"Thereby Hangs a Tale" (continued 3)

“How much more have you got in that purse?” said Mrs Jenkles, shortly.

A faint flush of resentment appeared in the mothers face, and the daughter darted an angry look at the speaker. But it died out in an instant, as with a sad, weary action, Mrs Lane reopened the purse, and shook out two more coins beside the half-sovereign upon the table.

“Two shillings,” she said, faintly; “it is all.”

Mrs Jenkles sat very still, and the stitching went on like the ticking of two clocks, measuring out the short span of the workers’ lives.

Mrs Jenkles’s eyes were busy, and she saw, as they went over the room, how shabbily it was furnished, how thinly mother and daughter were clothed, how pale and weary was their aspect, while the girl’s eyes were unnaturally bright.

At last Mrs Jenkles’s eyes caught sight of a little white corner in one of the compartments of the open purse, and she gave a hysterical gulp.

There was a heap of thick cloth work lying on the table between the two women—the one coarse, unrefined, but comfortably clothed and fed, the other refined and worn to skin and bone—and this heap covered Mrs Jenkles’s actions as she rose, walked to the table, and then, without a word, went out of the room.

“Has she gone?” whispered Netta, as Mrs Jenkles’s retreating footsteps were heard.

“Yes,” said Mrs Lane, with a weary sigh, and she worked on.

“It was very, very cruel,” said the girl, with her voice shaking, and, in spite of her efforts, a heavy sob would make its way from her breast, and the tears stole down her cheeks. “Mother, darling, what shall we do?”

“Hope and wait,” was the response, in a low, pained voice. “It was only their due. The husband was very kind.”

“But the two shillings—for bread,” sobbed the girl. “Mamma, does papa know—can he know of this?”

Mrs Lane leaned back in her chair, and held one hand over her eyes for a few moments; then, with a gesture to her child to be silent, she once more bent over her work.

Netta brushed the tears from her eyes, drew in her breath as if in pain, and worked on in silence for a quarter of an hour, when steps were once more heard upon the stairs.

The eyes of mother and daughter met, those of the latter in dread; but it was not the heavy step of Barney, nor the snatchy shuffle of his wife, but a quick, decided, solid footstep, and the moment afterwards Mrs Jenkles re-entered the room, and closed the door.

Mrs Lane rose in surprise, and took a step to meet her. Directly after, completely broken down, she was sobbing on the coarse, uneducated woman’s neck; for she had seen at a glance that the money still lay upon the table by the empty purse—empty now, for the duplicate it had contained was gone—as, with a loving, sisterly movement, the cabman’s wife slipped back upon her finger the ring she had been to redeem, and then, kissing her upon the forehead, whispered—

“My poor dear, what you must have suffered! Hush, hush! There, there!” said Mrs Jenkles, after a pause, with tears streaming down her own simple, honest face; and she patted and tried to soothe her forsaken sister as she would a child.

“There, there, there; don’t you cry too, my pretty,” she said, as Netta flew to her, and kissed her on the cheek. “Come, come, come, we must hold up. There, that’s better; now sit down.”

“And I said God had forsaken us in our distress,” sobbed Mrs Lane. “I little thought what forms his angels took.”

“There, there, there,” said Mrs Jenkles, wiping her eyes with a rapid motion; “if you talk like that you’ll drive me away. I told Sam I’d come up to see, for I didn’t know; and he is so easily led away, and I thought all sorts of things. But, bless and save us, he never told me half enough. There, there, wipe your eyes.”

As she spoke, with a delicacy for which one might not have given her credit, she turned her back, leaving mother and daughter sobbing in each other’s arms, while she slipped the money back in the purse, and placed it on the chimney-piece. Her next act was to take off her bonnet and shawl, hang them behind the door, and take up Netta’s work and chair, beginning to stitch away with a vigour that astonished the girl, as she tore herself away from her mother, and came to resume her toil.

“No, no, my dear; I’ll give you a rest while you see about a bit of dinner; for,” she said, with a cheery smile, “you’ll let me have a bit with you to-day, now, won’t you? I’ll try and earn it.”

The girl’s tears were ready to flow again, but Mrs Jenkles’s finger was shaken menacingly at her, and she turned to her mother, who rose, dried her eyes, and came and kissed the broad, smooth forehead.

“God will bless you for this,” she said, softly; and then the work went on once more, with such sunshine in the room as had not seemed to enter it for weeks.

“Ah!” said Mrs Jenkles, as she bit off a fresh length of thread with her firm, white teeth. “Rents are dear up this part, I suppose.”

“I pay seven and sixpence a week for this and the back room,” said Mrs Lane.

“They’d be dear at half with such furniture,” said Mrs Jenkles.

There was another spell of sewing, when Mrs Lane said that she would see about the dinner; and then, as if reading Mrs Jenkles’s thoughts—

“I don’t like letting Netta go out alone.”

“And quite right, too, with her face,” said Mrs Jenkles. “But she looks tired. You ought to walk out every day for an hour or two.”

The girl gave her a pitiful look.

So the day wore on, Mrs Jenkles taking dinner and tea with them, and seeing that each of them partook of a hearty meal, leaving about half-past nine with a bundle.

It was sharp work to get home before Sam should arrive from the yard; but Mrs Jenkles managed it, had the table laid, the supper out, and the beer fetched, before he came in, took off his shiny hat and old coat, and seating himself began to fill his pipe.

“Well, old lady,” he said, “what time did yer get back?”

“About a quarter of an hour ago,” said Mrs Jenkles, as she took out some of the work upon which she had been engaged.

Sam whistled and stared.

“What’s them?” he said, pointing with his pipe at the work.

“Only some slop-work I want to finish.”

Mrs Jenkles seemed so busy, that she could not look up and meet her husband’s eye. In fact, to use her own expression, she was all of a twitter, and did not know what Sam would say; for though she nominally ruled him, Sam had a will of his own.

“Well, and did you find out about ’em?”

“Yes, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, without raising her eyes.

“Bad lot, aint they?” he said, puffing away at his pipe.

Mrs Jenkles shook her head.

“What, aint I been took in, then?” said Sam. “Aint they deep, designing people, as got hold of yer poor innocent husband, and swindled him out of thirty bob?”

“Oh, Sam, Sam!” exclaimed Mrs Jenkles, with her lip quivering, “I never see anything so pitiful in my life.”

“Poof!” exclaimed Sam, bursting out into a guffaw, as he turned in his seat, hugged the back of the chair, and shook with laughter. “That’s my poor, silly, soft old wife, as can’t be trusted out. Did they offer to pay you any of the money back?”

Mrs Jenkles nodded.

“How much?”

“Half a sovereign, Sam.”

“Well, that’s something; and jolly honest, too!”

“But I didn’t take it, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, dropping her work, to go and rest her hands upon his shoulder.

“You didn’t take it?”

“No, Sam, dear.”

“Then you’ve been and let ’em have more.”

“Yes, Sam, dear.”

“There’s a wife for you,” he said—“there’s a helpmate; and I aint made my guv’nor’s money to-day by four bob.”

“I couldn’t help it, Sam—I couldn’t, indeed,” she said; bursting into tears; “it was so pitiful—she’s a real lady, I’m sure, and her daughter, straining over that heart-breaking work; oh! it was more than I could bear.”

“I wasn’t such a werry great fool, Sally,” he said.

“Oh no, Sam. Oh no. But I haven’t told you all yet.”

“You haven’t?”

“No, dear.”

“Well, put me out of my misery at once,” said Sam, “that’s all.”

“Don’t be angry with me, Sam, it’ll come back to us some way, I hope; and if it don’t, we shall only have done what thousands more would have done if they had only known.”

“Let’s have it,” said Sam, gruffly.

“They’re paying seven and six, Sam, for those wretched rooms, and the woman’s a horrid creature.”

“Yes, she is that,” said Sam, nodding.

“And the poor young lady’s frightened to death of the man, who insulted her once. He is a dreadful-looking fellow.”

“Wuss, ever so much,” said Sam, nodding at his pipe-bowl.

“And I—I—”

“Told ’em about our being about to be empty; that’s about what you did,” said Sam.

“Yes, Sam.”

“Well, you’re a nice one. Of course you’ve put the rent up?”

“No, I haven’t, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I’ve—”

“Asked only the same. Why, our rooms is a palace to theirs—not as I ever see a palace to know.”

“They’re smaller, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles.

“Precious little,” said Sam. “Well, you’ve offered ’em at six bob, eh? Well, you are a nice one; and doing their work, too!”

“No, Sam, dear, I told them they could have them for five shillings a week.”

“Five!” shouted Sam.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs Jenkles, pitifully; “don’t be cross, dear. They said they wouldn’t take them.”

“That’s a comfort,” said Sam.

“But,” exclaimed Mrs Jenkles, hurriedly, “I persuaded them to come. I told them that they would be saving half a crown a week, and that in twelve weeks they would have paid off the thirty shillings you lent them, and they’re coming.”

“And how many more weeks will it take to pay off the money you lent them?” said Sam, facing round sharply.

“Only three, dear; it was only seven and sixpence, Sam.”

“You’ll ruin me,” said Sam. “You know as we’re as poor as can be,” he went on, with his eyes averted from her.

“No, Sam, we’re not; for we’ve a comfortable home, and we always save a little.”

“And you go and make jellies and give away.”

“How did you know that?” said Mrs Jenkles, sharply.

“Ah! you women can’t go on long in your wicked ways without being found out,” said Sam. “I heerd on it.”

“The poor child was dying, same as our poor little Dick was, Sam, and—and—”

Sam turned his head farther away.

“And now you invite poor people to come, as ’ll never be able to pay their bit o’ rent; an’ the end on it all ’ll be the workus.”

“Oh, Sam; pray, pray, don’t! Do I deserve all this?” and the poor woman burst out sobbing.

“God bless you! no, old lady,” cried Sam, pulling her on to his knee, and giving her a sounding kiss, as she laid her head upon his shoulder. “It ’ll all come right in the long run; see if it don’t. Life aint worth having if you can’t do, a bit o’ good in it.”

“Then you really aint cross with me, Sam?”

“Not a bit,” said Sam. “Look at me. Sally, my old gal, it’s my belief as them angels as takes the toll at the gate up above in the shiny way ’ll let you go through free.”

“Sam!” cried Mrs Jenkles, trying to lay her hand on his mouth.

“And look here, old lady,” he continued, stroking her face; “when that does come off, which I hope it won’t be for scores o’ years to come, you keep werry, werry tight hold o’ my hand, and then, perhaps, I shall stand a chance of getting into heaven too.”

End of Volume One.

