"Thereby Hangs a Tale" (continued 4)

“He! Who?” exclaimed Mrs Lane, excitedly.

Netta started from her chair.

“Never you mind,” said Barney, showing his great teeth in a grin. “You think I don’t know all about yer, now, don’t yer? But you’re precious mistaken!”

“But tell me, man, has any one—”

“There, there, it’s all right, Mrs Lane—you’ve got to stop here, that’s what you’ve got to do. What have you got to say to that, for another thing?”

As Barney spoke, he thrust the paper down before Mrs Lane, and went on smoking furiously.

“What’s this? I don’t owe you anything,” said Mrs Lane, whose courage seemed failing.

“Don’t owe us anything, indeed!” said Mrs Sturt, in her vinegary voice; “why, there’s seven pun’ ten, and seven for grosheries!”

“Oh! this is cruel as it’s scandalous and false!” cried Mrs Lane, in reply to Mrs Jenkles’s look. “I do not owe a shilling.”

“Which you do—there!” cried Mrs Sturt; “and not a thing goes off these premishes till it’s paid.”

“And they don’t go off, nor them nayther, when it is paid,” said Barney, grinning offensively. “So now, Mrs What’s-yer-name, you’d better be off!”

Mrs Jenkles had been very quiet, but her face had been growing red and fiery during all this, and she gave a sigh of relief as she patted Netta on the shoulder; for at that moment Sam came slowly into the room, closed the door, and bowed and smiled to Mrs Lane and her daughter.

“Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles; and then she stopped almost aghast at her husband’s proceedings, for with a sharp flourish of the hand, he knocked Barney’s pipe from his mouth, the stem breaking close to his teeth, and he looking perfectly astonished at the cabman’s daring.

“What are yer smoking like that for, here? Can’t yer see it makes the young lady cough?”

“I’ll—” exclaimed Barney, rushing at Sam menacingly; and Netta uttered a shriek.

“Don’t you mind him, Miss,” said Sam, laughing, “it’s only his fun. It’s a little playful way he’s got with him, that’s all. Which is the boxes?”

“That trunk, and the carpet-bag, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles; and Sam advanced to them.

“Hadn’t we better give up?” said Mrs Lane, pitifully; and she glanced at Netta who trembled violently.

“I should think not, indeed,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Don’t you be afraid—they daren’t stop you.”

“But we just dare,” said Mrs Sturt, furiously. “Not a thing goes off till my bill’s paid.”

“And they don’t go off when it is! now then,” said Barney.

“Don’t let him touch those things,” said Mrs Sturt.

“Sam, you take that trunk down directly,” said Mrs Jenkles. “Now, my dear; come along.”

“All right,” said Sam, and he advanced to the trunk; but Barney pushed himself forward, and sat down upon the box; while, as Mrs Jenkles placed her arm round Netta, and led her towards the door, Mrs Sturt jerked herself to it, and placed her back against the panels.

“You’re a nice ’un, you are, Barney Sturt, Esquire, of the suburban races,” said Sam, good-temperedly; “but it aint no good, so get up, and let’s go quietly.”

Barney growled out an oath, and showed his teeth, as Mrs Lane came up to Sam, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you much,” she said, with a shudder; “but I give up: we cannot go.”

“Believe you can’t,” said Barney, grinning. “D’yer hear that, cabby?”

“Yes, I hear,” said Sam, gruffly; “and if it weren’t that I don’t want to make a row afore the ladies, I’d have you off that trunk afore you knew where you was. And as to leaving the box alone, my missus said I was to take it down to the keb. Is it to go, old lady?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Mrs Jenkles, with flashing eyes.

“Now, Barney, d’yer hear?” said Sam.

“Who do you call Barney? You don’t know me,” said he.

“Oh no,” said Sam; “I don’t know you. I didn’t give yer a lift in my ’ansom, and drive yer away down at ’Ampton, when the mob had torn yer clothes into rags for welching, and they was going to pitch yer in the Thames, eh?”

Barney scowled, and shuffled about on his seat.

“Now, then,” said Sam; “are you going to get up?”

“No,” said Barney.

“Mrs Jenkles, pray end this scene!” exclaimed Mrs Lane, pitifully—“for her sake,” she added in a whisper.

“I’ll end it, mum,” said Sam.

And he gave a sharp whistle, with the result that the door was opened so violently that Mrs Sturt was jerked forward against Sam, the cause being a policeman, who now stood in the entry, with the further effect that Barney leaped off the trunk, and stood looking aghast.

Mrs Jenkles gave a sigh of relief, and a gratified look at her husband.

“Here’s the case, policeman,” said Sam. “Ladies here wants to leave these lodgings: they’ve given notice and paid their rent; but the missus here brings out a bill for things as the lady says she’s never had, and wants to stop their boxes. It’s county court, aint it? They can’t stop the clothes?”

“Nobody wants to stop no boxes,” said Barney, uneasily. “Only it was precious shabby on ’em going like this.”

“Then you don’t want to stop the boxes, eh?” said Sam.

Mrs Sturt gave her husband a sharp dig with her elbow.

“Be quiet, can’t you!” he snarled; and then to Sam, “’course I don’t.”

“Then ketch hold o’ t’other end,” said Sam, placing the bag on the trunk.

And like a lamb Barney helped to bear his late lodger’s impedimenta downstairs, and then to place them on the cab, as Mrs Jenkles led Netta half fainting from the room.

Five minutes after, Sam had banged-to the rattling door, shutting in the little party, climbed to his box, and settled himself in his place, with a good-humoured nod to the policeman, who stood beating his gloves together, while Barney stood at the side of his wife.

“Here’s the price of a pint for you, Barney,” said Sam, throwing him a couple of pence—money which Barney instantly secured; and then, vowing vengeance against the donor, he slunk off in the opposite direction; but only to double round by a back street, and track the cab like a dog, till he saw it set down its inmates at the humble little home of Mrs Jenkles.

Frank Pratt’s Cross-Examination, and Après.

Captain Vanleigh had declared solemnly that Penreife was “the deucedest dullest place” he ever saw in his life; and Sir Felix said it was “’nough to kill ’fler;” but, all the same, there was no talk to Trevor of moving; they lounged about the house chatting to each other, and consumed their host’s cigars to a wonderful extent; they ate his dinners and drank his wine; and Vanleigh generally contrived to go to bed a few guineas richer every night from the whist table.

Pratt protested against the play, but Trevor laughed at him.

“My dear boy,” he said, “why not let such matters take their course? Van is my guest; surely I should be a bad host if I did not let him win a little spare cash. Have you anything else to grumble about?”

“Heaps,” said Pratt, trying to put his little legs on a chair in front of the garden seat where he and his friend were having a morning cigar; but they were too short, and he gave up the attempt.

“Go on, then,” said Trevor, lazily, “have your grumble out.”

“Hadn’t I better go back to town?” said Pratt, sharply.

“Why, are you not comfortable?”

“Yes—no—yes—no. I’m precious uncomfortable. I see too much,” said Pratt.

“Well, let’s hear what you see that makes you so uncomfortable,” said Trevor, carelessly.

“Dick, old boy,” said Pratt, “you won’t be offended with me for what I say?”

“Not I,” was the answer.

“What are you thinking about?” said Pratt, watching the other’s face.

“I was only thinking about you, and wondering why, if you don’t like what you see, you can’t close your eyes.”

“That’s what you are doing, Dick!” said Pratt, eagerly.

“My dear Frank, have you discovered powder barrels beneath the house—is there a new plot?”

“Don’t be so foolish, Dick. Why don’t you let those two fellows go?”

“Because they are my guests, and stay as long as they like.”

“And are doing their very best to undermine your happiness.”

“Nonsense, man.”

“Dick, old fellow, answer me honestly. Don’t you care a great deal for that little girl up at Tolcarne?”

There was a few moments’ pause, during which the colour came into Trevor’s cheek.

“Honestly, I do,” he said at last. “Well, and what of that?”

“Well, Dick, are you blind? Van’s making all the play that he can, and father and aunt favour him. He’s there nearly every day. He’s there now.”

Trevor gave a start, and turned round to face his friend, his lips twitching and fingers working; but he burst out laughing the next moment.

“Anything else, Franky?”

“Laugh away,” said Pratt, who looked nettled—“only give me credit for my warning when you find I am right.”

“That I will,” said Trevor. “Now then, go on! What’s the next plot against my peace of mind?”

“Suppose I ask you a question or two!”

“All right—go on!”

“Have you noticed anything wrong with Humphrey?”

“Been precious sulky lately.”

“Sulky! The fellow’s looked daggers at you, and has barely answered you civilly.”

“Well, he has been queer, certainly.”

“Why is it?” said Pratt.

“Bilious—out of order—how should I know?”

“The poor fellow’s in love!”

“Poor Strephon,” said Trevor, idly.

“And he sees a powerful rival in the path,” continued Pratt.

“The deuce he does!” said Trevor, laughing. “Is that Van, too? But hang it, Frank!” he cried, starting up, “seriously, I won’t stand any nonsense of that kind. If Van’s been making love to that little lass, I’ll put a stop to it. Why, now I think of it, I did see him looking at her!”

“No!” said Pratt, quietly. “It isn’t Van—he’s too busy at Tolcarne!”

“Silence, croaker!” cried, Trevor, laughing in a constrained fashion. “But, come—who is the powerful rival?”

“Dick, old fellow, I’m one of those, and no humbug, who have a habit of trying to ferret out other people’s motives.”

“Don’t preach, Franky. Is it Flick? because if it is, the girl’s laughing at him.”

“No,” said Pratt; “it isn’t Flick.”

“Then who the deuce is it?”

“You!”

Trevor burst into a hearty laugh.

“Why, Frank!” he exclaimed, “if ever there was a mare’s-nesting old humbug, it’s you. Why, whatever put that in your head?”

Pratt sat looking at him in silence for a few moments.

“Dick,” he said, “if ever there was a deliciously unsuspicious, trusting fellow, you are he.”

“Never mind about that,” said Trevor. “I want to get this silly notion out of your head.”

“And I want to get it into yours.”

“Well, we’ll both try,” said Trevor. “You begin: I’ll settle you after.”

“To begin, then,” said Pratt. “You’ve several times met that girl in the lane yonder.”

“Yes; now you mention it—I have.”

“About the time when you’ve been going up to Tolcarne?”

“Yes; and it was evident that she was there to meet Humphrey. Why, I laughed and joked the pretty little lass about it.”

“Yes; and did you ever meet Humphrey afterwards?”

