major Rockley has got there?”

“A lady we know,” said Mellersh quickly. “Who are you?”

“The drunken fool and idiot who wanted to stop it,” groaned Bell. “Here, Linnell,” he said, “what are you going to do?”

“The man’s drunk, and fooling us, Mellersh,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Quick! Into the town and let’s get a post-chaise. They are certain to take the London Road.”

“No,” cried Bell excitedly; “he would make for Weymouth. Tell me this, though, gentlemen,” he cried, clinging to Linnell’s arm. “I am drunk, but I know what I am saying. For God’s sake, speak: is it Claire Denville?”

“Who are you?” cried Mellersh sharply. “Stand off, or I’ll knock you down. It is the Major’s man, Dick, and he’s keeping us back to gain time. I didn’t know him at first.”

“No: I swear I’m not,” cried the dragoon, in a voice so full of anguish, that they felt his words were true. “Tell me, is it Miss Denville?”

“Yes.”

“Curse him! I’ll have his life,” cried the man savagely. “This way, quick!”

“What are you going to do?” cried Linnell, as Bell set off at a sharp run towards the main street of the town.

“Come with me and see.”

“No: I shall get a post-chaise and four.”

“And give them an hour’s start,” cried the dragoon. “Horses, man, horses.”

“Where can we get them quickly?”

“In Major Rockley’s stable, curse him!” was the reply.

In five minutes they were at the stable, and the dragoon threw open the door.

“Can you saddle a horse?” he panted, as they entered the place, dimly lit by a tallow candle in a swinging horn lantern.

“Yes—yes,” was the reply.

“Quick then. Everything’s ready.”

Each ran to a horse, the head-stalls were cast loose, and the order of the well-appointed stable stood them in such good stead that, everything being at hand, in five minutes the three horses were saddled and bridled, and being led out, champing their bits.

“We’ve no spurs. Where are the whips?”

“They want no whips,” cried the dragoon excitedly; “a shake of the rein and a touch of the heel. They’re chargers, gentlemen. Can you ride, Mr Linnell?”

“Yes,” was the answer; and as it was given Linnell’s foot was painfully raised to the stirrup.

He stopped though, and laid his hand upon the dragoon’s shoulder.

“The London Road?” he said, looking him full in the eyes.

“The Weymouth Road, I tell you.”

Another half minute and they were mounted and clattering down the lane to turn into the main street, up which the three sleek creatures pressed, hanging close together, and snorting, and rattling their bits as they increased their stride.

“Steady—steady—a carriage,” cried Mellersh; and they opened out to ride on either side of a chariot with flashing lamps, and as they passed they had a glimpse of Lady Drelincourt being escorted home from the party by Sir Matthew Bray.

“Steady!” cried Mellersh again, as they came in sight of the cluster of lamps and carriages by Mrs Pontardent’s gates; and but for his insistance there would have been a collision, for another carriage came out and passed them, the wheel just brushing Linnell’s leg in the road narrowed by a string of carriages drawn up to the path.

“Now we’re clear,” said Mellersh; and they cantered by the wall, past the lane in which the chaise had been waiting, past a few more houses and the ragged outskirts, always mounting, and then bearing off to the left as the way curved, till there it lay, the broad chalk western road, open, hard, and ready to ring to their horses’ beating hoofs.

“Now then, forward!” cried the dragoon hoarsely.

“At a trot!” shouted Mellersh.

“No, no; gallop!” roared the dragoon, and his horse darted ahead.

“Halt!” shouted Mellersh in a ringing voice, for he had not forgotten old field-practice; and the three horses stopped short.

“Listen!” he continued, in a voice of authority; “they’ve half an hour’s start nearly, and we shall not overtake them this stage. We must not blow our horses at the beginning. A steady trot for the first few miles, and then forward at a canter. It will be a long race.”