Love Minor.

Little Polly wiped her eyes after her happy thoughts; for the shower had passed, and the gleam of sunshine augmented till her face grew dimpled, and she went on stitching busily. It was very evident that she had some consolation—some pleasant unguent for the irritation caused by Aunt Lloyd; for at the end of half an hour she was singing away at some old Welsh ditty, in a sweet, bird-like voice, filling up, when she forgot the words, with a melodious little hum, which was only checked on the appearance of her tyrant, that lady mating occasional incursions. Sometimes Aunt Lloyd required table linen; then she came to unlock the press where the dessert was laid out, and hand it to the footman, counting the fruit on the dishes as she did so.

“Now, Robert, what are you looking at there?” she said, sharply, as she caught the man’s eyes straying in the direction of Polly. “Mind your work, if you please.”

Polly did not get snubbed, for she had been bending diligently over her stitching, which, as soon as the tray of dessert had gone, came in for a close inspection; but, as it was very neatly done, there was no complaint.

“Hold out your hands, child,” said Mrs Lloyd, suddenly; and she examined the finger roughened by the hard material and contact with the needle. “Ah, that stuffs too stiff; it shall be washed first. Mend those.”

The linen was doubled up, put away, and some soft material placed in the girl’s hands, over which she had been diligently at work one hour, when Mrs Lloyd returned for coffee from her stores, with which she again departed, muttering about “Such a set to bring down!” and Polly’s musical little voice began once more.

Let’s see: the dictionary says that an enchanter is one who calls down by chanting or singing—one who practises sorcery by song. Polly, then, must have been an enchantress, for her little ditty about the love of some deserted maid had the effect of bringing cousin Humphrey Lloyd through the shrubbery to the open window of the housekeeper’s room; and just in the midst of one of the sweetest of the little trills there was a rustle amongst the laurels, and a deep voice whispered “Polly!”

“Oh, my!” ejaculated Polly, dropping her work, and starting farther from the window. “What will aunt say?”

Now, her instructions had been stringent; and knowing that it would be like high treason to speak to Humphrey, she determined that she would not, just as an industrious young needle, which had been warned not to get rusty by associating with common bits of steel, might have gone on busily through its work like the one Polly held in her hand.

But supposing that, instead of a common piece of steel, a magnet that had been rubbed with the loadstone of love should come in its way, what could the poor needle do?

Even as did little Polly—vow that aunt would be so cross; and then feel herself drawn, drawn closer and closer to the iron-barred window, till her little hands were caught in two strong, muscular fists, which pressed them so hard that they almost hurt.

“Oh! you mustn’t, mustn’t come!” sobbed Polly. “If aunt found it out she would almost kill me!”

“No, no, little one,” said Humphrey; “why should she?”

“You—you don’t know aunt,” whispered Polly. “She’s ordered me not to speak to you.”

“Not to speak to me!”

“Yes; nor to any one else. She would be so angry if she knew. You don’t want to get me scolded.”

“No, no,” he whispered—“not for worlds.”

“Pray, pray, go then; and you must not speak to me any more.”

“But Polly, dear Polly,” whispered Humphrey, “tell me one thing, and then I’ll go and wait years and years, if you like, only tell me that.”

Humphrey stopped short, for a singular phenomenon occurred. Polly’s fingers seemed to suddenly change from within his hands to his wrists, and to become bony and firm, a sharp voice at the same moment exclaiming—

“Who’s this?”

Humphrey Lloyd was a man, every inch of him, and he spoke out boldly—

“Well, if you must know, it’s me—Humphrey.”

“Go round to the side door, and come to my room,” said Mrs Lloyd, in a low, angry voice.

Humphrey was heard to go rustling through the laurels, as Mrs Lloyd exclaimed—

“Go up to your room, Miss, this instant; and don’t you stir till I call you down.”

Shivering with fear and shame, Polly made her escape to run up to her room, throw herself on the bed, and cry as if her heart would break, just missing Humphrey, who came round without loss of time.

“Now,” said Mrs Lloyd, as soon as the door was closed, “what have you to say to this?”

“Only that it was my fault,” said Humphrey—“all my fault; so don’t blame the poor little girl. It was all my doing.”

“Now, look here, Humphrey Lloyd,” exclaimed the housekeeper, speaking in a low, angry voice, “you like your place here?”

“Yes, if you and he could treat me a little better.”

“Never mind about that,” said Mrs Lloyd.

“It’s no use to mind,” said Humphrey, bitterly. “If I had been a dog instead of your own flesh and blood, you couldn’t have treated me worse.”

“Treated you badly!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd; “haven’t you been well fed, educated, and placed in a good situation?”

“Yes—all that,” said Humphrey. “And for reward you fly in my face. Now, look here, Humphrey. If you so much as look at that girl again, let alone speak to her, off you go. You shall not stay on the premises another day.”

“Well,” said Humphrey, “that’s pleasant; but all the same I don’t see what power you have in the matter, so long as I satisfy the young master.”

“Then just content yourself with satisfying your young master, sir, and mind, that girl’s not for you, so let’s have no more of it. Now go.”

“But look here,” said Humphrey. “I told you to go,” said Mrs Lloyd, pointing. “Your place is at the keeper’s lodge. Go and stay there, and don’t go thinking you can influence Master Dick—Mr Trevor—to keep you, because even if you could, the girl should go away, and you should see her no more. Now go.”

“Poor little lassie,” muttered Humphrey, as, in obedience to Mrs Lloyd’s pointing finger, he slowly left the room, walked heavily along the passage, and out into the dark evening, to pass round the house, and cross the lawn, where he could see through the open windows into the dining-room.

“Nice for me,” he muttered. “Forbidden to go near her—girl in my own station. What does the old woman mean?”

He stood gazing in at the merry, laughing party of young, well-dressed men.

“Nice to be you,” he thought; “plenty of money to spend; people to do all you tell them to; nobody to thwart you. But I wonder what the old lady means.”

He laughed to himself directly after, in a low, bitter fashion.

“No, not so bad as that,” he said, half aloud. “She’s ambitious, and scheming, but that would be going too far.”

Kinks in the Line.

Matters were not so pleasant, though, with the four occupants of the dining-room as Humphrey Lloyd believed. Vanleigh had his skeleton in the cupboard and was very impecunious; Sir Felix had wealth, but he was constantly feeling that his friend Vanleigh was an incubus whom he would give the world to shake off, but wanted the moral courage; Pratt suffered from poverty, and now told himself that he must be bored by his friend’s affairs; lastly, Trevor had come down to his old home thinking it would be a bower of roses, and it was as full of thorns, as it could possibly be.

The dinner had been a failure. At every turn the influence of Mrs Lloyd was perceptible, and proof given that so far she had been sole mistress of the house.

“By the way, Vanleigh, try that claret,” said Trevor, in the course of the dinner. “Lloyd, the claret to Captain Vanleigh.”

The Captain tasted it, and set down his glass.

Pratt took a glass, and made a point of drinking it.

Trevor saw there was something wrong.

“Bring me that claret,” he said.

The butler poured him out a glass of very thin, poor wine.

Lloyd was then proceeding to fill Sir Felix’s glass, but he declined.

“I thought we had some good old claret,” said Trevor, fuming.

“Yes, sir,” said the butler.

“Fetch a bottle directly,” exclaimed Trevor. “Really, gentlemen, I am very sorry,” he continued, as the butler went out of the room. “It’s a mistake. Here, Robert, what champagne’s that?”

The footman brought a bottle from the ice-pail.

“Why, confound it all!” cried Trevor, “I said the dry Clicquot was to be brought—such fools!”

“Mr Lloyd did get out the Clicker, sir; but Mrs Lloyd said the second best would do, sir,” replied the footman, glad of an opportunity to change the responsibility.

“Then all the wine is of the ordinary kind?” said Trevor.

“Yes, sir,” said the footman.

“Look here, Lloyd,” said Trevor, as the butler came into the room, “you made a mistake about that claret. See that the other wine is right; and if not, change it.”

The butler looked aghast and hurried out, to return in a few minutes with a basket of bottles, which he changed for those already in the room.

Trevor said no more, but he was evidently making up his mind to suppress the mutiny with a high hand on the morrow; for, as the dinner went on, he became aware that in many little things his orders had been departed from. There was a paucity of plate, when an abundance lay in the chests; the dinner was good, by stretching a point, but not such as would please men accustomed to the chefs of Pall Mall; and when at last the coffee was brought in it was of the most economical quality.

“There,” said Trevor, “I’ll set all right to-morrow, I’m very sorry, Vanleigh; but things are all sixes and sevens here. Pratt, pass the claret. Landells, try that port.”

“Never drink port, dear boy,” said the Baronet.

“Then let’s go into the billiard-room; or what do you say, Van—would you prefer my room and a rubber?”

“Don’t much care for billiards to-night,” said Vanleigh. “By the way, though,” he said, “will your estimable housekeeper permit smoking in the dining-room.”

“Oh, come, Van,” said Sir Felix, “don’t be hard on your host.”

“Shall I ring for cigars, Dick?” said Pratt, reaching out his hand.

“Do, please,” was the reply. “Smoke where you like, gentlemen, and make yourselves at home. I don’t want to be hard on the old people. You see, it’s a particular case. I’ve been away for years. I left a boy, and they have had it all their own way. Oh, Lloyd, bring in the cigar boxes, and brandy and soda.”

“Here, sir?” said the butler, hesitating.

“Here? Yes, here directly,” said Trevor; and he looked annoyed as he caught a glance passing from Vanleigh to Sir Felix.

“It’s all right, Dick,” said Pratt. “It’s a nice estate, but weedy. Pull ’em up, one at a time.”

“By the way, Van,” said Sir Felix, “didn’t tell Trevor of our ’venture.”

“No,” said Vanleigh, kicking at his friend beneath the table; “been so taken up with other things. Brought home some neighbours of yours—without leave—in the waggonette.”

“Neighbours—without leave?” said Trevor, passing the claret. “We are all ears.”

“Some of us,” muttered Pratt, glancing at Sir Felix, and then looking perfectly innocent.

“Neighbours of yours—a Sir Hampton Court.”

“No, no—Weir or Here, or name of that sort,” said Sir Felix.

“Carriage broke down—two daughters—deuced fine girls, too.”

“Vewy,” said Sir Felix, arranging his gummy moustache.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Trevor. “No one hurt?”

“Calm yourself, my friend,” said Vanleigh, proceeding in a most unruffled way. “The ladies were uninjured, and we—”

“Brought back—home,” said Sir Felix, feebly.