“Bravo! my little cross-examining barrister. Yes I did—two or three times. I’m not sworn, mind,” added Trevor, laughing.

“True men don’t need swearing,” said Pratt.

“Thanks for the compliment. Well?”

“How did Humphrey look?”

“Well—yes—now you mention it—to be sure! He looked black as thunder. Oh, but, Franky, I’ll soon clear that up. I wouldn’t hurt the poor lad’s feelings for the world.”

“Wait a bit,” said Pratt. “What, more mystery? Well, go on.”

“Did it ever strike you as strange that you should encounter a pretty, well-spoken little girl like that in your walks?”

“No; I told you I thought she was out to see Humphrey.”

“Or that you should meet her in the passages at home here, to bring you letters, or messages from Mrs Lloyd?”

“Well, now you mention it, yes: it has struck me as odd once or twice.”

“Never struck you that the girl came of her own accord?”

“Never, and I’m sure she never did. She rather avoided me than not; so come, Master Counsellor, you’re out there.”

“Did it never strike you that she was sent?”

Trevor did not answer, but sat gazing in his friend’s face for a few moments, as if he were trying to catch his drift, and then in a flash he seemed to read all the other meant; for his brow grew cloudy, and he sat down hastily, then got up, and took a few strides up and down before reseating himself.

“Well,” said Pratt, “can you see it?”

“I see what you mean, Franky; but I can’t quite think it. The old woman would never have the impudence to plan such a thing.”

“Dick, old fellow, it’s as plain as the day. She’s made up her mind that her little niece shall be mistress of Penreife, and she is playing her cards accordingly.”

“Then I’m afraid, if that is her game, she’ll lose the trick.”

“Dick, old fellow,” said Pratt, “you’re not annoyed?”

“But I am—deucedly annoyed—not with you, Franky; but don’t say any more now, I mean to think it over.”

“Being a friend to an unsuspicious man is about the most unpleasant post on the face of the earth,” said Pratt, moralising, as he saw his friend stride away. “Everybody hates you for enlightening him, and even he cannot forgive you for waking him from his pleasant dreams. Now where has he gone?—oh, to bully that plotting old woman. Well, I’ve done right, I think; and now I’ll have my stroll.”

Frank Pratt started off to do what he called “a bit of melancholy Jaques,” in the pleasant woodland lanes; and was not long in finding an agreeable perch, where he seated himself, lit his big pipe, and began communing with himself till the pipe was smoked out; and then he sat on and thought without it, till a coming light footstep took his attention.

“Now I make a solemn affidavit,” he said, “that I did not come here to play the spy upon anybody’s actions. If they choose to come and act under my very nose, why, I must see the play. Who’s this?”

“This” proved to be little Polly, who walked quickly by him, glancing suspiciously round as she continued her walk.

“Scene the first!” said Pratt; “enter village maiden with flowers. To her village lover,” he continued as a heavy step was heard. “No, by Jove! it’s Dick.”

He was right, for Trevor came along at a swinging pace, and apparently in a few moments he would overtake the girl.

“If I didn’t believe Dick Trevor to be as open as the day, how suspicious that would look!” thought Pratt.

Trevor passed on without seeing him, and then there was a pause. The sun’s rays darted through the overhanging boughs; birds flitted and sang their little love songs overhead; and in a half-dreamy way Pratt sat thinking upon his perch till voices and coming footsteps once more aroused him.

“It’s them!” he said to himself. “I’ll go.”

He made as if to descend, but it struck him that he should be seen if he moved, and he sat still watching—to see at the end of a few moments Tiny Rea coming along the footpath, evidently looking agitated as she walked on in advance.

“She’s never seen Dick and her together!” Pratt said, mentally; and he felt as if he could have run and spoken to the girl; but that which next met his eyes made him utter a low, deep sigh, and he looked as if made of the mossy stone upon which he sat, as Fin Rea followed her sister, hanging on Mr Mervyns arm, and gazing eagerly in his face, while he evidently told her something which was of interest.

They passed slowly by, as if in no hurry to overtake Tiny; and Pratt watched them till quite out of sight, when he got down in a heavy, stunned fashion, to go slowly farther and farther into the wood, where he threw himself down amongst the ferns, and buried his face in his hands, as he groaned—

“More than old enough to be her father!”

Misunderstanding.

Meanwhile Trevor had gone along the lane, evidently meaning to make a call at Tolcarne. He was walking with his head bent down, thinking very deeply over what Pratt had said, when he stopped short with a start; for there, just in front, and gazing at him in a startled way, was little Polly.

He nodded to her and passed on; but ere he had gone a dozen yards, he turned sharp round and retraced his steps, calling to the girl to stop.

“I’ll get to the bottom of it at once,” he said. “Here, Polly.”

The little girl turned, and stood trembling before him, her face like fire, but her eyes full of tears.

“Did you call me, sir?” she faltered.

“Yes, my little maid, I want a few words with you.”

“Oh, sir, please—pray don’t speak to me!” faltered the girl, bursting into tears.

“Why, you silly child, what are you afraid of?” cried Trevor, catching her by the wrist. “Look here, tell me this, and don’t be afraid.”

“No—no, sir,” faltered the girl.

“Tell me now, honestly—there, there, stop that crying, for goodness’ sake! Any one would think I was an ogre. I hate to see a woman crying.”

“Please, sir, I am trying,” sobbed the girl.

“Now, then, I want to know this—you have often met me here—do you come to meet Humphrey?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why the deuce—there—there, I don’t mean that—tell me why you do come?”

“Aunt sends me to walk here, sir; but please don’t say I told you, or she will be so angry.”

“Then you don’t want to come and walk here?”

“Oh no, sir! I would much rather not,” exclaimed the girl, eagerly.

“Your aunt sends you, then?” said Trevor, looking at her searchingly, while she gazed up in his eyes like a dove before a hawk.

“Ye-yes, sir!”

“Do you know why?”

The girl’s face grew fiery red now, even to the roots of her hair, and as she looked appealingly at him, he flung her hand angrily from him.

“There, go back,” he exclaimed. “I’m not cross with you, but—there, go home.”

The girl sprang away, evidently frightened to death, and weeping bitterly, to pass these people—she could not tell whom—as she held down her head; but Trevor saw, and he knew that they saw him, and must have witnessed part of the interview; for the party consisted of Tiny Rea, her sister, and Mr Mervyn.

“Was ever anything so provoking?” muttered Trevor, as they bowed and passed, taking a turning that led in another direction. “Oh! this is unbearable.”

For a moment he stood irresolute, hesitating as to whether he should hurry after them; but he was, to use his own words, too much taken aback, and ended by following a narrow pathway into the woods, down which he had not gone half a dozen yards before he became aware that there had been another spectator to his interview with Polly, and that no less a person than Humphrey.

“What the devil are you doing there, sir?” roared Trevor, who was half beside himself with a rage which grew hotter as the bluff young Cornishman stood leaning on his gun, and said, sturdily—

“Watching you, sir.”

“Watching me?”

“Yes, sir. I did not mean to, but I was obliged when I saw what I did.”

“Then you saw me talking to that girl?”

“Yes, sir, I did; and you had no right to do so.”

“How dare you speak to me like that, sir?” roared Trevor; and thoroughly roused now, he caught the young keeper by the throat, and for a few moments the ferns were trampled under foot as they wrestled together, till the veins stood up in knots in Humphrey’s white forehead, as his hat fell off, and, grinding his teeth together, he put out his strength, and, with all the skill of a Cornish wrestler, threw Trevor heavily on his back.

“You would have it,” said the keeper, hoarsely. “You made me forget my place; so don’t blame me for it. Have I hurt you, sir?”

The rage had departed as quickly as it came, and the young man went down on one knee by Trevor, who was half-stunned, but recovered himself quickly, and got up.

“No. I’m not much hurt,” he said, hoarsely.

“You made me do it, sir,” said Humphrey, pitifully. “You shouldn’t have laid hands on me, sir—it made me mad.”

“Made you mad!” said Trevor, angrily. “This is a pretty way to serve your master.”

“You’re no master of mine, sir, from now,” cried Humphrey. “I can’t stand to serve you no more. I’d have stuck to you, sir, through thick and thin, if you’d been a gentleman to me, but—”

“Do you dare to say I’ve not been a gentleman to you, you scoundrel?” cried Trevor, menacingly, as he clenched his fists.

“Now, don’t ’ee, sir,” cried Humphrey, appealingly. “I don’t want to hurt you, and if you drive me to it I shall do you a mischief.”

“You thick-headed, jealous dolt!” cried Trevor, restraining himself with difficulty. “How can you be such an ass?”

“I don’t blame you, sir,” cried Humphrey, “not so much as that silly old woman who has set it all going.”

“Then it is all true?” cried Trevor, angrily. “Humphrey,” he said, “you’re as great a fool as that mother of yours; and—there, I’ll speak out, though you don’t deserve it: as to little Polly, you great dolt, I never said a tender word to her in my life.”

“Why, I saw you with her hand in yours, not ten minutes ago,” cried Humphrey, indignantly.

“I’ve been calling you fool and dolt, Humphrey,” said Trevor, cooling down, “when I’ve been both to let my passion get the better of me, as it has. There’s a wretched mistake over this altogether; and more mischief done,” he continued, bitterly, “than you can imagine. You think, then, that Mrs Lloyd has that idea in her head?”

“Think, sir!” cried the keeper, hotly, “I know it. Hasn’t she forbidden me to speak to the poor girl? Hasn’t she half-broken her heart?”

“Humphrey,” said Trevor, “you had good reason for feeling angry, but not with me.”

Humphrey looked at him searchingly.

“You doubt me?” said Trevor.

“Will you say it again, sir?” cried the young man, pitifully—“will you swear it?”

“I give you my word of honour as a gentleman, Humphrey, that I have never given the girl a thought; and that this afternoon, when I spoke to her, it was to ask her if she came there to meet you; and she owned her aunt had sent her.”

“Master Dick—Master Dick!” cried the young man in a choking voice, “will you forgive me, sir? If I had known that, sir, I’d sooner have cut my right hand off than have done what I did.”

“It was all a mistake, Humphrey. There—that will do.”

“But I said, sir, you were no master of mine—Master Dick—Mr Trevor, sir. We were boys together here—at the old place—don’t send me away!”

“There, go now; that will do. Yes, it’s all right, Humphrey. I’m not angry. Send you away? No, certainly not; only go now, and don’t make a scene,” said Trevor, incoherently, his eyes the while turned in another direction; for he had heard footsteps, and at the turn of the lane he could see through the trees that Mr Mervyn was coming, with his two companions.

Trevor hurried off through the wood, so as to gain the path a hundred yards in advance, and then he sauntered along so as to meet them.

“If I can get a few words with her I can explain,” he said; and then they were close at hand.

“Ah, Mr Trevor!” cried Mervyn, gaily, for he seemed elated, and he held out his hand.

Before Trevor could take it, Fin had looked straight before her and marched on, her little lips pinched together, and her arm tight in that of her sister; while Tiny met Trevor’s gaze in one short, sad look—piteous, reproachful, and heartbroken—before she hurried away.

Invitations.

Trevor returned home in no very enviable frame of mind. The look Tiny Rea had given him troubled him more than he could express, and he felt ready to rail at Fortune for the tricks she had played him. Old Lloyd came, smiling and deferential, into the room with some letters, which his master snatched up and threw on the table.

“In which room are Captain Vanleigh and Sir Felix?”

“I think they’re gone up to Tolcarne, sir,” said the butler.

Worse and worse: they were evidently liked there, too, and that was the reason why they prolonged their stay without a word of leaving.

“Is there anything I can get for you, sir?” said the butler.

“No,” said Trevor, sharply.

And he walked out of the room, to encounter Mrs Lloyd, who was ready to smile and give him a curtsey; but he passed her with such an expression of anger that the blood flushed into her face, and she stood looking after him as, with his letters crumpled in his hand, he walked out into the grounds, to think over what he should next do.

“I’ll send them both away,” he thought. “That old woman’s insolence is intolerable. It’s plain enough. Pratt’s right. Where is the little humbug? Out of the way just when I want him. I’ll give that old woman such a setting down one of these days—but I have not time now.”

He sat very still for a time, thinking of what he should do—Tiny’s soft eyes haunting him the while, with their sad reproachful look.

He had seen very little of her, but, sailor-like, his heart had gone with a bound to her who had won it; and he was even now accusing himself of being dilatory in his love.

“Yes,” he said, “I do love her, and very dearly. I’ll see her, tell her frankly all, take her into my counsel, and she will believe me. I’m sure she will, and forgive me too. Humph! Forgive me for doing nothing. But I must talk to the old gentleman—propose in due form, ask his permission to visit his daughter, and the rest of it. Heigho! what a lot of formality there is in this life! I think I may cope with her, though. She looked so gently reproachful I could wait; but no, I mustn’t do that. I’ll call this afternoon and suffer the griffin. But those two fellows, why should they go up this morning? Evident that they did not see the ladies, for they were out. No wonder Van takes to making calls, seeing how I’ve neglected him and Flick. I wish Pratt were here. Where did he go?”

“Thy slave obeys,” said Pratt, who had approached unobserved upon the soft turf! “Should you have liked Van to hear what you said just now?”

“No. Was I talking aloud?” said Trevor.

“You were, and very fast,” was the reply.

“But what’s the matter, Franky? What’s the letter?”

And he pointed to an open missive in his friend’s hand.

“It’s about that I’ve come to you,” said Pratt. “Read.”

Trevor took the note, glanced over it, and found it was an invitation to Mr Frank Pratt to dine at Tolcarne on the following Friday. This brought Trevor’s thoughts back to the letters Lloyd had given him, and he hastily took them from his pocket, to find a similar invitation to the one Pratt had had placed in his hand.

“That’s lucky,” he said, brightening.

“Lucky—why?” said Pratt.

“Because I want to go. But why are you looking so doleful?”

“Natural aspect, Dick. I only came to tell you I should not go.”

“Not go! Why?”

“Because I am going back to town.”

“Are you upset, Franky? Is anything wrong? I’ve been rude, I suppose, and said something that put you out this morning.”

“No—oh no!”

“But I’m sure that must have been it. But really, old fellow, I was much obliged. Franky, you were quite right—it is as you say; so if I said anything when I was hipped, forgive me.”

“Dick, old fellow,” cried Pratt, grasping the extended hand, “don’t talk of forgiveness to me. I have been here too long; this idle life don’t suit me, and I’ve got to work.”

“Work, then, and help me through my troubles. I can’t spare you.”

“Dick, old fellow, I feel that I must go. Don’t ask me why.”

“No, I won’t ask you why,” said Trevor, eyeing him curiously; “but, to oblige me, stay over this Friday, and go with me to the dinner.”

Pratt hesitated a moment.

“Well, I will,” he said; and the conversation ended.

During the intervening days Trevor was too much excited to say anything to Mrs Lloyd. He called at Tolcarne twice, but the ladies were out. He tried every walk in the neighbourhood, but without avail; and at last, blaming himself bitterly for his neglect of his guests, and thinking that the opportunity he sought must come on the Friday, he determined to try and make up for the past by attending to Vanleigh and Landells.

“I’ll talk to Lady Rea about it—that’s; how I’ll manage,” he said. “She’s a good, motherly soul, and will set me right, I’m sure. I know—tell her I want advice and counsel; ask her to help me counteract Mrs Lloyd’s designs.”

Trevor laughed over what he considered the depth of his plans, and after dinner that night was in excellent spirits, losing thirty guineas to Vanleigh in a cheery way that made Pratt shudder for his recklessness, and bite his lips with annoyance at the cool manner in which the money was swept up.

“By the way,” said Trevor, as they sat smoking, “what do you say to a sail to-morrow?—the yacht’s in trim now, and the weather delightful.”

“Thanks—no,” said Vanleigh. “I don’t think we can go, eh, Landells?”

“Jove!—no; drive, you know, with the old gentleman.”

Trevor looked inquiringly from one to the other.

“Fact is,” said Vanleigh, coolly, “Sir Hampton Rea has asked us to join him in a little picnic excursion to the north coast—drive over, you know, to-morrow. Yes, Thursday,” he said, looking at his little note-book—one which usually did duty for betting purposes—“Yes, Thursday, and Friday we all dine there, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” said Trevor, in a quiet, constrained way, which made Sir Felix, who had already felt rather hot and confused, colour like a girl.

“Mustn’t mind our running away from you so much, Trevor,” continued Vanleigh, with a smile, which the former felt carried a sneer, and an allusion to his own playing of the absentee. “Fact is, the old gentleman seems to be rather taken with Flick here.”

“’Sure you, no,” said Sir Felix, excitedly; “it’s the other way, Trevor. Makes no end of Van, showing him over grounds, asking ’vice, you know, and that sort of thing.”

“I am glad you find the place so much more agreeable than you expected,” said Trevor, gravely.

“Never s’ jolly in m’ life, Trevor,” said Sir Felix, excitedly, and speaking nervously and fast. “Fine old fellow, S’ Hampton. Fitting up b’liard-room. ’L have game after come back.”

“Take another cigar,” said Trevor, and his voice was very deep, as he seemed now to be exerting himself all that he could to make up for his past neglect to those whom he had invited down as his friends. “Vanleigh, you are taking nothing.”

“I’m doing admirably, dear boy,” said the captain, in the most affectionate of tones; and then to himself—“What does that little cad mean by watching me as he does?”

He smiled pleasantly, though, all the while, and when, to pass the time away, and conceal his trouble, Trevor once more proposed cards, the captain condescended to take “that little cad” as his partner, and between them they won fifty pounds of Trevor and Sir Felix—the latter throwing the cards petulantly down, and vowing he would play no more.

“Good night, dear boy,” said Vanleigh, rising and yawning a few minutes after smilingly taking his winnings. “It’s past one, and we shall be having our respected friend, Mrs Lloyd, to send us to bed.”

A sharp retort was on Trevor’s lip, but he checked it, and with a courtesy that was grave in spite of his efforts, wished him good night, saying—

“There is no fear of that; Mrs Lloyd and I understand each other pretty well now.”

“Ya-as, exactly,” said Vanleigh; and he went out whistling softly.

“Good night, Trevor,” said Sir Felix, in turn. “’Fraid we’re doocid bad comp’ny. Too bad, I’m sure, going ’way as we do.”

“Good night, Flick,” said Trevor, smiling; and then, as the door closed, he turned to find Pratt leaning against the chimneypiece, counting over his winnings. “Well, my lad!” continued Trevor, trying to be gay.

“Twenty-five pounds, Dick,” said Pratt, laying the money on the table. “I shan’t take that.”

“Nonsense, man,” said Trevor; “keep it till Van wins it back. But what’s the matter? Have you found another of your mare’s-nests?”

“I was thinking, Dick,” said Pratt, gravely, “that you must be very sorry you asked any of us here.”

Trevor’s lips parted to speak; but without a word he wrung his friend’s hand, took his candle, and hastily left the room.

Before Dinner.

It was a busy day at Tolcarne, that of the dinner party. The picnic had not been a success. In fact, at one time, when very much bored by the attentions of Vanleigh, Tiny had gazed out to sea at a pretty little yacht gliding by, and longed to be on board—innocent, poor girl! of the fact that Dick Trevor was lying on the deck with a powerful lorgnette, seeing the party distinctly, and plainly making out the captain leaning on the rock by her side.

Fin, too, was no wiser—though, for quite a quarter of an hour Frank Pratt was gazing, with knitted brow, through a second lorgnette at the little rocky cove where Sir Felix Landells was pestering her with attentions, and evidently labouring under the impression that unless she partook of lobster salad every five minutes she must feel faint.

Aunt Matty was the only really happy person in the party. She had, to the dismay of all, announced her intention of going, feeling sure that the change would benefit Pepine; and the way in which Vanleigh and Landells tried in emulation to gratify her whims was most flattering to her.

Not that she was deceived by the attentions, and imagined them extorted by her charms; she knew well enough the visitors’ aims, and was gratified at their discernment.

“They know how much depends upon my opinion,” she said to herself; and she smiled graciously upon them both as one carried Pepine down the rocks, the other her shawl, and gave his arm; ending by playfully sending them afterwards to the girls.

“Old girl’s warm, I know,” said Vanleigh to himself.

“We must keep in with the old nymph, Van,” said Sir Felix to him at the end of the day; just about the same time that Tiny was crying silently in her bedroom; and Fin striding up and down like a small tragedy queen.

“He’s a born idiot, Tiny!” she exclaimed; “and what pa can mean by making such a fuss over him, and telling me it’s a proud thing to become a lady of title, I don’t know. Ahem!—Lady Landells—fine, isn’t it? I don’t see that dear ma’s any happier for being Lady Rea.”

“Papa seems infatuated with them,” said Tiny, bitterly.

“Yes; and when he found that black captain paying you such attention, I saw him smile and rub his hands.”

“Oh, don’t Fin!” exclaimed Tiny, shuddering.