“I’m heartily glad of it—I am, indeed,” said Trevor, earnestly. “Frank, old fellow, that will be an excuse for a call; and we can patch up the encounter. We were both horribly hot.”

“Fever heat?” said Pratt.

“Yes, and I daresay the old fellow’s as sorry now as I am. I’ll—Well, Lloyd,” he continued, as the butler came in, looking rather alarmed, and rubbing his hands softly, “where are the cigars?”

“Mustn’t smoke!” said Vanleigh, in a whisper to Sir Felix, but heard by Pratt.

“If you please, sir, Mrs Lloyd thought you would like a fire in the smoking-room, sir, and I’ve taken the cigars in there.”

“Bring—”

Trevor caught Pratt’s eye, and he checked himself.

“Lloyd,” he said, very quietly. “I don’t think you understand me yet. Go and fetch those cigar boxes.”

The butler directed a pitiful, appealing look at the speaker, and then went out, leaving Trevor tapping the mahogany table excitedly, till Pratt tried to throw himself into the breach, with a remark about Sir Hampton; but no one answered, for Trevor was hard at work keeping down his annoyance, Vanleigh was picking his white teeth with a gold point, and Sir Felix was intent upon the tints in the glass he held up before his eye.

In another minute the butler returned with the cigars, and then departed to fulfil the other part of his orders.

“Now, Vanleigh, since we are favoured,” said Trevor, laughing, “try one of these. I know they are genuine, for I got them myself at the Havanna.”

“Really,” said Vanleigh, with a show of consideration, “I’ll give up my smoke, and I’m sure Flick will.”

“Oh, yes, dear boy; don’t mind me.”

“For goodness’ sake, gentlemen, don’t make bad worse,” said Trevor; “take your cigars and light up. Hallo, Frank! Don’t go out, man.”

“Not going,” said Pratt, who had already lit a tremendous cigar, and was puffing away as he took a chair to the window.

“Then, why have you gone there?”

“To smoke the curtains for the benefit of Mrs Lloyd,” was the reply; and he proceeded to put his intention in force.

After an hour they adjourned to Trevor’s room, where they had refreshments brought in, and were soon deep in a rubber of whist, Pratt being partner with Vanleigh, and playing his very worst; but all the same, luck and his partner’s skill carried them through, so that they won rather heavily. Time glided away, and the cigars were so good that for the first time that evening Trevor felt comfortable.

“Well,” he thought, “we shall have no more of Mrs Lloyd to-night, and to-morrow I’ll set things right. Me to lead? Good that—there’s a trump.”

At that moment the door opened, and Mrs Lloyd appeared, bearing a waiter with four flat candlesticks, and looking the very image of austerity.

“The house is all locked up now, sir,” she said, in a cold, hard voice. “It is half-past ten.”

“Thank you, Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, and his face twitched with annoyance.

“Is half-past ten—bedtime—Mrs Lloyd?” said Pratt, laying down his cards.

“Yes, sir, it is,” said Mrs Lloyd, severely.

“And you’ve brought us our candles,” said Frank, taking the waiter. “Thank you, Mrs Lloyd; don’t you sit up. Good night.”

Pratt’s good-humoured, smiling face puzzled the housekeeper. She allowed herself to be backed out, and the door closed behind her.

Two Scenes.

Matters had not been very pleasant in the neighbourhood of Mrs Lloyd that night Polly had escaped by being a prisoner; but the butler had been reduced, between fear of his wife and a burst of passion from his master, into a state of semi-idiocy; while the rest of the servants, after one or two encounters, had had a meeting, and declared—being, for the most part, newly engaged in consequence of the young heir’s return—that if that woman was to do as she liked in the house, they’d serve their month and then go.

But it was on retiring for the night that the butler came in for the full torrent of his wife’s anger.

“It sha’n’t go on!” she exclaimed, fiercely, as she banged a chair down in the centre of the room, and seated herself. “Here do I stop till every light’s out. That boy whom we worshipped almost, who’s been our every thought, to come home at last like a prodigal son—backwards, and begin to waste his patrimony in this way.”

“’Sh! ’sh!” said the butler.

“’Sh yourself!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, angrily.

“But, my dear, he’s master here,” the butler ventured to say.

“Is he indeed!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd. “I’ll see about that.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake—for Heaven’s sake—pray don’t do anything rash, Martha,” said the butler, imploringly. “Think—think of the consequences.”

“Consequences—you miserable coward, you; I haven’t patience with you.”

“But we are old now, Martha; and what could we do if anything happened to us here? Pray, pray think. After thirty years in this place; and we should never get another. Pray, pray don’t speak.”

“Hold your tongue! Do you think, after bringing him up and rearing him as we did when he was delicate, and nursing him through measles and scarlatina, and making a man of him as we have, taking care of the pence, and saving and scratching together, that I’m going to be trampled under foot by him?”

“But, Martha—”

“Hold your tongue, I say. Bringing home here his evil companions, for whom nothing’s good enough; and they must have the best wines, and turn my dining-room into a tap-room with their nasty smoke. I won’t have it, I tell you—I won’t have it.”

“But, Martha, dear, you are so rash; come to bed now, and sleep on it all.”

“Not till every light is out in this house will I stir. Sitting smoking, and diceing, and gambling there at this time of night.”

“Were they, my dear?” said the butler, mildly.

“Yes, with gold by their sides, playing for sovereigns; and that black-looking captain had actually got a five-pound note on the table. We shall all come to ruin.”

“Yes, that we shall, if you forget your place,” said the butler, pitifully, as he gave his pillow a punch.

“Forget my place, indeed!” retorted his wife; “have I been plotting and planning all these years for nothing? Have I brought matters to this pitch to be treated in this way, to be turned upon by an ungrateful boy, with his rough, sea-going ways? This isn’t the quarter-deck of a ship—do you hear what I say?—this isn’t the quarter-deck of a ship.”

“No, my dear, of course it isn’t,” said the butler, mildly—“it’s our bedroom,” he added to himself.

“But I’ll bring him to himself in the morning, see if I don’t,” she said, folding her arms, and speaking fiercely. “I’ll soon let him know who I am—an overbearing, obstinate, mad—are you asleep, Lloyd?”

“No, my dear, I’m listening.”

“Now, look here; I have my plans about Polly.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And, mind this, if that fellow Humphrey attempts to approach her again—”

“Poor Humphrey!” sighed the butler.

“Ah!” exclaimed his wife, “what was I about to marry such a milksop? Did you know that he was making up to her?”

“I thought he cared for the girl, my dear.”

“You fool! you idiot, Lloyd! and not to tell me. Have you no brains at all?”

“I’m afraid not much, my dear,” said the butler, pitifully: “what little I had has been pretty well muddled with trouble, and upset, and dread, and one thing and another.”

“Lloyd!” exclaimed the housekeeper, “if ever I hear you speak again like that—”

She did not finish her sentence, but her eyes flashed as she looked full in his, holding the candle over him the while.

“Now, look here,” she said, more temperately. “I shall have a talk with my gentleman in the morning.”

“What, poor Humphrey?”

“Poor Humphrey, no. But mind this—he’s not to come near Polly.”

“But you don’t think—”

“Never mind what I think, you mind what I say, and leave me to bring things round. If she don’t know what’s good for her, I do; and I shall have my way.”

The butler sighed.

“Now, look here, I shall have some words of a sort with my fine gentleman in the morning.”

“No, no, Martha, don’t—pray don’t; let things be now; we can’t alter them.”

“Can’t we?” said Mrs Lloyd, viciously—“I’ll see about that.”

“But, Martha, dear, I’m fifteen years older than you, and if anything happened it would break my heart—there!” he exclaimed, vehemently. “I’d sooner go down to Trevass Rocks, and jump off into the sea, and end it all, than that anything should happen to us now—after all these years.”

Mrs Lloyd did not speak for a few minutes. Then, hearing a voice downstairs, she opened the door gently, and listened, to make out that it was only laughter from the smoking-room, and she closed the door once more.

“If ever there was a coward, Lloyd, you are one,” she said, with a bitter sneer.

“Yes,” said the butler. “I suppose I am, for I can’t bear the idea of anything happening now. Then people say we’re unnatural to poor Humphrey.”

“Poor Humphrey again!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, angrily; “let people talk about what they understand. I should like for any one to say anything to me.”

“But Martha,” said Lloyd, after a pause. “Well?”

“You’ll not be rash in the morning—don’t peril our position here out of an angry feeling.”

“You go to sleep,” was the uncompromising response.

And sighing wearily, the butler did go to sleep, his wife sitting listening hour after hour till nearly two, when there was the sound of a door opening, a burst of voices, steps in the hall, “Good nights!” loudly uttered, Pratt going upstairs to his room, whistling number one of the Lancers-quadrilles with all his might. Then came the closing of bedroom doors and silence.

Mrs Lloyd sat for ten minutes more, then, taking her candle, she walked softly downstairs; went round dining- and drawing-rooms and study, examining locks, bolts, and shutters, and then went to the butler’s pantry, gave a drag at the handle of the iron plate-closet, to satisfy herself that all was right there, and lastly made for the smoking-room.

“Like a public-house,” she muttered, as she crossed the hall, turned the handle with a snatch, and threw open the door, to find herself face to face with Trevor, who was sitting at a table writing a letter.

“Mrs Lloyd!”

“Not gone to bed!”

The couple looked angrily at each other for a few moments, and then Trevor said, sternly—

“Why are you downstairs at this time of the night, Mrs Lloyd?”

“The morning you mean, sir,” said the housekeeper. “What am I down for?” she continued, angrily; “to see that the house is safe—that there’s no fire left about—that doors are fastened, so that the house I’ve watched over all these years isn’t destroyed by carelessness, and all going to rack and ruin.”

Trevor jumped up with an angry exclamation on his lips; but he checked it, and then spoke, quite calmly—

“Mrs Lloyd, I should be perfectly justified in speaking to you perhaps in a way in which you have never been spoken to before.”

“Pray do, then, Master—sir,” jerked out Mrs Lloyd, looking white with anger.

“In half a dozen things during the past evening you have wilfully disobeyed my orders. Why was this?”

“To protect your interests and property,” exclaimed the housekeeper.

“Giving me credit for not knowing my own mind, and making me look absurd in the eyes of my friends.”

“I didn’t mean to do anything of the kind, sir,” said Mrs Lloyd, stoutly.

“I’ll grant that; and that you did it through ignorance,” said Trevor.

“I don’t want to see the place I’ve taken care of for years go to ruin,” said Mrs Lloyd.