“I believe he’s a regular Bluebeard. Look at the little blue-black dots all over his chin. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s got half a dozen wives in a sort of Madame Tussaud’s Blue Chamber of Horrors, preserved in waxwork.”

“Pray don’t be so foolish, Fin.”

“Foolish? I don’t call it foolish to talk about our future husbands.”

“Fin!” cried her sister.

“Well, you see if that isn’t what pa means! I saw Aunt Matty smirking about it and petting the captain; and ma was almost in tears about their goings on.”

“Oh, Fin! don’t talk so,” said Tiny, sadly; “I shall never marry.”

“Till you say Yes at the altar, and the bevy of beauteous bridesmaids dissolve in tears,” laughed Fin. “I say, though, Tiny, I’m not going to be bought and sold like a heroine of romance. I wouldn’t have that Sir Felix—no, not if he was ten thousand baronets; and if you listen to Bluebeard, Tiny, you are no sister of mine.”

“Do you think papa seriously thinks anything of the kind?”

“I’m sure of it, dear, and—and—and—oh! Tiny, Tiny—I do feel so very, very miserable!”

To the surprise of her sister, she threw herself in her arms, and they indulged in the sweet feminine luxury of a good cry, ending by Fin declaring that she shouldn’t go back to her own room; and more than once, even in sleep, the pillows upon which the two pretty little flushed faces lay, side by side, were wet with tears that stole from beneath their eyelids in their troubled dreams.

And now the day of the dinner had arrived, and Lady Rea had had such a furiously red face that Sir Hampton told her she ought to be ashamed of herself, and made the poor little woman, who had been fretting herself to death to do honour to his guests, shed tears of vexation.

Next there was a furious ringing of Sir Hampton’s bell, about six o’clock, and a demand whether the house was to smell of cabbage like that.

As the odour did not pass away, Sir Hampton sought his lady, who had gone to dress, and again made her shed tears by exclaiming against his mansion being made to smell like a cookshop.

“It’s that dreadful prize kitchener, Hampton, dear,” said poor Lady Rea. “The smell comes into the house instead of going up the chimney.”

“It’s nothing of the sort—its your stupid servants!” exclaimed the knight, and he bounced off to his room to prepare for the banquet.

“I’ve a good mind to make myself ugly as sin, Tiny,” said Fin, pettishly. But she did not, for she looked very piquante in her palest of pale blue diaphanous dresses, while her sister looked very sweet and charming in white.

“Why, Tiny, you look quite poorly,” cried Fin, in alarm. “Pray, don’t look like that, or that wretch Trevor will see that you’ve been fretting. If he prefers little servant-girls to my dear sister, let him have them.”

“Fin, dear, you hurt me,” said Tiny, simply; and there was such a tender, reproachful look in her sweet eyes that Fin gave a gulp, and, regardless of her get-up, threw herself on her sister’s breast.

“I’m such a thoughtless wretch, Tiny; I won’t say so any more.”

“Please, Miss, your par says are you a coming down?” said the maid sent to summon them; and they went down, to find Sir Hampton in so violently stiff a cravat, that the wonder was how it was possible that it could be tied in a bow, and the spectator at last came to the conclusion that it had been starched after it was on.

Aunt Matty had, in her Irish poplin, a dress that was fearfully and wonderfully made, and dated back to about a quarter of a century before. It was of the colour of the herb whose perfume it exhaled—lavender; and every time you approached her you began to think of damask—not roses, but table-cloths and household linen, put away in great drawers, in a country house.

This is not a wardrobe style of story, but we must stay to mention the costume of Frances, Lady Rea, who came into the room with her cheeks redder than ever, although she had tried cold water, hot water, lavender water, and every cooling liquid she could think of. She was in peony red—a stiff silk of Sir Hampton’s own choice, and she sought his eye, trembling lest he should be displeased; but as he emitted a crackle, produced by his cravat, as he bent his head in satisfactory assent, a bright smile shot across the pleasant face, dimpling it all over, and she exclaimed—

“Lor’, my dears, how well you look. There, they may come now as soon as they like.”

“Mind your dress, Fanny,” said Aunt Matty, austerely, as she sat minding her own. “Sh!”

She held up her fan to command silence, as Sir Hampton cleared his throat, chuckled violently, and spoke—

“Er-rum, I think our guests will not find our circle much less attractive than—er-rum!—Ah, here they are!”

After Dinner.

Sir Hampton was right—the visitors had arrived; and almost directly after the ordinary greetings, during which Tiny never raised her eyes, and Fin was so short that Sir Hampton darted an angry glance at her, the dinner was announced. Trevor took in Lady Rea; Vanleigh, Tiny; Landells, Fin; and Pratt, Aunt Matty—Sir Hampton bringing up the rear.

The dinner was good, and passed off with no greater mishaps than a slight distribution of the saccharine juices in a dish in the second course down the back of Aunt Matilda’s poplin—Edward being the offender; but the sweetly gracious smile with which the lady bore her affliction was charming, and Fin looked her astonishment at her sister.

But the dinner was not a pleasant one, even if good; there was too much, “Thompson, that hock to Sir Felix Landells;” “Thompson, the dry champagne to Captain Vanleigh”—it was hard work to Sir Hampton not to add “of the Guards;” “Thompson, let Mr Trevor taste that Clos-Vougeot;” and it was a relief when the ladies rose.

“If he will talk about his cellar, Felix, punish it,” whispered Vanleigh, as they drew closer; but Sir Felix Landells’s thoughts were in the drawing-room, and though Sir Hampton persisted in talking about his cellar—how many dozens of this he had laid down, how many dozens of that; how he had been favoured by getting a few dozens of Sir Magnum O’pus’s port at the sale, and so on ad infinitum—Sir Felix refrained from looking upon the wine when it was red; and as soon as etiquette allowed they joined the ladies in the drawing-room, where Trevor had the mortification of seeing Vanleigh resume his position by Tiny, while Landells loomed over Fin like an aristocratic poplar by a rose-bush.

Trevor consoled himself, though, by sitting down by pleasant Lady Rea, while Sir Hampton crackled at Pratt, talked politics to him, and his ideas of Parliament, and Aunt Matty fanned herself, as she treated Pepine to the sensation of lavender poplin as a couch.

“What a nice little man your friend is, Mr Trevor,” began Lady Rea; “I declare he’s the nicest, sensiblest man I ever met.”

“I’m glad you like him, Lady Rea,” said Trevor, earnestly; “but I want to talk to you.”

“There isn’t anything the matter, is there?” said Lady Rea, anxiously.

Trevor looked at her for an instant, and saw that in her face which quickened his resolve, already spumed into action by the markedly favoured attentions of Vanleigh to the elder daughter of the house.

“Lady Rea,” he said, “I’m in trouble.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, with simple, genuine condolence. “Can I help you?”

“Indeed you can,” said Trevor; and he proceeded to tell her what he had discovered respecting Mrs Lloyd’s designs.

“Well, I never knew such impudence!” cried Lady Rea, indignantly.

“You will sing now to oblige me,” said Vanleigh; but for the time, Tiny declined, and Fin was carried off to the piano by Sir Felix.

“Do you know ‘Won’t you tell me why, Robin?’” said Sir Felix, beaming down at the little maiden.

“Yes,” said Fin, sharply.

“Then do sing it.”

“I shall sing ‘Maggie’s Secret’ instead,” said Fin, sending the colour flushing into her sister’s face, as she rattled it out, with tremendous aplomb given to the words—

So I tell them they needn’t come wooing to me.

Meanwhile, Trevor went on pouring his troubles into Lady Rea’s attentive ears, as Sir Hampton prosed, Aunt Matty dozed with a smile on her countenance, Pepine snoozed in her lap in a satin tent made of his mistress’s fan, and Poor Tiny longed for the hour when she could be alone.

“Lady Rea,” said Trevor, at last, “I will not attempt to conceal my feelings—I think you can guess them, when I tell you that my trouble is that your daughter passed me in the wood talking to—questioning the little girl I have mentioned, and I read that in her face which seemed to say that she despised me.”

“Then that’s what’s made Tiny so low-spirited for the last few days,” said Lady Rea.

“God bless you for that!” said Trevor, in a low, hoarse voice, “you’ve made me very happy. Lady Rea, will you take my part? If I have no opportunity of explaining, will you do it for me? I am very blunt, I know—recollect I am a sailor; so forgive me if I tell you that since I first met Miss Rea, I have scarcely ceased to think about her.”

“I’m not cross with you for it,” said Lady Rea, “and I will tell Tiny; but you mustn’t ask me to interfere—I couldn’t think of doing so. There,” she whispered, “go and talk to her yourself.”

And she gave the young fellow so pleasant a look, as their eyes met, that he knew that if the matter depended upon her, Tiny Rea would be his wife.

But there was no opportunity as yet, for Tiny had been unwillingly led to the piano, vacated by Fin, Sir Felix being buttonholed by Sir Hampton, and Pratt taking his place, and talking to the sharp-tongued little maid in a way that made her exclaim—

“How solemn you are!”

“Hush!” said Pratt. “Listen! What a sweet voice!”

“Yes, Tiny can sing nicely,” replied Fin.

And they listened, as did Trevor, while, in a sweet, low voice, Tiny sang a pathetic old ballad with such pathos that a strangely sweet sense of melancholy crept over Trevor, and he stood gazing at her till the last note had ceased to thrill his nerves, when Vanleigh led her to her seat, and crossed to pay his court to Aunt Matty, awakened by the song.

“Now,” whispered Lady Rea, “go and tell her how it was.”

In strict obedience to the indiscreet advice, Trevor crossed to where Tiny was seated, offered his arm, and together they strolled into the handsome conservatory.

“Miss Rea,” said Trevor, plunging at once in medias res, as Tiny made one or two constrained replies to his remarks, “I have been explaining to Lady Rea what trouble I am in.”

“Trouble, Mr Trevor?” said Tiny, coldly.

“Yes: how I had ventured to hope that I had won the friendship of two ladies, and with the vanity, or weakness, of a sailor, I trusted that that friendship would ripen into something warmer.”

“Mr Trevor,” said Tiny, her voice trembling, “I must request—”

“Tiny, dear Tiny,” cried Trevor, passionately, “I may have but a few moments to speak to you. Don’t misjudge me, I have explained all to Lady Rea, and she will tell you. If I am mad and vain in hoping, forgive me—I cannot help it, for I love you dearly; and this that I see—these attentions—these visits—madden me.”

“Mr Trevor, pray—pray don’t say more!” exclaimed Tiny, glancing in the direction of the drawing-room.