“I’ll grant that too,” said Trevor, “and that you and your husband have been most faithful servants, and are ready at any time to give an account of your stewardship. I feel your zeal in my interests, but you must learn to see, Mrs Lloyd, that you can carry it too far. I daresay, too, that for all these years you and your husband have felt like mistress and master of the house, and that it seems hard to give up to the new rule, and to render the obedience that I shall exact; but, Mrs Lloyd, you are a woman of sound common sense, and you must see that your conduct to me has been anything but what it should be.”

“I’ve never had a thought but for your benefit!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd.

“I believe it, Mrs Lloyd—I know it; but tell me frankly that you feel you have erred, and no more shall be said.”

Mrs Lloyd gave a gulp, and stood watching the fine, well-built man before her.

“It grieves me, I assure you, to have to speak as I do, Mrs Lloyd,” continued Trevor; “but you must see that things are altered now.”

“And that you forget all the past, Master Dick,” cried Mrs Lloyd, with a wild sob, “and that those who have done everything for you may now be turned out of the house in their old age and go and beg their bread, while you make merry with your friends.”

“Come—come—come, Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, advancing to her, and laying his hand caressingly on her shoulder, “you don’t believe that; you have too much respect for your old master’s son to think he would grow up such an ingrate—so utterly void of common feeling. He has not forgotten who took the place of his mother—who nursed him—who tended him through many an illness, and was always more a friend than a servant. He has come back a man—I hope a generous one—accustomed to command, and be obeyed. He wishes you to keep your position of confidential trust, and the thought of making any change has never entered his mind. All he wishes is that you should make an effort to see the necessity for taking the place necessitated by the relative positions in which we now find ourselves; and he tells you, Mrs Lloyd, that you may rest assured while Penreife stands there is always a home for you and for your husband.”

As he touched her a shiver ran through the woman’s frame; the inimical aspect faded out, and she looked admiringly in his face, her own working the while, as his grave words were uttered, till, sobbing violently, she threw her arms round his neck, kissed him passionately again and again, and then sank upon the floor to cover her face with her hands.

“There—there, nurse,” he said, taking her hand and raising her. “Let this show you I’ve not forgotten old times. This is to be the seal of a compact for the future,”—he kissed her gravely on the forehead. “Now, nurse, you will believe in your master for the future, and you see your way?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, looking appealingly in his face.

“We thoroughly understand each other?”

“Yes, sir; and I’ll try never to thwart you again.”

“You’ll let me be master in my own house?” he said, his handsome face lighting up with a smile.

“Yes, indeed, I will, sir,” sobbed the woman; “and—and—you’re not angry with me—for—for—”

“For what—about the wine?”

“No, sir, for the liberty I took just now.”

“Oh no,” he said; “it was a minute’s relapse to old times. And now,” he continued, taking her hand, to lead her to the door, “it is very late, and I must finish my letter. Good night, nurse.”

“Good night, sir—and—God bless you!” she exclaimed, passionately.

And the door closed between them—another woman seeming to be the one who went upstairs.

“Sing Heigh—Sing Ho!”

Trevor’s letter was sent off by one of the grooms by eight o’clock; for, accustomed to late watches and short nights at sea, the master of Penreife was down betimes, eagerly inspecting his stables and horses, and ending by making inquiries for Humphrey Lloyd, to find that he was away somewhere or another to look after the game.

Donning a wideawake, and looking about as unlike a naval officer as could be, he summoned the butler, to name half-past nine as the breakfast hour, and then, with little Polly watching him from one of the windows, he strode off across the lawn.

Polly sighed as she looked after him, and then she started, for a couple of hands were laid upon her shoulder, and turning hastily, it was to confront Mrs Lloyd, whose harsh countenance wore quite a smile as she gazed fixedly in the girl’s blushing face, and then kissed her on the forehead.

“He’s a fine, handsome-looking man, isn’t he, child?” said the housekeeper. “Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, aunt,” said the girl, naïvely; “I was thinking so as I saw him go across the lawn.”

Which was the simple truth, though, all the same, Miss Polly had been comparing him, somewhat to his disadvantage, with Humphrey.

“Good girl,” said Mrs Lloyd. “You must get yourself a silk dress, child—a nice light one.”

“Thank you, aunt,” said the girl, flushing with pleasure.

“Yes, he’s a fine young fellow, and as good and noble as he is high.”

“I’m sure he must be, aunt,” said the girl. “He spoke so nicely to me.”

“When?—where?” said Mrs Lloyd, eagerly.

“Yesterday, aunt, when I took in that silver cup.”

“Ah?” said Mrs Lloyd. “Yes, she’ll be a lucky girl who wins him.”

“Yes, that she will, aunt,” said the girl, enthusiastically. “He’s very rich, isn’t he?”

“Very, my dear; and his wife will be the finest lady in the county, with dresses, and carriages, and parties, and a town-house, I daresay.”

“I hope he’ll marry some one who loves him very much,” said the girl, simply.

“Of course he will, child. Why, any girl could love him. She ought to jump at the chance of having such a man. And now I must go, child. I was rather cross to you last night. I was worried with the preparations, and it did not look well for me to come and see that fellow with his hands through the window; but that won’t happen again. A little flirting’s all very well for once in a girl’s life, but there must be no more of it, and I know I shan’t have to speak any more.”

She hurried out of the room before the girl could reply, leaving her with her little forehead wrinkled by the puzzling, troubled thoughts which buzzed through her brain.

“Aunt must mean something,” she said to herself. “I wonder what she really does mean. She can’t really—oh, nonsense, what a little goose I am!”

Polly’s pretty little face puckered with a smile, and she took up her work, waiting to be called for breakfast, and sat wondering the while what Humphrey was doing.

Humphrey was away down by the disputed piece of land, and Trevor soon forgot all about him; for, crossing a field and leaping a stile, he stood in one of the winding lanes of the neighbourhood; then crossing it, and leaping another stile, he began to make his way along the side of a steep valley, when he stopped short; for, from amongst the trees in front, rang out, clear and musical—

“There came a lady along the strand, Her fair hair bound with a golden band, Sing heigh!”

And a second voice—

“Sing ho!”

Then the two, sweetly blended together, repeated the refrain, “Oh, Tiny!” cried the voice, “here’s one pretty enough to make even Aunt Matty look pleasant. Oh, my gracious!” she exclaimed, dropping her little trowel, for Trevor had come into sight.

“Don’t be alarmed, pray!” he said, laughing. “But really I did not know we had such sweet song-birds in the woods.”

“It was very rude to listen, Mr Trevor; and it isn’t nice to pay compliments to strangers,” said Fin, nodding her saucy head.

“Then,” said Trevor, taking the hand slightly withheld, “I shall be rude again only in one thing—listening; for we must be strangers no more, seeing that we are such near neighbours. Miss Rea,” he said, taking Tiny’s hand in turn, and looking earnestly in her timid eyes, “you were not hurt yesterday?”

“Oh no, not in the least,” was the reply.

“We are indebted to your friends, too, for taking compassion upon us in our misfortune.”

“Don’t name that,” he said, hastily. “I am glad the carriage came up in time. By the way, Miss Rea, I am glad we have met, I want to clear up a little unpleasantly that occurred yesterday.”

“Oh, of course,” said Fin. “Why, we ought to have cut you this morning.”

“No, no,” said Trevor, laughing, “that would be too cruel I am really very, very sorry about it all; and I have sent a letter over to Sir Hampton this morning, apologising for my hasty words.”

“Oh, have you?” said Fin, clapping her hands, and making a bound off the moss; “how nice! I mean,” she added, demurely, “how correct.”

Fin whispered her sister, who was growing flushed and troubled by the eager and impressive way in which Trevor spoke to her.

“It would be such a pity,” he said, walking on by her side, “if any little trifle like that in dispute should be allowed to disturb the peace, and break what would, I am sure, be a charming intimacy!”

“Why, the great, handsome wretch is making love to her,” said Fin to herself. “Oh, what a shame! I hate him already.”

“I know—I feel sure papa will only be too glad—too ready to make amends,” said Tiny, who was growing more confused; for every time she spoke and ventured to glance at her companion, it was to meet his eyes gazing into hers with a depth of tenderness that pleased while it troubled her, and made her little heart behave in the most absurdly fluttering fashion. He looked so frank and handsome—so different in his brown tweeds and carelessly put-on hat to the carefully dressed dandies, their companions of the day before.

“I have told Sir Hampton that I mean to call this afternoon to ask him to shake hands with me. Do you think I may?” he said, with another look.

“I don’t know—I think so—oh yes! pray call,” said Tiny, confused, and blushing more than ever.

“Thank you, I will,” he said, earnestly, “and you will be at home?”

“I forbid thee—no, thou must not come,” said Fin, in a mock-serious tone, “And why not?” said Trevor, turning upon her.

“Because Aunt Matty hates the sight of young men, and papa will be ready to eat you.”

“Why, bless your bright, merry little face,” cried Trevor, enthusiastically, and catching Fin’s hands in his. “Do you know what I feel as if I could do?”

“No, of course not,” cried Fin, trying to frown, and looking bewitching.

“Why, catch you up and kiss you a dozen times for a merry little woodland fay,” cried Trevor.

“Oh, gracious!” cried Fin, snatching away her hands, and retreating behind her sister.

“Don’t be alarmed, little maiden,” said Trevor, laughing; “I won’t do so.”

“I should think not,” cried Fin.

“Sailors’ manners,” said Trevor, laughing, as he walked on by their side.

“Do you know how old I am, sir?” said Fin, austerely.

“I should say nearly sixteen,” said Trevor, glancing at her sister.

“Seventeen and a half, sir,” said Fin, with dignity on her forehead, and a laugh at each corner of her little mouth.

“Then it will be a sin if Nature ever lets you get a day older,” said Trevor, laughing.

“Thank you, sir,” said Fin, with a mock curtsey.

“Is she always as merry as this?” said Trevor to Tiny, who glanced at him again, to once more lower her eyes in confusion, he looked at her so earnestly.

“Yes; but you must not heed what she says,” was the reply.

“I’m very wicked in my remarks, Mr Trevor,” said Fin; “and now, sir, if you please, we are going this way to dig up ferns—so good morning.”

“That is my direction,” said Trevor, quietly; “and as I am only your neighbour, surely you need not treat me as a stranger.”

“Tiny, it’s all your fault,” said Fin, maliciously; “so if Aunt Matty scolds, you may take the blame. I would make him carry the basket, though.”

“Yes, pray let me,” said Trevor, holding out his hand.

“Thank you, no,” said Tiny, recovering herself, and speaking with a very sweet assumption of maidenly dignity. “If Mr Trevor will excuse us, I think we will return now to breakfast. I feel sure that papa will gladly receive you this afternoon.”