“I must—I cannot help it,” he whispered, passionately. “Tell me my love is without hope, and I will go back to sea and trouble you no more; but give me one little word, tell me if only that we are friends again, and that you will not misjudge me, or think of me as you did the other day in the wood. Tell me—confess this: you thought me wrong?”

“I had no right to judge you, Mr Trevor,” said Tiny, in a trembling voice; “but—but my sister—and I—”

“Tiny,” whispered Trevor, catching her land in his, “my darling, I could not have a thought that you might not read. Give me one word—one look. Heaven bless you for this.”

Young men are so thoughtless, so full of the blind habits of the sand-hiding ostrich at such times, and so wrapped up was Richard Trevor, sailor and natural unspoiled man, in the soft, gentle look directed at him from Tiny’s timid, humid eyes, that, regardless of the fact that they were close to the drawing-room, the chances are that he might have gone farther than kissing the little blue-veined hand he held in his, had not, from behind a clump of camellias, a harsh voice suddenly exclaimed—

“Now, then, am I right?”

Sir Hampton Rea and Aunt Matty appeared upon the scene.

Dear Aunt Matty had had her way, and was satisfied. Quiet as she was, she had her suspicions of Trevor’s earnest talk to Lady Rea; and when Vanleigh drew her attention to the fact that the two imprudent young people had strolled off into the conservatory, by saying, “I suppose Miss Rea finds the room too close?” she gave him a significant look.

“Sit down and hold Pepine for me, Captain Vanleigh,” she said, in a low voice, “and I’ll soon put a stop to that.”

Vanleigh said something very naughty, sotto voce, and then, as he felt bound to flatter Aunt Matty, he seated himself, and nursed the wretched little dog, while Aunt Matty made her way to Sir Hampton, who was deep in a political speech, to which Sir Felix kept saying “Ya-as” and “Ver’ true,” eyeing Fin the while through his glass.

Fin’s sharp eyes detected something wrong, and she tried a flank movement.

“Go and tell my sister I want her directly, Mr Pratt,” she said—“in the conservatory.”

It was too late; Aunt Matty’s forced march had done it.

“Eh! what? Er-rum!” ejaculated Sir Hampton.

Then he followed his sister out into the conservatory, where she made the before-mentioned remark, and Sir Hampton, turning port wine colour, caught his daughter by the wrist.

“Go to bed this instant!” he exclaimed, reverting in his rage to the punishment inflicted years before. “As to you, sir—”

“Excuse me, Sir Hampton,” said Trevor, boldly.

“Let me speak,” said Aunt Matty, with great dignity. “Hampton, this is neither the time nor the place to have words about the works of the wicked. I warned you, but you would not take heed. Valentina, you are not to go to bed, but to return to the drawing-room as if nothing had happened. Hampton, you must not disturb your other guests—the strangers sojourning in peace within your gates.”

At a time like this Aunt Matty was too much for Sir Hampton. She had girded herself as she would have termed it; and when Aunt Matty girded herself her words were like a strong solution of tracts, and she became a sort of moral watering-pot, with which she sprinkled the wicked and quenched their anger. Sir Hampton never so much as said “Er-rum!” at such times, and now seeing the wisdom of her words, he picked two or three flowers, and walked back into the drawing-room with Tiny, the poor girl trying hard to conceal her agitation.

Trevor was about to follow, but Aunt Matty stopped him.

“Sit down there, young man,” she said, severely.

“If you wish to speak to me, certainly,” said Trevor, politely; “but what I have to say must be to Sir Hampton, with all respect to you.”

“Sit down there for five minutes, young man, and then you can return.”

Trevor fumed—the position was so ridiculous; but he accepted it, glancing the while at his watch, and then fighting hard to preserve his gravity before the stiff figure in whose presence he sat. For, in spite of the annoyance, a feeling of joyous hilarity had come upon the offender against decorum: he knew that Tiny loved him, and doubtless a few words of explanation would be listened to when Sir Hampton was cool, and then all would come right.

“I think the five minutes are up, Miss Rea,” said Trevor, rising. “Perhaps you will take my arm, and we can stroll back as if nothing had happened. I will see Sir Hampton in the morning.”

Aunt Matty bowed, and then, wearing the aspect of some jointless phenomenon, she stalked by his side back into the drawing-room, where, in spite of the efforts of Lady Rea and Vanleigh, nothing could disperse the gloom that had fallen; and the party broke up with the departure of the gentlemen, who walked home on account of the beauty of the night—Vanleigh talking incessantly, and Trevor quiet, but striving hard to conceal his triumph.

“I’ll ease him as much as possible,” Trevor had said to himself, àpropos of Vanleigh.

“Poor brute! he little thinks how he’s shelved,” said Vanleigh to Landells.

“Little girl’s pos’tively b’witching,” said Landells.

“Who, Miss Rea?”

“Jove! No—sister. Sharp and bright as lit’ needle.”

“Just suit you, there, Flick.”

“Ya-as.”

“It came to a climax, then, Dick, eh?” said Pratt.

“Franky, old boy, I’m the happiest dog under the sun.”

These fragments of conversation took place at odd times that night; and the next morning, soon after breakfast, Trevor made an excuse to his friends, and started for Tolcarne.

“Gone to get his congé, Flick,” said Vanleigh.

“Poor Trevor! Sorry. Not bad ’fler,” said Sir Felix.

“Bah! every man for himself. But we shall have to clear out after this. We’ll go and stay at Saint Francis, and when the old boy finds we are there, he’ll ask us up to Tolcarne.”

“But seems so shabby to poor Trevor,” said Sir Felix.

“Pooh, nonsense! Every man has his crosses in this way. Let’s get out somewhere, though, so as not to be at hand when the poor beggar comes back; he’ll be in a towering fury. I hope he won’t make an ass of himself, and force a quarrel on me.”

Speaking to Papa.

Meanwhile Trevor was on his way to Tolcarne, where he was shown into the library. He felt flushed and excited, but he had come with the confidence of a conqueror; and, besides, he could feel that he was no ineligible parti for the young lady.

“Poor Franky, I know he’s bitten by that little fairy,” he said, as he waited impatiently—the “directly” of Edward, who had announced that Sir Hampton was in the garden and would come, having extended to ten minutes.

“Hang the formality of these things!” said Trevor. “I could talk to that dear little woman, Lady Rea, by the hour without feeling uncomfortable; but as to pater—well, there; it’s only once in a man’s life. Here he is.”

The door leading into a farther passage opened this moment, and Trevor rose; but instead of encountering fierce Sir Hampton, in skipped petite Fin, to run up to him flushed and excited, but with her eyes sparkling with pleasure.

She placed both her little hands in his, and her words came in hurried jerks, as she exclaimed—

“Tiny told me all about it—last night—Oh, I’m so glad!”

“That’s right, little fairy,” laughed Trevor, smiling down on the pleasant little face.

“But there’s been such a rumpus, and I came to tell you before pa came.”

“Indeed,” said Trevor, retaining the little hands, though there was no effort made to remove them.

“Yes, pa’s been raging and bullying poor Tiny so. Those friends of yours came and proposed for us, and papa said they might come, and he is horribly cross about it. But you won’t give way?”

“Do I look as if I would?” said Trevor.

“No; and I am glad, because I think you do like Tiny.”

“Like?”

“Well, love her, then. Ma likes you, too.”

“And little Fin?”

“There’s little Fin’s answer,” said the girl, with tears in her eyes, and she held up her face and kissed him with quiet gravity. “Oh, let me go,” she cried, and she struggled from his arms and fled, leaving him to turn round and face Sir Hampton and Aunt Matty, who had entered by the other door.

“What does this mean, sir?” exclaimed Sir Hampton, furiously. “Er-rum! I am astounded!”

“Merely, Sir Hampton, that your daughter was willing to accord to me the licence that she would to a brother.”

Aunt Matty was heard to mutter something about vulgar assurance, and Trevor flushed as Sir Hampton motioned him to a chair, took one, and crossed his legs; but he was determined not to be angry, and he went on—

“Our meetings, so far, Sir Hampton, have been unfortunate, and I have come over this morning to try and set myself at one with you. I presume I am to speak before Miss Rea?”

“My sister is in my confidence, and is my adviser,” said Sir Hampton, in the tone he had prepared for the magisterial bench.

“Then, Sir Hampton, speaking as a frank, blunt sailor, I humbly ask your pardon for any lapses of politeness wherein I have been guilty, and also beg of you to forgive me for my conduct last night.”

“A perfect outrage—barbarous,” said Aunt Matty.

“Er-rum!—Matilda, let the young man speak,” said Sir Hampton, magisterially.

“It was, I am aware, very foolish of me, but I was carried away by my feelings. Sir Hampton Rea, I love your daughter, Valentina.”

“Absurd!” exclaimed Miss Matilda, who remained standing.

“I ventured to tell her so last night, in explaining away a little misapprehension that had existed between us.”

“I never heard such assurance!” said Miss Matilda.

“Matty—er-rum! Matilda, I mean, have the goodness not to interrupt the pris—I mean—er-rum—the statement that is being made.”

“If I could feel warrant for such a proceeding,” continued Trevor, calmly, “I intended to speak to you this morning, and ask your consent, even as I spoke to Lady Rea last night, before I addressed your daughter.”

“Just like Fanny—encouraging it!” muttered Aunt Matty.

“Go on, sir, I am listening,” said Sir Hampton, telling himself this was quite a preparation for the bench.

“I came, then, Sir Hampton, to formally propose for your daughter’s hand. Though comparatively a stranger to you, I am well known here—of one of the most ancient county families—and I have eight thousand a year. That, Sir Hampton, is putting the matter in a plain, business-like form. If I am wanting in the proper etiquette, my excuse is my seafaring life.”

“Exactly,” said Aunt Matty, satirically.

The words “prisoner at the bar” were on Sir Hampton’s lips, but he did not utter them; he only rolled his words nice and round, and infused as much dignity as was possible into his tones. “The young man” had insulted him, but he could afford to treat him with dignified composure.

“Mr Trevor,” he began, “I have listened to your remarks with patience”—magisterial here, very—“I have, er-rum I heard your application. For your friends’ sake, I was willing to condone”—capital magisterial word, and he liked it so much that he said it again—“er-rum! to condone that which was past. Er-rum! but under the circumstances, near neighbours as we are, I think it better that all communication”—the clearest magisterial tone here, and repeated—“er-rum! communication between us should cease.”

“Decidedly!” put in Aunt Matty, arranging her mittens.

“Er-rum—hear me out, sir”—a magisterial wave of the hand here, and a quiet settling down into the chair, as of one about to pass sentence—“Er-rum—as to your formal matrimonial proposals, they are quite out of the question. Captain Vanleigh has honoured me by proposing for my daughter Valentina’s hand, and he is accepted.”

“By the young lady?” exclaimed Trevor.

“Er-rum! there is no occasion for us to enter upon that point, Mr Trevor, for—tut! tut! what do you want here, Lady Rea?—this is business.”

“Fanny!” exclaimed Miss Matilda, as her sister-in-law entered the room, walked up to Trevor, shook hands very warmly, and then accepted the chair he vacated on her behalf.

“Thank you, Mr Trevor. Matty, I think any of my husband’s affairs that are business for you, are business for me,” said Lady Rea, firmly; “and as I know why Mr Trevor has visited us this morning, I came down.”

Aunt Matty looked yellow with anger, and for a few moments Sir Hampton’s magisterial dignity was so upset that he could only ejaculate “Er-rum” three times at a few seconds’ interval. It was awful, this manifestation of firmness on his wife’s part, and he could only glare fiercely.

“What have you been saying to Mr Trevor?” said Lady Rea, earnestly.

“Sir Hampton informs me that the young lady is irrevocably engaged to Captain Vanleigh,” said Trevor, quietly. “May I appeal to Miss Rea?”

“My daughters will leave us to discriminate as to—er-rum—what is good for them,” said Sir Hampton, stiffly. “Mr Trevor, we must bring this very unpleasant interview to an end. Sir—er-rum!—you have heard my—er-rum—ultimatum!”

Aunt Matty bowed, and smiled a wintry smile, that was as cold as her steely eyes.

Trevor directed a piteous look at Lady Rea, and without a moment’s hesitation she exclaimed—

“It’s all stuff and nonsense, Hampy! I won’t stand by and see either of my darlings made miserable!”

“Frances!” exclaimed Aunt Matty.

“Er-rum!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, and he sent at his wife a withering look.

“You can say what you like,” cried the little lady, ruffling up like a very bantam hen in defence of her chicks; and now, for the first time, Trevor saw a trace of Fin. “I say I won’t stand by and see my darlings made miserable. Tiny told me not ten minutes ago, crying up in her own room as if her heart would break, that she would sooner die than listen to Captain Vandells.”

“Vanleigh,” said Aunt Matilda, contemptuously.

“Vandells, or Vanleigh, or Vandunk, I don’t care a button what his ugly Dutch name is!” cried Lady Rea, angrily; “and I say it shan’t go on!”

“Hampton!” began Aunt Matty, “do you intend—”

“Didn’t I tell you not to interfere, Matilda?” exclaimed Sir Hampton, pettishly.

Aunt Matty darted an indignant glance at him, gathered up her skirts, and sailed out of the room, Sir Hampton wiping his perspiring brow.

“I thank you for your kindness, Lady Rea,” said Trevor. “I will go now; perhaps another time Sir Hampton will accord me an interview.”

“No; don’t you go, my dear boy,” said Lady Rea, earnestly, and she took his hand. “I give way in nearly everything, but I’m not going to give way in this.”

“Fanny, this is foolishness,” said Sir Hampton, who looked as if in a state of collapse.

“It’s such foolishness as this that makes people happy,” said Lady Rea; “and if Mr Trevor loves my darling, as I know she loves him, no one shall stand in their way.”

“But, Fanny,” said Sir Hampton, “I...”

“Look here, Hampy, you used to be very fond of me. Now, how would you have liked my father to make me marry some one else?”

“May I come in?” said a little voice; and Fin peeped in, entered, and closed the door. “I saw Aunt Matty go, so I came. Oh, pa, dear, Tiny is in such trouble—how could you?”

She seated herself on his knee, nestled up to him, and the knight began to stroke her hair.

“There now,” said Fin, “I knew pa would be a dear kind old dad, as soon as he knew about Tiny. There now, I may fetch her down.”

“No, no, Finetta, certainly not, I...”

Fin was gone.

“There, Hampy,” said Lady Rea, going up to him, “you do love your children.”

“I don’t like it—I—I protest against it!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, struggling against the bonds his woman folk had wreathed around him.

“Sir Hampton,” said Trevor, holding out his hand, “say you relent.”

“And—er-rum!—how the deuce—devil am I to face those gentlemen?” exclaimed Sir Hampton.

“I’ll see them,” said Lady Rea, firmly. “Here’s Tiny.”

In effect that young lady entered, red-eyed, wet-cheeked, and blushing, to throw herself on her father’s breast, and cling there sobbing violently, while Fin took the precaution to lock the door.

“I don’t like it, Tiny, I—er-rum!—I...”

“Oh, dear papa, I could not marry him,” sobbed Tiny—and her emotion was so excessive that Sir Hampton grew frightened, and soothed and petted her till her sobs grew less violent, when Trevor approached and took her hand, and unresistingly drew her to him, till she hid her face in his breast.

Then there was a fine scene. Poor Lady Rea ran up to them, kissed Tiny, and tried to kiss Trevor, but could not reach, till he bent lower. After which she broke into a violent fit of sobbing, and plumped herself down in the nearest chair, Fin tending her for a moment, and then fetching Sir Hampton to her side, to ask forgiveness.

Next there was a general display of pocket-handkerchiefs. Fin gave a hysterical hurrah, and kissed everybody in turn, ending by exclaiming, as she sobbed aloud—

“And now we’re all happy!”

In fact there were smiles upon every face but Sir Hampton’s, and he, feebly saying he did not like it, was left alone as the party adjourned to the drawing-room.

“Lady Rea, I have you to thank for this,” said Trevor, affectionately. “How am I ever to show it?”

“By being very, very, very kind to my darling there,” said Lady Rea, pitifully; “for you’re a bad, cruel man to come and win away her love.”

Then, of course, there was a great deal more kissing, ending in a burst of merriment; for Fin dashed, wet-eyed, to the piano, and rattled off, “Haste to the Wedding,” running into Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” till Tiny went and closed the instrument.

At that moment Edward, the footman, knocked at the door, and entered, saying to Lady Rea—

“If you please, m’lady, Miss Matilda’s took bad, and wants the doctor. Who shall I send?”

“Gracious, Edward! what is it?” said Lady Rea.

“Please, m’lady, they think it’s spasms,” said the footman.

Lady Rea ran out, and the doctor was sent for from St Kitt’s; but, by the time he arrived, Aunt Matty’s spasms were better.

And so Richard Trevor, master of Penreife, became engaged to Valentina Rea, of Tolcarne.

Very Dreamy.

Trevor heard it afterwards from Fin, how that mamma saw Captain Vanleigh when he called with Sir Felix; Sir Hampton leaving a note, and—so Fin declared—hiding in the gardener’s toolhouse till the visit was over; and that she had, at the earnest wish of Sir Felix, seen him in the drawing-room.

“Where he made the most downright booby of himself you ever saw,” said Fin.

And the result was that one morning, after the most elaborate fencing had been going on between Trevor and his guests, one vieing with the other in politeness, Pratt met his old schoolfellow on his return from Tolcarne with—

“Thank goodness, Dick, there’s peace in the grove.”

“What do you mean, Franky?” said Trevor, who was rather uneasy at having heard from Lady Rea that Sir Felix and Vanleigh had been up to the house while he was away with the girls, and had a long interview with Sir Hampton and Aunt Matty.

“Mean, Dick? Why, that the telegram has come at last—message from St Kitt’s—Vanleigh and Flick wanted directly in town—so sorry couldn’t stop to say good-bye, and that sort of thing.”

“Then they are gone?”

“Yes. I ordered round the waggonette; and Mrs Lloyd seems in ecstasies at the clear-out, and is getting ready to bestow a benediction on me—for I must be off next.”

“Nonsense, Franky; you are happy enough here.”

“No, old fellow—this Sybarite’s life is spoiling me, and I must go.”

“Why not follow my example, Franky?” said Trevor, laughing.

Pratt shrugged his shoulders, and the matter dropped for the time being.

The next evening the Reas dined at Penreife in great state and dignity—all but Aunt Matty, who steadily refused pardon, and turned her back upon Trevor; while Sir Hampton preserved a dignified composure upon the matter, as if submitting of necessity; for—

“Mark my words, Hampton,” his sister had said, “this ridiculous marriage will never take place. I should as soon expect Finetta to be espoused by that wretched little companion of the seafaring man.”

Sir Hampton grunted, and went to the dinner, which he thoroughly enjoyed, and softened a good deal over his wine; after which, the evening being delicious, he allowed himself to be inveigled into the grounds, where Trevor asked his advice respecting some new forcing-houses which he proposed having, listening to him with deference; and at last, when they strolled in through the open drawing-room window, Sir Hampton said aloud—

“Er-rum—yes, Trevor, I’ll come over with Sanders—say Wednesday—and he shall mark out the lines on the same plan as mine. I think I can put you in the way of many improvements.”

Directly after, he was settled in an easy-chair, with his handkerchief spread upon his knees, thinking—with his eyes closed; and while he thought, everybody spoke in a whisper, for it was a custom with Sir Hampton Rea to think for half an hour after dinner—with his eyes closed: he never took a nap.

Lady Rea, looking rosy, round, and warm, was presiding at the tea-table; and Tiny, blushing and happy, was rearranging some flowers, Frank Pratt helping her in a loving, deferential manner, very different from his general easy-going way; while Fin had caught Trevor by the arm, led him into the far window, and forced him back into a chair, before which she stood, holding up a menacing finger.

“I’m ashamed of you, Dick—I am indeed,” she said, sharply.

“Ashamed!” he exclaimed. “Why?”

“Such cunning, such artfulness! I didn’t give you credit for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Coaxing pa round like that, when you no more want hothouses than I do. There, go away, sir; I’m disgusted. Look! ma’s beckoning to you.”

In effect, Lady Rea was cautiously making signals from the tea-tray; and on Trevor going to her, Pratt slowly crossed to the window, and began to talk to Fin.

“Do you know, Miss Rea, I find I’ve been here six weeks,” he said awkwardly.

“You don’t say so, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, quietly.

Pratt stared, and went on.

“The time has gone like magic.”

“Has it really?” said Fin, demurely.

“Yes,” said Pratt a little bitterly; “and as I have decided upon returning to town in a day or two, I thought I’d take this opportunity of saying good-bye.”

“I think its the very best thing you can do, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, sharply.

“What, say good-bye?”

“No, go back to town. You will be industrious there. See what’s come to your poor friend by mooning about in the country.”