“And you will be at home?” said Trevor, earnestly.

“I cannot say,” said Tiny, quietly; “but I hope the little unpleasantly will be removed.”

“You do hope that?” said downright Trevor.

“Yes—of course,” said Tiny, ingenuously opening her soft eyes, and meeting his this time without a blush. “It would be so unpleasant—so unneighbourly for there to be dissension between us,” and she held out her hand. “Good morning, Mr Trevor.”

If he might only have kissed it! But it would have been enough to stamp him as a boor, and he contented himself with pressing it tenderly as he bent over it.

“Good morning, Mr Trevor,” said Fin, holding out her hand in turn, and she gazed at him out of her laughing, mischievous eyes, till a dull red glow spread over his bronzed cheeks, and he squeezed her fingers so that she winced with pain.

“Good morning,” he said. “Eh—what is it?”

“Oh, dear!” cried Fin, shutting her eyes, “here’s that horrid, solemn-looking little man coming, just in the way we want to go.”

“Then, let me introduce you,” said Trevor, laughing, as Pratt came sauntering along, whistling and cutting off fern leaves with his stick, till he saw the group in front, when he became preternaturally solemn.

“Pratt, let me introduce you to my neighbours. Miss Rea—Miss Finetta Rea—my old friend, Frank Pratt.”

“Pratt! What a disgusting name!” said Fin to herself, as, with a tender display of respect that his friend did not fail to notice, Trevor performed the little ceremony out there amid the gleaming sunbeams; and then they parted.

“Oh, Tiny, isn’t he delicious?” cried Fin, as soon as they were out of hearing. “Isn’t he grand?”

“Hush, Fin! How can you?” said her sister.

“How can I? So,” said Fin, throwing her arms round her sister, and kissing her. “He’s head over heels in love with you. What fun! And I hate him for it like poison, because I want him myself.”

“Fin, dear, don’t, pray. Suppose any one heard you.”

“Don’t care if they did. Ugh! I’m as jealous as an Eastern sultana I shall stab you some night with a bodkin. But, I say, isn’t the solemn man fun?”

“I don’t see it,” said Tiny, glad of a diversion.

“I think he’s a regular little cad.”

“Slang again, Fin!”

“Yes, it’s because I’m cross and want my breakfast,” and she hurried her sister along.

“Ahem!” said Pratt, as soon as they were alone in the lane.

“Franky,” cried Trevor, clutching his friend by the arm, “did you ever see a sweeter girl in your life?”

“What, than that little Miss who laughed at me?” said Frank.

“No, no; the other. I declare she’s a perfect angel. I never saw so much sweetness in my life before. I—”

“Phew—phew—phew—phew—phew—phew—phew—phew!” whistled Pratt.

“Don’t be a fool, Franky.”

“But ’tis my nature to,” said Pratt.

“Listen, man; I really do believe that there is something true about fellows falling in love at first sight, and that sort of thing; I do indeed.”

“So do I,” said Pratt.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now, that’s rich. To go and get hooked like that, before you’ve been at home a month! Well, that comes of going to sea, and being out of the way of civilised beings from year’s end to year’s end. I say, there’s a romance beginning here—tyrannical heavy father, and the rest of it.”

“Nonsense!” cried Trevor. “Come along, old boy; I’m as hungry as a hunter. By Jove, though, I came out on purpose to find Humphrey.”

“And only met a goddess in the dell,” said Pratt.

And the two young men returned to breakfast.

A Ceremonious Call.

“How could I be such an ass as to ask them down?” said Trevor, aloud, as he stood at the dining-room window directly after lunch.

“And then such an ass as to say so out loud?” said a voice behind him; Frank Pratt having returned to the room, and his footsteps being inaudible on the thick Turkey carpet.

“Ah, Frank?” said Trevor, turning sharply, “you there!”

“Yes, sir,” said Pratt, solemnly, “I am here—for the present. Will you have the goodness to order a carriage, or a cart, or something, to convey my portmanteau to Saint Kitt’s, and I’ll be off by the night train.”

“Be off—night train—what the deuce do you mean?”

“Mean? Why, that you were just accusing yourself of being a fool for firing me down; and—”

“Don’t, Franky—don’t be a donkey I’m worried and bothered, old man. Help me: don’t get in my way.”

“I that moment proposed getting out of it,” said Pratt, quietly.

“Tut, tut, tut!—you know I didn’t mean you. Look here, Frank, I want to go out this afternoon—to make a call.”

Pratt made a grimace, and an attempt to feel his friend’s pulse.

“No, no; don’t play the fool now,” said Trevor. “You know I’ve only just got those two down, and it would be so rude to leave them.”

“And you don’t want to take them—with you?”

“No, certainly not,” exclaimed Trevor, hastily.

“But they have been introduced,” said Pratt.

“To whom—where?” said Trevor.

“Oh, my dear, transparent, young sea deity,” said Pratt, laying his hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “It is so easy to see through you. Of course you don’t want to go straight off to Sir Hampton Court’s this afternoon.”

“Well, and if I do, what then?”

“Nothing, whatever,” said Pratt. “She really is nice; I own it.”

“Don’t humbug, Frank. Of course I want to call there. I want to patch up that unpleasantly. I want to be on good terms with my neighbours.”

“Hadn’t you better have only a week’s holiday down here, and then be off again to sea?”

“Will you help me, Franky, or won’t you?”

“I will. Now, then, what is it? Get up something to amuse Van and Flick till you come back?”

“Yes, that’s it. Do that for me, there’s a dear old fellow.”

“What should you think the hour or so worth to you?”

“Worth? I don’t understand you.”

“Would you stand a five-pound note for the freedom?”

“Half a dozen, you mercenary little limb of the law.”

“Hold hard, there! or, in your nautical parlance, avast there! I don’t want the money—only to lose. If I play billiards with Van he’s sure to beat me, and he knows it; therefore, he won’t play me without he thinks he can win some money. Give me a fiver to lose to him, and I’ll warrant he won’t leave the billiard-room till he has got every shilling.”

“Here—take ten pounds,” said Trevor, hastily; “and go on, there’s a good fellow.”

“No; five will do for him,” said Frank. “And now I shall have to play my best, to make it last.”

“Frank, old boy, you’re a trump. I don’t know what I should have done without you.”

“I always was a young man who could make himself generally useful,” said Pratt. “Good luck to you, old boy!”

He sighed, though, and looked rather gloomy as he went out to seek the friends whom he had left in the smoking-room, where Vanleigh was in anything but a good humour, and had been pouring a host of complaints into Sir Felix’s ear. It was foolish of them to come down to such an out-of-the-way place; they should be eaten up with ennui. Why didn’t Trevor order horses round? The wines weren’t good; and he hadn’t smoked such bad weeds for years.

“Must make the best of a bad bargain,” said Sir Felix. “Must stay—week.”

“Oh! we’ll stay a month now we are here,” said Vanleigh; “let’s punish him somehow. What do you say to having a smoke outside?”

“I’m ’greeable,” said Sir Felix; and they passed out through the window.

Five minutes after Pratt entered the room, with—

“Now, Vanleigh, I’ll play a—Hallo! where the deuce are they?”

He walked hastily into the billiard-room, expecting to find a game begun; but, of course, they were not there.

“Gone to write letters,” he muttered; and he went into the library.

Then he entered the drawing-room, the dining-room, the conservatory. Ran up and knocked at their bedroom doors, and then ran down again.

“Having a weed in the garden,” said Pratt, “of course. How provoking!”

He took a hat and ran out to the summer-house, garden chairs being set out beneath the various favourite trees, and at last caught sight of a couple of figures in the distance, evidently making for the sea.

“That must be them,” he said; and he started off in full chase.

Meanwhile Trevor had hurried off; and as he left the house, Mrs Lloyd came into the hall, and then watched him from a side window.

“Yes!” she said; “he’s gone that way again—I thought he would. He’s sure to meet her.”

Mrs Lloyd was quite right; for a quarter of a mile out of the grounds, and down the principal lane, he saw a white dress, and his heart gave a bound, but only to calm down in its throbbing as he saw that it was little Polly, who advanced to meet him with a very warm blush on her face.

“Hallo! little maid,” he said, heartily—“out for a walk?”

“Yes, sir,” said Polly, all in a flutter. “I’ve been—”

“I see, picking wild flowers,” said Trevor. “Well, come, give me one for my coat.”

The girl hesitated, and then took a cornflower from her little bouquet.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “But I shan’t pay you for it with a kiss. I ought to, though, oughtn’t I?”

“Oh, no—please no!” said the girl, with a frightened look, and she glanced round.

“What?” said Trevor, “is there some one coming? There, run away; and tell your aunt to take care of you.”

The girl hurried away, and Trevor walked on, to come suddenly upon Humphrey, leaning upon his thistle staff, at a turn of the road.

“Ah, Humphrey,” he said, “going your rounds? I want to have a talk to you to-morrow.”

There was a hard, stern look on the young man’s face as he involuntarily saluted his master; but Trevor did not notice it, and turning down the lane which led to Tolcarne, he began to tap his teeth with the stick he carried, and run over in his own mind what he should say, till he reached the new gates, walked up to the house, and was shown into the presence of the knight’s sister.

Miss Matilda Rea did not like Cornwall, principally for theological reasons. She preferred her brother’s town-house in Russell Square, because she was within reach of the minister she “sat under”—a gentleman who, she said, “was the only one in London to awaken her stagnant belief.”

The fact was that Aunt Matty was a lady who required a zest with her worship—she liked pickles with her prayers, and her friend the minister furnished them—verbal pickles, of course, and very hot.

But there were other reasons why she did not like Cornwall; there were no flagstones; the people did not take to her visitations; her prospects of getting a suitable companion grew less; and lastly, Cornwall did not agree with her dog.

Aunt Matty was dividing her time between nursing Pepine, who was very shivery about the hind legs, and reading small pieces out of a “serious” book—tiny bits which she took like lozenges, and then closed her eyes, and mentally sucked them, so as to get the goodness by degrees. In fact, she was so economical with her “goody” books, that one would last her for years.

“Mr Trevor!” said the servant, loudly, and then—“I’ll tell Sir Hampton, sir, that you are here.”

Aunt Matty raised her eyes, and Pepine barked virulently at the stranger, as her mistress half rose and then pointed rather severely to a chair.

“He can’t be nice,” said Aunt Matty to herself, “or Pepine would not bark.” Then aloud—“Sir Hampton will, I have no doubt, soon be here.”

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Lady Rea?” said Trevor, with a smile.

Pepine barked again.