She nodded her saucy head in the direction of Trevor, who was bending over Tiny—she looking shyly conscious and happy—while Lady Rea beamed upon them both; and Sir Hampton thought so deeply with his eyes closed, that he emitted something much like a stertorous snore.

“Yes, dear old Dick’s very happy,” said Pratt, gravely. “Rich, loved, and with the fixture all sunshine. She’s a sweet girl.”

“Yes, a rose—with a thorn of a sister, ready to pester her husband,” said Fin. “Yes, Mr Pratt, you had better go. It is not good for young men to be idle.”

“So I have been thinking,” said Pratt—“especially poor fellows like myself.”

“How is our little friend?” said Fin, maliciously.

“What little friend?”

“The little, round-cheeked niece of Mrs Lloyd—Polly, isn’t her name?”

“Really, I don’t know, Miss Rea,” said Pratt, smiling.

“Fie, Mr Pratt!” said Fin. “Why, you are always being seen with her in the lane. Is it true you are to be engaged?”

Pratt looked at her sharply.

“Does it give you so much pleasure to tease?” he said, quietly.

“Tease? I thought it was a settled thing.”

“I don’t think you did,” said Pratt, quietly.

“Well,” said Fin, laughing, “Mr Mervyn told me the other day that—oh, look at that now!”

The last words were said by Fin to herself; for as she mentioned Mr Mervyn’s name Pratt turned slowly away, and going to a table began to turn over the leaves of a book.

In the meantime Lady Rea had had a few words with Trevor.

“I declare I felt quite frightened of her, my dear.”

“It’s her way only,” said Trevor, smiling. “She nursed me like a mother, Lady Rea; and she and her husband have for years done almost as they liked here, only checked by the agent and my poor father’s executors, who seem to have come down once a year to look at the place so long as they lived; but they have both gone now.”

“She looked dreadfully cross, though, at Tiny—just as if, my dear, she was horribly jealous of her. And now, Richard, my dear, you won’t be offended if I ask a favour of you?”

“Certainly not,” said Trevor, in the same low whisper in which the conversation was carried on.

“Then make her send that niece of hers away. After what you told me, I’m sure it would be for the best; because while she is here the poor woman will always be thinking of her disappointed plans.”

“Well, but,” said Trevor, smiling, “I was thinking of hurrying on her marriage with my keeper, Humphrey; the poor fellow is desperately fond of her, and, as far as I can make out, the feeling is mutual.”

“Oh, if that’s it,” said Lady Rea, “pray don’t do anything to make the young people unhappy.”

“Yes, Trevor,” said Sir Hampton, “fifty feet by twenty will be the size.”

The conversation was carried on henceforth in voices pitched now in the normal key.

The distance was so short that it was decided to walk back through the moonlit lane, and as Trevor and Pratt accompanied the party, it was a matter of course that Fin should walk papa off first, Lady Rea following with Pratt, and Tiny lingering behind in the silvered arcades—dreamy, loving, too happy to speak, and feeling that if life would but always be the same, how could they ever tire?

Here, in the rugged lane, all was black darkness, and the gnarled tree trunks seemed to spring from sable velvet. A few yards farther, a sheaf of silver arrows seemed shot down through the foliage upon the laced ferns that rose like a tiny forest of palms; down by their side there was the rippling tinkle of water, gurgling amongst stones; and again a few steps, and a pool shone like molten silver. Above all, the air was soft, humid, and balmy; and love seemed breathed in the gentle wind that barely stirred the leaves. They had no need to talk, for it was very sweet; and they could foresee no black clouds to come sweeping across their horizon.

Tolcarne gates at last, new and crest-crowned—good-bye—and then out cigars, and a matter-of-fact walk back, the young men both too dreamy to speak. And after a brief “Good night, Dick, old fellow”—“Good night, Franky, old boy,” each sought his room—Trevor thinking the while of Lady Rea’s words, and how that he had hardly seen Polly lately, while he had been too happy in his love to so much as think of Mrs Lloyd and her baffled plans. For her part, she seemed to have avoided him ever since she had heard of the engagement that he had made.

“Ah, well,” he said, smiling, as he gazed from the open window at the moonlit shimmering sea, “all these things come right in the end. What need have I to trouble, with life so pleasurably spread out before me? Heigho! I don’t deserve such good luck; but I think I can bear it like a good man and true. I wonder, though, whether Frank really cares for little Fin!”

Ten minutes after, Trevor was dreaming happily of his love, without a sign of cloud or storm in his sunlit fancies; but they were gathering fast the while.

A Little Confession.

But Mrs Lloyd, though quiet for a time, and letting matters rest till the termination of Vanleigh and Sir Felix Landells’s visit, was anything but dormant.

The fact was, that Vanleigh had been in the way upon more than one occasion. When Polly had been sent for a walk in the hope of enchanting the “young master,” Vanleigh had met her, and been so attentive that the girl had come back at last, sobbing and almost defiant, telling her aunt that sooner than be so treated she would run away back to the mountains in Wales.

This put a stop to it for the time, and Aunt Lloyd waited, hearing rumours that the two London visitors were engaged to the young ladies of Tolcarne, and rubbing her hands thereon, for these were threatened rivals out of the way.

Her encounters with Trevor had been few and far between; but all seemed satisfactory, and, to use her own words, she “bided her time.”

When the news came to her ears, endorsed by the sudden departure of the visitors, and further confirmed by the many visits to Tolcarne, and lastly by the coming of the Reas to Penreife, that Trevor was engaged to Valentina Rea, the woman was furious.

“It shan’t go on, Lloyd—I won’t have it. I’ll put a stop to it. He shall marry Polly, or—”

“Martha, Martha!” cried her husband, wringing his hands—“you will ruin us.”

“Ruin! I’ll ruin him—an upstart! I’ll have him on his knees to me. After the way in which I brought him up, to turn upon me like this. He shall marry Polly!”

“How can you be so mad?” groaned Lloyd. “Oh, Martha, think of our old age.”

“Think!” said Mrs Lloyd, contemptuously, “I do think. Mad? Isn’t a girl with the blood of the Lloyds in her veins better than the daughter of an upstart London merchant? There—hold your tongue; and don’t you interfere. I’m not going to be stopped in my plans, so I tell you. Lloyd, are you asleep?”

“No,” said her husband, with a heavy sigh, “I wish I was, so as to forget my troubles.”

“You dolt!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd. “Have you seen Humphrey hanging about lately?”

There was no answer.

“I say, have you seen Humphrey hanging about or talking to Polly lately? I don’t want to think the girl artful; but she has been very quiet, and I hardly like it. Lloyd, do you hear what I say?”

There was a long-drawn breath for reply, and Mrs Lloyd went on making her plans—giving her husband the credit of being asleep.

But the latter was very wide awake, and he had seen something that night of which he did not wish to tell. For while Mrs Lloyd had been busy with the company that evening, there had come a soft tap on the housekeeper’s room window, whose effect was to make little Polly turn violently red in the face, begin to tremble, then, after listening at the door, steal out, little thinking that the butler had seen her go.

Of course it was very artful and very wrong, but it is an acknowledged fact that there is a certain magnetism in love; and, to go back to the simile before used, when the loadstone came what could the industrious little needle do?

The next morning, after breakfast, Mrs Lloyd called Polly to her.

“Found out at last,” thought poor Polly.

She went shivering up to her very stern-countenanced aunt, with the recollection of twenty sweet but stolen meetings on her conscience.

“Go and put on your white muslin dress and blue ribbons, Polly,” said her aunt.

“Are we going out, aunt?” faltered the girl.

“You are, my dear,” said Mrs Lloyd; “so put on your hat—the new one, mind.”

“Please, aunt, I’d rather not go,” faltered the girl.

“Go and dress yourself this minute,” exclaimed the housekeeper, firmly: “and look here, if you dare to cry, and make those eyes red, I’ll punish you.”

Polly shivered, went to her room, and came back, looking as pretty a little rustic rosebud as could be seen for miles around.

“Ah,” said Mrs Lloyd, hanging about her with a grim smile on her face, to give a pull at a plait here, a brush at a fold there, and ending by smoothing the girl’s soft hair—“if he can resist that, he’s no man.”

“Please, aunt, what do you mean?” pleaded the girl. “Don’t send me out again.”

“There are no captains about now, goose, are there?” said the housekeeper, angrily.

“No, aunt, dear,” faltered the girl; “but don’t send me out. What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd; “as if you didn’t know what I mean. To raise the house of Lloyd, child—to make you mistress of Penreife—”

“Oh, aunt!”

“Instead of letting you throw yourself away upon a common servant.”

“Aunt—aunt, dear!” cried the girl, piteously.

But the woman stopped her.

“Not another word. Now, look here—do I speak plain?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“Hush!—no crying. You are to be Mrs Richard Trevor, with a handsome husband, and plenty of money. If you don’t know what’s good for you, I do. Now go out for a walk; and when he meets you, if you don’t smile on him, and lead him on, I’ll—I’ll—There, I believe I shall poison you!”

The girl turned, shivering, from the fierce-looking face, as if believing the threat, and hurried out of the house.

“If Humphrey don’t take me away I shall go and drown myself,” she cried, with a sob. “Oh, it’s dreadful! He will hate me for this, and if Mr Richard sees me, what will he think!”

Poor Polly’s life had been a very hard one. So accustomed was she to blindly obey, that it never occurred to her that she might take any other route than the one so often indicated by her aunt; and she went as usual—ready to cry, but not daring, and thinking bitterly of her position.

“If I had only been a man,” she thought, “I’d run away to sea, and—here he is.”

“Ah, little maiden,” exclaimed Trevor—for Mrs Lloyd had timed the matter well—“why, how bright and pretty you look!”

“Please, sir, I’m very sorry,” faltered the girl.

“Sorry! Why? Have you come out here,” he continued, suspiciously, “to meet Humphrey?”

“Please, sir—no, sir,” said the girl, looking appealingly in his frank face.

“Having a walk then, eh?”

“Please, sir, aunt sent me,” said the girl.

“Polly, my little maid, I believe you are a good girl,” said Trevor, his face growing dark—“there, don’t cry, I’m not angry with you. Speak out, and trust me. You are not afraid of me?”

“Oh no, sir. Humphrey says you’re so good and kind,” said the girl.

“Thanks to Humphrey for his good opinion,” said Trevor. “But, now, tell me plainly, what does all this mean?”

“Please, sir, I dursen’t,” sobbed the girl.

“Nonsense, child! Tell me directly.”

“Aunt would kill me,” sobbed Polly.