“What an insult!” thought Aunt Matty. “Did she look like the mother of two great girls?”

In truth, she really did not.

“I am Sir Hampton’s sister,” she said, stiffly—“Miss Matilda Rea.”

A Friendly Call.

There was a pause of the kind that may be called cold for a few moments in Sir Hampton’s drawing-room. Then Trevor spoke—

“I beg pardon, I’m sure,” he said, frankly; “I hope my name is not unknown to you.”

“I think I have heard my brother mention it,” said Aunt Matty, stiffly. “Hush, Pepine I don’t bark!” when, as a matter of course, the dog barked more furiously than before.

“I’ve just come back from sea,” said Trevor, to break the chill.

“Indeed,” said Aunt Matty, freezing a little harder; and added to herself, “A most objectionable person.” Then aloud, “Pepine must not bark so, hush! hush!”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Matty, do send that cross little wretch away,” cried Lady Rea, bursting into the room. “Mr Richard Trevor, is it?” she said, her plump countenance breaking into a pleasant smile as she gazed up at her visitor. “I’m very glad to see you,” she continued, holding out both hands, “and I hope we shall be very good neighbours.”

“I hope we shall, indeed,” said Trevor, shaking the little lady’s hands very heartily, and thinking what a homely, pleasant face it was.

“And aren’t you glad to get back? Did you enjoy yourself at sea? I hope you didn’t get wrecked!” said Lady Rea, in a breath.

“No; I reached home safe and sound,” said Trevor.

“We do have such storms on this coast sometimes. I’ve told Edward to look for his master. Hampy’s always about his grounds.”

“My sister means she has sent for Sir Hampton,” said Miss Matilda, frigidly. In fact, the cold was intense, and showed in her nose.

“Yes, I’ve sent for Sir Hampton,” said Lady Rea, feeling that she had made a slip. “The girls will be here, too, directly. You have met them?”

Miss Matilda darted a look of horror at her sister; but it missed her, and the little lady prattled on.

“They told me about meeting you twice; and, oh!—here, darlings!—Mr Trevor’s come to give us a neighbourly call.”

They came forward—Tiny to offer her hand in a quiet, unaffected manner, though a little blush would make its way into her cheek as her eyes met Trevor’s, and she felt the gentle pressure of his hand; Fin to screw up her face into a very prim expression, shake hands, and then retire, after the fashion taught by the mistress of deportment at her last school.

“I wish that old griffin would go,” thought Trevor, as the conversation went on about the sea, the country and its pursuits—a conversation which Aunt Matty thought to be flighty, and wanting in ballast—which she supplied.

But Aunt Matty did not mean to go, and dealt out more than one snub keen enough to have given offence to the young sailor, but for the genial looks of Lady Rea and the efforts of Fin, who, to her sister’s trouble, grew spiteful as soon as her aunt snubbed her ladyship, and became reckless in her speech.

Aunt Matty thought it was quite time for “the seafaring person,” as she mentally termed him, to go. She had never known a visit of ceremony last so long. On the contrary side, Trevor forgot all about its being a visit of ceremony: he was near his deity—for a warm attachment for the sweet, gentle girl was growing fast—and he liked the merry laughing eyes of Fin.

“By the way, Mr Trevor,” said Lady Rea. “I hear you’ve got beautiful horses.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Trevor. “I tried to get good ones.”

“I’m told they are lovely. The girls are just beginning riding—papa has had horses sent down for them.”

“I hope they are quiet and well broken,” said Trevor, with an anxious glance at Tiny.

“I don’t think, Fanny, that Mr Trevor can care to know about our simple domestic matters—our horses, for instance,” said Miss Matilda, now solid ice.

“Oh, sailors always love horses, aunty,” said Fin, colouring a little; and then mischievously, as she sent an arrow at Trevor, “because they can’t ride them.”

Aunt Matty’s lips parted, but no words came; and to calm her ruffled feelings she took a little dog—in strokes.

“Your daughter is right,” said Trevor, “I do love horses; and,” he said, laughing at Fin, “I do try to ride them.”

“I hope you’ll look at the girls’ horses, then, Mr Trevor,” said Lady Rea. “As you understand them, you’d be able to tell whether they are safe. I don’t half like the idea of the girls mounting such wild beasts as horses often are. As for me, I wouldn’t ride on one for the world.”

The idea of plump little Lady Rea in a riding-habit, mounted on a horse, like a long-draped pincushion, was too much. Tiny coloured. Aunt Matty looked horrified. Trevor grew hot and bit his lip, caught Fin’s eye, and then that young lady, who had held her handkerchief to her mouth, burst out laughing.

“Dear me!” exclaimed Lady Rea, good-humouredly. “What have I said now?—something very stupid, I’m sure. But you must not mind me, Mr Trevor, for I do make such foolish mistakes.”

Miss Matilda took hold of the two sides of the light shawl thrown over her angular shoulders, and gave it a sawing motion to work it higher up towards her neck, a shuddering sensation, like that caused by a cold current of air, having evidently attacked her spine.

“I think it was a foolish mistake, Fanny,” she said, in a voice acid enough to corrode any person’s temper, “to doubt Sir Hampton’s Judgment with respect to the horses he would choose for his daughters’ use.”

Fin began to bristle on the instant; her bright eyes flashed, and the laughing dimples fled as if in dismay, as she threw down her challenge to her aunt.

“Why, aunt,” said the girl, quickly, “one of the grooms said pa didn’t hardly know a horse’s head from its tail.”

“Oh, Fin, my dear!” cried mamma.

“Which of the grooms made use of that insolent remark?” cried Aunt Matty. “If I have any influence with your papa, that man will be discharged on the instant.”

“I think it was Thomas, aunt, who makes so much fuss over Pepine,” said Fin, maliciously.

“I’m quite sure that Thomas is too respectable and well-conducted a servant to say such a thing,” said Aunt Matty. “It was my doing that your papa engaged him; for he came with a letter of introduction from the Reverend Caius Carney, who spoke very highly indeed of his honesty and pious ways.”

“Oh, aunty,” cried Fin, “and he swears like a trooper!”

Aunt Matilda went into a semi-cataleptic state, so rigid did she grow; and her hand, with which she was taking a little more dog by friction, closed so sharply on the scruff of the little terrier’s neck, that it yelped aloud.

“You mustn’t say so, my dear, if he does,” said Lady Rea, rather sadly.

And to turn the conversation, Trevor asked her if she liked flowers.

“Oh yes, Mr Trevor,” she exclaimed, beaming once more. “And you’ve got some lovely gladioluses—li—oli,” she added, correcting herself, and glancing from one to the other like a tutored child, “in your grounds, of a colour we can’t get. May I beg a few?”

“The gardener shall send in as many as you wish for, Lady Rea—anything in my place is at your service.”

Poor Tiny! His eager, earnest words began to wake up such a curious little tremor in her breast. It was all so new—so strange. Now she told herself she was foolish, childish, and that she was giving way to silly, romantic fancies; only Fin was evidently thinking something too, and gave her all sorts of malicious looks. As for Aunt Matty, she sat now with her eyes closed, sucking a mental lozenge about patience; and Fin’s championship was in abeyance for the rest of the visit—the conversation being principally between Lady Rea and their visitor.

“It’s very kind of you to say so, I’m sure,” said Lady Rea. “We saw them, you know, when we went over your place, once or twice, for Mrs Lloyd was good enough to say we might. And a very beautiful place it is.”

“It’s a dear old home, Lady Rea, indeed,” said Trevor, enthusiastically.

“Though you must have found it very sad,” said Lady Rea.

“No,” said Trevor, frankly; “it would be mockery in me to say so. My parents died when I was so very young, that I never could feel their loss: I hardly knew what it was to have any one to love.”

“Let him look at her now, if he dare,” thought Fin, with her eyes sparkling.

But Trevor did not dare; he only gazed in Lady Rea’s pleasant face, and she made Aunt Matty shiver—firstly, by laying her hand in a soothing way upon the young man’s arm; secondly, by saying she would put herself under an obligation to this dreadful seafaring person, by accepting his offer of flowers; and thirdly, by the following terribly imprudent speech—

“I’m sure I don’t know where dear papa can be gone; but as he’s not here, Mr Trevor, you must let me say that whenever you feel dull and lonely, you must come up here and have a chat, and some music, or something of that sort. We shall always be delighted to see you.”

“Er-rum! Er-rum!” came from the garden.

“Oh! here’s papa!” cried Lady Rea. “I’m glad he’s come!”

“Er-rum!” came again, and then steps and voices were heard in the conservatory—voices which made Trevor rise and look annoyed.

The next moment Sir Hampton ushered two gentlemen into the drawing-room through the conservatory.

“Lady Rea—Tiny dear,” he said, loudly—“er-rum, let me make you known to my friends—Sir Felix Landells and Captain Vanleigh.”

Aunt Matty is Cross.

Sir Hampton started as his eyes fell upon Trevor, and his pink complexion began to grow red.

“Oh, Fin!” whispered Tiny, heedless of the admiring gaze of Vanleigh, who now advanced; while after saluting Lady Rea, Landells turned to Fin.

“This is Mr Trevor, called to see us, dear,” said Lady Rea.

“Er-rum!” went Sir Hampton, and he bristled visibly; but Trevor approached with extended hand.

“Sir Hampton,” he said, “I came to apologise for my very hasty behaviour to you. I’m afraid I gave you a very bad opinion of your neighbour.”

“Er-rum! I—er? I—er-rum,” said and coughed Sir Hampton, hesitating; but there was the hand of amity stretched out, and he was obliged to take it—moving with great dignity, and looking at Trevor as if he had just pardoned a malefactor for committing some heinous crime.

“Didn’t ’spect to see; here,” said Sir Felix, making play with his glass at everybody in turn.

“The surprise is mutual,” said Trevor.

“Odd coincidence,” said Vanleigh, who had crossed now to Miss Matilda, like a good diplomatist. “We were walking, after you ran away from us, and met Sir Hampton.”

“Er-rum—Mr Trevor,” said Sir Hampton, pompously, “I am in your debt; your friends here were kind enough to give my daughters and myself the use of your carriage after a very—er-rum—narrow escape from a terrible—er-rum—catastrophe. I am very much obliged.”

“Don’t name it, Sir Hampton, pray,” said Trevor. “Out here in this place, we are all obliged to rely upon one another for a little help. I shall have to beg favours of you, some day, I hope.”

“Er-rum—you are very good,” said Sir Hampton, stiffly.

“Yes, Hampton, dear,” said Lady Rea, “Mr Trevor is really very kind: he has promised us a lot of those beautiful gladioli that you admired so when you went over Penreife grounds.”

Sir Hampton bowed to Trevor, and looked daggers at his wife, who glanced then at Fin, as much as to say—“What have I done now!”

“A particularly fine specimen, I should say,” Vanleigh was heard to remark. “Do you think so?” said Miss Matilda.

“I should say perfectly pure,” said Vanleigh, stooping to caress Pepine, who snarled and tried to bite.

“Fie, Pepine, then!” said Miss Matilda. “Don’t be afraid of him, Captain Vanleigh.”

“I am not,” said Vanleigh, showing his white teeth, and taking the terrier in his hands. “Look here, Landells, what should you say of this dog?”

Sir Felix fixed his glass, and crossed to his friend.

“’Markably fine terrier,” said Sir Felix, “most decidedly.”

And he touched Pepine, and was bitten spitefully on the glove.

“You remember the dog you sent to the Palace Show?”

“’Member perfectly,” said Sir Felix; “splen’ collection.”

“But did you see a finer bred specimen than that—say frankly?”

“Nothing like it; ’fectly sure of it.”

“There, Miss Rea,” said Vanleigh, “and Landells is one of the finest amateur judges of dogs in the country.”

“Is he really?” said Miss Matilda, smiling.

“Oh yes,” said Vanleigh. “What should you think that dog was worth, Landells?”

“Any money,” said Sir Felix; “five at least.”

“But I gave ten pounds for it,” said Miss Matilda, indignantly.

“Exactly,” said Vanleigh. “Then you obtained it at a great bargain.”

“But he said five pounds,” said Miss Matilda.

“Exactly, my dear madam,” said Vanleigh. “That is the judge’s fashion—five pounds a paw; twenty pounds.”

“Oh, I see!” said Miss Matilda, and Trevor turned aside, for he had encountered Fin’s laughing eyes, and her pinched-up mouth had said dumbly—

“My! What a fib!”

After a little more conversation, the trio took their leave, and there was peace between the dwellers at Penreife and Tolcarne for many days to come.

“Er-rum,” said Sir Hampton, as soon as they were alone. “I am not very agreeably impressed with this Mr Trevor.”

“Aren’t you, dear?” said Lady Rea; “and I thought him such a nice, gentlemanly, frank fellow, and so did the girls.”

“Sadly wanting in manners,” said Aunt Matty. “Quite as you said, Hampton—rough and uncultivated.”

Sir Hampton nodded his head approvingly.

“But he don’t call out ‘avast!’ and ‘Ship ahoy!’ and ‘Haul in slack,’ as you said he would, aunty,” said Fin.

“Finetta, I never made use of any such language,” said Miss Matilda.

“Then it must have been I,” said Fin. “I know somebody said so.”

“Most gentlemanly men the friends you introduced, Hampton—especially Captain Vanleigh.”

“And the dog-fancier with the glass,” put in Fin, in an undertone; but her aunt heard her.

“Hampton,” she said, viciously, “I am unwilling to make complaints, but I am sorry to say that the treatment I receive from Finetta is anything but becoming. Several times this afternoon her remarks to me have been such as when I was a little girl I should never have thought of using, and I should have been severely reprimanded if I had said a tithe.”

“Why, I thought tithes were parsons’ payments, aunty,” said Fin, merrily; and Aunt Matty stopped short, Lady Rea turned away to smile, and Sir Hampton actually chuckled.

Miss Matilda gathered up her skirts, and taking Pepine under her arm, was marching out of the room.

“Please, aunt, I’m very sorry,” said Fin. “I’m afraid I’m a very naughty little girl, and shall have to be punished—Papa, can I have any dinner?”

“Er-rum. Matilda,” said Sir Hampton, “I am going on the lawn. Will you come?”

Aunt Matty was mollified, and took his arm.

“You shouldn’t, Fin, indeed,” said Tiny.

“My darling, I must beg of you not,” said Lady Rea, piteously.

“Then she shan’t snub my darling, dear mamma,” said Fin, kissing her. “I’m never saucy to Aunt Matty only when she says rude things to you; treating me like a child, too! Oh, mamma, if you ever find me growing into a sour old maid, pray poison me with something hidden in a spoonful of currant jam.”

Proposals.

“If you wish it, Hampton, of course have it; but I think the money that it will cost might very well be given to some missionary fund,” said Miss Matilda.

“Er-rum! When I want your advice, Matty, I shall ask it,” said Sir Hampton. “I must keep up my dignity in the county.”

“You could do it in no better way, Hampton, than by subscribing to the South Sea Islander Society—‘Sir Hampton Rea, twenty guineas,’ in the county paper, would add more to your dignity than giving a dinner party.”

This was at breakfast, and Fin cast malicious glances at her sister, who was blushing, and bending over her plate.

“Fanny!—er-rum!” continued Sir Hampton, not seeming to notice his sister, “we’ll say Friday. You will send invitations to— er-rum—let me see!”

“Stop a minute, Hampy dear,” cried her ladyship, making a scuffle to get at something. “There—oh! now, how tiresome—that cream jug always gets in the way. Thank you, Fin, my dear; take it up with a spoon—it isn’t hurt.”

“Oh, ma dear,” cried Fin, “the cream will taste of hot washerwoman and mangles. You can’t use it now.”

“Oh, I’ll drink it, my dear—oh!” she added, in a low voice, “Aunt Matty will think it such waste.”

“Are you ready, Fanny?” said Sir Hampton, rolling his head in his stiff cravat.

“One moment, Hampy,” said her ladyship, getting her pencil and tablets. “My memory is so bad now, I must put them down.”

“Then—er-rum—first we’ll say—”

“Oh, one moment, Hampy; this tiresome pencil’s got no point again.”

“Take mine, ma dear,” said Fin.

“Thank you, my love. Now, pa.”

“Er-rum,” said Sir Hampton—“first, then, we’ll have er—er—Sir Felix Landells.”

Aunt Matty bowed her head approvingly.

“E, double L, S,” said Lady Rea, writing. “Don’t shake me, Fin, there’s a dear.”

For Lady Rea had come undone at the back of her dress, and Fin was busy with a pin at her collar.

“Er-rum!” continued Sir Hampton. “Next we’ll have Captain Vanleigh.”

And he looked hard at Tiny, who bent lower over her plate.

“Van, I—tut-tut-tut, how do you spell leigh, e first or i first?” said Lady Rea.

“Shall I write them down for you, Fanny?” said Aunt Matty.

“No, thank you, Matty,” said Lady Rea, who was getting into a knot. “There, I shall know what that means.”

“Er-rum!” said Sir Hampton; “Mr Mervyn.”

“La! Hampy,” cried Lady Rea, looking up, “you haven’t said Mr Trevor.”

“Mister—er-rum—Mervyn!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, sharply.

“Oh, there, my dear, don’t fly at me like that,” cried Lady Rea. “M, e, r, v, i—”

“Y, Fanny, y,” said Aunt Matty, with a shudder.

“Oh yes, y, of course,” said Lady Rea, good-humouredly; “y, n, Mervyn. Next?”

The girls bent their heads—Tiny over her breakfast, Fin smoothing the rather tousled hair of her mother.

“Er-rum, I suppose I must ask this—er-rum—Trevor.”

“Surely, Hampton,” exclaimed Aunt Matty, “you will not think of inviting that objectionable person.”

Fin glanced at her sister, whose face was crimson, and Lady Rea looked pained. “Matty, my dear, I think you are wrong. I...”

“Have you got that name down, Lady Rea?” said Sir Hampton.

“No, dear; but I soon will have,” said her ladyship, making her pencil scramble over the tablet.

“Er-rum!” ejaculated Sir Hampton, rising, puffing himself out, and walking slowly up and down the room; “a man in my position is obliged to make sacrifices, and ask people to whom he objects. In the event of my contesting the county such a man as this—er-rum—this—er-rum—Trevor would be useful I thank you, Matty; you mean, er—mean—rum, well. Put his name down, Fanny.”

“I have, my love,” said Lady Rea, beaming at her children.

“Hampton, I protest against this outrage,” cried Aunt Matty, “after the marked way in which he has—”

“Tiny, come and cut some flowers,” said Fin; and her sister gladly beat a retreat, Fin whispering as they went—“Will he ask the little man?”

“Now, Matty,” said Sir Hampton, “have the goodness to proceed; and in future, when you enter upon such subjects, have the kindness to—er-rum—remember that I am not deaf.”

“I say, Hampton, after the marked way in which that ‘seafaring person’ has behaved to Valentina, it is most indiscreet to ask him here.”

“Oh, Matty,” cried Lady Rea, “I’m sure that young man is as nice as can be.”

“If that was what you intended to say, Matilda—er-rum—it would have been most indecent before those children,” said Sir Hampton, pompously.

“In—”

Aunt Matty could not say it, the word was too outrageous.

“I feel bound—er-rum—bound,” said Sir Hampton, with emphasis, “to ask the young man, as a proprietor, even as we might ask a tenant, Fanny.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Put down that lawyer as well, Mr—er, er—Mr—” he got the name out with great disgust at last, “Pratt,” and carefully wiped his mouth afterwards.

“You’ll be sorry for this, Hampton,” said Miss Matilda, shaking with virtuous indignation, so that some frozen dewdrops in her head-dress quivered again, and Pepine, who had been surreptitiously nursed under a canopy of table-cloth, received, in her excitement, such a heavy nip from his mistress’s knees, that he uttered an awful howl.

“Er-rum—sorry?”

“Yes, sorry. That objectionable person is always hanging about the house like—like—like a vagrant; and those girls never go for a walk without being accosted by him or his companion. If you have any eyes, you ought to see.”

“Oh, Matty, pray don’t,” said Lady Rea, appealingly.

“Er-rum! Silence, Fanny,” said Sir Hampton. “And as for your remarks, Matilda, they are uncalled for. My children would not, I am sure, encourage the—er-rum—advances of that person; and Lady Rea would be one of the first to crush any—er-rum—thing of the kind.”

“Indeed!” said Aunt Matty, spitefully. “That—er-rum—will do,” said Sir Hampton. “Fanny, those will be our guests. See that the dinner is worthy of our position.”

He went out like a stout, elderly emperor of florid habit, and, as soon after as was possible, Lady Rea beat a retreat, leaving Aunt Matty taking dog, after her habit, in strokes with one hand, holding a pocket handkerchief cake in the other; “and looking,” Edward the footman, said in the kitchen, after removing the breakfast things, “like a bilious image getting ready for a fit.”

Sir Hampton’s study was horticulture that morning; and, after swallowing a page on the manipulation of the roots of espaliers and pyramid trees, he was about to go out and attack Sanders, the gardener, when Edward announced Sir Felix Landells and Captain Vanleigh on business, and they were shown in.