“Stuff, child! Now, be a good, sensible little girl, and fancy I’m Humphrey.”

“Oh, sir—please, sir, I couldn’t do that.”

“Come, come, speak out. Now, do you come of your own accord for these walks?”

“No, sir. I—I—Aunt makes me.”

“I thought so—I supposed so,” said Trevor. “And why do you come?”

“Oh, sir, don’t ask me, please—don’t ask me,” sobbed Polly, now crying out-right.

“Now, look here, my little girl; if you’ll speak plainly perhaps I can help you. Once more, why do you come here? There, there, don’t cry.”

“Oh, please, sir, it’s—it’s aunt’s doing.”

“Well, well, child, speak,” said Trevor, and he took the girl’s hand. “It makes me cross when you will keep on crying.”

“Pray, sir, don’t—pray, don’t,” she sobbed, trying to withdraw her hand. “Oh! what shall I do?”

“Speak put,” said Trevor.

“Aunt—aunt thinks, sir—wants, sir—you to marry me, sir; and oh!” she cried, throwing herself on her knees, and holding up her little hands as in prayer, “I do hate you so—I do, indeed!”

“Thank you, little one,” exclaimed Trevor, laughing merrily. “There, Polly, get up before you stain that pretty dress with the moss. Wipe your little eyes, and leave off hating me as soon as you can, and you shall marry Humphrey.”

“Oh, sir!” faltered Polly, rising.

“There, little one, go and walk about till your eyes are not red; and if you should see Humphrey down by the long copse, where they are repairing the ditches, tell him I shall want to see him about three—no, stop, say this evening. I am going for a drive.”

Polly hesitated a moment, and then caught and kissed his hand, shrinking back the next moment, ashamed at her boldness.

“There, I thought you would not hate me,” said Trevor. “I’ll go back at once and see your aunt. You shan’t be unhappy any more, little maiden.”

“Oh, pray, sir!” cried Polly again.

“I’m master here, my child; and I won’t have anybody about me made unhappy if I can stay it. Now, trot along.”

The girl gave him one timid glance, and then went on, while he turned in the direction of Penreife.

Before he had gone far, though, he turned back, with a smile on his lip.

“I’ll wager a sovereign,” he thought, “that Humphrey was not down at the long copse, but pretty close at hand, watching for the safety of his sweetheart.”

He walked sharply back to a curve in the woodland path, and found that he was right; for some distance ahead he caught sight of Polly’s pretty muslin dress, and across it there was plainly visible a bar of what resembled olive velveteen.

“Eight,” said Trevor, smiling. “Well, why shouldn’t they be happy too? Now, then, to have it out with Mrs Lloyd.”

A Revelation.

“If you please,” said a hard, cold voice.

And Richard Trevor started to find himself face to face with the object of his remark, one which he had uttered aloud.

Trevor stood for a moment looking round; but they were quite alone, and standing now in the lane where Mr Mervyn captured Fin Rea in the rugged tree far up the rocky bank.

“You had better return to the house, Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, coldly. “I want to speak to you.”

“You can speak now, if you please,” said the woman, in a low, suppressed voice. “I don’t suppose you would like the servants to know.”

Trevor was getting angry, and he took a step towards the woman, and held up a finger.

“You have been watching me, Mrs Lloyd.”

“Yes,” she said, coolly—“I came on purpose.”

“You sent that poor girl here, then, Mrs Lloyd, and you have been playing the spy?”

“You can call it any hard names you like, Mr Richard,” said the woman, defiantly.

She rolled her white apron round her arms, tightened her lips until they formed a thin livid line, and looked at him without flinching.

Trevor bit his lip to keep down his rising passion, and then went on—

“Mrs Lloyd,” he said, “I thought we had made a truce. Mind, you are the one who breaks it, not I.”

The woman laughed mockingly.

“We may as well understand one another,” said Trevor; “so speak out. You have been forcing that poor girl, day after day, to throw herself in my way—have you not?”

“Yes.”

She nodded her head many times, as she said the word with quite a sharp hiss.

“You wanted me to take a fancy to her?”

“Yes.”

“To marry her?”

“Yes.”

“And make her the mistress of Penreife?”

“Yes; and I mean to do it.”

Trevor stared at her, in wonder at the effrontery displayed.

“And, in your foolish vanity, you thought such a thing possible?”

“Yes.”

“Regardless of the poor girl’s feelings?”

“Yes—yes—yes!” said Mrs Lloyd, slowly. “I know what is for her good—and yours.”

“Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, coldly, “I would gladly keep to my promise with you, that you should never leave Penreife. If harm to your prospects comes of this, don’t blame me. You had better go back to the house.”

He turned, as if to walk away; but she caught him sharply by the wrist.

“Stop!” she cried, angrily. “Tell me this. Have you been trying to make an engagement with that wax doll up at Tolcarne?”

“You insolent old—There, go back, Mrs Lloyd,” he cried, checking himself. “You must be mad.”

“Mad? Yes, enough to make me, you wild, ungrateful boy,” she cried, her fingers tightening round his wrist, so that it would have taken a violent effort to free himself. “Stop, and listen to me.”

Trevor looked at her, his anger cooling; for he thought the housekeeper was suffering from mental excitement brought on by the disappointment consequent upon the failure of her plans.

“What do you want to say?” he said, quietly.

“A great deal. Ah, you see, you must listen. Now tell me—that Miss Rea, have you been talking to her father and mother?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, thinking it better to humour her till he could get her back to the house.

“Then go and break it all off—at once. Do you hear—at once.”

“And why, pray?” said Trevor, smiling—the position, now that his anger had passed, seeming ridiculous.

“Because you are to marry little Mary, as I wish,” said Mrs Lloyd, in a quick whisper.

“The parties, neither of them being agreed. Come, Mrs Lloyd, let’s get back to the house.”

“Richard,” cried the woman, shaking his arm—“listen. Do you hear me? How dare you laugh at me like this?”

“Come, Mrs Lloyd—come, nurse, what are you thinking about?” said Trevor, good-humouredly. But he was beginning to fret under the opposition.

“Of your fixture—of your good, boy. Now, listen to me, Richard. I have long planned this out. I have brought Mary here, educated her, and prepared her for it.”

“And now she has fallen in love with Humphrey, and they are going to marry,” said Trevor, laughing.

But the smile passed away as he saw the malignant look in the woman’s face.

“Humphrey!” she exclaimed, and as she uttered the name she spat upon the ground—“Humphrey shall go. Humphrey shall not stay here. I hate him! His being here is a curse to me.”

“Her own son. The woman is crazy,” thought Trevor; and he looked anxiously in her eyes.

“Mrs Lloyd,” he began; but she caught him by the other wrist, and her strength in her excitement was prodigious.

“Richard,” she exclaimed, “will you mind me—will you do as I wish, and marry Polly?”

“Come to the house, and let’s talk about it there, nurse,” he said, kindly.

“No—no! here—here! I say you shall have her, or, mark me, you shall rue it. There, I know what you think; but I’m as sane as you are—more sane, for you would throw yourself away, and I won’t let you.”

“Come, Mrs Lloyd, there must be an end to this. Come to the house.”

“Stay where you are, boy,” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “Will you obey me?”

“No—no—no,” said Trevor, impatiently, and he tried to extricate himself. “Nurse, you are mad.”

“Don’t call me nurse,” she cried, viciously. “Do as I bid you, or I’ll make you rue it till your deathbed. But, no, I can’t do that. Richard, you shall mind me—you shall obey me in this. I have a right to be minded.”

“Mrs Lloyd, you have gone to the extent of your right, and beyond it; from henceforth you and your husband must find another home. You shall have a comfortable income, but this cannot go on. There, I cannot leave you in this way—come up to the house.”

He tried to lead her, but she broke away.

“You will have it then?” she hissed, in a hoarse whisper. “Richard, is this the way you treat your mother?”

“My—”

Trevor started back to the extent of their arms, looking at the woman aghast. The fancy that she was distraught had passed away during the last few minutes, and there was such an air of decision and truth in her words and looks that he staggered beneath the shock. The past, her determined action, her opposition to his will—so different to the behaviour of a dependent, and explained at the time on the score of old service—and many little words and looks, notably her passionate embrace on the night of the encounter in the study, all came back to him like a flash, and he could find no words for quite a minute.

“It’s a lie!” he said at last. “Woman, how dare you? My father was too honourable a gentleman ever to descend to a low intrigue with one of his servants.”

“Yes,” said the woman, “and Martha Jane Lloyd was too good a wife to have listened to him if he had.”

“Then,” cried Trevor, in a fury, “how dare you say what you did?”

“Because, my boy, it is the truth. You are my flesh and blood.”

“You are mad!” exclaimed Trevor. “Loose my wrist, woman, or I shall hurt you.”

He looked sharply round, but there was no help at hand; for his first impulse was to tie her wrists, and have her carried to the house. But she prisoned one of his the tighter, by placing her other bony hand a little higher.

“I’m not mad, Richard,” she said, quietly; “and when you hear me, you will see that you must mind me; for, at a word from me, all your riches would be swept away, and you might change places with your keeper.”

“Humphrey!” ejaculated Richard, his brain in a whirl of doubt. “Tell me—what do you mean?”

“Only this,” said the woman, hoarsely. “That Mrs Trevor and I had sons almost together. Humphrey and you were the two boys. Do you understand?”

“No,” said Richard, fiercely. “Go on.”

“I got my sister, Dinah Price, from Caerwmlych to come and be nurse for both, for I was in the house—the maid Jane, as they called me then. Do you want to hear more?”

“Go on,” said Richard, in a hoarse whisper.

“One day I sat thinking. There was death in the house, Richard, and I was wondering about the fixture—how hard it would be if my fine boy should grow up to poverty through the changes that might take place, and me perhaps sent away by a new mistress. I was jealous, too, of the Trevors’ boy, petted and pampered and waited upon, while my darling had to take his chance. I tell you it made me nearly mad sometimes, for I was ill and weak; and I think the devil came and tempted me, knowing how I was.”

“Go on,” said Richard; for she stopped, and the great drops of sweat were standing on his brow.

“One day, boy, I felt that I could bear it no longer. Dinah had gone down to the kitchen to join the servants watching the funeral; and I sat thinking, when the Trevors’ baby cried, and no one went. I had you on my knee, Richard, nursing you, and I went up, innocently enough, to quiet the motherless little bairn, and as I saw it lying alone there in its cradle, my heart yearned over the poor little thing, and I took it in my arms, when it nestled to my breast so pitifully, that I nursed it as I did you, and sat there with you both in my arms.”