“Really—hope not deranging—untimely call,” said Sir Felix.

“We will not detain you long, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, with a great show of deference.

“Er-rum, gentlemen,” said Sir Hampton, whose face shone with pride, “in these rural—er-rum—districts, when one is—er-rum—far from society and town, sociability and hospitality should, er—”

“Go hand in hand—exactly,” said Vanleigh, smiling.

“Er-rum, I am very glad to see you, gentlemen,” said Sir Hampton. “Oddly—er-rum—oddly enough, we were discussing a little dinner for Friday. Could you—er-rum—both, both—er—honour us with your company?”

And he looked from one to the other.

“Well,” said Vanleigh, hesitating, and glancing at Sir Felix, “it depends somewhat on—Would you like to speak out, Landells?”

“’Sure you, no. Do it so much better. Pray go on.”

And the young man turned crimson.

“Not pre-engaged, I hope?” said Sir Hampton.

“Well, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, modestly, after a pause, during which he sat with his eyes on the carpet, “this is all so new to me, and you have confused me so with your kind invitation, that my business—our business—comes doubly hard to us to state.”

“Er-rum—pray go on,” said Sir Hampton, smiling condescendingly, for all this was sweet to his soul; two scions of aristocratic houses with sense enough to respect his position in life. Captain Vanleigh might have borrowed a hundred pounds on the instant had he liked; but he was playing for higher stakes.

“Then, if you won’t speak, Landells, I must,” said Vanleigh, who seemed overcome with confusion. “No doubt there is a proper etiquette to be observed in such cases, but I confess I am too agitated to recall it, and I merely appeal to you, Sir Hampton, as a gentleman and a parent.”

Sir Hampton bowed, and uttered a cough that seemed wrapped up in cotton wool, it was so soft.

“The fact is, Sir Hampton, we have been here now three weeks—Landells and I—and we have been so charmed, so taken with your sweet daughters, that, in this hurried, confused way—I tell you, in short, we thought it right, as gentlemen, to come first and tell you, to ask you for your permission to visit more frequently, to be more in their society—to, in short, make formal proposals for their hands.”

There was another soft cough, and Vanleigh continued—

“I hope I am forgiven, Landells, for my awkward way?”

“Yes. Pray go on; capital,” said Landells, who was perspiring profusely.

“It is only fair to say how we are placed in the world, Sir Hampton. My friend there, Sir Felix, has his eight thousand per annum; and it will increase. For myself, I am but a poor officer of the Guards.”

“Er-rum! a gentleman is never poor,” said Sir Hampton, with dignity.

“I think I can say no more, Sir Hampton,” said Vanleigh, bowing to the compliment. “You see now my hesitation about the dinner; for, of course, if you refuse to regard our application favourably, to-morrow we should—eh, Landells?”

“Back—town—certainly,” said Sir Felix, wiping his face.

“Er-rum!” said Sir Hampton, rising, and placing a hand in his breast. “Gentlemen, you take me by surprise, and you ask a great deal in—er-rum—I say you ask a great deal—I, er-rum, I—honoured by your—er-rum—proposals—and—and—er-rum, if I express myself badly, it is a father’s emotion. In short, I—er-rum—gentlemen—I, er-rum, give both my full consent to visit here as often as you wish, and Lady Rea and my daughters shall be acquainted with your proposals. I can, er-rum, say no more now. Let us join the ladies.”

Sir Felix, with tears in his eyes, took and wrung the old man’s hand, and, as the friends followed him out, Vanleigh bestowed upon the young baronet a most solemn, but very vulgar, wink.

An Interview with Barney Sturt.

“Couldn’t you make it a four-wheeler, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, one evening, “and take me up and bring us all back together?”

“Now, lookye here, old lady,” said Sam, “I don’t want to be hard, nor I don’t want to be soft, but what I says is this here—Where’s it going to end?”

“What do you mean, Sam?” exclaimed Mrs Jenkles.

“What I says, my dear—Where’s it going to end? You’ve got over me about the money, and you’ve got over me about the lodgings. You’re allus going to Mrs Lane to tea, as I knows they don’t find; and now you wants me to give up my ’ansom, borrer a four-wheeler, and lose ’bout a pound as I should make in fares; and what I says is—Where’s it going to end?”

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, “when did you ever go out with your cab for about a couple of hours and make a pound?”

Sam stood rubbing his nose, and there was a droll twinkle in his eye as he replied—

“Well, I might make a pound, you know.”

“Now don’t talk stuff, Sam, but go to the yard and change your cab, take me up there, and bring us all back comfortable.”

“You’re argoing it, you are, missus,” said Sam. “That’s the way—order your kerridge. ‘Sam,’ says you, ‘the kerridge at six.’ ‘Yes, mum,’ says I. ‘Oppery or dinner party?’ ‘Only to make a hevening call, Sam,’ says you. ‘Werry good, mum,’ says I.”

“If you want me to go up there by myself, Sam, and fetch them, I’ll go, and we can get back somehow by the ’bus; but I thought you’d like to come up and see that those ladies and your wife weren’t insulted.”

“I should jest like to catch anybody at it, that’s all,” said Sam, sharply.

“I didn’t mean to say anything, Sam,” continued Mrs Jenkles; “for I thought if we’d got such a man as you with us, no one would dare to interfere.”

“Now, look here,” said Sam, “I never did come across such an old snail as you are, missus; I like the allus being at home part of it, but it’s the hiding as I don’t like. Now, look here, I never does nothing without coming and telling you all about it; and as for you, why, you’ve allus got something in the way for me to find out.”

“What’s the use of me bothering you with trifles, Sam, when you’ve got plenty of troubles on your mind? I would tell you if it was anything you need know.”

“Well, come now, what’s it all mean bout Miss Lane?” said Sam.

“Only, dear, that since those people have found that Mrs Lane meant to leave, they’ve turned very strange, and the poor child’s quite frightened and timid like.”

“Now, why couldn’t you say so at first,” said Sam, “instead of dodging and hiding, and making a blind man’s buffer of me? That’s it, is it? Mr Barney of the betting ring—‘Ten to one bar one’—means to be nasty, does he? Well, all I’ve got to say is, just let him try it on, that’s all!”

“Now, there it is,” said Mrs Jenkles; “that’s just what I want to avoid. Tell you about it, and you want to do the very thing as will upset that poor girl; and oh! Sam, do be careful, she—”

Mrs Jenkles added something in a whisper.

“I’ll be careful enough,” said Sam; “and look here—how long shall you be?”

“I’m ready now, Sam,” said his wife.

“Yes, but I’ve got to go down to the yard, and get the keb changed; take me ’bout three-quarters of an hour, it will, and then I’m back.”

Sam went off, muttering to himself; the only words audible being—

“Jest let him, that’s all!”

And within the prescribed time he was driving Mrs Jenkles up to Mrs Lane’s wretched lodgings.

Mrs Jenkles passed in, after a word or two with her husband, and saw at a glance Barney of the black chin smoking in his shop, and Mrs Barney looking over his shoulder. She took no notice of them, and went upstairs, to find Mrs Lane looking very pale and much excited, holding Netta’s hand.

“And how’s my pretty to-night?” said Mrs Jenkles, after a quick glance had passed between her and the mother.

“Quite—quite well,” said the girl, placing both her hands in those of Mrs Jenkles, and holding her face to be kissed; but her unnaturally bright eyes and flushed face contradicted her words, and she kept glancing timidly towards the door.

“That’s right, my dear,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Ah! and I see you’ve got the trunk packed, and all ready. I’ve got some flowers for you at home, and everything waiting; so don’t you go looking like that.”

“She has been a little frightened today,” said Mrs Lane; “the people downstairs—”

“Oh, don’t you mind them,” said Mrs Jenkles. “They don’t like losing good lodgers, now it comes to the point, with all their grumbling. Have you paid your bit of rent?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Lane; and she glanced anxiously at her child, whose alarm seemed to increase.

“I see,” said Mrs Jenkles, in her most business-like way. “Now, look here, the thing is to get it over quickly. Have you got everything there?” and she pointed to a trunk and carpet-bag.

“Yes, everything,” said Mrs Lane.

“Then I’ll call up Sam to take them down to the cab.”

“No, no—stop!” exclaimed Netta. “Oh! mamma, had we not better stop? That man—what he said this morning!”

“There, there, my pretty,” said Mrs Jenkles, “don’t you be alarmed. You leave it to me.”

Then going to the window, she signalled to Sam, who was busy tying knots in his shabby whipthong.

As Mrs Jenkles turned from the window, the door was thrown open, and Mrs Sturt, looking very aggressive, entered the room, closely followed by her lord, smoking his black pipe of strong, rank tobacco.

Netta shrank timidly back into her seat, catching at her mothers hand, while the result of the tobacco-smoke was to set her coughing painfully.

“Now if you please,” said Mrs Sturt, “I want to know what this means?”

And she pointed to the trunk and the other manifest signs of departure.

“I told you a week ago, Mrs Sturt, that we intended to leave,” said Mrs Lane, speaking with a forced calmness, as she pressed her child’s hand encouragingly.

“And so you think a week’s notice is enough after the way as we’ve been troubled to get our bit of rent?” said Mrs Sturt, raising her voice. “Are we to be left with our place empty, after harbouring a pack of lodgers with no more gratitude than—than—than nothing?” continued the woman, at a loss for a simile.

“I have nothing to do with that,” said Mrs Lane, with dignity. “Mrs Sturt, I have rigidly kept to the arrangement I made with you, and you have no right to expect more.”

“Oh, haven’t I?” said the woman. “Do you hear that, Barney? I’ll just let ’em see!”

Barney growled, and showed his teeth.

“Lookye here,” he said, hoarsely; “you aint agoing to leave here, so now then. And you, missus,” tinning to Mrs Jenkles, “you’re gallus clever, you are; but you may let your lodgings to some one else.”

Netta’s clutch of her mother’s hand grew convulsive, and her face wore so horrified an expression that Mrs Jenkles did not reply to the challenge directed at her, but stepped to the poor girl’s side.

“Don’t you be frightened, my dear,” she whispered; and then to herself—“Why don’t Sam come?”

“Mr Sturt,” said Mrs Lane, firmly in voice, though she trembled as she spoke to the fellow, “you have no right to try and force us to stay if we wish to leave.”

“Oh! aint I,” said Barney. “I’ll let you see about that. Here, give us that,” he said, turning to snatch a paper from his wife’s hand. “Let alone what he telled me too, about yer—”